ARTES
1837
SCIENTIA
LIBRARY
VERITAS
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
L-PLURIBUS UNUM
TULBOR
SI-QUAERIS-PENINSULAM AMOENAM
RCUMSPICE.
999.2
V.1+2
4.
t
1
PELHAM NOVELS:
CONTAINING
PELHAM; THE DISOWNED; DEVEREUX,
PAUL CLIFFORD; EUGENE ARAM; LAST DAYS OF POMPE
THE STUDENT; RIENZI; FALKLAND;
AND
PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

BY EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, ESQ., M. P.
IN TWO VOLUMES.-- VOL. 1.
NEW YORK:
LEAVITT AND ALLEN
21 & 23 MERCER STREET.
1862.
PREFACE
TO
THE SECOND EDITION OF PELHAM.
I BELIEVE if we were to question every author upon
the subject of his literary grievances, we should find that
the most frequent of all complaints, was less that of being
unappreciated, than that of being misunderstood. None
of us write, perhaps, without some secret object, for which
the world cares not a straw: and while each reader fixes
his peculiar moral upon a book, no one, by any chance,
hits upon that which the author had in his own heart de-
signed to inculcate. It is this impression, in my individual
case, that calls forth for the present edition of " PELHAM,"
that prefatory explanation, which I deemed it superfluous
to place to the first.
r
It is a beautiful part in the economy of this world, that
nothing is without its use; every weed in the great tho-
roughfares of life has a honey, which observation can easily
extract; and we may glean no unimportant wisdom from
folly itself, if we distinguish while we survey, and satirize
while we share i.. It is in this belief that these volumes
have their origin. I have not been willing that even the
common-places of society should afford neither a record nor
a moral; and it is, therefore, from the common-places of
society that the materials of this novel have been wrought.
By treating trifles naturally, they may be rendered amusing,
and that which adherence to Nature renders amusing, the
same cause also may render instructive for Nature is the
source of all morals, and the enchanted well, from which
not a single drop can be taken, that has not the power of
curing some of our diseases.
:
This difficulty in execution will, perhaps, be my excuse ic
failure, and some additional indulgence may be reasonaolv
granted to an author who has rarely found, in the egotists
of his hero, a vent for his own.
To the narrator of the following "Adventure," I have
not scrupled to attribute, even to a degree which some
(perhaps with too literal a judgment) have censured as
excessive, the fopperies and flippancies of those respect.
able individuals, classed under the common appellatio e
Dandy: First, because of that class my hero is, albeit an
unworthy, a devoted member; and my Novel professes to
describe manners, not as they ought to be, but as they are
Secondly, because I designed to show that even with the
most appropriate occupations of the said illustrious indi-
viduals, a taste for knowledge may be advantageously com-
bined and that imbecility and prejudice are, though fre
quent, by no means necessary ingredients in the compositio:
of a fine gentleman, even though his nostrils be delicate in
perfumes, and his taste oracular in dress. Thirdly, and
principally, because with the generality of those into whose
hands a novel upon manners is likely to fall, the lighter and
less obvious the method in which reflection is conveyed, the
greater is its chance to be received without distaste and re-
membered without aversion. Nor have I indulged in frivol
ities for the sake of the frivolity; under that which has the
most semblance of levity, I have often been the most diligent
in my endeavours to inculcate the substances of truth. The
shallowest stream, whose bed every passenger in
im
I have drawn for the hero of my Work, such a person
surveys, may deposite some golden grains on the plain
as seemed to me best fitted to retail the opinions and cus- through which it flows; and we may weave flowers not
toms of the class and age to which he belongs: a personal only into an idle garland, but, like the thyrsus of the an-
combination of antitheses-a fop and a philosopher, a vo- cients, over a sacred weapon. I have dwelt the longer upon
luptuary and a moralist a trifler in appearance, but this point, because it is one to which the most frequent
rather one to whom trifles are instructive, than one to animadversion has been attracted. My other faults as an
whom trifles are natural-an Aristippus on a limited author I will not attempt to excuse. I consider, on the
scale, accustomed to draw sage conclusions from the follies contrary, that the best return I can make for the general
he adopts, and while professing himself a votary of Plea-liberality and kindness of criticism which I have received
sure, in reality a disciple of Wisdom. Such a character is
I have found it more difficult to portray than to conceive :
I have found it more difficult still, because I have with it
nothing in common,* except the taste for observation, and
some experience in the same scenes in which it has been
cast; and it will readily be supposed that it is no easy
catter to survey occurrences the most familiar, through a
vision, as essentially and perpetually different from that
through which one's self has been accustomed to view them.
• I wegret extremely that, by this remark, I should be necessitated to re-
nnquish the flattering character I have for so many months borne, and to
undeceive not a few of my most indulgent critics, who, in reviewing my
work, bave literally considered the Author and the Hero one flesh, We
a
have only," said one of them, to complain of the Author's egotisms; he
is perpetually talking of himself!"-Poor gentleman! from the first page
to the last, the Author never utters a syllable.
""
he
frankly to confess them, and to leave in that present
confession a hostage for future improvement. It now only
remains for me to add my hope, that this edition will pre-
sent the "
ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN in a less
imperfect shape than the last, and in the words of the eru-
dite and memorable Joshua Barnes*"So to begin my
intended discourse, if not altogether true, yet not wholly
vain, nor perhaps deficient in what may exhilarate a witty
fancy, or inform a bad moralist.”
137087
October, 1828.
THE AUTHOR.
In the Preface to his Gerania.
PREFACE
TO
THE EDITION OF 1835.
While correcting the sheets of that tale for the press, i
was made aware of many of its faults. But it was not till
it had been fairly before the public that I was sensible
of its greatest; namely, a sombre coloring of life, and the
WHEN a certain wit was informed how St. Denis took
a walk with his head under his arm, he wisely observed
that it was one of those cases in which the first step was
half the journey. Now this observation is almost equally
true with respect to the progress of a novel in the pil-ndulgence of a vein of sentiment which, though common
grimage to Posterity. The fiction that, in these days,
amid so great a crowd of competitors, and so general a
desire for novelty, is still read and still alive at the end of
six
years, has a very tolerable chance of being still read
and still alive at the end of sixty. It is one of those cases
in which the first step is half the journey!
The favor which Pelham has met with and retained,
may, perhaps, render a short sketch of its origin and his-
tory not without interest to the reader; and that account
of his labors which would have been uncalled for, if not
presumptuous, in a young author, is natural enough in one
who has served an apprenticeship as long as that of the in-
genious Wilhelm Meister; and who has arrived at a period
of his literary life when, in gratifying a common curiosity
among readers, he may throw out some hints not without
use to those of his brethren who are entering the same
career.
When I was yet a boy in years, but with some experience
in the world (which I entered prematurely), I had the good
fortune to be confined to my room by a severe illness,
towards the end of a London season.
All my
friends were
out of town, and I was left to such resources as solitude can
suggest to the tedium of sickness. I amused myself by
writing, with incredible difficulty and labor, (for till then
prose was a country almost as unknown to myself as to
Monsieur Jourdain,) some half a dozen tales and sketches.
Among them was the story called "Mortimer; or, Me-
moirs of a Gentleman," which the reader will find ap-
pended to this preface. Its commencement is almost word
for word the same as that of "Pelham;" but the design
was exactly opposite to that of the latter and later work.
"Mortimer" was intended to show the manner in which
the world deteriorates its votary, and "Pelham," on the
contrary, conveys the newer, and I believe sounder, moral,
of showing how a man of sense can subject the usages of
he world to himself instead of being conquered by them,
and gradually grow wise by the very foibles of his youth.
This tale, with the sketches written at the same period,
was sent anonymously to a celebrated publisher, who con-
sidered the volume of too slight a nature for separate
publication, and recommended me to send the best of the
papers to a magazine. I was not at that time much in-
clined to a periodical mode of publishing, and thought no
more of what, if nuge to the reader, had indeed been
difficiles to the author. Soon afterward I went abroad.
On my return 1 sent a collection of letters to Mr. Colburn
for publication, which, for various reasons, I afterward
worked up into a fiction, and which (greatly altered from
their original form) are now known to the public under the
name of "Falkland
|
enough to all very young minds in their first bitter expe-
rience of the disappointments of the world, had certainly
ceased to be new in its expression, and had never been true
in its philosophy.
+
The effect which the composition of that work produced
upon my mind was exactly similar to that which (if I may
reverently quote so illustrious an example) Goëthe informs
us the writer of Werter produced upon his own. I had rid
my bosom of its "perilous stuff, "—I had confessed my
sins, and was absolved, — I could return to real life and its
wholesome objects. Encouraged by the reception which
"Falkland met with, flattering, though not brilliant, I
resolved to undertake a new and more important fiction.
I had long been impressed with the truth of an observation
of Madame de Staël, that a character at once gay and sen-
timental is always successful on the stage. I resolved to
attempt a similar character for a novel, making the senti-
ment, however, infinitely less prominent than the gayety.
My youthful attempt of the "Memoirs of a Gentleman "
occurred to me, and I resolved upon this foundation to
build my novel.
novel. After a little consideration, I determined,
however, to enlarge and ennoble the original character: the
character itself, of the clever man of the world corrupted
by the world, was not new; it had already been represented
by Mackenzie, by Moore in Zeluco, and in some measure
by the master genius of Richardson itself, in the incom-
parale portraiture of Lovelace. The moral to be derived
from such a creation seemed to me also equivocal and du-
bious. It is a moral of a gloomy and hopeless school. We
live in the world; the great majority of us, in a state of
civilization, must, more or less, be men of the world. It
struck me that it would be a new, a useful, and perhaps &
happy moral, to show in what manner we might redeem
and brighten the commonplaces of life; to prove (what is
really the fact) that the lessons of society do not necessarily
corrupt, and that we may be both men of the world, and
even, to a certain degree, men of pleasure, and yet be
something wiser nobler- better. With this idea I form-
ed in my mind the character of "Pelham;" revolving g
qualities long and seriously before I attempted to describe
them on paper. For the formation of my story, I studied
with no slight attention the great works of my predecessors,
and attempted to derive from that study certain rules and
canons to serve me as a guide; and, if some of my
younger contemporaries whom I could name would only
condescend to take the same preliminary pains that I did,
I am sure that the result would be much more brilliant. It
often happens to me to be consulted by persons about to at-
tempt fiction, and I invariably find that they imagine they
have only to sit down and write. They forget that art does
viii
PREFACE.
not come by inspiration, and that the novelist, dealing con-
stantly with contrast and effect, must, in the widest and
deepest sense of the word, study to be an artist. They
paint pictures for posterity without having learned to draw.
Some future opportunity, probably in a new edition of
the "Disowned," will enable me to speak of what I con-
sider the different kinds of prose fiction. Of the two prin-
cipal species, the Narrative and Dramatic, I chose for
"Pelham" my models in the former; and when it was
objected, at the first appearance of that work, that the plot
was not carried on through every incident and every scene,
the critics evidently confounded the two classes of fiction I
have referred to, and asked from a work in one what ought
only to be the attributes of a work in the other. The
dazzling celebrity of Scott, who deals almost solely with
the dramatic species of fiction, made them forgetful of the
examples equally illustrious in the narrative form of Ro-
mance, to be found in Smollett, in Fielding, and Le Sage.
Perhaps, indeed, there is in " Pelham" more of plot and
continued interest, and less of those incidents that do not
either bring out the character of the hero, or conduce to
the catastrophe, than the narrative order may be said to
require, or than is warranted by the great examples I have
ventured to quote.
cr
After due preparation, I commenced and finished the first
volume of " Pelham." Various circumstances then sus-
pended my labors, till several mouths afterward I found
myself quietly buried in the country, and with so much
leisure on my hands, that I was driven, almost in self-de-
fence froin ennui, to continue and conclude my attempt.
"Pelham," they went to the extreme of emulating the foibles
which that hero attributes to himself- those foibles a thou
sand times more harmless, and even more manly and noble,
than the profession of misanthropy, and the mawkish sen
timentalities of vice.*
Such was the history of a publication which, if not actu
ally my first, was the one whose fate was always intended
to decide me whether to conclude or continue my attempts
as an author.
I can repeat, unaffectedly, that I have indulged thi
egotism, not only as a gratification to that common curiosity
which is felt by all relative to the early works of an autnor
who, whatever be his faults or merits, has once obtained
the popular ear, but also as affording, perhaps, the follow-
ing lessons to younger writers of less experience but of
more genius than myself. First, iu attempting fiction, it
may serve to show the use of a critical study of its rules,
for to that study I owe every success in literature I have
obtained; and in the mere art of composition, if I have
now attained to even too rapid a facility in expressing my
thoughts, it has been purchased by a most laborious slowness
in the first commencement, and resolute refusal to write a
second sentence until I had expressed my meaning in the
best manner I could in the first. And, secondly, it may
prove the very little value of those "cheers," of the want
of which Sir Egerton Brydges so feelingly complains, and
which he considers so necessary towards the obtaining for
an author, no matter what his talents, his proper share of
popularity. I knew not a single critic, and scarcely a
single author, when I began to write. I have never re-
ceived to this day a single word of encouragement from any
of those writers who were considered at one time the dis-
pensers of reputation. Long after my name was not quite
unknown in every other country where English literature is
received, the great quarterly journals of my own disdained
to recognise my existence. Let no man cry out, then, for
cheers," or for literary patronage, and let those aspirants
want of interest and their non-acquaintance with critics,
learn from the author (insignificant though he be), who ad-
dresses them in sympathy and fellowship, and who cheer-
fully allows that the favor he has received, so far from being
less, is greater than his merits, that a man's labors are his
best patrons,-that the public is the only critic that has no
It may serve perhaps to stimulate the courage and sustain
the hopes of others, to observe, that "the reader " to whom
the MS. was submitted by the publisher, pronounced the
most unfavorable and damning opinion upon its chances of
success,—an opinion fortunately reversed by Mr. Ollier, the
able and ingenious author of "Inesilla," to whom it was
then referred. The book was published, and I may add,
that for about two months it appeared in a fair way of perish-who are often now pleased to write to me, lamenting their
ing prematurely in its cradle. With the exception of two
most flattering and generously indulgent notices in the Lite-
rary Gazette and Examiner, and a very encouraging and
-iendly criticism in the Atlas, it was received by the critics
with indifference or abuse. They mistook its purport, and
translated its satire literally. But about the third month it
rose rapidly into the favor it has since continued to main-interest and no motive in underrating him, that the world
tain. Whether it answered all the objects it attempted, I
cannot pretend to say; one at least I imagine that it did
answer : 1 think, above most works, it contributed to put
an end to the satanic mania,—to turn the thoughts and am-
bition of young gentlemen without neckcloths, and young
clerks who were sallow, from playing the Corsair, and boast-
ing that they were villains. If, mistaking the irony of
of an author is a mighty circle, of which enmity and envy
can penetrate but a petty segment, and that the pride of
carving with our own hands our own name is worth all the
"cheers" in the world. Long live Sidney's gallant and
lofty motto, "Aut viam inveniam aut faciam !”
Sir Reginald Glanville was drawn pa posely of the Byron echoo! as a foi
"Pelham. For one who would think im lating the first ten theg
sand would be unawares attracted to th
to
.at.
MORTIMER;
OR,
MEMOIRS OF A GENTLEMAN
"This is the excellent frippery of the world."
I AM an only child. My father was the youngest son of
one of our oldest earls; my mother the dowerless daughter
of a Scotch peer, who was universally esteemed the most
gentlemanlike man of his day. My father was a moderate
whig, and gave sumptuous dinners; my mother was a wo-
man of taste, and particularly fond of diamonds and old
china.
Vulgar people know nothing of the necessaries required
in good society, and their credit is as short as their pedi-
gree. Six years after my birth there was an execution in
our house. My mother was just setting off on a visit for a
week to the Duchess of D
; she declared it was im-
possible to go without her diamonds. The chief of the
bailiffs declared it was impossible to trust them out of his
sight. The matter was compromised - the bailiff went
with my mother to C, and was introduced as my
tutor. The world was not then so inconveniently learned
as it is now. The bailiff was frightened, and the secret
was kept At the end of the week the diamonds went to
the jeweller's, and my mother wore paste.
I think it was about a month afterward that a sixteenth
cousin left Lady Frances twenty thousand pounds. My
father said it would pay off the worst mortgage, and equip
him for Melton. My mother said it would just redeem her
diamonds, and new furnish the house; the latter alternative
was chosen.
Just at this time Seymour Conway had caused two di-
vorces; and of course all the women in London were dying
for him. He took a fancy to my mother, who could not
but feel highly flattered at his addresses. At the end of
the season Mr. Conway persuaded my mother to take an
excursion to Paris.
The carriage was at the end of the square. My mother,
for the first time in her life, got up at six o'clock. Her
foot was on the step, and her hand next to Mr. Conway's
heart, when she remembered that her favorite china monster
and her French dog were left behind. She insisted on re-
turning entered the house, and was coming down the back
stairs with one under each arm, when she was met by my
father and two servants. My father's valet had discovered
(I forget how) the flight of his mistress, and awakened his
master.
When my father was convinced of his loss, he called for
his dressing gown searched the garret and the kitchen
looked in the maid's drawers and the cellaret and finally
declared he was distracted. He had always been celebra-
ted for his skill in private theatricals. He was just return-
ng to vent his agony in his dressing-room, when he met my
VOL. I.
B
|
SHAKSPEARE.
mother. It must altogether have been an awkward en
contre, and, indeed, a remarkably unfortunate occurrence to
my father, -as Seymour Conway was immensely rich, and
the damages would, no doubt, have been proportionably
high. Had they met each other alone, the thing might
easily have been settled, and the lady gone off in tranquil-
ity; those d-d servants are always in the way!
I have, however, often thought that perhaps it was better
for me that the affair ended thus, - as I know, from many
instances, that it is frequently extremely inconvenient to
have one's mother divorced.
A good face was set upon the matter, and of so forgiving
a disposition was my father, that Mr. Conway afterward
became one of his most intimate friends. Mr. Mortimer,
with a delicacy which conquered his pride, condescended
to borrow of him a few thousand pounds; he could not have
chosen a better or more graceful expedient to convince him
how completely he pardoned his presumption.
Not long after this, by the death of my grandfather, my
eldest uncle succeeded to his title and estates. He was, as
people justly observed, rather an odd man, built schools for
peasants, forgave poachers, and diminished his farmers'
rents; indeed, on account of these and similar follies, he
was thought rather idiotic, especially as he never entered
into public life, nor kept up his country connections, and it
was therefore no object to him to be popular, mais cha-
cun à son goût. He paid my father's debts, and established
us in the secure enjoyment of our former splendor. This
piece of generosity was done, however, in the most un-
handsome manner, for he obtained a promise from my
father to retire from Brooks's, and give up hunting; and
prevailed upon my mother to take an aversion to diamonds
and to china monsters.
We also obtained shortly afterward another increase of
income; for my father, observing, with his usual dignified
patriotism, that we should be all guillotined if he did not
accept a place in the treasury, accompanied Mr. Burke on 。
visit to the prime minister, and was fifteen hundred a year
richer ever afterward. The French revolution was no un-
fortunate event for us.
At ten years old I went to Eton. The day atter my
arrival I was told to wash teacups; I rejected so ungentle-
manlike an office with becoming scorn, and was answered
by a blow which felled me to the ground. Although my
tyrant was much bigger and older than myself, I prepared
for an engagement, in which I lost two teeth (luckily
first teeth), and received, as a compensation, two black
eyes. My mother called to see me the next day, and was.
X
MORTIMER; OR,
naturally shocked by my appearance. Her tears and en- | abused the Frenca evolution—and skimraed through the
treaties obtained from me a promise that I would submit to
such derogations from my dignity as a gentleman, rather
than fight and maul myself like the children in the street.
"Some years hence," said she, "it may be necessary to
be necessary to
defend your honor by a personal contest, but it is a very
different thing to fight with pistols as a man, or to fight
with fists as a boy." So logical an argument, assisted by
the more powerful rhetoric of gold, prevailed upon me to
forego the pleasure of being beat at present, for the honor
of being shot hereafter.
Of shy habits, and averse to games in which, as my
mother sagely remarked, one tore one's clothes without any
adequate recompense, I became insensibly fond of reading;
my time was given wholly to my books, and I was repaid
by the first place in the ensuing examination, and a public |
compliment on my premature ability. Fortunately for
Fortunately for
me, or I might have become a book-worm, or an author, I
went home after this epoch in my academical career. We
had people at dinner: I was permitted to join them.
Observe," said my mother, "Mr. Fitzdonnel; he is the
Mr. Fitzdonnel; he is the
most elegant man in London, the delight of every circle,
the very reverse of your father, the very pattern of mine;
in short, exactly what I wish you to be." I riveted my
eyes on the object of this eulogium; I surveyed him from
head to foot: there was nothing particular in his exterior,
but I persuaded myself that he was an Apollo. At dinner
he spoke much and badly, but all present laughed at his
iests, and seemed pleased when he spoke to them.
"Who
is Mr. Fitzdonnel?" whispered I to my father, next to whom
I had squeezed myself. "Lord Merivale's second son,'
was the answer. Now Lord Merivale was the third in de-
scent from a rich tradesman, who had already dissipated
his fortune. Young as I was, I could not help thinking
that the younger son of a man of no family and no fortune
must have some merit of his own to obtain such distinction,
and Mr. Fitzdonnel rose proportionably in my opinion. I
was then ignorant by what chances a man comes into fash-
ion, and when there, what high, though, alas! what brief,
reputation he enjoys. The conversation turned upon one
of the literary lions of the day, I think it was Mr. G-
"Ah," said Fitzdonnel, "I never thought much of him,
quite a bookworm, not the least a man of the world; I
don't know how it is, but it seems to me that learning only
confuses real ability; the fire perishes by too much fuel;
the more we study books, the less we study man; and for
persons in a certain station of life,-for diplomatists-for
statesmen-for gentlemen, in short, mankind is the only
study. I grant you," added Mr. Fitzdonnel, with a slight
so i'e and an almost imperceptible bow to my mother, "that
at certain times the study of man is forgotten-but for
what the admiration of woman!"-" Henry," said my
mother, when I joined the ladies, "did you ever see so
agreeable and so sensible a man as Mr. Fitzdonnel?"—
"Never," said I,
"said I, - and thenceforth I determined to shut
up my books, and take to Mr. Fitzdonnel's. I am sure I
owe almost as much ta ny mother in this respect as in all
others put together, for she entirely blunted my appetite for
Knowledge; a thing which daily experience has since taught
me only ruins our constitution and our prospects, makes
one content upon little, and prefer the preservation of our
independence to the making of our fortunes.
During the vest of the time that I spent at Eton, I in-
daged in fanciful meditations on Arabian barbs and court-
dresses (court was then the fashion), made six bosom
friends all of my own way of thinking, except one (of
non more hereafter) — ran into debt-praised Mr. Pitt-
Anti-jacobin. I was transplanted in the vigor of eighteen
to Cambridge, where I bloomed for two years in th
blue and silver of a fellow-commcner of Trinity. At the
end of that time (being of royal descent,) I became entitled
to an honorary degree: I suppose the term is in contradis-
tinction to an honorable degree, which is obtained by pale
men in spectacles and cotton stockings, after thirty-six
months of intense application. I do not exactly remember
how I spent my time at Cambridge; I had a viana-forte in
my room, and a private billiard-table at Chesterton. Be-
tween these resources, I managed to yawn through the in-
termediate hours of breakfast and dinner with more spirit
than I could have expected in so low a place. For, to say
truth, it was an awful congregation of bores. The men
drank malt by the gallon, and ate cheese by the hundred
weight; wore jockey-cut coats, and talked slang rode for
wagers, and swore when they lost-smoked in your face,
and expectorated on the floor. Their proudest glory was
to drive the mail, their mightiest exploit to box with the
coachman, their most delicate amour to leer at the bar-maid.
I speak, too, of those who constituted the best society one
could get. The Dons talked to you about fellowships and
fluxions, and the reading under-graduates would scarcely
talk to you at all; neither was the loss to be regretted, for
their linen was a week old; and if you asked them for the
wine, they started as if out of a revery, and said, “You
will find it in Hydrostatics." At twenty I removed to
London, where I profited much by my excellent education and
the lessons of my mother. Although I could not afford an
appearance of splendor equal to many of my rivals, yet I
acquired the art of making a great deal out of a little;
moreover, the coolness of my temper made me a fortunate
gamester. As for my own person, I was tall and slender,
without any real pretensions to beauty; but my air, my
carriage, and my assurance did for me all which fine fea-
tures and figure could effect for a person less accomplished.
At the end of the season, I was admired, courted, and
very little in debt. I had the prudence, however, to take
that debt, small as it was, as a hint that I must increase
my ability of payment; but how was this desirable object
to be accomplished? Professions are certainly less gentle-
man-like than indolence. The Church is the best. The
Army, notwithstanding all the titles it counts in its list, is
abstractedly and positively vulgar. I grant that it is idle
enough; but then one is "under command, and has to do
duty.” What duty can a gentleman possibly have, except
to pay his debts of honor?
The Law is too bustling and business-like a pursuit; it
makes our very mind professional, and we learn to consider
even a duel or an intrigue illegal. The Church is really a
gentleman-like, good, younger-brotherish profession; but
then one must renounce waltzing and pleasure, if ore hopes
for a bishopric, and what other hope could induce a gentle
man to become a Reverend ?
"Marry an heiress," said my mother. "It is a good
thought," said I; and accordingly the next season I had
got the six best down in my betting-book.
The first, Miss Biddulph, was the daughter of a stock-
broker, and had 100,000. She was a fine showy girl;
with a high color, a loud laugh, and overflowing with the
most excruciating animation and health. She was pleased
with my addresses, and at the end of a fortnight, I said, as
I went to dine with my father, "I will propose after
dinner, if the d-d city cook does not poison me with his
But happily it was a
paraphrase of French dishes."
family-party; the relations were present; her uncle was a
MEMOIRS OF A GENTLEMAN
X.
pastry-cook
me,
as it
a most worthy person, who never pronounced | pensity, which actuated every thought, word, and action
the h's. I could not bear the thought of his little grand- it was zeal for the happiness of others. He was not of a
nephews calling for tartlets- it would have been an insult light, joyous temper, but there was an appearance of heart
to the good man I spared him the possibility of incurring in his look and voice, which gave him a peculiar and inde-
scribable charm.
it, and the next morning rode out for the first time with
Yet having been less fortunate than
Miss Melvil, heiress the second on my list. She was myself in a preceptress at home, his notions of society
young, pretty, and of good family, which went far with
were frequently any thing but dignified and acute. For in-
and of 50001. a year in Gloucestershire, which went stance, when we were about fourteen, we were walking
much further. She was a sensible, clever young lady, and once in Pall Mall- a child was run over by a servant in a
I therefore made some impression upon her at first; most curricle, the man passed on without any other remark
unaccountably this impression appeared to wear away. I than an oath a crowd collected, no one knew any thing
told my
mother to observe her, and see what I had to hope. respecting the infant, who were its parents, where it came
She did so, and assured me that Miss Melvil blushed at my from, how it got there; but every one saw from its dress
name, caressed
my dog, and almost fainted when she heard that it must be from that class from which no reward could
a false rumor that I had fallen from my horse. Upon this be expected; and so man, woman, and fellow-child merely
hint I resolved to speak. I repaired to Miss Melvil's stared and said, "What a pity!" Morland sprang for-
house: she was alone; I took the opportunity - proposed,
proposed, ward, took the poor devil in his arms, and instead of car-
and was rejected. There was a tear in her eye and a soft- rying it to the next public-house, which would have
ness in her voice, which destroyed the stunning severity of answered the same purpose, ran with it, bleeding and dirty
the negative. What," I entreated to know, "what could
was, down Bond street to his father's in Grosvenor-
pe the reason of her decision? Could it never be over-
square, weeping and muttering over it all the way like a
come?" Miss Melvil "feared not, but it depended upon
madman. Luckily I managed to escape. Two years before
me "Upon me! if so, what wonders could not be ac- I would have done the same thing myself, but nobody knows
colished by a love like mine!" The tale was told, and my obligations to my mother! I have only to add with
wha. do you think was the mighty objection? Why, my regard to Morland's character, which I am taking the trou-
morals, forsooth. She required me to renounce gaming, and ble to sketch, because he is shortly to make his appearance,
forswear my "profligate acquaintance.' I could only that the same susceptibility of temper which led him to
take this as a hint to cut my own father and mother! Could acts of kindness and benevolence, made him also deeply
I fail to be horror-struck at so unnatural a proposal? sensible of injury; and his attachment to all whom he
Miss Melvil owned that she could love me, but said it once loved was so vivid, that, although he might pardon
was necessary that she should also esteem me-
she never
an offence against himself, he never forgave an insult to
would blush for her husband. It was too late for me them.
to go to school again, and too early for me to commence
hypocrite; so after obtaining a promise that the rejection
of my suit should not be divulged, a promise granted
with extraordinary ease, and some inexplicable appearance
of contempt, I took my hat and retired, overwhelmed
with astonishment and chagrin. My next love was for the
50,000/. of Lady Jane Carver. I had three rivals, each
handsomer, richer, and nobler than myself. Fortunately
Lady Jane was blessed with a spirit of contradiction; her
father, though no Solomon, had sufficient penetration to
discover that I was the worst match his daughter could
make; he behaved to me accordingly. His rudeness, of
course, attracted the kindness of Lady Jane; the more the
earl frowned, the more her ladyship smiled; the cooler he
was in his own house, the warmer became his daughter at
the houses of others; till at length, by the aforesaid spirit
of contradiction alone, I, the plainest, poorest, least attrac-
tive, and least deserving of all my rivals, reached the
summit in the lady's affection, and looked down with the
most refreshing contempt upon my toiling, baffled, and
wrathful competitors.
's, when I was paying my
One night, at Lady H
court to Lady Jane, I suddenly perceived her attention di-
verted from my conversation, with that appearance of
agitation on her countenance which can rarely be called to
the cheek of ladies, in a certain station, except by the fault
of a lover or the superiority of a rival; the latter was
now the affliction of Lady Jane. "Pray," said she, with
a sour sncer, "do you think that girl so very handsome?"
I turned round, and saw the most exquisite creature I had
ever beheld, leaning on the arm of my stately and unaltered
Achates, Frederick Morland. My eye met his; we knew
each other in one moment, and in the next we had joined
hands, and felt that the men were mutually as dear as the
boys had been. I had left my lady-companion, he had
quitted his-we were forced to retreat. "You will
breakfast with me to-morrow,
"' said I ; "but are you
married?” “No.” "Who then is that beautiful crea-
ture?"
"My sister: shall I introduce you?" "I shall
be too delighted; but I must first disengage myself;" and
in truth it was time to sooth Lady Jane, for I observed
that flashing eye and that frowning brow, which are such
It will be remembered that I said, among my school-agreeable accompaniments to the face of the lady you in-
friends there was only one whose way of thinking differed
from my own; it is strange that of all those friends, he
alone became linked with the thread of my future exist
ence; it is still more strange that he, differing from me in
every thing, pleased ana fascinated me far more than my
most congenial companions. I loved him, indeed, with a
warmth which frequently astonished myself. Frederick
Morland was the son of a merchant, celebrated for the ex-
traordinary amount of his wealth: of the same age with
myself, be had singled me out at Eton as the object of his
narticular affection; I have said how I returned it.
He was of a very singular disposition - he never
thought about himself! He had one foolish, darling pro-
tend to marry.
I soon made my peace; went with Lady Jane down one
dance, which seemed almost interminable, yielded her to
Lord Belton with the most edifying resignation, and in five
minutes afterward was consoling myself with Miss Mor-
land. After one has been jaded for two months with play
ing the agreeable to faces which half a dozen seasons of
dissipation have despoiled of all freshness, and to minds
worn perfectly threadbare in the same dull and unvarying
routine of flirting and folly, it is something vastly refresh-
ing to meet with features one has never seen before, whose
animated and expressive loveliness would alone make then.
seem constantly new, and a mind as yet unblunted and un-
xii
MORTIMER; OR,
hackneyed — an intellectual kaleidoscope constantly chang- | son I was loved with all that deep and spiritual truth and
ing, brilliant and beautiful in every change! Miss Morland tenderness of which woman is capable. Women are se
was just out. I do love young ladies who are just out! all silly!
the remarks they make, if they are not too shy to make
any, have a most delicious and racy freshness about them-
the sparkle of the soda water before it becomes insipid by
standing They have not got into the beaten round of
question and answer; they have not yet learned the art of
jingling the same bells fifty different ways. harsh varia-
tions in monotony. Miss Morland and I became the best
friends in the world, and I went home as soon as she left
the ball, as much in love as a sensible man can be before he
knows the exact fortune of his mistress. Morland came
the next morning, and that fortune was ascertained: 80,000l.
on the day of her marriage, 20,0001. more at her father's
death. It is impossible to describe the excess of my pas-
sion on hearing this intelligence! I owned to Morland how
nis sister had smitten me. His eyes glistened, he seized my
hand, his sister was dearer to bim than his life; his hopes,
his wishes, were centered in her. What delight should he
experience if the happiness of his earliest friend became by
the dearest ties linked and entwined through existence with
his own! "I will live with you," he said, "for I shall
never marry. I loved once, but she whom I loved is dead,
and love sleeps in her tomb; our fortunes, like our affec-
tions, shall be in common; we will distribute them so that
others may be sharers in our bliss. From the centre of our
happiness the circle shall widen and extend its protection
over all who enter the limits of its influence, and when we
are weary of the blessings of our own hearth, we will go
forth and feast upon the blessings we have given to our
follow-creatures.
I was so affected by the enthusiasm with which these
words were uttered, that I felt my heart melt within me. I
threw myself into Morland's arms, and could almost have
wept with a delicious sensation which I had never expe-
rienced before. For two months I was daily with the
Morlands. The father was of a bold, speculative, restless
nature, constantly engrossed with business, and thoughtful
and reserved even in his scanty hours of relaxation. The
mother was a woman of masculine mind and strong sense,
cold in her manners, even to her nearest relations, but con-
cealing beneath her freezing exterior a spring of deep and
energetic feeling. Her ruling passion was love for her
children, for her son in particular; perhaps indeed it was
rather pride than love, pride for his talents, for his vir-
tues, for his personal beauty, for his high reputation among
the few who had already earned it from the many.
Of
course,
I dropped my amour with Lady Jane, who soon
after married Lord Belton. Since her marriage we have
been on the most intimate footing "Honi soit qui mal y
pense!"
I had much difficulty in winning the affections of Miss
Morland. She saw in her brother a being whom she con-
sidered the epitome of every perfection; and as there was
little in my character resembling his, she remained un-
moved by my attentions, flattering as they must have been;
insensibly and inconceivably I slid into a new character
owned my follies, talked of my unfortunate education,
ninted at the certainty of reform, if the one whose control
heart was so unlimited would deign to direct and
inspire me. To this day I know not whether I was in
counterfeit or earnest, but my metamorphosis had a won-
derful effect. A woman may often resist the most admired
rake; but very seldom when, while he keeps his claims to
e admired, he offers for her sake to renounce his preten-
sions to be a rake. I do believe that at the end of the sca-
over my
I made a formal proposal to the father, and was as for-
mally accepted, if wife and daughter approved. Of the
consent of the latter I was certain; for the consent of the
former I tried to insinuate that there was no particular
necessity. Mr. Morland begged leave to undeceive me; he
left all those trifling domestic arrangements wholly to his
wife; he had resolved never to interfere with them. He
wished me a good morning-he was going to negotiate a
loan with government he hoped to see me at dinner. I
went to Miss Morland; it is needless to speak of the
smiles and blushes which gave new charms to the most
beautiful face in the world; suffice it to say that by Ellen
I was not rejected; yes! that was certainly the happies.
moment of my life; happier than when, at an earlier pe-
riod, I first rode a horse of my own; happier than when,
in later life, in the full flush of triumph and success, I ex-
ultingly seduced away Lord H- 's celebrated cook.
I next repaired to Mrs. Morland. She told me coldly that
she perceived her daughter's happiness was centred in me,
and that she would not therefore object to our marriage;
though she candidly confessed I was not exactly the person
she would have chosen. Her son's friendship for me went
however a great way in my favor; but as Ellen and myself
were still very young, she required me to go abroad for
two years, and if at the end of that time we both stil
wished for the connection, she would feel most happy to see
it cemented. In vain
it cemented. In vain I petitioned for a shorter proba.
tion in vain I talked to Ellen of unnatural parents and
Gretna Green-in vain I solicited the brother's inter-
ference in vain I interrupted the speculations of the
father; the fiat was despotic. I took an affectionate leave
of my parents, was persuaded by Frederick Morland to
suffer my creditors to make his acquaintance, and set ofl
one fine morning for Dover. I had scarcely reached the
Continent, Lefore Peace, like a raw recruit, put on a red
coat and clamored for war. I managed, with my usual
good fortune, to avoid being taken prisoner - got over to
Germany - saw whatever I could see was politely re-
quested to fight against Bonaparte declined the offer ·
returned home some months before the end of the two years
in a smuggling vessel - having managed to leave every
sentiment unworthy of a gentleman to take care of my
debts on the Continent. Before I left England I was an
English rake; I was now refined into a foreign debauchee :
the initiated will know the vast difference between the two!
I arrived in town and had a most affecting interview with
my mother, who only recovered from her swoon at my re-
turn, to go into hysterics at the beautiful shawls I had
brought her. My first inquiry was for Ellen-short an
swers and long faces: sifted the matter, and ascertained
that her father, being a considerable loser by the recom-
mencement of war, had entered into mercantile specula-
tions unusually bold; had failed; and on receiving the
intelligence three weeks ago, had given his razor a wrong
turn, and had left his family the honor of his name, and
the reputation of having once been extremely rich, agree-
able people. What a miserably ungentleman-like thing, to
send a man on his travels for two years on the promise of
giving him 100,000l., and then to get rid of the promise
with the same instrument by which one would get rid of a
beard!
|
With some difficulty I saw that family poor, wretched,
deserted, whom I had left in the honor and envy of the
world. I the ew myself at the feet of her whom I still
MEMOIRS OF A GENTLEMAN.
Xiii
avea, not indeed wiu the love of my earlier youth, but
with the burning passion of manhood. How beautiful
were her tears, how innocent her thoughts, when she asked
if I was indeed as unchanged as I declared; if I would
indeed take a beggar to my heart, and be contented with
the inexhaustible riches of her affection. Mrs. Morland
lost all her coldness of manner when I told her I was come
to claim my reward. She did not, she must confess, ex-
pect such generosity from my character. She must own
that she was deceived; I was now indeed worthy to be the
friend of her son, and the chosen of her daughter. But
where was that son? he met me with a step as proud, and
a brow, if not so calm, at least as lofty, as when he stood
in the princely halls of his father in the zenith of his pros-
perity. I was soon restored to my former footing, and it
was understood that at the end of the year my betrothed
was to be my bride. And now, dear and sagacious reader,
dost thou think that my travels had so softened my wits,
that all the dictates of common sense had no weight against
the romance of my honor or the purity of my love? If
thou dost, then the Lord enlighten thee-I will not con-
tinue the quotation. The fact is, that I still had a mar-
vellous affection for Ellen; in my travels I had seen none
equal to her in beauty, in grace, in tenderness. I returned,
and even in her grief could not but see how the lapse of
time had unfolded the blossoms of her loveliness. Now,
although the loss of her fortune prevented my thinking of
her as a wife, yet, thank Heaven, marriage is not the only
method of enjoying the woman one adores; but there was
no prospect of any alternative save by those opportunities
of free and constant intercourse, which could only be ob-
tained by the intimate friendship and confidence of the
whole trio. This, also, there was no other way to acquire,
but by renewing my former matrimonial offers; neither
was there any fear of matters being too closely expedited.
Nearly a whole year of mourning had yet to take place be-
fore even I could, with any propriety, press for the happy
day; during this intervening time, with such advantages
as I possessed, and with such increased experience in these
matters as I had acquired, it would indeed be strange if I
could not effect my purpose.
“ !!
and grace my festival with her presence; Mrs. Morland
would as soon have thought of going to the cider cellar.
So Ellen was put under the protection of a mutual ac-
quaintance. I said, on the important day (as I was taking
up my hat to depart from Mrs. Morland's house),
Frederick likes to come, of course he will; but as I know
his aversion to such things, I thought it would be an idle
compliment to ask him." Mrs. Morland was, as I had
foreseen, piqued at my cavalier invitation.
depend upon it, Mr. Mortimer," said she, "Frederick
will not trouble you with his presence.' "Well, I know
he is somewhat cynical," was my answer, as I left the
room. Poor Ellen as I looked up to the window from
the street I caught her gaze, so full of the fondness of her
love!
-
"You may
Well, the evening came, and with it came my guests. I
went with considerable patience through the ordinary in-
sipidity of such entertainments; wrapped in a dark domino
I mingled with the crowd, and for once heard myself can-
vassed, blamed and praised, ridiculed and admired, without
a single feeling of depressed or elated vanity; my whole
soul was indeed bent with the concentrated force of flame
upon the one thought- that that night was I to be com
pletely happy. So certain was I of success, that fear did
not for a moment mingle with my feelings; I joined El-
len, I danced with her, I talked to her in the glowing
language of love, I led her to the refreshment table, I
drugged the wine and water which I gave her, she drank
it without a thought or a suspicion ; "She is mine!" I
exclaimed inwardly, and my eye flashed at the thought.
"Beautiful Ellen," said I, "there is one room which I
have just fitted up, I have not yet shown it you ;
I put
her arm through mine, we turned to a passage which led to
a part of the house wholly unfrequented, and through which
the servants had strict orders to allow no one but myself to
pass. Just as we got to it, I accordingly turned round
a mask was close behind me. He appeared, however, to
have wandered there only through curiosity, for he passed
on in an opposite direction. "On your life," I whispered
to my Swiss valet, whom I had stationed at the entrance
of the passage,
on your life, suffer no one to pass." We
As it was by no means desirable to be seen in public in- went through the passage, I felt Ellen's hand tremble in
timacy with the son of a ruined suicide, as moreover I mine, her bosom heaved ; — the drug works, I thought.
wished to get rid as much as possible of so clear-sighted an "Here is the room," I said, as we entered one prepared
observer as Frederick Morland, I took care to procure for for my purpose; in a moment I had, unperceived by her,
him, through my father's interest, a place under govern- bolted the door, in the next I was at her feet. The agita-
ment, not indeed very lucrative, but most honorably labo- tion of my voice the fire of my eyes alarmed her, she
rious. To make short a tale already much too long, I retreated to the other end of the room; I followed her;
spared no pains to increase and inflame Ellen's pure and my charm was at its operation; never had I known the
girlish attachment to her lover; but there was such an in- woman who could resist it; but Ellen was more than wo-
nocence in her every thought, that I could never succeed in man. "Leave me, Mortimer," she cried, and burst intc
corrupting in her even that passion which is the most sen- tears; "if ever I was dear to you- if ever you prized
sible of corruption. Time flew away, several months had my peace, my life, my eternal happiness—if ever you felt
elapsed, and I had made no progress. "The fort (how respect for all that was valuable, and precious, and sacred
I love old metaphors- there is no trouble in them) "must to my soul, do not approach me by another step!
be carried by a coup de main," said I. It was the middle paused, but only for an instant; I clasped her in my arms;
of summer, I had not been able to leave Ellen, but in order faint and struggling, she had still the strength to scream;
to avoid the disreputable appearance of staying in town at at that moment I heard the loudness of voices in wrath
that time of the year, I had hired a house in those fields the expostulation of my faithful Swiss- the sudden silence
now honored by the name of " the Regent's Park." There of that expostulation, -at the same time that a heavy
were a few agreeable families in the neighborhood, a few noise, like the falling of a body, shook the house. I heard
more still staying in town; "I will give," said I, "a the rush of steps; I heard three violent assaults at the door
bachelor's feast, I will have tents on my lawn, and lamps on of the apartment; at the fourth it gave way, and the dark
my poplars, and supper in my house, and people shall come figure which I had seen in the passage stood before me.
masked, and I will call it, in newspaper language, a fête He tore the mask from his face it was Frederick Mor-
champêtre.” With the greatest difficulty I prevailed upon land; Ellen lay ou the floor in a swoon, the only sign of
Ellen to quit home for the first time since her father's death, guilt was in my confusion. "Wretch !" cried Morland,
W
|
1
xiv
MORTIMER; OR,
sternly, "if I had been too late, you would only have left
this chamber as a corpse. I now saw a pistol in his
hand. "Mr. Morland," said I, "your sister your
vour sister—is innocent ! "Quit the room, sir," whis-
pered Morland, in a voice unnaturally low, "or- "and
his pistol was levelled at my breast. Like all gentlemen,
education had made me brave; I did not feel so much
alarm at my danger, as an internal sinking at my own lit-
tleness. I believe that was the only time in my life in
which I ever quailed to an enemy. I turned to quit the
room a thought struck me; even in that moment of
even in that moment of
shame, and confusion, and peril, I am proud to say that I
had not forgotten the lessons of my youth:
"Do not
make an exposé," said I; "remember the world. " "I
will remember," said Morland, with the muttered tone of
that suppressed wrath which shook him like a whirlwind; |
"I will remember my sister's fame, and I will remember
the vengeance which is due to him who would have dis-
honored it!" I left the house, I wandered into the garden,
groups were scattered over the grass, their laughter smote
my ear, their revelry sickened my very soul, I could have
roared aloud in the agony of my heart; there, one by one,
I saw my guests depart. Insensibly the night melted into
day. The bright sun shone forth, exulting in the glory of
his summer strength, the green earth glittered in his lus-
tre-but the blight of the winter, and the darkness of the
midnight, and the wrath of the tempest, were warring on
my spirit. God bless me, dear reader, how excessively
poetical!
I think I must have been reading my contempo-
rary Lord Thurlow lately, and borrowing his style; well,
I got to bed at last, slept not very quietly, but at least for
several hours; and when I awoke the following note from
Ellen was put into my hands: -
P
ungoverned, and terrible is his anger, whenever he con
ceives that those whom he loves have been injured. Du
not, do not meet him; I do not ask you to incur any re
proach from that world to which you are so devoted,
you can leave town immediately, before he has time to see
or to send to you in a few days the mist of his pas-
sion will be cleared, and I shall have nothing to fear; it
is only for the first moment that I dread. I know, Morti-
mer, that you will not willingly lift your hand against the
friend of your childhood, against any one who has loved you
as tenderly as a brother; I know that you will not utterly
destroy the happiness of my poor mother; I know that you
will not ruin the fair fame, and blast the slender hopes of
comfort which remain to her whom you have sworn so often
to cherish and love. Grant me this one request, and though
I now say farewell for ever, yet I will pray for you with the
same fervor as in happier moments. Dare I trust in you,
Mortimer? I would fain believe it-see how the paper is
blistered with my tears; they are the first that I have shed
since we parted; let them speak for me, let them save my
brother, my mother, and yourself, and I shall be contented
if they flow for ever. Grant me this, Mortimer, and when
I am on my deatlı-bed I will remember you, and send you
my blessing.
CC
ELLEN MORLAND. "
I rung my bell, and ordered four horses to my carriage
immediately. "You shall be obeyed, Ellen," said I ; it
is not by me that your brother shall fall.” "Sir," said
my Swiss servant, entering the room, "there is a gentle
man below who insists upon seeing you." 'Blockhead,
why did you let him in?" Poor Louis had had enough of
playing the sentinel the night before ! "Go and tell him I
am just setting off to Devonshire, and can see no one."
"Sir," said Louis, returning, "I have told him so, and
he says he has the more reason for immediately-and,
Diable! here he is, sir." And, in sober earnest, in
stalked a military-looking figure, whom I immediately
recognised as a Colonel Macnaughten, an old friend of
Morland's. Sir," said he, "you will excuse this
intrusion " No, sir, I will not excuse it,- begone."
My visiter stared, took a chair with infinite sang froid, told
Louis to leave the room, and shut the door, and then qui.
etly taking snuff, said, with a smile, "Mr. Mortimer, you
cannot affront me now; I am utterly impervious to insult
till I have fulfilled my errand; and now I am sure you will
not insult me.” This errand was, of course, a challenge
from Morland. I refused it at once, but said to Macnaugh-
ten, who elevated his eyebrows a little superciliously, “Sir,
if you are disposed for fighting, and it will oblige you, I
will fight you, instead, with all the pleasure imaginable.”
My gentleman, who was a Scotchman, laughed for ten min-
ates at this proposal, and, when he was able, he told me
that Morland had foreseen my refusal, had bid him say that
he would be satisfied with no excuse, that he would post
me in every coffee-house, that he would follow and insult
me wherever I went, if I refused; that, in short, no
"The
earthly method but the sword would satisfy him.
pistol, you mean," said I. "True," replied Macnaugh-
if you prefer it; but my principal says that his skill
as a shot is so much greater than yours, and he is so deter
mined to prosecute the duel to the utmost, that he cannot re-
solve to take so unfair an advantage as the use of the ortho-
"Yes, Mortimer, it is my handwriting. Again, and for
he last time, you hold communication with one who once
asked only to be yours for ever. I do not write to upbraid
you ; I have enough to do in stifling the reproaches of my
own heart; neither will I complain, if I can command
myself, for indeed I have cause to be grateful. Shame, it
is true, I must feel for ever, but the curse of guilt I have
been spared. Time, the say, cures all evils, but I think
at present that my heart is broken,
heart is broken, I have nothing on
this side the grave to which I can look forward with plea- |
sure. I have so long been accustomed to love you, to carry
every fonder thought, every idea of future happiness as
offerings to one shrine, that it seems to me that I have now
to tear myself from my past life, and enter, spiritless and
aopeless, upon a new existence. I have to lay aside what
has literally become a part of my nature.
Alas! the effort
shall cost me dear, but 1. shall be made if it does not
acceed, I have no other choice than to lie down and die.
But I said I would not upbraid you, nor complain-you
will smile to see how I have kept my word; why, indeed,
should I utter complaints either to or against you? Hence-
forth I am to you as nothing; I even think that I must
always have been utterly indifferent to you, or you would
not have resolved to lose me for ever, for, think you, that
even if your designs had succeeded, I would have survived
my disgrace? No, I should only have lived to curse,
not you, Mortimer, but myself. My shame, my agony,
would have killed me on the spot. But you are wondering
why I write to you now. Believe me, Mortimer, it is no
common incentive which induces me to do so; it is noth-dox weapon would give him. He tells me that you have often
ing less than the life of my brother and your own. I know,
from what he could not conceal, that Frederick will seek
his revenge after the fashion of the world. You know how
ten,
practised the smali sword together before you went abroad,
and that you are very even antagonists: for myself, I made
some demur, as the weapon was now becoming so com.
PELHAM ;
OR,
ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
CHAPTER I.
Ou peut-on étre mieux qu'au sein de sa famille ?
French Song
I▲ an only child. My father was the younger son of
one of our oldest earls; my mother, the dowerless daughter
of a Scotch peer. Mr. Pelham was a moderate whig, and
Lady Frances was a woman
gave sumptuous dinners;
of taste, and particularly fond of diamonds and old china.
Vulgar people know nothing of the necessaries required
in good society, and the credit they give is as short as their
pedigree. Six years after my birth, there was an execu
tion in our house. My mother was just setting off on a
visit to the Duchess of D- ; she declared it was im-
possible to go without her diamonds. The chief of the
bailiffs declared it was impossible to trust them out of his
sight. The matter was compromised the bailiff went
with my mother to C- and was introduced as my
"A man of singular merit," whispered my mother,
"but so shy!" Fortunately the bailiff was abashed, and
by losing his impudence he kept the secret. At the end of
the week, the diamonds went to the jeweller's, and Lady
Frances wore paste.
tutor.
>
I think it was about a month afterwards that a sixteenth
cousin left my mother twenty thousand pounds. "It will
just pay off our most importunate creditors, and equip me
for Melton," said Mr. Pelham.
"It will just redeem my diamonds, and new furnish the
house," said Lady Frances.
The latter alternative was chosen. My father went
down to run his last horse at Newmarket, and my mother
received nine hundred people in a Turkish tent. Both
were equally fortunate, the Greek and the Turk: my
father's horse lost, in consequence of which he pocketed
five thousand pounds, and my mother looked so charming,
as a Sultana, that Seymour Conway fell desperately in love
with her.
Mr. Conway had just caused two divorces; and of
course, all the women in London were dying for him-
judge then of the pride which Lady Frances felt at his
addresses. The end of the season was unusually dull, and
my mother, after having looked over her list of engage-
ments, and ascertained that she had none remaining worth
staying for, agreed to elope with her new lover.
The carriage was at the end of the square. My mother,
for the first time in her life, got up at six o'clock. Her
foot was on the step, and her hand next to Mr. Conway's
heart, when she remembered that her favorite china mon-
ster and her French dog were left behind. She insisted
on returning reentered the house, and was coming down.
stairs with one under each arm, when she was met by my
father and two servants. My father's valet had discovered
the flight (I forget how) and awakened his master.
When my father was convinced of his loss, he called for
his dressing gown-searched the garret and the kitchen.
looked in the maid's drawers and the cellaret- and finally
declared he was distracted. I have heard that the servants
I have heard that the servants
were quite melted by his grief, and I do not doubt it in the
least, for he was always celebrated for his skill in private
theatricals. He was just retiring to vent his grief in his
dressing-room, when he met my mother. It must altogether
nave been an awkward rencontre, and, indeed, for my father,
a remarkably unfortunate occurrence; for Seymour Con-
way was immensely rich, and the damages would, no doubt,
VOL. I.
1
have been proportionably high. Had they met each other
alone, the affair might easily have been settled, and Lady
-d servants are
Frances gone off in tranquillity; those d-
always in the way!
I have, however, often thought that it was better for e
-as I know from many in-
that the affair ended thus,
stances, that it is frequently exceedingly inconvenien. to
have one's mother divorced.
I have observed that the distinguishing trait of people
accustomed to good society, is a calm imperturbable quiet,
great-
which pervades all their actions and habits, from the
est to the least; they eat in quiet, move in quiet, live in
quiet, and lose their wife, or even their money, in quiet;
while low persons cannot take up either a spoon or an
affront without making such an amazing noise about it.
To render this observation good, and to return to the in-
tended elopement, nothing farther was said upon that event.
My father introduced Conway to Brooke's, and invited
him to dinner twice a week for a whole twelvemonth.
Not long after this occurrence, by the death of my grand-
father, my uncle succeeded to the title and estates of the
family. He was, as people justly observed, rather un odd
man: built schools for peasants, forgave poachers, and di-
minished his farmers' rents; indeed, on account of these
and other similar eccentricities, he was thought a fool by
some, and a madman by others. However, he was not
quite destitute of natural feeling; for he paid my father's
debts, and established us in the secure enjoyment of our
former splendor. But this piece of generosity, or justice,
was done in the most unhandsome manner; he obtained a
promise from my father to retire from Brooke's, and relin-
quish the turf: and he prevailed upon my mother to take
an aversion to diamonds and an indifference to china
monsters.
CHAPTER II.
Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam,
Rectique cultus pectora roborant.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming ;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.
HORAT
The Soul's Erran
AT ten years old I went to Eton. I had been educated
till that period by my mother, who, being distantly related
to Lord
(who had published "Hints upon the Culi
nary Art"), imagined she possessed an hereditary claim to
literary distinction. History was her great forte, for she
had read all the historical romances of the day, and history
accordingly I had been carefully taught.
I think at this moment I see my mother before me, re-
clining on her sofa, and repeating to me some story about
Queen Elizabeth and Lord Essex; then, sinking back with
the exertion, tell me, in a languid voice, of the blessings
of a literary taste, and admonish me never to read above
half an hour at a time for fear of losing my health.
Well, to Eton I went; and the second day I had been
there, I was half killed for refusing, with all the pride of a
Pelham, to wash tea-cups. I was rescued from the clutches
of my tyrant by a boy not much bigger than myself, but
2
BULWER'S NOVELS.
reckoned the best fighter, for his size, in the whole school.
His name was Regina.d Glanville; from that period we
became inseparable, and our friendship lasted all the time
he stayed at Eton, which was within a year of my own de-
parture for Cambridge.
His father was a baronet, of a very ancient and wealthy
family; and his mother was a woman of some talent and
more ambition.
She made her house one of the most
recherché in London. Seldom seen at large assemblies, she
was eagerly sought after in the well winnowed soirées of the
elect. Her wealth, great as it was, seemed the least
prominent ingredient of her establishment. There was in
it no uncalled-for ostentation -no purse-proud vulgarity
no cringing to great, and no patronizing condescension to
little people; even the Sunday newspapers could not find
fault with her, and the querulous wives of younger brothers
could only sneer and be silent.
"It is an excellent connexion," said my mother, when I
told her of my friendship with Reginald Glanville, "and
will be of more use to you than many of greater apparent
consequence. Remember, my dear, that in all the friends
you make at present, you look to the advantage you can
derive from them hereafter; that is what we call knowledge
of the world, and it is to get the knowledge of the world
that you are sent to a public school.”
I think, however, to my shame, that notwithstanding my
mother's instructions, very few prudential considerations
were mingled with my friendship for Reginald Glanville.
I loved him with a warmth of attachment, which has since
surprised even myself.
He was of a very singular character; he used to wander
by the river in the bright days of summer, when all else
were at play, without any companion but his own thoughts;
and these were tinged, even at that early age, with a deep
and impassioned melancholy. He was so reserved in his
manner, that it was looked upon as coldness or pride, and
was repaid as such by a pretty general dislike. Yet to
those he loved, no one could be more open and warm;
more watchful to gratify others, more indifferent to gratifi-
cation for himself; an utter absence of all selfishness, and
an eager and active benevolence were indeed the distin-
guishing traits of his character. I have seen him endure
with a careless good-nature the most provoking affronts
from boys much less than himself; but directly I, or any
other of his immediate friends, was injured or aggrieved,
his anger was almost implacable. Although he was of a
slight frame, yet early exercise had brought strength to his
muscles, and activity to his limbs; and his skill in all ath-
letic exercises whenever (which was but rarely) he deigned
to share them, gave alike confidence and success to what-
ever enterprise his lion-like courage tempted him to dare.
Such, briefly and imperfectly sketched, was the character
of Reginald Glanville
the one,
who of all my early com-
panions differed the most from myself; yet the one whom I
loved the most, and the one whose future destiny was the
most intertwined with my own.
I was in the head class when I left Eton. As I was
reckoned an uncommonly well-educated boy, it may not be
ungratifying to the admirers of the present system of edu-
cation to pause here for a moment, and recall what I then
knew. I could make twenty Latin verses in half an hour;
I could construe, without an English translation, all the easy
Latin authors, and many of the difficult ones, with it; I
could read Greek fluently, and even translate it through the
medium of a Latin version at the bottom of the page. I
was thought exceedingly clever, for 1 had only been eight
years acquiring all this fund of information, which, as one
can never recall it in the world, you have every right to
suppose that I had entirely forgotten before I was five and
twenty. As I was
As I was never taught a syllable of English
during this period; as, when I once attempted to read
Pope's poems out of school hours, I was laughed at, and
called "a sap;" as ny mother, when I went to school, re-
nounced her own instructions; and as, whatever school-
masters may think to the contrary, one learns nothing
now-a-days by inspiration; so of every thing which relates
to English literature, English laws, and English history,
(with the exception of the said story of Queen Elizabeth
and Lord Essex,) you have the same right to suppose that
I was, at the age of eighteen, when I left Eton, in the
profoundest ignorance.
At this age, I was transplanted to Cambridge, where I
lalomuned for two years in the blue and silver of a fellow
commoner of Trinity. At the end of that time (being o
royal descent,) I became entitled to an honorary degree.
I suppose the term is in contradistinction to an honorable
degree, which is obtained by pale men in spectacles and
cotton stockings, after thirty-six months of intense appli
cation.
I do not exactly remember how I spent my time at
Cambridge. I had a piano-forte in my room, and a pri-
vate billiard-room at a village two miles off; and between
these resources, I managed to improve my mind more than
could reasonably have been expected.
whole place reeked with vulgarity. The men drank beer
To say truth, the
by the gallon, and ate cheese by the hundred-weight-
wore jockey-cut coats, and talked slang-rode for wa-
gers, and swore when they lost
gers, and swore when they lost-smoked in your face, and
expectorated on the floor. Their proudest glory was te
drive the mail-their mightiest exploit to box with the
coachman their most delicate amour to leer at the bar-
maid.
It will be believed, that I felt little regret in quitting
companions of this description. I went to take leave of
our college tutor. "Mr. Pelham," said he, affectionately
squeezing me by the hand, " your conduct has been most
exemplary; you have not walked wantonly over the college
grass-plats, nor set your dog at the proctor -nor driven
tandems by day, nor broken lamps by night-nor entered
the chapel in order to display your intoxication-nor the
lecture-room, in order to caricature the professors. This
is the general behaviour of young men of family and for-
tune; but it has not been your's. Sir, you have been an
honor to your college."
Thus closed my academical career. He who does not
allow that it passed creditably to my teachers, profitably to
myself, and beneficially to the world, is a narrow-minded,
and illiterate man, who knows nothing of the advantages of
modern education.
CHAPTER III.
Thus does a false ambition rule ns,
Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us.
SHENSTONE.
An open house, haunted with great resort.
BISHOP HALL's Satires.
I LEFT Cambridge in a very weak state of health; and
as nobody had yet come to London, I accepted the invita-
tion of Sir Lionel Garrett to pay him a visit at his country
seat. Accordingly, one raw winter's day, full of the hopes
of the reviving influence of air and exercise, I found myself
carefully packed up in three great coats, and on the high
road to Garrett Park.
Sir Lionel Garrett was a character very common in
England, and, in describing him, I describe the whole spe-
cies. He was of an ancient family which had for centu-
ries resided on their estates in Norfolk. Sir Lionel, who
came to his majority and his fortune at the same time,
went up to London at the age of twenty-one, a raw, uncouth
sort of young man, in a green coat and lank hair. His
friends in town were of that set whose members are above
ton, whenever they do not grasp at its possession, but who,
whenever they do, lose at once their aim and their equili-
brium, and fall immeasurably below it. I mean that set
which I call "the respectable," consisting of old peers of an
old school; country gentlemen, who still disdain not to love
their wine, and to hate the French; generals who have
served in the army; elder brothers who succeed to something
besides a mortgage; and younger brothers who do not mis-
take their capital for their income. To this set you may
add the whole of the baronetage-for I have remarked that
baronets hang together like bees or Scotchmen; and if
go to a baronet's house, and speak to some one whom
have not the happiness to know, I always say
John,”
"Si
It was no wonder, then, that to this set belonged Sir
Lionel Garrett—no more the youth in a green coat and
lank hair, but pinched in, and curled out-abounding in
horses and whiskers-dancing all night-lounging all day
-the favorite of the old ladies, the Philander of the young.
One unfortunate evening Sir Lionel Garrett was intro-
duced to the celebrated Duchess of D. From that moment
his head was turned. Before then, he always imagined that
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
3
he was somebody that he was Sir Lionel Garrett, with a
good-looking person and eight thousand a year; he now
knew that he was nobody unless he went to Lady G.'s, and
unless he bowed to Lady S. Disdaining all importance
derived from himself, it became absolutely necessary to his
happiness, that all his importance should be derived solely
from his acquaintance with others. He cared not a straw
that he was a man of fortune, of family, of consequence;
he must be a man of ton; or he was an atom, a nonentity;
a very worm, and no inan. No lawyer at Gray's Inn, no
galley slave at the oar, ever worked so hard at his task as
Sir Lionel Garrett at his. Ton, to a single man, is a thing
attainable enough. Sir Lionel was just gaining the envied
distinction, when he saw, courted, and married Lady
Harriet Woodstock.
His new wife was of a modern and not very rich family,
striving like Sir Lionel for the notoriety of fashion; but of
this struggle he was ignorant. He saw her admitted into
good society he imagined she commanded it; she was a
hanger on he believed she was a leader. Lady Harriet
was crafty and twenty-four -had no objection to be mar-
ried, nor to change the name of Woodstock for Garrett.
She kept up the baronet's mistake till it was too late to
repair it.
Marriage did not bring Sir Lionel wisdom. His wife was
of the same turn of mind as himself: they might have been
great people in the country-they preferred being little peo-
ple in town. They might have chosen friends among persons
of respectability and rank-they preferred being chosen as
acquaintance by persons of ton. Society was their being's
end and aim, and the only thing which brought them plea-
sure was the pain of attaining it. Did I not say truly that
I would describe individuals of a common species? Is
there one who reads this, who does not recognise that over-
flowing class of the English population, who would conceive
it an insult to be thought of sufficient rank to be respecta-
ble for what they are who take it as an honor that they
are made by their acquaintance?-who renounce the ease
of living for themselves, for the trouble of living for persons
who care not a pin for their existence who are wretched
if they are not dictated to by others—and who_toil,
groan, travail, through the whole course of life, in order to
forfeit their independence?
Gladding
I arrived at Garrett Park just time enough to dress for
dinner. As I was descending the stairs after having per-
formed that ceremony, I heard my own name pronounced
by a very soft, lisping voice, "Henry Pelham dear, what a
pretty name. Is he handsome ?"
“Rather distingué than handsome," was the unsatisfac-
tory reply, couched in a slow pompous accent, which I im-
mediately recognised to belong to Lady Harriet Garrett.
"Can we make something of him?" resumed the first
voice.
CC
Something!" said Lady Harriet indignantly; "he
will be Lord Glenmorris! and he is son to Lady Frances
Pelham."
"Ah," said the lisper, carelessly; "but can he write
Doctry, and play proverbes ?"
"No, Lady Harriet," said I, advancing; "but permit
"but permit
me, through you, to assure Lady Nelthorpe that he can ad-
mirc those who do.”
"So you know me then?" said the lisper; "I see we
shall be excellent friends; " and disengaging herself from
Lady Harriet, she took my arm, and began discussing per-
sons and things, poetry and china, French plays and music,
till I found myself beside her at dinner, and most assidu-
ously endeavouring to silence her by the superior engross-
ment of a béchamelle de poisson,
I took the opportunity of the pause to survey the little
circle of which Lady Harriet was the centre. In the first
place, there was Mr. Davison, a great political economist,
a short, dark, corpulent gentleman, with a quiet, serene,
sleepy countenance, which put me exceedingly in mind of
my grandmother's arm-chair; beside him was a quick,
sharp little woman, all sparkle and bustle, glancing a small,
gray, prying eye round the table, with a most restless ac-
tivity this, as Lady Nelthorpe afterwards informed me,
was a Miss Trafford, an excellent person for a Christmas
in the country, whom every body else was dying to have;
she was an admirable mimic, an admirable actress, and an
admirable reciter, made poetry and shoes, and told fortunes
the cards, which came actually true.
by
There was also Mr. Wormwood, the noli-me-tangere of
literary lions -an author who sowed his conversation not
with flowers but thorns. Nobody could accuse him of the
flattery generally imputed to his species; through the
course of a long and varied life, he had never once been
known to say a civil thing. He was too much disliked not
to be recherché; whatever is once notorious, even for being
disagreeable, is sure to be courted in England. Opposite
to him sat the really clever, and affectedly pedantic Lord
Vincent, one of those persons who have been "promising
young men" all their lives; who are found till four o'clock
in the afternoon in a dressing gown, with a quarto before
them; who go down in the country for six weeks every
session, to cram an impromptu reply; and who always have
a work in the press which is never to be published.
Lady Nelthorpe herself I had frequently seen. She had
some reputation for talent, was exceedingly affected, wrote
poetry in albums, ridiculed her husband, who was a fox-
hunter, and had a great penchant pour les beaux arts et les
beaux hommes.
There were four or five others of the unknown vulgar,
younger brothers, who were good shots and bad matches;
elderly ladies, who lived in Baker-street, and hed long
whist; and young ones, who never took wine and said
"Sir."
I must, however, among this number, except the beauti
ful Lady Roseville, the most fascinating woman, perhaps,
of the day. She was evidently the great person there;
and, indeed, among all people who paid due deference to
ton, was always sure to be so every where I have never
seen but one person more beautiful. Her eyes were of the
deepest blue; her coinplexion of the most delicate carna-
tion; her hair of the richest auburn: nor could even Mr.
Wormwood detect the smallest fault in the rounded yet
slender symmetry of her figure.
Although not above twenty-five, she was in that state in
which alone a woman ceases to be dependant-widow-
hood. Lord Roseville, who had been dead about two years,
had not survived their marriage many months; that period
was, however, sufficiently long to allow him to appreciate
her excellence, and to testify his sense of it: the whole of
his unentailed property, which was very large, he be-
queathed to her.
She was very fond of the society of literati, though with-
out the pretence of belonging to their order. But her
manners constituted her chief attraction; while they were
utterly different from those of every one else, you could
not, in the least minutiæ, discover in what the difference
consisted; this is, in my opinion, the real test of perfect
breeding.
breeding. While you are enchanted with the effect, it
should possess so little prominency and peculiarity, that you
should never be able to guess the cause.
"Pray," said Lord Vincent to Mr. Wormwood, “hav,
you been to P.
this year?"
CC
No," was the answer.
"I have, my lord," said Miss Trafford, who never lost
an opportunity of slipping in a word.
CC
Well, and did they make you sleep, as usual, at the
Crown, with the same eternal excuse, after having brought
you fifty miles from town, of small house
house-no beds-all
engaged-inn close by? Ah, never shall forget that inn,
with its royal name, and its hard beds-
Uneasy sleeps a head beneath the crown!'"
"Ha, ha! Excellent!" cried Miss Trafford, who was
always the first in at the death of a pun. "Yes, indeed
they did; poor old Lord Belton, with his rheumatism, and
that immense General Grant, with his asthma; together
with three single men,' and myself, were safely conveyed
to that asylum for the destitute.”
C
saw another opportunity of whipping in a pun.
“Ah! Graut, Grant!" said Lord Vincent eagerly, who
He slept
there also the same night I did; and when I saw his un
wieldy person waddling out of the door the next morning.
I said to Temple, Well, that's the largest Grant I ever
saw from the Crown.' "'*
<
Vincent, you are growing quite witty.
Very good," said Wormwood, gravely. "I declare,
Jekyl? Poor fellow, what a really good punster he was
Do you remember
not agreeable though-particully at dinner-
sters are. Mr. Davison, what is thai Jish next to you?"
no pun
* It was from Mr_ J. Smith that Locent purloined this
pun.
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Mr. Davison was a great gourmand:
"Salmi de per-
dreaur aux truffes," replied the political economist.
"Truffles!" said Wormwood, "have you been eating
?"
"Yes," said Davison, with unusual energy," and they
are the best I have tasted for a long time."
Very likely," said Wormwood, with a dejected air;
I am particularly fond of them, but I dare not touch one
- truffles are so very apoplectic-you, I make no doubt,
may eat them in safety."
;
CC
Wormwood was a tall, meagre man, with a neck a yard
Long. Davison was, as I have said, short and fat, and made
without any apparent neck at all only head and shoul-
ders, like a cod-fish. Poor Mr. Davison turned perfectly
white he fidgeted about in his chair; cast a look of the
most deadly fear and aversion at the fatal dish he had been
so attentive to before; and, muttering apoplectic,"
closed his lips, and did not open them again all dinner time.
Mr. Wormwood's object was effected. Two people
were silenced and uncomfortable, and a sort of mist hung
over the spirits of the whole party The dinner went on
and off, like all other dinners; the ladies retired, and the
men drank, and talked indecorums. Mr. Davison left the
room first, in order to look out the word "truffle," in the
Encyclopædia; and Lord Vincent and I went next, "lest
(as my companion characteristically observed) that d—d
Wormwood should, if we stayed a moment longer, send us
weeping to our beds.”
CHAPTER IV.
Oh! la belle chose que la Poste !
Ay-
Lettre de Sevigne.
-but who is it?
As you like it.
I HAD mentioned to my mother my intended visit to
Garrett Park, and the second day of my arrival came the
following letter : —
"MY DEAR HENRY,
"I was very glad to hear you were rather better than
you had been. I trust you will take great care of yourself.
I think flannel waistcoats might be advisable; and, by the
oy, they are very good for the complexion. Apropos of
the complexion: I did not like that green coat you wore
when I last saw you -you look best in black which is
a great compliment, for people must be very distingué in
appearance, in order to do so.
"You know, my dear, that those Garretts are in them-
selves any thing but unexceptionable; you will, therefore,
take care not to be too intimate; it is, however, a very
good house: all you meet there are worth knowing, for
one thing or the other. Remember, Henry, that the ac-
quaintance (not the friends) of second or third-rate people
are always sure to be good: they are not independent
enough to receive whoever they like their whole rank is
in their guests; you may also be sure that the ménage will,
in outward appearance at least, be quite comme il faut,
and for the same reason. Gain as much knowledge de
l'art culinaire as you can: it is an accomplishment abso-
lutely necessary. You may also pick up a little acquaint-
ance with metaphysics, if you have an opportunity; that
sort of thing is a good deal talked about just at present.
"I hear Lady Roseville is at Garrett Park. You must
be particularly attentive to her; you will probably now
have an opportunity de faire votre cour that may never
again happen. In London, she is so much surrounded by
all, that she is quite inaccessible to one; besides, there you
wil! have so many rivals. Without flattery to you, I take
it for granted, that you are the best looking and most
agreeable person at Garrett Park, and it will, therefore, be
a most unpardonable fault if you do not make Lady Rose-
ville of the same opinion. Nothing, my dear son, is like a
is like a
liaison (quite innocent of course) with a woman of celebrity
in the world. In marriage a man lowers a woman to his
own rank; in an affair du cœur he raises himself to her's.
I need not, I am sure, after what I have said, press this
point any further.
"Write to me and tell me all your proceedings. If you
mention the people who are at Garzen Park. I can tell you
he proper line of conduct to pursue * „* eacn.
"I am sure tha I need not add that I have nothing be
your real good at heart, and that I am your very affec-
tionate mother,
"FRANCES PELHAM."
"P. S. Never talk much to young men remember
that it is the women who make a reputation in society."
"Well," said I, when I had read this letter, and ad
justed my best curl, " my mother is very right, and so now
for Lady Roseville.
I went down stairs to breakfast. Miss Trafford and
Lady Nelthorpe were in the room talking with great in-
terest, and, on Miss Trafford's part, with still greater
vehemence.
"So handsome," said Lady Nelthorpe, as I approached.
"Are you talking of me," said I.
"No
Oh, you vanity of vanities," was the answer.
we were speaking of a very romantic adventure which has
happened to Miss Trafford and myself, and disputing
about the hero of it. Miss Trafford declares he is fright
ful; I say that he is beautiful. Now, you know, Mr.
Pelham, as to you
"There can," interrupted I," be but one opinion — but
the adventure ?"
"Is this!" cried Miss Trafford, in a great fright, lest
Lady Nelthorpe
Lady Nelthorpe should, by speaking first, have the plea-
sure of the narration. "We were walking two or three
days ago, by the sea-side, picking up shells and talking
about the Corsair,' when a large fierce
C
"Man!" interrupted I.
"No, dog, (renewed Miss Trafford) flew suddenly out
of a cave, under a rock, and began growling at dear Lady
Nelthorpe and me, in the most savage manner imagina-
ble. He would certainly have torn us to pieces if a very
tall
"Not so very tall either," said Lady Nelthorpe.
"Dear, how you interrupt one," said Miss Trafford,
pettishly, well, a very short man, then, wrapped in a
cloak
"In a great coat," drawled Lady Nelthorpe. Miss
Trafford went on without noticing the emendation -" had
not with incredible rapidity sprung down the rock
and
>>
"Called him off," pursued Miss Trafford, looking round
for the necessary symptoms of our wonder at this very ex-
traordinary incident.
"What is the most remarkable," said Lady Nelthorpe,
"is, that though he seemed from his dress and appearance
to be really a gentleman, he never stayed to ask if we were.
alarmed or hurt scarcely even looked at us
"and
("I don't wonder at that!" said Mr. Wormwood, who,
with Lord Vincent, had just entered the room ;)
vanished among the rocks as suddenly as he appeared.'
"Oh, you've seen that fellow, have you?" said Lord
Vincent, "so have I, and a devilish queer looking person
he is,
"The balls of his broad eyes roll'd in his head,
And glar'd between a yellow and a red;
He looked a lion with a gloomy stare,
And o'er his eyebrows hung his matted hair.'
Well remembered, and better applied-eh, Mr. Pellam?
Really," said I, "I am not able to judge of the ap-
plication, since I have not seen the hero."
t
"Oh! it's admirable," said Miss Trafford, "just the
description I should have given of him in prose. But
pray, where, when, and how did you see him?",
Your question is religiously mysterious, tria juncta is
uno," replied Vincent; but I will answer it with the
simplicity of a quaker. The other evening I was coming
home from one of Sir Lionel's preserves, and had sent the
keeper on before me in order more undisturbedly to
"Con witticisms for dinner," said Wormwood.
"To make out the meaning of Mr. Wormwood's last
work," continued Lord Vincent. "My shortest way lay
through that churchyard about a mile hence, which is such
a lion in this ugly part of the country, because it has three
thistles and a tree. Just as I got there, I saw a man sud-
denly rise from the earth, where he appeared to have been
lying; he stood still for a moment, and then, (evidently not
perceiving me) raised his clasped hands to heaven, and
muttered some words I was not able distinctly to hear. As
I approached searer to him, which I did with no very
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
pleasant sensations, a large black dog, which till then had
remained couchant, sprung towards me with a loud growl,
"Sonat hic de nare canina
iitera,'
as Persius has it. I was too terrified to move-
""Obstupui steteruntque come-
-
and I should most infallibly have been converted into dog's
meat, if our mutual acquaintance had not started from his
reverie, called his dog by the appropriate name of Terror,
and then slouching his hat over his face, passed rapidly by
me, dog and all. I did not recover the fright for an hour
and a quarter. I walked -ye gods, how I did walk - no
wonder, by the by, that I mended my pace, for as Pliny
says truly
"Timor est emendator asperrimus.'
Mr. Wormwood had been very impatient during this
recital, preparing an attack upon Lord Vincent, when Mr.
Davison entering suddenly, diverted the assault.
"Good God!" said Wormwood, dropping his roll,
said Wormwood, dropping his roll,
« how very ill you look to-day, Mr. Davison; face flushed
-veins swelled-oh, those horrid truffles! Miss Traf-
ford, I'll trouble you for the salt."
CHAPTER V.
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
GEORGE WITHERS.
It was-great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed.
First part of King Henry IV.
SEVERAL days passed. I had taken particular pains
to ingratiate myself with Lady Roseville, and so far as
common acquaintance went, I had no reason to be dissatis-
fied with my success. Any thing else, I soon discovered,
notwithstanding my vanity, (which made no inconsiderable
part in the composition of Henry Pelham) was quite out of
the question. Her mind was wholly of a different mould
from my own. She was like a being, not perhaps of a
better but of another world than myself; we had not one
thought or opinion in common : we looked upon things
with a totally different vision: I was soon convinced that
she was of a nature exactly contrary to what was generally
believed- -she was any thing but the mere mechanical
woman of the world. She possessed great sensibility and
even romance of temper, strong passions, and still stronger
imagination; but over all these deeper recesses of her
character, the extreme softness and languor of her manners,
threw a veil which no superficial observer could penetrate.
There were times when I could believe that she was in-
wardly restless and unhappy; but she was too well versed
in the arts of concealment, to suffer such an appearance to
be more than momentary.
I must own that I consoled myself very easily for my
want in this particular instance of that usual good fortune
which attends me auprès des dames; the fact was, that I
had another object in pursuit. All the men at Sir Lionel
Garrett's were keen sportsmen. Now, shooting is an
amusement I was never particularly partial to; I was first
disgusted with that species of rational recreation at a bat-
tuc, where, instead of bagging any thing, I was nearly
bagged, having been inserted, like wine in an ice pail, in a
wet ditch for three hours, during which time my hat had
seen twice shot at for a pheasant, and my leather gaiters
once for a hare; and, to crown all, when these several mis-
takes were discovered, my intended exterminators, instead
of apologizing for having shot at me, were quite disap-
pointed at having missed.
Seriously, that same shooting is a most barbarous amuse-
ment, only fit for majors in the army, and royal dukes, and
that sort of people: the mere walking is bad enough, but
embarrassing one's arms moreover, with a gun, and one's
legs with turnip tops, exposing one's self to the mercy of bad
shots and the atrocity of good, seems to me only a state of
painful fatigue, enlivened by the probability of being killed.
This digression is meant to signify, that I never joined
the single men and double Mantons that went in and off
among Sir Lionel Garrett's preserves I used, instead, to
take long walks by myself, and found, like virtue, my own
reward, in the additional health and strength these diurnal
exertions produced me.
one
One morning, chance threw into my way une bonne aven-
ture, which I took care to improve. From that time the
family of a Farmer Sinclair, (one of Sir Lionel's tenants)
was alarmed by strange and supernatural noises:
apartment in especial, occupied by a female member of the
household, was allowed, even by the clerk of the parish, a
very bold man, and a bit of a sceptic, to be haunted; the
windows of that chamber were wont to open and shut, thin
thereout, long after the fair occupant had, with the rest of
airy voices confabulate therein, and dark shapes hover
the family, retired to repose. But the most unaccountable
thing was the fatality which attended me, and seemed to
mark me out, nolens volens, for an untimely death. I, who
had so carefully kept out of the way of gunpowder as a
ghost. This was but a poor reward for a walk more than
sportsman, very narrowly escaped being twice shot as a
a mile long, in nights by no means of cloudless climes and
starry skies; accordingly I resolved to "give up my ghost
in earnest rather than in metaphor, and to pay the last visit
and adieus to the mansion of Farmer Sinclair. The night
on which I executed this resolve, was rather memorable in
my future history.
The rain had fallen so heavily during the day, as to ren-
der the road to the house almost impassable, and when it
was time to leave, I inquired with very considerable emo-
tion, whether there was not an easier way to return. The
answer was satisfactory, and my last nocturnal visit at
Farmer Sinclair's was concluded.
CHAPTER VI.
Why sleeps he not, when others are at rest?
BYRON.
ACCORDING to the explanation I had received, the road
I was now to pursue was somewhat longer, but much better,
than that which I generally took. It was to lead me home
through the churchyard of
the same, by the by,
which Lord Vincent had particularized in his anecdote of
the mysterious stranger. The night was clear, but windy;
there were a few light clouds passing rapidly over the
moon, which was at her full, and shone through the frosty
air, with all that cold and transparent brightness so peculiar
to our northern winters. I walked briskly on till I came to
the churchyard; I could not then help pausing (notwith-
standing my total deficiency in all romance) to look for a
moment at the exceeding beauty of the scene arcurd me.
The church itself was extremely old, and stood alone and
gray, in the rude simplicity of the earliest form of gothic
architecture: two large, dark yew-trees drooped on each
side over tombs, which, from their size and decorations,
appeared to be the last possession of some quondam lords
of the soil. To the left, the ground was skirted by a thick
and luxuriant copse of evergreens, in the front of which
stood one tall, naked oak, stern and leafless, a very token
of desolation and decay; there were but a few grave-stones
scattered about, and these were, for the most part, hidden
by the long wild grass which wreathed and climbed round
them. Over all, the blue skies and still moon, shed that
solemn light, the effect of which, either on the scene or the
feelings, it is so impossible to describe.
I was
I was just about to renew my walk, when a tall, dark
figure, wrapped up, like myself, in a large French cloak,
passed slowly along from the other side of the church, and
paused by the copse I have before mentioned.
shrouded at that moment from his sight by one of the yew.
trees; he stood still only for a few moments; he then lung
himself upon the earth, and sobbed audibly, even at the
spot where I was standing. I was in doubt, wherner to
wait longer er to proceed; my way lay just by him, as.
it might be dangerous to interrupt so substantial an appari
tion. However, my curiosity was excited, and my feet
were half frozen, two cogent reasons for proceeding; and,
to say truth, I was never very much frightened by any
thing dead or alive.
Accordingly I left my obscurity and walked slowly on-
wards. I had not got above three paces before the figure
BULWER'S NOVELS
5
rose, and stood erect and motionless before me.
His hating raven I cast a suspicious glance at the last-mentioned
personage, which hopped towards me with a very hostile
appearance, and entered the threshold with a more rapid
step, in consequence of sundry apprehensions of a premedi
tated assault.
had fallen off, and the moon shone full upon his counte-
nance; it was not the wild expression of intense anguish
which dwelt in those hueless and sunken features; nor
their quick change to ferocity and defiance, as his eyes fell
upon me, which made me start back and feel my heart
stand still! Notwithstanding the fearful ravages graven in
that countenance, then so brilliant with the graces of boyhood,
I recognised, at one glance, those still noble and chiselled
features. It was Reginald Glanville who stood before me!
I recovered myself instantly; I threw myself towards him,
and called him by his name. He turned hastily but I
would not suffer him to escape; I put my hand upon his
arm, and drew him towards me. "Glanville!" I ex-
claimed, "it is I! it is your old old friend, Henry Pel-
ham. Good God! have I met you at last, and in such a
Glanville shook me from him in an instant, covered his
face with his hands, and sunk down with one wild cry,
which went fearfully through that wild place, upon the spot
from which he had but just arisen. I knelt beside him;
I took his hand; I spoke to him in every endearing term
that I could think of; and roused and excited as my feel-
ings were, by so strange and sudden a meeting, I felt my
tears involuntarily falling over the hand which I held in my
Glanville turned; he looked at me for one moment,
as if fully to recognise me; and then throwing himself in
my arms, wept like a child.
scene?"
own.
;
It was but for a few minutes that this weakness lasted
he rose suddenly the whole expression of his countenance
was changed- the tears still rolled in large drops down
his cheeks, but the proud, stern character, which the fea-
tures had assumed, seemed to deny the feelings which that
feminine weakness had betrayed.
"Pelham," he said, " you have seen me thus; I had
hoped that no living eye would this is the last time in
which I shall indulge this folly. God bless you
- we shall
meet again and this night shall then seem to you like a
dream."
I would have answered, but he turned swiftly, passed in
one moment through the copse, and in the next, had utterly
disappeared.
CHAPTER VII.
Ay humble abode.
MISS SPENCE.
■ COULD not sleep the whole of that night, and the next
morning, I set off early, with the resolution of discovering
where Glanville had taken up his abode; it was evident,
from his having been so frequently seen, that it must be in
the immediate neighbourhood.
I went first to Farmer Sinclair's; they had often re-
marked him, but could give me no other information. I
then proceeded towards the coast; there was a small public
house belonging to Sir Lionel close by the seashore; never
had I seen a more bleak and dreary prospect than that
which stretched for miles around this miserable cabaret.
How an innkeeper could live there is a mystery to me at
this day — I should have imagined it a spot upon which any
thing but a sea-gull or a Scotchman would have starved.
"Just the sort of place, however," thought I, "to hear
something Glanville." I went into the house; I in-
quired, and d that a strange gentleman had been lodging
for the last wo or three weeks at a cottage about a mile
further up the coast. Thither I bent my steps; and after
having met two crows, and one officer on the preventive
service, I arrived safely at my destination.
It was a house very little better, in outward appearance,
than the wretched hut I had just left, for I observe in all
situations, and in all houses, that "the public" is not too
well served. The situation was equally lonely and deso-
kate; the house, which belonged to an individuul, half
fisherman and half smuggler, stood in a sort of bay, between
two tall, rugged, black cliffs. Before the door hung various
nets, to dry beneath the genial warmth of a winter's sun;
and a broken boat, with its keel uppermost, furnished an
admirable habitation for a hen and her family, who ap-
peared to receive er pension, an old clerico-bachelor-look-
"I understand," said I, to an old, dried, brown female,
who looked like a resuscitated red-herring,
"that a gen-
tleman is lodging here »
No, Sir, was the answer, "He left us this morning."
The reply came upon me like a shower-bath: I was
both chilled and stunned by so unexpected a shock. The
old woman, on my renewing my inquiries, took me up
stairs, to a small wretched room, to which the damps lite-
rally clung. In one corner was a flock-bed, still unmade,
and opposite to it, a three-legged stool, a chair, and an
antique carved oak table, a donation perhaps from some
squire in the neighbourhood; on this were scattered frag-
ments of writing paper, a cracked cup, half full of ink, a
pen, and a broken ramrod.
pen, and a broken ramrod. As I mechanically took up the
latter, the woman said, in a charming patois, which I shall
translate, since I cannot do justice to the original.
gentleman, Sir, said he came here for a few weeks to shoot;
he brought a gun, a large dog, and a small portmanteau
He used to spend all the mornings in the fens, though he
must have been but a poor shot, for he seldom brought home
any thing; and we fear, Sir, that he was rather out of his
mind, for he used to go out alone at night, and stay some-
times till morning. However, he was quite quiet, and be-
haved to us like a gentleman; so it was no business of
ours, only my husband does think
"The
"Pray," interrupted I, "why did he leave you so sud
denly?"
Lord, Sir, I don't know! but he told us for several
days past that he should not stay over the week, and so we
were not surprised when he left us this morning at seven
o'clock. Poor gentleman, my heart bled for him when I
saw him look so pale and ill."
And here I did see the good woman's eyes fill with tears
but she wiped them away, and took advantage of the addi-
tional persuasion they gave to her natural whine, to say,
If, Sir, you know of any young gentleman who likes fen-
shooting, and wants a nice, pretty, quiet apartment — ”
"I will certainly recommend this," said I.
"
"You see it at present," rejoined the landlady, "quite
in a litter like: but it is really a sweet place in summer.
“Charming,” said I, with a cold shiver, hurrying down
the stairs, with a pain in my ear, and the rheumatism in
my shoulder.
"And this," thought I, "was Glanville's residence for
nearly a month! I wonder he did not exhale into a vapor,
or moisten into a green damp.
where I had last seen him. A small grave-stone rose over
I went home by the churchyard. I paused on the spot
the mound of earth on which he had thrown himself; it
was perfectly simple. The date of the year and nonth
(which showed that many weeks had not elapsed since the
death of the deceased) and the initials G. D. were all that
was engraven upon the stone. Beside this tomb was one
Douglas, which had with the simple tumulus, nothing in
of a more pompous description, to the memory of a Mrs.
common, unless the initial of the surname corresponding
with the latter initial on the neighbouring grave-stone,
might authorize any connexion between them, not support.
ed by that similitude of style usually found in the cenotaphs
of the same family; the one, indeed, might have covered
the grave of an humble villager-the other, the resting
place of the lady of the manor.
C6
I found, therefore, no clue for the labyrinth of surmise:
day's expedition, than I liked to acknowledge to myself.
and I went home, more vexed and disappointed with my
Lord Vincent met me in the hall. Delighted to sef
town,) in order to discover what sort of savages abide there.
you," said he, "I have just been to- (the nearest
Great preparations for a ball-all the tallow candles in the
town are bespoken and I heard a most uncivilized fiddle,
twang short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry The
ammunition, to make the ball go off; and the attics, ever
one milliner's shop was full of fat squiresses, buying muslin
at four o'clock, were thronged with rubicund damsels, whe
were already, as Shakspeare says of waves in a storm,
C
S
"Curling their monstrous heads.'"
,
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTI EMAN.
7
CHAPTER VIII.
qu'au revoir le ciel vous tiénne tous en joie.
MOLIERE.
I was now pretty well tired of Garrett Park. Lady
Roseville was going to H-t-d, where I also had an invi.
tation. Lord Vincent meditated an excursion to Paris
Mr. Davison had already departed. Miss Trafford had
been gone,
gone, God knows how long, and I was not at all dis-
posed to be left, like "the last rose of summer," in single
"in
blessedness at Garrett Park. Vincent, Wormwood and
myself, all agreed to leave on the same day.
The morning of our departure arrived. We sat down to
breakfast as usual, Lord Vincent's carriage was at the
door; his groom was walking about his favorite saddle
horse.
"A beautiful mare that is of your's," said I, carelessly
looking at it, and reaching across the table to help myself
to the pâté de foie gras.
"Mare!" exclaimed the incorrigible punster, delighted
with my mistake: "I thought that you would have been
better acquainted with your propria quæ maribus.”
"Humph!" said Wormwood, "when I look at you I
am always at least reminded of the as in præsenti!”
Lord Vincent drew up and looked unutterable anger.
Wormwood went on with his dry toast, and Lady Rose-
ville, who that morning had, for a wonder, come down to
breakfast, good-naturedly took off the bear. Whether or
not his ascetic nature was somewhat mollified by the soft
smiles and softer voice of the beautiful countess, I cannot
pretend to say; but he certainly entered into a conversation
with her, not much rougher than that of a less gifted indi-
vidual might have been. They talked of literature, Lord
Byron, converzaziones, and Lydia White.*
"Miss White," said Lady Roseville, "bas not only the
best command of language herself, but she gives language
to other people. Dinner parties, usually so stupid, are, at
her house, quite delightful. I have actually seen English
people look happy, and one or two even almost natural.”
"Ah!" said Wormwood, "that is indeed rare. With
us every thing is assumption. We are still exactly like the
English suitor to Portia, in the Merchant of Venice. We
take our doublet from one country, our hose from another,
and our behaviour every where.
where. Fashion with us is like
the man in Le Sage's novels, who was constantly changing
his servants, and yet had but one suit of livery, which every
new comer, whether he was tall or short, fat or thin, was
obliged to wear. We adopt manners, however incongru-
ous and ill-suited to our nature, and thus we always seem
awkward and constrained. But Lydia White's soirées are
indeed agreeable. I remember the last time I dined there, |
we were six in number, and though we were not blessed
with the company of Lord Vincent, the conversation was
without let or flaw.'
C
Every one, even S-
said good things.'
>>
"and pray Mr.
"Indeed! cried Lord Vincent
Wormwood, what did you say?"
"Why," answered the poet, glancing with a significant
ɛneer over Vincent's somewhat inelegant person,
"I thought
of your lordship's are, and said
"Hem-hem! ‹ Gratia malorum tam infida est quam
ipsi,' as Pliny says," muttered Lord Vincent, getting up
bastily, and butto ung his coat.
S
grace!
attic repository-exposed to the mercy of rats, and the
incursions of swallows. Our lavations are perforined in a
cracked basin, and we are so far removed from human as-
sistance, that our very bells sink into silence before they
reach half-way down the stairs. But two days before I left
Garrett Park, I saw myself an enormous mouse run away
with my almond paste, without any possible means of re-
sisting the aggression. Oh! the hardships of a single man
are beyond conception, and what is worse, the very misfor-
tune of being single deprives one of all sympathy. "A
single man can do this, and a single inan ought to do that,
and a single man may be put here, and a single man may
be sent there," are maxims that I have been in the babit
of hearing constantly inculcated and never disputed during
my whole life; and so from our fare and treatment being
coarse in all matters, they have at last grown to be all
matters in course.
CHAPTER IX.
Therefore to France.
Henry IV.
I was rejoiced to find myself again in London. I went
to my father's house in Grosvenor-square. All the family,
viz. he and my mother, were down at H-t-d; and mal
grć my aversion to the country, I thought I might venture
as far as Lady S's for a couple of days. Accordingly
to H-t-d I went. That is really a noble house suck
a hall.
such a gallery. I found my mother in the draw
ing-room, admiring the picture of his late Majesty. She
was leaning on the arm of a tall, fair young man.
"Hen
ry," said she, (introducing me to him) "do you remember
your old schoolfellow, Lord George Clinton ?
Perfectly," said I, (though I remembered nothing about
him) and we shook hands in the most cordial manner im-
aginable. By the way, there is no greater bore than being
called upon to recollect men, with whom one had been st
school some ten years back. In the first place, if they
were not in one's own set, one most likely scarcely knew
them to speak to; and, in the second place, if they were in
one's own set, they are sure to be entirely opposite to the
nature we have since acquired: for I scarcely ever knew
an instance of the companions of one's boyhood being agree-
able to the tastes of one's manhood; a strong proof of the
folly of common people, who send their sons to Etou and
Harrow to form connexions.
Clinton was on the eve of setting out upon his travels.
His intention was to stay a year at Paris, and he was full
of the blissful expectations the idea of that city had conjur-
ed up. We remained together all the evening, and took a
prodigious fancy to one another. Long before I went to
bed, he had perfectly inoculated me with his own ardour
for continental adventures; and, indeed, I had half pre-
mised to accompany him. My mother, when I first told
her of my travelling intentions, was in despair, but by de-
grees she grew reconciled to the idea.
"Your health will improve by a purer air," said she,
"and your pronunciation of French is, at present, any thing
but correct. Take care of yourself, therefore, my dear
son, and pray lose no time in engaging Colon as your
maitre de danse.
My father gave me his blessing, and a check on his
I took the opportunity of the ensuing pause to approach banker. Within three days I had arranged every thing
Lady Roseville and whisper my adieus. She was kind, with Clinton, and on the fourth, I returned with him to
and even warm to me in returning them; and pressed me London. From thence we set off for Dover — embarked
with something marvellously like sincerity, to be sure to dined, for the first time in our lives, on French ground
come and see her directly she returned to London. I soon were astonished to find so little difference between the two
discharged the duties of my remaining farewells, and in less countries, and still more so at hearing even the little chil-
than half an hour, was more than a mile distant from Gar-dren talk French so well-proceeded to Abbeville — there
rett Park and its inhabitants. I can't say that for one, poor Clinton fell ill : for several days we were delayed
who, like me, is fond of being made a great deal of, that in that abominable town, and then Clinton, by the advice
there is any thing very delightful in those visits into the of the Doctors, returned to England. I went back with
country. It may be all well enough for married people, who, him as far as Dover, and then, impatient at my loss of
from the mere fact of being married are always entitled to time, took no rest, night or day, till I found myself at
■ certain consideration, put-par-example—into a bed- PARIS.
room, a little larger than a dog kennel, and accompanied
with a looking glass, that does not distort one's features
like a paralytic stroke. But we single meu suffer a plural-
ty of evils and hardships, in intrusting ourselves to the
casualties of rural hospitality. We are thrust up into an
Written before the death of that lady
Young, well-born, tolerably good-looking, and never
utterly destitute of money, nor grudging whatever enjoy
ment it could produce, I entered Paris with the ability and
the resolution to make the best of those beaux jours when
so rapidly glide from our possession.
* See Addison's Travels, for this idea.
BULWER'S NOVELS
CHAPTER X.
Beest thou how gaily my young maister goes?
BISHOP HALL'S Satires
Qui vit sans folie, n'est pas si sage qu'il croit.
LA ROUCHEFOUCAULT.
best advantage, I made my horse bound towards her cas
riage, which she immediately stopped, and speaking in my
natural tone of voice, and without the smallest affectation,
I made at once my salutations and court.
my
"I am going," said she, "to the Dutchess D-g’
this evening it is her night—do come!"
"I don't know her," said I.
before dinner," rejoined Madame D'Anville.
"Tell me your hotel, and I'll send you an invitation
voli, au seconde at present; next year, I suppose, according
"I lodge," said I, "at the Hotel de, Rue de Ri-
to the usual gradations in the life of a garçon, I shall be
playing at see-saw
au troisième : for here the purse and the person seem to be
the latter rises as the former de-
scends."
I LOST no time in presenting my letters of introduction,
and they were as quickly acknowledged by invitations to
balls and dinners. Paris was full to excess, and of a better
description of English than those who usually overflow that
reservoir of the world. Mfirst engagement was to dine
with Lord and Lady Benington, who were among the
very few English, intimate in the best French houses.
On entering Paris I had resolved to set up " a character;"
for I was always of an ambitious nature, and desirous of
being distinguished from the ordinary herd. After various
cogitations as to the particular one I should assume, I
thought nothing appeared more likely to be remarkable
among men, and therefore pleasing to women, than an
egregious coxcomb: accordingly I arranged my hair into
ringlets, dressed myself with singular plainness and sim-
plicity (a low person, by the by, would have done just the
contrary,) and putting on an air of exceeding languor, made
my maiden appearance at Lord Bennington's. The party
was small and equally divided between French and Eng-I," they must be devilish clever fellows if they can find
lish, the former had been all emigrants, and the conversa-
a single fault either in my horse or myself.
tion was chiefly in our own tongue.
I was placed, at dinner, next to Miss Paulding, an
elderly young lady, of some notoriety at Paris, very clever,
very talkative, and very conceited. A young, pale, ill-
natured looking inan, sat on her left hand; this was Mr.
Aberton, one of the attachés.
"Dear me !" said Miss Paulding, "what a pretty chain
that is of your's, Mr. Aberton."
Yes," said the attaché, "I know it must be pretty, for
I got it at Brequet's, with the watch." (How common
people always buy their opinions with their goods, and
regulate the height of the former by the mere price or
fashion of the latter.)
me,
Pray, Mr. Pelham," said Miss Paulding, turning to
"have you got one of Brequet's watches yet?"
Watch!" said I; "do you think I could ever wear a
watch? I know nothing so plebeian; what can any one
but a man of business, who has nine hours for his counting-
bouse and one for his dinner, ever possibly want to know
the time for? an assignation, you will say true; but, (here
I played with my best ringlet if a man is worth having he
is surely worth waiting for!"
Miss Paulding opened her eyes, and Mr. Aberton his
mouth. A pretty lively Frenchwoman, opposite, (Madame
D'Anville,) laughed and immediately joined in our conver-
sation, which, on my part, was, during the whole dinner,
kept up exactly in the same strain
S.
"What do you think of our streets?" said the old, yet
still animated Madame de G
"You will not find
them, I fear, so agreeable for walking as the trottoirs in
London."
CC
Really," I answered, "I have only been once out in
your streets, at least à pied, since my arrival, and then I
was nearly perishing for want of help.
"What do you mean?" said Madame D'Anville.
Why, I fell into that intersecting stream which you call
a kennel, and I a river. Pray, Mr. Aberton, what do you
think I did in that dangerous dilemma ?"
Why, you got out agam as fast as you could," said the
literal attaché.
No such thing, I was too frightened: I stood still and
screamed for assistance "
"Madame D'Anville was delighted, and Miss Paulding
astonished. Mr. Aberton muttered to a fat, foolish Lord
Luscombe, “What a damnation puppy,”—and every one,
even to the old Madame de G-s, looked at me six times
as attentively as they had done before.
As for me, I was perfectly sfied with the effect I had
produced, and I went away the first, in order to give the
unen an opportunity of abusing me; for whenever the meu
abuse, the women, to support alike their coquetry and the
conversation, think themselves called upon to defend.
The next day I rode into the Champs Elysées. I always
valued myself particularly upon my riding, and my horse
was both the most fiery and the most beautiful in Paris.
The first person I saw was Madame D'Anville. At that
moment I was reining in my horse, and conscious, as the
wind waved my long curls, that I was looking to the very
We went on conversing for about a quarter of an hour,
in which I endeavoured to make the pretty Frenchwoman
believe that all the good opinion I possessed of mysef
day before, I had that morning entirely transferred to he
account.
As I rode home I met Mr. Aberton, with three or four
other men ; with that glaring good-breeding, so peculiar to
the English, he instantly directed their eyes towards me in
one mingled and concentrated stare. "N'importe," thought
CHAPTER XI.
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses,
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and alse spouses.
GOLDSMITH'S Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters.
MADAME D'ANVILLE kept her promise the invita
tion was duly sent, and accordingly at half past ten to the
Rue D'Anjou I drove.
The rooms were already full. Lord Bennington was
standing by the door, and close by him, looking exceed-
ingly distrait, was my old friend Lord Vincent. They both
came towards me at the same moment.
"Strive not,"
thought I, looking at the stately demeanour of the one, and
the humorous expression of countenance in the other
"strive not Tragedy nor Comedy to engross a Garrick."
I spoke first to Lord Bennington, for I knew he would be
the sooner despatched, and then for the next quarter of an
hour found myself overflowed with all the witticisms poor
Lord Vincent had for days been obliged to retain. I made
an engagement to dine with him at Very's the next day,
and then glided off towards Madame D'Anville.
She was surrounded with men, and talking to each with
that vivacity which, in a Frenchwoman, is so graceful, and
in an Englishwoman would be so vulgar. Though her
eyes were not directed towards me, she saw me approach
by that instinctive perception which all coquets possess,
and suddenly altering her seat, made way for me beside
her. I did not lose so favourable an opportunity of gain-
ing her good graces, and losing those of all the male ani-
mals around her. I sunk down in the vacant chair, and
contrived, with the most unabashed effrontery, and yet with
the most consummate dexterity, to make every thing that I
said pleasing to her, revolting to some one of her at
tendants. Wormwood himself could not have succeeded
better. One by one they dropped off, and we were left
alone among the crowd.
alone among the crowd. Then, indeed, I changed the
whole tone of my conversation. Sentiment succeeded to
satire, and the pretence of feeling to that of affectation
In short, I was so resolved to please, that I could scarcely
fail to succeed.
In this main object of the evening I was not, however,
solely employed. I should have been very undeserving of
that character for observation which I flatter myself I pe-
culiarly deserve, if I had not, during the three hours I
stayed at Madame G-
stayed at Madame G's, conned over every person re-
markable for any thing, from rank to a ribbon. The Duchesse
herself was a fair, pretty, clever woman, with manners
rather English than French. She was leaning, at the time
I paid my respects to her, on the arm of an Italian count,
tolerably well known at Paris. Poor O O- -i! I hear
he is just married. He did not deserve so heavy a ca-
lamity!
Sir Henry Millington was close by her, carefully packed
in his coat and waistcoat. Certainly that man is the
best Padder in Europe
up
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
The
Come, and sit by me, Millington," cried old Lady
Oldtown; "I have a good story to tell you of the Duc de
G -e."
Sir Henry, with difficulty, turned round his magnificent
head, and muttered out some unintelligible excuse.
fact was,
that poor Sir Henry was not that evening made
to sit down he had only his standing up coat on. Lady
Oldtown heaven knows is easily consoled. She sup-
plied the place of the dilapidated baronet with a most su-
perbly mustachoed German.
M
Who," said I to Madame D'Anville, "are those pretty
girls in white, talking with such eagerness to Mr. Aberton
and Lord Luscombe ?"
"What!" said the Frenchwoman, "have you been ten
days at Paris, and not been introduced to the Miss Carl-
tons? Let me tell you that your reputation among your
countrymen at Paris depends solely upon their verdict."
"And upon your favor," added I.
"Ah!" said she, " you must have had your origin in
France, you have something about you presque Parisien."
Pray," said I, (after having duly acknowledged this
compliment, the very highest that a Frenchwoman can
bestow) "what did you really and candidly think of our
countrymen during your residence in England?”
"I will tell you," answered Madame D'Anville, "they
are brave, honest, generous, mais ils sont demi-barbares.”
CHAPTER XII.
-Pia mater,
Plus quam se sapere, et virtutibus esse priorem
Vult, et ait prope vera.
Hor. Sat.
Vere mihi festus atras
Eximet curas.
Hor. Od.
THE next morning I received a letter from my
rr
|
after a month's incessant devotion, you may lose every thing
by a moment's impolitesse.
"You will not, my dear son, misinterpret these hints. I
suppose, of course, that all your liaisons are platonic.
"Your father is laid up with the gout, and dreadf.ly
out of the way
ill-tempered and peevish; however, I ke
as much as possible. I dined yesterda, t Lady Rose-
ville's she praised you very much, said your manners
were particularly good, and that you had already quite the
usage du monde. Lord Vincent is, I understand, at Paris!
though very tiresome with his learning and Latin, he is
exceedingly ciever and répandu; be sure to cultivate his
acquaintance.
"If
you are ever at a loss as to the individual character
of a person you wish to gain, the general knowledge o
human nature will teach you one infallible specific,
Alattery! The quantity and quality may vary according to
the exact niceties of art; but in any quantity and in any
quality it is more or less acceptable, and therefore certain
to please. Only never (or at least very rarely) flatter when
other people, besides the one to be flattered, are by; in
that case you offend the rest, and you make even your in-
tended dupe ashamed to be pleased.
"In general, weak minds think only of others, and yet
seem only occupied with themselves; you, on the contrary,
must appear wholly engrossed with those about you, and
yet never have a single idea which does not terminate in
yourself: a fool, my dear Henry, flatters himself—
-a wise
man flatters the fool.
"God bless you, my dear child, take care of your health
don't forget Coulon, and believe me your most affee-
tionate mother,
"F P"
By the time I had read this letter and dressed myself
for the evening, Vincent's carriage was at the porte cocher.
I hate the affectation of keeping people waiting, and went
down so quickly, that I met his facetious lordship upon
the stairs.
mother.
"Devilish windy," said I, as we were getting
into the carriage.
My dear Henry," began my affectionate and incompa-
rable parent-
"MY DEAR HENRY,
"You have now fairly entered the world, and though at
your age my advice may be but little followed, my expe-
rience cannot altogether be useless. I shall, therefore,
nake no apology for a few precepts, which I hope may
tend to make you a wiser and better man.
•
"I hope, in the first place, that you have left your letter
at the ambassador's, and that you will not fail to go there
as often as possible. Pay your court in particular to Lady
She is a charming person, universally popular, and
one of the very few English people to whom one may safely
be civil. Apropos, of English civility, you have, I hope,
by this time discovered, that you have to assume a very
different manner with French people than with our own
countrymen with us, the least appearance of feeling or
enthusiasm is certain to be ridiculed every where; but in
France, you may venture to seem not quite devoid of all
natural sentiments; indeed, if you affect enthusiasm, they
will give you credit for genius, and they will place all the
qualities of the heart to the account of the head. You know
that in England, if you seem desirous of a person's ac-
quaintance you are sure to lose it; they imagine you have
come design upon their wives or their dinners; but in
France you can never lose by politeness: nobody will call
your civility, forwardness and pushing. If the Princess
De T- and the Duchesse de D— ask you to their
nouses, (which indeed they will, directly you have left your
letters) go there two or three times a week, if only for a
few minutes in the evening. It is very hard to be acquainted
with great French people, but when you are, it is your own
fault if you are not intimate with them.
"Most English people have a kind of diffidence and scru-
ple at calling in the evening this is perfectly misplaced:
the French are never ashamed of themselves, like us, whose
persons, families, and houses are never fit to be seen, un-
less they are dressed out for a party.
"Don't imagine that the ease of French manners is at
all like what we call ease: you must not lounge on your
chair-nor put your feet upon a stool -nor forget yourself
or one single moment when you are talking with women.
"You have heard a great deal about the gallantries of
the French ladies; but, remember that they demand infi-
nitely greater attention than English women do; and that
|
"Yes," said Vincent ; "but the moral Horace reminds
us of our remedies as well as our misfortune
'Jam galeam Pallas, et ægida,
Currusque parat,
C
viz: Providence that prepares the gale, gives us also a
great coat and a carriage.
We were not long driving to the Palais Royal. Véry's
was crowded to excess."A very low set!" said Lord
Vincent, (who, being half a liberal, is of course a thorough
aristocrat) looking round at the various English who occu-
pied the apartment.
There was, indeed, a motley congregation country
esquires; extracts from the Universities; half-pay off-
cers; city clerks in frogged coats and mustachios; two
or three of a better looking description, but in reality, half
swindlers, half gentlemen. All, in short, fit specimens of
that wandering tribe, which spread over the continent the
renown and the ridicule of good old England. I know
not why it is, that we should look and act so very aisgrace-
fully abroad; but I never meet in any spot out of this
happy island, a single Englishman, without instinctively
blushing for my native country.
"Garçon, garçon," cried a stout gentleman, who made
one of three at the table next to us. " Donnes-nous une
sole frite, pour un, et des pommes de terre, pour trois!"
Humph!" said Lord Vincent; "fine ideas of English
taste, these garçons must entertain: men who prefer fried
soles and potatoes to the various delicacies they can com-
mand here, might, by the same perversion of taste, prefer
Bloomfield's poems to Byron's-delicate taste depends
solely upon the physical construction; and a man who has
it not in cookery, must want it in literature. Fried sole
and potatoes!! If I had written a volume, whose merit
was in elegance, I would not show it to such a man! but
he might be an admirable critic
he might be an admirable critic upon Cobbett's Register,'
or Every man his own Brewer."
Excessively true," said I; "what shall we order ?"
“D'abord des huîtres d'Ostende," said Vincent ; as to
the rest,' taking hold of the carte,
"deliberare utilia mora
utilissima est.
We were soon engaged in all the pleasures and pains o
dinner.
‘Petimus,” said Lord Vincent, helping himself to some
poulet à l'Ausyadott, “petum vivere, quod pctis, hic a? ↑
se
10
BULWER'S NOVELS.
M
We were not, nowever, assured of that fact at the termi-
nation of dinner. If half the dishes were well conceived
and better executed, the other half were proportionably
bad. Véry is, indeed, no longer the prince of Restaura-
teur3 The low English who have flocked there, have
entirely ruined the place. What waiter what cook can
possibly respect men who take no soup, and begin with a
rôti; who know neither what is good nor what is bad;
who eat rognons at dinner instead of at breakfast, and fall
into raptures over sauce Robert and pieds de cochon ; who
cannot tell, at the first taste, whether the beaune is pre-
mière qualité, or the fricassee made of a yesterday's chicken;
who suffer in the stomach after a champignon, and die with
Indigestion of a truffle! O! English people, English peo-
ple! why can you not stay and perish of apoplexy and
Yorkshire pudding at home?
By the time we had drank our coffee it was considerably
past nine o'clock, and Vincent had business at the ambas-
sador's before ten; we therefore parted for the night.
"What do you think of Véry's?" said I, as we were
at the door.
Why," replied Vincent, "when I recall the astonish-
ng
heat of the place, which had almost sent me to sleep;
the exceeding number of times in which that bécasse had
been re-roasted, and the extortionate length of our bills, I
say of Véry's, what Hamlet said of the world, Weary,
stale, and unprofitable !'
CHAPTER XIII.
I would fight with broadswords, and sink point on the first
blood drawn like a gentleman's.
The Chronicles of the Canongate.
I STROLLED idly along the Palais Royal (which English
people, in some silly proverb, call the capital of Paris,
whereas no Frenchman of any rank, nor French woman of
any respectability, are ever seen in its promenades) till, be-
ing somewhat curious to enter some of the smaller cafés, I
went into one of the meanest of them; took up a Journal
des Spectacles, and called for some lemonade. At the next
At the next
table to me sat two or three Frenchmen, evidently of infe-
rior rank, and talking very loudly over L'Angleterre et les
Anglois. Their attention was soon fixed upon me.
Have you ever observed that if people are disposed to
think ill of you, nothing so soon determines them to do so
as any act of yours, which, however innocent and inoffen-
sive, differs from their ordinary habits and customs? No
sooner had my lemonade made its appearance, than I per-
ceived an increased sensation among my neighbours of the
next table. In the first place, lemonade is not much drank,
as you may suppose, among the French in winter; and, in
the second, my beverage had an appearance of ostentation,
from being one of the dearest articles I could have called
for. Unhappily, I dropped my newspaper it fell under
the Frenchmen's table: instead of calling the garçon, I
was folish enough to stoop for it myself. It was exactly
under the feet of one of the Frenchmen; I asked him, with
the greatest civility, to move; he made no reply. I could
not, for the life of me, refrain from giving him a slight,
very slight push: the next moment he moved in good earn-
est; the whole party sprung up as he set the example.
The offended leg gave three terrific stamps upon the ground,
and I was immediately assailed by a whole volley of unin-
telligible abuse A that time I was very little accustomed
to French vehemence, and perfectly unable to reply to the
vituperations I received.
Instead of answering them, I therefore deliberated what
was best to be done. If, thought I, I walk away, they will
hink me a coward, and insult me in the streets; if I chal-
lenge them, I shall have to fight with men probably no bet-
ter than shop-keepers; if I strike this most noisy among
them, he may be silenced, or he may demand satisfaction;
if the former, well aad good; if the latter, why I shall
have a better excuse for fighting him than I should have
now.
My resolution was therefore taken. I was never more
free from passion in my life, and it was therefore, with the
utmost calmness and composure that, in the midst of my
antagonist's harangue, I raised my hand, and-quietly
nocked him down.
He rose in a moment. "Sortons," said he, in a low
tone, "a Frenchman never forgives a blow!"
At that moment an Englishman, who had been sitting
unnoticed in an obscure corner of the café, came up and
took me aside.
cr
Sir," said he, "don't think of fighting the man; he is
a tradesman in the Rue St. Honoré. I myself have seen
him behind the counter; remember that a ram may kill a
butcher."
"Sir," I replied, "I thank you a thousand times for
your information. Fight, however, I must, and I'l give
you, like the Irishman, my reasons afterwards: perhaps
you will be my second.
"With pleasure," said the Englishman, (a Frenchman
would have said "with pain !")
We left the café together. My countryman asked there
if he should go to the gunsmith's for the pistols.
"Pistols !" said the Frenchman's second: "we will only
fight with swords.”
66
No, no," said my new friend.
"On ne prend le lièvre
au tabourin." We are the challenged, and therefore have
the choice of weapons."
Luckily I overheard this dispute, and called to my second
-"Swords or pistols," said I; "it is quite the same to
me. I am not bad at either, only do make haste."
Swords then, were chosen and soon procured. French-
men never grow cool upon their quarrels: and as it was a fine,
clear, starlight night, we went forthwith to the Bois de
Boulogne. We fixed our ground in a spot tolerably retired,
and, I should think, pretty often frequented for the same
purpose. I was exceedingly confident, for I knew myself
to have few equals in the art of fencing; and I had all the
advantage of coolness, which my hero was a great deal too
much in earnest to possess. We joined swords, and in a
very few moments I discovered that my opponent's life was
at my disposal.
"C'est bien," thought I; "for once I'll benave hand-
somely."
The Frenchman made a desperate lunge. I struck his
sword from his hand, caught it instantly, and, presenting it
to him again, said,
I think myself peculiarly fortunate that I may now
apologize for the affront I have put upon you. Will you
permit my sincerest apologies to suffice? A man who can
so well resent an injury, can forgive one."
Was there ever a Frenchman not taken by a fine phrase?
My hero received the sword with a low bow
came into his eyes.
"Let me,
B
the tears
Sir," said he, "you have twice conquered."
We left the spot with the greatest amity and affection,
and re-entered, with a profusion of bows, our several
facres.
"I said, when I found myself alone with my
second, "let me thank you most cordially for your assist
ance; and allow me to cultivate an acquaintance so singu
Rue de Rivoli
larly begun. I lodge at the Hotel de
ny name is Pelham. Yours is
"Thornton," replied my countryman. "I will lose no
time in profiting by an offer of acquaintance which does
me so much honor.”
>
With these, and various other fine speeches, we employ-
ed the time till I was set down at my hotel; and my com-
panion, drawing his cloak round him, departed on foot to
fulfil (he said, with a mysterious air) a certain assignation
in the Faubourg St. Germain.
It
I said to Mr. Thornton, that I would give him my rea-
sons for fighting after I had fought. As I do not remember
that I ever did, and as I am very unwilling tha they should
be lost, I am now going to bestow them on the reader.
is true, that I fought a tradesman.
is true, that I fought a tradesman. His rank mife made
such an action perfectly gratuitous on my part, and to many
people perhaps perfectly unpardonable. The following was,
however, my view of the question: In striking him I had plac-
ed myself on his level; if I did so in order to insult him, I
had a right also to do it, in order to give him the only
atonement in my power: had the insult come solely from
him, I might then, with some justice, have intrenched my-
self in my superiority of rank contempt would have been
as optional as revenge: but I had left myself no alternative
in being the aggressor, for if my birth was to preserve me
from redressing an injury, it was also to preserve me from
I confess, that the thing would have been
committing one.
wholly different had it been an English, instead of a French,
PELHAM, OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
11
man
and this, ber use of the different view of the nature
and importance of the affront, which the Englishman would
take. No English tradesman has an idea of les lois d'armes
-a blow can be returned, or it can be paid for.
But in France, neither a set-to, nor an action for assault,
would repay the generality of any class removed from the
poverty of the bas peuple, for so great and inexcusable an
affront. In all countries it is the feelings of the generality
of people, that courtesy, which is the essence of honor,
obliges one to consult. As in England I should, therefore,
have paid, so in France I fought.
If it be said, that a French gentleman would not have
been equally condescending to a French tradesman, I an-
swer, that the former would never have perpetrated the only
insult, for which the latter might think there could be only
one atonement. Besides, even if this objection held good,
there is a difference between the duties of a native and a
stranger. In receiving the advantages of a foreign country,
one caght to be doubly careful not to give offence, and it is
therefore doubly incumbent upon us to redress it when
given. To the feelings of the person I had offended, there
was but one redress. Who can blame me if I granted it?
fine. His eyes were dark, bright, and penetrating, and his
forehead, (high and thoughtful,) corrected the playful smile
of his mouth, which might otherwise have given to his fea
tures too great an expression of levity. He was not posi
tively ill-dressed, yet he paid no attention to any external
art, except cleanliness. His usual garb was a brown coat,
much too large for him, a coloured neckcloth, a spotted
waistcoat, gray trowsers, and short gaiters: add to these,
gloves of most unsullied doeskin, and a curiously thick cane,
and the portrait is complete.
In manners he was civil, or rude, familiar, or distant,
just as the whim seized him; never was there any address
less common and less artificial. What a rare gift, by the
by, is that of manners! how difficult to define how much
more difficult to impart ! Better for a man to possess them,
than wealth, beauty, or talent; they will more than supply
all. No attention is too minute, no labor too exaggerated,
which tends to perfect them. He who enjoys their advan
tages in the highest degree, viz., he who can please, pene-
trate, persuade, as the object may require, possesses the
subtlest secret of the diplomatist and the statesman, and
wants nothing but opportunity to become “great.”
CHAPTER XIV.
Erat homo ingeniosus, acutus, acer, et qui plurimum et salis
naberet et fellis nec candoris minus.
PLINY.
I Do not know a more difficult character to describe
than Lord Vincent's. Did I imitate certain writers, who
think that the whole art of portraying individual character
is to seize hold of some prominent peculiarity, and to in
troduce this distinguishing trait, in all times and in all
scenes, the difficulty would be removed. I should only
have to present to the reader a man, whose conversation
was nothing but alternate jest and quotation - a due union
of Yorick and Partridge. This would, however, be ren-
dering great injustice to the character I wish to delineate.
There were times when Vincent was earnestly engrossed in
discussion in which a jest rarely escaped him, and quota-
tion was introduced only as a serious illustration, not as a
humorous peculiarity. He possessed great miscellaneous
erudition, and a memory perfectly surprising for its fidelity
and extent. He was a severe critic, and had a peculiar art
of quoting from each author he reviewed, some part that
particularly told against him. Like most men, in the theo-
ry of philosophy he was tolerably rigid; in its practice,
more than tolerably loose. By his tenets you would have
considered him a very Cato for stubbornness and sternness;
yet he was a very child in his concession to the whim of
the moment. Fond of meditation and research, he was still
fonder of mirth and amusement; and while he was among
the most instructive, he was also the boonest of companions.
When alone with me, or with men whom he imagined like
me, his pedantry (for more or less, he always was pedantic)
took only a jocular tone; with the savan or the bel esprit,
it became grave, searching, and sarcastic. He was rather
a contradictor than a favorer of ordinary opinions; and
this, perhaps, led him not unoften into paradox, yet was
there much soundness, even in his most vehetnent notions,
and the strength of mind which made him think only for
himself, was visible in all the productions it created. I
have hitherto only given his conversation in one of its
moods; henceforth I shall be just enough occasionally to
be dull, and to present it sometimes to the reader in a
graver tone.
J
Buried deep beneath the surface of his character, was a
bidden, et a restless ambition: but this was perhaps, at
present, a secret even to himself. We know not our own
characters till time teaches us self-knowledge: if we are
urse, we may thank ourselves; if we are great, we must
thank fortune.
It was this insight into Vincent's nature which drew us
closer together. I recognised in the man, who as yet was
only playing a part, a resemblance to myself, while he, per-
haps, saw at times that I was somewhat better than the
voluptuary, and somewhat wiser than the coxcomb, which
were all that at present it suited me to appear.
In person, Vincent was short, and though not ill-yet
Ju
un racefully made but his countenance was singularly
CHAPTER XV.
Le plasir dela société entre les amis se cultive par une ressem-
blance de goût sur ce qui regarde les mœurs, et par quelque dif-
ference d'opinions sur les sciences; par là ou l'on s'affermit
dans ses sentiments, ou l'on s'exerce et l'on s'instruit par la
dispute.
LA BRUYERE.
THERE was a party at Monsieur de Ve's, to which
Vincent and myself were the only Englishmen invited:
accordingly as the Hôtel de V. was in the same street as
my hotel, we dined together at my rooms, and walked from
thence to the minister's house.
The party was as stiff and formal as such assemblies
invariably are, and we were both delighted when we espied
Monsieur d'A-, a man of much conversational talent,
and some celebrity as an ultra writer, forming a little groupe
in one corner of the room.
We took advantage of our acquaintance with the urbane
Frenchman to join his party; the conversation turned
almost entirely on literary subjects. Allusion being made
to Schlegel's History of Literature, and the severity with
which he speaks of Helvetius, and the philosophers of his
school, we began to discuss what harm the free-thinkers in
philosophy had effected.
"For my part," said Vincent, "I am not able to divine
why we are supposed, in works where there is much truth,
and little falsehood, much good, and a little evil, to see
only the evil and the falsehood, to the utter exclusion of the
truth and the good,
truth and the good. All men whose minds are sufficiently
laborious or acute to love the reading of metaphysical in-
quiries, will by the same labor and acuteness separate the
chaff from the corn- the false from the true. It is the
young, the light, the superficial, who are easily misled by
error, and incapable of discerning its fallacy; but tell me
if it is the light, the young, the superficial, who are in the
habit of reading the abstruse and subtle speculations of the
philosopher. No, no! believe me, that it is the very stu-
dies Monsieur Schlegel recommends, which do harm to moral-
ity and virtue; it is the study of literature itself, the play,
the poem, the novel which all minds, however frivolous, cau
enjoy, and understand, that constitute the real foes to reli-
gion and moral improvement.”
"Ma foi," cried Monsieur de G., (who was a lite wi-
ter, and a great reader of romances) "why you would not
deprive us of the politer literature, you would not bid us
shut up our novels, and burn our theatres."
"Certainly not!" replied Vincent; "and it is in this
particular, that I differ from certain modern philosophers
of our own country, for whom, for the most part, I enter-
tain the highest veneration. I would not deprive life of a
single grace, or a single enjoyment, but I would counteract
whatever is pernicious in whatever is elegant ; if
among
my flowers there is a snake, I would not root up my flow-
ers, I would kill the snake. Thus, who are they that derive
from fiction and literature, a prejudicial effect? We have
seen already the light and superficial; but who are
they that derive profit from them? They who enjoy we
12
BULWER'S NOVELS.
regulated and discerning minds: who pleasure?
all man-
kind! Would it not therefore be better, instead of depriving
some of profit, and all of pleasure, by banishing poetry and
tiction from our utopia, to correct the minds which find evil,
where, if they were properly instructed, they would find
good? Whether we agree with Helvetius, that all men
are born with an equal capacity of improvement, or merely
go the length with all other metaphysicians, that education
can improve the human mind to an extent yet incalculable,
it must be quite clear, that we can give sound views instead
of fallacies, and make common truths as easy to discern
and adopt as common errors. But if we effect this, which
we a. allow is so easy, with our children; if we strengthen
their minds instead of weakening them, and clear their
vision, rather than confuse it, from that moment we remove
the prejudicial effects of fiction, and just as we have taught
them to use a knife, without cutting their fingers, we teach
them to make use of fiction without perverting it to their
to their
prejudice? What philosopher was ever hurt by reading the
novels of Crebillon, or seeing the comedies of Molière?
You understand me, then, Monsieur de G., I do, it is true,
think that polite literature (as it is termed,) is prejudicial
to the superficial, but for that reason, I would not do away
with the literature, I would do away with the superficial."
"I deny," said M. D'A-, " that this is so easy a task
you cannot make all men wise.”
"No;" replied Vincent, "but you can all children, at least
to a certain extent. Since you cannot deny the prodigious
effects of education, you must allow that they will, at least,
give common sense; for if they cannot do this, they can
do nothing. Now common sense is all that is necessary to
distinguish what is good and evil, whether it be in life or
in books but then your education must not be that of
public teaching and private fooling: you must not coun-
teract the effects of common sense by instilling prejudice,
or encouraging weakness; your education may not be
carried to the utmost goal: but as far as it does go you
must see that the road is clear. Now for instance, with
regard to fiction, you must not first, as is done in all modern
education, admit the disease, and then dose with warm
water to expel it; you must not put fiction into your child's
hands, and not give him a single principle to guide his
judgment respecting it, till his mind has got wedded to the
poison, and too weak, by long use, to digest the antidote.
No; first fortify his intellect by reason, and you may then
please his fancy by fiction. Do not excite his imagination
with love and glory, till you can instruct his judgment as to
what love and glory are. Teach him, in short, to reflect,
before you permit him full indulgence to imagine."
Here there was a pause. Monsieur D'A- locked
very ill-pleased, and poor Monsieur de G- thought that
somehow or other his romance writing was called into
question. In order to sooth them, I introduced some sub-
ject which permitted a little national flattery; the conver-
sation then turned insensibly on the character of the French
people.
P
"Never," said Vincent, "has there been a character
more often described never one less understood You
have been termed superficial. I think, of all people, that
you least deserve the accusation. With regard to the few,
your philosophers, your mathematicians, your men of
science, are consulted by those of other nations, as some
of their profoundest authorities. With regard to the many,
the charge is still more unfounded. Compare your mob,
whether of gentlemen or plebeians, to those of Germany,
Italy -even England and I own, in spite of my national
prepossessions, that the comparison is infinitely in your
favor. The country gentleman, the lawyer, the petit
maitre of England, are proverbially inane, and ill-informed.
With you, the classes of society that answer to those
respective grades, have much information in literature, and
often not a little in science. In like manner, your trades-
men, your mechanics, your servants, are, beyond all
measure, of larger, better cultivated, and less prejudiced
minds than those ranks in England. The fact is, that all
with you pretend to be savans, and this is the chief reason
why you have been censured with shallowness. We see
your fine gentleman, or your petit bourgeois, give himself
the airs of a critic or a philosopher; and because he is
neither Scaliger, nor a Newton, we forget that he is only
the bourgeons or the petit maître, and set down all your
philosophers and critics with the censure of superficiality,
Lich this shallow individzel of a shallow order may justly
|
have deserved. We, the English, it is true, do not expose
ourselves thus: ur dandies, our tradesmen, do not vent
second rate philosophy on the human mind, nor on les
beaux arts: but why is this? Not because they are better
informed than their correspondent ciphers in France, but
because they are much worse; not because they can say
a great deal more on the subject, but because they can say
nothing at all."
"You do us more than justice," said Monsieur D'A-
"in this instance: are you disposed to do us justice also in
another? It is a favorite propensity of your countrymen
to accuse us of heartlessness and want of feeling. Think
you that this accusation is deserved?"
"By no means!" replied Vincent. "The same cause
that brought on the erroneous censure we have before men-
tioned, appears to me also to have created this; viz. a sort
of Palais Royal vanity common to all your nation, which
induces you to make as much display at the shop window
as possible. You show great cordiality, and even enthu-
siasm, to strangers; you turn your back on them—you
forget them. "How heartless!' cry we. Not at all! The
English show no cordiality, no enthusiasm to strangers, it
is true: but they equally turn their backs on them, and
equally forget them! The only respect, therefore, in
which they differ from you, is the previous kindness: now
if we are to receive strangers, I can really see no reason
why we are not to be as civil to them as possible; and so
far from imputing the desire to please them to a bad heart,
I think it a thousand times more amiable and benevolent
than telling them, à l'Anglaise, by your morosity and re-
serve, that you do not care a pin what becomes of them.
If I am only to walk a mile with a man, why should I not
make that mile as pleasant to him as I can; or why, above
all, if I choose to be sulky, and tell him to go and be
dd, am I to swell out my chest, color with conscious
virtue, and cry, see what a good heart I have?
CC
Ah, Monsieur D'A-, since benevolence is insepa-
rable from all morality, it must be clear, that there is a be-
nevolence in little things as well as in great; and that he
who strives to make his fellow-creatures happy, though
only for an instant, is a much better man than he who is
indifferent to, or (what is worse) despises, it. Nor do I,
to say truth, see that kindness to an acquaintance, is at all
destructive to sincerity to a friend on the contrary, I have
yet to learn, that you are (according to the customs of your
country) worse friends, worse husbands, or worse fathers
than we are !"
"What!” cried I, "you forget yourself, Vincent. How
can the private virtues be cultivated without a coal fire?
Is not domestic affection a synonymous term with domestic
hearth? and where do you find either, except in honest old
England!"
"True," replied Vincent; "and it is certainly impossible
for a father and his family, to be as fond of each other on
a bright day on the Tuilleries, or at Versailles, with music
and dancing, and fresh air, as they would be in a back par-
lour, by a smoky hearth, occupied entirely by le bon père,
et la bonne mère; while the poor little children sit at the
other end of the table, whispering and shivering, debarred
the vent of all natural spirits, for fear of making a noise;
and strangely uniting the idea of the domestic hearth with
that of a hobgoblin, and the association of dear papa with
that of a birch rod.
We all laughed at this reply, and Monsieur D'A———,
rising to depart, said, “Well, well, milord, your country.
men are great generalizers in philosophy; they reduce
human actions to two grand touchstones. All hilarity
they consider the sign of a shallow mind; and all kindness
the token of a false heart."
CHAPTER XVI.
-Quis sapiens bono
Confidat fragili.
SENECA.
Grammatici certant et adhuc sub judice lis est
HOR.
WHEN I first went to Paris I took a French master, to
perfect me in the Parisian pronunciation. This
"Haber.
dasher of Pronouns" was a person by the name of Margot.
He was a tall, solemn man, with a face of the most ins
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
per urbable gravity. He would have been inestimable as
an undertaker. His hair was of a pale yellow; you would
have thought it had caught a bilious complaint from his
complexion; the latter was, indeed, of so sombre a saffron,
that it looked as if ten livers had been forced into a jaun-
dice, in order to supply its color. His forehead was high,
bald, and ry narrow. His cheekbones were extremely
prominent, and his cheeks so thin, that they seemed hap-
pier than Pyramus and Thisbe, and kissed each other inside
without any separation or division. His face was as sharp
and almost as long as an inverted pyramid, and was gar-
nished on either side by a miserable half starved whisker,
which seemed scarcely able to maintain itself, amid the
general symptoms of atrophy and decay. This charming
countenance was supported by a figure so long, so straight,
so shadowy, that you might have taken it for the monument
in a consumption.
But the chief characteristic of the man was the utter and
wonderful gravity I have before spoken of. You could no
more have coaxed a smile out of his countenance, than you
could out of the poker, and yet Monsieur Margot was by
no means a melancholy man. He loved his joke, and his
wine, and his dinner just as much as if he had been of a
fatter frame and it was a fine specimen of the practical
antithesis, to hear a good story, or a jovial expression, leap
friskly out of that long, curved mouth; it was at once a
paradox and a bathos- it was the mouse coming out of its
hole in Ely Cathedral.
I said that this gravity was M. Margot's most especial
characteristic. I forgot :- he had two others equally re-
markable; the one was an ardent admiration for the chiv-
alrous, the other an ardent admiration for himself. Both
of these are traits common enough in a Frenchman, but
in Mons. Margot their excess rendered themn uncommon.
He was a most ultra specimen of le chevalier amoureux
a mixture of Don Quixote and the Duc de Lauzun.
Whenever he spoke of the present tense, even en profes-
seur, he always gave a sigh to the preterite, and an anec-
dote of Bayard; whenever he conjugated a verb, he paused
to tell me that the favorite one of his female pupils was
je t'aime.
In short, he had tales of his own good fortune, and of
other people's brave exploits, which without much exag-
geration were almost as long, and had perhaps as little
substance, as himself; but the former was his favorite
topic: to hear him, one would have imagined that his face,
in borrowing the sharpness of the needle, had borrowed
also its attractions; and then the prettiness of Mons.
Margot's modesty!
"It is very extraordinary," said he, very extraordi-
nary, for I have no time to give myself up to those affairs;
it is not Monsieur, as if I had your leisure to employ all
the little preliminary arts of creating la belle passion. Non,
Monsieur, I go to church, to the play, to the Tuilleries,
for a brief relaxation — and — me voilà partout accablé with
my good fortune. I am not handsome, Monsieur, at least,
not very; it is true, that I have expression, a certain air
noble, (my first cousin, Monsieur, is the Chevalier de
Margot,) and above all, de l'âme in my physiognomy; the
women love soul, Monsieur - something intellectual and
spiritual always attracts them; yet my success certainly is
singular."
tune, and when he had sufficiently dik ted upon it, he
withdrew. Shortly afterwards Vincent entered" I have
a dinner invitation for both of us to-day," said he : “you
will come?"
"Most certainly," replied I; "but who is the person
we are to honor?"
CC
"A Madame Laurent," replied Vincent; one of those
ladies only found at Paris, who live upon any thing rather
than their income. She keeps a tolerable table, haunted
with Poles, Russians, Austrians, and idle Frenchmen,
perigrinæ gentis amanum hospitium. As yet, she has
not the happiness to be acquainted with any Englishmen,
(though she boards one of our countrywomen,) and (as she
is desirous of making her fortune as soon as possible) she
is very anxious of having that honor. She has heard vast
reports of our wealth and wisdom, and flatters herself that
we are so many ambulatory Indies: in good truth, a
French woman thinks she is never in want of a fortune as
long as there is a rich fool in the world.
"Stultitiam patiuntur opes,'
is her hope; and
"Ut tu fortunam, sic nos te, Celse, feremus,'
is her motto.'
"Madame Laurent !" repeated I, "why, surely that is
the name of Mons. Margot's landlady."
"I hope not," cried Vincent, "for the sake of our dis-
he reflects no credit on her good cheer
ner ;
once.
"Who eats fat dinners, should himself be fat.'"
"At all events," said I, "we can try the good lady for
probably the very one you speak of, whom Mons. Margot
I am very anxious to see a countrywoman of ours,
eulogizes in glowing colors, and who has, moreover, taken
a violent fancy for my solemn preceptor.
What think you
of that, Vincent ?"
rr
"Nothing extraordinary," replied Vincent; "the lady
only exclaims with the moralist -
"Love, virtue, valor, yea all human charms,
Are shrunk and centred in that heap of bones,
Oh! there are wondrous beauties in the grave!
""
I made some punning rejoinder, and we sallied out to
earn an appetite in the Tuilleries for Madame Laurent's
dinner.
At the hour of half past five we repaired to our engage-
ment. Madame Laurent received us with the most evident
satisfaction, and introduced us forthwith to our country-
woman. She was a pretty, fair, shrewd looking person,
with an eye and a lip which, unless it greatly belied her,
showed her much more inclined, as an amante, to be merry
and wise than honest and true.
Presently Mons. Margot made his appearance. Though
very much surprised at seeing me, he did not appear the
least jealous of my attentions to his inamorata. Indeed, the
good gentleman was far too much pleased with himself to
be susceptible of the suspicions common to less fortunate
lovers. At dinner I sat next to the pretty Englishwoman,
whose name was Green.
"Monsieur Margot," said I, "has often spoken to me
of you before I had the happiness of being personally con-
vinced how true and unexaggerated were his sentiments."
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Green, with an arch laugh, "you ars
acquainted with Monsieur Margot, then?"
Bah! Monsieur," replied I, "with dignity, expression,
and soul! how could the heart of any French woman
resist you? No, you do yourself injustice It was said
of Cæsar, that he was great without an effort; much
then, may Monsieur Margot be happy without an exer-perfect master of both."
ion"
more,
“Ah, Monsieur!” rejoined the Frenchman, still looking
"As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out
As sober Lanesbro' dancing with the gout,"-
ah, Monsieur, there is a depth and truth in your remarks,
worthy of Montaigne. As it is impossible to account for
the caprices of women, so it is impossible for ourselves to
analyse the merit they discover in us; but, Monsieur, hear
meat the house where I lodge, there is an English lady
en pension. Eh bien, Monsieur, you guess the rest: she
has taken a caprice for me, and this very night she will
admit me to her apartment. She is very handsome-4h
qu'elle est belle, une jolie petite bouche, une denture éblouis-
sante, un nez tout à fait grec, in fine quite a bouton de rose.
I expressed my envy at Monsieur Margot's good for-
"I have that honor," said I. "I receive from s
every morning lessons both in love and languages. He is
Mrs. Green burst out into one of those peals se post-
liarly British.
"Ah le pauvre Professeur!" cried she. "He is too ab-
surd!"
"He tells me," said I, gravely, "that he is quite accablé
with his bonnes fortunes-possibly he flatters himself that
even you are not perfectly inaccessible to his addresses.
"Tell me, Mr. Pelham," said the fair Mrs. Green,
can you pass by this street about half past twelve to-
night?"
I will make a point of doing so," replied I, not a little
surprised by the remark.
"Do," said she, "and now let us talk of Old England.”
When we went away, I told Vincent of my appointment.
"What! said he, "eclipse Monsieur Margot! Im.
possible !
14
BULWER S NOVELS.
kr
""
>>
"You are right,” replied I, nor is it my hope; there
some trick afloat of which we may as well be spectators.'
"De tout mon cœur !" answered Vincent; "Let us go till
en to the Duchess de G
I assented, and we
rove to the Rue de
The Duchess de G.
was a fine relict of the ancien
regimé-tall and stately, with her own gray hair crêpé,
and surmounted by a high cap of the most dazzling blonde.
She had been one of the earliest emigrants, and had staid
for many months with my mother, whom she professed to
rank among her dearest friends. The Duchess possessed to
perfection that singular mélange of ostentation and igno-
rance which was so peculiar to the ante-revolutionists. She
would talk of the last tragedy with the emphatic tone of a
connoisseur, in the same breath that she would ask, with
Maria Antoinette, why the poor people were so clamorous
for bread when they might buy such nice cakes for two-pence
a piece! "To give you an idea of the Irish," said she
one day to an inquisitive marquess, "know that they prefer
potatoes to mutton!"
Her soirées were among the most agreeable at Paris
ale united al the rank and talent to be found in the ultra
party, for she professed to be quite a female Mæcenas; and
whether it was a mathematician or a romance-writer, a
naturalist or a poet, she held open house for all, and con-
versed with each with equal fluency and self-satisfaction.
A new play had just been acted, and the conversation,
after a few preliminary hoverings, settled upon it.
"You see," said the Duchesse, "that we have actors, you
authors; of what avail is it that you boast of Shakspeare,
since your Liseton, great as he is, cannot be compared with
our Talina ?"
|
CC
What," said Monsieur D'E-- (an intelligent ci-de
vant émigre,) "what political writer is generally esicemed
your best?
"It is difficult to say," replied Vincent, "since with so
many parties we have many idols; but I think I might
venture to name Bolingbroke as among the most popular
Perhaps, indeed, it would be difficult to select a name more
frequently quoted and discussed than his; yet I will boldly
aver that his political works are the least valuable part
his remains; and though they contain many lofty senti
ments and inany beautiful, yet scattered truths, they were
written when legislation, most debated, was least under-
stood, and ought to be admired rather as excellent for the
day than estimable in themselves. The life of Bolingbroke
would convey a juster moral than all his writings and the
author who gives us a full and impartial memoir of that ex-
traordinary man, will have afforded both to he philosophi
cal and political literature of England one of ts
greatest
desideratums."
"It seems to me," said Monsieur D'E-
"that your
national literature is peculiarly deficient in biography
I right in my opinion?"
Indubitably!" said Vincent; "we have not a single
work that can be considered a model in biography, (ex-
cepting, perhaps, Middleton's life of Cicero.) The imme-
diate reason, probably, is the very little appetite there is in
England for works of that description; and this brings on
a remark I have often made in distinguishing your philoso-
phy from ours. It seems to me that you who excel so ad-
mirably in biography, memoirs, comedy, satirical observa-
tion on peculiar classes, and pointed aphorisms, are fonder
of considering man in his relation to society and the active
"And yet," "said I, preserving my gravity with a perti-commerce of the world, than in the more abstracted and
nacity, which nearly made Vincent and the rest of our metaphysical operations of the mind. Our writers, on the
compatriots assembled lose theirs, "Madame must allow, contrary, love to indulge rather in abstruse speculations, on
that there is a striking resemblance in their persons, and
their species to regard man in an abstract and isolated
the sublimity of their acting?"
point of view, and to see him think alone in his chamber,
while you prefer beholding him act with the multitude in
the world."
1, "that
'
Pour ça j'en convien," replied this critique de l'Ecole
des Femmes.' "Mais cependant Liseton n'a pas la Na-
ture! l'âme! la grandeur de Talma!"
"And will you then allow us no actors of merit?"
asked Vincent.
"Mais oui!-dans le genre comique, par example, votre
buffo Kean met dix fois plus d'esprit et de drollerie dans ses
rúles que La Porte."
"The impartial and profound judgment of Madame
admits of no further discussion on this point," said I.
"What does she think of the present state of our dramatic
literature?"
Why," replied Madame, "you have many great poets,
Dut when they write for the stage they lose themselves en-
tirely; your Valter Scote's play of Robe Roi is very infe-
rior to his novel of the same name.
"It is a great pity," said I, " that Byron did not turn his
Childe Harold into a tragedy
it has so much energy,
action variety!"
Very true," said Madame, with a sigh; "but the
tragedy is, after all, only suited to our nation—we alone
Larry it to perfection."
"Yet," said I," Goldoni wrote a few fine tragedies."
"Eh bien!" said Madame," one rose does not constitute
a garden.'
And satisfied with this remark, la femme savante turned
to a celebrated traveller to discuss with him the chance of
discovering the North Pole.
There were one or two clever Englishmen present;
Vincent and I joined them.
"Have you met the Persian Prince yet?" said Sir
George Lynton to me; "he is a man of much talent and
great desire of knowledge. He intends to publish his ob-
servations on Paris, and I suppose we shall have an admi-
rable supplement to Montesquieu's Lettetres Persannes ! ”
"I wish we had," said Vincent ; "there are few better
satires on a civilized country than the observations of visi-
ters less polished; singularly enough, this with savage
states is just the reverse; the European traveller, in de-
scribing the manners of the American barbarian, instead of
conveying ridicule upon the visited, points the sarcasm on
the visiter; and Tacitus could not have thought of a finer
or nobler satire on the Roman luxuries than by his treatise
20 e German simplicity
+
|
"It must be allowed," said Monsieur D'E-
if this be true, our philosophy is the most useful, though
yours may be the most profound."
Vincent did not reply.
"Yet," said Sir George Lynton, "there will be a dis-
advantage attending your writings of this description, which
by diminishing their applicability, diminish their general
utility. Works which treat upon man in his relation to
society, can only be strictly applicable so long as that rela-
tion to society treated upon continues For instance, the
play which satirizes a particular class, however deep its
reflections and accurate its knowledge upon the subject
satirized, must necessarily be obsolete when the class
itself has become so. The political pamphlet, admirable
for one state, may be absurd in another: the novel which
exactly delineates the present age may seem strange and
unfamiliar to the next; and thus works which treat of men
relatively, and not man in se, must often confine their popu-
larity to the age and even the country in which they were
written. While on the other hand, the work which treats
of man himself, which seizes, discovers, analyses the hu-
man mind, as it is, whether in the ancient or the modein
the savage or the European, must evidently be applicable,
and consequently useful, to all times and all nations. He
who discovers the circulation of the blood or the origin of
ideas, must be a philosopher to every people who have veins
or ideas; lat he who even most successfully delineates the
manners of one country, or the actions of one individual,
is only the philosopher of a single comtry, or a single age.
If, Monsieur D- -t, you will condescend to consider
this, you will see perhaps that the philosophy which treats
of man in his relations is not so useful, because neither so
permanent nor so invariable, as that which treats of man
in himself."
I was now somewhat weary of this conversation, and
though it was not yet twelve, I seized upon my appoint-
ment as an excuse to depart― accordingly I rose for that
purpose. "I suppose," said I to Vincent, "that you will
not leave your discussion."
"Pardon me," said he, "amusement is quite as profita
Ele to a man of sense as metaphysics. Allors.”
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
15
CHAPTER XVII.
I was in this terrible situation when the basket stopt.
Oriental Tales - History of the Basket.
WE took our way to the street in which Madame Lau-
rent resided. Meanwhile suffer me to get rid of myself,
and to introduce you, dear reader, to my friend, Monsieur
Margot, the whole of whose adventures were subsequently
detailed to me by the garrulous Mrs. Green.
At the hour appointed he knocked at the door of my fair
Countrywoman, and was carefully admitted. He was at-
tired in a dressing gown of sea-green siik, in which his
long, lean, hungry body, looked more like a river pike than
any thing human.
Madame," said he, with a solemn air, "I return you
my best thanks for the honor you have done me behold
me at your feet!" and so saying, the ean lover gravely
knelt down on one knee.
"Rise, Sir," said Mrs. Green, "I confess that you have
won my heart, but this is not all-you have yet to show
that you are worthy of the opinion I have formed of you.
It is not, Monsieur Margot, your person that has won me
no! it is your chivalrous and noble sentiments
that these are genuine, and you may command all from my
admiration."
prove
"In what manner shall I prove it, Madame," said Mon-
sieur Margot, rising, and gracefully drawing his sea-green
gown more closely round him.
"By your courage, your devotion, and your gallantry!
I ask but one proof-you can give it me on the spot. You
remember, Monsieur, that, in the days of romance, a lady
threw her glove upon the stage on which a lion was ex-
hibited, and told her lover to pick it up. Monsieur Mar-
got, the trial to which I shall put you is less severe.
Look, (and Mrs. Green threw open the window,)-look, I
throw my glove out into the street- descend for it."
"Your commands are my law," said the romantic Mar-
got. "I will go forthwith," and so saying, he went to the
door.
CC
Hold, Sir!" said the lady, "it is not by that simple
manner that you are to descend- you must go the same
way as my glove, out of the window!
Out of the window, Madame!" said Monsieur Mar-
got, with astonished solemnity; "that is impossible, be-
cause this apartment is three stories high, and consequently
I shall be dashed to pieces."
By no means," answered the dame; in that corner of
the room there is a basket, to which (already foreseeing
your determination) I have affixed a rope; by that basket
you shall descend. See, Monsieur, what expedients a
provident love can suggest."
“H—e—m!” said, very slowly, Monsieur Margot, by
no means liking the airy voyage imposed upon him; "but
the rope may break, or your hand may suffer it to slip."
"Feel the rope, "cried the lady, "to satisfy you as to
your first doubt; and, as to the second, can you—can you
imag ne that my affections would not make me twice as
careful of your person as of my own. Fie! ungrateful
Mons eur Margot! fie!"
"The melancholy chevalier cast a rueful look at the bas-
ket. Madame," said he, "I own that I am very averse
to the plan you propose suffer me to go down stairs in the
ordina y way; your glove can be as easily picked up
whether your adorer goes out of the door or the window.
It is only, Madame, when ordinary means fail that we
should have recourse to the extraordinary."
"Begone, Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Green; "begone! I
now perceive that your chivalry was only a pretence. Fool
that I was to love you as I have done-fool that I was to
unagine a hero where I now find a —
1
Pause, Madame, I will obey you-my heart is firm
see that the rope is
Gallant Monsieur Margot!" cried the lady; and going
to her dressing-room, she called her woman to her assist-
ance. The rope was of the most unquestionable thickness,
the basket of the most capacious dimensions. The former
was fastened to a strong hook and the latter lowered.
"I go, Madame," said Monsieur Margot, feeling the
but it really is a most dangerous exploit."
"Go, Monsieur and the God of St. Louis befriend
you!"'
ope;
1
"Stop!" said Monsieur Margot," et me fetch my cots,
the night is cold, and my dressing gown thin."
"Nay, nay, my Chevalier," returned the dame, "I love
you in that gown: it gives you an air of grace and dignity,
quite enchanting.
"It will give me my death of cold, Madame!" said
Monsieur Margot, earnestly.
"Bah!" said the Englishwoman: "what knight ever
feared cold? Besides, you mistake; the night is warm,
and you look so handsome in your gown."
CC
Do I!" said the vain Monsieur Margot, with an iron
I wil
expression of satisfaction; "if that is the case,
mind it less; but may I return by the door?"
"Yes," replied the lady; "you see that I do not require
too much from your devotion enter."
?
"Behold me!" said the French master, inserting his
body into the basket, which immediately began to descend.
The hour and the police of course nade the street empty;
the lady's handkerchief waved in token of encouragement
and triumph. When the basket was within five yards of
the ground, Mrs. Green cried to her lover, who had hitherto
been elevating his serious countenance towards her, in
sober, yet gallant sadness
"Look, look, Monsieur-straight before you."
The lover turned round, as rapidly as his habits would
allow him, and at that instant the window was shut, the
light extinguished, and the basket arrested. There stood
Monsieur Margot, upright in the basket, and there stopped
the basket, motionless in the air.
What were the exact reflections of Monsieur Margot, ir
that position, I cannot pretend to determine, because he
never favored me with them; but about an hour after-
wards, Vincent and I (who had been delayed on the road)
strolling up the street, according to our appointment, per-
ceived, by the dim lamps, some opake body leaning against
the wall of Madame Laurent's house, at about the distance
of fifteen feet from the ground.
We hastened our steps towards it; a measured and seri-
ous voice, which I well knew, accosted us-
"For God's sake, gentlemen, procure me assistance, i
am the victim of a perfidious woman, and expect every
moment to be precipitated to the earth.”
"Good Heavens!" said I, "surely it is Monsieur Mar-
got, whom I hear. What are you doing there?"
"
Shivering with cold," answered Monsieur Margot, in
a tone tremulously slow.
"But what are you in? for I can see nothing but a dark
substance."
"I am in a basket," replied Monsieur Margot, "and
I should be very much obliged to you to let me out of it."
"Well — indeed, said Vincent, (for I was too much en-
gaged in laughing to give a ready reply,)" your château-
Margot has but a cool cellar. But there are some things in
the world, easier said than done. How are we to remove
you to a more desirable place?"
"Ah," returned Monsieur Margot, "how, indeed!
There is to be sure a ladder in the porter's lodge long
enough to deliver me; but then think of the gibes and
jeers of the porter it will get wind — I shall be ridiculed,
gentlemen-I shall be ridiculed-and what is worse,
shall lose my pupils."
*C
I
My good friend," said I, "you had better lose you
pupils than your life; and the daylight will soon come, and
then, instead of being ridiculed by the porter, you will be
ridiculed by the whole street.
Monsieur Margot groaned. "Go, then, my friend,"
said he, "procure the ladder! Oh, those she-devils!
what could make me such a fool!
While Monsieur Margot was venting his spleen in 2
scarcely articulate mutter, we repaired to the lodge
knocked up the porter, communicated the accident, and
procured the ladder. However, an observant eye had been
kept upon our proceedings, and the window above was re-
opened, though so silently that I only perceived the action,
The porter, a jolly, bluff, hearty-looking fellow, stood
grinning below with a lanthorn, while we set the ladder
(which only just reached the basket) against the wall.
The chevalier locked wistfully forth, and then, by the
light of the lanthorn, we had a fair riew of his ridiculous
figure-his teeth chattered wofully, and the united cold
without and anxiety within, threw a double sadness and
solemnity upon his withered countenance; the night was
very windy, and every instant a rapid current seized the
16
BULWER'S NOVELS
unhappy sea-green vesture, whirled it in the air, and threw his lessons-so true is it, that m a man of Monsiew
t, as if in scorn, over the very face of the unhappy pro- | Margot's temper, even interest is a subordinate passion to
fessor. The constant recurrence of this sportive irreve- vanity.
rence of the gales the high sides of the basket, and the
trembling agitation of the inmate, never too agile, rendered
it a work of some time for Monsieur Margot to transfer
himself from the basket to the ladder; at length, he had
fairly got out one thin, shivering leg.
"Thank God!" said the pious professor-when at that
instant the thanksgiving was checked, and, to Monsieur
Margot's inexpressible astonishment and dismay, the bas-
ket rose five feet from the ladder, leaving its tenant with
one leg dangling out, like a flag from a balloon.
The ascent was too rapid to allow Monsieur Margot
even time for an exclamation, and it was not till he had
had sufficient leisure in his present elevation to perceive all
its consequences, that he found words to say, with the most
earnest tone of thoughtful lamentation, "One could not
have foreseen this!it is really extremely distressing
would to God that I could get my leg in or my body out!
While we were yet o convuised with laughter to make
any comment upon the unlooked-for ascent of the luminous
Monsieur Margot, the basket descended with such force as
to dash the lanthorn out of the hand of the porter, and to
bring the professor so precipitously to the ground, that all
the bones in his skin rattled audibly!
for!-be witness
"My God!" said he, "I am done for! -
how inhumanly I have been murdered."
We pulled him out of the basket, and carried him be-
tween us into the porter's lodge; but the woes of Monsieur
Margot were not yet at their termination. The room was
crowded. There was Madame Laurent, there was the
German count, whom the professor was teaching French
there was the French viscount, whom he was teaching
German ; there were all his fellow-lodgers - the ladies
whom he had boasted of the men he had boasted to
Don Juan in the infernal regions, could not have met with
a more unwelcome set of old acquaintance than Monsieur
Margot had the happiness of opening his bewildered eyes
upon in the porter's lodge.
you
"What!" cried they all, Monsieur Margot, is that
who have been frightening us so? We thought the house
was attacked; the Russian general is at this very moment
loading his pistols; lucky for you that you did not choose
to stay longer in that situation. Pray, Monsieur, what
could induce you to exhibit yourself so, in your dressing-
gown too, and the night so cold? An't you ashamed of
yourself?"
All this, and infinitely more, was levelled against the
miserable professor, who stood shivering with cold and
fright, and turning his eyes first upon one, and then on
another, as the exclamations circulated round the room.
"I do assure you," at length he began.
No, no," cried one, "it is of no use explaining now!"
"it is of no use explaining now!"
“Mais, Messicurs," querulously recommenced the un-
appy Margot.
"Hold your tongue," exclaimed Madame Laurent, "you
ave been disgracing my house."
“Mais, Madame, écoutez-moi-
-”
"No, no," cried the German, "we saw you we saw
you."
"Mais, Monsieur Le Comte -
"Fie, fie," cried the Frenchman.
"Mais, Monsieur Le Vicomte
At this, every mouth was opened, and the patience of
Monsieur Margot being by this time exhausted, he flew into
a violent rage
his tormentors pretended an equal indigna-
tion, and at length he fought his way out of the room, as
fast as his shattered bones would allow him, followed by the
whole body, screaming, and shouting, and scolding, and
laughing after him.
The next morning passed without my usual lesson from
Monsieur Margot; that was natural enough; but when the
next day, and the next, rolled on, and brought neither Mon-
sieur Margot nor his excuse, I began to be uneasy for the
poor man. Accordingly I sent to Madame Laurent's to
inquire after him: judge of my surprise at hearing he had,
early the day after his adventure, left his lodgings with his
amall possession of books and clothes, leaving only a note
to Madame Laurent, enclosing the amount of his debt to
her, and that none had since seen or heard of him.
From that day to this I have never once beheld him.
The poor professor lost even the little money due to him for
|
|
CHAPTER XVIII.
It is good to be merry and wise,
It's good to be honest and true •
It is good to be off with the old ove
Before you be on with the new
Song.
ONE morning, when I was riding to the Bois de Boulogne,
(the celebrated place of assignation,) in order to meet Ma-
dame d'Anville, I saw a lady on horseback, in the most
imminent danger of being thrown. Her horse had take
fright at an English tandem, or its driver, and was plungin
violently the lady was evidently much frightened, and los
her presence of mind more and more every moment.
man who was with her, and who could scarcely manage
his own horse, appeared to be exceedingly desirous, but
perfectly unable, to assist her; and a great number of
pepole were looking on, doing nothing, and saying
"Good
God, how dangerous!
tress."
A
I have always had a great horror of being a hero in
scenes, and a still greater antipathy to "females in dis-
However, so great is the effect of sympathy upon
the most hardened of us, that I stopped for a few moments,
first to lock on, and secondly to assist. Just when a mo-
ment's delay might have been dangerous, I threw myself
off my horse, seized her's with one hand, by the rein she
no longer had the strength to hold, and assisted ner with
the other to dismount.
When all the peril was over, Mon-
sieur, her companion, managed also to find his legs; and I
did not, I confess, wonder at his previous delay, when I
discovered that the any in danger had been his wife. He
gave me a profusion of thanks, and she made them more
than complimentary by the glance which accompanied
them. Their carriage was in attendance at a short dis
tance behind. The husband went for it-I remained
with the lady.
Mr. Pelham," she said, "I have heard much of you
from my friend Madame D'Anville, and have long been
anxious for your acquaintance. I did not think I should
commence it with so great an obligation.
Flattered by being already known by name, and a sub-
ject of previous interest, you may be sure that I tried every
method to improve the opportunity I had gained; ana
when I handed my new acquaintance into her carriage,
my pressure of her hand was somewhat more than slightly
returned.
"Shall you be at the English ambassador's to night?"
said the lady, as they were about to shut the door of the
carriage.
Certainly, if you are to be there," was my answer.
"We shall meet then," said Madame, and her look saud
more.
I rode into the Bois; and giving my horse to my servant,
as I came near Passy, where I was to meet Madane D'An-
ville, I proceeded thither on foot. I was just in sight of
the spot, and indeed of my inamorata, when two men passed,
talking very earnestly; they did not remark me, but what
individual could ever escape my notice? The one was
who could he be? Where had I
Thornton; the other-who could he be?
seen that pale, but more than beautiful countenance before?
I looked again. I was satisfied that I was mistaken in
my first thought; the hair was of a completely differen!
color.
color. "No, no, "said I, "it is not he; yet how like.”
I was distrait and absent during the whole time I was
with Madame D'Anville. The face of Thornton's com-
panion haunted me like a dream; and, to say the truth,
there were also moments when the recollection of any new
engagement for the evening made me tired with that which
I was enjoying the troublesome honor of keeping.
Madame D'Anville was not slow in perceiving the cold-
ness of my behaviour. Though a Frenchwoman, she was
rather grieved than resentful. "You are growing tired of
me, my friend," she said: " and when I consider your
youth and temptations, I cannot be surprised at it-yet, I
own, that this thought gives me mach greater pain than I
could have supposed "
"Bah! ma belle amic," cried I, "you deceive yourself
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
17
ate.
- I adore you—I shall always adore you; but it's getting
Madame D'Anville sighed, and we parted. She is not
half so pretty or agreeable as she was, thought I, as I
mounted
my horse, and remembered my appointment at the
ambassador's.
I took unusual pains with my appearance that evening,
and drove to the ambassador's hotel in the Rue Faubourg
St. Honoré, full half an hour earlier than I had ever done
before. I had been some time in the rooms without dis-
covering my heroine of the morning. The Duchess of
HI- -n passed by.
"What a wonderfully beautiful woman," said Mr. How-
ard de Howard (the spectral secretary of legation) to Mr.
Aberton.
"Ay," answered Aberton, "but to my taste, the Duch-
esse de Perpignan is quite equal to her do you know
her?"
"No-yes!" said Mr. Howard de Howard; "that is,
not exactly not well," an Englishman never owns that
he does not know a duchess.
"Hem!" said Mr. Aberton, thrusting his large hand
through his lank light hair. "Hem-could one do any
thing, do you think, in that quarter?"
"I saould think one might, with a tolerable person!"
answered the spectral secretary, looking down at a pair of
most shadowy supporters.
"Pray," said Aberton, "what do you think of Miss
they say she is an heiress.'
"Think of her!" said the secretary, who was as poor
as he was thin, "why, I have thought of her!"
6C
>>
They say, that fool, Pelham, makes up to her." (Lit-
e did Mr. Aberton imagine, when he made this remark,
that I was close behind him.)
ry,
"I should not imagine that was true," said the secreta-
"he is so occupied with Madame D'Anville."
"Pooh!
" said Aberton, dictatorially," she never had
any thing to say to him.”
ard.
Why are you so sure?" said Mr. Howard de How-
>>
"But
"Why? because he never showed any notes from her,
or even said he had a liaison with her himself!
"Ah! that is quite enough!" said the secretary
is not that the Duchesse de Perpignan ?
Mr. Aberton turned, and so did I our eyes met his
fell well they might, after his courteous epithet to my
name; however, I had far too good an opinion of myself
to care one straw about his; besides, at that moment, I
was wholly lost in my surprise and pleasure, in finding that
this Duchesse de Perpignan was no other than my ac-
quaintance of the morning. She caught my gaze and
smiled as she bowed. "Now," thought I, as I approach-
ed her, "let us see if we cannot eclipse Mr. Aberton.”
All love-making is just the same, and therefore, I shall
spare the reader my conversation that evening. When he
recollects that it was Henry Pelham who was the gallant,
I am persuaded that he will be pretty certain as to the suc-
cess.
lance, formed a remarkable contrast to the painful anxiety
of the man I have just described, sate Mr. Thornton.
At first sight, these two appeared to be the only Englisn.
men present besides myself; I was more struck by seeing
the former in that scene, than I was at meeting Thornton
there; for there was something distingué in the mien of
the stranger, which suited far worse with the appearance
of the place, than the bourgeois air and dress of my ci-de-
vant second.
"What! another Englishman?" thought I, as I turned
round and perceived a thick rough great coat, which could
possibly belong to no continental shoulders. The wearer
was standing directly opposite the seat of the swarthy
stranger; his hat was slouched over his face; I moved in
order to get a clearer view of his countenance. It was the
same person I had seen with Thornton that morning.
Never to this moment have I forgotten the stern and fero-
cious expression with which he was gazing upon the keen
and agitated features of the gambler opposite. In the eye
and lip there was neither pleasure, hatred, nor scorn, in
their simple and unalloyed elements; but each seemed
blent and mingled into one deadly concentration of evil
passions.
This man neither played, nor spoke, nor moved. He
appeared utterly insensible of every feeling in common
with those around. There he stood, wrapped in his own
dark and inscrutable thoughts, never, for one instant, taking
his looks from the varying countenance which did not ob-
serve their gaze, nor altering the withering character of
their almost demoniacal expression. I could not tear my
self from the spot. I felt chained by some mysterious and
undefinable interest; my attention was first diverted into a
new channel, by a loud exclamation from the dark visaged
gambler at the table; it was the first he had uttered, not-
withstanding his anxiety; and, from the deep rilling tone
in which it was expressed, it conveyed a keen sympathy
with the overcharged feelings which it burst from.
With a trembling hand, he took from an old purse, the
few Napoleons that were still left there. He set them all
at one hazard, on the rouge. He hung over the table with
a drooping lip; his hands were tightly clasped in each
other; his nerves seemed strained into the last agony
of
excitation. I ventured to raise my eyes upon the gaze,
which I felt must still be upon the gambler-there it was
fixed, and stern as before; but it now conveyed a deeper
expression of joy than of the other passions which were
there met. Yet a joy so malignant and fiendish, that no
look of mere anger or hatred, could have so chilled my
heart. I dropped my eyes. I redoubled my attention to
the cards the last two were to be turned
up. A moment
more! the fortune was to the noir. The stranger had
lost! He did not utter a single word. He looked with a
vacant eye on the long mace, with which the marker had
swept away his last hopes, with his last coin, and then,
rising, left the room, and disappeared.
The other Englishman was not long in following him
He uttered a short, low laugh, unobserved, perhaps, by any
one but myself; and, pushing through the atmosphere of
sacrés and mille tonnères, which filled that pandemonium,
strode quickly to the door. I felt as if a load had been
taken from my bosom, when he was gone.
-
CHAPTER XIX
Alea sequa vorax, species certissima furti,
Non contenta bonis, animum quoque perfida mergit;
Furca, furax — infamis, iners, furiosa, ruina.
PETR. DIAL.
1 DINED the next day at the Frères Provençaux ; an
excellent restaurateur's, by the by, where one gets irre-
proachable gibier, and meets no English. After dinner, I
strolled into the various gambling houses, with which the
Palais Royal abounds.
his com-
in one of these, the crowd and heat were so great, that
I should immediately have retired if I had not been struck
with the extreme and intense expression of interest in the
countenance of one of the spectators at the rouge et noir
table. He was a man about forty years of age;
plexion was dark and sallow; the features prominent, and
what are generally called handsome; but there was a cer-
tain sinister expression in his eyes and mouth, which ren-
dered the effect of his physiognomy rather disagreeable
than prepossessing. At a small distance from him, and
playing, with an air which, in its carelessness and noncha-
Vol. I.
3
CHAPTER XX.
Reddere personæ scit convenientia cuique.
HOR. ARS. PONT.
I was loitering over my breakfast the next morning, and
thinking of the last night's scene, when Lord Vincent was
announced.
"How fares the gallant Pelham?" said he as he entered
the room.
CC
Why, to say the truth," I replied, "I am rather under
the influence of blue devils this morning, and vour visit ê
like a sun-beam in November.”
"A bright thought," said Vincent, "and I shall make
you a very pretty little poet soon; publish you in a neat
cctavo, and dedicate you to Lady D- e Pray have you
ever read her plays; by the by, you know they were only
privately printed?"
"No," said I, (for, in good truth, had his lordsłuo in
18
BULWER'S NOVELS.
terrogated me, touching any other literary production, I
should have esteemed it a part of my present character, to
return the same answer.)
"No!" repeated Vincent, " permit me to tell you, that
you must never seem ignorant of any work not published,
To be recherché one must always know what other people
don't — and then one has full liberty to sneer at the value
of what other people do know. Renounce the threshold of
know edge. There every new proselyte can meet you.
Boast of your acquaintance with the sanctum, and not one ir
ten thousand can dispute it with you Have you readi
Monsieur de C—————— 's pamphlet ?"
,
Really," said I, "I have been so busy."
Ah, mon ami!" cried Vincent: "the greatest sign of
an idle man is to complain of being busy. But you have
had a loss the pamplilet is good; C-
by the way,
has an extraordinary, though not an expanded mind; it is
Jike a citizen's garden near London: a pretty parterre
here, and a Chinese pagoda there; an oak tree in one cor-
ner, and a mushroom bed in the other. You may traverse
the whole in a stride; it is the four quarters of the globe
'n a mole-hill. Yet every thing is good in its kind; and
it is neither without elegance nor design in its arrange-
ment."
"What do you think," said I, "of the Baron de
the minister of
"Of him!" replied Vincent
"His soul
Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole,'
it is dark and bewildered full of dim visions of the an-
cient régime; it is a bat, hovering about the chambers of
an old ruin. Poor, antique little soul! but I will say
nothing more about it-
'For who would be satirical
Upon a thing so very sinal}'
as the soul of the Baron de
Finding Lord Vincent so disposed to the biting mood, I
immediately directed his rubies towards Mr. Abertou, for
whom I had a most inexpressible contempt.
"Aberton," said Vincent, in answer to my asking if he
knew that amiable attaché —"Yes! a sort of man who,
"Yes! a sort of man who,
speaking of the English legation, says wc — who sticks his
best cards on his chimney piece, and writes himself billets-
dour from Duchesses. A duodecimo of precious con-
ceits,' bound in calf-skin-I know the man well; does he
not dress decently, Pelham ?
JCE
Sos,
;
"but no man can
,,
"His clothes are well made,” said I
ress decently with those hands and feet!
Ah!" said Vincent, "I should think he went to the
ilor, and said, give me a collar like Lord So and
o would not dare to have a new waistcoat till it
had be authoritatively patronised, and who took his
fashions, his follies, from the best proficients. Such
fellows are always too ashamed of themselves not to be
proud of their clothes like the Chinese mariners, they
burn incense before the ncedle !
"And Mr. Howard de Howard," said I, laughing,
"what do you think of hin?"
"What! the thin secretary?" cried Vincent. "He
is the mathematical definition of a straight line-length
without breadth. His inseparable friend, Mr. Aberton,
was running up the Rue St. Honoré yesterday in order to
catch him.”
C
Running!" cried I, "just like common people-
when were you or I ever seen running?"
"but when I saw him
"True," continued Vincent ;
chasing that meague apparition, I said to Bennington, I
have found out the real Peter Schlemil!' Who? (asked
his grave lordship, with serious naïveté) 'Mr. Aberton,'
suid I ;
'don't you see him running after his shadow?' But
the pride of the lean thing is so amusing! He is fifteenth
cousin to the duke, and so his favorite exordium is When-
ever I succeed to the titles of my ancestors.' It wa
the other day, that he heard two or three silly young men
discussing church and state, and they began by talking
irreligion (Mr. Howard de Howard is too unsubstantial
not to be spiritually inclined) however, he only fidgeted
in his chair. They then proceeded to be exceedingly dis-
oyal. Mr. Howard de Howard fidgeted again; they
then passed to vituperations on the aristocracy-this the
itenuated pomposity (magni nominis umbra) could brook
ao longer. He rose up, cast a severe look on the abashed
ouths, an thus addressed 'hem - Gentlemen, I have sate
by in silence, and heard my King derided, and my God
blasphemed; but now in attacking the aristocracy, I can
no longer refrain from noticing so obviously intentional an
insult. You have become personal.' But did you Krow,
>>
Pelham, that he is going to be married?"
"No," said I, "I can't say that I thought such an event
likely. Who is the intended?
"A Miss
a girl with some fortune. I can brin
her none,' said he to the father, but I can make her Mrs
Howard de Howard.'"
>
<
"Alas, poor girl!" said I, "I fear her happiness will
hang upon a slender thread. But suppose we change the
conversation: first, because the subject is so meagre, that
we might easily wear it out, and secondly, because such
jests may come home. I am not very corpulent myself."
Bah!" said Vincent, "but at least you have bones
and muscles. If you were to pound the poor secretary in
a mortar, you might take him all up in a pinch of snuff."
Pray, Vincent," said I, after a short pause,
"did you
ever meet with a Mr. Thornton at Paris ?"
"Thornton, Thornton," said Vincent, musingly; "what,
Tom Thornton ?”
CC
"I should think, very likely," I replied; "just the sort
of man who would be Tom Thornton -- has a broad face,
with a color, and wears a spotted neckcloth; Tom--what
could his name be but Tom?"
"Is he about five-and-thirty," asked Vincent," rather
short, and with reddish colored hair and whiskers?"
'
Precisely," said I," are not all Toms alike?"
"Ah," said Vincent, "I know him well; he is a clever,
shrewd, fellow, but a most unmitigated rascai. He is the
son of a steward in Lancashire, and received an attorney's
education; but being a humorous, noisy fellow, he became
a great favorite with his father's employer; who was a
sort of Mecenas to cudgel players, boxers, and horse
jockeys. At his house, Thornton met many persons of
rank, but of a taste similar to their host's, and they, mis-
taking his vulgar coarseness for honesty, and his quain
proverbs for wit, admitted him into their society. It was
with one of them, that I have seen him. I bebeve of late,
that his character has been of a very indifferent odor;
and whatever has brought him among the English at Paris
those white-washed abominations those innocent
blacknesses,' as Charles Lamb calls chimney sweepers, it
does not argue well for his professional occupations. 1
should think, however, he manages to live here; for
wherever there are English fools, there are fine pickings
for an English rogue."
Ay," said I, "but are there enough fools here, to feed
rogues?"
"Yes, because rogues are like spiders and eat each other
when there is nothing else to catch; and Tom The ton
is safe, as long as the ordinary law of nature lasts, ba, the
greater knave preys on the lesser, for there cannot possibly
be a greater knave than he is. If you have made his ac-
quaintance, my dear Pelham, I advise you most soberly to
look to yourself, for if he doth not steal, beg, or borrow
of you, Mr. Howard de Howard will grow fat, and even
Mr. Aberton cease to be a fool. And now, most noble
Pelham, farewell. Il est plus aisé d'être sage pour les autres
que de l'être pour soi-même."
CHAPTER XXI.
This is a notable couple - and liave met
But for some secret knavery!
The Tanner of Tyburn.
I HAD now been several weeks in Paris, and I was not
altogether dissatisfied with the manner in which they had
been spent.
I had enjoyed myself to the utmost, while I
had, as much as possible, combined profit with pleasure;
viz. if I went to the opera in the evening, I learned to
dance in the morning; if I drove to a soirée at the Duchesse
de Perpignan's, it was not till I had fenced an hour at the
Salon des Assauts d'Armes; and if I made love to the
Duchess herself, it was sure to be in a position I had been
a whole week in acquiring from my master of the graces ;
educa ·
in short, I took the greatest pains to complete my
tion. I wish all young men who frequented the continent
for that purpose could say the same.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF
12
GENTLEMAN.
One day (about a week after the caversation with Vin-
cent, recorded in my last chapter) I was walking slowly
along one of the paths in the Jardin des Plantes, meditating
upon the various excellencies of the Rocher de Cancale and
the Duchesse de Perpignan, when I perceived a tall man,
with a thick, rough coat, of a dark color (which I recog-
nised long before I did the face of the wearer) emerging
from an intersecting path. He stopped for a few moments,
and looked round as if expecting some one. Presently a
woman, apparently about thirty, and meanly dressed, ap-
peared in an opposite direction. She approached him;
they exchanged a few words, and then, the woman taking
his arm, they struck into another path, and were soon out
of sight I suppose that the reader has already discovered
that this man was Thornton's companion in the Bois de
Boulogne, and the hero of the Salon de Jeu, in the Palais
Royal. I could not have supposed that so noble a counte-
nance, even in its frowns, could ever have wasted its smiles
upon a mistress of that low station to which the woman
who had met him evidently belonged. However, we all
have our little foibles, as the Frenchman said, when he
boiled his grandmother's head in a pipkin.
I myself was, at that time, the sort of person that is al-
ways taken by a pretty face, however coarse may be the
garments which set it off; and although I cannot say that
ever stooped so far as to become amorous of a chamber-
waid, yet I could be tolerably lenient to any man under
thirty who did. As a proof of this gentleness of disposi-
tion, ten minutes after I had witnessed so unsuitable a ren-
contre, I found myself following a pretty little bourgeoise
.nto a small sort of cabaret, which was, at the time I speak
of, (and most probably still is,) in the midst of the gardens.
I sat down, and called for my favorite drink of lemonade;
e little grisette, who was with an old woman, possibly her
mother, and un beau gros garçon, probably her lover, sat
opposite, and began, with all the ineffable coquetries of her
country, to divide her attention between the said garçon
and myself. Poor fellow, he seemed to be very little pleas-
ed by the significant glances exchanged over his right
shoulder, and, at last, under pretence of screening her from
die draught of the open window, placed himself exactly be-
tween us. This, however ingenious, did not at all answer
Ais expectations; for he had not sufficiently taken into
consideration, that I also was endowed with the power of
pemotion; accordingly I shifted my chair about three feet,
and entirely defeated the countermarch of the enemy.
But this flirtation did not last long; the youth and the
old woman appeared very much of the same opinion as to
its impropriety; and accordingly, like experienced gene-
rals, resolved to conquer by a retreat; they drank up their
orgeat-paid for it-placed the wavering regiment in the
middle, and left me master of the field. I was not, how-
ever, of a disposition to break my heart at such an occur-
rence, and I remained by the window drinking my lemon-
ade, and muttering to myself, "After all, women
great bore."
are a
On the outside of the cabaret, and just under my win-
dow, was a bench, which for a certain number of sous, one
might appropriate to the entire and unparticipated use of
one's self and party. An old woman (so at least I supposed
by her voice, for I did not give myself the trouble of look- |
ing, though, indeed as to that matter, it might have been
the shrill treble of Mr. Howard de Howard) had been
hitherto engrossing this settlement with some gallant or
other. In Paris, no women are too old to get an amant,
either by love or money. In a moment of tenderness, this
couple paired off, and were immediately succeeded by
ather. The first tones of the man's voice, low as they
were, made me start from my seat. I cast one quick glance
before I resumed it. The new pair were the Englishman
I ha before noted in the garden, and the female companion
who had joined him.
CC
Two hundred pounds, you say," muttered the man;
we must have it all.'
But," said the woman, in the same whispered voice,
"he says that he will never touch another card.”
The man laughed. Fool,” said he, “the passions are
not so easily quelled-how many days is it since he had
this remittance from England?
"About three," replied the woman.
"I am then to understand, that when this is spent there
is nothing between him and beggary?"
Nothing," said the woman, with a half sigh.
The man laughed again, and then rejoined in an altered
tone, "Then will this parching thirst be quenched at last.
I tell you, woman, that it is many months since I have
known a day-night-hour, in which my life has been as
the life of other men. My whole soul has been melted
down into one burning, burning thought. Feel this hand
-ay, you may well start-but what is the fever of the
frame to that within ?"
Here the voice sunk so low as to be inaudible. The
woman seemed as if endeavouring to soothe him ; at length
she said
"But poor Tyrrell-you will not, surely, suffer him to
die of actual starvation?"
"
<<
The man paused for a few moments, and then rep ied
Night and day, I pray to God, upon my bended knees
only one unvarying, unceasing prayer, and that is When
the last agonies shall be upon that man when sick with
weariness, pain, disease, hunger, he lies down to die -
when the death-gurgle is in the throat, and the eyes swim
beneath the last dull film when remembrance peoples the
chamber with Hell, and his cowardice would falter forth
its dastard recantation to Heaven - then -may I be there!"
There was a long pause, only broken by the woman's
sobs, which she appeared endeavouring to stifle. At last
the man rose, and in a tone so soft that it seemed literally
like music, addressed her in the most endearing terms
She soon yielded to their persuasions, and replied to them
with interest.
"Spite of the stings of my remorse," she said, as long
as I lose not you, I will lose life, honor, hope, even soul
itself!"
They both quitted the spot as she said this.
O, that woman's love! how strong is it in its weakness !
how beautiful in its guilt!
CHAPTER XXII.
At length the treacherous snare was laid,
Poor pug was caught - - to town conveyed;
There sold. How envied was his doom,
Made captive in a lady's room.
GAY'S FABles.
I WAS sitting alone a morning or two after this adven
ture, when Bedos entering, announcing une dame. This
dame was a fine tall thing, dressed out like a print in the
Magasin des Modes. She sate herself down, threw up her
veil, and after a momentary pause, asked me if I liked my
apartment.
CC
Very much," said I, somewhat surprised at the nature
of the interrogatory.
"Perhaps you would wish it altered in some way?" re-
joined the lady.
"Non
mille remercimens!" said I-"you are very
good to be so interested in my accommodation.'
Those curtains might be better arranged — that sofa
replaced with a more elegant one," continued my new su-
perintendent.
Really," said I, "I am too, too much flattered. Per-
haps you would like to have my rooms altogether; if so
make at least no scruple in saying it."
"Oh, no,” replied the lady, "I have no objection to
your staying here."
"You are too kind,” said I, with a low bow.
There was a pause of some moments—I took advantage
of it.
“I think, Madame, I have the honor of speaking to —
to to
"The mistress of the notel," said the lady, quietly. “I
merely called to ask you how you did, and hope you were
well accommodated.”
"Rather late, considering I have been six weeks in the
house," thought I, revolving in my mind various reports I
had heard of my present visiter's disposition to gallantry.
However, seeing it was all over with me, I resigned myself,
with the patience of a martyr, to the fate that I foresaw.
"And is it absolutely the very last remnant of his I rose, approached her chair, took her hand, (very hard and
property?"
"The as
thin it was too,) and thanked her with a most affectionate
squeeze.
20
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"I have seen much English!" said the lady, for the first
time speaking in our language.
Ah!" said I, giving another squeeze.
"You are handsome garçon," renewed the lady.
"I am so," I replied -
At that moment Bedos entered, and whispered that
Madame D'Anville was in the anti-room.
"Good heavens!" said I, knowing her jealousy of dis-
position, "what is to be done? Oblige me, Madame,"
seizing the unfortunate mistress of the hotel, and opening
the door to the back entrance-"There," said I, "you
can easily escape. Bon jour.”
Hardly had I closed the door, and put the key in my
pocket, before Madame D'Anville entered.
"Do you generally order your servants to keep me wait-
ing in your anti-room?" said she, haughtily.
" but y 'B
"You will do as you please," said Vincent,
will be like the child playing with edged tools."
"I am not a child," said I, "so the simile is not good
He must be the devil himself or a Scotchman at least, te
ke me in."
Vincent shook his head. "Come and dine with me at
the Rocher," said he ; we are a party of six-choice
spirits all."
“Volontiers; but we can stroll in the Tuilleries first, you
have no other engagement?"
None," said Vincent, putting his arm ir mine.
As we passed up the Rue de la Paix, we met Sir Henry
Millington, mounted on a bay horse, as stiff as himself, and
cantering down the street as if he and his steed had been
cut out of pasteboard together.
"I wish," said Vincent, (to borrow Luttrel's quotation,)
"that that master of arts would cleanse his bosom of that
'Mors sola fatetur
Quantula sint hominum corpuscula. "
"He has a superb head, though," I replied. I like to
allow that other people are handsome now and then — it
looks generous.
"Not generally," I replied, endeavouring to make my
peace; but all my complaisance was in vain-she was perilous stuff.' I should like to know in what recess of tna*
jealous of my intimacy with the Duchesse de Perpignan, immense mass now cantering round the corner is the rea
and glad of any excuse to vent her pique. I am just the body of Sir Henry Millington. I could fancy the poor snug
sort of man to bear, but never to forgive a woman's ill-little thing shrinking within, like a guilty conscience. Ali,
temper, viz. it makes no impression on me at the time, well says Juvenal,
but leaves a sore recollection of something disagreeable,
which I internally resolve never again to experience.
Madame D'Anville was going to the Luxembourg; and my
only chance of soothing her anger was to accompany her.
Down stairs, therefore, we went, and drove to the Lux-
embourg; I gave Bedos, before my departure, various little
commissions, and told him he need not be at home till the
evening. Long before the expiration of an hour Madame
D'Anville's ill-humor had given me an excuse for affecting
it myself. Tired to death of her, and panting for release,
I took a high tone complained of her ill-temper, and her
want of love-spoke rapidly waited for no reply, and
leaving her at the Luxembourg, proceeded forthwith to
Galignani's, like a man just delivered from a straight waist-
coat.
Leave me now, for a few minutes, in the reading-room
at Galignani's, and return to the mistress of the hotel,
whom I had so unceremoniously thrust out of my saloon.
The passage into which she had been put, communicated by
one door with my rooms, and by another with the staircase.
Now, it had so happened, that Bedos was in the habit of
locking the latter door, and keeping the key; the other
egress, it will be remembered, I myself had secured; so
that the unfortunate mistress of the hotel was no sooner
turned into this passage than she found herself in a sort of
dungeon, ten feet by five, and surrounded like Eve in Para-
dise, by a whole creation of- not of birds, beasts, and
fishes, but of brooms, brushes, unclean linen, and a wood-
basket. What she was to do in this dilemma was utterly
inconceivable; scream, indeed, she might, but then the
shame and ridicule of being discovered in so equivocal a
situation, were somewhat more than our discreet landlady
could endure. Besides, such an exposé might be attended
with a loss the good woman valued more than reputation,
viz. lodgers; for the possessors of the two best floors were
both Englishwomen of a certain rank; and my landlady.
had heard such accounts of our national virtue, that she
feared an instantaneous emigration of such inveterate prudes,
if her screams and situation reached their ears.
Quietly then, and soberly, did the good lady sit, eyeing
the brooms and brushes as they grew darker and darker
with the approach of the evening, and consoling herself
with the certainty that her release must eventually take place.
Meanwhile, to return to myself- from which dear little
person, I very seldom, even in imagination, digress-I
found Lord Vincent at Galignani's, carefully looking over
" Choice Extracts from the best English Authors."
CC
·
Ah, my good fellow!" said he, "I am delighted to see
you: I made such a capital quotation just now : the young
Benningtons were drowning a poor devil of a puppy; the
youngest (to whom the mother belonged) looked on with a
grave earnest face, till the last kick was over, and then
burst into tears. Why do you cry so?' said I. Be-
cause it was so cruel in us to drown the poor puppy
plied the juvenile Philocunos. "Pooh,' said I. "Quid
juvat errores mersâ jam puppe fateri.' Was it not good?
-you remember it in Claudian, eh, Pelham? Think of
its being thrown away on those Latinless young lubbers!
Have you seen any thing of Mr. Thornton lately?
>
! re-
No," said I, "I've not, but I am determined to have
that pleasure soon
>>
"Yes," said Vincent, "for a barber's block : but here
comes Mrs. Cme, and her beautiful daughter-those
are people you ought to know, if you wish to see human
nature a little relieved from the frivolities which make it
in society so like a man milliner. Mrs. C—
considerable genius, combined with great common sense.
"A rare union," said I.
has
By no means," replied Vincent. "It is a cant anti-
thesis in opinion to oppose them to one another; but, so
far as mere theoretical common sense is concerned, I would
much sooner apply to a great poet or a great orator for ad-
vice on matter of business, than any dull plodder who has
passed his whole life in a counting-house. Common sense
is only a modification of talent genius is an exaltation of
it; the difference is, therefore, in the degree, not nature.
But to return to Mrs. C
; she writes beautiful
poetry almost impromptu ; draws excellent caricatures;
possesses a laugh for whatever is ridiculous, but never loses
a smile for whatever is good. Placed in very peculiar situ-
ations, she has passed through each with a grace and credit
which make her best eulogium. If she possesses one qual-
ity higher than intellect, it is her kindness of heart; no
wonder, indeed, that she is so really clever
those trees
which are the soundest at the core produce the finest fruits,
and the most beautiful blossoms.'
Lord Vincent grows poetical, thought I -how very dif-
ferent he really is to that which he affects to be in the world:
but so it is th every one
but so it is th every one-we are all like the ancient ac-
tors: let our faces be ever so beautiful, we must still wear
a mask.
After an's walk, Vincent suddenly recollected that
he had a comn..ssion of a very important nature in the Rue
J. J. Rousseau. This was to buy a monkey.
"It is for
Wormwood," said he, "who has written me a long letter,
describing its qualities and qualifications. I suppose he
wants it for some practical joke, some embodied bitterness
- God forbid I should thwart him in so charitable a de-
sign!
"Amen," said I; and we proceeded together to the
monkey-fancier. After much deliberation we at last de-
cided upon the most hideous animal I ever beheld--it was
of ano, I will not attempt to describe it—it would be
quite impossible! Vincent was so delighted with our
choice that he insisted upon carrying it away immediately
"Is it quite quiet?" I asked.
"Comme un oiseau," said the man.
We called a fiacre - paid for Monsieur Jocko, and drove
to Vincent's apartments; there we found, however, that
his valet had gone out and taken the key.
"Hang it," said Vincent, "it does not signify! We'l
carry la petit monsieur with us to the Rocher.'
وو
Accordingly we all three once more entered the fiacre,
and drove to the celebrated restaurateur's of the Rue Mont
Orgueil. O, blissful recollections of that dinner! how at
this moment you crowd upon my delighted remembrance !
Lonely and sorrowful as I now sit, digesting w th many a
PELHAM, OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
21
seize the monkey by the tail, for which he very arrowly
escaped with an unmutilated visage. But the man who had
before suffered by Jocko's ferocity, and whose breast was
still swelling with revenge, was glad of so favorable an
opportunity and excuse for wreaking it. He seized the
poker, made three strides to Jocko, who set up an ineffa-
ble cry of defiance, and with a single blow split the skull of
the unhappy monkey in twain. It fell with one convulsion
on the ground, and
on the ground, and gave up the ghost.
throw the iron thews of a British beef steak -more anglico
- immeasurably tough-I see the grateful apparitions of
Escallopes de Saumon and Laitances de Carps rise in a gen-
tle vapor before my eyes! breathing a sweet and pleasant
odor, and contrasting the dream-like delicacies of their hue
and aspect, with the dire and dure realities which now
weigh so heavily on the region below my heart! And thou,
most beautiful of all, thou evening star of entremets thou
that delightest in truffles, and gloriest in a dark cloud of
in a dark cloud of
sauces exquisite foie-grass ! Have I forgotten thee — We then raised the unfortunate landlady, placed her on
Do I not, on the contrary, see thee smell thee taste the sofa, and Dartmore administered a plentiful potation of
thee—and almost die with rapture of thy possession ? the Curaçoa punch. By slow degrees she revived, gave
What, though the goose, of which thou art a part, has, three most doleful suspirations, and then, starting up, gazed
indeed, been roasted alive by a slow fire, in order to in- wildly around her. Half of us were still laughing
crease thy divine proportions - yet has not our Almanach unfortunate self among the number; this the enraged land-
the Almanach des Gourmands truly declared that lady no sooner perceived than she imagined herself the vic-
the goose rejoiced amid all her tortures - because of the
tim of some preconcerted villany. Her lips trembled with
glory that awaited her? Did she not, in prophetic vis- passion-she uttered the most dreadful imprecations; and
ion, behold her enlarged and ennobled foie dilate into pâtés had I not retired into a corner, and armed myself with the
and steam into sautés — the companion of truffles the dead body of Jocko, which I wielded with exceeding valor,
glory of dishes the delight the treasure the trans-
she might, with the simple weapons which nature had pro-
port of gourmands! O, exalted among birds-apotheo- vided her hands, have for ever demolished the loves and
sied goose, did not thy heart exult even when thy liver graces that abide in the face of Henry Pelham.
parched and swelled within thee, from that most agonizing
death; and didst thou not, like the Indian at the stake,
triumph in the very torments which alone could render thee
illustrious?
J
-
After dinner we grew exceedingly merry. Vincent
punned and quoted; we laughed and applauded; and our
Burgundy went round with an alacrity, to which every new
joke gave an additional impetus. Monsieur Jocko was by
no means the dullest in the party; he cracked his nuts with
as much grace as we did our jests, and grinned and chatted
as facetiously as the best of us. After coffee we were all
so pleased with one another, that we resolved not to sepa-
rate, and accordingly we adjourned to my rooms, Jocko
and all, to find new revelries, and grow brilliant over Cura-
çoa punch.
We entered my salon with a roar, and set Bedos to
work at the punch forthwith. Bedos, that Ganymede of a
valet, had himself but just arrived, and was unlocking the
door as we entered. We soon blew up a glorious fire, and
our spirits brightened in proportion. Monsieur Jocko sate
on Vincent's knee. Ne monstrum, as he classically termed
it. One of our compotatores was playing with it. Jocko
grew suddenly in earnesta grin- a scratch and a bite,
were the work of a moment.
"Ne-quid nimis now," said Vincent, gravely, instead
of endeavouring to sooth the afflicted party, who grew into
a towering passion. Nothing but Jocko's absolute disgrace
could indeed have saved his life from the vengeance of the
sufferer.
"Where shall we banish him?” said Vincent.
"Oh," I replied, "put him out in that back passage;
the outer door is shut; he'll be quite safe;" and to the
passage he was therefore immediately consigned.
It was in this place, the reader will remember, that the
hapless Dame du Château was at that very instant in "du-
rance vile." Bedos, who took the condemned monkey,
opened the door, thrust Jocko in, and closed it again.
Meanwhile we resumed our merriment.
“Nunc est bibendum," said Vincent, as Bedos paced the
punch on the table. "Give us a toast, Dartmore."
Lord Dartmore was a young man, with tremendous
spirits, which made up for wit. He was just about to reply,
when a loud shriek was heard from Jocko's place of banish-
ment; a sort of scramble ensued, and the next moment the
door was thrown violently open, and in rushed the terrified
landlady, screaming like a sea-gull, and bearing Jocko aloft
upon her shoulders, from which "bad eminence" he was
grinning and chattering with the fury of fifty devils. She
an twice round the room, and then sunk on the floor in
hysterics. We lost no time in hastening to her assistance;
but the warlike Jocko, still sitting upon her, refused to per-
mit one of us to approach. There he sat, turning from side
to side, showing his sharp, white teeth, and uttering from
time to time the most menacing and diabolical sounds.
"What the deuce shall we do?" cried Dartmore.
“Do?” said Vincent, who was convulsed with laughter,
and yet endeavouring to speak gravely ; why, watch like
L Opimius, ne quid respublica detrimenti carperet.
LC
By Jove, Pelham, he will scratch out the lady's beaux
NUX, cried the good-natured Dartmore, endeavouring to
j,
|
my
When at last she saw that nothing hostile was at present
to be effected, she drew herself up, and giving Bedos a
tremendous box on the ear, as he stood grinning beside her,
marched out of the room.
" Cum
We then again rallied around the table, more than ever
disposed to be brilliant, and kept up till daybreak a con-
tinued fire of jests upon the heroine of the passage.
quâ (as Vincent observed) clauditur adversis innoxia simia
fatis!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
Show me not thy painted beauties,
These impostures I defy !
GEORGE WITHERS.
The cave of Falri smelt not more delicately on every side
appeared the marks of drunkenness and gluttony. At the upper
end of the cave the sorcerer lay extended, &c.
સ
were
Mirglip the Persian, in the Tales of the Genii.
I WOKE the next morning with an aching head and
feverish frame. Ah, those midnight carousals, how glorious
they would be if there was no next morning! I took my
sauterne and soda-water in my dressing-room; and, as
indisposition always makes me meditative, I thought over
all I had done since my arrival at Paris. I had become
(that, God knows, I soon manage to do) rather a talked of
and noted character. It is true that I was every where
abused one found fault with my neckcloth another with
my mind-
the lank Mr. Aberton declared that I put my
hair in papers, and the stuffed Sir Henry Millington said I
was a thread-paper myself. One blamed my riding
second my dancing—a third wondered how any woman
could like me, and a fourth said that no woman ever could.
On one point, however, all-friends and foes-
alike agreed; viz. that I was a consummate puppy, and,
excessively well satisfied with myself. A la vérité, they
were not much mistaken there. Why is it, by the by, that
to be pleased with one's self is the surest way of offending
every body else? If any one, male or female, an evident
admirer of his or her own perfections, enter a room, how
perturbed, restless, and unhappy every individual of the
offender's sex instantly becomes: for them not only enjoy-
ment but tranquillity is over, and if they could annihilate
the unconscions victim of their spleen, I fully believe no
Christian toleration would come in the way of that last
extreme of animosity. For a coxcomb there is no mercy
for a coquette no pardon. They are, as it were, the
dissenters of society-no crime is too bad to be imputed
to them; they do not believe the religion of others—they
set up a deity of their own vanity all the orthodox vani-
ties of others are offended. Then comes the bigotry
stake the auto-da-fe of scandal.
M
the
What, alas! is so implacable as the rage of vanity?
What so restless as its persecution? Take from a man his
fortune, his house, his reputation, but flatter his vanity in
each, and he will forgive you. Heap upon him benefits,
fill him with blessings: but irritate his self-love, and you
have made the very best man an ingrat. He will sting you
If he can; you cannot blame him; you yourself have
instilled the venom. This is one reason why you noust
22
BULWER'S NOVELS.
not always reckon pon gratitude in conferring an obliga-
tion. It is a very high mind to which gratitude is not a
painful sensation. If you wish to please, you will find it
wiser to receive solicit even favors, than accord them;
for the vanity of the obligor is always flattered that of the
obligee rarely.
Well, this is an unforeseen digression; let me return!
I had mixed, of late, very little with the English. My
mother's introductions had procured me the entrée of the
best French houses; and to them, therefore, my evenings
were usually devoted. Alas! that was a happy time, when
my carriage used to await me at the door of the Rocher de
Cancale, and then whirl me to a succession of visits, vary-
ng in their degree and nature as the whim prompted: now
to the brilliant soirées of Madame de
, or to the ap-
partemens au troisième of some less celebrated daughter of
dissipation and écarté; now to the literary conversaziones
of the Duchesse de D -s, or the Vicomte d'A- and
then to the feverish excitement of the gambling house.
Passing from each with the appetite for amusement kept
alive by variety; finding in none a disappointment, and in
every one a welcome; full of the health which supports, and
the youth which colors all excess or excitation, I drained,
with an unsparing lip, whatever that enchanting metropolis
could afford.
man,
>
I have hitherto said but little of the Duchesse de Per-
pignan ; I think it necessary now to give some account of
that personage. Ever since the evening I had met her at
the ambassador's, I had paid her the most unceasing atten-
tions. I soon discovered that she had a curious sort of
liaison with one of the attachés a short, ill-made gentle-
with high shoulders, and a pale face, who wore a blue
coat and buff waistcoat, wrote bad verses, and thought him-
self handsome. All Paris said she was excessively ena-
moured of this youth. As for me, I had not known her
four days before I discovered that she could not be exces-
sively enamoured of any thing but an oyster pâté and Lord
Byron's Corsair. Her mind was the most marvellous
mélange of sentiment and its opposite. In her amours she
was Lucretia herself; in her epicurism, Apicius would
have yielded to her. She was pleased with sighs, but she
adored suppers. She would leave every thing for her lover,
except her dinner. The attaché soon quarrelled with her,
and I was installed into the platonic honors of his office.
At first, I own that I was flattered by her choice, and
though she was terribly exigeante of my petits soins, I
managed to keep up her affection, and, what is still more
wonderful, my own, for the better part of a month. What
then cooled ine was the following occurrence:
I was in her boudoir one evening when her femme de
chambre came to tell us that the Duc was in the passage.
Notwithstanding the innocence of our attachment, the
Duchesse was in a violent fright; a small door was at the
left of the ottoman, on which we were sitting.
Oh, no,
no, not there," cried the lady; but I, who saw no other
refuge, entered it forthwith, and before she could ferret me
out, the Duc was in the room.
CC
|
In the meanwhile, I amused myself by examining the
wonders of the new world, into which I had so abruptly
immerged; on a small table before me, was deposited a
remarkably constructed night-cap; I examined it as a
curiosity; on each side was placed une petite cotelette de veau
cru, sewed on with green colored silk, (I remember even
the smallest minutiae,) a beautiful golden wig (the Duchesse
never liked me to play with her hair) was on a block close
by, and on another table was a set of teeth, d'une blancheur |
éblouissante. In this manufactory of a beauty I remained
for a quarter of an hour; at the end of that time, the abi-
gail (the Duchesse had the grace to disappear) released me,
and I flew down stairs like a spirit from purgatory.
From that moment the Duchesse honored me with her
st deadly abhorrence. Equally silly and wicked, her
schemes of revenge were as ludicrous in their execution as
remorseless in their design: at one time I narrowly escaped
poison in a cup of coffee -at another, she endeavoured to
stab me to the heart with a paper cutter.
Notwithstanding my preservation from these attacks, this
new Messalina had resolved on my destruction, and another
means of attempting it still remained, which the reader
will yet have the pleasure of learning.
Mr. Thornton had called upon me twice, and twice had
I returned the visit, but neither of us had been at home to
benefit by these reciprocities of politesse. His acquaintance
with my mysterious hero of the gambling house and the
Jardin des Plantes, and the keen interest I took in spite of
myself, in that unaccountable person, whom I was persuaded
I had seen before in some very
I had seen before in some very different scene, and under
very different circumstances, made me desirous to increase
a connoissance, which, from Vincent's detail, I should other-
wise have been anxious to avoid. I therefore resolved to
make another attempt to find him at home; and
my head-
ache being somewhat better, I took my way to his apart-
ments in the Faubourg St. Germain.
;
I love that quartier if ever I went to Paris again I
should reside there. It is quite a different world from the
streets usually known to, and tenanted by the English
there, indeed, you are among the French, the fossilized
remains of the old régime the very houses have an air of
desolate, yet venerable grandeur -- you never pass by the
white and modern mansion of a nouveau riche; all, even to
the ruggedness of the pavé, breathes a haughty disdain of
innovation — you cross one of the numerous bridges, and
you enter into another time-you are inhaling the atmos-
phere of a past century; no flaunting boutique, French in
its trumpery, English in its prices, stares you in the face
no stiff coats, and unnatural gaits are seen anglicising up
the melancholy streets. Vast hotels, with their gloomy
frontals, and magnificent contempt of comfort; shops, such
as shops might have been in the aristocratic days of Louis
Quatorze, ere British vulgarities made them insolent and
dear; -
public edifices, still redolent of the superb chari-
ties of le grand monarque-carriages, with their huge
bodies and ample decorations; horses, with their Norman
dimensions and undocked honors; men, on whose more
high, though not less courteous demeanour, the revolution
seems to have wrought no democratic plebeianism — all
strike on the mind with a vague and nameless impression
of antiquity; a something solemn even in gayety, and
faded in pomp, appear to linger over all you behold; there
are the Great French people unadulterated by change
unsullied with the commerce of the vagrant and various
tribes that throng their mighty mart of enjoyments.
The strangers who fill the quartiers on this side the Seine
pass not there; between them and the Faubourg there is a
gulf; the very skies seem different-your own feelings,
thoughts nature itself-alter, when you have passed that
Styx which divides the wanderers from the habitants : your
spirits are not so much damped, as tinged, refined, ennobled
by a certain inexpressible awe-you are girt with the
stateliness of Eld, and you tread the gloomy streets with
the dignity of a man, who is recalling the splendors of an
ancient court where he once did homage.
I arrived at Thornton's chambers in the Rue St. Domi-
nique. "Monsieur, est-il chez lui?" said I to the ancient
porteress, who was reading one of Crebillon's novels.
Oui Monsieur, au quatrième," was the answer. I
turned to the dark and unclean staircase, and, after in-
credible exertion and fatigue, arrived, at last, at the ele-
vated abode of Mr. Thorntou.
I
"Entrez," cried a voice in answer to my rap.
obeyed the signal, and found myself in a room of tolerable
dimensions and multiplied utilities. A decayed silk cur-
tain of a dingy blue, drawn across a recess, separated the
chambre à coucher from the salon. It was at present only
half drawn, and did not, therefore, conceal the mysteries
of the den within; the bed was still unmade, and anda-
rently of no very inviting cleanliness; a red handkercnief,
that served as a night-cap, hung pendent from the foot of
the bed; at a little distance from it, more towards the pil.
low, were a shawl, a parasol, and an old slipper. On a
table which stood between the two dull, filmy windows,
were placed a cracked bowl, still reeking with the lees of
gin punch, two bottles half full, a mouldy cheese, and a
salad dish; on the ground beneath it lay two huge books
and a woman's bonnet.
Thornton himself sat by a small consumptive fire, in an
easy chair; another table, still spread with the appliances
of breakfast, viz. a coffee-pot, a milk jug, two cups, a
broken loaf, and an empty dish, mingled with a pack of
cards, one dice, and an open book de mauvais goût, stood
immediately before him.
Every thing around bore some testimony of the spirit
of low debauchery; and the man himself, with his flushed
and sensual countenance, his unwashed bands, and the
slovenly rakishness of his whole appearance, made no un
fitting representation of the Genius Loci.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
20
All that I have described, together with a flitting shadow
of feminine appearance, escaping through another door,
my quick eye discovered in the same instant that I made
my salutation.
Thornton rose, with an air half careless and half abash-
ed, and expressed, in more appropriate terms than his ap-
pearance warranted, his pleasurable surprise at seeing me
at last. There was, however, a singularity in his conver-
sation, which gave it an air both of shrewdness and vul-
garity. This was, as may before have been noted, a pro-
fuse intermixture of proverbs, some stale, some new, some
sensible enough, and all savoring of a vocabulary carefully
eschewed by every man of ordinary refinement in conver-
sation.
"I have but a small tenement," said he, smiling; "but,
thank Heaven, at Paris a man is not made by his lodgings.
Small house, small care. Few garçons have indeed a more
★umptuous apartment than myself."
"True," said I; "and if I may judge by the bottles on
the opposite table, and the bonnet beneath it, you find that
no abode is too humble or too exalted for the solace of the
senses.
"'Fore Gad, you are in the right, Mr. Pelham," re-
plied Thornton, with a loud, coarse, chuckling laugh,
loud, coarse, chuckling laugh,
which, more than a year's conversation could have done,
let me into the secrets of his character. "I care not a
rush for the decorations of the table, so that the cheer be
good; nor for the gew-gaws of the head-dress, as long as
the face is pretty 'the taste of the kitchen is better
than the smell.' Do you go much to Madame B——'s, in
the Rue Gretry-eh, Mr. Pelham?-ah, I'll be bound
- ah, I'll be bound
you do.'
No," said I, with a loud laugh, but internal shiver;
"but you know where to find le bon vin et les jolies filles.
As for me, I am still a stranger at Paris, and amuse myself
but very indifferently."
Thornton's face brightened. "I tell you what, my good
fel I beg pardon-I mean Mr. Pelham
I mean Mr. Pelham - I can show
I can show
you the best sport in the world, if you can only spare me
a little of our time this very evening, perhaps.
‹‹
Will you take break-
"I fear," said I, "I am engaged all the present week,
but I long for nothing more than to cultivate an acquaint-
ance seemingly so exactly to my own taste.”
Thoruton's gray eyes twinkled.
fast with me on Sunday?" said he.
"I shall be too happy," I replied.
There was now a short pause. I took advantage of it.
“I think,” said I, "I have seen you once or twice with a
tall, handsome man, in a loose great coat of very singular
color. Pray, if not impertinent, who is he? I am sure I
have seen him before in England."
I looked full upon Thornton as I said this; he changed
color, and answered my gaze with a quick glance from
his small, glittering eye, before he replied. "I scarcely
know who you mean, my acquaintance is so large and
miscellaneous at Paris. It might have been Johnson, or
Smith, or Howard, or any body, in short."
"It is a man nearly six feet high," said I, "thin and
remarkably well made, of a pale complexion, light eyes,
and very black hair, mustachios and whiskers. I saw him
with you once at the Bois de Boulogne, and once in a hell
in the Palais Royal. Surely now you will recollect who
he is."
Thornton was evidently disconcerted. "Oh!" said he,
after a short pause, nd another of his peculiarly quick,
sly glances -"Oh, that man; I have known him a very
short time. What is his name? let me see!" and Mr.
Thornton affected to look down in a complete reverie of
lim remembrances.
I saw, however, that, from time to time, his eye glanced
up to me, with a restless, inquisitive expression, and as
instantly retired.
"Ah," said I, carelessly, "I think I know who he is!"
"Who!" cried Thornton eagerly, and utterly off Ins
guard.
“And yet," I pursued, without noticing the interrup-
tion," it scarcely can be- the color of the hair is so very
different."
Thornton again appeared to relapse into his recollec-
tions.
"War
Warburah, I have it now!" cried he,
* Warburton- that's it that's the name is it the
one you supposed, Mr. Pelham ?"
“No,” said I, apparently perfectly satisfied. "I was
quite mistaken. Good morning, I did not think it was go
— au plaisir !"
late. On Sunday, then, Mr. Thornton
"A dd cunning dog!" said I to myself, as I l
the apartments. "However, on peut être trop fin. I shal
have him yet."
The surest way to make a dupe is to let your victin
suppose that you are his.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Voilà de l'érudition.
Les Femmes Savantes.
I FOUND, on my return, covered with blood, and foar-
Bedos!
ing with passion, my inestimable valet
"What's the matter?" said I.
"Matter!" repeated Bedos, in a tone almost inarticn
late with rage; and then rejoicing at the opportunity of
unbosoming his wrath, he poured out a vast volley of
ivrognes and carognes, against our Dame du Chatean, of
monkey reminiscence. With great difficulty, I gathered
at last, from his vituperations, that the enraged landlady,
determined to wreak her vengeance on some one, had sent
for him into her apartement, accosted him with a smile,
bade him sit down, regaled him with cold vol-au-vent, and
a glass of Curaçoa, and, while he was felicitating himself
on his good fortune, slipped out of the room; presently,
three tall fellows entered with sticks.
"We'll teach you," said the biggest of them
we 'll
teach you to lock up ladies for the indulgence of your
vulgar amusement ;
vulgar amusement; " and, without one other word, they
fell upon Bedos, with incredible zeal and vigor. The
valiant valet defended himself, tooth and nail, for some
time, for which he only got the more soundly belabored.
In the meanwhile the landlady entered, and, with the same
gentle smile as before, begged him to make no ceremony,
to proceed with his present amusement, and when he was
tired with the exercise, hoped he would refresh himself
with another glass of Curaçoa.
"which
"It was this," said Bedos, with a whimper,
hurt me the most, to think she would serve me so cruelly,
after I had eaten so plentifully of the vol-au-vent; envy
aud injustice I can bear, but treachery stabs me to the
heart.
ود
When these threshers of men were tired, and the lady
satisfied, and Bedos half dead, they suffered the unhappy
valet to withdraw; the mistress of the hotel giving him a
note, which she desired, with great civility, that he would
transmit to me on my return. This, I found, enclosed my
1
bill, and informed me that my month being out on the
morrow, she was unwilling to continue me any longer, and
begged I would, therefore, have the bonté to choose another
apartment.
"Carry my luggage forthwith," said I, "to the Hôtel
de Mirabeau; " and that very evening I changed my
abode.
I am happy in the opportunity this incident affords me
of especially recommending the Hôtel de Mirabeau, Rue
de la Paix, to any of my countrymen who are really gen-
tlemen, and will not disgrace my recommendation. It is
certainly the best caravansera in the English quartier.
I was engaged that day to a literary dinner at the Mar-
ques D'Al
; and as I knew I should meet Vincent,
I felt some pleasure in repairing to my entertainer's hote..
They were just going to dinner as I entered.
A good
many English were of the party. The good-natured (in
all senses of the word) Lady
who always affected
to pet me, cried aloud, "Pelham, mon joli petit mignon,
I have not seen you for an age- do give me your arm.
Madame D'Anville was just before me, and as 1 looked
at her, I saw that her eyes were full of tears; my heart
smote me for my late inattention, and going up to her, I
only nodded to Lady
and said in reply to her in
vitation, Non perfide, it is my turn to be cruel now. R
member your flirtation with Mr. Howard de Howard.
Pooh!" said Lady
, taking Lord Vincent's
arm, "your jealousy does indeed rest upon a trifle lig
as air,?»›
"Do you forgive me?" whispered I to Madame D'An
ville, as I handed her to the salon.
24
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Does not love forgive every thing?" was her an-
swer.
Ees.
At least, thought I, it never talks in those pretty phra-
The conversation soon turned upon books. As for me,
As for me,
I never at that time took a share in those discussions; in-
deed, I have long laid it down as a rule, that a man never
gains by talking to more than one person at a time. If
you don't shine, you are a fool - if you do, you are a bore.
you do, you are a bore.
You must become either ridiculous or unpopular - either
either
hurt your own self-love by stupidity, or that of others by
wit I therefore sat in silence, looking exceedingly edified,
and now and then muttering "good!” "true!"
heaven, however, the suspension of one faculty only in-
creases the vivacity of the others; my eyes and ears always
watch like sentinels over the repose of my lips. Careless
and indifferent as I seem to all things, nothing ever escapes
De: the minutest erreur in a dish or a domestic, the inost
trifling peculiarity in a criticism or a coat, my glance de-
tects in an instant, and transmits for ever to my recol-
.ection.
C
Thank
"You have seen Jouy's Hermite de la Chaussée D'An-
tin?"" said our host to Lord Vincent.
"I have, and think meanly of it. There is a perpetual
aim at something pointed, which as perpetually merges
into something dull. He is like a bad swimmer, strikes
out with great force, makes a confounded splash, and
never gets a yard the further for it. It is a great effort
not to sink. Indeed, Monsieur D'A
, your literature
is at a very reduced ebb; bombastic in the drama shal-
low in philosophy mawkish in poetry, your writers of
the present day seem to think with Boileau
"Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire.""
CC
you will allow
"Surely," cried Madame D'Anville,
De la Martine's poetry to be beautiful?"
"I allow it," said he, to be among the best you have;
and I know very few lines in your language equal to the
two first stanzas in his Meditation on Napoleon,' or to
those exquisite verses called 'Le Lac;' but you will allow
also that he wants originality and nerve. His thoughts are
pathetic, but not deep; he whines, but sheds no tears.
He has, in his imitation of Lord Byron, reversed the great
miracle: instead of turning water into wine, he has turned
wine into water. Besides, he is so unpardonably obscure.
He thinks with Bacchus (you remember, D'A
the line in Euripides which I will not quote,) that there
is something august in the shades; but he has applied
this thought wrongly in his obscurity there is nothing
sublime it is the back ground of a Dutch picture. It is
only a red herring, or an old hat, which he has invested
with such pomposity of shadow and darkness."
But his verses are so smooth," said Lady
"Ah!"
answered Vincent.
-t, an author of
"But the chief beauty of that wonderful conception of
an impassioned and meditative mind is to be found in the
inimitable manner in which the thoughts are embodied,
and in the tenderness, the truth, the profundity of the
thoughts themselves, when Lord Edouard says, c'est lo
chemin des passions qui m'a conduit à la philosophie,' ho
inculcates, in one simple phrase, a profound and unanswer-
able truth. It is in these remarks that nature is chiefly
found in the writings of Rousseau; too much engrossed in
himself to be deeply skilled in the characters of others,
that very self-study had yet given him a knowledge of the
more hidden recesses of the heart. He could perceive as
once the motive and the cause of actions, but he wanted
the patience to trace the elaborate and the winding pro
gress of their effects. He saw the passions in their home,
but he could not follow them abroad. He knew mankin
in the general, but not men in the detail. Thus, when he.
makes an aphorism or reflection, it comes home at once t
you as true; but when he would analyse that reflection
when he argues, reasons, and attempts to prove, you rejec
him as unnatural, or you refute him as false. It is ther
that he partakes of that manie commune which he imputes
to other philosophers, de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer ce
qui n'est pas.'"
There was a short pause. "I think," said Madame
D'Anville,
D'Anville," that it is in those pensées which you admire
so much in Rousseau, that our authors in general excel.'
"You are right," said Vincent," and for this reason-
with you les gens de lettres are always les gens du monde.
Hence their quick perceptions are devoted to men as well
as to books. They make observations acutely, and embody
them with grace; but it is worth remarking, that the same
cause which produced the aphorism, frequently prevents
its being profound. These literary gens du monde have the
tact to observe, but not the patience, perhaps not the time,
to investigate. They make the maxim, but they never
explain to you the train of reasoning which led to it.
Hence they are more brilliant than true. An English
writer would not dare to make a maxim, involving, per-
haps, in two lines, one of the most important of moral
truths, without bringing pages to support his dictum. A
neither how he came by his reasons, or their conclusion,
French essayist leaves it wholly to itself. He tells you
le plus fou souvent est le plus satisfait.' Consequently, if
less tedious than the English, they are more dangerous, and
ought rather to be considered as models of terseness than
your writers, but he will learn to think justly sooner from
of reflection. A man might learn to think sooner from
our's. Many observations of La Bruyere and Rochefou-
cault the latter especially have obtained credit for
truth solely from their point. They possess exactly the
same merit as the very sensible-permit me to add
French line in Corneille:
very
"Ma plus douce espérance est de perdre l espoir.'
"The Marquis took advantage of the silence which fol
lowed Vincent's criticism, to rise from table. We all (ex-
cept Vincent, who took leave) adjourned to the salon." Qrai
est cet homme là?" said one, comme il est épris de lui-
même." "How silly he is," cried another -"how ugly,"
said a third. What a taste in literature such a talker
tr
“Quand la rime enfin se trouve au bout des vers,
Qu'importe que le reste y soit mis de travers.'"
“Hélas!” said the Viscount D’A—
no small celebrity himself; "I
agree with you we shall
-ever again see a Voltaire or a Rousseau.”
"There is but little justice in those complaints, often as
they are made," replied Vincent. "You may not, it is
true, see a Voltaire or a Rousseau, but you will see their such shallowness, and such assurance -not worth the
equals. Genius can never be exhausted by one individual. answering could not slip in a word-disagreeable, re-
|
In our country, the poets after Chaucer, in the fifteenth volting, awkward, slovenly, were the most complimentary
century, complained of the decay of their art - they did opinions bestowed upon the unfortunate Vincent.
not anucipate Shakspeare. In Hayley's time, who ever women called him un horreur, and the men un bête. The
dreamt of the ascension of Byron? Yet Shakspeare and old railed at his mauvais goût, and the young at his mauvais
Byron came like the bridegroom in the dead of night; cœur, for the former always attribute whatever does not
and you have the same probability of producing. not, in- correspond with their sentiments, to a perversion of taste,
deed, another Rousseau, but a writer to do equal honor to and the latter, whatever does not come up to their enthu
your literature.”
siasm, to a depravity of heart.
"I think,” said Lady
C
"that Rousseau's Julie'
is overrated. I had heard so much of La Nouvelle
Héloise' when I was a girl, and been so often told that it
was destruction to read it, that I bought the book the very
day after I was married. I own to you that I could not
get through it."
"I am not surprised at it," answered Vincent ; “but
Rousseau is not the less a genius for all that; there is no
story to bear out the style, and he himself is right when he
Eays, ce livre convient à très peu de lecteurs.' One letter
would delight every one, four volumes of them are a surfeit
- it is the toxjours perdrix."
C
The
As for me, I went home, enriched with two new obser-
vations: first, that one may not speak of any thing relative
to a foreign country, as one would if one was a native.
National censures become particular affronts.
Secondly, that those who know mankind in theory, sel
dom know it in practice; the very wisdom that conceives
a rule, is accompanied with the abstraction, or the vanity,
which destroys it. I mean that the philosopher of the
cabinet is often too diffident to put into action his obser
vations, or too eager for display to conceal their design
Lord Vincent values himself upon his science du monde
He has read much upon men, he has reflected more; he
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
20
ays down aphorisms to govern or to please them.
exhaustion in his swarthy and strongly marked counte
He walked carelessly on, neither looking to the
right nor the left, with that air of thought and abstraction
which I have remarked as common to all men in the habit
of indulging any engrossing and exciting passion.
He
nance.
into society; he is cheated by the one half, and the
goes
other half he offends. The sage in the cabinet is but a fool
in the salon; and the most consummate men of the world
are those who have considered the least on it.
CHAPTER XXV.
Falstaff. What money is in my purse?
Page.-Seven groats and twopence.
2d Part of Henry IV.
"En iterum Crispinus."
THE next day a note was brought me, which had been
sent to my former lodgings in the Hôtel de Paris; it was
from Thornton.
"MY DEAR SIR," (it began)
"I am very sorry that particular business will pre-
vent me the pleasure of seeing you at my rooms on Sunday.
I hope to be more fortunate some other day. I should
like much to introduce you, the first opportunity, to my
friends in the Rue Grétry, for I like obliging my country
men. I am sure, if you were to go there, you would cut
and come again -one shoulder of mutton drives down
another.
"I beg you to accept my repeated excuses, and remain,
"Dear Sir,
"Your very obedient servant,
"THOMAS THORNTON.”
"Rue St. Dominique, Friday Morning.”
This letter produced in me many and manifold cogi-
ations.
What could possibly have induced Mr. Tom
Thornton, rogue as he was, to postpone thus of his own
accord, the plucking of a pigeon, which he had such good
reason to believe he had entrapped. There was evidently
no longer the same avidity to cultivate my acquaintance as
before; in putting off our appointment with so little cere-
mony, he did not even fix a day for another. What had
altered his original designs towards me? for if Vincent's
account was true, it was natural to suppose, that he wished
to profit by any acquaintance he might form with me, and
therefore such an acquaintance his own interests would
induce him to continue and confirm.
Either, then, he no longer had the same necessity for a
dupe, or he no longer imagined I should become one.
Yet neither of these suppositions was probable. It was
not likely that he should grow suddenly honest, or suddenly
rich: nor had I, on the other hand, given him any reason
to suppose I was a jot more wary than any other indi-
vidual he might have imposed upon. On the contrary, I
had appeared to seek his acquaintance with an eagerness
which said but little for my knowledge of the world. The
more I reflected, the more I should have been puzzled, had
I not connected his present backwardness with his ac-
quaintance with the stranger, whom he termed Warburton.
It is true, that I had no reason to suppose so; it was a
conjecture wholly unsupported, and, indeed, against my
better sense, yet, from some unanalysed associations, I
could not divest myself of the supposition.
“I will soon see," thought I, and wrapping myself in
my cloak, for the day was bitterly cold, I bent my way to
Thornton's lodgings. I could not explain to myself the
deep interest I took in whatever was connected with (the
so-called) Warburton, or whatever promised to discover
more clearly any particulars respecting him. His behaviour
in the gambling house; his conversation with the woman
in the Jardin des Plantes; and the singular circumstance
that a man of so very aristocratic an appearance, should
be connected with Thornton, and only seen in such low
scenes, and with such low society, would not have been
sufficient so strongly to occupy my mind, had it not been for
certain dim recollections, and undefinable associations, that
his appearance when present, and my thoughts of him when
absent, perpetually recalled.
As, engrossed with meditations of this nature, I was
passing over the Pont-Neuf, I perceived the man Warbur-
ton had so earnestly watched in the gambling house, and
whom I identified with the "Tyrrell” who had formed the
subject of conversation in the Jardin des Plantes, pass
slowly before me. There was an appearance of great
VOL I.
|
We were just on the other side of the Seine when I per-
ceived the woman of the Jardin des Plantes approach.
Tyrrell (for that, I afterwards discovered, was really his
name) started as she came near, and asked her, in a tone
of some asperity, where she had been? As I was but a
few paces behind, I had a clear, full view of the woman's
countenance. She was about twenty-eight or thirty years
of age. Her features were decidedly handsome, though
somewhat too sharp and aquiline for my individual taste.
Her eyes were light and rather sunken; and her complex-
ion bespoke somewhat of the paleness and languor of ill-
health. On the whole, the expression of her face, though
decided, was not unpleasing, and when she returned Tyr-
rell's rather rude salutation, it was with a smile, which
made her, for the moment, absolutely beautiful.
"Where have I been to ?" she said, in answer to his
Why, I went to look at the New Church,
interrogatory.
which they told me was so superbe.”
cisely the circumstances in which such spectacles are
"Methinks," replied the man, "that ours are not pre-
amusing.'
*
Nay, Tyrrell," said the woman, as taking his arm they
nay, we are
walked on together a few paces before me,
quite rich now to what we have been, and, if you do play
again, our two hundred pounds may swell into a fortune.
Your losses have brought you skill, and you may now turn •
them into actual advantages.'
Tyrrell did not reply exactly to these remarks, but
"Two hundred
appeared as if debating with himself.
pounds-twenty already gone! - in a few months all will
have melted away. What is it then now but a respite
from starvation ?-but with luck it may become a compe-
tence."
"And why not have luck? many a fortune has been
made with a worse beginning," said the woman.
"True, Margaret," pursued the gambler, "and even
without luck, our fate can only commence a month or two
sooner better a short doom than a lingering torture."
"What think you of trying some new game where you
have more experience, or where the chances are greater
than in that of rouge et noir?" asked the woman. "Could
you not make something out of that tall, handsome man,
Thornton says is so rich ?"
"Ah, if one could!" sighed Tyrrell, wistfully. "Thorn-
ton tells me that he has won thousands from him, and that
they are mere drops in his income. Thornton is a good,
easy, careless fellow, and might let me into a share of the
booty but then, in what games can I engage him?'
>
Here I passed this well-suited pair, and lost the remain-
der of their conversation. "Well," thought I, "if this
precious personage does starve at last, he will most richly
deserve it, partly for his designs on the stranger, princi-
pally for his opinion of Thornton. If he was a knave only,
one might pity him; but a knave and fool both, are a com-
bination of evil, for which there is no intermediate purga-
tory of opinion-nothing short of utter damnation.'
I soon arrived at Mr. 'I'hornton's abode. The same old
woman, poring over the same novel of Crebillon, made me
the same reply as before; and accordingly again I ascend-
ed the obscure and rugged stairs, which seemed to indicate
that the road to vice is not so easy as one generally suppo
I knocked at the door, and receiving no answering
acknowledgment, opened it at once. The first thing I saw
was the dark, rough coat of Warburton-that person's
back was turned to me, and he was talking with some
energy to Thornton (who lounged idly in his chair, with
one ungartered leg thrown over the elbow.)
ses.
"Ah, Mr. Pelham," exclaimed the latter, starting from
his not very graceful position, "it gives me great pleasure
to see you Mr. Warburton, Mr. Pelham — Mr. Pelham,
Mr. Warburton.”
My new-made and mysterious acquaintance drew him-
self up to his full height, and bowed very slightly to my
own acknowledgment of the introduction. A low person
would have thought him rude. I only supposed him igno
rant of the world. No real gentleman is uncivil. He
turned round after this stiff condescension, de sa part, and
sunk down on the sofa with his back towards me.
28
BULWER'S NOVEL 3.
•
"I was mistaken," thought I," when I believed him to
be above such associates as Thornton-they are well
matched.'
My dear sir," said Thornton, "I am very sorry I could
not see you to breakfast -a particular engagement pre-
rented me verbum sap. Mr. Pelbam, you take me, I
Suppose black eyes, white skin, and such an ancle ;
and the fellow rubbed his great hands and chuckled.
"Well," said I, "I cannot blame you, whatever may be
my loss
-a dark eye and a straight ancle are powerful
excuses. What says Mr. Warburton to them?" and I
turned to the object of my interrogatory.
r
Really," he answered drily, and without moving from
his uncourteous position, "Mr. Thornton only can judge
of the niceties of his peculiar tastes, or the justice of his
general excuses.
Mr. Warburton said this in a sarcastic, bitter tone.
Thornton bit his lip, more I should think, at the manner
than the words, and his small gray eyes sparkled with a
malignant and stern expression, which suited the character
of his face far better than the careless levity and enjoue-
ment which his glances usually denoted.
'
They are no such great friends after all," thought I ;
and now let me change my attack. Pray," I asked,
among all
your numerous acquaintances at Paris, did you
ever meet with a Mr. Tyrrell?"
Warburton started from his chair, and as instantly re-
seated himself. Thornton eyed me with one of those pecu-
har looks which so strongly reminded me of a dog, in
deliberation whether to bite or run away.
"I do know a Mr. Tyrrell!" he said, after a short
pause.
“What sort of a person is he?" I asked, with an indif-
ferent air -"a great gamester, is he not?"
"He does slap it down on the colors now and then,"
replied Thornton. "I hope you don't know him, Mr.
Pelham !
"Why?" said I, evading the question. "His charac-
ter is not affected by a propensity so common, unless,
indeed, you suppose him to be more a gambler than a
gamester, viz. more acute than unlucky."
"God forbid that I should say any such thing," replied
you won't catch an old lawyer in such im-
Thornton CC
prudence."
"The greater the truth the greater the libel," said War-
burton, with a sneer.
"No!" resumed Thornton, "I know nothing against
Mr. Tyrrell-nothing! He may be a very good man,
and
I believe he is; but as a friend, Mr. Pelham, (and Mr.
Thornton grew quite affectionate,) I advise you to have as
little as possible to do with that sort of people.
Truly," said I, "you have new excited my curiosity.
Nothing, you know, is half 30 inviting as mystery.
Thornton looked as if he had expected a very different
reply; and Warburton said, in an abrupt tone--
"Whoever enters an unknown road in a fog may easily
lose himself."
"True," said I -"but that very chance is more agree-
able than a road where one knows every tree! Danger
and novelty are more to my taste than safety and sameness.
Besides, as I never gamble myself, I can lose nothing by
an acquaintance with those who do."
Another pause ensued - and, finding I had got all from
Mr. Thornton and his uncourteous guest that I was likely
to do, I took my hat and my departure.
"I do not know," thought I, "whether I have profited
much by this visit. Let me consider. In the first place,
I have not ascertained why I was put off by Mr. Thornton
for as to his excuse, it could only have availed one day,
and had he been anxious for my acquaintance, he would
have named another. I have, however, discovered, first,
that he does not wish me to form any connexion witn Tyr-
rell; secondly, from Warburton's sarcasm, and his glance
of reply, that there is but little friendship between those
two, whatever be the intimacy; and, thirdly, that Warbur-
ton, from his dorsal positions, so studiously preserved,
either wished to be uncivil or unnoticed." The latter,
after all, was the most probable; and, upon the whole, I
felt more than ever convinced that he was the person I sus-
pected him to be.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Tell how the fates my giddy course did guide,
The inconstant turns of every changing hour.
Pierce Graveston, by M. DRAYTON.
BOILEA
Je me retire donc. - Adieu, Paris, adieu !
WHEN I returned home, I found on my table the follow
ing letter from my mother :
"MY DEAR HENRY,
"I am rejoiced to hear you are so well entertained a
Paris that you have been so often to the Dend
C
C—s that Coulon says you are his best pupil—that
your favorite horse is so much admired- and that you have
only exceeded your allowance by a 1,000l.; with some
difficulty I have persuaded
have persuaded your uncle to transmit you an
order for 1,5007., which will, I trust, make up all your
deficiencies.
уска
"You must not, my dear child, be so extravagant fc tns
future, and for a very good reason, viz. I do not see how
Your uncle, I fear, will not again be so gene-
you can.
—
rous, and your father cannot assist you. You will therefore
see more clearly than ever the necessity of marrying an
heiress; there are only two in England (the daughters of
gentlemen) worthy of you - the most deserving of these
has 10,000l. a year, the other has 150,000l. The former
is old, ugly, and very ill-tempered; the latter tolerably
pretty, and agreeable, and just of age; but you will per-
ceive the impropriety of even thinking of her till we have
tried the other. I am going to ask both to my Sunday
soirées, where I never admit any single men, so that there,
at least, you will have no rivals.
"And now, my dear son,
before I enter into a subject of
great importance to you, I wish to recall to your mind that
pleasure is never an end, but a means
viz. that in your
horses and amusements at Paris your visits and your
liaisons you have always, I trust, remembered that these
were only so far desirable as the methods of shining in so-
ciety. I have now a new scene on which you are to enter,
with very different objects in view, and where any plea-
sures you may find have nothing the least in common with
those you at present enjoy.
"I know that this preface will not frighten you as it
might many silly young men. Your education has been
too carefully attended to, for you to imagine that any step
can be rough or unpleasant which raises you in the world.
"To come at once to the point. One of the seats in
your uncle's borough of T is every day expected to
be vacated; the present member, Mr. Toolington, cannot
possibly live a week, and your uncle is very desirous that
you should fill the vacancy which Mr. Toolington's death
will create. Though I called it Lord Glenmorris's bo-
rough, yet it is not entirely at his disposal, which I think
very strange, since my father, who was not half so rich as
your uncle, could send two members to Parliament with-
out the least trouble in the world but I do u't understand
these matters. Possibly your uncle (poor man) does not
manage them well. However, he says no time is to be
lost You are to return immediately to England, and
come down to his house in -shire. It is supposed you
will have some contest, but be certain eventually to
come in.
“You will also, in this visit to Lord Glenmorris, have an
excellent opportunity of securing his affection; you know
it is some time since he saw you, and the greater part of
his property is unentailed. If you come into the House
you must devote yourself wholly to it, and I have no fear
of your succeeding; for I remember, when you were quite
a child, how well you spoke, My name is Norval,' and
'Romans, countrymen, and lovers,' &c. I heard Mr. Can-
ning speak the other day, and I think his voice is quite
like yours; in short, I make no doubt of seeing you in the
ministry in a very few years.
C
"You see, my dear son, that it is absolutely necessary
you should set out immediately. You will call on Lady
and you will endeavour to make firm friends of the
most desirable among your present acquaintance; so that
you may be on the same footing you are now, should you
return to Paris. This a little civility will easily do : no-
body, (as I before observed,) except in England, ever loses
PEIHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
27
by politeness; by the by, that last word is one you must
never use, it is too Gloucester-place like.
events hereafter to be shown, wil testify. For myself 1
felt that I was now about to enter a more crowded scene
upon a more elevated ascent; and my previous experience
of human nature was sufficient to convince me that my
safety required a more continual circumspection, and my
success a more dignified bearing.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Je noterai cela, Madame, dans mon livre.
MOLIERE.
"You will also be careful, in returning to England, to
make very little use of French phrases; no vulgarity is
more unpleasing. I could not help being exceedingly
amused by a book written the other day, which professes
to give an accurate description of good society. Not
knowing what to make us say in English, the author has
made us talk nothing but French. I have often wondered
what common people think of us, since in their novels they
always affect to portray us so different from themselves.
I am very much afraid, we are in all things exactly like
them, except in being more simple and unaffected.
The higher the rank, indeed, the less pretence, because
there is less to pretend to. This is the chief reason why
our manners are better than low persons'; our's are more
I AM not one of those persons who are many days in
"On the third day
natural, because they imitate no one else; theirs are af- deciding what may be effected in one.
fected, because they think to imitate ours; and whatever
from this," said I to Bedos," at half past nine in the morn-
is evidently borrowed becomes vulgar. Original affectationing, I shall leave Paris for England.'
is sometimes good ton - imitated affectation, always bad.
"Well, my dear Henry, I must now conclude this letter,
already too long to be interesting. I hope to see уси
about
ten days after you receive this; and if you could bring me
a Cachemire shawl, it would give me great pleasure to
see your taste in its choice. God bless you, my dear son.
"Your very affectionate
"FRANCES PELHAM.
"F. S. I hope you go to church sometimes I am sorry
to see the young men of the present day so irreligious.
Perhaps you could get my old friend, Madame De
choose the Cachemire take care of your health."
to
"Oh, my poor wife!" said the valet, " she will break
her heart, if I leave her."
"Then stay," said I. Bedos shrugged his shoulders.
"I prefer being with Monsieur to all things."
"What, even to your wife?" The courteous rascal
placed his hand to his heart and bowed. "You shall not
suffer by your fidelity you shall take your wife with you.
The conjugal valet's countenance fell. "No," he said,
no; he could not take advantage of Monsieur's generos-
ity.
I insist upon it- not another word.”
وو
"I beg a thousand pardons of Monsieur; but my wife
is very ill, and unable to travel.”
CC
Then, in that case, so excellent a husband cannot think
of leaving a sick and destitute wife.”
"Poverty has no law; if I consulted my heart and
stayed, I should starve, et il faut vivre.”
"Je n'en vois pas la nécessité," replied I, as I got into my
carriage. That repartee, by the way,
—
I cannot claim as
my own; it is the very unanswerable answer of a Judge to
an expostulating thief.
This letter, which I read carefully twice over, threw me
into a most serious meditation. My first feeling was re-
gret at leaving Paris; my second was a certain exultation
at the new prospects so unexpectedly opened to me. The
great aim of a philosopher is, to reconcile every disadvan-
tage by some counterbalance of good where he cannot
create this, he should imagine it. I began, therefore, to
Consider less what I should lose than what I should gain
by quitting Paris. In the first place, I was tolerably tired
of its amusements: no business is half so fatiguing as plea-
sure. I longed for a change: behold, a change was at
band! Then, to say truth, I was heartily glad of a pre-
tence of escaping from the numerous cohort of følles amours,
with Madanie D'Anville at the head; and the very cir
cumstance which 'men who play the German flute and fall
in love would have considered the most vexatious, I re-
garded as the most consolatory.
There was yet another reason which reconciled me more
than any other to my departure. I had in my residence
at Paris, among half wits and whole roués, contracted a
certain not exactly grossiereté— but want of refinement
— a certain coarseness of expression and idea which, though
slight, and easily thrown off, took in some degree from my
approach to that character which I wished to become. I
know nothing which would so polish the manners as conti-
nental intercourse, were it not for the English débauchés
with which that intercourse connects one. English profli-
gacy is always coarse, and in profligacy nothing is more
contagious than its tone. One never keeps a restraint on
the manner when one unbridles the passions, and one takes
from the associates with whom the latter are indulged, the
air and the method of the indulgence.
I was, the reader well knows, too solicitous for improve-
ment, not to be anxious to escape from such chances of
deterioration, and I therefore consoled myself with con-
siderable facility for the pleasures and the associates I was
about to forego. My mind being thus relieved from all
regret at my departure, I now suffered it to look forward
to the advantages of my return to England. My love of
excitement and variety made an election, in which I was
to have both the importance of the contest and the cer-
tainty of the success, a very agreeable object of antici-
pation.
I was also by this time wearied with my attendance upon
women, and eager to exchange it for the ordinary objects
of ambition to men; and my vanity whispered that my
success in the one was no unfavorable omen of my pros-
perity in the other. On my return to England, with a new
scene and a new motive for conduct, I resolved that I
would commence a different character to that I had hith-
erto assumed. How far I kept this resolution the various
|
|
=
I made the round of reciprocal regrets, according to the
orthodox formula. The Duchesse de Perpignan was the
last (Madame D'Anville I reserved for another day)
that virtuous and wise personage was in the boudoir of re-
ception. I glanced at the fatal door as I entered. I have
a great aversion, after any thing has once happened and
fairly subsided, to make any allusion to its former existence.
I never, therefore, talked to the Duchesse about our ancient
égaremens. I spoke this morning of the marriage of one
person, the death of another, and lastly, the departure of
my individual self.
"When do you go?" she said eagerly.
"In two days: my departure will be softened, if I can
execute any commissions in England for Madame.'
CE
None," said she; and then in a low tone (that none
of the idlers, who were always found at her morning levées,
should hear,) she added, "you will receive a note from me
this evening."
>>
I bowed, changed the conversation, and withdrew. 1
dined in my own rooms, and spent the evening in looking
over the various billets-doux, received during my séjour
at Paris.
"Where shall I put all these locks of hair?" asked
Bedos, opening a drawer full.
"Into my scrap-book."
"And all these letters?"
"Into the fire.”
I was just getting into bed when the Duchesse de Per-
pignan's note arrived it was as follows:-
"MY DEAR FRIEND,
"For that word, so doubtful in our language, I may at
least call you in your own. I am unwilling that you should
leave this country with those sentiments you now entertain
of me, unaltered, yet I cannot imagine any form of words
of sufficient magic to change them. Oh! 'f you knew
how much I am to be pitied; if you could ook for one
moment into this lonely and blighted heart; if you could
trace, step by step, the progress I have made in folly and
sin, you would see how much of what you now condemn
and despise I have owed to circumstances, rather than to
the vice of my disposition. I was born a beauty, educated
a beauty, owed fame, rank, power to beauty; and it is to
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the advantages I have derived froin person that I owe the
ruin of my mind. You have seen how much I now derive
from art. I loathe myself as I write that sentence; but no
matter; from that moment you loathed me too. You did
not take into consideration, that I had been living on ex-
citement all my youth, and that in my maturer years I could
not relinquish it. I had reigned by my attractions, and I
thought every art preferable to resigning my empire; but
in feeding my vanity, I had not been able to stifle the dic-
tates of my heart. Love is so natural to a woman, that she
is scarcely a woman who resists it; but in me it has been
a sentiment, not a passion.
"Sentiment, then, and vanity, have been my seducers.
I said, that I owed my errors to circumstances, not to nature.
You will say, that in confessing love and vanity to be my
seducers, I contradict this assertion you are mistaken.
I mean that though vanity and sentiment were in me, yet
the scenes in which I have been placed, and the events
which I have witnessed, gave to those latent currents of
action a wrong and a dangerous direction. I was formed
to lone; for one whom I did love I could have made every
sacrifice. I married a man I hated, and I only learned the
depths of my heart when it was too late.
પં
Enough of this; you will leave this country; we shall
never meet again never!
You may return to Paris, but
I shall then be no more; n'importe - I shall be unchanged
to the last. Je mourrai en reine.
"As a latest pledge of what I have left for you, I send
you the enclosed chain and ring; as a latest favor I re-
quest you to wear them for six months, and above all, for
two hours in the Tuilleries to morrow. You will laugh at
this request it seems idle and romantic- perhaps it is so.
Love has many exaggerations in sentiment, which reason
would despise. What wonder, then, that mine, above that
of all others, should conceive them? You will not, I know,
deny this request. Farewell! In this world we shall
never meet again, and I believe not in the existence of
another. Farewell!
;
"E. P."
"A most sensible effusion," said I to myself, when I had
read this billet "And yet, after all, it shows more feeling
and more character than I could have supposed she pos-
sessed.' I took up the chain it was of Maltese work-
mauship; not very handsome, nor, indeed, in any way
remarkable, except for a plain hair ring which was attached
to it, and which I found myself unable to take off without
breaking. It is a very singular request," thought I," but
then it comes from a very singular person; and as it
rather partakes of adventure and intrigue, I shall at all
events appear in the Tuilleries, to-morrow, chained and
inged "
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Thy incivility shall not make me fail to do what becomes
me; and since thou hast more valor than courtesy, I for thee
will hazard that life which thou wouldst take from me.
Cassandra" elegantly done into English by
"SIR CHARLES COTTERELL.”
ABOUT the usual hour for the promenade in the Tuille-
ries, I conveyed myself thither.
myself thither. I set the chain and ring
I set the chain and ring
in full display, rendered still more conspicuous by the dark
colored dress which I always wore. I had not been in the
gardens ten minutes, before I perceived a young French-
man, scarcely twenty years of age, looked with a very pecu-
liar air at my new decorations. He passed and repassed
me much oftener than the alternations of the walk war-
ranted; and at last, taking off his hat, said in a low tone,
that he wished much for the honor of exchanging a few
words with me iu private. I saw at the first glance, that
he was a gentleman, and accordingly withdrew with him
among the trees, in the more retired part of the garden.
"Permit me," said he, "to inquire how that ring and
chain came into your possession?
"Monsieur," I replied, you will understand me, when
I say that the honor of another person is implicated in
my concealment of that secret.
Sir," said the Frenchman, coloring violently, "I have
ween them before-in a word, they belong to me!"
>>
I smiled my young hero fired at this.
"Ora, Mon
sieur," said he, speaking very loud, and very quick," they
belong to me, and I insist upon your immediately restoring
them, or vindicating your claim to them by arms.
"You leave me but one answer, Monsieur," said I; "i
will find a friend to wait upon you immediately. Allow
me to inquire your address? The Frenchman, who was
greatly agitated, produced a card. We bowed and sepa-
rated.
I was glancing over the address I held in my hand,
which was C. D'Azimart, Rue de Bourbon, Numéro
when my ears were saluted with
"Now do you know me! thou should'st be Alonzo.'"
I did not require the faculty of sight to recognise Lord
Vincent. My dear fellow," said I, "I am rejoiced to
see you," and thereupon I poured into his ear the particu-
lars of my morning adventure. Lord Vincent listened to
me with much apparent interest, and spoke very unaf-
fectedly of his readiness to serve me, and his regret at the
occasion.
"Pooh!" said I, a duel in France, is not like one m
•
England; the former is a matter of course; a trifle of
common occurrence; one makes an engagement to fight, in
the same breath as an engagement to dine; but the latter
is a thing of state and solemnity
solemnity-long faces early rising
and will-making. But do get this business over as soon
as you can, that we may dine at the Rocher afterwards."
"Well, my dear Pelham," said Vincent, "I cannot re-
fuse you my services; and as I suppose Monsieur D'Azi-·
mart will choose swords, I venture to augur every thing
from your skill in that species of weapon. It is the first
time I have ever interfered in affairs of this nature, but I
hope to get well through the present.
"Nobilis ornatur lauro collega secundo,'
as Juvenal says: au revoir," and away went Lord Vin-
cent, half forgetting all his late anxiety for my life, in his
paternal pleasure for the delivery of his quotation
Vincent is the only punster I ever knew with a good
heart.
No action to that race in general is so serious an
occupation as the play upon words; and the remorseless
habit of murdering a phrase, renders them perfectly obdu-
rate to the simple death of a friend. I walked through
every variety the straight paths of the Tuilleries could afford,
and was beginning to get exceedingly tired, when Lord
Vincent returned. He looked very grave, and I saw at
once that he was come to particularize the circumstances
of the last extreme. "The Bois de Boulogne-pistols — in
one hour," were the three leading features of his detail.
"Pistols!" said I ; "well, be it so. I would rather have
had swords, for the young man's sake as much as my own ;
but thirteen paces and a steady aim will settle the business
as soon. We will try a bottle of the chambertin to-day,
Vincent." The punster smiled faintly, and for once in his
life made no reply. We walked gravely and soberly to
my lodgings for the pistols, and then proceeded to the
engagement as silently as Christians should do.
The Frenchman and his second were on the ground first
I saw that the former was pale and agitated, not, I think,
from fear but passion. When we took our ground, Vincent
came to me, and said, in a low tone, "For God's sake,
suffer me to accommodate this if possible.'
>
"It is not in our power," said I, receiving the pistol.
I looked steadily at D'Azimart and took my aim. His
pistol, owing I suppose, to the trembling of his hand, went
off a moment sooner than he had anticipated the ball
grazed my hat. My aim was more successful - I struck
him in the shoulder -the exact place I had intended. He
staggered a few paces, but did not fall.
We hastened towards him his cheek assumed a still
more livid hue as I approached; he muttered some half
formed curses between his teeth, and turned from me to
his second.
"You will inquire whether Monsieur D'Azimart is sat
isfied," said I to Vincent, and retired to a short distance.
"His second," said Vincent, (after a brief conference
with that person,) "replies to my question, that Monsieur
D'Azimart's wound has left him, for the present, no alter-
native." Upon this answer I took Vincent's arm, and we
returned forthwith to my carriage.
"I congratulate you most sincerely on the event of this
duel," said Vincent. "Monsieur de M- (D'Azimart's
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
29
second) informea me, when I waited on him, that your
antagonist was one of the most celebrated pistol shots in
Paris, and that a lady with whom he had been long in love,
made the death of the chain-bearer the price of her favors.
Devilish lucky for you, my good fellow, that his hand
trembled so; but I did not know you were so good a shot."
Why," I answered, "I am not what is vulgarly termed
'a crack shot.' I cannot split a bullet on a penknife; but
I am sure of a target somewhat smaller than a man: and
my hand is as certain in the field as it is in the practice
yard."
"Le sentiment de nos forces les augmente," replied Vin-
"Shall I tell the coachman to drive to the Rocher ?"
cent.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Here's a kind host, that makes the invitation,
To your own cost, to his fort bon collation.
WYCHERLY's Gent. Dancing Master.
Vous pouvez bien juger que je n'aurai pas grande peine à me
consoler d'une chose dont je me suis déjà consolé tant de fois.
Lettres de BOILEAU.
As I was walking home with Vincent from the Rue
Montorgueil, I saw, on entering the Rue St. Honoré, two
figures before us; the tall and noble stature of the one I
could not for a moment mistake. They stopped at the
door of an hotel, which opened in that noiseless manner so
peculiar to the Conciergerie of France. I was at the porte
the moment they disappeared, but not before I had caught
a glance of the dark locks and pale countenance of War-
-my eye fell upon the number of the hotel.
hurton
CC
CC
'
Surely," said I," I have been in that house before."
Likely enough," growled Vincent, who was gloriously
drunk. It is a house of two fold utility you may play
with cards, or coquet with women, selon votre gout."
At these words I remembered the hotel and its inmates
immediately. It belonged to an old nobleman, who, though
on the brink of the grave, was still grasping at the good
things on the margin. He lived with a pretty and clever
woman, who bore the name and honors of his wife. They
kept up two salons, one pour le petit souper, and the other
pour le petit jeu. You saw much écarté and more love-
making, and lost your heart and your money with equal
facility. In a word, the Marquis and his jolie petite femme
were a wise and prosperous couple, who made the best of
their lives, and lived decently and honorably upon other
people.
"Allons, Pelham," cried Vincent, as I was still standing
at the door in deliberation; "how much longer will you
keep me to congeal in this eager and nipping air
'Quamdiu nostram patientiam abutére, Catilina !""
"Let us enter," said I ; "I have the run of the House,
and we may find
"Some young vices
Vincent with a hiccup -
some fair iniquities,"" interrupted
"Leade on, good fellowe,' quoth Robin Hood,
'Leade on, I do bid thee,'”
And with these words, the door opened in obedience to
my rap, and we mounted to the Marquis's tenement au
première.
The room was pretty full the soi-disante Marquise
was litting from table to table-betting at each, and co-
quetting with all; and the Marquis himself, with a moist
eye and a shaking hand, was affecting the Don Juan with
the various Elviras and Annas with which his salon was
crowded. Vincent was trying to follow me through the
crowd, but his confused vision and unsteady footing led
him from one entanglement to another, till he was quite
unable to proceed. A tall corpulent Frenchman, six foot
by five was leaning, (a great and weighty objection,) just
before him, utterly occupied in the vicissitudes of an
écarté table, and unconscious of Vincent's repeated efforts,
first on one side, and then on the other, to pass him.
At last, the perplexed wit getting more irascible as he
grew more bewildered, suddenly seized the vast incum-
brance by the arm, and said to him, in a sharp querulous
tone,"
Pray Monsieur, why are you like the loto tree in
Mahomet's seventh heaven ?”
"Sir!" cried the astonished Frenchman.
his own
"Because," (continued Vincent, answeri
enigma,) "because, beyond you there is no passing!
The Frenchman (one of that race who always forgive
any thing for a bon-mot) siniled, bowed and drew himself
aside. Vincent steered by, and joining me, hiccuped out,
"In rebus adversis opponite pectora fortia."
Meanwhile I had looked round the room for the objects
of my pursuit; to my great surprise I could not perceive
them; they may be in the other room thought I, and to
the other room I went; the supper was laid out, and ar
old bonne was quietly helping herself to some sweetmeat.
All other human beings (if, indeed, an old woman can be
called a human being) were, however, invisible, and I re-
mained perfectly bewildered as to the non-appearance of
Warburton and his companion. I entered the Salle à
Jouer once more-I looked round in every quarter I
examined every face, but in vain and with a feeling of
disappointment very disproportionate to my loss, I took
Vincent's arm, and we withdrew.
The next morning I spent with Madame D'Anville-
Frenchwoman easily consoles herself for the loss of a
lover she converts him into a friend, and thinks herself
(nor is she much deceived) benefited by the exchange
We talked of our grief in maxims, and bade each other
adieu in antitheses. Ah! it is a pleasant thing to drink
with Alcidonis (in Marmontel's Tale) of the rose-colored
vial -to sport with the fancy, not to brood over the pas
sion of youth. There is a time when the heart, from very
tenderness, runs over, and, (so much do our virtues as wel
as vices flow from our passions,) there is, perhaps, rather
Then, if
hope than anxiety for the future in that excess.
pleasure errs, it errs through heedlessness, not design ; and
Love, wandering over flowers, "proffers honey, but bears
not a sting." Ah! happy time! in the lines of one whe
can so well translate feeling into words:
"Fate has not darkened thee Hope has not made
The blossoms expand it but opens to fade;
Nothing is known of those wearing fears
Which will shadow the light of our after years.
The Improvisatrice.
Pardon this digression
A de
not much, it must be confessed,
in my ordinary strain-but let me, dear reader, very seri-
ously advise thee not to judge of me yet. When thou
hast got to the end of my book, if thou dost condemn it
or its hero why,
"I will let thee alone (as honest Dog-
berry advises) till thou art sober; and, if thou make me
not, then, the better answer, thou art not the man I took
thee for.”
CHAPTER XXX.
It must be confessed, that flattery comes mightily easy to
one's mouth in the presence of royalty.
Letters of STEPHEN MONTAGUE.
'Tis he. How came he thence- what doth he here?
LARA
I HAD received for that evening (my last in Paris) an in-
vitation from the Duchesse de B
I knew that the
party was to be small, and that very few besides the roya
family would compose it. I had owed the honor of this
invitation to my intimacy with thes, the great friends
of the Duchesse, and I promised myself some pleasure in
the engagement.
There were but eight or nine persons present wher
entered the royal chamber. The most distingué of these
1 recognised immediately as the
(the present
He came forward with much grace as I approached, and
expressed his pleasure at seeing me.
"You were presented, I think, about a month ago,"
added the with a smile of singular fascination:
remember it well "
the
I bowed low to this compliment
"Do you propose staying long at Paris ?" continued
"I I protracted," I replied, "my departure solely for the
honor this evening affords me. In so doing, please your
Royal Highness, I have followed the wise maxim of keep-
ing the greatest pleasure to the last."
30
BULWER'S NOVELS.
The royal Chevalier bowed to my answer with a smile
still sweeter than before, and began a conversation with
me which lasted for several minutes. I was much struck
with the -'s air and bearing. They possess great dig-
nity, without any affectation of its assumption. He speaks
peculiarly good English, and the compliment of addressing
me in that language was therefore as judicious as delicate.
His observations owed little to his rank; they would have
struck you as appropriate, and the air which accompanied
them pleased you as graceful, even in a simple 10dividual.
Judge then if they charmed me in the The upper
part of his countenance is prominent and handsome, and
his eyes have much softness of expression. His figure is
slight and particularly well knit; perhaps he is altogether
more adapted to strike in private than in public effect.
Upon the whole, he is one of those very few persons whom
you would have had pride in knowing as an equal, and
have pleasure in acknowledging as a superior.
As the paused, and turned with great courtesy to
the Duc de
I bowed my way to the Duchesse de
B. That personage, whose liveliness and piquancy
of manner always make one wish for one's own sake, that
her rank was less exalted, was speaking with great volu-
bility to a tall, stupid looking man, one of the ministers, and
smiled most graciously upon me as I drew near.
She
spoke to me of our national amusements.
"You are not,
said she, so fond of dancing as we are.
"We have not the same exalted example to be at once
our motive and our model," said I, in allusion to the
Duchesse's well known attachment to that accomplish-
ment. The Duchesse D'A came up as I said this,
and the conversation flowed on evenly enough till the
's whist party was formed. His partner was Madame
de la R- the heroine of La Vendée. She was a tall
and very stout woman, singularly lively and entertaining,
and appeared to possess both the moral and the physical
energy to accomplish feats still more noble than those she
performed.
I soon saw that it would not do for me to stay very long.
I had already made a favorable impression, and, in such
cases, it is my constant rule immediately to retire. Stay,
if it be whole hours, until you have pleased, but leave the
moment after your success. A great genius should not
inger too long either in the salon or the world. He must
quit each with éclat. In obedience to this rule, I no sooner
found that my court had been effectually made than I rose
to withdraw.
B.
"You will return soon to Paris," said the Duchesse de
"I cannot resist it," I replied. "Mon corps reviendra
pour chercher mon cœur.”
"We shall not forget you," said the Duchesse.
"Your Highness has now given me my only inducement
not to return,” I answered, as I bowed out of the room
It was much too early to go home; at that time I was
too young and restless to sleep till long after midnight;
and while I was deliberating in what manner to pass the
hours, I suddenly recollected the hotel in the Rue St. Ho-
noré, to which Vincent and I had paid so unceremonious a
visit the night before. Impressed with the hope that I
might be more successful in meeting Warburton than I had
then been, I ordered the coachuman to drive to the abode
of the old Marquis
The salon was as crowded as usual. I lost a few Na-
poleans at écarté, in order to pay my entrée, and then com-
menced a desultory flirtation with one of the fair decoys.
In this occupation my eye and my mind frequently wan-
dered. I could not divest myself of the hope of once
more seeing Warburton before my departure from Paris,
and every reflection which confirmed my suspicions of his
identity, redoubled my interest in his connexion with Tyr-
rell and the vulgar débauchée of the Rue St. Dominique.
I was making soine languid reply to my Cynthia of the
minute, when my ear was suddenly greeted by an English
voice. I looked round, and saw Thornton in close con-
versation with a man whose back was turned to me, but
whom I rightly conjectured to be Tyrrell.
"Oh! he'll be here soon," said the former," and we'll
bleed him regularly to-night. It is very singular that you
who play so much better should not have floored him yester-
day evening.
Tyrrell replied in a tone so low as to be inaudible, and
minute afterward the door opened, and Warburton en-
|
tered. He came up instantly to Thornton and his com
panion; and after a few words of ordinary salutation
Warburton said in one of those modulated tones so pecu
liar to himself, "I am sure, Tyrrell, that
for your revenge. To lose to such a mean Tyro as mysel
you must be
is quite enough to double the pain of defeat, and the desire
of retaliation."
eager
I did not hear Tyrrell's reply, but the trio presently
moved toward a door, which, till then I had not noticed
and which was probably the entrance to our hostess's
boudoir.
boudoir. The soi-disante Marquise opened it herself, for
which kind office Thornton gave a leer and a wink, cha-
racteristic of his claims to gallantry. When the door was
again closed upon them, I went up to the Marquise, and
after a few compliments, asked whether the room Mes-
sieurs les Anglois had entered, was equally open to all
guests!
"those gen-
"Why," said she, with a slight hesitation,
tlemen play for higher stakes than we usually do here, and
one of them is apt to get irritated by the advice and ex-
postulations of the lookers-on; and so after they had played
a short time in the salon last night, Monsieur Thornton-
a very old friend of mine "- (here the lady looked down)
"asked me permission to occupy the inner room; and as
I knew him so well I could have no scruple in obliging
him?"
cr
Then, I suppose," said I," that as a stranger, I have
not permission to intrude upon them."
"Shall I inquire?" answered the Marquise.
"No!" said I, "it is not worth while;" and accord-
ingly I re-seated myself, and appeared once more occupied
in saying des belles choses to my kind hearted neighbour.
I could not, however, with all my dissimulation, sustain
a conversation from which my present feelings were so
estranged, for more than a few minutes, and I was never
more glad than when my companion, displeased with my
inattention, rose and left me to my own reflections.
What could Warburton (if he were the person T sus-
pected) gain by the disguise he had assumed? He was too
rich to profit by any sums he could win from Tyrrell, and
too much removed from Thornton's station in life, to de-
rive any pleasure or benefit from his acquaintance with
that person. His dark threats of vengeance in the Jardin
des Plantes, and his reference to the two hundred pounds
Tyrrell possessed, gave me, indeed, some clue as to his
real object; but then why this disguise? Had he known
Tyrrell before, in his proper semblance, and had any thing
passed between them, which rendered this concealment
now expedient?-this, indeed, seemed probable enough;
but, was Thornton intrusted with the secret ?— and, if re-
venge was the object, was that low man a partaker in its
execution? -or was he not, more probably, playing the
traitor to both? As for Tyrrell himself, his own designs
upon Warburton were sufficient to prevent pity for any fall
into the pit he had dug for others.
Meanwhile, time passed on, the hour grew late, and the
greater part of the guests were gone; still I could not tear
myself away; I looked, from time to time, at the door,
with an indescribable feeling of anxiety. I longed, yet
dreaded, for it to open; I felt as if my own fate were in
some degree implicated in what was then agitating within,
and I could not resolve to depart, until I had formed some
conclusions on the result.
•
At length the door opened: Tyrrell came forth his
countenance was perfectly hueless, his cheek was sunk and
hollow, the excitement of two hours had been sufficient to
render it so. I observed that his teeth were set, and his
hand clenched, as they are when we idly seek, by the
strained and extreme tension of the nerves, to sustain the
fever and agony of the mind. Warburton and Thornton
followed hun; the latter with his usual air of reckless in-
difference his quick rolling eye glanced from the Mar-
quis to myself, and though his color changed slightly, his
nod of recognition was made with its wonted impudence
and ease; but Warburton passed on, like Tyrrell, without
noticing, or heeding any thing around. He fixed his large
bright eye upon the figure which preceded him, without
once altering its direction, and the extreme beauty of his
features, which not all the dishevelled length of his hair
and whiskers could disguise, was lighted up with a joyous
but savage expression, which made me turn away, almost
with a sensation of fear.
Just as Tyrrelk was leaving the room, Warburton put his
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
81
nand upon his shoulder Stay," said he, "I am going
He turned round to
your way, and will accompany you." He turned round to
Thornton (who was already talking with the marquis) as
he said this, and waived his hand as if to prevent his fol-
lowing; the next moment, Tyrrell and himself had left the
room.
I could not now remain longer. I felt a feverish rest-
lessness, which impelled me onwards. I quitted the salon,
and was on the escalier before the gamesters had descended.
Warburton was, indeed, but a few steps before me; the
stairs were but very dimly lighted by one expiring lamp ;
he did not turn round to see me, and was probably too
Euch engrossed to hear me.
"You may yet have a favorable reverse," said he to
Tyrrell.
"Impossible!" replied the latter, in a tone of such
deep anguish, that it thrilled me to the very heart. "I
am an utter beggar - I have nothing in the world I have
no expectation but to starve !"
While he was saying this, I perceived by the faint and
uncertain light that Warburton's hand was raised to his
own countenance.
"Have you no hope-no spot wherein to look for com-
fort is beggary your absolute and only possible resource
from famine?" He replied, in a low and suppressed tone.
At that moment we were just descending in the court-
yard. Warburton was but one step behind Tyrrell; the
latter made no answer; but as he passed from the dark
staircase into the clear moonlight of the court, I caught a
glimpse of the big tears which rolled heavily and silently
down his cheeks. Warburton laid his hand
Warburton laid his hand upon him.
"Turn," he cried, suddenly, "your cup is not yet
look upon me- and remember !"
full
I pressed forward the light shone full upon the coun-
tenance of the speaker- the dark hair was gone; my
suspicions were true I discovered at one glance the
bright locks and lofty brow of Reginald Glanville. Slow-
y Tyrrell gazed, as if he were endeavouring to repel
come terrible remembrance, which gathered, with every
instant, more fearfully upon him; until, as the stern coun-
tenance of Glanville grew darker and darker in its min-
gled scorn and defiance, he uttered one low cry, and sank
senseless upon the earth.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Well, he is gene, and with him go these thoughts.
What ho! for England.
SHAKESPEARE.
A
I HAVE always had an insuperable horror of being placed
in what the vulgar call a predicament. In a predicament
I was most certainly placed at the present moment.
man at my feet in a fit -the cause of it having very wise-
ly disappeared, devolving upon me the charge of watching,
recovering, and conducting home the afflicted person-
made a concatenation of disagreeable circumstances, as
much unsuited to the temper of Henry Pelham, as his evil
fortune could possibly have contrived.
After a short pause of deliberation, I knocked up the
porter, procured some cold water, and bathed Tyrrell's
temples for several moments before he recovered. He
opened his eyes slowly, and looked carefully round with a
fearful and suspicious glance: "Gone-gone (he mut-
tered) -aye
what did he here at such a moment !
vengeance for what! I'could not tell it would have
killed her — let him thank his own folly. I do not fear;
I defy his malice." And with these words Tyrrell sprung
to his feet.
you are
"Can I assist you to your home ?" said I, "
still unwell pray suffer me to have that pleasure."
I spoke with some degree of warmth and sincerity; the
unfortunate man stared wil fly at me for a moment before
he replied. "Who," said he at last, "who speaks to me
the lost the guilty--the ruined, in the accents of in-
terest and kindness ?'
I placed his arm in mine, and drew him out of the yard
into the open street. He looked at me with an eager and
wistful surve and then, by degrees, appearing to recover
ais full consciousness of the present, and recollection of
the past, he pressed my hand warmly, and after a short
silence, during which we moved on slowly towards the
Tuilleries, he said -"Pardon me, Sir, if I have not suffi-
ciently thanked you for your kindness and attention. I
am now quite restored; the close room in which I have
been sitting for so many hours, and the feverish excitement
of play, acting upon a frame very debilitated by ill health.
occasioned my momentary indisposition. I am now,
peat, quite recovered, and will no longer trespass upon your
good nature."
..
>
I re-
DO-
Really, "said I, " you had better not discard ny se-
vices yet. Do suffer me to accompany you home!"
"Home!" muttered Tyrrell, with a deep sigh;
no!" and then, as if recollecting himself, he said, "I
thank you, Sir, but — but
I saw his embarrassment, and interrupted him. "Well,
if I cannot assist you any further, I will take your dismiss
al. I trust we shall meet again under auspices beter cal
culated for improving acquaintance.'
Tyrrell bowed, once more pressed my hand, and we
parted. I harried on up the long street towards my hotel.
When I had got several paces beyond Tyrrell I turned
back to look at him. He was standing in the same place
in which I had left him. I saw by the moonlight that his
face and hands were raised towards Heaven. It was but
for a moment his attitude changed while I was yet look-
ing, and he slowly and calmly continued his way in the
same direction as myself. When I reached my chambers,
I hastened immediately to bed, but not to sleep; the ex-
traordinary scene I had witnessed, the dark and ferocious
expression of Glanville's countenance, so strongly impress-
ed with every withering and deadly passion; the fearful
and unaccountable remembrance that had seemed to gath-
er over the livid and varying face of the gamester; the
mystery of Glanville's disguise; the intensity of a revenge
so terribly expressed, together with the restless and burn-
ing anxiety I felt not from idle curiosity, but from my
early and intimate friendship for Glanville, to fathom its
cause all crowded upon my mind with a feverish confu-
sion, that effectually banished repose.
It was with that singular sensation of pleasure which
none but those who have passed frequent nights in restless
and painful agitation, can recognise, that I saw the bright
sun penetrate through my shutters, and heard Bedos move
across my room.
"What hour will Monsieur have the post-horses ?" said
the praiseworthy valet.
"At eleven," answered I, springing out of bed with joy
at the change of scene which the very mention of my jour-
ney brought before my mind.
I was a luxurious personage in those days. I had had
a bath made from my own design; across it were con
structed two small frames -one for the journal of the day,
and another to hold my breakfast apparatus; in this man-
ner I was accustomed to lie for about an hour, enjoying
the triple happiness of reading, feeding, and bathing.
Owing to some unaccountable delay, Galignani's Messen-
ger did not arrive at the usual hour, on the morning of
departure; to finish breakfast, or bathing, without Galig-
nani's Messenger, was perfectly impossible, so I remained,
till I was half boiled, in a state of the most indolent im-
becility.
my
At last it came the first paragraph that struck my eyes
was the following: - "It is rumored among the circles of
the Faubourg, that a duel was fought on ——, between a
young Englishman and Monsieur D-
: the cause of it
is said to be the pretensions of both to the beautiful Duch-
esse de P―, who, if report be true, cares for ne'ther of
P-
the gallants, but lavishes her favors upon a certain attachɗ
to the English embassy.
دو
Such, thought 1, are the materials for all human histories.
Every one who reads, will eagerly swallow this account as
true if an author were writing the memoirs of the court,
he would compile his facts and scandal from this very col-
lection of records; and yet, though so near the truth, how
totally false it is! Thank Heaven, however, that, at least,
I am not suspected of the degradation of the Duchesse's
love; -to fight for her might make me seem a fool — to
be beloved by her would constitute me a villain.
The next passage in that collection of scandal which
struck me was-We understand that E. W. Howard de
Howard, Esq., Secretary, &c. is shortly to lead to the hy-
menial altar the daughter of Timothy Tompkins, Esq., late
Consul of
I quite started out of my bath with
82
BULWER'S NOVELS
delight. I scarcely suffered myself to be dried and per-
fumed, before I sat down to write the following congratu-
latory epistle to the thin man :-
M
"MY DEAR MR. HOWARD DE HOWARD,
"Permit me, before I leave Paris, to compliment you
upon that happiness which I have just learned is in store.
for you. Marriage to a man like you, who has survived
the vanities of the world- who has attained that prudent
age when the passions are calmed into reason, and the purer
refinements of friendship succeed to the turbulent delirium
of the senses - marriage, my dear Mr. Howard, to a man
like you, must, indeed, be a most delicious Utopia. After
all the mortifications you may meet elsewhere, whether from
malicious females, or a misjudging world, what happiness
to turn to one being to whom your praise is an honor, and
your indignation of consequence!
"But if marriage itself be so desirable, what words shall
I use sufficiently expressive of my congratulation at the
particular match you have chosen, so suitable in birth and
station? I can fancy you, my dear Sir, in your dignified
retirement, expatiating to your admiring bride upon all the
honors of your illustrious line, and receiving from her, in
return, a full detail of all the civic glories that have ever
graced the lineage of the Tompkins's. As the young lady
is, I suppose, an heiress, I conclude you will take her name
instead of changing it. Mr. Howard de Howard de Tomp-
kins, will sound peculiarly majestic; and when you come
to the titles and possessions of your ancestors,
I am per-
I am
suaded that you will continue to consider your alliance with
the honest citizens of London among your proudest distinc-
tions.
"Should you have any commands in England, a letter
directed to me in Grosvenor Square will be sure to find
me; and
"You are too good, Bedos," said I," I shall dine a the
table d'hôte- who have you there in general?"
66
Really," said the garçon, we have such a swift suc-
cession of guests, that we seldom see the same faces two
days running. We have as many changes as an English
administration."
"You are facetious," said I.
"No," returned the garçon, who was a philosopher as
well as a wit; " no, my digestive organs are very week,
and par conséquence, I am naturally inelancholy. Ah, ma
joi, très triste!" and with these words the sentimental plate
changer placed his hand-I can scarcely say, whether on
his heart or his stomach, and sighed bitterly!
"How long," said I," does it want to dinner?" My
question restored the garçon to himself.
"Two hours, Monsieur, two hours," and twirling his
serviette with an air of exceeding importance off went my
melancholy acquaintance to compliment new customers,
and complain of his digestion.
two
As I was
After I had arranged myself and my whiskers
very distinct affairs-yawned three times, and drank two
bottles of soda water, I strolled into the town.
sauntering along leisurely enough, I heard my name pro-
Townshend, an old baronet, of an antediluvian age-a
nounced behind me. I turned, and saw Sir Willoughby
fossil witness of the wonders of England, before the deluge
of French manners swept away ancient customs, and cre-
ated out of the wrecks of what had been, a new order of
things, and a new race of mankind.
he held
you may rely upon my immediately spreading
among our mutual acquaintance in London, the happy
measure you are about to adopt, and my opinions on its
propriety.
"Adieu, my dear Sir,
"With the greatest respect and truth,
"Yours, &c.
"H. PELHAM.”
"There," said I, as I sealed my letter, "I have dis-
charged some part of that debt I owe to Mr. Howard de
Howard, for an enmity towards me, which he has never
affected to conceal. He prides himself on his youth-my
allusions to his age will delight him! On the importance
of his good or evil opinion-I have flattered him to a won-
der! Of a surety, Henry Pelham, I could not have sup-
posed you were such an adept in the art of panegyric.”
"Ah! my dear Mr. Pelham, how are you? and the worthy
Lady Frances, your mother, and your excellent father, all
well? I'm delighted to hear it. Russelton," continued
Sir Willoughby, turning to a middle aged man, whose arm
; you remember Pelham-true Whig-great
Mr. Russelton, Mr. Pelham; Mr. Pelham, Mr. Russelton."
friend of Sheridan's?-let me introduce his son to you.
At the name of the person thus introduced to me, a
thou-
sand recollections crowded upon my mind; the contempo-
rary and rival of Napoleon the autocrat of the great
world of fashion and cravats - the mighty genius before
whom aristocracy had been humbled and ton abashed
whose nod, the haughtiest noblesse of Europe had quailed
cloths, and had fed the pampered appetite of his boot-tops
who had introduced, by a single example, starch into neck-
with an equal grace
on champagne whose coat and whose friend were cut
at
and whose name was connected with
every triumph that the world's great virtue of audacity
could achieve
before me.
the illustrious, the immortal Russelton stood
I recognised in him a congenial, though a
tion, with which no other human being has ever inspired
superior spirit, and I bowed with a profundity of venera-
me.
Mr. Russelton seemed pleased with my evident respect,
and returned my salutation with a mock dignity, which en-
chanted me. He offered me his disengagea arm; I took
"The horses, Sir!" said Bedos; and "the bill, Sir,"
said the garçon. Alas! that those and that should be so
coupled together! that we can never take our departure
without such awful witnesses of our sojourn. Well-to
be brief-the bill for once was discharged the horses
snorted — the carriage door was opened - I entered-Be-it with transport, and we all three proceeded up the street.
dos mounted behind crack went the whips-off went the
steeds, and so terminated my adventures at dear Paris.
CHAPTER XXXII.
O, cousin, you know him the fine gentleman they talk of so
much in town.
WYCHERLY'S Dancing Master.
By the bright days of my youth, there is something truly
delightful in the quick motion of four post-horses. In
France, where one's steeds are none of the smallest, the
pleasures of travelling are not quite so great as in England;
still, however, to a man who is tired of one scene pant-
ing for another-in love with excitement, and not yet
wearied of its pursuit, — the turnpike road is more grateful
than the easiest chair ever invented, and the little prison
we entitie a carriage, more cheerful than the state rooms of
Devonshire House.
We reached Calais in safety, and in good time, the next
day.
d'hôte?"
Will Monsieur dine in his rooms, or at the table
"In his rooms, of course!" said Bedos, indignantly de-
ciding the question. A French valet's dignity is always
volved in his master's
CC
So," said Sir Willoughby-
-"so Russelton, you like
your quarters here: plenty of sport among the English, I
should think you have not forgot the art of quizzing; eh
old fellow? "
:
"Even if I had," said Mr. Russelton, speaking very
slowly," the sight of Sir Willoughby Townshend would be
quite sufficient to refresh my memory. Yes," continued
the venerable wreck, after a short pause,
yes, I like
my residence pretty well; I enjoy a calin conscience, and
a clean shirt, and what more can man desire? I have made
acquaintance with a tame parrot, and have taught it to say,
whenever an English fool with a stiff neck and a loose
swagger passes him-True Briton-
-true Briton.” — I
take care of my health, and reflect
health, and reflect upon old age. I have '
read Gil Blas, and the Whole Duty of Man; and, in short,
what with instructing my parrot, and improving myself, I
think I pass my time as creditably and decorously as the
Bishop of Winchester, or my Lord of A-v-ly himself.
So you have just come from Paris, I presume, Mr. Pelham.'
"I left it yesterday!"
:
"Full of those horrid English, I suppose thrusting
their broad hats and narrow minds into every shop in the
Palais Royal—winking their dull eyes at the damsels of
the counter, and manufacturing their notions of French into
a higgle for sous, Oh! the monsters! - they bring on a
bilious attack whenever I think of them; the other day
one of them accosted me, and talked me into a nervour
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
83
ever about patriotism and roast pigs: luckily I was near
my own house, and reached it before the thing became
fatal; but only think, had I wandered too far, when he met
me, at my time of life, the shock would have been too
great; I should certainly have perished in a fit. I hope,
at least, they would have put the cause of my death in my
epitaph-Died of an Englishman, John Russelton, Esq.
aged, &c.' Pah! You are not engaged, Mr. Pelham;
dine with me to-day: Willoughby and his umbrella are
coming."
"Volontiers," said I, "though I was going to make
though I was going to make
observations on men and manners at the table d'hôte of my
hotel."
"I am most truly grieved," replied Mr. Russelton, "at
depriving you of so much amusement. With me you will
only find some tolerable Lafitte, and an anomalous dish my
cuisinière calls a mutton chop. It will be curious to see
what variation in the monotony of mutton she will adopt
to-day. The first time I ordered 'a chop,' I thought I
had amply explained every necessary particular; a certain
portion of flesh, and a gridiron: at seven o'clock, up came
a cotelette pannée-faute de mieux. I swallowed the com-
position, drowned as it was, in a most pernicious sauce.
I had one hour's sleep, and the nightmare in consequence.
The next day, I imagined no mistake could be made;
sauce was strictly prohibited; all other ingredients laid
under a most special veto, and a natural gravy gently rec-
ommended: the cover was removed, and lo! a breast of
mutton, all bone and gristle, like the dying gladiator! This
ime my heart was too full of wrath; I sat down and wept!
To-day will be the third time I shall make the experiment,
if French cooks will consent to let one starve upon nature.
For my part I have no stomach left now for art; I wore
out my digestion in youth, swallowing Jack St. Leger's
suppers, and Sheridan's promises to pay.
Pray, Mr. Pelham, did you try Staub when you were
at Paris ?"
"Yes; and thought him one degree better than Stultz,
whom, indeed, I have long condemned, as fit only for mi-
ors at Oxford, and majors in the infantry."
True," said Russelton, with a very faint smile at a pun,
somewhat in his own way, and levelled at a tradesman, of
whom he was, perhaps, a little jealous-"True; Stultz
aims at making gentlemen not coats; there is a degree of
aristocratic pretension in his stitches, which is vulgar to an
appalling degree. You can tell a Stultz coat any where,
which is quite enough to damn it: the moment a man's
known by an invariable cut, and that not original, it ought
to be all over with him. Give me the man who makes the
ilor, not the tailor who makes the man."
Right, by G-!" cried Sir Willoughby, who was as
badly dressed as one of Sir E— -'s dinners. "Right;
just my opinion. I have always told my Schneiders to
make my clothes neither in the fashion nor out of it; to
copy no other man's coat, and to cut their cloth according
to my natural body, not according to an isosceles triangle.
Look at this coat, for instance," and Sir Willoughby
Townshend made a dead halt, that we might admire his
garment the more accurately.
“Coat!” said Russelton, with an appearance of the
most naïve surprise, and taking hold of the collar, suspi-
ciously, by the finger and thumb; "coat, Sir Willoughby!
do you call this thing a coat?"
CHAPTER XXXIII.
“J'ai toujours cru que le bon n'étoit que le beau mis en action.
ROUSSEAU.
SHORTLY after Russelton's answer to Sir Willoughby's
eulogistic observations on his own attire, I left those two
worthies till I was to join them at dinner; it wanted three
hours yet to that time, and I repaired to my quarters to
bathe and write letters. I scribbled one to Madame D'An-
ville, full of antitheses and maxims, sure to charm her;
another to my mother, to prepare her for my arrival, and a
third to Lord Vincent, giving him certain commissions at
Paris, which I had forgotten personally to execute.
My pen is not that of a ready writer; and what with
yawning, stretching, admiring my rings, and putting pen to
paper, in the intervals of these more natural occupations,
Vor. I.
5
it was time to bathe and dress before my letters were com-
pleted. I set off to Russelton's abode in high spirits, and
fully resolved to make the most of a character so original.
It was a very small room in which I found him; he was
stretched in an easy chair before the fire-place, gazing com.
placently at his feet, and apparently occupied in any thing
but listening to Sir Willoughby Townshend, who was talk-
ing with great vehemence about politics and the corn laws.
Notwithstanding the heat of the weather, there was a small
fire on the hearth, which, aided by the earnestness of his
efforts to convince his host, put poor Sir Willoughby inte
a most intense perspiration. Russelton, however, seemed
enviably cool, and hung over the burning wood like a cu-
cumber on a hotbed. Sir Willoughby came to a full stop
by the window, and (gasping for breath) attempted to
throw it open.
"What are you doing? for Heaven's sake, what are you
doing?" cried Russelton, starting up; "do you mean to
kill me ?
,,
"Kill you!" said Sir Willoughby, quite aghast.
"Yes; kill me! is it not quite cold enough already
this d-d seafaring place, without making my only retreat,
humble as it is, a theatre for thorough draughts? Have I
not had the rheumatism in my left shoulder, and the ague
in my little finger, these last six months? and must you
now terminate my miserable existence at one blow, by
opening that abominable lattice? Do you think, because
your great frame, fresh from the Yorkshire wolds, and
compacted of such materials, that one would think, in eat-
ing your beeves, you had digested their hides into skin
do you think, because your limbs might be cut up into
planks for a seventy-eight, and warranted water-proof
without pitch, because of the density of their pores - do
you think, because you are as impervious as an araphorostic
shoe, that I, John Russelton, am equally impenetrable, and
that you are to let easterly winds play about my room like
children, begetting rheums and asthmas and all manner of
catarrhs? I do beg, Sir Willoughby Townshend, that you
will suffer me to die a more natural and civilized death;"
and so saying, Russelton sank down into his chair, appa-
rently in the last state of exhaustion.
Sir Willoughby, who remembered the humorist in all
his departed glory, and still venerated him as a temple
where the deity yet breathed, though the altar was over-
thrown, made to this extraordinary remonstrance no other
reply than a long whiff, and a Well, Russelton, dash my
wig (a favorite oath of Sir W.s) but you're a queer
fellow."
CC
Russelton now turned to me, and invited me with a tone
of the most lady-like languor, to sit down near the fire.
As I am naturally of a chilly disposition, and fond, too, of
beating people in their own line, I drew a chair close to the
hearth, declared the weather was very cold, and rung the
bell for some more wood. Russelton stared for a moment,
and then, with a politeness he had not deigned to exert
before, approached his chair to mine, and began a conver-
sation, which, in spite of his bad witticisms, and peculiar
ity of manner, I found singularly entertaining.
Dinner was announced, and we adjourned to another
room-poor Sir Willoughby with his waistcoat unbuttoned,
and breathing like a pug in a phthisis-groaned bitterly,
when he discovered that this apartment was smaller and
hotter than the one before. Russelton immediately helped
him to some scalding soup and said, as he told the ser-
vant to hand Sir Willoughby the cayenne
you will find
this, my dear Townshend, a very sensible potage for this
severe season.”
،،
Dinner went off tamely enough, with the exception of
luxuriously. The threatened mutton chops did not make
our stout friend's " agony, which Russelton enjoyed most
was excellently cooked and better arranged. With the
their appearance, and the dinner, though rather too small,
desert, the poor baronet rose, and, pleading sudden indis-
position, tottered out of the door.
chair, and laughed for several minutes with a low chuckling
When he was gone, Russelton threw himself back in kis
sound, till the tears ran down his cheek. "A nice heart
you must have!" thought I- (my conclusions of character
are always drawn from small propensities.)
After a few jests at Sir Willoughby, our conversation
turned upon other individuals. I soon saw that Russelton
was a soured and disappointed man; his remarks on people
were all sarcasmus his mind was overflowed with, a suf-
84
BULWER'S NOVELS.
fusion of ill-nature- he bit as well as growled.
he bit as well as growled. No man of
the world ever, I am convinced, becomes a real philosopher
in retirement. People who have been employed for years
upon trifles have not the greatness of mind, which could
alone make them indifferent to what they have coveted all
their lives, as most enviable and important.
"Have you read - 's memoirs?" said Mr. Russel-
ton. "No!" "Well, I imagined every one had at least
ipped into them. I have often had serious thoughts of
dignifying my own retirement, by the literary employment
of detailing my adventures in the world.
adventures in the world. I think I could
think I could
throw a new light upon things and persons, which my
contemporaries would shrink back like owls at perceiving."
"Your life," said I, "must indeed furnish matter of
squal instruction and amusement."
CC
Aye," answered Russelton ; amusement to the fools,
out instruction to the knaves. I am, indeed, a lamentable
example of the fall of ambition. I brought starch into all
the neckcloths in England, and I end by tying my own at a
three-inch looking-glass at Calais. You are a young man,
Mr. Pelham, about to commence life, probably with the
same views as (though greater advantages than) myself;
perhaps in indulging my egotism, I shall not weary without
recompensing you.
"I came into the world with an inordinate love of glory
and a great admiration of the original; these propensities
might have made a Shakspeare-they did more, they
made me a Russelton! When I was six years old, I cut
my jacket into a coat, and turned my aunt's best petticoat
into a waistcoat. I disdained at eight the language of the
vulgar, and when my father asked me to fetch his slippers,
I replied that my soul swelled beyond the limits of a
lackey's. At nine, I was self inoculated with propriety
of ideas. I rejected malt with the air of His Majesty,
and formed a violent affection for maraschino; though
starving at school, I never took twice of pudding, and paid
sixpence a week out of my shilling to have my shoes
blacked. As I grew up, my notions expanded. I gave
myself, without restraint, to the ambition that burnt within
me I cut my old friends, who were rather envious than
emulous of my genius, and I employed three tradesmen
to make my gloves-one for the hand, a second for the
fingers, and a third for the thumb! These two qualities
These two qualities
made me courted and admired by a new race—for the
great secrets of being courted are to shun others, and seem
delighted with yourself. The latter is obvious enough;
who the deuce should be pleased with you, if you yourself
are not ?
"Before I left college, I fell in love; other fellows, at my
age, in such a predicament, would have whined-shaved
only twice a week, and written verses. I did none of the
three-the last indeed I tried, but, to my infinite surprise,
found any genius was not universal. I began with
"Sweet nymph for whom I wake my muse.'
"For this, after considerable hammering, I could only think
of the rhyme shoes' - so I began again,—
Thy praise demands much softer lutes.'
-
And the fellow of this verse was terminated like myself in
• boots.' Other efforts were equally successful — bloom,
suggested to my imagination no rhyme but perfume ;’·
desir only reminded me of my hair,' and hope'
was met at the end of the second verse, by the inharmonious
antithesis of 'soap.' Finding, therefore, that my forte was
not in the Pierian line, I redoubled my attention to my
dress; I coated, and cravated, and essenced, and oiled, with
all the attention the very inspiration of my rhymes seemed
to advise ; in short, I thought the best pledge I could
give my Dulcinea, of my passion for her person, would be
to show her what affectionate veneration I could pay to
my own.
My mistress could not withhold from me her admira-
tion, but she denied me her love. She confessed Mr. Rus-
selton was the best dressed man at the University, and had
the whitest hands; and two days after this avowal, she
ran away with a great rosy-cheeked extract from Leices-
tershire.
but I
"I did not blame her: I pitied her too much
made a vow never to be in love again. In spite of all ad-
"antages I kept my oath, and avenged myself on the species
f the insult of the individual.
"Before I commenced a part which was to continu
through life, I considered deeply on the humors of the
spectators. I saw that the character of the English was
servile to rank, and yielding to pretension-they admire
you for your acquaintance, and cringe to you for your con-
ceit. The first thing, therefore, was to know great people
Q
the second to control them. I dressed well, and had
good horses that was sufficient to make me sought by the
young of my own sex.
my own sex. I talked scandal, and was never
abashed that was more than enough to make me recherché
among the matrons of the other. It is single men, and
married women, to whom are given the St. Peter_keys
of Society. I was soon admitted into its heaven
- I was
more I was one of its saints. I became imitated as well
as initiated. I was the rage- the lion. Why?
was I
oetter was I richer -
- was I handsomer- -was I cleverer,
than my kind? No, no ; - (and here Russelton ground his
teeth with a strong and wrathful expression of scorn ;)-
and had I been all—had I been a very concentration and
monopoly of all human perfections, they would not have
valued me at half the price they did set on me.
I will tell you the simple secret, Mr. Pelhamit was be-
cause I trampled on them, that, like crushed herbs, they
sent up a grateful incense in return.
It was
"Oh! it was balm to my bitter and loathing temper, to
see those who would have spurned me from them, if they
dared, writhe beneath my lash, as I withheld or inflicted
it at will. I was the magician who held the great spirits
that longed to tear me to pieces, by one simple spell, which
a superior hardihood had won me - and, by heaven, I did
not spare to exert it.
S
"Well, well, this is but an idle recollection now; all
human power, says the proverb of every language, is but
of short duration. Alexander did not conquer kingdoms
for ever; and Russelton's good fortune deserted him at
last. Napoleon died in exile, and so shall I; but we have
both had our day, and mine was the brightest of the two,
for it had no change till the evening. I am more happy
than people would think for Je ne suis pas souvent où
mon corps est — I live in a world of recollections; I trample
again upon coronets and ermine, the glories of the smal
great!
great! I give once more laws which no libertine is so
hardy not to feel exalted in adopting; I hold my court,
and issue my fiats; I am like the madinan, and out of the
very straws of my cell, I make my subjects and my realm;
and when I wake from these bright visions, and see myself
an old deserted man, forgotten, and decaying inch by inch
in a foreign village, I can at least summon sufficient of my
ancient regality of spirits not to sink beneath the reverse.
If I am inclined to be melancholy, why, I extinguish my
fire, and imagine I have demolished a duchess. I steal up
to my solitary chamber, to renew again, in my sleep, the
phantoms of my youth; to carouse with princes; to legis-
late, for nobles, and to wake in the morning; (here Rus-
selton's countenance and manner suddenly changed to an
affectation of methodistical gravity,) and thank Heaven
that I have still a coat to my stomach, as well as to my
back, and that I am safely delivered of such villanous
company, to forswear sack and live cleanly,' during the
rest of my sublunary existence."
After this long detail of Mr. Russelton's, the conversa-
tion was but dull and broken. I could not avoid indulging
a reverie upon what I had heard, and my host was evidently
still revolving the recollections his narration had conjured
up; we sat opposite each other for several minutes as
abstracted and distracted as if we had been a couple
two months married; till at last I rose, and tendered my
adieus. Russelton received them with his usual coldness,
but more than his usual civility, for he followed me to the
door.
Just as they were about to shut it, he called me back
"Mr. Pelham," said he, "Mr. Pelham, when you come
back this way, do look in upon me, and—and as you will
be going a good deal into society, just find out what people
say of my manner of life !''*
*It will be perceived by those readers who are kind, or patient
enough to reach the conclusion of this work, that Russelton is
specifled us one of my few dramatis person of which only the
first
Just outline is taken from real life; all the rest — all, indeed,
which forms and marks the character thus briefly delineated, is
drawn solely from imagination.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
36
CHAPTER XXXIV
An old worshipful gentleman that had a great estate,
And kept a brave old house at a hospitable rate.
Old Song.
1 THINK I may, without much loss to the reader, pass in
silence over my voyage, the next day, to Dover. (Horri-
ble reminiscence!) I may also spare him an exact detail
of a 1 the inns and impositions between that seaport and
London; nor will it be absolutely necessary to the plot of
this history, to linger over every mile-stone between the
metropolis and Glenmorris Castle, where my uncle and my
mother were impatiently awaiting the arrival of the candi-
date to be.
It was a fine bright evening when my carriage entered
the park. I had not seen the place for years, and I felt
my heart swell with something like family pride, as I
gazed on the magnificent extent of hill and plain that
opened upon me, as I passed the ancient and ivy-covered
lodge. Large groups of trees, scattered on either side,
seemed, in their own antiquity, the witness of that of the
family which had given them existence. The sun set on
the waters which lay gathered in a lake at the foot of the
hill, breaking the waves into unnumbered sapphires, and
tinging the dark firs that overspread the margin with a
rich and golden light, that put me excessively in mind of
the duke of's livery.
When I descended at the gate, the servants, who stood
arranged in an order so long that it almost startled me, re-
ceived me with a visible gladness and animation, which
showed me at one glance, the old fashioned tastes of their
master. Who, in these days, ever inspires his servants with
a single sentiment of regard or interest for himself or his
whole race? That tribe, one never, indeed, considers as
possessing a life separate from their services to us; beyond
that purpose of existence, we know not even if they exist.
As providence made the stars for the benefit of earth, so
he made servants for the use of gentlemen; and, as neither
stars nor servants appear except when we want them, so
1 suppose they are in a sort of suspense from being, except
at those important and happy moments.
—-
"What is it?" asked I; "oh, I know- water."
"You are mistaken," answered Lord Glenmorris
is the ornament of happy faces."
I looked up to my uncle's countenance in sudden sur-
prise; I cannot explain how I was struck with the expres
sion which it wore; so calmly bright and open!
!—it was
as if the very daylight had settled there.
"You dont understand this at present, Henry," said he,
after a moment's silence ; "but you will find it, of all rules
for the improvement of property, the easiest to learn,
Enough of this now. Were you not au désespoir at leav-
ing Paris?"
"I should have been some months ago; but when I re-
ceived my mother's summons, I found the temptations of
the continent very light in comparison with those held out
to me here."
What, have you already arrived at that great epoch,
when vanity casts off its first skin, and ambition succeeds
to pleasure; why-but thank heaven that you have lost
my moral; your dinner is announced."
Most devoutly did I thank heaven, and most earnestly
did I betake myself to do honor to my uncle's hospitality.
I had just finished my repast, when my mother entered.
She was, as you might well expect, from her maternal af-
fection, quite overpowered with joy, first, at finding my
hair grown so much darker, and secondly, at my looking so
well. We spent the whole evening in discussing the great
business for which I had been summoned. Lord Glenmor-
ris promised me money, and my mother advice; and I, in
my turn, enchanted them, by promising to make the best
use of both.
Cor.
2d Cit.
CHAPTER XXXV
Your good voice, Sir-what say you
You shall have it, worthy Sir.
Coriolanus.
This
To return for if I have any fault, it is too great a love THE borough of Buyemall had long been in undisputed
for abstruse speculation and reflection, I was formally possession of the Lords of Glenmorris, till a rich banker,
ushered through a great hall hung round with huge antlers of the name of Lufton, had bought a large estate in the
and rusty armor, through a lesser one, supported by large immediate neighbourhood of Glenmorris Castle.
stone columns, and without any other adornment than the event, which was the precursor of a mighty revolution in
arms of the family; then through an anti-room, covered the borough of Buyemall, took place in the first year of
with tapestry, representing the gallantries of King Solo- my uncle's accession to his property. A few months after
mon to the Queen of Sheba; and lastly, into the apartment wards, a vacancy in the borough occurring, my uncle pro
honored by the august presence of Lord Glenmorris.
Glenmorris. cured the nomination of one of his own political party,
That
personage was dividing the sofa with three spaniels to the great astonishment of Lord Glenmorris, and the great
and a setter; he rose hastily, when I was announced, and | gratification of the burghers of Buyemall, Mr. Luften of-
then checking the first impulse which hurried him, per- fered himself in opposition to the Glenmorris candidate.
haps, into an unseemly warmth of salutation, held out his In this age of enlightment, innovation has no respect for
hand with a pompous air of kindly protection, and while the most sacred institutions of antiquity. The burghers,
he pressed mine, surveyed me from head to foot to see how for the only time since their creation as a body, were cast
far my appearance justified his condescension.
first into doubt, and, secondly, into rebellion. The Lufton
faction, horresco referens, were triumphant, and the rival
candidate was returned. From that hour the borough of
Buyemall was open to all the world.
Having, at last, satisfied himself, he proceeded to in-
quire after the state of my appetite. He smiled benig-
nantly when I confessed that I was excessively well pre-
pared to testify its capacities, (the first idea of all kind-
hearted, old fashioned people, is to stuff you,) and silently
motioning to the grey-headed servant who stood in attend-
ance, till receiving the expected sign, he withdrew, Lord
Glenmorr's informed me that dinner was over for every
ne but myself, that for me it would be prepared in an
instant, that Mr. Toolington had expired four days since,
at ry mother was, at that moment, canvassing for me,
and at my own electioneering qualities were to open
their exhibition with the following day.
After this communication there was a short pause.
"What a beautiful place this is!" said I, with great en-
thusiasm. Lord Glenmorris was pleased with the compli-
ment, simple as it was.
"Yes," said he "it is, and I have made it still more so
than you have yet been able to perceive."
"You have been planting, probably, on the other side
of the park.
"No,
دو
sad my uncle smiling; "Nature had done
every thing for this spot when I came to it, but one, and
the addition of that one ornamen: is the only real triumph
which art ever can achieve."
He con-
My uncle, who was a good easy man, and had some
strange notions of free representation, and liberty of elec-
tion, professed to care very little for this event.
tented himself henceforward, with exerting his interest for
one of the members, and left the other seat entirely at the
disposal of the line of Lufton, which from the time of the
first competition, continued peaceably to monopolize it.
During the last two years, my uncle's candidate, the ate
Mr. Toolington, had been gradually dying of a dropsy, and
the Luftons had been so particularly attentive to the honest
burghers, that it was shrewdly suspected a bold push was
to be made for the other seat. During the last months,
these doubts were changed into certainty. Mr. Augustus
Leopold Lufton, eldest son to Benjamin Lufton, Esq., had
publicly declared his intention of starting at the decease of
Mr. Toolington; against this personage behold myself
armed and arrayed.
Such is in brief, the history of the borough, up to the
time in which I was to take a prominent share in its inter -
ests and events.
On the second day after my arrival at the castle, the fol
lowing advertisement appeared a Buyemall.
36
BULWER'S NOVELS.
∞ To the independent Electors of the Borough of Buyemall
"GENTLEMEN,
"In presenting myself to your notice, I advance a claim
not altogether new and unfounded. My family have for
centuries been residing among you, and exercising that in-
terest which reciprocal confidence, and good offices may
fairly create. Should it be my good fortune to be chosen
your representative, you may rely upon my utmost endea-
vours to deserve that honor. One word upon the princi-
ples I espouse: they are those which have found their ad-
vocates among the wisest and the best; they are those
which, hostile alike to the encroachments of the crown,
and the licentiousness of the people, would support the
real interest of both. Upon these grounds, gentlemen,
have the honor to solicit your votes; and it is with the
sincerest respect for your ancient and honorable body,
that I subscribe myself your very obedient servant,
"HENRY PELHAM."
"Glenmorris Castle," &c. &c.
I
Such was the first public signification of my intentions;
it was drawn up by Mr. Sharpon, our lawyer, and consid-
ered by our friends as a master-piece for, as my mother
sagely observed, it did not commit me in a single instance
espoused no principle, and yet professed what all parties
would allow was the best.
CC
At the first house where I called, the proprietor was a
clergyman of good family, who had married a lady from
Baker-street; of course the Reverend Combermere St.
Quintin and his wife valued themselves upon being gen-
teel.' I arrived at an unlucky moment; on entering the
hall, a dirty footboy was carrying a yellow-ware dish of
potatoes into the back room. Another Ganymede, (a sort
of footboy major,) who opened the door, and who was still
settling himself into his coat, which he had slipped on at
my tintinnabulary summons, ushered me with a mouthful
of bread and cheese into this said back room. I gave up
every thing as lost, when I entered and saw the lady help-
ing her youngest child to some ineffable trash, which I
have since heard is called "blackberry pudding." Another
of the tribe was bawling out, with a loud hungry tone
"A tatoe, pa!" The father himself was carving for the
little groupe, with a napkin stuffed into the top button-hole
of his waiscoat, and the mother, with a long bib, plenti-
ully bespattered with congealed gravy, and the nectarean
liquor of the "blackberry pudding," was sitting, with a
sort of presiding complacency, on a high stool, like Jupiter
on Olympus, enjoying rather than stilling the confused hub-
Lub of the little domestic deities, who eat, clattered, spat-
tered and squabbled around her.
Amidst all this din and confusion, the candidate for the
borough of Buyemall was ushered into the household pri-
vacy of the genteel Mr. and Mrs. St. Quintin. Up started
the lady at the sound of my name. The Reverend Com-
bermere St. Quintin seemed frozen into stone. The plate
between the youngest child and the blackberry pudding,
stood as still as the sun in Ajalon. The morsel between
the mouth of the elder boy and his fork, had a respite from
mastication. The Seven Sleepers could not have been
spell-bound more suddenly and completely.
"Ah!" cried I, advancing eagerly with an air of serious
and yet abrupt gladness; "how deuced lucky that I should
find you all at luncheon. I was up and had finished break-
fast so early this morning, that I am half famished. Only
think how fortunate, Hardy; (turning round to one of the
members of my committee, who accompanied me ;) I was
just saying what I would not give to find Mr. St. Quintin
at luncheon. Will you allow me, Madam, to make one of
your party?"
Mrs St. Quintin colored, and faltered, and muttered.
out something which I was fully resolved not to hear. I
took a chair, looked round the table, not too attentively,
and said -"Cold veal; ah! ah! nothing I like so much.
May I trouble you, Mr. St. Quintin ?-Hollo my little
man, let's see if you can 't give me a potatoe. There's a
can't
brave fellow. How old are you my young hero? to look
at your mother, I should say two; to look at you, six.”
"He is four next May," said his mother, coloring, and
this time not painfully.
"Indeed! said I, looking at him earnestly, and then,
in a graver tone, turned to the Reverend Combermere with
-"I think you have a branch of your family still settled
in France. I met Monsieur St. Quintin, the Duc de Poic
tiers, abroad.’
"Yes," said Mr Comberriere, "yes, the name is stil
in Normanday, but I was not aware of the title."
"No! ""
said I with surprise, "and yet (with another
look at the boy) it is astonishing how long family like.
nesses last. I was a great favorite with all the Duc's
children. Do you know I must trouble you for some more
veal, it is so very good, and I am so very hungry."
"How long have you been abroad?" said Mrs. St.
Quintin, who had slipped off her bib and smoothed her
ringlets; for which purposes I had been most adroitly
looking in an opposite direction the last three minutes
no to
"About seven or eight months. The fact is, that the
continent only does for us English people to see — no
inhabit; and yet, there are some advantages there, Mr. St.
Quintin! Among others, that of the due respect and ent
birth is held in. Here you know, money makes te
man,' as the vulgar proverb has it."
Yes," said Mr. St. Quintin, with a sigh," it is rai
ly dreadful to see those upstarts rising around us, and
throwing every thing that is ancient and respectable into
the back ground. Dangerous times these, Mr. Pelham
dangerous times; nothing but innovation upon the most
sacred institutions. I am sure, Mr. Pelham, that your
principles must be decidedly against these new-fashioned
doctrines, which lead to nothing but anarchy and confusion
absolutely nothing."
“I'm delighted to find you so much of my opinion!"
said I. “I cannot endure any thing that leads to anarchy
and confusion."
—
who rose,
Here Mr. Combermere glanced at his wife
called to the children, and accompanied by them, gracefully
withdrew.
cr
"Now then," said Mr. Combermere, drawing his chair
nearer to me now, Mr. Pelham, we can discuss these
matters. Women are no politicians," and at this sage
aphorism, the Rev. Combermere laughed a low solemn
laugh, which could have come from no other lips. After I
- I
had joined in this grave merriment for a second or two-
hemined thrice, and with a countenance suited to the sub-
ject and the hosts, plunged at once in medius res.
"Mr. St. Quintin," said I," you are already aware, I
think, of my intention of offering myself as a candidate for
the borough of Buyemall. I could not think of such a
measure, without calling upon you, the very first person, to
solicit the honor of
Mr. Combermere looked
your vote.
وو
pleased, and prepared to reply. "You are the very first
person I called upon," repeated I.
Mr. Combermere smiled. "Well, Mr. Pelham," said he,
"our families have long been on the most intimate footing."
"Ever since," cried I, "
"ever since Henry the Seventh's
time have the houses of St. Quintin and Glenmorris been
allied., Your ancestors, you know, were settled in the
county before our's, and my mother assures me that she
has read in some old book or another, a long account of
your forefather's kind reception of mine at the castle of
St. Quintin. I do trust, Sir, that we have done nothing
to forfeit a support so long afforded us.
Mr. St. Quintin bowed in speechless gratification;
at length he found voice. "But your principles, Mr.
Pelham ?"
Quite your's, my dear Sir, quite against unarchy and
confusion.'
"But the catholic question, Mr. Pelham ?"
"O! the catholic question," repeated I, "is a question
of great importance; it won't be carried
no, Mr. Si
Quintin, no, it won't be carried; how did
won't be carried; how did you think, my
dear Sir, that I could, in so great a question, act agamst
my conscience ?"
I said this with warmth, and Mr. St. Quintin was either
too convinced or too timid to pursue so dangerous a topic
any further. I blessed my stars when he paused, and not
giving him time to think of another piece of debateable
ground, continued, "Yes, Mr. St. Quintin, I called upon
you the very first person. Your rank in the county, your
ancient birth, to be sure, demanded it; but I only consid-
ered the long, long time the St. Quintins and Pelhams had
been connected.'
Well," said the Rev. Combermere, "well, Mr. Pel
ham, you shall have my support; and I wish, from my
very heart, all success to a young gentleman of such ex
cellent principles."
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
37
More voices :
*
*
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Sic. How now, my masters, have you chosen him?
Cit. He has our voices, Sir !
CORIOLANUS.
FROM Mr. Combermere St. Quintin's, we went to a
bluff, hearty, radical wine-merchant, whom I had very
little probability of gaining, but my success with the cleri-
cal Armado had inspirited me, and I did not suffer myself
to fear, though I could scarcely persuade myself to hope.
How exceedingly impossible it is, in governing men, to lay
down positive rules, even where we know the temper of the
individual to be gained. "You must be very stiff and formal
with the St. Quintins," said my mother. She was right
in the general admonition, and had I found them all seated
in the best drawing-room, Mrs. St. Quintin in her best
attire, and the children on their best behaviour, I should
have been as stately as Don Quixote in a brocade dressing-
gown; but finding them in such dishabille, I could not af
fect too great a plainness and almost coarseness of bearing,
as if I had never been accustomed to any thing more re-
fined than I found them; nor might I, by any appearance
of pride in myself, put them in mind of the wound their
own pride had received. The difficulty was to blend with
this familiarity a certain respect, just the same as a French
ambassador might have testified towards the august person
of George the Third, had he found his majesty at dinner
at one o'clock, over mutton and turnips.
In overcoming this difficulty, I congratulated myself with
as much zeal and fervor as if I had performed the most
important victory; for, whether it be innocent or sangui-
nary, in war or at an election, there is no triumph so grati-
fying to the viciousness of human nature, as the conquest
of our fellow-beings.
But I must return to my wine-merchant, Mr. Briggs.
His house was at the entrance of the town of Buyemall;
it stood enclosed in a small garden, flaming with crocuses
and sunflowers, and exhibiting an arbour to the right, where,
in the summer evenings, the respectable owner might be
seen with his waistcoat unbuttoned, to give that just and
rational liberty to the subordinate parts of the human com-
monwealth which the increase of their consequence after
the hour of dinner, naturally demands. Nor in those mo-
ments of dignified ease, was the worthy burgher without
the divine inspirations of complacent contemplation, which
the weed of Virginia bestoweth. There, as he smoked and
puffed, and looked out upon the bright crocuses, and medi-
tated over the dim recollections of the hesternal journal,
did Mr. Briggs revolve in his mind the vast importance of
the borough of Buyemall to the British empire, and the vast
importance John Briggs was to the borough of Buyemall.
When I knocked at the door a prettyish maid-servant
opened it, with a smile, and a glance, which the vender of
wine might probably have taught her himself after too
large potations of his own spirituous manufactures.
ushered into a small parlour where sat, sipping brandy
and water, a short, stout monosyllabic sort of figure, cor-
responding in outward shape to the name of Briggs-unto
a very nicety.
CC
I was
|
CC
"Why," said I," Mr. Briggs, to be frank win you, I
do call upon you for the purpose of requesting your vote:
give it me or not, just as you please. You may be sure I
shall not make use of the vulgar electioneering arts to coa
gentlemen out of their votes. I ask you for yours as one
freeman solicits another: if you think my opponent a
fitter person to represent your borough, give your support
to him in God's name: if not, and you place confidence ir
me, I will, at least, endeavour not to betray it."
૬ ]
"Well done, Mr. Pelham," exclaimed Mr. Briggs:
love candor you speak just after my own heart; but you
must be aware that one does not like to be bamboozled out
of one's right of election, by a smooth-tongued fellow, who
sends one to the devil the moment the election is over-or
still worse, to be frightened out of it by some stiff-necked
proud coxcomb, with his pedigree in his hand, and his acres
in his face, thinking he does you a marvellous honor to ask
you at all. Sad times these for this free country, Mr. Pel
ham, when a parcel of conceited paupers, like Parson
Quinny, (as I call that reverend fool, Mr. Combermere St.
Quintin,) imagine they have a right to dictate to warm
honest men, who can buy their whole family out and out.
I tell you what, Mr. Pelham, we shall never do any thing
for this country till we get rid of those landed aristocrats,
with their ancestry and humbug. I hope you
're of my
mind, Mr. Pelham."
Why," answered I, "there is certainly nothing so re
spectable in Great Britain as our commercial interest. A
man who makes himself is worth a thousand men made by
their forefathers."
-
Very true, Mr. Pelham," said the wine-merchant, ad-
vancing his chair to me, and then laying a short thickset
finger upon my arm- he looked up in my face with an in-
vestigating air, and said: "Parliamentary reform
do you say to that? you're not an advocate for ancient abu-
ses, and modern corruption, I hope, Mr. Pelham ?"
what
By no means," cried I, with an honest air of indigna-
tion; "I have a conscience, Mr. Briggs, I have a con-
science as a public man, no less than as a private one "
“Admirable!” cried my host.
"No," I continued, glowing as I proceeded, "no, Mr.
Briggs; I disdain to talk too much about my principles
before they are tried; the proper time to proclaim them is
when they have effected some good by being put into action.
I won't supplicate your vote, Mr. Briggs, as my opponent
may do; there must be a mutual confidence between my
supporters and myself. When I appear before you a second
time, you will have a right to see how far I have wronged
that reposed in me as your representative. Mr. Briggs, I
dare say it may seem rude and impolitic to address
you in
this manner; but I am a plain, blunt man, and I disdain
the vulgar arts of electioneering, Mr. Briggs."
"Give us your fist, old boy," cried the wine-merchant,
in a transport; “give us your fist; I promise you my sup-
port, and I am delighted to vote for a young gentleman of
such excellent principles.
So much, dear reader, for Mr. Briggs, who became from
that interview my staunchest supporter. I will not linger
longer upon this part of my career; the above conversa-
tion may serve as a sufficient sample of my electioneering
qualifications: and so I shall merely add, that after the
due quantum of dining, drinking, spouting, lying, equivo-
Mr. Pelham," said this gentleman, who was dressed eating, bribing, rioting, head-breaking, promise-breaking,
in a brown coat, white waistcoat, buff-colored inexpressi-and- thank the god Mercury, who presides over elections
bles, with long strings, and gaiters of the same hue and
substance -"Mr. Pelham, pray be seated -excuse my
rising. I'm like the bishop in the story, Mr. Pelham, toò
old to rise and Mr. Briggs grunted out a short, quick,
querulons, "he, ke, he," to which, of course, I replied to
the best of my cachinnatory powers.
No sooner, however, did I begin to laugh, than Mr.
Briggs stopped short eyed me with a sharp suspicious.
glance shook his head, and pushed back his chair at least
four fear from the spot it had hitherto occupied. Ominous
signs, thought I—I must sound this gentleman a little fur-
ther, before I venture to treat him as the rest of his spe-
cies.
"You have a nice situation here, Mr. Briggs," said I.
Ay, Mr. Pelham, and a nice vote too, which is some-
what more to your purpose, I believe."
Oh! thought I, I see through you now, Mr. Briggs!-
you rust not be too civil to one who suspects you are going
to be civil in order to tal e him in.
chairing of successful candidateship, I found myself fairly
choseu member for the borough of Buyemall.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Political education is like the keystonɛ c he act. the
strength of the whole depends upon it.
Encycl Brit. Sup. Art, Education
I was sitting in the library of Glenmorris Castle, about
a week after all the bustle of contest, and the éclåt of vic-
tory had began to subside, and quietly dallying with the
dry toast, which constituted then, and does to this day, my
ordinary breakfast, when I was accosted by the following
speech from my uncle.
Henry, your success has opened to you a new career ·
I trust you intend to pursue it?"
"Certainly," was my answer
39
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"But you know, n
known dear Henry, that though you have
great talents, which, I confess, I was surprised in the
course of the election to discover; yet they want that care-
ful cultivation, which in order to shine in the House of
Commons they must receive. Entre nous, Henry; a little
reading would do you no harm.”
Very well," said I, "suppose I begin with Walter
Scott's novels; I am told they are extremely entertain-
ing.
>>
"True," answered my uncle, "but they don't contain
the most accurate notions of history, or the soundest prin-
ciples of political philosophy in the world. What did
What did you
think of doing to-day, Henry ?"
"Nothing!" said I very innocently.
"I
I think it is," replied I, with great naïveté.
"Willingly," said I, ringing the bell.
The table was cleared, and my uncle began his exami-
nation. Little, poor man, had he thought from my usual
bearing, and the character of my education, that in general
literature there were few subjects on which I was not to the
full as well read as himself. I enjoyed his surprise, when
little by little he began to discover the extent of my infor-
mation, but I was mortified to find it was only surprise, not
delight.
in every thing I undertook, fond of appli ation, and ad
dicted to reflect over the various bearings of any object
that once engrossed my attention, I made great advances
in my new pursuit. After my uncle had brought me to be
thoroughly acquainted with certain and definite principles,
we proceeded to illustrate them from fact. For instance,
when we had finished the "Essay upon Government," we
examined into the several constitutions of England, British
America, and France; the three countries which pretend
the most to excellence in their governments and we were
enabled to perceive and judge the defects and merits of
each, because we had, previous to our examination, estab-
lished certain rules, by which they were to be investigated
and tried. Here my skeptical indifference to facts was
-
"I should conceive that to be an unusual answer of yours, my chief reason for readily admitting knowledge. I had
Henry, to any similar question."
no prejudices to contend with; no obscure notions gleaned
from the past ;
no popular maxims cherished as truths.
"Well, then, let us have the breakfast things taken away, Every thing was placed before me as before a wholly im-
and do something this morning."
partial inquirer freed from all the decorations and delu-
sions of sects and parties; every argument was stated with
logical precision-every opinion referred to a logical test.
Hence, in a very short time I owned the stice of my
uncle's assurance, as to the comparative concentration of
knowledge. We went over the whole of Mills' admirable
articles in the Encyclopædia, over the more popular works
of Bentham, and thence we plunged into the recesses of
political economy. I know not why this study has been
termed uninteresting. No sooner had I entered upon its
consideration, than I could scarcely tear myself from it.
Never from that moment to this have I ceased to pay it the
most constant attention, not so much as a study as an
amusement; but at that time my uncle's object was not to
make me a profound political economist. I wish," said
he, "merely to give you an acquaintance with the princi-
ples of the science; not that you may be entitled to boast
of knowledge, but that you may be enabled to avoid igno-
rance; not that you may discover truth, but that you may
detect error. Of all sciences, political economy is con-
tained in the fewest books, and yet is the more difficult to
master; because all its higher branches require earnestness
of reflection, proportioned to the scantiness of reading.
Mrs. Marsett's elementary book, together with some con-
versational enlargement on the several topics she treats of,
will be enough for our present purpose. I wish, then, to
show you, how inseparably allied is the great science of
public policy with that of private morality. And this,
Henry, is the grandest object of all. Now to our present
study."
"You have," said he, "a considerable store of learn-
ing; far more than I could possibly have imagined you
possessed; but it is knowledge, not learning, in which f
wish you to be skilled; I would rather, in order to gift
you with the former, that you were more destitute of the
latter. The object of education, is to instil principles which
are hereafter to guide and instruct us; facts are only desi-
rable, so far as they illustrate those principles; principles
ought therefore to precede facts! What then can we think
of a system which reverses this evident order, overloads the
memory with facts, and those of the most doubtful descrip-
tion, while it leaves us entirely in the dark with regard to
the principles which would alone render this heterogeneous
mass of any advantage or avail? Learning without
knowledge, is but a bundle of prejudices; a lumber of
inert matter set before the threshold of the understanding
to the exclusion of common sense. Pause for a moment,
and recall those of your contemporaries, who are generally
considered well-informed: tell me if their information has
made them a whit the unser; if not, it is only sanctified
ignorance. Tell me if names with them are a sanction for
opinion; quotations, the representatives of axioms? All
they have learned only serves as an excuse for all they are
ignorant of. In one month, I will engage that you shall
have a juster and deeper insight into wisdom, than they
have been all their lives acquiring; the great error of edu-
cation is to fill the mind first with antiquated authors, and
then to try the principles of the present day by the authori-
ties and maxims of the past. We will pursue for our plan,
the exact reverse of the ordinary method. We will learn
the doctrines of the day, as the first and most necessary
step, and we will then glance over those which have passed
away, as researches rather curious than useful.
"You see this very small pamphlet ; it is a paper by Mr.
Mills, upon Government. We will know this thoroughly,
and when we have done so, we may rest assured that we
have a far more accurate information upon the head and
front of all political knowledge, than two-thirds of the young
men whose cultivation of mind you have usually heard
panegyrised."
:
So saying, my uncle opened the pamphlet. He pointed
out to me its close and mathematical reasoning, in which
no flaw could be detected, nor deduction controverted and
be filled up, as we proceeded, from the science of his own
clear and enlarged mind, the various parts which the politi-
cal logician had left for reflection to complete. My uncle
had this great virtue of an expositor, that he never over-
explained ; he never made a parade of his lecture, nor con-
fused what was simple by unnecessary comment.
When we broke off our first day's employment I was
quite astonished at the new light which had gleamed upon
I felt like Sinbad, the sailor, when, in wandering
through the cavern in which he had been buried alive, he
aught the first glimpse of the bright day. Naturally eager
me.
|
|
Well, gentle reader, (I love, by the by, as you already
perceive, that old-fashioned courtesy of addressing you)
well, to finish this part of my life which, as it treats rather
of iny attempts at reformation than my success in error,
must begin to weary you exceedingly, I acquired, more
from my uncle's conversation than the books we read, a
sufficient acquaintance with the elements of knowledge, to
satisfy myself and to please my instructor. And I must
say, in justification of my studies and my tutor, that I
derived one benefit from them which has continued with
me to this hour—viz. I obtained a clear knowledge of
moral principle. Before that time, the little ability I
pos
sessed only led me into acts, which, I fear, most benevo-
leut reader, thou hast sufficiently condemned: my good
feelings for I was not naturally bad - never availed me
the least when present temptation came into my way. I
had no guide but passion; no rule but the impulse of the
moment. What else could have been the result of my
education? If I was immoral, it was because I was never
taught morality. Nothing, perhaps, is less innate than
virtue. I own that the lessons of my uncle did not work
miracles that living in the world, I have not separated
myself from its errors and its follies: the vortex was too
strong the atmosphere too contagious; but I have at
least avoided the crimes into which my temper would most
likely have driven me. I ceased to look upon the world
as a game one was to play fairly, if possible but where a
little cheating was readily allowed; I no longer divorced
the interests of other men from my own: if I endeavoured
to blind them, it was neither by unlawful means, nor for a
purely selfish end-if-but, come, Henry Pelham, thou
has praised thyself enough for the present; and, after all,
thy future adventures will best tell if thou art really
amended.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Mihi jam non regia Roma
Sed vacuum Tiber placet.
HORAT.
"My dear child," said my mother to me, affectionately,
you must be very much bored here, pour dire vrai, I am
myself. Your uncle is a very good man, but he does
not make his house pleasant; and I have, lately, been very
much afraid that he should convert you into a mere book-
worm; after all, my dear Henry, you are quite clever
enough to trust to your own ability. Your great geniuses
never read.'
وو
"True, my dear mother," said I, with a most unequivo-
cal yawn, and depositing on the table, Mr. Bentham upon
Popular Fallacies: "true, and I am quite of your opinion.
Did you see in the Post this morning, how full Chelten-
Aam was ?"
you
Yes, Henry; and now you mention it, I don't think
could do better than to go there for a month or two.
As for me,
I must return to your father whom I left at
Lord H- -'s, a place, entre nous, very little more amusing
than this but then one does get one's écarté table, and
that dear Lady Roseville, your old acquaintance, is staying
there."
CC
"Well," said I, musingly,
suppose we take our de-
parture the beginning of next week; our way will be the
same as far as London, and the plea of attending you will
be a good excuse to my uncle, for proceeding no farther
in these confounded books ?"
"C'est une affaire finie," replied my mother, " and I
will speak to your uncle myself."
CC
Accordingly, the necessary disclosure of our intentions
was made. Lord Glenmorris received it with proper in-
difference, so far as my mother was concerned; but ex-
pressed much pain at my leaving him so soon. However,
when he found I was not so much gratified as honored,
by his wishes for my longer séjour, he gave up the point
with a delicacy that enchanted me.
The morning of our departure arrived-carriage at the
door-band boxes in the passage breakfast on the table
myself in my coat — my uncle in his great chair. My
dear boy," said he, "I trust we shall meet again soon;
you have abilities that may make you capable of effecting
much good to your fellow-creatures; but you are fond of
the world, and though not averse to application, devoted
to pleasure, and likely to pervert the gifts you possess.
At all events, you have now learned, both as a public
character and a private individual, the difference between
good and evil. Make but this distinction, that, whereas in
political science, though the rules you have learned be
fixed and unerring, yet the application must vary with time
and circumstances. We must bend, temporize, and fre-
quently withdraw, doctrines which, invariable in their
truth, the prejudices of the time will not invariably allow,
and even relinquish the faint hope of obtaining a great
good, for the certainty of obtaining a lesser; yet in the
science of private morals, which relate for the main part
to ourselves individually, we have no right to deviate one
single iota from the rule of our conduct. Neither time
nor circunstance must cause us to modify or to change.
Integrity knows no variation; honesty no shadow of turn-
Ing. We must pursue the same course steady and un-
compromising -in the full persuasion that the path of right
is like the bridge from earth to heaven, in the Mahomedan
creed if we swerve but a single hair's breadth, we are
irrevocably lost."
At this moment my mother joined us, with a Well,
my dear Henry, every thing is ready we have no time to
lose."
My uncle rose, pressed my hand, and left in it a pocket-
book, which I afterwards discovered to be most satisfacto-
rily furnished. We took an edifying and affectionate fare-
well of each other, passed through the two rows of servants
drawn up in martial array, along the great hall, entered
the carriage, and went off with the rapidity of a novel upon
"fashionable life.'
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Da-, si grave non est,
Quæ prima iratum ventrem placaver esca.
HORAY.
I DID not remain above a day or two in town I had
never seen much of the humors of a watering-place, and
my love of observing character made me exceedingly im-
patient for that pleasure. Accordingly, the first bright
morning I set off for Cheltenham. I was greatly struck
with the entrance of that town: it is to these watering-
places that a foreigner should be taken, in order to give
him an adequate idea of the magnificent opulence, and
universal luxury of England. Our country has, in every
province, what France only has in Paris-a capital, conse-
crated to gayety, idleness, and enjoyment. London is both
too busy in one class of society, and too pompous in ano-
ther, to please a foreigner, who has not excellent recom-
mendations to private circles. But at Brighton, Chelten-
ham, Hastings, Bath, he may, as at Paris, find all the
gaye.
ties of society without knowing a single individual.
My carriage stopped at the Hotel. A corpulent and
stately waiter, with gold buckles to a pair of very tight pan-
taloons, showed me up stairs. I found myself in a tolerable
room facing the street, and garnished with two pictures of
rocks and rivers, with a comely flight of crows hovering in
the horizon of both, as natural as possible, only they were
a little larger than the trees. Over the chimney-piece,
where I had fondly hoped to find a looking-glass, was a
grave print of General Washington, with one hand stuck
out like the spout of a tea-pot. Between the two windows
- (unfavorable position !) was an oblong mirror, to which
I immediately hastened, and had the pleasure of seeing my
complexion catch the color of the curtains that overhung
the glasses on each side, and exhibit the pleasing rurality
of a pale green.
I shrunk back, aghast, turned, and beheld the waiter.
Had I seen myself in a glass delicately shaded by rose-hued
curtains, I should gently and smilingly have said, "Have
the goodness to bring me the bill of fare.”
As it was, I
growled out, "Bring me the bill, and be damned to you.'
The stiff waiter bowed solemnly and withdrew slowly
I looked round the room once more, and discovered the
additional adornments of a tea-urn, and a book.
heaven," thought I, as I took up the latter, "it can't be
one of Jeremy Bentham's. No! it was the Cheltenham
Guide. I turned to the head of amusements" Dress-
ball at the rooms every some day or other which
"Thank
of the seven I utterly forget; but it was the same as that
which witnessed my arrival in the small drawing-room of
Hotel.
the
"Thank heaven!" said I to myself, as Bedos entered
with my things, and was ordered iminediately to have all in
preparation for "the dress-ball at the rooms," at the hour
of half past ten. The waiter entered with the bill
"Soups, chops, cutlets, steaks, roast joints, &c. &c.
lion, birds."
"Get some soup," said I, "a slice or two of lion, and
half a dozen birds.”
"Sir," said the solemn waiter, "you can't have less
than a whole lion, and we have only two birds in the
house "
"Pray," asked I, "are you in the habit of supplying
your larder from Exeter 'Change, or do you breed lions
here like poultry."
"Sir," answered the grim waiter, never relaxing into a
smile, we have lions brought us from the country every
day.'
What do you pay for them?" said I.
"About three and sixpence a piece, Sir."
Humph! market in Africa overstocked,” thought I
Pray, how do you dress an animal of that description?"
"Roast and stuff him, Sir, and serve him up with cur-
rant jelly."
"What! like a hare?
It is a hare, Sir."
"What!"
40
BULWER'S NOVELS
"Yes, Sir, it is a hare! * but we call it a lion, because | Bobadob calls it, nothing more,
of the Game Laws."
Bright discovery, thought I; they have a new language
in Cheltenham: nothing's like travelling to enlarge the
mind. "And the birds," said I, aloud, "are neither hum-
ming birds, nor ostriches, I suppose?"
No, Sir; they are partridges."
Well, then, give me some soup; a cotelette de mouton,
and a 'bird,' as you term it, and be quick about it."
"It shall be done with despatch," answered the pompous
attendant, and withdrew.
Is there, in the whole course of this pleasant and varying
life, which young gentlemen and ladies write verses to
prove same and sorrowful,- is there, in the whole course
of it, one half-hour really and genuinely disagreeable?
if so, it is the half hour before dinner at a strange inn.
Nevertheless, by the help of philosophy and the window, I
managed to endure it with great patience, and though I
was famishing with hunger, I pretended the indifference of
a sage; even when the dinner was at length announced, I
coquetted a whole minute with my napkin, before I at-
tempted the soup, and I helped myself to the potatory food
with a slow dignity that must have perfectly won the heart
of the solemn waiter. The soup was a little better than
hot water, and the sharp sauced cotclette than leather and
vinegar; howbeit, I attacked them with the vigor of an
Irishman, and washed them down with a bottle of the worst
liquor ever dignified with the venerabile nomen of claret.
The bird was tough enough to have passed for an ostrich
in miniature; and I felt its ghost hopping about the stom-
achic sepulchre to which I consigned it the whole of that
evening and a great portion of the next day, when a glass
of curaçoa laid it at rest.
After this splendid repast, I flung myself back on my
chair with the complacency of a man who has dined well,
and dozed away the time till the hour of dressing.
"Now," thought I, as I placed myself before my glass,
"shall I gently please, or sublimely astonish the 'fashiona-
oles' of Cheltenham. Ah, Bah! the latter school is vul-
gar, Byron spoilt it. Don't put out that chain, Bedos
I wear the black coat, waistcoat, and trowsers. Brush
my hair as much out of curl as you can, and give an air of
graceful negligence to my tout ensemble."
"Oui, Monsieur, je comprends," answered Bedos.
I was soon dressed, for it is the design, not the cxecution
of all great undertakings which requires deliberation and
delay. Action cannot be too prompt. A chair was called,
and Henry Pelham was conveyed to the rooms.
CHAPTER XL.
Now see, prepared to lead the sprightly dance,
The lovely nymphs, and well dressed youths advance,
The spacious room receives its jovial guest,
And the floor shakes with pleasing weight oppressed.
Art of Dancing.
Page. His name, my Lord, is Tyrell.
Richard III.
UPON entering, I saw several heads rising and sinking,
to the tune of "Cherry ripe." A whole row of stiff necks,
in cravats of the most unexceptionable length and breadth,
were just before me. A tall, thin young man, with dark
wiry hair brushed on one side, was drawing on a pair of
white Woodstock gloves, and affecting to look round the
room with the supreme indifference of bon ton.
"Ah, Ritson," said another young Cheltenhamian to
him of the Woodstock gauntlets, "havn 't you been danc-
ing yet?"
"No, Smith, 'pon honor!" answered Mr. Ritson; "it
is so overpoweringly hot; no fashionable man dances now;
-It is 'n 't the thing."
Why," replied Mr. Smith, who was a good-natured
looking person, with a blue coat and brass buttons, a gold
pin in his neck cloth, and knee-breeches, "Why, they dance
at Almack's, don't they?"
"No, 'pon honor,” murinured Mr. Ritson, "no, they
vulgar."
no, hang dancing, 'tis s
Ă stout red-faced man, about thirty, with wet auburn
hair, a marvellously fine waistcoat, and a badly-washed
frill, now joined Messrs. Ritson and Smith.
CC
Ah, Sir Ralph," cried Smith, "how d'ye do? beer
hunting all day, I suppose?"
"Yes, old cock," replied Sir Ralph; "been after the
brush till I am quite done up; such a glorious run. By
G-, you should have seen my gray mare, Smith. By
G-, she's a glorious fencer."
"You don't hunt, do you Ritson?" interrogated Mr
Smith.
"Yes, I do,” replied Mr. Ritson, affectedly playing with
his Woodstock glove; "Yes, but I only hunt in Leicester
shire with my friend, Lord Bobadob; 'tis not the thing to
hunt any where else, 'tis so vulgar.'
Sir Ralph stared at the speaker with mute contempt,
while Mr. Sinith, like the ass between the hay, stood bal-
ancing between the opposing merits of the baronet and the
beau. Meanwhile, a smiling, nodding, affected female
thing, in ringlets and flowers, flirted up to the trio.
"Now, reelly Mr. Smith, you should deence; a feeshon-
able young man like you. I dont know what the young
leedies will say to you." And the fair seducer laughed
bewitchingly.
"You are very good, Mrs. Dollimore," replied Mr.
Smith, with a blush and a low bow; "but Mr. Ritson tells
me it is not the thing to dance."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Dollimore, "but then he's seech a
naughty, conceited creature-
don't follow his example,
Meester Smith," and again the good lady laughed immo-
derately.
r
Nay, Mrs. Dollimore," said Mr. Ritson, passing his
hand through his abominable hair, "you are too severe;
but tell me, Mrs. Dollimore, is the Countess St. A
coming here?"
Now, reelly Mr. Ritson, you who are the pink of feesh-
on, ought to know better than I can; but I hear so.
"Do you know the Countess?" said Mr. Smith, in re-
spectful surprise to Ritson.
Oh, very well," replied the Coryphæus of Cheltenham,
swinging his Woodstock glove to and fro; "I have ofteu
danced with her at Almack's."
"Is she a good decncer?" asked Mrs. Dollimore.
"Oh, capital," responded Mr. Ritson; "she's such a
nice genteel little figure."
Sir Ralph, apparently tired of this "feeshonable" con
versation, swaggered away.
"Pray," said Mrs. Dòllimore, "who is that geentle
man ?
"Sir Ralph Rumford," replied Smith, eagerly, "a par-
ticular friend of mine at Cambridge."
"I wonder if he is going to make a long steey?” said
Mrs. Dollimore.
"Yes, I believe so," replied Mr. Smith, "if we make
it agreeable to him."
"You must poositively introduce him to me," said Mrs
Dollimore.
"I will, with great pleasure," said the good-nature.'
Mr. Smith.
"Is Sir Ralph a
"
man of fashion? inquired Mr
Ritson.
"He's a baronet," emphatically pronounced Mr. Smith.
"Ah!" replied Ritson," but he may be a man of rank,
without being a man of fashion."
'
True," lisped Mrs. Dollimore.
“I don't know," replied Smith with an air of puzzled
wonderment, "but he has 7,000l. a year."
"Has he, indeed " cried Mrs. Dollimore, surprised
?
into her natural tone of voice; and, at that moment, a
young lady, ringletted and flowered like herself, joined her,
and accosted her by the endearing appellation of “ Mama.”
"Have you been dancing, my love?" inquired Mrs.
Dollimore.
"Yes, ma; with Captain Johnson."
"Oh," said the mother, with a toss of her head, and
giving her daughter a significant push, she walked away
with her to another end of the room, to talk about Sir
just walk a quadrille or spin a waltz, as iny friend, Lord Ralph Rumford, and his seven thousand pounds a year.
x
I have since heard that this custom of calling a hare a lion
is not peculiar to Cheltenham. At that time I was utterly un-
acquainted with the regulations of the London coffee houses.
"Well!" thought I, "odd people these; let us enter a
little farther into this savage country; in accordance with
this reflection, I proceeded towards the middle of the room.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
41
"Who's that?" said Mr. Smith, in a loud whisper, as
I passed him.
"""Pon honor," answered Ritson, "I don't know! but
he's a deuced neat looking fellow, quite genteel."
"Thank you, Mr. Ritson," said my vanity,
my vanity, "you are
not quite so offensive after all.”
I paused to look at the dancers; a middle-aged, respect-
able looking gentleman was beside me. Common people,
after they have passed forty, grow social. My neighbour
hemmed twice, and made preparations for speaking. "I
may as well encourage him," was my reflection: accord-
ingly I turned round, with a most good-natured expression
of countenance.
"A fine room this, sir," said the man immediately.
Very," said I, with a smile, "and extremely well
filled."
Ah, sir," answered my neighbour," Cheltenham is not
as it used to be some fifteen years ago. I have seen as
many as one thousand two hundred and fifty persons within
these walls; " (certain people are always so dd par-
ticularizing,) "aye, sir," pursued my laudator temporis acti,
"and half the peerage here into the bargain.
"Indeed!" quoth I, with an air of surprise suited to
the information I received, "but the society is very good
still, is it not?"
Oh, very gentecl," replied the man; "but not so dash-
ing as it used to be."
(O! those two horrid words! low
enough to suit even the author of “
<
"Pray," asked I, glancing at Messrs. Ritson and Smith,
do you know who those young gentlemen are ?"
Extremely well!" replied my neighbour: "the tall
young man is Mr. Ritson; his mother has a house in Baker
street, and gives quite elegant parties. He's a most gen-
teel young man; but such an insufferable coxcomb."
ແ And the other?" said I.
"Ok! he's a Mr. Smith; his father was an eminent
merchant, and is lately dead, leaving each of his sons thir-
ty thousand pounds; the young Smith is a knowing hand,
and wants to spend his money with spirit. He has a great
passion for high life,' and therefore, attaches himself much
to Mr Ritson, who is quite that way inclined."
CC
"He could not have selected a better model,” said I.
True," rejoined my Cheltenham Asmodeus, with naïve
simplicity; but I hope he won't adopt his conceit as well
as his elegance."
"I shall die," said I to myself, "if I talk with this fel-
low any longer," and I was just going to glide away, when
a tall stately dowager, with two lean, scraggy daughters,
entered the room; I could not resist pausing to inquire who
they were.
55
My friend looked at me with a very altered and disre-
spectful air at this interrogation.
Who?" said he,
"why, the Countess of Babbleton, and her two daughters,
the Honorable Lady Jane Bahel, and the Honorable Lady
Mary Babel. They are the great people of Cheltenham,
pursued he," and it's a fine thing to get into their set.'
Meanwhile Lady Babbleton and her two daughters swept
up the room, bowing and nodding to the riven ranks on
each side, who made their salutations with the most pro-
found respect. My experienced eye detected in a moment
that Lady Babbleton, in spite of her title and her stateli-
ness, was exceedingly the reverse of good ton, and the
daughters, (who did not resemble the scrag of mutton, but
its ghost,) had an appearance of sour affability, which was
as different from the manners of proper society, as it possi-
bly could be.
I wondered greatly who and what they were. In the
eyes of the Cheltenhamians, they were the Countess and
her daughters; and any further explanation would have
been deemed quite superfluous; further explanation I was,
however, determined to procure, and was walking across
the room in profound meditation, as to the method in which
the discovery should be made, when I was startled by the
voice of Sir Lionel Garrett: I turned round, and, to my
unexpressible joy, beheld that worthy baronet.
"God bless me, Pelham," said he, "how delighted I am
to see you. Lady Harriet, here's your old favorite, Mr.
Pelham."
Lady Harriet was all smiles and pleasure.
"Give me
four arm," said she; "I must go and speak to Lady Bab-
bleton, odious woman!”
46
Do, my dear Lady Harriet," said I," explain to me
what Lady Babb ston was?"
VOL. I.
6
|
"Why, she was a milliner, and took in the late Lord,
who was an idiot, Voilà tout!"
r
-
Perfectly satisfactory," replied I.
"Or, short and sweet, as Lady Babbleton would say,"
replied Lady Harriet, laughing.
"In antithesis to her daughters, who are long and sour."
"Oh, you satirist!" said the affected Lady Harriet,
(who was only three removes better than the Cheltenham
Countess ;) "but tell me how long you have been at Chel
tenham ?"
"About four hours and a half!
"Then you don't know any of the lions here?"
"None."
Well, let me despatch Lady Babbleton, and I'll then
devote myself to being your nomenclator.
We walked up to Lady Babbleton, who had already dis-
posed of her daughters, and was sitting in solitary digrity
at the end of the room.
—
"My dear Lady Babbleton," cried Lady Harriet, taking
both the hands of the dowager,
"I am so glad to see
you, and how well you are looking; and your charming
daughters, how are they? sweet girls! and how long
have you been here ?
**
دو
"We have only just come," replied the cidevant milliner,
half rising and rustling her plumes in stately agitation, like
a nervous parrot; we must conform to modern ours, Lady
Arriet, though, for my part, I like the old-fashioned plan
of dining early, and finishing one's gayeties before mid-
night; but I set the fashion of good ours as well as I can.
I think it's a duty we owe to society, Lady Arriet, to
encourage morality by our own example. What else
do we have rank for? And, so saying, the counter
Countess drew herself up with a most edifying air of moral
dignity.
Lady Harriet looked at me, and perceiving that my eye
said "go on," as plain as eye could possibly speak, she
continued, "Which of the wells do you attend, Lady
Babbleton?"
"All," replied the patronizing_dowager, "I like to en-
courage the poor people here; I've no notion of being
proud because one has a title, Lady Arriet."
"No," rejoined the worthy helpmate of Sir Lionel Gar-
rett;
every body talks of your condescension, Lady Bab-
bleton; but are you not afraid of letting yourself down by
going every where ?"
"Oh," answered the Countess, "I admit very few into
my set, at home, but I go out promiscuously;" and then,
looking at me, she said, in a whisper, to Lady Harriet,
"Who is that nice young gentleman?"
"Mr. Pelham,” replied Lady Harriet; and, turning to
me, formally introduced us to each other.
"Are you any relation (asked the dowager) to Lady
Frances Pelham ?"
said I
Only her sou?
"Dear me," replied Lady Babbleton, " how odd; what
a nice elegant woman she is! She does not
She does not go much out,
does she? I don't often meet her!
"I should not think it likely that your ladyship did meet
her much. She does not visit promiscuously."
<<
"Every rank has its duty," said Lady Harriet, gravely;
your mother Mr. Pelham, may confine her circle as much
as she pleases; but the high rank of Lady Babbleton, re-
quires greater condescension; just the same as the Dukes
of Sussex and Gloucester go to many places where you and
I would not.
"Very true!" said the innocent dowager; " and that's
a very sensible remark ! Were you at Bath last winter,
Mr. Pelham ?" continued the Countess, whose thoughts
wandered from subject to subject in the most rudderless
manner.
CC
No, Lady Babbleton, I was unfortunately at a less dis-
tinguished place."
"What was that?"
"Paris!"
Oh, indeed! I've never been abroad; I don't think
persons of a certain rank should leave England; they
should stay at home and encourage their own manufacto
ries."
"Ah!" cried I, taking hold of Lady Babbleton's shaw)
"what a pretty Manchester pattern this is."
<<
"Manchester pattern!" exclaimed the petrified peeress,
why it is real cachemere: you don't think I wear any
thing English, Mr. Pelham ?”
12
BULWER'S NOVELS
<
"I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons. I am no
judge of dress; but to return -I am quite of your opinion,
that we ought to encourage our own manufactories, and not
o abroad : but one cannot stay long on the continent, even
one is decoyed there. One soon longs for home again."
Very sensibly remarked," rejoined Lady Babbleton :
*hat's what I call true patriotism, and inorality. I wish
all the young men of the present day were like you. Oh,
dear-here's a great favorite of mine coming this
Mr. Ritson! do you know him? shall I introduce you?”
"God forbid !" exclaimed I- frightened out of my
wits and my inanners. "Come, Lady Harriet, let us rejoin
Sir Lionel ;" and, "swift at the word," Lady Harriet re-
took my arm, nodded her adieu to Lady Babbleton, and
withdrew with me to an obscurer part of the room.
>
way
Here we gave way to our laughter for sometine, till, at
last getting weary of the Cheltenham Cleopatra, I remind-
ed Lady Harriet of her promise, to name to me the various
personages of the assemblage.
"Eh bien," began Lady Harriet; "d'abord, you ob-
serve that very short person, somewhat more than inclined
to embonpoint? "
"What, that thing like a Chinese tumbler that peg of
old clothes that one-foot square of mortality, with an
aquatic-volucrine face, like a spoonbill ?"
"The very same," said Lady Harriet, laughing; "she
is a Lady Gander. She professes to be a patroness of
literature, and holds weekly soirées in London, for all the
newspaper poets. She also falls in love every year, and
then she employs her minstrels to write sonnets; her son
has a most filial tenderness for a jointure of 10,0007. a
year, which she casts away on these feasts and follies
and, in order to obtain it, declares the good lady to be in-
sane. Half of her friends he has bribed, or persuaded to
be of his opinion; the other half stoutly maintain her ra-
tionality; and, in fact, she herself is divided in her own
opinion as to the case; for she is in the habit of drinking
to a most unsentimental excess, and when the fit of intox-
ication is upon her, she confesses to the charge brought
against her supplicates for mercy and brandy, and totters
to bed with the air of a Magdalene but when she recov-
ers the next morning, the whole scene is changed; she is
an injured woman, a persecuted saint, a female Sophocles
-declared to be mad only because she is a miracle. Poor
Harry Darlington called upon her in town the other day
he found her sitting on a large chair, and surrounded by a
whole host of hangers on, who were disputing, by no means
sotto voce, whether Lady Gander was mad or not; Henry
was immediately appealed to; Now, is not this a proof
of insanity?' said one. Is not this a mark of compos
mentis?' cried another. I appeal to you, Mr. Darling-
ton,' exclaimed all. Meanwhile, the object of the conver-
sation sate in a state of maudlin insensibility, turning her
head, first on one side, and then on the other; and nod-
ding to all the disputants, as if agreeing with each But
enough of her. Do you observe that lady in
C
C
"Good heavens!" exclaimed I, starting up," is that
can that be Tyrrell !”
|
|
John Tyrrell, with a very large income, and, in spite of a
certain coarseness of manner, probably acquired by the low
company he latterly kept, he is very much liked, and even
admired by the few good people in the society of Chel
tenham."
At this instant, Tyrrell passed us; he caught my eye,
stopped short, and colored violently. I bowed; he seem-
ed undecided for a moment as to the course he should
adopt; it was but for a moment. He returned my salu-
tation with great appearance of cordiality; shook me
warmly by the hand; expressed himself delighted to meet
me; inquired where I was staying, and said he should
certainly call upon me. With this promise he glided cn,
and was soon lost among the crowd.
"Where did you meet him?" said Lady Harriet.
"At Paris!
"What! was he in decent society there?"
"I don't know," said I. "Good night, Lady Harriet ;"
and, with an air of extreme lassitude, I took my hat, and
vanished from that motley mixture of the fashionably low
and the vulgarly genteel !
CHAPTER XLI.
Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard, and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath unto bondage
Drawn my too diligent ears.
But you, oh! you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best.
SHAKSPEARE.
my
THOU wilt easily conceive, my dear reader, who hast
been in my confidence throughout the whole of this history,
and whom, though, as yet, thou hast cause to esteem me
friend
but lightly, I already love as my familiar and
thou wilt easily conceive my surprise, at meeting so unex-
pectedly with my old hero of the gambling house. I felt
indeed perfectly stunned at the shock of so singular a
change in his circumstances since I had last met him. My
thoughts reverted immediately to that scene, and to the
mysterious connexion between Tyrrell and Glanville. How
would the latter receive the intelligence of his enemy's
good fortune! was his vengeance satisfied, or through what
means could it now find vent ?
A thousand thoughts similar to these occupied and dis-
tracted my attention till morning, when I had Bedos into
the room to read me to sleep.
the room to read me to sleep. He opened a play of Mon-
sieur de la Vignes, and at the beginning of the second
scene I was in the land of dreams.
I woke about two o'clock; dressed, sipped my choco-
late, and was on the point of arranging my hat to the best
advantage, when I received the following note:
"MY DEAR PELHAM,
"Me tibi commendo. I heard this morning, at your
"What is the matter with the man ;" cried Lady Har-hotel, that you were here; my heart was a house of joy at
riet.
I quickly recovered my presence of mind, and reseated
myself : “Pray forgive me, Lady Harriet," said I: “but
I think, nay, I am sure,
I am sure, I see a person I once met under
very particular circumstances. Do you observe that dark
man in deep mourning, who has just entered the room, and
is now speaking to Sir Ralph Rumford ?”
"I do, it is Sir John Tyrrell !" replied Lady Harriet:
"he only came to Cheltenham yesterday. His is a very
singular history.'
دو
What is it?" said I eagerly.
the intelligence. I called upon you two hours ago; but,
like Antony,' you revel long o'nights.' Ah, that I could
add with Shakspeare, that you were notwithstanding up.'
I have just come from Paris, that umbilicus terræ, and my
adventures since I saw you, for your private satisfact on,
'because I love you, I will let you know;' but you must
satisfy me with a meeting. Till you do, the mighty gods
defend you!
C
"VINCENT.”
The hotel from which Vincent dated this epistle, was in
the same street as my caravansera, and to this hotel I in-
mediately set off. I found my friend sitting before a huge
folio, which he in vain endeavoured to persuade me that
he seriously intended to read. We greeted each other
with the greatest cordiality.
Why he was the only son of a younger branch of the mediately set off.
Tyrrels; a very old family, as the name denotes.
He was
He went
a great deal in a certain roué set, for some years, and was
celebrated for his offrires du cœur. His fortune was, how-
ever, perfectly unable to satisfy his expenses; he took to
gambling, and lost the remains of his property.
abroad, and used to be seen at the low gambling houses at
Paris, earning a very degraded and precarious subsistence;
till about three months ago, two persons, who stood be-
tween him and the title and estates of the family, died,
and, most unexpectedly, he succeeded to both. They say
that he was found in the most utter penury and distress, in
a small cellar at Paris; however that be, he is now Sir
"But how," said Vincent, after the first warmth of wel-
come had subsided, "how shall I congratulate you upon
your new honors? I was not prepared to find you grown
from a roué into a senator.
(
In gathering votes you were not slack,
Now stand as tightly by your tack,
Ne'er show your lug an' fldge your back,
An' hum an' haw,
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack
Before them a''
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
43
So saith Burns' advice, the which being interpreted -
meaneth, that you must astonish the rats of St. Ste-
phen's.
"Alas!" said I, "all one's clap-traps in that house
must be baited."
Nay, but a rat bites at any cheese, from Gloucester to
Parmesan, and you can easily scrape up a bit of some sort.
Talking of the House, do you see by the paper, that the
civic senator, Alderman W is at Cheltenham ?
"I was not aware of it. I suppose he's cramming
peeches and turtle for the next season.”
,
>>
"How wonderful," said Vincent, " your city dignities
anloose the tongue directly a man has been a mayor, he
thinks himself qualified for a Tully at least. Faith, Vena-
bles asked me one day, what was the Latin for spouting?
and I told him, hippomanes, or a raging humor in
mayors.
After I had paid, through the medium of my risible mus-
cles, due homage to this witticism of Vincent's, he shut up
his folio, called for his hat, and we sauntered down into the
street. As we passed by one of the libraries, a whole mob
of the dandies of the last night, were lounging about the
benches placed before the shop windows.
"Pray, Vincent," said I," remark those worthies, and
especially that tall meagre youth in the blue frock-coat, and
the buff waistcoat; he is Mr. Ritson, the De Rous (viz.
the finished gentleman) of the place.”
"I see him," answered Vincent. "He seems a most
happy mixture of native coarseness and artificial decora-
tion. He puts me in mind of the picture of the great ox,
set in a gilt frame.”
"Or a made dish in Bloomsbury Square, garnished with
cut carrots, by way of adornment," said I.
"Or a flannel petticoat, with a fine crape over it," ad-
ded Vincent. "Well, well, these imitators are, after all,
not worse than the originals. When do you go up to
town?"
"Not till my senatorial duties require me."
"Do you stay here tiH then?"
"As it pleases the gods. But, good heavens, Vincent,
what a beautiful girl!
Vincent turned. "O Dea certè," murmured he, and
stopped.
The object of our exclamations was standing by a cor-
ner shop, apparently waiting for some one within. Her
face, at the moment I first saw her, was turned full towards
me. Never had I seen any countenance half so lovely.
She was apparently about twenty, her hair was of the rich-
est chesnut, and a golden light played through its darkness,
as if the sunbeam had been caught in those luxuriant tres-
ses, and was striving in vain to escape. Her eyes were of
a light hazel, large, deep, and shaded into softness (to use a
modern expression,) by long and very dark lashes. Her
complexion alone would have rendered her beautiful, it
was so clear -so pure; the blood blushed beneath it, like
roses under a clear stream; if, in order to justify my si-
mile, roses would have the complacency to grow in such a
situation. Her nose was of that fine and accurate mould
that one so seldom sees, except in the Grecian statues,
which unite the clearest and most decided outline with the
most feminine delicacy and softness, and the short curved
arch which descended from thence to her mouth, was so
fine so airily and exquisitely formed, that it seemed as if
Love himself had modelled the bridge which led to his
most beautiful and fragrant island. On the right side of
the mouth was one dimple, that corresponded so exactly
with every smile and movement of those rosy lips, that you
might have sworn the shadow of each passed there; it was
like the rapid changes of an April heaven reflected upon
a valley. She was somewhat, but not much taller than the
ordinary height; and her figure, which united all the first
freshness and youth of the girl, with the more luxuriant
graces of the woman, was rounded and finished so justly
so minutely, that the eye could glance over the whole,
without discovering the least harshness, or unevenness, or
atom, to be added or subtracted. But over all these was a
light, a glow, a pervading spirit, of which it is impossible
to convey the faintest idea. You should have seen her by
the side of a shaded fountain on a summer's day. You
should have watched her amidst music and flowers-and
she might have seemed to you like the fairy that presided
over both. So much for poetical description.
"What think you of her, Vincent?" said I
1
len
"I say, with Theocritus, in his epithalamium of He-
r
'Say no such thing," said I: "I wil not have her
presence profaned by any helps from your memory."
At that moment the girl turned round abruptly, and re-
entered the shop, at the door of which she had been stand-
"Thank heaven,'
ing. It was a small perfumer's shop.
said I, "that she does use perfumes. What scents can she
now be hesitating between?- the gentle bouquet du roi,
the cooling esprit de Portugal, the mingled treasures des
millefleurs, the less distinct but agreeably adulterated mid,
the sweet May-recalling esprit des violets, or the
"Omnis copia narium," said Vincent; "let us enter, I
want some eau de Cologne."
I desired no second invitation; we marched into the
shop; my Armida was leaning on the arm of an old lady.
She blushed deeply when she saw us enter, and, as ill luck
would have it, the old lady concluded her purchases the
moment after, and they withdrew.
"Who had thought this clime had held,
A deity so unparallel'd!'"
justly observed my companion.
I made no reply. All the remainder of that day I was
absent and reserved; and Vincent, perceiving that I no
longer laughed at his jokes, nor smiled at his quotations,
told me I was sadly changed for the worse, and pretended
an engagement to rid himself of an auditor so obtuse.
CHAPTER XLII
Toute notre ma. vient de ne pouvoir être seuls; de là le jeu,
le luxe, la dissipation, le vin, les femmes, l'ignorance, la médi
sance, l'envie, l'oubli de soi-même et de Dieu.
LA BRUYERE.
THE next day I resolved to call upon Tyrzell, seeing
that he had not yet kept his promise of anticipating me.
and being very desirous not to lose an opportunity of im-
proving my acquaintance with him; accordingly, I sent
my valet to make inquiries as to his abode. I found that
he lodged in the same hotel as myself; and having pre-
viously ascertained that he was at home, I made up my
features into their most winning expression, and was ush-
ered by the head waiter into the gamester's apartment.
He was sitting by the fire in a listless, yet thoughtſul
attitude. His muscular and rather handsome person was
inducted in a dressing-gown, of rich brocade, thrown on
with a slovenly nonchalance. His stockings were about
his heels, his hair was dishevelled, and the light streaming
through the half-drawn window-curtains, rested upon the
gray flakes with which its darker luxuriance was inter-
spersed, and the cross light in which he had the impudence
or misfortune to sit (odious cross light, which even I already
begin carefully to avoid,) fully developed the deep wrinkles
which years and dissipation had planted round his eyes and
mouth. I was quite startled at the oldness and haggardness
of his appearance.
He rose with great grace when I was announced; and
no sooner had the waiter retired, than he came up to me,
shook me warmly by the hand, and said, "Let me thank
you now for the attention you formerly showed me, when I
was less able to express my acknowledgments. I shall be
proud to cultivate your intimacy.'
I answered him in the same strain, and in the course of
conversation, made myself so entertaining, that he agreed
to spend the remainder of the day with me. We ordered
our horses at three, and our dinner at seven, and I left him
till the former were ready, in order to allow him time for
his toilet.
During our ride we talked principally on general sub-
jects, on the various differences of France and England,
on horses, on wines, on women, on politics, on all things,
except that which had created our acquaintance. His re-
marks were those of a strong, ill-regulated mind, which
had made experience supply the place of the reasoning
faca ties: there was a looseness in his sentiments, and å
licentiousness in his opinions, which startled even me (used
as I had been to rakes of all schools ;) his philosophy was
of that species which thinks that the best maxim of wisdom
is to despise. Of men he spoke with the bitterness of
44
BULWER'S NOVELS.
hatred; of women, with the levity of contempt. France |
had taught him its debaucheries, but not the elegance which
refines them if his sentiments were low, the language in
which they were clothed was meaner still; and that
which makes the morality of the upper classes, and which
no criminal is supposed to be hardy enough to reject; that
religio. which has no scoffers, that code which has no im-
pugners, that honor among gentlemen, which constitutes the
moving principle of the society in which they live, he
seemed to imagine, even in its most fundamental laws, was
an authority to which nothing but the inexperience of the
young, and the credulity of the romantic, could accede.
Upon the whole he seemed to be a "bold, bad man,"
with just enough of intellect to teach him to be a villain,
without that high degree which shows him that it is the
worst course for his interest; and just enough of daring to
nake him indifferent to the dangers of guilt, though it was
not sufficient to make him conquer and control them. For
the rest, he loved trotting better than cantering- piqued
piqued
himself upon being manly- wore doe-skin gloves-drank
port wine, par préferencé, and considered beef-steaks and
oysters as the most delicate dish in the whole carte.
think, now, reader, you have a tolerably good view of his
character.
After dinner, when we were discussing the second bot-
tle, I thought it would not be a bad opportunity to question
him upon his acquaintance with Glanville. His counte-
nance fell directly I mentioned that name. However, he
rallied himself. Oh," said he, "you mean the soi-disant
Warburton. I knew him some years back he was a
poor silly youth, half mad, I believe, and particularly hos-
tile to me, owing to some foolish disagreement when he
was quite a boy.
"What was the cause?" said I.
Nothing - nothing of any consequence," answered
Tyrrell; and then added, with an air of coxcombry, "I
believe I was more fortunate than he, in an affaire du cœur.
Poor Glanville is a little romantic you know. But enough
of this now shall we go to the rooms ?
"With pleasure," said I; and to the rooms we went.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Veteres revocavit artes.
HORACE.
Since I came hither I have heard strange news.
King Lear.
Two days after my long conversation with Tyrrell, I
called again upon that worthy. To my great surprise he
had left Cheltenham. I then strolled to Vincent: I found
him lolling on his sofa, surrounded, as usual, with books,
and papers.
"Come in, Pelham," said he, as I hesitated at the
threshold rr
—"come in; I have been delighting myself with
Plato all the morning; I scarcely know what it is that
enchants us so much with the ancients. I rather believe,
with Schlegel, that it is that air of perfect repose the
stillness of a deep soul, which rests over their writings.
Whatever would appear common-place among us, has with
them I know not what of sublimity and pathos. Triteness
seems the profundity of truth wildness the daring of a
luxuriant imagination. The fact is, that in spite of every
fault, you see through all the traces of original thought;
there is a contemplative grandeur in their sentiments,
which seems to have nothing borrowed in its meaning or
its dress. Take, for instance, this fragment of Minner-
mus, on the shortness of life, what subject can seem
more tame?—what less striking than the feelings he ex-
presses?—and yet, throughout every line, there is a mel-
ancholy depth and tenderness which it is impossible to de-
fine. Of all English writers who partake the most of this
spirit of conveying interest and strength to sentiments,
subjects, and language, neither novel in themselves, nor
adorned in their arrangement, I know none that equal By-
ron; it is indeed the chief beauty of that extraordinary
poet. Examine Childe Harold accurately, and you will
be surprised to discover how very little of real depth or
novely there ofter. is in the reflections which seem most
deep and new. You are enchained by the vague but
powerful beauty of the style; the strong impress of orig
inality which breathes throughout. Like the oracle of
Dodona, he makes the forest his tablets, and writes his
inspirations upon the leaves of the trees; but the source
of that inspiration you cannot tell; it is neither the truth
nor the beauty of his sayings which you admire, though
you fancy that it is; it is the mystery which accompanies
them."
"Pray," said I, stretching myself listlessly on the oppo-
site sofa to Vincent, "do you not imagine that one great
cause of this spirit of which you speak, and which seems
to be nothing more than a thoughtful method of expressing
all things even to trifles, was the great loneliness to which
the ancient poets and philosophers were attached? I
think (though I have not your talent for quoting) that
Cicero calls the consideratio naturæ, the pabulum animi;
and the mind which, in solitude, is confined necessarily to
a few objects, meditates more closely upon those it em-
braces: the habit of this meditation enters and pervades
the system, and whatever afterwards emanates from it, is
tinctured with the thoughtful and contemplative colors
has received."
"Heus Domine!" cried Vincent, "how long have you
learnt to read Cicero, and talk about the mind?
"Ah," said I," I am perhaps less ignorant than I affect
to be; it is now my object to be a dandy; hereafter I
may aspire to be an orator-a wit, a scholar, or a Vincent.
You will see then that there have been many odd quarters
of my life less unprofitably wasted than you imagine.'
Vincent rose in a sort of nervous excitement, and then
reseating himself, fixed his dark bright eyes steadfastly
upon me for some moments; his countenance all the while
assuming a higher and graver expression than I had ever
before seen it wear.
C
"Pelham," said he, at last, "it is for the sake of mo-
ments like these, when your better nature flashes out, that
I have sought your society and your friendship. I, too.
am not wholly what I appear: the world may yet see that
Halifax was not the only statesman whom the pursuits of
literature had only formed the better for the labors of busi-
ness. Meanwhile, let me pass for the pedant, and the
bookworm: like a sturdier adventurer than myself, I
bide my time.' - Pelham this will be a busy session!
shall you prepare for it?"
"Nay," answered I, relapsing into my usual tone of
languid affectation; "I shall have too much to do in at-
tending to Stultz, and Nugee, and Tattersall's, and Bax
ter's, and a hundred other occupiers of spare time. Re-
member this is my first season in London since my major-
ity."
Vincent took up the newspaper with evident chagrin ;
however, he was too theoretically the man of the world,
long to show his displeasure.
"Par Par again,"
said he; "how they stuff the journals with that name.
God knows, I venerate learning as much as any man;
but I respect it for its uses, and not for itself. However,
I will not quarrel with his reputation-it is but for a day.
Literary men, who leave nothing but their name to pos-
terity, have but a short twilight of posthumous renown.
Apropos, do you know my pun upon Parr and the Major!”
"Not I," said I, " Majora canamus!"
'
Why, Parr and I, and two or three more were dining
once at Poor T. M's, the author of Indian Antiqui-
ties. Major a great traveller, entered into a dispute
with Parr about Babylon; the Doctor got into a violent
passion, and poured out such a heap of quotations on his
unfortunate antagonist, that the latter, stunned by the
clamor, and terrified by the Greek, was obliged to suc-
cumb. Parr turned triumphantly to me: "What is your
opinion, my lord," said he; "who is in the rigat?
"Adversis MAJOR PAR secundis," answerea I.
"Vincent," I said, after I had expressed sufficient ad-
miration at his pun "Vincent, I begin to be weary of
this life; I shall accordingly pack up my books and myself,
and go to Malvern Wells, to live quietly till I think it time
for London. After to-day, you will therefore see me no
more.'
"I cannot," answered Vincent, "contravene so lauda-
ble a purpose, however I may be the loser." And after a
short and desultory conversation I left him once more to
the tranquil enjoyment of his Plato. That evening I went
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
46
ʼn Malvern, and there I remained in a monotonous state
of existence, dividing my time equally between my mind
and my body, and forming myself into that state of contem-
plative reflection, which was the object of Vincent's ad-
miration in the writings of the ancients.
Just when I was on the point of leaving my retreat, I
received an intelligence which most materially affected my
future prospects. My uncle, who had arrived to the sober
age of fifty, without any apparent designs of matrimony,
fell suddenly in love with a lady in his immediate neigh-
bourhood, and married her, after a courtship of three
weeks.
“I should not," said my poor mother, very generously,
in a subsequent letter, " so much have minded his mar-
"so
riage, if the lady had not thought proper to become in the
family way; a thing which I do and always shall consider,
a most unwarrantable encroachment on your rights.'
I will confess that, on first hearing this news, I expe-
rienced a bitter pang; but I reasoned it away. I was
already under great obligations to my uncle, and I felt it a
very unjust and ungracious assumption on my part to affect
anger at conduct I had no right to question, or mortifica-
tion at the loss of pretensions I had so equivocal a privi-
lege to form. A man of fifty has, perhaps, a right to con-
sult his own happiness, almost as much as a man of thirty;
and if he attracts by his choice the ridicule of those whom
he has never obliged, it is at least from those persons he
has obliged, that he has to look for countenance and de-
fence.
Fraught with these ideas, I wrote to my uncle a sincere
and warm letter of congratulation His answer was, like
himself, kind, affectionate, and generous; it informed me
that he had already made over to me the annual sum of one
thousand pounds; and that in case of his having a lineal
heir, he had, moreover, settled upon me, after his death,
two thousand a year.
He ended by assuring me, that his
only regret at marrying a lady whom, in all respects was
above all women, calculated to make him happy, was his
unfeigned reluctance to deprive me of a station, which
(he was pleased to say) I not only deserved, but should
adorn.
Upon receiving this letter, I was sensibly affected by my
uncle's kindness; and so far from repining at his choice,
I most heartily wished him every blessing it could afford
him, even though an heir to the titles of Glenmorris were
one of them.
I protracted my stay at Malvern some weeks longer than
I had intended; the circumstance which had wrought so
great a change in my fortune, wrought no less powerfully
on my character. I became more thoughtfully and solidly
ambitious. Instead of wasting my time in idle regrets at
the station I had lost, I rather resolved to carve out for
myself one still loftier and more universally acknowledged.
I determined to exercise, to their utmost, the little ability
and knowledge I possessed; and while the increase of
income, derived from my uncle's generosity, furnished me
with what was necessary for my luxury, I was resolved
that it should not encourage me in the indulgence of my
indolence.
In this mood and these intentions, I repaired to the
metropolis.
CHAPTER XLV.
Cum pulchris tunicis sumet nova consilia et spes.
And look always that they be shape,
What garment that thou shall make
Of him that best can do
With all that pertaineth thereto.
HOR.
Rom. of the Rose
How well I can remember the feelings with which I
entered London, and took possession of the apartments pre-
pared for me at Mivart's. A year had made a vast altera-
tion in my mind; I had ceased to regard pleasure for its
own sake, I rather coveted its enjoyments, as the great
sources of worldly distinction. I was not the less a cox-
comb than heretofore, nor the less a voluptuary, nor the
.ess choice in my perfumes, nor the less fastidious in my
horses and my dress; but I viewed these matters in a light,
wholly different from that in which I had hitherto regarded
them. Beneath all the carelessness of my exterior, my
mind was close, keen, and inquiring; and under the affec
tations of foppery, and the levity of a manner almost
unique, for the effeminacy of its tone, I veiled an ambi.
tion the most extensive in its object, and a resolution the
most daring in the accomplishment of its means.
I was still lounging over my breakfast, on the second
morning of my arrival, when Mr. N, the tailor, was
announced.
"Good morning, Mr. Pelham: happy to see you re-
turned.
turned. Do I disturb you too early, or shall I wait on you
again?"
"No, Mr. N—, I am ready to receive you; you may
renew my meɔs,
we want
"We are a very good figure, Mr. Pelham; very good
figure," replied the Schneider; surveying me from head
to foot, while he was preparing his measure ;
a little assistance though; we must be padded well here;
we must have our chest thrown out, and have an additional
inch across the shoulders; we must live for effect in this
world, Mr. Pelham; a leetle tighter round the waist, eh?"
"Mr. N-," said I, " you will take, first, my exac
measure, and secondly, my exact instructions. Have you
done the first?
"We are done, now, Mr. Pelham," replied my man-
maker, in a slow, solemn tone.
"You will have the goodness then, to put no stuffing of
any description in my coat; you will not pinch me an iota
tighter across the waist, than is natural to that part of my
body, and you will please, in your infinite mercy, to leave
me as much after the fashion in which God made me, as
you possibly can."
CC
"
But, Sir, we must be padded; we are much too thin;
all the gentlemen in the Life Guards are padded, Sir.'
“ Mr. N——," answered I, "you will please to speak
and
of us, with a separate and not a collective pronoun;
you will let me for once have my clothes, such as a gen-
tleman, who, I beg of you to understand, is not a life-
guardsman, can wear without being mistaken for a Guy
Fawkes on a fifth of November."
Mr. N▬▬▬▬ looked
looked very discomfited: "We shall not be
liked, Sir, when we are made - we shan't, I assure you. I
will call on Saturday at 11 o'clock. Good morning, Mr
Pelham; we shall never be done justice to, if we do not
live for effect; good morning, Mr. Pelham.”
Scarcely had Mr. N-
his
retired, before Mr.
rival, appeared. The silence and austerity of this impor-
tation from Austria, was very refreshing after the orations
of Mr. N
“Two frock coats, Mr. "said I, "one of them
brown, velvet collar same color; the other, dark gray, nc
stuffing, and finished by Wednesday.
Good morning,
Mr.
"Monsieur B -, un autre tailleur," said Bedos, open-
ing the door after Mr. S.'s departure.
"Admit him," said 1, "now for the most difficult article
of dress the waistcoat.'
The
And here, as I am wearied of speaking of tailors, let us
reflect a little upon their works. In the first place, I deem
it the supreme excellence of coats, not to be too well
made; they should have nothing of the triangle about
them ; at the same time, wrinkles behind should be care-
fully avoided; the coat should fit exactly, though without
effort; I hold it as a decisive opinion, that this can never
be the case where any padding, (beyond one thin sheet of
buckram, placed smoothly under the shoulder, and sloping
gradually away towards the chest,) is admitted.
collar is a very important point, to which too much atten-
tion cannot be given. I think I would lay down, as a
general rule, (of course dependent on the mode,) that it
should be rather low behind, broad, short, and slightly
rolled. The tail of the coat must on no account be brond
or square, unless the figure be much too thin ; - no.icense
of fashion can allow a man of delicate taste to adopt, and
imitate the posterial luxuriance of a Hottentot. On the
contrary, I would lean to the other extreme, and think my-
self safe in a swallow tail. With respect to the length
allotted to the waist, I can give no better rule than always
to adopt that proportion granted us by nature. The gigot
sleeve is an abominable fashion; any thing tight across the
wrist is ungraceful to the last degree; moreover, such tight
46
BULWER'S NOVEIS
ness does not suffer the wristband to lie smooth and un-
wrinkled, and has the effect of giving a large and clumsy
appearance to the hand.
Speaking of the hand, I would observe, that it should
never be utterly ringless, but whatever ornament of that
description it does wear, should be distinguished by a re-
markable fastidiousness of taste. I know nothing in which
the good sense of a gentleman is more finely developed
than in his rings; for my part, I carefully eschew all
mourning rings, all hoops of embossed gold, all diamonds,
and very precious stones, and all antiques, unless they are
peculiarly fine. One may never be ashamed of a seal
ring, nor of a very plain gold one, like that worn by mar-
ried women; rings should in general be simple, but singu-
lar, and bear the semblance of a gage d'amour. One should
never be supposed to buy a ring, unless it is a seal one.
Pardon this digression. One word now for the waist-
ccat; this, though apparently the least observable article
in dress, is one which influences the whole appearance
more than any one not profoundly versed in the habilatory
art would suppose. Besides, it is the only main portion
of our attire in which we have full opportunity for the dis-
play of a graceful and well cultivated taste. Of an even-
ing. I am by no means averse to a very rich and ornate
species of vest; but the extremest cautio is necessary in
the selection of the spot, the stripe, or he sprig, which
forms the principal decoration-nothing t. vdry-nothing
common must be permitted; if you wear a fire waistcoat,
and see another person with one resembling it, forthwith
bestow it upon your valet. A white waistcoat with a
A white waistcoat with a
black coat and trowsers, and a small chain of dead gold,
only partially seen, is never within the bann of the learned
in such matters; but beware, oh beware your linen, your
neckcloth, your collar, your frill, on the day in which you
are tempted to the decent perpetration of a white waist-
coat! All things depend upon their arrangement in a
black waistcoat, the sins of a tie, or the soils of a shirt-
bosom, escape detection; with a white one, there is no
hope. If, therefore, you are hurried in your toilet, or in a
misanthropic humor at the moment of settling your cra-
vat, let no inducement suffer you to wear a vesture which
were all else suitable, would be the most unexceptionable
you could assume.
Times, by the by, are greatly changed since Brummell
interdicted white waistcoats of a morning. I do not know
whether, during the heat of the season, you could indue
yourself in a more gentle and courtly garment. The dress
waistcoat should generally possess a rolling and open form,
giving the fullest opening for the display of the shirt, which
cannot be too curiously fine; if a frill is exquisitely washed,
it is the most polished form in which your bosom appurte-
nances should be moulded; if not- if, indeed, your own
valet, or your mistress does not superintend their lavations,
I would advise a simple plait of the plainest fashions.
With regard to the trowsers, be sure that you have them
exceedingly tight across the hips; if you are well made,
you may then leave their further disposition to Providence,
until they reach the ancle. There you must pause, and
consider well whether you will have them short, so as to
develope the fineness of the bas de soie, or whether you will
continue them so as to kiss your very shoe tie; in the lat-
ter form, which is indisputedly the most graceful, you must
be especially careful that they flow down, as it were, in an
in an
easy and loose (but, above all, not baggy) fall, and that
he shoestrings are arranged in the dernier façon of a bew
and end. Of a morning the trowsers cannot be too long
or too easy, so that they avoid every outré and singular ex-
cess.
As to the choice of colors, in clothing, it is scarcely
possible to fix any certain or definite rule. Among all
persons, there should be little variety of color, either in
the morning or the evening; but fair people, with good
complexions, may, if their port and bearing be genuinely
aristocratic, wear light or showy colors -a taste cautious-
ly to be shunned by the darke pale, the meagre, and
the suburban in mien.
For the rest I cannot sufficiently impress upon your mind
the most thoughtful consideration to the minutiae of dress,
such as the glove, the button, the boot, the shape of the
hat, &c.; above all, the most scrupulous attention to
cleanliness is an invariable sign of a polished and elegant
taste and is the very life and soul of the greatest of all
-the surence of dress.
#cies ces
CHAPTER XLV.
Tantôt, Monseigneur le Marquis à cheval-
Tantôt, Monsieur du Mazin de bout !
L'Art de se Promener à Cheval.
My cabriolet was at the door, and I was preparing to
enter, when I saw a groom managing, with difficulty, a te-
markably fine and spirited horse. As, at that time, I was
chiefly occupied with the desire of making as perfect an
equine collection as my fortune would allow, I sent my cab
boy (vulgo Tiger) to inquire of the groom, whether it was
to be sold, and to whom it belonged.
"It was not to be disposed of," was the answer, ' and
it belonged to Sir Reginald Glanville."
The name thrilled through me: I drove after the groom,
and inquired Sir Reginald Glanville's address. His house,
the groom (whose dark-colored livery was the very perfec-
tion of a right judgment) informed me was at No.
Pall Mall. I resolved to call that day, but first I drove
to Lady Roseville's, to talk about Almack's and the
beau monde, and be initiated into the newest scandal and
satire of the day.
Lady Roseville was at home; I found the room ar
full of women: the beautiful countess was one of the few
persons now extant, who admit people of a morning. She
received me with marked kindness: seeing that
who was esteemed among his friends, the handsomest man
of the day, had risen from his seat, next to lady Roseville,
in order to make room for me, I negligently and quietly
dropped into it, and answered his grave and angry stare
at my presumption, with my very sweetest and most con-
descending sinile. Heaven be praised, the handsomest
man of the day is never the chief object in the room when
Henry Pelham and his guardian angel, termed by his ene-
mies, his self-esteem, once enter it.
<<
"Charming collection you have here, dear Lady Rose
ville," said I, looking round the room; quite a museum'
But who is that very polite, gentlemanlike young man, who
has so kindly relinquished his seat to me, though it quite
grieves me to take it from him?" added I, at the same
time leaning back, with a comfortable projection of the
feet, and establishing myself more securely in my usurped
chair. "Pour l'amour de Dicu, tell me the on dits of the
day. Good Heavens! what an unbecoming glass that is!
placed just opposite to me, too! could it not be removed
while I stay here? Oh! by the by, Lady Roseville, do
you patronize the Bohemian glasses? For my part, I
have one which I only look at when I am out of humor;
it throws such a lovely flush upon the complexion, that it
revives my spirits for the rest of the day. Alas! Lady
Roseville, I am looking much paler than when I saw you
at Garrett Park: but you -you are like one of those
beautiful flowers, which bloom the brightest in the winter.”
“Thank Heaven, Mr. Pelham," said Lady Roseville
laughing, "that you allow me at last to say one word
You have learned, at least, the art of making the frau
of the conversation since your visit to Paris."
—
*
"I understand you," answered I; “ you mean that ]
talk too much; it is true I own the offence—nothing is
so unpopular! Even I, the civilest, best natured, most un-
affected person in all Europe, am almost disliked, posi-
tively disliked, for that sole and simple crime. Ab the
most beloved man in society is that deaf and dumb person,
comment s'appelle-t-il !"
At this moment an elderly gentleman, who had been
lounging on a chaise longue near the window, and who was
the only person in the room inattentive to my display, call-
ed out,
"For God's sake, come here! a poor man will certainly
be thrown from his horse ! Will nobody help him?"
"That will I," I cried, starting up, and hastening to the
window, all the groupe crowing after me. One glance
was sufficient to show me, that the horse was the one of
Glanville's I had so lately admired, and that his rider (the
groom I had spoken to) was in the most imminent danger
of being dashed to pieces. He was aheady half off his
seat, with his head hanging down, and clinging to the mane
and neck only by one hand. I sprang to the door, cleared
the stairs at a bound, rushed through the hall doo, and
caught the enraged animal (whom no one else, of all the
surrounding loiters, dared approach) by the ein.
}
check, momentary as it was, gave the man, who nad not
The
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
47
lost all presence of mind, .ime to extricate himself from his
situation, and the next instant I had sprang into the saddle.
I found all my attention requisite to sooth my Bucephalus,
who had recommenced kicking and plunging with re-
doubled vigor. There never was any situation of life in
which I have lost the possession of myself. At first I was
contented with bending my limbs and body, with every.
motion of the horse; nor was it till after several minutes
of intense exertion on his part, that I used any evident
authority upon my own; ten minutes more sufficed to be-
gin and complete my triumph. I dismounted at the door
with my usual air of nonchalance, and giving the panting,
but now tractable animal to the groom, I reentered the
hall.
The "mob of gentlemen" and gentlewomen gathered
round me as I sauntered into the drawing-room. Lady
Roseville gave me a smile that weighed more with me than
the compliments and congratulations of all the rest.
رو
"Believe me, said I, escaping from them all, and
throwing myself on a sofa in the next room, riding is too
severe an exercise for men, it is only fit for the robuster
nerves of women. Will any gentleman present lend me
his essence bottle ?"
CHAPTER XLVI.
There was a youth, who as with toil and travel,
Had grown quite weak and gray before his time;
Nor any could the restless grief unravel,
Which burned within him withering up his prime,
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land.
P. B. SHELLley.
FROM Lady Roseville's I went to Glanville's house. He
was at home. I was ushered into a beautiful apartment,
hung with rich damask, and interspersed with a profusion
of mirrors, which enchanted me to the heart: beyond, to
the right of this room, was a small boudoir, fitted up with
books, and having, instead of carpets, soft cushions of dark
green velvet, so as to supersede the necessity of chairs.
This room, evidently a favorite retreat, was adorned at
close intervals with girandoles of silver and mother of
pearl; and the interstices of the book-cases were filled
with mirrors, set in silver; the handles of the doors were
of the same metal.
Beyond this library (if such it might be called) and on-
ly divided from it by half-drawn curtains of the same color
and material as the cushion, was a bath room. The deco-
rations of this room were of a delicate rose color; the
bath, which was of the most elaborate workmanship, rep-
resented, in the whitest marble, a shell, supported by two
Tritons. There was, as Glanville afterwards explained
to me, a machine in this room, which kept up a faint but
perpetual breeze, and the light curtains waving to and fro,
scattered about perfumes of the most exquisite odour.
Through this luxurious chamber I was led, by the obse-
quious and bowing valet, into a fourth room, in which,
opposite to a toilet of massive gold, and negligently robed
in his dressing-gown, sate Reginald Glanville:- "Good
heavens," thought I, as I approached him, " can this be
the man who made his residence par choix, in a miserable
hovel, exposed to all the damps, winds, and vapors, that
the prolific generosity of an English heaven ever begot ?"
Our meeting was cordial in the extreme: Glanville,
though still pale and thin, appeared in much better health
than I had yet seen him since our boyhood. He was, or
affected to be, in the most joyous spirits; and when his
dark blue eye lighted up, in answer to the merriment of
his lips, and nis noble and glorious cast of countenance
shone out, as if it had never been clouded by grief or pas-
sion, I thought, as I looked at him, that I had never seen
so perfect a specimen of masculine beauty, at once physical
and intellectual.
"My dear Pelham," said Glanville, "let us see a great
deal of each other: I live very much alone: I have an ex-
cellent cook sent me over from France, by the celebrated
gourmand Maréchal de
I dine every day exactly at
eight, and never accept an invitation to dine elsewhere. My
table is always laid for three, and you will, therefore, be
sure of finding a dinner every day you have no better en
gagement; what think you of my taste in furnishing?"
"I have only to say, ' answered 1, "that since I ain so
am
often to dine with you, I hope your taste in wines will be
| one-half as good."
"We are all," said Glanville, with a faint smile, "we
are all, in the words of the true old proverb-' children of
a larger growth.' Our first toy is love -our second, dis-
play, according as our ambition prompts us to exert it.
Some place it in horses -some in honors, some in feasts,
and some voici un exemple-in furniture. So true it is,
Pelham, that our earliest longings are the purest: in love
we covet goods for the sake of the one beloved : in display,
for our own: thus, our first stratum of mind produces fruit
for others: our second becomes niggardly and bears only
sufficient for ourselves. But enough of
But enough of my morals- will
you drive me out, if I dress quicker than you ever saw man
dress before?""
"No," said I; "for I make it a rule never to drive out
a badly dressed friend; take time, and I will let you ac-
company me.
"Pelham, you are in a grievous error," said Glanville.
"Men are like game, and are best dressed in a short
time. Ask my cook if I am wrong. Do you ever read?
If so, my books are made to be opened, and you may toss
over them while I adorn.”
"You are very good," said I," but I never do read.”
"Look-here," said Glanville, "are two works, one of
poetry one on the Catholic Question — both dedicated to
me. Seymour -my waistcoat. See what it is to furnish
a house differently from other people; one becomes a bel
esprit, and a Mecenas, immediately. Believe me,
if you
are rich enough to afford it, that there is no passport to
fame like eccentricity. Seymour-my coat. I am at your
service, Pelham. Say, did I not tell you rightly, that one
might dress well in a short time ?”
You did," said I: "one may do it, but not two-
allons!
I observed that Glanville was dressed in the deepest
mourning, and imagined, from that circumstance, and his
accession to the title I heard applied to him for the first
time, that his father was only just dead. In this opinion
I was soon undeceived. He had been dead for some years.
Glanville spoke to me of his family: "To
"To my mother,'
said he, "I am particularly anxious to introduce you-of
my sister, I say nothing; I expect you to be surprised with
her.
her. I love her more than any thing on earth now," and
as Glanville said this, a paler shade passed over his face.
•
We were in the park-Lady Roseville passed us — we
both bowed to her; as she returned our greeting, I was
struck with the deep and sudden blush which overspread
her countenance. "Can that be for me?" thought I. I
looked towards Glanville; his countenance had recovered
its serenity, and was settled into its usual proud, but not
displeasing, calmness of expression.
"Do you know Lady Roseville well?" said I.
CC
Very," answered Glanville, laconically, and changed
the conversation. As we were leaving the park, through
Cumberland Gate, we were stopped by a blockade of car-
riages; a voice, loud, harsh, and vulgarly accented, called
out to Glanville by his name. I turned and saw Thornton.
"For God's sake, Pelham, drive on," cried Glanville
"let me for once escape that atrocious plebeian."
Thornton was crossing the road towards us; I waived
my hand to him civilly enough, (for I never cut any body,)
and drove rapidly through the other gate, without appear-
ing to notice his design of speaking to us.
;
Thank heaven! said Glanville, and sunk back in a
reverie from which I could not awaken him, till he was set
down at his own door.
When I returned to Mivart's, I found a card from Lord
Dawton, and a letter from my mother.
"MY DEAR HENRY, (began the letter,)
“Lord Dawton having kindly promised to call upon you
personally, with this note, I cannot resist the opportunity
that promise affords rie, of saying how desirous I am that
you should cultivate his acquaintance. He is, you know,
among the most prominent leaders of the opposition; and
should the Whigs, by any possible chance, ever come into
power, he would have a great chance of becoming prime
minister. I trust, however, that you will not adopt that
side of the question. The Whigs are a horrid set of people,
(politically speaking,) vote for the Roman Catholics, and
never get into place; they give very good dinners, how-
ever, and till you have decided upon your politics, you may
43
BULWER'S NOVELS.
:
as well make the most of them. I hope, by the by, that
you see a great deal of Lord Vincent; every one speaks
highly of his talents and only two weeks ago, he said,
publicly, that he thought you the most promising young man,
and the most naturally clever person he had ever met.
hope that you will be attentive to your parliamentary duties;
and, oh, Henry, be sure that you see Cartwright, the dentist,
as soon as possible.
I
"I intend hastening to London three weeks earlier than
I had intended, in order to be useful to you. I have written
already to dear Lady Roseville, begging her to introduce
you at Lady C.'s, and Lady ; the only places worth
going to at present. They tell me there is a horrid vulgar
ignorant book come out, about
As you ought to
be well versed in modern literature, I hope you will read
it, and give me your opinion. Adieu, my dear Henry, ever
your affectionate mother,
"FRANCES PELHAM."
I was still at my solitary dinner, when the following note
was brought me from Lady Roseville.
"DEAR MR. PELHAM,
Lady Frances wishes Lady C-
to be made ac-
quainted with you: this is her night, and I therefore enclose
you a card. As I dine at House, I shall have an op-
portunity of making your éloge before your arrival. Your's
sincerely,
"C. ROSEVILLE."
I wonder, thought I, as I made iny toilet, whether or not
Lady R. is enamoured with her new correspondent? I
went very early, and before I retired, my vanity was unde-
ceived. Lady Roseville was playing at écarté, when I en-
tered. She beckoned to me to approach. I did. Her
antagonist was Mr. Bedford, a natural son of the Duke of
Shrewsbury, and one of the best natured and best looking
dandies about town; there was, of course, a great crowd
round the table. Lady Roseville played incomparably;
bets were high in her favor. Suddenly her countenance
changed -her hand trembled her presence of mind for-
sook her. She lost the game. I looked up and saw just
opposite to her, but apparently quite careless and unmoved,
Reginald Glanville. We had only time to exchange nods,
for Lady R. rose from the table, took my arm, and walked
to the other end of the room, in order to introduce me to
my hostess.
I spoke to her a few words, but she was absent and inat-
tentive; my penetration required no farther proof to con-
vince me that she was not wholly insensible to i he attentions
of Glanville. Lady was as civil and silly as the gen-
erality of Lady Blanks are and feeling very much bored,
I soon retired to an obscurer corner of the room. Here
Glanville joined me.
"It is but seldom," said he, "that I come to these
places; to-night my sister persuaded me to venture forth."
"Is she here?" said I.
"She is," answered he; "she has just gone into the
refreshment room with my mother, and when she returns,
I will introduce you.'
While Glanville was yet speaking, three middle-aged
ladies, who had been talking together with great vehemence
for the last ten minutes, approached us.
"Which is he? - which is he?" said two of them, in
no inaudible accents.
"This," replied the third; and coming up to Glanville,
she addressed him, to my great astonishment, in terms of
the most hyperbolical panegyric.
"Your work is wonderful! wonderful!" said she.
"Oh! quite quite!" echoed the other two.
|
I was too glad to answer in the affirmative
"How long have you been an author?" said I, wher
we were seated in Glanville's carriage.
"Not many days," he replied. "I have tried one re
source after another-all-all in vain. Oh, God! that
for me there could exist such a blessing as fiction. Must I
be ever the martyr of one burning, lasting, indelible truth!
و
Glanville uttered these words with a peculiar wildness
and energy of tone: he then paused abruptly for a minute,
and continued, with an altered voice
"Never, my dear Pelham, be tempted by any induce-
ment, into the pleasing errors of print; from that moment
you are public property; and the last monster at Exeter
Change has more liberty than you; but here we are at
Mivart's. Addio, I will call on you to-morrow, if my
wretched state of health will allow me.
And with these words we parted
CHAPTER XLVIL
>>
Ambition is a lottery, where, however uneven the chances,
there are some prizes; but in dissipation every one draws
blank.
Letters of STEPHEN MONTAGUE.
THE season was not far advanced before I grew heartily
tired of what are nicknamed its gayeties; I shrunk, by rapid
degrees, into a very small orbit, from which I rarely mov-
ed. I had already established a certain reputation for
eccentricity, coxcombry, and, to my great astonishment,
also for talent; and my pride was satisfied with finding
myself universally récherché, while I indulged my inclina-
tions by rendering myself universally scarce.
I saw much
of Vincent, whose varied acquirements and great talents
became more and more perceptible, both as my own ac-
quaintance with him increased, and as the grand political
events with which that year was pregnant, called forth their
exertion and display. I went occasionally to Lady Rose-
ville's, and was always treated rather as a long known
friend, than an ordinary acquaintance; nor did I under-
value this distinction, for it was part of her pride to render
her house not only as splendid, but as agreeable, as her
command over society enabled her to effect.
At the House of Commons my visits would have been
duly paid, but for one trifling occurrence, upon which, as
it is a very sore subject, I shall dwell as briefly as possible.
I had scarcely taken my seat, before I was forced to re-
nounce it. My unsuccessful opponent, Mr. Lufton, prefer-
red a petition against me for what he called undue means.
God knows what he meant; I am sure the House did not,
for they turned me out and declared Mr. Lufton duly
elected.
Never was there such a commotion in the Glenmorris
family before. My uncle was seized with the gout in his
stomach, and my mother shut herself up with Tremain, and
one China monster, for a whole week. As for me, though
I writhed at heart, I bore the calamity philosophically
enough in external appearance, nor did I the less busy my-
self in political matters; with what address and success,
good or bad, I endeavoured to supply the loss of my par-
liamentary influence, the reader will see, when it suits the
plot of this history to touch upon such topics.
Glanville I saw continually. When in tolerable spirits,
he was an entertaining, though never a frank nor a commu-
nicative companion. His conversation then was lively, yet
without wit, and sarcastic, though without bitterness. It
abounded also in philosophical reflections and terse maxims
"I can't say," recommenced the Coryphaa," that I like which always brought improvement, or at the worst, al-
the moral at least, not quite; no, not quite."
"Not quite," repeated her coadjutrices.
Glanville drew himself up with his most stately air, and
after three profound bows, accompanied by a smile of the
most unequivocal contempt, he turned on his heel, and
sauntered away.
"Did
ecnoes.
your grace ever see such a bear?" said one of the
"Never," said the Duchess with a mortified air; "but
I will have him yet. How handsome he is for an author!"
I was descending the stairs in the last state of ennui,
when Glanville laid his hand on my shoulder.
"Shall I take you home?" said he; "
home?" said he; "my
my carriage has
just drawn up.
lowed discussion. He was a man of even vast powers,
of deep thought, — of luxuriant, though dark imagination,
and of great miscellaneous, though, perhaps, ill arranged
erudition. He was fond of paradoxes in reasoning, and
supported them with a subtlety and strength of mind which
Vincent, who admired him greatly, told me he nad never
seen surpassed. He was subject, at times, to a gloom and
despondency which seemed almost like aberration of intel
lect. At those hours he would remain perfectly silent, and
apparently forgetful of my presence and every object around
him.
It was only then, when the play of his countenance was
vanished, and his features were still and set, that you saw,
in their full extent, the dark and deep traces of premature
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
49
decay. His cheek was hollow and hueless; his eye dim,
and of that visionary and glassy aspect, which is never seen
but in great mental or bodily disease, and which, accord-
ng to the superstitions of some nations, implies a mysteri-
ous and unearthly communion of the soul with the beings of
another world. From these trances he would sometimes
start out abruptly, and renew any conversation broken off
before, as if wholly unconscious of the length of his reverie.
At others, he would rise slowly from his seat, and retire
into his own apartment, from which he never emerged dur-
ing the rest of the day.
humored voice, one cold morning, as I was shivering down
Brook-street, into Bond-street. I turned, and beheld Lora
I returned his
Dartmore, of Rocher de Cancale memory.
greeting with the same cordiality with which it was given;
and I was forthwith saddled with Dartmore's arm, and
dragged up Bond-street, into that borough of all noisy,
's Hotel.
riotous, unrefined, good fellows,-yclept
Here we were soon plunged into a small, low apartment,
It was
which Dartmore informed me was his room.
crowded with a score of masculine locking youths, at
whose very appearance my gentler frame shuddered from
But the reader must bear in mind that there was nothing head to foot. However, I put as good a face on the matter
artificial or affected in his musings, of whatever complexion as I possibly could, and affected a freedom and frankness
they might be. Nothing like the dramatic brown studies, of manner, correspondent with the unsophisticated tempers
and quick starts, which young gentlemen, in love with Lara
young gentlemen, in love with Lara with which I was so unexpectedly brought into contact.
and Lord Byron, are apt to practise. There never, indeed, Dartmore was still gloriously redolent of Oxford: his
was a character that possessed less cant of any description.
any description. companions were all extracts from Christ's Church ;
His work, which was a singular, wild tale of mingled favorite occupations were boxing and hunting-scenes at
passion and reflection, was, perhaps, of too original, the Fives' Court - nights in the Cider Cellar
certainly of too abstract a nature, to suit the ordinary nov-ings at Bow-street. Figure to yourselves a fitter companion
el readers of the day. It did not acquire popularity for for the hero and writer of these adventures! The table
itself, but it gained great reputation for the author. It was covered with boxing gloves, single sticks, two ponder-
also inspired one who read it, with a vague and indescrib- ous pairs of dumb bells, a large pewter pot of porter, and
able 'nterest to see and know the person who had compos- four foils, one snapped in the middle.
ed so singular a work.
"Well,” cried Dartmore, to two strapping youths, with
"which was the conqueror?"
his
and morn-
Oh, it is not yet decided," was the answer; and forth-
with the bigger one hit the lesser a blow, with his boxing
glove, heavy enough to have felled Ulysses, who, if I re-
collect aright, was rather a game blood' in such encoun-
ters.
This slight salute was forthwith the prelude to an en-
counter, which the whole train crowded round to witness.
I, among the rest, pretending an equal ardour, and an equal
interest, and hiding, like many persons in a similar predic-
ament, a most trembling spirit beneath a most valorous
exterior.
When the match (which terminated in favor of the les-
ser companion) was over, "Come, Pelham," said Dart-
more, "Let me take up the gloves with you?"
Thus interest he was the first to laugh at, and to disap-¡their coats off,
point. He shrunk from all admiration, and from all sym-
pathy. At the moment when a crowd assembled round
him, and every ear was bent to catch the words, which
came alike from so beautiful a lip, and so strange and im-
aginative a mind, it was his pleasure to utter some senti-
ment totally different from his written opinion, and utterly
destructive of the sensation he had excited. But it was
very rarely that he exposed himself to these "trials of an
author." He went out little to any other house but Lady
Roseville's, and it was seldom more than once a week that
he was seen even there. Lonely, and singular in mind and
habits, he lived in the world like a person occupied by a
separate object, and possessed of a separate existence, from
that of his fellow-beings. He was luxurious and splendid,
beyond all men, in his habits, rather than his tastes.
table groaned beneath a weight of gold, too costly for the
daily service even of a prince; but he had no pleasure in
surveying it. His wines and viands were of the most ex-
quisite description; but he scarcely tasted them. Yet,
what may seem inconsistent, he was averse to all ostenta-pudent Earl of Calton.
tion and show in the eyes of others. He admitted very
few into his society, -no one so intimately as myself. I
never once saw more than three persons at his table. He
seemed, in his taste for furniture, in his love of literature,
and his pursuit after fame, to be, as he himself said, eter-
nally endeavouring to forget, and eternally brought back to
remembrance.
His
"You are too good!" said I, for the first time using my
drawing-room drawl. A wink and a grin went round the
room.
Well, then, will you fence with Staunton, or play at
single sticks with me?" said the short, thick, bullying, im-
"Why," said I, "I am a poor hand at the foils, and a
still worse at the sticks; but I have no objection to ex-
changing a cut or two at the latter with Lord Calton.”
No, no" said the good natured Dartmore ; —"no,
Calton is the best stick-player I ever knew; " and then,
whispering me, he added, "and the hardest hitter — and
he never spares, either."
>>
"I pity that man even more than I admire him," said Really," said I aloud, in my most affected tone, "it is
Vincent to me, one night when we were walking home a great pity, for I am excessively delicate; but as Í said I
from Glanville's house. "He is, indeed, the disease nullâ would engage him, I don't like to retract. Pray let me
medicabilis herbă. Whether it is the past or the present look at the hilt: I hope the basket is strong: I would not
that afflicts him, whether it is the memory of past evil, have my knuckles rapped for the world -now for it. I'm
or the satiety of present good, he has taken to his heart the in a deuced fright, Dartmore ; and so saying, and inward-
bitterest philosophy of life. He does not reject its bless-ly chuckling at the universal pleasure depicted in the coun-
ings, he gathers them around him, but as a stone gathers tenances of Calton and the by-standers, who were all re
cold, hard, unsoftened by the freshness and the joiced at the idea of the "dandy being drubbed," I took
greenness which surround it. As a circle can only touch the stick and pretended great awkwardness, and lack of
a circle in one place, every thing that life presents to him, grace in the position I chose.
wherever it comes from, to whatever portion of his soul
it is applied,
can find but one point of contact; and that
is the soreness of affliction: whether it is the oblivio or the
otium that he requires, he finds equally that he is for ever
in want of one treasure: neque gemmis neque purpurâ ven-
moss,
ale nec auro
CHAPTER XLVIII.
Mons. Jourdain. Etes-vous fou de l'aller quereller lui qui
entend la tierce et la quarte, et qui sait tuer un homme par rai-
son démonstrative?
La Maitre à Danser. Je me moque de sa raison démonstra-
tive, et de sa tièrce et de sa quarte.
MOLIERE.
"HOLLO, my good friend; how are you ? d-
d glad
to see you in England," vociferated a loud, clear, good-
VOL. I
7
|
Calton placed himself in the most scientific attitude,
assuming at the same time an air of hauteur and noncha.
lance, which seemed to call for the admiration it met.
"Do we make hard hitting?" said I.
"Oh! by all means," answered Calton, eagerly.
Well," said I, setting on my own chapeau, “had not
you better put on your hat?"
"Oh! no," answered Calton, imperiously; "I can take
no,”
pretty good care of my head ;" and with these words we
commenced.
I remained at first nearly upright, not availing myself in
the least of my superiority of height, and only acting on the
defensive. Calton played well enough for a gentleman, out
he was no match for one who had, at the age of thirteen,
beat the Life Guardsmen at Angelo's. Suddenly, when I
had excited a general laugh at the clumsy success with
which I warded off a most rapid attack of Calton's,
changed my position, bent my limbs till I had lowered my
body to one half of its former height, and keeping Caltoù
50
BULWER'S NOVELS.
at arm's length till I had driven him towards a corner,
I took advantage of a haughty imprudence on his part,
and by a common enough move in the game, drew back
from a stroke ained at my limbs, and suffered the whole
weight of my weapon to fall so heavily upon his head, that
I felled him to the ground in an instant.
I was sorry for the severity of the stroke, the moment
after it was inflicted; but never was punishment more de-
served. We picked up the discomfited hero, and placed
him on a chair to recover his senses; meanwhile, I receiv-
ed the congratulations of the conclave with a frank altera-
tion of manner which delighted them and I found it impos-
sible to get away, till I had promised to dine with Dart-
more, and spend the rest of the evening in the society of
his friends.
:
CHAPTER XLIX.
-Heroes mischievously gay,
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way,
Flushed as they are with folly, youth, and wine.
JOHNSON'S London.
Hol. Novi hominem tanquam te his humor is lofty, his
discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his
gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous and
thrasonical.
SHAKSPEARE.
I WENT a little after seven o'clock to keep my dinner
engagement a 's; for very young men are seldom
unpunctual at dinner. We sat down, six in number, to a
Epast at once incredibly bad, and ridiculously extrava-
gant turtle without fat -venison without flavor cham-
pagne with the taste of a gooseberry, and hock with the
properties of a pomegranate.* Such is the constant habit
of young men they think any thing expensive is neces-
sarily good, and they purchase poison, at a dearer rate than
the most medicine-loving hypochondriac in England.
ers, he was not without the instinctive penetration wna
which all human bipeds watch over their individual goods
and chattels, He sprung aside from the endearments of
the syren, grasped her arm, and in a voice of querulous
indignation, accused her of the theft.
"Then rose the cry of women— shrill
As shriek of gosshawk on the hill."
Never were my ears so stunned. The angry authors iu
the adventures of Gil Blas, were nothing to the disputants
in the kennel at Charing Cross; we rowed, swore, slanged
with a Christian meekness and forbearance, which would
have rejoiced Mr. Wilberforce to the heart, and we were
already preparing ourselves for a more striking engage-
ment, when we were most unwelcomely interrupted by the
presence of three watchman.
M
"Take away this this this dd woman," hicerp
woman,”hicerp-
ed out Staunton, "she has stolen — (hiccup) — 12y watch
(hiccup.)"
"No such thing, watchman," hallooed out the accused,
"the b
counter-skipper never had any watch; he
only filched a twopenny-halfpenny gilt chain out of his
master, Levi, the pawnbroker's window, and stuck it in
his ecl-skin to make a show; ye did, ye pitiful, lanky-
chopped son of a dog-fish, ye did.”
on.
"Come, come," said the watchman, "move on, move
"You be d-d, for a Charley!" said one of our gang.
"Ho! ho! master jackanapes, I shall give you a cooling
in the watch-house, if you tips us any of your jaw. I dare
say the young oman here, is quite right about ye, and ye
never had any watch at all, at all."
"and ye
"You are a d-d liar," cried Staunton ;
are all in with each other, like a pack of rogues as you
are.
"I'll tell you what, young gemmen," said another watch-
and reverend senior
man, who was a more potent, grave,
than his comrades, " if you do not move on instantly, and
let those decent young omen alone, I'll take you all up be-
fore Sir Richard.'
Charley, my boy," said Dartmore, "did you ever get
thrashed for impertinence ?”
Of course, all the knot declared the dinner was superb ;
called in the master to eulogize him in person, and make
him, to his infinite dismay, swallow a bumper of his own
The last mentioned watchman took upon himself the
Jock. Poor man, they mistook his reluctance for his diffi- reply to this interrogatory by a very summary proceeding;
he collared Dartmore, and his companions did the same
dence, and forced him to wash it away in another potation.he collared Dartmore, and his
This action was not committed with
With many a wry
face of grateful humility, he left the kind office to us.
room, and we then proceeded to pass the bottle with the
suicidal determination of defeated Romans.
You may
imagine that we were not long in arriving at the devoutly
wished for consummation of comfortable inebriety; and
with our eyes reeling, our cheeks burning, and our brave
spirits full ripe for a quarrel, we sallied out at eleven o'clock,
vowing death, dread and destruction, to all the sober part
of his majesty's subjects.
We came to a dead halt in Arlington-street, which, as
it was the quietest spot in the neighbourhood, we deemed
a fitting place for the arrangement of our forces. Dart-
inore, Staunton, (a tall, thin, well formed, silly youth) and
myself, marched first, and the remaining three followed.
We e gave each other the most judicious admonitions as to
propriety of conduct, and then, with a shout that alarmed
the whole street we renewed our way. We passed on
safely enough till we got to Charing Cross, having only
been thrice upbraided by the watchmen, and once threat-
ened by two carmen of prodigious size, to whose wives or
sweethearts we had, to our infinite peril, made some gentle
overtures. When, however, we had just passed the Opera
Colonnade, we were accosted by a bevy of buxom Cy-
prians, as merry and as drunk as ourselves. We halted
for a few minutes in the midst of the kennel, to confabulate
with our
new friends, and a very amicable and intel-
lectual conversation ensued. Dartmore was an adept in
the art of slang, and he found himself fairly matched by
more than one of the fair and gentle creatures by whom we
were surrounded. Just however as we were all in high
glee, Staunton made trifling discovery, which turned the
merriment of the whole scene into strife, war, and confu-
sion. A bouncing lass, whose hands were as ready as her
charms, had quietly helped herself to a watch which Staun-
Drunken as
ton wore, à la mode, in his waistcoat pocket.
e youth was at that time, and dull as he was at all oth-
}
* Pomum valde purgatorium.
impunity; in an instant two of the moon's minions, staffs,
lanthorus, and all, were measuring their length at the foot
of their namesake of royal memory; the remaining Dog-
berry was, however, a tougher assailant; he held Staun-
ton so firmly in his gripe, that the poor youth could scarce-
ly breathe out a faint and feeble dye, of defiance, and
with his disengaged hand he made such an admirable use
of his rattle, that we were surrounded in a trice.
As when an ant-hill is invaded, from every quarter and
crevice of the mound arise and pour out an angry host, of
whose previous existence the unwary assailant had not
and cross-
dreampt, so from every lane, and alley, and street,
ing, came fast and far the champions of the night.
sauve
I have some faint
"Gentlemen," said Dartmore, "we must fly
qui peut. We wanted no stronger admonition, and, accord-
ingly, all of us who were able, set off with the utmost ve-
locity with which God had gifted us.
recollection that I myself headed the flight. I remember
well that I dashed up the strand, and dashed down a singu-
lar little shed, from which emanated the steam of tea, and
a sharp querulous scream of "All hot-all hot! a penny
I see, now, by the dim light of retrospection, a
a pint.
vision of an old woman in the kennel, and a pewter pot of
mysterious ingredients precipitated into a green grocer'■
shop, "te virides inter lauros," as Vincent would have said.
shop,
On we went, faster and faster, as the rattle rung in our
ears, and the tramp of the enemy echoed after us in hot
pursuit.
"The devil take the hindmost," said Dartmore, breath-
lessly (as he kept up with me.)
"The watchman has saved his majesty the trouble,"
answered I, looking back and seeing one of our friends in
the clutch of the pursuers.
CC On, on!
was Dartmore's only reply.
At last, after innumerable perils, and various inmerse-
ments into back passages, and courts, and alleys, which,
like the chicaneries of law, preserved and befriended us,
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
51
n spite of all the efforts of justice, we fairly found our-
selves in safety in the midst of a great square,
Here we paused, and after ascertaining our individual
safeties, we looked round to ascertain the sum total of the
general loss.
Alas! we were wofully shorn of our beams
we were reduced one half: only three out of the six
survived the conflict and the flight.
y.
Half," (said the companion of Dartmore and myself,
whose name was Tringle, and who was a dabbler in science,
of which he was not a little vain) half is less worthy
than the whole; but the half is more worthy than nonenti-
"An axiom," said I, "not to be disputed; but now
nat we are safe, and have time to think about it, are you
not slightly of opinion that we behaved somewhat scurvily
to our better half, in leaving it so quietly in the hands of
the Philistines ?"
"By no means," answered Dartmore.
"In a party,
whose members make no pretensions to sobriety, it would
be too hard to expect that persons who are scarcely capa-
ble of taking care of themselves should take care of other
people. No; we have, in all these exploits, only the one
maxim of self-preservation."
<< to
"Allow me," said Tringle, seizing me by the coat,
explain it to you on scientific principles. You will find, in
hydrostatics, that the attraction of cohesion, is far less
powerful in fluids than in solids; viz. that persons who
have been converting their solid flesh, into wine skins, can-
not stick so close to one another as when they are sober."
"Bravo, Tringle!" cried Dartmore; "and now, Pel-
I hope your delicate scruples are, after so luminous an
éclaircissement, set at rest for ever."
aam,
"You have convinced me," said I; "let us leave the
unfortunate to their fate, and Sir Richard. What is now
to be done?"
CC
Why, in the first place," answered Dartmore," let us
reconnoitre. Does any one know this ?"
spot
"Not I," said both of us. We inquired of an old fel-
low who was tottering home under the same Bacchanalian
auspices as ourselves, and found we were in Lincoln's Inn
Fields.
"Shall we," asked I, "stroll home, or parade the
streets, visit the Cider Cellar, and the Finish, and kiss the
first lass we meet in the morning bringing her charms and
carrots to Covent-Garden Market?"
"The latter," cried Dartmore and Tringle, " without
doubt."
Come, then," said I, "let us investigate Holborn, and
dip into St. Giles's, and then find our way into some more
known corner of the globe."
"Amen," said Dartmore, and accordingly we renewed
our march. We wound along a narrow lane, tolerably
well known, I imagine, to the gentlemen of the quill, and
entered Holborn. There was a beautiful still moon above
us, which cast its light over a drowsy stand of hackney
coaches, and shed a silver sadness' over the thin visages
and sombre vestments of two guardians of the night, who
regarded us, we thought, with a very ominous aspect of
suspicion.
We strolled along, leisurely enough, till we were inter-
rupted by a miserable-looking crowd, assembled round a
dull, dingy, melancholy shop, from which gleamed a soli-
tary candle, whose long, spinster-like wick was flirting
away with an east wind, at a most unconscionable rate.
Upon the haggard and worn countenances of the by-
standers, was depicted one general and sympathizing ex-
pression of eager, envious, wistful anxiety, which predomi-
nated so far over the various characters of each, as to
communicate something of a likeness to all. It was an
impress of such a seal as you might imagine the arch-fiend
would have set upon each of his flock.
Amid this crowd, I recognised more than one face which
I had often seen in my equestrian lounges through town,
peering from the shoulders of some intrusive, ragamuffin,
wageless lackey, and squealing out of its wretched, un-
pampered mouth, the everlasting query of "Want your oss
held, Sir ? »
The rest were made up of unfortunate wo-
men of the vilest and most ragged description, aged itine-
rants, with features scared with famine, bleared eyes,
dropping jaws, shivering limbs, and all the mortal signs of
hopeless and aidless, and, worst of all, breadless infirmity.
Here and there an Irish accent broke out in the oaths of
national impatience, and was answered by the shrill, broken
|
voice of some decrepid but indefatigable votaress of plea-
sure (Pleasure! good Ged!) but the chief character of
the meeting was silence; silence, eager, heavy, engross-
ing; and, above them all, shone out the quiet moon, so
calm, so holy, so breathing of still happiness and unpollut-
ed glory, as if it never looked upon the traces of human
passion, and misery, and sin. We stood for some moments
contemplating the group before us, and then, following the
steps of an old, withered crone, who, with a cracked cup
in her hand, was pushing her way through the throng, we
found ourselves in that dreary pandæmonium, at once the
origin and the refuge of humble vices -a Gin-shop.
"Poor devils," said Dartmore, to two or three of the
nearest and eagerest among the crowd, "come in, and I
will treat you.
The invitation was received with a promptness which
must have been the most gratifying compliment to the in-
viter; and thus Want, which is the inother of Invention,
does not object, now and then, to a bantling by Politeness
We stood by the counter while our protégées were served
in silent observation. In low vice, to me, there is always
something too gloomy, almost too fearful for light mirth;
the contortions of the madman are stranger than those of
the fool, but one does not laugh at them; the sympathy is
for the cause, not the effect.
a black
Leaning against the counter at one corner, and fixing his
eyes deliberately and unmovingly upon us, was a man
about the age of fifty, dressed in a costume of singular
fashion, apparently pretending to an antiquity of taste, cor-
respondent with that of the material. This person wore a
large cocked-hat, set rather jauntingly on one side
coat, which seemed an omnium gatherum of all abomina-
tions that had coine in its way for the last ten years,
and which appeared to advance equal claims (from the
manner it was made and worn) to the several dignities of
the art military and civil, the arma and the toga:
the neck of the wearer hung a blue ribbon of amazing
breadth, and of a very surprising assumption of newness
and splendor, by no means in harmony with the other
parts of the tout ensemble; this was the guardian of an eye-
glass of block tin, and of dimensions correspondent with
the size of the ribbon. Stuck under the right arm, and
shaped fearfully like a sword, peeped out the hilt of a very
large and sturdy looking stick, "in war a weapon, in peace
a support."
from
The features of the man were in keeping with his garb ;
they betokened an equal mixture of the traces of poverty,
and the assumption of the dignities reminiscent of a better
day. Two small, light-blue eyes, were shaded by bushy,
and rather imperious brows, which lowered from under
the hat, like Cerberus out of his den. These, at present,
wore the dull, fixed stare of habitual intoxication, though
we were not long in discovering that they had not yet for-
gotten to sparkle with all the quickness, and more than the
roguery of youth. His nose was large, prominent, and
aristocratic; nor would it have been ill-formed, had not
some unknown cause pushed it a little nearer towards the
left ear, than would have been thought, by an equitable
judge of beauty, fair to the pretensions of the right. The
lines in the countenance were marked as if in iron, and
had the face been perfectly composed, must have given to
it a remarkably stern and sinister appearance; but at that
moment, there was an arch leer about the mouth, whick
softened, or at least altered, the expression the features
habitually wore.
Sir," said he, (after a few minutes of silence,) "Sir,”
said he, approaching me, "will you do me the honor to
take a pinch of snuff?" and so saying, he tapped a curious
copper box, with a picture of his late majesty upon it.
—
With great pleasure," answered I, bowing low, "since
the act is a prelude to the pleasure of your acquaintance.'
My gentleman of the gun-shop opened his box with an
air, as he replied
|
"It is but seldom that I meet, in places
of this description, gentlemen of the exterior of yourself
and your friends. I am not a person very easily deceived
by the outward man.
by the outward man. Horace, Sir, could not have included
me, when he said specie decipimur. I perceive that you
are surprised at hearing me quote Latin. Alas! Sir, in
my wandering and various manner of life, I may say, with
Cicero and Pliny, that the study of letters has proved my
greatest consolation. • Guadium_mihi,' says the latter
author, et solatium in literis : nihil tam late quod his no
latius, nihil tam triste quod non per hos sit minus triste
|
1
52
BULWER'S NOVELS
God d-n ye, you scoundrel, give me my gin! a'nt you
ashamed of keeping a gentleman of my fashion so long
waiting?" This was said to the sleepy dispenser of the
spirituous potations, who looked up for a moment with a
dull stare, and then replied, "Your money first, Mr. Gor-
don- you owe us seven-pence halfpenny already."
"Blood and confusion! speakest thou to me of half-
pence! Know that thou art a mercenary varlet; yes,
knave, mark that, a mercenary varlet." The sleepy Gany-
mede replied not, and the wrath of Mr. Gordon subsided
into a low, uninterrupted, internal muttering of strange
oaths, which rolled and grumbled, and rattled in his throat
like distant thunder.
At length he cheered up a little. "Sir," said he, ad-
dressing Dartmore, “it is a sad thing to be dependent on
these low persons; the wise among the ancients were never
so wrong as when they panegyrized poverty: it is the
wicked man's tempter, the good man's perdition, the proud
man's curse, the melancholy man's halter.
"You are a strange old cock," said the unsophisticated
Dartmore, eyeing him from head to foot; "there's half a
sovereign for you."
to the wearer toan to his acquaintance. According y, we
pretended not to notice this invitation, and merely said, we
would follow his guidance.
He turned up a narrow street, and after passing some o.
the most ill-favored alleys I ever had the happiness of
beholding, he stopped at a low door; here he knocl d
twice, and was at last admitted by a slip-shod, yawning
wench, with red arins, and a profusion of sandy hair
This Hebe, Mr. Gordon greeted with a loving kiss, which
the kissee resented in a very unequivocal strain of disgust
ful reproach.
"Hush! my Queen of Clubs; my Sultana Sootina!
said Mr. Gordon. "Hush! or these gentlemen will think
you in earnest. I have brought three new customers to the
club.”
This speech somewhat softened the incensed Hour
of Mr. Gordon's Paradise, and she very civilly asked us t
enter.
"Stop!" said Mr. Gordon, with an air of importance
"I must just step in and ask the gentlemen to admit you;
- merely a form for a word from me will be quite su
ficient." And so saying, he vanished for about five minutes
The blunt blue eyes of Mr. Gordon sharpened up in an On his return, he said, with a cheerful countenance, that
instant; he seized the treasure with an avidity, of which the we were free of the house, but that we must pay a shilling
minute after, he seemed somewhat ashamed; for he said, each as the customary fee: this sum was soon collected,
playing with the coin, in an idle, indifferent manner—“Sir, and quietly inserted in the waistcoat pocket of our chaperon,
you show a consideration, and, let me add, Sir, a delicacy who then conducted us up the passage into a small back
of feeling, unusual at your years. Sir, I shall repay you at room, where were sitting about seven or eight men, enve-
my earliest leisure, and in the meanwhile allow me to say,loped in smoke, and moistening the fever of the Virginian
that I shall be proud of the honor of your acquaintance." plant with various preparations of malt. On entering, I
"Thank-ye, old boy," said Dartmore, putting on his observed Mr. Gordon deposite, at a sort of bar, the sum of
glove before he accepted the offered hand of his new friend, three-pence, by which I shrewdly surinised he had gained
which, though it was tendered with great grace and dignity, the sum of two and nine-pence by our admission. With a
was of a marvellous dingy and soapless aspect.
very arrogant air, he proceeded to the head of the table, sat
himself down with a swagger, and called out like a lusty
royster of the true kidney, for a pint of purl and a pipe.
Not to be out of fashion, we ordered the same articles of
luxury.
Come, gen-
take you to
"Hearkye! you d-d son of a gun!" cried Mr. Gordon,
a'ruptly, turning from Dartmore after a hearty shake of
the hand, to the man at the counter "Hearkye! give me
change for this half sovereign, and be d-d to you -and
then tip us a double gill of your best; you whey-faced, After we had all commenced a couple of puffs at our
liver-drenched, pence-griping, belly-griping, pauper-cheat-pipes, I looked round at our fellow guests; they seemed in
ing, sleepy-souled Arismanes of bad spirits.
a very poor state of body, as might naturally be supposed;
tlemen, if you have nothing better to do, I'll
and, in order to ascertain how far the condition of the mind
my club; we are a rare knot of us, there all choice
was suited to that of the frame, I turned round to Mr. Gor-
spirits; some of them are a little uncouth, it is true, but don, and asked him in a whisper to give us a few hints as
we are not all born Chesterfields. Sir, allow me to ask
to the genius and characteristics of the individual com-
the favor of your name?"
ponents of his club. Mr. Gordon declared himself de-
lighted with the proposal, and we all adjourned to a
separate table at the corner of the room, where Mr. Gordon,
after a deep draught at the purl, thus began:-
"Dartmore."
-
"Mr. Dartmore, you are a gentleman. Hollo! you
Liquor-pond street of a scoundrel having nothing of liquor
but the name, you narrow, nasty, pitiful ally of a fellow,
with a kennel for a body, and a sink for a soul; give me
my change and my gin, you scoundrel! Humph, is that
all right, you Procrustes of the counter, chopping our law-
ful appetites down to your rascally standard of seven-pence
halfpenny. Why don't you take a motto, you Paynim dog?
take a motto, you Paynim dog?
Here's one for -Measure for measure, and the devil him an orator.
you
to pay Humph, you pitiful toadstool of a trader, you
have no more spirit than an empty water bottle; and when
you go to h-1, they'll use you to cool the bellows. I say,
you rascal, why are you worse off than the devil in a hip
bath of brimstone ?-because, you knave, the devil would
only be half d-d, and you are d-d all over! Come,
gentlemen, I am at your service."
CHAPTER L.
-
"You observe yon thin, meagre, cadaverous animal,
with rather an intelligent and melancholy expression of
countenance- his name is Chitterling Crabtree his father
was an eminent coal-merchant, and left him 10,000.
Crabtree turned politician. When fate wishes to ruin a
man of moderate abilities, and moderate fortune, she makes
Mr. Chitterling Crabtree attended all the
subscribed to the aid
meetings at the Crown and Anchor
of the suffering friends of freedom harangued, argued,
sweated, wrote- was fined and imprisoned—regained his
liberty, and married his wife loved a community of goods
no less than her spouse, and ran off with one citizen, while
he was running on to the others. Chitterling dried his
was; and contented himself with the reflection, that, in
a proper state of things,' such an event could not have
occurred.
C
Mr. Crabtree's money and life were now half gone.
One does not subscribe to the friends of freedom and spout
at their dinners for nothing. But the worst drop was yet
in the cup.
An undertaking, of the most spirited and
The history of a philosophical vagabond, pursuing novelty, promising nature, was conceived by the chief of the friends,
and losing content.
Vicar of Wakefield.
WE followed our strange friend through the crowd at the
door, which he elbowed on either side with a most aristo-
cratic disdain, perfectly regardless of their jokes at his
Iress and manner; he no sooner got through the throng
han he stopped short (though in the midst of the kennel)
and offered us his arm. This was an honor, of which we
were by no means desirous: for, to say nothing of the
shabbiness of Mr. Gordon's exterior, there was a certain
odom in his garments which was possibly less displeasing
|
and the dearest familiar of Mr. Chitterling Crabtree. Our
worthy embarked his fortune in a speculation so certain of
success; crash went the speculation, and off went the
friend Mr. Crabtree was ruined. He was not, however,
a man to despair at trifles. What were bread, meat, and
He went to the meet-
beer, to the champion of equality!
they
ing that very night: he said he gloried in his losses
were for the cause the whole conclave rang with shouts
of applause, and Mr. Chitterling Crabtree went to bel
I need not pursue his history farther ;
happier than ever.
He spouts at the "Cice-
you see him here- verbum sat.
ronian," for half a crown a night, and to this day sub-
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
53
scribes six-pence a week to the cause of "liberty and en-
ightment all over the world.”
CC
By heaven!" cried Dartmore, "he is a fine fellow,
and my father shall do something for him.”
Gordon pricked up his ears, and continued, "Now,
for the second person, gentlemen, whom I am about to
describe to you.
You see that middle-sized stout man,
with a slight squint, and a restless, lowering, cunning ex-
pression?"
"What! he in the kerseymere breeches and green
jacket?" said I.
"The same,
any
"answered Gordon. "His real name,
when he does not travel with an alias, is Job Jonson.
He is one of the most remarkable rogues in Christendom:
he is so noted a cheat, that there is not a pick-pocket in
England who would keep company with him if he had
thing to lose. He was the favorite of his father, who in-
tended to leave him all his fortune, which was tolerably
large. He robbed him one day on the high-road; his
father discovered it, and disinherited him. He was placed
at a merchant's office, and rose, step by step, to be head
clerk, and intended son-in-law. Three nights before his
marriage, he broke open the till, and was turned out of
doors the next morning. If you were going to do him
the greatest favor in the world, he could not keep his
hands out of your pocket till you had done it.
had done it. In short,
In short,
he has rogued himself out of a dozen fortunes, and a
hundred friends, and managed with incredible dexterity
and success, to cheat himself into beggary, and a pot of
beer."
"I beg your pardon," said I, "but I think a sketch of
your own life must be more amusing than that of any one
else; am I impertinent in asking for it?
"Not at all," replied Mr. Gordon, "you shall have it
in as few words as possible."
"I was born a gentleman, and educated with some
pains; they told me I was a genius, and I was not very
hard to be persuaded of the truth of the assertion. I
wrote verses to a wonder robbed orchards according to
military tactics - never played at marbles, without ex-
plaining to my competitors the theory of attraction — and
was the best informed, mischievous, little rascal in the
whole school. My family were in great doubt what to do
with so prodigious a wonder; one said the law, another
the church, a third talked of diplomacy, and a fourth as-
sured my mother, that if I could but be introduced at court,
I should be lord chamberlain in a twelvemonth. While
my friends were deliberating, I took the liberty of decid-
ing; I enlisted, in a fit of loyal valor, in a marching regi-
ment; any friends made the best of a bad job, and bought
me an ensigncy.
I am
dom.' I was poor that circumstance is quite enough to
make a patriot. They sent me to Paris on a secret mis-
sion, and when I returned, my friends were in prison. Be-
ing always of a free disposition, I did not envy them their
situation, accordingly I returned to England. Halting at
Liverpool, with a most debilitated purse, I went into a
silversmith's shop to brace it, and about six months after-
ward, I found myself on a marine excursion to Botany Bay
On my return from that country, I resolved to turn my
literary talents to account. I went to Cainbridge, wrote
declamations, and translated Virgil at so much a sheet.
My relations, (thanks to my letters, neither few nor far
between,) soon found me out; they allowed me (they do
so still) half a guinea a week; and
this and my
declamations, I inanage to exist. Ever since, iny chief
residence has been at Cambridge. I am a universal fa-
vorite with both graduates and under-graduates. I have
reformed my life and my manners, and have become the
quiet, orderly person you behold me. Age tames the fiere.
est of us—
Co
"Non sum qualis eram.'
Betsey, bring me my purl and be d-d to you.
"It is now vacation time, and I have come to town with
the idea of holding lectures on the state of education. Mr.
Dartmore, your health. Gentlemen, yours. My story is
done, and I hope you will pay for the purl."
CHAPTER LI.
I hate a drunken rogue.
Twelfth Night.
WE took an affectionate leave of Mr. Gordon, and found
ourselves once more in the open air; the smoke and the
purl had contributed greatly to the continuance of our in-
ebriety, and we were as much averse to bed as ever. We
conveyed ourselves, laughing and rioting all the way, to a
stand of hackuey coaches. We entered the head of the
flock, and drove to Piccadilly. It set us down at the cor-
ner of the Haymarket.
"Past two!" cried the watchman as we sauntered by
him.
I,
"You lie, you rascal," said 1, "you have passed three
now.
with which the room was filled.
"Hollo, waiter!" cried Tringle, some red wine ne.
gus -I know not why it is, but the devil himself could
never cure me of thirst. Wine and I have a most chemi-
cal attraction for each other.
cal attraction for each other. You know that we always
estimate the force of attraction between bodies, by the
force required to separate them!”
We were all merry enough to laugh at this sally; and
seeing a light gleam from the entrance of the Royal Sa
loon, we knocked at the door, and it was opened unto us,
We sat down at the only spare table in the place, and
"I recollect I read Plato the night before I went to bat-looked round inquiringly at the smug and varment citizens
tle; the next morning they told me I ran away.
sure it was a malicious invention, for if I had, I should
have recollected it; whereas I was in such a confusion
that I cannot remember a single thing that happened in the
whole course of that day. About six months afterward, I
found myself out of the army, and in jail: and no sooner
had my relations released me from the latter predicament,
than I set off on my travels. At Dublin, I lost my heart
to a rich widow (as I thought); I married her, and found
her as poor as myself. God knows what would have be-
come of me, if I had not taken to drinking; my wife
scorned to be outdone by me in any thing: she followed
my example, and at the end of a year I followed her to the
grave. Since then I have taken warning, and been scru-
pulously sober. Betty, my love, another pint of purl.
I was now once more a freeman in the prime of my
life; handsome, as you see, gentlemen, and with the
strength and spirit of a young Hercules. Accordingly, I
dried my tears, turned marker by night, at a gambling
house, and buck by day, in Bond-street, (for I had returned
o London). I remember well one morning, that his pre-
sent Majesty was pleased, en passent, to admire my buck-
skins-tempora mutantur. Well, gentlemen, one night at
a brawl in our salon, my nose met with a rude hint to move
to the right. I went, in a great panic to the surgeon, who
mended the matter, by moving it to the left. There, thank
God! it has rested in quiet ever since. It is needless to
tell you the nature of the quarrel in which this accident
occurred; however, my friends thought it necessary to
remove me from the situation I then held. I went once
more
Ireland, and was introduced to a friend of free-
While we were all three as noisy and nonsensical as our
best friends could have wished us, a new stranger entered,
approached, looked round the room for a seat, and seeing
none, walked leisurely up to our table, and accosted me
with a- "Ha! Mr. Pelham, how d' ye do? Well met
by your leave I will sip my grog at your table. No of
fence, I hope more the merrier, eh? Waiter, a glasa
of hot brandy and water- not too weak. D' ye hear?"
Need I say that this pithy and pretty address proceeded
from the mouth of Mr. Tom Thornton? He was some-
what more than half drunk, and his light, prying eyes
twinkled dizzily in his head. Dartmore, who was, and is,
the best natured fellow alive, hailed the signs of his intox-
ication as a sort of freemasonry, and made way for kim
beside himself.
beside himself. I could not help remarking, that Thornton
seemed singularly less sleek than heretofore; his coat was
out at the elbows, his linen was torn and soiled; there was
not a vestige of the vulgar spruceness about him which
was formerly one of his most prominent characteristics.
He had also lost a great deal of the floid health formerly
visible in his face; his cheeks seemed sunk and haggan 1,
his eyes hollow, and his complexion sallow and squalid,
in spite of the tlush intemperance spread over it at the
moment. However, he was in high spirits, and soon made
34
BULWER S NOVELS.
himself so entertaining that Dartmore and Tringle grew
charmed with him.
As for me, the antipathy I had to the man sobered and
silenced me for the rest of the night; and finding that Dart-
more and his friend were eager for an introduction to some
female friends of Thornton's, whom he mentioned in terms
of high praise, I tore myself from them, and made the best
of my way home.
CHAPTER LII.
!
Illi mors gravis incubat,
Qui, notus nimis omnibus,
Ignotus moritur sibi.
SENECA.
Nous serons pas nois les judges des ouvrages.
Les Femmes Savantes.
VINCENT called on me the next day. "I have news for
you," said he, "though somewhat of a lugubrious nature.
Lugete, Veneres Cupidinesque. You remember the Duch-
esse de Perpignan?"
"I should think so," was my answer.
She drew her to a part of the room, where a very animated
and chiefly literary conversation was going on,— and I,
resolving to make the best of my time, followed them, and
once more found myself seated beside Miss Glanville. Lady
Roseville was on the other side of my beautiful companion:
and I observed that, whenever she took her eyes from Miss
Glanville, they always rested upon her brother. He, si-
lent, absorbed, and gloomy, sat in the midst of the dispu
tation and disputants, like a thing of stone, cast in the
stern mould of other times.
The conversation turned upon Scott's novels, thence on
novels in general; and finally on the particular one of
Anastasius.
"It is a thousand pities," said Vincent, "that the scene
of that novel is so far removed from us. Could the hu-
mor, the
persons, the knowledge of character, and of the
world, come home to us, in a national, not an exotic garb,
it would be more popular, as it is certainly a more gifted
work, than even the exquisite novel of Gil Blas. But it is
a great misfortune for H
that,-
"To learning he narrowed his mind,
And gave up to the East whet was meant for mankind.'
One often loses in admiration, at the knowledge of pecu
liar costume, the deference one would have paid to the mas-
"Well then," pursued Vincent," she is no more. Herterly grasp of universal character.”
death was worthy of her life. She was to give a brilliant "It must require," said Lady Roseville, " an extraordi-
entertainment to all the foreigners at Paris; the day before nary combination of mental powers to produce a perfect
it took place a dreadful eruption broke over her complex-novel."
jon. She sent for the doctors in despair.'
"Cure me against to-morrow," she said, "and name
your own reward."
CC
Madame, it is impossible to do so with safety to your
health."
"Au! diable with your health," said the Duchesse,
"what is health to an eruption !
ever,
دو
"The doctors took the hint; an external application was
used, the Duchesse woke in the morning as beautiful as
the entertainment took place, she was the Armi-
da of the scene. Supper was announced. She took the
arm of the
ambassador, and moved through the
crowd, amidst the audible admiration of all. She stopped
for a moment at the door; all eyes were upon her. A fear-
ful and ghastly convulsion passed over her countenance, her
lips trembled, and she fell to the ground with the most ter-
rible contortious of face and frame. They carried her to
bed. She remained for some days insensible; when she
recovered, she asked for a looking-glass. Her whole face
was drawn on one side, not a wreck of beauty was left;
that night she poisoned herself!"
I cannot express how shocked I was at this information.
Much as I had cause to be disgusted with the conduct of
that unhappy woman, I could find in my heart no feeling
but commiseration and horror at her death; and it was
with great difficulty that Vincent persuaded me to accept
an invitation to Lady Roseville's for the evening, to meet
Glanville and himself.
However, I cheered up as the night came on; and though
imy mind was still haunted with the tale of the morning, it
was neither in a musing nor a melancholy mood, that I en-
tered the drawing-room at Lady Roseville's.
Le world away.'
« So runs
Glanville was there in his "customary mourning," and
looking remarkably handsome.
Pelham," he said, when he joined me, "do you re-
member at Lady 's, one night, I said I would introduce
you to my sister? I had no opportunity then, for we left
the house before she returned from the refreshment room.
May I do so now ?”
I need not say what was my answer. I followed Glan-
yille into the next room; and to my inexpressible astonish-
inent and delight, discovered in his sister the beautiful, the
never-forgotten stranger I had seen at Cheltenham.
-
For once in my life I was embarrassed, my bow would
have shamed a major in the line, and my muttered and ir-
relevant address, an alderman in the presence of his majes- |
ty. However, a few moments sufficed to recover me, and
I strained every nerve to be as agreeable and seduisant as
possible.
After I had conversed with Miss Glanville for some time,
Lady Roseville joined us. Stately and Juno-like as was
hat charming personage in general, she relaxed into a soft-
ness of manner to Miss Glanville, that quite won my heart.
|
CC
"that
"One so extraordinary," answered Vincent,
though we have one perfect epic poem, and several which
pretend to perfection, we have not one perfect novel in the
world. Gil Blas approaches more to perfection than any
other; (owing to the defect I have just mentioned in Anas-
tasias;) but it must be confessed that there is a want of
dignity, of moral rectitude, and of what I may term moral
beauty, throughout the whole book. If an author could
combine the various excellencies of Scott, and Le Sage,
with a greater, and more metaphysical knowledge of morals
than either, we might expect from him the perfection we
have not yet discovered, since the days of Apuleius."
Speaking of morals," said Lady Roseville,
66 do you
not think every novel should have its distinct bût, and in-
culcate, throughout, some one peculiar moral, such as many
of Marmontel's and Miss Edgeworth's ?"
"No!" answered Vincent, "every good novel has one
great end, the same in all, viz. the increasing our
knowledge of the heart. It is thus that a novel writer
must be a philosopher. Whoever succeeds in showing us
more accurately the nature of ourselves, and species, has
done science, and consequently, virtue, the most important
benefit: for every truth is a moral. This great and universal
end, I am led to imagine, is rather crippled than extended
by the rigorous attention to the one isolated moral you
mention.
"Thus Dryden, in his Essay on the Progress of Satire,
very rightly prefers Horace to Juvenal, so far as instruction
is concerned; because the miscellaneous satires of the for-
mer are directed against every vice the more confined
ones of the latter (for the most part) only against one. All
mankind is the field the novelist should cultivate all truth
the moral he should strive to bring home. It is in occa-
sional dialogue, in desultory maxims, in deductions from
events, in analysis of character, that he should benefit and
instruct. It is not enough — and I wish a certain novelist
who has lately arisen would remember this - it is not
enough for a writer to have a good heart, amiable sympa-
thies, and what are termed high feelings, in order to shape
out a moral, either true in itself, or beneficial in its incul-
cation. Before he touches his tale, he should be thoroughly
acquainted with the intricate science of morals, and the
metaphysical, as well as the more open, operations of the
mind. If his knowledge is not deep and clear, his love of
the good may only lead him into error; and he may pass
off the prejudices of a susceptible heart for the precepts of
virtue. Woukl to God that people would think it neces-
sary to be instructed before they attempt to instruct.
Dire simplement que la vertu est vertu parce qu'elle est
bonne en son fonds, et le vice tout au contraire, ce n'est pas
les faire connoître.' For me, if I was to write a novel, I
would first make myself an acute, active, and vigilant ob
server of men and manners. Secondly, I would, after
having thus noted effects by action in the world, trace the
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
5
"My dear friend," said he, "I have often seen that, in
spite of all your love of pleasure, you have your mind con-
tinually turned towards higher and graver objects; and I
have thought the better of your talents, and of your future
success, for the little parade you make of the one, and the
little care you appear to pay to the other: for
“'tis a common proof,
sauses by books, and meditation in my closet. It is then, Vincent bit his lip, but I rung, had my orders executed,
and not till then, that I would study the lighter graces of and then settling myself and my poodle on the sofa, I de
style and decoration; nor would I give the rein to inven-clared my readiness to attend to him
tion, till I was convinced that it would create neither mon-
sters of men, nor falsities of truth. For my vehicles of
instruction or amusement, I would have people as they are
- neither worse nor better and the moral they should
convey, should be rather through jest or irony, than gravity
and seriousness. There never was an imperfection cor-
rected by portraying perfection; and if levity or ridicule
be said so easily to allure to sin, I do not see why they
should not be used in defence of virtue. Of this we may
be sure, that as laughter is a distinct indication of the hu-
man race, so there never was a brute mind or a savage beart
that loved to indulge in it."*
Vincent ceased.
"Thank you, my Lord," said Lady Roseville, as she
took Miss Glanville's arm and moved from the table.
"For once you have condescended to give us your own
and not other people's; you have scarce made a
Egle quotation."
sense,
"Accept," answered Vincent, rising,
"Accept a miracle instead of wit."
CHAPTER XLIII.
Oh I love! - Methinks
This word of love is fit for all the world,
And that for gentle hearts another name
Would speak of gentler thoughts than the world owns.
P. B. SHELley.
For me,
I ask no more than honor gives,
To think me yours, and rank me with your friends.
SHAKSPEARE.
CALLOUS and worldly as I may seem, from the tone of
these memoirs, I can say, safely, that one of the most deli-
cious evenings, I ever spent, was the first of my introduc-
tion to Miss Glanville. I went home intoxicated with a
subtle spirit of enjoyment that gave a new zest and fresh
ness to life. Two little hours seemed to have changed the
whole course of my thoughts and feelings.
There was nothing about Miss Glanville like a heroine
nothing about Miss Glanville like a heroine
- I hate your heroines.
heroines. She had none of that "modest
ease," and "quiet dignity," and "English grace" (Lord
help us!) of which certain writers speak with such ap-
plause. Thank heaven, she was alive; she had great
sense, but the playfulness of a child; extreme rectitule of
mind, but with the tenderness of a gazelle; if she laugh-
ed, all her countenance, lips, eyes, forehead, cheeks, laughed
too;
"Paradise seemed opened in her face;" if she look-
ed grave, it was such a
it was such a lofty and upward, yet sweet and
gentle gravity, that you might (had you been gifted with
the least imagination) have supposed, from the model of
her countenance, a new order of angels, between the cher-
ubim and the seraphim, the angels of Love and Wisdom.
She was not, perhaps, quite so silent in society as my in-
dividual taste would desire; but when she spoke, it was
with a propriety of thought and diction which made me
lament when her voice had ceased. It was as if some-
th
'ng beautiful in creation had stopped suddenly.
Enough of this now. I was lazily turning (the morning
af er Lady Roseville's) over some old books, when Vincent
entered. I observed that his face was flushed, and his eyes
sparkled with more than their usual brilliancy. He looked
carefully round the room, and then approaching his chair
towards mine, said, in a low tone —
That lowliness is young Ambition's ladder
I have also observed that you have, of late, been much to
Lord Dawton's; I have even heard that you have been
twice closeted with him. It is well known that that person
entertains hopes of leading the Opposition to the grata
arva of the Treasury benches; and notwithstanding the
years in which the Whigs have been out of office, there
are some persons who pretend to foresee the chance of a
coalition between them and Mr. Gaskell, to whose prin-
ciples, it is also added, that they have been gradually
assimilating."
Here Vincent paused a moment, and looked full at me.
I met his eye with a glance as searching as his own. His
look changed, and he continued.
"Now listen to me, Pelham; such a coalition never can
take place. You smile; I repeat it. It is my object to
form a third party; perhaps while the two great sects ´an-
ticipate the cabinet designs of fate,' there may suddenly
come by a third, to whom the whole shall be referred.
Say that you think it not impossible that you may join us,
and I will tell you more.”
I paused for three minutes before I answered Vincent
I then said, "I thank you very sincerely for your pro-
posal, tell me the names of two of your designed party,
and I will auswer you?"
V
"Lord Lincoln and Lord Lesborough."
"What!" said I,
House, that whatever may be the distresses of the people,
"the Whig, who says in the Upper
they shall not be gratified at the cost of one of the despotic
Go to! - I will have none
privileges of the aristocracy. Go to!-
of him. As to Lesborough, he is a fool and a boaster,
who is always putting his own vanity with the windiest
pair of oratorical bellows that ever were made by air and
brass, for the purpose of sound and smoke, signifying
nothing. Go to! I will have none of him either."
swered Vincent;
"You are right in your judgment of my confrères,” an-
good purposes."
"but we must make use of bad tools for
tell you the reverse.
“No,
-no!" said I; "the commonest carpenter wil
Vincent eyed me suspiciously.
"Look you!" said he
"I know well that no man loves better than you, place,
power, and reputation. Do you grant this?'
"I do!" was my reply:
"Join with us; I will place you in the House of Com-
mons immediately: if we succeed, you shall have the first
King Bezonian, speak or die!""
and the best post I can give you. Now, under which,
•
I answer you in the words of the same worthy you
quote," said 1, "A foutra for thine office.'-Do you
know, Vincent, that I have, strange as it may seem to you,
such a thing as a conscience?—it is true I forget it now
and then; but in a public capacity, the recollections of oth-
ers would put me very soon in mind of it. I know your
injurious to the country, nor one more revolting to myself:
party well. I cannot imagine, forgive me, one more
and I do positively affirm, that I would sooner feed my
"Pelham, I have something of importance on my mind
poodle on paunch and liver, instead of cream and fricassee,
waich I wish to discuss with you; but let me entreat you
than be an instrument in the hands of men like Lincoln
to lay aside your usual levity, and pardon me if I say affec-who join ignorance of every principle of legislation to in
and Lesborough; who talk much, who perform nothing,
tation; meet me with the candor and plainness which are
the real distinctions of your character."
ད་
“My Lord Vincent," I replied, "there is in your words,
a depth and solemnity which pierce me through one of
N— 's best stuffed cats, even to the very heart. Let
me ring for my poodle and some eau de Cologne, and I will
hear you as you desire, from the alpha to the omega of
your discourse."
* The Philosopher of Malmesbury expresses a very different
opinion of the origin of .aughter, and, for my part, I am inclin-
ed greatly to agree with him. See Hobbes on Human Nature.
and would only
difference for every benefit to the people: who are ful
level upwards and trample downwards,
of wise saws, but empty of modern instances," who
value the ability you are pleased to impute to me, in the
exact proportion that a sportsman values the ferret, that
Your party shan't stand !”
burrows for his pleasure, and destroys for his interest.
C
Vincent turned pale,-" And how long," said he, “ have
you learnt the principles of legislation,' and this mighty
affection for the benefit of the people ?"
"Ever since,” said I, coldly, “I learnt any thing' The
86
BULWER'S NOVELS.
first piece of real knowledge I ever gained was, that my
interest was incorporated with that of the beings with
whom I had the chance of being cast: if I injure them, I
injure myself: if I can do them any good, I receive the
benefit in common with the rest. Now, as I have a great
love for that personage, who has now the honor of ad-
dressing you, I resolve to be honest for his sake. So
much for my affection for the benefit of the people. As to
the little knowledge of the principles of legislation, on
which you are kind enough to compliment me, look over
the books on this table, or the writings on this desk, and
know, that ever since I had the misfortune of parting from
you at Cheltenham, there has not been a day in which I
have spent less than six hours reading and writing on that
sole subject. But enough of this, will you ride to-day?"
Vincent rose slowly,-
ma
"Gli arditi (said he) tuoi voti
Già noti mi sono;
Ma invano a quel trono,
Tu aspiri con me;
Trema per te !''
❝ Io trema
di te!"
"Well," answered Vincent, and his fine high nature
overcame his momentary resentment and chagrin, at my
reception of his offer, "Well, I honor you for your sen-
timents, though they are opposed to my own.
I may
pend on your secrecy?
"You may," said I.
(I replied out of the same opera) — “ Io tre-
de-
"I forgive you, Pelham," rejoined Vincent: "we part
friends."
"Wait one moment," said I, "and pardon me, if I ven-
ture to speak in the language of caution to one in every
way superior to myself. No one, (I say this with a safe
conscience, for I never flattered my friend in my life,
though I have often adulated my enemy,) no one has a
greater admiration for your talents than myself; I desire
eagerly to see you in the station most fit for their display;
pause one moment before you link yourself, not only to a
party, but to principles that cannot stand. You have only
to exert yourself, and you may either lead the opposition,
or be among the foremost in the administration. Take
something certain rather than what is doubtful; or at least
stand alone: such is my belief in your powers, if fairly
tried, that if you were not united to those men, I would
promise you faithfully to stand or fall by you alone, even if
we had not through all England another soldier to our stan-
dard; but
"I thank you, Pelham," said Vincent, interrupting me;
"till we meet in public as enemies, we are friends in pri-
I desire no more. — Farewell."
vate,
CHAPTER LIV.
Il vaut mieux employer notre esprit à supporter les infortunes
qui nous arrivent, qu'à prévoir celles qui nous peuvent arriver.
ROCHEFOUCAULT.
|
No sooner had Vincent departed, than I buttoned my
coat, and sallied out through a cold easterly wind to Lord |
Dawton's. It was truly said by the poetical quoter, that I
had been often at that nobleman's, although I have not
thought it advisable to speak of my political adventures
hitherto. I have before said that I was ambitious; and
the sagacious have probably already discovered, that I was
somewhat less ignorant than it was my usual pride and
pleasure to appear, Heaven knows why! but I had es-
tablished among my uncle's friends, a reputation for talent,
which I by no means deserved, and no sooner had I been
personally introduced to Lord Dawton, than I found myself
courted by that personage in a manner equally gratifying
and uncommon. When I lost my seat in parliament, Daw-
ton assured me that before the session was over, I should
be returned for one of his boroughs; and though my mind
revolted at the idea of becoming dependent on any party, I
made little scruple of promising conditionally to ally my
self to his. So far had affairs gone, when I was honored
with Vincent's proposal. I found Lord Dawton in his
iibrary, with the Marquess of Clandonald, (Lord Dart
more's father, and, from his rank and property, classed
among the highest, as, from his vanity and restlessness, he
>
was among the most active inembers of the Opposition.)
Clandonald left the room when I entered. Few men in
office are wise enough to trust the young; as if the greater
zeal and sincerity of youth, did not more than compensate
for its appetite for the gay, or its thoughtlessness of the
serious.
When we were alone, Dawton said to me, "We are in
great despair at the motion upon the
to be made'
in the Lower House. We have not a single person whom
we can depend upon, for the sweeping and convincing an-
swer we ought to make; and though we should at least
muster our fuli force in voting, our wnipper in, poor
is so ill, that I fear we shall make but a very pitiful figure.'
"Give me,
"said I, "full permission to go forth into the
high-ways and by-ways, and I will engage to bring a whole
legion of dandies to the House door. I can go no farther;
your other agents must do the rest.
>"
"Thank you, my dear young friend," said Lord Daw-
ton, eagerly; "thank you a thousand times; we must
really get you into the House as soon as possible; you
will serve us more than I can express.
I bowed with a sneer I could not repress. Dawton
pretended not to observe it. "Come," said I, "my lord,
we have no time to lose. I shall meet you, perhaps, at
Brooke's, to-morrow evening, and report to you respecting
our success.
""
Lord Dawton pressed my hand warmly, and followed
me to the door.
1
"He is the best premier we could have," thought I;
"but he deceives himself, if he thinks Henry Pelham will
play the jackall to his lion. He will soon see that I shall
keep for myself what he thinks I hunt for him." I pass-
ed through Pall Mall, and thought of Glanville. I knock-
ed at his door; he was at home. I found him leaning his
cheek upon his hand, in a thoughtful position; an open
letter was before him.
"Read that," he said, pointing to it.
I did so.
It was from the agent to the Duke of
and contained his appointinent to an opposition Borough.
"A new toy, Pelham," said he, faintly smiling;
"but a
little longer, and they will be broken the rattle will be
the last."
،،
"
"My dear, dear Glanville," said I much affected, "do
not talk thus; you have every thing before you.
"Yes," interrupted Glanville, you are right, for every
thing left for me is in the grave. Do you inagine that I
can taste one of the possessions which fortune has heaped
upon me, that I have one healthful faculty, one sensual en-
joyinent, among the hundred which other men are heirs
to?' When did you ever see me for a moment happy?
I live, as it were, on a rock, barren, and herbless, and
sapless, and cut off from all human fellowship and inter-
course. I had only a single object left to live for, when
you saw me at Paris; I have gratified that, and the end
and purpose of my existence is fulfilled. Heaven is mer-
ciful; but a little while, and this feverish and unquiet
spirit shall be at rest.
I took his hand and pressed it.
"Feel," said he, "this dry burning skin; count my
pulse through the variations of a single minute, and you
will cease either to pity me, or to speak to me of life.
For months I have had, night and day, a wasting- wast-
ing fever, of brain, and heart, and frame; the fire works
well, and the fuel is nearly consumed.”
He paused, and we were both silent. In fact I was
shocked at the fever of his pulse, no less than affected at
the despondency of his words. At last I spoke to him of
medical advice.
"Canst thou," he said, with a deep solemnity of voice
and manner, "administer to a mind diseased pluck
from the memory'-Ah! away with the quotation and the
reflection." And he sprung froin the sofa, and going to the
window, opened it, and leaned out for a few moments in
silence.
silence. When he turned again towards me, his manner
had regained its usual quiet. He spoke about the impor-
tant motion approaching on the and promised to
attend; and then, by degrees, I led him to talk of his
sister.
"Beautiful as El-
He mentioned her with enthusiasm.
len is," he said, "her face is the very faintest reflection of
her mind. Her habits of thought are so pure, that every
impulse is a virtue. Never was there a person to whon
goodness was so easy. Vice seems something so opposite
·་
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
lo ner nature, that I cannot imagine it possible for her to
sin."
"Will you not call with me at your mother's?" said I,
"I am going there to-day."
Glanville replied in the affirmative, and we went at once
to Lady Glanville's, in Berkeley square. We were admit-
ted into his mother's boudoir. She was alone with Miss
Glanville. Our conversation soon turned from common-
place topics to those of a graver nature; the deep melan-
cholly of Glanville's mind imbued all his thoughts when he
once suffered himself to express them.
"Why," said Lady Glanville, who seemed painfully
fond of her son, "why do you not go more into the world?
You suffer your mind to prey upon itself, till it destroys
you. My dear, dear son, how very ill you seem.
Ellen, whose eyes swam in tears, as they gazed upon
her brother, laid her beautiful hand upon his, and said,
“For my mother's sake, Reginald, do take more care of
yourself; you want air, and exercise, and amusement."
"No," answered Glanville, "I want nothing but occu-
pation, and thanks to the Duke of I have now got it.
I am chosen member for
"I am too happy," said the proud mother; "you will
now be all I have ever predicted for you ;" and in her joy
at the moment, she forgot the hectic of his cheek, and the
hollowness of his eye.
>>
"Do you remember," said Reginald, turning to his sis-
"those beautiful lines in my favorite Ford,
ter,
"Glories
Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,
And shadows soon decaying. On the stage
Of my mortality, my youth has acted
Some scenes of vanity drawn out at length
By varied pleasures — sweetened in the mixture,
But tragical in issue.
Beauty, pomp,
With every sensuality our giddiness
Doth frame an idol-are inconsistent friends
When any troubled passion makes us halt
On the unguarded castle of the mind.""
"Your verses," said I, " are beautiful, even to me, who
have no soul for poetry, and never wrote a line in my life.
But I love not their philosophy. In all sentiments that are
impregnated with melancholy, and instil sadness as a moral,
I question the wisdom, and dispute the truth. There is no
situation in life which we cannot sweeten, or embitter at
will. If the past is gloomy, I do not see the necessity of
dwelling upon it. If the mind can make one vigorous ex-
ertion, it can another; the same energy you put forth in
acquiring knowledge, would also enable you to baffle mis-
fortune. Determine not to think upon what is painful;
resolutely turn away from every thing that recalls it; bend
all your attention to some new and engrossing object; do
this and you defeat the past. You smile, as if this were
impossible; yet it is not an iota more so, than to tear one's
self from a favorite pursuit, and addict one's self to an
object unwelcome to one at first. This the mind does con-
tinually through life; so can it also do the other, if you
will but make an equal exertion. Nor does it seem to be
natural to the human heart to look much to the past; all
its plans, its projects, its aspirations are for the future; it
is for the future, and in the future that we live. Our very
passions, when most agitated, are most anticipative. Re-
venge, avarice, ambition, love, the desire of good and evil,
are all fixed and pointed to some distant goal; to look
backwards is like walking backwards against our proper
formation; the mind does not readily adopt the habit, and
when once adopted, it will readily return to its natural
bias. Oblivion is, therefore, an easier obtained boon than
we imagine. Forgetfulness of the past is purchased by
increasing our anxiety for the future."
I paused for a moment, but Glanville did not answer
me; and, encouraged by a look from Ellen, I continued,-
"You remember that according to an old creed, if we
were given memory as a curse, we were also given hope
as a blessing. Counteract the one by the other. In my
own life, I have committed many weak, many wicked ac-
tions; I have chased away their remembrance, though I
have transplanted their warning to the future. As the body
As the body
involuntarily avoids what is hartful to it, without tracing
the association to its first experience, so the mind insensi-
bly shuns what has formerly afflicted it, even without pal-
pably recalling the remembrance of the affliction. The
Roman philosopher placed the secret of human happiness
in the one maxim
mire.' I never could ex-
VOL. I.
8
not to
actly comprenend the sense of the moral: my maxim for
the same object would be— never to regret.'
335
we are
"Alas! my dear friend," said Glanville
great philosophers to each other, but not to ourselves; the
moment we begin to feel sorrow, we cease to reflect on its
wisdom. Time is the only comforter; your maxims are
very true, but they confirm me in my opinion that it is
in vain for us to lay down fixed precepts for the regulation
of the mind, so long as it is dependent upon the body.
Happiness and its reverse are constitutional in many per-
sons, and it is then only that they are independent of cir-
cumstances. Make the health, the frames of all men alike
make their nerves of the same susceptibility- their mem-
ories of the same bluntness, or acuteness and I will then
allow, that you can give rules adapted to all men ; till
then your maxim, 'never to regret,' is as idle as Horace's
never to admire.' It may be wise to you—it is impossi-
ble to me! ”
C
With these last words Glanville's voice faltered, and I
felt averse to push the argument further.
Ellen's eye
caught mine, and gave me a look so kind, and almost
grateful, that I forgot every thing else in the world. A
few moments afterwards, a friend of Lady Glanville's was
announced, and I left the room.
CHAPTER LV.
Intus et in jecore ægro,
Nascuntur domini.
PERSIUS.
THE next two and three days, I spent in visiting all my
male friends in the Lower House, and engaging them to
dine with me, preparatory to the great act of voting on
's motion. I led them myself to the House of Com
mons, and not feeling sufficiently interested in the debate
to remain, as a stranger, where I ought, in my own opinion,
to have acted as a performer, I went to Brooke's to wai
the result. Lord Gravelton, a stout, bluff, six foot noble ·
man, with a voice like a Stentor, was "blowing up ten
waiters in the coffee-room. Mr.
the author of
T-
was conning the Courier in a corner; and Lord
Armadilleros, the haughtiest and most honorable peer in
the calendar, was monopolizing the drawing-room with his
right foot on one hob and his left on the other. I sat my.
self down in silence, and looked over the "crack article"
in the Edinburgh. By and by, the room got fuller; every
one spoke of the motion before the House, and anticipated
the merit of the speeches, and the numbers of the voters.
At last a principal member entered -a crowd gathered
round him. "I have heard," he said, "the most extraor-
dinary speech, for the combination of knowledge and ima
gination that I ever recollect to have listened to."
"From Gaskell, I suppose?" was the universal cry.
"No," said Mr. ——, "Gaskell has not yet spoken.
It was from a young man who has only just taken his seat.
It was received with the most unanimous cheers, and was,
indeed, a remarkable display."
"What is his name?" I asked, already half foreboding
the answer.
'I only just learned it as I left the House," replied Mr.
"the speaker was Sir Reginald Glanville.”
Then every one whom I had often before heard censure
Glanville for his rudeness, or laugh at him for his eccentri
city, opened their mouths in congratulations to their own
wisdom for having long admired his talents and predicted
his success.
I left the "turba Remi sequens fortunam; "I felt agita-
ted and feverish; those who have unexpectedly heard of
the success of a man for whom great affection is blended
with greater interest, can understand the restlessness of
mind with which I wandered into the streets. The air was
cold and nipping. I was buttoning my coat round my
chest, when I heard a voice say,
"You have dropped your
glove, Mr. Pelham.
The speaker was Thornton. I thanked him coldly for
his civility, and was going on, when he said, "If your way
is up Pall Mall, I have no objection to join you for a few
minutes."
I bowed with some hauteur; and as I seldom refuse any
opportunity of knowing more perfectly individual charac
68
BULWER'S NOVELS.
te, I said I should be happy of his company so long as our
way lay together.
"It is a cold night, Mr. Pelham," said Thornton, after
a pause. "I have been dining at Hatchett's, with an old
Paris acquaintance; I am sorry we did not meet more of-
ten in France, but I was so taken up with my friend Mr.
Warburton.”
As Thornton uttered that name he looked hard at me,
and then added, "By the by,
By the by, I saw you with Sir Reginald
Glanville the other day; you know him well, I presume?"
Tolerably well," said I with indifference.
"What a strange character he is," rejoined Thornton;
“I also have known him for some years," and again Thorn-
ton looked pryingly into my countenance. Poor fool, it
was not for a penetration like his to read the cor inscruta-
bile of a man born and bred like me, in the consummate
dissimulation of bon ton.
"He is very rich, is he not?" said Thornton, after a
brief silence.
"I believe so," said I.
Humph!" answered Thornton. "Things have grown
better with him, in proportion as they grow worse with me,
who have had as good luck as the cow that stuck herself
with her own horn. I suppose he is not too anxious to
he is not too anxious to
recollect me poverty parts fellowship.' Well, hang
pride, say I; give me an honest heart all the
year round,
in summer or winter, drought or plenty. Would to God,
some kind friend would lend me twenty pounds.
To this wish I made no reply. Thornton sighed.
"Mr. Pelham," renewed he, "it is true, I have known
you but a short time -excuse the liberty I take - but if
you
could lend me a trifle, it would really assist me very much."
"Mr. Thornton," said 1, "if I knew you better, and
could serve you more, you might apply to me for more real
assistance than any bagatelle I could afford you would be.
If twenty pounds would really be of service to you, I will
lend it you, upon this condition, that you never ask me for
another farthing.
Thornton's face brightened. "A thousand, thousand
he begun.
No," interrupted I, no thanks, only your promise."
Upon my honor," said Thornton, "I will never ask
you for another farthing.
While
"There is honor among thieves," thought I, and so I
took out the sum mentioned, and gave it to him. In good
earnest, though I disliked the man, his threadbare garments
and altered appearance moved me to compassion.
he was pocketing the money, which he did with the most
unequivocal delight, a tall figure passed us rapidly. We
both turned at the same instant, and recognised Glanville.
He had not gone seven yards beyond us, before we observed
his steps, which were very irregular, pause suddenly; a
moment afterwards he fell against the iron rails of an area;
we hastened towards him, he was apparently fainting. His
countenance was perfectly livid, and marked with the tra-
ces of extreme exhaustion. I sent Thornton to the near-
est public house for some water; before he returned, Glan-
ville had recovered.
"All-all in vain," he said, slowly and unconsciously,
"death is the only Lethe."
and he bit his lip so violently that the blood gushed out
He made, however, no other answer than —
"You seem agitated to-night, Sir Reginald; I wish your
speedy restoration to better health. Mr. Pelham, your
servant.
"
-
Glanville walked on in silence till we came to his door :
we parted there; and for want of any thing better to co, I
sauntered towards the M · Hell, in St. James's Place
There were only abo cor twelve persons in the rooins
and all were gathered round the hazard table I looked
on silently, seeing the knaves devour the fools, and younger
brothers make up in wit for the deficiencies of fortune.
The honorable Mr. Blagrave came up to me;
Do you
never play?" said he.
"Sometimes," was my brief reply.
"Lend me a hundred pounds!" rejoined my kind ac
quaintance.
""
"I was just going to make you the same request," said I.
Blagrave laughed heartily. "Well," said he, "be my
security to a Jew, and I'll be yours. My fellow lends me
money at only forty per cent. My governor is a 3-d
stingy old fellow, for I am the most moderate son in the
universe. I neither hunt nor race, nor have I any one fa-
vorite expense, except gambling, and he wont satisfy me
in that - now I call such conduct shameful!"
"Unheard of barbarity," said I; "and you do well to
ruin your property by Jews before you have it; you could
not avenge yourself better on the governor."
.
"No, d- me," said Blagrave, "leave me alone for
that! Well, I have got five pounds left, I shall go and
slap it down."
No sooner had he left me than I was accosted by Mr. Go-
ren, a handsome little adventurer, who lived the devil knew
how, for the devil seemed to take excellent care of him.
C
"Poor Blagrave!" said he, eyeing the countenance of
that ingenious youth. "He is a strange fellow he asked
me the other day if I ever read the history of England, and
told me there was a great deal in it about his ancestor, a
Roman general, in the time of William the Conqueror,
called Caractacus. He told me at the last Newmarket,
that he had made up a capital book, and it turned out that
he had hedged with such dexterity, that he must lose one
thousand pounds, and he might lose two. Well, well,"
continued Goren, with a sanctified expression; "I would
sooner see these real fools here, than the confounded scoun-
drels, who pillage one under a false appearance. Never,
Mr. Pelham, trust to a man in a gaming house; the hon-
estest look hides the worst sharper! Shali you try your
luck to-night?"
on.”
"No," said 1, "I shall only look on.
Lord
Goren sauntered to the table, and sat down next to a rich
young man, of the best temper and the worst luck in the
world. After a few throws, Goren said to him, "Lord
do put your money aside-you have so much on the
table, that it interferes with mine and that is really so un-
pleasant. Suppose you put some of it in your pocket."
took a handful of notes, and stuffed them
carelessly in his coat pocket. F've minutes afterwards I
saw Goren insert his hand, empty, in his neighbour's pocket,
and bring it out full-
out full-and half an hour afterwards he
handed over a fifty pound note to the marker, saying,
There, Sir, is my debt to you. God bless me, Lord-
"I have already heard of your speech," said I. Glan-how you have won; I wish you would not leave all your
ville smiled with the usual faint and sicklied expression, money about do put it in your pocket with the rest.
which made his smile painful even in its exceeding sweet- Lord
(who had perceived the trick, though he
was too indolent to resent it) laughed. No, no, Goren,"
said he, you must let me keep some!"
Goren colored, and soon after rose. "D-u my luck!"
said he, as he passed me. "I wonder I continue to play
but there are such sharpers in the room. Avoid a gaming
house, Mr. Pelham, if you wish to live."
He started when he saw me. I made him lean on my
arm, and we walked on slowly.
ness.
"You have also already seen its effects; the excitement
was too much for me.
"It must have been a proud moment when you sat
down," said I.
"It was one of the bitterest I ever felt - it was fraught
with the memory of the dead. What are all honors to me
now ?— O God! O God! have mercy upon me !
And Glanville stopped suddenly, and put his hand to
his temples.
By this time Thornton had joined us. When Glanville's
eyes rested upon him, a deep hectic rose slowly and gradu-
ally over his cheeks. Thornton's lip curled with a malicious
expression. Glanville marked it, and his brow grew on
the moment as dark as night.
"Begone" he said, in a loud voice, and with a flashing
rye, "begone instantly; I loath the very sight of so base
thing."
Thornton's quick, restless eye, grew like a living coal,
k
CC
"And let live," thought I.
<C
I was just going away, when I heard a loud laugh on the
stairs, and immediately afterwards Thornton entered, joking
with one of the markers. He did not see me; but ap-
proaching the table, drew out the identical twenty pound
note I had given him, and asked for change with the air of
a millionaire. I did not wait to witness his fortune, good
or ill; I cared too little about it. I descended the stairs,
and the servant, on opening the door for me, admitted Sir
John Tyrrell. "What," I thought, "is the habit still so
strong?" We stopped each other, and after a few words
of greeting, I went, once more, up stairs with him.
Thornton was playing as eagerly with his suall quota,
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
59
as Lord C— with his ten thousands. He nodded with |
an affected air of familiarity to Tyrrell, who returned his
salutation with the most supercilious hauteur; and very
soon afterwards the baronet was utterly engrossed by the
chances of the game I had, however, satisfied my
curiosity, in ascertaining that there was no longer any in-
timacy between him and Thornton, and accordingly once
more I took my departure.
CHAPTER LVI.
The times have been
That when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end- but now they rise again. Macbeth.
It was a strange thing to see a man like Glanville, with
costly tastes, luxurious habits, great talents, peculiarly cal-
culated for display, courted by the highest members of the
state, admired for his beauty and genius by half the women
in London, yet living in the most ascetic seclusion from his
kind, and indulging in the darkest and most morbid des-
pondency. No female was ever seen to win even his
momentary glance of admiration. All the senses seemed
to have lost, for his palate, their customary allurements.
He lived among his books, and seemed to make his
favorite companions amidst the past. At nearly all hours
of the night he was awake and occupied, and at day-break
his horses were always brought to his door. He rode
alone for several hours, and then, on his return, he was em-
ployed, till the hour he went to the House, in the affairs
and politics of the day. Ever since his début, he had
entered with much constancy into the more leading de-
bates, and his speeches were invariably of the same
commanding order which had characterized his first.
It was singular that, in his parliamentary display, as in
his ordinary conversation, there were none of the wild and
speculative opinions, or the burning enthusiasm of romance,
in which the natural inclination of his mind seemed so es-
sentially to delight. His arguments were always remarka-
ble for the soundness of the principles on which they were
based, and the logical clearness with which they were ex-
pressed. The feverish fervor of his temperament was, it
is true, occasionally shown in a remarkable energy of de-
livery, or a sudden and unexpected burst of the more im-
petuous powers of oratory; but these too were so evidently
natural and spontaneous, and so happily adapted to be im-
pressive of the subject, rather than irrelevant from its bear-
ags, that they never displeased even the oldest and coldest
cynics, and calculators of the House.
It is no uncommon contradiction in human nature (and
in Glanville it seemed peculiarly prominent) to find men
of imagination and genius gifted with the strongest common
sense, for the admonition or benefit of others, even while
constantly neglecting to exert it for themselves. He was
soon marked out as the most promising and important of
all the junior members of the House, and the coldness with
which he kept aloof from social intercourse with the party
he adopted, only served to increase their respect, though
it prevented their affection.
Lady Roseville's attachment to him was scarcely a se-
cret; the celebrity of her name in the world of ton inade
her least look or action the constant subject of present re-
mark and after conversation; and there were too many
moments, even in the watchful publicity of society, when
that charming but imprudent person forgot every thing but
the romance of her attachment. Glanville seemed not only
perfectly untouched by it, but even wholly unconscious of
its existence, and preserved invariably, whenever he was
forced into the crowd, the same stern, cold, unsympathizing
reserve, which made him, at once, an object of universal
conversation and dislike.
Three weeks after Glanville's first speech in the House
I called upon him with a proposal from Lord Dawton.
After we had discussed it, we spoke on familiar topics,
and at last, he mentioned Thornton. It will be observed
that we had never conversed respecting that person; nor
had Glanville once alluded to our former meetings, or to
his disguised appearance and false appellation at Paris.
Whatever might be the mystery, it was evidently of a
painful nature, and it was not, therefore, for me to allude
to it. This day he spoke of Thornton with a tone of indif-
Serence.
"The nan," he said, "I have known for some time;
be was useful to me abroad, and, notwithstanding his cha-
racter, I rewarded him well for his services. He has
since applied to me several times for money, which is spent
at the gambling-house as soon as it is obtained. I believs
him to be leagued with a gang of sharpers, of the lowest
description: and I am really unwilling any farther to sup-
ply the vicious necessities of himself and his comrades
He is a mean, mercenary rascal, who would scruple at no
enormity, provided he was paid for it!"
Glanville paused for a few moments, and then added,
while his cheek blushed, and his voice seemed sornat
hesitating and embarrassed
"You remember Mr. Tyrrell at Paris ?"
"Yes," said I -"he is, at present, in London, and-
Glanville started as if he had been shot.
"No, no," he exclaimed, wildly-"he died at Paris
from want- from starvation.”
"You are mistaken," said I; "he is now Sir John Tyr-
rell, and possessed of considerable property. I saw him
myself, three weeks ago."
Glanville laid his hand upon my arm, and grasped it so
firmly that the mark remained there for days afterwards.
He looked in my face with a long, stern, prying gaze, and
his cheek grew more ghastly and livid with every moment.
At last be turned, and muttered something between his
teeth; and at that moment the door opened, and Thornton
was announced.
Glanville sprung towards him, and seized
him by the throat!
"
Dog!" he cried, " you have deceived me-Tyrrell
lives!"
"Hands off!” cried the gamester, with a savage grin of
defiance" hands off! or by the Lord that made me, you
shall have gripe for gripe!"
Ho, wretch!" said Glanville, shaking him violently,
while his worn and slender, yet still muscular and power-
ful frame, trembled with the excess of his passion ; " dost
thou dare to threaten me" and with these words he flung
Thornton against the opposite wall with such force, that
the blood gushed out of his mouth and nostrils. The
gambler rose slowly, and wiping the blood from his face,
fixed his malignant and fiery eye upon his aggressor, with
an expression of collected hate and vengeance, that made
my very blood creep.
"It is not my day now," he said, with a calm, quiet,
cold voice, and then, suddenly changing his manner, he ap-
proached me with a sort of bow, and made some remark on
the weather.
Meanwhile, Glanville had sunk on the sofa, exhausted,
less by his late effort than the convulsive passion which had
produced it. He rose in a few moments and said to Thorn-
ton, "Pardon my violence; let this pay your bruises; "
and he placed a long and apparently well-filled purse, in
Thornton's hand. That veritable philosopher took it with
the same air as a dog receives the first caress from the hand
which has just chostised him; and feeling the purse between
his short hard fingers, as if to ascertain the soundness of its
condition, quietly slid it into his breeches pocket, which he
then buttoned with care, and pulling his waistcoat down as
if for further protection to the deposite, he turned towards
Glanville, and said, in his usual quaint style of vulgarity,-
"Least said, Sir Reginald, the soonest mended. Gold is
a good plaster for bad bruises. Now, then, your will;-ask
and I will answer, unless you think Mr. Pelham un de trop."
I was already at the door, with the intention of leaving
the room, when Glanville cried, "Stay, Pelham, I have
but one question to ask Mr. Thornton. Is John Tyrrell
still living?"
"He is!" answered Thornton, with a sardonic smile.
"And beyond all want?" resumed Glanville
"He is !
was the tautological reply.
"Mr. Thornton," said Glanville, with a calm voice," I
have now done with you,
-you may leave the room! "
Thornton bowed with an air of ironical respect, and
obeyed the command.
I turned to look at Glanville. His countenance, always
better adapted to a stern, than a soft expression, was per-
fectly fearful; every line in it seemed dug into a furrow;
the brows were bent over his large and flashing eyes with
clenched firmly as if by a vice, and the thin upper lip,
a painful intensity of anger and resolve; his teeth were
which was drawn from them with a curl of scorn, was as
white as death. His right hand had closed upon the back
leant, and was grasping it with an iron force, which it
of the massy chair, over which his tall nervous frame
60
BULWER'S NOVELS.
could not support: it snapped beneath his hand like a hazel
stick. This accident, slight as it was, recalled him to him-
self. He apologized with apparent self-possession for his
disorder; and, after a few words of fervent and affection-
ate farewell on my part, I left him to the solitude which I
knew he desired.
CHAPTER LVII.
While I seemed only intent upon pleasure, I locked in my
heart the consciousness and vanity of power; in the levity of
the lip, I disguised the knowledge and workings of the brain;
and I looked, as with a gifted eye, upon the mysteries of the hid-
den depths, while I seemed to float an idler with the herd only
upon the surface of the stream.
FALKLAND.
As I walked home, revolving the scene I had witnessed,
the words of Tyrrell came into my recollection, viz. that
the cause of Glanville's dislike to him had arisen in Tyr-
rell's greater success in some youthful liaison. In this ac-
count I could not see much probability. In the first place,
the cause was not sufficient to produce such an effect; and,
in the second, there was little likelihood that the young and
rich Glanville, possessed of the most various accomplish-
ments, and the most remarkable personal beauty, should be
supplanted by a needy spendthrift, (as Tyrrell at that time
was,) of coarse manners, and unpolished mind; with a
person not, indeed, unprepossessing, but, somewhat touched
by time, and never more comparable to Glanville's than
that of the Satyr to Hyperion.
my
While I was meditating over a mystery which excited
curiosity more powerfully than any thing, not relating to
himself, ought ever to occupy the attention of a wise man,
I was accosted by Vincent; the difference in our politics
had of late much dissevered us, and when he took my arın,
and drew me up Bond Street, I was somewhat surprised at
his condescension.
"Listen to me, Pelham," he said; "once more I offer
you a settlement in our colony. There will be great chan-
ges soon: trust me, so radical a party as that you have
adopted can never come in: our's, on the contrary, is no
less moderate than liberal. This is the last time of asking;
for I know you will soon have exposed your opinions in
public more openly than you have yet done, and then it will
be too late. At present I hold with Hudibras, and the an-
cients, that it is,
ter,
'More honorable far, servare
Civem than slay an adversary '"
Alas, Vincent," said I, "I am marked out for slaugh-
for you cannot convince me by words, and so, I sup-
pose, you must conquer me by blows. Adieu, this is my
way to Lord Dawton's: where are you going?
To mount my horse, and join the parca juventus," said
Vincent, with a laugh at his own witticism, as we shook
hands, and parted.
I grieve much, my beloved reader, that I cannot unfold
to thee all the particulars of my political intrigue. I am,
by the very share which fell to my lot, bound over to the
strictest secrecy, as to its nature, and the characters of the
chief agents in its execution. Suffice it to say, that the
greater part of my time was, though furtively, employed in
a sort of home diplomacy, gratifying alike to the activity
of my tastes, and the vanity of my mind, and there were
moments when I ventured to grasp in my imagination the
highest honors of the state, and the most lucrative offices
of power. I had filled Dawton, and his coadjutors, with
an exaggerated opinion of my abilities; but I knew well
how to sustain it. I rose by candlelight, and consumed, in
the intensest application, the hours which every other indi-
vidual of our party wasted in enervating slumbers, from the
hesternal dissipation or debauch. Was there a question.
in political economy debated, mine was the readiest and
the clearest reply. Did a period in our constitution become
investigated, it was I to whom the duty of expositor was
referred. From Madame D'Anville, with whom (though
ost as a lover) I constantly corresponded as a friend, I ob-
*amed the earliest and most accurate detail of the prospects
and manœuvres of the court in which her life was spent,
and in whose most secret offices her husband was employ-
ed. I spared no means of extending my knowledge of ev-
ery the minutest poi it which could add to the reputation I
|
enjoyed. I made myself acquainted with the individua
interests and exact circumstances of all whom it was our
object to intimidate or to gain. It was I who brought to
the House the younger and idler members, whom no more
nominally powerful agent could allure from the ball-room or
the gaming-house.
In short, while, by the dignity of my birth, and the de-
pendent hauteur of my bearing, I preserved the rank of an
equal among the highest of the set, I did not scruple to take
upon myself the labor and activity of the most subordinate
Dawton declared me his right hand; and, though I knew
myself rather his head than his hand, I pretended to feel
proud of the appellation. In truth, I only waited for my
entrée into the House, to fix my eye and grasp upon the
very situation that nobleman coveted for himself.
coxcombical and eccentric costume of character I had first
Meanwhile, it was my pleasure to wear in society the
adopted, and to cultivate the arts which won from women
the smile which cheered and encouraged me in my graver
contest with the men.
I laid aside an affectation, which I knew was little likely
It was only to Ellen Glanville, that
to attract a taste so refined and unadulterated as her's. I
discovered in her a mind which, while it charmed me by
its tenderness and freshness, elevated me by its loftiness of
thought. She was, at heart, perhaps, as ambitious as my-
self; but while my aspirations were concealed by affecta-
tion, her's were softened by her timidity, and purified by
her religion. There were moments when I opened myself
to her, and caught a new spirit from her look of sympathy
and enthusiasm.
"Yes," thought I, "I do long for honors, but it is that
I may ask her to share and ennoble them." In fine, 1 loved
as other men loved,
and vowed an emulation in myself, which it was reserved
and I fancied a perfection in her,
for Time to ratify or deride.
on
Where did I leave myself? as the Irishman said,
my road to Lord Dawton's. I was lucky enough to find
that personage at home; he was writing at a table covered
with pamphlets and books of reference.
"Hush! Pelham," said his lordship, who is a quiet,
grave, meditative little man, always ruminating on a very
small cud, “hush! or do oblige me by looking over this
history, to find out the date of the Council of Pisa.'
"That will do, my young friend," said his lordship,
after I had replied to his query, "I wish to heaven, I
could finish this pamphlet by to-morrow: it is intended as
But I am so perplexed with business
an answer to
that-
CC
"
make your
Perhaps," said I, "if you will pardon my interrupting
you, I can throw your observations together,
Sibylline leaves into a book. Your lordship will find the
matter, and I will not spare the trouble.'
>>
Lord Dawton was profuse in his thanks; he explained
the subject, and left the arrangement wholly to me. He
could not presume to dictate. I promised him, if he lent
me the necessary books, to finish the pamphlet against the
following evening.
"said Lord Dawton, "that we have set-
what news from France ?”
"And now,
tled this affair,
*
*
"I wish," sighed Lord Dawton, as we were calculating
our forces, "that we could gain over Lord Guloseton
"What, the facetious epicure?" said I.
"The same," answered Dawton: "we want him as a
dinner-giver; and, besides, he has four votes in the Lower
House.
CC
Well," said I," he is indolent and independer, — it
is not impossible."
"Do you know him?" answered Dawton.
No;" said I.
Dawton sighed. -"And young A-?" said the
statesman, after a pause.
"Has an expensive mistress, and races. Your lordship
might be sure of him, were you in power, and sure not to
have him while you are out of it.”
"And B. ?" rejoined Dawton.
*
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
31
CHAPTER LVIII.
Mangez-vous bien, Monsieur?
Oui, et bois encore mieux.
Mons. de Porceaugnac.
Mr short pamphlet took prodigiously. The authorship
was attributed to the most talented member of the oppo-
sition; and though there were many errors in style, and (I
now think) many sophisms in the reasoning, yet it carried
the end proposed by all ambition of whatever species-
and imposed upon the taste of the public.
Some time afterwards, I was going down the stairs at
Almack's, when I heard an altercation, high and grave, at
the door of reception. To my surprise I found Lord
Guloseton and a very young man in great wrath; the latter
had never been to Almack's before, and had forgotten his
ticket. Guloseton, who belonged to a very different set to
that of the Almackians, insisted that his word was enough
to bear his juvenile companion through. The ticket
inspector was irate and obdurate, and having seldom or
ever seen Lord Guloseton himself, paid very little respect
to his authority.
As I was wrapping myself in my cloak, Guloseton turned
to me, for passion makes men open their hearts; too eager
for an opportunity of acquiring an epicure's acquaintance,
I offered to get his friend admittance in an instant; the
offer was delightedly accepted, and I soon procured a
small piece of pencilled paper from Lady
effectually silenced the Charon, and opened the Stygian
via to the Elysium beyond.
which
Guloseton overwhelmed me with his thanks.
I re-
mounted the stairs with him took every opportunity of
ingratiating myself— received an invitation to dinner on the
following day, and left Willis's transported at the goodness
of my fortune.
At the hour of eight on the ensuing evening, I had just
made my entrance into Lord Guloseton's drawing-room.
It was a small apartment, furnished with great luxury and
some taste. A Venus of Titian's was placed over the
chimney-piece, in all the gorgeous voluptuousness of her
unveiled beauty the pouting lip, not silent though shut
the eloquent lid drooping over the eye, whose réveille you
could so easily imagine the arms the limbs the atti-
tude, so composed, yet so redolent of life-all seemed to
indicate that sleep was not forgetfulness, and that the
dreams of the goddess were not wholly inharmonious with
the waking realities in which it was her gentle prerogative
to indulge. On either side, was a picture of the delicate
and golden hues of Claude; these were the only land-
scapes in the room; the remaining pictures were more
suitable to the Venus of the luxurious Italian. Here was
one of the beauties of Sir Peter Lely; there was an
adinirable copy of the Hero and Leander. On the table
lay the Basia of Johannes Secundus, and a few French
works on Gastronomy.
As for the genius loci you must imagine a middle-sized,
middle-aged man, with an air rather of delicate than florid
health. But little of the effects of his good cheer were
apparent in the external man. His cheeks were neither
swollen nor inflated his person, though not thin, was of no
unwieldy obesity-the tip of his nasal organ, was, it is true,
of a more ruby tinge than the rest, and one carbuncle, of
tender age and gentle dyes, diffused its mellow and moon-
light influence over the physiognomical scenery-his fore-
head was high and bald, and the few locks which still rose
above it, were carefully and gracefully curled à l'Antique.
Beneath a pair of gray shaggy brows, (which their noble
owner had a strange habit of raising and depressing, ac-
cording to the nature of his remarks,) rolled two very small,
piercing, arch, restless orbs, of a tender green, and the
mouth, which was wide and thick-lipped, was expressive
of great sensuality, and curved upwards in a perpetual
smile.
Such was Lord Guloseton. To my surprise no other
guest but myself appeared.
“A new friend," said he, as we descended into the
dining-room," is like a new dish one must have him all
to one's self, thoroughly to enjoy and rightly to understand
him."
"Of all
"A noble precept," said I, with enthusiasm.
vices, indiscriminate hospitality is the most pernicious. It
allows us neither conversation nor dinner, and realizing the
mythological fable of Tantalus, gives us starvation in the
midst of plenty."
" I never
"You are right;" said Guloseton, solemnly;
ask above six persons to dinner, and I never dine out; for
a bad dinner, Mr. Pelham, a bad dinner is a most serious-
I may add, the most serious calamity.'
-
Yes," I replied, "for it carries with it no consolation :
a buried friend may be replaced -a lost mistress renewed
- a slandered character be recovered even a broken con-
stitution restored; but a dinner, once lost, is irremediable;
that day is for ever departed; an appetite once throw
away can never, till the cruel prolixity of the gastric agents
is
· n
be regained. Il y a tant de maîtresses, (says the
admirable Corneille,) il n'y a qu'un dîner.' "
"You speak like an oracle like the Cook's Oracle, Mr.
Pelham; may I send you some soup, it is à la Carmélite ?
But what are you about to do with that case?"
over,
"It contains," (said I,) my spoon, my knife, and my
fork. Nature afflicted me with a propensity, which through
these machines I have endeavoured to remedy by art. I
eat with too great a rapidity. It is a most unhappy failing,
for one often hurries over in one minute, what ought to have
afforded the fullest delight for the period of five. It is,
indeed, a vice which deadens enjoyment, as well as abbre-
viates it; it is a shameful waste of the gifts, and a melan-
choly perversion of the bounty of Providence; my con-
science tormented me; but the habit fatally indulged in
At last I re-
early childhood, was not easy to overcome.
solved to construct a spoon of peculiarly shallow dimen-
sions, a fork so small, that it could only raise a certain
portion to my mouth, and a knife rendered blunt and jagged,
so that it required a proper and just time to carve the goods
the gods provide me.' My lord, the lovely Thais sits
beside me' in the form of a bottle of Madeira. Suffer me
to take wine with you?"
"With pleasure, my good friend; let us drink to the
memory of the Carmelites, to whom we are indebted for
this inimitable soup."
"Yes!" I cried. "Let us for once shake off the preju
dices of sectarian faith, and do justice to one order of those
incomparable men, who, retiring from the cares of an idle
and sinful world, gave themselves with undivided zeal and
attention to the theory and practice of the profound science
of gastronomy. It is reserved for us, my lord, to pay a
grateful tribute of memory to those exalted recluses, who,
through a long period of barbarism and darkness, preserved,
in the solitude of their cloisters, whatever of Roman luxury
and classic dainties have come down to this later age.
We
will drink to the Carmelites as a sect, but we will drink
also to the monks as a body. Had we lived in those days,
we had been monks ourselves."
CC
It is singular," answered Lord Guloseton
(by the
by, what think you of this turbot ?) - to trace the history of
the kitchen; it affords the greatest scope to the philosopher
and the moralist. The ancients seemed to have been more
mental, more imaginative, than us in their dishes; they fed
their bodies as well as their minds upon delusion: for
instance, they esteemed beyond all price the tongues of
nightingales, because they tasted the very music of the
birds in the organs of their utterance. That is what I call
the poetry of gastronomy!"
"Yes," said I, with a sigh, "they certainly had, in some
respects, the advantage over us. Who can pore over the
suppers of Apicius without the fondest regret? The vene-
rable Ude* implies, that the study has not progressed.
• Cookery (he says, in the first part of his work) possesses
but few innovators.
C
"It is with the greatest diffidence, said Guloseton, (his
mouth full of truth and turbot,) “that we may dare to differ
from so great an authority. Indeed, so high is my venera-
tion for that wise man, that if all the evidence of my sense
and reason were on one side, and the dictum of the great
Ude upon the other, I should be inclined I think, I should
be determined -to relinquish the former, and adopt the
latter. ."+
C
"Bravo, my lord," cried I, warmly. « Qu'un cuisinier
est un mortel divin! Why should we not be proud of our
knowledge in cookery? It is the soul of festivity at all
times, and to all ages.
times, and to all ages. How many marriages have been
the consequence of meeting at dinner? How much good
fortune has been the result of a good supper? At what
-The venerable Bede. — Printer's Devil.
* Q.
† See the speech of Mr. Brougham in honor of Mr. Fox
62
BULWER'S NOVELS.
moment of our existence are we happier than at table?
There hatred and animosity are lulled to sleep, and plea-
sure alone reigns. Here the cook, by his skill and atten-
tion, anticipates our wishes in the happiest selection of the
best dishes and decorations. Here our wants are satisfied,
our minds and bodies invigorated, and ourselves qualified
for the high delights of love, music, poetry, dancing, and
other pleasures; and is he, whose talents have produced
these happy effects, to rank no higher in the scale of man
that a common servant ? *
"Pelham, my boy," said Guloseton, whose eyes begar
to roll and twinkle with a brilliancy suited to the various
liquids which ministered to their rejoicing orbs; "I love
you for your classics. Polypheme was a wise fellow, a very
wise fellow, and it was a terrible shame in Ulysses to put
out his eye. No wonder that the ingenious savage made
a deity of his stomach; to what known and visible source,
on this earth, was he indebted for a keener enjoyment
a more rapturous, and more constant delight? No wonder
he honored it with his gratitude, and supplied it with his
peace-offerings ; — - let us imitate so great an example;
let us make our digestive receptacles a temple, to which
we will consecrate the choicest goods we possess ;
let us
conceive no pecuniary sacrifice too great, which procures
let us deem it an im-
for our altar an acceptable gift;
pro-
"Yes,' cries the venerable professor himself, in a vir-
tuous and prophetic paroxysm of indignant merit, yes,
my disciples, if you adopt, and attend to the rules I have
laid down, the self-love of mankind will consent at last,
that cookery shall rank in the class of sciences, and its
fessors deserve the name of artists! +
re
My dear, dear sir," exclaimed Guloseton, with kin-
dred glow, "I discover in you a spirit similar to my own.
Let us drink long life to the Venerable Ude!"
"I pledge you, with all my soul," said I, filling my glass
to the brim.
piety to hesitate, if a sauce seems extravagant, or an orto-
lan too dear; and let our last act in this sublunary exist-
ence, be a solemn festival in honor of our unceasing bene-
factor."
―
"Amen to your creed," said I: "edibilatory Epicurism
holds the key to all morality: for do we not see now how
sinful it is to yield to an obscene and exaggerated intemper-
ance ! would it not be to the last degree ungrateful to the
great source of our enjoyment, to overload it with a weight
which would oppress it with languor, or harass it with
pain; and finally to drench away the effects of our impiety
with some nauseous potation which revolts it, tortures it,
convulses, irritates, enfeebles it, through every particle of
its system? How wrong in us to give way to anger, jeal-
"What a pity," rejoined Guloseton," that Ude, whose
practical science was so perfect, should ever have written,
or suffered others to write, the work published under his
name; true it is that the opening part which you have so
feelingly recited, is composed with a grace, a charm be-
yond the reach of art; but the instructions are vapid, and
frequently so erroneous, as to make me suspect their au-
thenticity; but, after all, cooking is not capable of be-
coming a written science—it is the philosophy of prac-ousy, revenge, or any evil passion; for does not all that af-
tice !
>>
"Ah! by Lucullus," exclaimed I, interrupting my host,
"what a visionary béchamelle ! Oh, the inimitable sauce;
*hese chickens are indeed worthy of the honor of being
dressed. Never, my lord, as long as you live, eat a
chicken in the country; excuse a pun, you will have foul
fare."
J'ai toujours redouté la volaille perfide,
Qui brave les efforts d'une dent intrépide;
Souvent par un ami, dans ses champs entraîné
J'ai reconnu le soir le coq infortuné
Qui m'avait le matin à l'aurore naissante
Reveillé brusquement de sa voix glapissante
Je l'avais admiré dans le sein de la cour,
Avec des yeux jaloux, j'avais vu son amour.
Helas le malheureux, abjurant sa tendresse,
Exerçait à souper sa fureur vengeresse.'
Pardon the prolixity of my quotation for the sake of its
value."
"I do, I do," answered Guloseton, laughing at the hu-
mor of the lines; till, suddenly checking himself, he said,
"we must be grave, Mr. Pellain, it will never do to laugh.
What would become of our digestions ?"
"True," said I, relapsing into seriousness; " and if you
will allow me one more quotation, you will see what my
author adds with regard to my abrupt interruption.
"Défendez que personne au milieu d'un banquet,
Ne vous vienne donner un avis indiscret,
Ecartez ce ficheux qui vers vous s'achemine,
Rien ne doit déranger l'honnête homme qui dîne.'"
"Admirable advice," said Guloseton, toying with a filet
mignon de poulet. "Do you remember an example in the
Bailly of Suffren, who being in India, was waited upon
by a deputation of natives while he was at dinner. Tell
them,' said he, that the Christian religion peremptorily
forbids every Christian, while at table to occupy himself
with any earthly subject, except the function of eating.'
The deputation retired in the profoundest respect at the
exceeding devotion of the French general."
<
C
"Well," said I, after we had chuckled gravely and
quietly, with the care of our digestion before us, for a few
minutes -"well, however good the invention was, the idea
is not entirely new, for the Greeks esteemed eating and
drinking plentifully, a sort of offering to the gods; and
Aristotle explains the very word Ooivat, or feasts, by an
etymological exposition, that it was thought a duty to the
gods to be drunk; no bad idea of our classical patterns of
antiquity. Polypheme, too, in the Cyclops of Euripides,
no debt a very sound theologian, says, his stomach is his
only deity; and Xenophon tells us, that as the Athenians
exceeded all other people in the number of their gods, so
hey exceeded them also in the number of their feasts.
May I send your lordship an ortolan ?"
• Ude, verbatın.
† Ibid.
fects the mind operate also upon the stomach, and how can
we be so vicious, so obdurate, as to forget for a momentary
indulgence, our debt to what you have so justly designated
our perpetual benefactor?"
r
Right," said Lord Guloseton," a bumper to the mor-
ality of the stomach."
The dessert was now on the table. "I have dined well,"
said Guloseton, stretching his legs with an air of supreme
satisfaction ; "but " and here my philosopher sighed
deeply "we cannot dine again till to-morrow! Happy,
happy, happy common people, who can eat supper! Would
perpetual appe-
to heaven, that I might have one boon
tite a digestive Houri, which renewed its virginity every
time it was touched. Alas! for the instability of human
enjoyment. But now that we have no immediate hope to
anticipate, let us cultivate the pleasures of memory. What
thought you of the veau à la Dauphine?"
-
A
"Pardon me if I hesitate at giving my opinion, till I have
corrected my judgment by yours."
Why, then, I own I was somewhat displeased-disap-
pointen as it were- with that dish; the fact is, veal ought
to be killed in its very first infancy; they suffer it to grow
to too great an age. It becomes a sort of hobbydehoy, and
possesses nothing of veal but its insipidity, nor of beef,
but its toughness."
"Yes," said I," it is only in their veal, that the French
surpass us; their other meats want the ruby juices, and
elastic freshness of ours. Monsieur L- allowed this
truth, with a candor worthy of his vast mind. Mon Dieu :
what claret! what a body! and let me add what a soul,
beneath it! Who would drink wine like this? it is only
made to taste. It is like first love - too pure for the eager-
ness of enjoyment; the rapture it inspires is in a touch, a
kiss. It is a pity, my lord, that we do not serve perfumes
at dessert: it is their appropriate place. In confectionary,
(delicate invention of the Sylphs,) we imitate the forms of
the rose and the jessamine; why not their odours too?
What is nature without its scents? and as long as they
are absent from our desserts, it is in vain that the bard
exclaims, that —
"L'observateur de la belle Nature,
S'extasie en voyant des fleurs en confiture.""
"It is an exquisite idea of yours," said Guloseton
"and the next time you dine here, we will have perfumes.
Dinner ought to be a re-union of all the senses —
"Gladness to the ear, nerve, heart, and sense.' "
There was a momentary pause. My lord," said 1,
"what a lusty lusciousness in this pear! it is like the style
of the old English poets. What think you of the seeming
good understanding between Mr. Gaskell and the Whigs?
"I trouble myself little about it," replied Guloseton,
helping himself to some preserves "politics disturb the
digestion."
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
"Well," thought I," I must ascertain some point in this
man's character easier to handle than his epicurism; all
men are vain let us find out the peculiar vanity of mine
host."
"The Tories," said I, "seem to think themselves ex-
ceedingly secure; they attach no importance to the neutral
members; it was but the other day, Lord told me that
he did not care a straw for Mr. notwithstanding he
possessed four votes. Heard you ever such arrogance?"
"No indeed," said Guloseton, with a lazy air of indif-
ference "are you a favorer of the olive?"
,
“No,” said I, “I love it not; it hath an under taste of
sourness, and an upper of oil, which do not make harmony
to my palate. But, as I was saying, the Whigs, on the
contrary, pay the utmost deference to their partisans; and
a man of fortune, rank, and parliamentary influence, might
save all the power without the trouble of a leader.”
Very likely," said Guloseton, drowsily.
"I must change my battery," thought I; but while I
vas meditating a new attack, the following note was
rought me :-
"For God's sake, Pelham, come out to me, I am wait-
ing in the street to see you; come directly, or it will be
100 late to render me the service I would ask of you.
"R. GLANVILLE."
I rose instantly. "You must excuse me, Lord Gulose-
ton, I am called suddenly away.'
"Ha! ha!" laughed the gourmand ; some tempting
viaud post prandia Callirhoe."
My good lord," said I, not heeding his insinuation
"I leave you with the greatest regret.
“And I part from you with the same; it is a real plea-
sure to see such a person at dinner."
Adieu! my host -'Je vais vivre et manger en sage.'
CHAPTER LIX.
I do defy him, and I spit at him,
Call him a slanderous coward and a villain
Which to maintain I will allow him odds.
SHAKSPEARE.
I FOUND Glanville walking before the door with a rapid
and uneven step.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, when he saw me" I
have been twice to Mivart's to find you. The second time,
I saw your servant, who told me where you were gone. I
knew you well enough to be sure of your kindness."
Glanville broke off abruptly and after a short pause,
said, with a quick, low, hurried tone "The office I wish
you to take upon yourself is this go immediately to Sir
John Tyrrell, with a challenge from me. Ever since I last
saw you, I have been hunting out that man, and in vain.
He had then left town. He returned this evening, and
quits it to-morrow: you have no time to lose.”
<C
My dear Glanville,"
" said I, “I have no wish to learn
any secret you would conceal from me; but forgive me if
I ask for some further instructions than those you have af
forded me.
Upon what plea am I to call out Sir John
Tyrrell and what answer am I to give to any excuses he
may create?"
"I have anticipated your reply," said Glanville, with ill
subdued impatience: " you have only to give this paper;
it will prevent all discussion. Read it if you will; I have
left it unsealed for that purpose." I cast my eyes over
the lines Glanville thrust into my hand; they ran thus :-
"The time has, at length, come for me to demand the
atonement so long delayed. The bearer of this, who is,
probably, known to you, will arrange with any person you
may appoint, the hour and place of our meeting. He is
unacquainted with the grounds of my complaint against
you, but he is satisfied of my honor: your second, will, I
presume, be the same with respect to your's. It is for me
only to question the latter, and to declare you solemnly to
be void alike of principle and courage, a villain, and a
poltroon.
"REGINALD GLANVILLE.”
"You are my first friend,” said I, when I had read this
Boothing epistle, "and I will not flinch from the place
you assign me; but I tell you fairly and frankly, that I |
would sooner cut off my right hand than suffer it to give
this note to Sir John Tyrrell.”
Glanville made no answer; we walked on till he stepped
suddenly, and said, "My carriage is at the corner of the
street; you must go instantly; Tyrrell lodges at the Cla-
rendon, you will find me at home on your return.
I pressed his hand, and hurried on my mission. It was,
I own, one peculiarly unwelcome and displeasing. In the
first place, I did not love to be made a party in a business
of the nature of which I was so profoundly ignorant. Be-
sides, Glanville was more dear to me than any one, judg-
ing only of my external character, would suppose; and
constitutionally indifferent as I am to danger for myself, I
trembled like a woman, at the peril I was instrumental in
bringing upon him. But what weighed upon me far more
than either of these reflections, was the recollection of
Ellen. Should her brother fall in an engagement in which
I was his supposed adviser, with what success could I hope
for those feelings from her, which, at present, constituted
the tenderest and the brightest of my hopes? In the midst
of these disagreeable ideas the carriage stopped at the door
of Tyrrell's Hotel.
The waiter said Sir John was in the coffee-room; thith-
er I immediately marched. Seated in the box nearest the
fire, sat Tyrrell, and two men, of that old fashioned roué
set, whose members indulge in debauchery, as if it were
an attribute of manliness, and esteemed it as long as it
were hearty and English, rather a virtue to boast of, than
a vice to disown. Tyrrell nodded to me familiarly as I
approached him; and I saw, by the half-emptied bottle
before him, and the flush of his sallow countenance, that
he had not been sparing of his libations. I whispered that
I wished to speak to him on a subject of great importance;
he rose with much reluctance, and, after swallowing a large
tumbler-full of port wine to fortify him for the task, he led
the way to a small room, where he seated himself, and
asked me, with his usual mixture of bluntness, and good-
breeding, the nature of my business. I made him no re
ply: I contented myself with placing Glanville's billet-
doux in his hand. The room was dimly lighted with a sin-
gle candle, and the small and capricious fire near which
the gambler was seated, threw its upward light by starts
and intervals, over the strong features and deep lines of his
countenance. It would have been a study worthy of Rem-
brandt.
I drew my chair near him, and half shading my eyes
with my hand, sat down in silence to mark the effect the
letter would produce. Tyrrell (I imagine) was a man
originally of hardy nerves, and had been thrown much in
the various situations of life where the disguise of all out-
ward emotion is easily and insensibly taught; but whether
his frame had been shattered by his excesses, or that the
insulting language of the note touched him to the quick,
he seemed perfectly unable to govern his feelings; the lines
were written hastily, and the light, as I said before, was
faint and imperfect, and he was forced to pause over each
word as he proceeded, so that "the iron had full time to
enter into his soul.'
Passion, however, developed itself differently in him than
in Glanville; in the latter, it was a rapid transition of
powerful feelings, one angry wave dashing over another;
it was the passion of a strong and keenly susceptible
mind, to which every sting was a dagger, and which used
the force of a giant to dash away the insect which attack-
ed it. In Tyrrell, it was passion acting on a callous
mind but a broken frame his hand trembled violently
his voice faltered he could scarcely command the mus-
cles which enabled him to speak; but there was no fiery
start - no indignant burst-no flashing forth of the soul;
in him, it was the body overcoming and paralyzing the
vulsing the body.
miud. In Glanville it was the mind governing and con-
vulsing the body.
efforts to clear his voice," this note requires some consid-
"Mr. Pelham," he said at last, after a few preliminary
eration. I know not at present whom to appoint as my
second will you call upon me early to-morrow?"
Sp
"I am sorry," said I, " that my sole instructions were
to get an immediate answer from you. Surely either of
the gentlemen I saw with you would officiate as your sec
ond ?
He was en-
Tyrrell made no reply for some moments.
deavouring to compose himself, and in some measure he
succeeded. He raised his head with a haughty air of de
64
BULWER'S NOVELS.
fiance, and tearing the paper deliberately, though still with
uncertain and trembling fingers, he stamped his foot upon
the atoms.
"Tell your principal," said he, "that I retort upon him,
the foul and false words he has uttered against me; that I
trample upon his assertions with the same scorn I feel to-
wards himself; and that before this hour to-morrow,
1
will confront him to death as through life. For the rest,
Mr. Pelham, I cannot naine my second till the morning;
leave me your address, and you shall hear from me before
you are stirring. Have you any thing farther with me?"
Nothing," said I, laying my card on the table.
nave fulfilled the most ungrateful charge ever intrusted to
me. I wish you good night.
r
1
duct. However, I lost no time in despatching the whol
packet to Glanville, with a few lines from myself, saying 1
should call in an hour.
When I fulfilled this promise, Glanville's servant to'd
me his master had gone out immediately on reading the
letters I had sent, and had merely left word that he should
not return home the whole day. That night he was to have
brought an important motion before the House. A mes-
sage from himn, pleading sudden and alarming illness,
devolved this duty upon another member of our party.
Lord Dawton was in despair: the motion was lost by a
"Igreat majority; the papers, the whole of that week, were
filled with the most triumphant abuse and ridicule of the
Whigs. Never was that unhappy and persecuted party
reduced to so low an ebb: never did there seem a fainter
probability of their coming into power. They appeared
almost annihilated - a mere nominis umbra.
I re-entered the carriage, and drove to Glanville's. I
broke into the room rather abruptly; Glanville was lean-
ing on the table, and gazing intently on a small miniature.
A pistol-case lay beside him; one of the pistols in order
for use, and the other still unarranged; the room was, as
usual, covered with books and papers, and on the costly
cushions of the ottoman, lay the large, black dog, which I
remembered well as his companion of yore, and which he
kept with him constantly, as the only thing in the world,
whose society he could at all times bear; the animal lay
curled up, with its quick, black eye fixed watchfully upon
its master, and directly I entered, he uttered, though with-
out moving, a low, warning growl.
Glanville looked up, and in some confusion thrust the
picture into a drawer of the table, and asked ine my news.
I told him word for word what had passed. Glanville set
his teeth, and clenched his hand firmly; and then, as if his
anger was at once appeased, he suddenly changed the sub-
ject and tone of our conversation. He spoke with great
cheerfulness and humor, on the various topics of the day;
touched upon politics; laughed at Lord Guloseton, and
seemed as indifferent and unconscious of the event of the
morrow as my peculiar constitution would have rendered
myself.
When I rose to depart, for I had too great an interest in
um, to feel much for the subjects he conversed on, he said,
"I shall write one line to my mother, and another to my
poor sister you will deliver them if I fall, for I have sworn
that one of us shall not quit the ground alive. I shall be
all impatience to know the hour you will arrange with
Tyrrell's second. God bless you, and farewell for the
present.'
CHAPTER LX.
Charge, Chester, charge!
MARMION.
Though this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my
life, I had no doubt about acquitting myself with reputation.
Vicar of Wakefield.
THE next morning I was at breakfast, when a packet
was brought me from Tyrrell; it contained a sealed letter
to Glanville, and a brief note to myself. The latter I
transcribe: —
"MY DEAR SIR,
"The enclosed letter to Sir Reginald Glanville, will ex-
plain my reasons for not keeping my pledge; suffice it to
state to you, that they are such as wholly to exonerate me,
and fairly to satisfy Sir Reginald. It will be useless to
call upon me; I leave town before you will receive this.
Respect for myself obliges me to add that, although there
are circumstances to forbid my meeting Sir Reginald Glan-
ville, there are none to prevent my demanding satisfaction
of any one, whoever he may be, who shall deem himself
authorized to call my motives into question.
"I have the honor, &c.
"JOHN TYRRELL.
It was not till I had thrice read this letter, that I could
credit its contents. From all I had seen of Tyrrell's
character, I had no reason to suspect him to be less cour-
ageous than the generality of worldly men; and the con-
clusion of his letter, evidently pointing at myself, should I
venture to impugn his conduct, seemned by no means favor-
able to any suspicion of his cowardice. And yet when I
considered the violent language of Glanville's letter, and
Tyrrell's apparent resolution the night before, I scarcely
བོ འ༔་ཡ o whit more honorable motive to attribute his con-
On the eighth day from Glanville's disappearance,
sudden event in the cabinet threw the whole country into
confusion; the Tories trembled to the very soles of their
easy slippers of sinecure and office; the eyes of the public
were turned to the Whigs; and chance seemed to effect in
an instant, that change in their favor, which all their toil,
trouble, eloquence, and art, had been unable for so many
years to render even a remote probability
But there was a strong though secret party in the state,
which reminded me of the independents in the reign of
Charles the First, that, concealed under a general name,
worked only for a private end, and made a progress in
little suspected.
number and respectability, not the less sure for being but
Foremost among the leaders of this
party was Lord Vincent. Dawton, who knew of their
existence, and regarded them with fear and jealousy, con-
sidered the struggle rather between them and himself, than
any longer between himself and the Tories; and strove,
while it was yet time, to reinforce himself by a body of
allies, which, should the contest really take place, might
be certain of giving him the superiority. The Marquis of
Chester was among the most powerful of the neutral noble-
men it was of the greatest importance to gain him to the
He was a sturdy, sporting, independent man, who
lived chiefly in the country, and turned his ambition rather
bad passions of men.
towards promoting the excellence of quadrupeds, than the
To this personage Lord Dawton
implored me to be the bearer of a letter, and to aid, with
all the dexterity in my power, the purpose it was intended
to effect. It was the most consequential mission yet
intrusted to me, and I felt eager to turn my diplomatic
energies to so good an account. Accordingly, one bright
morning I wrapt myself carefully in my cloak, placed my
invaluable person safely in my carriage, and set off to
Chester Park, in the county of Suffolk.
cause.
CHAPTER LXI.
Hinc canibus blandis rabies venlt.-
VIRGIL. Georg.
I SHOULD have mentioned, that the day after I sent Glan-
ville Tyrrell's communication, I received a short and hur
ried note from the former, saying, that he had left London
in pursuit of Tyrrell, and that he would not rest till he had
In the hurry of the public events,
brought him to account.
in which I had been of late so actively engaged, my mind
had not had leisure to dwell much upon Glanville; but
when I was alone in my carriage, that singular being,
and the mystery which attended him, forced themselves
upon my reflection, in spite of all the importance of my
mission.
I was leaning back in my carriage, at (I think) Ware,
while they were changing horses, when a voice, strongly
associated with my meditations, struck upon my ear. I
looked out, and saw Thornton standing in the yard, attired
with all his original smartness of boot and breeches: he
was employed in smoking a cigar, sipping brandy and
water, and exercising his conversational talents in a mixture
of slang and jockeyism, addressed to two or three men of
his own rank of life, and seemingly his companions. His
brisk eye soon discovered me, and he swaggered to the
carriage door with that ineffable assurance of manner which
was so peculiarly his own.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
65
Ah, ah, Mr. Pelham," said he, "going to Newmarket,
I suppose? bound there myself-like to be found among
my betters. Ha, ha excuse a pun: what odds on the
Favorite? What! you won't bet, Mr. Pelham? close
and sly at present; well, the silent sow sucks all the broth
-eb!-'
r
"I'm not going to Newmarket," I replied: "I never
attend races.
"Indeed!" answered Thornton. "Well, if I was as rich
as you, I would soon make or spend a fortune on the course.
Seen Sir John Tyrrell? No! He is to be there. No-
thing can cure him of gambling-what's bred in the bone,
&c. Good day, Mr. Pelham won't keep you any longer
-sharp shower coming on. The devil will soon be
basting his wife with a leg of mutton,' as the proverb says
— au plaisir, Mr. Pelham."
And at these words my post-boy started, and released
me from my bête noir. I spare my reader an account of
my miscellaneous reflections on Thornton, Dawton, Vin-
cent, politics, Glanville, and Ellen, and will land him,
without further delay, at Chester Park.
I was ushered through a large oak hall of the reign of
James the First, into a room strongly resembling the prin-
cipal apartment of a club; two or three round tables were
covered with newspapers, journals, racing calendars, &c.
An enormous fire-place was crowded with inen of all ages,
I had almost said of all ranks; but, however various they
might appear in their mien and attire, they were wholly of
the patrician order. One thing, however, in this room,
belied its similitude to the apartment of a club, viz. a
nuraber of dogs, that lay in scattered groups upon the
floor. Before the windows were several horses, in body
cloths, led or rode to exercise upon a plain in the park,
levelled as smooth as a bowling green at Putney; and
stationed at an oriel window, in earnest attention to the
scene without, were two men; the tallest of these was
Lord Chester. There was a stiffness and inelegance in
his address which prepossessed me strongly against him.
"Les manières que l'on néglige comme de petites choses,
sont souvent ce qui fait que les hommes décident de vous en
bien ou en mal.”
I had long since, when I was at the university, been
introduced to Lord Chester; but I had quite forgotten his
person, and he the very circumstance. I said, in a iow
I said, in a low
tone, that I was the bearer of a letter of some importance
from our mutual friend, Lord Dawton, and that I should
request the honor of a private interview at Lord Chester's
first convenience.
His lordship bowed, with an odd mixture of the civility
of a jockey, and the hauteur of a head groom of the stud,
and led the way to a small apartment, which I afterwards
discovered he called his own. (I never could make out,
by the way, why in England the very worst room in the
house is always appropriated to the master of it, and
dignified by the appellation of "the gentleman's own.") I
gave the Newmarket grandee the letter intended for him,
and quietly seating myself, awaited the result.
He read it through, slowly and silently, and then taking
out a huge pocket-book, full of racing bets, horses' ages,
jockey opinions, and such like memoranda, he placed it
with much solemnity among this dignified company, and
then said with a cold, but would be, courteous air, "My
friend, Lord Dawton, says you are entirely in his conti- |
dence, Mr. Pelham. I hope you will honor me with
your company at Chester Park for two or three days,
during which time I shall have leisure to reply to Lord
Dawton's letter. Will
Will you take some refreshment ?"
per-
I answered the first sentence in the affirmative, and the
latter in the negative; and Lord Chester thinking it
fectly unnecessary to trouble himself with any further
questions or remarks which the whole jockey club might
not hear, took me back into the room we had quitted, and
left me to find or make whatever acquaintance I could.
Pampered and spoiled as I was in the most diflicult circles
of London, I was beyond measure indignant at the cavalier
demeanor of this rustic Thane, whom I considered a
being as immeasurably beneath me in every thing else, as
he really was in antiquity of birth, and, I venture to hope,
in cultivation of intellect. I looked round the room, and
did not recognise a being of my acquaintance; I seemed
literally thrown into a new world: the very language in
which the conversation was held, sounded strange to my
car. I had always trausgressed my general rule of know-
VOL. I.
9
ing all men in all grades, in the single respect of sporting
characters: they were a species of bipeds, that I would
never recognise as belonging to the human race. Alas! I
now found the bitter effects of not following my usual
maxims. It is a dangerous thing to encourage too great a
disdain of one's inferiors: pride must have a fall.
After I had been a whole quarter of an hour in this
strange place, my better genius came to my aid. Since I
found no society among the two-legged brutes, I turned to
the quadrupeds. At one corner of the room lay a black
terrier of the true English oreed; at another was a short,
sturdy, wiery one, of the Scotch. I soon formed a friend-
ship with each of these canine Pelei, (litte Lodies with
great souls,) and then by degrees alluring them from their
retreat to the centre of the room, I fairly endeavoured to
set them by the ears. Thanks to the national antipathy,
I succeeded to my heart's content. The contest FOOD
aroused the other individuals of the genus
up they started
from their repose, like Roderick Dhu's merrymen, and in-
continently flocked to the scene of battle.
"To it," said I; and I took one by the leg and another
by the throat, and dashing them against each other, turned
all their peevish irascibility at the affront into mutual ag-
gression. In a very few moments, the whole room was a
scene of uproarious confusion; the beasts yelled, and bit,
and struggled, with the most delectable ferocity. To add
to the effect, the various owners of the dogs crowded round
some to stimulate, others to appease the fury of the
combatants. As for me, I flung myself into an arm-chair,
and gave way to an excess of merriment, which only en-
raged the spectators more many were the glances of
anger, many the murmurs of reproach directed against me.
Lord Chester himself eyed me with an air of astonished
indignation, that redoubled my hilarity at length the con
flict was assuaged — by dint of blows, and kicks, and re-
monstrances from their dignified proprietors, the dogs
slowly withdrew, one with the loss of half an ear, another
with a shoulder put out, a third with a mouth increased by
one half of its natural dimensions.
-
In short, every one engaged in the conflict bore some
token of its severity. I did not wait for the thunder storm
I foresaw I rose with a nonchalant yawn of ennui
marched out of the apartment, called a servant deinand-
ed my own room repaired to it, and immersed the in-
ternal faculties of my head in Mignet's History of the
Revolution, while Bedos busied himself in its outward
embellishment.
CHAPTER LXII.
Noster ludos spectaverat una,
Luserat in campo, Fortunæ filius, omnes.
HORACE.
I DID not leave my room till the first dinner-bell had
ceased a sufficient time to allow me the pleasing hope that
I should have but a few moments to wait in the drawing-
room, previous to the grand epoch and ceremony of a
European day. The manner most natural to me, is one
rather open and easy; but I pique myself peculiarly upon
a certain (though occasional) air, which keeps impertinence
aloof: in fine, I am by no means
means a person with whom
others would lightly take a liberty, or to whom they would
readily offer or resent an affront. This day I assumed a
double quantum of dignity, in entering a room which I
well knew must be filled with my enemies: there were a
few women round Lord Chester, and, as I always feel
re-assured by a sight of the dear sex, I walked towards
them.
Judge of my delight, when I discovered among the
group Lady Harriet Garrett; it is true that I had no par-
ticular predilection for that lady, but the sight of a negress
I had seen before, I should have hailed with rapture in so
desolate and inhospitable a place. If my pleasure at
seeing Lady Harriet was great, her's seemed equally so at
receiving my salutation. She asked me if I knew Lady
Chester and on my negative reply, immediately intro-
duced me to that personage. I now found myself quite at
home; my spirits rose, and I exerted every nerve to be
as charming as possible. In youth, to endeavour is to
succeed.
I gave a most animated account of the canine battle,
66
BULWER'S NOVELS.
interspersed with various sarcasms on the owners of the
combatants, which were by no means ill-received either by
the marchioness or her companions; and, in fact, when the
dinner was announced, they all rose in a mirth, sufficiently
nrestrained to be any thing but patrician for my part, I
offered my arm to Lady Harriet, and paid her as many
compliments on crossing the suite that led to the dining-
room, as would have turned a much wiser head than her
ladyship's.
The dinner went off agrecably enough, as long as the
women stayed; but the moment they quitted the room, I
experienced exactly the same feeling known unto a mo-
ther's darling, left for the first time at that strange, cold,
comfortless place-ycleped a school.
I was not, however, in a mood to suffer my flowers of
oratory to blush unseen. Besides, it was absolutely ne-
cessary that I should make a better impression upon ny
host. I leaned, therefore, across the table, and listened
eagerly to the various conversations afloat: at last I per-
ceived, on the opposite side, Sir Lionel Garrett, a per-
sonage whom I had not before even inquired after, or
thought of.
He was busily and noisily employed in dis-
cussing the game-laws. Thank heaven, thought I, I shall
be on firm ground there. The general interest of the sub-
ject, and the loudness with which it was debated, soon
drew all the scattered conversation into one focus.
"What!" said Sir Lionel, in a high voice to a modest,
shrinking youth, probably from Cambridge, who had sup-
ported the liberal side of the question-"What! are our
interests to be never consulted? Are we to have our only
amusement taken away from us? What do you imagine
brings country gentlemen to their seats! Do you not
know, Sir, the vast importance our residence at our country
houses is to the nation? Destroy the game-laws, and you
destroy our very existence as a people.
Now, thought I, it is iny time. "Sir Lionel," said I,
speaking almost from one end of the table to the other, "I
perfectly agree with your sentiments; I am entirely of
opinion, first, that is absolutely necessary for the safety
of the nation that game should be preserved; secondly, that
if you take away game you take away country gentlemen;
no two propositions can be clearer than these; but I do
liffer from you with respect to the intended alterations.
Let us put wholly out of the question, the interests of the
poor people, or of society at large; those are minor mat-
ters, not worthy of a moment's consideration; let us only
see how far our interests as sportsmen will be affected. I
think by a very few words I can clearly prove to you, that
the proposed alterations will make us much better off than
we are at present.
I then entered shortly, yet full enough, into the nature of
the laws as they now stood, and as they were intended to
be changed. I first spoke of the two great disadvantages
of the present system to country gentlemen; viz. in the
number of poachers, and the expense of preserving. Ob-
serving that I was generally and attentively listened to, I
dwelt upon these two points with much pathetic energy;
and having paused till I had got Sir Lionel and one or two
of his supporters to confess that it would be highly desira-
ble that these defects should, if possible, be remedied, I pro-
ceeded to show how, and in what manner it was possible.
I argued, that to effect this possibility, was the exact ob-
ject of the alterations suggested; I anticipated the objec-
tions; I answered them in the form of propositions, as
clearly and concisely stated as possible; and as I spoke
with great civility and conciliation, and put aside every
appearance of care for any human being in the world who
was not possessed of a qualification, I perceived, at the
conclusion of my harangue, that I had made a very favora-
ble impression. That evening completed my triumph; for
Lady Chester and Lady Harriet made so good a story of
my adventure with the dogs, that the matter passed off as a
fainous joke, and I was soon considered by the whole knot
as a devilish amusing, good-natured, sensible fellow. So
true is it that there is no situation which a little tact cannot
turn to our own account: manage yourself well, and you
nay manage all the world,
As for Lord Chester, I soon won his heart by a few feats
of horsemanship, and a few extempore inventions respect-
the sagacity of dogs. Three days after my arrival we
became inseparable; and I made such good use of my time,
ing
answer to my principal should be as acquiescent as I could
desire; the morning after this promise, commenced the
day at Newmarket.
great
Gur whole party were of course bound to the race-ground,
and with great reluctance I was pressed into the service.
We were not many miles distant from the course, and Lord
Chester mounted me on one of his horses. Our shortest
way lay through rather an intricate series of cross roads:
and as I was very little interested in the conversation of my
companions, I paid more attention to the scenery we passed,
than is my customary wont; for I study nature rather in
men than fields, and find no landscape afford such a variety
to the eye, and such subject to the contemplation, as the
inequalities of the human heart.
But there were to be fearfui circumstances hereafter to
stamp forcibly upon my remembrance some traces of the
scenery which now courted and arrested my view. The
chief characteristics of the country were broad, dreary
plains, diversified at times by dark plantations of fir and
larch; the road was rough and stony, and here and there a
melancholy rivulet, swelled by the first rains of spring,
crossed our path, and lost itself in the rank weeds of some
inhospitable marsh.
About six miles from Chester Park, to the left of the
road, stood an old house with a new face; the brown, time-
honored bricks which composed the fabric, were strongly
contrasted by large Venetian windows newly inserted in
frames of the most ostentatious white. A smart green ve-
randa, scarcely finished, ran along the low portico, and
formed the termination to two thin rows of meagre and
dwarfish sycamores, which did duty for an avenue, and were
bounded, on the roadside, by a spruce, white gate, and a
sprucer lodge, so moderate in its dimensions, that it would
scarcely have boiled a turnip: if a rat had got into it, he
might have run away with it. The ground was dug in va-
rious places, as if for the purpose of further improvements,
and here and there a sickly little tree was carefully hurdled
round, and seemed pining its puny heart out at the confine-
ment.
In spite of all these well-judged and well-thriving graces
of art, there was such a comfortless and desolate appear-
ance about the place, that it quite froze one to look at it;
to be sure, a damp marsh on one side, and the skeleton raf-
ters and beams of an old stable on the other, backed by a
few dull and sulky looking fir trees, might, in some meas-
ure, create, or at least considerably add to, the indescriba-
ble cheerlessness of the tout ensemble. While I was curi-
ously surveying the various parts of this northern "Dė
lices," and marvelling at the choice of two crows who were
slowly walking over the unwholesome ground, instead of
making all possible use of the black wings with which
Providence had gifted them, I perceived two men on horse
back wind round from the back part of the building, and
We had not ad-
proceed in a brisk trot down the avenue.
vanced many paces before they overtook us; the foremost
of them turned round as he passed me, and pulling up his
horse abruptly, discovered, to my dismayed view, the fea-
tures of Mr. Thornton. Nothing abashed by the slightness
of my bow, or the grave stares of my lordly companions,
who never forget the dignity of their birth, in spite of the
vulgarity of their tastes, Thornton instantly and familiarly
accosted me.
're
be
-shall be happy
"Told you so, Mr. Pelham,- silent sow, &c. - Sure 1
should have the pleasure of seeing you, though you kept
it so snug. Well, will you bet now? No!-
Ah, you
a sly one. Staying here at that nice-looking house,
longs to Dawson, an old friend of mine,
to introduce you.
"Sir," said I, abruptly, "you are too good. Permit me
to request that you will rejoin your friend Mr. Dawson."
Oh," said the imperturbable Thornton, "it does not
signify; he wont be affronted at my lagging a little. How-
ever," (and here he caught my eye, which was assuming a
sternness that perhaps little pleased him,) however, as it
gets late, and my mare is none of the best, I'll wish you
good morning." With these words Thornton put spurs to
his horse and trotted off.
CC
"Who the devil have you got there, Pelham?" said
Lord Chester.
"A person," said I, "who picked me up at Paris, and
insists on the right of treasure trove to claim me in Eng-
that in two more, he spoke to me of his friendship for Daw-land. But will you let me ask, in my turn, whom that
ton, and his wish for a dukedom. These motives it was
easy enough to unite, and at last he promised me that his
cheerful mansion we have just left, belongs to?"
"To a Mr. Dawson, whose father was a gentleman far
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
6
mer who bred horses, a very respectable person, for I made
one or two excellent bargains with him. The son was al-
ways on the turf, and contracted the worst of its habits.
He bears but a very indifferent character, and will probably
become a complete blackleg. He married, a short time
since, a woman of some fortune, and I suppose it is her
taste which has so altered and modernized his house.
Come, gentlemen, we are on even ground, shall we trot?
We proceeded but a few yards before we were again
stopped by a precipitous ascent, and as Lord Chester was
then earnestly engaged in praising his horse, to one of the
cavalcade, I had time to remark the spot. At the foot of
the hill we were about slowly to ascend, was a broad, un-
closed patch of waste land; a heron, flapping its enormous
wings as it rose, directed my attention to a pool overgrown
with rushes, and half-sheltered on one side by a decayed
tree, which, if one might judge from the breadth and hol-
lowness of its trunk, had been a refuge to the wild bird, and
a shelter to the wild cattle, at a time when such were the only
intruders upon its hospitality; and when the country, for
miles and leagues round, was honored by as little of man's
care and cultivation as was at present the rank waste which
still nourished its goarled and venerable roots. There was
something remarkably singular and grotesque in the shape
and simosity of its naked and spectral branches, two of
exceeding length stretched themselves forth in the very sem-
blance of arms held out in the attitude of supplication;
and the bend of the trunk over the desolate pond, the form
of the hoary and blasted summit, and the hollow trunk, half
riven asunder in the shape of limbs, seemed to favor the
gigantic deception. You might have imagined it an ante-
diluvian transformation, or a daughter of the Titan race,
preserving in her metamorphosis, her attitude of entreaty
to the merciless Olympian.
This was the only tree visible: for a turn of the road and
the unevenness of the ground, completely veiled the house
we had passed, and the few low firs and sycamores which
made its only plantations. The sullen pool, its ghost-
like guardian, the dreary heath around, the rude features
of the country beyond, and the apparent absence of all hu-
man habitation, conspired to make a scene of the most
dispirited and striking desolation. I know not how to
account for it, but as I gazed around in silence, the whole
place appeared to grow over my mind, as one which I had
seen, though dimly and drearily before; and a nameless
and unaccountable presentiment of fear and evil sunk like
ice into my heart. We ascended the hill, and the rest of ¦
the road being of a kind better adapted to expedition, we
mended our pace and soon arrived at the goal of our
journey.
|
rectly the first heat was over, one asked me one thing, one
bellowed another; I fled to Lord Chester, he did not heed
me. I took refuge with the marchioness; she was as sullen
as an east wind could make her. Lady Harriet would
talk of nothing but the horses; Sir Lionel would not talk
at all. I was in the lowest pit of despondency, and the
devils that kept me there were as blue as Lady Chester's
nose. Silent, sorrowful, and sulky, I rode away from
the crowd, and moralized on its vicious propensities. One
grows marvellously honest when the species of cheating
before us is not suited to one's self. Fortunately, my
better angel reminded me, that about the distance of three
miles from the course lived an old college friend, blessed,
since we had met, with a parsonage and a wife. I knew
his tastes too well to imagine that any allurement of an
equestrian nature could have seduced him from the ease
of his library and the dignity of his books; and hoping,
therefore, that I should find him at home, I turned my
horse's head in an opposite direction, and, rejoiced at the
idea of my escape, bade adieu to the course.
As I cantered across the far end of the heath, my horse
started from an object upon the ground; it was a man
wrapped from head to foot in a long, horseman's cloak, and
so well guarded, as to the face, from the raw inclemency
of the day, that I could not catch even a glimpse of the
features, through the hat and neck-shawl which concealed
them. The head was turned, with apparent anxiety,
towards the distant throng; and imagining the man be-
longed to the lower orders, with whom I am always
familiar, I addressed to him, en passant, some trifling
remark on the event of the race. He made no answer. -
There was something about him which induced me to look
back several moments after I had left him behind. He
had not moved an atom. There is such a certain uncom-
fortableness always occasioned to the mind, by stillness
and mystery united, that even the disguising garb, and
motionless silence of the man, innocent as they must have
been, impressed themselves disagreeably on my meditations
as I rode briskly on.
It is my maxim never to be unpleasantly employed, even
in thought, if I can help it; accordingly, I changed the
course of my reflection, and amused tnyse.f with wondering
how matrimony and clerical dignity sat on the indolent
shoulders of my old acquaintance.
CHAPTER LXIII.
And as for me, tho' that I can but lite
On bookes for to read I me delight,
And to hem give I faith and full credènce;
And in mine heart have hem in reverence
So heartily that there is gamè none,
That fro' my bookès maketh me to gone.
CHAUCER.
CHRISTOPHER CLUTTERBUCK was a common indi-
The race-ground had its customary complement of knaves
and fools, the dupers and the duped. Poor Lady Ches-
ter, who had proceeded to the ground by the high road, (for
the
way we had chosen was inaccessible to those who ride
in chariots, and whose charioteers are set up in high pla
ces,) was driving to and fro, the very picture of cold and
discomfort; and the few solitary carriages which hop-vidual of a common order, but little known in this busy and
ored the course, looked as miserable as if they were wit-
nessing the funeral of their owners' persons, rather than the
peril of their characters and purses.
As we rode along to the betting-post, Sir John Tyrrell
passed us: Lord Chester accosted him familiarly, and the
baronet joined us.
He had been an old votary of the turf
in his younger days, and he still preserved all his ancient
predilection in its favor.
It seemed that Chester had not met him for many years,
and after a short and characteristic conversation of "God
bless me, how long since I saw you!-d-d good horse
you're on, — you look thin,-admirable condition,
have you been doing?
what
grand action,—a'n't we behind-
hand? famous fore-hand, recollect old Queensberry?
hot in the mouth,
gone to the devil, what are the
odds?" Lord Chester asked Tyrrell to go home with us.
The invitation was readily accepted.
-
"With impotence of will
We wheel, though ghastly shadows interpose
Round us, and round each other.” *
toiling world. I cannot flatter myself that I am about to
present to your notice that rara avis, a new character,
yet there is something interesting, and even unhackneyed,
in the retired and simple class to which he belongs; and
calm and tranquillizing pleasure in the rest which a brief,
before I proceed to a darker period in my memoirs, I feel a
and imperfect delineation of my college companion, affords
me. My friend came up to the University with the learning
of possessing, and the simplicity one about to enter it
one about to quit the world, might, with credit, have boasted
would have been ashamed to confess. Quiet and shy in his
habits and his manners, he was never seen out of the
cincts of his apartment, except in obedience to the stated
pre-
calls of dinner, lectures, and chapel. Then his small and
stooping form might be marked, crossing the quadrangle
with a hurried step, and cautiously avoiding the smallest
blade of the barren grass-plots, which are forbidden ground
to the feet of all the lower orders of the collegiate
oligarchy. Many were the smiles and the jeers, from the
worse-natured and better appointed students, who loitered
idly along the court, at the rude garb and saturnine appear-
ance of the humble under-graduate; and the calm counte
nance of the grave, but amiable man, who then bore the
Di-honor and onus of mathematical lecturer at our college
would soften into a glance of mild approbation and pity,
Now, then, arose the noise, the clatter, the swearing, the
iying, the perjury, the cheating, the crowd, the bustle, the
hurry, the rush, the heat, the ardour, the impatience, the
hope, the terror, the rapture, the agony of the race.
་
Percy Bysshe Shelly
he noted the eagerness which spoke from the wan chee
BULWER'S NOVELS.
God
and emaciated frame of the ablest of his pupils, hurrying,
-after each legitimate interruption, to the enjoyment
of the crabbed characters and worm-worn volumes, which
contained for him all the seductions of pleasure, and all the
temptations of youth.
It is a melancholy thing, which none but those educated
at a college can understand, to see the debilitated frames
of the aspirants for academical honors. To mark the
primne, the verdure, the glory,
the life, of life,
wasted irrevocably away in a labor ineptiarum, which brings
no harvest either to others or to themselves. For the poet,
the philosopher, the man of science, we can appreciate the
recompense if we commiserate the sacrifice; from the
darkness of their retreat there goes a light, from the
silence of their studies there issues a voice, to illumine or
convince. We can imagine them locking from their priva-
tions to the far visions of the future, and hugging to their
hearts, in the strength of no unnatural vanity, the reward
which their labors are certain hereafter to obtain. Το
those who can anticipate the vast dominions of immortality
among men, what boots the sterility of the cabined and
petty present But the mere man of languages and learning,
the machine of a memory heavily but unprofitably
employed, the Columbus wasting at the galley-oar the
energies which should have discovered a world, for him
there is no day dream of the future, no grasp at the immor-
tality of fame. Beyond the walls of his narrow room he
knows no object; beyond the elucidation of a dead tongue
he indulges no ambition; his life is one long school-day
of lexicons and grainmars, -a fabric of ice cautiously
excluded from a single sunbeam, elaborately useless,
ingeniously unprofitable; and leaving at the moment it
melts away, not a single trace of the space it occupied, or
the labor it cost.
—
-
At the time I went to the University, my poor collegian
had attained all the honors his employment could ever
procure him. He had been a Pitt scholar; he was a senior
wrangler and a Fellow of his college. It often happened
that I found myself next to him at dinner, and I was struck
by his abstinence, and pleased with his modesty, despite of
the gaucherie of his manner, and the fashion of his garb.
By degrees I insinuated myself into his acquaintance; and,
as I had still some love of scholastic lore, I took frequent
opportunities of conversing with him upou Horace, and
consulting him upon Lucian.
Many a dim twilight have we sat together, reviving each
other's recollection, and occasionally relaxing into the
grave amusement of capping verses. Then, if by any chance |
my ingenuity, or memory, enabled me to puzzle my com-
panion, his good temper would lose itself in a quaint
portishness, or he would cite against me some line of
Aristophanes, and ask me, with a raised voice, and arched
brow, to give him a fitting answer to that. But if, as was
much more frequently the case, he fairly run me down into
a pause and confession of inability, he would rub his hands
with a strange chuckle, and offer me, in the bounteousness
of his heart, to read aloud a Greek Ode of his own, while
he treated me" to a dish of tea." There was much in the
good man's innocence, and guilelessness of soul, which
made me love him, and I did not rest till I had procured
him, before I left the University, the living which he now
keld. Since then, he had married the daughter of a
neighbouring clergyman, an event of which he had duly
informed me; but, though this great step in the life of
"a reading man," had not taken place many months since, I
had completely, after a hearty wish for his domestic happi-
ness, consigned it to a dormant place in my recollection.
The house which I now began to approach was small, but
comfortable; perhaps there was something triste in the
old-fashioned hedges, cut and trimmed with mathematical
precision, which surrounded the glebe, as well as in the heavy
architecture, and dingy bricks of the reverend recluse's
habitation. To make amends for this, there was also
something peculiarly still and placid about the appearance
of the house, which must have suited weil the tastes and
habits of the owner. A small formal lawn was adorned
with a square fish-pond, bricked round, and covered with
the green weeping of four willows, which drooped over it,
from their station at each corner. At the opposite side
of this Pierian reservoir, was a hermitage, or arbour of
laurels, shaped in the stiff rusticity of the Dutch school, in
the prevalence of which it was probably planted; behind
this arbour, the ground, after a slight railing, terminated in
an orchard.
|
The sound I elicited from the gate bell, seemed to ring
through that retired place with singular shrillness; and 1
observed at the opposite window, all that bustle of drawing
curtains, peeping faces, and hasty retreats, which denote
female anxiety and perplexity, at the unexpected approach
of a stranger.
After some time the parson's single servant, a middle
aged slovenly man, in a loose frock, and buff kerseymere
nondescripts, opened the gate, and informed me that his
master was at home.
master was at home. With a few earnest admonitions to
my
iny admittor, who was, like the domestics of many richer
men, both groom and valet respecting the safety of my
borrowed horse, I entered the house: the servant did noi
think it necessary to inquire my name, but threw open the
door of the study, with the brief introduction of-
a gen.
tleman, Sir."
Clutterbuck was standing with his back towards me,
upon a pair of library steps, turning over some dusky vol-
umes; and below, stood a pale cadaverous youth, with a
set and serious countenance, that bore no small likeness to
Clutterbuck himself.
"Mon Dieu," thought I, "he cannot have made such
good use of his matrimonial state, as to have raised this
lanky impression of himself in the space of seven months?"
The good man turned round, and almost fell off the steps
with the nervous shock of beholding me so near him; he
descended with precipitation, and shook me so warmly anu
tightly by the hand, that he brought tears into my eyes as
well as his own.
GC
"Gently, my good friend," said I, parce 7 cor, or
you will force me to say, 'ibimus una ambo, flentes vatido
connexi fædere.'
Clutterbuck's eyes watered still more, when he heard
the grateful sounds of what to him was the mother tongue.
He surveyed me from head to foot with an air of benign
and fatherly complacency, and dragging forth from its sul-
len rest a large arm chair, on whose cushions of rusty
horse hair sat an eternal cloud of classic dust, too sacred
to be disturbed, he plumped me down upon it, before I was
aware of the cruel hospitality.
"Oh! my nether garments," thought I. " Quantus su-
dor inerit Bedoso, to restore you to your pristine purity."
"But whence come you?" said my host, who cherished
rather a formal and antiquated method of speech.
From the Pythian games, " said 1. The campus
highe Newmarket. Do I see right, or is not yon insignis
juvenis marvellously like you? Of a surety he rivals the
Titans, if he is only a seven months' child!
"Now, truly, my worthy friend," answered Clutter-
buck, "you indulge in jesting the boy is my nephew, a
goodly child, and a painstaking. I hope he will thrive at
our gentle mother. He goes to Trinity next October.
Benjamin Jeremiah, my lad, this is my worthy friend and
benefactor, of whom I have often spoken; go, and order
him of our best he will partake of our repast!"
CL
"No, really," I began; but Clutterbuck gently placed
the hand, whose strength of affection I had already so for-
cibly experienced, upon my mouth.
Pardon me, my
friend," said he. "No stranger should depart till he had
broken bread with us, how much more then a friend! Go.
Benjamin Jeremiah, and tell your aunt that Mr. Pelhair
will dine with us; and order, furthermore, that the barrel
of oysters sent unto us as a present, by my worthy friend
Dr. Swallow'em, be dressed in the fashion that seemeth
best; they are a classic dainty, and we shall think of our
great masters the ancients while we devour them. And
stop, Benjamin Jeremiah, see that we have the wine with
the black seal; and-now- go, Benjamin Jeremiah !”
Well, my old friend," said I, when the door had closed
upon the sallow and smileless nephew, "how do you love
the connubiale jugum? Do you give the same advice as
Socrates? I hope at least, it is not from the same expe-
rience."
:
"Hem!" answered the grave Christopher, in a tone that
struck me as somewhat nervous and uneasy, you are
become quite a humorist since we parted. I suppose you
have been warming your wit by the lambent fires of Horace
and Aristophanes."
"No," said I," the living allow those whose toilsome lot
it is to mix constantly with them, but little time to study
the monuments of the dead. But, in sober earnest, are
you as happy as I wish you
?""
Clutterbuck looked down for a moment, and then, tura-
ing towards the table, laid one hand upon a MS., and
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
69
pointed with the other to his books.
said he, "how can it be otherwise!"
"With this society,"
I gave him no reply, but put my hand upon his MS. He
made a modest and coy effort to detain it, but I knew that
writers were like women, and making use of no displeas-
ing force, I possessed myself of the paper.
It was a treatise on the Greek participle.
My heart
Bickened within me; but, as I caught the eager glance of
the poor author, I brightened up my countenance into an
expression of pleasure, and appeared to read and coinment
upon the difficiles nuge with an interest commensurate to
his own. Meanwhile the youth returned. He had much
of that delicacy of sentiment which always accompanies
mental cultivation, of whatever sort it may be.
He went,
with a scarlet blush over his thin face, to his uncle, and whis-
pered something in his ear which, from the angry embar-
rassment it appeared to occasion, I was at no loss to divine.
“Come,” said I, "we are too long acquainted for cere-
mony. Your placens uxor, like all ladies in the same pre-
dicament, think your invitation a little unadvised; and, in
real earnest, I have so long a ride to perform, that I would
rather eat your oysters another day !"
"No, no," said Clutterbuck, with greater eagerness
than his even temperament was often hurried into betray-
ing, " no, I will go and reason with her myself. Wives
obey your husbands,' saith the preacher !
And the quon-
dam senior wrangler almost upset his chair in the perturb-
ation with which he arose from it.
I laid my hand upon him. "Let me go myself," said I,
"since you will have me dine with you. The sex is
ever to a stranger kind,' and I shall probably be more per-
suasive than you, in despite of your legitimate authority."
So saying, I left the room, with a curiosity more painful
than pleasing, to see the collegian's wife. I arrested the
:nan servant, and ordered him to usher and announce me.
I was led instanter into the apartment where I had dis-
covered all the signs of female inquisitiveness, which I have
before detailed. There I discovered a small woman in a
robe equally slatternly and fine, with a sharp pointed nose,
small, cold, gray eyes, and a complexion high towards the
cheek bones, but waxing of a light green before it reached
the wide and querulous mouth, which, well I ween, seldom
opened to smile upon the unfortunate possessor of her
charms. She, like the Rev. Christopher, was not without
her companions; a tall meagre woman, of advanced age,
and a girl, some years younger than herself, were intro-
duced to me as her mother and sister.
My entrée occasioned no little confusion, but I knew
well how to remedy that. I held out my hand so cordially
to the wife, that I enticed, though with evident reluctance,
two bony fingers into my own, which I did not dismiss
without a most mollifying and affectionate squeeze and
drawing my chair close towards her, began conversing as
familiarly as if I had known the whole triad for years. I
declared my joy at seeing my old friend so happily settled,
-commented on the improvement of his looks, ventured
a sly joke at the good effects of matrimony, - praised a cat
couchant, worked in worsted by the venerable hand of the
eldest matron, offered to procure her a real cat of the true
Persian breed, black ears four inches long, with a tail like
a squirrel's; and then slid, all at once, into the unauthor
ized invitation of the good man of the house.
"Clutterbuck," said I, "has asked me very warmly to
stay dinner; but, before I accepted his offer, I insisted
upon coming to see how far it was confirmed by you. Gen-
tlemen, you are aware, my dear madam, know nothing of
these matters, and I never accept a married man's invita-
tion till it has the sanction of his lady; I have an exam-
ple of that at home. My mother (Lady Frances) is the
best tempered woman in the world; but my father could
no more take the liberty (for I may truly call it such) to
ask even his oldest friend to dinner, without consulting the
mistress of the house, than he could think of tying. No
one (says my mother, and she says what is very true) can
tell about the household affairs, but those who have the
mauagement of them; and in pursuance of this aphorism,
pursuance of this aphorism,
I dare not accept any invitation in this house, except from
tts mistress."
Really," said Mrs. Clutterbuck, coloring with mingled
embarrassment and gratification, you are very consider-
ate and polite, Mr. Pelham : I only wish Mr. Clutterbuck
had half your attention to these things; nobody can tell the
rouble and inconvenience he puts me to. If I had known,
|
|
وز
but now I fear
| a little time before, that you were coming,
we have nothing in the house; but if you can partake of
our fare, such as it is, Mr. Pelham
"Your kindness enchants me," I exclaimed, " and I no
longer scruple to confess the pleasure I have in accepting
my old friend's offer."
This affair being settled, I continued to converse for
some minutes with as much vivacity as I could summon to
my aid, and when I went once more to the library, it was
with the comfortable impression of having left those as
friends, whom I had visited as foes.
The dinner hour was four, and till it came, Clutterbuck
and I amused ourselves "in commune wise and sage.
There was something high in the sentiments and generous
in the feelings of this man, which made me the more regret
the bias of mind which rendered them so unavailing. At
college he had never (illis dissimilis in nostro tempore natis)
cringed to the possessors of clerical power. In the duties
of his station, as dean of the college, he was equally strict
to the black cap and lordly hat. Nay, when one of his
private pupils, whose father was possessed of more church
preferment than any nobleman in the peerage, disobeyed hiz
repeated summons, and constantly neglected to attend his
instructions, he sent for him, resigned his tuition, and
refused any longer to accept a salary which the negligence
of his pupil would not allow him to requite. In his clerical
tenets he was high; in his judgment of others he was mild.
His knowledge of the liberty of Greece was not drawn
from the ignorant historian of her republics ;* nor did he
find in the contemplative mildness and gentle philosophy of
the ancients, nothing but a sanction for modern bigotry and
existing abuses.
It was a remarkable trait in his conversation, that though
he indulged in many references to the old authors, and
allusions to classic customs, he never deviated into the
innumerable quotations with which his memory was stored.
No words, in spite of all the quaintness and antiquity of
his dialect, purely Latin or Greek, ever escaped his lips,
except in our engagements at capping verses, or when he
was allured into accepting a challenge of learning from
some of its pretenders; then, indeed, he could pour forth
such a torrent of authorities as effectually silenced his
opponent; but these contests were rarely entered into, and
these triumphs moderately indulged. Yet he loved the use
of quotations in others, and I knew the greatest pleasure 1
could give him was in the frequent use of them. Ferhaps
he thought it would seem like an empty parade of learning
in one who so confessedly possessed it, to deal in the strange
words of another tongue, and consequently rejected them,
while, with an innocent inconsistency, characteristic of the
man, it never occurred to him that there was any thing,
either in the quaintness of his dialect or the occupations
of his leisure, which might subject him to the same imputa-
tion of pedantry.
And yet, at times, when he warmed in his subject, there
was a tone in his language as well as sentiment, which
might not be improperly termed eloquent; and the real
modesty and quiet enthusiasm of his nature, took away
from the impression he made, the feeling of pomposity and
affectation with which he otherwise might have inspired
you.
"Yes," answered Clutterbuck, "I own that there is
much that is grateful to the temper of my mind in this
retired spot. I fancy that I can the better give myself up
to the contemplation which makes, as it were, my intel-
lectual element and food. And yet I dare say that in this
(as in all other things) I do strongly err; for I remember
that during my only sojourn in London, I was wont to feel
the sound of wheels and of the throng of steps shake the
windows of my lodging in the Strand, as if it were an a
warning to recal my mind more closely to its studies,
a verity that noisy evidence of man's labor reminded me
how little the great interest of this rolling world were to
me, and the feeling of solitude among the crowds without,
made me cling more fondly to the company I found within.
For it seems that the mind is ever addicted to contraries,
and that when it be transplanted into a soil where all its
neighbours do produce a certain fruit, it doth, fiʊm a strange
· of
* It is really a disgrace to the University, that any of its colleges
should accept as a reference, or even tolerate as an author, the
presumptuous bigot who has bequeathed to us, in his history of
Greece, the masterpiece of a declaimer without energy, and of a
pedant without learning
70
BULWER'S NOVELS.
perversity, bring forth one of a different sort. You would
little believe, my honored friend, that, in this lonely seclu-
sion, I caunot, at all times, prohibit my thoughts from
wandering to that gay world of London, which, during my
tarry therein, occupied them in so partial a degree. You
smile, my friend, nevertheless it is true; and when you
reflect that I dwelt in the western department of the
metropolis, near unto the noble mansion of Somerset House,
and consequently in the very centre of what the idle call
Fashion, you will not be so surprised at the occasional mi-
gration of my thoughts."
Here the worthy Clutterbuck paused and sighed slightly.
"Do you farm or cultivate your garden," said I; "it is
no ignoble nor unclassical employment ?"
65
Unhappily," answered Clutterbuck, "I am inclined to
neither; my chest pains me with a sharp and piercing
pang when I attempt to stoop, and my respiration is short
and asthmatic; and, in truth, I seldom love to stir from my
books and papers. I go with Pliny to his garden, and
with Virgil to his farm; those mental excursions are the
sole ones I indulge in; and when I think of my appetite
for application, and my love of idleness, I am tempted to
wax proud of the propensities which reverse the censure of
Tacitus on our German ancestors, and incline so fondly to
quiet, while they turn so restlessly from sloth."
Here the speaker was interrupted by a long, low, dry
cough, which penetrated me to the heart. Alas! thought
I, as I heard it, and looked upon my poor friend's hectic
and hollow cheek, it is not only his mind that will be the
victim to the fatality of his studies.
It was some moments before I renewed the conversation,
and I had scarcely done so before I was interrupted by the
entrance of Benjamin Jeremiah, with a message from his
aunt that dinner would be ready in a few minutes. Another
long whisper to Christopher succeeded. The cidevant
fellow of Trinity looked down at his garments with a
perplexed air. I saw at once that he had received a hint
on the propriety of a change of raiment. To give him due
leisure for this, I asked the youth to show me a room in
which I might perform the usual ablutions previous to
dinner, and followed him up stairs to a comfortless sort of
dressing-room, without a fire-place, where I found a yellow
ware jug and basin, and a towel, of so coarse a huckaback,
that I did not dare venture its rough texture next any com-
plexion my skin is not inade for such rude fellowship.
While I was tenderly and daintily anointing my hands with
some hard water, of no Blandusian spring, and that vile
composition entitled Windsor soap, I heard the difficult
breathing of poor Clutterbuck on the stairs, and soon after
he entered the adjacent room. Two minutes more, and his
servant joined him, for I heard the rough voice of the domes-
tic say
"There is no more of the wine with the black
seal left, Sir! "
"No more, good Dixon; you mistake grievously. I had
two dozen not a week since."
"Don't know, I'm sure Sir!" answered Dixon, with a
careless and half impertinent accent; "but there are great
things like alligators, in the cellar, which break all the
bottles!
'
Euck
Alligators in my cellar!" said the astonished Clutter-
"Yes, Sir
at least a venomous sort of reptile like them,
which the people about here call efts!
"What" said Clutterbuck, innocently, and evidently
not seeing the irony of his own question; "What! have
the cfts broken two dozen bottles in a week; of an ex-
ceeding surety, it is strange that a little creature of the
lizard species should be so destructive perhaps they have
an antipathy to the vinous smell; I will confer with my
learned friend, Dr. Dissectall, touching their strength and
habits. Bring up some of the port, then, good Dixon.'
"Yes, Sir; all the corn is out; I had none for the gen-
tleman's horse.'
Why, Dixon, my memory fails me strangely, or I paid
you the sum of four pounds odd shillings for corn on Friday
fast."
"Yes, Sir; b your cow, and the chickens eat so
much, and then blind Dobbin has four feeds a day, and
Farmer Johnson always puts his horse in our stable, and
Mrs. Clutterbuck and the ladies fed the jackass the other
day in the hired donkey chaise; besides, the rats and
me are always at it."
"It is a marvel unto me," answered Clutterbuck, "how
detrimental the vermin race are; they seem to have noted
my poor possessions as their especial prey; remind me
that I write to Dr. Dissectall to-morrow, good Dixon. "
Yes, Sir, and now I think of it "but here Mr.
Dixon was cut short in his items, by the entrance of a third
person, who proved to be Mrs. Clutterbuck.
(6
"What, not dressed yet, Mr. Clutterbuck; what a
dawdler you are! and do look, was ever woman so used ?
you have wiped your razor upon my nightcap, — you dirty,
slovenly
"I crave you many pardons; I own my error!" said
Clutterbuck, in a nervous tone of interruption.
"Error indeed!" cried Mrs. Clutterbuck in a sharp,
overstretched, querulous falsetto, suited to the occasion;
"but this is always the case — I am sure, my poor temper
is tried to the utmost and Lord help thee, idiot! you
have thrust those spindle legs of
have thrust those spindle legs of yours, into your coat.
sleeves instead of your breeches!"
"Of a truth, good wife, your eyes are more discerning
than mine; and my legs, which are, as you say, somewhat
thin, have inducted themselves into what appeitaineth not
unto them; But for all that, Dorothea, I am not deserving
of the epithet of idiot, with which you have been pleased
to favor me; although my humble faculties are indeed of
no eminent or surpassing order
ور
"Pooh! pooh! Mr. Clutterbuck, I am sure I dont know
what else you are, muddling your head all day with those
good-for-nothing books. And now do tell me how you
could think of asking Mr. Pelham to dinner, when you
knew we had nothing in the world but hashed mutton and
an apple pudding? Is that the way, Sir, you disgrace
your wife, after her condescension in marrying you?"
"Really," answered the patient Clutterbuck, "I was
forgetful of those matters; but my friend cares as little as
myself, about the grosser tastes of the table; and the feast
of intellectual converse is all that he desires in his brief
sojourn beneath our roof.”
"Feast of fiddlesticks, Mr. Clutterbuck! did ever man
talk such nonsense?”
Besides," rejoined the master of the house, unheeding
this interruption, "we have a luxury even of the palate,
than which there are none more delicate, and unto which
he as well as myself, is, I know, somewhat unphilosophi-
cally given; I speak of the oysters, sent here by our good
friend, Dr. Swallow 'em."
"What do you mean, Mr. Clutterbuck? my poor mother
and I had those oysters last night for our supper.
I am
sure she as well as my sister are almost starved; but you
are always wanting to be pampered up above us all.”
C6
Nay, nay," answered Clutterbuck, "you know you
accuse me wrongfully, Dorothea; but now I think of it,
would it not be be better to modulate the tone of our conver-
sation, seeing that our guest, (a circumstance which until
now quite escaped my recollection,) was shown into the
next room, for the purpose of washing his hands, the
which, from their notable cleanliness, seemed to me wholly
unnecessary. I would not have him overhear you, Doro-
thea, lest his kind heart should imagine me less happy
than - than it wishes me.'
:
>>
the
"Good God, Mr. Clutterbuck!" were the only words
I heard farther and with tears in my eyes, and a suffoca
ting feeling in my throat, for the matrimonial situation of
my unfortunate friend, I descended into the drawing-room.
The only one yet there, was the pale nephew; he was
bending painfully over a book; I took it from him, it was
"Bentley upon Phalaris.” I could scarcely refrain from
throwing it into the fire, another victim, thought I, — ob,
the curse of an English education! By and by, down
came the mother and the sister, then Clutterbuck, and
lastly, bedizened out with gewgaws and trumpery,
wife. Born and nurtured as I was in the art of the volto
sciolto, pensieri stretti, I had seldom found a more arduous
task of dissimulation than that which I experienced now.
However, the hope to benefit my friend's situation assisted
me; the best way, I thought, of obtaining him more re-
spect from his wife, would be by showing her the respect
he meets with from others: accordingly, I sat down by
her, and having first conciliated her attention by some of
that coin, termed compliments, in which there is no coun-
terfeit that does not have the universal effect of real, 1
spoke with the most profound veneration of the talents and
learning of Clutterbuck -- I dilated upes the high reputation
he enjoyed,-upon the general esteem in which he was
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
71
held, upon the kindness of his heart, the sincerity of his
modesty, the integrity of his honor,-in short, whatever
I thought likely to affect her most of all, I insisted upon
the high panegyrics bestowed upon him, by Lord this, and
the Earl that, and wound up, with adding that I was cer-
tain he would die a bishop. My eloquence had its effect;
My eloquence had its effect;
all dinner time, Mrs. Clutterbuck treated her husband with
even striking consideration my words seemed to have
gifted her with a new light, and to have wrought a
thorough transformation in her view of her lord and mas-
ter's character. Who knows not the truth, that we have
dim and short-sighted eyes to estimate the nature of our
own kin, and that we borrow the spectacles which alone
enable us to discern their merits or their failings from the
opinion of strangers. It may be readily supposed that the
dinner did not pass without its share of the ludicrous that
the waiter and the dishes, the family and the host, would
have afforded ample materials, no less for the student of
nature in Hogarth, than of caricature in Bunbury; but I
was too seriously occupied in pursuing my object, and
marking its success, to have time even for a sinile. Ah!
if ever you would allure your son to diplomacy, show him
how subservient he may make it to benevolence.
When the women had retired, we drew our chairs near
to each other, and laying down my watch on the table, as
I looked out upon the declining day, I said, "Let us make
the best of our time, I can only linger here one half hour
longer.'
""
And now, my friend," said Clutterbuck," shall we
learn the method of making the best use of time? there,
whether it be in the larger segments, or the petty subdi-
visions of our life, rest the great enigma of our being. Who
is there that has ever exclaimed (pardon my pedantry, I
am for once driven into Greek) — Evpnka! to this most diffi-
cult of the sciences?
CC
Come," said I, "it is not for you, the favored scholar,
the honored academician, whose hours are never idly
employed, to ask this question!
:
|
glance at in your library; and moreover, as the great
object of him who would perfect his mind, is first to
strengthen the faculties of his body, would it not be pru-
dent in you to lessen for a time your devotion to books;
to exercise yourself in the fresh air, to relax the bow, by
loosing the string; to mix more with the living, and impart
to men in conversation, as well as in writing, whatever the
incessant labor of many years may have hoarded? Come,
if not to town, at least to its vicinity; the profits of your
living, if even tolerably managed, will enable you to do so
without inconvenience. Leave your books to their shelves,
and your flock to their curate, and -you shake your head
do I displease you?"
No, no, my kind and generous adviser, but as the twig
was set, the tree must grow. I have not been without that
ambition which, however vain and sinful, is the first pas-
sion to enter the wayward and tossing vessel of our soul,
and the last to leave its stranded and shattered wreck; but
mine found and attained its object at an age, when in others
it is, as yet, a vague and unsettled feeling; and it feeds
now rather upon the recollections of what has been, than
ventures forward on a sea of untried and strange expecta-
tion. As for my studies! how can you, who have, and in
no moderate draught, drank of the old stream of Castaly,
how can you ask me now to change them? Are not the
ancients my food, my aliment, my solace in sorrow, my
sympathizers, my very benefactors, in joy? Take them
away from me, and you take away the very winds which
purify and give motion to the obscure and silent current of
my life. Besides, my Pelham, it cannot have escaped your
observation, that there is little in my present state which
promises a long increase of days; the few that remain to
me must glide away like their predecessors; and whatever
be the infirmities of my body, and the little harassments
which, I am led to suspect, do occasionally molest the
most fortunate, who link themselves unto the unstable and
fluctuating part of creation, which we term women, more
especially in an hymeneal capacity; whatever these may
be, I have my refuge and my comforter in the golden-
souled and dreaming Plato, and the sententious wisdom of
the less imaginative Seneca. Nor, when I am reminded
of my approaching dissolution by the symptoms which do
mostly at the midnight hour press themselves upon me,
there a small and inglorious pleasure in the hope that I
may meet hereafter, in those islands of the blest which
they dimly dreamed of, but which are opened unto my
vision, without a cloud, or mist, or shadow of uncertainty
and doubt, with those bright spirits which we do now con-
verse with so imperfectly, that I may eaten from the very
lips of Homer the unclouded gorgeousness of fiction, and
from the accents of Archimedes, the unadulterated calcu
lations of truth."
is
"Your friendship makes too flattering the acumen of
your judgment," answered the modest Clutterbuck ; "it
has indeed been my lot to cultivate the fields of truth, as
transmitted into our hands by the wise men of old; and I
have much to be thankful for, that I have, in the employ,
been neither curtailed in my leisure, nor abased in my inde-
pendence, the two great goods of a calm and meditative
mind; and yet there are moments in which I am led to
doubt of the wisdom of my pursuits and when, with a
feverish and shaking hand, I put aside the books which
have detained me from my rest till the morning hour, and
repair to a couch often baffled of slumber by the pains and
discomforts of this worn and feeble frame, I almost wish I
could purchase the rude health of the peasant by the
exchange of an idle and imperfect learning for the igno- Clutterbuck ceased, and the glow of his enthusiasm dif-
rance, content with the narrow world it possesses, because fused itself over his sunken eye and consumptive cheek.
unconscious of the limitless creation beyond. Yet, my The boy, who had sat apart, and silent, during our dis-
dear and esteemed friend, there is a dignified and tranquil- | course, laid his head upon the table, and sobbed audibly;
lizing philosophy in the writings of the ancients which and I rose, deeply affected, to offer to one for whom they
ought to teach me a better condition of mind; and when
were, indeed, unavailing, the wishes and blessings of an
I have risen from the lofty, albeit, somewhat melancholy eager, but not hardened disciple of the world. We parted;
strain, which swells through the essays of the graceful and on this earth we can never meet again. The light has
tender Cicero, I have indeed felt a momentary satisfaction wasted itself away beneath the bushel, It will be six
at my studies, and an elation even at the petty success with | weeks to-morrow since the meek and noble minded acade-
which I have cherished them. But these are brief and fleet-mician breathed his last.*
ing moments, and deserve chastisement for their pride.
There is one thing, my Pelham, which has grieved me
bitterly of late, and that is, that in the earnest attention
which is the perhaps fastidious - custom of our univer-
sity, to pay to the minutiae of classic lore, I do now
oftentimes lose the spirit and beauty of the general bearing;
nay, I derive a far greater pleasure froin the ingenious
amendment of a perverted text, than from all the turn and
thought of the sense itself; while I am straightening a
crooked nail in the wine-cask, I suffer the wine to evapo
rate; but to this I am somewhat reconciled, when I reflees
that it was also the misfortune of the great Porson and the
elaborate Parr, men with whom I blush to find myself in-
cluded in the same sentence.
>>
My friend," said I, "I wish neither to wound your
modesty, nor impugn your pursuits; but think you not that
it would be better, both for men and for yourself, that,
while you are yet m the vigor of your age and reason,
you occupy your ingenuity and application in some more
aseful and lofty work, than that which you suffered me to
CHAPTER LXIV.
"T is but a single murder.
LILLO'S Fatal Curiosity.
It was in a melancholy and thoughtful mood that I rode
away from the parsonage. Many and hearty were the mal
edictions I bestowed upon a system of education which,
while it was so ineffective with the many, was so pernicious
to the few. Miserable delusion (thought 1) that encoura
* If in the above sketch, something in the antique phrase of
the collegian has appeared, imitated from the dicta of Domi-
me Sampson, I trust that there are many differences in circum-
stances and character between the two, which, as well as the
moral, for the illustration of which my sketch itself was intro-
duced, will free me from the imputation of plagiarism for a single
similitude, which I could not, without greatly departing from
my origiral, have avoided
12
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ges the ruin of health, and the perversion of intellect by
studies that, while they are unprofitable to the world, are
destructive to the possessor, that incapacitate him for
public, and unfit him for private life, and, while they
expose him to the ridicule of strangers, render him the
victim of his wife, and the prey of his domestic.
Busied in such reflections, I rode quickly on till I found
myself once more on the heath. I looked anxiously round
for the conspicuous equipage of Lady Chester, but in vain,
the ground was thin, nearly all the higher orders had
retired, the common people, grouped together, and cla-
moring noisily, were withdrawing: and the shrill voices of
the itinerant hawkers of cards and bills had at length sub-
sided into silence. I rode over the ground, in the hope of
finding some solitary straggler of our party. Alas! there
was not one; and, with much reluctance at, and distaste to,
my lonely retreat, I turned in a homeward direction from
the course.
The evening had already set in, but there was a moon in
the cold gray sky that I could almost have thanked in a son-
net for a light which 1 felt was never more welcomely dis-
pensed, when I thought of the cross roads and dreary
Country I had to pass before I reached the longed for haven
of Chester Park. After I had left the direct road, the
wind, which had before been piercingly keen, fell, and I
perceived a dark cloud behind, which began slowly to over-
take my steps. I care little, in general, for the discomfort
of a shower, yet, as when we are in one misfortune we
always exaggerate the consequence of a new one, I looked
upon my dark pursuer with a very impatient and petulant
frown, and set my horse on a trot, much more suitable to
my inclination than his own. Indeed, he seemed fully alive
to the cornless state of the parson's stable, and evinced his
sense of the circumstance by a very languid mode of pro-
gression, and a constant attempt, whenever his pace abated,
and I suffered the rein to slumber upon his neck, to crop
the rank grass that sprung up on either side of our road.
I had proceeded about three miles on my way, when I heard
the clatter of hoofs behind me. My even pace soon suffer-
ed me to be overtaken, and, as the stranger checked his
horse when he was nearly by my side, I turned towards
him, and beheld Sir John Tyrrell.
"Well," said he, "this is really fortunate, for I be-
gan to fear I should have my ride, this cold evening, entire-
ly to myself."
"I imagined that you had long reached Chester Park
by this time," said I. "Did not you leave the course with
our party?"
rr
"No," answered Tyrrell, "I had business at Newinar-
ket, with a rascally fellow of the name of Dawson. He
lost to me rather a considerable wager, and asked me to
come to the town with him after the race in order to pay
ine. As he said he lived on the direct road to Chester
Park, and would direct, and even accompany me, through
all the difficult part of the ride, I the less regretted not
joining Chester and his party; and you know, Pelham, that
when pleasure pulls one way, and money another, it is all
over with the first. Well, to return to my rascal, would
you believe, that when we got to Newmarket, he left me at
the inn, in order, he said, to fetch the money; and after
having kept me in a cold room, with a smoky chimney, for
more than an hour, without making his appearance, 1 sal-
lied out into the town, and found Mr. Dawson quietly seat-
ed in a hell with that scoundrel Thornton, whom I did not
conceive, till then, he was acquainted with. It seems that
he was to win, at hazard, sufficient to pay his wager.
may fancy my anger, and the consequent increase to it,
when he rose from the table, approached me, expressed his
sorrow, d-—d his ill luck, and informed me that he could
not pay me for three months. You know that I could not
ride home with such a fellow, he might have robbed me
by the way,
- so I returned to my inn,dined,-ordered
my horse, set off, -en Cavalier seul, inquired my way
of every passenger I passed, and after inmuinerable misdi-
rections, here I am.
You
"I cannot sympathize with you," said I, since I am
benefited by your misfortunes. But do you think it very
necessary to trot so fast? I fear my horse can scarcely
keep up with yours."
Tyrrell cast an impatient glance at may panting steed. "It
is cursed unlucky you should be so badly mounted, and we
shall have a pelting shower presently.'
In complaisance to Tyrrell, I endeavoured to accelerate
|
my steed. The roa s were rough and stony, and I had
scarcely got the tired animal into a sharper trot, before,
whether or no by some wrench among the deep ruts and
flinty causeway, he fell suddenly lame. The impetuosity
of Tyrrell broke out in oaths, and we both descended to
examine the cause of my horse's hurt, in the hope that it
might only be the intrusion of some pebble between the
shoe and the hoof. While we were yet investigating the
cause of our misfortune, two men on horseback overtook
us. Tyrrell looked up. By heaven," said he, in a low
tone, "it's that dog Dawson, and his worthy coadjutor,
Tom Thornton."
"What's the matter, gentlemen?" cried the bluff voice
of the latter. "Can I be of any assistance ?" and with-
out waiting our reply, he dismounted and came up to us.
He had no sooner felt the horse's leg than he assured us it
was "a most severe strain, and that the utmost I could ef-
fect would be to walk the brute gently home."
As Tyrrell broke out into impatient violence at this
speech, the sharper looked at him with an expression of
countenance I by no means liked; but in a very civil, and
even respectful tone, said, " If you want, Sir John, to reach
Chester Park sooner than Mr. Pelham can possibly do, sup-
pose you ride on with us, I will put you in the direct road
before I quit you." (Good breeding, thought I, to propose
leaving me to find my own way through this labyrinth of ruts
and stones!) However, Tyrrell, who was in a vile humor,
in no very courteous manner, refused the offer, and added
that he should continue with me as long as he could, and
did not doubt that when he left me he should be able to find
his own way. Thornton pressed the invitation still closer,
and even offered sotto voce, to send Dawson on before, should
the baronet object to his company.
Pray, Sir," said Tyrrell, "leave me alone, and busy
yourself about your own affairs." After so tart a reply,
Thornton thought it useless to say more; he remounted, and
with a silent and swaggering nod of familiarity, soon rode
away with his companion.
"I am sorry," said I, as we were slowly proceeding,
you rejected Thornton's offer.”
" that
Why, to say truth," answered Tyrrell, "I have so very
bad an opinion of him, that I was almost afraid to trust
myself in his company on so dreary a road. I have nearly
(and he knows it) to the amount of two thousand pounds
about me; for I was
for I was very fortunate in my betting-book to-
day."
"I know nothing about racing regulations," said I,
"but I thought one never paid sums of that amount upon
the ground?”
"Ah!" answered Tyrrell," but I won this sum, which
is 1,8001., of a country squire from Norfolk, who said he
did not know when he should see me again, and insisted on
paying me on the spot; 'faith I was not nice in the matter.
Thornton was standing by at the time, and I did not half
like the turn of his eye when he saw me put it up.
Do you
know too," continued Tyrrell, after a pause, "that I have
had a d- -d fellow dodging me all day, and yesterday too:
wherever I go I am sure to see him. He seems constantly,
though distantly, to follow me; and what is worse, he
wraps himself up so well, and keeps at so cautious a dis-
tance, that I can never catch a glimpse of his face.”
I know not why, but at that moment the recollection of
the muffled figure I had seen upon the course, flashed upon
me.
"Does he wear a long horseman's cloak?” said I.
"He does," answered Tyrrell, in surprise: "have you
observed him?
>>
"I saw such a person on the race ground," replied I;
"but only for an instant !
Farther conversation was suspended by a few heavy drops
which fell upon us; the cloud had passed over the moon,
and was hastening rapidly and loweringly over our heads.
Tyrrell was neither of an age, a frame, nor a temper, to be
so indifferent to a hearty wetting as myself.
"God!" he cried, " you must put on that beast of you 8,
I can't get wet, for all the horses in the world.”
I was not much pleased with the dictatorial tone of this
remark. "It is impossible," said I, "especially as the
horse is not my own, and seems considerably lamer than
at first; but let me not detain you.
"Well!" cried Tyrrell, in a raised and angry voice,
which pleased me still less than his former remark. "but
how am I to find my way if I leave you?
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
73
Son
""
"Come, come, Pelham, make haste!" exclaimed Tyr-
rell, impatiently, as the rain began now to descend fast and
heavy.
"Keep straight on," said I, "for a mile farther, then a paused by this tree.
I hastened my steps as if by an
Bign-post will direct you to the left; after a short time, you involuntary impulse, as well as the enfeebled animal I was
will have a steep hill to descend, at the bottoin of which leading would allow me, and discovered a horseman gallop-
is a large pool, and a singularly shaped tree; then keeping across the waste at full speed. The ground over which
straight on, till you pass a house belonging to Mr. Daw- he passed was steeped in the moonshine, and I saw the
long and disguising cloak, in which he was enveloped, as
clearly as by the light of day. I paused; and as I was fol-
lowing him with my looks, my eye fell upon some obscure
object by the left side of the pool. I threw my horse's
rein over the hedge, and firmly grasping my stick, hastened
to the spot.
to the spot. As I approached the object, I perceived that
it was a human figure; it was lying still and motionless;
the limbs were half immersed in the water the face was
turned upwards- the side and throat were wet with a deep
red stain it was of blood; the thin, dark hairs of the head
were clotted together over a frightful and disfiguring con-
tusion. I bent over the face in a shuddering and freezing
silence. It was the countenance of Sir John Tyrrell !
“When you have passed that house," I resumed coolly,
rather enjoying his petulance, "you must bear to the right
you must bear to the right
for six miles, and you will be at Chester Park in less than
an hour."
Tyrrell made no reply, but put spurs to his horse. The
pattering rain and the angry heavens, soon drowned the
last echoes of the receding hoof-clang.
For myself, I looked in vain for a tree, not even a shrub
was to be found, the fields lay bare on either side, with no
other partition but a dead hedge, and a deep dyke.
" Pa-
tientia fit melius, &c." thought I, as Horace said, and Vin-
cent would say; and in order to divert my thoughts from
my situation, I turned them towards my diplomatic success.
with Lord Chester. Presently, for I think scarcely five
minutes had elapsed since Tyrrell's departure, a horseman
passed me at a sharp pace; the moon was hid by the dense
cloud, and the night, though not wholly dark, was dim and
obscured, so that I could only catch the outline of the flit
ting figure. A thrill of fear crept over me, when I saw
that it was enveloped in a horseman's cloak. I soon ral-
lied, "There are more cloaks in the world than one,"
said I to myself: "besides, even if it be Tyrrell's dodger,
as he calls him, the baronet is better mounted than any
highwayman since the days of Du Val; and is, moreover,
strong enough, and cunning enough to take admirable care
of himself." With this reflection I dismissed the occur-
rence from my thoughts, and once more returned to self-
congratulations upon my own incomparable genius. "I
shall now," I thought, have well earned my seat in par-
hament; Dawton will indisputably be, if not the prime, the
principal minister in rank and influence. He cannot fail
to promote me for his own sake as well as mine; and when
I have once fairly got my legs in St. Stephen's, I shall soon
have my hands in office: power,' says some one, is a
snake that when it once finds a hole into which it can in-
troduce its head, soon manages to wriggle in the rest of its
body.""
With such meditations I endeavoured to beguile
ne time, and cheat myself into forgetfulness of the lameness
:f my horse, and the dripping wetness of his rider. At last,
the storm began suddenly to subside: one impetuous torrent,
ten-fold more violent than those that had preceded it, was
followed by a momentary stillness, wnich was again broken
by a short relapse of a less formidable severity, and the
moment it ceased, the beautiful moon broke out, the cloud
rolled heavily away, and the sky shone forth, as fair and
smiling as Lady at a ball, after she has been beating
her husband at home.
M
But at that instant, or perhaps a second before the storm
ceased, I thought I heard the sound of a human cry. I
paused, and my heart stood still. I could have heard a
gnat hum, the sound was not repeated; my ear caught
nothing but the plashing of the rain drops from the dead
hedges, and the murmur of the swollen dykes, as the waters
pent within them rolled hurriedly on. By and by, an owl
By and by, an owl
came suddenly from behind me, and screamed as it flapped
across my path; that, too, went rapidly away; and with
a smile, at what I deemed my own fancy, I renewed my
journey. I soon came to the precipitous descent I have
before mentioned; I dismounted, for safety, from my
drooping ani jaded horse, and led him down the hill. At
a distance beyond I saw something dark moving on the
grass which bordered the road; as I advanced, it started
forth from the shadow, and fled rapidly before me, in the
moonshine- it was a riderless horse. A chilling foreboding
seized me: I looked round for some weapon, such as the
hedge might afford; and finding a strong stick of tolerable
weight and thickness, I proceeded more cautiously, but
more fearlessly than before. As I wound down the hill,
the moonlight fell full upon the remarkable and lonely tree
I had observed in the morning. Bare, wan, and giant-
like, as it rose amidst the surrounding waste, it borrowed
even a more startling and ghostly appearance from the cold
and lifeless moonbeans which fell around and upon it like a
shroud. The retreating animal I had driven before me,
VOL. I.
10
CHAPTER LXV.
Marry, he was dead -
And the right valiant Banquo walked too late,
Whom, you may say, if it please you, Fleance killed,
For Fleance fled !
Macbeth.
It is a fearful thing, even to the hardiest nerves, to find
ourselves suddenly alone with the dead. How much more
so, if we have, but a breathing interval before, moved and
conversed with the warm and living likeness of the motion-
less clay before us.
And this was the man from whom I had parted in cold-
ness almost in anger at a word a breath! I took up
the heavy hand, it fell from my grasp, and as it did so,
thought a change passed over the livid countenance. 1
was deceived; it was but a light cloud flitting over the
moon; it rolled away, and the placid and guiltless light
shone over that scene of dread and blood, making more
wild and chilling the eternal contrast of earth and heaven
-man and his Maker-passion and immutability dust
and immortality.
But that was not a moment for reflection, - a thousand
thoughts hurried upon me, and departed as swift and con-
fusedly as they came. My mind seemed a jarring and
benighted chaos of the faculties which were its elements;
and I had stood several minutes over the corpse before, by
a vigorous effort, I shook off the stupor that possessed me,
and began to think of the course that it now behooved me
to pursue.
1
The house I had noted in the morning was, I knew,
within a few minutes' walk of the spot; but it belonged to
Dawson, upon whom the first weight of my suspicions
rested. I called to mind the disreputable character of
that man, and still more of the daring and hardened one
of his companion Thornton. I remembered the reluctance
of the deceased to accompany them, and the well-grounded
reason he assigned; and my suspicions amounting to cer·
tainty, I resolved rather to proceed to Chester Park, and
there give the alarm, than to run the unnecessary risk 0.
interrupting the murderers in the very lair of their retreat.
And yet, thought I, as I turned slowly away, how, if they
were the villains, is the appearance and flight of the dis-
guised horseman to be accounted for?
o.
Then flashed upon my recollection all that Tyrrell had
said of the dogged pursuit of that mysterious person, and
the circumstance of his having passed me upon the road so
immediately after Tyrrell had quitted me. These reflec-
tions (associated with a name I did not dare breathe even
accounted at once for the pursuit, and even for the deed)
to myself, although I could not suppress a suspicion which
made me waver in, and almost renounce my former con-
demnation of Thornton and his friend : and by the time I
reached the white gate and dwartish avenue which led to
Dawson's house, I resolved, at all events, to halt at the
solitary mansion, and mark the effect my information would
cause.
A momentary fear for my own safety came across me,
but was as instantly dismissed ; for even supposing the
friends were guilty, still it would be no object to them to
extend their remorseless villany to me; and I knew that
could sufficiently command my own thoughts to preven
}
74
BULWER'S NOVELS.
any suspicion I might form, from mounting to my coun-
tenance, or discovering itself in my manner.
"Do you suspect taese people?" whispered Lord Chester
"Not suspect," said I, "but doubt."
We proceeded down the avenue: "Where is Mr. Daw.
son?" said I to Thornton.
t
There was a light in the upper story; it burned still and
motionless. How holy seemed the tranquillity of life, to the
forced and fearful silence of the death-scene I had just wit- Oh, within!" answered Thornton.
nessed!
"Shall I fetch him?
I rung twice at the door, no one came to an-
swer my summons, but the light in the upper window mov-
ed hurriedly to and fro.
M
"They are coming," said I to myself. No such thing,
the casement above was opened, I looked up, and discov-
ered, to my infinite comfort and delight, a blunderbuss pro-
ruded eight inches out of the window in a direct line with
my head; I receded close to the wall with no common pre-
cipitation.
"Get away, you rascal," said a gruff, out trembling
voice," or I'll blow your brains out.”
rr
tr
My good sir," I replied, still keeping my situation, “I
come on urgent business, either to Mr. Thornton or Mr.
Dawson; and you had better, therefore, if the delay is not
very inconvenient, defer the honor you offer me, till I have
delivered my message.
"Master and 'Squire Thornton are not returned from
Newmarket, and we cannot let any one in till they come
home," replied the voice, in a tone somewhat mollified by
my rational remonstrance; and while I was deliberating
what rejoinder to make, a rough, red head, like Liston's, in
a farce, poked itself cautiously out under cover of the bluu-
derbuss, and seemed to reconnoitre my horse and myself.
Presently another head, but attired in the more civilized
gear of a cap and flowers, peeped over the first person's left
shoulder; the view appeared to re-assure them.
"Sir," said the female, "my husband and Mr. Thorn-
ton are not returned; and we have been so much alarmed
of late, by an attack on the house, that I cannot admit any
one till their return.”
Madam," I replied, reverently doffing my hat, "I do
not like to alarm you by mentioning the information I should
have given to Mr. Dawson; only oblige me by telling them,
on their return, to look beside the pool on the common;
they will then do as best pleases them."
Upon this speech, which certainly was of no agreeable
tendency, the blunderbuss palpitated so violently, that I
thought it highly imprudent to tarry any longer in so imme-
diate a vicinity; accordingly, I made the best of my way
out of the avenue, and once more resumed my road to Ches-
ter Park.
1
I arrived there at length; the gentlemen were still in the
dining-room. I sent out for Lord Chester, and communi-
cated the scene I had witnessed, and the cause of my de-
lay.
"What, Brown Bob lamed?" said he, "and Tyrrell,
poor, poor fellow, how shocking! we must send instant-
ly. Here, John! Tom! Wilson!" and his lordship shout-
ed and rung the bell in an indescribable agitation.
..
vio-
The under butler appeared, and Lord Chester began,-
My head groom, Sir John Tyrrell is murdered,
lent sprain in off-leg, send lights with Mr. Pelham,
poor gentleman, — an express instantly to Dr. Physicon,
Mr. Pelham will tell you all,-Brown Bob, his throat cut
from ear to ear,
what shall be done?" and with this co-
herent and explanatory harangue, the marquis sunk down
in his chair in a sort of hysteric.
55
"Do," was my brief reply.
Thornton was absent some minutes; when he re-appear
ed, Dawson was following him. "Poor fellow," said h
to me in a low tone, "he was so shocked by the sight
that he is still all in a panic;
that he is still all in a panic; besides, as you will see, he
is half drunk still.”
I made no answer, but looked narrowly at Dawson; he
was evidently, as Thornton said, greatly intoxicated: his
eyes swam, and his feet staggered as he approached us;
yet, through all the naturai effects of drunkennes, he seem-
ed nervous and frightened. This, however, m ght be the
natural, and consequently innocent effect, of the mere sight
of an object so full of horror; and, accordingly, I laid lit-
tle stress upon it.
66
We reached the fatal spot the body seemed perfectly
unmoved. Why," said I, apart to Thornton, while all
the rest were crowding fearfully round the corpse, why
did you not take the body within?
"I was going to return here with our servant for that
purpose," answered the gambler ; "for poor Dawson was
both too drunk and too nervous to give me any assistance."
"And how came it," I rejoined, eyeing him searching-
ly," that you and your friend had not returned home when
I called there, although you had both long since passed me
on the road, and I had never overtaken you?"
"Because,
Thornton, without any hesitation, replied,
during the violence of the shower, we cut across the fields
to an old shed, which we recollected, and we remained
there till the rain had ceased."
—
They are probably innocent," thought I,- and I
turned to look once more at the body which our compan-
ions had now raised. There was upon the head a strong
contusion, as if inflicted by some blunt and heavy instru-
ment. The fingers of the right hand were deeply gashed,
and one of them almost dissevered: the unfortunate man
had, in all probability, grasped the shup weapon from
which his other wounds proceeded; these were one wide
cut along the throat, and another in the side; either of them
would have occasioned his death.
In loosening the clothes another wound was discovered
but apparently of a less fatal nature; and in lifting the
body, the broken blade of a long sharp instrument, like a
case-knife, was discovered. It was the opinion of the sur-
geon, who afterwards examined the body, that the blade
had been broken by coming in contact with one of the rib-
bones; and it was by this that he accounted for the slight-
ness of the last-mentioned wound. I looked carefully
among the fern and long grass, to see if I could discover any
other token of the murderer: Thornton assisted me. At
the distance of some feet from the body, I thought I per-
ceived something glitter. I hastened to the place, and
picked up a miniature. I was just going to cry out, when
Thornton whispered, -"Hush! I know the picture; it is
as I suspected.”
the features; they were those of a young and singularly beau-
tiful female. I recognised them not: I turned to the other
side of the miniature; upon it were braided two locks of
hair, one was the long, dark ringlet of a woman, the oth-
er was of a light auburn. Beneath were four letters, I look
ed eagerly at them. My eyes are dim," said 1, in a low
tone to Thornton, "I cannot trace the initials.”
An icy thrill ran through my very heart. With a des-
perate but trembling hand, I cleansed from the picture the
The under butler looked at him in suspicious bewilder- blood, in which, notwithstanding its distance from the
I looked upon
ment. "Come," said I, "I will explain what his lord-corpse, the greater part of it was bathed.
ship means:" and, taking the man out of the room, I gave
him, in brief, the necessary particulars. I ordered a fresh
horse for myself, and four horsemen to accompany me.
While these were preparing, the news was rapidly spread-
ing, and I was soon surrounded by the whole house.
ny of the men wished to accompany me; and Lord Ches-
ter, who had at last recovered from his stupor, insisted
upon heading the search. We set off, to the number of
fourteen, and soon arrived at Dawson's house: the light in
the upper room was still burning. We rang, and after a
brief pause, Thornton himself opened the door to us. He
looked pale and agitated.
r
Ma-
"How shocking!" he said directly,- we are only
just returned from the spot.
"Accompany us, Mr. Thornton," said I, sternly; and
fixing my eye upon him.
دو
Certainly, was his immediate answer, without testi-
fying any confusion,-"I will fetch my hat.” He went
nto the house for a moment.
::
"But I can," replied he, in the same whispered key, but
with a savage exultation, which made my heart stand still,
"they are G. D., R. G.; they are the initials of Ger-
trude Douglas and Reginald Glanville.”
I looked up at the speaker, our eyes met, I grasped
Put it up,
his hand vehemently. He understood me.
said he; we will keep the secret. All this, so long in
the recital, passed in the rapidity of a moment.
CC
>>
"Have you found any thing there, Pelham?" shouted
one of our companions.
"No!" cried 1, thrusting the miniature into my bosom
and turning unconcernedly away.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
75
We carried the corpse to Dawson's house. The poor |
wife was in fits. We heard her scream as we laid the body
upon a table in the parlour.
"What more can be done?" said Lord Chester.
Nothing," was the general answer.
૬.
No excitation
makes the English people insensible to the chance of catch-
ing cold!
mg
"Let us go home, then, and send to the nearest magis-
trate," exclaimed our host: and this proposal required no
repetition.
On our way, Chester said to me, "That fellow Dawson
looked devilish uneasy,
don't you still suspect him and
nis friend?"
"I do not!" answered I, emphatically.
CHAPTER LXVI.
And now I'm in the world alone,
*
*
*
*
But why for others should I groan,
When none will sigh for me?
BYRON.
THE whole country was in confusion at the news of the
murder. All the myrmidons of justice were employed in
the most active research for the murderers. Some few
persons were taken up on suspicion, but were as instantly
discharged. Thornton and Dawson underwent a long and
rigorous examination; but no single tittle of evidence against
them appeared: they were consequently dismissed. The
only suspicious circumstance against them, was their delay
on the road; but the cause given, the same as Thorn-
ton had at first assigned to me, was probable and natural.
The shed was indicated, and, as if to confirm Thornton's
account, a glove belonging to that person was found there.
To crown all, my own evidence, in which I was con-
strained to mention the circumstance of the muffled horse-
man having passed me on the road, and being found by
me on the spot itself, threw the whole weight of suspicion
upon that man, whoever he might be.
All attempts, however, to discover him were in vain. It
was ascertained that a man, muffled in a cloak, was seen
at Newmarket; but not remarkably observed; it was also
discovered, that a person so habited had put up a gray
horse to bait at one of the inns at Newmarket; but in the
throng of strangers, neither the horse nor its owner had
drawn down any particular remark.
Thornton, when it read the damning record of Glanville's
guilt; and, in spite of my horror at the crime of my former
friend, I trembled for his safety; nor was I satisfied with
myself at my prevarication as a witness. It is true, that I
| had told the truth, but I had concealed all the truth; and
my heart swelled proudly and bitterly against the miniature
which I still concealed in my bosom.
On further inquiry, testimony differed; four or five men,
in cloaks, had left their horses at the stables; one ostler
changed the color of the steed to brown, a second to black
a third deposed that the gentleman was remarkably tall,
and the waiter swore solemnly he had given a glass of bran-
dy and water to an unked looking gentleman, in a cloak,
who was remarkably short. In fine, no material point
could be proved, and though the officers were still employ
ed in active search, they could trace nothing that promised
a speedy discovery.
As for myself, as soon as I decently could, I left Chester
Park, with a most satisfactory despatch in my pocket, from
its possessor to Lord Dawton, and found myself once more
on the road to London !
—
►
Alas! how different were my thoughts! how changed the
temper of my mind, since I had last travelled that road,
Then I was full of hope, energy, ambition, of interest
for Reginald Glanville, of adoration for his sister; and
now, I leaned back listless and dispirited without a single
feeling to gladden the restless and feverish despair which,
ever since that night, had possessed me. What was ambi-
tion henceforth to me? The most selfish among us have
some human being to whom to refer, with whom to con-
nect, to associate, to treasure the triumphs and gratifica-
tions of self. Where now was such a being to me? My
earliest friend, for whom my esteem was the greater for his
sorrows, my interest the keener for his mystery, Reginald
Glanville, was a murderer! a dastardly, a barbarous felon,
whom the chance of an instant might convict !
and she,
Light as I may seem to the reader, bent upon the pleas-
ures and the honors of the great world, as I really was,
there had never, since I had recognised and formed a de-
cided code of principles, been a single moment in which I
had transgressed it; and perhaps I was sterner and more
inflexible in the tenets of my morality, such as they were,
than even the most zealous worshipper of the letter, as well
as the spirit of the law and the prophets, would require.
Certainly there were many pangs within me, when I reflec-
ted, that to save a criminal, in whose safety I was selfishly
concerned, I had tampered with my honor, paltered with
the truth, and broken what I felt to be a peremptory and
inviolable duty. Let it be for ever remembered, that once
acknowledge and ascertain that a principle is publicly good,
and no possible private motive should ever induce you to
depart from it.
It was with a heightened pulse, and a burning cheek, that
I entered London; before midnight I was in a high fever;
they sent for the vultures of physic,- I was bled copiously,
I was kept quiet in bed for six days, at the end of that
time, my constitution and youth restored me.
I took up
one of the newspapers listlessly: Glanville's name struck
me; I read the paragraph which contained it, it was a
high-flown and fustian panegyric on his genius and prom-
ise. I turned to another column, it contained a long
speech he had the night before made in the House of Com-
mons.
――
Can such things be? thought I; yea, and thereby hangs
a secret and an anomaly in the human heart. A man may
commit the greatest of crimes, and (if no others succeed to
it) it changes not the current of his being, to all the
world, to all intents, for all objects he may be the
same. He may equally serve his country,-equally bene-
fit his friends,-be
be generous, - brave,- benevolent, all
that he was before. One crime, however henious, makes
no revolution in the system, it is only the perpetual course
of sins, vices, follies, however insignificant they may seem,
which alters the nature and hardens the heart.
My mother was out of town when I returned there.
They had written to her during my illness, and while I was
yet musing over the day's journal, a letter from her was
put into my hand. 1 transcribe it.
"MY DEAREST HENRY,
—
"How dreadfully uneasy I am about you: write to me
directly. I would come to town myself, but am staying
with dear Lady Dawton, who wont hear of my going; and
I cannot offend her for your sake. By the by, why have
been ill. My dear, dear child, I am wretched about you,
you not called upon Lord Dawton? but, I forgot, you have
and how pale your illness will make you look just too, as
the best part of the season is coming on. How unlucky!
Pray, don't wear a black cravat when you next call on La-
dy Roseville; but choose a very fine battiste one, it will
make you look rather delicate than ill. What physician
do you have? I hope, in God, that it is Sir Henry Hal-
ford. I shall be too miserable if it is not. I am sure no
one can conceive the anguish I suffer. Your father, too,
poor mag, has been laid up with the gout for the last three
light books to entertain you; but, pray, as soon as you are
days. Keep up your spirits, my dearest child, and get some
but be sure not to catch cold. How did you like Lady
well, do go to Lord Dawton's, -he is dying to see you;
Chester Pray take the greatest care of yourself, and
write soon to
-
"Your wretched, and most
"Affectionate Mother,
"F. P.
"P. S. How dreadfully shocking about that poor Sir
John Tyrrell!"
I tossed the letter from me. Heaven pardon me if the
she, the only woman in the world I had ever really lov- misanthropy of my mood made me less grateful for the ma
ed, — who had ever pierced the thousand folds of my ambi-ternal solicitude than I should otherwise have been.
tious and scheming heart, she was the sister of the
assassin !
Then came over my mind the savage and exulting eye of
I took up one of the numerous books with which my
table was covered; it was a worldly work of one of the
French reasoners; it gave a new turn to my thoughts,
76
BULWER'S NOVELS
vi ame wa
we all
my mind reverted to its former pros
Who
does not know what active citizens private misfortune makes
us? The public is like the pools of Bethesda,
hasten there, to plunge in and rid ourselves of our afflictions.
I drew my portefeuille to me, and wrote to Lord Dawton.
Three hours after I had sent the note he called upon me.
I gave him Lord Chester's letter, but he had already re-
ceived from that nobleman a notification of my success.
He was profuse in his compliments and thanks.
"And do you know," added the statesman, " that you
have quite made a conquest of Lord Guloseton ? He
speaks of you publicly in the highest terms: I wish we
could get him and his votes. We must be strengthened,
my dear Pelham; every thing depends on the crisis."
"Are you certain of the cabinet ?" I asked.
"Yes; it is not yet publicly announced, but it is fully
known among us, who come in, and who stays out
to have the place of
·
"I congratulate your lordship from my heart.
post do you design for me?"
I am
What
Lord Dawton changed countenance. "Why, really,
- Pelham, we have not yet filled up the sser appoint-
ments, but you shall be well remembered, we, y dear
my
Pelham, be sure of it."
I looked at the noble speaker with a glance which, I
flatter myself, is peculiar to me. If, thought I, the embryo
minister is playing upon me as upon one of his dependent
characters; if he dares forget what he owes to my birth
and zeal, I will grind myself to powder but I will shake
him out of his seat. The anger of the moment passed
away.
"Lord Dawton," said I, "one word, and I have done
discussing my claims for the present. Do
Do you mean to
place me in Parliament as soon as you are in the cabinet?
What else you intend for me, I question not."
"Yes, assuredly, Pelham. How can you doubt it?"
"Enough - and now read this letter from France."
*
Two days after my interview with Lord Dawton, as I
was riding leisurely through the Green Park, in no very
bright and social mood, one of the favored carriages, whose
owners are permitted to say, “Hic iter est nobis," overtook
me. A sweet voice ordered the coachman to stop, and
then addressed itself to me.
"What, the hero of Chester Park returned, without hav-
ing once narrated his adventures ?"
"Beautiful Lady Roseville," said I, " I plead guilty of
negligence, not treason. I forgot, it is true, to appear
before you, but I forget not the devotion of my duty now
that I behold you. Command, and I obey."
"See, Ellen," said Lady Roseville, turning to a bend-
ing and blushing countenance beside her, which I then first
perceived, "See what it is to be a knight errant; even
his language is worthy of Amadis of Gaul, but, (again
addressing me) your adventures are really too shocking a
subject to treat lightly. We lay our serious orders on you
to come to our castle this night; we shall be alone."
"Willingly shall I repair to your bower, fayre ladies;
but tell me, I beseech you, how many persons are signified
in the word alone?
C
Why," answered Lady Roseville, "I fear we may
have two or three people with us; but I think, Ellen, we
may promise our Chevalier, that the number shal not ex-
cced twelve.”
I bowed and rode on. What worlds would I not have
given to have touched the hand of the Countess's compan-
on, though only for an instant. But, and that fearful
but, chilled me, like an ice-bolt. I put spurs to my horse,
and dashed fiercely onwards. There wae
gh
wind stirring, and I bent my face from it, s; as mace y to
see the course of my spirited and impatientlære
"What ho, Sir!-what ho!" cried a shrili vex,
“for God's sake, don't ride over me before dinner what-
ever you do after it!
66
I pulled up.
Ah, Lord Guloseton! how happy I am
to see you; pray forgive my blindness, and my horse's
supidity."
"Tis an ill wind," answered the noble gourmand,
"which blows nobody good. An excellent proverb, the
veracity of which is daily attested. for, however unpleasant
a keen wind inay be, there is no doubt of its being a mar-
ellous whet er of that greatest of heaven's blessings — an
appetite. Little, however, did I expect, that besides blow
ing me a relish for my sauté de foie gras, it would also blow
me one who might, probably, be a partaker of my enjoy-
ment. Honor me with your company at dinner to-day.
"What saloon will you dine in, my Lord Lucullus?"
said I, in allusion to the custom of the epicure, by whose
name I addressed him.
"The saloon of Diana," replied Guioseton," for she
must certainly have shot the fine buck of which Lord H
sent me the haunch that we shall have to-day. It is the
true old Meynell breed. I ask you not to meet Mr. So-
and-so and Lord What-d'ye-call-him: I ask you to meet a
sauté de foie gras, and a haunch of venison."
"I will most certainly pay them my respects. Never
did I know before how far things were better company
than persons. Your lordship has taught me that great
truth."
"God bless me," cried Guloseton, with an air of vexa-
tion, "here comes the Duke of Stilton, a horrid person,
who told me the other day, at my petit dinér, when I
apologized to him for some strange error of my artiste's,
by which common vinegar had been substituted for Chili
who told me — what think you he told me? You cannot
guess; he told me, forsooth, that he did not care what he
ate; and, for his part, he could make a very good dinner
off a beef-steak! Why the deuce, then, did he come and
dine with me? Could he have said any thing more
cutting? Imagine my indignation, when I looked round
my table and saw so many good things thrown away upon
such an idiot.”
Scarcely was the last word out of the gourmand's mouth
before the noble personage so designated joined us. It
amused me to see Guloseton's contempt (which he scarcely
took the pains to suppress) of a person whom all Europe
bonored, and his evident weariness of a companion, whose
society every one else would have coveted as the summum
bonum of worldly distinction. As for me, feeling any thing
but social, I soon left the ill-matched pair, and rode into
the other park.
Just as I entered it, I perceived, on a dull, yet cross-look-
ing pony, Mr. Wormwood, of bitter memory. Although
we had not met since our mutual sojourn at Sir Lionel
Garrett's, and were then upon very cool terms of acquaint-
ance, he seemed resolved to recognise and claim me.
cr
My dear Sir," said he, with a ghastly smile, “I am
rejoiced once more to see you; bless me, how pale you
look. I heard you had been very ill. Pray, have you
been yet to that man who professes to cure consumption
in the worst stages?"
CC
Yes," said I, "he read me two or three letters of re-
ference from the patients he had cured. His last, he said,
was a gentleman very far gone; a Mr. Wormwood."
“Oh, you are pleased to be facetious," said the cynic,
coldly,
"but pray
do tell me about that horrid affair at
Chester Park. How disagreeable it must have been to
you to be taken up on suspicion of the murder.”
Sir," said I, haughtily, "what do you mean?”
"Oh, you were not-wern't you? Well, I always
thought it unlikely; but every one says so
My dear Sir," I rejoined, "how long is it since you
have minded what every body says? if I were so foolish,
I should not be riding with you now; but I have always
said, in contradiction to every body, and even in spite of
being universally laughed at for my singular opinion, that
you, my dear Mr. Wormwood, were by no means silly,
or ignorant, nor insolent, nor intrusive; that you were, on
the contrary, a very decent author, and a very good sort
of inan: and that you were so benevolent, that you daily
granted to some one or the other, the greatest happiness in
your power; it is a happiness I am now about to enjoy,
and it consists in wishing you good bye!'" and without
waiting for Mr. Wormwood's answer, I gave the rein to
my horse, and was soon lost among the crowd, which had
now began to assemble.
Hyde Park is a stupid place; the English make busi-
ness an enjoyment, and enjoyment a business, — they are
born without a smile, they rove about public places like
so many easterly winds, cold, sharp, and cutting; or like
a group of frogs on a frosty day, sent out of his hall by
Boreas for the express purpose of looking black at one
another. - When they ask you, "how you do,” you would
think they were measuring the length of your coffin. They
are ever, it is true, laboring to be agreeable; but ther
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
A
are like Sisyphus, the stone they roll up the hill with so power, and political consideration, but in vain; I now be
much oil, runs down again, and hits you a thump on the thought me of another.
capable of giv
legs. They are sometimes polite, but invariably uncivil; "How few persons there are," said I, "
their warmth is always artificial, their cold never; they ing even a tolerable dinner, how many capable of admir-
are stiff without dignity, and cringing without manners. ing one worthy of estimation. I could imagine no greater
They offer you an affront, and call it "plain truth; they triumph for the ambitious epicure, than to see at his board
wound your feelings, and tell you it is manly to speak the first and most honored persons of the state, all lost in
their minds;" at the same time, while they have neglected wonder at the depth, the variety, the purity, the munifi-
all the graces and charities of artifice, they have adopted cence of his taste; all forgetting, in the extorted respect
all its falsehood and deceit. While they profess to abhor which a gratified palate never fails to produce, the more
servility, they adulate the peerage, while they tell you visionary schemes and projects which usually occupy their
they care not a rush for the minister, they move heaven thoughts; to find those whom all England are soliciting
and earth for an invitation from the minister's wife. There for posts and power, become, in their turn, eager and craving
is not another court in Europe where such systematized aspirants for places, at his table; -to know that all the
meanness is carried on, where they will even believe grand movements of the ministerial body are planned and
you, when you assert that it exists. Abroad, you can agitated over the inspirations of his viends and the excite-
smile at the vanity of one class, and the flattery of another : ment of his wine, - from a haunch of venison, like the one
the first, is too well bred to affront, the latter, too graceful of which we have partaken to-day, what noble and substan-
to disgust; but here, the pride of a noblesse, (by the way, tial measures might arise? From a sauté de foie, what del-
the most mushroom in Europe,) knocks you down in a icate subtleties of finesse might have their origin from a
hail-storm, and the fawning of the bourgeois makes you ragout à la financière, what godlike improvements in taxa-
sick with hot water. Then their amusements, the heat, tion? Oh, could such a lot be mine, I would envy neither
the dust, the sameness,
-the slowness of that odious Napoleon for the goodness of his fortune, nor S for the
park in the morning; and the same exquisite scene re- grandeur of his genius."
peated in the evening, on the condensed stage of a rout
room, where one has more heat, with less air, and a nar-
rower dungeon, with diminished possibility of escape!
we wander about like the damned in the story of Vathek,
and we
pass our lives, like the royal philosopher of
Prussia, in conjugating the verb Je m'ennuis.
CHAPTER LXVII.
In solo vivendi causa palato est.
JUVENAL.
They would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived
company with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, tastes,
Shakspeare, and the musical glasses.
Vicar of Wakefield.
THE reflections which closed the last chapter, will serve
to show that I was in no very amiable or convivial temper,
when I drove to Lord Guloseton's dinner. However, in
the world, it matters little what may be our real mood, the
mask hides the bent brow and the writhing lip.
Guloseton was stretched on his sofa, gazing with upward
eye at the beautifu! Venus which hung above his hearth.
You are welcome, Pelham ; I am worshipping my house-
hold divinity!"
I prostrated myself on the opposite sofa, and made some
answer to the classical epicure, which made us both laugh
heartily. We then talked of pictures, painters, poets, the
ancients, and Dr. Henderson on Wines; we gave ourselves
up, without restraint, to the enchanting fascination of the
last-named subject, and our mutual enthusiasm confirming
our cordiality, we went down stairs to our dinner, as
charmed with each other as boon companions always
should be.
፡፡
Guloseton laughed. "The ardor of your enthusiasm
blinds your philosophy, my dear Pelham, like Montesquieu,
the liveliness of your fancy often makes you advance para-
doxes which the consideration of your judgment would af
terwards condemn. For instance, you must allow, that if
one had all those fine persons at one's table, one would be
forced to talk more, and consequently to eat less; more-
over, you would either be excited by your triumph, or you
would not, that is indisputable; if you are not excited you
have the bore for nothing; if you are excited you spoil your
digestion; nothing is so detrimental to the stomach as the
feverish inquietude of the passions. All philosophers rec-
ommend calm as the to kalon of their code; and you must
perceive, that if, in the course you advise, one has occa-
sional opportunities of pride, one also has those of morti-
fication. Mortification! terrible word; how many apo-
plexies have arisen from its source! No, Pelham, away
with ambition; fill your glass, and learn, at last, the secret
of real philosophy.
CC
"Confound the man! was my mental anathema,
Long life to the Solomon of sautés," was my audible ex-
clamation.
"There is something," resumed Guloseton, "in your
countenance and manner, at once so frank, lively, and in-
genuous, that one is not only prepossessed in your favor, but
desirous of your friendship. I tell you, therefore, in con-
fidence, that nothing more amuses me than to see the court-
ship I receive from each party. I laugh at all the unwise
and passionate contests in which others are engaged, and I
would as soon think of entering into the chivalry of Don
Quixote, or attacking the visionary enemies of the Bedla-
mite, as of taking part in the fury of politicians. At pres
ent, looking afar off at their delirium, I can ridicule it:
were I to engage in it, I should be hurt by it. I have no
wish to become the weeping, instead of the laughing philo-
sopher. I sleep well now, I have no desire to sleep ill.
I eat well, why should I lose my appetite? I am undis-
turbed and unattacked in the enjoyments best suited to my
taste, for what purpose should I be hurried it to the abuse
of the journalists and the witticisms of pamphleteers? I
can ask those whom I like to my house, why should I be
forced into asking those whom I do not like ? In fine, my
good Pelham, why should I sour my temper, and shorten
my life, put my green old age into flannel and physic, and
become, from the happiest of sages, the most miserable of
fools? Ambition reminds me of what Bacon says of anger,
"This is comme il faut," said I, looking round at the
well filled table, and the sparkling spirits immersed in the
ice-pails, a genuine friendly dinner. It is very rarely
that I dare intrust myself to such extempore hospitality,
miserum est alienâ vivere quadra-a friendly dinner, a
family meal, are things from which I fly with undisguised
aversion. It is very hard, that in England, one caunot
have a friend on pain of being shot or poisoned; if you
refuse his familiar invitations, he thinks you mean to affront
him, and says something rude, for which you are forced to
challenge him; if you accept them, you perish beneath
the weight of boiled mutton and turnips, or
"My dear friend," interrupted Guloseton, with his
mouth full, it is very true; but this is no time for talk-ceeded in my object, I could not help smiling with satisfac-
>>
ing, let us eat.
I acknowledged the justice of the rebuke, and we did
not interchange another word beyond the exclamations of
surprise, pleasure, admiration, or dissatisfaction, called up
by the objects which engrossed our attention, till we found
ourselves alone with our dessert.
When I thought my host had imbibed a sufficient quanti-
ty of wine, I once more renewed my attack. I had tried
Ain before upon that point of vanity which is centered in
It is like rain, it breaks itself upon that which it falls
on.' Pelham, my boy, taste the Château Margôt.
However hurt my vanity might be in having so ill suc-
tion, at my entertainer's principles of wisdom. My diplo-
matic honor, however, was concerned, and I resolved yet
to gain him. If, hereafter, I succeeded, it was by a very
different method than I had yet taken; meanwhile, I de-
parted from the house of this modern Apicius with a new
insight into the great book of mankind, and a new conclu-
sion from its pages; viz. that no virtue can make so perfect
a philosopher as the senses; there is no content like that
of the cicure, no active code of morals so difficult t«
78
BULWER'S NOVELS.
conquer as the inertness of his indolence; he is the only
being in the world for whom the present has a supremer
gratification than the future.
""
"And yet," said I," since I may safe y say so here with
out being suspected of personality in the shape of a com
pliment, don't you think, that without any such mixture,
we should be very indifferent company? Do we not find
those dinners and soirées the pleasantest where we see
minister next to a punster, a poet to a prince, and a cox-
comb like me next to a beauty like Lady Dawton! The
more variety there is in the conversation, the more agrea-
ble it becomes.
ور
My cabriolet soon whirled me to Lady Roseville's door;
the first person I saw in the drawing-room, was Ellen.
She lifted up her eyes with that familiar sweetness with
which they had long since began to welcome me. "Her
brother may perish on the gibbet! was the thought that
curdled my blood, and I bowed distantly and passed on.
I met Vincent. He seemed dispirited and dejected. He "Very just," answered Mr. Clarendon; "but it is pre-
already saw how ill his party had succeeded; above all, he cisely because I wish for that variety that I dislike a mis-
was enraged at the idea of the person assigned by rumor to cellaneous society. If one does not know the person beside
fill the place he had intended for himself. This person whom one has the happiness of sitting, what possible sub-
was a sort of rival to his lordship, a man of quaintness and ject can one broach with any prudence. I put politics
quotation, with as much learning as Vincent, equal wit, | aside, because, thanks to party spirit, we rarely meet those
and, but that personage is still in office, and I will say we are strongly opposed to; but if we sneer at the metho-
no more, lest he should think I flatter.
dists, our neighbor may be a saint, if we abuse a new
book, he may have written it, if we observe that the tone
of the piano-forte is bad, his father may have made it, — if
we complain of the uncertainty of the banking interest, his
uncle may have been gazetted last week. I name no ex-
aggerated instances; on the contrary, I refer these generai
remarks to particular individuals, whom all of us have pro-
bably met. Thus, you see, that a variety of topics is pro-
scribed in a mixed company, because some one or other of
them will be certain to offend.”
To our subject. It has probably been observed that
Lord Vincent had indulged less of late in that peculiar
strain of learned humor formerly his wont. The fact is,
that he had been playing another part; he wished to remove
from his character that appearance of literary coxcombry
with which he was accused. He knew well, how necessa-
ry in the game of politics, it is to appear no less a man of
the world than of books; and though he was not averse to
display his clerkship and scholastic information, yet he en-
deavoured to make them seem rather valuable for their
weight, than curious for their fashion. How few there are
in the world who retain, after a certain age, the character
originally natural to them. We all get, as it were, a sec-
ond skin; the little foibles, propensities, eccentricities, we
first indulged through affectation, conglomerate and encrust
till the artificiality grows into nature.
C
"Pelhain," said Vincent, with a cold smile, "the day
will be yours; the battle is not to the strong, the whigs
will triumph. Fugere Pudor, verumque, fidesque; in quo-
rum subiere locum fraudesque dolique insidiæque et vis et amor
sceleratus habendi,'”
"A pretty modest quotation," said I. "You must al-
low at least, that the amor sceleratus habendi was also, in
some moderate degree, shared by the Pudor and Fides
which characterize your party; otherwise I am at a loss
how to account for the tough struggle against us we have
lately had the honor of resisting.
"Never mind," replied Vincent, "I will not refute you,
"La richesse permet une juste fierté,
Mais il faut ètre souple avec la pauvreté.'
It is not for us, the defeated, to argue with you, the victors.
But pray, (continued Vincent, with a sneer which pleased
me not,) pray, among this windfall of Hesperian fruit, what
nice little apple will fall to your share?"
CC
My good Vincent, don't let us anticipate; if any such
apple should come into my lap, let it not be that of discord
between us."
Mag
even
Perceiving that we listened to him with attention, Mr.
Clarendon continued, "Nor is this more than a minor
objection to the great mixture prevalent among us: a more
important one may be found in the universal imitation it
produces.
produces. The influx of common persons being once per-
mitted, certain sects recede, as it were, from the contami-
nation, and contract into very diminished coteries. Liv-
ing familiarly solely among themselves, however they may
be forced into visiting promiscuously, they imbibe certain
manners, certain peculiarities in mode and words
in an accent or a pronunciation, which are confined to them-
selves; and whatever differs from these little eccentricities,
they are apt to condemn as vulgar and suburban. Now,
the fastidiousness of these sects making them difficult of in-
tinate access, even to many of their superiors in actual
rank, those very superiors, by a natural feeling in human
nature, of prizing what is rare, even if it is worthless, are
the first to solicit their acquaintance; and, as a sign that
they enjoy it, to imitate those peculiarities which are the
especial hieroglyphics of this sacred few. The lower grades
catch the contagion, and imitate those they imagine most
likely to know the propriétés of the mode; and thus manners,
unnatural to all, are transmitted second-hand, third-hand,
fourth-hand, till they are ultimately filtered into something
worse than no manners at all. Hence, you perceive all peo-
ple timid, stiff, unnatural, and ill at ease; they are dressed
up in a garb which does not fit them, to which they have
never been accustomed, and are as little at home as th
wild Indian in the boots and garments of the more civil
"Who talks of discord?” asked Lady Roseville, join-ized European.'
ing us.
"Lord Vincent," said I, " fancies himself the celebrat-
ed fruit, on which was written, detur pulcerrime, to be giv-
en to the fairest. Suffer me, therefore, to make him a
present to your ladyship.
Vincent muttered something which, as I really liked and
esteemed him, I was resolved not to hear; accordingly
turned to another part of the room: there I found Lady
Dawton, she was a tall, handsome woman, as proud as
a liberal's wife ought to be. She received me with unusu-
al graciousness, and I sat myself beside her. Three dow-
agers, and an old beau of the old school, were already
sharing the conversation with the haughty countess. I
found that the topic was society.
"No," said the old beau, who was entitled Mr. Claren-
don, "society is very different from what it was in my
younger days. You remember, Lady Paulet, those de-
lightful parties at D- House? where shall we ever find
any thing like them? Such ease, such company, even
the mixture was so piquant, if one chanced to sit next a
bourgeois, he was sure to be distinguished for his wit or
talent. People were not tolerated, as now, merely for
their riches."
"And hence," said I, "springs that universal vulgarity
of idea, as well as manner, which pervades all society, -
for nothing is so plebeian as imitation.'
what I
"A very evident truism!" said Clarendon, -
lament most, is the injudicious method certain persons took
to change this order of things, and diminish the désagré-
mens of the mixture we speak of. I remember well, when
Almack's was first set up, the intention was to keep away
the rich roturiers from a place, the tone of which was also
intended to be contrary to their own. For this purpose the
patronesses were instituted, the price of admission made ex-
tremely low, and all ostentatious refreshments discarded: it
was an admirable institution for the interests of the little
oligarchy who ruled it, but it has only increased the gen-
eral imitation and vulgarity. Perhaps the records of that
institution contain things more disgraceful to the aristocra
cy of England, than the whole history of Europe can fur-
nish. And how could the Monsieur and Madame Jourdains
help following the servile and debasing example of Mon-
seigneur le Duc et Pair?
"How strange it is," said one of the dowagere," that
of all the novels on society with which we are annually in-
undated, there is scarcely one which gives even a tolerable
description of it."
True," cried Lady Dawton, "it is the introduction of
low persons, without any single pretension, which spoils
the society of the present day "And the three dowagers"
1
sighed amen to this remarki
“Not strange," said Clarendon, with a formal smile,
if your ladyship will condescend to reflect. Most of the
writers upon our little, great world, have seen noth ng of it.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
at most, they have been occasionally admitted into the
routs of the B.'s and C.'s, of the second, or rather the
third set. A very few are, it is true, gentlemen; but gen-
tlemen who are not writers, are as bad as writers who are
not gentlemen. In one work, which, since it is popular, I
will not name, there is a stiffness and stiltedness in the di-
alogue and descriptions, perfectly ridiculous. The author
makes his countesses always talking of their family, and
his earls always quoting the peerage. There is as much
fuss about state, and dignity, and pride, as if the greatest
among us were not far too busy with the petty affairs of the
world to have time for such lofty vanities. There is only
cne rule necessary for a clever witer who wishes to delin-
eate the bean monde. It is this: let him consider that
dukes, and lords, and noble princes," eat, drink, talk,
and move, exactly the same as any other class of civilized
people, nay, the very subjects in conversation are, for
the most part, the same in all sets, only, perhaps, they
are somewhat more familiarly and easily treated than
among the lower orders, who fancy rank is distinguished
by pomposity, and that state affairs are discussed with the
solemnity of a tragedy, that we are always my lording
and my ladying each other, - that we ridicule commoners,
and curl our hair with Debrett's Peerage.
We all laughed at this speech, the truth of which we
readily acknowledged.
C
CC
―
more,
Nothing," said Lady Dawton, "amuses me
than to see the great distinction novel-writers make between
the titled and the untitled; they seem to be perfectly una-
ware, that a commoner, of ancient family and large fortune,
is very often of far more real rank and estimation, and
even weight, in what they are pleased to terin fashion, than
many of the members of the Upper House. And what
amuses me as inuch, is the no distinction they make between
all people who have titles, Lord, the little baron, is
exactly the same as Lord the great marquess, equally
haughty and equally important."
CC
Mais, mon Dieu," said a little French count, who had
just joined us; how is it that you can expect to find a de-
scription of society entertaining, when the society itself is
so dull? — the closer the copy the more tiresome it must
be. Your manner, pour vous amuser, consists in standing
on a crowded staircase, and complaining that you are ter-
ribly bored. I'on s'accoutume difficilement à une vie qui se
passe sur l'escalier."
"It is very true," said Clarendon, "we cannot defend
ourselves. We are a very sensible, thinking, brave, saga-
cious, generous, industrious, noble-minded people; but it
must be confessed, that we are terrible bores to ourselves
and all the rest of the world. Lady Paulet, if you are go-
ing so soon, honor me by accepting my arm.
"So the booksellers say," replied Vincent; "but I
doubt it: there will be always a certain interregnum after
the death of a great poet, during which, poetry will be re
ceived with distaste, and chiefly for this reason, that nearly
all poetry about the same period, will be of the same schoo
as the most popular author.
as the most popular author. Now the public soon wearies
of this monotony; and no poetry, even equally beautiful
with that of the most approved writer, will become popu-
lar, unless it has the charm of variety. It must not be per-
- it
fect in the old school, it must be daring in a new one;
must effect a thorough revolution in taste, and build itself a
temple out of the ruins of the old worship. All this a great
genius may do, if he will take the pains to alter, radically,
the style he
the style he may have formed already. He must stoop to
C'est
the apprenticeship before he aspires to the mastery.
une métier
que
de faire un livre comme de faire une pendule."
"I must confess, for my part," said Lord Edward Ne-
ville, (an author of some celebrity and more merit,) that I
was exceedingly weary of those doleful ditties with which
we were favored for so many years. No sooner had Lord
Byron declared himself unhappy, than every young gentle-
man with a pale face and dark hair, used to think himself
justified in frowning in the glass and writing Odes to De-
spair. All persons who could scribble two lines were sure
to make them into rhymes of blight,' and 'night."
Never was there so grand a penchant for the triste.”
'
>>
"It would be interesting enough,' observed Vincent,
"to trace the origin of this melancholy mania. People
are wrong to attribute it to poor Lord Byron, it certainly
came from Germany; perhaps Werter was the first hero of
that school."
"There seems," said I, "an unacountable preposses-
sion among all persons, to imagine that whatever seems
gloomy must be profound, and whatever is cheerful must
be shallow. They have put poor philosophy into deep
mourning, and given her a coffin for a writing-desk, and a
skull for an inkstand.'
CC
Oh," cried Vincent, "I remember some lines so ap-
plicable to your remark, that I must forthwith interrupt
you in order to introduce them.
in order to introduce them. Madame de Stael said,
in one of her works, that melancholy was a source of per-
fection. Listen now to my author,
"Une femme nous dit, et nous prouve en effet,
Qu'avant quelques mille aus l'homme sera parfait,
Qu'il devra cet état à la mélancolie.
On sait que la tristesse annonce la génie ;
Nous avons déjà fait des progrès étonnans,
Que de tristes écrits que de tristes romans !
Des plus noires horreurs nous sommes idolâtres,
Et la mélancolie a gagné nos theatres.'"'
"What!" cried I, "are you so well acquainted with
my favorite book ?
"Yours!" exclaimed Vincent.
Gods, what a sym-
but
وو
CC
"You should say your hand,” said the Frenchman.
"Pardon me," answered the gallant old beau; "I say,
with
your brave countryman when he lost his legs in battle, pathy; * it has long been my most familiar acquaintance;
and was asked by a lady, like the one who now leans on
me, whether he would not sooner have lost his arms? No,
Madam,' said he, (and this, Monsieur le Comte, is the
answer I give to your rebuke,) ‘I want my hands to guard
my heart."
<
Finding our little knot was now broken up, I went into
another part of the room, and joined Vincent, Lady Rose-
ville, Ellen, and one or two other persons who were assem-
bled round a table covered with books and prints. Ellen
was sitting on one side of Lady Roseville; there was a va-
cant chair next her, but I avoided it, and seated myself on
the other side of Lady Roseville.
Pray, Miss Glanville," said Lord Vincent, taking up a
than voluine, "do you greatly admire the poems of tus
lady?"
"What, Mrs. Hemans?" answered Ellen. I am more
enchanted with her poetry than I can express: if that is
The Forest Sanctuary, which you have taken up, I am
sure you will bear me out in my admiration."
Vincent turned over the leaves with the quiet cynicism
of manner habitual to him; but his countenance grew ani-
mated after he had read two pages. "This is, indeed,
beautiful," said he, "really and genuinely beautiful. How
singular that such a work should not be more known; I
Rever met with it before. But whose pencil marks are
these?"
"Mine, I believe," said Ellen, modestly.
have
Well," said Lady Roseville, "I fear we shall never
any popular poet in our time, now that Lord Byron is
lead."
"Tell us what hath chanced to-day,
That Cæsar looks so sad ? '"'
My eye followed Vincent's to ascertain the meaning of
this question, and rested upon Glanville, who had that mo-
ment entered the room. I might have known that he was
expected, by Lady Roseville's abstraction, the restlessness
with which she started at times from her seat, and as
instantly resumed it; and her fond expecting looks towards
the door, every time it shut or opened, which denoted so
strongly the absent and dreaming heart of the woman who
loves.
Glanville seemed paler than usual, and perhaps even
sadder; but he was less distruit and abstracted; no sooner
did he see,
than he approached me, and extended his hand
with great cordiality. His hand, thought I, and I could
not bring myself to accept it; I merely addressed him in
the common-place salutation. He looked hard and inquisi-
ville had risen from her chair,
tively at me, and then turned abruptly away. Lady Rose-
her eyes followed him.
He had thrown himself on a settee near the window. She
went up to him, and sate herself by his side. I turned,
Glanville; she was looking down, apparently employed
my face burnt, my heart beat, I was now next to Ellen
with some engravings, but I thought her hand, (that small
delicate, Titinia hand,) trembled.
There was a pause. Vincent was talking with the
other occupiers of the table; a woman, at such times 18
* La Gastronomie, Poëme, par J. Berchoux.
is
80
BULWER'S NOVELS.
""
always the first to speak. "We have not seen you, Mr.
Pelham," said Ellen, since your return to town.
"I have been very ill," I answered, and I felt my voice
falter. Ellen looked up anxiously at my face.
face. I could not
brook those large, deep, tender eyes, and it now became
my turn to occupy myself with the prints.
"You do look pale," she said, in a low voice. I did
not trust myself with a further remark, dissimulator as I
dissimulator as I
was to others, I was like a guilty child before the woman
I loved. There was another pause, -at last Ellen said,
"How do you think my brother looks?"
I started; yes, he was her brother, and I was once more
myself at that thought I answered so coldly and almost
haughtily, that Ellen colored, and said, with some dignity,
that she should join Lady Roseville. I bowed slightly,
and she withdrew to the countess. I seized my hat and
departed, but not utterly alone,-I had managed to secrete
the book which Ellen's hand had marked; through many a
bitter day and sleepless night, that book has been my only
companion; I have it before me now, and it is open at a
page which is yet blistered with the traces of former tears.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Our mistress is a little given to philosophy: what dispu-
tations shall we have here by and by?- GIL BLAS.
Ir was now but seldom that I met Ellen, for I went little
into general society, and grew every day more engrossed in
political affairs. Sometimes, however, when wearied of
myself, and my graver occupations, I yielded to my mother's
solicitations, and went to one of the nightly haunts of the
goddess we term Pleasure, and the Greeks, Moria, the
game of dissipation (to use a Spanish proverb) shuffled us
together. It was then that I had the most difficult task of
my life to learn and to perform; to check the lip the eye
the soul -to heap curb on curb, upon the gushings of
the heart, which daily and hourly yearned to overflow; and
to feel, that while the mighty and restless tides of passion
were thus fettered and restrained, all within was a parched
and arid willesness, that wasted itself, for want of very
moisture, away. Yet there was something grateful in the
sadness with which I watched her form in the dance, or
listened to her voice in the song; and I felt soothed, and
even happy, when my fancy flattered itself, that her step
never now seemed so light, as it was wont to be when in
harmony with mine, nor the songs that pleased her most,
so gay as those that were formerly her choice.
Distant and unobserved, I loved to feed my eyes upon
her pale and downcast cheek; to note the abstraction that
came over her at moments, even when her glance seemed
brightest, and her lips most fluent ; and to know, that while
a fearful mystery might for ever forbid the union of our
hands, there was an invisible, but electric chain, which con-
nected the sympathies of our hearts.
Ah! why is it, that the noblest of our passions should be
also the most selfish? that while we would make all carthly
sacrifice for the one we love, we are perpetually demand-
ing a sacrifice in return; that if we cannot have the rap-
ture of blessing, we find a consolation in the power to
afflict; and that we acknowledge, while we reprobate, the
maxim of the sage: "L'on veut faire tout le bonheur, ou, si
cela ne se peut ainsi, tout le malheur de ce qu'on aime.”
The beauty of Ellen was not of that nature, which rests
solely upon the freshness of youth, nor even the magic of
expression; it was as faultless as it was dazzling ; no one
could deny its excess or its perfection; her praises came
constantly to my ear into whatever society I went. Say
what we will of the power of love, it borrows greatly from
opinion; pride above all things, sanctions and strengthens
affection. When all voices were united to panegyrize her
beauty, when I knew, that the powers of her wit,
charms of her conversation,— the accurate judgment, united
to the sparkling imagination, were even more remarkable
characteristics of her mind, than loveliness of her person,
I could not but feel my ambition, as well as my tenderness,
excited; I dwelt with a double intensity on my choice,
and with a tenfold bitterness on the obstacles which for-
pade me to indulge it.
eagerly clung. In searching the pockets of the unfor...ate
Tyrrell, the money he had mentioned to me as being in
his possession, could not be discovered. Had Glanville
been the murderer, at all events he could not have been the
robber; it was true that in the death scuffle, which in all
probability took place, the money might have fallen from
the person of the deceased, either among the long grass
which grew rankly and luxuriantly around, or in the sullen
and slimy pool, close to which the murder was perpetrated ;
it was also possible, that Thornton, knowing the deceased
had so large a sum about him, and not being aware that
the circumstance had been inmunicated to me or any one
else, might not have been able (when he and Dawson first
went to the spot) to resist so great a temptation. How-
ever, there was a slight crevice in this fact, for a sunbeam
of hope to enter, and I was too sanguine, by habitual tem-
perament and present passion, not to turn towards it from
the general darkness of my thoughts.
tact.
own.
With Glanville I was often brought into immediate con-
Both united in the same party, and engaged in con-
certing the same measures, we frequently met in public,
and sometimes even alone. However, I was invariably
cold and distant, and Glanville confirmed rather than
diminished my suspicions, by making no commentary on
my behaviour, and imitating it in the indifference of his
Yet, it was with a painful and aching heart, that I
marked, in his emaciated form and sunken cheek, the gra-
dual, but certain progress of disease and death; and while
all England rung with the renown of the young, but almost
unrivalled orator, and both parties united in anticipating
the certainty and brilliancy of his success, I felt how im-
probable it was, that, even if his crime escaped the
unceasing vigilance of justice, this living world would long
possess any traces of his genius but the remembrance of
his name.
There was something in his love of letters, his
habits of luxury and expense, the energy of his mind,— the
solitude, the darkness, the hauteur, the reserve, of his man-
ners and life, which reminded me of the German Wallen-
stein; nor was he altogether without the superstition of
that evil, but extraordinary man. It is true, that he was
not addicted to the romantic fables of astrology, but he
was an earnest, though secret, advocate of the world of
spirits. He did not utterly disbelieve the various stories of
their return to earth, and their visits to the living; and it
would have been astonishing to me, had I been a less dili-
gent observer of human inconsistencies, to mark a mind
otherwise so reasoning and strong, in this respect so cre-
dulous and weak; and to witness its reception of a belief,
not only so adverse to ordinary reflection, but so absolutely
contradictory to the philosophy it passionately cultivated,
and the principles it obstinately espoused.
One evening, I, Vincent, and Clarendon, were alone at
Lady Roseville's, when Reginald and his sister entered. I
rose to depart; la belle Contesse would not suffer it; and
when I looked at Ellen, and saw her blush at my glance,
the weakness of my heart conquered, and I remained.
Our conversation turned partly upon books, and princi-
pally on the science du cœur et du monde, for Lady Rose-
ville was un peu philosophe, as well as more than un peu
littéraire; and her house, like those of the Du Deffands and
D'Epinays of the old French regime, was one where seri-
ous subjects were cultivated, as well as the lighter ones;
where it was the mode to treat no less upon things than to
scandalize persons; and where maxims on men and reflec
tions on manners, were as much in their places, as stric-
tures on the Opera and invitations to balls.
All who were now assembled were more or less suited to
one another; all were people of the world, and yet occa-
sional students of the closet; but all had a different methou
of expressing their learning or their observations. Clar-
endon was dry, formal, shrewd, and possessed of the sus-
picious philosophy coumon to men hackneyed in the world.
Vincent relieved his learning by the quotation, or meta-
thephor, or originality of some sort with which it was expres-
sed. Lady Roseville seldom spoke much, but when she
did, it was rather with grace than solidity. She was nat-
urally melancholy and pensive, and her observations par-
took of the colorings of her mind; but she was also a dame
de la cour, accustomed to conceal, and her language was
gay and trifling, while the sentiments it clothed were pen-
sive and sad.
Yet there was one circumstance, to which, in spite of
all the evidence against Reginald, my mind still fondly and
Ellen Glanville was an attentive listener, but a diffident
speaker. Though her knowledge was even masculine for
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
81
its variety and extent, she was averse to displaying it; the
childish, the lively, the tender, were the outward traits of
the flowers were above, but the mine was
her character,
beneath, one noted the beauty of the former, one seldom
dreamed of the value of the latter.
—
Glanville's favorite method of expressing himself was
terse and sententious. He did not love the labor of de-
rail: he conveyed the knowledge of years in a problem.
Sometimes he was fanciful, sometimes false; but, general-
¹y, dark, melancholy, and bitter.
to my
joyment; health, competence, and the indulgence, but the
moderate indulgence, of our passions. What have these to
do with science?
success.
nor
"I might tell you," replied Vincent, "that I myself
have been no idle nor inactive seeker after the hidden trea-
sures of mind; and that, from my own experience, I could
speak of pleasure, pride, complacency, in the pursuit, that
were no inconsiderable augmenters of my stock of enjoy-
ment; but I have the candor to confess, also, that I have
known disappointment, mortification, despondency of mind,
and infirmity of body, that did more than balance the ac-
count. The fact is, in my opinion, that the individual is a
sufferer for his toils, but then the mass is benefited by his
It is we who reap, in idle gratification, what the
Genius
husbandman has sown in the bitterness of labor.
did not save Milton from poverty and blindness,
Tasso from the madhouse, nor Galileo from the inquisi
tion; they were the sufferers, but posterity the gainers
The literary empire reserves the political; it is not the ma
ny made for one, it is the one inade for many; wisdom
and genius must have their martyrs as well as religion, and
with the same results, viz: semen ecclesie est sanguis mar-
tyrorum. And this reflection must console us for their mis-
fortunes, for, perhaps, it was sufficient to console them. In
the midst of the most affecting passage in the most wonder-
ful work, perhaps, ever produced, for the mixture of uni-
- 1
versal thought with individual interest, I mean the two
last cantos of Childe Harold, -the poet warns from him-
self at his hopes of being remembered
As for me, I entered more into conversation at Lady
Roseville's than I usually do elsewhere; being, according
favorite philosophy, gay on the serious, and serious
on the gay; and, perhaps, this is a juster method of treat-
ing the two than would be readily imagined; for things
which are usually treated with importance, are, for the
most part, deserving of ridicule; and those which we re-
ceive as trifles, swell themselves into a consequence we lit-
♦le dreamed of, before they depart.
Vincent took up a volume: it was Shelley's Posthumous
Poems. How fine," said he, "some of these are; but
some of these are; but
they are fine fragments of an architecture in bad taste: they
are imperfect in themselves, and faulty in the school they
belonged to; yet such as they are, the master-hand is ev-
ident upon them. They are like the pictures of Paul Ve-
ronese, often offending the eye, often irritating the judg-ful work,
ment, but redolent of something vast and lofty,
their very
faults are majestic, this age, perhaps no other will ever
do them justice, but the disciples of future schools will
make glorious pillage of their remains. The writings of
Shelley would furnish matter for a hundred volumes: they
are an admirable museum of ill-arranged curiosities,
they are diamonds, awkwardly set; but one of them, in the
hands of a skilful jeweller, would be inestimable: and the
poet of the future, will serve him as Mercury did the tor-
toise in his own translation from Homer, make him
sing sweetly when he's dead!' Their lyres will be made
out of his shell.”
6
•
If I judge rightly," said Clarendon, "his literary faults
were these: he was too learned in his poetry, and too po-
etical in his learning. Learning is the bane of a poet.
Learning is the bane of a poet.
Imagine how beautiful Petrarch would be without his pla-
onic conceits: fancy the luxuriant imagination of Cowley,
left to run wild among the lofty objects of nature, not the
minute peculiarities of art. Even Milton, who made a
more graceful and gorgeous use of learning than, perhaps,
any other poet, would have been far more popular, if he
had been more familiar. Poetry is for the multitude,
erudition for the few. In proportion as you mix them,
erudition will gain in readers, and poetry lose."
"True," said Glanville; " and thus the poetical, among
philosophers, are the most popular of their time; and the
philosophical among poets, the least popular of theirs.
"Take care," said Vincent, smiling, that we are not
misled by the point of your deduction; the remark is true,
but with a certain reservation, viz. that the philosophy
which renders a poet less popular, must be the philosophy
of learning, not of wisdom. Wherever it consists in the
knowledge of the plainer springs of the heart, and not in ab-
struse inquiry into its metaphysical and hidden subtleties,
it necessarily increases the popularity of the poem; because,
instead of being limited to the few, it comes home to every
one. Thus it is the philosophy of Shakspeare, Byron,
Horace, Pope, Moliere, &c., which has put them into eve-
ry one's hands and hearts, while that of Propertius, even
of Lucretius, of Cowley, and Shelley, makes us often throw
down the book, because it fatigues us with the scholar.
Philosophy, therefore, only sins in poetry, when in the se-
vere garb of learning, it becomes harsh and crabbed,' and
not musical, as is Apollo's lute.'"
«Alas! said I,
how much more difficult than of yore,
education is become, formerly, it had only one object,
to acquire learning; and now, we have not only to acquire
t, but to know what to do with it when we have,
there are not a few cases where the very perfection of
learning will be to appear ignorant.
6
C
-
nay,
Perhaps," said Glanville, "the very perfection of wis-
dom may consist in retaining actual ignorance. Where was
there ever the individual who, after consuming years, life,
health, in the pursuit of science, rested satisfied with its
success, or rewarded by its triumph? Common sense tells
us that the best method of employing life, is to enjoy it.
Common sense tells us, also, the ordmary means of this en-
Var, I
11
COC
In his line
"With his land's language.'
And who can read the noble and heart-speaking apology
of Algernon Sidney, without entering into his consolation
no less than his misfortunes? Speaking of the law being
turned into a snare instead of a protection, and instancing
its uncertainty and danger in the times of Richard the Sec-
ond, he says, God only knows what will be the issue of
the like practices in these our days; perhaps he will in his
mercy speedily visit his afflicted people; I die in the faith
that he will do it, though I know not the time or ways.
دوو
"I love," says Clarendon, "the enthusiasm which pla-
ces comfort in 30 noble a source; but, is vanity, think you,
a less powerful agent than philanthropy ? is it not the de-
sire of shining before men that prompts us to whatever may
effect it? and if it can create, can it not also support? 1
mean, that if you allow that to shine, to écletar, to enjoy
praise, is no ordinary incentive to the commencement of
great works, the conviction of future success for this desire
becomes no inconsiderable reward. Grant, for instance,
that this desire produced the Paradise Lost,' and
you will
not deny that it might also support the poet through his
misfortunes. Do you think that he thought rather of the
pleasure his work should afford to posterity, than of the
praises posterity should extend to his work? Had not Cicero
left us such frank confessions of himself, how patriotic, how
philanthropic we should have esteemed him; now we know
both his motive and meed was vanity, may we not extend
the knowledge of human nature which we have gained in
this instance by applying it to others? For my part,
should be loth to inquire how great a quantum of vanity
mingled with the haughty patriotism of Sidney, or the
unconquered spirit of Cato."
Glanville bowed his head in approval. "But," observed
I," why be so uncharitable to this poor and persecuted
principle, since none of you deny the good and
great actions
it effects; why stigmatize vanity as a vice, when it creates,
or, at least participates in, so many virtues? I wonder the
ancients did not erect the choicest of their temples to its
worship. Quant à moi, I shall henceforth only speak of
it as the primum mobile of whatever we venerate and ad-
mire, and shall think it the highest compliment I can pay
to a man, to tell him he is eminently vain.”
"I incline to your opinion," cried Vincent, laughing.
"The reason we dislike vanity in others, is because it
is perpetually hurting our own. Of all passions (if for the
moment I may call it such) it is the most indiscreet; it is
for ever blabbing out its own secrets. If it would but keep
its counsel, it would be as graciously received into society,
as any other well-dressed and well-bred intruder of quality.
Its garrulity makes it despised. But in truth it must be
clear, that vanity in itself is neither a vice nor a virtue, any
more than this knife, in itself, is dangerous or useful; the
82
BULWER'S NOVELS.
covery
person who employs gives it its qualities; thus, for instance,
a great mind desires to shine, or is vain, in great actions;
a frivolous one, in frivolities; and so on through the varieties
of the human intellect. But I cannot agree with Mr. Cla-
rendon, that my admiration of Algernon Sidney (Cato I
never did admire) would be at all lessened by the dis-
that his resistance to tyranny in a great measure
originated in vanity, or that the same vanity consoled him,
when he fell a victim to that resistance; for what does it
prove but this, that among the various feelings of his soul,
indignation at oppression, (so common to all men,)-enthu-
siasm for liberty, (so predominant in him,) the love of be-
nefiting others, the noble pride of being, in death, consis-
tent with himself; among all these feelings, among a crowd
of cthers equally honorable and pure there was also one,
and perhaps no inconsiderable feeling of desire, that his life
and death should be hereafter appreciated justly,-contemptu
fame, contemni virtutem, contempt of faune, is the con-
tempt of virtue? Never consider that vanity an offence which
limits itself to wishing for the praise of good men for good
actions: next to our own esteem, says the best of the Ronan
philosophers, it is a virtue to desire the esteem of others.'"
By your emphasis on the word esteem," said Lady
Roseville," I suppose you attach some peculiar importance
CC
·
to the word?"
"I do," answered Vincent. "I use it in contradistinc-
tion to admiration. We may covet general admiration for
a bad action,- (for many bad actions have the clinquant,
which passes for real gold,) -but one can expect general
estcem only for a good one.
""
"From this distinction," said Ellen, modestly, "may we
not draw an inference, which will greatly help us in our
consideration of vanity; may we not deem that vanity,
which desires only the esteem of others to be invariably a
virtue, and that which only longs for admiration to be fre-
quently a vice?"
"We may admit your inference," said Vincent; "and
before I leave this question, I cannot help remarking upon
the foily of the superficial, who imagine, by studying human
motives, that philosophers wish to depreciate human ac-
tions. To direct our admiration to a proper point, is surely
not to destroy it; yet how angry inconsiderate enthusi-
asts are, when we assign real, in the place of exaggerated
feelings. Thus the advocates for the doctrine of utility
the most benevolent, because the most indulgent, of all
philosophers—are branded with the epithets of selfish and
interested; decriers of moral excellence, and disbelievers
in generous actions.
Vice has no friend like the prejudices
which call themselves virtue. La prétexte ordinaire de
ceux qui font le malheur des autres est qui ils veulent leur bien."
My eyes were accidentally fixed on Glanville as Vincent
ceased; he looked up, and colored faintly as he met my
look ; but he did not withdraw his own,-— keen and steadily
we gazed upon each other, till Ellen turning round sud-
denly, remarked the unwonted meaning of our looks, and
placed her hand in her brother's with a sort of fear.
It was late; he rose to withdraw, and passing me, said
in a low tone, "A little while, and you shall know all." I
made no answer ; he left the room with Ellen.
66
Lady Roseville has had but a dull evening, I fear, with
our stupid saws and ancient instances," said Vincent. The
eyes of the person he addressed were fixed upon the door;
I was standing close by her, and as the words struck her
ear, she turned abruptly; a tear fell upon my hand, she
perceived it, and though I would not look upon her face,
1 saw that her very neck blushed; but she, like me, if she
gave way to feeling, had learned too deep a lesson from the
world, not readily to resume her self-coinmand ; she an-
&ered Vincent railingly, upon his bad compliment to us,
and received our adieus with all her customary grace, and
more than her customary gayety.
CHAPTER LXIX.
Ah! Sir, had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade,
that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been a
rich man at this day; but, rogue as I am, still I may be your
friend, and that, perhaps, when you least expect it.
Vicar of Wakefield.
WHAT with the anxiety and uncertainty of my political
prospects, the continued dissipation in which I lived, and,
above all, the unpropitious state of my belle passion, m"
health
gave way; my appetite forsook me,
my steep failed
me, a wrinkle settled itself under left
my eye,
and iny
mother declared, that I should have no chance with an
heiress: all these circumstances together, were not with-
out their weight. So I set out one morning to Hampton
Court, (with a volume of Bishop Berkely, and a bottle of
wrinkle water,) for the benefit of the country air.
It is by no means an unpleasant thing to turn one's back
upon the great city, in the height of its festivities. Misan-
thropy is a charining feeling for a short time, and one
inhales the country, and animadverts on the town, with the
most melancholy satisfaction in the world. I sat inysel
down at a pretty little cottage, a mile out of the town.
From the window of my drawing-room I revelled in the
luxurious contemplation of three pigs, one cow,
and a
straw-yard; and I could get to the Thames in a walk of
five minutes, by a short cut through a lime-kiln. Such
pleasing opportunities of enjoying the beauties of nature,
are not often to be met with you may be sure, therefore,
that I made the most of them.
that I made the most of them. I rose early, walked before
breakfast, pour ma santé, and came back with a most sa-
tisfactory headache, pour mes peines. I read for just three
hours, walked for two more, thought over Abernethy, dys-
pepsia, and blue pills, till dinner; and absolutely forgot
Lord Dawton, ambition, Guloseton, epicurism, — aye, all
but, of course, reader, you know whom I am about to
except, the ladye of my love.
One bright, laughing day, I threw down my book an
hour sooner than usual, and sallied out with a lightness of
foot and exhilaration of spirit, to which I had long been a
stranger. I had just sprung over a style that led into one
of those green shady lanes, which make us feel that the old
poets who loved, and lived for, Nature, were right in call-
ing our island "the merry England,” when I was startled
by a short, quick bark, on one side of the hedge. I turned
sharply round; and, seated upon the sward, was a man,
apparently of the pedler profession; a large deal box was
lying open before him ; a few articles of linen, and female
dress, were scattered round, and the man himself appeared
earnestly occupied in examining the deeper recesses of his
itinerant warehouse. A small black terrier flew towards
me with no friendly growl. "Down," said I,
strangers are not foes, though the English generally think
90.
"all
The man hastily looked up; perhaps he was struck with
the quaintness of my remonstrance to his canine companion;
for, touching his hat, civilly, he said -"The dog, Sir, is
very quiet; he only means to give me the alarm by giving
it to you; for dogs seem to have no despicable insight into
human nature, and know well that the best of us inay be
taken by surprise.
"You are a moralist," said I, not a little astonished in
my turn by such an address from such a person.
"I could
not have expected to stumble upon a philosopher so easily.
Have you any wares in your box likely to suit me? if so,
I should like to purchase of so moralizing a vendor ?”
CC
No, Sir," said the seeming pedler, smiling, and yet at
the same time hurrying his goods into his box, and care-
fully turning the key no, Sir, I am only a bearer of
other men's goods; my morals are all that I can call my
own, and those I will sell you at your own price.
You are candid, my friend,” said 1, "and your frank-
I,
ness, alone, would be inestimable in this age of deceit, and
country of hypocrisy."
Ah, Sir!" said my new acquaintance, "I see already
that you are one of those persons that look to the dark side
of things; for my part, I think the present age the best
that ever existed, and our own country the most virtuous
in Europe.'
CC
"I congratulate you, Mr. Optimist, on your opinions,”
quoth I, "but your observation leads me to suppose, that
you are both an historian and a traveller: am I right?
Why," answered the box-bearer, "I have dabbled a
little in books, and wandered not a little among men. I
am just returned from Germany, and am now going to my
friends in London. I am charged with this box of goods;
God send ine the luck to deliver it safe.”
"Amen," said I; "and with that prayer and this trifle,
I wish you a good morning."
«
“Thank you a thousand times, Sir, for both,” replied
the man — but do add to your favors by informing me of
the right road to the town of
*?"
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
63
"I am going in that direction myself; if you choose to
accompany me part of the way, I can insure you of not
missing the rest.”
"Your honor is too good!" returned he of the box,
rising and slinging his fardel across him," it is but sel-
dom that a gentleman of your rank will condescend to
walk three paces with one of mine. You smile, Sir; per-
haps you think I should not class myself among gentlemen;
and yet I have as good a right to the name as most of the
set. I belong to no trade, I follow no calling : I rove
where I list, and rest where I please; in short, I know no
occupation but my indolence, and no law but my will.
Now, Sir, may I not call myself a gentleman ?"
"Of a surety!" quoth I;
<< you seem to me to hold a
middle rank between a half-pay captain and the king of the
gipsies."
"You have hit it, Sir," rejoined my companion, with a
slight laugh. He was now by my side, and as we walked
on, I had leisure more minutely to examine him. He was
a middle-sized, and rather athletic man, apparently about
the age of thirty-eight. He was attired in a dark blue
frock coat, which was neither shabby nor new, but ill
made, and much too large and long for its present posses-
sor; beneath this was a faded velvet waistcoat, that had
formerly, like the Persian ambassador's tunic, "blushed
with crimson and blazed with gold ;" but which might now
have been advantageously exchanged in Moumouth-street
for the lawful sum of two shillings and nine-pence; under
this was an inner vest of the cashmere-shawl pattern, which
seemed much too new for the rest of the dress. Though
his shirt was of a very unwashed huc, I remarked with
some suspicion, that it was of a very respectable fineness;
and a pin, which might be paste, or could be diamond,
peeped below a tattered and dingy black silk stock, like a
gipsy's eye beneath her hair.
His trowsers were of a light gray, and Providence, or
the tailor, avenged itself upon them, for the prodigal length
bestowed upon their ill-sorted companion, the coat; for
they were much too tight for the muscular limbs they con-
cealed, and rising far above the ankle, exhibited the whole
of a thick Wellington boot, which was the very picture of
Italy upon the map.
The face of the man was common-place and ordinary,
one sees a hundred such, every day, in Fleet-street or the
'Change; the features were small, irregular, and somewhat
fat; yet, when you looked twice upon the countenance,
there was something marked and singular in the expres
sion, which fully atoned for the commonness of the features.
The right eye turned away from the left, in that watchful
squint which seeins constructed on the same considerate
plan as those Irish guns, made for shooting round a corner;
his eyebrows were large and shaggy, and greatly resem-
bled "bramble bushes, in which his fox-like eyes had taken
refuge. Round these vulpine retreats were a labyrinthian
maze of those wrinkles, vulgarly called crow's feet; —
deep, intricate, and intersected, they seemed for all the
world like the web of a chancery suit. Singular enough,
the rest of the countenance was perfectly smooth and unin-
dented; even the lines from the nostril to the corners of
the mouth, usually so deeply traced in men of his age,
were scarcely more apparent than in a boy of eighteen.
His smile was frank, - his voice clear and hearty, his
address open, and much superior to his apparent rank of
life, claiming somewhat of equality, yet conceding a great
deal of respect; but notwithstanding all these certainly
favorable points, there was a sly and cunning expression
in his perverse and vigilant eye and all the wrinkled de-
mesnes in its vicinity, that made me mistrust even while I
liked my companion; perhaps, indeed, he was too frank,
too familiar, too dégagé, to be quite natural. Your honest
men soon buy reserve by experience. Rogues are com-
municative and open, because confidence and openness cost
then nothing. To finish the description of my new ac-
quaintance, I should observe, that there was something in
his countenance, which struck me as not wholly unfamiliar ;
it was one of those which we have not, in all human prob-
ability, seen before, and yet, which (perhaps from their
very commonness) we imagine we have encountered a hun-
dred times.
We walked on briskly, notwithstanding the warmth of
the day; in fact, the air was so pure, the grass so green,
the laughing noonday so full of the ham, the motion, and
the life of creation, that the sensation produced was rath-
|
er that of freshness and invigoration, than of languor and
heat.
"We have a beautiful country, Sir," said my hero of
the box. "It is like walking through a garden, after the
more sterile and sullen features of the Continent;
- a pure
mind, Sir, loves the country; for my part, I am always
disposed to burst out in thanksgiving to Providence when I
behold its works, and like the valley in the Psalms, I air
ready to laugh and sing."
"An enthusiast," said I, "as well as a philosopher'
perhaps (and I believe it likely) I have the honor of ad-
dressing a poet also."
"Why, Sir," replied the man, "I have made verses in
my life; in short, there is little I have not done, for I was
always a lover of variety; but, perhaps, your honor will
let me return the suspicion, Are you not a favorite of the
muse?"
"I cannot say that I am," said I. "I value myself only
on my common sense, the very antipodes to genius, you
know, according to the orthodox belief."
"Common sense!" repeated my companion, with a sin
gular and meaning smile, and a twinkle with his left eye.
"Common sense. Ah, that is not my forte, Sir. You, I
dare say, are one of those gentlemen whom it is very dim-
cult to take in, either passively or actively, by appearance,
or in act? For my part, I have been a dupe all my life,
a child might cheat me! I am the most unsuspicious per
son in the world.”
"Too candid by half," thought I; "the man is certain-
ly a rascal; but what's that to nie? I shall never see him
again;" and true to my love of never losing an opportu-
nity of ascertaining individual character, I observed, that
I thought such an acquaintance very valuable, especially if
he were in trade; it was a pity, therefore, for my sake,
that my companion had informed me that he followed no
calling.
Why, Sir," said he, "I am occasionally in employ-
ment; my nominal profession is that of a broker. I buy
shawls and handkerchiefs of poor countesses, and retai!
them to rich plebeians. I fit up new married couples with
linen, at a more moderate rate than the shops, and procure
the bridegroom his presents of jewels, at forty per cent.
less than the jewellers; nay, I am as friendly to an intrigue
as a marriage; and when I cannot sell my jewels, I will
my good offices. A gentleman so handsome as your honor,
may have an affair upon your hands: if so, you may rely
upon my secrecy and zeal. In short, I am an innocent,
good-natured fellow, who does harm to no one for nothing.
and good to every one for something."
“I admire your code,” quoth I, and whenever I want
a mediator between Venus and myself, will employ you.
Have you always followed your present idle profession, or
were you brought up to any other?
יי ?
"I was intended for a silversmith," answered my friend;
"but Providence willed it otherwise; they taught me from
childhood to repeat the Lord's prayer; heaven heard me,
and delivered me from temptation, there is, indeed, some-
thing terribly seducing in the face of a silver spoon !"
Well," said I, you are the honestest knave I ever
met, and one would trust you with one's purse for the in-
genuousness with which you own you would steal it. Pray,
think you
it is probable that I ever had the happiness to
mect you before? I cannot help fancying so,— yet as 1
have never been in the watch-house, or the Old Bailey, my
reason tells me that I must be mistaken.”
Not at all, Sir," returned my worthy; "I remember
you well, for I never saw a face like yours that I did not
remember. I had the honor of sipping some British
liquors, in the same room with yourself one evening; you
were then in company with my friend Mr. Gordon.”
Ha!" said I, "I thank ye for the hint; I now re
member well, by the same token, that he told me you were
the most ingenious gentleman in England; and that you had
a happy propensity of mistaking other people's possessions
for your own; I congratulate myself upon so desirable an
acquaintance."
My friend, who was indeed no other than Mr. Job Jon-
sou, smiled with his usual blandness, and made me a low
bow of acknowledgment before he resumed:
“No doubt, Sir, Mr. Gordon informed right. I flatter
myself few gentleman understand better than myself, the
art of appropriation; though I say it who should not say it,
! I deserve the reputation I have acquired. Sit, I have al-
54
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ways had ill fortune to struggle against, and have always
remedied it by two virtues, perseverance and ingenuity.
To give you an idea of my ill fortune, know that I have
been taken up twenty-three times on suspicion; of my per-
severance, know that twenty-three times I have been taken
up justly; and of my ingenuity, know that I have been
twenty-three times let off, because there was not a tittle of
legal evidence against me."
I venerate your talents, Mr. Jonson," replied I, “if
by the name of Jonson it pleaseth you to be called, although,
like the heathen deities, I presume that you
have many
other titles, whereof some are more grateful to your ears
than others.'
៩៩
"I am
imagine how great was my philosophy! On the ninth, 1
began to think it high time I should hear from Dawton;
and finding that I had eaten two rolls for breakfast, and
that my untimely wrinkle began to assume a more mitiga-
ted appearance, I bethought me once more of the "Beau-
ties of Babylon.'
While I was in this kindly mood towards the great city
and its inhabitants, my landlady put two letters in my hand,
one was from my mother, the other from Guloseton. Í
opened the latter first; it ran thus,
"DEAR PELHAM,
-
"I was very sorry to hear you had left town, ~ and so
I obtained
unexpectedly too.
your address from Mivart's,
mediately, I have received some chevreuil as a present, and
and hasten to avail myself of it. Pray come to town im-
long for your opinion; it is too nice to keep: for all things
I believe, says of flowers, substituting sweet and fleetest,
nice were made but to grow bad when nicest; as Moore,
for bad and nicest; so, you see, you must come without
loss of time.
Nay," answered the man of two virtues,
never ashamed of my name; indeed, I have never done
any thing to disgrace me. I have never indulged in low
company, nor profligate debauchery: whatever I have exe-
cuted by way of profession, has been done in a superior
and artist-like manner; not in the rude, bungling way of
other adventurers. Moreover, I have always had a taste
for polite literature, and went once as an apprentice to a
publishing bookseller, for the sole purpose of reading the
new works before they came out. In fine, I have never
neglected any opportunity of improving my mind; and the
worst that can be said against me is, that I have remem-
bered any catechism, and taken all possible pains" to learn
and labor truly to get my living, and do my duty in that
state of life, to which it has pleased Providence to call
"I have often heard," answered I, "that there is honor
among thieves; I am happy to learn from you, that there
is also religion: your baptismal sponsors must be proud of
so diligent a godson.
They ought to be, Sir," replied Mr. Jonson," for Itions, you must absolutely be in a state of starvation.
gave them the first specimens of my address; the story is
this thought the tears rush into my eyes: for heaven's sake,
long, but if you ever give me an opportunity, I will relate
for my sake, for your own sake, but above all, for the sake
of the chevreuil, hasten to London. I figure you to myself
it."
ghost of a greyhound.
in the last stage of atrophy, airy as a trifle, thin as the
me.”
""
“Thank you,” said I; "mean while I must wish you
good morning; your road now lies to the right. I return
you my best thanks for your condescension, in accompany-
ing so undistinguished an individual as myself."
CC
Oh, never mention it, your honor," rejoined Mr. Jon-
son; "I am always too happy to walk with a gentleman of
your common sense.' Farewell, Sir; may we meet
again."
C
So saying, Mr. Jonson struck into his new road, and we
parted. *
I went home musing on my adventure, and delighted
with my adventurer. When I was about three paces from
the door of my home, I was accosted, in a most pitiful tone,
by a poor old beggar, apparently in the last extreme of
misery and disease. Notwithstanding my political econo-
my, I was moved into alus-giving, by a spectacle so
wretched. I put my hand into my pocket, my purse was
gone: and, on searching the other, lo, my handkerchief,
my pocket-book, and a gold bracelet, which had belonged
to Madame D'Anville, had vanished too.
One does not keep company with men of two virtues,
and receive compliments upon one's common sense for
nothing!
"Give
The beggar still continued to importune me.
him some food and half a crown," said I, to my landlady.
Two hours afterwards, she came up to me, "Oh, Sir!
my silver tea-pot, - that villain, the beggar!
''
A light flashed upon me, "Ah, Mr. Job Jonson! Mr.
Job Jonson!" cried I, in an indescribable rage;
CC out of
my sight, woman! out of my sight!" I stopped short;
my speech failed me. Never tell me that shame is the
companion of guilt, the sinful knave is never so ashamed
of himself as is the innocent fool who suffers by him.
CHAPTER LXX.
Then must I plunge again into the crowd,
And follow all that peace disdains to seek.
BYRON.
IN the quiet of my retreat I remained for eight days,
during which time I never looked once at a newspaper,
* If any one should think this sketch from nature exaggera-
ød, I refer him to the "Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux."
"But you, my friend, how can you possibly have been
spending your time? I was kept awake all last night, by
thinking what you could have for dinner. Fish is out of
the question in the country; chickens die of the pip every
where but in London; game is out of season; it is impos-
sible to send to Gibblet's for meat; it is equally impossible
to get it any where else; and as for the only two natural
productions of the country, vegetables and eggs, I need no
extraordinary penetration, to be certain, that your cook
cannot transmute the latter into an omelette aux huîtres, or
the former into légumes à la crême.
"Thus, you see, by a series of undeniable demonstra-
r
At
"I need say no inore on the subject. I may rely on
your own discretion, to procure me the immediate pleasure
of your company. Indeed, were I to dwell longer on your
melancholy situation, my feelings would overcome me,-
Mais, revenons à nos moutons, (a most pertinent phrase,
by the by, -oh! the French excel us in every thing, from
the paramount science of cookery, to the little art of con-
versation.)
"You must tell me your candid, your unbiassed, your
deliberate opinion of chevreuil. For my part, I should not
wonder at the mythology of the northern heathen nations,
heaven, were chevreuil the object of their chace; but nihil
which places hunting among the chief enjoyments of their
est omni parte beatum, it wants fat, my dear Pelham, it
wants fat: nor do I see how to remedy this defect; for
were we by art to supply the fat, we should deprive our-
selves of the flavor bestowed by nature; and this, my dear
Pelham, was always my great argument for liberty. Coop-
ed, chained, and confined in cities and slavery, all things
lose the fresh and generous tastes, which it is the peculiar
blessing of freedom and the country to afford.
C
"Tell me, my friend, what has been the late subject of
your reflections? My thoughts have dwelt much and se-
riously on the terra incognita,' the undiscovered tracts in
the pays culinaire, which the profoundest investigators have
left untouched and unexplored in veal. But more of this
bereafter; the lightness of a letter is ill suited to the
depths of philosophical research.
C
"Lord Dawton sounded me upon my votes yesterday.
A thousand pities too,' said he, that you never speak
in the House of Lords.' 'Orator fit,' said 1, ·orators are
subject to apoplexy.
Adieu, my dear friend, for friend you are,
if the phi-
losopher was right in defining true friendship to consist in
liking and disliking the same things. You hate pars-
nips au naturel, --so do I; you love pâtés du foie gras, &
moi aussi, nous voilà les meilleurs amis du monde.
"GULOSETON."
So much for my friend, thought I, and now for my
mother, opening the maternal epistle, which I herewith
transcribe:
* Seneca
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
85
"MY DEAR HENRY,
He
the scene of contest, and becomes forthwith fiery or nean,
selfish or stern, just as if the virtues were only for solitude,
and the vices for the city. I have ill expressed the above
so much the better shall I explain
reflection; n'importe,
my feelings at the time I speak of,—for I was then too
eager and engrossed to attend to the niceties of words. On
my arrival at Mivart's, I scarcely allowed myself time to
change my dress before I set out to Lord Ďawton.
shall afford me an explanation, I thought, or a recompense,
or a revenge. I knocked at the door, the minister was
out. "Give him this card," said I, haughtily, to the por-
"and say
I shall call to-morrow at three."
I walked to Brookes's,- there I met Mr. V
My acquaintance with him was small, but he was a man of
talent, and, what was more to my purpose, of open man-
I went up to him and we entered into conversation.
"Is it true," said I, " that I am to congratulate you up-
on the certainty of your return for Lord Dawton's borough
"Lord Dawton engag
the present mem
ter,
“Lose no time in coming to town. Every day the min-
isters are nlling up the minor places, and it requires a
great stretch of recollection in a politician, to remember
the absent. Mr. V said yesterday, at a dinner party,
where I was present, that Lord Dawton had promised him
the borough of
Now you know, my dear Henry,
that was the very borough he promised to you: you must
see further into this; Lord Dawton ip good sort of a man
enough, but refused once to fight a duel; therefore, if he
has disregarded his honor in one instance, he may do so in
another: at all events, you have no time to lose.
"The young Duke of gives a ball to-morrow
pays all the expenses, and I know
evening: Mrs.
for a certainty that she will marry him in a week; this as
ners.
There will be a great mixture, but the
ball will be worth going to: I have a card for you.
"Lady Huffemall and I, think we shall not patronize the
future Duchesse; but have not yet made up our minds.
Lady Roseville, however, speaks of the intended match
with great respect, and says that since we admit convenance,
as the chief rule in matrimony, she never remembers an
instance in which it has been more consulted.
vet is a secret.
"There are to be several promotions in the peerage.
Lord H's friends wish to give out that he will have a
dukedom; Mais j'en doute. However, he has well deserv-
ed it; for he not only gives the best dinners in town, but
the best account of them, in the Morning Post, afterwards;
which I think is very properly upholding the dignity of our
order.
prac-
of
?",
"I believe so," replied V-
ed it to me last week, and Mr. H-
You know all
ber, has accepted the Chiltern Hundreds.
our family support Lord Dawton warmly on the present
crisis, and my return for this borough was materially in-
sisted upon. Such things are, you see, Mr. Pelham, even
in these virtuous days of parliamentary purity.
"True," said I, dissembling my chagrin, "yourself and
Dawton have made an admirable exchange. Think you
the ministry can be said to be fairly seated? *
By no means, every thing depends upon the motion of
brought on next week. Dawton looks to that as
to the decisive battle for this session.”
Lord Gavelton now joined us, and I sauntered away with
the utmost (seeming) indifference. At the top of St.
James's-street, Lady Roseville's well known carriage pasa-
"We shall meet at
she stopped for a moment.
da
I hope most earnestly that you do not (in your country
retreat) neglect your health; nor, I may add, your mind;
and that you take an opportunity every other day of
tising waltzing, which you can very well do with the help
of an arm chair. I would send you down (did I not ex-
pect you here so soon) Lord Mount F's Musical Re-ed me,
's to-night," said she, "shall we not ?"
miniscences; not only because it is a very entertaining book, the Duke of
but because I wish you to pay much greater attention to
"If you go,— certainly," I replied.
music than you seem inclined to do. T. H——, who is
never very refined in his bon mets, says, that Lord M.
seems to have considered the world a concert, in which the
best performer plays the first fiddle. It is, indeed, quite
delightful to see the veneration our musical friend has for
the orchestra and its occupants. I wish to heaven, my
dear Henry, he could instil into you a little of his ardor.
I am quite mortified at times by your ignorance of tunes
and operas; nothing tells better in conversation, than a
knowledge of music, as you will one day or other discover.
"God bless you, my dearest Henry. Fully expecting
you, I have sent to engage your former rooms at Mivart's;
do not let me be disappointed.
"Yours, &c.
"F. P."
I went home to my solitary apartment, and if I suffered
somewhat of the torments of baffled hope and foiled ambi-
tion, the pang is not for the spectator. My lighter mo-
ments are for the world,- my deeper for myself; and, like
the Spartan boy, I would keep, even in the pangs of death,
a mantle over the teeth and fangs which are fastening upon
breast.
my
CHAPTER LXXI.
Nocet emptâ dolore voluptas.
OVID.
THE first person I saw at the Duke of — -'s was Mr
Mivart, -he officiated as gentleman usher: the second was
she was, as usual, surrounded by men,
my mother,
"the
shades of heroes that have been," remnants of a former
day, when the feet of the young and fair Lady Frances
were as light as her head, and she might have rivalled in
the science de la danse, even the graceful Duchess or
B.
-d. Over the dandies of her own time she still
I read the above letter twice over, and felt my cheek
glow and my heart swell as I passed the passage relative
to Lord Dawton and the borough. The new minister had
certainly, for some weeks since, been playing a double part
with me; it would long ago have been easy to procure me
a subordinate situation,- still easier to place me in parlia-preserved her ancient empire; and it was amusing enough
ment; yet he had contented himself with doubtful promises to hear the address of the ci-devant jeunes hommes, who
and idle civilities. What, however, seemed to me most continued, through habit, the compliments began thirty
unaccountable was, his motive in breaking or paltering years since, through admiration.
with his engagement; he knew that I had served him and
his party better than half his corps: he professed, not only
to me, but to society, the highest opinion of my abilities,
knowledge, and application. He saw, consequently, how
serviceable I could be as a friend; and from the same
qualities, joined to the rank of my birth and connexions,
and the high and resentful temper of my mind, he might
readily augur that I could be equally influential as a foe.
With this reflection, I stilled the beating of my heart,
and the fever of my pulse. I crushed the obnoxious letter |
in my hand, walked thrice up and down my room, paused
at the bell,rang it violently, ordered post horses in-
stantly, and in less than an hour was on the road to Loĥ-
don
How different is the human mind, according to the dif
ference of place. In our passions, as in our creeds, we
ure the mere dependents of geographical situation. Nay,
the trifling variation of a single mile will revolutionize the
whole tides and torrents of our hearts. The man who is
cek, generous, benevolent, and kind in the country, enters
My mother was, indeed, what the world calls a very
charming, agreeable woman. Few persons were more
popular in society; her manners were perfection, — her
smile enchantment; she lived, moved, breathed, only for
the world, and the world was not ungrateful for the con-
stancy of her devotion. Yet, if her letters have given my
readers any idea of her character, they will perceive that
the very desire of supremacy in ton, gave (God forgive my
filial impiety!) a sort of demi-vulgarism to her ideas; for
they who live wholly for the opinion of others, always wam
that self-dignity which alone confers a high cast to the
sentiments; and the most really unexceptionable in mode,
are frequently the least genuinely patrician in mind.
I joined the maternal party, and Lady Frances soon took
an opportunity of whispering, "You are looking very well,
and very handsome; I declare you are not unlike me, espe
cially about the eyes. I have just heard that Miss Glan-
ville will be a great heiress, for poor Sir Reginald cannot
live much longer. She is here to-night; pray do not lose
the opportunity.”
B6
BULWER'S NOVELS.
My cheek burnt like fire at this speech, and my mother,
quietly observing that I had a beautiful color, and ought
therefore immediately to find out Miss Glanville, lest it
should vanish by the least delay, turned from me to speak
of a public breakfast about shortly to be given. I passed
into the dancing-room; there I found Vincent; he was in
unusually good spirits.
*
CC
Well," said he with a sneer, you have not taken
your seat yet. I suppose Lord Dawton's representative,
whose place you are to supply, is like Theseus, sedet eter-
numque sedebit. A thousand pities you can't come in be-
fore next week; we shall have fiery motions in the Lower
House, as the astrologers say.
>>
I smiled. "Ah mon cher !" said I, "Sparta bath many
a worthier son than me? Meanwhile, how get on the new
Lords Lesborough and Lincoln ?sure such a pair were
never seen, so justly formed to meet by nature !' ɔ̃
"Pooh!" said Vincent, coarsely, "they shall get on
well enough, before you get in. Look to yourself and re-
member that Cesar plays the ingrate.''
Vincent turned away; my eyes were riveted on the
round; the beautiful Lady passed by me: "What,
you in a reverie?" said she laughing; our very host will
turn thoughtful next!"
C
Nay," said I, "in your absence would you have me
glad? However, if Moore's mythology be true, Beauty
loves Folly the better for borrowing something from Rea
son; but, come, this is a place not for the grave, but the
giddy. Let us join the waltzers.”
"I am engaged."
"I know it! do you think that I would dance with any
woman who was not engaged?. there would be no triumph
to one's vanity in that case. Allons, ma belle, you must
prefer me to an engagement;" and so saying, I led off
prize.
my
Her intended partner was Mr. V—; just as we had
joined the dancers, he spied us out, and approached with
his long, serious, respectful face; the music struck up, and
the next moment poor V. was very nearly struck down.
Fraught with the most political spite, I whirled up against
him; apologized with my blandest smile, and left him
wiping his mouth, and rubbing his shoulder, the most
forlorn picture of hope in adversity, that can possibly be
conceived.
open to you. Besides, I recognise something in the carefu
pride with which you conceal your higher and deeper teel-
ings, resembling the strongest actuating principle in my
own mind. All this interests me warmly in your fate:
may it be as bright as my presentiments forebode."
I looked into the beautiful face of the speaker as she
concluded; perhaps, at that solitary moment, my heart was
unfaithful to Ellen; but the infidelity passed away like
the breath from the mirror. Coxcomb as I was, I knew
well how passionless was the interest expressed for me.
Libertine as I had been, I knew also, how pure may be
the friendship of a woman, provided she loves ansther.
CC
I thanked Lady Roseville, warmly, for her opinion.
Perhaps," I added, “dare! I solicit your advice, you
would not find me wholly und serving of your esteem.'
p
My advice," answered La ly Roseville, "would be in-
deed, worse than useless, were not regulated by a certain
knowledge which, perhaps, you do not possess. You seem
surprised. Eh bien; listen to n.3, are you not in no small
degree lié with Lord Dawton ? do you not expect some-
thing from him worthy of your rank and merit ?"
"You do, indeed, surprise me," said I. "However
close my connexion with Lord Dawton may be, I thought
it much more secret than it appears to be. However, I
own that I have a right to expect from Lord Dawton, not,
perhaps, a recompense of service, but, at least, a fulfilment
of promises. In this expectation I begin to believe I shall
be deceived.”
"Bend your
"You will!" answered Lady Roseville.
head lower, the walls have ears. You have a friend, an
unwearied and earnest friend, with those now in power;
directly he heard that Mr. V- was promised the bor-
ough, which he knew had been long engaged to you, he
went straight to Lord Dawton. He found him with Lord
Clandonald; however, he opened the matter immediately.
He spoke with great warmth of your claims, - he did more,
-he incorporated them with his own, which are of no
mean order, and asked no other recompense for himsell
than the fulfilment of a long made promise to you.
Daw-
ton was greatly confused, and Lord Clandonald replied,
for him, that certainly there was no denying your talents,
ver,
I soon grew wearied of my partner, and leaving her to
fate, rambled into another room. There, seated alone,
was Lady Roseville. I placed myself beside her; there
was a sort of freemasonry between her and myself; each
knew something more of the other than the world did, anded
we read his or her heart, by other signs than words. I
soon saw that she was in no mirthful mood; so much the
better, she was the fitter companion for a baffled aspir-
ant like me.
The room we were in was almost deserted, and finding
ourselves uninterrupted, the stream of our conversation
flowed into sentiment.
"How little," said Lady Roseville, "can the crowd
know of the individuals who compose it. As the most
opposite colors may be blended into one, and so lose their
individual hues, and be classed under a single name, so
every one here will go home, and speak of the gay scene,'
without thinking for a moment how many breaking hearts
nay have
have composed it.'
C
5
that they were very great, that you had, unquestiona
bly, been of much service to their party, and that, conse-
quently, it must be politic to attach you to their interests;
but that there was a certain fierté, and assumption, and he
might say (mark the climax) independence about you, which
could not but be highly displeasing in one so young; morco-
that it was impossible to trust to you, that you pledg
yourself to no party, that you spoke only of conditions
and terms, that you treated the proposal of placing you
in Parliament rather as a matter of favor on your part,
than on Lord Dawton's, - and, in a word, that there was
no relying upon you. Lord Dawton then took courage,
and chimed in with a long panegyric on V
and a long
account of what was due to him, and to the zeal of his fam-
ily, adding, that in a crisis like this, it was absolutely ne-
cessary to engage a certain, rather than a doubtful and
undecided support; that, for his part, if he placed you in
Parliament, he thought you quite
| as likely to prove a foe as
a friend; that, owing to the marriage of your uncle, your
expectations were by no means commensurate with your
presumption, and that the same talents which made your
claims to favor, as an ally, created also no small danger in
placing you in any situation where you could become hurt-
ful as an enemy.
All this, and much more to the same
purpose, was strenuously insisted upon by the worthy pair;
and your friend was obliged to take his leave, perfectly
convinced that, unless you assumed a more complaisant
bearing, or gave a more decided pledge, to the new minis-
ter, it was hopeless for you to expect any thing from him,
at least, for the present. The fact is, he stands too much
in awe of you, and would rather keep you out of the House
than contribute an iota towards obtaining you a seat. Up-
on all this you may rely as certain.”
"I thank you from my heart," said 1, warmly, seizing
a pressing Lady Roseville's hand, "You tell me what
I have long suspected;
I have long suspected; I am now upon my guard, and they
shall find that I can offend as well as defend. But it is no
time for me to boast; oblige me by informing the of the
name of my unknown friend; I little thought there was a
being in the world who would stir three steps for Henry
Pelham.”
I have often thought," said I, "how harsh we are in
our judgments of others, how often we accuse those per-
sons of being worldly, who merely seem so to the world;
who, for instance, that saw you in your brightest moments,
would ever suppose that you could make the confession
you have just made?"
"I would not make such a confession to many beside
yourself," answered Lady Roseville: "nay, you need not
thank me.
I am some years older than you; I have lived
longer in the world; I have seen much of its various char-
acters; and my experience has taught me to penetrate,
and prize a character like yours. While you seem frivolous
to the superficial, I know you to have a mind not only cap-
able of the most solid and important affairs, but habituated
by reflection to consider them. You appear effeminate, I
know that none are more daring, indolent, none are more
actively ambitious, utterly selfish, and I know that no
earthly interest could bribe you into meanness or injustice,
no, nor even into a venial dereliction of principle. It is
from this estimate of your character, that I am frank and
|
"That friend,” replied Lady Roseville, with a falter.
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
ing voice and a glowing cheek, was Sir Reginald Glan- | insisted upon returning Mr. V in place of the ate
vile."
"What!" cried I," repeat the name to me again, or-"
I paused and recovered myself. "Sir Reginald Glanville,'
I resumed haughtily, "is too gracious to enter into my af-
fairs. I must be strangely altered if I need the officious
zeal of any intermeddler to redress my wrongs."
Nay, Mr. Pelham," said the countess, hastily, "you
do Glanville, you do yourself injustice. For him, there
never passes a day in which he does not mention you with
the highest encomiums and the most affectionate regard.
He says, of late, that you have altered towards him, but
that he does not blame you, he never mentions the cause;
if I am not intruding, suffer me to inquire into it; perhaps
(oh! how happy it would make me) I may be able to re-
concile you;
if you knew, if you could but guess half of
half of
the noble and lofty character of Reginald Glanville, you
would suffer no petty difference to divide
you."
"It is no petty difference," said 1, rising,
CC nor am I
permitted to mention the cause. Meanwhile, may God
bless you, dearest Lady Roseville, and preserve that kind
and generous heart from worse pangs than those of disap-
pointed ambition and betrayed trust.
、
Lady Roseville looked down, her bosom heaved vio-
lently; she felt the meaning of my words. I left her at
St. J
's Square. I returned home to court sleep as
vainly as the monarch in the tragedy, and exclaim as idly
as the peasant in the farce, "Oh! that there was no
House of Commons in the world!
CHAPTER LXXII.
Good Mr. Knave, give me my due,
I like a tart as well as you;
But I would starve on good roast beef,
Ere I would look so like a thief.
The Queen of Hearts.
Nunc vino pellite curas;
Cras ingens iterabimus æquor.
HORAT.
"It
THE next morning I received a note from Guloseton,
asking me to dine with him at eight, to meet his chevreuil.
I sent back an answer in the athrinative, and then gave
myself wholly up to considering what was the best line of
conduct to pursue with regard to Lord Dawton.
would be pleasant enough," said Anger, "to go to him, to
ask him boldly for the borough so often pledged to you,
and in case of his refusal, to confront, to taunt, and to break
with him." 66
True," replied that more homely and less
stage effect arguer, which we term Knowledge of the
world; but this would be neither useful nor dignified,
common sense never quarrels with any one.
Call upon
Lord Dawton, if you will, ask him for his promise, with
your second best smile, and receive his excuses with your
very best. Then do as you please, break with him or
not,
—
you can do either with grace and quiet; never make
a scene about any thing, reproach and anger always do
make a scene,” Very true," said I, in answer to the
latter suggestion, — and having made up my mind, I repaired
a quarter before three to Lord Dawton's house.
"Ah, Pelham," said the little minister; delighted to
see you look so much the better from the country air;
you will stay in town now, I hope, till the end of the
season ??!
Certamly, my lord, or, at all events, till the proroga-
tion of Parliament; how, indeed, could I do otherwise with
your lordship's kind promisc before my eyes. Mr.
the member for your borough of- has, I believe,
accepted the Chiltern Hundreds ? I feel truly obliged to
you to so promptly fulfilling your promise to me.
member what could I do? I mentioned your claims,
they all, to a man, enlarged upon your rival's to be sure,
he is an older person, and his family is very powerful in
the Lower House; in short, you perceive, my dear Pelham,
་
that is, you are aware, — you can feel for the delicacy of
my situation, -one could not appear too eager for one's
own friends at first, and I was forced to concede."
Lord Dawton was now fairly delivered of his speech
it was, therefore, only left me to congratulate him on his
offspring.
CC
CC
"I
My dear lord," I began, you could not have pleased
me better: Mr. V. is a most estimable man, and I would
not, for the world, have had you suspected of placing such
a trifle as your own honor,
that is to say, - your promise
name
to me, before the commands, that is to say, the interests,
- of your party; but no more of this now.
Was your
lordship at the Duke of -'s last night?"
Dawton seized joyfully the opportunity of changing the
conversation, and we talked and laughed on differen
matters till I thought it time to withdraw; this I did with
the most cordial appearance of regard and esteem; nor
was it till I had fairly set my foot out of his door, that I
suffered myself to indulge the "black bile," at my breast.
I turned towards the Green Park, and was walking s owly
along the principal mall with my hands behind me, and
my eyes on the ground, when I heard my own
uttered. On looking back, I perceived Lord Vincent on
horseback; he stopped, and conversed with me. In the
humor I was in with Lord Dawton, I received him with
greater warmth than I had done of late; and he also, being
in a social mood, seemed so well satisfied with our rencontre,
and my behaviour, that he dismounted to walk with me.
"This park is a very different scene now, " said Vincent,
"from what it was in the times of The Merry Monarch;
yet it is still, a spot much more to my taste, than its more
gaudy and less classical brother of Hyde. There is some-
thing pleasingly melancholy, in walking over places haunt-
ed by history; for all of us live more in the past than the
present
"And how exactly alike in all ages," said I, "men have
been. On the very spot we are now,
how many
have
been actuated by the same feelings that now actuate us,
how many have made perhaps exactly the same remark
just made by you. It is this universal identity, which
forms our most powerful link with those that have been,—
there is a satisfaction in seeing how closely we resemble
the Agamemnons of gone times, and we take care to lose
none of it, by thinking how closely we also resemble the
sordidi Thersites."
<
<
>
"True," replied Vincent, "if wise and great men did
but know, how little difference there is between them and
the foolish or the mean, they would not take such pains to
be wise and great; to use the Chinese proverb, they sa-
crifice a picture to get possession of its ashes.' It is almost
a pity that the desire to progress should be so necessary
to our being; ambition is often a fine, but never a felici-
tous feeling. Cyprian, in a beautiful passage on envy,
calls it the moth of the soul:' but perhaps, even that pas-
sion is less gnawing, less a tabes pectoris, than ambition.
You are surprised at my heat, the fact is, I am enraged
at thinking how much we forfeit, when we look up only,
and trample unconsciously, in the blindness of our aspi
ration, on the affections which strew our path. Now, you
and I have been utterly estranged from each other of late.
Why?— for any dispute, any disagreement in private,
any discovery of meanness, any treachery, unworthiness is
the other? No! merely because I dine with Lord Lin-
| coln, and you with Lord Dawton, roila tout.
Well say
the Jesuits, that they who live for the public, must renounce
all private ties; the very day we become citizens, we are
to cease to be men. Our privacy is like Leo Decimus ; *
directly it dies, all peace, comfort, joy, and sociality are to
die with it; and an iron age, barbara vis et dira malorum
omnium incommoda † to succeed."
C
"Hem! my dear Pelham, hem!" murmured Lord
Dawton. I bent forward as if in the attitude of listening
respect, but really the more clearly to perceive, and closely "It is a pity, that we struck into different paths," said
to enjoy his confusion. He looked up and caught my eye, I; "no pleasure would have been to me greater, than
and not being too much gratified with its involuntary ex-making our political interest the same; but
pression, he grew more and more embarrassed; at last he Perhaps there is no but," interrupted Vincent ;
summoned courage.
haps, like the two knights in the hackneyed story, we are
only giving different names to the same shield, because we
view it on different sides; let us also imitate them in their
Why, my dear Sir," he said, "I did, it is true, pro-
mise you at borough; but individual friendship must fre-
quently be sacrificed to the public good. All our party
r
* See Jovius
i Ibid
CC
per-
88
BULWER'S NOVELS.
reconciliation, as well as their quarrel, and since we have
already run our lances against each other, be convinced of
our error, and make up our difference."
I was silent; indeed, I did not like to trust myself to
speak. Vincent continued:
"I know," said he, "and it is in vain for you to conceal
it, that you have been ill used by Dawton. Mr. V. is my
first cousin; he came to me the day after the borough was
given to him, and told me all that Clandonald and Dawton
had said to him at the time. Believe me, they did not
spare you; the former, you have grievously offended;
you know that he has quarrelled irremediably with his
son Dartmore, and he insists that you are the friend and
abettor of that ingenuous youth, in all his debaucheries and
extravagance,tu illum corrumpi sinis. I tell you this
without hesitation, for I know you are less vain than
ambitious, and I do not care about hurting you in the one
point, if I advance you in the other.
in the other. As for me, I own to
you candidly and frankly, that there is no pains I would
spare to secure you to our party. Join us, and you shall,
as I have often said, be on the parliamentary benches of
our corps, without a moment of unnecessary delay. More
I cannot promise you, because I cannot promise more to
myself; but from that instant your fortune, if I augur aught
aright from your ability, will be in your own hands. You
shake your head, surely you must see, that there is not
a difference between two vehemently opposite parties to
be reconciled, - — aut numen aut Nebuchadrezar. There
is but a verbal disagreement between us, and we must
own the wisdom of the sentence recorded in Aulus Gel-
lius, that he is but a madman, who splits the weight of
things upon the hair-breadths of words.' You laugh at
the quaintness of the quotation; quaint proverbs are often
the truest."
-
If my reader should think lightly of me, when I own
that I felt wavering and irresolute at the end of this speech,
let him for a moment place himself in my situation, let
him feel indignant at the treachery, the injustice, the in-
gratitude of one man; and, at the very height of his resent-
ment, let him be soothed, flattered, courted, by the offered
friendship and favor of another. Let him personally de-
spise the former, and esteem the latter; and let him, above
all, be convinced as well as persuaded of the truth of Vin-
cent's remark, viz. that no sacrifice of principle, nor of
measures, was required, nothing but an alliance against
men, not measures. And who were those men? bound to
e by a single tie,- meriting from my gratitude a single
consideration? No! the men, above all others, who had
offered me the greatest front, and deserved from me the
allest esteem.
}
I am
But, however human feelings might induce me to waver,
I felt that it was not by them only I was to decide.
….ot a man whose vices or virtues are regulated by the im
pulse and passion of the moment; if I am quick to act, I
am habitually slow to deliberate. I turned to Vincent, and
pressed his hand: "I dare not trust myself to answer you
now," said I: "give me till to-morrow; I shall then have
both considered and determined.'
I did not wait for his reply. I sprung from him, turned
down the passage which leads to Pall Mall, and hastened
home once more to commune with my own heart, and,
not to be still.
In these confessions I have made no scruple of owning
my errors and my foibles; all that could occasion mirth,
* benefit to the reader, were his own. I have kept a veil
over the darker and stormier emotions of my soul; all that
could neither amuse nor instruct him, are mine!
Hours passed on, it became time to dress, I rung
for Bedos, - dressed with my usual elaborateness of pains,
great emotions interfere little with the mechanical ope-
rations of life, and drove to Guloseton's.
He was usually entertaining; the dinner too was unu-
Eually good; but, thinking that I was sufficiently intimate
with my host not to be obliged to belie my feelings, I re-
mained distrait, absent, and dull.
The
"What is the matter with you, my friend?" said the
good-natured epicure; you have neither applauded any
jokes, nor tasted my escallopes; and your behaviour has
trifle alike with my chevreuil, and my feelings.'
proverb is right, in saying, “Grief is communicative." I
confess that I was eager to unbosom myself to one upon
whose confidence I could depend. Guloseton heard me
with great attention and interest. "Little," said he, kind-
ly, "little as I care for these matters myself, I can fee.
for those who do: I wish I could serve you better than by
advice. However, you cannot, I imagine, hesitate to ac-
cept Vincent's offer. What matters it whether you sit on
one bench or on another, so that you do not sit in a thǝr-
ough draught; or dine at Lord Lincoln's, or Lord Daw-
ton's, so long as the cooks are equally good? As for Daw
ton, I always thought him a shuffling, mean fellow, wno
buys his wines at the second price, and sells hi offices at
the first. Come, my dear fellow, let us drink .o his con.
fusion."
So saying, Guloseton filled my glass to the brim. He
had sympathized with me; I thought it, therefore my du
ty, to sympathize with him; nor did we part till he eyes
of the bon vivant saw more things in heaven and ear.h, than
are dreamt of in the philosophy of the sober.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
Si ad honestatem nati sumus, ea aut sola expetenda est
omnia.
aut certe omni pondere gravior est habenda quan reliqua
Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
I have not from your eyes that gentleness,
And show of love as I was wont to have.
TULLY.
Julius Cæsar.
1
I ROSE at my usual early hour; sleep had tended to
calm, and, I hope also, to better my feelings. I had now
leisure to reflect that I had not embraced my party from
any private or interested motive; it was not, therefore,
from any private or interested motive that I was justified in
deserting it. Our passions are terrible sophists! When Vin-
cent had told me, the day before, that it was from men,
not measures, that I was to change, and that such a change
could scarcely deserve the name, my heart adopted the as-
sertion, and fancied it into truth.
now began to perceive the delusion; were government
as mechanically perfect as it never has yet been, (but as I
trust it may yet be,) it would signify little who were the
mere machines that regulated its springs: but in a consti-
tution like ours, the chief character of which, pardon
me, ye De Lolmites, is its uncertainty; where men in-
variably make the measures square to the dimensions of
their own talent or desire; and where, reversing the max-
im of the tailor, the measures so rarely make the men; it
required no penetration to see how dangerous it was to in-
trust to the aristocratic prejudice of Lincoln, or the vehe-
ment imbecility of Lesborough, the execution of the very
same measures which might safely be committed to the
plain sense of Dawton, and, above all, to the great and va-
rious talents of his coadjutors. But what made the vital
difference between the two parties was less in the leaders
than the body. In the Dawton faction, the best, the pur-
est, the wisest of the day were enrolled; they took upon
themselves the origin of all the active measures, and Lord
Dawton was the mere channel through which those mea
sures flowed; the plain, unpretending, and somewhat fee-
ble character of Lord Dawton's mind, readily conceded to
the abler components of his party, the authority it was so
desirable that they should exert. In Vincent's party, with
the exception of himself, there was scarcely an individual
with the honesty requisite for loving the projects they af
fected to propose, or the talents that were necessary for
carrying them into effect, even were their wishes sincere;
nor were either the haughty Lincoln, or his noisy and over-
bearing companion, Lesborough, at all of a temper to suf
fer that quiet, yet powerful interference of others, to which
Dawton unhesitatingly submitted.
I was the more resolved to do all possible justice to Daw
ton's party, from the inclination I naturally had to lean
towards the other; and in all matters, where private pique
or self-interest can possible penetrate, it has ever been the
object of my maturer consideration to direct my particular
attention to that side of the question which such undue par.
tisans are the least likely to espouse. While I was gradu-
ally, but clearly, feeling my way to a decision, I received
the following note from Guloseton:
"I said nothing to you last night of what is now to be
the subject of my letter, lest you should suppose it arose
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
|
ather from the heat of an extempore conviviality, than its
real source, viz. a sincere esteem for your mind, a sincere
affection for your heart, and a sincere sympathy in your re-
sentment and your interest.
"They tell me that Lord Dawton's triumph or discom-
fiture rests entirely upon the success of the motion upon
brought before the House of Commons, on the
I care, you know, very little, for my own part,
which way this question is decided; do not think, there-
fore, that I make any sacrifice when I request you to suffer
me to follow your advice in the disposal of my four votes.
I imagine, of course, that you would wish them to adopt
the contrary side to Lord Dawton; and upon receiving a
line from you to that effect, they shall be empowered to
do so.
Pray, oblige me also by taking the merit of this mea-
sure upon yourself, and saying, (wherever it may be useful
to you,) how entirely, both the voters and their influence
are at your disposal. I trust we shall yet play the Bel to
this Dragon, and fell him from his high places.
46
Pity me, my dear friend; I dine out to-day, and feel
already, by an intuitive shudder, that the soup will be cold,
and the sherry hot. Adieu.
"Ever your's,
"GULOSETON.”
Now, then, my triumph, my vanity, and my revenge
might be fully gratified. I had before me a golden oppor-
tunity of displaying my own power, and of humbling that
of the minister. My heart swelled high at the thought.
Let it be forgiven me, if for a single moment, my previous
calculations and morality vanished from my mind, and I
saw only the offer of Vincent, and the generosity of Gu-
loseton. But I checked the risings of my heart, and com-
pelled my proud spirit to obedience.
I placed Guloseton's letter before me, and as I read it
once more in order to reply to it, the disinterested kindness
and delicacy of one, whom I had long, in the injustice of
my thoughts, censured as selfish, came over me so forcibly,
and contrasted so deeply with the hollowness of friends
more sounding, alike in their profession and their creeds,
that the tears streamed fast and gushingly from my eyes.
A thousand misfortunes are less affecting than a single
kindness.
I wrote, in answer, a warm and earnest letter of thanks
for an offer, the judicious kindness of which penetrated me
to the soul. I detailed at some length, the reasons which
induced me to the decision I had taken; I sketched also
the nature of the very important motion about to be brought
before the House, and deduced from that sketch the impos-
sibility of conscientiously opposing Lord Dawton's party
in the debate. I concluded with repeating the expressions
my gratitude suggested, and after decliuing all interference
with Lord Guloseton's votes, ventured to add, that had I
mterfered, it would have been in support of Dawton; not
as a man, but a minister, not as an individual friend, but
a public servant.
I had just despatched this letter, when Vincent entered:
I acquainted him, though in the most respectful and friendly
terms, with my determination. He seemed greatly disap-
pointed, and endeavoured to shake my resolution; finding
this was in vain, he appeared at last satisfied, and even
affected with my reasons. When we parted, it was with a
promise, confirmed by both, that no public variance should
ever again alter our private opinions of each other.
out the wine
J
emperor made a consul of his steed. On horseback I al-
ways best feel my powers, and survey my resources; on
horseback, I always originate my noblest schemes, and
plan their ablest execution. Give me but a light rein,
Cato Cesar; dis-
and a free bound, and I am Cicero
mount me, and I become a inere clod of the earth which
you condemn me to touch; fire, energy, ethereality have
the cask with-
departed; I am the soil without the sun-
the garments without the man
I returned home with increased spirits and collected
thoughts; I urged my mind from my own situation, and
suffered it to rest upon what Lady Roseville had told me
of Reginald Glanville's interference in my behalf. That
extraordinary man still continued powerfully to excite my
interest; nor could I dwell, without soine yearning of the
kindlier affections, upon his unsolicited, and, but for Lady
Roseville's communication, unknown exertions in
Although the officers of justice were still actively employ-
ed in the pursuit of Tyrrell's murderer, and although the
newspapers were still full of speculations on their indiffer-
ent success, public curiosity had begun to flag upon the in-
quiry. I had, once or twice, been in Glanville's company
when the murder was brought upon the tapis, and narrow-
ly examined his behaviour upon a subject which touched
him so fearfully. I could not, however, note any extraor
dinary confusion or change in his countenance; perhaps
the pale cheek grew somewhat paler, the dreaming eye
more abstracted, and the absent spirit more wandering
than before; but many other causes than guilt, could ac-
count for signs so doubtful and minute.
too,
my cause.
"You shall soon know all," the last words which he had
addressed to me, yet rang in my ears, and most intensely
did I anticipate the fulfilment of this promise. My hopes
those flatterers, so often the pleasing antitheses of
reason, whispered that this was not the pledge of a guilty
man; and yet he had said to Lady Roseville, that he did
not wonder at my estrangement from him such words
seemed to require a less favorable construction than those
he had addressed to me; and, in making this mental re-
mark, another, of no flattering nature to Glanville's disin-
terestedness, suggested itself; might not his interference
for me with Lord Dawton, arise rather from policy than
friendship; might it not occur to him, if, as I surmised,
he was acquainted with my suspicions, and acknowledged
their dreadful justice, that it would be advisable to propi-
tiate my silence? Such were among the thousand thoughts
which flashed across me, and left my speculations in debate
and doubt.
Nor did my reflections pass unnoticed the nature of Lady
Roseville's affection for Glanville.
From the seeming
coldness and austerity of Sir Reginald's temperament, it
was likely that this was innocent, at least in act; and there
was also something guileless in the manner in which she
appeared rather to exult in, than to conceal her attachment.
True that she was bound to no ties; she had neither hus-
band nor children, for whose sake love became a crime
free and unfettered, if she gave her heart to Glanville, it
was also allowable to render the gift lawful and perpetual
by the blessing of the church.
Alas! how little can woman, shut up in her narrow and
limited circle of duties, know of the wandering life and
various actions of her lover. Little, indeed, could Lady
Roseville, when in the heat of her enthusiasm, she spoke
of the lofty and generous character of Glanville, dream of
the foul and dastardly crime of which he was more than
suspected; nor, while it was, perhaps, her fondest wish to
for-ally herself to his destiny, could her wildest fancies antici
pate the felon's fate, which, if death came not in an hastier
and kinder shape, must sooner or later await him.
When I was once more alone, and saw myself brought
back to the very foot of the ladder, I had so far and so
tunately climbed; when I saw that in rejecting all the
overtures of my friends, I was left utterly solitary and un-
aided among my foes, when I looked beyond and saw no
faint loophole of hope, no single stepping-stone on which
to recommence my broken, but unwearied career, perhaps
one pang of regret and repentance, at my determination,
came across me but nere is something marvellously res-
torative in a good conscience, and one soon learns to look
with hope to the future, when one can feel justified in turn-
.ng with pride to the past.
My horse came to the door at my usual hour for riding:
with what gladness I sprung upon his back, felt the free
wind freshening over my fevered cheek, and turned my
rein towards the green lanes that border the great city on
its western side. I know few counsellors more exhilarating
than a spirited horse. I do not wonder that the Roman
VOL 1.
12
ou
Of Thornton, I had neither seen nor heard aught since
my departure from Lord Chester's; that reprieve was,
however, shortly to expire. I had scarcely got into Oxford
street, in my way homeward, when I perceived him cross-
ing the street with another man. I turned round to scruti
nize the features of his companion, and, in spite of a grea
change of dress, a huge pair of false whiskers, and aŭ ar-
tificial appearance of increased age, my habit of observing
countenances enabled me to recognise, on the instant, my
intellectual and virtuous friend, Mr. Job Jonson. They
disappeared in a shop, nor did I think it worth while fur-
ther to observe them, though I still bore a reminiscetory
spite against Mr. Job Jonson, which I was fully .esolved
to wreak, at the firs' favorable opportunity.
90
BULWER'S NOVELS.
I passed by Lady Roseville's door. Though the hour
was late, and I had, therefore, but a slight chance of finding
her at home, yet I thought the chance worth the trouble of
inquiry. To my agreeable surprise, I was admitted: no
one was in the drawing-room. The servant said, Lady
Roseville was at that moment engaged, but would very
shortly see me, and begged I would wait.
Agitated as I was by various reflections, I walked (in
the restlessness of my mood) to and fro the spacious rooms
which formed Lady Roseville's apartments of reception.
At the far end was a small boudoir, where none but the
goddess's favored few were admitted. As I approached
towards it, I heard voices, and the next moment recognised
the deep tones of Glanville. I turned hastily away, lest I
should overhear the discourse; but I had scarcely got three
steps, when the convulsed sound of a woman's sob came
upon my ear. Shortly afterwards, steps descended the
stairs, and the street door opened.
The minutes rolled on, and I became impatient. The
servant re-entered, Lady Roseville was so suddenly and
seriously indisposed, that she was unable to see me. I left
the house, and, full of bewildered conjectures, returned to
my apartments.
The next day was one of the most important in my life.
I was standing wistfully by my fire-place, listening to a
broken-winded hurdy-gurdy, with the most mournful atten-
tion, stationed opposite to my window, when Bedos an-
nounced Sir Reginald Glanville. It so happened, that I
had that morning taken the miniature I had found in the
fatal field, from the secret place in which I usually kept it,
in order more closely to examine it, lest any more con-
vincing proof of its owner, than the initials and Thorn-
ton's interpretation, might be discovered by a minuter
investigation.
and abstracted tone.
|
He ceased abruptly, and covered his
face with his hands; from this attitude he started with
some sudden impulse.
"And tell ine," he said, in a low, inward, exulting tone,
"was it, was it red with the blood of the murdered
man ?
"Wretch!" I exclaimed, "do you glory in your
guilt?"
"Hold!" said Glanville, rising, with an altered and
haughty air: "it is not to your accusations that I am now
to listen: if you are yet desirous of weighing their justice
before you decide upon them, you will have the opportuni-
ty: I shall be at home at ten this night; come to me, and
you shall know all. At present, the sight of this picture
has unnerved me. Shall I see you?"
I made no other rejoinder than the brief expression of
my assent, and Glanville instantly left the room.
During the whole of that day, my mind was wrought up
into a state of feverish and preternatural excitation. I
could not remain in the same spot for an instant; my puse
beat with the irregularity of delirium. For the last hour I
placed my watch before me, and kept my eyes constantly
fixed upon it. Should any one think this exaggerated, let
him remember, that it was not only Glanville's confession
that I was to hear; my own fate, my future connexion with
Ellen, rested upon the story of that night. For myself,
when I called to mind Glanville's acknowledgment of the
picture, and his slow and involuntary remembrance of the
spot where it was found, I scarcely allowed my temper,
sanguine, as it was, to hope.
Some minutes before the hour of ten I repaired to Glan-
ville's house. He was alone, the picture was before
him.
I drew my chair towards him in silence, and accidental-
lifting up my eyes, encountered the opposite mirror. I
started at my own face; the intensity and fearfulness of
interest had rendered it even more hueless than that of
my companion.
my
The picture was laying on the table when Glanville en-ly
tered; my first impulse was to seize and secrete it; my
second to suffer it to remain, and to watch the effect the
sight of it might produce. In following the latter, I
thought it, however, as well to choose my own time for
discovering the minature; and as I moved to the table, I
threw iny handkerchief carelessly over it. Glanville came
up to me at once, and his countenance, usually close and
reserved in its expression, assumed a franker and bolder
aspect.
"You have lately changed towards me," he said :-
"mindful of our former friendship, I have come to demand
the reason.”
Can Sir Reginald Glanville's memory," answered I,
"supply him with no probable cause?"
"It can," replied Glanville, "but I would not trust only
to that. Sit down, Pelham, and listen to me. I can read
your thoughts, and I might affect to despise their import,
perhaps two years since I should, at present I can pity
and excuse them. I have come to you now in the love and
confidence of our early days, to claim, as then, your good
opinion and esteein. If you require any explanation at my
hands, it shall be given. My days are approaching their
end. I have made up my account with others, -I would
do so with you. I confess, that I would fain leave behind
me in your breast, the same affectionate remeinbrance I
might heretofore have claimed, and which, whatever be
your suspicions, I have done nothing to forfeit. I have,
moreover, a dearer interest than my own to consult in this
wish,
-you color, Pelham, you know to whom I allude;
for my sister's sake, if not for my own, you will hear me.
Glanville paused for a moment. I raised the handker-
chief from the miniature, I pushed the latter towards
him, "Do you remember this?" said I, in a low tone.
With a wild cry, which thrilled through my heart, Glan-
ville sprung forward and seized it. He gazed eagerly
and intensely upon it, and his cheek flushed, his eyes
sparkled, his breast heaved. The next moment he fell
back in his chair, in one of the half swoons, to which, upon
any sudden and violent emotion, the debilitating effects of
his disease subjected him.
Before I could come to his assistance he had recovered.
He looked wildly and fiercely upon me. "Speak," he
cried, "speak, where got you this,
for mercy's sake!”
where-answer,
"Recollect yourself," said I, sternly. "I found that
token of your presence upon the spot where Tyrrell was
murdered."
True, true," said Glanville, slowly, and in an absent
There was a pause for some moments, at the end of
which Glanville thus began:-
CHAPTER LXXIV.
I do but hide
Under these words, like embers, every spark
Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark
The grave is yawning; as its roof shall cover
My limbs with dust and worms, under and over
So let oblivion hide this grief.
*
*
Julian and Maddalo.
*
With thee, the very future fled,
I stand amid the past alone;
A tomb which still shall guard the dead
Tho' every earthly trace be flown,
A tomb o'er which the weeds that love
Decay, their wild luxuriance wreathe!
The cold and callous stone above,
And only thou and death beneath.
From Unpublished Poems by
THE HISTORY OF SIR REGINALD GLANVILLE
the difficul-
You remember my character at school,
ty with which you drew me from the visionary and abstrac-
ted loneliness which, even at that time, was more consonant
to my taste, than all the sports and society resorted to by
and the deep, and, to you, inexplicable de
other boys,
light with which I returned to my reveries and solitude
again. That character has continued through life the
same; circunstances have strengthened, not altered it. So
has it been with you; the temper, the habits, the tastes, so
strongly contrasted with mine in boyhood, have lost nothing
of that contrast. Your ardor for the various ambition of
life is still the antipodes to my indifference; your daring,
restless, thoughtful, resolution in the pursuit, still shames my
indolence and abstraction. You are still the votary of the
I its fugitive,—
world, but will become its conqueror,
and shall die its victim.
"After we parted at school, I went for a short time to s
tutor's in -shire. Of this place I soon grew weaty ;
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
91
and my father's death leaving me n a great measure at my
own disposal, I lost no time in leaving it. I was seized
with that mania for travel common enough to all persons of
my youth and disposition. My mother allowed me an al-
most unlimited command over the fortune hereafter to be
my own; and, yielding to my wishes, rather than her
fears, she suffered me, at the age of eighteen, to set out for
the Continent alone. Perhaps the quiet and reserve of my
character made her think me les exposed to the dangers
of youth, than if I had been of a more active and versatile
temper. This is no uncommon mistake; a serious and
contemplative disposition is, however, often the worst form-
ed to acquire readily the knowledge of the world, and al-
ways the most calculated to suffer deeply from the expe-
rience.
"I took up my residence for some time at Spa. It is,
you know, perhaps, a place dull enough to make gambling
the only amusement; every one played, and I did not
escape the contagion; nor did I wish it: for, like the min-
ister Godolphin, I loved gaming for its own sake, because
it was a substitute for conversation. This habit brought
me acquainted with Mr. Tyrrell, who was then staying at
Spa; he had not, at that time, quite dissipated his fortune,
but was daily progressing to`so desirable a consummation.
A gambler's acquaintance is readily made, and easily kept,
provided you gamble too.
"We becaine as intimate as the reserve of my habits
ever suffered me to become with any one, but you. He was
many years older than me, had seen a great deal of the
world, — had mixed much in its best societies, and, at that
time, whatever was the grossièreté of his mind, had little
of the coarseness of manner which very soon afterwards
distinguished him; evil communication works rapidly in its
results. Our acquaintance was, therefore, natural enough,
especially when it is considered that my purse was entirely
at his disposal, for borrowing is twice blessed, in him
that takes and him that gives, the receiver becomes com-
plaisant and conceding, and the lender thinks favorably of
one he has obliged.
ents.
"We parted at Spa, under a mutual promise to write.
I forget it this promise was kept, probably not; we were
not, however, the worst friends for being bad correspond-
I continued my travels for about another year; I
then returned to England, the same melancholy and dream-
ing enthusiast as before. It is true that we are the crea-
tures of circumstances; but circumstances are also, in a
great measure, the creatures of us. I mean, they receive
their color from the previous bent of our own minds;
what raises one would depress another, and what vitiates
my neighbour might correct me. Thus the experience of
the world makes some persons more worldly, others more
abstracted, and the indulgence of the senses becomes a vi-
olence to one mind, and a second nature to another. As
for me, I had tasted all the pleasures youth and opulence
can purchase, and was more averse to them than ever.
had mixed with many varieties of men. I was still more
riveted to the mon tony of self.
I
“I cannot hope, while I mention these peculiarities, that
I am a very uncommon character; I believe the present age
has produced many such. Some time hence, it will be a
curious inquiry to ascertain the causes of that acute and
sensitive morbidity of mind, which has been, and still is, so
epidemic a disease. You know me well enough to believe,
that I am not foud of the cant of assuming an artificial cha-
racter, or of creating a fictitious interest; and I am far
from wishing to impose upon you a malady of constitution
for a dignity of mind. You must pardon my prolixity. I
own that it is very painful to me to come to the main part
of my confessions, and I am endeavouring to prepare my
self by lingering over the prelude."
Glanville paused here for a few moments. In spite of
the senteutious coolness with which he pretended to speak,
I saw that he was powerfully and painfully affected.
Well,"
"he continued," to resume the thread of my
narrative: after I had staid some weeks with my mother
and sister, I took advantage of their departure for the Con-
tiuent and resolved to make a tour through England. Rich
people, and I have always been very rich, get exceedingly
tired of the embarrassment of their riches. I seized with
delight at the idea of travelling without carriages and ser-
vants; I took merely a favorite horse, and the black dog,
poor Terror, which you see now at my feet.
"The day I commenced this plan was to me the epoch
of a new and terrible existence. However, you must par-
don me if I am not here sufficiently diffuse. Suffice it
that I becaine acquainted with a being whom, for the first
and only time in my life, I loved! Th's ininiature attempts
to express her likeness; the initials at the back, interwoven
with my own, are her's."
"the are the initiais of
"Yes," said I, incautiously,
Gertrude Douglas."
"What!" cried Glanville, in a loud tone, which he n-
stantly checked, and continued in an indrawn, muttered
name! and
whisper: "How long is it since I heard the
now, — now, ―he broke off abruptly, and inen said, with
a calmer voice, "I know not how you have learnt her
name; perhaps you will explain?"
"From Thoruton," said I.
I
"And has he told you more ; cried Glanville, as if
gasping for breath, "the history, the dreadful
"Not a word," said I hastily; "he was with me when
found the picture, and he explained the initials."
"It is well!" answered Glanville, recovering himself;
you will see presently if I have reason to love that those
foul and sordid lips should profane the story I am about to
relate. Gertrude was an only daughter; though of gentle
blood, she was no match for me, either in rank or fortune.
Did I say just now that the world had not altered me?
See my folly; one year before I saw her, and I should not
have thought her, but myself honored by a marriage;
twelve little months had sufficed to, God forgive me! I
took advantage of her love, her youth, her innocence,
she fled with me, -but not to the altar!"
Again Glanville paused, and again, by a violent effort,
conquered his emotion, and proceeded:
Se
"Never let vice be done by halves,
never let a man
nev.
invest all his purer affections in the woman he ruins,
er let him cherish the kindness, if he gratifies the selfish-
ness, of his heart. A profligate, who really loves his vic-
tim, is one of the most wretched of beings. In spite of
my successful and triumphant passion,-in spite of the de-
lirium of the first intoxication of possession, and of the
better and deeper light of a reciprocity of thought, feel-
ing, sympathy, for the first time, found; — in the midst of
all the luxuries my wealth could produce, and of the vo
luptuous and spring-like hues with which youth, health, and
first love, clothe the earth which the loved one treads, and
the air which she inhales: in spite of these, in spite of all,
I was any thing but happy. If Gertrude's cheek seemed a
shade more pale, or her eyes less bright, I remembered the
sacrifice she had made ine, and believed that she felt it too.
It was in vain, that, with the tender and
generous devo-
tion, -never found but in woman, she assured me that
my love was a recompense for all; the more touching was
her tenderness, the more poignant my remorse.
I never
loved but her: I have never, therefore entered into the
common-place of passion, and I cannot, even to this day,
look upon her sex as ours do in general. I thought, I
think so still, that ingratitude to a woman is often a more
odious offence, I am sure it contains a more painful pen-
alty, than ingratitude to a man. But enough of this; it
you know me, you can penetrate the nature of my fee ings,
if not, it is in vain to expect your sympathy.
―
"I never loved living long in one place. We travelled
over the greater part of England and France. What must
be the enchantment of love, when accompanied with inno.
cence and joy, when, even in sin, in remorse, in grief, it
brings us a rapture to which all other things are tame. Oh!
those were moments steeped in the very elixir of life;
overflowing with the hoarded fondness and sympathies of
hearts too full for words, and yet too agitated for silence,
when we journeyed alone, and at night, and as the shadows
and stillness of the waning hours gathered round us, drew
closer to each other, and concentrated this breathing world
in the deep and embracing sentiment of our mutual love!
It was then that I laid my burning temples on her bosom,
and felt, while my hand clasped her's, that my visions
were realized, and my wandering spirit had sunk unto its
rest.
"I remember well that, one night, we were travelling
through one of the most beautiful parts of England; it was
in the very height and flush of summer, and the moon,
(what scene of love, — whether in reality or romance,
has any thing of tenderness or passion, or divinity, where
her light is not !) filled the intense skies of June with her
presence, and cast a sadder and paler beauty over Ger-
92
BULWER'S NOVELS.
rude's cheek. She was always of a melancholy and de-
spondent temper; perhaps for that reason, she was more
congenial to my own; and when I gazed upon her that
night, I was not surprised to see her eyes filled with tears.
You will laugh at me," she said, as I kissed them off,
and inquired into the cause; "but I feel a presentiment
that I cannot shake off; it tells me that you will travel this
road again before many months are past, and that I shall
not be with you, perhaps not upon the earth." She was
right in all her foreboding, but the suggestion of her death;
that came later.
"We took up our residence for some time at a beauti-
ful situation, a short distance from a small watering place.
Here, to my great surprise, I met with Tyrrell. He had
come there partly to see a relation from whom he had soine
expectations, and partly to recruit his health, which was
much broken by his irregularities and excesses. I could
not refuse to renew my old acquaintance with him, and,
in leed, I thought him too much a man of the world, and
of society, to feel with him that particular delicacy, in re-
gard to Gertrude, which made me in general shun all in-
tercourse with my former friends. He was in great pecu-
niary embarrassment, much more deeply so than I then
imagined; for I believed the embarrassment to be only
temporary. However, my purse was then, as before, at
his disposal, and he did not scruple to avail himself
largely of my offers. He came frequently to our house;
and poor Gertrude, who thought I had, for her sake, made
a real sacrifice in renouncing my acquaintance, endeavoured
to conquer her usual diffidence, and that more painful feel-
ing than diffidence, natural to her station, and even to af-
fect a pleasure in the society of my friend, which she was
very far from feeling.
very
"I was detained at for several weeks by Gertrude's
confinement. The child! happy being !died a week
after its birth. Gertrude was still in bed, and unable to
leave it, when I received a letter from Ellen, to say, that
my mother was then staying at Toulouse, and dangerously
ill; if I wished once more to see her, Ellen besought me
to lose no time in setting off for the continent.
You may
imagine my situation, or rather you cannot, for you cannot
conceive the smallest particle of that intense love I bore to
Gertrude. To you, to any
other man, it might seem no
extraordinary hardship to leave her even for an uncertain
period, -to me it was like tearing away the very life from
my heart.
I procured her a sort of half companion, and half
nurse; I provided for her every thing that the most anxious
and fearful love could suggest: and, with a mind full of fore-
bodings too darkly to be realized hereafter, I hastened to
the nearest seaport, and set sail for France.
At the
"When I arrived at Toulouse my mother was much bet-
ter, but still in a very uncertain and dangerous state of
health. I stayed with her for more than a month, during
which time every post brought me a line from Gertrude,
and bore back a message from my heart to her's' in return.
This was no mean consolation, more especially when each
letter spoke of increasing health and strength.
month's end, I was preparing to return, — my mother was
slowly recovering, and I no longer had any fears on her ac-
count; but, there are links in our destiny fearfully inter-
woven with each other, and ending only in the anguish of
our ultimate doom. The day before that fixed for my de-
parture, I had been into a house where an epidemic disease
raged; that night I complained of oppressive and deadly
illness, before morning I was in a high fever.
During the time I was sensible of my state, I wrote
constantly to Gertrude, and carefully concealed my illness;
kut for several days I was delirious. When I recovered I
called eagerly for my letters, there were none,
none! I could not believe I was yet awake; but days still
passed on, and not a line from England, from Gertrude.
The instant I was able, I insisted upon putting horses to
my carriage; I could bear no longer the torture of my sus-
pense. By the most rapid journeys my debility would al-
would al-
low me to hear, I arrived in England. I travelled down
by the same road that I had gone over with her;
the words of her foreboding, at that time, sunk like ice into
my heart,
You will travel this road again before many
months are passed, and I shall not be with you: perhaps,
I shall not be upon the earth. At that thought I could
have called unto the grave to open for me. Her unaccount-
able and lengthened silence, in spite of all the urgency and
to
|
the
"At last I arrived at
-
entreaties of my letters for a reply, filled me with present
ments the most fearful. Oh, God, oh, God, they wer
nothing to the truth !
; my carriage stopped at
the very house, my whole frame was perfectly frozen with
dread, I trembled from limb to limb, the ice of a thou-
sand winters seemned curdling through my blood. The bell
rung, once, twice, no answer. I would have leaped
out of the carriage, I would have forced an entrance, but
I was unable to move. A man fettered and spell-bound by
an incubus, is less helpless than I was. At last, an old fe-
male I had never seen before, appeared.
—
"Where is she? How!' I could utter no more, my
eyes were fixed upon the inquisitive and frightened coun-
tenance opposite to my own. Those eyes, I thought,
might have said all that my lips could not; I was deceived,
the old woman understood me no more than I did her ;
another person appeared, I recognised the face, it was
that of a girl, who had been one of our attendants. Will
you believe, that at that sight, the sight of one I had seen
before, and could associate with the remembrance of the
breathing, the living, the present Gertrude, a thrill of joy
flashed across me,- my fears seemed to vanish,
my spel
to cease?
C
C
"I sprung from the carriage; I caught the girl by the
robe. Your mistress,' said I, your mistress,-she is well,
she is alive, speak, speak?' The girl shrieked out;
my eagerness, and, perhaps, iny emaciated and altered
appearance, terrified her; but she had the strong nerves
of youth, and was soon re-assured. She requested me to
step in, and she would tell me all. My wife (Gertrude
always went by that name,) was alive, and, she believed,
well, but she had left that place some weeks since. Trem-
bling, and still fearful, but, comparatively, in heaven, to
my former agony, I followed the girl and the old woman
into the house.
"The former got me some water. Now,' said I, when
I had drank a long and hearty draught, I am ready to hear
all,
my wife has left this house, you say, for what
place?' the girl hesitated and looked down; the old
woman, who was somewhat deaf, and did not rightly un-
derstand my questions, or the nature of the personal inter-
est I had in the reply, answered, What does the gentle-
man want; the poor young lady who was last here? Lord
help her!"
"What of her? I called out, in a new aların. What
of her? Where has she gone? Who took her away ??
Who took her ? mumbled the old woman, fretful at
my impatient tone; Who took her ? why, the mad doctor,
to be sure!?
"I heard no more; my frame could support no longer
the agonies my mind had undergone; I fell lifeless on the
ground.
"When I recovered, it was in the dead of night. I
was in bed, the old woman and the girl were at my side.
I rose slowly and calmly. You know, all men who have
ever suffered much, know the strange anomalies of despair
the quiet of our veriest anguish. Deceived by my bear-
ing, I learned, by degrees, from my attendants, that Ger-
trude had some weeks since betrayed sudden symptoms of
insanity; that these, in a very few hours, arose to an
alarming pitch. From some reason the women could not
explain, she had, a short time before, discarded the com
pauion I had left with her; she
pauion I had left with her; she was, therefore, alone among
servants. They sent for the ignorant practitioners of the
place; they tried their nostrums without success ; her mad
ness increased; her attendants, with that superstitious hor
ror of insanity, common to the lower classes, became more
and more violently alarmed; the landlady insisted on her
removal; and, and, -I told you, Pelham,
-I told you,
they sent her away, sent her to a madhouse! All this
I listened to! - all! aye, and patiently! I noted down
the address of her present abode; it was about the dis-
tance of twenty miles from
I ordered fresh
horses and set off immediately.
"I arrived there at day-break. It was a large old house,
which, like a French hotel, seemed to have no visible door;
dark and gloomy, the pile appeared worthy of the purpose
to which it was devoted. It was a long time before we
aroused any one to answer
aroused any one to answer our call; at length, I was
ushered into a small parlour,
ushered into a small parlour, how ininutely I remember
every article in the room; what varieties there are in the
extreme passions! sometimes the same feeling will deaden
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
93
all the senses,
more acute!
- sometimes render them a hundred fold
•
The man's face
that frown, but keep your indignation till a fitter season
for it.
"I took my victim, for I then regarded her as such, to a
secluded and lonely spot; I procured for her whatever
advice England could afford; all was in vain. Night and
"At last, a man of a smiling and rosy aspect appeared.
He pointed to a chair, rubbed his hands, and begged
me to unfold my business; few words sufficed to do that.
1 requested to see his patient; I demanded by what autho-day I was by her side, but she never, for a moment, seemed
rity she had been put under his care.
to recollect me: yet were there times of fierce and over-
altered. He was but little pleased with the nature of my powering delirium, when my name was uttered in the
visit.
- when my
The lady,' he said, coolly, had been intrusted to transport of the most passionate enthusiasm,
his care, with an adequate remuneration, by Mr. Tyrrell; features as absent, though not present, were recalled and
without that gentleman's permission he could not think dwelt upon with all the minuteness of the most faithful
even of suffering me to see her. I controlled my passion; detail; and i knelt by her in all those moments, when no
I knew something, if not of the nature of private mad- other human being was near and clasped her wan hand,
her
houses, at least of that of mankind. I claimed his patient
I claimed his patient and wiped the dew from ner forehead, and gazed upon
as my wife; I expressed myself obliged by his care, and convulsed and changing face, and called upon her in a
voice which could once have allayed her wildest emotions
begged his acceptance of a further remuneration, which I
tendered, and which was eagerly accepted. The way was and had the agony of seeing her eye dwell upon me with
now cleared, there is no hell to which a golden branch the most estranged indifference and the most vehement and
will not win your admittance.
fearful aversion. But ever and anon, she uttered words
which chilled the very marrow of my bones; words which
I would not, dared not believe, had any method or mean-
but which entered into my own
ing in their madness,
my ear,
"The man detained ne no longer; he hastened to lead
the way.
We passed through various long passages;
sometimes the low moan of pain and weakness came upon
sometimes the confused murmur of the idiot's
drivelling soliloquy. From one passage, at right angles
with the one through which we proceeded, came a fierce
and thrilling shriek; it shrunk at once into silence, -per-
haps by the lash!
"We were now in a different department of the building,
-ail was silence, hushed deep,-breathless : this seem-
ed to be more awful than the terrible sounds I had just heard.
My guide went slowly on, sometimes breaking the stillness
of the dim gallery by the jingle of his keys; sometimes by
a muttered panegyric on himself and his humanity. I nei-
ther heeded nor answered him.
"We read in the annals of the Inquisition, of every limb,
nerve, sinew, of the victim, being so nicely and accurately
strained to their utmost, that the frame would not bear the
additional screwing of a single hair breadth. Such seemed
my state. We came to a small door, at the right hand; it
was the last but one in the passage. We paused before
it. Stop,' said 1, for one moment:' and I was so faint
and sick at heart, that I leaned against the wall to recover
myself, before I let him open the door: when he did, it
was a greater relief than I can express, to see that all was
utterly dark. Wait, Sir,' said the guide, as he entered;
and a sullen noise told me that he was unbarring the heavy
shutter.
**
C
C
C
Slowly the gray cold light of the morning broke in:
a dark figure was stretched upon a wretched bed, at the
far end of the room. She raised herself at the sound.
She turned her face towards me; I did not fall, nor faint,
nor shrick; I stood motionless, as if fixed into stone; and
yet it was Gertrude upon whom I gazed! Oh, heaven!
who but myself could have recognised her? Her cheek
was as the cheek of the dead; the hueless skin clung to
the bone; the eye was dull and glassy for one moment,
the next it became terribly and preternaturally bright,
but not with the ray of intellect, or consciousness, or re-
cognition. She looked long and hard at me; a voice
hollow and broken, but which still penetrated my heart,
came forth through the wan lips, that scarcely moved with
the exertion. I am very cold,' it said, but if I com-
plain, you will beat me. She fell down again upon the
bed, and hid her face.
"My guide, who was leaning carelessly by the window
turned to me with a sort of smirk. This is her way, Sir,'
he said her madness is of a very singular description:
we haze not, as yet, been able to discover how far it ex-
tends; sometimes she seems conscious of the past, some-
times utterly oblivious of every thing for days she is per-
fectly silent, or, at least, says nothing more than you have
just heard; but, at times, she raves so violently, that, that
but I never use force where it can be helped.
Market Mgs
"I looked at the man, but I could not answer, unless I
had torn him to pieces on the spot. I turned away hastily
from the room; but I did not quit the house without Ger-
trude,— I placed her in the carriage, by my side, notwith-
standing all the protestations and fears of the keeper: these
were readily silenced by the sum I gave him; it was large
enough to have liberated half his household. In fact, I
In fact, I
gathered from his conversation, that Tyrrell had spoken of
Gertrude as an unhappy female whom he himself had se-
duced, and would now be rid of. I thank
I thank you, Pelham, for
;
brain, and preyed there like the devouring of a fire. There
was a truth in those ravings,- a reason in that incoherence,
and my cup was not yet full.
"At last, one physician, who appeared to me to have
more knowledge than the rest, of the mysterious workings
of her dreadful disease, advised me to take her to the
scenes of her first childhood: These scenes,' said he,
justly, are in all stages of life, the most fondly remember-
ed; and I have noted that, in many cases of insanity, pla-
ces are easier recalled than persons: perhaps, if we can
once awaken one link in the chain, it will communicate to
the rest.'
"I took this advice, and set off to Norfolk. Her early
home was not many miles distant from the churchyard
where you once met me, and in that churchyard her mother
was buried. She had died before Gertrude's flight; the
father's death had followed it: perhaps my sufferings were
a just retribution. The house had gone into other hands,
and I had no difficulty in engaging it. Thank heaven, I
was spared the pain of seeing any of Gertrude's relations.
"It was night when we moved to the house. I had
placed within the room where she used to sleep, all the
furniture and books, with which it appeared, from my in-
quiries, to have been formerly filled. We laid her in the
bed that had held that faded and altered form in its fresh-
the ex-
est and purest years. I shrouded myself in one corner of
the room and counted the dull minutes till the day-light
dawned. I pass over the detail of my recital,
periment
periment partially succeeded,-would to God that it had
not! would that she had gone down to her grave with her
dreadful secret unrevealed! would, — but
Here Glanville's voice failed him, and there was a brief
silence before he recommenced.
"Gertrude had now many lucid intervals; but these my
presence was always sufficient to change into a delirious
raving, even more incoherent than her insanity had ever
yet been. She would fly from me with the most fearful
cries, bury her face in her hands, and seem like one op-
pressed and haunted by a supernatural visitation, as long
as I remained in the room; the moment I left her, she be-
gan, though slowly, to recover.
"This was to me the bitterest affliction of all,
to be
forbidden to nurse, to cherish, to tend her, was like taking
from me my last hope! But little can the thoughtless or
the worldly dream of the depths of a real love: I used to
wait all day by her door, and it was luxury enough to me
to catch her accents, or hear her move, or sigh, or even
weep; and all night, when she could not know of my pre-
sence, I used to lie down by her bedside; and when I sank
into a short and convulsed sleep, I saw her once more, in
my brief and fleeting dreams, in all the devoted love, and
glowing beauty which had once constituted the whole of
my happiness, and my world.
"One day I had been called from my post by her door.
They came to me hastily, she was in strong convulsions.
I flew up stairs, and supported her in my arms till the fits
had ceased; we then placed her in bed; she never rose
from it again; but on that bed of death, the words, as
well as the cause, of her former insanity, were explained,
the mystery was unravelled,
"It was a still and breathless night. The moon, which
2
94
BULWER'S NOVELS.
-
was at its decrease, came through the half-closed shutters, !
and beneath its solemn and eternal light, she yielded to my
entreaties, and revealed all. The man, my friend,
Tyrrell, had polluted her ear with his addresses, and
when forbidden the house, had bribed the woman I had left
with her, to convey his letters, she was discharged; but
Tyrrell was no ordinary villain; he entered the house one
evening, when no one but Gertrude was there. Come near
me, Pelham, nearer, bend down your ear,— he used
force, violence! That night Gertrude's senses deserted
her, you know the rest.
"The moment that I gathered, from Gertrude's broken
sentences, their meaning, that moment the demon entered
into my soul. All human feelings seemed to fly from my
heart; it shrunk into one burning, and thirsty, and fiery
want, that was for revenge. I would have sprung from
the bedside, but Gertrude's hand clung to me, and detained
me; the damp, chill grasp, grew colder and colder,-it
ceased, the hand fell, I turned, -one slight, but awful
shudder, went over that face, made yet more wan, by the
light of the waning and ghastly moon,-one convulsion
shook the limbs, —one murmur passed the falling and hue-
less lips. I cannot tell you the rest,—you know, you
can guess it.
-
"That day week we buried her in the lonely church-
yard,-where she had, in her lucid moments, wished to
lie, by the side of her mother.
CHAPTER LXXV.
I breathed,
But not the breath of human life,
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.
"The arch tempter favored me with a trusty coadjuto.
in my designs. I was lost in a reverie, when I heard my
self accosted by name. I looked up, and beheld a mar.
whom I had often seen with Tyrrell, both at Spa and
(the watering place where, with Gertrude, I had met the
latter.) He was a person of low birth and character; but
esteemed from his love of coarse humor and vulgar enter-
prise, a man of infinite parts, a sort of Yorick,- by
the set most congenial to Tyrrell's tastes. By this undue
reputation, and the levelling habit of gaming, to which he
was addicted, he was raised, in certain societies, much
above his proper rank: need I say that this man was Thorn-
ton? I was but slightly acquainted with him; however,
he accosted me cordially, and endeavoured to draw me into
conversation.
"Have you seen Tyrrell?' said he; he is at it again;
what 's bred in the bone, you know, &c.' I turned pa.e
with the mention of Tyrrell's name, and replied very laco-
nically, to what purpose, I forget.-Ah! ak!' rejoined
Thornton, eyeing me with an air of impertinent familiar-
ity,
ity, -'I see you have not forgiven him; he played you but
a shabby trick at ; seduced your mistress, or some-
thing of that sort; he told me all about it: pray, how is the
poor girl now?'
-
"I made no reply; I sunk down and gasped for breath.
All I had suffered, seemed nothing to the indignity I then
endured. She, she,
she,—who had once been my pride,
my honor, life, to be thus spoken of,
of, — and
I could not pursue the idea. I rose hastily, looked at
Thornton with a glance, which might have abashed a man
less shameless and callous than himself, and left the room.
"That night, as I tossed restless and feverish on my bed
of thorns, I saw how useful Thornton might be to me in
the prosecution of the scheme I had entered into; and the
next morning I sought him out, and purchased (no very
difficult matter) both his secrecy and his assistance. My
plan of vengeance, to one who had seen and observed less
of the varieties of human nature than you have done,
might seem far-stretched and unnatural; for while the su
I secured myself a lodg-perficial are ready to allow eccentricity as natural in the
coolness of ordinary life, they never suppose it can exist in
the heat of the passions, as if, in such moments, any
thing was ever considered absurd in the means which was
favorable to the end. Were the secrets of the passionate
and irregulated heart laid bare, there would be micro-
mance in them, than in all the fables which we turn from
with incredulity and disdain, as exaggerated and over-
drawn.
The Giaour.
"THANK heaven, the most painful part of my story is
at an end. You will now be able to account for our meet-
ing in the churchyard at
-
66
Among the thousand schemes of retribution which had
chased each other across my mind, the death of my victim
was only the ulterior object. Death, indeed, the pang of
one moment, appeared to me but very feeble justice for
the life of lingering and restless anguish, to which his
treachery had condemned me; but my penance, my doom,
I could have forgiven: it was the fate of a more innocent
and injured being, which irritated and fed the sting and
venom of my revenge, that revenge, no ordinary punish-
ment could appease. If fanaticism can only be satisfied
by the rack and the flames, you may readily conceive a like
unappeasable fury, in a hatred so deadly, so concentrated
and so just as mine, and if fanaticism persuades itself
into a virtue, so also did my hatred.
ing at a cottage not far from the spot which held Gertrude's
remains. Night after night I wandered to that lonely
place, and longed for a couch beside the sleeper, whom I
mourned in the selfishness of my soul. I prostrated myself
on the mound; I humbled myself to tears. In the over-
flowing anguish of my heart I forgot all that had aroused
its stormier passions into life. Revenge, hatred, all van-
ished. I lifted up my face to the tender heavens; I called
aloud to the silent and placid air; and when I turned again
to that unconscious mound, I thought of nothing but the
sweetness of our early love and the bitterness of her early
death. It was in such inoments that your footstep broke
upon my grief, the instant others had seen me,—
iny
other
eyes penetrated the sanctity of my regret; from that instant,
whatever was more soft and holy in the passions and dark-
ness of my mind seemed to vanish away like a scroll. I
again returned to the intense and withering remembrance
which was henceforward to make the very key and pivot of
my existence. I again recalled the last night of Gertrude's
life; I again shuddered at the low, murmured sounds,
whose dreadful sense broke slowly upon my soul. I again
felt the cold, — cold, slimy grasp of those wan and dying
Angers; and I again nerved my heart to an iron strength,
"The scheme which I resolved upon was, to attach Tyr-
and vowed deep, deep-rooted, endless, implacable revenge.rell more and more to the gaming-table, to be present at
"The morning after the night you saw me, I left my his infatuation, to feast my eyes upon the feverish intensity
abode. I went to London and attempted to methodize
of his suspense,
my
-to reduce him step by step, to the low-
plaas of vengeance. The first thing to discover, was Tyr- est abyss of poverty, to glut my soul with the abjectness
rell's present residence. By accident, I heard he was at
and humiliation of his penury, to strip him of an ara,
Paris, and within two hours of receiving the intelligence, consolation, sympathy, and friendship, -to follow him un
I set off for that city. On arriving there, the habits of the seen, to his wretched and squalid home, -to mark the
gambler soon discovered him to my search. I saw him struggles of the craving nature with the loathing pride,
one night at a hell. He was evidently in distressed cir- and, finally, to watch the frame wear, the eye sink, the lip
cumstances, and the fortune of the table was against hin. grow livid, and all the terrible and torturing progress of
Unperceived by him, I feasted my eyes on his changing gnawing want, to utter starvation. Then, in that last state,
countenance, as those deadly and wearing transitions of but not before, I might reveal myself, stand by the hope-
feeling, only to be produced at the gaming table, passed less and succorless bed of death, shrick out in the dizzy
over it. While I gazed upon him, a thought of more ex- ear a name, which could treble the horrors of remembrance,
quisite and refined revenge, than had yet occurred to me,
fashed upon my mind. Occupied with the ideas it gave
rise to, I went into the adjoining room, which was quite
empty. There I seated myself, and endeavoured to de-
velope more fully, the rude and imperfect outline of my
acheme
snatch from the struggling and agonizing conscience the
last plank, the last straw, to which, in its madness, it
could cling, and blacken the shadows of departing life, by
opening to the shuddering sense the threshold of an impatient
and yawning hell.
"Hurried away by the unhallowed fover of these pro-
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
85
ects, I thought of nothing but their accomplishment. I
employed Thornton, who still maintained his intimacy
with Tyrrell, to decoy him more and more to the gambling-
house; and as the unequal chances of the public table were
not rapid enough in their termination to consummate the
ruin even of an impetuous and vehement gamester like
Tyrrell, so soon as my impatience desired, Thornton took
every opportunity of engaging him in private play, and
accelerating my object by the unlawful arts of which he was
master. My enemy was every day approaching the farthest
verge of ruin; near relations he had none, all his distant
ones he had disobliged; all his friends, and even his ac-
quaintance he had fatigued by his importunity, or disgusted
by his conduct. In the whole world there seemed not a
being who would stretch forth a helping hand to save him
from the total and pennyless beggary to which he was hope-
lessly advancing. Out of the wrecks of his former prop-
erty, and the generosity of former friends, whatever he had
already wrung, had been immediately staked at the gam-
ing house, and as immediately lost.
Perhaps this would not so soon have been the case, if
Thornton had not artfully fed and sustained his expecta-
tions. He had been long employed by Tyrrell in a pro-
fessional capacity, and he knew well all the gamester's do- |
mestic affairs; and when he promised, should things come
to the worst, to find some expedient to restore them, Tyr-
rell easily adopted so flattering a belief.
yielded to the exultation of the moment; I did not know
you were so near, I discovered myself, you remember
the scene. I went joyfully home: and for the first time
since Gertrude's death, I was happy; but there I imagined
my vengeance only would begin; I revelled in the burning
hope of marking the hunger and extremity that must en-
sue. The next day, when Tyrrell turned round, in his
despair, for one momentary word of comfort from the lips
to which he believed, in the fond credulity of his heart,
falsehood and treachery never came, his last earthly friend
taunted and deserted him. Mark me, Pelham, I was by, -
and heard her.
"But here my power of retribution was to close: from
the thirst still unslaked and unappeased, the cup was ab-
ruptly snatched. Tyrrell disappeared, -no one knew
whither. I set Thornton's inquiries at work. A week
afterwards he brought me word that Tyrrell had died in
extreme want, and from very despair. Will you credit,
that at hearing this news, my first sensations were only rage
and disappointment. True, he had died, died in all the
misery my heart could wish, but, I had not seen him die;
and the death-bed seemed to me robbed of its bitterest pang.
"I know not to this day, though I have often questioned
him, what interest Thornton had in deceiving me by this
tale; for my own part, I believe that he himself was de-
ceived;* certain it is (for I inquired) that a person, very
much answering to Tyrrell's description, had perished in
the state 'Thornton mentioned, and this might, therefore, in
all probability, have misled him.
services not of love, hut hire, -were no longer neces-
sary. Thornton, like all persons of his stamp, has a low
pride, which I was constantly offending. He had mixed
with men, more than my equals in rank, on a familiar foot-
"Meanwhile, I had taken the name and disguise under
favor of which you met me at Paris, and Thornton had in-
troduced me to Tyrrell as a young Englishman of great "I left Paris, and returned, through Normandy, to Eng-
wealth, and still greater inexperience. The gambler grasp land; (where I remained some weeks;) there we again
ed eagerly at an acquaintance, which Thornton readily met; but I think we did not meet till I had been persecut-
persuaded him he could turn to such account; and I had ed by the insolence and importunity of Thornton. The
thus every facility of marking, day by day, how my plot tools of our passions cut both ways; like the monarch, who
thickened, and my vengeance hastened to its triumph. employed strange beasts in his army, we find them less de-
"This was not all. I said, there was not in the widestructive to others than ourselves. But I was not of a tem-
world a being who would have saved Tyrrell from the fate per to brook the tauntings, or the encroachments of my own
he deserved and was approaching. I forgot, there was one creature; it had been with but an ill grace that I had endur-
that still clung to him with affection, and for whom he still ed his familiarity, when I absolutely required his services,
seemed to harbor the better and purer feelings of less de- much less could I suffer his intrusion when those services,
graded and guilty times. This person, (you will guess
readily, it was a woman,) I made it my especial business
and care to wean away from my prey; I would not suffer
him a consolation he had denied to me. I used all the arts
of seduction to obtain the transfer of her affections. What-ing, and he could ill brook the hauteur with which my dis-
ever promises and vows, whether of love or wealth, gust at his character absolutely constrained me to treat
could effect, were tried; nor, at last, without success, Í him. It is true, that the profuseness of my liberality was
triumphed. The woman became my slave. It was she such, that the mean wretch stomached affronts for which
who, whenever Tyrrell faltered in his course to destruc- he was so largely paid; but with the cunning and malicious
tio 1, combatted his scruples, and urged on his reluctance; spite natural to him, he knew well how to repay them in
it was she who informed me minutely of his pitiful finan- kind. While he assisted, he affected to ridicule my re-
ces, and assisted, to her utmost, in expediting their decay. venge; and though he soon saw that he durst not, for his
The still more bitter treachery of deserting him in his ve- very life, breathe a syllable openly against Gertrude, or her
riest want I reserved till the fittest occasion, and contem-memory, yet he contrived, by general remarks, and covert
plated with a savage delight.
insinuations, to gall me to the very quick, and in the very
"I was embarrassed in my scheme by two circumstan- tenderest point. Thus a deep and cordial antipathy to each
ces: first, Thornton's acquaintance with you; and, second-other arose, and grew, and strengthened, till, I believe,
'y, Tyrrels receipt (some time afterwards) of a very un- like the fiends in hell, our mutual hatred became our com-
expected sum of two hundred pounds, in return for renounc- mon punishment.
ing all further and possible claim on the purchasers of his
estate. To the former, so far as it might interfere with
my plans, or lead to my detection, you must pardon me for
having put a speedy termination; the latter threw me into
great consternation,—for Tyrrell's first idea was to re-
nounce the gaming table, and endeavour to live upon the
trifling pittance he had acquired, as long as the utmost
economy would permit.
"No sooner had I returned to England, than I found
him here, awaiting my arrival. He favored me with fre-
│quent visits and requests for money. Although not posses-
sed of any secret really important, affecting my character,
he knew well, that he was possessed of one important to
my quiet; and he availed himself to the utmost of my strong
and deep aversion even to the most delicate recurrence to
my love to Gertrude, and its unballowed and disastrous ter-
"This idea, Margaret, the woman I spoke of, according mination. At length, however, he wearied me. I found
to my instruction, so artfully and successfully combatted, that he was sinking into the very dregs and refuse of soci
that Tyrrell yielded to his natural inclination, and returned ety, and I could no longer brook the idea of enduring his
once more to the infatuation of his favorite pursuit. How-familiarity and feeding lus vices.
ever,
I had become restlessly impatient for the termination 'I pass over any detail of my own feelings, as well as
to this prefatory part of my revenge, and, accordingly, | my outward and worldly history. Over my mind, a great
Thornton and myself arranged that Tyrrell should be per- change had passed; I was no longer torn by violent and
suaded by the former to risk all, even to his very last far-contending passions; upon the tumultuous sea a dead and
thing, in a private game with me. Tyrrell, who believed heavy torpor had fallen; the very winds, necessary for
he should readily recruit himself by my unskilfulness in the health, had ceased; and like the ocean, in the powerfu
game, fell easily into the snare; and on the second night sketch of Darkness,'
of our engagement, he not only had lost the whole of his
remaining pittance, but had signed bonds owing to a debt
of far greater amount than he, at that time, could ever have
dreamt of possessing.
Flushed, heated, almost maddened with my triumph, I
All stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
I slept on the abyss without a surge.'
* It seems (from subsequent investigation) that this was real
ly the case
36
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ensue. No sooner did I find his address, than I wrote him.
another challenge, still more forcibly and insultingly word-
ed than the one you took. In this I said that his refusa
was of no avail; that I had sworn that my vengeance should
overtake him; and that, sooner or later, in the face of
heaven and despite of hell, my oath should be fulfilled
I Remember those words, Pelham, I shall refer to them
hereafter.
"Tyrrell's reply was short and contemptuous; he af
fected to treat me as a madman. Perhaps, (and I confess
that the incoherence of my letter authorized such suspi-
cion,) he believed I really was one.
He concluded by say-
ing, that if he received more of my letters, he should shel-
ter himself from my aggressions by the protection of the
law.
One violent and engrossing passion is among the worst of
all immoralities, for it leaves the mind too stagnant and ex-
hausted for those activities and energies which constitute
our real duties. However, now that the tyrant feeling of
my mind was removed, I endeavoured to shake off the ара-
thy it had produced, and return to the various occupations
and business of life. Whatever could divert me from my
own dark memories, or give a momentary motion to the
stagnation of my mind, I grasped at with the fondness and
eagerness of a child. Thus you found me, surrounding my-
self with luxuries which palled upon my taste the instant
that their novelty had passed; now striving for the vanity
of literary fame; now, for the emptier baubles which riches
could procure.
procure. At one time I shrouded myself in my clos-
et, and brooded over the dogmas of the learned, and the
errors of the wise; at another, I plunged into the more en- "On receiving this reply, a stern, sullen, iron spirit en
grossing and active pursuits of the living crowd which tered into my bosom. I betrayed no external mark of
rolled around me, and flattered my heart, that amidst the passion; I sat down in silence, I placed the letter an
applause of senators, and the whirlpool of affairs, I could Gertrude's picture before me. There, still and motionless
lull to rest the voices of the past, and the spectre of the I remained for hours. I remember well, I was awakened
dead.
from my gloomy reverie by the clock, as it struck the
"Whether these hopes were effectual, and the struggle first hour of the morning. At that lone and oininous
not in vain, this haggard and wasting form, drooping day sound, the associations of romance and dread which
by day into the grave, can declare; but I said I would not the fables of our childhood connect with it, rushed coldly
dwell long upon this part of my history, nor is it necessary. and fearfully into my mind; the damp dews broke ou
Of one thing only, not connected with the main part of my upon my forehead, and the blood curdled in my limbs
confessions, it is right, for the sake of one tender and guilt-In that moment I kuelt down and vowed a frantic and
less being, that I should speak.
deadly oath, whose words I would not dare now to repeat,
that before three days expired, hell should no longer be
cheated of its prey. 1 rose, 1 flung myself on my bed,
and slept.
"In the cold and friendless world with which I mixed,
there was a heart which had years ago given itself wholly
up to me. At that time I was ignorant of the gift I so lit-
tle deserved, or (for it was before I knew Gertrude) I
might have returned it, and been saved years of crime and
anguish. Since then the person I allude to had married,
and by the death of her husband, was once more free. In-
timate with my family, and more especially with my sister,
she now met me constantly; her compassion for the change
she perceived in me, both in mind and person, was strong-
er than even her reserve, and this is the only reason why
I speak of an attachment which ought otherwise to be con-
cealed: I believe that you already understand to whom I
allude, and since you have discovered her weakness, it is
right that you should know also her virtue; it is right that
you should learn, that it was not in her the fantasy, or pas-
sion of a moment, but a long and secreted love; that you
should learn, that it was her pity, and no unfeminine disre-
gard to opinion which betrayed her into imprudence, and
that she is, at this moment, innocent of every thing, but the
folly of loving me.
"I
pass on to the time, when I discovered that I had
been either intentionally, or unconsciously deceived, and
that my enemy yet lived! lived in honor, prosperity, and
the world's blessings. This information was like remov-
ing a barrier from a stream hitherto pent into quiet and re-
straint. All the stormy thoughts, feelings, and passions so
long at rest, rushed again into a terrible and tumultuous
action. The newly formed stratum of my mind was swept
away, every thing seemed a wreck, a chaos, a convulsion
of jarring elements; but this is a trite and tame descrip-
tion of my feelings; words would be but common-place to
express the revulsion which I experienced; yet amidst all,
there was one paramount and presiding thought, to which
the rest were as atoms in the heap, the awakened thought
of vengeance! and yet, how was it to be gratified?
"Placed as Tyrrell now was in the scale of society, ev-
ery method of retribution but the one formerly rejected,
seemed at an cnd. To that one, therefore, weak and mer-
ciful as it appeared to me, I resorted, you took my
challenge to Tyrrell, you remember his behaviour. Con-
science doth indeed make cowards of us all! The letter
enclosed to me in his to you, contained only the common-
place argument urged so often by those who have injured
us; viz. the reluctance of attempting our lives after having
ruined our happiness. When I found that he had left Lon-
don, my rage knew no bounds; I was absolutely frantic
with indignation; the earth reeled before my eyes; I was
almost suffocated by the violence, the whirlpool of my
emotions. I gave myself no time to think, I wrote you a
hurried line to acquaint you with my resolution, and left
town in pursuit of my foe.
"I found that, still addicted, though, I believe, not so
madly as before, to his old amusements, - he was in the
neighbourhood of Newmarket, awaiting the races shortly te
.
"The next day I left my abode. I purchased a strong
and swift horse, and disguising myself from head to foot in
a long horseman's cloak, I set off alone, locking in my
heart the calm and cold conviction, that my oath should be
kept. I placed, concealed in my dress, two pistols; my
intention was to follow Tyrrell wherever he went, till we
could find ourselves alone, and without the chance of in-
trusion. It was then my determination to force him into a
contest; and that no trembling of the hand, no error of the
swimming sight might betray my purpose, to place foot to
foot, and the mouth of each pistol almost to the very temple
of each antagonist. Nor was I deterred for a moment from
this resolution by the knowledge that my own death must
be as certain as my victim's. On the contrary, I looked
forward to dying thus, and so baffling the more lingering,
but not less sure, disease, which was daily wasting me
away, with the same fierce, yet not unquiet delight with
which men have rushed into battle, and sought out a death
less bitter to them than life.
J
"For two days, though I each day saw Tyrrel!, fate
threw into my way no opportunity of executing my design.
The morning of the third came, Tyrrell was on the race
ground: sure that he would remain there for some hours, I
put up my wearied horse in the town, and seating myself
in an obscure corner of the course, was contented with
watching, as the serpent does his victim, the distant mo-
tions of my enemy. Perhaps you can recollect passing a
man seated on the ground, and robed in a horseman's
cloak. I need not tell you that it was me whom you pass-
ed and accosted. I saw you ride by me, but the moment
you were gone, forgot the occurrence. I looked upon the
rolling and distant crowd, as a child views the figures of
the phantasmagoria, scarcely knowing if nay cyes deceived
me, feeling impressed with some stupifying and ghastly
sensation of dread, and cherishing the conviction that my
life was not as the life of the creatures that passed before
me.
"The day waned, I went back for my horse, — I
returned to the course, and keeping at a distance as little
suspicious as possible, followed the motions of Tyrrell. He
went back to the town, rested there, -repaired to a
gaming table, stayed in it a short time, - -returned to his
inn, and ordered his horse.
In all these motions I followed the object of my pur-
suit; and my heart bounded with joy when I, at last, saw
him set out alone, and in the advancing twilight. I fol
lowed him till he left the main road. Now, I thought, was
my time. I redoubled my pace, and had nearly reached
him, when some horsemen appearing, constrained me agam
to slacken my pace. Various other similar interruptions
occurred to delay my plot. At length all was undisturbed,
I spurred my horse, and was nearly on the heels of my
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
this was
enemy, when I perceived him join another man,
you, -I clenched my teeth, and drew my breath, as I once
more retreated to a distance. In a short time two men
passed me, and I found, that owing to some accident on
the road, they stopped to assist you. It appears by your
evidence on a subsequent event, that these men were
Thornton and his friend Dawson; at the time, they passed
too rapidly, and I was too much occupied in my own
dark thoughts, to observe them still I kept up to you
and Tyrrell, sometimes catching the outline of your figures
through the moonlight, at others, (with the acute sense of
anxiety,) only just distinguishing the clang of your horses'
boofs on the stony ground. At last, a heavy shower
came on; imagine my joy, when Tyrrell left you and rode
off alone.
"I passed you, and followed my enemy as fast as my
norge would permit ; but it was not equal to Tyrrell's,
which was almost at its full speed. However, I came, at
last to a very steep, and almost precipitous, descent. I
was forced to ride slowly and cautiously; this, however,
I the less regarded, from my conviction that Tyrrell must
be obliged to use the same precaution. My hand was on
my pistol with the grasp of premeditated revenge, when a
shrill, sharp, solitary cry, broke on my ear.
"No sound followed, — all was silence. I was just ap-
proaching towards the close of the descent, when a horse
without its rider passed me. The shower had ceased, and
the moon broken from the cloud some ininutes before; by
its light, I recognised the horse rode by Tyrrell; perhaps,
I thought, it has thrown its master, and my victim will now
be utterly in my power.
I pushed hastily forward in spite
of the hill, not yet wholly passed. I came to a spot of
singular desolation, it was a broad patch of waste land, a
pool of water was on the right, and a remarkable and
withered tree hung over it. I looked round, but saw
nothing of life stirring. A dark and imperfectly developed
object lay by the side of the pond, I pressed forward,
merciful God! my enemy had escaped my hand, and lay
in the stillness of death before me !"
"What!" I exclaimed, interrupting Glanville, for I
could contain myself no longer, "it was not by you then
that Tyrrell fell?" With those words I grasped his hand;
and, excited as I had been by my painful and wrought up
interest in his recital, I burst into tears of gratitude and
joy. Reginald Glanville was innocent, Ellen was not the
sister of an assassin.
After a short pause, Glanville continued,
"I gazed upon the upward and distorted face, in a deep
and sickening silence; an awe, dark and undefined, crept
over my heart; I stood beneath the solemn and sacred
heavens, and felt that the hand of God was upon me, that
a mysterious and fearful edict had gone forth, that my
headlong and unholy wrath had, in the very midst of its
fury, been checked, as if but the idle anger of a child,
that the plan I had laid in the foolish wisdom of my heart,
had been traced, step by step, by an all-seeing eye, and
baffled in the moment of its fancied success, by an inseru-
table and awful doom. I had wished the death of my
enemy,-lo my wish was accomplished, how, I neither
knew nor guessed,-there, a still and senseless clod of earth,
without power of offence or injury, he lay beneath my feet,
it seemed as if, in the moment of my uplifted arm, the
Divine Avenger had asserted his prerogative, as if the
Angel which had smitten the Assyrian, had again swept
forth, though against a meaner victim,
and while he pun-
ished the guilt of a human criminal, had set an eternal
barrier to the vengeance of a human foe.
"I disinounted from my horse, and bent over the mur-
dered man.
I drew from my bosom the miniature, which
never forsook me, and bathed the lifeless resemblance of
Gertrude in the blood of her betrayer. Scarcely had I
done so, before my ear caught the sound of steps; hastily
I thrust, as I thought, the miniature in my bosom, re-
mounted, and rode hurriedly away. At that hour, and for
many which succeeded to it, I believe that all sense was
suspended. I was like a man haunted by a dream, and
wandering under its influence; or as one whom a spectre
pursues, and for whose eye, the breathing and busy world
is but a land of unreal forms and flitting shadows, teeming
with the monsters of darkness, and the terrors of the
tomb.
"It was not i'll he next day that I missed the picture, ¦
returned to the spot, searched carefully, but in vain,
VOL. 1.
13
the miniature could not be found; I returned to town, and
shortly afterwards the newspapers informed me of what
had subsequently occurred. I saw, with dismay, that all
appearances pointed to me as the criminal, and that the
officers of justice were at that moment tracing the clue
which my cloak, and the color of my horse, afforded them.
My mysterious pursuit of Tyrrell; the disguise I had as-
sumed; the circumstance of my passing you on the road,
and of my flight when you approached, all spoke volumes
against me. A stronger evidence yet remained, and it
was reserved for Thornton to indicate it,
ny life is in his hands. Shortly after iny return to town,
he forced his way into my room, shut the door, bolted it,
- and the moment we were alone, said, with a savage and
fiendish grin of exultation and defiance, -"Sir Reginald
Glanville, you have many a time and oft insulted me with
your pride, and more with your gifts now it is my time
to insult and triumph over you, know that one word of
mine could sentence you to the gilbet."
- at this moment
"He then minutely summed up the evidence against me,
and drew from his pocket the threatening letter I had last
written to Tyrrell. You remember that therein I said my
vengeance was sworn against him and that sooner or later
it should overtake him. Couple,' said Thornton, coldly,
as he replaced the letter in his pocket, 'couple these
words with the evidence already against you, and I would
not buy your life at a farthing's value.'
"How Thornton came by this paper, so important to
my safety, I know not: but when he read it, I was startled
by the danger it brought upon me one glance sufficed to
show me that I was utterly at the mercy of the villain who
stood before me he saw and enjoyed my struggles.
"Now,' said he, we know each other, at present I
want a thousand pounds: you will not refuse it me, I am
sure when it is gone, I shall call again: till then you can
do without me.' I flung him a note for the money, and he
departed.
:
'
"You may conceive the mortification I endured in this
sacrifice of pride to prudence: but those were no ordinary
motives which induced me to submit to it. Fast approach-
ing to the grave, it mattered to me but little whether a
violent death should shorten a life to which a limit was
already set, and which I was far from being anxious to
retain but I could not endure the thought of bringing
upon my mother and my sister, the wretchedness and
shame which the mere suspicion of a crime so enormous
would occasion them; and when my eye caught all the
circumstances arrayed against me, my pride seemed to
suffer a less mortification even in the course I adopted, than
in the thought of the felon's jail, and the criminal's trial;
the hoots and execrations of the mob, and the death, and
ignominious remembrance of the murderer.
CC
Stronger than either of these motives, was my shrink-
ing and loathing aversion to whatever seemed likely to
unrip the secret history of the past. I sickened at the
thought of Gertrude's name and fate being bared to the
vulgar eye, and exposed to the comment, the strictures, the
ridicule of the gaping and curious public. It seemed to
me, therefore, but a very poor exertion of philosophy, to
conquer my feelings of humiliation at Thornton's insolence
and triumph, and to console myself with the reflection,
that a few months must rid me alike of his exactions and
niy life.
But, of late, Thornton's persecutions and demands,
have risen to such a height, that I have been scarcely able
to restrain my indignation and control myself into com
pliance. The struggle is too powerful for my frame; it ia
rapidly bringing on the fiercest and the last contest, I shall
suffer, before the wicked shall cease from troubling, and
the weary be at rest.' Some days since, I came to a reso-
lution, which I am now about to execute it is to leave
this country, and take refuge on the continent. There I
shall screen myself from Thornton's pursuit, and the danger
which it entails upon me ; and there, unknown and undis-
turbed, I shall await the termination of my disease.
"But two duties remained to me to fulfil before I depart
ed; I have now discharged them both. One was due to
the warm-hearted and noble being who hor wed me with
her interest and affection, -
the other to you. I went yes-
terday to the former; I sketched the outlines ( at histo
ry which I have detailed to you. I showed her he waste
of my barren heart, and spoke to her of the disease which
was wearing me away. How beautiful is the love of wo
48
BULWER'S NOVELS.
man.
Marina d
She would have followed me over the world, receiv-
ed my last sigh, and seen me to the rest I shall find, at
length; and this without a hope, or thought of recompense,
even from the worthlessness of my love.
But, enough! - of her farewell has been taken.
my
Your suspicions I have long seen and forgiven, for they
were natural; it was due to me to remove them; the pres-
sure of your hand tells me, that I have done so; but I had
another reason for my confessions. I have filtered away
the romance of my heart, and I have now no indulgence for
the little delicacies and petty scruples which often stand in
the way of our real happiness. I have marked your former
addresses to Ellen, and I confess with great joy; for I
know, amidst all your worldly ambition, and the encrusted
artificiality of your exterior, how warm and generous is
your real heart, how noble and intellectual is your real
mind: and were my sister tenfold more perfect than I be-
eve her, I do not desire to find on earth one more deserv-
ing of her than yourself. I have marked your late estrange-
went from Ellen; and while I guessed, I felt that, however
painful to me, I ought to remove the cause: she loves you,
though, perhaps, you know it not, much and truly; and
since my earlier life has been passed in a selfish inactivity,
I would fain let it close with the reflection of having served
two beings, whom I prize so dearly, and the hope that
their happiness will commence with my death.
"And now, Pelham, I have done; I am weak and ex-
hausted, and cannot bear more, -even of your society
now. Think over what I have last said, and let me see
you again to-morrow; on the day after I leave England for
ever.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
P. B. SHELLEY.
It was not with a light heart, for I loved Glanville too
well, not to be powerfully affected by his history and ap-
proaching fate,
but with a chastised and sober joy, that I
now beheld my friend innocent of the guilt my suspicion
had accused him of, and the only obstacle to my marriage
with his sister removed. True it was that the sword yet
hung over his head, and that while he lived, there could
be no rational assurance of his safety from the disgrace and
death of the felon. In the world's eye, therefore, the bar-
rie to my union with Ellen would have been far from be-
ing wholly removed; but, at that moment, my disappoint-
ments had disgusted me with the world, and I turned with
a double yearning of heart to her whose pure and holy love
could be at once my recompense and retreat.
Nor was this selfish consideration my only motive in the
conduct I was resolved to adopt; on the contrary, it was
scarcely inore prominent in my mind, than those derived
from giving to a friend who was now dearer to me than
ever, his only consolation on this earth, and to Ellen the
safest protection, in case of any danger to her brother.
With these, it is true, were mingled feelings which, in hap-
pier circumstances, might have been those of transport at a
bright and successful termination to a deep and devoted
love; but these I had, while Glanville's very life was so
doubtful, little right to indulge, and I checked them as
soon as they arose.
After a sleepless night, I repaired to Lady Glanville's
house. It was long since I had been there, and the servant
who admitted me, seemed somewhat surprised at the earli- |
ness of my visit. I desired to see the mother, and waited
in the parlour till she came. I made but a scanty exordium
to my speech. In very few words I expressed my love to
Ellen, and besought her mediation in my behalf; nor did
I think it would be a slight consideration in my favor, with
he fond mother, to mention Glanville's concurrence with
my suit.
Ellen is up stairs in the drawing-room," said Lady
Glanville. "I will go and prepare her to see you, if you
have her consent, you have mine "
"Will you suffer me, then," said I, "to forestall you
Forgive my impatience, and let me see her before you do."
Lady Glanville was a woman of the good old school, and
stood somewhat upon forms and ceremonies. I did not,
therefore, await the answer, which I foresaw might not be
favorable to my success, but with my customary assurance,
left the room,
left the room, and hastened
and hastened up stairs. I entered the draw-
ing-room, and shut the door.
ing-room, and shut the door. Ellen was at the far end
;
and as I entered with a light step, she did not perceive me
till I was close by.
C6
A
ex.
She started when she saw me; and her cheek, before
very pale, deepened into crimson. "Good heavens ! is it
you? she said falteringly. I—, I thought —-, but,
cuse me for an instant, I will call
my mother."
Stay for one instant, I beseech you,
it is from your
mother that I come,- she has referred me to you." And
with a trembling and hurried voice, for all my usual bold-
ness forsook me, I poured forth, in rapid and burning words,
the history of iny secret and hoarded love, its doubts,
fears, and hopes.
Ellen sunk back on her chair, overpowered and silent by
her feelings, and the vehemence of my own. I knelt, and
took her hand; I covered it with my kisses, it was not
withdrawn from them. I raised my eyes, and beheld in
her's all that my heart had hoped, but did not dare to
portray.
"You, you," said she, when at last she found
words, "I imagined that you only thought of ambition
and the world, I could not have dreamt of this." She
ceased, blushing and embarrassed.
"It is true," said I, "that you had a right to think so,
for, till this moment, I have never opened to you even a
glimpse of my veiled heart, and its secret and wild desires;
but, do you think that my love was the less a treasure, be-
cause it was hidden? or the less deep, because it was cher-
ished at the bottom of my soul? No, no; believe me
that love was not to be mingled with the ordinary objects
of life, it was too pure to be profaned by the levities and
follies which are all of my nature that I have permitted my-
self to develope to the world. Do not imagine, that, be-
cause I have seemed an idler with the idle, selfish with
the interested, and cold, and vain, and frivolous, with
those to whom such qualities were both a passport and a
virtue; do not imagine that I have concealed within me
nothing more worthy of you and of myself; my very love
for you shows, that I am wiser and better than I have seem-,
ed. Speak to me, Ellen, may I call you by that name,
-
one word, -one syllable! speak to me, and tell me that
you have read my heart, and that you will not reject it!"
There came no answer from those dear lips; but their
soft and tender smile told me that I might hope. That
hour I still recall and bless! that hour was the happiest of
life.
my
CHAPTER LXXVII.
A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.
2d Part of Henry VI.
FROM Ellen, I hastened to the house of Sir Reginald.
The hall was in all the confusion of approaching departure.
I sprang over the paraphernalia of books and boxes which
obstructed my way, and bounded up the stairs. Glanville
was, as usual, alone; his countenance was less pale than it
had been lately, and when I saw it brighten as I approach-
ed, I hoped, in the new happiness of my heart, that he
might baffle both his enemy and his disease.
I told him all that had just occurred between Ellen and
myself. "And now," said I, as I clasped his hand, "I
have a proposal to make, to which you must accede: let me
go with you to whatever cor-
accompany you abroad; I will
ner of the world you may select. We will plan together
every possible method of concealing our retreat. Upon the
past I will never speak to you. In your hours of solitude
I will never disturb you by an unwelcome and ill-timed
sympathy. I will tend upon you, watch over you, bear
with you, with more than the love and tenderness of a
brother. You shall see me only when you wish it. Your
loneliness shall never be invaded. When you get better,
as I presage you will, I will leave you to come back to
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
90
"
England, and provide for the worst, by ensuring your sis-
ter a protector I will then return to you alone, that your
seclusion may not be endangered by the knowledge, even
of Ellen, and you shall have me by your side till, till,"
"The last!" interrupted Glanville. Too, too gene-
rous Pelhain, I feel, these tears (the first I have shed for
a long, long time) tell you, that I feel to the heart, your
Wiendship and disinterested attachment; but the moment
your love for Ellen has become successful, I will not tear
you from its enjoyment. Believe me, all that I could de-
rive from your society, could not afford me half the happi- |
ness I should have in knowing that you and Ellen were
blessed in each other. No, no, my solitude will, at that
reflection, be deprived of its sting. You shall hear from
me once again; my letter shall contain a request, and
your executing that last favor must console and satisfy
the kindness of your heart. For myself, I shall die as I
have lived, alone.
alone. All fellowship with my griefs would
seem to me strange and unwelcome.
I would not suffer Glanville to proceed. I interrupted
him with fresh arguments and entreaties, to which he
seemed at last to submit, and I was in the firm hope of
having conquered his determination, when we were startled
by a sudden and violent noise in the hall.
"It is Thornton," said Glanville, calmly. "I told them
not to admit him, and he is forcing his way."
Scarcely had Sir Reginald said this, before Thornton
burst abruptly into the room.
Although it was scarcely noon, he was more than half
intoxicated, and his eyes swam in his head with a maudlin
expression of triumph and insolence, as he rolled to-
wards us.
hands of his legal advisers. His ill health, however, his
anxiety to leave England, and his wish to sacrifice almost
every thing to quiet, induce him, rather than take this alter-
native, to silence your importunities, by acceding to claims,
however illegal and unjust. If, therefore, you now favor
Sir Reginald with your visit, for the purpose of making a
demand previous to his quitting England, and which, con-
sequently, will be the last to which he will concede, you
will have the goodness to name the amount of your claim,
and should it be reasonable, I think Sir Reginald will au-
thorize me to say, that it shall be granted.
Well, now!" cried Thornton, "that's what I call talk-
ing like a sensible man; and though I am not fond of
speaking to a third person, when the principal is present,
yet as you have always been very civil to me, I have no
Please to give Sir Regi-
objection to treating with you.
nald this paper: if he will but take the trouble to sign it,
he may go to the falls of Niagara for me! I won't interrupt
him, so he had better put pen to paper, and get rid of me
at once, for I know I am as welcome as snow in harvest.”
I took the paper, which was folded up, and gave it to
Glanville, who leaned back on his chair, half exhausted by
his rage. He glanced his eye over it, and then tore it
into a thousand pieces, and trampled it beneath his feet;
"Go!" exclaimed he, " go, rascal, and do your worst! I
will not make myself a beggar to enrich you. My whole
fortune would but answer this demand.”
"Do as you please, Sir Reginald,” answered Thornton,
grinning, do as you please. It's not a long walk from
hence to Bow-street, nor a long swing from Newgate to
the gallows; do as you please, Sir Reginald, do as you
please!" and the villain flung himself at full length on the
"Oh, oh! Sir Reginald," he said, "thought of giving costly ottoman, and eyed Glanville's countenance with an
me the slip, eh? Your d―d servants said you were out: easy and malicious effrontery, which seemed to say, " I
but I soon silenced them. 'Egad, I made them as nimble know you will struggle, but you cannot help yourself.
as crows in a cage, I have not learned the use of my fists
I took Glanville aside: "My dear friend," said I," be-
but
for nothing. So, you 're going abroad to-morrow; with- lieve me, that I share your indignation to the utinost;
you're
out my leave too, - pretty good joke that, indeed. Come, we must do any thing rather than incense this wretch:
come, my brave fellow, you need not scowl at me in that what is his demand! "
way. Why, you look as urly as a butcher's dog with a
broken head.”
Glanville, who was livid with ill-suppressed rage, rose
haughtily.
"I speak literally," replied Glanville, "when I say, that
it covers nearly the whole of my fortune; for my habits of
extravagance have very much curtailed my means: it is
the exact sum I had set apart, for a marriage gift to my
sister, in addition to her own fortune."
“Mr. Thornton,” he said, in a calin voice, although he
was trembling in his extreme passion, from head to foot,
"I am not now prepared to submit to your insolence and
intrusion. You will leave this room instantly. If you
have
are not many,
further demands upon me, I will hear them to-
Right at any hour you please to appoint."
<
any
No, no, my fine fellow," said Thornton, with a coarse
chuckle; " you have as much wit as three folks, two fools,
and a madman; but you won't do me, for all that. The
instant my back is turned, your's will be turned too; and
by the time I call again, your honor will be half way to
Calais. But bless my stars, Mr. Pelham, is that you ? I
reaily did not see you before; I suppose you are not in the
secret ? "
(4
"I have no secrets from Mr. Pelham," said Glanville ;
nor do I care if you discuss the whole of your nefarious
transactions with me in his presence. Since you doubt
my word, it is beneath my dignity to vindicate it, and your
business can as well be despatched now, as hereafter.
You have heard rightly, that I intend leaving England to-
morrow; and now, Sir, what is your will?
G―d,
"By G-d, Sir Reginald Glanville!" exclaimed Thorn-
ton, who scemned stung to the quick by Glanville's con-
temptuous coldness, "you shall not leave England without
my leave. Ay, you may frown, but I say you shall not ;
nay, you shall not budge a foot from this very room unless
I cry, Be it so !'"
•
Glanville could no longer restrain himself. He would
nave sprung towards Thornton, but I seized and arrested
him. I read, in the malignant and incensed countenance
of his persecutor, all the danger to which a single impru-
dence would have exposed him, and I trembled for his
safety.
"Sir
I whispered, as I forced him again to his seat, " Leave
me alone to settle with this man, and I will endeavour to
free you from him." I did not tarry for his answer; but
turning to Thornton, said to him coolly but civilly:
Reginald Glanville has acquainted me with the nature of
your very extraordinary demands upon him. Did he adopt
my advice, he would immediately place the affair in the
"Then," said I, "you shall give it him; your sister has
no longer any necessity for a portion: her inarriage with
me prevents that,— and with regard to yourself, your wants
such as it is you can share
my fortune.'
"No-no-no!" cried Glanville; and his generous na-
ture lashing him into fresh rage, he broke from my grasp,
and moved menacingly to Thornton. That person still lay
on the ottoman, regarding us with an air half contemptuous,
half exulting.
or you
“Leave the room instantly," said Glanville,
will repent it!"
<<
"What! another murder, Sir Reginald?" said Thorn-
ton. No, I am not a sparrow, to have my neck wrench-
ed by a woman's hand like your's. Give me my demand,
- sign the paper, and I will leave you for ever and a day.'
“I will commit no such folly,” answered Glanville.
you will accept five thousand pounds, you shall have that
sum; but were the rope on my neck, you should not wring
from me a farthing more!"
r
If
let me
"Five thousand!? repeated Thornton; "a mere drop,
—a child's toy,— why, you are playing with me, Sir Regi-
nald, nay, am a reasonable man, and will abate a trifle
or so, of my just claims, but you must not take advantage of
my good-nature. Make me snug and easy for life,
keep a brace of hunters, -a cosey box,· a bit of land to
it, and a girl after my own heart, and I'll say quits with you.
Now, Mr. Pelham, who is a long-headed gentleman, and
does not spit on his own blanket, knows well enough that
one can't do all this for five thousand pounds; make it a
thousand a year, that is, give me a cool twenty thousand,
-and I won't exact another sous. Egad, this drinking
makes one deuced thirsty, Mr. Pelham, just reach me
that glass of water, I hear bees in my head! ”
-
Seeing that I did not stir, Thornton rose, with an oath
against pride; and swaggering towards the table, took up
a tumbler of water, which happened accidentally to be
there close by it was the picture of the ill-fated Gertrude,
The gambler, who was evidently so intoxicated as to be
scarcely conscious of his motions or words (otherwise, in
100
BULWER'S NOVELS
all probability, he would, to borrow from himself a proverb
illustrative of his profession, have played his cards better,)
took up the portrait.
Glanville saw the action, and was by his side in an
instant. "Touch it not with your accursed hands!" he
cried, in an ungovernable fury. "Leave your hold this
instant, or I will dash you to pieces! "
"Here's a
Thornton kept a firm gripe of the picture.
to-do!" said he tauntingly: " was there ever such work
(using a word too coarse for repetition)
about a poor
before?"
The word had scarcely passed his lips, when he was
stretched his full length upon the ground. Nor did Glan-
ville stop there. With all the strength of his nervous and
Herculean frame, fully requited for the debility of disease
by the fury of the moment, he seized the gamester as if he
had been an infaut, and dragged him to the door: the next
moment I heard his heavy frame rolling down the stairs
with no decorous slowness of descent.
it
more I reflected, the more I regretted the fatality of the
circumstances, that had tempted Glanville to accebe to
Thornton's demand; true it was, that Thornton's self-
regard, might be deemed a sufficient guarantee for his con-
cealment of such extortionate transactions; moreover,
was difficult to say, when the formidable array of appear-
ances against Glanville was considered, whether any other
line of conduct than that which he had adopted, could with
any safety, have been pursued.
His feelings too, with regard to the unfortunate Ger-
trude, I could fully enter into, and sympathize with: but,
despite of all these considerations, it was with an inex-
pressible aversion that I contemplated the idea of that tacit
confession of guilt, which his compliance with Thornton's
exactions so unhappily implied; it was therefore, a thought
of some satisfaction, that my rash and hasty advice, of a
still further concession to those extortions, had not been
acceded to. My present intention was, in the event of
Glanville's persevering to reject my offer of accompanying
Glanville re-appeared. "Good God!" I cried, "what him, to remain in England for the purpose of sifting the
have you done? But he was too lost in his still unap- murder, nor did I despair of accomplishing this most desi-
peased rage to heed me. He leaned, panting and breath-rable end through the means of Dawson; for there was but
less, against the wall, with clenched teeth, and a flashing little doubt in my own mind, that Thornton and himself
eye, rendered more terribly bright by the feverish lustre were the murderers, and I hoped that address or intimida-
natural to his disease.
tion might win a confession from Dawson, although it
might probably be unavailing with his hardened and crafty
associate.
Presently I heard Thornton re-ascend the stairs: he
opened the door and entered but one pace. Never did hu-
man face wear a more fiendish expression of malevolence
and wrath. Sir Reginald Glanville," he said, "I thank
you heartily. He must have iron nails who scratches a bear.
You have sent me a challenge, and the hangman shall bring
Good day, Sir Reginald, good day,
you my answer.
Mr. Pelham; " and so saying he shut the door, and rapid-
ly descending the stairs, was out of the house in an instant.
"There is no time to be lost," said I, "order post hor-
ses to your carriage, and be gone instantly.
Re-
"You are wrong," replied Glanville, slowly recovering
himself. "I must not fly, it would be worse than useless,
it would seem the strongest argument against me.
member that if Thornton has really gone to inform against
me, the officers of justice would arrest me long before I
reached Calais; or even if I did elude their pursuit so far, I
should be as much in their power in France as in England:
but, to tell you the truth, I do not think Thornton will in-
form. Money, to a temper like his, is a stronger tempta-
tion than revenge; and, before he has been three minutes
in the air, he will perceive the folly of losing the golden
harvest he may yet make of me for the sake of a momen-
tary passion. No, my best plan will be to wait here till
to-morrow, as I originally intended. In the meanwhile, he
will, in all probability, pay me another visit, and I will
make a compromise with his demands."
Despite of my fears, I could not but see the justice of
these observations, the more especially as a still stronger
argument than any urged by Glanville, forced itself on my
mind; this was my internal conviction, that Thornton him-
self was guilty of the murder of Tyrrell, and that, there-
fore, he would, for his own sake, avoid the new and partic-
ularizing scrutiny into that dreadful event, which his accu-
sation of Glanville would necessarily occasion.
Both of us were wrong. Villains have passions as well
as honest men; and they will, therefore, forfeit their own
interests in obedience to those passions, while the calcula-
tions of prudence invariably suppose, that that interest is
their only rule. *
Glanville was so enfeebled by his late excitations, that
he besought me once more to leave him to himself. I did
so, under a promise that he would admit me again in the
evening; for notwithstanding my persuasion that Thornton
would not put his threats into execution, I could not con-
quer a latent foreboding of dread and evil.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
Away with him to prison, where is the provost ?
Measure for Measure.
I RETURNED home, perplexed by a thousand contradic-
tory thoughts upon the scene I had just witnessed; the
•
I mean "interest" in the general, not the utilitarian, sig-
incation of the word.
|
I took
Occupied with these thoughts, I endeavoured to while
away the hours till the evening summoned me once more to
the principal object of my reflections. Directly Glanville's
door was opened, I saw by one glance, that I had come
too late; the whole house was in confusion; several of the
servants were in the hall, conferring with each other, witl.
that mingled mystery and agitation which always accompa
ny the fears and conjectures of the lower classes.
aside the valet, who had lived with Glanville for some years,
and who was remarkably attached to his master, and learn-
ed, that somewhat more than an hour before, Mr. Thornton
had returned to the house accompanied by three men of ve-
ry suspicious appearance.
"In short, Sir," said the man,
lowering his voice to a whisper, "I knew one of them by
sight; he was Mr. S., the Bow-street officer; with these
men Sir Reginald left the house, merely saying in his usu-
al quiet manner, that he did not know when he should
return.”
I concealed my perturbation, and endeavoured, as far as
I was able, to quiet the evident apprehensions of the ser-
vant. "At all events, Seymour," said I,“ I know that I
may trust you sufficiently, to warn you against mentioning
the circumstance any farther; above all, let me beg of you
to stop the mouths of these idle loiterers in the hall,-
and, be sure, that you do not give any unnecessary alarm to
Lady and Miss Glanville.
The poor man promised, with tears in his eyes, that he
would obey my injunctions; and with a calm face, but a
sickening heart, I turned away from the house. I knew
not where to direct my wanderings; fortunately, I recol-
lected that I should, in all probability, be among the first
witnesses suminoned on Glanville's examination, and that
perhaps, by the time I reached home, I might already re-
ceive an intimation to that effect; accordingly, I retraced
my steps, and, on reëntering my hotel, was told by the
waiter, with a mysterious air, that a gentleman was wait-
ing to see me. Seated by the window in my room, and
wiping his forehead with a red silk pocket-handkerchief,
was a short, thickset man, with a fiery and rugose com-
plexion, not altogether unlike the aspect of a mulberry;
from underneath a pair of shaggy brows, peeped two sin-
gularly small eyes, which made ample amends by their fire,
for their deficiency in size, they were black, brisk, and
somewhat fierce in their expression; a nose, of that shape,
vulgarly termed bottled, formed the "arch sublime," the
bridge, the twilight as it were, between the purple sunset
of one cheek, and the glowing sunrise of the other.
mouth was small, and drawn up on each corner, like a
purse, there was something sour and crabbed about it;
if it was like a purse, it was the purse of a miser: a fair
round chin had not been condemned to single blessedness,
on the contrary it was like a farmer's pillion, and car-
ried double; on either side of a very low forehead, hedged
round by closely mowed bristles, of a dingy black, were
two enormous ears, of the same intensely rubicund color as
that inflamed pendent of flesh which adorns the throat of
His
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
10
an enraged turkey-cock; ears so large, and so red, Ì never
beheld before, they were something preposterous.
This enchanting figure, which was attired in a sober
suit of leaden black, relieved by a long gold watch chain,
and a plentiful decoration of seals, rose at my entrance,
with a solemn grunt and a still more solemn bow. I shut
the door carefully, and asked him his business: as I had
foreseen, it was a request from the magistrate at
attend a private examination on the ensuing day.
"Sad thing, Sir, sad thing," said Mr.
be quite shocking to hang a gentleman of Sir Reginak
Glanville's quality,- - so distinguished an orator, too; sad
thing, Sir, very sad thing."
,
to
"it would
"Oh!" said I, quietly," there is not a doubt as to Sir
“Oh
Reginald's innocence of the crime laid to him; and, pro-
bably Mr., I may call in your assistance to-morrow,
to ascertain the real murderers,— I think I am possessed
of some clue.”
Mr.
pricked up his ears, those enormous ears.
Sir," he said, "I shall be happy to accompany you,
very happy; give me the clue you speak of, and I will soon
find the villains. Horrid thing, Sir, murder, very hor-
rid. It's too hard that a gentleman cannot take his ride
home from a race, or a merry-making, but he must have
his throat cut from ear to ear, -ear to ear, Sir;" and
with these words, the speaker's own auricular protuber-
ances seemed to glow, as if in conscious horror, with a
double carnation.
"Very true, Mr.
!" said I; " say I will certain-
ly attend the examination, till then, good bye!" At this
hint, my fiery-faced friend made me a low bow, and blazed
out of the room, like the ghost of a kitchen fire.
Left to myself, I revolved, earnestly and anxiously, every
thing that could tend to duminish the appearances against
Glanville, and direct suspicion to that quarter where I was
confident the guilt rested. In this endeavour I passed the
time till morning, when I fell into an uneasy slumber,
which lasted some hours; when I awoke, it was almost
time to attend the magistrate's appointment. I dressed
hastily, and soon found myself in the room of inquisition.
It is impossible to conceive a more courteous, and, yet,
more equitale man, than the magistrate whom I had the
honor of attending. He spoke with great feeling on the
subject for which I was sum:noned; owned to ine, that
Thornton's statement was very clear and forcible; trusted
that my evidence would contradict an account which he was
very loth to believe; and then proceeded to the question. I
saw, with an agony which I can scarcely express, that all
my answers made powerfully against the cause I endeav-
oured to support. I was obliged to own, that a man on
horseback passed me soon after Tyrrell had quitted me;
that on coming to the spot where the deceased was found,
I saw this same horseman on the very place; that I believ-
ed, nay, that I was sure, (how could I evade this,) that that
man was Sir Reginald Glanville.
Farther evidence, Thornton had already offered to ad-
duce. He could prove, that the said horseman had been
mounted on a gray horse, sold to a person answering ex-
actly to the description of Sir Reginald Glanville; more-
over, that that horse was yet in the stables of the prisoner.
He produced a letter, which, he said, he had found upon
the person of the deceased, signed by Sir Reginald Glan-
ville, and containing the most deadly threats against his
life; and, to crown all, he called upon me to witness, that
we had both discovered upon the spot where the murder
was committed, a picture belonging to the prisoner, since
estored to him, and now in his possession.
At the close of this examination the worthy magistrate
shook his head, in evident distress! "I have known Sir
Reginald Glanville personally," said be: "in private as
in public life, I have always thought him the most upright
and honorable of inen. I feel the greatest pain in saying,
that it will be my duty fully to commit him for trial.”
L
I interrupted the magistrate; I demanded that Dawson
should be produced: I have already," said he, "inquired
of Thornton respecting that person, whose testimony is of
evident importance; he tells ine, that Dawson has left the
country, and can give me no clue to his address."
"He lies!" cried I, in the abrupt anguish of my heart;
“his associate shall be produced. Hear me: I have been,
next o Thornton, the chief witness against the prisoner,
and when I swear to you that, in spite of all appearances,
I most solemnly believe in his innocence, you may rely on
my assurance, that there are circumstances in his favor,
favor,
which have not yet been considered, but which I will pledge
myself hereafter to adduce." I then related to the private
ear of the magistrate ny firm conviction of the guilt of
the accuser himself. I dwelled forcibly upon the circum.
stance of Tyrrell's having mentioned to me, that Thornton
was aware of the large sum he had on his person, and of
the strange disappearance of that sum, when his body was
examined in that fatal field. After noting how impossible
it was that Glanville could have stolen this inoney; I in-
sisted strongly on the distressed circumstances, the disso-
lute habits, and the hardened character of Thornton; I re-
called to the mind of the magistrate, the singularity of
Thornton's absence from home when I called there, and the
doubtful nature of his excuse: much more I said, but all
equally in vain. The only point where I was successful,
was in pressing for a delay, which was granted to the pas-
sionate manner in which I expressed my persuasion that I
could confirm my suspicions by much stronger data before
the reprieve expired.
"It is very true," said the righteous magistrate, "that
there are appearances somewhat against the witness; but
certainly not tantamount to any thing above a slight suspi
cion. If, however, you positively think you can ascertain
any facts, to elucidate this mysterious crime, and point the
inquiries of justice to another quarter, I will so far strain
the question, as to remand the prisoner to another day,
If nothing important
let us say the day after to-morrow.
can before then be found in his favor, he must be commit-
ted for trial.'
CHAPTER LXXIX.
Nihil est furacius illo,
Non fuit Autołyci tam piccata manus.
MARTIAL.
Quo teneam vultus mutantem Protea nodo?
HORAT.
WHEN I left the magistrate, I knew not whither my
next step should tend. There was, however, no time to in-
dulge the idle stupor, which Glanville's situation at first
occasioned; with a violent effort, I shook it off, and bent
all my mind to discover the best method to avail myself, to
the utmost, of the short reprieve I had succeeded in obtain
ing; at length, one of those sudden thoughts which, from
their suddenness, appear more brilliant than they really are,
flashed upon my mind. I remembered the accomplished
character of Mr. Jub Jonson, and the circumstances of my
having seen him in company with Thornton. Now, al-
though it was not very likely that Thornton should have
madě Mr. Jonson his confidant in any of those affairs
which it was so essentially his advantage to confine exclu-
sively to himself; yet the acuteness and penetration visible
in the character of the worthy Job, might not have lain so
fallow during his companionship with Thornton, but that it
might have made some discoveries which would considera-
bly assist me in my researches; besides, as it is literally
true in the systematized roguery of London, that "birds of
a feather flock together," it was by no means unlikely that
the honest Job might be honored with the friendship of
Mr. Dawson, as well as the company of Mr. Thornton; ia
which case I looked forward with greater confidence to the
detection of the notable pair.
I could not, however, conceal from myself, that this was
but a very unstable and ill-linked chain of reasoning, and
there were moments, when the appearances against Glan-
ville wore so close a semblance of truth, that all my friend-
ship could scarcely drive from my mind an intrusive suspi-
cion that he might have deceived me, and that the accusa-
tion might not be groundless.
This unwelcome idea did not, however, at all lessen the
rapidity with which I hastened towards the memorable
gin-shop, where I had whilom met Mr. Gordon, there I
hoped to find either the address of that gentleman, or of
the "Club," to which he had taken me, in company with
Tringle and Dartmore; either at this said club, or of that
said gentleman, I thought it not unlikely that I might near
some tidings of the person of Mr. Job Jonson, if not, I
was resolved to return to the office, and employ Mr.
my mulberry-cheeked acquaintance of the last night, in a
search after the holy Job.
>
Fate saved me a world of trouble; as I was hastily
walking onwards, I happened to turn my eyes on the oppo
site side of the way, and discovered a man dressed, in what
102
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the newspapers term, the very height of the fashion, viz. in
the most ostentatious attire that ever flaunted at Margate or
blazoned in the Palais Royale. The nether garments of
this petit maître, consisted of a pair of blue tight panta-
loons, profusely braided, and terminating in Hessian boots,
adorned with brass spurs of the most burnished resplen-
dency; a black velvet waistcoat, studded with gold stars,
was backed by a green frock coat, covered, notwithstand-
ing the heat of the weather, with fur, and frogged and
cordonné with the most lordly indifference, both as to taste
and expense: a small French hat, which might not have
been much too large for my Lord of P- was set
jauntily in the centre of a system of long black curls,
which my eye, long accustomed to penetrate the arcana of
habilatory art, discovered at once to be a wig. A fierce
black mustachio, very much curled, wandered lovingly from
the upper lip, towards the eyes, which had an unfortunate
prepossession for eccentricity in their direction. To com-
plete the picture, we must suppose some coloring, and
this consisted in a very nice and delicate touch of the rouge
pot, which could not be called by so harsh a term as paint;
say, rather, that it was a tinge.
>
No sooner had I set my eyes upon this figure, than I
crossed over to the side of the way which it was adorning,
and followed its motions at a respectful but observant dis-
tance.
At length my freluquet marched into a jeweller's shop in
Oxford-street; with a careless air, I affected, two minutes
afterwards, to saunter into the same shop; the shopman
was showing his bijouterie to him of the Hessians with the
greatest respect; and, beguiled by the splendor of the
wig and waistcoat, turned me over to his apprentice,
another time, I might have been indignant at perceiving
that the air noble, on which I piqued myself far more than
all other gifts of nature, personal or mental, was by no
means so universally acknowledged as I had vainly imag-
ined, at that moment I was too much occupied to think
of my insulted dignity. While I was pretending to appear
wholly engrossed with some seals, I kept a vigilant eye on
my superb fellow customer: at last, I saw him secrete a dia-
mond ring, and thrust it by a singular movement of the fore
finger, up the fur cuff of his capacious sleeve; presently,
some other article of minute size disappeared in like manner.
The gentleman then rose, expressed himself very well
satisfied by the great taste of the jeweller, said he should
look in again on Saturday, when he hoped the set he had
ordered would be completed, and gravely took his de-
parture amidst the prodigal bows of the shopman and his
helpmates; meanwhile, I bought a seal of small value, paid
for it, and followed my old acquaintance, for the reader
has doubtless discovered, long before this, that the gentle
man was no other than Mr. Job Jonson.
Slowly and struttingly did the man of two virtues per-
form the whole pilgrimage of Oxford-street. He stopped
at Cumberland-gate, and, looking round, with an air of
gentlemanlike indecision, seemed to consider whether or
not be should join the loungers in the park: fortunately for
that well bred set, his doubts terminated in their favor,
and Mr. Job Jonson entered the park. Every one hap-
pened to be thronging to Kensington gardens, and the man
of two virtues accordingly cut across the park, as the
shortest, but the least frequented way thither, in order to
confer upon them the dangerous honor of his company.
Dinly I perceived that there were but few persons in
the immediate locality to observe me, and that those con-
sisted of a tall guardsman and his wife, a family of young
children, with their nursery maid, and a debilitated East
India captain, walking for the sake of his liver, I overtook
the incomparable Job, made him a low bow, and thus
reverently accosted him,
"Mr. Jonson, I am delighted once more to meet you,-
Euffer me to remind you of the very pleasant morning I
passed with you in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court.
I perceive, by your mustachios and military dress, that
have entered the army since that day; I congratulate the
British troops on such an admirable acquisition."
you
Mr. Jonson's assurance forsook him for a moment, but he
lost no time in regaining a quality which was so natural to
nis character. He assumed a fierce look, and relevant sa
moustache sourit amèrement, like Voltaire's governor, *
"D-n your eyes, Sir," he cried, "do you mean to insult
me? I know none of your Mr. Jonsons, and I never set
my eyes upon you before.
* Don Fernand d'Ibarra in the "Candide."
CC
to a
Lookye, my dear Mr. Job Jonson," replied I, as 1
can prove not only all I say, but much more that I shal
not say, such as your little mistakes just now, at the jewel-
ler's shop in Oxford-street, &c. &c., perhaps it would be
better for you not to oblige me to create a mob, and give
you in charge, pardon my abruptness of speech,
constable ! Surely there will be no need of such a disa-
greeable occurrence, when I assure you, in the first place,
that I perfectly forgive you for ridding me of the unneces
sary comforts of a pocket book and handkerchief, the un-
philosophical appendage of a purse, and the effeminate gage
d'amour of a gold bracelet ; nor is this all, it is perfectly
indifferent to ine, whether you levy contributions on jewel-
lers or gentlemen, and I am very far from wishing to intrude
upon your harmless occupations, or to interfere with your
innocent amusements. I see, Mr. Jonson, that you are
beginning to understand me; let me facilitate so desirable
an end by additional information, that, since it is preceded
by a promise to open my purse, may tend somewhat to
open your heart; I am, at this moment, in great want of
your assistance, favor me with it, and I will pay you to
your soul's content. Are we friends now, Mr. Job Jonson?"
My old friend burst out into a loud laugh. "Well, Sir,
I must say that your frankness enchants me. I can no
longer dissemble with you; indeed, I perceive, it would
be useless; besides, I always adored candor, it is my
favorite virtue.
favorite virtue. Tell me how I can help you, and you
may command my services."
"One word," said I: "will you be open and ingenuous
with me? I shall ask you certain questions, not in the
least affecting your own safety, but to which, if you
would serve me, you must give me (and since candor is your
favorite virtue, this will be no diflicult task) your inost
candid replies. To strengthen you in so righteous a
course, know also, that the said replies will come verbatim
before a court of law, and that, therefore, it will be a
matter of prudence to shape them as closely to the truth
as your inclinations will allow. To counterbalance this
information, which, I own, is not very inviting, I repeat,
that the questions asked you will be wholly foreign to your
own affairs, and that, should you prove of that assistance.
to me which I anticipate, I will so testify my gratitude as
to place you beyond the necessity of pillaging rural young
gentlemen and credulous shopkeepers for the future ; — all
your present pursuits need only be carried on for your
private amusement."
"I repeat, that you may command me," returned Mr
Jonson, gracefully putting his hand to his heart.
CC
Pray, then," said I, "to come at once to the point,
how long have you been acquainted with Mr. Thomas
Thornton ? "
"For some months only," returned Job, without the
least embarrassment.
"And Mr. Dawson ?" said I.
A slight change came over Jonson's countenance : he
hesitated. "Excuse me, Sir," said he ; "but I am, really,
perfectly unacquainted with you, and I may be falling into
some trap of the law, of which, heaven knows, l'àm as
ignorant as a babe unborn."
I saw the knavish justice of this remark; and in my
predominating zeal to serve Glanville, I looked upon the
inconvenience of discovering myself to a pickpocket and
sharper, as a consideration not worth attending to. In
order, therefore, to remove his doubts, and, at the same
time, to have a more secret and undisturbed place for our
conference, I proposed to him to accompany nie home; at
first, Mr. Jonson demurred, but I soon half persuaded and
half intimidated him into compliance.
Not particularly liking to be publicly seen with a person
of his splendid description and celebrated character, I
made him walk before me to Mivart's, and I followed him
closely, never turning my eye, either to the right or the
left, lest he should endeavour to escape me.
There was
no fear of this, for Mr. Jonson was both a bold and a crafty
man, and it required, perhaps, but little of his penetration
to discover that I was no officer nor informer, and that my
communication had been of a nature likely enough to ter
minate in his advantage; there was, therefore, but little
nced of his courage in accompanying me to my hotel.
There were a good many foreigners of rank at Mivart's,
and the waiters ook my companion for an ambassador at
- he received their homage with the mingled dignity
and condescension natural to so great a man.
As the day was now far advanced, I deemed it but hos.
least:
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
108
pitable to offer Mr. Job Jonson some edible refreshment.
With the frankness on which he so justly valued himself,
be accepted my proposal. I ordered some cold meat, and
two bottles of wine; and, mindful of old maximns, de-
ferred my business till his repast was over. I conversed
with him merely upon ordinary topics, and, at another
time, should have been much amused by the singular mix-
ture of impudence and shrewdness which formed the stra-
tum of his character.
therefore, it mattered little whether he was in my confi.
dence or not; if he had the
dence or not; if he had the power, the doubt was, whether
it would be better for me to benefit by it openly, or by
stratagem; that is, whether it were wiser to state the
whole case to him, or continue to gain whatever I was able
by dint of a blind examination. Now, the disadvantage
of candor was, that if it were his wish to screen Dawson
and his friend, he would be prepared to do so, and even to
put them on their guard against my suspicions; but the in-
difference he had testified in regard to Dawson seemed to
render this probability very small. The benefits of candor
were more prominent: Job would then be fully aware that
his own safety was not at stake; and should I make it
more his interest to serve the innocent than the guil-
ty, I should have the entire advantage, not only of any act-
ual information he might possess, but of his skill and
shrewdness in providing additional proof, or at least sug-
gesting advantageous hints. Moreover, in spite of my van-
ity and opinion of my own penetration, I could not but
confess, that it was unlikely that my cross-examination
should be very successful with so old and experienced a
sinner as Mr. Jonson. "Set a thief to catch a thief," is
"If you cannot tell me his residence at once," said I, among the wisest of wise sayings, and accordingly I resolv-
our conference is at an end; that is a leading feature ined in favor of a disclosure.
my inquiries."
At length his appetite was satisfied, and one of the bot-
tles emptied; with the other before him, his body easily
reclining on my library chair, his eyes apparently cast
downwards, but ever and anon glancing up at my counte-
nance with a searching and a curious look, Mr. Job Jonson
prepared himself for our conference; accordingly I began,
"You say that you are acquainted with Mr. Dawson;
where is he at present?"
CC
"I don't know," answered Jonson, laconically.
"Come," said I, no trifling, if you
—if you do not know, you
can learn."
"Possibly I can, in the course of time," rejoined honest
Job.
Jonson paused before he replied, -"You have spoken to
me frankly, let us do nothing by the halves, tell me, at
once, the nature of the service I can do you, and the
amount of my reward, and then you shall have my answer.
With respect to Dawson, I will confess to you that I did
once know him well, and that we have done many a mad
prank together, which I should not like the bugaboos and
bulkies to know; you will, therefore, see that I am natu-
rally reluctant to tell you any thing about him, unless your
honor will inform me of the why and the wherefore.”
I was somewhat startled by this speech, and by the
shrewd, cunning eye which dwelt upon me, as it was
uttered; but, however, I was by no means sure, that ac-
ceding to his proposal would not be my readiest and wisest
way to the object I had in view. Nevertheless, there were
some preliminary questions to be got over first: perhaps
Dawson might be too dear a friend to the candid Job, for
the latter to endanger his safety; or perhaps, (and this
was more probable,) Jonson might be perfectly ignorant of
any thing likely to aid me: in this case my communication
would be useless; accordingly I said, after a short con-
sideration,
—
"Patience, my dear Mr. Jonson, patience, you shall
know all in good time; meanwhile I must, even for Daw-
son's sake, question you blindfold.
What now, if your
poor friend Dawson were in imminent danger, and that you
might have the power to save him, would you not do all
you could?"
The small, coarse features of Mr. Job, grew blank, with
a curious sort of disappointment: "Is that all?" said he.
"No! unless I were well paid for my pains in his behalf,
he might go to Botany Bay, for all I care.
"What!" I cried, in a tone of reproach," is this your
friendship? I thought, just now, that you said Dawson had
been an old and firin associate of yours."
"An old one, your honor; but not a firm one. A short
time ago,
I was in great distress, and he and Thornton
had, God knows how! about two thousand pounds between
them; but I could not worm a stiver out of Dawson,
that gripe-all, Thornton, got it all from him.'
Two thousand pounds!" said I, in a calm voice,
though my heart beat violently; "that's a great sum for
a poor fellow like Dawson. How long ago is it since he
had it ?"
"About two or three months," answered Jonson.
|
Drawing my chair close to Jonson's, fixing my eye upon
his countenance, and throwing into my own the most open,
yet earnest expression I could summon, I briefly proceeded
to sketch Glanville's situation (only concealing his name)
and Thornton's charges. I mentioned my own suspicions
of the accuser, and my desire of discovering Dawson,
whom Thornton appeared to me artfully to secrete. Last-
ly, I concluded, with a solemn promise, that if my listener
could, by any zeal, exertion, knowledge, or contrivance of
his own, procure the detection of the men, whom I was
convinced were the murderers, a pension of three hundred
pounds a year should be immediately settled upon him.
During my communication, the patient Job sat mute and
still, fixing his eyes on the ground, and only betraying, by
an occasional elevation of the brows, that he took the
slightest interest in the tale; when, however, I touched
upon the peroration, which so tenderly concluded with the
mention of three hundred pounds a year, a visible change
came over the countenance of Mr. Jonson. He rubbed his
hands with an air of great content, and one sudden smile
broke over his features, and almost buried his eyes amid
the intricate host of wrinkles it called forth; the smile
vanished as rapidly as it came, and Mr. Job turned round
to me with a solemn and sedate aspect.
"Well, your honor," said he, "I'm glad you 've told
me all; we must see what can be done. As for Thornton,
I'm afraid we shan 't make much of him, for he 's an old
offender, whose conscience is as hard as a brick-bat; but,
of Dawson, I hope better things. However, you must let
me go now, for this is a matter that requires a vast deal of
private consideration. I shall call upon you to-morrow,
Sir, before ten o'clock, since you say matters are so press-
ing; and, I trust, you will then see that you have no rea-
son to repent of the confidence you have placed in a man o.
honor,”
So saying, Mr. Job Jonson emptied the remainder of the
bottle into his tumbler, held it up to the light with the gusto
of a connoisseur, and concluded his potations with a hearty
smack of the lips, followed by a long sigh.
66
Ah, your honor !" said he, "good wine is a marvo-
lous whetter of the intellect; but your true philosopher
is always moderate: for my part, I never exceed my two
bottles."
And with these words, this true philosopher took his
departure.
No sooner was I freed from his presence, than y
Pray, have you seen much of Dawson lately!" I thoughts flew to Ellen; I had neither been able to call not
asked.
"I have," replied Jonson.
"Indeed!" said I. "I thought you told me, just now,
that you were unacquainted with his residence?"
"So I am," replied Jonson, coldly, "it is not at his
own house that I ever see him "
I was silent, for I was now rapidly and minutely weigh-
ing the benefits and disadvantages of trusting Jonson, as
he had desired me to do.
To reduce the question to the simplest form of logic, he
bad either the power of assisting my investigation, or he
had not: if not, neither coull he much impede it, and
write the whole of the day; and I was painfully fearful
lest my precautions with Sir Reginald's valet had been
frustrated, and the alarm of his imprisonment reached her
and Lady Glanville. Harassed by this fear, I disregarded
the lateness of the hour, and immediately repaired to Berke-
ley square.
Lady and Miss Glanville were alone and at dinner: the
servant spoke with his usual unconcern, “They are quite
well ?" said I, relieved, but still anxious: and the servant
replying in the affirmative, I again returned home, and
wrote a long, and, I hope, consoling letter to Sir Regi
nald.
194
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER LXXX.
K. Henry. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.
Say. Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his.
2d Part of Henry VI.
PUNCTUAL to his appointment, the next morning came
Mr. Job Jonson. I had been on the rack of expectation
for the last three hours previous to his arrival, and the
warmth of my welcome must have removed any little diffi-
dence with which so shame-faced a gentleman might pos-
sibly have been troubled.
At iny request, he sat himself down, and seeing that my
breakfast things were on the table, remarked what a fa-
mous appetite the fresh air always gave him. I took the
hint, and pushed the rolls towards him. He immediately
fell to work, and for the next quarter of an hour, his mouth
was far too well occupied for the intrusive impertinence of
words. At last the things were removed, and Mr. Jonson
began.
Q
"I have thought well over the matter, your honor, and
I believe we can manage to trounce the rascals,- for I
agree with you, that there is not a doubt that Thornton and
Dawson are the real criminals; but the affair, Sir, is one
of the greatest difficulty and importance,
nay, of the
greatest personal danger. My life may be the torfeit of
my desire to serve you, you will not, therefore, be sur-
prised at my accepting your liberal offer of three hundred
a year, should I be successful; although I do assure you,
Sir, that it was my original intention to reject all recom-
pense, for I am naturally benevolent, and love doing a good
action. Indeed, Sir, if I were alone in the world, I should
scorn any remuneration, for virtue is its own reward; but
a real moralist, your honor, must not forget his duties on
any consideration, and I have a little family to whom my
loss would be an irreparable injury; this, upon my honor,
is my only inducement for taking advantage of your gener-
osity;" and as the moralist ceased, he took out of his
waistcoat pocket a paper, which he handed to me with his
usual bow of deference.
was often employed, but never trusted. By the word us
which I see has excited your curiosity, I merely mean a
body corporate, established furtively, and restricted solely
to exploits on the turf. I think it right to mention this,
because I have the honor to belong to many other societies
to which Dawson could never have been admitted. Well,
Sir, our club was at last broken up, and Dawson was left
to shift for himself. His father was still alive, and the
young hopeful having quarrelled with him, was in the great-
est distress. He came to me with a pitiful story, and a
more pitiful face; so I took compassion upon the poor
devil, and procured him, by dint of great interest, admis-
sion into a knot of good fellows, whom I visited, by the
way, last night. Here I took him under my special care;
and as far as I could, with such a dull-headed dromedary,
taught him some of the most elegant arts of my profession.
However, the ungrateful dog soon stole back to his old
courses, and robbed me of half my share of a booty to
which I had helped him myself. I hate treachery and in-
gratitude, your honor; they are so terrible ungentleman-
like.
"I then lost sight of him, till between two and three
months ago, when he returned to town, and attended our
meetings with Tom Thornton, who had been chosen a mem
ber of the club some months before. Since we had met,
Dawson's father had died, and I thought his flash appear-
ance in town arose from his new inheritance. I was mis-
taken: old Dawson had tied up the property so tightly
that the young one could not scrape enough to pay his
debts; accordingly, before he came to town, he gave up
his life interest in the property to his creditors. However
that be, Master Dawson seemed at the top of Fortune's
wheel. He kept his horses, and sported the set to cham-
pagne and venison; in short, there would have been no end
to his extravagance, had not Thornton sucked him like a
leech.
"It was about that time, that I asked Dawson for a tri-
fle to keep me from jail; for I was ill in bed, and could
not help myself. Will you believe, Sir, that the rascal told
me to go and be d―d, and Thornton said amen? I did
not forget the ingratitude of my protégée, though when I
recovered I appeared entirely to do so. No sooner could
I walk about, than I relieved all my necessities. He is
but a fool who starves, with all London before him.
In
I glanced over it, it was a bond, apparently drawn up
all the legal formalities, pledging myself, in case Job
Jonson, before the expiration of three days, gave that in-
formation which should lead to the detection and punish-proportion as my finances increased, Dawson's visibly de-
ment of the true murderers of Sir John Tyrrell, deceased,
to ensure to the said Job Jonson the yearly annuity of three
hundred pounds.
"It is with much pleasure that I shall sign this paper,"
said I; "but allow me (par parenthèse) to observe, that
since you only accept the annuity for the sake of benefiting
your little family, in case of your death, this annuity, ceas-
ing with your life, will leave your children as pennyless as
at present."
Pardon me, your honor," rejoined Job, not a whit
dausted at the truth of my remark, "I can insure ! "
"I forgot that,” said I, signing and restoring the paper;
"and now to business."
Jonson gravely and carefully looked over the interesting
document I returned to him, and carefully lapping it in
three envelopes, inserted it in a huge red pocket-book,
which he thrust into an innermost pocket in his waist-
coat.
Right, Sir," said he, slowly, "to business. Before I
begin, you must, however, promise me, upon your honor
as a gentleman, the strictest secrecy, as to my communica-
tions."
I readily agreed to this, so far as that secrecy did not
impede my present object; and Job being content with
this condition, resumed.
"You must forgive me, if, in order to arrive at the point
in question, I se; out from one which may seem to you a
little distant."
I nodded my assent, and Job continued.
"I have known Dawson for some years; my acquaint-
ance with him commenced at Newmarket, for I have al-
ways had a slight tendency to the turf. He was a wild,
foolish fellow, easily led into any mischief, but ever the
first to sneak out of it; m short, when he became one of
us, which his extravagance soon compelled him to do, we
considered him as a very serviceable tool, but one, that
while he was quite wicked enough to begin a bad action,
was mucli to weak to go through with it; accordingly, he
|
cayed. With them, decreased all his spirits. He became
pensive and downcast; never joined any of our parties,
and gradually grew quite a useless member of the corpora-
tion. To add to his melancholy, he was one morning pre-
sent at the execution of an unfortunate associate of ours:
this made a deep impression upon him; from that mo-
inent, he became thoroughly moody and despondent. He
was frequently heard talking to himself, could not endure
to be left alone in the dark, and began rapidly to pine
away.
"One night, when he and I were seated together, he
asked me if I never repented of my sins, and then added,
with a groan, that I had never committed the heinous crime
he had. I pressed him to confess, but he would not. How-
ever, I coupled that half avowal with his sudden riches and
the mysterious circumstances of Sir John Tyrrell's death,
and dark suspicions came into my mind. At that time,
and indeed ever since Dawson re-appeared, we were often
in the habit of discussing the notorious murder which then
engrossed public attention; and as Dawson and Thornton
had been witnesses on the inquest, we frequently referred
to them respecting it. Dawson always turned pale, and
avoided the subject: Thornton, on the contrary, brazened
it out with his usual impudence. Dawson's aversion to
the mention of the inurder now came into my remembrance
with double weight to strengthen my suspicions; and, on
conversing with one or two of our comrades, I found that
my doubts were more than shared, and that Dawson had
frequently, when unusually oppressed with his hypochon-
drià, hinted at his committal of some dreadful crime, and
at his unceasing remorse for it.
By degrees, Dawson grew worse and worse, - his
health decayed, he started at a shadow, drank deeply,
and spoke, in his intoxication, words that made the hairs
of our green men stand on end.
"We must not suffer this," said Thornton, whose hardy
effrontery enabled him to lord it over the jolly boys, as if he
were their dimber-damber; "his ravings and humdurgeon
PELHAM, OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
106
will an all our youngsters." And so, under this pre-
tence, had the unhappy man conveyed away to a secret as-
ylum, known only to the chiefs of the gang, and appropria-
ted to the reception of persons who, from the saine weak-
ness as Dawson, were likely to endanger others, or them-
selves. There many a poor wretch has been secretly
immured, and never suffered to revisit the light of heaven.
The moon's minions, as well as the monarch's, must have
their state prisoners, and their state victims.
"Well, Sir, I shall not detain you much longer. Last
night, after your obliging confidence, I repaired to the
meeting; Thornton was there, and very much out of hu-
mor. When our messmates dropped off, and we were
alone at one corner of the room, I began talking to him
carelessly about his accusation of your friend, whom I have
since learned is Sir Reginald Glanville, - an old friend o.
mine too; aye, you may look, Sir, but, I can stake my life
to having picked his pocket one night at the Opera. Thorn-
ton was greatly surprised at my early intelligence of a fact,
hitherto kept so profound a secret; however, I explained
it away by a boast of my skill in acquiring information:
and he then incautiously let out, that he was exceedingly
vexed with himself for the charge he had made against
the prisoner, and very uneasy at the urgent inquiries
set on foot for Dawson. More and more convinced of
his guilt, I quitted the meeting, and went to Dawson's
retreat.
upon
introduce your honor as the parson, and for you to receive
the confession, which, indeed, you might take down ic
writing. This plan, I candidly confess, is no without
great difficulty and some danger; for I have not only to im
Primstone
pose you upon Dawson as a priest, but also
Bess as one of our jolly boys; for I need not tell you that
any real parson might knock a long time at her door before
it would be opened to him. You must, therefore, be as
mum as a mole, unless she cants to you, and your answers
must then be such as I shall dictate, otherwise she may de-
tect you, and should any of the true men be in the house.
we should both come off worse than we went in."
My dear Mr. Job," replied I, "there appears to me
much easier plan than all this; and that is, simply to tell
the Bow-street officers where Dawson may be found, and
I think they would be able to carry him away from the
arms of Mrs. Brimstone Bess without any great diffic 'ty
or danger.
Jonson smiled.
you,
"I should not long enjoy my annuity, your honor, if I
were to set the runners upon our best hive. I should be
Even should
stung to death before the week was out.
you accompany me to-night, will never know where the
spot is situated, nor would you discover it again if you
searched all London, with the whole police at your back.
Besides, Dawson is not the only person in the house for
whom the law is hunting; there are a score of others whom
I have no desire to give up to the gallows, hid among the
odds and ends of the house, as snug as plumbs in a pudding
God forbid that I should betray them, and for nothing too!
No, your honor, the only plan than I can think of is the
one I proposed; if you do not approve of it, and it certain-
ly is open to exception, I must devise some other: but that
may require delay."
"For fear of his escape, Thornton had had him closely
confined to one of the most secret rooms in the house. His
solitude and the darkness of the place, combined with his
remorse, had worked upon a mind, never too strong, almost
to insanity. He was writhing with the most acute and
morbid pangs of conscience that my experience, which has
been pretty ample, ever witnessed. The old hag, who is
the Hecate (you see, Sir, I have had a classical education) No, my good Job," replied I, "I am ready to attend
of the place, was very loth to admit me to him, for Thorn-yor but could we not manage to release Dawson, as wel
ton had bullied her into a great fear of the consequences as take his deposition? his personal evidence is worth all
of disobeying his instructions; but she did not dare to re- the written ones in the world."
sist my orders. Accordingly, I had a long interview with
the unfortunate man; he firmly believes that Thornton in
tends to murder him; and says, that if he could escape
from his dungeon, he would surrender himself up to the
first magistrate he could find.
“I told him that an innocent man had been apprehended
for the crime of which I knew he and Thornton were guilty;
and then taking upon myself the office of a preacher, I ex-
horted him to atone, as far as possible, for his past crime, by
a full and faithful confession that would deliver the inno-
cent and punish the guilty. I held out to him the hope that
his confession might perhaps serve the purpose of king's ev-
idence, and obtain him a pardon for his crime; and I prom-
ised to use my utmost zeal and diligence to promote his es-
cape from his present den.
•
Very true," answered Job, "and if it be possible to
give Bess the slip, we will. However, let us not lose what
we may get, by grasping at what we may not; let us have
the confession first, and we'll try for the release afterwards.
I have another reason for this, Sir, which, if you knew as
much of penitent prigs as I do, you would easily under-
stand. However, it may be explained by the old proverb,
of the devil was sick,' &c. As long as Dawson is
stowed away in a dark hole, and fancies devils in every
corner, he may be very anxious to make confessions, which,
in broad daylight, might not seem to him so desirable.
Darkness and solitude are strange stimulants to the con-
science, and we may as well not lose any advantage they
give us.
"You are an admirable reasoner," cried I, "and I
am impatient to accompany you; at what hour shall it
be?"
"Not much before midnight," answered Jonson, “but
your honor must go back to school and learn lessons before
then. Suppose Bess were to address you thus: 'Well, you
parish bull prig, are you for lushing jackey, or pattering in
the hum box ?5 * I'll be bound you would not know how
to answer."
"He said, in answer, that he did not wish to live; that
he suffered the greatest tortures of mind; and that the only
comfort earth held out to him would be to case his remorse
by a full acknowledgment of his crime, and to hope for fu-
ture mercy by expiating his offence on the scaffold; all
this, and much more, to the same purpose, the hen-hearted
fellow told me with sighs and groans. I would fain have
taken his confession on the spot, and carried it away with
me, but he refused to give it to me, or to any one but a
parson, whose services he implored me to procure him. I
told him, at first, that the thing was impossible; but, mov-
ed by his distress and remorse, I promised, at last, to bring all born ignorant; knowledge is not learned in a day. A
one to-night, who should both administer spiritual comfort few of the most common and necessary words in our St.
to him and receive his deposition. My idea at the moment Giles' Greek, I shall be able to teach you before night; and
was to disguise myself in the dress of the pater core, and I will, beforehand, prepare the old lady for seeing a young
perform the double job; since then I have thought of a bet-hand in the profession. As I must disguise you before we
ter theme.
•
As my character, you see, your honor, is not so highly
prized by the magistrates as it ought to be, any confession
made to me might not be of the same value as if it were
made to any one else, to a gentleman like you, for in-
stance; and moreover, it will not do for me to appear in ev-
dence against any of the fraternity; and for two reasons;
first, because I have taken a solemn oath never to do so;
and, secondly, because I have a very fair chance of joining
Sir John Tyrrell in kingdom come if I do. My present
plan, therefore, if it meets your concurrence, would be to
* A parson, or minister, but generally applied to a priest of
he lower order.
VOL. I.
14
"I am afraid you are right, Mr. Jonson," said I, in a
tone of self-humiliation.
go,
"Never mind, replied the compassionate Job,
we are
and that cannot well be done here, suppose you dine
with me at my lodgings."
"I shall be too happy," said I, not a little surprised at
the offer.
You
"I am in Charlotte-street, Bloomsbury, No.
must ask for me by the name of Captain Douglas," said
Job, with dignity, and we'll dine at five, in order to have
time for your preminary initiation.”
"With all my leart," said I; and Mr. Job Jonson the
rose, and reminding me of my promise of secrecy, took h
departure.
* Well, you parson (nief, are you for drinking gin, or talkız.
in the pulpit.
BULWER'S NOVELS
CHAPTER LXXXI.
Pectus præceptis format amicis.
HORAT.
Est quodam prodire tenus, si non datur ultra.
IBID.
WITH all my love of enterprise and adventure, I cannot
say that I should have particularly chosen the project be-
fore me for my evening's amusement, had I been left solely
to my own will; but Glanville's situation forbade me to
think of self, and so far from shrinking at the danger to
which I was about to be exposed, I looked forward with
the utmost impatience to the hour of rejoining Jonson.
There was yet a long time upon my hands before five
o'clock; and the thought of Ellen left me in no doubt how
it should be passed. I went to Berkeley-square; Lady
Glanville rose eagerly when I entered the drawing-room.
"Have you seen Reginald?" said she,
or do
you
know
where he has gone to?"
I answered, carelessly, that he had left town for a few
days, and, I believed, merely upon a vague excursion for
the benefit of the country air.
"You re-assure us," said Lady Glanville; "we have
been quite alarmed by Seymour's manner. He appeared
so confused when he told us Reginald left town, that I
really thought some accident had happened to him.”
I sat myself by Ellen, who appeared wholly occupied
in the formation of a purse. While I was whispering into
her ear words, which brought a thousand blushes to her
cheek, Lady Glanville interrupted me, by an exclamation
of “ Have you seen the papers to-day, Mr. Pelham ?” and
on my reply in the negative, she pointed to an article in
the Morning Herald, which she said had occupied their
conjectures all the morning; it ran thus:
r
"
"The evening before last, a person of rank and celeb-
rity was privately carried before the Magistrate at
Since then, he has undergone an examination, the nature
of which, as well as the name of the individual, is as yet
kept a profound secret."
I believe that I have so firm a command over my coun.
tenance, that I should not change tint nor muscle, to hear
of the greatest calamity that could happen to me. I did
not therefore betray a single one of the emotions this para-
graph excited within me, but appeared, on the contrary,
as much at a loss as Lady Glanville, and wondered and
guessed with her, till she remembered my present situation
in the family, and left me alone with Ellen.
Why should the tête-à-tête of lovers be so uninteresting
to the world, when there is scarcely a being in it who
has not loved. The expressions of every other feeling
come home to us all, the expressions of love weary and
fatigue us. But the interview of that morning, was far from
resembling those which the maxims of love at that early
period of its existence would assert. I could not give
myself up to happiness which might so soon be disturbed,
and though I veiled my anxiety and coldness from Ellen,
I felt it as a crime to indulge even the appearance of
transport, while Glanville lay alone, and in prison, with
the charges of murder yet uncontroverted, and the chances
of its doom undiminished.
The clock had struck four before I left Ellen's, and with-
out returning to my hotel, I threw myself into a hackney
coach, and drove to Charlotte-street. The worthy Job
received me with his wonted dignity and ease; his lodg-
consisted of a first floor, furnished according to all the
ings
notions of Bloomsbury elegance, viz. new, glaring Brus-
sels carpeting; convex mirrors, with massy gilt frames,
and eagles at the summit; rosewood chairs, with chintz
cushions; bright grates, with a flower-pot, cut out of yel-
low paper, in each; in short, all that especial neatness of
upholstering paraphernalia, which Vincent used not inapt-
iy, to designate by the title of "the tea-chest taste."
son seemed not a little proud of his apartments,
ingly, I complimented him upon their elegance.
Jon-
accord-
Under the rose be it spoken," said he, "the landlady,
who is a widow, believes me to be an officer on half pay,
and thinks I wish to marry her; poor woman, my black
locks and green coat have a witchery that surprises even
me who would be a slovenly thief, when there are such
advantages in being a smart one?"
"Right, Mr. Jonson!" said I; "but shall I own to you
chat am surprised that a gentleman of your talents should
stoop to the lower ars of the profession I always ma
gined that pickpocketing was a part of your business left
only to the plebeian purloiner; now I know, to any cost,
that you do not disdain that manual accomplishment.'
"Your honor speaks like a judge," answered Job:
"the fact is, that I should despise what you rightly desig-
nate the lower arts of the profession,' if I did not value
myself upon giving them a charm, and investing them with
a dignity never bestowed upon them before. To give you
an idea of the superior dexterity with which I manage my
slight of hand, know, that four times I have been in that
shop where you saw me borrow the diamond ring, which
you now remark upon my little finger; and four times have
I brought back some token of my visitations; nay, the
shopman is so far from suspecting me, that he has twice
favored me with the piteous tale of the very losses I myself
brought upon him; and I make no doubt that I shall hear
in a few days, the whole history of the departed diamond,
now in my keeping, coupled with your honor's appearance
and custom. Allow that it would be a pity to suffer pride
to stand in the way of the talents with which Providence
has blessed me; to scorn the little delicacies of art, which
I execute so well, would, in my opinion, be as absurd as
for an epic poet to disdain the composition of a perfect
epigram, or a consummate musician, the melody of a fault-
less song."
of
"Bravo! Mr. Job," said I ; "a truly great man, you
see, can confer honor upon trifles." More I night have
said, but was stopped short by the entrance of the land-
lady, who was a fine, fair, well-dressed, comely woman,
about thirty-nine years and eleven months; or, to speak
less precisely, between thirty and forty. She came to an-
nounce that dinner was served below. We descended, and
found a sumptuous repast of roast beef and fish; this pri-
mary course was succeeded by that great dainty with com-
mon people, - a duck and green peas.
"Upon my word, Mr. Jonson," said I, "you fare like
a prince; your weekly expenditure must be pretty con-
siderable for a single gentleman."
"I don't know," answered Jonson, with an air of lord-
ly indifference,
ly indifference, "I have never paid my good hostess any
coin but compliments, and, in all probability, never shall."
Was there ever a better illustration of Moore's admo-
nition, -
'O, ladies, beware of a gay young knight, &c.'
After dinner, we remounted to the apartments Job em-
phatically called his own; and he then proceeded to initiate
me in those phrases of the noble language of "Flash,"
which might best serve my necessities on the approaching
occasion. The slang part of my Cambridge education had
made me acquainted with some little elementary knowl-
edge, which rendered Jonson's precepts less strange al
abstruse. In this lecture,
In this lecture, "sweet and holy," the hout
passed away till it became time for me to dress. Mr. Jon
son then took me into the penetralia of his bed-room. I
stumbled against an enormous trunk. On hearing the
involuntary anathema this accident conjured up to my lips,
Jonson said, "Ah, Sir!-do oblige me by trying to
move that box."
tr
I did So, but could not stir it an inch.
"Your honor never saw a jewel box so heavy before, I
think," said Jonson, with a smile.
"A jewel box!" I repeated.
"Yes," returned Jonson, "a jewel box, for it is full
When I go away,
of precious stones!
not a little in my
good landlady's books, I shall desire her very impor
tunately, to take the greatest care of my box,' Egad! it
would be a treasure to Mac Adam: he might pound its
flinty contents into a street."
'
With these words, Mr. Jonson unlocked a wardowe in
the room, and produced a full suit of rusty black.
"There!" said he, with an air of satisfaction,
"there this will be your first step to the pulpit."
I doffed my own attire, and with "some natural sighs,'
at the deformity of my approaching metamorphoses, I
slowly inducted myself in the clerical garments; they were
much too wide, and a little too short for me; but Jonson
turned ine round, as if I were his eldest son, breeched for
the first time, and declared with an emphatical oath,
that the clothes fitted me to a hair
My host next opened a tin dressing box, of large dimen
sions, from which he took sundry powders, lotions, and
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
107
paints. Nothing but my extreme friendship for Glanville
could ever have supported me through the operation I then
underwent. My poor complexion, thought I, with tears
in my eyes, it is ruined for ever. To crown all, Jonson
robbed me, by four clips of his scissors, of the luxuriant
locks which, from the pampered indulgence so long accord-
ed to them, might have rebelled against the new dynasty,
which Jonson now elected to the crown. This consisted
of a shaggy, but admirably made wig, of a sandy color.
When I was thus completely attired from head to foot,
Job displayed me to myself before a full length looking-
glass.
Had I gazed at the reflection for ever, I should not have
recognised either my form or visage. I thought my soul
I thought my soul
had undergone a real transmigration, and not carried to its
new body a particle of the original one. What appeared
the most singular was, that I did not seem even to myself
at all a ridiculous or outré figure; so admirably had the
skill of Mr. Jonson been employed. I overwhelmed him
with encomiums, which he took au pied de la lettre. Never,
indeed, was there a man so vain of being a rogue.
"But," said I, "why this disguise? Your friends will,
probably, be well versed enough in the mysteries of meta-
morphosis, to see even through your arts; and, as they have
never beheld me before, it would very little matter if I
went in propriâ personâ.”
True," answered Job, "but you don't reflect that
without disguise you may hereafter be recognised; our
friends walk in Bond-street, as well as your honor; and,
in that case, you might be shot without a second, as the
saying is."
"You have convinced me," said I; "and now, before
we start, let me say one word further respecting our object.
I tell you, fairly, that I think Dawson's written deposition
but a secondary point; and, for this reason, should it not
be supported by any circumstantial or local evidence, here-
after to be ascertained, it may be quite insufficient fully to
acquit Glanville (in spite of all appearances) and crimin-
ate the real murderers. If, therefore, it be possible to carry
off Dawson, after having secured his confession, we must.
I think it right to insist more particularly on this point, as
you appeared to me rather averse to it this morning."
"I say ditto to your honor," returned Job; " and you
may be sure that I shall do all in my power to effect your
object, not only from that love of virtue which is implanted
in my mind, when no stronger inducement leads me astray,
but from the more worldly reminiscence, that the annuity
we have agreed upon is only to begin in case of success,
not merely for well meaning attempts. To say that I have
no objection to the release of Dawson, would be to deceive
your honor : I own that I have; and the objection is, first,
my fear lest he should peach respecting other affairs be-
sides the murder of Sir John Tyrrell; and, secondly, my
scruples as to appearing to interfere with his escape. Both
of these chances expose me to great danger; however, one
does not get three hundred a-year for washing one's hands,
and I must balance the one by the other."
CC
"You are a sensible man, Mr. Job," said I; "and I am
sure you will richly earn, and long enjoy your annuity."
As I said this, the watchman beneath our window called
past eleven," and Jonson, starting up, hastily changed
his own gear for a more simple dress, and throwing over all
a Scotch plaid, gave me a similar one, in which I closely
wrapped myself. We descended the stairs softly, and
Jonson let us not into the street, by the "open sesame" of
key, which he retained about his person.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
Et cantare pares, et respondere parati.
VIRGIL.
As we walked on into Tottenham-court-road, where we
expected to find a hackney-coach, my companion earnestly
and strenuously impressed on my mind, the necessity of
implicitly obeying any instructions or hints he might give
me in the course of our adventure. Remember," said
he, forcibly, "that the least deviation from them, will not
only defeat our object of removing Dawson, but even ex-
pose our lives to the most imminent peril." I faithfully
promised to conform to the minutest tittle of his instruc-
ons.
We came to a stand of coaches. Jonson selected one,
and gave the coachman an order; he took care it should
not reach my ears. During the half-hour we passed in this
vehicle, Job examined and re-examined me in my "cant-
ing catechism," as he termed it. He expressed himself
much pleased with the quickness of my parts, and honored
me with an assurance that in less than three months he
would engage to make me as complete a ruffler as ever
nailed a swell.
To this gratifying compliment I made the best return in
my power.
"You must not suppose," said Jonson, --some minutes
afterwards, "from our use of this language, that our club
consists of the lower order of thieves,- quite the contrary:
we are a knot of gentlemen-adventurers who wear the best
clothes, ride the best hacks, frequent the best gaming-
houses, as well as the genteelest haunts, and sometimes keep
the first company in London. We are united in number:
we have nothing in common with ordinary prigs, and
should my own little private amusements (as you appro-
priately term them) be known in the set, I should have a
very fair chance of being expelled for ungentlemanlike prac-
tices. We rarely condescend to speak flash' to each
other in our ordinary meetings; but we find it necessary,
for many shifts to which fortune sometimes drives us. The
house you are going this night to visit, is a sort of colony
we have established for whatever persons among us are in
danger of blood money. There they sometimes lie con-
cealed for weeks together, and are at last shipped off for
the continent, or enter the world under a new alias.
this refuge of the distressed we also send many of the mess,
who, like Dawson, are troubled with qualms of conscience,
which are likely to endanger the commonwealth; there
they remain, as in an hospital, till death, or a cure; in
short, we put the house, like its inmates, to any purposes
likely to frustrate our enemies and serve ourselves. Old
Brimstone Bess, to whom I shall introduce you, is, as I
before said, the guardian of the place; and the language
that respectable lady chiefly indulges in, is the one into
which
you
have just acquired so good an insight. Partly
in compliment to her, and partly from inclination, the dia-
lect adopted in her house is almost entirely flash;' and
you, therefore, perceive the necessity of appearing not
utterly ignorant of a tongue, which is not only the language
of the country, but one with which no true boy, however
high in his profession, is ever unacquainted.
To
By the time Jonson had finished this speech, the coach
stopped, I looked eagerly out, Jonson observed the
motion: "We have not got half-way yet, your honor,"
said he. We left the coach, which Jonson requested me
to pay, and walked on.
Tell me frankly, Sir," said Job, "do you know where
you are?"
"Not in the least," replied I, looking wistful up a
long, dull, ill-lighted street.
Job rolled his sinister eye towards me with a seat thing
look, and then, turning abruptly to the right, penetrated
into a sort of covered lane, or court, which terminated in
an alley, that brought us suddenly to a stand of three
coaches; one of these Job hailed, - we entered, --- a sa-
cret direction was given, and we drove furiously or, faster
than I should think the crazy body of hackney chariot ever
drove before. I observed, that we had now entered a par
of the town, which was singularly strange to me; the
houses were old, and for the most part of the meanest de
scription; we appeared to me to be threading a labyrinth
of alleys; once, I imagined that I caught, through a sudden
opening, a glimpse of the river, but we passed so rapidly.
that my eye might have deceived me. At length we
stopped the coachman was again dismissed, and I again
walked onwards, under the guidance, and almost at the
mercy of my honest companion.
:
Jonson did not address me, he was silent and absorb
ed, and I had therefore full leisure to consider my presen'
situation. Though (thanks to my physical constitution) 1
am as callous to fear as most men, a few chilling appreben-
sions, certainly flitted across my mind, when I looked
round at the dim and dreary sheds,
houses they were
not, which were on either side of our path; only here
and there, a single lamp shed a sickly light upon the lis
mal and intersecting lanes (though lane is too lofty a word)
through which our footsteps woke a solitary sound. Some
* Rewards for the apprehension of thieves, &c.
108
BULWER'S NOVELS.
times this feeble light was altogether withheld, and I could
scarcely catch even the outline of my companion's muscu-
lar frame. However, he strode on through the darkness,
with the mechanical rapidity of one to whom every stone
is familiar. I listened eagerly for the sound of the watch-
man's voice, in vain, that note was never heard in those
desolate recesses. My ear drank in nothing but the sound
of our own footsteps, or the occasional burst of obscene
and unholy merriment from some half-closed hovel, where
infamy and vice were holding revels. Now and then,
wretched thing in the vilest extreme of want, and loath-
someness, and rags, loitered by the unfrequent lamps, and
interrupted our progress with solicitations, which made
my blood run cold. By degrees even these tokens of life
ceased, the last lamp was entirely shut from our view,
we were in utter darkness.
a game one. Your pulse is like iron; and your hand does
not sway, no, - not so much as to wave a dove's feather;
it would be a burning shame if harm came to so stout a
heart." Job moved on a few steps. "Now, Sir," he
whispered; "remember your flash; do exactly as I may
have occasion to tell you; and be sure to sit away from the
light, should we be in company."
With these words he stopped. I perceived by the touch,
for it was too dark to see, that he was leaning down, ap-
aparently in a listening
parently in a listening attitude; presently, he tapped five
times at what I supposed was a door, though I afterwards
discovered it was the shutter to a window; upon this, a
faint light broke through the crevices of the boards, and a
low voice uttered some sound, which my ear did not catch.
Job replied in the same key, and in words which were per-
fectly unintelligible to me; the light disappeared; Job mov-
ed round, as if turning a corner. I heard the heavy bolts
and bars of a door slowly withdraw; and in a few moments
a harsh voice said, in the thieves' dialect,
"We are near our journey's end now," whispered
Jonson.
At these words a thousand unwelcome reflections forced
themselves voluntarily on my mind: I was about to plunge
into the most secret retreat of men whose long habits of
villany and desperate abandonment, had hardened into a
nature which had scarcely a sympathy with my own, un-
armed and defenceless, I was going to penetrate a conceal-
ment upon which their lives depended; what could I antic-
ipate from their vengeance, but the sure hand and the
deadly knife, which their self-preservation would more
than justify to such lawless reasoners. And who was my
companion? One, who literally gloried in the perfection
of his nefarious practices; and who, if he had stopped
short of the worst enormities, seemed neither to disown the
principle upon which they were committed, nor to balance
for a moment between his interest and his conscience.
Nor did he attempt to conceal from me the danger to
which I was exposed; much as his daring habits of life,
and the good fortune which had attended him, must have
hardened his nerves, even he seemed fully sensible of the
peri he incurred, -a peril certainly considerably less than
that which attended my temerity. Bitterly did I repent, as
these reflections rapidly passed my mind, my negligence
in not providing myself with a single weapon in case of
need; the worst pang of death is the falling without a
struggle.
However, it was no moment for the indulgence of fear,
it was rather one of those eventful periods, which so rarely
occur in the monotony of common life, when our minds are
sounded to their utmost depths: and energies of which we
dreamed not, when at rest in their secret retreats, arise
Like spirits at the summons of the wizard, and bring to the
invoking mind, an unlooked-for and preternatural aid.
Ruffling Job, my prince of prigs, is that you ? are you
come to the ken alone, or do you carry double?”
"Ah, Bess, my covess, strike me blind if my sees don't
tout your bingo muns in spite of the darkmans. Egad, you
carry a bane blink aloft. Come to the ken alone, no, my
blowen; did not I tell you I should bring a pater cove, to
chop up the whiners for Dawson ?
"Stubble it, you ben, you deserve to cly the jerk for
your patter; come in, and be d-d to you.
Upon this invitation, Jonson, seizing me by the arm,
pushed me into the house, and followed. "Go for a glim,
Bess, to light in the parish bull with proper respect. I'll
close the gig of the crib."
At this order delivered in an authoritative tone, the old
woman, mumbling "strange oaths" to herself moved away;
when she was out of hearing, Job whispered,
"Mark, I shall leave the bolts undrawn, the door opens
with a latch, which you press thus, do not forget the
spring; it is easy, but peculiar; should you be forced to run
for it, you will also remember, above all, when you are out
of the door, to turn to the right and go straight forwards.”
The old woman now re-appeared with a light, and Jon-
son ceased, and moved hastily towards her; I followed.
The old woman asked whether the door had been carefully
closed, and Jonson, with an oath at her doubts of such a
matter, answered in the affirmative.
We proceeded onwards, through a long and very narrow
passage, till Bess opened a small door to the left, and in-
troduced us into a large room, which, to my great dismay,
I found already occupied by four men, who were sitting,
half immersed in smoke, by an oak table, with a capacious
bowl of hot liquor before them. At the back ground of this
room, which resembled the kitchen of a public house, was
an enormous skreen, of antique fashion; a low fire burnt
sullenly in the grate, and beside it was one of those high
backed chairs, seen frequently in old houses, and oid pic-
tures. A clock stood in one corner, and in the opposite
nook were a flight of narrow stairs, which led downwards,
There was something too in the disposition of my guide,
which gave me a confidence in him, not warranted by the
occupations of his life; an easy and frank boldness, an in-
genuous vanity of abilities, skilfully, though dishonestly
exerted, which had nothing of the meanness and mystery
of an ordinary villain, and which being equally prominent.
with the rascality they adorned, prevented the attention
from dwelling only upon the darker shades of his charac-probably to a cellar. On a row of shelves, were various
Besides, I had so closely entwined his interest with
my own, that I felt there could be no possible ground eith-
er of suspecting him of any deceit towards ine, or of omit-
ting any art or exertion which could conduce to our mutual
safety, or our common end.
ter.
Forcing myself to dwell solely upon the more encourag-
ng side of the enterprise I had undertaken, we continued
to move on, silent and in darkness, for some minutes lon-
ger,
Jonson then halted.
>
"Are you quite prepared, Sir?" said he, in a whisper;
"" if
your heart fails, in God's name let us turn back: the
least evident terror will be as much as your life is worth.'
My thoughts were upon Sir Reginald and Ellen, as I
replied,
"You have told and convinced me that I may trust in you,
and I have no fears; my present object is one as strong to
me as life.”
"I would we had a glim," rejoined Job, musingly; "I
should like to see your face: but will you give me your
band, Sir?"
I did, and Jonson held it in his own for more than a
minute.
"'Fore heaven, Sir," said he, at last, "I would you
were one of us. You would live like a brave man and die
|
bottles of the different liquors generally in request among
the "flash" gentry, together with an old-fashioned fiddle,
two bridles, and some strange-looking tools, probably of
more use to true boys than honest men.
Brimstone Bess was a woman about the middle size, but
with bones and sinews which would not have disgraced a
prize fighter; a cap, that might have been cleaner, was
rather thrown than put on the back of her head, developing,
to full advantage, the few scanty locks of grizzled ebon
which adorned her countenance. Her eyes large, plack,
and prominent, sparkled with a fire half vivacious, half
vixen. The nasal feature was broad and fungous, and, as
well as the whole of her capacious physiognomy, blushed
with the deepest scarlet: it was evident to see that many a
full bottle of " British compounds" had contributed to the
feeding of that burning and phosphoric illumination, which
was, indeed, "the outward and visible sign of an inward
and spiritual grace."
The expression of the countenance was not wholly bad.
Amidst the deep traces of searing vice and unrestrained
passion; amidst all that was bold, and unfeminine, and
fierce, and crafty, there was a latent look of coarse good
humor, a twinkle of the eye that bespoke a tendency to
mirth and drollery, and an upward curve of the lip, that
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
109
showed, however the human creature might be debased,
it still cherished its grand characteristic, the propensity
to laughter.
The garb of this dame Leonarda was by no means of
that humble nature which one might have supposed. A
gown of crimson silk, flounced and furbelowed to the knees,
was tastefully relieved by a bright yellow shawl; and a pair
of heavy pendants glittered in her ears, which were of the
size proper to receive "the big words" they were in the
habit of hearing. Probably this finery had its origin in the
policy of her guests, who had seen enough of life to know
that age, which tames all other passions, never tames the
passion of dress in a woman's mind.
No sooner did the four revellers set their eyes upon me
than they all rose.
"Zounds, Bess!" cried the tallest of them, "what cull's
this? Is this a bowsing ken for every cove to shove his
trunk in ?
"What ho, my kiddy," cried Job, " don't be glimflashy;
why you'd cry beef on a blater; the cove is a bob cull, and
a pal of my own; and, moreover, is as pretty a Tyburn
blossom as ever was brought up to ride a horse foaled by
an acorn.
Upon this commendatory introduction I was forthwith
surrounded, and one of the four proposed that I should be
immediately elected.”
пу,
This motion, which was probably no gratifying ceremo-
Job negatived with a dictatorial air, and reminded his
comrades that however they might find it convenient to
lower themselves occasionally, yet that they were gentle-
men sharpers, and not vulgar cracksmen and cly-fakers, and
that, therefore, they ought to welcome me with the good
breeding appropriate to their station.
Upon this hint, which was received with mingled laugh-
ter and deference, for Job seemed to be a man of might
among these Philistines, the tallest of the set, who bore the
euphonious appellation of Spider-shanks, politely asked me
if I would blow a cloud with him?” and, upon my as-
sent, for I thought such an occupation would be the best
excuse for silence,- he presented me with a pipe of to-
bacco, to which Dame Brimstone applied a light, and I
soon lent my best endeavours to darken still further the at-
mosphere around us.
the "
Mr. Job Jonson then began artfully to turn the conver-
sation away from me to the elder confederates of his crew;
these were all spoken of under certain singular appellations
which might well baffle impertinent curiosity. The name
of one was "the Gimblet," another "Crack Crib," a third,
Magician," a fourth, " Cherry-colored Jowl." The
tallest of the present company was called (as I before said)
Spider-shanks," and the shortest "Fib Fakescrew;
Job himself was honored by the venerabile nomen of
"Guinea Pig." At last Job explained the cause of my
appearance, viz. his wish to pacify Dawson's conscience
by dressing up one of the pals, whom the sinner could not
recognise, as an "autem bawler," and so obtaining him
the benefit of the clergy without endangering the gang by
his confession. This detail was received with great good
humor, and Job, watching his opportunity, soon after rose,
and, turning to me, said,
"Toddle, iny bob cull. We must track up the dancers
and tout the sinner.
I wanted no other hint to leave my present situation.
"The ruthan cly thee, Guinea Pig, for stashing the lush,"
said Spider-shanks, helping himself out of the bowl, which
was nearly empty.
"Stash the lush!" cried Mrs. Brimstone, "aye, and
toddle off to Rugginus. Why, you would not be boosing
till lightman's in a square crib like mine, as if you were in
a flash panny.
"That's bang up, mort!" cried Fib. "A square crib,
indeed! aye! square as Mr. Newman's court-yard,-ding
boys on three sides, and the crap on the fourth !”
This characteristic witticism was received with great
applause; and Jonson, taking a candlestick from the fair
fingers of the exasperated Mrs. Brimstone, the hand thus
conveniently released, immediately transferred itself to
Fib's checks, with so hearty a concussion, that it almost
brought the rash jester to the ground. Jonson and I lost
not a moment in taking advantage of the confusion this
gentle remonstrance appeared to oc rasion; but instantly
left the room and closed the door.
|
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
'Tis true that we are in great danger :
The greater, therefore, should our courage be.
SHAKSPEARE.
WE proceeded a short way, when we were stopped by
a door; this Job opened, and a narrow staircase, lighted
We ascended,
from above, by a diin lamp, was before us.
and found ourselves in a sort of gallery; here hung another
lamp, beneath which Job opened a closet.
This is the place where Bess generally leaves the
keys," said he, "we shall find them here, I hope."
So saying, Master Job entered, leaving me in the pas-
sage, but soon returned with a disappointed air.
"The old harridan has left them below," said he, "I
must go down for them; your honor will wait here till I
return.'
Suiting the action to the word, honest Job immediately
descended, leaving me alone with my own reflections.
Just opposite to the closet was the door of some apart-
ment; I leaned accidentally against it; it was only a-jar,
and gave way; the ordinary consequence in such acci-
dents, is a certain precipitation from the centre of gravity.
I am not exempt from the general lot; and accordingly
entered the room in a manner entirely contrary to that
which my natural inclination would have prompted me to
adopt. My ear was accosted by a faint voice, which pro-
ceeded from a bed at the opposite corner; it asked, in the
thieves' dialect, and in the feeble accents of bodily weak
ness, who was there? I did not judge it necessary to
make any reply, but was withdrawing as gently as possi-
ble, when my eye rested upon a table at the foot of the
bed, upon which, among two or three miscellaneous articles,
were deposited a brace of pistols, and one of those admi-
rable swords, made according to the modern military re-
gulation, for the united purpose of cut and thrust. The
light which enabled me to discover the contents of the
room, proceeded from a rush-light placed in a grate; this
general symptom of a valetudinarian, together with some
other little odd matters (combined with the weak voice of
the speaker) impressed me with the idea of having in-
truded into the chamber of some sick member of the
crew. Emboldened by this notion, and by perceiving
that the curtains were drawn closely around the bed, so
that the inmate could have optical discernment of nothing
that occurred without, I could not resist taking two soft
steps to the table, and quietly removing a weapon whose
bright face seemed to invite me as a long known and long
tried friend.
This was not, however, done in so noiseless a manner.
but what the voice again addressed me, in a somewhat
louder key, by the appellation of "Brimstone Bess," ask-
ing, with sundry oaths, "What was the matter?" and re-
questing something to drink. I need scarcely say that,
as before, I made no reply, but crept out of the room as
gently as possible, blessing my good fortune for having
thrown into my way a weapon, with the use of which,
above all others, I was best acquainted. Scarcel, had I
regained the passage, before Jonson re-appeared with the
keys; I showed him my treasure (for indeed it was of no
size to conceal.)
"Are you mad, Sir?" said he, "or do you think that the
best way to avoid suspicion, is to walk about with a drs wn
sword in your hand? I would not have Bess see you for
the best diamond I ever borrowed.” With these words
Job took the sword from my reluctant band.
"Where did you get it?" said he.
I explained in a whisper, and Job, re-opening the door
I had so unceremoniously entered, laid the weapon softly
| on a chair that stood within reach. The sick man, whose
senses were of course rendered doubly acute by illness,
once more demanded in a fretful tone, who was there Ì
And Job replied, in the flash language, that Bess had sent
him up to look for her keys, which she imagined she had
left there. The invalid rejoined, by a request to Jonsca
to reach him a draught, and we had to undergo a farther
delay until his petition was complied with; we then
proceeded up the passage, till we came to another flight
of steps, which led to a door: Job opened it, and we
entered a room of no common dimensions.
"This," said he, " is Bees Brimstone's sleeping apart-
ment; whoever goes into the passage that leads not onl
110
BULWER'S NOVELS.
to Dawson's room, but to the several other chambers
occupied by such of the gang as require particular care,
must pass first through this room. You see that bell by the
bedside, I assure you it is no ordinary tintannabulum; it
communicates with every sleeping apartment in the house,
and is only rung in cases of great alarm, when every boy
must look well to himself; there are two more of this
description, one in the room which we have just left, ano-
ther in the one occupied by Spider-Shanks, who is our watch-
dog, and keeps his kennel below. Those steps in the
common room, which seem to lead to a cellar, conduct to
his den. As we shall have to come back through this
room, you see the difficulty of smuggling Dawson, — and if
the old dame rung the alarm, the whole hive would be out
in a moment.”
After this speech, Job left the room, by opening a door
at the opposite end, which showed us a passage, similar in
extent and fashion, to the one we had left below; at the
very extremity of this was the entrance to an apartment at
which Jonson stopped.
"Here," said he, taking from his pocket a small paper
book, and an ink-horn ; here, your honor, take these,
you may want to note the heads of Dawson's confession,
we are now at his door." Job then applied one of the
keys of a tolerably sized bunch to the door, and the next
moment we were in Dawson's apartment.
The room which, though low and narrow, was of a con-
siderable length, was in utter darkness, and the dim and
flickering light Jonson held, only struggled with rather
than penetrated the thick gloom. About the centre of the
room stood the bed, and sitting upright on it, with a wan
and hollow countenance, bent eagerly towards us, was a
meagre, attenuated figure. My recollection of Dawson,
whom, it will be remembered, I had only seen once
before, was extremely faint, but it had impressed me with
the idea of a middle sized and rather athletic man, with
a fair and florid complexion: the creature I now saw, was
totally the reverse of this idea. His cheeks were yellow
and drawn in; his hand which was raised in the act of
holding aside the curtains, was like the talons of a fam-
ished vulture, so thin, so long, so withered was its hue and
texture.
No sooner did the advancing light allow him to see us
distinctly, than he half sprung from the bed, and cried, in
that peculiar tone of joy, which seems to throw off from
the breast a suffocating weight of previous terror and sus-
pense, "Thank God, thank God! it is you at last ;
and
you have brought the clergyman, God bless you, Jonson,
you are a true friend to me."
"Cheer up, Dawson," said Job; "I have smuggled in
this worthy gentleman, who, I have no doubt, will be of.
great comfort to you, but you must be open with him,
and tell all."
“That I will, — that I will,” cried Dawson, with a wild
and vindictive expression of countenance,
"if it be on-
ly to hang him. Here, Jonson, give me your hand, bring
the light nearer, I say, he, the devil, the fiend,
has been here to-day, and threatened to murder me; and I
have listened and listened, all night, and thought I heard
his step along the passage, and up the stairs, and at the
door; but it was nothing, Job, nothing, and you are come
at last, good, kind, worthy Job. Oh! 'tis so horrible to
be left in the dark, and not sleep, and in this large, large
room, which looks like eternity at night, and one does
fancy such sights, Job, such horrid, horrid sights. Fee!
my wristband, Jonson, and here at my back, you would
think they had been pouring water over me, but it is only
the cold sweat. Oh! it is a fearful thing to have a bad
conscience, Job; but you won't leave me till day light,
that's a dear, good Job!"
now,
"For shame, Dawson," said Jonson; "pluck up, and
and
be a man; you are like a baby frightened by its nurse.
Here's the clergyman come to heal your poor wounded con-
science, will
hear him now?
you
"Yes," said Dawson; " yes! but go out of the room,
I can't tell all if you're here; go, Job! but you're not an-
gry with me, I don't mean to offend you.
>>
"Angry! said Job; "Lord help the poor fellow ! no,
to be sure not. I'll stay outside the door till you've done
with the clergyman; but make haste, for the night's almost
over, and it's much as the parson's life is worth to stay
here after daybreak."
"I will make haste," said the guilty man, tremulously;
|
"but, Job, where are you going, what are you doing
leave the light! here, Job, by the bedside."
'
Job did as he was desired, and quitted the room, leaving
the door not so firmly shut, but that he might hear, if the
penitent spoke aloud, every particular of his confession.
I seated myself on the side of the bed, and taking the
skeleton hand of the unhappy man, spoke to him in the
most consolatory and comforting words I could summon to
my assistance. He seemed greatly soothed by my efforts,
and at last implored me to let him join me in prayer. I
knelt down, and my lips readily found words for that lan-
guage, which, whatever be the formula of our faith, seems
in all emotions which come home to our hearts, the most
natural method of expressing them. It is here, by the bed
of sickness, or remorse, that the ministers of God have
their real power! it is here, that their office is indeed a di-
vine and unearthly mission; and that in breathing balm and
comfort, in healing the broken heart, in raising the crush-
ed and degraded spirit, they are the voice, and oracle of
the FATHER, who made us in benevolence, and will judge
of us in mercy! I rose, and after a short pause, Dawson,
who expressed himself impatient of the confort of con
fession, thus began,
"I have no time, Sir, to speak of the earlier part of my
life. I passed it upon the race-course, and at the gaming-
table, all that was, I know, very wrong, and wicked; but
I was a wild, idle boy, and eager for anything like enter-
prise or mischief. Well, Sir, it is now more than three
years ago since I first met one Tom Thornton; it was at a
boxing match.
boxing match. Tom was chosen chairman at a sort of club
of the farmers and yeomen; and being a lively, amusing
fellow, and accustomed to the company of gentlemen, was
a great favorite with all of us. He was very civil to me,
and I was quite pleased with his notice. I did not, how-
ever, see much of him then, nor for more than two years
afterwards; but some months ago we met again. I was in
very poor circumstances, so was he, and this made us closer
friends than we might otherwise have been. He lived a
great deal at the gambling-houses, and fancied he had dis-
covered a certain method of winning* at hazard. So, when-
ever he could not find a gentleman whom he could cheat
with false dice, tricks at cards, &c., he would go into any
hell to try his infallible game. I did not, however, per-
ceive, that he made a good livelihood by it; and though
sometimes, either by that method or some other, he had large
sums of money in his possession, yet they were spent as
soon as acquired. The fact was, that he was not a man
who could ever grow rich; he was extremely extravagant
in all things, loved women and drinking, and was always
striving to get into the society of people above him. In or-
der to do this, he affected great carelessness of money; and
if, at a race or cock-fight, any real gentlemen would go
home with him, he would insist on treating them to the very
best of every thing.
Thus, Sir, he was always poor, and at his wit's end
for means to supply his extravagance. He introduced me
to three or four gentlemen, as he called them, but whom I
have since found to be markers, sharpers, and blacklegs;
and this set soon dissipated the little honesty my own hab-
its of life had left me.
its of life had left me. They never spoke of things by their
right names; and, therefore, those things never seemed so
bad as they really were: to swindle a gentleman did not
sound a crime, when it was called macing a swell,'
transportation a punishment, when it was termed, with a
laugh, lagging a cove.
laugh, lagging a cove.' Thus insensibly, my ideas of right
and wrong, always obscure, became perfectly confused: and
the habit of treating all crimes as subjects of jest in famil
iar conversation, soon made me regard them as matters of
very trifling importance.
C
· nor
Well, Sir, at Newmarket races, this Spring meeting
Thornton and I were on the look out. He had come down
to stay, during the races, at a house I had just inherited
from my father, but which was rather an expense to me than
an advantage; especially as my wife, who was an inn-keep-
er's daughter, was very careless and extravagant. It so hap-
pened that we were both taken in by a jockey, whom we
had bribed very largely, and were losers to a very consider-
able amount. Among other people, I lost to a Sir John
Tyrrell. I expressed my vexation to Thornton, who told
me not to mind it, but to tell Sir John that I would pay him
if he came to the town; and that he was quite sure we
* A very common delusion, both among sharpers and their
prey
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
111
could win enough, by his certain game at hazard, to pay off
my debt. He was so very urgent, that I allowed myself to
be persuaded; though Thornton has since told me, that his
only motive was, to prevent Sir John's going to the Mar-
quess
of Chester's (where he was invited) with my Lord's
party; and so, to have an opportunity of accomplishing the
crime he then meditated.
*
Accordingly, as Thornton desired, I asked Sir John
Tyrrell to come with me to Newmarket.
He did so. I
left him, joined Thornton, and went to the gambling-house.
Here we were engaged in Thornton's sure game, when Sir
John entered. I went up and apologized for not paying, and
said I would pay him in three months. However, Sir John
was very angry, and treated me with such rudeness, that
the whole table remarked it. When he was gone, I told
Thornton how hurt and indignant I was at Sir John's treat-
ment. He incensed me still more, exaggerated Sir
John's conduct, said that I had suffered the grossest in-
sult, and, at last, put me into such a passion, that I said,
that if I was a gentleman, I would fight Sir John Tyrrell
across a table.
• When Thornton saw I was so moved, he took me out
of the room, and carried me to an inn. Here he ordered
dinner, and several bottles of wine. I never could bear
much drink: he knew this, and artfully plied me with wine
till I scarce 7 knew what I did or said. He then talked
much of our destitute situation; affected to put himself out
of the question; said he was a single man, and could easi-
and could easi-
ly make shift upon a potato; but that I was encumbered
with a wife and child, whom I could not suffer to starve.
He then said that Sir John Tyrrell had publicly disgraced
me; that I should be blown upon the course; that no gen-
tleman would bet with me again, and a great deal more of
the same sort. Seeing what an effect he had produced
upon me, he then told me that he had seen Sir Jolm receive
a large sum of money, that would more than pay our debts,
and set us up like gentlemen: and, at last, he proposed to
me to rob him. Intoxicated as I was, I was somewhat
startled at this proposition. However, the slang terms in
which Thornton disguised the greatness and danger of the
offence, very much diminished both in my eyes, so at
length I consented.
"We went to Sir John's inn, and learned that he had
just set out; accordingly, we mounted our horses and rode
after him. The night had already closed in.
After we
had got some distance from the main road, into a lane,
which led both to my house and to Chester Park, for the
former was on the direct way to my Lord's, we passed a
man on horseback. I only observed that he was wrapped
in a cloak, -but Thornton said, directly we had pas-
sed him, "I know that man well; he has been following
Tyrrell all day; and though he attempts to screen himself,
I have penetrated his disguise; he is Tyrrell's mortal
enemy."
"Should the worst come to the worst," added Thornton,
(words which I did not at that moment understand,) we
can make him bear the blame.”
"When we had got some way further, we came up to
Tyrrell and a gentleman, whom, to our great dismay, we
found that Sir John had joined, the gentleman's horse
had met with an accident, and Thornton dismounted to of-
fer his assistance. He assured the gentleman, who prov-
ed afterwards to be a Mr. Pelham, that the horse was quite
lame, and that he would scarcely be able to get it home:
and he then proposed to Sir John to accompany us, and
said that we would put him in the right road; this offer Sir
John rejected very haughtily, and we rode on.
"It's all up with us,' said I; since he has joined an-
other person
"Not at all,' replied Thornton; for I managed to give
the horse a sly poke with my knife; and if I know any
thing of Sir John Tyrrell, he is much too impatient a
spark to crawl along, a snail's pace, with any companion,
especially with this heavy shower coming on.
|
|
a prating tongue.' At these words I was greatly alarmed,
and said, that if he meditated murder as well as robbery,
I would have nothing further to do with it. Thornton
laughed, and told me not to be a fool. While we were
thus debating, a heavy shower came on; we rode hastily to
a large tree, by the side of a pond, which though bare
and withered, was the nearest shelter the country afforded,
and was only a very short distance from my house. I
wished to go home, but Thornton would not let me, and
as I was always in the habit of yielding, I stood with him,
though very reluctantly, under the tree.
"Presently, we heard the trampling of a horse.
"It is he,it is he,' cried Thornton, with a savage
tone of exultation, and alone! Be ready,
make a rush, I will be the one to bid him to deliver,
you
hold your tongue.'
'
we must
"The clouds and rain had so overcast the night, that
although it was not perfectly dark, it was sufficiently ob
scure to screen our countenances. Just as Tyrrell ap
proached, Thornton dashed forward, and cried, in a feign-
ed voice, Stand, on your peril! I followed, and we
were now both by Sir John's side.
<
J
"He attempted to push by us, - but Thornton seized
him by the arm, there was a stout struggle, in which,
as yet, I had no share, at last, Tyrrell got loose from
Thornton, and I seized him, - he set spurs to his horse,
which was a very spirited and strong animal, it reared
upwards, and very nearly brought me and my horse to the
ground, - at that instant, Thornton struck the unfortunate
man a violent blow across the head with the butt end of
his heavy whip,-Sir John's hat had fallen before in the
struggle, and the blow was so stunning that it felled him
upon the spot.
upon the spot. Thornton dismounted, and made me do
the same.
the same. There is no time to lose,' said he; let us
drag him from the roadside and rifle him.' We accord-
ingly carried him (he was still senseless) to the side of
the pond before mentioned, while we were searching for
the money Thornton spoke of, the storm ceased, and the
moon broke out, we were detained some moments by
the accident of Tyrrell's having transferred his pocket-
book from the pocket Thornton had seen him put it in on
the race ground to an inner one.
M
•
"We had just discovered and seized the pocket-book,
when Sir John awoke from his swoon and his eyes opened
upon Thornton, who was still bending over him, and look-
ing at the contents of the book to see that all was right;
the moonlight left Tyrrell in no doubt as to our persons;
and struggling hard to get up, he cried, 'I know you! I
know you! you shall hang for this. No sooner had he
uttered this imprudence, than it was all over with him.
We will see that, Sir John,' said Thornton, setting his
knee upon Tyrrell's chest, and nailing him down. While
thus employed, he told me to feel in his coat-pocket for a
case-knife.
"For God's sake!' cried Tyrrell, with a tone of ago-
nizing terror which haunts me still, spare my life!
"It is too late,' said Thornton, deliberately, and tak-
ing the knife from my hands, he plunged it into Sir John's
side, and as the blade was too short to reach his vitals,
Thornton drew it backwards and forwards to widen the
wound. Tyrrell was a strong man, and still continued to
struggle and call out for mercy, Thornton drew out the
knife, Tyrrell seized it by the blade, and his fingers
were cut through before Thornton could snatch it from his
grasp; the wretched gentleman then saw all hope was over;
he uttered one loud, sharp cry of despair. Thorntou put
one hand to his mouth, and with the other gashed his
throat from ear to ear.
"You have done for him, and for us now,' said I, as
Thornton slowly rose from the body. No,' replied he,
look, he still moves ; ' and sure enough he did, but it was
in the last agouy. However, Thornton, to make all sure,
plunged the knife again into his body; the blade came in-
to contact with a bone, and snapped in two; so great was
But,' said I, for I now began to recover from my in- the violence of the blow, that, instead of remaining in the
toxication, and to be sensible of the nature of our under- flesh, the broken piece fell upon the ground among the long
under-flesh,
taking, the moon is up, and unless this shower conceals fern and grass.
it, Sir John will recognise us; so you see, even if he leaves
the gentleman, it will be no use, and we had much better
make haste home and go to bed.'
"Upon this, Thornton cursed me for a faint-hearted
ellow, and said that the cloud would effectually hide the
or, if not, he added
'I know how to silence
moon,
"While we were employed in searching for it, Thorn-
ton, whose cars were much sharper than mine, caught the
sound of a horse. Mount! mount!' he cried, and let
us be off.' We sprung upon our horses, and rode away
as fast as we could. I wished to go home, as it was so
near at hand; but Thornton insisted on making to an old
112
BULWER'S NOVELS.
shed, ab et a quarter of a mile across the fields; thither,
therefore, we went."
"Stop," said I, "what did Thornton do with the re-
maining part of the case knife? did he throw it away, or
carry it with him?”
"He took it with him," answered Dawson, "for his
name was engraved on a silver plate, on the handle; and
he was therefore afraid of throwing it into the pond, as I
advised, lest at any time it should be discovered. Close
by the shed, there is a plantation of young firs of some ex-
tent. Thornton and I entered, and he dug a hole with
the broken blade of the knife, and buried it, covering up
the hole again with the earth."
"Describe the place," said I. Dawson paused, and
Dawson paused, and
seemed to recollect; I was on the very tenterhooks of sus-
pense, for I saw with one glance all the importance of his
reply.
After some moments, he shook his head; "I cannot de-
scribe the place," said he, "for the wood is so thick: yet
I know the exact spot so well, that were I in any part of
the plantation, I could point it out immediately.
I told him to pause again, and recollect himself; and at
all events, to try to indicate the place. However, his
account was so confused and perplexed, that I was forced
to give up the point in despair, and he continued.
After we had done this, Thornton told me to hold the
horses, and said he would go alone, to spy whether he
might return; accordingly he did so, and brought back
word, in about half an hour, that he had crept cautiously
along till in sight of the place, and then throwing himself
down on his face by the ridge of a bank, had observed a
man, (whom he was sure was the person with a cloak we
had passed, and whom, he said, was Sir Reginald Glan-
ville,) mount his horse on the very spot of the murder, and
ride off, while another person (Mr. Pelham) appeared,
and also discovered the fatal place.
"There is no doubt now,' said he, that we shall have
the hue-and-cry upon us.
However, if you are staunch
and stout-hearted, no possible danger can come to us; for
you may leave me alone to throw the whole guilt upon Sir
Reginald Glanville.'
and gloom, and often spoke to l'hornton so farcibly of lus
remorse, and so earnestly of his gawing and restless de-
sire to appease his mind, by surrendering himself to justice,
that the fears of that villain grew, at length, so thor
oughly alarmed, as to procue his removal to his present
abode.
It was here that his real punishment commenced; closely
confined to his apartment, at the remotest corner of the
house, his solitude was never broken but by the short and
hurried visits of his female jailer, and (worse even than
loneliness) the occasional invasions of Thornton. There
appeared to be in that abandoned wretch what, for the
honor of human nature, is but rarely found, viz. a love
of sin, not for its objects, but itself. With a malignity,
doubly fiendish from its inutility, he forbade Dawson the
only indulgence he craved, -a light, during the dark
hours; and not only insulted him for his cowardice, but
even added to his terrors, by threats of effectually si
lencing them.
These fears had so wildly worked upon the man's mind,
that prison itself appeared to him an elysium to the hell he
endured; and when his confession was ended, I said, "If
you can be freed from this place, would you repeat before
a magistrate all that you have now told me ?"?
He started up in delight at the very thought; in truth,
besides his remorse, and that inward and impelling voice
which, in all the annals of murder, seems to urge the
criminal onwards to the last expiation of his guilt,--be-
sides these, there mingled, in his mind, a sentiment of
bitter, yet cowardly, vengeance, against his inhuman ac-
complice; and perhaps he found consolation for his own
fate, in the hope of wreaking upon
fate, in the hope of wreaking upon Thornton's head some-
what of the tortures that ruffian had inflicted upon him.
I had taken down in my book the heads of the confes
sion, and I now hastened to Jonson, who, waiting without
the door, had (as I had anticipated) beard al!.
"You sec," said I, "that, however satisfactory this re-
cital has been, it contains no secondary or innate proofs to
confirm it; the only evidence with which it could furnish
us, would be the remnant of the broken knife, engraved
with Thornton's name; but you have heard from Dawson's
account,
account, how impossible it would be in an extensive wood,
for any one to discover the spot but himself. You will agree
with me, therefore, that we inust not leave this house with-
out Dawson."
Job changed color slightly.
"I see as clearly as you do," said he, "that it will be
necessary for my annuity, and your friend's full acquittal,
to procure Dawson's personal evidence, but it is late now;
the men may be still drinking below; Bess may be still
awake, and stirring; even if she sleeps, how could we
pass her room without disturbing her? I own that I do
not sce a chance of effecting his escape to-night, without
incurring the most probable peril of having our throats
cut.
Leave it, therefore, to me to procure his release as
soon as possible,--probably to-morrow, and let us now
quietly retire, content with what we have yet got."
Hitherto I had implicitly obeyed Job; it was now my
turn to command. "Look you," said I, calmly, but sternly,
I have come into this house under your guidance solely,
to procure the evidence of that man; the evidence he has
as yet given, may not be worth a straw; and, since I have
ventured among the knives of your associates, it shall be
for some purpose. I tell you fairly that, whether you
befriend or betray me, I will either leave these walls with
Dawson, or remain in them a corpse."
We then mounted, and rode home. We stole up
stairs by the back way,-Thornton's linen and hands were
stained with blood. The former he took off, locked up
carefully, and burnt the first opportunity; the latter he
washed; and that the water might not lead to detection,
drank it. We then appeared as if nothing had occurred,
and learned that Mr. Pelham had been to the house; but
as, very fortunately, our out-buildings had been lately rob-
bed by some idle people, the wife and servants had refus-
ed to admit him. I was thrown into great agitation,
and was extremely frightened. However, as Mr. Pelham
had left a message that we were to go to the pond, Thorn-
ton insisted upon our repairing there to avoid suspicion."
Dawson then proceeded to say, that, on their return, as
he was still exceedingly nervous, Thornton insisted on his
going to bed. When our party from Lord Chester's came to
the house, Thornton went into Dawson's room, and made
him swallow a large tumbler cf brandy; * this intoxi-
cated him so as to make him less sensible to his dangerous"
situation. Afterwards, when the picture was found, which
circumstance Thornton communicated to him, along with
that of the threatening letter sent by Glanville to the de-
ceased, which was discovered in Tyrrell's pocket-book,
Dawson recovered courage; and justice being entirely
thrown on a wrong scent, he managed to pass his exami-
nation without suspicion. He then went to town with
Thornton, and conantly attended "the club" to which
Jonson had before introduced him; at first, among his
new comrades, and while the novel flush of the money,
he had so fearfully acquired, lasted, he partially succeeded
in stifling his remorse. But the success of crime is too
contrary to nature to continue long; his poor wife whom,
in spite of her extravagant, and his dissolute habits, he
seemed really to love, fell ill, and died; on her death-bed
she revealed the suspicions she had formed of his crine,
and said, that those suspicions had preyed upon, and final-
ly destroyed her health; this awoke him from the guilty
torpor of his conscience. His share of the money, too, the
greater part of which Thornton had bullied out of him,
was gone.
He fell, as Job had said, into despondency
A common practice among thieves, who fear the weak
derves of their accomplices.
You are a bold blade, Sir," said Jouson, who seemed
other to respect than resent the determination of my tone,
"and we will see what can be done: wait here, your
honor, while I go down to see if the boys are gone to
bed, and the coast is clear.'
Job descended, and I re-entered Dawson's room.
When
I told him that we were resolved, if possible, to effect his
escape, nothing could exceed his transport and gratitude;
this was, indeed, expressed in so mean and servile a man-
ner, mixed with so many petty threats of vengeance against
Thornton that I could scarcely conceal my disgust.
Jonson returned, and beckoned me out of the room.
CC
They are all in bed, Sir," said he, "Bess as well as
the rest; indeed, the old girl has lushed so well at the
bingo, that she sleeps as if her next morrow was the day
of judgment. have, also, seen that the street door is still
unbarred, so that, upon the whole, we have, perhaps, as
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
113
good a chance to-night as we may ever have again. All,
my fear is about that cowardly lubber. I have left both
Bess's doors wide open, so we have nothing to do but to
creep through; as for me, I am an old file, and could steal
my way through a sick man's room, like a sunbeam through
a keyhole."
"Well," said I, in the same strain, "I am no elepnant,
and my dancing master used to tell me I might tread on a
butterfly's wing without brushing off a tint: poor Coulon!
he little thought of the use his lessons would be to me
hereafter ! - so let us be quick, Master Job."
"Stop," said Jonson ; "I have yet a ceremony to per-
form with our caged bird. I must put a fresh gag on his
mouth; for though, if he escapes, I must leave England,
perhaps, for ever, for fear of the jolly boys, and, therefore,
care not what he blabs about me; yet there are a few fine
fellows among
the club whom I would not have hurt for the
Indies; so I shall make Master Dawson take our last oath,
the devil himself would not break that, I think! Your
honor will stay outside the door, for we can have no wit-
ness while it is administered.
Job then entered; I stood without -in a few minutes
I heard Dawson's voice in the accents of supplication.
Soon after Job returned, "The craven dog won't take the
oath," said he, "and may my right hand rot above ground
But when
before it shall turn key for him unless he does." But when
Dawson saw that Job had left the room, and withdrawn
the light, the conscience-stricken coward came to the door,
and implored Job to return. "Will you swear then?"
said Jonson; "I will, I will,"
"I will, I will," was the answer.
Job then reëntered, - minutes passed away, -Job re-
appeared, and Dawson was dressed, and clinging hold of
him.
"All's right," said he to me, with a satisfied air.
The oath had been taken, what it was I know not,-
but it was never broken.*
Dawson and Job went first, I followed, -we passed
the passage, and came to the chamber of the sleeping Mrs.
Brimstone. Job leaned eagerly forward to listen, before we
entered ; he took hold of Dawson's arm, and beckoning
me to follow, stole, with a step that a blind mole would not
have heard, across the room. Carefully did the practised
thief veil the candle he carried, with his hand, as he now
began to pass by the bed. I saw that Dawson trembled
like a leaf, and the palpitation of his limbs made his step
audible and heavy. Just as they had half way passed the
bed, I turned my look on Brimstone Bess, and observed,
with a shuddering thrill, her eyes slowly open, and fix upon
the forms of my companions. Dawson's gaze had been
bent in the same direction, and when he met the full, glassy
stare of the Beldame's eyes, he uttered a faint scream.
This completed our danger; had it not been for that ex-
clamation, Bess might, in the uncertain vision of drowsi-
ness, have passed over the third person, and fancied it was
only myself and Jonson, in our way from Dawson's apart-
ment; but no sooner had her ear caught the sound, than
she started up, and sat erect on her bed, gazing at us in
mingled wrath and astonishment.
That was a fearful moment, -we stood rivetted to the
ɛpot! “Oh, my kiddies," cried Bess, at last finding speech,
you are in Queer-street, I trow! Plant your stumps,
Master Guinea Pig; you are going to stall off the Daw's
baby in prime twig, eh? But Bess stags you, my cove!
Bess stags you.
Jonson looked irresolute for one instant; but the next
he had decided. Run, run," cried he, "for your lives,"
and he and Dawson (to whom fear did indeed lend wings)
were out of the room in an instant. I lost no time in fol-
lowing their example; but the vigilant and incensed hag
was too quick for me; she pulled violently the bell, on
which she had already placed her hand: the alarm rang
like an echo in a cavern; below,- around, far,— near,
from wall to wall, from chamber to chamber, the sound
seemed multiplied and repeated! and in the same breath-
ing point of time, she sprang from her bed, and seized me
just as I had reached the door.
"On, on,” cried Jonson's voice to Dawson, as they had
already gained the passage, and left the whole room, and
the staircase beyond, in utter darkness.
With a firm, muscular, nervous gripe, which almost
* Those conversant with the annals of Newgate, will know
how religiously the oaths of these fearful Freemasonries are
kept.
15
VOL. I.
|
showed a masculine strength, the hag clung to my throat
and breast; behind, among some of the numerous rooms
in the passage we had left, I heard sounds, which told too
plainly how rapidly the alarm had spread. A door opened,
steps approached, my fate seemed fixed; but despair
gave me energy it was no time for the ceremonials duc
to the beau sexe. I dashed Bess to the ground, tore mysel.
from her relaxing grasp, and fled down the steps with all
the precipitation the darkness would allow. I gained the
passage, at the far end of which hung the lamp, now weak
and waning in its socket; which, it will be remembered,
burned close by the sick man's chamber that I had so un-
intentionally entered. A thought flashed upon my mind,
and lent me new nerves and fresh speed; I flew along the
passage, guided by the dying light. The staircase I had
left, shook with the footsteps of my pursuers. I was a
I burst it open, seized the
the door of the sick thief,
sword as it lay within reach on the chair, where Jonson
had placed it, and feeling, at the touch of the familiar
weapon, as if the might of ten men had been transferred
to my single arm, I bounded down the stairs before me,
passed the door at the bottom, which Dawson had fortu-
nately left open,- flung it back almost upon the face of my
advancing enemies, and found myself in the long passage
which led to the street-door, in safety, but in the thickest
darkness. A light flashed from a door to the left ; the
darkness.
door was that of the "Common Room" which we had
first entered; it opened, and Spider-shanks, with one of his
comrades, looked forth; the former holding a light. I
darted by them, and guided by their lamp, fled along the
passage, and reached the door. Imagine my dismay!
when, either through accident, or by the desire of my
fugitive companions to impede pursuit, I found it unex-
pectedly closed.
The two villains had now come up to me, close at thei
heels were two more, probably my pursuers, from the
upper apartments. Providentially the passage was, (as
I before said,) extremely narrow, and as long as no fire-
arms were used, nor a general rush resorted to, I had
little doubt of being able to keep the ruffians at bay, until
I had hit upon the method of springing the latch, and so
winning my escape from the house.
While my left hand was employed in feeling the latch,
I made such good use of my right, as to keep my antago-
nists at a safe distance. The one who was nearest to me,
was Fib Fakescrew; he was armed with a weapon ex-
actly similar to my own. The whole passage rung with
oaths and threats," Crash the cull,- down with him,-
down with him before he dubs the jigger. Tip him the
degen, Fib, fake him through and through; if he pikes,
we shall all be scragged.
>>
Hitherto, in the confusion, I had not been able to recall
Job's instructions in opening the latch; at last I remem
bered; and pressed the screw,-the latch rose,-I opened
the door; but not wide enough to escape through the aper.
ture.
The ruffians saw my escape at hand." Rush the
b- cove! rush him!" cried the loud voice of one be-
hind; and at the word, Fib was thrown forwards upon
the extended edge of my blade; scarcely with an effort
of my own arm, the sword entered his bosom, and he fell
at my feet bathed in blood: the motion which the men
thought would prove my destruction, became my salva-
tion; staggered by the fall of their companion they gave
way: I seized advantage of the momentary confusion
threw open the door, and, mindful of Job's admonition,
turned to the right, and fled onwards, with a rapidity which
baffled and mocked pursuit.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
Ille viam secat ad naves, sociosque revisit.
VIRGIL.
THE day had already dawned, but all was still and
silent; my footsteps smote the solitary pavement with a
strange and unanswered sound. Nevertheless, though all
pursuit had long ceased, I still continued to run on mechani-
cally, till, faint and breathless, I was forced into pausing.
I looked round, but could recognise nothing familiar in the
narrow and filthy streets; even the numes of them were to
me like an unknown language. After a brief rest I renew
ed my wanderings, and at length came to an alley, called
1
114
R'S NOVELS.
BUL
Kiver Lane; the name did not deceive me, but brought me,
after a short walk, to the Thames, there, to my inexpres-sponge.'
sible joy, I discovered a solitary boatman, and transported
myself forthwith to the Whitehall-stairs.
Never, I ween, did a gay gallant, in the decaying part
of the season, arrive at those stairs for the sweet purpose
of accompanying his own mistress, or another's wife, to
green Richmond, or sunny Hampton, with more eager and
animated delight than I felt at rejecting the arm of the
rough boatman, and leaping on the well known stones.
hastened to that stand of "jarvies " which had often been
the hope and shelter of belated member of St. Stephen's,
or bewetted fugitive from the Opera. I startled a sleeping
coachman, flung myself into his vehicle, and descended at
Mivart's.
I
The drowsy porter surveyed, and told me to be gone; I
had forgotten my strange attire. "Pooh, my friend," said
I, " may not Mr. Pelham go to a masquerade as well as
his betters?" My voice and words undeceived my Cer-
berus, and I was admitted; I hastened to bed, and no
sooner had I laid my head on my pillow, than I fell fast
asleep. It must be confessed, that I had deserved "tired
Nature's sweet restorer.”
I had not been above a couple of hours in the land of
dreams, when I was awakened by some one grasping my
arm; the events of the past night were so fresh in my me-
mory, that I sprung up, as if the knife were at my throat,
my eyes opened upon the peaceful countenance of Mr. Job
Jonson.
"Thank heaven, Sir, you are safe! I had but a very
faint hope of finding you here when I came.”
Why," said I, rubbing my eyes, "it is very true that
I am safe, honest Job: but, I believe, I have few thanks to
give you for a circumstance so peculiarly agreeable to
myself. It would have saved me much trouble, and your
worthy friend, Mr. Fib Fakescrew, some pain, if you had
left the door open instead of shutting me up with your club,
as you are pleased to call it."
"Very true, Sir," said Job, " and I am extremely sorry
at the accident; it was Dawson who shut the door, through
utter unconsciousness, though I told him especially not to
do it, the poor dog did not know whether he was on his
head or his heels."
"You have got him safe," said I quickly.
Aye, trust me for that, your honor. I have locked
him up at home, while I came here to look for you."
"We will lose no time in transferring him to safer cus-
tody," said I, leaping out of bed; "but be off to
Street directly."
"Slow and sure, Sir," answered Jonson. "It is for you
to do whatever you please, but my part of the business is
over. I shall sleep at Dover to-night, and breakfast at
Calais to-morrow. Perhaps it will not be very inconve-
nient to your honor to furnish me with my first quarter's
annuity in advance, and to see that the rest is duly paid
into Lafitte's, at Paris, for the use of Captain Douglas.
Where I shall live hereafter is at present uncertain; but I
dare say there will be few corners except old England and
new England, in which I shall not make merry on your
nonor's bounty."
!
"Pooh my good fellow," rejoined I, " never desert a
country to which your talents do such credit; stay here,
and reform on your annuity. If ever I can accomplish any
own wishes, I will consult yours still farther; for I shall
always think of your services with gratitude, though you
did shut the door in my face.”
"No, Sir," replied Job, “life is a blessing I would fain
enjoy a few years longer; and, at present, my sojourn in
England would put it wɔfully in danger of ‘club law.'
Besides, I begin to think that a good character is a very
agreeable thing, when not oo troublesome: and, as I have
none left in England, I may as well make the experiment
abroad. If your honor will call at the magistrate's, and
take a warrant and an officer, for the purpose of ridding me
of my charge, at the very instant I see my responsibility at
an end, I will have the honor of bidding you adieu."
Well, as you please," said I. "Curse your scoundrel's
cosmetics! How the deuce am I ever to regain my natural
complexion? Look ye, sirrah! you have painted me with
a long wrinkle on the left side of my mouth, big enough to
engulph all the beauty I ever had. Why, water seems to
bave no effect upon it!"
"To be sure not, Sir," said Job, calmly.—"I should be
but a poor dauber, if my paints washed off with a wet
"Grant me patience," cried I, in a real panic;
"how
in the name of heaven, are they to wash off? Am I, be-
fore I have reached my twenty-third year, to look like a
methodist parson on the wrong side of forty, you rascal !"
"The latter question, your honor can best answer,"
returned Job. "With regard to the former, I have an
unguent here, if you will suffer me to apply it, which will
remove all other colors than those which nature has
bestowed upon you."
With that, Job produced a small box; and, after a brief
submission to his skill, I had the ineffable joy of beholding
myself restored to my original state. Nevertheless, my
delight was somewhat checked with the loss of my ring-
lets: I thanked heaven, however, that the damage had
been sustained after Ellen's acceptation of my addresses.
A lover confined to one, should not be too destructive, for
fear of the consequences to the remainder of the femal
world: compassion is ever due to the fair sex.
My toilet being concluded, Jonson and I repaired to the
magistrate's. He waited at the corner of the street, while
I entered the house
of
“'T were vain to tell what shook the holy man,
Who looked not lovingly, at that divan."
Having summoned to my aid the redoubted Mr.——————,
mulberry-cheeked recollection, we entered a hackney-
coach, and drove to Jonson's lodgings, Job mounting guard
on the box.
>
"I think, Sir," said Mr. looking up at the man of
two virtues," that I have had the pleasure of seeing that
gentlenian before."
"Very likely," said I, "he is a young man greatly about
town."
When we had safely lodged Dawson (who seemed more
collected and even more courageous, than I had expected)
in the coach, Job beckoned me into a little parlour. I
signed him a draught on my bankers for one hundred
pounds, though at that time it was like letting the last
drop from my veins, and faithfully promised, should Daw-
son's evidence procure the desired end, (of which, indeed,
there was now no doubt,) that the annuity should be regu-
ularly paid, as he desired. We then took an affectionate
farewell of each other.
M
"Adieu, Sir!" said Job, "I depart into a new world,
that of honest men!"
"If so," said I, "adieu, indeed!
shall never meet again!
We returned to
for on this earth we
Street. As I was descending
"Con-
from the coach, a female, wrapped from head to foot in a
cloak, came eagerly up to me, and seized me by the arm.
"For God's sake," said she, in a low, hurried voice,
come aside, and speak to me for a single moment.
signing Dawson to the sole charge of the officer, I did as I
was desired. When we had got some paces down the
street, the female stopped. Though she held her veil close-
ly drawn over her face, her voice and air were not to be
mistaken; I knew her at once. "Glanville," said she,
with great agitation, "Sir Reginald Glanville! tell me, is
he in real danger?" She stopped short, she could say
no more.
"I trust not!" said I, appearing not to recognise the
speaker.
"I I trust not!" she repeated; "is that all?" And then
the passionate feelings of her sex overcoming every other
consideration, she seized me by the hand, and said,—
"Oh, Mr. Pelham, for mercy's sake, tell me is he in the
power of that villain Thornton ? you need disguise noth-
ing from me, I know all the fatal history.'
59
"Compose yourself, dear, dear Lady Roseville," said I,
soothingly; "for it is in vain any longer to affect not to
know you. Glanville is safe, I have brought with me a
witness whose testimony must release him."
"God bless you, God bless you!" said Lady Roseville,
and she burst into tears; but she dried them directly, and
recovering some portion of that dignity which never long
forsakes a woman of virtuous and educated mind, she re-
sumed, proudly, yet bitterly, "It is no ordinary motive,
no motive which you might reasonably impute to me, that
has brought me here. Sir Reginald Glanville can never be
any thing more to me than a friend, but of all friends,
the most known and valued. I learned from his servant of
his disappearance; and my acquaintance with his secret
1
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN.
115
ner.
hutory enabled me to account for it in the most fearful man-
In short, I, I,—but explanations are idle now;
you will never say that you have seen me here, Mr. Pel-
ham; you will endeavour even to forget it, farewell."
Lady Roseville, then drawing her cloak closely round
her, left me with a fleet and light step, and turning the cor-
aer of the street, disappeared.
I returned to my charge, I demanded an immediate in-
terview with the magistrate. "I have come," said I,
I then
"to redeem my pledge, and acquit the innocent."
briefly related my adventures, only concealing (according to
my promise) all description of my help-mate, Job: and
prepared the worthy magistrate for the confession and tes-
That unhappy man had just conclu-
timony of Dawson.
ded his narration, when an officer entered, and whispered
the magistrate that Thornton was in waiting.
“Admit him," said Mr.
aloud. Thornton en-
tered with his usual easy and swaggering air of effrontery;
but no sooner did he set his eyes upon Dawson, than a
deadly and withering change passed over his countenance.
Dawson could not bridle the cowardly petulance of his
spite, "They know all, Thornton!" said he, with a
said he, with a
look of triumph. The villain turned slowly from him to
us, muttering something we could not hear. He saw upon
my face, upon the magistrate's, that his doom was sealed;
his desperation gave him presence of mind, and he made a
sudden rush to the door; the officers in waiting seized him.
Why should I detail the rest of the scene? He was that
day fully committed for trial, and Sir Reginald Glanville
honorably released, and unhesitatingly acquitted.
CHAPTER LXXXV.
Un hymen qu'on souhaite
Entre les gens comme nous est chose bientôt faite.
Je te veux; me veux-tu de même ?
MOLIERE.
Mourn you for him! let him be regarded
As the most nobie corse that ever herald
Did follow to his urn.
SHAKSPEARE.
-
THE main interest of my adventures, if, indeed, I may
fatter myself that they ever contained any, is now over;
the mystery is explained, the innocent acquitted, and the
guilty condemned.
Moreover, all obstacles between the
marriage of the unworthy hero, with the peerless heroine,
being removed, it would be but an idle prolixity to linger
over the preliminary details of an orthodox and customary
courtship. Nor is it for me to dilate upon the exaggerated
expressions of gratitude, in which the affectionate heart of
Glanville found vent for my fortunate exertions on his
behalf. He was not willing that any praise to which I
migh, he entitled for them, should be lost. He narrated to
Lady Glanville and Ellen my adventures with the com-
rades of the worthy Job; froin the lips of the mother, and
the eyes of the dear sister, came my sweetest addition to
the good fortune which had made me the instrument of
Glanville's safety and acquittal. I was not condemned to
a long protraction of that time, which, if it be justly termed
the happiest of our lives, we, (viz. all true lovers,) through
that perversity common to human nature, most ardently wish
to terminate.
On that day month which saw Glanville's release, my
bridals were appointed. Reginald was even more eager
than myself in pressing for an early day: firmly persuaded
that his end was rapidly approaching, his most prevailing
desire was to witness our union. This wish, and the inte-
rest he took in our happiness, gave him an energy and ani-
mation which impressed us with the deepest hopes for his
ultimate recovery; and the fatal disease to which he was a
prey, nursed the fondness of our hearts by the bloom of
cheek, and brightness of eye, with which it veiled its des-
olating and gathering progress.
From the eventful day on which I had seen Lady Rose-
ville in Street, we had not met. She had shut herself
up in her splendid home, and the newspapers teemed with
regret, at the reported illness and certain seclusion of one,
whose fêtes and gayeties had furnished them with their
brightest pages. The only one admitted to her was Ellen.
To her, she had for some time made no secret of her attach-
ment. and of her the daily news of Sir Reginald's health
M
was ascertained. Several times, when at a late hour, I
left Glanville's apartments, I passed the figure of a woman,
closely muffled, and apparently watching before his win-
dows, which, owing to the advance of summer, were
never closed, to catch, perhaps, a view of his room, or a
passing glimpse of his emaciated and fading figure. If that
sad and lonely vigil was kept by her whom I suspect, deep
indeed, and mighty, was the love, which could so humble
the heart, and possess the spirit, of the haughty and high-
born Countess of Roseville.
I turn to a very different personage in this veritable his-
toire. My father and mother were absent, at Lady H.'s,
when my marriage was fixed: to both of them I wrote for
their approbation of my choice. From Lady Frances I
received the answer which I subjoin:
"MY DEAREST SON,
"Your father desires me to add his congratulations to
mine, upon the selection you have made. I shall hasten to
London, to be present at the ceremony. Although you must
not be offended with me, if I say, that with your person,
accomplishments, birth, and (above all) high ton, you might
have chosen among the loftiest, and wealthiest families in
the country, yet I am by no means displeased or disappoint-
ed with your future wife, to say nothing of the antiquity of
her name.
in the reign of Henry II.) It is a great step to future dis-
tinction to marry a beauty, especially one so celebrated as
Miss Glanville, perhaps it is among the surest ways to
the cabinet. The forty thousand pounds which you say
Miss Glanville is to receive, make, to be sure, but a slen-
der income; though when added to your own, it would have
been a great addition to the Glenmorris property, if your
uncle, I have no patience with him, had not married
again.
(The Glanvilles intermarried with the Pelhams
"However, you will lose no time in getting into the
House, - at all events, the capital will ensure your return
for a borough, and maintain you comfortably, till you are in
the adininistration; when of course it matters very little
what your fortune may be, tradesmen will be too happy
to have your name in their books; be sure, therefore, that
the money is not tied up. Miss Glanville must see that her
own interest, as well as yours, is concerned in your having
the unfettered disposal of a fortune, which if restricted, you
would find it impossible to live upon. Pray, how is Sir
Reginald Glanville? Is his cough as bad as ever? He
has no entailed property, I think?
"Will you order Stonor to have the house ready for us
on Friday, when I shall return home in time for dinner?
Let me again congratulate you, most sincerely, on your
choice. I always thought you had more common sense, as
well as genius, than any young man I ever knew you
have shown it in this important step. Domestic happiness,
my dearest Henry, ought to be peculiarly sought for by
every Englishman, however elevated his station ; and
when I reflect upon Miss Glanville's qualifications, and her
renommée as a belle celebrée, I have no doubt of your pos-
sessing the felicity you deserve. But be sure that the for-
tune is not settled away from you; poor Sir Reginald is
not (I believe) at all covetous or worldly, and will not
therefore insist upon the point.
"God bless you, and grant you every happiness.
"Ever, my dear Henry,
"Your very affectionate Mother,
"F. FELHAM."
"P. S. I think it will be better to give out that Miss
Glanville has eighty thousand pounds. Be
Be sure, therefore,
that you do not contradict me.
>>
The days, the weeks flew away. Ah, happy days!
yet, I do not regret while I recall you! He that loves
much, fears even in his best founded hopes. What were
the anxious longings for a treasure, in my view only, not
in my possession, -to the deep joy of finding it for ever
my own!
Appl
The day arrived, I was yet at my toilet, and Bedos in
the greatest confusion, (poor fellow, he was as happy as
myself,) when a letter was brought to me stamped with
the foreign post-mark. It was from the exemplary Job
Jonson; and though I did not even open it on that day,
yet it shall be more favored by the reader, — viz. if he
will not pass over, without reading, the following effusion,-
116
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"HONORED SIR,
"Rue des Moulins, No. Paris.
of
“I arrived in Paris safely, and reading in the English
papers the full success of our enterprise, as well as in the
Morning Post of the -th, your approaching marriage
with Miss Glanville, I cannot refrain from the liberty of
congratulating you upon both, as well as of reminding you
of the exact day on which the first quarter of my annuity
will be paid, it is the
; for, I presume,
your honor kindly made me a present of the draft for one
hundred pounds, in order to pay my travelling expenses.
"I find that the boys are greatly incensed against me;
but as Dawson was too much bound by his oath, to betray
a tittle against them, I trust I shall, ultimately, pacify the
club, and return to England. A true patriot, Sir, never
loves to leave his native country. Even were I compelled
to visit Van Diemen's land, the ties of birth-place would
be so strong as to induce me to seize the first opportunity
of returning. I am not, your honor, very fond of the
French, they are an idle, frivolous, penurious, poor na-
tion. Only think, Sir, the other day I saw a gentleman
of the most noble air secrete something at a cafe, which I
could not clearly discern; as he wrapped it carefully in
paper, before he placed it in his pocket, I judged that it
was a silver cream ewer, at least; accordingly, I followed
him out, and from pure curiosity, I do assure your hon-
or, it was from no other motive, I transferred this pur-
loined treasure to my own pocket. You will imagine, Sir,
the interest with which I hastened to a lonely spot in the
Tuilleries, and carefully taking out the little packet, un-
folded paper by paper, till I came, yes, Sir, till I came
to five lumps of sugar! Oh, the French are a mean peo-
ple, - a very mean people, — I hope I shall soon be able
to return to England. Meanwhile, I am going into Hol-
land, to see how those rich burghers spend their time and
their money. I suppose poor Dawson, as well as the ras-
cal Thornton, will be hung before you receive this, — they
deserve it richly, it is such fellows who disgrace the pro-
fession. He is but a very poor bungler who is forced to
cut throats as well as pockets. And now, your honor,
wishing you all happiness with
your lady,
"I beg to remain,
"Your very obedient humble Servant,
-
وو
"FERDINAND DOUGLAS, &c. &c.'
Struck with the joyous countenance of my honest valet,
as I took my gloves and hat from his hand, I could not
help wishing to bestow upon him a similar blessing to that
I was about to possess. Bedos," said I," Bedos, my
good fellow, you left your wife to come to me; you shall
not suffer by your fidelity: send for her, - we will find
room for her in our future establishment."
CC
The smiling face of the Frenchman underwent a rapid
change. “Mai foi,” said he in his own tongue;
"Mon-
sieur is too good. An excess of happiness hardens the
heart; and so, for fear of forgetting my gratitude to Prov-
idence, I will, with Monsieur's permission, suffer my
adored wife to remain where she is."
After so pious a reply, I should have been worse than
wicked had I pressed the matter any farther.
I found all ready at Berkeley-square. Lady Glanville
is one of those good persons, who think a marriage out of
church is no marriage at all; to church, therefore, we
went. Although Sir Reginald was now so reduced that
he could scarcely support the least fatigue, he insisted on
giving Ellen away. He was that morning, and had been,
for the last two or three days, considerably better, and our
happiness seemed to grow less selfish in our increasing
hope of his recovery.
When we returned from church, our intention was to
set off immediately to Hall, a seat which I had hired
for our reception. On reëntering the house, Glanville
called me aside, I followed his infirm and tremulous steps
into a private apartment.
-
"Pelham," said he, "we shall never meet again! no
matter, you are now happy, and I shall shortly be so.
But there is one office I have yet to request from your
friendship; when I am dead, let me be buried by her side,
and let one tombstone cover both.”
I pressed his hand, and with tears in my eyes, made
him the promise he required.
"It is enough," said he ; "I have no farther business
with life. od bless you, my friend, my brother; do
not let a thought of me cloud your happiness."
|
He rose, and we turned to quit the room; Glanville was
leaning on my arm; when we had moved a few paces to-
wards the door, he stopped abruptly. Imagining that the
pause proceeded from pain or debility, I turned my eyes
upon his countenance, -a fearful and convulsive change
was rapidly passing over it, his eyes stared wildly upon
vacancy.
"Merciful God, — is it, can it be?" he said, in a low
inward tone.
inward tone. At that moment, I solemnly declare, wheth-
er from my sympathy with his feelings, or from soine more
mysterious and undefinable cause, my whole frame shud-
dered from limb to limb.
thing; but I felt, as it were, within me some awful and
I saw nothing, I heard no-
ghostly presence, which had power to curdle my blood
into ice, and cramp my sinews into impotence; it was as
if some preternatural and shadowy object darkened across
the mirror of my soul, as if, without the medium of the
corporeal senses, a spirit spake to, and was answered by,
a spirit.
Mag
The moment was over. I felt Glanvi.e's hand relax its
grasp upon my arm, he fell upon the floor, -
-I raised
him,-a smile of ineffable serenity and peace was upon
his lips; his face was as the face of an angel, but the spirit
had passed away!
CHAPTER LXXXVI.
Now haveth good day, good men all,
Haveth good day, young and old;
Haveth good day, both great and small,
And graunt merci a thousand fold !
Gif ever I might full fain I wold,
Don ought that were unto your leve
Christ keep you out of cares cold,
For now 't is time to take my leave.
Old Song.
SEVERAL months have now elapsed since my marriage.
ing forward with calmness, rather than impatience, to
I am living in the country, among my books, and look-
the time which shall again bring me before the world.
Marriage with me is not that sepulchre of all human hope
and energy which it often is with others. I am not more
partial to my arm chair, nor more averse to shaving, than
of yore. I do not bound my prospects to the dinner-hour,
nor my projects to "migrations from the blue bed to the
brown." Matrimony found me ambitious; it has not
cured me of the passion: but it has concentrated what
was scattered, and determined what was vague. If I am
less anxious than formerly for the reputation to be acquired
in society, I am more eager for honor in the world ; and
instead of amusing my enemies, and the saloon, I trust yet
to be useful to my friends and mankind.
Whether this is a hope, altogether vain and idle; whether
I have, in the self-conceit common to all men, peculiarly
prominent in myself, overrated both the power and the in-
tegrity of my mind, (for the one is bootless without the
other,) neither I nor the world can yet tell.
"Time,"
says one of the fathers, "is the only touchstone which dis-
tinguishes the prophet from the boaster.”
Meanwhile, gentle reader, during the two years which
I purpose devoting to solitude and study, I shall not be so
occupied with my fields and folios, as to render me un-
courteous to thee. If ever thou hast known me in the city,
I give thee a hearty invitation to come and visit me in the
country. I promise thee, that my wines and viands shall
not disgrace the companion of Guloseton: nor my conver-
sation be much duller than my book. I will compliment
thee on thy horses, thou shalt congratulate me upon my
wife. Over old wine we will talk over new events; and
if we flag at the latter, why, we will make ourselves
amends with the former. In short, if thou art neither
very silly nor very wise, it shall be thine own fault if we
are not excellent friends.
I feel that it would be but poor courtesy in me, after
having kept company with Lord Vincent, through the tedi-
ous journey of two volumes, to dismiss him now withou
one word of valediction. May he, in the political course
he has adopted, find all the admiration his talent: deserve;
and if ever we meet as foes, let our heaviest weapon be a
quotation, and our bitterest vengeance a jest.
Lord Guloseton regularly corresponds with me, and his
last letter contained a promise to visit me in the course of
PELHAM; OR, ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN
1.
dhe month in order to recover his appetite (which has been
much relaxed of late) by the country air.
My uncle wrote to me, three weeks since, announcing
the death of the infant Lady Glenmorris had brought him.
Sincerely do I wish that his loss may be supplied. I have
already sufficient fortune for my wants, and sufficient hope
for my desires.
Thornton died as he had lived, the reprobate and the
ruffian. “Pooh,” said he, in his quaint brutality, to the
worthy clergyman, who attended his last moments with
more zeal than success; "Pooh, what's the difference
between gospel and go-spell? we agree like a bell and
its clapper, you 're prating while I'm hanging."
Dawson died in prison, penitent and in peace. Coward-
ice, which spoils the honest man, often ameliorates the
knave.
-
From Lord Dawton I have received a letter, requesting
me to accept a borough, (in his gift,) just vacated. It is a
pity that generosity, such a prodigal to those who do not
want it, should often be such a niggard to those who do.
I need not specify my answer. One may as well be free
as dependent, when one can afford it; and I hope yet to
Leach Lord Dawton, that to forgive the minister is not to
forget the affront. Meanwhile, I am content to bury my
self in my retreat with my mute teachers of logic and le-
gislature, in order, hereafter, to justify his lordship's good
opinion of my senatorial abilities. Farewell, Brutus, we
shall meet at Philippi!
It is some months since Lady Roseville left England; the
last news we received of her, informed us, that she was
living at Sienna, in utter seclusion, and very infirm
health.
"The day drags thro', thougn morms keep out the sun,
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on."
Poor Lady Glanville! the mother of one so beautiful, so
gifted, and so lost. What can I say of her which "you,
and
and you,
you,
-"all who are parents, cannot feel,
a thousand times more acutely, in those recesses of the
heart too deep for words or tears. There are yet many
hours in which I find the sister of ane departed in grief,
that even her husband cannot consone; and I—I -my
friend, my brother, have I forgotten thee in death? I lay
down the pen, I turn from my employment, tny dog is at
my feet, and looking at me, as if conscious of my thoughts,
with an eye almost as tearful as my own.
But it is not thus that I will part from my reader; our
greeting was not in sorrow, neither shall be our adieus.
For thee, who hast gone with me through the motley course
of my confessions, I would fain trust that I have some-
times hinted at thy instruction when only appearing to
strive for thy amusement. But on this I will not dwell;
for the moral insisted upon often loses its effect; and all
that I will venture to hope is, that I have opened to thee
one true, and not utterly hackneyed, page, in the various
and mighty volume of mankind. In this busy and restless
world I have not been a vague speculator, nor an idle
actor. While all around me were vigilant, I have not
laid me down to sleep, -even for the luxury of a poet's
dream. Like the schoolboy, I have considered study, as
study, but action as delight.
Nevertheless, whatever I have seen, or heard, or felt,
has been treasured in my memory, and brooded over by
my thoughts. I now place the result before you,
"Sicut meus est mos,
Nescio quid meditans nugarum; totus in illis.”
Whatever society whether in a higher or lower grade
I have portrayed; my sketches have been taken rather
as a witness than a copyist; for I have never shunned that
circle, nor that individual, which presented life in a fresh
view, or man in a new relation. It is right, however, that
I should add, that as I have not wished to be an individual
satirist, rather than a general observer, I have occasion-
ally, in the subordinate characters (such as Russelton and
Gordon) taken only the outline from truth, and filled up
the colors at my leisure and
my will.
With regard to myself I have been more candid. I have
not only shown non parca manu - my faults, but (grant
that this is a much rarer exposure) my foibles; and, in my
anxiety for your entertainment, I have not grudged_you
the pleasure of a laugh, —even at my own expense. For-
give me if I have not wept over a blighted spirit," nor
boasted of a " British heart;" and allow that, a man, who,
in these days of alternate Werters and Worthies, is nei-
ther the one nor the other, is, at least, a novelty in print,
though, I fear, common enough in life.
rr
And now, my kind reader, having remembered the pro-
verb, and in saying one word to thee, having said two for
myself, I will no longer detain thee. Whatever thou may-
est think of me and my thousand faults, both as an author,
and a man, believe me, it is with a sincere and affectionate
wish for the accomplishment of my parting words, that I
bid thee-farewell
THE END.
}
*
........
THE DISOWNED.
Corb.-I disclaim in him!
Apoc. 1st.-But for what cause?
VOLPONE, ACT 4, Sczna S
DEDICATION.
TO
WILLIAM LYTTON BULWER, Esq.
OF
HEYDON HALL, NORFOLK.
I DEDICATE to you that work, completed and publish- | your ambition a ready opening and an honorable career
ed, some part of which, when in manuscript, and but rudely May it not be long before the hostages you have given us
sketched, you flattered me by approving. In it there are in private life shall be redeemed in public; and the talents
many faults, which I myself lament; there are many others which are now only ornaments to yourself be ripened into
which, in escaping my observation, will meet your own: but utility to the world. In that hope how many are included!
the Eastern proverb tells us that a bad cause is safer than a and in wishing your path to tend to the happiness of others,
good; for in the latter we trust to justice, in the former have I not wished you, not only the noblest, but the short-
we bribe the judge: and, in presenting to you these vol-
est road to your own?
ames, I know well that Criticism, however austere, is but
a corrupt arbiter when tempted by Affection. Of all writ-
ings, perhaps, a dedication is the dullest. let me, in some
measure, redeem the dulness of this by the sanctity of good
wishes. An ancient name, and an inheritance that places
you amidst that great landed aristocracy which exerts over
the interests of this country so influential a sway, offer to
In other years, when the work which I inscribe to you
may be forgotten by every one else, these lines will preserve
it fresh in unabated interest to you. Nor will you hereafter
judge of me less charitably in the capacity of the man, be-
cause in that of the author I have asked you to pardon
many errors and much deficiency for the sake of some
affection.
Woodcote,
Nav. Slk, 18?!
}
Von. I
16
PREFACE
TO
THE SECOND EDITION OF THE DISOWNED.
SOME objections have been made to "The Disowned,"
which I may as well take advantage of the opportunity now
afforded me to notice. In judging a work, criticism is gen-
erally bound to look first to the author's design; and if the
design be good upon the whole, not to censure too strongly
those faults from which, in parts, its very nature would
scarcely allow it to be free. My design, when I wrote this
book, was not to detail a mere series of events in the his-
tory of one individual or of another,— it was to personify
certain dispositions influential upon conduct, and to trace,
through vanity, through ambition, through pride, through
selfishness, torougn philanthropy, through addiction to sen-
sual, through addiction to mental enjoyments, —through
the dark windings of vice, which is ignorance, through
the broad course of virtue, which is wisdom, the various
channels in which the grand principles of human conduct
pour their secret but unceasing tide. This design is exhib-
ited, sometimes in action, sometimes in reflection; and it
is more or less veiled in proportion to the importance of the
characters, and the danger of incurring the error (common
to most metaphysical writers of fiction) of sinking the hu-
man and physical traits of the individual by too elaborate
a portraiture of those more immaterial and mental, and
so creating, not creatures of flesh and blood, but thinking
automata and reasoning machines.
I have deemed it necessary to make this explana-
tion, partly because, by stating what was my design, I
best get rid of objections made to any design erroneous-
ly imputed to me, — partly because it may be prudent to
apprize the reader that it is rather to the development
of character than to the conduct of a story, that he is,
in these volumes, to look for interest or entertain-
ment.
Against the distinct separation maintained between the
two plots in this novel, until, by one of the refined and al-
most imperceptible casualities in human life, the hero of
the one becomes the innocent cause of the catastrophe of
the other, much has been said. It appeared to me, how-
ever, that in the creation and the disunion of these two
plots, there were advantages more than counterbalancing
the objections, and compensating, by utility, for a deviation
from custom. How far I was right or erroneous in my
judgment, the reader upon hearing my motive, must decide.
In the picture of human nature which this work is intended
to exhibit, I thought it would be both a curious and a new
plan to make two marked divisions: human nature as we
see it in ordinary life, and human nature in its rarer attri-
butes, and upon a less level scale. The illustration of each
of these divisions is the origin of the two plots. Clarence
Linden is the hero of one, Algernon Mordaunt of the other.
The characters which, for the most part, either hero en-
counters, are in keeping with himself: those persons, for
instance, with whom the events of Linden's life are con-
nected, are chiefly of the mould of which Nature makes
London March 24th, 1835.
frequent use.* The few who appear prominently in Mor-
daunt's history are of a less common clay. Now if I was
right in believing it worth while to exhibit the great pan-
orama of life in these two points of view, it is clear that
the two plots by which it is so presented should not have
been combined more closely than they are. Had they been
blended into a single story, not only the design for which
they were formed, and which consisted especially in keeping
them distinct from each other, would have been wholly lost,
but whatever value the delineation of the characters them-
selves might possess would have been considerably impaired:
and while one order of beings would have seemed stilted
and unnatural, the other would have appeared common-
place and trite. That by this separation the mere interest
of story is sometimes interrupted, I allow, and I foresaw
that it would be so. But even had the progress and de-
nouement of a tale been inore immediately my object than
in this work they have been, might I not ask, if interrup-
tion, although in the most interesting parts of a novel, is
not rather to be sought for than shunned ?- and whether
Johnson is not right when he says, that "Fiction cannot
move so much but that the attention may be easily trans
ferred,' that "the disturbance of one man may be the re-
lief of another," that "different authors have different
habitudes," and that " upon the whole, all pleasure con-
sists, in variety ?"
One other objection against "The Disowned" I must
suffer to remain unanswered, because I subscribe to its
justice; that objection is, the too frequent recurrence of
grave remark. Perhaps, however, had "Pelham " been
considered less light, "The Disowned" would not have
been found so serious, for the introduction of reflectio
makes, after all, but a small portion of the book. and
while, for those to where reflection is not tedious, that
portion may have the attraction of thoughts less hackneyed
than, in works of fiction, thoughts generally are, I am
not sure that the idle are wearied by a greater number
of pages than, in all works, they are accustomed to skip.
For the rest, there are many faults in "The Disowned,"
which publication has brought more glaringly before me,—
some inseparable from inexperience, some from adherence
to a plan which, perhaps, I have been led to overvalue.
These faults I may have been unable to shun in this
work; let me hope to atone for them in another. In the
meanwhile, I console myself with the belief that, if it
be sometimes true that we learn wisdom from the follies
of others, much more often is it true that our own errors
are the best guides to future good, and our own failures
the surest instruments from which to shape out a reasonable
hope of our ultimate success.
* It is true that some of the characters peculiar to the course
of Linden's adventures are uncommon, as Talbot, Cole, War-
ner; but they are so by the union of certain qualities, not by
the qualities themselves, which are common and mediocre. On
the contrary, the two characters prominently brought into ac-
tion with Mordaunt (Crauford and Wolfe) are composed of
qualities rendered rare by their extremes. Thus, if the beings
of the former history are eccentric, they are eccentric upon
another and a far less elevated scale than those of the latter.
ON THE DIFFERENT KINDS OF
PROSE FICTION,
WITH SOME APOLOGY FOR THE FICTIONS OF THE AUTHOR.
– but an individuality produced by certain passions, ví
purely tragic, or certain humors, if purely comic, ope-
rating upon the thoughts and feelings of some character
itself uncommon and original. To say that this man loves
and that man is jealous, that this lady is gentle and
that lady is fierce, is not to individualize dramatically. In
the drama the actors must describe themselves,—the Author
cannot write beneath his portraitures - "This is a lion.'
But, by the power of language, by the conduct of story,
by the art in arranging incidents, a romance of wonderful
merit may be produced, with but very little deep analysis
of character, and very little individuality in its distinc-
tions. Mrs. Radcliffe produced many such romances.
In the romances of the Miss Porters there appears to
me to be considerably more of dramatic individuality and
of mental portraiture than in those of Mrs. Radcliffe.
The character of Ripperda, that of the Duke of Wharton,
that of Don Sebastian, and the beautiful sketch of
his bride, are, to my judgment, far superior to the Sche-
donis and Vivaldis of Mrs. Radcliffe. But, then, in the
eloquence of diction, — in the art of plot,
in the ma-
PROSE fiction may be divided into two principal classes,
the one narrative (or epic) fiction,—the other dramatic.
The first is of more ancient date than the last: the
romances of Fenelon and Cervantes, the novels of Field-
ing, Smollet, and Le Sage, are essentially narrative;
they but ill adapt themselves to the stage, and every
attempt to reduce them into the dramatic shape has been
singularly unsuccessful. The old Greek romances, with
the master-piece of Apuleius, (their chief ornament,) are
also of the narrative kind ; so are the French tales of
"Cassandra" and "Clelia," so inordinately tedious;
and the English fiction, beautiful despite its prolixity, of
the poetical "Arcadia.”
"Arcadia." Horace Walpole's
Horace Walpole's "Castle of
Otranto," and Mrs. Radcliffe's romances, were the first
as far as I am aware, which trespassed visibly upon the
boundaries of the dramatic fiction. The intricate plots,
the striking situations, the elaborate scene-painting, the
constant appeals to effect of these eminent writers, espe-
cially the latter;—their general avoidance of episode,—and
their artful conduct of events towards one picturesque and
inevitable catastrophe, are qualities that markedly apper-
tain to the drama; and, but for one striking deficiency,chinery of romance — the Miss Porters unquestionably fall
presently to be noted, their romances are easily capable short of their gifted predecessor.
of conversion into tragedies. The Miss Porters, espe-
cially Jane, continued this school of romance, without
perhaps the same mastery of plot and conduct, and with
less eloquence of diction; but, on the other hand, with
considerable success towards supplying the deficiency I
have hinted at. That deficiency is in character: the
situations of Walpole and Radcliffe are often dramatic;
not so the characters of the agents. There is but little
that belongs to the true varieties — the contrasted qual-
ities - the flesh and blood of human nature, in the
beings created by those prose poets. Manfred* himself is
indeed, perhaps, a natural as well as a striking character;
his weakness relieves his crimes, his heart is bared to
us, and in its struggles between good and evil we acknowl-
edge the elements of the drama. But his companions are
merely wearers of garments and talkers of words;- they
are not made subservient to the display whether of humor
or emotion, they belong to a pageant, and are rather
of pasteboard than of flesh. In Mrs. Radcliffe the same
deficiency is yet more apparent;-the springs which move
character, the distinctions which make one man differ
from another, which separate lover from lover, or villain
from villain, Romeo from Hamlet, Richard from Mac-
Deth, that consummate and mystic individuality which
belongs to the drama, setting its mark, peculiar and indel-
ible, on each creation; hese were not qualities of the
genius, remarkable as it was, which has given to unques-
ionable fame the "Romance of the Forest" and the
Mysteries of Udolpho." The real essence of the drama
in the creation of its characters is not only individuality
W
* Castle of Otranto.
Miss Edgeworth, in her various tales, blended also the
dramatic with the narrative form of fiction; though those
tales partake but little of any other species of the drama
than that of the more serious and elevated comedy; she
has little of tragedy, and nothing of melodrame. She
introduces more dialogue than her immediate predecessors;
makes her heroes speak for themselves; and, while her
stories are usually admirable in their compact simplicity,
she ever seems more intent upon bringing out her charac-
ters than mystifying her readers; and, interesting you in
their thoughts, their actions, as well as their fate, she
makes you intimately acquainted with their peculiarities
of excellence or error, - and then quietly suffers those
peculiarities to work out both her fable and her moral.
All this is dramatic, it is the true ethical comic. Vivian
the weak, Basil the procrastinating, Mrs. Beaumont
the manoeuvring, Murad the unlucky, are characters
formed in the same school of intellect as that which pro-
M
duced a Tartuffe and a Mons. Jourdain.
But still these writers, while they insensibly departed
from the old narrative form, (which usually, with but slen-
der mysteries and amidst a wilderness of episodical adven-
ture, conducted its heroes through the mimic life, and insen-
sibly trespassed upon the province of the drama,) can
scarcely be said to have done more than indicate the true
genius of the dramatic novel. This it was reserved for
the glorious imagination of Scott to create, ard perhaps to
perfect. Not only in plot, in mystery, in incident, in
catastrophe, are his fictions consummately dramatic, but
his characters are essentially dramatic also. The scenes
so brilliantly painted are but the means by which his actors
BULWER'S NOVELS.
124
display the peculiarities of their natures. Baillie Nicol | know their hearts; but who of us canno imagine forth
Jarvie, Rob Roy, Leicester, Rebecca, and Bois Guilbert, the swart Templar and the stately Leicester ? Scott painted
are almost dramas in themselves. Could we annihilate characters admirably, but the characters he selected are
the very plot in which they figure, they would still be ef- considerably beneath the intellectual order of Shakspeare's.
fective on the stage :- even as in the Prometheus or the The dark moral of the loftiest tragic, the metaphysics
Aulularia, we see a tragedy in Prometheus, a comedy in of the soul, the subtle refinements of human thought, -
Euclio. So, it is the character of Sir Giles Overreach, were not the sphere of Scott, and, if he be ever excelled
and not the incidents of the play in which it shines forth, in the dramatic fiction, it can be only by one who, equally
that makes the "New Way to pay Old Debts" the most a poet, shall be more of a philosopher. Scott would have
successful on the stage of Massinger's thoughtful, but per- drawn with no less spirit than Shakspeare the last combat
naps over-rated, plays.
of Macbeth, but he could not have written the harrowing
soliloquies of the mighty murderer, nor conceived his
awful struggles with his ghostly and supernatural destiny.
The brilliant success of Scott has made, almost insen-
sibly, the dramatic form of fiction not only the most popu-
lar, but also the sole criterion by which the critics are in-
clined to judge of fictitious compositions. They forget
that there is another school of novel-writing equally excel
lent, to which all dramatic rules are inapplicable;— namely,
the narrative. And if Gil Blas were published for the first
time to-morrow, we should be told that it was deficient in
plot and encumbered with episode, doubtless; but such
are not proofs of its failings, but the qualities of its
class.
Most of Scott's novels require but little of the scissors
to become plays. But it was as he proceeded in his art,
that his fictions became more closely dramatic. Perhaps
Waverley" is the least so of all, — and, perhaps, in the
conduct of the story, "the Fortunes of Nigel" and "the
Fair Maid of Perth " are among the most, -two works
greatly inferior in other respects to many by the same
author.
M
In truth, as Scott proceeded on the brilliant track he had
(I suspect unconsciously) opened, - he found that the
dramatic form of composition, its unity of plot, its con-
stant dialogue and stage-effect action, were means as cer-
tain of creating at least a temporary interest as the con-
ception of character itself, and by degrees his stories
became more dramatic and his characters less so. I am by
no means sure that in many instances this adaptation of
the drama is not carried by Scott to an inordinate degree,
such as the last scene of Quentin Durward, in which
Louis and Charles are brought on the stage, when we see
Balafrè justly entitled to the hand of the heroine; and
when, by one of the sudden tricks common to the boards,
it is transferred to the lover, and the piece suddenly con-
cludes with "It is sense, firmness, and gallantry, which
have put him in possession of wealth, rank, and beauty."
The grouping of the figures, the unexpected joining of
the lovers, and the somewhat clap-trap sentiment at the
end, have, to my judgment at least, somewhat too much
of the flourish of the actor and the drop of the green cur-
tain. I could name various other instances in Scott's
works, in which the analogy between the romance and the
drama seems to me to be drawn too closely, and the prefer-
ence of dialogue to recital becomes inconveniently frequent,
but I do not think myself sufficiently removed from the in-
fluence of the great master's genius to do more than hint
at what better judges may not acknowledge to be errors.
Scott, then, was the great creator of the dramatic fiction,
-improving on his predecessors as much as Æschylus upon
Phrynichus ; and if I venture to doubt whether he per-
fected that class of composition, it is not from the petty
deficiencies of art to which I have alluded, — but solely
because his peculiar genius led him in prose, as in poetry,
rather to melodrame than to tragedy. The ineffaceable
distinction between Scott and Shakspeare is, that the Unlike the dramatic, which is necessarily confined to
former deals chiefly with externals, and the latter rarely. narrow limits, the narrative form of fiction embraces many
The antiquarian habits, the chivalric and somewhat gor-subdivisions, each very distinct from the other. The tale
geous intellect of Scott, made him fond of painting the cos-
tume and the person a little to the exclusion of the mind.
Shakspeare scarcely ever describes, except in broad comic,
the dress or the persons of his characters, and we may
suspect that where he does describe the latter, as in Ham-
let,* or the two heroines of the Midsummer Night's
Dream, it was solely in reference to the performers who
vere to act the parts. Few of us can picture to ourselves
the exterior of his great creations, while we intimately
* When he speaks of Hamlet as fat, we must dissent from
Goethe's refinements, and own that the description shocks a
little our ideal, -but if the man who played Hamlet was fat,
what can we say more?
Indeed, with all the dazzling beauties of the dramatic
fiction, its delightful mystery, and its breathless pro-
gress, -we may doubt if it possess the same homely and
accurate nature which distinguishes the master-pieces of
the narrative romance, or if the
the narrative romance, or if the very interest of its plot
(when the plot, once unravelled, allures but feebly) does not
deteriorate from the pleasure of a second and third perusal
I speak not of Scott himself, but I will take one of his
disciples in the dramatic novel, Victor Hugo: any one
would, I imagine, read "Notre Dame de Paris," for the
| first time, with a keener enjoyment than the "Pride and
Prejudice" of Miss Austen, undoubtedly a writer of far
less imaginative genius; but, for my own part, I can read
the last repeatedly with renewed delight, and I recoil from
the effort of returning to the first. Whenever the impres
sion produced by a work has been intense enough to be
painful, nothing but wonderful beauty in its descriptions,
-a latent charm in its detached thoughts, -or that
consummate skill in conduct which requires study to
comprehend, will induce us voluntarily to renew the
pain we have endured. Hence the most striking works
are not often the most re-read; they live on the me-
mory, and the memory desires not to be refreshed by a
recurrence to their terror or their pathos. Perhaps the
most admired, and certainly the most truly tragic, of Scott's
works, is the "Bride of Lammermuir," but I fancy it
has been the least frequently re-perused. We had rather
return to the jokes of Nicol Jarvie than the gloomy woes
of Ravenswood.
―
of life as it is, such as in the writings of Le Sage or
Richardson, and in the lower but still exquisite school of
Miss Austen or Miss Edgeworth, admits in itself the great-
est varieties,— something advantageously borrowing a little
assistance, sometimes advantageously rejecting all relief,
from the drama. What singular contrast in conception,
plan, character, between the elaborate "Anastasius,"
the homely "Peter Simp, "the chaste, the stately, the
thorough-bred pictures of "De Vere," the quiet, the sober,
the Country Gentleman sketches of" Pride and Prejudice !”
To the narrative class belong, for the most part, the tribe
of fashionable novels, maritime novels, religious novels
ON PROSE FICTION.
125
and sentimental novels, the sparkle of Mrs. Gore, the
humor of Marryat, the elegance of Ward, the subdued,
but irresistible truth of the author (whoever he be) of
"The Admiral's Daughter."* So great a variety can
scarcely be found in the dramatic romances, which are
generally historical, as the narrative novel is usually a
portraiture of the existing time.
But, besides the multiform representation of real life,
the narrative fiction takes two other shapes, equally dis-
tinguished from the dramatic, and, indeed, generally, yet
less adapted to the stage. And these two shapes are of one
species, bot!. may be called the philosophical. The first
appertains to the philosophy of wit, the second to that
of poetry. I will call the first the satirical, the second the
metaphysical, novel. Most satirists are thinkers, — satire
is worthless without philosophy. Hence we find that all
the great satirical novels have been written with philosophi-
cal aims, such as Candide, Gulliver, Jonathan Wild. †
These can scarcely be said to paint real life, — they aim at
exposing the interior of things, and not imitating the sur-
face.
You allow for a certain exaggeration and burlesque,
nay, in this their very vitality, their sting, their faith-
fulness to nature, are made to consist. Nobody believes
that there is a King of the Brobdignags, or an island in
the air, but when Gulliver talks with the one, or visits
the other, the grave burlesque brings out those truths of
life that the author desires to inculcate, and confronts us,
as in a looking-glass, with the absurdities of ambition and
the vanities of philosophy. So, if it were in a novel,
where no satire was intended, that Candide meets the six
kings at table, one might gravely say, “Very improbable!"
But there is a happiness in the satire far more true to nature
than the closest probabilities of plot. In fact, this exag-
geration belongs to satire; the reader accustoms his mind
to it the moment he discovers the object of the work ; he
see truth through peculiar glasses, and the only probability
he 1egards as necessary, lies in the aptness and justice of
the satire.
traced in the remarkable tale of "Contarini Fleming,"
(not yet sufficiently appreciated by the age,) it which the
brilliant genius of the author aims at developing the pro-
gress of the poetical character.
Not of this precise school of metaphysical composition
but still of a metaphysical nature, are the dark tales of
Godwin, and the far inferior compositions of Brown.
Godwin's aims, in "Caleb Williams" and the magnificent
"St. Leon," are, if I construe them rightly, those which
satire is most commonly apt to embody, the first work
designing to portray certain errors in the social system,—
the last the fallacy of our three most human, yet not least
glorious, desires;— viz. for wealth, wisdom, and prolonged
existence. But his grave and solemn genius portrays in
earnest what others would have conveyed in satire,
Johnson's "Rasselas " preaches didactically the same
moral as that which chills us in the sneer of "Candide."
To this class of fiction belong, as to satire, its legiti-
mate exaggerations, we raise ourselves above the level
of common life, and ask other probabilities than those of
Oxford-street, the probable which belongs to poetry.
These then seem to ine to make the great classes of prose
fiction.
as
First, the dramatic of recent date, and principally illus-
trated by the works of Scott, Cooper, and Victor Hugo.
Secondly, the narrative, subdivided into three principal
forms, the actual, the satiric, and the metaphysical,— as
illustrated in the first by Le Sage, in the second by Swift
and Voltaire, in the third by Goethe, and in some respects
by Godwin. In a species of composition that produces so
many votaries, and is so constantly tasking invention, new
divisions will assuredly arise: -I-speak only of those
which criticism deduces from the great works already born.
A third class indeed I might name, but it is bound by no
rules, can furnish us with no canons, and pretends to be
-a class which sports
poetry in every thing but metre,
with all the extravagances of the ideal,— invokes spirits
and fairies at its will, and produces every fantasy of ima
gination, from the Shakspearian loveliness of “Undine "
to the idle vagaries of "The Pilgrims of the Rhine.”
I feel
And now, in alluding to one work of my own,
I feel my-
self summoned for an instant from the great names I have
reverently quoted, to those insignificant writings, one of
which is now before the reader. As we see the ingenious
housewife desirous of displaying her art and talent in some
notable garniture for couch or casement; and, conscious of
the poverty of her materials if confined to one pattern,
whether of homely chintz or lustrous damask, seeking by
variety to repair her deficiencies, contrasting one stuff
with another, setting off one color by its opposite,
and producing, at last, the trophy of her skill in the mult
form shape of patchwork, -even so, O pleasant reade
in the writings which have made you acquainted with my
industry and handiwork, I have sought to win your appro-
striking-bation, not by the sameness of a single material, but by
the contrast of many. Scarcely any one of the romances
I have woven together resembles its neighbor. In fact, I
have essayed an attempt at each of the classes of fiction
which I have just endeavoured to define. In " Eugene
Aram," and "The Last Days of Pompeii," I have at-
The other class of philosophical novels, namely, the
metaphysical, is as yet very rarely cultivated; it is scarcely
of a nature to be popular, and but few minds are inclined
to adopt it. The greatest and most celebrated of such
fictions is Goethe's Wilhelm Meister. The French have
made one or two attempts, which, like all their imitations
from the German, appear to me singularly infelicitous. A
German was one day discovered jumping over the chairs
and tables in his room, "Good heavens! what are you
about!" cried the intruder. Trying to be lively,"
groaned the German! The French seem to be taking the
same means, making the same clatter, and with the same.
success, in trying to make themselves profound! The
metaphysical novel is, like the satiric, not to be regarded
as a mere portraiture of outward society: like the satiric,
't deals greatly with the latent, and often wanders from the
exact probability of effects, in order to bring more striking-
ly before us the truth of causes. It often invests itself in a
dim and shadowy allegory, which it deserts or resumes at
will, making its action but the incarnations of some pecu-
liar and abstract qualities, whose development it follows
This is the case with Wilhelm Meister, which I do
out.
not believe to be wholly allegory or wholly matter of fact,
-but both at times; the caprice of the author being al-
ways subservient to the end: a similar design is to be
* A work that seems to me of extraordinary depth and bean-
ty, and one which any living writer might be proud to have
written.
† A great critic has suggested to me that, perhaps, also the
Arabian Nights belong to this school, and that many of the tales
to that charming work are satires in disguise.
M
tempted the dramatic fiction; and of these romances I will
say no more than that they were written with the closest at-
tention to what I conceive to be the principal rules of that
class of composition, and, I hope, without any imitation
of him it is so difficult not to imitate, the great master
of that school, the author of "Old Mortality
» and
* Kenilworth,”
126
BULWER'S NOVELS.
In' Pelham” * and in "Devereux," I have attempted
the narrative form of fiction,- now and then, it is true,
seeking occasional aid from a dramatic effect, as my pre-
decessors in that line have done before me, but still
avoiding, in the main, the rules and canons of dramatic crit-
icism. When, therefore, it has been said of me that in my
later works I have improved in the method and conception
of plot, and the attainment of a single action, and an in-
terest progressively increasing, — when it is said that my
earlier novels were in these matters deficient, — I humbly
repeat the opinion I have advanced in the last edition of
"Pelham,” viz. that two schools of fiction, utterly distinct
from each other, have been confounded, I know, at least,
that in “Pelham" and "Devereux" I adhered as closely
to what seems to me the elements of the narrative fiction,
as in "Eugene Aram," or "The Last Days of Pompeii"
I strove to adhere to those of the dramatic.
In "Paul Clifford," which is a social and political sat-
ire, I willingly sought that exaggeration or burlesque in
which the satiric novel so freely indulges; the masquerade
of certain characters at the house of Gentleman George
may be successful or not; but when it was objected that
that allegory destroyed the very similitude of the story, I
think again the class of novel to which it belonged was not
sufficiently kept in mind. The question is, does this ex-
aggeration or allegory, or does it not, bring out more start-
lingly the object of the satire, which is the exposition of the
political and social hypocrisies of existing society ?—if it
if it
does, the probabilities must be examined by a different
criticism, and we must look less to the Vraisemblable
than the Vrai.
Lastly, in "The Disowned," now before the reader, I
essayed the metaphysical novel, which Germany has made
illustrious; the development of the abstract was its princi-
pal object, the effects of certain qualities as operated
upon by the world, or as wrought by opposite qualities into
differing results, such as the poet's love of liberty in the
Gipsey King, the politician's love of liberty in the stern
Republican; both qualities carried to excess, and both, by
worldly influences and counteracting habits, producing the
most dissimilar results; such again, as the passion for
effect differently developed in Warner, the artist, and in
Talbot, the vain man; such as the passionate philosophy of
Mordaunt, whose character is an allegory in itself, being
the development of the love of knowledge as producing
necessarily the love of virtue, - the incarnation of the
great stoic principle of Christian ethics, self-dependent
* In a review, recently set up, if report be true, by Lord
Brougham and Mr. Beaumont, (Arcades ambo,) the writer of
an article on the present state of literature has been pleased to
speak slightingly of my works. Let him, I can afford his
censure. But why should he misstate as well as censure?
attributes to me phrases and expressions in Pelham which are
never used in that work. To be taught manners by Messrs.
Brougham, Beaumont, and Co., is a little too good! They will
be teaching me the classics next! as they appear to be half
inclined to do when they refer to "The Last Days of Pompeii."
By the by, what do they mean by talking of novels as epheme-
ral? Allowing mine to be so, does not every one know that
there are novels of this day that will outlive all the latinized
balderdash Lord Brougham ever wrote or spoke? I should not
be surprised if even Eugene Aram were remembered when the
pamphlets of Mr. Tompkins, and the speech on Law Reform,
are as things that were not. Splenetic pamphlets, long-winded
speeches, and essays on Natural Theology, these are the true
ephemerals of literature ! The object of the Review is capital.
Its prospectus declares it set up because "Literature is in a
very low state!" (so one would think by such a proof:) — Mr.
Beaumont is to elevate and redeem it: good Mr. Beaumont !
Fancy a future Schlegel arriving at the intellectual history of
1835, would he not write thus ? "The English literature,
degraded by the teeming productions of Moore and Words-
worth, and Southey and Hallam, was, in this propitious year,
suddenly restored to its pristine glory by the learning and
genius of the immortal Beaumont, Esq., M. P. for North-
―
unberland"
He
and above fate; asking no rewards, and conquering all mis
fortunes. Even, however, over such a portrait, we must
not forget that the world can cast its shade; the pride
which, were our social systems more perfect, would only
have supported the virtues of Mordaunt, produces also some
alloying frailities: He bribes the broker not to tell the
world of his past afflictions, and for a punctilio of honor,
Christian and philosopher as he is, he consents to a duel
with Lord Ulswater. I have been blamed for inconsisten-
cy in allowing the last, especially. I introduced it on pur-
pose to be consistent; Mordaunt could not have refused
a duel; his very nature forbade it; the men who see the
fallacy of such an appeal the most clearly are often the last
who would refuse it. Without this concession to the world,
the philosophy of Mordaunt would have been doubtless
more complete, but the analysis of his character would have
been less so. A man truly great is above the vicissitudes
of life, but who is above all its petty and daily influences !
I wish you, in this, to blame Mordaunt, for in this you
blame the false notions of society; - even while we blame.
can you or I say that they do not act upon us?
—
Agreeably to my theories, a novel of this class can
scarcely avoid being a little more allied to poetry than that
which deals only with the external manners, the more com
mon passions, and the daily adventures, of ordinary life. I
wished the reader to feel this at once, by introducing him
in the very first chapter to the Gipsey King, and so prepar-
ing him, by a character that would have been out of keep-
ing with the level tenor of "
ing with the level tenor of "Pelham," (so essentially
prosaic,) for more imaginative flights of composition, for
more poetical dialogue, and, in a word, for a more general
intercourse with the intellectual or ideal, than are to be
found in the "Adventures of a Gentleman."
It is true,
however, that the book has, among all its faults, one greater
than the rest: I was too young when I wrote it. - A more
matured taste, a more cultivated knowledge, and the expe-
rience which profits by past errors, enable me now to view
a thousand defects which I could not, alas! remove with-
out rewriting the whole work, an exertion of industry
that might be better directed! It is often tediously prolix,
often fatally overwritten, often, but why enumerate the
faults which the reader will perceive without my attesta-
tion? Such as it is, though I do not reckon it among the
best novels I have written, it contains, perhaps some of the
best passages, and some of the best conceptions of charac-
The three characters indeed, with which I am least.
dissatisfied of all my feeble hand has portrayed, are, Wil.
liam Brandon, (in Paul Clifford,) Pelham, and Algernon
Mordaunt; if they are all equal in point of adherence to
nature, Mordaunt is undoubtedly of a nature the least hack-
neyed and least low. And, farther, if I were asked which
of my writings pleased me the most in its moral,
the best to inspire the younger reader with a generous emo-
tion and a guiding principle, -was the one best calculated
to fit us for the world, by raising us above its trials, and
the one by which I would most desire my own heart and
my own faith to be judged,—I would answer,
"The
Disowned."
ter.
served
These remarks have ended in much egotism, I confess
it. But, for my own part, I think that the world likes to
learn from what theories, right or wrong, an author, how-
ever obscure, has composed his works. It amuses us to
trace his delusions, or to examine how he, who has been
criticised by others, plays the critic on himself. If by ac-
cident he is right, we can profit by his hints, if wrong,
perhaps still more by his errors !
July 20, 1835.
M
INTRODUCTION.
<
SCENE. - A dressing room, splendidly furnished, violet col-
ored curtains and ottomans of the same hue. A wardrobe
of buhl is on the left, the doors of which being partly open,
discover a profusion of clothes, &c. Folding doors in the
background.
Enter the author, obsequiously preceded by a French
valet.
?
Auhor. So, Bedos, it will not be very long, I hope,
before your master gives me the pleasure of his company
Bedos (in French.)-No, Monsieur, no, - my mas-
ter will be here immediately. He says you will find two
very amusing books on the toilette, but that he hopes you
will scarcely have time to read their title-pages before he
is with you.
Bedos draws an arm-chair near the table, into which the
author abstractedly throws himself.
[Exit Bedos.
Author.-Yes!
Yes! I long to vent my anger upon this cox-
comb, who, with his usual dexterity, has cast all his faults,
moral as well as literary, upon me! Well, my time has
now arrived! I will assert my individual existence,-I
will no longer walk about incorporated with a literary twin,
I will give notice of lawful separation, and be henceforth
answerable for no sins but my own. — (Clock strikes three.)
- So late! I wonder he yet delays; perhaps he is nerv-
ing himself to meet the brunt of my just indignation.
Humph! what books are these which my gentleman's gen-
tleman spoke of ? (takes up two books on the toilet-table)
Essay on the Human Understanding,' very amusing
indeed! What's the other, Essay on the Human
Hair.' Pish!-hark, I hear steps, 't is he!
་
C
The folding doors in the background are thrown open,
and the voice of one approaching is heard.
"And, Bedos, you will see that the great folio and the es-
sence bottle are not forgotten. And be sure that the poodle's
face is washed in milk of roses, 't is shamefully freck-
led ; and send, or rather go yourself, to the man at Ast-
ley's, to know if it could not be taught to carry a parasol?
And, Bedos, order the hock to be sent to Lord Guloseton ;
and tell Mr. Bubbletome that he must get me the Lucian,
and that copy of Ricardo, with Mr. M's manuscript
notes, by nine this evening. And ask Walters what he
means by burning wax candles in the stables? I will coun-
tenance no such extravagance: let him lose no time in
changing them to spermaceti. And, harkye, Bedos, you
begin to look fat, you rascal; beware, — if you eat a
grain of neat, I discharge you. A valet, sir, is an etheri-
al being, and is only to be nourished upon chicken ! ”
And, uttering these words enters, through the folding
›ors, HENRY Pelham.
-
Mr. Pelham. My dear friend, I am delighted to sce
you, pray pardon my want of punctuality !
The Author (with a severe look.) — I wish, Mr. Pel-
ham, that in your conduct there was nothing else to par-
don!
—
Mr. Pelham (seating himself on an ottoman.) What,
angry?--is it possible?—ah, how I envy you! - You
your eyes sparkle! how very becoming! I
co or,
|
wish that I could get into a passion myself now and then
It has been my curse through life to be so confoundedly
good tempered! - nothing vexes me! O! your philo.
sophical equanimity, - your sunshine of the breast,' x the
most terribly dull state of mind one can imagine; be-
sides, a little excitement is so good for the complexion!
1 intend, next shooting season, when I shall have plenty of
time on my hands, to take some lessons in the art of get-
ting angry.
Will you be my master, you seem a tolera-
ble proficient, nay, I'm serious!
Author
(rebukingly.) — Mr. Pelham!
Mr. Pelham (with a soft smile.) Well!
Author. Do oblige me,-lay aside an affectation
which every body says disgraces you, and endeavor to
speak like a man of sense.
Mr. Pelham. But, my dear sir, would not that be ta
king an unfair advantage of you? However, proceed,
my wishes shall yield to yours: the philosopher of Geneva
said rightly, "that there is no virtue without self-sacri
fice : - proceed.
""
Author.
I trust to your practising so sublime a moral
ity. And now, sir, tell me how I am to be remunerated
for all that you have cost me? What, sir, can repay me
for the provoking and specious charges brought against me
upon your account? Did I not, mark me, Mr. Pelham,
did I not, when I agreed to embody your confounded
adventures, say to myself, 'My hero is a terrible coxcomb,
it suits me that he should be so I have seen something
of the various grades of society; the experience has not
been acquired without pain, let it not pass without
profit; the scenes I have witnessed I will describe ; upon
the manners I have noted I will comment, but not in my
own person. The peculiar turn of my individual mind
would be very little calculated to execute such a task with
success; and scenes on the surface of society, which could
only be redeemed from insipidity by an extreme gayety,
would become utterly distasteful, if tinctured in the least
by a temperament to which my friends are pleased mali-
ciously to insinuate that gayety is the last thing congenial
In the first place, therefore, my hero shall have little in
common with his author; in the second, he shall be suited
in outward temper to the sparkling varieties of life,
though he shall have sufficient latent observation to draw
from the follies which he surveys, or even shares, the uses
of reflection. His very faults shall afford amusement, and
under them he may, without the formality of a preceptor,
inculcate instruction. Philosophy, when couched beneath
the gay robes of an apparently unconverted Polemon, may
find some listeners, who would turn in aversion from the
austerities of a professed Xenocrates. It is true that I
shall have, in the vices and virtues of this hero, no channel
for an egotistical embellishment of my own, but on that
point I am easily consoled. I have never wished to favor
the world with my character, its eccentricities, or its se
crets; nor should I ever be disposed, in the person of any
hero of romance, to embody or delineate myself; vet the
128
BULWER'S NOVELS.
world cannot know this, and it has long become a pop-
ular vice in criticism, to confound and amalgamate the hero
with the author. However, this confusion I will carefully
avoid, · never once from the first sentence to the last shall
the author appear! Mr. Pelham, did I not adhere inflexi-
bly to this resolution? Did I ever once intrude even in
the vestibule of a preface, or the modest and obscure cor-
ner of a marginal note ?— that I might not, for an instant,
be implicated in your existence, did I not absolutely forego
my own? And what has been my reward, - Mr. Pelham,
I ask you what? Have they not all, with one voice, crit-
ics and readers, praisers and impugners, fathered your im-
pertinences and follies upon me? And have not I,-I,
who in the progress of your adventures was invisible, in-
audible, a cypher, a nonentity, have not I, who took
such especial pains to avoid the pleasure even of the most
minute, or momentary egotism, been set down as the most
consummate of all egotists? Answer me that, Mr. Pel-
nam !
Mr. Pelham.
less a personage than the mmortal Ude ?-and did not
the French journalists affirm, so naturally did you deline.
ate pickpockets, that you could be nothing short of a pick
pocket yourself?
Have you done, my dear sir? Now,
let me slip in a word. That you have been taken for me,
it is much easier to assert than to prove, ehem!
ehem! And
they who have once seen you, and dreamt of me, would, I
flatter myself, soon be undeceived in so grievous an error.
However, if you wish hereafter to avoid a confusion which
you say rightly is a common error in criticism, draw all
your heroes without a fault. Not a critical soul of the
whole tribe will ever then suspect you of copying from
yourself. You ask me what is to atone to you for bearing
the burden of my faults? Mon Dieu! is the honor no-
thing? Consider your internal satisfaction at being brought
to resemble me! Besides, my friend, your censurers, like
the offspring of Cadmus, employ all their ferocity in de-
stroying each other. There is not a part of my memoirs
which one critic has selected for blame, which another, no
doubt, equally judicious, has not especially singled out for
praise. That which some declare the most frivolous por-
tion, some also declare the most profound. One praises
the gay scenes, and condemns the serious; another lauds
the serious, and vituperates the gay. One beseeches you
to forsake the tragic, and anticipates bright things from
your cultivation of the comic; another recommends you
never again to jest as long as you live, but to devote your
self solely to agitating the passions, and moving the
heart." In short, your antagonists are like the tiger
and crocodile which attacked the illustrious Munchausen:
one leaps into the mouth of the other: your tiger chokes |
your crocodile, your crocodile suffocates your tiger; while
you, my friend, remain safe and uninjured, to make your
bow to the spectators, and receive their congratulations on
your escape. Nor is this all the flattering confusion
which identified you with me was inseparably connected
with my existence and you will suffer me to enumerate to
you some of the distinguished compliments which, but for
that existence, you would never have enjoyed. To begin
then Did not the essayist of the London Magazine con-
ecture that two persons must have written my adventures,
and that no single individual could have blended so much
wit and vivacity as I possess (I know not if these are the
exact words of the critic) with the passion and gravity dis-
played in certain passages in the latter part, indicative of
a less facetious and delightful bias of intellect? Did not
another critic roundly declaim against the stupidity of the
public in not discovering that you were also the author of
"Vivian Grey," a book which, with all its faults, is, you
yourself allow, exceedingly clever? Did not the Morning
Post, in a charming little anecdote, assert that you were no
Author(evidently much softened.) I must own that
these are flattering circumstances, Mr. Pelham, but
Mr. Pelham. - Flattering, ay, indeed! And do you
ask me now what is to atone for your being supposed guil-
ty of some delicate and graceful embroideries, which are
occasionally worked upon the rich velvet of my character?
Atone to you! say, rather, what is to atone to me for
ever being mistaken for ? Pardon me, sir, I cannot
conclude the sentence !
Author. Well, well, let us say no more upon the sub-
ject, especially as, in the preface which I have been com-
pelled to place before the second edition of your memoirs,
and which I regret that I omitted in the first, I have al-
ready vindicated you from the calumniating, and myself
from the flattering, aspersion; and, besides, it has given
me a pride and a pleasure, which do no more than com
pensate for the little mortifications incident to all who
write, to find that, by some whose praise is better than
fame, my object, in imparting to your adventures so light
a tone, has been neither undiscovered nor disapproved.
When I was somewhat younger, in mind as well as
years, I imagined it a finer thing to be lauded for men-
tal powers than for moral utility. Now my ambition is of
a different order; and I would rather be thought of some
service to others than only an illustrious torment to my-
self. And now, Mr. Pelham, that we have sufficiently
discussed your "Adventures," suffer me to solicit your
opinion of the new work which I offer to the world.
Mr. Pelham.- Why, really, I don't dislike it. I dare
say many people may think it better than your last. Per-
haps, however, they may miss me a little now and then;
for, such an endearer is absence, that acquaintances, but
half-liked when present, become our best friends when
gone. At all events, you must prepare the public for a
work very dissimilar to your last, and one whose faults
and merits (if of the latter it has any) are alike on another
scale, and disguised in a different dress.
ers.
Author. - Yes; I own frankly, that mere amusement,
though I have culled it as an ingredient, has not been made
so pervadingly the property of these volumes as of those
honored with your name; and a literary friend of mine,
with a very menancing equivoque, has insinuated that,
though "The Disowned" may be likely to succeed as well
as "Pelham," it will not be with the same class of read-
(Here Mr. Pelham smiles significantly.) — Howev-
er, I venture to trust that, even for the lighter readers,
as well as for those more patient and analyzing, any great-
er gravities of style will be amply atoned for by a far deep-
er and more novel delineation of character, scenes of
more exciting interest and vivid coloring,- thoughts less
superficially expressed, — passions more energetically call
ed forth, — and, I think, (though I say this with much
more diffidence,) if not a greater, at least a more pervad-
ing and sensible moral tendency, than would have been com
patible with the scheme and design of your Adventures.
Mr. Pelham,- (drawling affectedly.) Bravo! nothing
like a modest choice of epithets!—'deeper delineation,'
more exciting interest and vivid coloring,' thoughts,"
passions!
'passions!' Bravo, my friend, I see you begin to imitate
me, and abjure self-conceit: believe me, few things are so
displeasing as that same conceit, — all my popularity arises
from my bashfulness! But now, as you have asked my
opinion, let me give it to you as a friend, (the duty of an
-
INTRODUCTION.
1.9
J
-
English fr end, you know, is to be as disagreeable as pos-
sible,) it is quite the hazard of the die whether your work
takes or not. An author, now-a-days, is to mind nothing
but his story! You talk of delineations of character: what
are these to the story, any dear sir? Passion, the story
the
Thought, the story, the story! Moral tendency,
story, the story, the story!
story! The situation of yourself and
reader is exactly like that of a certain tourist to the Lakes
and his guide. The tourist inquired diligently who was the
best conductor, evinced the greatest anxiety on the sub-
ject, would not take an inferior one for the world,
chose one at last, set him on the box, and told the
coachman to obey his instructions. The guide, in his de-
sire to please so fastidious a gentleman, stops every mo-
ment: "Sir, observe this view, - see how majestically the
lake winds,contemplate that wood,
you catch that dis-
tant hill! " O, the devil take your interruptions!" cries
the traveller; "drive on as fast as you can, and don't
wake me till we are safe at the journey's end!" I dare
say, my dear friend, that, in conning the criticism of the
day, you have observed how much, when reviewing a nov-
el, it is the mode to use the terms of a drama: "plot, de-
These are
velopment, dramatis persone, catastrophe."
ot only the phrases metaphorically applied to you, but, in
cality, are significant of the canons by which you are
udged. What can be juster? Think, if we had the re-
viewing of Gil Blas' now, what fine work we should make
of it: we should soon send Monsieur Le Sage to the Olym-
pic or the Adelphi to study plots, and learn the art of com-
position ! * Now, I will give you an admirable recipe for
the future, whenever you attempt any thing but a fashiona-
ble novel. A fashionable novel (that intellectual libertine
of literature) requires no rules. It bursts on the admiring
world, as did the accomplished Lady Blarney on the bewil-
dered circle of the Vicar of Wakefield, carrying every
earthly perfection in its title, and bearing in the "living
jingos "of its phraseology only additional proofs of its supe-
rior breeding. My recipe is, therefore, worthless for writ-
ings of this order, — for all others it is a specific. Adopt
Adopt
it, and you will be even more sage than your prescriber;
for, though Hesiod says that he who counsels wisely for
others, is the wisest of men, I perfectly agree with Zeno
in believing that he who follows the adrice is still wiser.
First get your story, prepare it, - cut it up into a play
in three acts; then spin out the scenes into chapters, and
the acts into volumes, - in a word, make your novel noth-
ing more than a long melodrame. Have bustle, black ring- |
lets, fighting, moonlight, a waste moor, a ruin, two or three
witty fellows in low life, a fascinating villain, who is very
pale, no villain has a color, all dialogue, even if it be
"How do you!" and "Pretty well," firing, if possible,
.n the last "act," and your novel will be declared thrill-
ingly interesting! But no episodes, my friend, no re-
flections, no metaphysical clock-work of character.
What the deuce have these to do with a melodrame ?
Author, (with the air of an author.) — Well, well; but
surely I have excitement enough, as well as reflection, and
plot as well as episode, in that work which your observa-
tions are intended to attack ?
-
Mr. Pelham. Attack, my friend; by no means. I am
not talking about the merit of your book, but its chance of
popularity. You must confess that many of the characters
you have introduced have no more to do with your catastro-
phe than violets with Windsor soap; yet you have taken
* See this subject (here only treated ironically) more enlarged
apon in the "Essay on the different kinds of Fiction," added to
this edition.
VOL. 1.
17
as much pains with them as if they had, a very absura
You have
waste of time, ooth to yourself and your reader
a very pretty little mystery in its way, but all the charac
ters you introduce ought to have contributed to the solution
of the said mystery, and they should all have marched up-
on the stage in the last "scene," as they do in a comedy:
because a novel is the delineation of life, and every one
will allow that no striking event, such as would terminate
a novel, ever happens to him, without all the people he has
at any time met in the course of his life being implicated
in it! That is nature, my dear sir; nature, grandeur, and
simplicity, as exemplified in the best models. Allow me
now to point out to your repentance a certain error; you
have attempted to give the greatest interest in your work,
next to that attached to the fortunes of the hero himself,
-to a virtuous character, in whom you have portrayed few
faults and still fewer foibles, - an attempt certain of fail-
ure; men never forgive those in whom there is nothing to
pardon,- [Here Mr. Pelham stretched his right leg and
glanced towards to the glass,]-While, on the contrary,
your villain, whom, according to all orthodox rules, you
ought to have made the most charming person in the book,
is really any thing but prepossessing. This too, in spite
of all the showy qualities usually lavished upon villains, -
in spite of your having attributed to him gayety, wit, tal-
ent, devotion to the beaux sexe, moral daring, and even per-
sonal beauty.
Author, (very self-complacently.) — Ay; I rather value
myself upon that?
Do
Mr. Pelham.
you with a motto then,
C
you,
indeed? Vincent would furnish
Valui pœnas fortis in ipsa meas."
However, a good opinion of one's self is like Bishop Berk
ley's system, and dispenses with all the rest of the world.
You will confess, at least, that if your villain may be pa..
doned, your virtuous man is perfectly inexcusable?
Author.- - Nay, I cannot condema myself, — you are the
accuser, I the defendant; let the reader be judge. For my
own part, I believe that if we draw equally from nature, in
one as in the other, we may render virtue no less attractive
than glory or love: for I hold, with Plato, that "She hath
so divine a beauty, that could she be presented corporeally
to our eyes, she would instantly and for ever engage the
adoration of our souls." And how then can I think that
where there is so much loveliness in the original it will be
impossible to impart any thing of interest to the copy?
One other word upon the character you refer to. It has
seemed to me that a literary error of the age is to link with
the romantic and sensitive feelings which interest and en-
gage us, a misanthropical and disdainful spirit, as if they
were naturally and necessarily allied. With this error in
the formation of the character we speak of, I have attempt-
ed to contend. I have attributed to Algernon Mordaunt all
the feelings usually supposed to belong to the misanthrope.
Pride, reserve, unsociability, a temper addicted to solitude
as to a passion; and unable, from its romance, its refine-
ment, and its melancholy, to amalgamate easily with oth-
To these peculiarities of character (which I beg
particularly to state I do not consider ornaments, but blem
ishes) are added the peculiarities of circumstances calcu
lated to deepen them, and to separate still farther the indi
vidual from his species by the barriers with which misfor-
tune always loves to surround itself. Yet I have not only
painted this man as a warm and universal philanthropist,
but I have endeavoured to show in his person, how far, by
benevolence, in the widest and noblest interpretation of
the word, error itself may be elevated into virtue, aud
ers.
130
BULWER'S NOVELS
temptation brightened into triumph. And if I have not
failed in this attempt, I venture to believe that, from ma-
terials of character somewhat hackneyed, I have wrought
out a character which, in itself, is entirely new. For the
rest, morals are a very difficult and debated science,
though every writer, who has never read one line upon
them, nor indeed too many lines upon any thing else, fan-
cies, with a self-delusion almost incredible, that nothing is
so easy, both to understand and to teach; it is, therefore,
with diffidence and misgiving, that, after a long and intense
study of the first principles of this science, I begin to
think that I know a single particle about them. But, if a
difficult science, morals are at least one in which the sev-
cral rules and truths are inseparably linked with each oth-
er; and a writer cannot write a book which inculcates one
Just and real moral without inculcating many. I shall,
therefore, leave it to the judicious reader to discover the
various aims which this work has been written to promote;
but in which, after what I have just said, it would be to
the highest degree arrogant not to entertain great doubt
whether I have in the least succeeded. I only comfort my-
self with the belief that he who descends as it were from
the usual self-confidence upon which science is examined,
may often discover bright things in the heaven of Truth,
which, from a more elevated ascent, a keener eye might be
unable to behold; even as from the bottom of a deep pit
men may clearly perceive at noon the shining and still
stars, invisible to those who are placed upon the eminence
or the plain.*
"The fruitful parent of a hundred more."
On this head, however, I know it will be needless to cau
tion you, nor can any one reasonably imagine that you would
give us repetitions of "The Disowned," since you have not
thought fit to copy from a much finer original, and favor the
expecting world with the repetitions of Henry Pelham.
Author. If ever I write again, my next book shall b
as different from the present as the present from the last;
and, if I know aught of myself, it shall combine whatever
amusement of a lighter nature your adventures may yield,
with whatever interest of a higher order may be found in
"The Disowned." And when in either work the reader
finds a fault glare a little too strongly in his eyes, let him
charitably believe, at least, that it will serve the author as
a beacon, should he ever attempt another voyage through
the perilous but pleasant seas of fiction.
Mr. Pelham. Ehem! and now, my friend, having pre-
pared the public for something very different from what, af-
ter my adventures, they in all probability expected; sup-
pose we suffer it to proceed at once to the judgment. The
world, -even the world of novel lovers, is wiser and
kinder than we think for; if it can sometimes get what is
light, it will not be averse, occasionally, to meet with what
is serious; if you appear provident for its tastes at one
while, it will yield a little to yours at another. And after
all, and not to flatter it any longer, it is like the horses of
the Prince of Conti, and must be satisfied not so much
with what it likes, as with what it can get.
Author. The horses of the Prince of Conti!
Mr. Pelham. -You have not then heard the anecdote 1
I will tell it you. The Prince of Conti was embarrassed
for want of money, would to heaven that the want were
confined to the Princes of Conti! People refused any
longer to trust him. His coachman came to his highness
one morning.
"The horses, my lord, want hay and corn!"
"Give them hay and corn, then!" said the prince.
But, my lord, the farmer and the corn-chandler refuse
to supply us any more till their accounts are discharged."
Ah, that alters the matter!" quoth the prince, very
"But, your highness, what shall the horses have?"
"Have! Call my steward."
The steward appears.
Mr. Pelham,- (turning aside to conceal an involuntary
yawn.) — Very fine, all this, my dear friend, I make no
doubt; and, indeed, I perfectly agree with you as to the
propriety of your attempts, and still more in your diffi-
dence as to their results. If people open your present work
with the firm expectation of finding it like the last, they
will be disappointed, and you, perchance, unread; but if,
prepared by this Introduction, they will resolutely make up
their minds to read what does not profess merely to amuse,
if they will consent to move along the road of narrative
in a sober, quiet pace, and put up with a duller companion
now and then, for the sake of a finer view, than their jour-sensibly.
ney with me afforded, if, in the course of a varied tour,
after idling an hour at the theatre, they will loiter a mo-
ment with the lecturer, they will perhaps arrive at the end
of their journey with less fatigue than this exordium might
seem to indicate; and (to drop the metaphor) by the time
your reader finishes your book, he will be inclined at least
to acknowledge that, although, if you had professed to in-
culcate nothing by way of instruction, you might have
been infinitely more agreeable; yet since you have resolved
to be a little philosophical and moral, you might very easi-
ly, without being a whit more edifying, have been some-
what more dull. But a word with you, my friend, —
though this work may be received into society somewhat
in the highly respectable and honorable light of a private
tutor, who does not bore one more than he can help it ;
vet remember that, like all private tutors, it must be con-
aemned to uniqueness and celibacy; it cannot afford to
unultiply its image, and, like Hobson's money-bag, be
March, 1828.
* Aristot.
"So, the corn-chandler and farmer refuse us credit,
the rascals, do they?" said the prince.
"Yes, my lord."
''
"Humph! Who does give us credit then?"
"No one, your highness."
"No one!"
"Yes,
does ? "
now I think of it, my lord,—the pastry cook
Honest fellow,-
-we must encourage him?" cries the
prince. "Coachman, your affair is settled, give the
horses cheesecakes and custards !” My dear Public, you
are the horses, this gentleman is the Prince of Conti; and
as he cannot give you hay and corn any longer, he has
been endeavouring, in this Introduction, to persuade vou
that cheesecakes and custards are much betier food for
you!
i
THE DISOWNED.
CHAPTER 1.
I'll tell you a story if you please to attend.
Limbo, by G. KNIGHT.
IT was the evening of a soft, warm day, in the May of
17—. The sun had already set, and the twilight was gath-
ering slowly over the large, still masses of wood, which lay
on either side of one of those green lanes so peculiar to
England. Here and there, the outline of the trees irreg-
ularly shrunk back from the road, leaving broad patches
of waste land, covered with fern, that wild offspring of
the forest, and the yellow blossoms of the dwarf furze,
and, at more distant intervals, thick clusters of rushes,
from which came the small hum of gnats,-those "evening
revellers," alternately rising and sinking in the cus-
tomary manner of their unknown sports, till, as the
shadows grew darker and darker, their thin and airy
shapes were no longer distinguishable, and no solitary token
of life or motion broke the voiceless monotony of the sur-
rounding woods.
The first sound which invaded the silence came from the
light, quick footsteps of a person, whose youth betrayed
itself in its elastic and unmeasured tread, and in the gay,
free carol, which broke out by fits and starts upon the gen-
tle stillness of the evening.
There was something rather indicative of poetical taste
tnan musical science in the selection of this vesper hymn,
which always commenced with
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green wood,
and never proceeded a syllable farther than the end of the
second line,
When birds are about and singing;
from the last word of which, after a brief pause, it invaria-
bly started forth into joyous " iteration.”
not be for a small wager that I would undertake to keep
with you."
up
C6
Perhaps, sir," said the man, laughing, "I have had,
in the course of my life, a better usage and a longer ex-
perience of my heels than you have."
Somewhat startled by a speech of so equivocal a mean.
ing, the youth for the first time turned round to examine,
as well as the increasing darkness would permit, the size
and appearance of his companion. He was not, perhaps,
too well satisfied with his survey. His fellow pedestrian
was about six feet high, and of a correspondent girth of
limb and fraune, which would have made in fearful odds
in any encounter where bodily strength was the best means
of conquest. Notwithstanding the mildness of the weather,
he was closely buttoned in a rough great-coat, which
was well calculated to give all due effect to the athletic
proportions of the wearer.
There was a pause of some moments.
"This is but a wild, savage sort of scene for England,
sir, in this day of new-fashioned ploughs and farming im-
provements," said the tall stranger, looking round at the
ragged wastes and grim woods which lay steeped in the
shade beside and before them.
"True," answered the youth; "and in a few years
agricultural innovation will scarcely leave, even in these
wastes, a single furze-blossom for the bee, or a tuft of green-
sward for the grasshopper; but, however unpleasant the
change may be for us foot travellers, we must not repine
at what they tell us is so sure a witness of the prosperity
of the country.
"They tell us! who tell us!" exclaimed the stranger,
with great vivacity. "Is it the puny and spiritless arti-
san, or the debased and crippled slave of the counter and
the till, or the sallow speculator on morals, who would
mete us out our liberty, - our happiness, our very feel-
Presently a heavier, yet still more rapid step, than thatings by the yard, and inch, and fraction? No, no, let them
of the youth was heard behind; and, as it overtook the
latter, a loud, clear, good-humored voice gave the salu-
tation of the evening. The tone in which this courtesy
was returned was frank, distinct, and peculiarly harmo-
nious.
"Good evening, my friend. How far is it to W. ?
I hope I am not out of the direct road?
>>
"To W sir ?” said the man, touching his hat, as
he perceived, in spite of the dusk, something in the air and
voice of his new acquaintance which called for a greater
degree of respect than he was at first disposed to accord
to a pedestrian traveller,· -"To W
To W
sir? why, you
will not surely go there to-night: it is more than eight miles
distant, and the roads none of the best?"
"Now, a curse on all rogues!" quoth the youth, with a
sericus sort of vivacity. Why, the miller at the foot of
the hill, assured me I should be at my journey's end in
less than an hour.'
"He may have said right, sir," returned the man, "yet
you will not reach W- in twice that time."
"How do you mean?" said the younger stranger.
Why, that you may for once force a miller to speak
truth in spite of himself, and make a public house, about
three miles hence, the end of your day's journey."
"Thank you for the hint," said the youth.
house you speak of lie on the roadside?"
and
"Does the
No, sir: the lane branches off about two miles hence,
you must then turn to the right; but, till then, our way
is the same, and if you would not prefer your own compa-
ny to mine, we can trudge on together."
"With all my heart," rejoined the younger stranger;
and not the less willingly from the brisk pace you walk.
I thought I had few equals in pedestrianism; but it should
follow what the books and precepts of their own wisdom
teach them: let them cultivate more highly the lands they
have already parcelled out by dikes and fences, and leave,
though at scanty intervals, some green patches of unpollu
ted land for the poor man's beast, and the free man's foot.”
"You are an enthusiast on this subject," said the young-
er traveller, not a little surprised at the tone and words
of the last speech; "and if I were not just about to com-
mence the world with a firm persuasion that enthusiasm on
any matter is a great obstacle to success, I could be as
warm, though not so eloquent, as yourself."
"Ah, sir," said the stranger, sinking into a more natu-
ral and careless tone, "I have a better right than I imag-
ine you cau lay a claim to, to repine or even to inveigh
against the boundaries which are day by day, and hour by
hour, encroaching upon what I have learnt to look upon as
my own territory. You were, just before I joined you, sing-
ing an old song; I honor you for your taste: and no
offence, sir, but a sort of fellowship in feeling made me
take the liberty to accost you. I am no very great scholar
in other things; but I owe my present circumstances of life
solely to my fondness for those old songs and quaint mad-
rigals. And I believe no person can better apply to
himself Will Shakspeare's invitation: -
"Under the green wood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat.
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather."
Relieved from his former fear, but with increased curio
132
BULWER'S NOVELS.
sity at this quotation, which was half said half sung, in a
tone which seemed to evince a hearty relish for the sense
of the words, the youth replied,-
''
Truly, I did not expect to meet among the travellers
of this wild country one with so well stored a memory,
And, indeed, I should have imagined that the only persons
to whom your verses could exactly have applied were
those honorable vagrants from the Nile, whom in valgar
language we term gipsies."
C4
Precisely so, sir," answered the tall stranger, indiffe-
rently; " precisely so. It is to that ancient body that
I belong.
"The devil you do!" quoth the youth, in unsophistica-
ted surprise; "the progress of education, is. indeed,
astonishing!"
Why," answered the stranger, laughing, "to tell you
the truth, sir, I am a gipsy by inclination, not birth. The
illustrious Bamfylle Moore Carew was not the only exam-
ple of one of gentle blood and honorable education prefer-
ring a merry life and a universal home, to a sad life and a
rented cabin.”
"I congratulate myself," quoth the youth, in a tone that
might have been in jest, "upon becoming acquainted with
a character at once so respectable and so novel; and, to
returny our quotation in the way of a compliment, I cry
out with the most fashionable author of Elizabeth's days,
“O for a bowl of fat Canary,
Rich Palermo--sparkling Sherry,
in order to drink to our better acquaintance.
"Thank you, sir,
thank you," cried the strange
gipsy, seemingly delighted with the spirit with which his
young acquaintance appeared to enter into his character,
and his quotation from a class of authors at that time
much less known and appreciated than at present; "and
if you have seen already enough of the world to take up
with ale when neither Canary, Palermo, nor Sherry are
forthcoming, I will promise, at least, to pledge you in large
draughts of that homely beverage. What say you to pas-
sing a night with us? our tents are yet more at hand than
the public house of which I spoke to you.
The young man hesitated a moment, then replied,—
"I will answer you frankly, my friend, even though I
repent my confidence. I have a few guineas about me,
which, though not a large sum, are my all. Now, how-
ever ancient and honorable your fraternity may be, they
labor under a sad confusion, I fear, in their ideas of meum
and tuum."
"Faith, sir, I believe you are right; and were you some
vears older, I think you would not have favored me
with the same disclosure you have done now; but you may
be quite easy on that score. If you were made of gold,
the rascals would not break off the corner of your gar-
ment as long as you were under my protection. Does
this assurance satisfy you?"
"Perfectly," said the youth; "and now how far are
we from your encampinent? I assure you I am all eager-
ness to be among a set of which I have witnessed such a
specimen."
"Nay, nay," returned the gipsy, "you must not judge
of all my brethren by me; I confess that they are but a
rough tribe. However, I love them dearly; and am only
the more inclined to think them honest to each other, be-
cause they are rogues to all the rest of the world."
By this time, our travellers had advanced nearly two
miles since they had commenced companionship: and at a
turn in the lane, about three hundred yards further on,
they caught a glimpse of a distant fire, burning brightly
through the dim trees. They quickened their pace, and
striking a little out of their path into a common, soon
approached two tents, the Arab homes of the vagrant and
singular people with whom the gipsy claimed brotherhood
and alliance.
CHAPTER ÏÍ.
Here we securely live, and eat
The cream of meat;
And keep eternal fires
By which we sit and do divine.
HERRICK,—Ode to Sir Clipseby Crew.
AROUND a fire which blazed and crackled beneath the
Large seething pot, that seemed an emblem of the mystery,
,
and a promise of the good chec which are the supposed
characteristics of the gipsy race were grouped sever or
eight persons, upon whose swarthy and strong countenance,
the irregular and fitful flame cast a picturesque and not un-
becoming glow. All of these, with the exception of an ol
crone who was tending the pot, and a little boy who was
feeding the fire with sundry fragments of stolen wood
started to their feet upon the entrance of the stranger.
رو
—
tr
"What, ho, my bob cuffins," cried the gipsy guide, “I
| have brought you a gentry cove, to whom you will show al
proper respect; and hark ye, my maunders, if ye dare
beg, borrow, or steal a single croker, -ay, but a baw
bee of him, Ï'll, but know me.
ye
The gipsy stopped
abruptly, and turned an eye, in which menace vainly strug
gled with good humor, upon each of his brethren, as they
submissively bowed to him and his protégé, and poured
forth a profusion of promises to which their admonitor die
not even condescend to listen. He threw off his great
cont, doubled it down by the best place near the fire, and
made the youth forthwith possess himself of the seat it af
forded. He then lifted the cover of the mysterious caldrou.
"Well, Mort,” cried he to the old woman, as he bent wist-
fully down, "what have we here?"
|
|
"Two ducks, three chickens, and a rabbit, with some
potatoes," growled the old hag, who claimed the usual
privilege of her culinary office, to be as ill tempered as
she pleased.
"Good!" said the gipsy; "and now, Mim, my cull,
go to the other tent, and ask its inhabitants, in my name,
to come here and sup; bid them bring their caldron to eke
out ours, I'll find the lush.”
G
With these words (which Mim, a short, swarthy mem
ber of the gang, with a countenance too astute to be plea
sing, instantly started forth to obey) the gipsy stretched
himself at full length by the youth's side, and began
reminding him, with some jocularity, and at some length,
of his promise to drink to their better acquaintance.
Something there was in the scene, the fire, the caldron,
the intent figure and withered countenance of the old wo-
man, the grouping of the other forms, the rude but not
unpicturesque tent, the dark still woods on either side,
with the deep and cloudless skies above, as the stars broke
forth one by one upon the silent air, which (to use the
orthodox phrase of the novelist) would not have been
wholly unworthy the bold pencil of Salvator himself.
The youth eyed, with that involuntary respect which
personal advantages always command, the large, yet sym-
metrical proportions of his wild companion; nor was the
face which belonged to that frame much less deserving of
attention. Though not handsome, it was singular, shrewd,
and prepossessing in its expression; the forehead was
prominent, the brows overhung the eyes, which were large,
dark, and unlike those of the tribe in general, rather calm
than brilliant; the complexion, though sunburnt, was not
swarthy, and the face was carefully and cleanly shaved,
so as to give all due advantage of contrast to the brown
luxuriant locks which fell, rather in flakes than curls, on
either side of his smooth and glowing cheeks. In age,
he was about thirty-five, and though his air and mien were
assuredly not lofty nor aristocratic, yet they were essen-
tially and strikingly above the bearing of his vaga-
bond companions: those companions were in all respects
of the ordinary race of gipsies; the cunning and flashing
eye, the raven locks, the dazzling teeth, the bronzed color,
and the low, slight, active form, were as strongly their
distinguishing characteristics as the token of all their horde.
But to these the appearance of the youth presented a
striking and beautiful contrast.
He had only just passed the stage of boyhood, perhaps
he might have seen eighteen summers, probably not so
many. He had, in imitation of his companion, and perhaps
from mistaken courtesy to his new society, doffed his hat;
and the attitude which he had chosen fully developed the
noble and intellectual turn of his head and throat. His
bair, as yet preserved from the disfiguring fashions of the
day, was of a deep auburn, which was rapidly becoming
of a more chestnut hue, and curled in short close curls from
the nape of the neck to the commencement of a forehead
singularly white and high. His brows finely and lightly
penciled, and his long lashes of the darkest dye, gave a
deeper and perhaps softer shade than they otherwise
would have worn, to eyes quick and observant in their ex-
His cneek
pression, and of a light hazel in their color
THE DISOWNED
133
was very fair, and the red light of the fire cast an artifi-
cial tint of increased glow upon a complexion that had
naturally rather bloom than color; while a dark riding
frock set off in their full beauty the fine outline of his chest,
and the slender symmetry of his frame.
But it was neither his features nor his form, eminently
handsome as they were, which gave the principal charm
to the young stranger's appearance; it was the strikingly
bold, buoyant, frank, and almost joyous expression which
presided over all. There seemed to dwell the first glow
and life of youth, undimmed by a single fear, and unbaffled
in a single hope. There were the elastic spring, the inex-
haustible wealth of energies which defied, in their exulting
pride, the heaviness of sorrow and the harassments of time.
It was a face that, while it filled you with some melancho-
ly foreboding of the changes and chances which must, in
the inevitable course of fate, cloud the openness of the
unwrinkled brow, and soberize the fire of the daring and
restless eye, instilled also within you some assurance of
triumph and some omen of success: a vague but pow-
erful sympathy with the adventurous and cheerful spirit
which appeared literally to speak in its expression. It
was a face you might imagine in one born under a pros-
perous star, and you felt, as you gazed, a confidence in
that bright countenance, which, like the shield of the
British prince,* seemed possessed with the power to
charm into impotence the evil spirits who menaced its
possessor.
"Well, sir," said his friend, the gipsy, who had in his
turn been surveying with admiration the sinewy and agile
frame of his young guest.
Well, sir, how fares your
appetite? Old Dame Bingo will be mortally offended if
you do not do ample justice to her good cheer."
"If so," answered our traveller, who, young as he was,
had learnt already the grand secret of making, in every
situation, a female friend, "if so, I shall be likely to
offend her still more."
"And how, my pretty master?" said the old crone,
with an irou smile.
who placed herself by the side of the stranger, and many
were the alluring glances and insinuated compliments
which replied to his open admiration and profuse flattery;
but still was there nothing exclusive in his attentions.
perhaps an ignorance of the customs of his entertainers,
and a consequent discreet fear of offending them, restrained
him; or perhaps he found ample food for occupation in the
| plentiful dainties which his host heaped before him.
"Now tell me," said the gipsy chief, (for chief he
appeared to be,) "if we lead not a merrier life than you
dreamt of? or would you have us change our coarse fare
and our simple tents, our vigorous limbs and free hearts,
for the meagre board, the monotonous chamber, the dis-
eased frame, and the toiling, careful, and withered spirit
of some miserable mechanic?
CC
*
Change! " cried the youth, with an earnestness
which, if affected, was an exquisite counterfeit,
By
heaven, I would change with you myself."
CC
Bravo, my fine cove!" cried the host, and all the
gang echoed their sympathy with his applause.
The youth continued: "Meat, and that plentiful; ale,
and that strong; women, and those pretty nes; what can
man desire more?
CC
no, not
Ay," cried the host, "and all for nothing,
even a tax; who else in this kingdom can say that? Come,
Mim, pusk round the ale.”
And the ale was pushed round, and of course the merri-
ment; loud at least was the laugh that rung ever and anon
from the old tent; and though, at moments, something in
the guest's eye and lip might have seemned, to a very
shrewd observer, a little wandering and distrait, yet, upon
the whole, he was almost as much at ease as the rest, and
if he was not quite as talkative, he was to the full as noisy.
"Silence," cried the host, who loved talking as well
as the rest, and who, for the last ten minutes, had been
"Silence! my
vainly endeavouring to obtain attention.
maunders, it's late and we shall have the queer cuffins*
upon us if we keep it up much longer. What, ho, Mim,
are you still gabbling at the foot of the table, when your
betters are talking? As sure as my name's King Cole,
I'll choke you with your own rabbit skin, if you don't hush
your prating cheat; nay, never look so abashed, — if you
will make a noise, come forward, and sing us a gipsy song.
You see, my young sir, (turning to his guest,) that we are
not without our pretensions to the fine arts.
By degrees, as the hour grew later, and the barrel less
heavy, the conversation changed into one universal clatter.
Some told their feats in beggary; others, their achieve-
ments in theft; not a viand they had fed on but had its
appropriate legend; even the old rabbit, which had been as
tough as old rabbit can well be, had not been honestly
Why, I shall be bold enough to reconcile matters taken from his burrow; no less a person than Mim himself
with a kiss, Mrs. Bingo," answered the youth.
had purloined it from a widow's footman, who was carry-
“Ha! ha!” shouted the tall gipsy; "it is many a longing it to an old maid from her nephew, the squire.
day since my ol! Mort slapped a gallant's face for such
an affront. But here come our messinates. Good evening,
my mumpers, make
your bows to this gentleman, who
has come to bowse with us to-night. Gad, we'll show
him that old ale's none the worse for keeping company
with the moon's darlings. - Come, sit down, sit down.
Where's the cloth, ye ill-mannered loons, and the knives
and platters? Have we no holyday customs for strangers,
think ye?— Mim, my cove, off to my caravan,- bring
out the knives, and all other rattletraps; and harkye, my
cufan, this small key opens the inner hole, where you will
find two barrels; bring one of them. I'll warrant it of
the best, for the brewer himself drank some of the same
sort but two hours before I nimm'd them.
Come stump,
my call,
make yourself wings. Ho, Dame Bingo, is not
that pot of thine seething yet? Ah, my young gentleman,
you commence betimes; so much the better; if love's a
summer day, we all know how early a summer morning
begins," added the jovial Egyptian, in a lower voice,
(feeling perhaps that he was only understood by himself,)
as he gazed complacently on the youth, who, with that
happy facility of making himself everywhere at home, so
uncommon to his countrymen, was already paying compli-
ments, suited to their understanding, to two fair daughters
of the tribe, who had entered with the new comers. Yet
had he too much craft or delicacy, call it which you will,
to continue his addresses to that limit where ridicule or
jealousy, from the male part of the assemblage, might
commence; on the contrary, he soon turned to the men,
and addressed them with a familiarity so frank, and so
suited to their taste, that he grew no less rapidly in their
favor than be had already done in that of the women; and
when the contents of the two caldrons were at length set
upon the coarse, but clean cloth, which, in honor of his
arrival, covered the sod, it was in the midst of a loud and
universal peal of laughter, which some broad witticism of
the young stranger had produced, that the party sat down
to their repast.
Bright were the eyes and sleek the tresses of the damsel
Prince Arthur.-See The Fairy Queen.
|
At this order, Mim started forth, and taking his station
at the right hand of the soi-disant King Cole, began the
following song, the chorus of which was chanted in full
diapason by the whole group, with the additional force at
emphasis that knives, feet, and fists, could bestow.
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
The king to his hall, and the steed to his stall,
And the eit to his bilking board :
But we are not bound to an acre of ground,
For our home is the houseless sward.
We sow not, nor toil; yet we glean from the soil
As much as its reapers do;
And wherever we rove, we feed on the cove
Who gibes at the muunping crew.
CHORUS So the king to his hall, &c.
We care not a straw for the limbs of the law,
Nor a tig for the cuffin queer;
While Hodge and his neighbor shall lavish and labor,
Our tent is as sure of its cheer.
CHORUS So the king to his hall, &c.
The worst have an awe of the harman's | claw,
The best will shun the trip;
But our wealth is as free of the bailiff's see
As our necks of the twisting crap.
CHORUS So the king to his kall, &c.
* Magistrates.
! Builit
† Constable.
& Gallows.
134
BULWER'S NOVELS.
They say it is sweet to win the meat
For which one has sorely wrought,
But I never could find that we lacked the mind
For the food that cost us naught !
CHORUS So the king to the hall, &c.
**
And when we have ceas'd from our fearless feast,
Our jigger will need no bars;
Our watch shall be the owlet's tree,
And our lamps the glorious stars.
CHORUS
So the king to his hall, and the steed to his stall,
And the cit to his bilking board ;
But we are not bound to an acre of ground,
For our home is the houseless sward.
Rude as was this lawless stave, the spirit with which it
was sung atoned to the young stranger for its obscurity and
quaintness; as for his host, that curious personage took a
} sty and prominent part in the chorus, nor did the old
woods refuse their share of the burden, but sent back a mer-
ry echo to the chief's deep voice, and the harsher notes of
h's jovial brethren.
When the glee had ceased, King Cole rose, the whole
hand followed his example, the cloth was cleared in a trice,
the barrel, — O! what a falling off was there! - was roll-
ed into a corner of the tent, and the crew to whom the
awning belonged began to settle themselves to rest; while
those who owned the other encampment marched forth,
with King Cole at their head. Leaning with no light weight
upon his guest's arm, the lover of ancient minstrelsy poured
into the youth's ear a strain of eulogy, rather eloquent than
coherent, upon the scene they had just witnessed.
66
What," cried his majesty, in an enthusiastic tone,
"what can be so truly regal as our state? Can any man
control us? Are we not above all laws? Are we not the
most despotic of kings? Nay, more than the kings of
earth,
-are we not the kings of Fairy-land itself? Do
we not realize the golden dreams of the old rhymners,
luxurious dogs that they were? Who would not cry out,
"Blest silent groves! O may ye be
For ever Mirth's best nursery!
May pure Contents
For ever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these moun-
tains."
Uttering this notable extract from the thrice honored Sir
Henry Wotton, King Cole turned abruptly from the com-
mon, entered the wood which skirted it, and, only attended
by his guest, and his minister Mim, came suddenly, by an
unexpected and picturesque opening in the trees, upon one
of those itinerant vehicles terined caravans; he ascended
the few steps which led to the entrance, opened the door,
and was instantly in the arms of a pretty and young woman.
On seeing our hero, (for such we fear the youth is likely to
become,) she drew back with a blush not often found upon
regal cheeks.
İ
Pooh," said King Cole, half tauntingly, half fondly,
pooh, Lucy, blushes are garden flowers, and ought never
to be found wild in the woods:" then changing his tone, he
said, “Come, put some fresh straw in the corner, this
stranger honors our palace to-night. Mim, unload thyself
of our royal treasures, watch without, and vanish from
within! "
and a
Depositing on his majesty's floor the appurtenances of
the regal supper-table, Mim made his respectful adieus, and
disappeared; meanwhile the queen scattered some fresh
straw over a mattrass in the narrow chamber, and, laying
over all a sheet of singularly snowy hue, made her guest
some apology for the badness of his lodging; this King
Cole interrupted, by a most elaborately noisy yawn,
declaration of extreme sleepiness. Now, Lucy, let us
leave the gentleman to what he will like better than soft
words, even from a queen. Good night, sir, we shall be
stirring at day-break;" and, with this farewell, King Cole
took the lady's arm, and retired with her into an inner de-
partment of the caravan.
ment.
Left to himself, our hero looked round with surprise at
the exceeding neatness which reigned over the whole apart-
But what chiefly engrossed the attention of one to
whose early habits they had always been treasures, were
several books ranged in comely shelves fenced with wire-
work on either side of the fireplace. “Courage,” thought
* Door.
my ad
he, as he stretched himself on his humble couch, "
ventures have commenced well; a gipsy tent, to be sure, i
nothing very new, but a gipsy who quotes poetry, and en
joys a modest wife, speaks better than books do for the im
provement of the world!"
CHAPTER III.
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp?
As You Like It.
THE sun broke cheerfully through the small lattice of the
caravan, as the youth opened his eyes, and saw the good-
humored countenance of his gipsy host bending over him
complacently.
"You slept so soundly, sir, that I did not like to disturb
you; but my good wife only waits your rising to bave all
ready for breakfast.”
"It were a thousand pities," cried the guest, leaping
from his bed," that so pretty a face should look cross on
my account, so I will not keep her waiting an instant.'
fessional help from the devil, sir, to foretell your fortune."
The gipsy smiled, as he answered, "I require no pro-
"No! and what is it?
CC
وو
Honor, reputation, success, all that are ever won
by a soft tongue, if it be backed by a bold heart."
Bright and keen was the flash which shot over the coun-
tenance of the one for whom this prediction was made, as
he listened to it with a fondness for which his reason re-
buked him. He turned aside with a sigh, which did not
escape the gipsy, and bathed his face in the water which
the provident hand of the good woman had set out for his
lavations.
Well," said his host, when the youth had finished his
brief toilet, "suppose we breathe the fresh air, while Lucy
smooths your bed, and prepares the breakfast.'
"With all my heart," replied the youth, and they de
scended the steps which led into the wood. It was a beau-
tiful, fresh morning, the air was like a draught from a spir-
it's fountain, and filled the heart with new youth, and the
blood with a rapturous delight; the leaves,
the green,
green leaves of spring, were quivering on the trees;
among which, the happy birds fluttered and breathed the
gladness of their souls in song. While the dewdrops that
"strewed
A baptism o'er the flowers,"
gave back, in their million mirrors, the reflected smiles of
the cloudless and rejoicing sun.
Nature," said the gipsy, "has bestowed on her child-
ren a gorgeous present in such a morning."
CC
cr
Truc," said the youth; " and you, of us two, perhaps,
only deserve it: as for me, when I think of the long road
of dust, heat, and toil, that lies before me, I could almost
wish to stop here and ask an admission into the gipsy's
tents."
"You could not do a wiser thing!" said the gipsy,
gravely.
"But fate leaves me no choice," continued the youth, as
seriously as if he were in carnest; "and I must quit you
immediately after I have a second time tasted of your hos-
pitable fare."
"If it must be so, "answered the gipsy, "I will see you,
at least, a mile or two on your road," The youth thanked
him for a promise which his curiosity made acceptable, and
they turned once more to the caravan.
The meal, however obtained, met with as much honor
as it could possibly have received from the farmer from
whom its materials were borrowed.
It was not without complacency that the worthy pair be-
held the notice their guest lavished upon a fair, curly-head-
ed boy of about three years old, the sole child and idol of
the gipsy potentates. But they did not perceive, when the
youth rose to depart, that he slipped into the folds of the
child's dress, a ring of some value, the only one he pos-
sessed.
"And now," said he, after having thanked his enter
tainers for their hospitality, "I must say good bye to your
flock, and set out upon my day's journey.'
Lucy, despite her bashfulness, shook hands with her
handsome guest, and the latter, accompanied by the gipsy
chief, strolled down to the encampments.
THE DISOWNED.
13&
Open and free was his parting farewell to the inmates of
the two tents, and liberal was the hand which showered
upon all,
especially on the damsel who had been his
Thais of the evening feast, the silver coins which made
no inconsiderable portion of his present property.
It was aurid the oracular wishes and favorable predic-
tions of the whole crew, that he recommenced his journey
with the gipsy chief.
When the tents were fairly out of sight, and not till
then, King Cole broke the silence which had as yet subsist-
ed between them.
"I suppose, my young gentleman, that you expect to meet
some of your friends or relations at W-? I know not
what they will say when they hear where you have spent the
night."
"Indeed!" said the youth: "whoever hears my adven-
ture, relation or not, will be delighted with my description;
but, in sober earnest, I expect to find no one at W- more
friend than a surly innkeeper, unless it be his dog."
Why, they surely do not suffer a stripling of your youth
and evident quality, to wander alone?" cried King Cole,
in undisguised surprise.
my
CC
The young traveller made no prompt answer, but bent
down as if to pluck a wild flower which grew by the road
side: after a pause, he said,
CC
ble, and when she died, her las. words commended me to
my father's protection.
"My surviving parent needed no such request. He lav
ished upon me all that superfluity of fondness and food, of
which those good people who are resolved to spoil their
children, are so prodigal. He could not bear the idea of
sending me to school; accordingly, he took a tutor for me, a
simple-hearted, gentle, kind man, who possessed a vast
store of learning rather curious than useful. He was a tol-
erable, and at least an enthusiastic, antiquary,
than tolerable poetaster; and he had a prodigious budget
full of old ballads and songs, which he loved better to teach
and I to learn, than all the Latin, Greek, geography, as-
tronomy, and the use of the globes,' which my poor father
had so sedulously bargained for.
a inore
"Accordingly, I have become exceedingly well-informed
in all the precious conceits' and 'golden garlands' of our
British ancients, and continued exceedingly ignorant of
every thing else, save and except a few of the most fash-
ionable novels of the day, and the contents of six lying
volumes of voyages and travels, which flattered both my
appetite for the wonderful, and my love of the adventurous.
My studies, such as they were, were not by any means
suited to curb or direct the vagrant tastes my childhood
had acquired on the contrary, the old poets, with their
luxurious description of the green wood,' and the for-
est life; the fashionable novelists, with their spirited
accounts of the wanderings of some fortunate rogue, and
the ingenious travellers, with their wild fables, so dear to
the imagination of every boy, only fomented within me a
strong though secret regret at my change of life, and a rest-
less disgust to the tame home and bounded roamings to
which I was condemned.
by which I was condemned. When I was about seventeen,
iny father sold his property, (which he had become pos-
sessed of in right of my mother,) and transferred the pur-
chase money to the security of the funds. Shortly after-
ward he died; the bulk of his fortune became mine; the
remainder was settled upon a sister many years older than
myself, who, in consequence of her marriage and residence
in a remote part of Wales, I had never yet seen.
Nay, Master Cole, you must not set me the example of
playing the inquisitor, or you cannot guess how troublesome
I shall be. To tell you the truth, I am dying with curiosi-
ty to know something more about you than you may be dis- |
posed to tell me: you have already confessed that, however
boon companions your gipsies may be, they are not those
with whom you were born and bred.'
وو
King Cole laughed: perhaps he was not ill pleased by
the curiosity of his guest, nor by the opportunity it afforded
him of being his own hero.
My story, sir," said he, "would be soon told, if you
thought it worth the hearing, nor does it contain any thing
which should prevent my telling it.”
"If so," quoth the youth, "I shall conceive your satis-
fying my request the greatest favor you have yet bestowed
bestowed
The gipsy relaxed his pace into an indolent saunter, as
he commenced:
upon me."
M
|
C
>
Now, then, I was perfectly free and unfettered; my
guardian lived in Scotland, and left me entirely to the guid-
ance of my tutor, who was both too simple and too indolent
to resist my inclinations. I went to London, became ac-
quainted with a set of most royal scamps, frequented the the-
atres and the taverns, the various resorts which constitute
the gayeties of a blood just above the middle class, and
was one of the noisiest and wildest blades that ever
heard the chimes by midnight, and the magistrate's lec-
ture for matins.' I was a sort of leader among the jolly
dogs I consorted with. My earlier education gave a raci-
ness and nature to my delineations of life,' which delight-
ed them. But somehow or other, I grew wearied of this
sort of existence. About a year after I was of age, my
fortune was more than three parts spent ; I fell ill with
drinking, and grew dull with remorse; need I add that my
comrades left me to myself? A fit of spleen, especially if
accompanied with duns, makes one wofully misanthropic;
so, when I recovered from my illness, I set out on a tour
through Great Britain and France, alone, and princi-
pally on foot. O, the rapture of shaking off the half
friends and cold formalities of society, and finding one's self
all unfettered, with no companion but nature, no guide but
youth, and no flatterer but hope !
"The first scene that I remember, was similar to that
which
you witnessed last night. The savage tent, and the
green moor, the faggot blaze, the eternal pot, with its
hissing note of preparation, the old dame who tended it,
and the ragged urchins who learnt from its contents the
first reward of, and the earliest temptation to, theft, — all
these are blended into agreeable confusion as the primal
impressions of my childhood. The woman who nurtured
me as my mother was rather capricious than kind, and my
infancy passed away, like that of more favored scions of
fortune, in alternate chastisement and caresses. In good
truth, Kinching Meg had the shrillset voice and the heavi-
est hand of the whole crew, and I cannot complain of in-
justice, since she treated me no worse than the rest. Not-
withstanding the irregularity of my education, I grew up
strong and healthy, and my reputed mother had taught me
so much fear for herself that she left me none for any thing
else; accordingly, I became bold, reckless, and adventurous,
and at the age of thirteen was as thorough a reprobate as
the tribe could desire. At that time a singular change be-
fel me: we (that is, my mother and myself) were begging,
not many miles hence, at the door of a rich man's house,
in which the mistress lay on her death-bed. That mistress
was my real mother, from whom Meg had stolen me in my
first year of existence. Whether it was through the fear
of conscience or the hope of reward, no sooner had Meg
learnt the dangerous state of my poor mother, the constant
grief which they said had been the sole, though slow cause
of her disease, and the large sums which had been repeat-childhood, perpetually haunted my mind. On my return
edly offered for my recovery; no sooner, I say, did Meg as-
certain all these particulars, than she fought her way up to
the sick chamber, fell on her knees before the bed, owned
her crime, and produced myself. Various little proofs of
time, place, circumstance; the clothing I had worn when
stolen, and which was still preserved, joined to the striking
likeness I bore to both my parents, especially to my father,
silenced all doubt and incredulity; I was welcomed home
with a joy which it is in vain to describe. My return seem-
ed to recall my mother from the grave; she lingered on for
quany months longer than her physicians thought it pessi-
I was
Well, my young friend, I travelled for two years, and
saw, even in that short time, enough of this busy world to
weary and disgust me with its ordinary customis.
not made to be polite, still less to be ambitious. I sighed
after the coarse comrades and the free tents of my first asso-
ciates, and a thousand remembrances of the gipsy wander-
ings, steeped in all the green and exhilarating colors of
from my wanderings, I found a letter from my sister, who,
having become a widow, had left Wales, and had now fixed
her residence in a well visited watering-place in the west
of England. I had never yet seen her, and her letter was
a fine lady-like sort of epistle, with a great deal of ro
mance and a very little sense, written in an extremely
pretty hand, and ending with a quotation from Pope, i
never could endure Pope, nor indeed any of the poets of
the days of Anne and her successors.) It was a beautiful
season of the year; I had been inured to pedestrian ex-
cursions, so I set off on foot to see my nearest surviving
136
BULWER'S NOVELS
―
relative. On the way, I fell in (though on a very different
spot) with the very encampment you saw last night. By
heavens, that was a merry meeting to me; I joined, and
journeyed with them for several days, never do I re-
member a happier time. Then, after many years of bond-
age and stiffness, and accordance with the world, I found
myself at ease, like a released bird; with what zest did
I join in the rude jokes, and the knavish tricks, the stolen
feasts and the roofless nights of those careless vagabonds.
Ah, sir, may you never, for the sake of what the world
ralls honest men, know the happiness of being a rogue!
"I left my fellow travellers at the entrance of the town
where my sister lived. Now came the contrast. Some-
what hot, rather plebeianishly clad, and covered with the
dust of a long summer's day, I was ushered into a little
drawing-room, eighteen feet by twelve, as I was afterward
somewhat pompously informed. A flaunting carpet, green,
red, and yellow, covered the floor. A full length picture
of a thin woman, looking most agreeably ill-tempered,
stared down at me from the chimney piece; three stuffed
birds, how emblematic of domestic life! stood stiff
and imprisoned, even after death, in a glass cage. A fire
screen, and a bright fireplace; chairs covered with hol-
land, to preserve them from the atmosphere, and long mir-
rors, wrapped, as to the frame work, in yellow muslin, to
keep off the flies, finish the panorama of this watering-
place mansion. The door opened, silks rustled,
voice shrieked Mr. Brother!' and a figure, a thin fig-
-the original of the picture over the chimney piece,
ure,
M
rushed in.'
"I can well fancy her joy," said the youth.
a
"You can do no such thing, begging your pardon, sir,"
resumed King Cole. She had no joy at all:- - she was
exceedingly surprised and disappointed. In spite of my
early adventures, I had nothing picturesque or romantic
about me at all. I was very thirsty, and I called for beer;
I was very tired, and I laid down on the sofa ; I wore
thick shoes, and small buckles; and my clothes were
made God knows where, and were certainly put on God
knows how. My sister was miserably ashamed of me :
she had not even the mammers to disguise it. In a higher
rank of life than that which she held, she would have suf-
fered far less mortification; for I fancy great people pay
but little real attention to externals. Even if a man of
rank is vulgar, it makes no difference in the orbit in which
he moves; but your genteel gentlewomen' are so terribly
dependent upon what Mrs. Tomkins will say, so very
uneasy about their relations, and the opinion they are held
in, and, above all, so made up of appearances and
clothes, so undone, if they do not eat, drink, and talk
d-la-mode, that I can fancy no shame like that of my poor
sister's at having found, and being found with a vulgar
brother.
"I saw how unwelcome I was, and I did not punish
myself by a long visit. With a proud face, but a heart
full of bitter and crushed affections, I left her house, and
returned toward London. On my road, I again met with
my gipsy friends; the warmth of their welcome enchant-
ed me, you may guess the rest. I stayed with them so
long that I could not bear to leave them; I reëntered
their crew: I am one among them. Not that I have be-
come altogether and solely of the tribe: I still leave them,
whenever the whim seizes me, and repair to the great cities
and thoroughfares of man. There I am soon driven back
again to my favorite and fresh fields, as a reed upon a
wild stream is dashed back upon the green rushes from
which it has been torn. You perceive that I have many
comforts and distinctions above the rest; for, alas, sir,
sir,
there is no society, however free and democratic, where
wealth will not create an aristocracy; the renmants of iny
fortune provide me with my unostentatious equipage, and
the few luxurics it contains; it relieves the necessities of
the poor, whether of mine or another tribe, among which
my vagrancies cast me; it allows me to curb, among the
crew, all the grosser and heavier offences against the law
to which want might compel them; and it serves to keep
Up that sway and ascendency among them which my supe-
rior education and duent spirits enabled me at first to at-
tain. Though not legally their king, I assume that title
over the few encampments with which I am accustomed to
travel, and you perceive that I have given my simple name
both the jocular and kingly dignity of which the old song
will often remind you. My story is done."
"Not quite," said his companion :
came you by that blessing?"
ઃઃ
"your wife? Hon
"Ah! thereby hangs a pretty and a love-sick tale, which
would not sound ill in an ancient ballad; but I will con-
tent myself with briefly sketching it. Lucy is the daugh-
ter of a gentleman farmer: about four years ago I fell in
love with her. I wooed her clandestinely, and at last. I
owned I was a gipsy; I did not add my birth nor fortune,
no, I was full of the romance of the Nut-brown Maid's
lover, and attempted a trial of woman's affection, which
even in these days was not disappointed. She eloped with
mie, I leave you to imagine her father's anger, but
you must also imagine my revenge for his noisy hatred and
active persecution of me. A year after our marriage,
things went bad with him; corn, crops, cattle,
deuce was in them all! an execution was on his house and
a writ out against his person. I sent Lucy to comfort and
restore him we procured him a better farm and a pretti-
er house, and we are now the best friends in the worlð
Poor Lucy is perfectly reconciled to her caravan and her
wandering husband, and has never, I believe, once repent
ed the day on which she became the gipsy's wife!"
the
"and
"I thank you heartily for your history," said the youth,
who had listened very attentively to this detail;
though my happiness and pursuits are centered in that
world which you despise, yet I confess that I feel a sensa-
tion very like envy at your singular choice; and I would
not dare to ask of my heart whether that choice is not
happier, as it is certainly more philosophical than mine."
They had now reached a part of the road where the coun-
try assumed a totally different character; the woods and
moors were no longer visible, but a broad and somewhat
bleak extent of country lay before them. Here and there
only a few solitary trees broke the uniformity of the wide
fields and scanty hedge rows, and at distant intervals the
thin spires of the scattered churches rose like the prayers,
of which they were perhaps the symbol, to mingle them-
selves with heaven.
CC
:
The gipsy paused: "I will accompany you," said he,
no farther your way lies straight onward, and you will
reach W. before noon; farewell, and may God watch
over you!"
tr
Farewell!" said the youth, warmly pressing the hand
which was extended to him. "If we ever meet again,
will probably solve a curious riddle, viz. whether you are
not disgusted with the caravan and I with the world!
>>
"The latter is more likely than the former," said the
gipsy, "for one stands a much greater chance of being
disgusted with others than with one's self; so changing a
little the old lines, I will wish you adieu after my own
fashion, viz. in verse,
"Go, set thy heart on winged wealth,
Or unto honor's towers aspire;
But give me freedom and my health,
And there's the sum of my desire!
CHAPTER IV.
M
"
The letter, Madam, have you none for me?
The Rendezvous
Provide surgeons.
The Lover's Progress.
How little, when we read the work, do we care for the
author! How little do we reck of the sorrow from which
a jest has been forced, or the weariness that an incident
has beguiled! But the power to fly from feeling, the re-
compense of literature from its heart-burnings and cares,
the disappointments and the anxiety, the cavil and the
"censure sharp," even this passes away, and custom
drags on the dull chain which enthusiasm once so passion-
ately wore!
ately wore! Alas, for the age when, in the creation of
fiction, we could lose the bitterness and barrenness of
truth! The sorrows of youth, if not whol y ideal, bor-
row at least from the imagination their color and their
shape. What marvel then that from the imagination come
also their consolation and their hope. But now, in man-
hood, cur fancy constitutes but little of our afflictions, and
presents to us no avenues for escape. In the toil, the fret,
the hot, the unquiet, the exhausting engrossments of ma-
turer years, how soon the midnight lamp loses its enchant-
ment, and the noonday visions their spell! We are bound
THE DISOWNED.
187
by a thousand galiing and grinding ties to this hard and
unholy earth. We become helots of the soil of dust and
clay; denizens of the polluted smoke, the cabined walls,
and the stony footing of the inhospitable world. What
now have our griefs with the "moonlit melancholy," the
gentle tenderness of our young years? Can we tell them
any more to the woods and waterfalls? can we make for
them a witness of the answering sea, or the sympathizing
stars? Alas! they have now neither commune nor conso-
lation in the voices of nature, or the mysteries of romance;
they have become the petty stings, and the falling drops,
the irritating and vexing littlenesses of life: they have
neither dignity on the one hand, nor delusion on the other.
One by one they cling around us, like bonds of iron; they
multiply their links; they grow over our hearts; and the
feelings, once too wild for the very earth, fold their broken
wings within the soul. Dull and heavy thoughts, like dead
walls, close around the laughing flowers and fields that so
enchanted us of yore; the sins, the habits, the reasonings
of the world, like rank and gloomy fogs, shut out the ex-
ulting heavens from our view; the limit of our wander-
ing becomes the length of our chain; the height of our
soarings, the summit of our cell! Fools, fools that we
are, then, to imagine that the works of our later years
shall savor of the freedom and aspirations of our youth;
or that amid all which hourly and momentarily recalls and
binds our hearts and spirits to the eternal "self," we can
give life, and zest, and vigor, to the imaginary actions and
sentiments of another!
Of a very different cast from these melancholy reflec-
tions were the thoughts of our young traveller as he has-
tened, with a rapid step, upon his solitary way. The fresh
air and the exuberance of health gave him that exhilara-
tion of spirit which is so rarely found after a certain age;
and every now and then he broke forth into abrupt sen-
tences, which, in betraying the sanguineness of his medi-
tations, disclosed also the character of his mind.
>
Turn gipsy, indeed! There is something better in
store for me than such a choice. Ay, I have all the world
before me where to choose, not my place of rest. No,
many a long year will pass away ere any place of rest will
he my choice! Action! Action! Action! as Demosthenes
said.* I wonder whether I shall find the letter at W
the letter, the last letter I shall ever have from home; but it
is no home to me now; and I-I, insulted, reviled, rampled
upon, without even a name! Well, well, I will earn a
still fairer one than that of my forefathers. They shall be
proud to own me yet." And with these words the speaker
broke off abruptly, with a swelling chest, and a flashing
eye; and as, an unknown and friendless adventurer, he
gazed on the expanded and silent country around him, he
felt, like Castruccio Castrucany, that he could stretch his
hands to the east and to the west, and exclaim, "O,
that my power kept pace with my spirit, then should it
grasp the corners of the earth.”
The road wound at last from the champaign country,
through which it had for some miles extended itself, into a
narrow lane, girded on either side by a dead fence. As
the youth entered this lane, he was somewhat startled by
the abrupt appearance of a horseman, whose steed leaped
the hedge so close to our hero as almost to endanger his
safety. The rider, a geatleman of about five-and-twenty,
pulled up, and, in a tone of great courtesy, apologized for
his inadvertency; the apology was readily admitted, and
the horseman rode onward in the direction of W-
Trifling as this incident was, the air and mien of the
stranger were sufficient to arrest, irresistibly, the thoughts
of the young traveller; and before they had flowed into a
fresh channel, he found himself in the town, and at the door
of the inn to which his expedition was bound. He entered
the bar; a buxom landlady, and a still more buxom daugh-
ter, were presiding over the spirits of the place.
"You have some boxes and a letter for me, I believe?"
said the young gentleman to the comely hostess.
"To you, sir! the name, if you please?"
“To—to—to L—”
-to C-- L-" said the youth; "the initials
C. L., to be left till called for.”
"Yes, sir, we have some luggage, came last night by
he van,- and a letter besides, sir, to C. L. also.”
The daughter lifted her large dark eyes at the handsome
stranger, and felt a wonderful curiosity to know what the
* As Demosthenes never did say. The Greek word is very
lamely rendered in the vulgar translation.
18
VOL. i
letter to C. L. could possibly be about; meanwhile mine
hostess, raising her hand to a shelf on which stood an In
dian slop-basin, the great ornament of the bar at the Golder
Fleece, brought from its cavity a well folded and well sealed
epistle.
"That is it," cried the youth, "show me a private
room, instantly."
"What can he want a private room for ?" thought the
landlady's daughter.
"Show the gentleman to the Griffin, No. 4, John Mer-
rylack," said the landlady herself.
With an impatient step the owner of the letter followed
a slipshod and marvellously unwashed waiter into No. 4,
-a small square asylum for town travellers, country yeo-
men, and single gentlemen ;' presenting, on the one side,
an admirable engraving of the Marquis of Granby, and
on the other, an equally delightful view of the stable yard.
Mr. C. L. flung himself on a chair, (there were only four
chairs in No. Four,) watched the waiter out of the room,
seized his letter, broke open the seal, and read,- yea.
reader, you shall read it too, - as follows:-
Be
"Enclosed is the sum to which you are entitled; re
member, that it is all which you can ever claim at my
hands; remember also, that you have made the choice
which, now, nothing can persuade me to alter.
the name
you have so long iniquitously borne, hence-
forth and always forgotten; upon that condition, you may
yet hope, from my generosity, the future assistance which
you must want, but which you could ask not from my affec-
tion. Equally, by my heart and my reason, you are for
ever DISOWNED.
وو
The letter fell from the reader's hands. He took up the
enclosure, it was an order payable in London for 1000l. ;
to him it seemed like the rental of the Indies.
"Be it so!" he said aloud, and slowly;
"be it so!
With this will I carve my way; many a name in history
was built upon a worse foundation!"
With these words he carefully put up the money, re-read
the brief note which enclosed it, tore the latter into pieces,
and then, going toward the aforesaid view of the stable
yard, threw open the window and leant out, apparently
in earnest admiration of two pigs, which marched, grunt-
ingly, toward him, one goat regaling himself upon a cab-
bage, and a broken-winded, emaciated horse, which having
just been, what the hostler called "rubbed down," was
just going to be, what the hostler called “fed."
hoofs was suddenly heard upon the rough pavement,
While engaged in this interesting survey, the clatter of
bell rung,
-a dog barked, the pigs grunted, the hostler
ran out, and the stranger, whom our hero had before met
on the road, trotted into the yard.
a
It was evident, from the obsequiousness of the attendants,
that the horseman was a personage of no mean importance;
and indeed, an air, which might almost have been called
princely, (not that princes really have the noblest air in
the world,) seemed alone sufficient to stamp upon the
stranger's brow and figure the patent of aristocracy.
"Who can that be?" said the youth, as the equestrian,
having dismounted, turned toward the door of the inn
the question was readily answered.
"There goes pride
and poverty!" said the hostler. "Here comes Squire
Mordaunt !" said the landlady.
W
At the further end of the stable yard, through a narrow
gate, the youth caught a glimpse of the green sward, and
springing flowers of a small garden. Wearied with the
sameness of No. Four, rather than with his journey, he
sauntered toward the said gate, and, seating himself in a
small arbour within the garden, surrendered himself to
reflection.
leave the Golden Fleece by the earliest conveyance which
went to that great object and emporium of all his plans
and thoughts, London. As, full of this resolution, and
buried in the dreams which it conjured up, he was return-
ing with downcast eyes and unheeding steps through the
stable yard, to the delights of No. Four, he was suddenly
accosted by a loud and alarmed voice:
The result of this self-conference was a determination to
"For God's sake, sir, look out, or
The sentence was broken off, the intended warning came
too late, our hero staggered back a few steps, and fell,
stunned and motionless, against the stable door. Uncon-
sciously he had passed just behind the heels of the stranger's
horse, which, being by no means in good humor with the
7
138
BULWER'S NOVELS.
clumsy manœuvies of his Shampooer, the hostler, had taken
advantage of the opportunity presented to him of working
off his irritability, and had consequently inflicted a severe
kick upon the right shoulder of Mr. C. L.
The stranger, honored by the landlady with the name
and title of Squire Mordaunt, was in the yard at the mo-
ment. He hastened toward the sufferer, who, as yet, was
scarcely sensible, and led him into the house. The sur-
geon of the village was sent for, and appeared: this dis-
cipe of Galen, commonly known by the name of Jeremiah
Bossolton, was a gentleman considerably more inclined to
breadth than length. He was exactly five feet one inch in
height, but thick and solid as a milestone; a wig of
modern cut, carefully curled and powdered, gave somewhat
of a modish, and therefore unseemly, grace, to a solemn
eye; a mouth drawn down at the corners; a nose that had
something in it exceedingly consequential; eyebrows, sage
and shaggy; ears large and fiery; and a chin that would
have done honor to a Mandarin. Now Mr. Jeremiah Bos-
solton had a certain peculiarity of speech, to which, I
fear, I shall find it difficult to do justice. Nature had im-
pressed upon his mind a prodigious love of the grandilo-
quent; Mr. Bossolton, therefore, disdained the exact lan-
guage of the vulgar, and built unto himself a lofty fabric
of words, in which his sense managed very frequently to
lose itself. Moreover, upon beginning a sentence of pecu-
liar dignity, Mr. Bossolton was, it must be confessed,
sometimes at a loss to conclude it in a period worthy of the
commencement; and this caprice of nature, which had
endowed him with more words than thoughts, (necessity is,
indeed, the mother of invention,) drove him into a very
ingenious method of remedying the deficiency; this was
simply the plan of repeating the sense, by inverting the
sentence, after the fashion, which for our reader's better
understanding, the first time it occurs, we will designate
by italics
"How long a period of time," said Mr. Bossolton,
"has elapsed since this deeply to be regretted and seriously
to be investigated accident occurred?"
"Not many minutes," said Mordaunt : "make no far-
ther delay, I beseech you, but examine the arm; it is not
broken, I trust?
"In this world, Mr. Mordaunt," said the practitioner,
bowing very low, for the person he addressed was of the
most ancient lineage in the county,- "in this world,
Mr. Mordaunt, even at the earliest period of civilization,
delay in matters of judgment has ever been considered of
such vital importance, and -and such important vitality,
that we find it inculcated, in the proverbs of the Greeks,
and the sayings of the Chaldeans, as a principle of the most
expedient utility, and — and -the most useful expe-
diency !"
Mr. Bossolton," said Mordaunt, in a tone of remark-
able and even artificial softness and civility, "have the
kindness immediately to examine this gentleman's bruises."
Mr. Bossolton looked up in the calm, quiet, but haughty
face of the speaker, and, without a moment's hesitation,
proceeded to handle the arm, which was already stripped
for his survey.
"It frequently occurs," said Mr. Bossolton, "in the
course of my profession, that the forcible, sudden, and
vehement application of any hard substance, like the hoof
of a quadruped, to the soft, tender, and carniferous parts
of the human frame, such as the arm, occasions a pain, a
pang, I should rather say, of the intensest acuteness, and
and of the acutest intensity."
"Pray, Mr Bossolton, is the bone broken!" asked
Mordaunt.
By this ume the patient, who had been hitherto in that
languor which extreme pain always produces at first, espe-
cially on young frames, was sufficiently recovered to mark
and reply to the kind solicitude of the last speaker ; "I
thank you, sir," said he, with a smile, "for your anxiety,
but I feel that the bone is not broken, the muscles are a
little hurt, that is all."
"Young gentleman," said Mr. Bossolton, "you must
permit me to say that they who have all their lives been em-
ployed in the pursuit, and the investigation, and the ana-
lysis of certain studies, are, in general, better acquainted
with those studies than they who have neither given them
any importance of consideration; — nor― nor any consi-
deration of importance. Establishing this as m hypo-
thesis I shall now proceed to
دو
"Apply immed ate remedies, if you please, Mr. Bossol
ton," interrupted Mordaunt, in that sweet and honied tone
which somehow or other always silenced even the garrulous
practitioner.
Driven into taciturnity, Mr. Bossolton again inspected
the arm; and having given it as his opinion that the arm
was bruised in consequence of a violent blow which might
have been inflicted by any other concussion of equal force
with that produced by the hoof of a horse, he proceeded to
urge the application of liniments and bandages, which he
promised to prepare with the most solicitudinous despatch,
and the most despatchful solicitude.
Your name, sir!
CHAPTER V.
Ha! my name, you say,
my name?
'Tis well, my name, is, nay, I must consider.
Mada
Pedrille
THIS accident occasioned a delay of some days in the
plans of the young gentleman, for whom we trust, very soon,
both for our own convenience, and that of our reader, to
find a fitting appellation.
Mr. Mordaunt, after seeing every attention paid to him,
both surgical and hospitable, took his departure with a prom-
ise to call the next day; leaving behind him a strong im-
pression of curiosity and interest, to serve our hero as some
mental occupation until his return. The bonny landlady came
up in a new cap with blue ribands, in the course of the eve-
ning, to pay a visit of inquiry to the handsome patient who
was removed from the Griffin, No. Four, to the Dragon,
No. Eight, -a room whose merits were exactly in pro-
portion to its number. viz. twice as great as those of
No. Four.
“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Taptape, with a courtesy, "I
trust you
trust you find yourself better."
"At this moment I do," said the gallant youth, with a
significant air.
"Hem!" quoth the landlady.
A pause ensued. In spite of the compliment, a certain
suspicion suddenly daited across the mind of the hostess.
Strong as are the prepossessions of the sex, those of the
profession are much stronger.
C
"Honest folk," thought the landlady, "don't travel with
their initials only; the last Whitehall Evening' was full
of shocking accounts of swindlers and cheats; aud I gave
fourteen pounds odd shillings for the silver tea-pot John
has brought him up, - as if the delf one was not good
enough for a foot traveller.'
Pursuing these ideas, Mrs. Taptape, looking bashfully
down, said,
ર
>>
By the by, sir, Mr. Bossolton asked me what name he
should put down in his book for the medicines; what would
you please me to say, sir?"
"Mr. who?" said the youth, elevating his eyebrows.
"Mr. Bossolton, sir, the apothecary.
"O! Bossolton! very odd name that, not near so
pretty as, dear me what a beautiful cap that is of yours!
said the young gentleman.
—
"Lord, sir, do you think so? the riband is pretty
enough; but, but, as I was saying, what name shall I
tell Mr. Bossolton to put in his books?" This, thougat
Mrs. Taptape, is coming to the point.
"Well!" said the youth, slowly, and as if in a pro-
found reverie, "well, Bossolton is certainly the most sin-
gular name I ever heard; he does right to put it in a book,
it is quite a curiosity is he clever ? "
Very, sir," said the landlady, somewhat sharply; "but
it is your name, not his, that he wishes to put into his
books."
JA
"Mine!" said the youth, who appeared to have been
seeking to gain time in order to answer a query which
CC Mine,
inost men find requires very little deliberation,
you say; my name is Linden, Clarence Linden, — yon
understand!”
What a pretty name!" thought the landlady's daugh
"but how could he
ter, who was listening at the key-hole;
admire that odious cap of ma's!"'
And, now, landlady, I wish you would send up my
boxes; and get me a newspaper, if you please.”
"Yes, sir," said the landlady, and she rose to retire
THE DISOWNED.
189
I do not think,"
"saia the youth to himself, "that I
could have hit upon a prettier name, and so novel a one
Clarence Linden,-why, if I were that pretty girl
at the bar, I could fall in love with the very words,
Shakspeare was quite wrong when he said,
too!
"A rose by any other naine would smell as sweet.”
A rose by any name would not smell as sweet; if a rose's
name was Jeremiah Bossolton, for instance, it would not,
to my nerves, at least, smell of any thing but an apotheca-
ry's shop."
became doubly unp apossessing; to reserve, it now added
embarrassment, to coldness, gloom; and the pa n he felt in
addressing or being addressed by another was naturally
and necessarily reciprocal, for the effects of sympathy are
nowhere so wonderful, yet so invisible, as in the manners.
By degrees he shunned the intercourse which had for
him nothing but distress, and his volatile acquaintance
were perhaps the first to set him the example. Often in
his solitary walks he stopped afar off to gaze upon the
sports, which none ever solicited him to share: and as the
shout of laughter and of happy hearts came, peal after
When Mordaunt called the next morning, he found Clar-
ence much better, and carelessly turning over various peal upon his ear, he turned enviously, yet not malignant-
books, part of the contents of the luggage, superscribedly, away, with tears, which not all his pride could curb,
and muttered to himself, "And these, these hate me! "
C. L. A book of whatever description was among the few
companions for whom Mordaunt had neither fastidiousness
nor reserve; and the sympathy of taste between him aud
the sufferer gave rise to a conversation less cold and com-
And when
monplace than it might otherwise have been.
Mordaunt, after a day of some length, rose to depart, he
pressed Linden to return his visit before he left that part of
the country; bis place, he added, was only about five miles
Linden, greatly interested in his vis-
itor, was not slow in accepting the invitation, and, perhaps,
for the first time in his life, Mordaunt was shaking hands
with a stranger he had only known two days.
distant from W
CHAPTER VI.
While yet a child, and long before his time,
He and perceived the presence and the power
Of greatness.
X
*
But eagerly he read, and read again.
*
*
*
*
Yet still uppermost
*
Nature was at his heart, as if he felt,
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power
In all things that from her sweet influence
Might seek to wean him. Therefore with her hues,
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms,
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth.
WORDSWORTH.
ALGERNON MORDAUNT was the last son of an old and
nonorable race, which had centuries back numbered prin-
ces in its line. His parents had had many children, but
all (save Algernon, the youngest) died in their infancy.
His mother perished in giving him birth. Constitutional
Constitutional
infirmity, and the care of mercenary nurses, contributed to
render Algernon a weakly and delicate child; hence came
a taste for loneliness and a passion for study; and from
these sprung, on the one hand, the fastidiousness and re-
serve, which render us apparently unamiable, and, on the
other, the loftiness of spirit, and the kindness of heart,
which are the best and earliest gifts of literature, and more
than counterbalance our deficiences in the "minor morals”
due to society, by their tendency to increase our attention
to the greater ones belonging to mankind. Mr. Mordaunt
was a man of luxurious habits and gambling propensities:
wedded to London, he left the house of his ancestors to
moulder into desertion and decay; but to this home, Alger-
non was constantly consigned during his vacations from
school; and its solitude and cheerlessness gave to a dispo-
sition naturally melancholy and thoughtful, those colors
which subsequent events were calculated to deepen, not
efface.
|
There are two feelings common to all high or affection-
ate natures, that of extreme susceptibility to opinion, and
that of extreme bitterness at its injustice. These feelings
were Mordaunt's; but the keen edge which one blow in-
jures, the repetition blunts; and, by little and little, Alger-
non became not only accustomed, but, as he persuaded
himself, indifferent, to his want of popularity; his step
grew more lofty, and his address more collected, and that
which was once diffidence gradually hardened into pride.
His residence at the University was neither without
honor nor profit. A college life was then, as now, either
the most retired or the most social of all others; we need
scarcely say which it was to Mordaunt, but his was the
age
when solitude is desirable, and when the closet forms
the mind better than the world. Driven upon itself, his
intellect became inquiring, and its resources profound;
admitted to their inmost recesses, he revelled among the
treasures of ancient lore, and in his dreams of the Nymph
and Naïad, or his researches after truth in the deep wells
of the Stagyrite or the golden fountains of Plato, he forgot
the loneliness of his lot, and exhausted the hoarded en-
thusiasm of his soul.
""
But his mind, rather thoughtful than imaginative, found
no idol like " Divine Philosophy. It delighted to plunge
itself into the mazes of metaphysical investigation,- to
trace the springs of the intellect, to connect the arcana
of the universe, -to descend into the darkest caverns, or
to wind through the minutest mysteries of nature, and rise,
step by step, to that arduous elevation on which thought
stands dizzy and confused, looking beneath upon a clouded
earth, and above, upon an unfathomabie heaven.
Rarely wandering from his chamber, known personally
to few, and intimately by none, Algernon yet left behind
him at the University the most remarkable reputation of
his day. He had obtained some of the highest of aca-
demical honors, and by that proverbial process of vulgar
minds which ever frames the magnificent from the un-
known, the seclusion in which he lived, and the recon-
dite nature of his favorite pursuits attached to his name
still greater celebrity and interest than all the orthodox
and regular dignities he had acquired. There are few
men who do not console themselves for not being generally
loved, if they can reasonably hope that they are gen-
erally esteemed. Mordaunt had now grown reconciled
to himself and to his kind. He had opened to his inter-
est a world in his own breast, and it consoled him for his
mortification in the world without. But, better than this,
his habits as well as studies had strengthened the princi-
ples and confirmed the nobility of his mind. He was
not, it is true, more kind, more benevolent, more upright
than before; but those virtues now emanated from princi-
ple, not emotion and principle to the mind is what a
Truth obliges us to state, despite our partiality to Mor-free constitution is to a people: without that principle, or
daunt, that, when he left his school, after a residence of
six years, it was with the bitter distinction of having been
the most unpopular boy in it. Why, nobody could exactly
explain, for his severest enemies could not accuse him of
ill nature, cowardice, or avarice, and these make the three
capital offences of a school-boy; but Algernon Mordaunt
had already acquired the knowledge of himself, and could
explain the cause, though with a bitter and swelling heart.
His ill health, his long residence at home, his unfriended
and almost orphan situation, his early habits of solitude
and reserve, all these, so calculated to make the spirit
shrink within itself, made him, on his entrance at school,
if not unsocial, appear so: this was the primary reason of
his unpopularity; the second was that he perceived, for he
was sensitive (and consequently acute) to the ext me, the
misfortune of his manner, and in his wish to rectify it, it
-
that free constitution, the one may be for the moment as
good, the other as happy, but we cannot tell how long
the goodness and the happiness will continue
On leaving the University, his father sent for him to
London.
London. He stayed there a short time, and mingled par-
tially in its festivities; but the pleasures of English dissi-
pation have for a century been the same, heartless without
gayety, and dull without refinement.
daunt, the most fastidious, yet warm-hearted, of human
Nor could Mor-
beings, reconcile to the cold insipidities of patrician society
either his tastes or his affections. His father's habits and
evident distresses deepened his disgust to his situation; for
the habits were incurable, and the distresses increasing;
and nothing but a circumstance, which Mordaunt did not
then understand, prevented the final sale of an estate, ak
ready little better than a pompous encumbrance
140
BULWER S NOVELS.
It was therefore with that half painful, half pleasurable
sensation, with which we avoid contemplating a ruin we
cannot prevent, that Mordaunt set out upon that continen-
tal tour, deemed then so necessary a part of education. His
father, on taking leave of him, seemed deeply affected.
"Go, son," said he, "may God bless you, and not punish
me too severely. I have wronged you, deeply, and I can-
not bear to look upon your face.”
To these words Algernon attached a general, but they
cloaked a peculiar, meaning: in three years, he returned to
England, his father had been dead some months, and the
signification of his parting address was already deciphered,
-but of this hereafter.
а
In his travels, Mordaunt encountered an Englishman,
whose name I will not yet mention; a person of great re-
puted wealth, -a merchant, yet a man of pleasure,- -a
voluptuary in life, yet a saint in reputation, or, to abstain
from the antithetical analysis of a character, which will
not be corporeally presented to the reader, till our tale is
considerably advanced,- one who drew from nature a sin-
gular combination of shrewd, but false conclusions, and a
peculiar philosophy, destined hereafter to contrast the col-
ors, and prove the practical utility, of that which was es-
poused by Mordaunt.
There can be no education in which the lessons of the
world do not form a share. Experience, in expanding Al-
gernon's powers, had ripened his virtues. Nor had the
years which had converted knowledge into wisdom, failed
in imparting polish to refinement. His person had acquir-
ed a greater grace, and his manners an easier dignity than
before. His noble and generous mind had worked its im-
press upon his features and his mien; and those who could
overcome the first coldness and shrinking hauteur of his
address, found it required no minute examination to dis-
cover the real expression of the eloquent eye, and of the
chiseled and classic features.
He had not been long returned, before he found two
enemies to his tranquillity, the one was love, the other
appeared in the more formidable guise of a claimant to his
estate. Before Algernon was aware of the nature of the
latter, he went to consult with his lawyer.
"If the claim be just, I shall not, of course, proceed to
law," said Mordaunt.
But without the estate, sir, you have nothing!
"True," said Algernon, calmly.
But the claim was not just, and to law he went.
In this lawsuit, however, he had one assistant in an old
relation, who had seen, indeed, but very little of him, but
who compassionated his circumstances, and, above all, ba-
ted his opponent.
This relation was rich and childless ;
and there were not wanting those who predicted that his
money would ultimately discharge the mortgages, and re-
pair the house, of the young representative of the Mordaunt
honors. But the old kinsman was obstinate, self-willed,
and under the absolute dominion of patrician pride;
and it was by no means improbable that the independence
of Mordaunt's character would soon create a disunion be-
tween then, by clashing against the peculiarities of his re-
lation's temper.
It was a clear and sunny morning when Linden, tolera-
bly recovered of his hurt, set out upon a sober and aged
pony, which, after some natural pangs of shame, he had
hired of his landlord, to Mordaunt Court.
Mordaunt's house was situated in the midst of a wild
and extensive park, surrounded with woods, and inter-
spersed with trees of the stateliest growth, now scattered
into irregular groups, now marshalled into sweeping aven-
ues; while, ever and anon, Linden caught glimpses of a
rapid and brawling rivulet, which, in many a slight but
sounding waterfall, gave a music strange and spirit-like to
the thick copses and forest glades through which it went
exulting on its way. The deer lay half concealed by the
fern among which they crouched, turning their stately crests
towards the stranger, but not stirring from their rest;
while from the summit of beeches, which would have sham-
ed the pavillion of Tityrus, the rooks, those monks of
the feahered people, were loud in their confused, but
not displeasing, confabulations.
As Linden approached the house, he was struck with the
melancholy air of desolation which spread over and around
it: fragments of stone, above which clomb the rank weed,
insolently proclaiming the triumph of nature's meanest off-
spring over the wrecks of art; a moat dried up, a railing
once of massy gilding, intended to fence a lofty terrace on
the right from the incursions of the deer, but which, shat-
tered and decayed, now seemed to ask, with the satirist, -
To what end did our lavish ancestors
Erect of old these stately piles of ours?
a chapel on the left, perfectly in ruins, all appeared
strikingly to denote that time had outstript fortune, and
that the years, which alike hallow and destroy, had broken
the consequence, in deepening the antiquity, of the house
of Mordaunt.
The building itself agreed but too well with the tokens
of decay around it; most of the windows were shut up, and
the shutters of dark oak, richly gilt, contrasted forcibly
with the shattered panes and mouldered framing of the
glass. It was a house of irregular architecture. Original-
ly built in the thirteenth century, it had received its last
improvement, with the most lavish expense, during the
reign of Anne; and it united the Gallic magnificence of the
latter period with the strength and grandeur of the former;
it was in a great part overgrown with ivy, and, where that
insidious ornament had not reached, the signs of decay,
and even ruin, were fully visible. The sun itself, bright
and cheering as it shone over nature, making the green sod
glow like emeralds, and the rivulet flash in its beam, like
one of those streams of real light, imagined by Sweden-
bourg in his visions of heaven; and clothing tree and fell,
brake and hillock, with the lavish hues of the infant sum-
mer; the sun itself only made more desolate, because more
conspicuous, the venerable fabric, which the youthful
traveller frequently paused more accurately to survey, and
its laughing and sportive beams playing over chink and
crevice seemed almost as insolent and untimeous as the
mirth of the young mocking the silent grief of some gray-
headed and solitary mourner.
Clarence had now reached the porch, and the sound of
the shrill bell he touched rung with a strange note through
the general stillness of the place. A single servant ap-
peared, and ushered Clarence through a screen hall of
stone, hung round with relics of armor, and ornamented
on the side opposite the music gallery, with a solitary pic-
ture of gigantic size, exhibiting the full length of the gaunt
person and sable steed of that Sir Piers de Mordaunt who
had so signalized himself in the field in which Henry of
Richmond changed his coronet for a crown. Through this
hall, Clarence was led to a small chamber, clothed with
uncouth and tattered arras, in which, seemingly immersed
in papers, he found the owner of the domain.
"Your studies," said Linden, after the salutations of
the day, "seem to harmonize with the venerable antiquity
of your home;" and he pointed to the crabbed characters
and faded ink of the papers on the table.
"So they ought," answered Mordaunt, with a faint
smile; for they are called from their quiet archives in
order to support my struggle for that home. But I fear
the struggle is in vain, and that the quibbles of law will
transfer into other hands a possession I am foolish enough
to value the more from my inability to maintain it."
Something of this Clarence had before learnt from the
communicative gossip of his landlady; and, less desirous
to satisfy his curiosity than to lead the conversation from a
topic which he felt must be so unwelcome to Mordaunt, he
expressed a wish to see the state apartments of the house.
With something of shame at the neglect they had necessa-
rily experienced, and something of pride at the splendor
which no neglect could efface, Mordaunt yielded to the
request, and led the way up a staircase of black oak, the
walls and ceiling of which were covered with frescos of
Italian art, to a suite of apartments in which time and
dust seemed the only tenants. Lingeringly did Clarence
gaze upon the rich velvet, the costly mirrors, the motley
paintings of a hundred ancestors, and the antique cabinets,
containing, among the most hoarded relics of the Mordaunt
race, curiosities which the hereditary enthusiasm of a line
of cavaliers had treasured as the most sacred of heir-looms,
and which, even to the philosophical mind of Mordaunt,
possessed a value he did not seek too minutely to analyze.
Here was the goblet from which the first prince of Tudor
had drunk after the field of Bosworth. Here the ring with
which the chivalrous Francis the First had rewarded a
signal feat of that famous Robert de Mordaunt, who, as
a poor but adventurous cadet of the house, had brought
to the "first gentleman of France" the assistance of his
THE DISOWNED.
141
The same servant, who had admitted Clarence, ushered
them through the great hall into the dining-room, and wae
their solitary attendant during their repast.
The temper of Mordaunt was essentially grave and earn-
est, and his conversation almost invariably took the tone
of his mind; this made their conference turn upon less minute
and commonplace topics than one between such new ac-
quaintances, especially of different ages, usually does.
You will positively go to London, to-morrow, then?"
said Mordaunt, as the servant, removing the appurtenances
of dinner, left them alone.
Positively," answered Clarence. “ I go there to carve
my own fortunes, and, to say truth, I am impatient to
begin."
word. Here was the glove which Sir Walter had received
from the royal hand of Elizabeth, and worn in the lists
upon a crest which the lance of no antagonist in that
knightly cou could abase. And here, more sacred than
all, because connected with the memory of misfortune, was
a small box of silver which the last king of an evil and
imbecile, but fated line, had placed in the hands of the
gray headed descendant of that Sir Walter after the battle
of the
Boyne, saying, with that happy turn of expression,
in which all the Stuarts excelled, "Keep this, Sir Eve-
Keep this, Sir Eve-
rard Mordaunt, for the sake of one who has purchased the
luxury of gratitude at the price of a throne !"
As Clarence glanced from these relics to the figure of
Mordaunt, who stood at a little distance leaning against
the window, with arms folded on his breast, and with Mordaunt looked earnestly at the frank face of the
eyes abstractedly wandering over the noble woods and speaker, and wondered that one so young, so well educa-
extended park which spread below, he could not but feelted, and, from his air and manner, evidently of gentle blood,
that if birth has indeed the power of setting its seal upon should appear so utterly thrown upon his own resources.
the form, it was never more conspicuous than in the broad "I wish you success," said he, after a pause; "and it
front and lofty air of the last descendant of the race by is a noble part of the organization of this world, that, by
whose memorials he was surrounded. Touched by the increasing those riches which are beyond fortune, we do in
fallen fortunes of Mordaunt, and interested by the uncer- general take the surest method of obtaining those which
tainty which the chances of law threw over his future fate, are in its reach. Clarence looked inquiringly at Mordaunt,
Clarence could not resist exclaiming, with some warmth who, perceiving it, continued, "I see that I should ex-
and abruptness,
plain myself farther. I will do so by using the thoughts of
a mind not the least beautiful and accomplished which this
country has produced. "Of all which belongs to us,' said
Bolingbroke, the least valuable parts can alone fall under
the will of others. Whatever is best is safest, lies out of
the reach of human power; can neither be given nor taken
away. Such is this great and beautiful work of nature,
the world. Such is the mind of man, which contemplates
and admires the world whereof it makes the noblest part.
These are inseparably ours, and as long as we remain in
one we shall enjoy the other."
"And by what subterfuge, or cavil, does the present
claimant of these estates hope to dislodge their rightful
possessor?""
"Why," answered Mordaunt, "it is a long story in
detail, but briefly told in epitome. My father was a man
whose habits greatly exceeded his fortune, and a few months
after his death, Mr. Vavasour, a distant relation, produced
a paper, by which it appeared that my father had, for a
certain sum of ready money, disposed of his estates to this
Mr. Vayasour, upon condition that they should not be claim-
ed, nor the treaty divulged, till after his death; the reason
for this proviso seems to have been the shame my father
Tel: for his exchange, and his fear of the censures of that
world to which he was always devoted."
"But how unjust to you ! said Clarence.
"Not so much so as it seems," said Mordaunt, depre-
catingly; for I was then but a sickly boy, and according
to the physicians, and, I sincerely believe, according also
to my poor father's belief, almost certain of a premature
death. In that case, Vavasour would have been the nearest
heir; and this expectancy, by the by, joined to the mortga-
ges on the property, made the sum given ridiculously dispro-
portioned to the value of the estate. I must confess that
the news came upon me like a thunderbolt. I should have
yielded up possession immediately, but was informed by
my lawyers that any father had no legal right to dispose of
the property; the discussion of that right forms the ground
of the present lawsuit. For me, I have but little hope,
and even
were I to be successful, the expenses of law
would leave me, like Pyrrhus, lost by my very success.
"No," continued Mordaunt, proudly, yet mournfully, I
am prepared for the worst, and, thank heaven, even in that
worst, there is a spot which affliction can indeed blight,
but which fortune, so far from destroying, cannot even
diminish."
Clarence was silent, and Mordaunt, after a brief pause,
once more resumed his guidance. Their tour ended in a
large library filled with books, and this, Mordaunt informed
his guest, was his chosen and ordinary room.
CC
Beautiful, indeed!" exclaimed Clarence, with the
enthusiasm of a young and pure heart, to which every loftier
sentiment is always beautiful.
"Nor is
"And true as beautiful!" said Mordaunt.
this all, for the mind can even dispense with that world,
of which it forms a part,' if we can create within it a
world still more inaccessible to chance. But (and I now
return to and explain my former observation) the means
by which we can effect this peculiar world, can be rendered
equally subservient to our advancement and prosperity in
that which we share in common with our race; for the rich-
es, which by the aid of wisdom we heap up in the store-
houses of the mind, are, though not the only, the most cus-
tomary coin by which external prosperity is bought. So
that the philosophy, which can alone give independence to
ourselves, becomes, under the name of honesty, the best
policy in commerce with our kind.
In conversation of this nature, which the sincerity and
lofty enthusiasm of Mordaunt rendered interesting to Clar-
ence, despite of the distaste to the serious so ordinary to
youth, the hours passed on, till the increasing evening warn-
ed Linden to depart.
"Adieu!" said he to Mordaunt. "I know not when
we shall meet again; but if we ever do, I will make it my
boast, whether in prosperity or misfortune, not to have for-
gotten the pleasure I have this day enjoyed!"
Returning his guest's farewell with a warmth unusual to
his manner, Mordaunt followed him to the door, and saw
him depart.
pects of the other.
The next morning Clarence Linden was on his road to
London.
An old carved table was covered with works which for Fate ordained that they should pursue, in very different
the most part possessed for the young mind of Clarence, paths, their several destinies; nor did it afford them an op-
more accustomed to imagine than reflect, but a very feeble portunity of meeting again, till years and events had severe-
attraction; on looking over them, he however, found, halfly tried the virtue of one, and materially altered the pros-
hid by a huge folio of Hobbes, and another of Locke, a
volume of Milton's poems; this paved the way to a con-
versation, in which both had an equal interest, for both |
were enthusiastic on the character and genius of that won-
derful mau,
for whom "the divine and solenin countenance
of freedom" was dearer than the light of day, and whose
solitary spell, accomplishing what the whole family of
earth once vainly began upon the Plain of Shinar, has
built of materials more imperishable than "slime and
brick," a city and a tower whose summit has reached
to heaven."
It was with mutual satisfaction that Mordaunt and his
guest continued their commune, till the hour of dinner was
announced to them by a bell, which, formerly intended as
an alarum, now served the peaceful purpose of a more
agreeable summons.
CHAPTER VII.
"Upon my word," cries Jones, "thou art a very old fellow,
and I like thy humor extremely."
FIELDING.
THE rumbling and jolting vehicle, which conveyed Clar-
ence to the metropolis, stopped at the door of a tavern in
Holborn. Linden was ushered into a close coffee-room,
and presented with a bill of fare. While he was delibera-
ting between the respective merits of mutton chops and
beef steaks, man with a brown coat, brown breeches,
i
142
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and a brown wig, walked into the room; he cast a curious
glance at Clarence, and then turned to the waiter.
"A pair of slippers!"
"Yes, sir," and the waiter disappeared.
"I suppose," said the brown gentleman to Clarence,
"I suppose, sir, you are the gentleman just come to town?"
"You are right, sir," said Clarence.
Very well, very well, indeed," resumed the stranger,
musingly. "I took the liberty of looking at your boxes
in the passage; I knew a lady, sir, a relation of yours, I
think."
"Sir!" exclaimed Linden, coloring violently.
"At least I suppose, for her name was just the same as
yours, only, at least, one letter difference between them:
yours is Linden, I see, sir; hers was Minden am I right
in my conjecture, that you are related to her?"
Sir," answered Clarence, gravely, "notwithstanding
the similarity of our names, we are not related.'
Very extraordinary," replied the stranger.
Very," repeated Linden.
*
to
I had the honor, sir," said the brown gentleman,
make Mrs. Minden many presents of value, and I should
have been very happy to have obliged you in the same man-
ner, had you been any way connected with that worthy
gentlewoman."
"You are very kind," said Linden," you are very kind;
and since such were your intentions, I believe I must have
been connected with Mrs. Minden. At all events, as you
justly observe, there is only the difference of a letter be-
tween our names; a discrepancy too slight, I am sure,
to alter your benevolent intentions."
CC
Here the waiter returned with the slippers.
The stranger slowly unbuttoned his gaiters.
Sir,'
said he to Linden, we will renew our conversation
presently."
No sooner had the generous friend of Mrs. Minden de-
posited his feet into their easy tenements, than he quitted
the room.
"Pray," said Linden to the waiter, when he had order-
ed his simple repast, "who is that gentleman in brown?"
"Mr. Brown!" replied the waiter.
"And who, or what is Mr. Brown?" asked our hero.
Before the waiter could reply, Mr. Brown returned, with
a large bandbox carefully enveloped in a blue handkerchief.
sir?" said the latter, quietly seat-
mg
himself at the same table as Linden.
"No, sir, I do not.
then?"
"You come from
"From
>>
"No, sir! from W."
So
.. W
? ay, well, I knew a lady with a name
very like W
(the late Lady Waddilove) extremely
well. I made her some valuable presents, her ladyship
was very sensible of it.”
"I don't doubt it, sir," replied Clarence; "such in-
stances of general beneficence rarely occur!"
"I have some magnificent relics of her ladyship in this
box," returned Mr. Brown.
"Really! then she was no less generous than yourself, I
presume?"
"Yes, her ladyship was remarkably generous. About a
week before she died, (the late Lady Waddilove was quite
sensible of her danger,) she called ine to her, -Brown,'
said she, ' you are a good creature; I have had my most
valuable things from you. I am not ungrateful; I will
leave you
-my maid! She is as clever as you are, and
as good.' I took the hint, sir, and married. It was an
excellent bargain. My wife is a charming woman; she
entirely fitted up Mrs. Minden's wardrobe, and I fur-
nished the house. Mrs. Minden was greatly indebted
to us.'
""
"God help me!" thought Clarence, "the man is cer-
tainly mad."
The waiter entered with the dinner; and Mr. Brown,
who seemed to have a delicate aversion to any conversation
in the presence of the Ganymede of the Holborn tavern,
iminediately ceased his communications: meanwhile, Cla-
rence took the opportunity to survey him more minutely
than he had hitherto done.
|
that an object of adequate importance may demand. We
have said already that he was attired, like twilight, "in
a suit of sober brown;" and there was a formality, a pre-
cision, and a cat-like sort of cleanliness in bis garb, which
savored strongly of the respectable coxcombry of the
counting-house, or the till. His face was lean, it is true,
but not emaciated; and his complexion, sallow and adust,
harmonized well with the colors of his clothing. An
Ατ
eye of the darkest hazel, sharp, shrewd, and flashing at
times, especially at the mention of the euphonious name
of Lady Waddilove, a name frequently upon the lips o.
the inheritor of her Abigail, with a fire that might be
called brilliant, was of that inodest species which can sel
don encounter the straightforward glance of another; on
the contrary, it seemed restlessly uneasy in any settled
place, and wandered from ceiling to floor, and corner to
corner, with an inquisitive, though apparently careless
glance, as if seeking for something to admire or har y to
appropriate; it also seemed to be the especial care of Mr.
Brown to veil, as far as he was able, the vivacity of his
looks beneath an expression of open and unheeding good-
nature, an expression strangely enough contrasting with
the closeness and sagacity which nature had indelibly
stamped upon features pointed, aquiline, and impressed
with a strong mixture of the Judaical physiognomy.
manner and bearing of this gentleman partook of the same
undecided character as his countenance; they seemed to
be struggling between civility and importance; a real eager-
ness to make the acquaintance of the person he addressed,
and an assumed recklessness of the advantages which that
acquaintance could bestow; it was like the behaviour
of a man who is desirous of having the best possible mo-
tives imputed to him, but is fearful lest that desire should
not be utterly fulfilled. At the first glance, you would
have pledged yourself for his respectability; at the second,
you might have half suspected him to be a rogue; and,
after you had been half an hour in his company, you
would confess yourself in the obscurest doubt which was
the better guess, the first or the last. A very experien-
ced judge of outward signs would probably have decided
on this peculiar instance according to the general charac-
ter of mankind, and have set down Mr. Brown in the
tablets of his mind as a man neither good nor bad, -the
latter, perhaps, with temptation, the former without,
a bit of a knave in his profession, whatever that might be,
but an admirably honest man, when it was not the interest
of his vocation to be the reverse.
The
viz.
"Waiter!" said Mr. Brown, looking enviously at the
viands upon which Linden, having satisfied his curiosity.
was now, with all the appetite of youth, regaling himsel
"Waiter! ""
"Yes, sir!
CC
Bring me a sandwich, — and, — and, waiter, set
that I have plenty of— plenty of-
"What, sir?"
CC
Plenty of mustard, waiter!”
Mustard" (and here Mr. Brown addressed himself to
Clarence)" is a very wonderful assistance to the diges-
tion. By the by, sir, if you want any curiously fine mus-
tard, I can procure you some pots quite capital,- a great
favor, though,
favor, though, they were smuggled from France, es-
pecially for the use of the late Lady Waddilove.”
—
"Thank you," said Linden, dryly; "I shall be very
happy to accept any thing you may wish to offer me.'
Mr. Brown took a pocket-book from his pouch. "Six
pots of mustard, sir,- shall I say six ?"
"As many as you please," replied Clarence; and Mr
Brown wrote down "Six pots of French mustard.”
"You are a very young gentleman, sir," said Mr
Brown, "probably intended for some profession, — I don't
mean to be impertinent, but if I can be of any assistance-
“You can, sir," replied Linden, "and immediately,
have the kindness to ring the bell."
Mr. Brown, with a grave smile, did as he was desired,
the waiter reentered, and receiving a whispered order
from Clarence, again disappeared.
"What profession did you say, sir?" renewed Mr.
Brown, artfully.
"None!" replied Linden.
"O, very well, very well indeed. Then as an idle,
independent gentleman, you will of course be a bit of a
fine cravats too,
beau, want some shirts, possibly,
His new acquaintance was in age about forty eight; in
stature, rather under the middle height; and thin, dried,
withered, yet inuscular withal, like a man who, in stinting
his stomach for the sake of economy, does not the less
enjoy the power of undergoing any fatigue or exertion-gentleman wear a particular pattern now, - gloves.
THE DISOWNED
143
gold, or shall I say gilt chain, watch and seals, a ring or
two, and a snuff-box ?"
CC
Sir, you are vastly obliging," said Clarence, in un-
disguised surprise.
"Not at all, I would do any thing for a relation of Mrs.
Minden." The waiter reentered; "Sir," said he to
Linden, " your room is quite ready."
'
‹‹ Mr.
""
"I am glad to hear it," said Clarence, rising.
Brown, I have the honor of wishing you a good evening.
Stay, sir, stay; you have not looked into these things
belonging to the late Lady Waddilove.”
ઃઃ
"Another time," said Clarence, hastily.
>
"To-morrow, at ten o'clock," muttered Mr. Brown.
"I am exceedingly glad I have got rid of that fellow,"
said Linden to himself, as he stretched his limbs in his easy
chair, and drank off the last glass of his pint of port. "If
I have not already seen, I have already guessed, enough of
the world, to aow that you are to look to your pockets,
when a mor offers you a present; they who give,' also
take away.' So here I am in London, with an order for
10007, in my purse, the wisdom of Dr. Latinas in my head,
and the health of eighteen in my veins; will it not be my
ovn fark if I do not both enjoy and make myself
""
And then yielding to meditations of future success, par-
taking strongly of the inexperienced and sanguine tempe-
ramer of the soliloquist, Clarence passed the hours, till
his pillow summoned him to dreams no less ardent, and
Pernars no less unreal.
actually presents in every thing but the name O, sir, I
perfectly understand your delicacy, and would not, for the
world, violate it."
So saying, Mr. Brown put a paper into Linden's hands,
the substance of which a very little more experience of the
world would have enabled Clarence to foresee: it ran
thus :
CLARENCE LINDEN, ESQ., Dr.
To Six Pots of French Mustard
TO MR. MORRIS BROWN.
£1 4 0
4 1 )
0 10
To Three Superfine Holland Shirts, with Cambric
Bosoms, complete
To Two Pots of Superior French Pomatum
To a Tobacco Canister of enamelled Tin, with a finely
executed head of the Pretender: slight flaw in
the same
To a Gerinan Pipe, second hand, as good as new, be-
longing to the late Lady Waddilove
To Four Pair of Black Silk Hose, ditto, belonging to
her Ladyship's husband
To Two Superfine Embossed Gold Watch Seals, with
a Classical Motto and Device to each, viz: Mouse
Trap and "Prenez Garde," to one, and "Who
the Devil can this be from?" to the other
To a remarkably fine Antique Ring, having the head
of a Monkey
A ditto, with blue stones
A ditto, with green ditto
A stuffed Green Parrot, a remarkable favorite of the
late Lady W.
Sum Total
Deduction for Ready Money
Mr. Brown's Profits for Brokerage
0 12 6
1 18 0
2 8 0
1 1 0
0 16 6
0 12 6
0 12 6
2 2 0
£15 18 0
0 13 6
£15 4 6
1 10 0
£16 14 0
day of
17-
CHAPTER VIII.
O! how I long to be employed.
Every Man in his Humor.
CLARENCE was sitting the next morning over the very
unsatisfactory breakfast which tea made out of broom-
sticks, and cream out of chalk, (adulteration thrived even
a 17 —,) afforded, when the waiter threw open the door,
and announced Mr. Brown.
"Just in time, sir, you perceive," said Mr. Brown ;
"I am punctuality itself: exactly a quarter of a minute
I have brought you the pots of French mustard,
and I have some very valuable articles which you must
want, besides."
1 ten.
"Thank you sir," said Linden, not well knowing what
to say; and . Brown, untying a silk handkerchief, pro-
caced three airts, two pots of pomatum, a tobacco canis-
ter, with a German pipe, four pair of silk stockings, two
gold seals, three rings, and a stuffed parrot !
"Beautiful articles these, sir," said Mr. Brown, with a
snuffle of inward sweetness long drawn out,' and
sive of great admiration of his offered treasures;
tiful articles, sir, ar'n't they?"
C
وو
Sum Total
Received of Clarence Linden, Esq., this
pression of Clarence's face as it lengthened over each arti-
It would have been no unamusing study to watch the ex
cle until he had reached the final conclusion. He then
carefully folded up the paper, restored it to Mr. Brown,
with a low bow, and said, "Excuse me, sir, I will not
take advantage of your generosity; keep your parrot and
accept of what you are pleased to term your very valuable
other treasures for some more worthy person. I cannot
presents!"
the
"O, it's well, very well," said Mr. Brown, pocketing
paper, and seeming perfectly unconcerned at the termi
nation of his proposals; "perhaps I can serve you in some
other
way
!
"In none, I thank you," replied Linden.
"Just consider, sir! you will want lodgings; I can
expres-haps you would prefer going into a nice, quiet, genteel fam-
find them for you, cheaper than you can yourself; or per-
ily, where you can have both board and lodging, and be
treated in every way as the pet child of the master?"
beau-
>>
your-
"Very, the parrot in particular," said Clarence.
Yes, sir," returned Mr. Brown, "the parrot is in-
deed quite a jewel; it belonged to the late Lady Waddi-
love; I offer it to you with considerable regret, for
Ο mterrupted Clarence, " pray do not rob
self of such a jewel, it really is of no use to me.
I know that, sir, I know that," replied Mr. Brown;
• but it will be of use to your friends, it will be inestima-
le to any old aunt, sir, any maiden lady living at Hackney,
any curious clderly gentleman fond of a nick-nack. I
knew you would know some one to send it to as a present,
even though you should not want it yourself."
•
1
"Bless me!" thought Linden, was there ever such
generosity? not content with providing for my wants,
he
extends his liberality even to any possible relations I may
possess !"
Mr. Brown now re-tied the beautiful articles' in his
handkerchief. "Shall I leave them, sir?" said he.
*C
Why, really," said Clarence, "I thought yesterday
that you were in jest; but you must be aware that I can-
not accept presents from any gentleman so much,
much a stranger to me as you are.
SO
"No, sir, I am aware of that," replied Mr. Brown;
"and in order to remove the unpleasantness of such a
feeling, sir, on your part,merely in order to do that, I
assure you with no another view, sir, in the world, I have
just noted down the articles on this piece of paper; but as
you will perceive, at a price so low, as still to make them
A thought crossed Linden's mind. He was going to
stay in town some time; he was ignorant of its ways;
he had neither friends nor relations, at least none whom he
could visit and consult; moreover, hotels he knew were
expensive; lodgings, though cheaper, might, if tolerably
comfortable, greatly exceed the sum prudence would allow
him to expend; would not this plan proposed by Mr.
Brown of going into a nice, quiet, genteel family,' be the
most advisable one he could adopt? The generous bene-
factor of the late and ever to be remembered Lady Waddi-
love perceived his advantage, and, making the most of
Clarence's hesitation, continued,
"I know of a charming little abode, sir, situated in the
suburbs of London, quite rus in urbe, as the scholars say;
you can have a delightful little back parlour, looking out
upon the garden, and all to yourself, I dare say.
And pray, Mr. Brown," interrupted Linden, what
price do you think would be demanded for such enviat e
accommodation? If you offer me them as a present,' I
shall have nothing to say to them."
"O, sir," answered Mr. Brown, "the price will be a
trifle, a mere trifle but I will inquire, and let you
know the exact sum in the course of the day,—all they
want is a respectable gentlemanlike lodger; and I am
sure so near a relation of Mrs. Minden will, upon my re-
* One would not have thought these ingenious devices had
been of so ancient a date as the year 17 - .
. 14
BULWER'S NOVELS.
nave any
"
commendation, be received with avidity. Then you won't
of these valuable articles, sir? You'll repent
it, sir,take my word for it, — hem!
Since," replied Clarence dryly, "your word appears
of so much more value than your articles, pardon me if I
prefer taking the former instead of the latter."
Mr. Brown forced a smile, Well, sir, it's very
well, very well, indeed. You will not go out before two
o'clock and at that time I shall call upon you respecting
the commission you have favored me with."
CC
"I will await you," said Clarence; and he bowed Mr.
Brown out of the room.
rr
Now, really," said Linden to himself, as he paced
the narrow limits of his apartment, "I do not see what
better plan I can pursue, but let me well consider what
is my ultimate object. A high step in the world's ladder! |
how is this to be obtained? First, by the regular
ethod of professions, but what profession should I
adopt?
the church is incompatible with my object,
—
little sort of state minister in his
way.
pounds, indefatigable in raising pence, the little Moses
inherited the propensities of his Hebrew ancestors; aud
though not so capable as his immediate progenitor of mak
ing a fortune, he was at least far less likely to lose one. Ia
spite, however, of all the industry, both of mother and son
the gains of the shop were but scanty; to increase them
capital was required, and all Mr. Moses Brown's capita
lay in his brain. "It is a bad foundation," said the
mother with a sigh. "Not at all!" said the son and
leaving the shop, be turned broker. Now a broker a
man who makes an income out of other peopk's funds,
a gleaner of stray extravagances; and by doing the puo-
lie the honor of living upon them, may fairly be termed a
What with haunt-
ing sales, hawking china, selling the curiosities of one old
lady, and purchasing the same for another, Mr. Brown
managed to enjoy a very comfortable existence. Great
pains and small gains will at last invert their antitheses,
and make little trouble and great profit; so that by the
the army and navy with my means. Next come the irreg-time Mr. Brown had attained his fortieth year, the petty
ular methods of adventure and enterprise, such as mar- shop had become a large warehouse; and if the worthy
riage with a fortune," here he paused, and looked at Moses, now Christianized into Morris, was not so san-
the glass,- "the speculation of a political pamphlet, or guine as his father in the gathering of plums, he had been
an ode to the minister, — attendance on some dying miser at least as fortunate in the collecting of windfalls. To
my own name, without a relation in the world, or, say truth, the Abigail of the defunct Lady Waddilove had
in short, any other mode of making money that may de- been no unprofitable helpmate to our broker. As ingen-
cently offer itself. Now, situated as I am, without a ious as benevolent, she was the owner of certain rooms of
friend in this great city, I might as well purchase my ex- great resort in the neighborhood of St. James',
perience at as cheap a rate and in as brief a time as pos- where caps and appointments were made better than any-
sible, nor do I see any plan of doing so more promising where else, and where credit was given, and characters
than that proposed by Mr. Brown."
lost, upon terms equally advantageous to the accommodat-
ing Mrs. Brown.
of
These and such like reflections, joined to the inspiriting
pages of the "Newgate Calendar," and "The Covent
Garden Magazine," two works which Clarence dragged
from their concealment under a black tea-tray, afforded
him ample occupation till the hour of two, punctual to
which time Mr. Morris Brown returned.
-
r
"Well, sir," said Clarence," what is your report?"
The friend of the late Lady W. wiped his brow, and
gave three long sighs before he replied: "A long walk,
sir, -a very long walk I have had; but I have succeeded.
No thanks, sir, no thanks, the lady, a most charm-
ing, delightful, amiable woman, will receive you with
pleasure, -you will have the use of a back parlour (as I
said) all the morning, and a beautiful little bed-room en-
tirely to yourself, think of that, sir. You will have an
egg for breakfast, and you will dine with the family at
three o'clock quite fashionable hours, you see, sir."
Ma
" And the terms?" said Linden, impatiently.
"Why, sir," replied Mr. Brown, "the lady was too
genteel to talk to nie about them, you had better walk
with me to her house, and see if you cannot yourself agree
with her."
"I will," said Clarence. " Will you wait here till I
have dressed!
Mr. Brown bowed his assent.
"I might as well," thought Clarence, as he ascended
into his bed-room," inquire into the character of this
gentleman, to whose good offices I am so rashly intrusting
the chambermaid appear-
myself." He rang his bell,
ed, and was dismissed for the waiter. The character was
soon asked, and soon given. For our reader's sake we
will somewhat enlarge upon it.
―
M
Mr. Morris Brown originally came into the world with
the simple appellation of Moses, - a name which his
father, honest man, — had, as the Minories can still tes-
tify, honorably borne before him. Scarcely, however, had
the little Moses obtained the age of five, when his father, for
canses best known to himself, became a Christian. Some-
how or other there is a most potent connexion between the
purse and the couscience, and accordingly the blessings of
heaven descended in golden showers upon the proselyte.
"I shall die worth a plum," said Moses the elder, (who
had taken unto himself the Christian cognomen of Brown;)
"I shall die worth a plum," repeated he, as he went one
fine morning to speculate at the Exchange. A change of
news, sharp and unexpected as a change of wind, lowered
the stocks and blighted the plum. Mr. Brown was in the
Gazette that week, and h's wife in weeds for him the
next. He left behind him, besides the said wife, several
debts, and his son Moses. Beggared by the former, our
widow took a small shop in Wardour-street to support the
hatter Patient, but enterprising, cautious of risking |
|
rooms
all were
Meanwhile her husband, continuing through liking what
he had begun through necessity, slackened not his industry
in augmenting his fortune: on the contrary, small profits
were but a keener incentive to large ones, as the glutton
only sharpened by luncheon his appetite for dinner. Stil
was Mr. Brown the very Alcibiades of brokers, — the um
versal genius, — suiting every man to his humor. Busi-
ness, of whatever description, from the purchase of a bor-
ough to that of a brooch, was alike the object of Mr.
Brown's most zealous pursuit: taverns, where country cous-
ins put up, rustic habitations, where ancient maidens re-
sided, auction, or barter, city, or hamlet,
the same to that enterprising spirit, which made out of ev-
ery acquaintance a commission, and by ministering to the
wants of others satisfied his own. Sagacious and acute,
he perceived the value of eccentricity in covering design;
and found by experience, that whatever can be laughed a
as odd will be gravely considered as harmless. Several of
the broker's peculiarities were, therefore, mere artificial
than natural; and many were the sly bargains which he
smuggled into effect, under the comfortable cloak of singu
larity. No wonder then that the crafty Morris grew grad-
ually in repute as a person of infinite utility and excellent
qualifications; or that the penetrating friends of his de-
ceased sire bowed to the thriving itinerant, with a respect
which they denied to many in loftier pretensions and more
general esteem,
CHAPTER IX.
Trust me you have an exceeding fine lodging here, - very
BEN JONSON.
neat and private,
It was a tolerably long walk to the abode of which the
worthy broker spoke in such high terms of commendation.
At length, at the suburbs towards Paddington, Mr. Brown
stopped at a very small house; it stood rather retired from
its surrounding neighbors, which were of a loftier and more
pretending aspect than itself, and in its awkward shape and
pitiful bashfulness, looked exceedingly like a school-boy
finding himself for the first time in a grown-up party, and
shrinking with all possible expedition into the obscurest
corner he can discover. Passing through a sort of garden,
in which a spot of grass lay m the embraces of a stripe of
gravel, Mr. Brown knocked, upon a very bright knocker at
a very new door.
The latter was opened, and a footboy
appeared.
"Is Mrs. Copperas within ?" asked the broker.
"Yees!" said the boy.
"Show this gentleman and myself up stairs," resumed
Brown.
THE DISOWNED.
115
"Yees!" reiterated the lackey.
Up a singularly narrow staircase, into a singularly di-
minutive drawing-room, Clarence and his guide were ush-
ered. There, seated on a little chair by a little work-table,
with one foot on a little stool, and one hand on a little book,
was a little, very little lady.
"This is the young gentleman," said Mr. Brown; and
Clarence bowed low, in token of the introduction.
en-
The lady returned the salutation with an affecte' bend,
and said, in a mincing and grotesquely subdued tone,
"You are desirous, sir, of entering into the bosom of my
family? We possess accommodations of a most elegant
description; accustomed to the genteelest circles,
joying the pure breezes of the Highgate hills, and pre-
senting to any guest we may receive the attractions of a
nome rather than of a lodging, you will find our retreat no
tess eligible than unique. You are, I presume, sir, in some
profession, -some city avocation, — or, or trade?"
"I have the misfortune," said he, smiling, to belong
to no profession.
""
The lady looked hard at the speaker, and then at the
broker. With common people, to belong to no profession
is to be of no respectability.
"The most unexceptionable references will be given,
and required," resumed Mrs. Copperas.
cr
Certainly," said Mr. Brown, "certainly, the gentle-
man is a relation, of Mrs. Minden, a very old customer of
mine."
In that case," said Mrs. Copperas, "the affair is
settled:" and, rising, she rung the bell, and ordered the
'botboy, whom she addressed by the grandiloquent name of
De Warens, to show the gentleman the apartments. While
Clarence was occupied in surveying the luxuries of a box
at the top of the house, called a bedchamber, which seem-
ed just large and just hot enough for a chrysalis, and a cor-
responding box below, termed the back parlour, which
would certainly not have been large enough for the said
chrysalis, when turned into a butterfly, Mr. Morris Brown,
after duly expatiating on the merits of Clarence, procecd-
ed to speak of the terms; these were soon settled, for Clar-
ence was yielding, and the lady not above three times as
extortionate as she ought to have been.
Before Linden left the house, the bargain was concluded.
That night his trunks were removed to his new abode, and
having with incredible difficulty been squeezed into the
bedroom, Clarence surveyed thein with the same astonish-
ment with which the virtuoso beheld the flies in amber,
Not that the things were either rich or rare,
He wondered how the devil they got there!
CHAPTER X.
Such scenes had temper'd with a pensive grace,
The maiden lustre of that faultless face;
Had hung a sad and dreamlike spell upon
The gliding music of her silver tone,
And shaded the soft soul which loved to lie
In the deep pathos of that volumed eye.
O'Neill, or the Rebel.
The love thus kindled between them was of no common or
calculating nature; it was vigorous and delicious, and at times
so suddenly intense as to appear to their young hearts, for a
moment or so, with almost an awful character. Inesilla.
THE reader will figure to himself a small chamber, in a
remote wing of a large and noble mansion, the walls
were covered with sketches, whose extreme delicacy of
outline and coloring told that it was from a female hand
that they derived their existence; a few shelves filled with
books supported vases of flowers, whose bright hues and
fragant odour gratefully repaid, while they testified, the
attention daily lavished upon them.
them. A harp stood neglect
ed at the farther end of the room, and just above hung
the slender prison of one of those golden wanderers from
the Canary isles, which bear to our colder land some of
the gentlest music of their skies and zephyrs. The win-
dow, reaching to the ground, was open, and looked through
the clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle which sur-
rcunded the low veranda beyond, upon thick and frequent
copses of blossoming shrubs, redolent of spring, and spark-
ling in the sunny tears of a May shower, which had only
iust wept itself away. Imbosomed in these little groves
VOL. I.
19
|
lay pots of "
prodigal flowers," contrasted and girdled
with the freshest and greenest turf which ever wooed the
nightly dances of the fairies; and afar off, through one
artful opening, the eye caught the glittering wanderings of
water, on whose light and smiles the universal happiness of
young year seened reflected.
the
But in that chamber, heedless of all around, and cold tc
the joy with which every thing else, equally youthful, beau-
tiful, and innocent, seemed breathing and inspired, sat a
very young and lovely female. Her cheek leant upon her
hand, and large tears flowed fast and burningly over the
sinall and delicate fingers. The comb that had confine
her tresses lay at her feet, and the high dress which con-
cealed her swelling breast had been loosened, to give vent to
the suffocating and indignant throbbings which had rebelled
against its cincture, -all appeared to announce that bitter-
ness of grief when the mind, as it were, wreaks its scorn
upon the body in its contempt for external seemings, and
to proclaim that the present more subdued and softened sor-
row had only succeeded to a burst far less quiet and control-
led. Woe to those who eat the bread of dependence,— their
tears are wrung from the inmost sources of the heart.
Isabel St. Leger was the only child of a captain in the
army, who died in her infancy; her mother had survived
him only a few months: and to the reluctant care and cold
affections of a distant and wealthy relation of the same
name, the warm hearted and penniless orphan was con-
signed. Major-general Cornelius St. Leger, whose riches
had been purchased in India at the price of his constitution,
was of a temper as hot as his curries, and he wreaked it
the more unsparingly on his ward, because the superior
ill-temper of his maiden sister had prevented his giving
vent to it upon her. That sister, Miss Diana St. Leger,
was a meager gentlewoman of about six feet high; and her
voice was as high and as sharp as herself. Long in awe
of her brother, she rejoiced at heart to find some one whom
she had such right and reason to make in awe of herself;
and from the age of four to that of seventeen, Isabel suf-
fered every insult and every degradation which could be
inflicted upon her by the tyranny of her two Protectors.
Her spirit, however, was far from being broken by the
rude shocks it received; on the contrary, her mind, gentle-
ness itself to the kind, rose indignatly against the unjust.
It was true that the sense of wrong broke not forth audibly;
for, though susceptible, Isabel was meek, and her price
was concealed by the outward softness and feminacy of her
temper; but she stole away from those who had wounded
her heart or trampled upon its feelings, and nourished with
secret, but passionate, tears, the memory of the harshness
or injustice she had endured. Yet was she not vindictive,
her resentment was a noble, not a debasing feeling:
once, when she was yet a child, Miss Diana was attacked
with a fever of the most malignaut and infections kind, her
brother loved himself far too well to risk his safety by
attending his sister; the servants were too happy to wreak
their hatred under the pretence of obeying their fears: they
consequently followed the example of their master; and
Miss Diana St. Leger might have gone down to her ances-
unwept, unhonored, and unsung," if Isabel had not
volunteered, and enforced her attendance. Hour after hour,
her fairy form flitted around the sick chamber, or sat mute
and breathless by the feverish bed; she had neither fear for
contagion nor bitterness for past oppression; every thing
vanished beneath the one hope of serving, the one gratifica-
tion of feeling herself, in the wide waste of creation, not ut-
terly without use, as she had been hitherto without friends.
Miss St. Leger recovered. "For your recovery, in the
first place," said the doctor, "
the second, you will thank your young relation," and for
you will thank heaven; in
several days the convalescent did overwhelm the happy
Isabel with her praises and caresses. But this change
lasted not long: the chaste Diana had been too spoiled by
the prosperity of many years, for the sickness of a single
month to effect much good in her disposition. Her oki
habits were soon resumed; and though it is probable that
her heart was in reality softened towards the poor Isabel,
that softening by no means extended to her temper. In
truth, perhaps the brother and sister were not without
affection for one so beautiful and good, but they had been
torturing slaves all their lives, and their affection
could be, but that of a taskmaster or a planter.
tors
was,
and
But Isabel was the only relation that ever appeared
within their walls, and among the guests, with whom
146
BULWER'S NOVELS.
uxurious mansion was crowded, she passed no less for the
heiress than the dependant; to her, therefore, was offered
the homage of mary lips and hearts, and if her pride was
perpetually galled, and her feelings insulted in private, her
vanity (had that equalled her pride, and her feelings, in its
susceptibility) would in no slight measure have recompen-
sed her in public. Unhappily, however, her vanity was
the least prominent quality she possessed; and she turned
with scorn, rather than pleasure, from the compliments
and adulation which her penetration detected, while her
heart despised.
Perhaps, indeed, she found some gratification in indulg-
ing that pride to strangers which was checked all proper
and dignified exercise to relations; and the indifference of
her manners, (graceful as they were,) the coldness of her
brilliant eye, and the disdainful expression of her young
lips, repelled at last the admiration her beauty had at-
tracted, and excited rather pity toward her guardians for
the supposed severity of her temper, than toward herself
for the acerbity of theirs. Yet did she bear within her
a deep fund of buried tenderness, and a mine of girlish and
enthusiastic romance;- dangerous gifts to one so situated,
which, while they gave to her secret moments of solicitude
a powerful, but vague attraction, probably only prepared
for her future years the snare which might betray them into
error, or the delusion which would color them with regret.
Among those whom the ostentatious hospitality of Gene-
ral St. Leger attracted to his house, was one of very dif-
ferent character and pretensions to the rest. Formed to be
unpopular with the generality of men, the very qualities
that made him so were those which principally fascinate
the higher description of women of ancient birth, which
rendered still more displeasing the pride and coldness of
his mien; of talents peculiarly framed to attract interest
as well as esteem; of a deep and somewhat morbid mel-
ancholy, which, while it turned from ordinary ties, inclined
yearningly toward passionate affections; of a temper,
where romance was only concealed from the many, to be-
come more seducing to the few; unsocial, but benevolent;
disliked, but respected; of the austerest demeanor, but of
passions the most fervid, though the most carefully con-
cealed: this man united within himself all that repels
the common mass of his species, and all that irresistibly
wins and fascinates the rare and romantic few. To these
qualities were added an external mien and person of that
high and commanding order, which inen mistake for arro-
gance and pretension, and women overrate in proportion to
its contrast to their own. Something of mystery there was
in the commencement of the deep and eventful love which
took place between this person and Isabel, which I have
never been able to learn: whatever it was, it seemed to
expedite and heighten the ordinary progress of love; and
when in the dim twilight, beneath the first melancholy
smile of the earliest star, their hearts opened audibly to
each other, that confession had been made silently long
since, and registered in the inmost recesses of the soul.
But their passion, which began in prosperity, was soon
darkened. Whether from the hauteur of Isabel's lover,
always so displeasing in men of birth to those who do not
possess it, or from the desire of retaining about him an
object which he could torment and tyrannize over, no
sooner did the general discover the attachment of his young
relation than he peremptorily forbade its indulgence, and
assumed so insolent and overbearing an air toward the
lover, that the latter felt he could no longer repcat his visits
to, or even continue his acquaintance with, the nabob.
To add to these adverse circumstances, a relation of the
over, from whom his expectations had been large, was so
enraged, not only at the insult his cousin had received, but
at the very idea of his forming an alliance with one in so
dependent a situation, and connected with such new blood
as Isabel St. Leger, that, with that arrogance which rela-
tions, however distant, think themselves authorized to as-
sune, he forbade his cousin, upon pain of forfeiture of
favor and fortune, ever to renew his overtures of attach-
inent.
The one thus addressed was not of a temper pa-
tiently to submit to such threats; he answered them with
disdain, and the breach, so dangerous to his pecuniary in-
terest, was already begun.
The quiet of this asylum was first broken by a sliger
rustling among the leaves; but Isabel's back was turned
toward the window, and in the engrossment of her feelings.
she heard it nɔt. The thick copse that darkened the left
side of the veranda was pierced, and a man passed within
the covered space, and stood still and silent before the win-
dow, intently gazing upon the figure which (though the
face was turned from him) betrayed in its proportions tha
beauty which, in his eyes, had neither an equal nor a fault
The figure of the stranger, though not very tall, wa
above the ordinary height, and gracefully, rather than
robustly, formed. He was dressed in the darkest colors
and the simplest fashion, which rendered yet more striking
the nobleness of his mien, as well the clear and almost de-
licate paleness of his complexion; his features were finely
and accurately chiselled; and had not ill health, long travel,
or severe thought deepened too much the lines of the coun-
tenance, and sharpened its coutour, the classic perfection of
those features would have rendered him undeniably and
even eminently handsome as it was, the paleness and
the somewhat worn character of his face, joined to an ex-
pression, at first glance, rather haughty and repellant, made
him lose in physical, what he certainly gained in intellec
tual beauty. His eyes were large, deep, and melancholy,
and had the hat which now hung over his brow been re-
moved, it would have displayed a forehead of remarkable
boldness and power; not perhaps so observable for its
height as for its breadth, and for that advancing and grand
forination, so seldom seen in modern countenances, but
which formed perhaps the noblest secret of ancient sculpture.
Altogether, the face was cast in a rare and intellectual
mould, and, if wanting in those more luxuriant attractions
common to the age of the stranger, who could scarcely have
attained his twenty-sixth year, it betokened, at least, that
predominance of mind over body, which, in some eyes,
is the most requisite characteristic of masculine beauty.
With a soft and noiseless step the stranger moved from
his station without the window, and, entering the room
stole toward the spot on which Isabel was sitting. He
leant over her chair, and his eye rested upon his own pic-
ture, and a letter in his own writing, over which the tears
of the young orphan flowed fast. One fair small hand hung
listless by her side; its slender fingers were girded by no
ornaments but a single and simple ring of hair,— it had
been given to her by him.
of uncon-
One moment of agitated happiness for one,
scious and continued sadness for the other,
her lover's at her feet."
66) Tis past,
And what indeed " was to them the world besides, with
all its changes of time and tide!" Joy, hope, all
blissful and bright sensations, lay mingled, like meeting wa
ters, in one sunny stream of heartfelt and unfathomable
enjoyment; but this passed away, and the remembrance of
bitterness and evil succeeded.
“O, Algernon !" said Isabel, in a low voice, "is this
your promise ?"
"Believe me," said Mordaunt, for it was indeed he,
"I have struggled long with my feelings, but in vain; and,
for both our sakes, I rejoice at the conquest they ob-
tained I listened only to a deceitful delusion when I im-
agined I was obeying the dictates of reason. Ah, dear-
est, why should we part for the sake of dubious and distant
evils, when the misery of absence is the most certain, the
most unceasing evil we can endure?
>>
"For your sake, and therefore for mine!" interrupted
Isabel, struggling with her tears. "I am a beggar and an
outcast. You must not link your fate with mine. I could
bear, God knows how willingly, poverty and all its evils
for you and with you; but I cannot bring them upon you.
"Have f
Nor will you," said Mordaunt, passionately, as he cov
ered the hand he held with his burning kisses.
not enough for both of us? It is my love, not poverty, that
I beseech you to share.”
"No! Algernon, you cannot deceive me: your own es
tate will be torn from you by the law: if you marry me,
your cousin will not assist you: I, you know too well, can
command nothing; and I shall see you, for whom in my
fond and bright dreams I have presaged every thing great
So far had the history of our lover proceeded at the time and exalted, buried in an obscurity from which your tal
n which we have introduced Isabel to the reader, and des- ents can never rise, and suffering the pangs of poverty, and
cribed to him the chamber to which, in all her troubles and dependence, and humiliation like my own, and, and
humiliations, she was accustomed to fly, as to a sad but I,- should be the wretch who caused you all.
still unviolated sanctuary of retreat.
Algernon, never! I love you, too too well!"
-
Never
THE DISOWNED.
147
But the effort which wrung forth the determination of the
one in which these words were uttered was too violent to
endure; and, as the full desolation of her despair crowded
fast and dark upon the orphan's mind, she sank back upon
ner chair, in very sickness of soul, nor heeded, in her un-
conscious misery, that her hand was yet clasped by her
'over, and that her head drooped upon his bosoin.
"Isabel," he said, in the low, sweet tone, which to her
ear seemed the concentration of all earthly music,
" Is-
abel,
look up, my own, my beloved, — look up and
hear me. Perhaps you say truly when you tell me that the
possessions of my house shall melt away from me, and that
my relation will not offer to me the precarious bounty
which, even if he did, I would reject; but, dearest, are
there not a thousand paths open to me, the law, the
state, the army?- You are silent, Isabel, speak!"
Isabel did not reply, but the soft eyes which rested upon
his told, in their despondency, how little she was excited
by the arguments he urged.
"Besides," he continued, "we know not yet whether
the law may not decide in my favor, at all events, years
may pass before the judgment is given, those years make
the prime and verdure of our lives,- let us not waste them
in mourning over blighted hopes and severed hearts, — let
us snatch what happiness is yet in our power, nor antici-
pate, while the heavens are still bright above us, the burden
of the thunder or the cloud.”
Isabel was one of the least selfish and most devoted of
human beings, yet she must be forgiven if at that moment
her resolution faltered, and the overpowering thought of be-
ing in reality his for ever, flashed upon her mind. It passed
from her the moment it was formed, and rising from a sit-
uation in which the touch of that dear hand, and the breath
of those wooing lips, endangered the virtue, and weakened
the strength of her resolves, she withdrew herself from his
grasp, and while she averted her eyes, which dared not en-
counter his, she said in a low, but firm, voice,
It is in vain, Algernon; it is in vain. I can be to you
nothing but a blight or burden, nothing but a source of
privation and bitterness. Think you that I will be this?
- no, I will not darken your fair hopes, and impede your
reasonable ambition. Go, (and here her voice faltered for
a moment, but soon recovered its tone,) go, Algernon, dear
Algernon; and, if my foolish heart will not ask you to think
of me no more, I can at least implore you to think of me
only as one who would die rather than cost you a moment
of that poverty and debasement whose bitterness she has
felt herself, and who, for that very reason, tears herself
away from you for ever."
"Stay, Isabel, stay!" cried Mordaunt, as he caught
hold of her robe, ere she had yet left the room," give me
but one word more, and you shall leave me.
shall leave me. Say that if I
can create for myself a new source of independence; if I
can carve out a road where the ambition you erroneously
impute to me can be gratified, as well as the more moder-
ate wishes our station has made natural to us to form,
Sity, that if I do this, I may permit myself to hope, say,
that when I have done it, I may claim you as my own!"
Isabel paused, and turned once more her face toward his
Own, Her lips moved, and, though the words died within
her heart, yet Mordaunt read well their import in the blush-
ing cheek and the heaving bosom, and the lips which one
ray of hope and comfort was sufficient to kindle into smiles.
He gazed, and all obstacles, all difficulties, disappeared;
the gulf of time seemed passed, and he felt as if already
he had earned and won his reward.
He approached her yet nearer; one kiss on those lips,
one pressure of that thrilling hand, one long, last, yearning
embrace of that shrinking and trembling form, and then,
as the door closed upon his view, he felt that the sunshine
of nature had passed away, and that in the midst of the
laughing and peopled earth, he stood in darkness and alone.
CHAPTER XI.
The middle classes are of all the most free from the vices
of conduct, and the most degraded by the meannesses of
character
Letters of STEPHEN MONTAGUE.
I RETURN to Clarence, nor shall I make any excuse
for portraying, though in a brief and single sketch, the
monters of hi host and hostess. Despite the imbecile
cant of the day, which affects disdain for the description
of mankind as they are, which censures the delineation of
society, when polished, as flippant, and when coarse, as
revolting; I shall in each, according to the vicissitudes of
my story, follow experience in the pursuit of truth. The
manners of the time, the characters which, from peculiar
constitutions of society, derive peculiarities of distinction,
become the natural, though, I confess, not the noblest, pro-
vince of the novelist. The noblest sphere of his art is to
add to exterior circumstances, which vary with every age,
a painting of that internal world which in every age is
the same: and besides describing the fashion and the
vestiment, to stamp upon its portraits something of the char-
acter of the soul.
We then left Clarence safely deposited in his little lodg-
ings. Whether from the heat of his apartment, or the
restlessness a migration of beds produces in certain cou-
stitutions, his slumbers on the first night of his arrival
were disturbed and brief. He rose early, and descended
to the drawing-room; Mr. de Warens, the nobly appella-
tived footboy, was laying the breakfast cloth. From three
painted shelves which constituted the library of " Coppe-
ras Bower," as its owners gracefully called their habita-
tion, Clarence took down a book very prettily bound; it
was "Poems by a Nobleman." No sooner had he read
two pages than he did exactly what the reader would have
done, and restored the volume respectfully to its place.
He then drew his chair toward the window, and wistfully
eyed sundry ancient nursery maids, who were leading
their infant charges to the "fresh fields, and pastures
new," of what is now the Regent's Park.
In about an hour Mrs. Copperas descended, and mu-
tual compliments were exchanged; to her succeeded Mr
Copperas, who was well scolded for his laziness; and to
thein, Master Adolphus Copperas, who was also chidingly
termed a naughty darling, for the same offence. Now then
Mrs. Copperas prepared the tea, which she did in the
approved method, adopted by all ladies to whom economy
is dearer than renown, viz. the least possible quantity of
the soi-disant Chinese plant was first sprinkled by the least
possible quantity of hot water; after this mixture had beco-
ine as black and as bitter as it could possibly be, without
any adjunct from the apothecary's skill, it was suddenly
drenched with a copious diffusion, and as suddenly poured
forth, weak, washy and abominable, into four cups, seve-
rally appertaining unto the four partakers of the matutinal
nectar.
Then the conversation began to flow. Mrs. Copperas
was a fine lady, and a sentimentalist, very observant of
the little niceties of phrase and manner. Mr. Copperas
was a stock-jobber, and a wit, loved a good hit in each
capacity, was very round, very short, and very much like
a Johm Dory, and saw in the features and mind of the little
Copperas the exact representative of himself.
rr
k
—
Adolphus, my love," said Mrs. Copperas, "mind
what I told you, and sit upright. Mr. Linden, will you
allow me to cut you a leetle piece of this roll!
"Thank you,
" said Clarence, "I will trouble you
rather for the whole of it."
Conceive Mrs. Copperas's dismay! from that moment
she saw herself eaten out of house and home; besides, as
she afterward observed to her friend, Miss Barbara York,
the vulgarity of such an amazing appetite !"
"Any commands in the city, Mr. Linden?" asked the
husband: "a coach will pass by our door in a few min.
utes, -must be on 'Change in half an hour. Come, my
love, another cup of tea, make haste, I have scarcely
a moment to take my fure for the inside, before coachee
takes his for the outside. Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Linden.”
"Lord, Mr. Copperas," said his helpmate, "how can
you be so silly? setting such an example to your son, too,
never mind him, Adolphus, my love, — fic, child, a'n'
you ashamed of yourself? - never put the spoon in your
cup till you have done tea: I must really send you to
school, to learn manners. We have a very pretty little
collection of books here, Mr. Linden, if you would like to
read an hour or two after breakfast, child, take your
hands out of your pockets, all the best English classics,
I believe, Telemachus, and Young's Night Thoughts,
and Joseph Andrews, and The Spectator, and Pope's
Iliad, and Creech's Lucretius; but you will look over them
yourself! This is
yourself! This is Liberty Hall, as well as Copperas
Bower, Mr. Linden'"'
M
148
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Well, my love," said the stock-jobber, "I believe I
must be off. Here, Tom,-Tom,- (Mr. de Warens had
just entered the room with some more hot water, to weak-
e still farther "the poor remains of what was once
the tea!)-Tom, just run out and stop the coach, it
will be by in five minutes.'
""
"not to
"Have not I prayed, and besought you, many and many
a time, Mr. Copperas," said the lady, rebukingly,
call De Wareng by his Christian name? Don't you know,
that a people in genteel life, who only keep one servant,
invariably call him by his surname, as if he were the
butler, you know ?”
"Now, that is too good, my love," said Copperas.
"I will call poor Ton by any surname you please, but I
really can't pass him off for a butler! Haha ha!-you
must excuse me there, my love!"
rr And pray, why not, Mr. Copperas? I have known
many a butler bungle more at a cork than he does; and
pray tell me, who did you ever see wait better at dinner?"
"He wait at dinner, my love! it is not he who waits."
"Who then, Mr. Copperas?"
"Why we, my love, it's we who wait at dinner,
that's the cook's fault, not his."
but
Pshaw, Mr. Copperas,- Adolphus, my love, sit up-
right, darling.
Here De Warens cried from the bottom of the stairs,-
"Measter, the coach be coining up.”
"There won't be room for it to turn then," said the
facetious Mr. Copperas, looking round the apartment, as
if he took the words literally. What coach is it, boy?"
Now that was not the age in which coaches scoured the
city every half-hour, and Mr. Copperas knew the name of
the coach as well as he knew his own.
"It be the Swallow coach, sir."
"O, very well: then since I have swallowed in the roll,
I will now roll in the Swallow, -ha-ha-ha! Good
by, Mr. Linden.”
66
I am
No sooner had the witty stock-jobber left the room, than
Mrs. Copperas seemed to expand into a new existence.
My husband, sir," said she, apologetically, is so odd, but
he's an excellent sterling character; and that, you know,
Mr. Linden, tells more in the bosom of a family than all the
shining qualities which captivate the imagination.
sure, Mr. Linden, that the moralist is right in admonishing
us to prefer the gold to the tinsel. I have now been mar-
ried some years, and every year seems happier than the
'ast; but then, Mr. Linden, it is such a pleasure to con-
template the growing graces of the sweet pledge of our mu-
tual love, Adolphus, my dear, keep your feet still, and
take your hands out of your pockets!"
A short pause ensued.
"We see a great deal of company," said Mrs. Copperas,
pompously, "and of the very best description. Sometimes
we are favored by the society of the great Mr. Talbot, a
gentleman of immense fortune, and quite the courtier; be
is, it is true, a little eccentric in his dress; but then he was
a celebrated beau in his young days. He is our next neigh-
bour; you can see his honse out of the window, just across
the garden, there! We have also, sometimes, our hum-
ble board graced by a very elegant friend of mine, Miss
Barbara York, a lady of very high connexions, her first
cousin was a lord mayor, Adolphus, my dear, what are
you about?
Well, Mr. Linden, you will find your retreat
quite undisturbed; I must go about the household affairs;
not that I do any thing more than superintend, you know,
sir; but I think no lady should be above consulting her
husband's interests, that's what I call true old English
conjugal affection. Come, Adolphus, my dear."
tawdry shreds and rags of manners, is alike sickening to
one's love of human nature and one's refinement of aste
But it will not do for me to be misanthropical, and (as Dr.
Latinas was wont to say,) the great merit of philosophy
when it cannot command circumstances, is to reconcile us to
them."
CHAPTER XII.
A retired beau is one of the most instructive spectacles iz
the world.
STEPHEN MONTAGUE.
It was quite true that Mrs. Copperas saw a great deal
of company, for, at a certain charge, upon certain days,
any individual might have the honor of sharing her family
repast; and many, of various callings, though chiefly in
commercial life, inet at her miscellaneous board. Clarence
must, indeed, have been difficult to please, or obtuse of ob-
servation, if, in the variety of her guests, he had not fourd
something either to interest or amuse him. Heavens!
what a motley group were accustomed, twice in the week,
to assemble there! the little dining parlour seemed a human
oven; and it must be owned that Clarence was no slight
magnet of attraction to the female part of the guests. Mrs.
Copperas's bosom friend in especial, the accomplished Miss
Barbara York, darted the most tender glances on the hand-
some young stranger; but whether or no a nose remarka-
bly prominent and long, prevented the glances from taking
full effect, it is certain that Clarence seldom repaid them
with that affectionate ardour which Miss Barbara York
had ventured to anticipate. The only persons, indeed, for
whom he felt any sympathetic attraction, were of the same
sex as himself; the one was Mr. Talbot, the old gentleman
whom Mrs. Copperas had described as the perfect courtier,
the other, a young artist of the name of Warner. Talbot,
to Clarence's great astonishment, (for Mrs. Copperas's
eulogy had prepared him for something eminently displeas
ing,) was a man of birth, fortune, and manners peculiarly
graceful and attractive. It is truc, however, that despite
of his vicinity, and Mrs. Copperas's urgent solicitations,
he very seldom honored her with his company, and he al-
ways cautiously sent over his servant in the morning to in-
quire the names and number of her expected guests: nor
was he ever known to share the plenteous board of the
stock-jobber's lady whenever any other partaker of its dain-
ties, save Clarence and the young artist, were present. The
latter, the old gentleman really liked: and as, for one truly
well born, and well bred, there is no vulgarity except in the
mind, the slender means, obscure birth, and struggling pro-
fession of Warner were circumstances which, as they in-
creased the merit of a gentle manner and a fine mind,
spake rather in his favor than the reverse. As for Clarence,
no sooner had Talbot seen him than he expressed the high-
est prepossession in his conversation and appearance; and,
indeed, there was in Talbot's tastes so strong a bias to
aristocratic externals, that Clarence's air alone would have
been sufficient to win the good graces of a man who had,
perhaps, more than any other courtier of his time, cultiva
ted the arts of manner and the secrets of address.
"You will call upon me soon?" said he to Clarence
when, after dining one day alone with the Copperases and
their inmate, he rose to return home. And Clarence, de.
lighted with the urbanity and liveliness of his new ac
quaintance, readily promised that he would.
Accordingly, the next day, Clarence called upon Mr.
Talbot. The house, as Mrs. Copperas had before said
adjoined her own, and was only separated from it by a gar-
And Clarence was now alone. "I fear," thought he, den.
thought he, den. It was a dull mansion of brick, which had disdain.
that I shall get on very indifferently with these people. ed the frippery of paint and white-washing, and had in-
Taught by books, not experience, fondly imagined that deed been built many years previous to the erection of the
there were very few to whom I could not suit myself; but modern habitations which surrounded it. It was, there-
I had yet to learn that there are certain vulgarities which fore, as a consequence of this priority of birth, more som-
ask long familiarity with their cause and effect, rightly to bre than the rest, and had a peculiarly forlorn and solitary
understand and patiently to endure. The qutward coarse-
look.
As Clarence approached the door, he was struck
ness of the lowest orders, the mental grossièrete of the high- with the size of the house, it was of very considerable
est, I can readily suppose it easy to forgive, for the former extent, and in the more favorable situations of London,
does not offend one's feelings, nor the latter one's habits ; would have passed for a very desirable and spacious tene-
but this base, pretending, noisy, scarlet vulgarity of the ment. An old man, whose accurate precision of dress be-
iniddle ranks, which has all the rudeness of its inferiors, spoke the tastes of the master, opened the door, and after
with all the arrogance and heartlessness of its betters,- ushering Clarence through two long, and to his surprise-
this pounds and pence patchwork, of the worst and most almost splendidly furnished rooms, led him into a third
THE DISOWNED.
149
wnere, seated at a small writing-table, he found Mr. Tal-
bot. That person, one whom Clarence the little thought
would hereafter exercise no small influence over his fate,
was of a figure and countenance well worthy the notice of a
description
ments; and if I laugh aloud at the stories, you shall prom-
ise me not to laugh aloud at the compliments."
"It is a bond," said Talbot ; " and a very fit exchange
of service it is. It will be a problem in human nature to
see who has the best of it: you shall pay your court by
flattering the people present, and I mine, by abusing those
absent. Now, in spite of your youth and curling locks, I
will wager that I succeed the best; for in vanity there is
so great a mixture of envy that no compliment is like a
judicious abuse, to enchant your acquaintance, ridicule
his friends."
CC
His own hair, quite white, was carefully and artificially
curled, and gave a Grecian cast to features whose original
delicacy, and exact, though small proportions, not even
age could destroy. His eyes were large, black, and spark-
eyes were large, black, and spark-
led with a vivacity which would have been brilliant even
in the youngest
orbs;
and his mouth, which was the best
feature he possessed, developed teeth, white and even as “Ah, sir,” said Clarence, “this opinion of yours is, I
rows of ivory. Though small and somewhat too slender trust, a little in the French school, where brilliancy is more
in the proportions of his figure, nothing could exceed the studied than truth, and where an ill opinion of our species
case and the grace of his motions and air; and his dress, always has the merit of passing for profound."
though singularly rich in its materials, eccentric in its fash- Talbot smiled, and shook his head. My dear young
ion, and, from its evident study, unseemly to his years, friend," said he, "it is quite right that you, who are com-
served nevertheless to render rather venerable than ridicu-ing into the world, should think well of it; and it is also
lous a mien which could almost have carried off any absur- quite right that I, who am going out of it, should console
dity, and which the fashion of the garb peculiarly became. myself by trying to despise it. However, let me tell
The tout ensemble was certainly that of a man who was my young friend, that he whose opinion of mankind is not
still vain of his exterior, and conscious of its effects; and too elevated will always be the most benevolent, because
it was as certainly impossible to converse with Mr. Talbot the most indulgent, to those errors incidental to human
for five minutes, without merging every less respectable imperfection: to place our nature in too flattering a view
association in the magical fascination of his manner. is only to court disappointment, and end in misanthropy.
The man who sets out with expecting to find all his fellow-
creatures heroes of virtue, will conclude by condemning them
as monsters of vice; and, on the contrary, the least ex-
acting judge of actions will be the most lenient. If God
in his own perfection, did not see so many frailties in us,
think you he would be so gracious to our virtues ?”
"I
I thank you, Mr. Linden," said Talbot, rising, "for
your accepting so readily an old man's invitation. If I
have felt pleasure at discovering that we were to be neigh
bors, you may judge what that pleasure is to-day at find-
ing you my visiter."
Clarence, who, to do him justice, was always ready at
returning a fine speech, replied in a similar strain, and the
conversation flowed on agreeably enough. There was
more than a moderate collection of books in the room, and
this circumstance led Clarence to allude to literary sub-
jects; these Mr. Talbot took up with avidity, and touch-
ed with a light but graceful criticism upon many of the
then modern, and some of the older, writers. He seem-
ed delighted to find himself understood and appreciated by
Clarence, and every isoment of Linden's visit seemed to
ripen their acquaintance into intimacy. At length they
talked upon Copperas Bower and its inmates.
C
You will find your host and hostess," said the old
gentleman," certainly of a different order from the per-
soas with whom it is easy to see you have associated; but,
at your happy age, a year or two may be very well thrown
away upon observing the manners and customs of those
whom, in later life, you may often be called upon to concili-
ate, or perhaps to control. That man will never be a per-
fect gentleman who lives only with gentlemen. To be a
man of the world, we must view that world in every grade, |
and in every perspective. In short, the most practical art
of wisdom is that which extracts from things the very
quality they least appear to possess; and the actor in the
world, like the actor on the stage, should find a basket-
hilted sword very convenient to carry milk in.'* As for
me, I have survived my relations and friends. I cannot
keep late hours, nor adhere to the unhealthy customs of
good society; nor do I think that, to a man of my age and
habits, any remuneration would adequately repay the sac-
rifice of health or comfort. I am, therefore, well content
to sink into a hermitage in an obscure corner of this great
town, and only occasionally to revive my past remem-
brances of higher state,' by admitting a few old acquaint-
ances to drink my bachelor's tea, and talk over the news
of the day. Hence you see, Mr. Linden, I pick up two or
three novel anecdotes of state and scandal, and maintain
my importance at Copperas Bower, by retailing them
second hand. Now that you are one of the inmates of that
abode, I shall be more frequently its guest. By the by, I
will let you into a secret: know that I am somewhat a
fover of the marvellous, and like to indulge a little embel-
fishing exaggeration in any place where there is no chance
of finding me out. Mind, therefore, my dear Mr. Linden,
that you take no ungenerous advantage of this confession;
but suffer me, now and then, to tell my stories my own
way, even when you think truth would require me to tell
them in another.5
Certainly," said Clarence, laughing; "let us make
an agreement: you shall tell your stories as you please, if
you will grant me the same liberty in paying my compli-
* Sce he witty inventory of a player's goods in the Tailer.
|
jɔu,
And yet," said Clarence," we remark every day
examples of the highest excellence."
.
Yes," replied Talbot," of the highest, but not of the
most constant, excellence. He knows very little of the
human heart who imagines we cannot do a good action ;
but, alas! he knows still less of it who supposes we can
be always doing good actions. In exactly the same ratio
we see every day the greatest crimes are committed; but
we find no wretch so depraved as to be always committing
crimes. Man cannot be perfect even in guilt."
In this manner Talbot and his young visiter conversed,
till Clarence, after a stay of unwarrantable length, rose to
depart.
Well," said Talbot, "if we now rightly understand
each other, we shall be the best friends in the world. As
we shall expect great things from each other sometimes,
we will have no scruple of exacting a heroic sacrifice every
now and then par example, —I will ask you to punish
yourself by an occasional tête-à-tête with an ancient gentle-
man; and, as we can also, by the same reasoning, pardon
great faults in each other, if they are not often committed,
so I will forgive you, with all my heart, whenever you re-
fuse my invitations, if you do not refuse them often. And
now farewell till we meet again."
It seemed singular, and, almost unnatural, to Linden,
that a man like Talbot, of birth, fortune, and great fastidi
ousness of taste and temper, should have formed any sort
of acquaintance, however slight and distant, with the face-
tious stock-jobber and his wife; but the fact is easily ex-
plained by a reference to that vanity which we shall see
hereafter made the ruling passion of Talbot's nature
This vanity, which branching forth into a thousand eccen-
tricities, displayed itself in the singularity of his dress,
the studied, yet graceful warmth of his manner, his atten-
tion to the minutiae of life, his desire, craving and insatiate,
to receive from every one, however insignificant, his obloum
of admiration ; — this vanity, once flattered by the obse
quious homage it met from the wonder and reverence of
the Copperases, reconciled his taste to the disgust it so
frequently and necessarily conceived; and, having in great
measure resigned his former acquaintance, and wholly out-
lived his friends, he sought, even in petty and polluted chan-
nels, that vent for the desire of creating effect which was
cut off from any more brilliant and enlarged egress.
There is no dilemma in which vanity cannot find an ex-
pedient to devolope its form, no stream of circumstances
in which its buoyant and light nature will not rise to float
upon the surface. And its ingenuity is as fertile as that of
the player who (his wardrobe allowing him no other method
of playing the top) could still exhibit the prevalent passion
for distinction, by wearing stockings of different colors.
180
BULWER'S NOVELS
CHAPTER XII.
Who dares
Interpret then my life for me, as 'twere
One of the undistinguishable many?
COLERIDGE's Wallenstein.
THE first time Clarence had observed the young artist,
he had aken a deep interest in his appearance. Pale,
thin, undersized, and slightly deformed, the sanctifying
mind still shed over the humble frame a spell more power-
ful than beauty. Absent in manner, melancholy in air,
and never conversing except upon subjects upon which his
imagination was excited, there was yet a gentleness about
him which could not fail to conciliate and prepossess ; nor
did Clarence omit any opportunity to soften his reserve, and
wind himself into his more intimate acquaintance. Warner,
the only support of an aged and infirin grandmother, (who
had survived her immediate children,) was distantly re-
lated to Mrs. Copperas; and that lady, kind, though sel-
fish, extended to him, with ostentatious benevolence, her
favor and support. It is true, that she did not impoverish
the young Adolphus to enrich her kinsman, but she allowed
him a seat at her hospitable board, whenever it was not
otherwise filled; and all that she demanded in return was
a picture of herself, another of Mr. Copperas, a third of
Master Adolphus, a fourth of the black cat, and from time
to time sundry other lesser productions of his genius, of
which, through the agency of Mr. Brown, she secretly dis-
posed at a price that sufficiently remunerated her for what-
ever havoc the slender appetite of the young painter was
able to effect.
By this arrangement, Clarence had many opportunities
of gaining that intimacy with Warner which had become
to him an object; and though the painter, naturally diffi-
dent and shy, was at first averse to, and even awed by, the
ease, boldness, fluent speech, and confident address of a
man much younger than himself, yet at last he could not re-
sist the being decoyed into familiarity; and the youthful pair
gradually progressed from companionship into friendship.
There was a striking, and perhaps a fiue, contrast between
the two: Clarence was bold, frank, thoughtful, but thought-
ful on objects of the world, not imaginative creations.
Warner was timid, close, and abstractedly wrapped in
ideal musings. Clarence, despite his great personal ad-
vantages, was the most simple and unaffected of human be-
ings; the very defects of Warner, on the score of person,
produced an anxiety and uneasiness as to their effect, which
gave a tinge of coxcombry to his reserve.
Both had great
natural, and, for their age, uncommonly cultivated, talents;
but those of Clarence were of a sturdy and healthful kind,
well fitted to buffet with this rude world, those of the
poor artist, sickly and premature plants, which were ill
suited to the atmosphere in which they were placed: the
abilities of Clarence were chiefly such as find their best
sphere in action; those of Warner, perfectly useless in such
fields of living encounter, were at once the offspring and
the denizens of imagination. In a word, if we can sup-
pose their powers to be equal in degree, there was this ad-
vantage on the side of Clarence, all of his were exactly of
an order that could be brought to bear in the world, and all
those of Warner were not only precisely unfitted for the
world themselves, but especially calculated to unft their
possessor.
But the trait between them, at once the most in com-
mon, and the most differing, was ambition. The ambi-
tion of Clarence was that of circumstances rather than
character; the certainty of having to carve out his own
fortunes without sympathy or aid, joined to those whispers
of indignant pride which naturally urged him, if disowned
by those who should have protected him, to allow no breath
of shame to justify the reproach; these gave an irresistible
desire of distinction to a mind naturally too gay for the
devotedness, too susceptible for the pangs, and too benevo-
lent for the selfishness, of ordinary ambition. But the
very essence and spirit of Warner's nature was the burning
and feverish desire of fame; it poured through his veins
like lava; it preyed even as a worm upon his cheek; it
corroded his natural sleep; it blackened the color of his
thoughts; it shut out, as with an impenetrable wall, the
wholesome energies, and enjoyments, and objects of living
men; and, taking from him all the vividness of the present,
the tenderness of the past, constrained his heart to dwell
for ever and for ever upon the dim and shadowy chimera
of a future he was fated never to enjoy.
But these differences of character, so far from disturbing
rather cemented their friendship; and while Warner (not
withstanding his advantage of age) paid involuntary defer
ence to the stronger character of Clarence, he, in his turn
derived that species of pleasure by which he was most
gratified, from the affectionate and unenvious interest Cla-
rence took in his speculations of future distinction, and
the unwearying admiration with which he would sit by
his side, and watch the colors start from the canvass,
beneath the real, though uncultured genius of the youthful
painter. Hitherto, Warner had bounded his attempts to
some of the lesser efforts of the art; he had now yielded
to the urgent enthusiasm of his nature, and conceived the
plan of an historical picture.
plan of an historical picture. O! what sleepless nights,
what struggles of the teeming fancy with the dense brain,
what labors of the untiring thought, wearing and intense
as disease itself, did it cost the ambitious artist to work
out in the stillness of his soul, and from its confused and
conflicting images, the design of this long meditated and
idolized performance. But when it was designed; when
shape upon shape grew and swelled, and glowed from the
darkness of previous thought upon the painter's mind;
when, shutting his eyes in the very credulity of delight, the
whole work arose before him, glossy with its fresh hues,
bright, completed, faultless, arrayed, as it were, and decked
out for immortality,-O! then what a full and gushing
moment of rapture broke like a released stream upon his
soul! What a recompense for wasted years, health, and
hope! What a coronal to the visions and transports of
genius; brief, it is true, but how steeped in the very halo
of a light that might well be deemed the glory of heaven!
But the vision fades, the gorgeous shapes sweep on into
darkness, and, waking from his revery, the artist sees
before him only the dull walls of his narrow chamber; the
canvass stretched a blank upon its frame; the works,
maimed, crude, unfinished, of an inexperienced hand, lying
idly around; and feels himself— himself, but one moment
before the creator of a world of wonders, the master spirit
of shapes glorious and majestical beyond the shapes of men,
dashed down from his momentary height and despoiled
both of his sorcery and his throne.
It was just in such a moment that Warner, starting up,
saw Linden (who had silently entered his room) standing
motionless before him.
"O! Linden," said the artist, "I have had so superb
a dream, - a dream which, though I have before snatched
some such vision by fits and glimpses, I never beheld so
realized, so perfect as now; and, but you shall see, you
shall judge for yourself; I will sketch out the design for
you;" and with a piece of chalk, and a rapid hand, War-
ner conveyed to Linden the outline of his conception. His
young friend was eager in his praise and his predictions
of renown, and Warner listened to him with a fondness,
which spread over his pale cheek a richer flush than lover
ever caught from the whispers of his beloved.
*C
>>
Yes," said he, as he rose, and his sunken and small
eye flashed out with a feverish brightness, yes, if my
it
hand does not fail my thought, it shall rival even —.
Here the young painter stopped short, abashed at that
indiscretion of enthusiasm about to utter to another the
hoarded vanities hitherto locked in his heart of hearts as
a sealed secret, almost from himself.
"But come," said Clarence affectionately, "your hand
is feverish and dry, and of late you have seemed more lan-
guid than you were wont, -come, Warner, you want exer-
cise; it is a beautiful evening, and you shall explain your
picture still farther to me as we walk.
Accustomed to yield to Clarence, Warner mechanically
and abstractedly obeyed; they walked out into the open
streets.
“Look around us," said Warner, pausing, "look among
this toiling, and busy, and sordid mass of beings, who claim
with us the fellowship of clay. The poor labor, the rich
feast; the only distinction between them is that of the insect
and the brute; like them they fulfil the same end, and share
the same oblivion; they die, a new race springs up, and
the very grass upon their graves fades not so soon as their
memory. Who, that was conscious of a higher nature,
would not pine and fret himself away to be confounded with
these? Who would not burn, and sicken, and parch, with
a delirious longing to divorce himself from so vile a her
THE DISOWNED.
151
What have their petty pleasures and their mean aims to
utone for the abasement of grinding down our spirits to
their level? Is not the distinction from their blended and
cominon naine a sufficient recompense for all that ambition
suffers or foregoes? O for one brief hour (I ask no
more) of living honor, one feeling of conscious, unfearing
certainty, that fame has conquered death; and then for
this humble and impotent clay, this drag on the spirit which
it does not assist but fetter, this wretched machine of pains
and aches, and feverish throbbings, and vexed inquietudes,
why let the worms consume it and the grave hide, for
anie there is no grave!
>>
At that moment one of those unfortunate women, who
earn their polluted sustenance by becoming the hypocrites
of passion, passed, and judging by the youth of the friends
of their proneness to temptation, accosted them.
"Miserable wretch ! said Warner, loathingly, as he
pushed her aside; but Clarence, with a kindlier feeling,
noticed that her haggard cheek was wet with tears, and
that her frame, weak and trembling, could scarcely support
itself; he, therefore, with that promptitude of charity which
gives ere it discriminates, put some pecuniary assistance
in her hand, and joined his comrade.
"You would not have spoken so tauntingly to the poor
girl had you remarked her distress," said Clarence.
breathed! O! what are the dull realities and the abortive
offspring of this altered and humbled world, — the world
of meaner and dwarfish men, to him whose realms are
peopled with visions like these?"
And the artist, whose ardor, long excited, and pent
within, had at last thus audibly, and to Clarence's astonish-
ment, burst forth, paused, as if to recall himself from his
wandering enthusiasm. Such moments of excitement were,
indeed, rare with him, except when utterly alone, and even
then, were almost invariably followed by that depression of
spirit by which all overwrought susceptibility is succeeded.
A change came over his face, like that of a cloud, when
the sunbeam, which gilded, leaves it, and, with a slight
sigh, and a subdued tone, he resumed:
6C
So, my friend, you see what our art can do even for the
humblest professor, when I, a poor, friendless, patronless
artist, can thus indulge myself by forgetting the present.
But I have not yet explained to you the attitude of my
principal figure;" and Warner proceeded once more to de-
tail the particulars of his intended picture. It must be con-
fessed that he had chosen a fine, though an arduous subject;
it was the Trial of Charles the First; and as the painter,
with the enthusiasm of his profession, and the eloquence pe-
culiar to himself, dwelt upon the various expressions of the
various forms which that extraordinary judgment court af-
"And why," said Warner, mournfully, why be so cru- forded, no wonder that Clarence forgot, with the artist him-
el as to prolong, even for a few hours, an existence which self, the disadvantages Warner had to encounter, in the in-
mercy would only seek to bring nearer to the tomb? That
That experience of an unregulated taste, and an imperfect pro-
unfortunate is but one of the herd, one of the victims to fessional education.
pleasures which debase by their progress, and ruin by their
end. Yet perhaps she is not worse than the usual follow-
ers of love; of love, - that passion the most worship-
ped, yet the least divine, — selfish and exacting, - draw-
ing its aliment from destruction, and its very nature from
tears."
"Nay," said Clarence, "you confound the two loves,
the Eros and the Auteros, gods whom my good tutor was
wont so sedulously to distinguish: you surely do not inveigh |
thus against all love?
>>
I cry you mercy," said Warner, with something of
sarcasm in his pensiveness of tone. "We must not dis-
pute, so I will hold my peace; but make love all you will,
what are the false smiles of a lip which a few years can
blight as an autumn leaf? what the homage of a heart as
eble and mortal as your own? Why, I with a few strokes
of a little hair, and an idle mixture of worthless colors,
will create a beauty in whose mouth there shall be no hol-
owness, — in whose lip there shall be no fading, there
in your admiration you shall have no need of flattery, and
no fear of falsehood; you shall not be stung with jealousy,
nor maddened with treachery; nor watch with a breaking
heart over waning bloom, and departing health, till the
grave open, and your perishable paradise is not. No,-
―
the mimic work is mightier than the original, for it outlasts
it; your love cannot wither it, or your desertion destroy,
your very death, as the being who called it into life, only
stamps it with a holier value.
"And so then," said Clarence, "you would seriously
relinquish, for the mute copy of the mere features, those af-
fections which no painting can express ?
Ay," said the painter, with an energy unusual to his
quiet manner, and slightly wandering in his answer from
Clarence's remark, "ay, one serves not two mistresses,
mine is the glory of my art.
O! what are the cold shapes
of this tame earth, where the footsteps of the gods have
vanished, and left no trace, the blemished forms, the de-
based brows, and the jarring features, to the glorious an
gorgeous images which I can conjure up at my will?
Away with human beauties, to him whose nights are haunt-
ed with the forms of angels and wanderers from the stars,
the spirits of all things lovely and exalted in the universe:
the universe as it was, when to fountain, and stream,
and hill, and to every tree which the summer clothed, was
allotted the vigil of a nymph! when through glade, and
by waterfall, at glossy noontide, or under the silver stars,
the forms of Godhead and Spirit were seen to walk, when
the sculptor modelled his mighty work from the beauty and
strength of heaven, and the poet lay in the shade to dream
of the Naiad and the Fawn, and the Olympian dwellers
whom he waked in rapture to behold; and the painter, not
as now, shaping from shadow and in solitude the dim glo-
ries of his art, caught at once his inspiration from the glow
of earth and its living wanderers, and, lo, the canvass
|
CHAPTER XIV.
All manners take a tincture from our own.
Or come discolor'd through our passions shown.
Pore.
What! give up liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says,
lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes?
Vicar of Wakefield.
THERE was something in the melancholy and reflective
character of Warner resembling that of Mordaunt; had
they lived in these days, perhaps both the artist and the
philosopher had been poets. But (with regard to the lat-
ter) at that time poetry was not the customary vent for deep
thought, or passionate feeling. Gray, it is true, though un-
justly condemned as artificial and meretricious in his style,
had infused into the scanty works which he has bequeathed
to immortality a pathos and a richness foreign to the liter-
ature of the age; and, subsequently, Goldsmith, in the af-
fecting, yet somewhat enervate simplicity of his verse, had
obtained for poesy a brief respite from a school at once de-
clamatory and powerless, and led her forth for a "sunshine
holyday," into the village green, and under the hawthorn
shade. But, though the softer and meeker feelings had
struggled into a partial and occasional vent, those which
partook more of passion and of thought, the deep, the wild,
the fervid, were still without "the music of a voice.” For
the after century it was reserved to restore what we may
be permitted to call the spirit of our national literature;
to forsake the clinquant of the French mimickers of classic
gold; to exchange a thrice adulterated Hippocrene for the
pure well of Shakspeare and of nature; to clothe philoso
phy in the gorgeous and solemn majesty of appropriate mu
sic; and to invest passion with a language as burning as its
thought, and rapid as its impulse. At that time reflection
found its natural channel in metaphysical inquiry, or polit-
ical speculation; both valuable perhaps, but neither pro-
found. It was a bold, and a free, and a curious age, but
not one in which thought ran over its set and stationary
banks, and watered even the common flowers of verse: not
one in which Lucretius could have imbodied the dreams of
Epicurus; Shakspeare lavished the mines of a superhuman
wisdom upon his fairy palaces and enchanted isles; or the
beautifiers of this cominon earth have called forth,
The motion of the spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought :
or disappointment and satiety have hallowed their human
griefs by a pathos wrought from whatever is magnificent,
and grand, and lovely in the unknown universe; or the
speculations of a great, but visionary, mind have raised,
upon subtlety and doubt, a vast and irregular pile of verse
¡Shelley
* Wordsworth.
152
BULWER'S NOVELS.
full of aim lighted cells, and winding galleries, in which
what treasures lie concealed! That was an age in which
poetry took one path, and contemplation another; those
who were addicted to the latter pursued it in its orthodox
roads; and many whom nature, perhaps, intended for
poets, the wizard custom converted into speculators or
critics.
It was this which gave to Algernon's studies their pecul-
iar hue; while, on the other hand, the taste for the fine
arts which then universally, and rather cantingly, prevail-
ed, directed to the creations of painting, rather than those
of poetry, inore really congenial to his powers, the intense
imagination and passion for glory which marked and per-
vaded the character of the artist.
But as we have seen that that passion for glory made the
great characteristic difference between Clarence and War-
ner, so also did that passion terminate any resemblance
which Warner bore to Algernon Mordaunt. With the
With the
former, a rank and unwholesome plant, it grew up to the
exclusion of all else with the latter, subdued and regu-
lated, it sheltered, not withered, the virtues by which it was
surrounded. With Warner, ambition was a passionate
desire to separate himself by fame, from the herd of other
men; with Mordaunt, to bind himself by charity yet
closer to his kind with the one it produced a disgust to
his species; with the other, a pity and a love with the
one, power was the badge of distinction; with the other,
the means to bless! Contented with this brief, but per-
naps sufficient, discrimination of characters never cast in-
to collision, proceed we in our story.
It was now the custom of Warner to spend the whole
day at his work, and wander out with Clarence, when the
evening darkened, to snatch a brief respite of exercise
and air. Often, along the lighted and populous streets,
would the two young and unfriended competitors for this
world's high places, roam with the various crowd, moral-
izing as they went, or holding dim conjecture upon their
destinies to be. And often would they linger beneath the
portico of some house where," haunted with great resort,"
pleasure and pomp held their nightly revels, to listen to
the music that, through the open windows, stole over the
rare exotics with which wealth mimics the southern scents,
and floated, mellowing by distance, along the unworthy
streets; and while they stood together, silent, and each
feeding upon separate thoughts, the artist's pale lip would
curl with scorn, as he heard the laugh and the sounds of a
frivolous and hollow mirth ring from the crowd within,
and startle the air from the silver spell which music had
laid upon it. "These," would he say to Clarence, “these
are the dupes of the same fever as ourselves: like us, they
strive, and toil, and vex their little lives for a distinction
from their race. Ambition comes to them, as to all; but
they throw for a different prize than we do; theirs is the
honor of a day, ours is immortality; yet they take the
saine labor, and are consumed by the same care. And,
fools that they are, with their gilded names and their gau-
dy trappings, they would shrink in disdain from that com-
parison with us which we, with a juster fastidiousness,
blush at this moment to acknowledge."
From these scenes they would rove on, and, both de-
Lighting in contrast, pause next in a squalid and obscure
quarter of the city. There, one night, quiet observers of
their kind, they paused beside a group congregated togeth-
er by some common cause of obscene merriment or unholy
fellowship, -a group on which low vice had set her sor-
did and hideous stamp, -to gaze and draw strange humors
or a inoṭley moral from that depth and ferment of human
nature, into whose sink the thousand streams of civiliza-
tion had poured their dregs and offal.
|
perilous game of honor, their hazard of the die,' in
which vice was triumph, and infamy success. We do bu
share their passion, though we direct it to a better object."
Pausing for a moment, as his thoughts flowed into a some-
what different channel of his character, Warner continued,
“We have now caught a glimpse of the two great divis-
ions of mankind: they who riot in palaces, and they who
make mirth hideous in rags and hovels: own that it is but
a poor survey in either. Can we be contemptible with
these, or loathsome with those? Or rather, have we not
a nobler spark within us, which we have but to fan into a
flame, that shall burn for ever, when these miserable mete-
ors sink into the corruption from which they rise?"
<<
But,"
"observed Clarence, "these are the two ex-
tremes; the pinnacle of civilization, too worn and bare
for any more noble and vigorous fruit, and the base, upon
which the cloud descends in rain and storm.
Look to
the central portion of society; there the soil is more ge-
nial and its produce more rich."
pardon me,
-
'
"Is it so, in truth?" answered Warner;
I believe not the middling classes are as human as the
rest. There is the region, the heart, of avarice,-
systematized, spreading, rotting, the very fungus and lepro-
sy of social states, suspicion, craft, hypocrisy, servility
to the great, oppression to the low, the wax-like mimicry
of courtly vices, the hardness of flint to humble woes;
thought, feeling, the faculties and impulses of man, all ul-
cered into one great canker, gain ; these make the
general character of the middling class, the unleavened
mass of that mediocrity, which it has been the wisdom o
the shallow to applaud. Pah! we, too are of this class,
this potter's earth, this paltry mixture of mud and stone;
but we, my friend, we will knead gold into our clay."
"But look," said Clarence, pointing to the group before
them; "look, yon wretched mother, whose voice an in-
stant ago uttered the coarsest accents of maudlin and intox-
icated prostitution, is now fostering her infant, with a
fondness stamped upon her worn check and hollow eye,
which might shame the nice maternity of nobles; and
there, too, yon wretch whom, in the reckless effrontery of
hardened abandonment, we ourselves heard a few minutes
since boast of his dexterity in theft, and openly exhibit its
token,-look, he is now, with a Samaritan's own charity,
giving the very goods for which his miserable life was
risked, to that attenuated and starving stripling! No,
Wan.er, no! even this mass is not unleavened. The vilest
infamy is not too deep for the seraph virtue to descend
and illumine its abyss!"
"Out on the weak fools!" said the artist, bitterly: "it
would be something if they could be consistent even in
crime!" and, placing his arm in Linden's, he drew him
away.
As the picture grew beneath the painter s hand, Cla-
rence was much struck with the outline and expression of
countenance given to the regicide Bradshaw
"They are but an imperfect copy of the living origina,
from whom I have borrowed them," said Warner, "in
answer to Clarence's remark upon the sternness of the
features. But that original-a relation of mine, is com-
ing here to-day, you shall see him."
Ilis
While Warner was yet speaking, the person in question
entered. His were, indeed, the form and face worthy to
be seized by the painter. The peculiarity of his charac-
ter, which we shall presently describe, made him affect a
plainness of dress unusual to the day, and approaching to
the simplicity, but not the neatness, of Quakerisin
hair, then, with all the better ranks, a principal object of
cultivation, was wild, dishevelled, and, in wiry flakes of
the sablest hue, rose abruptly from a forehead on which
"You survey these," said the painter, marking each either thought or passion had written its annals with an
with the curious eye of his profession: "they are a base iron pen; the lower part of the brow, which overhung the
horde, it is true; but they have their thirst of fame, their
eye, was singularly sharp and preminent; while the lines,
aspirations even in the abyss of crime, or the loathsome- or rather furrows, traced under the eyes and nostrils,
ness of famished want. Down in yon cellar, where a far-spoke somewhat of exhaustion and internal fatigue. Bu
thing rushlight glimmers upon haggard cheeks, distorted
with the idiocy of drink, there, in that foul attic, from
whose casement you see the beggar's rags hang to dry, or
“ather to crumble in the recking and filthy air, farther
an, within those walls which, black and heavy as the hearts
they hide, close our miserable prospect, there, even
there, in the mildewed dungeon, in the felon's cell, on the
scaffold's self, ambition hugs her hope, or scowls upon
her despair. Yes! the inmates of those walls had their
—
this expression was contrasted and contradicted by the
firmly compressed lip; the lighted, steady, stern eye; the
resolute and even stubborn front, joined to proportions
strikingly athletic, and a stature of uncommon height.
"Well, Wolfe," said the young painter to the person
we have described, "it is indeed a kindness to give me a
second sitting."
"Tush, boy!" answered Wolfe: " "all men have their
vain points, and I own that I am not ill pleased that these
THE DISOWNED.
152
gged features should be assigned, even in fancy, to one
of the noblest of those men who judged the mightiest
cause in which a country was ever plaintiff, a tyrant crimi-
nal, and a world witness!"
While Wolfe was yet speaking, his countenance, so
naturally harsh, took a yet sterner aspect, and the artist,
by a happy touch, succeeded in transferring it to the can-
vass.
"But, after all," continued Wolfe, "it shames me to
lend aid to an art frivolous in itself, and almost culpable
in tines when freedom wants the head to design, and,
perhaps, the hand to execute, far other and nobler works
than the blazoning of her past deeds upon perishable can-
vass."
A momentary anger at the slight put upon his art cros-
sed the pale brow of the artist; but he remembered the
character of the man, and continued his work in silence.
You consider then, sir, that these are times in which
liberty is attacked?" said Clarence.
"Attacked!" repeated Wolfe, -"attacked!" and
then suddenly sinking his voice into a sort of sneer,
"why, since the event which this painting is designed
∞ commemorate-I know not if we have ever had one
solitary gleam of liberty break along the great chaos of
iari ing prejudice and barbarous law, which we term, for-
sooth, a glorious constitution. Liberty attacked! no, boy,
-but it is a time when liberty may be gained."
Perfectly unacquainted with the excited politics of the
day, or the growing and mighty spirit which then stirred
through the minds of men, Clarence remained silent; but
his evident attention flattered the fierce republican, and
he proceeded.
Ay," he said, slowly, and as if drinking in a deep
and stern joy, from his conviction in the truth of the words
he uttered, "ay
I have wandered over the face of
the earth, and I have warmed my soul at the fires which
lay hidden under its quiet surface; I have been in the city
and the desert,
the herded and banded crimes of the old
world, and the scattered, but bold, hearts which are found
among the mountains and morasses of the new; and in
either I have beheld that seed sown which, from a mustard
grain, too scanty for a bird's beak, shall grow up to be a
shelter and a home for the whole family of man. I have
looked upon the thrones of kings, and lo! the anointed
ones were in purple and festive pomp; and I looked beneath
the thrones, and I saw want and hunger, and despairing
wrath, gnawing the foundations away. I have stood in
the streets of that great city where mirth seems to hold an
eternal jubilee, and beheld the noble riot, while the pea-
fant starved; and the priest build altars to mammon, piled
from the earnings of groaning labor, and cemented with
blood and tears. But I looked farther, and saw, in the
rear, chains sharpened into swords, misery ripening into
Justice, and famine darkening into revenge; and I laughed,
as I beheld, for I knew that the day of the oppressed was
at hand."
Somewhat awed by the prophetic tone, though revolted
by what seemed to him the novelty, and the fierceness, of
he sentiments of the republican, Clarence, after a brief
Jause, said,
O
"And what of our own country?"
Wolfe's brow darkened. "The oppression here," said
"has not been so weighty, therefore the reaction will
e less strong; the parties are more blended, therefore
heir separation will be more arduous; the extortion is less
◄rained, therefore the endurance will be more meek; but,
soon or late, the struggle must come: bloody will it be, if
the strife be even; gentle and lasting, if the people pre-
dominate."
"And if the rulers be the strongest?" said Clarence.
The struggle will be renewed," replied Wolfe, dog-
gelly.
"You still attend those oratorical meetings, cousin, I
think?" said Warner.
"I do," said Wolfe; “and if you are not so utterly ab-
sorbed in your vain and idle art as to be indifferent to all
things nobler, you will learn yourself to take interest in
what concerns, I will not say your country, —
kind.
but man-
For you, young man," (and the republican turned
to Clarence,) "I would fain hope that life has not already
been directed from the greatest of human objects; if so,
come to-mori w night to our assembly, and learn from
Vol.
1.
20
worthier lips than mine the precepts and the hopes for
which good men live or die."
"I will come at all events to listen, if not to learn,
said Clarence, eagerly, for his curiosity was excited. Ana
the republican, having now fulfilled the end of his visit, rose
and departed.
CHAPTER XV.
Bound to suffer persecution
And martyrdom with resolution,
T'oppose himself against the hate
And vengeance of the incensed state.
Huduras.
BORN of respectable, though not aristocratic parents,
John Wolfe was one of those fiery and daring spirits which,
previous to some mighty revolution, fate seems to scatter
over various parts of the earth, even those removed from
the predestined explosion; - heralds of the events in which
they are fitted, though not fated, to be actors. The period
at which he is presented to the reader was one considera-
bly prior to that French revolution so much debated, so lit-
tle understood, and which, too hackneyed for interest to
the novel reader, the author is truly rejoiced was so long
anterior to the occurrences of his history. But some such
event, though not foreseen by the common, had been already
foreboded by the more enlightened eye; and Wolfe, from a
protracted residence in France, among the most discontent-
ed of its freer spirits, had brought hope to that burning en-
thusiasm which had long made the pervading passion of his
existence.
Bold to ferocity, generous in devotion to folly and self-
sacrifice, unflinching in his tenets to a degree which render-
ed their ardor ineffectual to all times, because utterly inap-
plicable to the present, Wolfe was one of those zealots
whose very virtues have the semblance of vice, and whose
very capacities for danger become harmless from the rash-
ness of their success.
It was not among the philosophers and reasoners of
France that Wolfe had drawn strength to his opinions:
whatever such companions might have done to his tenets,
they would at least have moderated his actions. The phi-
losopher may aid, or expedite, a change; but never does
the philosopher in any age or of any sect countenance a
crime. But of philosophers Wolfe knew little, and prob-
ably despised thein for their temperance: it was among fa-
natics, ignorant, but imaginative; powerful, perhaps, in
talent, but weak in mind, that he had strengthened the
love, without comprehending the nature of republicanism
Like Lucian's painter, whose flattery portrayed the one
eyed prince in profile, he viewed only that side of the ques-
tion in which there was no defect, and gave beauty to the
whole by concealing the half. Thus, though, on his return
to England, herding with the common class of his reform-
ing brethren, Wolfe possessed many peculiarities and dis-
tinctions of character which, in rendering him strikingly
adapted to the purpose of the novelist, must serve as a cau-
tion to the reader not to judge of the class by the individual.
With a class of republicans in England there was a
strong tendency to support their cause by reasoning. With
Wolfe, whose mind was little wedded to logic, all was the
offspring of turbulent feelings, which, in rejecting argu-
ment, substituted declamation for syllogism. This effected
a powerful and irreconcilable distinction between Wolfe
and the better part of his comrades: for the habits of cool
reasoning, whether true or false, are little likely to bias
the mind toward those crimes to which Wolfe's irregulated
emotions might possibly urge him, and give to the charac-
ters, to which they are a sort of common denominator,
something of method, and much of similarity.
feelings, those orators which allow no calculation, and
baffle the tameness of comparison, rendered Wolfe alone,
unique, eccentric in opinion or action, whether of vice or
virtue, and consequently well calculated for those strong
lights and shadows which fiction loves to single from the
commonplaces of ordinary life.
But the
* The motto prefixed to the edition of Helvetius, in 1782,
seems to me strikingly applicable to this remark: —
"Ce sont les fanatiques, les prètres, et les ignorans, qui font
les révolutions; les personnes éclairées, désintéressées, et sen
sées, sont toujour amies du repos
BOULLANGE
154
BULWER'S NOVELS
Private ties frequently moderate the ardour of our pub-
lic enthusiasm. Wolfe had none. His nearest relation
was Warner, and it may readily be supposed that with the
pensive and contemplative artist he had very little in com-
mon. He had never married, nor had even seemed to wan-
der from his stern and sterile path, in the most transient
pursuit of the pleasures of sense. Inflexibly honest, rigid-
ly austere, in his moral character his bitterest enemies
could detect no flaw, poor, even to indigence, he had in-
poor, even to indigence, he had in-
variably refused all overtures of the government, thrice
imprisoned and heavily fined for his doctrines, no fear of a
future, no remembrance of the past punishment, could ever
silence his bitter eloquence, or moderate the passion of his
unteripered zeal, kindly, though rude, his scanty means
were ever shared by the less honest and disinterested fol-
lowers of his faith; and he had been known for days to de-
prive himself of food, and for nights of shelter, for the
purpose of yielding them to another.
Such was the man doomed to forsake, through a long and
wasted life, every substantial blessing, in pursuit of a shad-
owy good; with the warmest benevolence in his heart, to
relinquish private affections, and to brood even to madness
over public offences, -to sacrifice every thing in a gener-
ous, though erring devotion, for that freedom whose cause,
instead of promoting, he was calculated to retard; and,
while he believed himself the martyr of a high and uncom
promising virtue, to close his career with the greatest of
human crimes.
Upon persons of this class, rather to be pitied than con-
demned, public indignation has, however, lavished more
odium than they deserve they are instances, not of male-
volence, but of an ill-directed philanthropy: and those who
seek to extend and generalize our happiness or freedom,
even by imprudent and impracticable theories, are at least
more worthy of our forgiveness than the bigots of the op-
posite extreine, who, from motives less honest and princi-
ples more permanently dangerous, would confine prosperity
to the few, and restriction to the many.
CHAPTER XVI
MOLIERE.
Ah, ah, poor Spence!" said Mr. Desborough, the
author of a Treatise upon Gardening and Ornamenta
Farming, at that time two of the most fashionable studies,
poor Spence! drowned, was he not? in his own garden
too. Suppose you make an ode about it, my lord, say he
was turned into a river god,- fine image. Humph, ha!
- your snuff-box, if you please, my lord."
"He was found upon the edge of the water," said
George Perrivale, a great wit of the day, viz. one of th
most ill-natured people, for the envy of mankind is an
alchymy which always transmutes ill-nature into wit,
"he was found upon the edge of the water, with his face
as flat as his own books; they said the water was too shal-
low to cover his head, emblematic of his knowledge, poor
fellow, which had the same deficiency !
You may say of
him what was said of his own Polymetis, he sunk by his
own weight, and will never rise again.'
دو
-
Gal
"An impartial life of Pope will indeed be a most desir-
able work," said Talbot. "What a noble mind he had!
His poetry is the least ornament of his character, brave in
despite of his constitution, generous in despite of his
kind in despite of his satire,
economy,
and philoso-
phical in despite of his fancy.
"There were never two minds, in modern times," said
Clarence, modestly,
Clarence, modestly, "so cast upon a classic and ancient
model as those of Bolingbroke and Pope; there was some-
thing so beautiful too in their friendship. I have always
thought one of the most touching anecdotes recorded is
that of Lord Bolingbroke leaning over Pope's chair, in
his last illness, and weeping like a child.'
"True," said Talbot, and mingling his fine reflec-
tions even with his tears you are right in calling then
classic minds it was a classic age, and they were of that
age the noblest spirits. Bolingbroke, in his turn of mind,
his eloquence, his philosophy, his enthusiastic love of vir-
tue, his veneration for friendship, which he termed virtue,
perhaps in his lofty vanity and magnificence of ego-
tism, has no parallel but in Tully: his exile and his perse-
cutions extend the comparison with the illustrious Roman,
from his character to his life. Yet see how fortune makes
likenesses among men! Bolingbroke was unsuccessful,
and we compare him to Cicero; had he been successful,
we should have remembered his wit, his brilliancy, his ver-
satility, his ambition, his alternate thirst of pleasure and
of power, and should have compared him to Cæsar.'
"You knew Bolingbroke well, I think," said Mr.
Desborough," he was fond of farming, what a great man!
Nul n'aura de l'esprit hors nous et nos amis.
WHEN Clarence returned home, after the conversation
recorded in our last chapter, he found a note from Talbot
inviting him to meet some friends of the latter at supper
that evening. It was the first time Clarence had been
asked, and he looked forward with some curiosity and Im-imagine calculated to win, both from Swift, and our living
patience to the hour appointed in the note for personally
accepting the invitation.
It is impossible to convey any idea of the jealous rancor
felt by Mr. and Mrs. Copperas on hearing of this distinc-
tion, -a distinction which "the perfect courtier" had
never once bestowed upon themselves.
Mrs. Copperas tossed her head, too indignant for words;
and the stock-jobber, in the bitterness of his soul, affirmned,
with a meaning air," that he dared say, after all, that the
old gentleman was not so rich as he gave out.
On entering Talbot's drawing-room, Clarence found
about seven or eight people assembled: their names, in
proclaiming the nature of the party, indicated that the aim
of the host was to combine aristocracy and talent. The
literary acquirements and worldly tact of Talbot, joined to
the adventitious circumstances of birth and fortune, enabled
him to effect this object, so desirable in polished society,
far better than we generally find it effected now; yet still,
in seeking to unite two opposite essences, the spirit of both
will frequently evaporate, and, instead of an exchange of
intellect on the one hand and refinement on the other, the
wit becomes aristocratically dull, and the aristocrat flip-
pantly jocose; however, time hallows insipidity, and the
literary chit-chat of a former day is always received with
more pleasure than that of the present.
"Well," said Lord Welwyn, a little talkative noble-
man, a great critic, a small poet, and prouder of some
certain verses in Dodsley's Miscellany than of all his an-
cestors and acres, "well, I hope at last that we shall
have a good and true life of Pope. Poor Spence's papers
are, I understand, to be published.
* *
* They were supposed to be more valuable than their recent
publication has proved them to be.
|
"Yes; I knew him in his latter days when he was at
Battersea; he was at once the most courtly and profoundly
intellectual person I ever met; quite the man you could
Chesterfield, the praise of being the greatest man they ever
met; a wonderful praise when you consider how contrary
to each other the praisers were, and that we rarely praise
people who excel in any other faculties than our own. I
remember also having seen rpe twice at Twickenham.”
"And did he not enchant you with his wit?" said Lord
Welwyn, who valued himself upon writing precisely in the
true Pope style.
he was very
"Not exactly," said Talbot, smiling;
grave and philosophical in conversation, and did not utter å
single sentence that could be called witty."
CC
Ah," said, conceitedly, the wit by profession, "there
is all the difference in the world between saying a good
thing impromptu, and having the whole morning to make it
in one's closet. It is the difference indeed of a rich man
and an embarrassed one; of a man spending his income
daily, and with ease, or of one raising a mortgage on his
property in order to pay off a bill by a certain time. But
tell me, gentlemen, would Pope ever have been worshipped
by one half his contemporaries if he had not abused the
other half.
"Why," answered Talbot, "the question is difficult
enough to answer: I confess that I do not know a surer
proof of the malice of mankind than the rank which is
accorded to a satirist. Satire is a dwarf, which stands
upon the shoulders of the giant ill-nature; and the kingdom
of verse, like that of Epirus, is often left not to him who
has the noblest genius, but the sharpest sword.'"
"Ah!” cried Mr. Perrivale, "the wit of a satirist is
like invisible writing: look at it with an indifferent eye,
and lo! there is none: hold it up to the light, and you can'
perceive it: but rub it over with your own spirit of acid
and see how plain and striking it becomes."
THE DISOWNED.
155
falbot smiled at an allusion so unconsciously applicable
the merit of the speaker; but the little Lord Welwyn
Led up his hands and eyes. To doubt the excellence of
o's model is indeed the bitterest sarcasm upou one's self.
What profanation!" cried his lordship. "I thought,
site the days of Curll and Cibber, no man could be found
to dispute the unrivalled preeminence of Pope. No, no,
let Zoiluses be ever so plenty, there will never be such
anther Homer!" and, as he uttered the word Zoilus, his
lor 'ship tapped his snuff-box, and glanced at the critic.
?he wit looked angry, and prepared for a reply: he was
interrupted, "Pray," squeaked out a pert looking gen-
tleman, short and laconic as a conjunction, but, like a con-
junction, also very useful in uniting differences, pray,
what does your lordship think of the poet Gray?
CO
CC
"O!" quoth his lordship, in a tone of true literary
contempt, a terrible innovator, - a republican in verse,
affecting to be original. Shallow dog! Good heavens, to
think of calling such barbarous alliterations, such lawless
metres, such confused epithets, poetry? Where do you
ever find them in Pope, or Tickell, or Duck? No, let
him imitate his friend Mason, and learn chasteness of ex-
pression. Magnificent work, Elfrida!"
"The fruit trees of Parnassus are certainly in their
decline," said the author of a Treatise upon Ornamental
Gardening.
And all we can do," quoth his poetical lordship,
pursuing the metaphor, "is to pick up the few windfalls
which have hitherto escaped attention."
"And what think you," asked some one, "of the fash-
ionable Dr. Goldsmith? You admire the Traveller?
Paltry stuff, indeed!" replied the critic. "Low,
vulgar, -no art in the verses, all so d-d natural; why,
any body could write them. Let him take pattern by
Tickell, and learn majesty. I hate this new school. a sure
sign of decay in true taste, all these innovations. There
was Gilbert West, some time ago, writing a long poem in
the metre of the Fairy Queen, thank heaven, we were
not quite sunk so utterly in criticism as to approve it; but
I foresee, mark my words,-I foresee that in the progress
of degeneracy, we shall have all the critics praising, and
all the town buying some poem in the same barbarous stan-
za, and perhaps four times as long; or, still worse, some
future poet may become the rage, by spinning out those
gothic old ballads Dr. Percy admires so much, into tales
as long as an epic."
CC
No, no,” cried two or three of the company,
neously; you are too severe now, my lord!"
His lordship took breath and souff.
66
simulta-
Perhaps," said Talbot, "the future poets will be more
indebted to Gray and Goldsmith than we think, or they
themselves will perceive: from the former they may borrow
richness, from the latter simplicity. And that taste for our
old songs lately introduced, and which I hear Dr. Johnson
agrees with Lord Welwyn in discountenancing, may be,
more than any living author, beneficial to the literature of
the after age.
5,
"How?" asked Clarence.
CC a chivalrous and ro-
"By giving," answered Talbot,
mantic tone to a muse at present enervate and unnational,
and which, if it does not receive an utterly new impulse,
will soon degenerate into the most mawkish imbecility."
"There is a poet of the present age," said one of the
company, "whose prose works evince what he might have
become; and, though he has incurred Lord Welwyn's dis-
pleasure, by writing a poem in Spencer's stanza, I own
he is a great favorite with me,poor Shenstone."
"Ah, the author of the Leasowes; a charming place!"
said the writer of a Treatise upon Ornainental Gardening.
"He must, indeed, have been a great man!
"What," cried the wit, "the pastoral poct? Pardon
me, sir: but his verses are like his brooks; their murmurs
invite me to sleep. There is something overpoweringly
somniferous in the following stanza,
"Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep,
They have nothing to do but to stray,
I have nothing to do but to weep.
What think you of the amendment, I propose,
"My readers, we are losing our time,
My sheep are escaped from the lawn;
I have nothing to do but to rhyme,
You have nothing to do but to yawn."
Pooh," said the author of a Treatise on Gardening,
far too literal a sort of person to take a jest, —“ Pooh, a
parody is no criticism: one might make a duck-pond out
of a fountain. A man who made the Leasowes is above
travesty.
"Most true," answered the wit: " you have convinced
In Shenstone's own splendid diction, -
me.
"My breast is too kind to remain
Unmoved when my Corydon sighs;
His verses are soft as his brain,
And as sweet as his gooseberry pies."
As, with a sentimental and lachrymose air, which gave
to the burlesque a drollery its own merit could not bestow,
Mr. Perrivale recited these lines, the servant, entering,
announced supper.
That was the age of suppers! Happy age! Meal of
ease and mirth; when wine and night lit the lamp of wit!
0, what precious things were said and looked at those
banquets of the soul! There epicurism was in the lip as
well as the palate, and one had humor for a hors d'œuvre,
and repartee for an entremet. In dinner there is something
too pompous, too formal, too exigent of attention, for the
delicacies and levities of persiflage. One's intellectual
appetite, like the physical, is coarse but dull. At dinner
one is fit only for eating, after dinner only for politics. But
supper was a gloricus relic of the ancients. The bustle
of the day had thoroughly wound up the spirit, and every
stroke upon the dial plate of wit was true to the genius of
the hour. The wallet of diurnal anecdote was full, and
craved unloading. The great meal, that vulgar first love
of the appetite, —was over, and one now only flattered it
into coquetting with another. The mind, disengaged and
free, was no longer absorbed in a cutlet or burdened with
a joint. The gourmand carried the nicety of his physical
perception to his moral, and applauded a bon mot instead of
a bonne bouche.
-
Then too one had no necessity to keep a reserve of
thought for the after evening; supper was the final consum-
mation, the glorious funeral pyre of day. One could se
merry till bedtime without an interregnum. Nay, if in the
ardor of convivialism one did, — I merely hint at the pos-
sibility of such an event, if one did exceed the narrow
limits of strict ebriety, and open the heart with a ruby key,
one had nothing to dread from the cold, or, what is worse,
the warm looks of ladies in the drawing-room; no fear that
an imprudent word, in the amatory fondness of the fermen-
ted blood, might expose one to matrimony and settlements.
There was no tame, trite medium of propriety and sup-
pressed confidence, no bridge from board to bed, over
ruptor of ambulatory rectitude) might precipitate into
which a false step (and your wine cup is a marvellous cor-
an irrecoverable abyss of perilous communication or un-
wholesome truth. One's pillow became at once the legiti-
mate and natural bourne to "the overheated brain;" and
the generous rashness of the cœnatorial reveller was not
damped by untimeous caution or ignoble calculation.
CC
But we have changed all that now." Sobriety has
become the successor of suppers; the great ocean of moral
Miserable supper-lovers that we are, like the native Indians
encroachment has not left us one little island of refuge.
of America, a scattered and daily disappearing race, we
wander among strange customs, and behold the innovating
and invading Dinner spread gradually over the very space
of time in which the majesty of Supper once reigned undis-
puted and supreme !
"O, ye heavens, be kind,
And feel, thou earth, for this afflicted race!
WORDSWORTH.
As he was sitting down to the table, Clarence's notice
was arrested by a somewhat suspicious and unpleasing oc-
currence. The supper room was on the ground floor, and
owing to the heat of the weather, one of the windows, facing
the small garden, was left open. Through this window
Clarence distinctly saw the face of a man look into the
room for one instant, with a prying and curious gaze, and
then as instantly disappear. As no
As no one else seemed
to remark this incident, and the general attention was
somewhat noisily engrossed by the subject of conversation,
Clarence thought it not worth while to mention a circum-
stance for which the impertinence of any neighboring ser
vant, or drunken passer-by, might easily account.
prehension, however, of a more unpleasant nature sho
An ap
156
BULWER'S NOVELS.
across nim. as his eye fell upon the costly plate which Tal- |
bot rather ostentatiously displayed, and then glanced to the
single and aged servant, who was, besides his master, the
only male inmate of the house. Nor could he help saying
to Talbot, in the course of the evening, that he wondered
he was not afraid of hoarding so many articles of value in
a house at once lonely and ill-guarded.
Ill guarded," said Talbot, rather affronted, "why, I
and my servant always sleep here!"
To this Clarence thought it neither prudent nor well-bred
to offer further reinark.
No sooner was our party fairly seated than a wonderful
change for the better seemed to operate upon them.
The
formalities of criticism, the professional tinge of literature,
melted away. Anecdotes of men succeeded strictures on
books; Lord Welwyn forgot Pope and poetry, relapsed into
his proper character, and became the best butt in the
world.
energy, each stretched his limbs, and resettled himself i
his place,
"And turning to his neighbor, said, ‘Rejoice.””
the
A pause ensued, · the chairman looked round,
eyes of the meeting followed those of their president, with
a universal and palpable impatience, towards an obscure
corner of the room; the pause deepened for one moment,
and then was broken; a voice cried "Wolfe," and at that
The place
signal the whole room shook with the name.
the
which Clarence had taken did not allow him to see the ob-
ject of these cries, till he rose from his situation, and
passing two rows of benches, stood forth in the middle
space of the room; then went round, from one to one,
general roar of applause: feet stamped, hands clapped,
umbrellas set their sharp points to the ground, and walking-
sticks thumped themselves out of shape in the universal
Tall, gaunt, and erect, the speaker possessed,
even in the mere proportions of his frame, that physi
cal power which never fails, in a popular assembly, to
gain attention to mediocrity, and to throw dignity over
faults. He looked very slowly round the room, remain-
ing perfectly still and motionless, till the clamor of ap
plause had entirely subsided, and every ear, Clarence's no
less eagerly than ine rest, was strained, and thirsting to
catch the first syňables of his voice.
clamor.
Mr. Desborough, (author of the Treatise upon
Gardening,) a tall, lank, singularly ugly man, forgot one
branch of his character for another, boasted of favors from
two lips rather than success in roses, and laying down the
spade, received astonishing applause for his dexterity in
taking up the rake. Lord St. George, a thin, well-dressed,
gentlemanlike personage, who had hitherto been reveren-
tially silent, felt at last in his element, and seasoned the
first glass of Burgundy with a pun.
Talbot suffered his
philosophy to glide into jest, and his good breeding to be-
come the father of mirth; while the wit, whose eyes soon
emulated the sparkle of the sherry, kept up the hilarity of
all, by sly insinuations against each.
CHAPTER XVII.
Meetings, or public calls, he never miss'd,
To dictate often, always to assist.
*
*
*
To his experience and his native sense,
He joined a bold, imperious eloquence;
The grave, stern look of men inform'd and wise,
A full command of feature, heart, and eyes,
An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size.
CRABBE.
THE next evening Clarence, mindful of Wolfe's invita-
tion, inquired from Warner (who repaid the contempt of
the republican for the painter's calling by a similar feeling
for the zealot's) the direction of the oratorical meeting, and
repaired there alone. It was the most celebrated club (of
that description) of the day, and well worth attending, as
a gratification to the curiosity, if not an improvement to
the mind.
It was then with a low, very deep, and somewhat hoarse
tone, that he began; and it was not till he had spoken for
ed, that the drooping hand was raised, and that the sup-
several minutes, that the iron expression of his face alter-
pressed, yet powerful, voice began to expand and vary in
its volume. He had then entered upon a new department
of his subject. The question was connected with the Eng-
lish constitution, and Wolfe was now preparing to pu
forth, in long and blackened array, the evils of an aristo-
cratical form of government. Then it was as if the bile
and bitterness of years were poured forth in terrible and
stormy wrath, then his action became vehement, and his
eye flashed forth unutterable fire; his voice, solemn, swell-
ing, and increasing with each tone in its height and depth,
filled, as with something palpable and perceptible, the shaking
walls. The listeners,—a various and unconnected group,
bound by no tie of faith or of party, many attracted by ca-
riosity, many by the hope of ridicule, some abhorring the
tenets expressed, and nearly all disapproving their princi-
the listeners, certainly
ples, or doubting their wisdom,
not a group previously formed or moulded into enthusiasm,
became rapt and earnest, their very breath forsook them;
a child of six years old, who could comprehend nothing of
the discourse but the gestures and voice of the orator, sat
with his hands tightly clasped, his lips dropping apart, and
his cheek white and chilling with fear.
Linden had never before that night hear a public speak-
er; but he was of a thoughtful and rather calculating
mind, and his early habits of decision, and the premature
cultivation of his intellect, rendered him little susceptible,
in general, to the impressions of the vulgar: nevertheless,
in spite of himself, he was hurried away by the stream, and
found that the force and rapidity of the speaker did not
allow him even time for the dissent and disapprobation
which his republican maxims and fiery denunciations per-
On entering, he found himself in a long room, tolerably
well lighted, and still better filled. The sleepy counte-
nances of the audience, the whispered conversation carried
on at scattered intervals, the listless attitudes of some, the
frequent yawns of others, the eagerness with which atten-
tion was attracted to the opening door, when it admitted
some new object of interest, the desperate resolution with
which some of the more energetic turned themselves to-
wards the orator, and then, with a faint shake of the head,
turned themselves again hopelessly away, were all signs
that denoted that no very eloquent declaimer was in pos-petually excited in a mind aristocratic by prejudice and
education. At length, after a peroration of impetuous and
session of the "house.' It was, indeed, a singularly dull, magnificent invective, the orator ceased.
monotonous didatic poem-like sort of voice which, arising
from the upper end of the room, dragged itself on towards
the middle, and expired with a sighing sound before it
reached the end. The face of the speaker suited his vo-
cal powers; it was small, mean, and of a round stupidity,
without any thing even in fault that could possibly com-
mand attention, or even the excitement of disapprobation:
the very garments of the orator seemed dull and heavy, and
"leaden look.”
like the melancholy of Milton, had a
Now and then some words, more emphatic than oth-
ers, stores, breaking, as it were, with a momentary
splash, the stagnation of the heavy stream,-produced
from three very quiet, unhappy looking persons, seated next
to the speaker, his immediate friends, three single isolated
"hears! "
"The force of friendship could no further go.
At last, the orator, having spoken through, suddenly stop-
ped; the whole meeting seemed as if a weight had been
taken from them, there was a general buzz of awakened
In the midst of the applause that followed, Clarence left
the assembly; he could not endure the thought that any
duller or more commonplace speaker should fritter away
the spell which yet bound and engrossed his spirit.
CHAPTER XVIII.
At the bottom of the staircase was a sma. door, which gave
action, a cocked pistol in one hand, &c.
way before Nigel, as he precipitated himself upon the scene of
Fortunes of Nigel.
THE night, though not utterly dark, was rendered ca-
pricious and dim by alternate wind and rain; and Clar-
ence was delayed in his return homeward by seeking occa-
sional shelter from the rapid and heavy showers which hur-
ried by. It was during one of the temporary cessations
of the rain that he reached Copperas Bower, and while
↳
THE DISOWNED.
157
was searching in his pockets for the key which was to ad-
mit him, he observed two men loitering about his neigh-
bor's house. The light was not sufficient to give him
more than a scattered and imperfect view of their motions.
Somewhat alarmed, he stood for several moments at the
door, watching them as well as he was able; nor did he
enter the house till the loiterers had left their suspicious
position, and walking onward, were hid entirely from him
by the distance and darkness.
It really is a dangerous thing for Talbot," thought
Clarence, as he ascended to his apartment, "to keep so
many valuables, and only one servant, and that one as old
as himself too; but how coldly he looked on me when I
ventured to remonstrate. However, as I am by no means
sleepy, and my room is by no means cool, I may as well
open my window, and see if those idle fellows make their
reappearance." Suiting the action to the thought, Clar-
ence opened his little casement, and leant wistfully out.
He had no light in his room, for none was ever left for
him, and he was peculiarly unhappy at a flint and tinder-
box, the only means of procuring a light which the house
afforded. This circumstance, however, of course enabled
him the better to penetrate the dimness and haze of the
night, and by the help of the fluttering lamps, he was en-
abled to take a general, though not minute, survey of the
scene below.
I think I have before said that there was a small garden
between Talbot's house and Copperas Bower; this was
bounded by a wall, which confined Talbot's peculiar ter-
ritory of garden, and this wall, describing a parallelo-
gram, faced also the road. It contained two entrances,
one the principal adytus, in the shape of a comely iron
gate, the other a wooden door, which, being a private pass,
fronted the intermediate garden before mentioned, and was
exactly opposite to Clarence's window.
Linden had been more than ten minutes at his post, and
had just begun to think his suspicions without foundation,
and his vigil in vain, when he observed the same figures he
had seen before advance slowly from the distance, and pause
by the front gate of Talbot's mansion.
Alarmed and anxious, he redoubled his attention; he
stretched himself as far as his safety would permit, out of
the window; the lamps, agitated by the wind, which swept
by in occasional gusts, refused to grant to his straining
sight more than an inaccurate and unsatisfying survey.
Presently a blast, more violent than ordinary, suspended
as it were the falling columns of rain, and left Clarence in
almost total darkness; it rolled away, and the momentary
calm which ensued enabled him to see that one of the men
was stooping by the gate, and the other standing apparently
on the watch at a little distance. Another gust shook the
lamps, and again obscured his view: and when it had
passed onward in its rapid course, the men had left the gate,
the men had left the gate,
and were in the garden beneath his window. They crept
cautiously, but swiftly, along the opposite wall, till they
came to the small door we have before mentioned; here
they halted, and one of them appeared to occupy himself
in opening the door. Now then, fear was changed into
certainty, and it seemed without doubt that the men, hav-
ing found some difficulty or danger in forcing the stronger
or more public entrance, had changed their quarter of at-
tack. No more time was to be lost; Clarence shouted
aloud, but the high wind probably prevented the sound
reaching the ears of the burglars, or at least rendered it
dubious and confused. The next moment, and before Cla-
rence could repeat his alarm, they had opened the door,
and were within the neighboring garden, beyond his view.
Very young men, unless their experience has outstripped
their youth, seldom have much presence of mind; that
quality, which is the opposite to surprise, comes to us in
those years when nothing seems to us strange or unexpected.
Bat a much older man than Clarence might have well been
at a loss to know what conduct to adopt in the situation in
which our hero was placed. The visits of the watchman |
to that (then) obscure and ill inhabited neighborhood,
were more regulated by his indolence than his duty, and
Clarence knew that it would be in vain to listen for his cry,
or tarry for his assistance. He himself was utterly unarm-
ed, but the stock-jobber had a pair of horse pistols, and,
as this recollection flashed upon him, the pause of deli-
beration censed.
With a swift step he descended the first flight of stairs,
and, pa'ng at the chamber door of the faithful couple,
|
knocked upon its pannels with a loud and hasty sunmons
The second repetition of the noise produced the sentence,
uttered in a very trembing voice, of "Who's there?"
"It's I, Clarence Linden," replied our hero; "lose
no time in opening the door.”
This answer seemed to reassure the valorous stock-job-
ber. He slowly undid the bolt, and turned the key.
"In heaven's name, what do you want, Mr. Linden?"
said he.
Ay," cried a sharp voice from the more internal re-
cesses of the chamber, "what do you want, sir, disturb-
ing us in the bosom of our family, and at the dead of
night?"
With a rapid voice, Clarence repeated what he had seen,
and requested the broker to accompany him to Talbot's
house, or at least to lend him his pistols.
"He shall do no such thing," cried Mrs. Copperas
"Come here, Mr. C., and shut the door directly."
Stop, my love," said the stock-jobber,
ment.
stop a mo-
"For God's sake," cried Clarence," make no delay,
the
the poor old man may be murdered by this time."
"It's no business of mine," said the stock-jobber.
"If Adolphus had not broken the rattle, I would not have
but
;
minded the trouble of springing it
much.
you are very
mistaken if you think I am going to leave my warm bed, in
order to have my throat cut."
"Then give me your pistols," cried Clarence, "I will
go alone."
"I shall commit no such folly," said the stock-jobber;
"if you are murdered, I may have to answer it to your
friends, and pay for your burial. Besides, you owe us for
your lodgings, go to your bed, young man, as I shall to
mine." And, so saying, Mr. Copperas proceeded to close
the door.
But, enraged at the brutality of the man, and excited by
the urgency of the case, Clarence did not allow him so
peaceable a retreat. With a strong and fierce grasp, he
seized the astonished Copperas by the throat, and shaking
him violently, forced his own entrance into the sacred
nuptial chamber.
CC
'By the God that made me," cried Linden, in a savage
and stern tone, for his blood was up,
I will twist your
coward's throat, and save the murderer his labor, if you
do not instantly give me up your pistols."
The stock-jobber was panic-stricken. "Take them,"
he cried, in the extremest terror, "there they are on the
chimney-piece, close by."
"Are they primed and loaded?" said Linden, not re-
laxing his gripe.
Yes, yes!" said the stock-jobber, "loose my throat,
or you will choke me!" and, at that instant, Clarence felt
himself clasped by the invading hands of Mrs. Copperas.
"Call off your wife," said he, "or I will choke you ! "
and he tightened his hold, "tell her to give me the
pistols."
The next moment Mrs. Copperas extended the debated
weapons toward Clarence. He seized them, flung, in his
haste, the poor stock-jobber against the bed-post, hurried
down stairs, opened the back door which led into the gar-
den, flew across the intervening space, arrived at the door,
and entered Talbot's garden, paused to consider what was
the next step to be taken.
A person equally brave as Clarence, but more cautious,
would not have left the house without alarming Mr. De
Warens, even in spite of the failure with his master; bat
Linden only thought of the pressure of time, and the ne-
cessity of expedition, and he would have been a very
unworthy hero of romance had he felt fear for two antago
nists, with a brace of pistols, at his command, and a high
and good action in view.
After a brief, but decisive halt, he proceeded rapidly
round the house, in order to ascertain at which part the
ruffians had admitted themselves, should they (as, indeed,
there was little doubt) have already effected their entrance.
When he came to the supper-room windows, which, as
we have before had occasion to remark, were on the
ground-floor, he perceived that the shutters had been open-
ed, and through the aperture he caught the glimpse of a
moving light which was suddenly obscured. As he was
about to enter, the light again flashed out he drew back
just in time, carefully screened himself behind the shutter
and, through one of the chinks, observed what passed with
158
BULWER'S NOVELS.
in.
pposite to the window was a door which conducted
to the hall and principal staircase; this door was open,
and in the hall, at the foot of the stairs, Clarence saw two
men; one carried a dark lantern, from which the light
proceeded, and some tools, of the nature of which Clar-
ence was naturally ignorant: this was a middle-sized, mus-
cular man, dressed in the rudest garb of an ordinary la-
borer; the other was much taller and younger, and his
dress was of rather a less ignoble fashion.
"Hist! hist!" said the taller one, in a low tone, "did
you not hear a noise, Ben?
>>
"Not a pin fall; but stow your whids, man!
A
—
we must
This was all that Clarence heard in a connected form ;
but as the wretches paused, in evident doubt how to pro-
ceed, he caught two or three detached words, which his
ingenuity readily formed into sentences. No, no! sleeps
to the left, old man above, - plate chest,
have the blunt too. Come, track up the dancers, and
dowse the glim.” And at the last words, the light was
extinguished, and Clarence's quick and thirsting ear just
caught their first steps on the stairs, - they died away,
and all was hushed.
:
It had several times occurred to Clarence to rush from
his hiding-place, and fire at the ruffians and perhaps that
measure would have been the wisest he could have taken ;
but Clarence had never discharged a pistol in his life, and
he felt, therefore, that his aim must be uncertain enough to
render a favorable position and a short distance essential
requisites. Both these were, at present, denied to him;
and although he saw no weapons about the persons of the
villains, yet he imagined they would not have ventured on
so dangerous an expedition without fire arms; and if he
failed, as would have been most probable, in his two shots,
he concluded that, though the alarm would be given, his
own fate would be inevitable.
At that very moment the door was flung violently open,
and Clarence Linden stood within three paces of the rep-
robates and their prey. The taller villain had a miniature
in his hand, and the old man clung to his legs with a con-
vulsive but impotent clasp; the other fellow had already
his gripe upon Talbot's neck, and his right hand grasped
a long caseknife.
With a fierce and flashing eye, and a cheek deadly pale
with internal and determinate excitation, Clarence con-
fronted the robbers.
"I thank heaven," said he, very slowly, "that I am not
too late!"
And advancing yet another step toward the
shorter ruffian, who, struck mute with the suddenness of
the apparition, still retained his grasp of the old man, he
fired his pistol, with a steady and close aim; the ball pen-
etrated the wretch's brain, and, without sound or sigh, he
fell down dead, at the very feet of his just destroyer. The
remaining robber had already meditated, and a second
more sufficed to accomplish his escape. He sprang toward
the door: the ball whizzed beside him, but touched him
With a safe and swift step, long inured to darkness,
he fled along the passage; and Linden, satisfied with the
vengeance he had taken upon his comrade, did not harass
him with an unavailing pursuit.
not.
Clarence turned to assist Talbot. The old man was
stretched upon the floor insensible, but his hand grasped
the miniature which the plunderer had dropped in his
flight and terror, and his white and ashen lip was pressed
convulsively upon the recovered treasure.
Linden raised and placed him on his bed, and, while em-
ployed in attempting to revive him, the ancient domestic,
alarmed by the report of the pistol, came, poker in hand,
to nis assistance.
By little and little they recovered the object of their
attention.
His eyes rolled wildly round the room, and he mut-
tered,-
If this was reasoning upon false premises, for house-
breakers seldom or never carry loaded fire arms, and never
stay for revenge when their safety demands escape, Clar-
ence may be forgiven for not knowing the customs of house--where is it?
breakers, and for not making the very best of an extreme-
ly novel and dangerous situation.
No sooner did he find himself in total darkness than he
bitterly reproached himself for his late backwardness, and
inwardly resolving not again to miss any opportunity which
presented itself, he entered the window, groped along the
room into the hall, and found his way very slowly, and af-
ter much circumlocution, to the staircase.
He had just gained the summit, when a loud cry broke
upon the stillness: it came from a distance, and was in-
stantly hushed; but he caught, at brief intervals, the sound
of
angry and threatening voices. No single gleam of light
broke the darkness. Clarence bent down anxiously, in
the hope that some solitary ray
solitary ray would escape through the
crevice of the door within whose precincts the robbers
were at their unholy work. But though the sounds came
from the same floor as that on which he now trod, they
seemed far and remote, and no other sense but that of
hearing assisted him in investigating their source.
He continued, however, to feel his way in the direction
from which they proceeded, and soon found himself in a
narrow gallery; the voices seemed more loud and near as
he advanced; at last he distinctly heard the words,
"Will you not confess where it is placed?"
G
J
Indeed, indeed,” replied an eager and earnest voice,
which Clarence recognised as Talbot's, "this is all the
money I have in the house, the plate is above, my
servant has the key,- take it, take all, but save his
life and mine."
"None of your gammon," said another and rougher
voice than that of the first speaker ; we know you have
have
more blunt than this, -a paltry sum of fifty pounds, in-
deed!"
tr
"Hold!” cried the other ruffian, "here is a picture set
with diamonds, that will do, Ben. Let go the old man.
man.”
Clarence was now just at hand, and probably from a
sudden change in the position of the dark lantern within,
a light abruptly broke from beneath the door, and streamed
along the passage.
No, no, no!" cried the old man, in a loud yet trem-
vlous voice,- "No, not that, any thing else, but I will
defend that with my life."
"Ben, my lad," said the ruffian, "twist the old fool's
neck we have no more time to lose."
J
"Off, off! ye shall not rob me of my only relic of her,
have you got it?
my miniature?"
"It is here, sir, it is here," said the old servant," it is
in your own hand."
Talbot's eye fell upon it; he gazed at it for some mo-
ments, pressed it to his lips, and then, sitting erect, and
looking wildly round, he seemed to awaken to his late dan-
ger and his present deliverance.
CHAPTER XIX.
Ah, fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove,
With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness,
-
Shall mine cling to thee!
- in the need,
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee!"
SHELLEY.
LETTER FROM ALGERNON MORDAUNT TO ISABEL
ST. LEGER.
You know how
"You told me not to write to you.
long, but not how uselessly I have obeyed you.
Did you
think, Isabel, that my love was of that worldly and com-
mon order which requires a perpetual aliment to support
it? Did you think that, if you forbade the stream to flow
visibly, its sources would be exhausted, and its channel
dried
dried up?
This may be the passion of others, it is not
minc. Months have passed since we parted, and since
then you have not seen me: this letter is the first token you
have received from a remembrance which cannot die. But
you think that I have not watched, and tended upon you,
and gladdened my eyes with gazing on your beauty, when
you have not dreamt that I was by? Ah, Isabel, your
heart should have told you of it, mine would, had you
think you
do
been so near me !
"You receive no letters from me, it is true,
that my
hand and heart are therefore idle? No. I write
to you a thousand burning lines: I pour out my soul to you:
I tell you of al! I suffer: my thoughts, my actions, my very
dreams are all traced upon the paper. I send them not to
you, but I read them over and over, and when I come to
your name, I pause, and shut my eyes, and then Fancy
has her power,' and lo! you are by my side ↑ "
!"
THE DISOWNED
159
"Isabel, our love has not been a holyday and joyous sen-
timen.. We nursed it in secresy, and it grew the stronger
for concealment. We have had few glimpses of sunshine,
and but brief intervals of hope: but as a mother cherishes
the child whom others despise, so in all our sorrows we
turn to our only treasure; and while we nurtured it with
hidden tears, we found in the very cause of our sadness the
It has often seemed to
very strength of our consolation.
me a fatality, that of all men you should have loved me, for
you were surrounded with many younger and fairer, and
richer in earth's graces, and in all the honied tones and
smiles
her lover were distant and remote. It was of him only
that she thought: for him she trembled; for him she was
the coward and the woman: for herself she had no fears,
and no forethought.
And Algernon was worthy of this devoted love, and
returned it as it was given. Man's love, in general, is a
selfish and exacting sentiment: it demands every sacrifice,
and refuses all. But the nature of Mordaunt was essen-
tially high and disinterested, and his honor, like his love,
was not that of the world: it was the ethereal and spotless
honor of a lofty and generous
honor of a lofty and generous mind, the honor which
custom can neither give nor take away; and, however
impatiently he bore the deferring of a union, in which he
"Which maidens dream of when they muse on love.'
deemed himself could be the only sufferer, he would not
“But now that you have loved me, it comes to me with have uttered a sigh or urged a prayer for that union, could
the force of truth that our fates cannot be dissevered, that it, in the minutest or remotest degree, have injured or de-
our vows are registered, and our union ordained, -
for oth-graded her,
ers have many objects to distract and occupy the thoughts
which are once forbidden a single direction, but we have
The world to you has only cold hearts and distant
ties; and every thing around you repels and points your
affections, your feelings, your hopes, your recollections
within, and I am not what men love, nor for whom men's
common objects have interest or charm.
every thing. Pleasure, splendor, ambition, all are merg
ed into one great and eternal thought, and that is you.
none.
You are to me
"Others have told me, and I believed them, that I was
hard, and cold, and stern, -so perhaps I was before I
knew you, but now I am weaker and softer than a child.
There is a stone which is of all the hardest and the chillest,
but when once set on fire it is unquenchable. You smile
at my image, perhaps, and I should, if I saw it in the writ-
ing of another; for all that I have ridiculed in romance, as
exaggerated, seems now to me too cool and too common-
place for reality.
ance,
"But this is not what I meant to write to you; you are
ill, dearest and noblest Isabel, you are ill! I am the
cause, and you conceal it froin me: and you would rather
pine away and die than suffer me to lose one of those world-
ly advantages which are in my eyes but as dust in the bal-
it is in vain to deny it. I have heard from others
of your impaired health; I have witnessed it myself. Do
you remember last night, when you were in the room with
your relations, and they made you sing, - a song too which
you used to sing to me, and when you came to the second
and you
stanza your voice failed you,
burst into tears, and
they, instead of soothing, reproached and chid you, and you
answered not, but wept on? Isabel, do you remember
that a sound was heard at the window, and a groan? Even
they were startled, but hey thought it was the wind, for
the night was dark and stormy, and they saw not that it
was I yes, my devoted, my generous love, it was I who
1:
gazed upon you, and from whose heart that voice of an-
guish was wrung; and I saw your cheek was pale and thin,
and that the canker at the core had preyed upon the blos-
som.
"Think you, after this, that I could keep silence or obcy
your request? No, dearest, no! Is not my happiness your
object?
I have the vanity to believe so; and am I not the
best judge how that happiness is to be secured? I tell you,
I
say it calmly, coldly, dispassionately, not from the im-
agination, not even from the heart, but solely from the rea-
that i can bear every thing rather than the loss of
you; and that if the evil of my love scathe and destroy you,
I shall consider and curse myself as your murderer! Save
me from this extreme of misery, my -yes, my Isabel! I
shall be at the copse where we have so often met before,
to-morrow, at noon. You will meet me; and if I cannot
convince you, I will not ask you to be persuaded.
son,
"A. M."
And Isabel read this letter, and placed it at her heart,
and felt less miserable than she had done for months; for
though she wept, there was sweetness in the tears which
the assurance of his love, and the tenderness of his remon-
strance, had called forth. She met him, how could she
refuse? and the struggle was past. Though not "convin-
ced," she was "persuaded;" for her heart, which refused
his reasonings, melted at his reproaches and his grief.
But she would not consent to unite her fate with him at
once, for the evils of that step to his interests were imme-
diate and near; she was only persuaded to permit their
correspondence and ocasional meetings, in which, however
mprudent they migh´e fy herself, the disadvantages to
These are the hearts and natures which make life beau-
tiful: these are the shrines which sanctify love: these are
the diviner spirits for whom there is kindred and commune
with every thing exalted and holy in heaven and earth. For
them, nature unfolds her hoarded poetry, and her hidden
spells: for their steps are the lonely mountains, and the
still woods have a murmur for their ears: for them there is
strange music in the wave, and in the whispers of the light
leaves, and rapture in the voices of the birds: their souls
drink, and are saturated with the mysteries of the Univer
sal Spirit, which the philosophy of old times believed to
be God himself. They look upon the sky with a gifted
vision, and its dove-like quiet descends and overshadows
their hearts: the moon and the night are to them wells of
Castalian inspiration and golden dreams; and it was one
of them, who, gazing upon the evening star, felt, in the in
most sanctuary of his soul, its mysterious harmonies with
his most worshipped hope, his most passionate desire, and
dedicated it to - · LOVE.
me,
CHAPTER XX.
Moria- Here's the brave old man's love.
Bianca That loves the young man.
The Woman's Prize; or, The Tamer Tamed.
"No, my dear Clarence, you have placed confidence ir
and it is now my duty to return it; you have told me
your history and origin, and I will inform you of mine, but
not vet. At present we will talk of you. You have con-
ferred upon me what our universal love of life makes us
regard as the greatest of human obligations; and though I
can bear a large burden of gratitude, yet I must throw off
an atom or two, in using my little power in your behalf.
Nor is this all: your history has also given you another
tie upon my heart, and in granting you à legitimate title to
my good offices, removes any scruple you might otherwise
have had in accepting them.
the
"I have just received this letter from Lord
minister for foreign affairs: you will see that he has ap-
pointed you to the office of attaché at
You will also
oblige me by looking over this other letter at your earliest
convenience; the trifling sum which it contains will be
repeated every quarter: it will do very well for an attaché:
when you are an ambassador, why, we must equip you by
a mortgage on Scarsdale; and now, my dear Clarence, tell
me all about the Copperases."
I need not say who was the speaker of the above senten-
ces: sentences, apparently of a very agreeable nature;
nevertheless, Clarence seemed to think otherwise, for the
tears gushed into his eyes, and he was unable for several
moments to reply.
"" I
"Come, my young friend," said Talbot, kindy;
have no near relations among whom I can choose a son I
like better than you, nor you any at present from whom you
might select a more desirable father: consequently, you
must let me look upon you as my own flesh and blood;
and, as I intend to be a very strict and peremptory father, I
expect the most silent and scrupulous obedience to my
commands. My first parental order to you is to put up
those papers, and to say nothing more about them; for I
have a great deal to talk to you about upon other subjects."
And by these and similar kind-hearted and delicate re-
monstrances, the old man gained his point. From that
moment Charence looked upon him with the grateful and
60
BULWER'S NOVELS.
venerating love of a son; and I question very much, if
Talbot had really been the father of our hero, whether he
would have liked so handsome a successor half so well.
The day after this arrangement, Clarence paid his debt
to the Copperases, and removed to Talbot's house. With
this event commenced a new era in his existence: he was
no longer an outcast and a wanderer: out of alien ties he
had wrought the link of a close and even paternal friend-
ship: life, brilliant in its prospects, and elevated in its
ascent, opened flatteringly before him; and the fortune and
courage, which had so well provided for the present, were
the best omens and auguries for the future.
One evening, when the opening autumn had made its
approaches felt, and Linden and his new parent were seated
alone by a blazing fire, and had come to a full pause in
their conversation, Talbot, shading his face with the
friendly pages of the "Whitehall Evening Paper," as if to
protect it from the heat, said,—
"I told you, the other day, that I would give you, at
some early opportunity, a brief sketch of my life. This
confidence is due to you in return for yours; and since you
will soon leave me, and I am an old man, whose life no
prudent calculation can fix, I may as well choose the pre-
sent time to favor you with my confessions."
Clarence expressed and looked his interest, and the old
man thus commenced.
THE HISTORY OF A VAIN MAN.
"I was the favorite of my parents, for I was quick
at my lessons, and my father said I inherited my genius
from him; and comely in my person, and my good looks,
said my mother, came from her. So the honest pair saw
in their eldest son the union of their own attractions, and
thought they were making much of themselves when they
lavished their caresses upon me. They had another son,
poor Arthur, I think I see him now! He was a shy,
quiet, subdued boy, of a very plain personal appearance.
My father and mother were vain, showy, ambitious people
of the world, and they were as ashamed of my brother as
they were proud of myself. However, he afterward en-
tered the army, and distinguished himself highly. He died
in battle, leaving an only daughter, who married, as you
know, a nobleman of high rank. Her subsequent fate it
is now needless to relate.
"Petted and pampered from my childhood, I grew up
with a profound belief in my own excellencies, and a fever-
ish and irritating desire to impress every one who came
in my way with the same idea. There is a sentence in
Sir William Temple, which I have often thought of with
a painful conviction of its truth: A restlessness in men's
minds to be something they are not, and to have something
they have not, is the root of all immorality.'* At school,
I was confessedly the cleverest boy in my remove; and,
what I valued equally as much, I was the best cricketer
of the best eleven. Here then, you will say my vanity
was satisfied, -no such thing! There was a boy who
shared my room, and was next me in the school; we were,
therefore, always thrown together. He was a great, stu-
pid, lubberly cub, equally ridiculed by the masters, and
disliked by the boys: will you believe that this individual
was the express and almost sole object of my envy?
was more than my rival, he was my superior; and I hated
nim with all the unleavened bitterness of soul.
my
He
with another, -was little better than a map of bruises
and discolorations.
"I actually became so uncomfortable as to write home
and request to leave the school. I was then about sixteen,
and my indulgent father, in granting my desire, told me that
I was too old and too advanced in my learning to go to any
other academic establishment than the University. The
day before I left the school, I gave, as was usually the cus-
tom, a breakfast to all my friends; the circumstance of my
tormentor's sharing my room obliged me to invite him
among the rest. However, I was in high spirits, and being
a universal favorite with my schoolfellows, I succeeded in
what was always to me an object of social ambition, and
set the table on a roar; yet, when our festival was nearly
expired, and I began to allude more particularly to my ap-
poaching departure, my vanity was far more gratified, for
my feelings were far more touched, by observing the regret,
and receiving the good wishes, of all my companions.
I still recall that hour as one of the proudest and happiest
of my life: but it had its inmediate reverse. My evil de-
mon put it into my tormentor's head to give me one last
parting pang of jealousy. A large umbrella happened
accidentally to be in my room; Crompton, such was my
schoolfellow's name, saw and seized it,'Look, Talbot,'
said he, with his taunting and hideous sneer, you can't
do this; and placing the point of the umbrella upon his
forehead, just above the eyebrow, he performed various
antics round the room.
<
"At that moment I was standing by the fireplace, and
conversing with two boys upon whom, above all others, I
wished to leave a favorable impression. My foolish sore-
ness on this one subject had been often remarked, and as
I turned, in abrupt and awkward discomposure, from the
exhibition, I observed my two schooolfellows smile, and
exchange looks. I am not naturally passionate, and even
at that age I had, in ordinary cases, great self-command;
but this observation, and the cause which led to it, threw
me off my guard. Whenever we are utterly under the
command of one feeling, we cannot be said to have our
reason: at that instant I literally believe I was beside my-
self.
What! in the very flush of the last triumph that
that scene would ever afford me; amid the last regrets of
my early friends, to whom I fondly hoped to bequeath a
long and brilliant remembrance, to be thus bearded by a
contemptible rival, and triumphed over by a pitiful, yet
insulting, superiority; to close my condolences with laugh-
ter; to have the final solemnity of my career thus termi-
nating in mockery; and ridicule substituted as an ultimate
reminiscence in the place of an admiring regret; all this.
too, to be effected by one so long hated, one whom I was
the only being forbidden the comparative happiness of
despising? I could not brook it; the insult,
ter were too revolting. As the unhappy buffoon approach-
ed me, thrusting his distorted face towards mine, I seiz-
ed and pushed him aside, with a brief curse and a violent
hand. The sharp point of the umbrella slipped; my action
gave it impetus and weight; it penetrated his eye, and,
spare me, spare me the rest."*
the insul-
The old man bent down, and paused for a few moments
before he resumed.
CC
Crompton lost his eye, but my punishment was as se-
vere as his. People who are very vain are usually equally
susceptible, and they who feel one thing acutely will so
feel another. For years, ay, for many years afterward,
"I have said he was my superior, it was in one thing. and most unceasing remorse.
the recollection of my fully goaded me with the bitterest
He could balance a stick, nay, a cricket bat, a poker, upon
Had I committed murder,
his chin, and I could not; you laugh, and so can I now,
my conscience could scarce have afflicted me more sc-
but it was no subject of laughter to me then. This cir-verely. I did not regain my self-esteem, till I had repaired
the injury I had done. Long after that time, Crompton
cumstance, trifling as it may appear to you, poisoned my
enjoyment. The boy saw my envy, for I could not con-
was in prison, in great and overwhelming distress. Tim-
ceal it; and as all fools are malicious, and most fools poverished myself to release him; I sustained him and his
ostentatious, he took a particular pride and pleasure in family till fortune rendered my assistance no longer neces-
sary; and no triumphs were ever more sweet to me than
displaying his dexterity, and showing off' my discontent.
the sacrifices I was forced to submit to, in order to restore
You can form no idea of the extent to which this petty
insolence vexed and disquieted me. Even in my sleep,
him to prosperity.
the clumsy and grinning features of this tormenting imp
haunted me like a spectre; my visions were nothing but
chins and cricket bats; walking sticks, sustaining them-
selves upon human excrescences, and pokers dancing a
hornpipe upon the tip of a nose. I assure you that I have
spent hours in secret seclusion, practising to rival my
bated comrade, and my face,
- see how one vanity quarrels
€
* And of all good, — Author.
effect of curing me of my fault; but it requires philosophy
"It is natural to hope that this accident had at least the
in yourself, or your advisers, to render remorse of future
avail. How could I amend my fault, when I was not even
aware of it? — Smarting under the effects, I investigated
not the cause, and I attributed to irascibility, and vindie
tiveness, what had a deeper and more dangerous origin
* This instance of vanity, and indeed the whole of Talboty
history, is literally from facts.
་
THE DISOWNED.
161
"At college, in spite of all my advantages of birth, for-
une, health, and intellectual acquirements, I had many
things besides the one enemy of remorse to corrode my
tranquillity of mind. I was sure to find some one to excel
me in something, and this was enough to imbitter my peace.
Our living Goldsmith is my favorite poet, and I perhaps
insensibly venerate the genius the more because I find some-
thing congenial in the infirmities of the man. I can fully
credit the anecdotes recorded of him. I too could once
have been jealous of a puppet handling a spontoon; I too
could once have been miserable if two ladies at the thea-
tre were more the objects of attention than myself! You,
Clarence, will not despise me for this confession; those
who knew me less, would. Fools! there is no man so great
as not to have some littleness more predominant than all
his greatness. Our virtues are the dupes, and often only
the playthings, of our follies!
"I entered the world, with what advantages, and
what avidity! I smile, but it is mournfully, in looking
back to that day. Though rich, high-born, and good-look-
ing, I possessed not one of these three qualities in that
eminence which could alone satisfy my love of superiority,
and desire of effect. I knew this somewhat humiliating
truth, for, though vain, I was not conceited. Vanity, in-
deed, is the very antidote to conceit; for while the former
makes us all nerve to the opinion of others, the latter is
perfectly satisfied with its opinion of itself.
"I knew this truth, and as Pope, if he could not be the
greatest of poets, resolved to be the most correct, so I
strove, since I could not be the handsomest, the wealthiest,
and the noblest of my contemporaries, to excel them, at least,
in the grace and consuminateness of manner; and in this,
after incredible pains, after diligent apprenticeship in the
world, and intense study in the closet, I at last flattered
myself that I had succeeded. Of all success, while we
are yet in the flush of youth, and its capacities of enjoy-
ment, I can imagine none more intoxicating or gratifying
than the success of society, and I had certainly some years
of its triumph and éclat. I was courted, followed, flatter-
ed, and sought by the most envied and fastidious circles in
Eugland, and even in Paris; for society, so indifferent to
those who disdain it, overwhelms with its gratitude,
profuse though brief, those who devote themselves to its
amusement. The victim to sameness and ennui, it offers,
like the palled and luxurious Roman, a reward for a new
pleasure; and as long as our industry or talent can afford
it, the reward is ours. At that time, then, I reaped the full
harvest of my exertions; the disappointment and vexation
were of later date.
"I now come to the great era of my life, love.
Among my acquaintance, was Lady Mary Walden, a wid-
ow of high birth, and noble, though not powerful, connex-
ions. She lived about twenty miles from London, in a
beautiful retreat; and, though not rich, her jointure, ren-
dered ample by economy, enabled her to indulge her love
of society. Her house was always as full as its size would
permit, and I was among the most welcome of its visiters.
She had an only daughter, even now, through the dim
mists of years, that beautiful and fairy form rises still and
shining before undimmed by sorrow,
me,
unfaded by
time. Caroline Walden was the object of general admi-
ration, and her mother, who attributed the avidity with
which her invitations were accepted by all the wits and
élégants of the day to the charms of her own conversation,
little suspected the face and wit of her daughter to be the
magnet of attraction. I had no idea at that time of mar-
riage, still less could I have entertained such a notion, un-
ess the step had greatly exalted my rank and prospects.
"The poor and powerless Caroline Walden was there-
fore the last person for whom I had, what the jargon of
mothers terms serious intentions.' However, I was
struck with her exceeding loveliness, and amused by the
vivacity of her manners; moreover, my vanity was excit-
ed by the hope of distancing all my competitors for the
smiles of the young beauty. Accordingly I laid myself ont
to please, and neglected none of those subtle and almost
secret attentions which, of all flatteries, are the most deli-
cate and successful and I succeeded. Caroline loved me
with all the earnestness and devotion which characterize
the love of woman. It never occurred to her that I was
only trifling with those affections which it seemed so ar-
dently my intention to win. She knew that my fortune
was large enough to dispense with the necessity of fortune
VOL. I.
21
|
with my wife, and in birth she would have equalled men of
greater pretensions than myself; added to this, long adula-
tion had made her sensible, though not vain, of her attrac-
tions, and she listened with a credulous ear to the insinua-
ted flatteries I was so well accustomed to instil.
"Never shall I forget, no, though I double my present
years, the shock, the wildness of despair with which she
first detected the selfishness of my homage; with which
she saw that I had only mocked her trusting simplicity;
and that, while she had been lavishing the richest treas-
ures of her heart before the burning altars of love, my idol
had been vanity, and my offerings deceit. She tore her-
self from the profanation of my grasp; she shrouded her-
All interviews with me were re-
self from my presence.
jected; all my letters returned to me unopened; and
though, in the repentance of my heart, I entreated, I urged
her to accept vows that were no longer insincere, her pride
In a moment
became her punishment, as well as my own.
of bitter and desperate feeling, she accepted the offers o.
another, and made the marriage bond a fatal and irrevoca-
ble barrier to our reconciliation and union.
C
"O! how I now cursed my infatuation; how passion-
ately I recalled the past! how coldly I turned from the
hollow and false world, to whose service I had sacrificed
my happiness, to muse and madden over the prospects I
had destroyed, and the loving and noble heart I had re-
jected! Alas! after all, what is so ungrateful as that
world for which we renounce so much? Its votaries
resemble the Gymnosophiste of old, and while they pro-
fess to make their chief end pleasure, we can only learn
that they expose themselves to every torture and every pain!
"Lord Merton, the man whom Caroline now called hus-
band, was among the wealthiest and most dissipated of his
order; and two years after our separation I met once
more with the victim of my unworthiness, blazing in the
full front' of courtly splendor! the leader of its gaye-
ties, and the cynosure of her followers. Intimate with the
same society, we were perpetually cast together, and Caro-
line was proud of displaying the indifference toward me,
which, if she felt not, she had at least learnt artfully to as-
sume. This indifference was her ruin. The depths of my
evil passion were again sounded and aroused, and I resolved
yet to humble the pride and conquer the coldness which
galled to the very quick the morbid acuteness of my self-
love. I again attached myself to her train, I bowed
myself to the very dust before her. What to me were her
chilling reply and disdainful civilities ?—-only still stronger
excitements to persevere.
-
"I spare you and myself the gradual progress of my
1
schemes.
schemes. A woman may recover her first passion, it is
true; but then she must replace it with another. That
other was denied to Caroline: she had not even children
to engross her thoughts and to occupy her prodigal affec-
tions; and the gay world, which to many becomes an
object, was to her only an escape.
"Clarence, my triumph came! Lady Walden (who
had never known our secret) invited me to her house:
Caroline was there. In the same spot where we had so
often stood before, and in which her earliest affections
were insensibly breathed away, in that same spot, my arms
encircled her, and I drew from her colorless and trembling
lips the confession of her weakness, the restored and per-
vading power of my remembrance.
"But Caroline was a proud and virtuous woman: even
while her heart betrayed her, her mind resisted; and in
the very avowal of her unconquered_attachment, she re-
nounced and discarded me for ever. I was not an ungen-
erous, though a vain, man; but my generosity was way-
ward, tainted, and imperfect. I could have borne a separa-
tion; I could have severed myself from her ; I could have
flown to the uttermost parts of the earth; I could have
hoarded there my secret, yet unextinguished love, and never
disturbed her quiet by a murmur; but then the fiat of sepa
ration must have come from me! My vanity could not bear
that her lips should reject me that my part was not to be
the nobility of sacrifice, but the submission of resignation.
However, my better feelings were aroused, and though I
could not stifle, I concealed my selfish repinings. We
parted: she returned to town, I buried myself in the
country; and, amid the literary studies to which, though
by fits and starts, I was passionately devoted, I endeavored
to forget my ominous and guilty love.
"But I was then too closely bound to the world not ts
162
BULWER'S NOVELS.
be perpetually reminded of its events. My retreat was week from that time she was a corpse. She had b ne
thronged with occasional migrators from London; ny much, suffered much, and murmured not; but this shock
books were mingled with the news and scandal of the day. pressed too hard, came too home, and from the hand of
All spoke to me of Lady Merton; not as I loved to pic-him for whom she would have sacrificed all! I stood by
ture her to myself, pale and sorrowful, and brooding over her in death; I beheld my work; and I turned away, a
my image; but gay, dissipated, the dispenser of smiles, wanderer and a pilgrim upon the face of the earth. Verily,
the prototype and deity of joy. I contrasted this account I have had my reward."
of her with the melancholy and gloom of my own feelings,
and I resented, as an insult to myself, that which I ought
to have rejoiced at, as an engrossment of reflection, for
ber.
"In this angry and fretful mood, I returned to London.
My empire was soon resumed: and now, Lindon, comes
the most sickening part of my confession. Vanity is a
growing and insatiable disease: what seems to its desires
as wealth to-day, to-morrow it rejects as poverty. I was
at first contented to know that I was beloved; by degrees,
slow, yet sure, I desired that others should know it also.
I longed to display my power over the celebrated and courted
Lady Merton; and to put the last crown to my reputation
and importance. The envy of others is the food of our
own self-love. O!
O! you know not, you dream not, of the
galling mortifications to which a proud woman, whose love
commands her pride, is subjected! I imposed upon Caro-
line the most humiliating, the most painful tasks; I would
allow her to see none but those I pleased; to go to no
place where I withheld my consent; and I hesitated not
to exert and testify my power over her affections, in pro-
portion to the publicity of the opportunity.
"Yet, with all this littleness, would you believe that I
loved Caroline with the most ardent and engrossing pas-
sion? I have paused behind her, in order to kiss the
ground she trod on; I have stayed whole nights be-
neath her window, to catch one glimpse of her passing
form, even though I had spent hours of the day time in her
society; and, though my love burned and consumed me
like a fire, I would not breathe a single wish against her
innocence, or take advantage of my power to accomplish
what I knew, from her virtue and pride, no atonement
could possibly repay. Such are the inconsistencies of the
neart, and such, while they prevent our perfection, redeem
us from the utterness of vice! Never, even in my wildest
days, was I blind to the glory of virtue, yet never, till my
latest years, have I enjoyed the faculty to avail myself of
my perception. I resembled the mole, which by Boyle is
supposed to possess the idea of light, but to be unable to
comprehend the object on which it shines.
CC
The old man paused, violently affected; and Clarence,
who could offer him no consolation, did not break the si-
lence. In a few minutes, Talbot continued,
"From that time, the smile of woman was nothing to
me; I seemed to grow old in a single day. Life lost to me
all its objects. A dreary and desert blank stretched itself
before me,
the sounds of creation had only in my ears
one voice, the past, the future, one image.
I left my
country for twenty years, and lived an idle and hopeless
man in the various courts of the continent.
"At the age of fifty I returned to England; the wounds
of the past had not disappeared, but they were scarred
over; and I longed, like the rest of my species, to have an
object in view. At that age, if we have seen much of man-
kind, and possess the talents to profit by our knowledge, we
must be one of two sects: a politician or a philosopher.
My time was not yet arrived for the latter, so I resolved to
become the former; but this was denied me, for my vanity
had assumed a different shape. It is true that I cared no
longer for the reputation women can bestow; but I was
eager for the applause of men, and I did not like the long
labor necessary to attain it. I wished to make a short
road to my object, and I eagerly followed every turn but the
right one, in the hopes of its leading me sooner to my
goal.
"The great characteristic of a vain man, in contradis
tinction to an ambitious man, and his eternal obstacle to a
high and honorable fame, is this: he requires for any ex-
penditure of trouble too speedy a reward; he cannot wait
for years, and climb, step by step, to a lofty object: what-
ever he attempts, he must seize at a single grasp. Added
to time, he is incapable of an exclusive attention to one
end; the universality of his cravings is not contented, un-
less it devours all; and thus he is perpetually doomed to
fritter away his energies by grasping at the trifling baubles
within his reach, and in gathering the worthless fruit which
a single sun can mature.
"This, then, was my fault, and the cause of my failure.
I could not give myself up to finance, nor puzzle through
the intricacies of commerce: even the common parliamen-
Among the varieties of my prevailing sin, was a weak-tary drudgeries of constant attendance and late hours, were
ness common enough to worldly men. While I osten-
tatiously played off the love I had excited, I could not bear
to show the love I felt. In our country, and perhaps,
though in a less degree, in all other highly artificial states,
enthusiasm, or even feeling of any kind, is ridiculous; and
I could not endure the thought that my treasured and secret
affections should be dragged from their retreat, to be cavil-
led and barked at by
"Every beardless, vain comparative.
"This weakness brought on the catastrophe of my love;
for, mark me, Clarence, it is through our weaknesses that
our vices are punished! One night I went to a masquerade;
and, while I was sitting in a remote corner, three of my
acquaintances, whom I recognised, though they knew it
not, approached and rallied me upon my romantic attach-
ment to Lady Merton. One of them was a woman of a
malicious and sarcastic wit; the other two were men
whom I disliked, because their pretensions interfered with
mine; they were diners-out, and anecdote-mongers. Stung
to the quick by their sarcasms and laughter, I replied in a
train of mingled arrogance and jest ; at last I spoke slight-
ingly of the person in question; and these profane and
false lips dared not only to disown the faintest love to that
being who was more to me than heaven and earth, but even
to speak of herself with ridicule, and her affection with
disdain.
—
"In the midst of this, I turned and beheld, within hear-
ing, a figure which I knew upon the moment. O God!
the burning shame and agony of that glance! It raised
'ts mask, I saw that blanched check, and that trembling
ip; and I kne v that the iron had indeed entered into her
soul.
Within a
Clarence, 1 never beheld her again alive.
insupportable to me; and so after two or three splendid
orations,' as my friends termed them, I was satisfied with
the puffs of the pamphleteers, and closed my political ca-
reer. I was now, then, the wit and the conversationalist.
With my fluency of speech and variety of information,
these were easy distinctions; and the popularity of a dinner
table, or the approbation of a literary coterie, consoled me
for the more public and more durable applause I had re-
signed.
But
"But even this gratification did not last long. I fell ill
and the friends who gathered round the wit fled from the
valetudinarian. This disgusted me, and when I was suffi-
ciently recovered, I again returned to the continent.
I had a fit of misanthropy and solitude upon me, and so it
was not to courts and cities, the scenes of former gayeties,
that I repaired; on the contrary, I hired a house on one of
the most sequestered of the Swiss lakes, and, avoiding the
living, I surrendered myself, without interruption or con-
trol, to commune with the dead. I surrounded myself
with books, and pored, with a curious and searching eye,
into those works which treat particularly upon man. My
passions were over, my love of pleasure and society was
dried up, and I had now no longer the obstacles which for-
bid us to be wise; I unlearnt the precepts my manhood had
acquired, and in my old age I commenced philosopher; Re-
ligion lent me her aid, and by her holy lamp my studies
were conned and my hermitage illumined.
"There are certain characters which, in the world, are
evil, and in seclusion are good: Rousseau, whon I know
well, is one of them. These persons are of a morbid sen-
sitiveness, which is perpetually galled by collision with oth-
In short, they are under the dominion of VANITY;
and that vanity, never satisfied, and always restless in the
various competitions of society, produces 'envy, malico,
ers.
THE DISOWNED.
163
batred, and all uncharitableness;' but, in solitude, the good
and benevolent dispositions with which our self-love no lon-
ger interferes, have room to expand and ripen, without be-
ing cramped by opposing interests: this will account for
many seeming discrepancies in character. There are also
some men, in whom old age supplies the place of solitude,
and Rousseau's antagonist and inental antipodes, Voltaire,
is of this order. The pert, the malignant, the arrogant,
the lampooning author, in his youth and manhood, has be-
come, in his old age, the mild, the benevolent, and the
venerable philosopher. Nothing is more absurd than to
receive the characters of great men so implicitly upon the
word of a biographer; and nothing can be less surprising
than our eternal disputes upon individuals; for no man
throughout life is the same being, and each season of our
existence contradicts the characteristics of the last.
"And now, in my solitude and my old age, a new spirit
entered within me: the game in which I had engaged so
vehemently was over for me; and I joined to my experi-
ence as a player, uny coolness as a spectator; I no longer
struggled with my species, and I began insensibly to love
them. I established schools, and founded charities; and, in
secret, but active service to mankind, I employed my exer-
tions, and lavished my desires.
From this amendment I date the peace of mind and elas
ticity which I now enjoy: and in my later years, the happi-
ness which I pursued in my youth and maturity so hotly,
yet so ineffectually, has flown unsolicited to my breast.
"About five years ago, I came again to England, with
the intention of breathing. my last in the country which
gave me birth. I retired to my family home; I endeavoured
to divert myself in agricultural improvements, and my
rental was consumed in speculation. This did not please
ine long: I sought society, society in Yorkshire! You
may imagine the result: I was out of my element; the mere
distance from the metropolis, from all genial companionship,
sickened me with a vague feeling of desertion and solitude:
for the first time in my life I felt my age and my celibacy.
Once more I returned to town, a complaint attacked my
lungs, the physicians recommended the air of this neigh-
bourhood, and I chose the residence I now inhabit.
Without being exactly in London, I can command its
advantages, and obtain society as a recreation, without
buying it by restraint. I am not fond of new faces, nor
any longer covetous of show; my old servant therefore
comented me: for the future, I shall, however, to satisfy
your fears, remove to a safer habitation, and obtain a more
numerous guard. It is, at all events, a happiness to me that
fate, in casting me here, and exposing me to something of
danger, has raised up, in you, a friend for my old age, and
selected, from this great universe of strangers, one being
to convince my heart that it has not outlived affection. My
tale is done; may you profit by its moral!"
-
CHAPTER XXI.
Mrs. Trinket. What d'ye buy,
men? Gloves, ribands, and essences,
essences.
what d'ye lack, gent'e
ribands, gloves, and
ETHEREGE.
"AND So, my love," said Mr. Copperas, one morning
at breakfast, to his wife, his right leg being turned over
his left, and his dexter hand conveying to his mouth a huge
morsel of buttered cake," and so, my love, they say
that the old fool is going to leave the jackanapes all his
fortune?"
CC
They do say so, Mr. C.; for my part I am quite out of
patience with the art of the
I dare say he is
young man;
no better than he should be; he always had a sharp look, and,
for aught I know, there may be more in that robbery than you
or I dreamt of, Mr. Copperas. It was a pity," continued
Mrs. Copperas, upbraiding her lord with true matrimonial
tenderness and justice, for the consequences of his having
acted from her advice, "it was a pity, Mr. C., that you
should have refused to lend him the pistols to go to the old
fellow's assistance, for then who knows but
"I might have converted them into pocket pistols,"
interrupted Mr. C., "and not have overshot the mark, my
dear,-ha, ha, ha !"
'Lord, Mr. Copperas, you are always making a joke of
every thing."
>>
"No, my dear, for once I'm making a joke of nothing."
'Well, I declare it's shameful," cried Mrs. Copperas,
still following up her own indignant meditations, "and
after taking such notice of Adolphus, too, and all!
"Notice, my dear! mere words," returned Mr. Coppe-
ras, mere words, like ventilators, which make a great
deal of air, but never raise the wind; but don't put yourself
in a stew, my love, for the doctors say that copperas in a
stew is poison !”
CC
At this moment, Mr. de Warens, throwing open the
door, announced Mr. Brown; that gentleman entered, with
a sedate, but cheerful air. "Well, Mrs. Copperas, your
servant; any table-linen wanted? Mr. Copperas, how do
you do? I can give you a hint about the stocks. Master
Copperas, you are looking bravely; don't you think he
wants some new pinbefores, ma'am? But Mr. Clarence
Linden, where is he? not up yet, I dare say? Ab, the
present generation is a generation of sluggards, as his
worthy aunt, Mrs. Minden, used to say."
"I am sure," said Mrs. Copperas, with a disdainful
toss of the head, "I know nothing about the young man.
He has left us: a very mysterious piece of business indeed,
Mr. Brown; and now I think of it, I can't help saying that
we were by no means pleased with your introduction: and,
by the by, the chairs you bought for us at the sale were a
mere take in, so slight, that Mr. Walruss broke two of
them by only sitting down."
"Indeed, ma'am !" said Mr. Brown, with expostulating
gravity: "but then Mr. Walruss is so very corpulent. But
the young gentleman, what of him?" continued the broker,
artfully turning from the point in dispute.
Lord, Mr. Brown, don't ask me: it was the unluckiest
step we ever made to admit him into the bosom of our
family; quite a viper, I assure you; absolutely robbed poor
Adolphus."
CC
"Lord help us!" said Mr. Brown, with a look which
cast a browner horror" o'er the
o'er the room, “who would have
thought it; and such a pretty young man!"
Well," said Mr. Copperas, who, occupied in finishing
the buttered cake, had hitherto kept silence. "I must be
off. Tom,-I mean, De Warcns, have you stopt the
coach ?"
When Talbot said that our characters were undergoing
a perpetual change, he should have made this reservation;
the one ruling passion remains to the last: it modifies, it
s true, but it never departs; and it is these modifications
which do, for the most part, shape out the channels of our
change: or, as Helvetius has beautifully expressed it, we
resemble those vessels, which the waves still carry toward
the south, when the north wind has ceased to blow; but,
in our old age, this passion, having little to feed on, be-
comes sometimes dormant and inert, and then ow good qual-
itice rise, as it were from an incubus, and have their sway.
Yet these cases are not common, and Talbot was a
remarkable instance, for he was a remarkable man. His
mind had not slept while the age advanced, and thus it had
swelled as it were from the bondage of its earlier passions
and prejudices. But little did he think, in the blindness
of self-delusion, though it was so obvious to Clarence,
that he could have smiled if he had not rather inclined to
weep at the frailties of human nature, little did he think
that the vanity which had cost him so much remained "a O, very well. And now, Mr. Brown, having swal
monarch still,” undeposed alike by his philosophy, his lowed in the roll, I will e'en roll in the Swallow. — Ha, ha,
religion, or his remorse; and that, debarred by circumstan- ha! - At any rate," thought Mr. Copperas, as he des-
ces from all wider and more dangerous field, it still lavish-cended the stairs," he has not heard that before."
ed itself upon trifles unworthy of his powers, and pueril-
ties dishonoring his age. Folly is a courtesan whom we
ourselves seek, whose favors we solicit at an enormous
price; and who, like Lais, finds philosophers at her door,
scarcely less frequently than the rest of mankind!
W
"Yees, sir.'
"And what coach is it?
"It be the Swallow, sir.”
Ha, ha!" gravely chuckled Mr. Brown; "what a
very facetious, lively gentleman Mr. Copperas is. But
touching this ungrateful young man, Mr. Linden, ma'am ! ”
“O, don't teaze me, Mr. Brown, I must see after my
domestics: ask Mr. Talbot, the old miser, in the aext
house, the kavarr, as the French say."
164
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and to
But Mr. Brown's curiosity was not so easily satisfied,
nd finding Mr. de Warens leaning over the "front" gate,
and "pursuing with wistful eyes "the departing "Swal-
low," he stopped, and, accosting him, soon bossessed him-
self of the facts that " old Talbot had been robbed and
murdered, but that Mr. Linden had brought him to life
again; and that old Talbot had given him a hundred thou-
sand pounds, and adopted him as his son; and that how
Mr. Linden was going to be sent to foreign parts, as an
ambassador, or governor, er great person; and that how
meester and meessess were quite "cut up" about it.
All these particulars having oeen duly deposited in the
mand of Mr. Brown, they produced an immediate desire to
call upon the young gentleman, who, to say nothing of his
being so very nearly related to his old customer, Mrs. Min-
den, was always so very great a favorite with him, Mr.
Brown.
"Well, now,
" said Mr. Brown, following the good parent skin; and the soul and frame, turned from thea
ady down stairs, "how distressing for me,
proper and kindly nion, seemed contesting, with herce
say that he was Mrs. Minden's nephew too?"
struggles, which should obtain the mastery and the triumph,
But neither his new prospects, nor the coldness of his
friend, diverted the warm heart of Clarence from medi-
tating how he could most effectually serve the artist before
he departed from the country. It was a peculiar object
of desire to Warner that the most celebrated painter of
the day, who was in terms of intimacy with Talbot, and
who with the benevolence of real superiority was known to
take a keen interest in the success of more youthful and
inexperienced genius; it was a peculiar object of desire
to Warner, that Sir Joshua Reynolds should see his pic-
ture before it was completed; and Clarence, aware of this
wish, easily obtained from Talbot a promise that it should
be effected. That was the least service of his zeal:
touched by the earnestness of Linden's friendship, anxious
to oblige in any way his preserver, and well pleased him-
self to be the patron of merit, Talbot readily engaged to
obtain for Warner whatever the attention and favor of high
rank or literary distinction could bestow. "As for his
picture," said Talbot, (when the evening before Clarence's
departure, for the latter was renewing the subject,) "I
shall myself become the purchaser, and at a price which
will enable our friend to afford leisure and study for the
completion of his next attempt; but even at the risk of
offending your friendship, and disappointing your expec-
tations, I will frankly tell you, that I think Warner over-
rates, perhaps not his talents, but his powers; not his
ability of doing something great hereafter, but his capacity
of doing it at present. In the pride of his art, he has
shown me many of his designs, and I am somewhat of a
judge they want experience, cultivation, taste, and above
all, a deeper study of the Italian masters. They all have
the defects of a feverish coloring, an ambitious desire of
effect, a wavering and imperfect outline, an ostentatious
and unnatural strength of light and shadow; they show,
it is true, a genius of no ordinary stamp, but one ill regu-
lated, inexperienced, and utterly left to its own suggestions
for a model. However, I am glad he wishes for the opin-
ion of one necessarily the best judge; let him bring the
picture here by Thursday, on that day my friend has pro-
mised to visit me; and now let us talk of
you and your
departure."
C
—
Accordingly, as Clarence was musing over his approach-
ing departure, which was now very shortly to take place,
he was somewhat startled by the apparition of Mr. Brown,
Charming day, sir, charining day," said the friend
of Mrs. Minden, just called in to congratulate you.
I have a few articles, sir, to present you with, quite
—
rarities, I assure you,quite presents, I may say. 1
picked them up at a sale of the late lady Waddilove's most
valuable effects. They are just the things sir, for a gen-
tleman going on a foreign mission. A most curious ivory
chest, with an Indian padlock, to hold confidential letters,
-belonging, formerly, sir, to the great Mogul; and a beau-
tiful diamond snuff-box, sir, with a picture of Louis XIV.
on it, prodigiously fine, and will look so loyal too: and,
sir, if you have any old aunts in the country, to send a
farewell present to, I have some charmingly fine cambric,
a superb Dresden tea set, and a lovely ape,' stuffed by
the late Lady W. herself.”
"My good sir,' began Clarence.
O, no thanks, sir, -none at all, too happy to serve
a relation of Mrs. Minden, always proud to keep up
family connexions. You will be at home to-morrow, sir,
at eleven, I will look in, your most humble servant,
your most humble servant,
Mr. Linden.” And, almost upsetting Talbot, who had
jus entered, Mr. Brown bowed himself out.
—
CHAPTER XXII.
We talked with open heart and tongue,
Affectionate and true;
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
WORDSWORTII.
MEANWHILE the young artist proceeded rapidly with
his picture. Devoured by his enthusiasm, and utterly en-
grossed by the sanguine anticipation of a fame which
appeared to him already won, he allowed himself no momen-
tary interval of relaxation; his food was eaten by starts,
and without stirring from his easel; his sleep was broken
and brief by feverish dreams; he no longer roved with
Clarence, when the evening threw her shade over his labors;
all air and exercise he utterly relinquished; shut up in
his narrow chamber, he passed the hours in a fervid and
passionate and self-commune, which, even in suspense
from his work, riveted his thoughts the closer to his object.
All companionship, all intrusion, he bore with an irrita-
bility and
impatience that had hitherto seemed perfectly
opposite to his gentle and pensive nature. Even Clarence
fend himself excluded from the presence of his friend ;
even his nearest relation, who doted on the very ground
which he hallowed with his footstep, was banished from the
haunted sanctuary of the painter; from the most placid of
human beings, Warner seemed to have grown the most
morose.
Want of vest, abstinence from food, the impatience of
the strained spirit and jaded nerves, all cotributed to
waste the health, while they excited the genius, of the
artist. A crimson spot, never before seen there, burnt in
the centre of his pale cheek; his eye glowed with a bril-
Fant, but unnatural fire; his features grew sharp and at-
enuated; his bones worked from his whitening and trans-
The intercourse of men of different ages is essentially
unequal: it must always partake more or less of advice on
one side and deference on the other; and although the easy
and unpedantic turn of Talbot's conversation made his re-
marks rather entertaining than obviously admonitory, yet
they were necessarily tinged by his experience, and reg.
ulated by his interest in the fortunes of his young friend.
You
"My dearest Clarence," said he, affectionately, we
are about to bid each other a long farewell. I will not
damp your hopes and anticipations by insisting on the little
chance there is that you should ever see me again.
are about to enter upon the great world, and have within you
the desire and the power of success; let me flatter myself
that you can profit by my experience. Among the colloquia
of Erasmus, there is a very entertaining dialogue between
Apicius and a man who, desirous of giving a feast to a very
large and miscellaneous party, comes to consult the epicure
what will be the best means to give satisfaction to all.
Now you shall be this Spudæus, (so I think he is called,)
and I will be Apicius; for the world, after all, is nothing
more than a great feast of different strangers, with differ-
ent tastes, and of different ages, and we must learn to adapt
ourselves to their minds, and our temptations to their pas-
sions, if we wish to fascinate or even to content them. Let
me then call your attention to the hints and maxims which
I have in this paper amused myself with drawing up tor
your instruction: Write to me from time to time, and I
will, in replyin to your letters, give you the best advice in
my power. For the rest, my dear boy, I have only to re-
quest that you will be frank, and I, in my turn, will promise
that, when I cannot assist, I will never reprove. And now,
Clarence, as the hour is late, and you leave us early to-
morrow, I vill no longer detain you. God bless you and
keep you. You are going to enjoy life, I to anticipate
death: so that you can find in me little congenial to your
self; but, as the good pope said to our Protestant country-
man, Whatever the difference between us, I know well
that an old man's blessing is never without its value.'"
As Clarence clasped his benefactor's band, the tears gush
THE DISOWNED.
IC
·
ed from his eyes. Is there one being, stubborn as the rock
to misfortune, whom kindness does not affect ? For my
part, it seems to me to come with a double grace and ten-
derness from the old; it seems in then the hoarded and
long purified benevolence of years; as if it had survived
and conquered the baseness and selfishness of the ordeal it
had passed; as if the winds, which had broken the form,
had swept in vain across the heart, and the frosts, which
had chilled the blood and whitened the thin locks, had pos-
sessed no nower over the warın tide of the affections. It
is шe triumph of nature over art: it is the voice of the an-
gel which is yet within us. Nor is this all the tenderness
of age
is twice blessed, - blessed in its trophies over the
obduracy of incrusting and withering years, blessed be-
cause it is tinged with the sanctity of the grave; because it
tells us that the heart will blossom even upon the precincts
of the tomb, and flatters us with the inviolacy and iramor-
tality of love.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Cannot I create,
:
Cannot I form, cannot I fashion forth
Another world, another universe!
KEATES.
THE next morning Clarence, in his way out of town,
directed his carriage (the last and not the least acceptable
present from Talbot) to stop at Warner's door. Although
it was scarcely sunrise, the aged grandmother of the artist
was stirring, and opened the door to the early visiter.
Clarence passed her with a brief salutation, - hurried up
the narrow stairs, and found himself in the artist's cham-
ber. The windows were closed, and the air of the room
was confined and hot. A few books, chiefly of history and
poetry, stood in confused disorder upon some shelves oppo-
site the window. Upon a table beneath them lay a flute,
once the cherished recreation of the young paiuter, but now
long neglected and disused. His dressing-gown (the only
garb he had worn for weeks) lay upon a chair beside the
bed and placed exactly opposite to Warner, so that his
eyes might open upon his work, was the high-prized and
already more than half-finished picture.
Clarence bent over the bed; the cheek of the artist rest-
ed upon his arm in an attitude unconsciously picturesque;
the other arm was tossed over the coverlid, and Clarence
was shocked to see how wan and emaciated it had become.
But ever and anon the lips of the sleeper moved restlessly,
and words, low and inarticulate, broke out. Sometimes he
started abruptly, and a bright but evanescent flush darted
over his faded and hollow cheek; and once the fingers of
the thin hand, which lay upon the bed, expanded and sud-
denly closed in a firm and almost painful grasp; it was
then that, for the first time, the words of the artist became
distinct.
"Ay, ay," said he, "I have thee, I have thee at last.
Long, very long, thou hast burnt up my heart like fuel, and
mocked me, and laughed at my idle efforts; but now, now,
I have thec. Fame, honor, immortality, whatever thou art
called, I have thee, and thou canst not escape; but it is al-
most too late!" And, as if wrung by some sudden pain,
the sleeper turned heavily round, groaned audibly, and
awoke.
"
My friend," said Clarence, soothingly, and taking his
hand, I have come to bid you farewell. I am just setting
&
off for the continent, but I could not leave England with-
out once more seeing you. I have good news, too, for
you And Clarence proceeded to repeat Talbot's wish
that Warner should bring the picture to his house on the
following Thursday, that Sir Joshua might inspect it. He
added also, in terins the flattery of which his friendship
could not resist exaggerating, Talbot's desire to become
the purchaser of the picture.
Yes," said the artist, as his eye glanced delightedly
over his labor; yes, I believe when it is once seen there
will be many candidates!"
“No doubt," answered Clarence; "and for that reason
you cannot blame Talbot for wishing to forestall all other
competitors for the prize;" and then continuing the encour-
aging nature of the conversation, Clarence enlarged upon
the new hopes of his riend, besought him to take time, to
pare his health, and not to injure both himself and his
|
|
|
performance by over anxiety and hurry. Clarence conclu.
ded, by detailing Talbot's assurance that in all cases and
circumstances he (Talbot) considered himself pledgal to
be Warner's supporter and friend.
With something of impatience, mingled with pleasure,
the painter listened to all these details of the warm-heart-
ed and affectionate Clarence; nor was it to Linden's zeal,
or to Talbot's generosity, but rather to the excess of his
own merit, that he secretly attributed the brightening pros-
pect afforded him.
The indifference which Warner, though of a disposition
naturally kind, evinced at parting with a friend who had
always taken so strong an interest in his behalf, and whose
tears at that moment contrasted forcibly enough with
the apathetic coldness of his own farewell, was a remark-
able instance how acute vividness on a single point will
deaden feeling on all others. Occupied solely and burn-
ingly wit. one intense thought, which was to him love,
friendship, health, peace, wealth, Warner could not excite
feelings, languid and exhausted with many and fiery con-
flicts, to objects of minor interest, and perhaps he inward-
ly rejoiced that his musings and his study would hence-
forth be sacred even from friendship.
Deeply affected, for his nature was exceedingly unself-
ish, generous and susceptible, Clarence tore himself away,
placed in the grandmother's hand a considerable portion of
the sum he had received from Talbot, hurried into his car-
riage, and found himself on the high road to fortune, pleas-
ure, distinction, and the continent.
But while Clarence, despite of every advantage before
him, hastened to a court of dissipation and pleasure, with
feelings in which regretful affection for those he had left
darkened his worldly hopes, and mingled with the sanguine
anticipations of youth, Warner, poor, low-born, wasted
with sickness, destitute of friends, shut out by his temper-
ament from the pleasures of his age, burned with hopes
far less alloyed than those of Clarence, and found in them
for the sacrifice of all else, not only a recompense, but a
triumph.
Thursday came. Warner had made one request of
Talbot, which bad with difficulty been granted: it was that
he himself might, unseen, be the auditor of the great
painter's criticisms, and that Sir Joshua should be perfectly
unaware of his presence. It had been granted with diffi-
culty, because Talbot wished to spare Warner the pain of
hearing remarks which he felt would be likely to fall far
short of the sanguine self-elation of the young artist; and
it had been granted, because Talbot imagined that, even
should this be the case, the pain would be more than coun-
terbalanced by the salutary effect it might produce. Alas!
vanity calculates but poorly upon the vanity of others!
What a virtue we should distil from frailty, what a world
of pain we should save our brethren, if we would suffer
our own weakness to be the measure of theirs!
Thursday came; the painting was placed by the artist's
own hand in the most favorable light; a curtain, hung
behind it, served as a screen for Warner, who, retiring
to his hiding-place, surrendered his heart to delicious
forebodings of the critic's wonder, and golden anticipa
tions of the future destiny of his darling work. Not a
fear dashed the full and smooth cup of his self-enjoyment.
He had lain awake the whole of the night, in restless
and joyous impatience for the morrow. At daybreak he
had started from his bed, he had unclosed his shuttėrs, he
had hung over his picture with a fondness greater, if pos-
sible, than he had ever known before; like a mother, he
felt as if his own partiality was but a part of a univer-
sal tribute: and, as his aged relative turned her dim eyes
to the painting, and in her innocent idolatry, rather, of
the artist than his work, praised, and expatiated, and
foretold, his heart whispered, "If it wring this worship
from ignorance, what will be the homage of science ?"
He who first laid down the now hackneyed maxim
that diffidence is the companion of genius, knew very litt
of the workings of the human heart. True, there may
have been a few such instances, and it is probable that in this
maxim, as in most, the exception made the rule. But what
could ever reconcile genius to its sufferings, its sacrifices, ita
fevered inquietudes, the intense labor which can alone pro-
duce what the shallow world deems the giant offspring
of a momentary inspiration; what could ever reconcile it
to these, but the hanghty and unquenchable consciousnes
166
BULWER'S NOVELS
of internal power; the hope which has the fulness of cer-
tainty that in proportion to the toil is the reward; the san-
guine and impetuous anticipation of glory, which bursts
the boundaries of time and space, and ranges with a proph-
et's rapture the immeasurable regions of immortality?
Rob Genius of its confidence, of its lofty self-esteem, and
you clip the wings of the eagle: you domesticate, it is
true, the wanderer you could not hitherto comprehend, in
the narrow bounds of your household affections; you abase
and tame it more to the level of your ordinary judgments,
the walled-in and petty circumference of your little and
commonplace moralities, but you take from it the power
to soar; the hardihood which was content to brave the
thunder cloud and build its eyrie on the rock, for the
proud triumph of rising above its kind, and contempla-
ting with a closer eye the majesty of heaven.
But if something of presumption is a part of the very
essence of genius, in Warner it was doubly natural, for
he was still in the heat and flush of a design, whose de-
fects he had not yet had the leisure to examine; and his
talents, self-taught, and self-modelled, had never received
either the excitement of emulation or the chill of discour-
agement from the study of the master-pieces of his art.
The painter had not been long alone in his concealment
before he heard steps; his heart beat violently, the door
opened, and he saw, through a small hole which he had pur-
posely made in the curtain, a man with a benevolent and pre-
possessing countenance, whom he instantly recognised as
Sir Joshua Reynolds, enter the room, accompanied by Tal-
bot. They walked up to the picture; the painter examin-
ed it closely, and in perfect silence. "Silence," thought
Warner, is the best homage of admiration;" but he
trembled with impatience to hear the admiration confirmed
by words, those words came too soon.
"It is the work of a clever man, certainly," said Sir
Joshua ; "but" (terrible monosyllable) "of one utterly
unskilled in the grand principles of his art: look here, and
here, and here, for instance ; " and the critic, perfectly
unconscious of the torture he inflicted, proceeded to point
out the errors of the work. O! the agony, the withering
agony of that moment to the ambitious artist! In vain he
endeavoured to bear up against the judgment, in vain he
endeavoured to persuade himself that it was the voice of
envy which in those cold, measured, defining accents, fell
like drops of poison upon his heart. He felt at once, and
as if by a magical inspiration, the truth of the verdict;
the scales of self-delusion fell from his eyes; by a hideous
mockery, a kind of terrible pantomime, his goddess seem
ed at a word, a breath, transformed into a monster: life,
which had been so lately concentrated into a single hope,
seemed now, at once and for ever, cramped, curdled, blis-
tered into a single disappointment.
But," said Talbot, who had in vain attempted to arrest
the criticisms of the painter, (who, very deaf at all times,
was, at that time, in particular, engrossed by the self-sat-
isfaction always enjoyed by one expatiating on his favorite
topic,) —“but,” said Talbot, in a louder voice, "you
own there is great genius in the design?"
—
"Certainly, there is genius," replied Sir Joshua, in a
tone of a calm and complacent good-nature. But what is
genius without culture? You say the artist is young, very
let him take time, I do not say let him attempt
young ;
an humbler walk, let him persevere in the lofty one he has
chosen, but let him first retrace every step he has taken;
let him devote days, months, years, to the most diligent study
of the immortal masters of the divine art, before he at-
tempts (to exhibit, at least) another historical picture. He
has mistaken altogether the nature of invention: a fine in-
vention is nothing more than a fine deviation from, or en-
largement on, a fine model: imitation, if noble and gene-
ral, ensures the best hope of originality. Above all, let
your young friend, if he can afford it, visit Italy."
He shall afford it," said Talbot, kindly, "for he shall
have whatever advantages I can procure him; but you see
the picture is only half completed, he could alter it? >>
"He had better burn it!" replied the painter, with a
gentle smile.
And Talbot, in benevolent despair, hurried his visiter
ut of the room. He soon returned to seek and console
the artist, but the artist was gone; the despised, the fatal
picture, the blessing and curse of so many anxious and
vasted hours, had vanished also with its creator.
CHAPTER XXIV.
What is this soul, then? Whence
Came it? It does not seem my own, and 1
Have no self passion or identity!
Some fearful end must be--
*
*
*
There never lived a mortal man, who bent
His appetite beyond his natural sphere,
But starved and died.
KEATE'S Endymion
ON entering his home, Warner pushed aside, for the first
time in his life with disrespect, his aged and kindly rela
tion, who, as if in mockery of the unfortunate artist, stood
prepared to welcome and congratulate his return. Bearing
his picture in his arms, he rushed up stairs, hurried into
his room, and locked the door. Hastily he tore aside the
cloth which had been drawn over the picture; hastily and
tremblingly he placed it upon the frame accustomed to sup-
port it, and then, with a long, long, eager, searching, scru-
tinizing glance, he surveyed the once beloved mistress of
his worship. Presumption, vanity, exaggerated self-es-
teem, are, in their punishment, supposed to excite ludi-
crous, not systematic emotion; but there is an excess of
feeling, produced by whatever cause it may be, into which
we are, in despite of ourselves, forced to enter. Even fear,
the most contemptible of the passions, becomes tragic direct-
ly it becomes an agony.
ઃઃ
but it is
Then sud-
"Thank-
-a wretch more ut-
Well, well!" said Warner at last, speaking very
slowly, "it is over, it was a pleasant dream,
over, I ought to be thankful for the lesson.'
denly changing his mood and tone, he repeated,
ful! for what? that I am a wretch, -
terly hopeless, and miserable, and abandoned, than a man
who freights with all his wealth, his children, his wife, the
hoarded treasures and blessings of an existence, one ship,
one little, frail, worthless ship, and standing himself on
the shore, sees it suddenly go down! O, was I not a fool,
-a right noble fool, -a vain fool, - an arrogant fool,
a very essence and concentration of all things that make a
fool, to believe such delicious marvels of myself? What,
man! (here his eye saw in the opposite glass his fea-
tures, livid and haggard with disease, and the exhausting
feelings which preyed within him,) what, man! would
nothing serve thee but to be a genius, thee, whom nature
stamped with her curse! Dwarf-like and distorted, mean
in stature and in lineament, thou wert, indeed, a glorious
being to perpetuate grace and beauty, the majesties and
dreams of art! Fame for thee, indeed, -ha,
Glory, — ha, ha! a place with Titian, Corregio, Ra-
phael, ha, ha, ha! O, thrice modest, thrice rea-
sonable fool! But this vile daub; this disfigurement of
canvass; this loathed and wretched monument of disgrace;
this notable candidate for,—ha, — ha, immortality!---
this I have, at least, in my power." And seizing the pic-
ture, he dashed it to the ground, and trampled it with his
feet upon the dusty boards, till the moist colors presented
nothing but one confused and dingy stain.
He paus-
r
S
ha!
This sight seemed to recall him for a moment.
ed, lifted up the picture once more, and placed it on the
table. "But," he muttered, " might not this critic be
envious? am I sure that he judged rightly, fairly! The
greatest masters have looked askant and jealous at their
pupil's works. And then, how slow, how cold, how
dained cold, how indifferently he spoke; why, the very
art should have warmed him more. Could we have
No, no, no : it was true, it was! I felt the conviction thrill
through me like a barb, —a barb of searing iron. Eurn
it,
did he say!-ay, - burn it, — it shall be done this
Jap
instant."
She
And, hastening to the door, he undid the bolt. He stag-
gered back as he beheld his old and nearest surviving relă-
tive, the mother of his father, seated upon the ground be-
side the door, and listening with terror to the broker
exclamations of the solitude she durst not interrupt.
rose slowly, and with difficulty, as she saw him; and
throwing around him the withered arms which had nursed
his infancy, exclaimed, My child! my poor, poor
child! what has come to you of late! you, who were so
gentle, so mild, so quiet, you are no longer the same,
and, O, my son, how ill you look: your father looked fo
just before he died!"
80
THE DISOWNED.
167
•
now,
-—
Ill!" said he, with a sort of fearful gayety, "ill,
no, I never was so wel, I have been in a dream till
but I have woke at last. Why, it is true that I
have been silent and shy, but I will be so no more. I will
laugh, and talk, and walk, and make love, and drink wine,
and be all that other men are. O, we will be so merry.
But stay here while I fetch a light.
>
"A light, my child, for what?"
"For a funeral!" shouted Warner, and, rushing past
her, he descended the stairs, and returned almost in an in-
stan: with a light.
A arined and terrified the poor old woman had remained
motionless, and weeping violently. Her tears Warner did
not seem to notice; he pushed her gently into the room, and
began deliberately, and without uttering a syllable, to cut
the picture into shreds.
"What are you about, my child?" cried the old wo-
you are mad, it is your beautiful picture that you
are destroying ! "
man;
Warner did not reply, but, going to the hearth, piled to-
gether, with nice and scrupulous care, several pieces of
paper, and stick, and matches, into a sort of pyre; then,
placing the shreds of the picture upon it, he applied the
light, and the whole was instantly in a blaze.
"Look, look!" cried he, in an hysterical tone, "how
it burns, and crackles, and blazes! What master ever
equalled it now? no fault now in those colors, -no false
tints in that light and shade! See how that flame darts
See how that flame darts
up and soars ! —that flame is my spirit! Look, is it
not restless? —does it not aspire bravely? why, all its
brother flames are grovellers to it!- and now, - why
don't you look ? - it falters, fades, droops, and,
ha — ha ! — poor idler, the fuei is consumed,
it is darkness."
lia
and.
As Warner uttered these words his eyes reeled; the room
swam before him; the excitement of his feeble frame had
reached its highest pitch; the disease of many weeks had
attained its crisis; and, tottering back a few paces, he fell
upon the floor, the victim of a delirious and raging fever.
But it was not thus that the young artist was to die. He
was reserved for a death, that, like his real nature, had in
it more of gentleness and poesy. He recovered by slow
degrees, and his mind, almost in despite of himself, return-
ed to that profession from which it was impossite to di-
vert the thoughts and musings of many years. Not that he
resumed the pencil and the easel on the contrary, he
could not endure them in his sight they appeared, to a
mind festered and sore, like a memorial and monument of
shame. But he nursed within him a strong and ardent de-
sire to become a pilgrim to that beautiful land of which he
had so often dreamt, and which the innocent destroyer of
his peace had pointed out as the theatre of inspiration, and
the nursery of future fame.
morning found him bending before the easel, and the night
brought to his solitary couch meditation rather than sleep.
The fire, the irritability which he had evinced before his ill-
ness, had vanished, and the original sweetness of his tem-
per had returned; he uttered no complaint, he dwelt upon
no anticipation of success, hope and regret seemed equally
dead within him; and it was only when he caught the fond,
glad eyes of his aged attendant, that his own filled with
tears, or that the serenity of his brow darkened into sad-
ness.
This went on for some months; till one evening they
found the painter by his window, seated opposite to an un-
finished picture; the pencil was still in his hand the quiet
of settled thought was still upon his countenance; the soft
breeze of a southern twilight waved the hair livingly from
his forehead, the earliest star of a southern sky lent to
his cheek something of that subdued lustre which, when
enthusiasm touched it, it had been accustomed to wear; but
these were only the mockeries of life life itself was no
more ! In the divine land which he had so yearned to
tread, in the consecrated city where the majesty of his
sublime art reigned as on a throne, in the purple air in
which poesy and inspiration mingled with the common
breath and atmosphere of life, his restless and unworldly
spirit sighed itself away; and the heart, which in silence
and concealinent had been long breaking, broke at last!
There are two tombs close to each other in the stranger's
burial-place at Rome: they cover those for whom life,
unequally long, terminated in the same mouth. The one
is of a woman, bowed with the burden of many years; the
other darkens over the humble dust of the ambitious artist.
CHAPTER XXV.
Think upon my grief,
And on the justice of my flying hence,
To keep me from a most unholy match.
SHAKSPEARE.
"BUT are you quite sure," said General St. Leger, a
tall, disagreeable looking man, with a face like the bed on
which "great Villiers died," viz.
“Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red; "
you quite sure that it is the case?"
"Sure!" cried Miss Diana St. Leger, a lady of about
fifty-five, with a pale, shrivelled face, savage black eyes,
and a magnificent ruby crescent, set in a purple head-gear,
which forcibly resembled her unto Shakspeare's description
of adversity, for she,
"Like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wore yet a precious jewel in her head;"
-"sure, General! I saw it with my own eyes. They
were standing together in the copse, at half past nine
o'clock at night, when I, who had long had my suspicions,
crept up, and saw and overheard them; and the fellow
(O, Algernon Mordaunt, that ever thou shouldst be called
fellow !) held her hand, and kissed it every moment.
Nobody ever kissed my hand, General St Leger, at hal
past nine at night."
The physicians who, at Talbot's instigation, attended
him, looked at his hectic cheek and consumptive frame, and
readily flattered his desire; and Talbot, no less interested
in Warner's behalf on his own account, than bound by his
promise to Clarence, generously extended to the artist that
bounty which is the most precious prerogative of the rich.
Notwithstanding her extreme age, his grandmother insist-
ed upon attending him there is in the heart of woman
so deep a well of love, that no age can freeze it. They
made the voyage: they reached the shore of the myrtle and "I should think not," quoth General St. Leger.
the vine, and entered the imperial city. The air of Rome "And, by and by, she said something to him about us,
seemed at first to operate favorably upon the health of the but the girl spoke so low that I did not hear; but he an
English artist. His strength appeared to increase, his swered, in a voice loud enough for even you to have heard,
spirit to expand; and, though he had relapsed into more deaf as you are, General.” (“I am not deaf, damn you
than his original silence and reserve, he resumed, with ap-growled the General, par parenthèse.) "He said, let
parent energy, the labors of the easel so that they who them go back to their slaves; I cannot bear that you should
looked no deeper than the surface might have imagined the any longer be the victim of their brutality. Do you
hear
scar healed, and the real foundation of future excellence that, General ? And then he called me,-me, Miss Diana
tegun.
St. Leger, an old hag!"
But while Warner most humbled himself before the gods
of the pictured world; while the true principles of the
mighty art opened in their fullest glory on his soul; pre-
cisely, at this very moment, shame and despondency were
mnost bitter at his heart; and while the enthusiasm of the
painter kindled, the ambition of the man despaired. But
still he went on, transfusing into his canvass the grandeur
and simplicity of the Italian school; still, though he felt
palpably within him the creeping advance of the deadliest
and surest enemy to fame, he pursued, with an unwearied
ardor, the meclianical completion of his task; still, the
!
"Ha, ha, ha! that was too bad," cried the General
sinking back into his chair.
“And you a tyrannical plebeian "
"Damn the rascal!" shouted Gene al St Leger spring
ing up in spite of his gout; we must put a stop to this;
we must trounce the jade, my love!"
"Yes, my dear brother, we must. To call you a tyran-
nical plebeian !"
"And you an old hag, my dear! Shall we lock her up
or starve her?"
“No, General, something better than that "
168
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CC
What, my love? flog her!"
She's too old for that, brother; we'll marry her?"
Marry her!"
"Yes, to Mr. Glumford; you know that he has asked
her several times."
"But she cannot bear him.”
"We'll make her bear him, General St. Leger."
"But if she marries, I shall have nobody to nurse me
when I have the gout.'
دو
"Yes, brother: I know of a nice little girl, Martha
Richardson, your second cousin's youngest daughter; you
know he has fourteen children, and you may have them all,
une after another, if you like."
"Very true, Diana,―let the jade marry Mr. Glumford.”
"She shall," said the sister;" and I'll go about it this
very moment: meantime, I'll take care that she does not
see her lover any more.'
About three weeks after this conversation, Mordaunt,
who had in vain endeavoured to see Isabel, who had not
even heard from her, whose letters had been returned to
him unopened, and who consequently was in despair, receiv-
ed the following note:
"This is the first time I have been able to write to you,
at least to get my letter conveyed: it is a strange messenger
that I have employed, but I happened formerly to make his
acquaintance, and accidentally seeing him to-day, the ex-
remity of the case induced me to give him a commission
which I could trust to no one else. Algernon, are not the
above sentences written with admirable calmness? are they
not very explanatory, very consistent, very cool? and yet
do you know that I firmly believe I am going mad. My
brain turns round and round, and my hand burns so that
I almost think that, like our old nurse's stories of the fiend,
it will scorch the paper as I write. And I see strange
faces in my sleep, and in my waking, all mocking at me,
and they torture and haunt me; and when I look at those |
faces, I see no human relenting, no! though I weep and
throw myself on my knees, and implore them to save me.
Algernon, my only hope is in you. You know that I have
always hitherto refused to ruin you; and even now, though
I implore you to deliver me, I will not be so selfish as-as
-I know not what I write, but I will not be your wife,
Algernon, that is too noble, too high a lot for me; I will be
your servant, your slave, any thing, any thing, but not his,
-O, God,—not his wife! No! if they drag me to church,
it shall be to my grave, not my bridals.
"ISABEL ST. LEGER."
When Mordaunt had read this letter, which, in spite of
its incoherence, his fears readily explained, he rose hastily,
his eye rested upon a sober-looking man, clad in brown.
The proud love no spectators to their emotions.
16
"Who are you, sir?" said Algernon, quickly.
"Morris Brown," replied the stranger coolly and civilly.
Brought that letter to you, sir; shall be very happy to
serve you with any thing else; just fitted out a young gen-
tleman as ambassador, a nephew to Mrs. Minden,
very
old friend of mine. Beautiful slabs you have here, sir, but
they want a few nick-nacks; shall be most happy to supply
you; got a lovely little ape, sir, stuffed by the late Lady
Waddilove; it would look charming with this old fashioned
carving: give the room quite the air of a museum ?”
"And so,
," said Mordaunt, for whose ear the eloquence
of Mr. Brown contained only one sentence, "and so you
brought this note, and will take back my answer?"
Yes, sir; any thing to keep up family connexions,
I knew a Lady Morden very well, very well indeed, sir,
-a relation of yours, 1 presume, by the similarity of the
name; made her many valuable presents; shall be most
happy to do the same to you, when you are married, sir.
You will refurnish the house, I suppose? Let me see,
fine proportions to this room, sir, about thirty-six feet,
by twenty-tight; I'll do the thing twenty per cent. cheaper
than the trade; and touching the lovely little
Here," interrupted Mordaunt, you will take back
this note, and be sure that Miss Isabel St. Leger has it as
soon as possible; and here, my friend, oblige me by ac-
cepting this triſle, -a trifle indeed compared with my
gratitude, if this note reaches its destination safely.
"I am sure," said Mr. Brown, looking with surprise
at the gift, which he held with no unwilling hand, "I am
sure, sir, that you are very generous, and strongly remind
me of you relation, Lady Morden; and if you would
S
like the lovely little ape as present, I mean really a
present, you shall have it, Mr. Mordaunt.'
But Mr. Mordaunt had left the room, and the sober Mor
ris, looking round, and cooling in his generosity, said to
himself, "It is well he did not hear me, however; but 1
hope he will marry the nice young lady, for I love doing a
kindness. This house must be refurnished,
like these old-fashioned chairs."
CHAPTER XXVI.
no lady wil
FARQUHAR.
Squire and fool are the same thing here.
In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
And with an unthrift love, did run from Venice.
SHAKSPEARE
THE persecutions which Isabel had undergone had in
deed preyed upon her reason as well as her health; and it
her brief intervals of respite from the rage of the uncle,
the insults of the aunt, and worse than all the addresses
of the intended bridegroom, her mind, shocked and un-
hinged, reverted with such intensity to the sufferings she
endured as to give her musings the character of insanity.
It was in one of these moments that she had written to
Mordaunt; and I verily believe that had the contest con-
tinued much longer, the reason of the unfortunate and per.
secuted girl would have totally deserted her.
She was a person of acute, and even poignant, sensibili
ties, and these the imperfect nature of her education had
but little served to guide or to correct; but as her habits
were pure and good, the impulses which spring from habit
were also sinless and exalted, and if they erred, " they
leant on virtue's side," and partook rather of a romantic
and excessive generosity than of the weakness of woman-
hood or the selfishness of passion. All the misery and
debasement of her equivocal and dependent situation had
not been able to drive her into compliance with Mordaunt's
passionate and urgent prayers; and her heart was proof
even to the eloquence of love, when that eloquence pointed
towards the worldly injury and depreciation of her lover:
but this new persecution was utterly unforeseen in its nature,
and intolerable from its cause. To marry another, — to
be torn for ever from one in whom her whole heart was
wrapped, to be forced not only to forego his love, but to
feel that the very thought of him was a crime; all this,
backed by the vehement and galling insults of her relations,
and the sullen and unmoved meanness of her intended
bridegroom, who answered her candor and confession with
a stubborn indifference and an unaltered address. make a
load of evil which could neither be borne with resignation
nor conteniplated with patience; yet, even amid all the
bitterness of her soul, and the incoherent desperation in
which her letter to Mordaunt had been penned, she felt a
sort of confused resolution that he should not be the
sacrifice.
In extreme youth and still preserving more than childish
innocence, she did not exactly perceive the nature of her
trust in Mordaunt ; nor the consequence, of any other tie
with him than the sacred one of marriage; but she had
read and heard of women, in their noble and fond devoted-
ness, sacrificing all for love, and she had internally resolved
that she would swell their number, rather than cost him a
single loss or deprivation. To sacrifice for Algernon Mor-
daunt, what happiness, what pride in the thought! and
that thought reconciled her to the letter she wrote, and the
prayer which it contained. Poor girl! little did she con-
ceive that in the eyes of the world, that sacrifice, that self-
devotion would have been the greatest crime she could
commit!
C
She was sitting, after she had sent her letter, with her
two relations, for they seldom trusted her out of their sight,
when Mr. Glumford was announced. Now, Mr. George
Glumford was a country gentleman, of what might be
termed a third-rate family in the country: he possessed
about twelve hundred a year, to say nothing of the odd
pounds, shillings, and pence, which, however, did not meet
with such contempt in his memory or estimation; was o
a race which could date as high as Charles the Second
had been educated at a country school with sixty others,
chiefly inferior to himself in rank; and had received the
i
THE DISOWNED
169
last finish at a very small hall at Oxford. In addition to
these advantages. he had been indebted to nature for a per-
son five feet eight inches high, and stout in proportion :
for hair very short, very straight, and of a red hue, which
even through powder cast out a mellow glow for an
obstinate dogged sort of nose, beginning in snub, and end-
ing in bottle; for cold, small, gray eyes, a very small
mouth, pinched up and avaricious, like a carp's or a waist-
coat button-hole; and very large, very freckled, yet rather
white hands, the nails of which were punctiliously cut into
a point every other day, (Friday,—dies iræ excepted.) with
a pair of scissors which Mr. Glumford often boasted had
been in his possession since his eighth year; viz. for about
thirty-two legitimate revolutions of the sun.
quaintance, and thrice a year he performed a sort of cr
cuit to all his customers and connexions; hence his visit
to St. Leger House, and hence Isabel's opportunity of con-
veying her epistle.
ર
pray, don't
"Pray," said Mr. Glumford, who had heard much of
Mr. Brown's 'presents' from Miss Diana,-
you furnish rooms, and things of that sort ?" (a very favor-
ite phrase of the intellectual speaker.)
Certainly, sir, certainly, in the best manner possible."
"O! very well, I shall want some rooms furnished soon;
a bedroom, and a dressing-room; and things of that sort,
you know
And so, perhaps you may have something
in your box that will suit me, gloves, or handkerchiefs, or
shirts, or things of that sort.
He was one of those persons who are equally close and
adventurous; who love the éclat of a little speculation, Brown, opening his box.
"Yes, sir, every thing, I sell every thing," said Mr.
"I beg pardon, Miss Isabel, I
but take exceeding good care that it should be, in their
have dropt my handkerchief by your chair; allow me to
own graceful phrase," on the safe side of the hedge." In
stoop," and Mr. Brown stooping under the table managed
pursuance of this characteristic of mind, he had resolved
to fall in love with Miss Isabel St. Leger; for she being
to effect his purpose; unseen by the rest, a note was slip-
very dependent, he could boast to her of his disinterest-ped into Isabel's hand, and under pretence of stooping too,
Love need well be
edness, and hoped that she would be economical through
she managed to secure the treasure.
a principle of gratitude; and being the nearest relation to honest if, even when it is most true, it leads us into so much
that is false !
the opulent General St. Leger, and his unmarried sister,
there seemed to be every rational probability of her in-
heriting the bulk of their fortunes. Upon these hints of
prudence spake Mr. George Glumford.
Now, when Isabel, partly in her ingenuous frankness,
partly from the passionate promptings of her despair, re-
vealed to him her attachment to another, and her resolu-
tion never, with her own consent, to become his, it
seemed to the slow, but not uncalculating, mind of Mr.
Glumford not by any means desirable that he should fore-
go
his present intentions, but by all means desirable that
he should make this reluctance of Isabel's an excuse for
sounding the intentions and increasing the posthumous
liberality of the East Indian and his sister.
The girl is of my nearest blood," said the major-gen-
eral, "and if I don't leave my fortune to her, who the
devil should I leave it to, sir?" and so saying, the speak-
who was in a fell paroxysm of the gout, looked so
er,
fiercely at the hinting wooer, that Mr. George Glumford,
who was no Achilles, was somewhat frightened, and
thought it expedient to hint no more.
"My brother," said Miss Diana, "is so odd; but he is
the most generous of men: besides, the girl has claims
upon him,"
Upon these speeches Mr. Glumford thought himself
secure, and inly resolving to punish the fool for her
sulkiness and bad taste as soon as he lawfully could, he
continued his daily visits, and told his sporting acquaint-
ance that his time was coming.
Revenons à nos moutons, forgive this preliminary detail,
and let us return to Mr. Glumford himself, whom we left at
the door, pulling and fumbling at the glove which covered
his right hand, in order to present the naked palm to Miss
Diana St. Leger. After this act was performed, he ap-
proached Isabel, and drawing his chair near to her, pro-
eeded to converse with her as the Ogre did with Puss in
Boots; viz. "as civilly as an Ogre could do.”
This penance had not proceeded far, before the door was
again opened, and Mr. Morris Brown presented himself to
the conclave.
"Your servant, General; your servant, madam. I took
the liberty of coming back again, madam, because I forgot
to show you some very fine silks, the most extraordinary
bargain in the world, quite presents; and I have a sèvre
bowl here, a superb article, from the cabinet of the late
Lady Waddilove."
Now Mr. Brown was a very old acquaintance of Miss
Diana St. Leger, for there is a certain class of old maids
with whom our fair readers are no doubt acquainted, who
join to a great love of expense a great love of bargains,
and who never purchase at the regular place if they can
find any irregular vender. They are great friends of Jews
and itinerants, hand-in-glove with smugglers, Ladies Boun-
tiful to pedlers, are diligent readers of puffs and advertise-
ments, and eternal haunters of sales and auctions. Of this
class was Miss Diana a most prominent individual; judge
then, how acceptable to her was the acquaintance of Mr.
Brown. That indefatigable merchant of miscellanies had,
indeed, at a time when brokers were perhaps rather more
are and respectable than now, a numerous country ac-
"L. I.
22
Mr. Brown's box was now unfolded before the eyes of
the crafty Mr. Glumford, who, having selected three pair
of gloves, offered the exact half of the sum demanded.
Mr. Brown lifted up his hands and eyes.
"You see," said the imperturbable Glumford, "that if
you let me have them for that, and they last me well, and
don't come unsewn, and stand cleaning, you'll have my
custom in furnishing the house and rooms, and, - things
of that sort."
Struck with the grandeur of this opening, Mr. Brown
yielded, and the gloves were bought.
"The fool!" thought the noble George, laughing in his
sleeve, as if I should ever furnish the house from his
box!
Strange that some men should be proud of being mean.
The moment Isabel escaped to dress for dinner, she
opened her lover's note. It was as follows:
"Be in the room, your retreat at nine this evening. Let
the window be left unclosed. Precisely at that hour I will
be with you.
I shall have every thing in readiness for
your flight, Be sure, dearest Isabel, that nothing prevents
your meeting me there, even if all your house follow or at-
tend you. I will bear you from all. O, Isabel in spite
of the mystery and wretchedness of your letter, I feel too
happy, too blest at the thought that our fates will be at
length united, and that the union is at hand. Remember
nine.
"A. M."
Love is a feeling which has so little to do with the world,
a passion so little regulated by the known laws of our
more steady and settled emotions, that the thoughts which
it produces are always more or less connected with exag
geration and romance. To the secret spirit of enterprise
which, however chilled by his pursuits and habits, still
burned within Mordaunt's breast, there was a wild pleas-
ure in the thought of bearing off his mistress and his bride
from the very home and hold of her false friends and real
foes; while, in the contradictions of the same passions,
Isabel, so far from exulting at her approaching escape, trem-
bled at her danger, and blushed for her temerity; and the
fear and the modesty of woman almost triumphed over her
brief energy and fluctuating resolve.
S
CHAPTER XXVII.
We haste, the chosen and the lovely bringing;
Love still goes with her from her place of birth !
Deep, silent joy, within her soul is springing,
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth.
MRS. HENAND.
"DAMN it!" said the General.
"The vile creature," cried Miss Diana.
“I don't understand things of that sort," ejaculated the
bewildered Mr. Glumferð.
"She has certain', gone," said the valiant General.
Certainly!" grunted Miss Diana.
CC
"Gone! "echoed the bridegroom, "not to he?"
And she was gone! never did more loving and tende
170
BJLWER'S NOVELS.
→
neart forsake a and cling to a more loyal and generous
The skies were darkened with clouds,
nature
"And the dim stars rush'd through them rare and fast; "
And the winds wailed with a loud and ominous voice; and
the moon came forth, with a faint and sickly smile, from
her chamber in the mist, and then shrunk back, and was
seen no more; but neither omen nor fear was upon Mor-
daunt's breast, as it swelled beneath the dark locks of Is-
abel, which were pressed against it.
As faith clings the more to the cross of life, while the
wastes deepen around her steps, and the adders creep forth
upon her path, so love clasps that which is its hope and
comfort the closer, for the desert which encompasseth, and
the dangers which harass its way.
J
They had fled to London, and Isabel had been placed
with a very distant, and very poor, though very high-born
relative of Algernon, till the necessary preliminaries could
De passed, and the final bond knit. Yet still the gener-
ous Isabel would have refused, despite the injury to her
own fame, to have ratified a union which filled her with
gloomy presentiments for Mordaunt's fate; and still Mor-
daunt by little and little broke down her tender scruples
and self-immolating resolves, and ceased not his eloquence
and his suit till the day of his nuptials was set and come.
The morning rose bright and clear, the autumn was
drawing toward its close, and seemed willing to leave its
last remembrance tinged with the warmth and softness of
its parent summer, rather than with the stern gloom and se-
verity of its chilling successor.
And they stood beside the altar, and their vows were
exchanged. A slight tremor came over Algernon's frame,
a slight shade darkened his countenance; for even in that
bridal hour an icy and thrilling foreboding curdled to his
heart; it passed, the ceremony was over, and Mordaunt
bore his blushing and weeping bride from the church. His
carriage was in attendance; for, not knowing how long the
home of his ancestors might be his, he was impatient to
return to it. The old Countess D'Arcy, Mordaunt's rela-
tion, with whom Isabel had been staying, called them back
to bless them; for, even through the coldness of old age,
she was touched by the singularity of their love, and affec-
ted by their nobleness of heart. She laid her wan and
shrivelled hand upon each, as she bade them farewell, and
each shrunk back involuntarily, for the cold and light touch
seemed like the fingers of the dead
the
Fearful indeed is the vicinity of death and life,
bridal chamber and the charnel That night the old woman
died. It appeared as if Fate had set its seal upon the
union it had so long forbidden, and had woven a dark
thread even in the marriage bond. At least, it tore from
two hearts, over which the cloud and the blast lay couched
in a
grim repose," the last shelter, which, however frail
and distant, seemed left to them upon the inhospitable earth!
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Live while ye may, yet happy pair: enjoy
Short pleasures, for long woes are to succeed.
G
MILTON.
THE autumn and the winter passed away; Mordaunt's
telation continued implacable. Algernon grieved for this,
independent of worldly circumstances; for, though he had
seldom seen that relation, yet he loved him for former kind-
ness, — rather promised, to be sure, than yet shown,
with the natural warmth of an affection which has but few
objects. However, the old gentleman, (a very short,
very fat person, very short, and very fat people, when
they are surly, are the devil and all; for the humors of their
mind, like those of their body, have something corrupt and
unpurgeable in them,) wrote him one bluff, contemptuous
letter, in a witty strain, for he was a bit of a humorist,
disowned his connexion, and very shortly afterwards
died, and left all his fortune to the very Mr. Vavasour who
was at law with Mordaunt, and for whom he had always
openly expressed the strongest personal dislike, spite to
one relation is a marvellous tie to a other. Meanwhile the
lawsuit went on less slowly than lawsuits usually do, and
the final decision was very speedily to be given.
We said the autumn and the winter were gone; and it
was in one of those latter days in March, when like a hoy-
den girl subsiding into dawning womanhood, the rude
weather mellows into a softer and tenderer month, that,
by the side of a stream, overshadowed by many a brake
and tree, from which the young blossoms sent “a mes-
sage from the spring," sate two persons.
"I know not, dearest Algernon," said one, who was a
female, "if this is not almost the sweetest month in the
year, because it is the month of hope."
Ay, Isabel; and they did it wrong who called it harsh,
and dedicated it to Mars. I exult even in the fresh winds
which hardier frames than mine shrink from, and I love
feeling their wild breath fan my cheek as I ride against it.
I remember," continued Algernon, musingly, “that on
this very day three years ago, I was travelling through
Germany, alone and on horseback, and I stood, not far
from Ens, on the banks of the Danube; the waters of the
river were disturbed and fierce, and the winds came loud
and angry against my face, dashing the spray of the waves
upon me, and filling my spirit with a buoyant and glad de-
light; and at that time I had been indulging old dreams of
poetry, and had laid my philosophy aside; and in the in-
spiration of the moment, I lifted up my hand toward the
quarter whence the winds came, and questioned them au-
dibly of their birth-place, and their bourne; and, as the en-
thusiasm increased, I compared them to our human life,
which a moment is, and then is not; and proceeding from
folly to folly, I asked them, as if they were the weird in-
terpreters of heaven, for a type and sign of my future
lot."
"And what said they?" inquired Isabel, smiling, yet
smiling timidly.
"They answered not," replied Mordaunt; "but a voice
within me seemed to say,Look above!' and I raised
my eyes, but I did not see thee, love-so the Book of
Fate lied."
mended
"Nay, Algernon, what did you see?" asked Isabel,
more earnestly than the question deserved.
"I saw a thin cloud, alone amid many dense and dark
ones scattered around; and as I gazed it seemed to take
the likeness of a funeral procession, coffin, bearers,
priest, all, as clear in the cloud as I have seen them on
the earth and I shuddered as I saw; but the winds blew
the vapor onward and it mingled with the broader masses
of cloud; and then, Isabel, the sun shone forth for a mo-
ment, and I mistook, love, when I said you were not there,
for that sun was you; but suddenly the winds ceased,
and the rain came on fast and heavy; so my romance
cooled, and my fever slacked, — I thought on the inn at
Ens, and the blessings of a wood fire, which is lighted
in a moment, and I spurred on my horse accordingly."
"It is very strange," said Isabel.
"What, love?" whispered Algernon, kissing her
cheek.
"Nothing, dearest, nothing. See what a beautiful but-
terfly has settled on that blossom, just at your feet; it has
brought you a message from Oberon, that you are not, on
pain of his express displeasure, to wander out so late in
inese damp evenings. His majesty declares that you brush
away all the dew from his own haunts, and that moreover
disturb his revels by your unholy presence.
Be sure,
you
therefore, Algernon, that you do not stir out after night-
fall.”
Algernon smiled as he rose, "I think, Isabel, that it
is rather a herald from Titania to you, begging you to go
to bed betimes, and leave the house to Puck and his fel-
lows, instead of sitting up all night for a husband, who
loves his starlit rambles and moth-worn volumes better
than you.
"Ay, but he does not love them better, Algernon, does
he?" said Isabel, seriously; and Algernon laughed.
At that instant, the deer, which lay waving their lordly
antlers to and fro beneath the avenue which sloped upward
from the stream to the house, rose hurriedly and in con-
fusion, and stood gazing, with watchful eyes, upon a man
advancing toward the pair.
It was one of the servants with a letter. Isabel saw a
faint change (which none else could have seen) in Mor-
daunt's countenance, as he recognised the writing and
broke the seal. When he had read the letter, his eyes
fell upon the ground, and then, with a slight start, he
lifted them up, and gazed long and eagerly around. Wist-
fully did he drink, as it were, into his heart the beautiful
and expanded scene which lay stretched on either side;
the noble avenue which his forefathers had planted as a
THE DISOWNED.
171
shelter to the sons, and which now, in its majestic
growth and its waving boughs, seemed to say,
"Lo! ye
are repaid!" and the never silent and silver stream, by
which his boyhood had sat for hours, lulled by its music,
and inhaling the fragrance of the reed and wild flower
that decoyed the bee to its glossy banks; and the deer, to
whose melancholy belling he had listened so often in the
gray twilight with a rapt and dreaming ear; and the green
fern waving on the gentle hill, from whose shade his young
feet lad startled the hare and the infant fawn; and far and
faintly gleaning through the thick trees, which clasped it as
with a girdle, the old hall, so associated with vague hopes
and musing dreams, and the dim legends of gone tine,
and the prejudiced, yet high, inspiritings of ancestral
pride; all seemed to sink within him, as he gazed, like the
last looks of departing friends; and when Isabel, who
nad not dared to break a silence which partook so strong-
ly of gloom, at length laid her hand upon his arm, and
lifted her dark, deep, tender eyes to his he said, as he
drew her toward him, and a faint and sickly smile played
upon his lips, -
"It is past, Isabel: henceforth we have no wealth but
in each other. The cause has been decided, and,
- and, we are beggars!"
CHAPTER XXIX.
We expose our life to a quotidian ague of frigid impertinen-
which would make a wise man tremble to think of
zes,
COWLEY.
WE must suppose a lapse of four years, from the date
of those events which concluded the last chapter; and, to
recompense the reader, who, I know, has a little penchant
for "high life," even in the last century, for having hith-
erto shown him human beings in a state of society not
wholly artificial, I beg him to picture to himself a large
room, brilliantly illuminated, and crowded "with the mag-
nates of the land." Here (some in saltatory motion, some
in sedentary rest) are dispersed various groups of young
ladies and attendant swains, talking upon the subject of
Lord Rochester's celebrated poem, viz. : "Nothing !"
-and, lounging around the doors, meditating, probably,
upon the same subject, stand those unhappy victims of danc-
ing daughters, denominated "Papas." To them, unless
our grandfathers differed widely from ourselves, a ball is
not that consummation which my young lady readers may
suppose it to be.
For my part, of all felicity, to come to the present day,
I, who am a quiet, melancholy, speculative person, and in
such scenes, love to sit in an obscure corner, and mark the
bright gleam of sunshine which flashes over the faces of
these paternal sufferers, when the subject of "the next
Ascot," or "T T- 's motion," or my country farm,"
is suddenly started. How instantaneously their fancy
transports them from the dull duties of their present
situation; how gloatingly the middle aged gentlemen dwell
upon the merits of "
Matilda," or the perfection of the
game laws, or the singular improvement in turnips!
But we return to our ball-room. The music has ceased,
the dancers have broken up, and there is a general but
gentle sweep towards the realm of refreshment. In the
crowd, having just entered, there glided a young man
of an air more distinguished and somewhat more joyous
than the rest.
"How do you do, Mr. Linden ?" said a tall and (though
somewhat passée) very handsome woman, blazing with
diamonds; are you just come?"
And hefe, by the way, I cannot resist pausing to observe,
that a friend of mine, meditating a novel, submitted a
part of the MS. to a friendly publisher. "Sir," said the
bookseller, " your book is very clever, but it wants dia-
logue.
Dialogue?" cried my friend,—" you mistake,— it's
all dialogue."
"Ay, sir, but not what we call dialogue: we want a little
tonversation in fashionable life, -a little elegant chit-chat
or so: and, as you must have seen so much of the beau
monde, you could do it to the life: we must have something
light, and witty, and entertaining."
Light witty, and entertaining!" said our poor friend;
and how the "deuse then is it to be like conversation in
'fashionable life?" When the
When the very best conversation one
can get is so insufferably dull, how do you think people
will be amused by reading a copy of the very worst ?"
They are amused, sir," said the publisher, "and
works of this kind sell!”
"I am convinced," said my friend; for he was a man of
a placid temper; he took the hint, and his book did sell!
Now this anecdote rushed into my mind after the pen-
ning of the little address of the lady in diamonds,--"How
do you do, Mr. Linden? Are you just come?" and it
received an additional weight from my utter inability to
put into the mouth of Mr. Linden, notwithstanding my
desire of representing him in the most brilliant colors,
any more happy and eloquent answer than
instant !
Only this
However, as this is in the true spirit of elegant dialogue,
I trust my readers find it as light, witty, and entertaining
as, according to the said publisher, the said dialogue is
always found by the public.
While Clarence was engaged in talking with this lady,
a very pretty, lively, animated girl, with laughing blue eyes,
which, joined to the dazzling fairness of her complexion,
gave a Hebe youth to her features and expression, was led
up to the said lady by a tall young man, and consigned,
with the ceremonious bow of the vieille cour, to her protec-
tion.
"Ah, Mr. Linden," cried the young lady, "I am very
glad to see you,
such a beautiful ball!— Everybody here
that I most like. Have you had any refreshments, mamma?
But I need not ask, for I am sure you have not; do come,
Mr. Linden will be our cavalier."
"Well, Flora, as you please," said the elder lady, with
a proud and fond look at her beautiful daughter; and they
proceeded to the refreshment room.
No sooner were they seated at one of the tables, than
they were accosted by an uk acquaintance, Lord St.
George, whom our reader may remember as a silent, thin
nobleman, at a supper at Mr. Talbot's.
"London," said his lordship, to her of the diamonds,
"has not seemed like the same place since Lady Westbo-
rough arrived; your presence brings out all the other lumi-
naries: and therefore a young acquaintance of mine,- God
bless me, there he is, seated by Lady Flora, - very justly
called you the evening star."
"Was that Mr. Linden's pretty saying?" said Lady
Westborough, smiling.
"It was,
>>
answered Lord St. George; "and, by the
by, he is a very sensible, pleasant person, and greatly
improved since he left England last.'
"What!" said Lady Westborough, in a low tone, (for
Clarence, though in earnest conversation with Lady Flora,
was within hearing,) and making room for Lord St. George
beside her, "What ! did you know him before he went to
? You can probably tell me, then, who-that is to say
--what family he is exactly of,-the Linden's of Devonshire,
or-or-
"Why, really," said Lord St. George, a little confused,
for no man likes to be acquainted with persons whose ped-
igree he cannot explain, "I don't know what may be his
family I met him at Talbot's four or five years ago;
he was then a mere boy, but he struck me as being clever,
and Talbot since told me that he was a nephew of his
own."
Talbot," said Lady Westborough, musingly, "what
Talbot?"
"O! the Talbot,—the ci-devant jeune homme ! "
What, that charming, clever, animated old gentleman,
who used to dress so oddly, and had been so celebrated a
beau garcon in his day?"
"Exactly so," said Lord St. George, taking snuff, and
delighted to find he had set his young acquaintance on so
honorable a footing.
'I did not know he was still alive," said Lady West-
borough; and then, turning her eyes towards Clarence and
her daughter, she added carelessly, "Mr. Talbot is very
rich, is he not?"
"Rich as Croesus," replied Lord St. George, with a
sigh.
Co
And Mr. Linden is his heir, I suppose?"
"In all probability," answered Lord St. Georg
though I believe I have some distant relationship o
Talbot. However, I could not make him fully understan
the other day, though I took particular pains to explain it.”
172
BULWER'S NOVELS.
While this conversation was going on between the
Marchioness of Westborough and Lord St. George, a dia-
logue equally interesting to the parties concerned, and, I
aope, equally light, witty, and entertaining to readers in
general, was sustained between Clarence and Lady Flora.
"How long shall you stay in England?" asked the
latter, looking down.
"I have not yet been able to decide," replied Clarence,
"for it rests with the ministers, not me. Directly Lord
Aspeden obtains anotner appointment, I am promised the
office of secretary of legation; but till then, I am —
"A captive in Augusta's towers,
To Beauty and her train. ""
"O!" cried Lady Flora laughing, "you mean Mrs.
Desborough and her train: see where they sweep! pray
go and render her homage.'
وو
"It is rendered, said Linden, in a low voice, "without
so long a pilgrimage, but perhaps despised.'
Lady Flora's laugh was hushed; the deepest blushes
suffused her cheeks, and the whole character of that face,
before so playful and joyous, seemned changed, as by a spell,
into a grave, subdued, and even timid look.
Linden resumed, and his voice scarcely rose above a
whisper. A whisper! O delicate and fairy sound! music
that speaketh to the heart, as if loth to break the spell that
binds it while it listens! Sighs breathed into words, and
freighting love in tones languid, like homeward bees, by the
very sweets with which they are charged!
"Do you remember," said he, "that evening at
scanty knowledge of the world gives a sour and malevolent
mind so ready an excuse.
"How very disagreeable Lord Borodaile is?" said
Lady Flora, when the object of the remark turned away,
and rejoined some idlers of his corps.
Disagreeable!" said Lady Westborough. "I think
him charming; he is so sensible. How true his remarks
on the world are ! "
Thus is it always: the young judge harshly of those who
underceive or revolt their enthusiasm; and the more ad-
vanced in years, who have not learned, by a diviner wis-
dom, to look upon the human follies and errors by which
they have suffered, with a pitying and lenient eye, consider
every maxim of severity on those frailties as the mark of a
superior knowledge, and praise that as a profundity of
thought which in reality is but an infirmity of temper.
Clarence is now engaged in a minuet de la cour, with the
beautiful Countess of
the best dancer of the day ir
England. Lady Flora is flirting with half a dozen "ele.
gants" the more violently, in proportion as she observes
the animation with which Clarence converses, and the
grace with which his partner moves: and, having thus left
our two principal personages occupied and engaged, let us
turn for a moment to a room which we have not entered.
"2
This is a forlorn, deserted chamber, destined to cards,
which are never played in this temple of Terpsichore. At
the far end of this room, opposite to the fire-place, are
seated four men, engaged in earnest conversation.
The tallest of these was Lord Quintown, a nobleman,
remarkable at that day for his personal advantages, his good
when we last parted? and the boldness which at that time fortune with the beau sexe, his attempts at parliamentary
you were gentle enough to forgive?"
Lady Flora replied not.
"And, do you remember," continued Clarence," that
I told you that it was not as an unknown and obscure ad-
venturer that I would claim the hand of her whose heart,
as an adventurer, I had won ?"
Lady Flora raised her eyes for one moment, and encoun-
encoun-
tering the ardent gaze of Clarence, as instantly dropped
them.
"The time is not yet come," said Linden, “for the
fulfilment of this promise; but may I-dare I hope, that
when it does I shall not be "
"Flora, my love," said Lady Westborough, "let me
introduce to you Lord Borodaile."
Lady Flora turned, the spell was broken; and the lovers
were instantly transformed into ordinary mortals.. But, as
Flora, after returning Lord Borodaile's address, glanced her
eye toward Clarence, she was struck with the sudden and
zingular change of his countenance; the flush of youth and
passion was fled, his complexion was deadly pale, and his
eyes were fixed with a searching and unaccountable mean-
ing upon the face of the young nobleman, who was alter-
nately addressing, with a quiet and somewhat haughty
fluency, the beautiful mother, and the more lovely, though
less commanding, daughter. Directly Linden perceived
that he was observed, he rose, turned away, and was soon
lost among the crowd.
Lord Borodaile, the son and heir of the powerful Earl
of Ulswater, was about the age of thirty, small, slight,
and rather handsome than otherwise; his complexion was
dark and sallow; and a very aquiline nose gave a stern
and somewhat severe air to a countenance otherwise grave
and harsh in its expression. He had been for several
years abroad, in various parts of the continent, and (no
other field for an adventurous and fierce spirit presenting
itself) had served with the gallant Earl of Effingham, in
the war between the Turks and Russians, as a volunteer
in the armies of the latter. In this service he had been
highly distinguished for courage and conduct; and, on his
return to England about a twelvemonth since, had obtained
the command of a cavalry regiment. Passionately fond of
his profession, he entered into its minutest duties with a
zeal not exceeded by the youngest and poorest subaltern in
the army.
eloquence, in which he was lamentably unsuccessful, and
his adherence to Lord North. Next to him, sat Mr. St.
George, the younger brother of Lord St. George, a gentle-
man to whom power and place seemed married without
hope of divorce, for, whatever had been the changes of
ministry for the last twelve years, he, secure in a lucrativo
though subordinate situation, had "siniled at the whirl-
wind, and defied the storm ;" and, while all things shifted
and vanished round him, like clouds and vapors, had
remained fixed and stationary as a star.
"Solid St.
George, was his appellative by his friends, and his ene-
mies did not grudge him the title. The third was the minis-
ter for; and the fourth was Clarence's friend, Lord
Aspeden. Now this nobleman, blest with a benevolent,
smooth, calm countenance, valued himself especially upon
his diplomatic elegance in turning a compliment.
>>
Having a great taste for literature as well as diplomacy
this respected and respectable peer also possessed à curious
felicity of applying quotation; and nothing rejoiced him
so much as when, in the same phrase, he was enabled to
set the two jewels of his courtliness of flattery and his
profundity of erudition. Unhappily enough, his compli-
ments were seldom as well taken as they were meant ; and,
whether from the ingratitude of the persons complimented,
or the ill fortune of the noble adulator, seemed sometimes
to produce indignation in place of delight. It has been
said that his civilities had cost Lord Aspeden four duels
and one beating; but these reports were probably the mali-
cious invention of those who had never tasted the delica-
cies of his flattery.
rr
r
Now these four persons being all members of the privy
council, and of his majesty's government, and being thus
engaged in close and earnest conference, were, you will
suppose, employed in discussing the gravities and secrets
of state, -no such thing that whisper from Lord Quin-
town, the handsome nobleman, to Mr. St. George, is no
hoarded and valuable information which would rejoice the
heart of the editor of an opposition paper, no grave susur-
rum, perplexing monarchs with the dread of change;
it is only a recent piece of scandal, touching the virtue of
a lady of the court, which (albeit the sage listener seems to
pay so devout an attention to the news) is far more inter-
esting to the gallant and handsome informant than to his
brother statesman; and that emphatic and vehement tone
with which Lord Aspeden is assuring the minister for
of some fact, is merely au angry denunciation of the
chicanery practised at the last Newmarket.
"By the by, Aspeden," said Lord Quintown, "who is
that good looking fellow always flirting with Lady Flora
an attaché of yours, is he not?"
"O, Linden, I suppose you mean? a very sensible,
clever young fellow, who has a great genius for business,
CC
His manners were very cold, haughty, collected, and
self-possessed, and his conversation that of a man who has
cultivated his intellect rather in the world than the closet.
I mean, that, perfectly ignorant of things, he was driven to
Converse solely upon persons, and, having imbibed no other
philosophy than that which worldly deceits and disappoint-Ardenne,
ments bestow, his remarks though shrewd, were bitterly
sarcastic, and partook of all the ill-nature for which a very
THE DISOWNED.
173
and plays the flute admirably. I must have him for my
secretary, my dear lord, mind that."
"With such a recommendation, Lord Aspeden," said
the minister, with a bow, "the state would be a great loser
did it not elect your attaché, who plays so admirably on the
flute, to the office of your secretary.
"Ah! your lordship always does pay such beautiful com-
pliments. What lines were those somebody applied to
you,
"Here lies the minion of the king,
Whose word no man relied on ;
Who sometimes said a foolish thing,
But never did-'
C
How does it go on, St. George ?"
"Let us join the dancers," said the minister.
Ah, they are very pretty lines,
sometimes said a foolish thing,'
could recollect the rest."
"I shall
George.
go
Minion of a king,'
‘But never'— I wish I
and talk with Count B-," quoth Mr. St.
"And I shall make my court to his beautiful wife," said
the minister, sauntering into the ball-room, to which his
fine person and graceful manner were much better adapted
than was his genius to the cabinet, or his eloquence to the
senate. So essentially different are the talents requisite
for the man who is to shine in the world from those which
are calculated for shining in the saloon, that history scarce-
ly furnishes us with six examples of men who have united
both.
The morning had long dawned, and Clarence, for whose
mind pleasure was more fatiguing than business, lingered
near the door, to catch one last look of Lady Flora before
he retired. He saw her leaning on the arm of Lord Boro-
daite, and, hastening to join the dancers, with her usual
light step and laughing air; for Clarence's short conference
with her had, in spite of his subsequent flirtations, render-
ed her happier than she had ever felt before. Again a
change passed over Clarence's countenance, a change
which I find it difficult to express without borrowing from
those celebrated German novelists who could portray in
such exact colors," a look of mingled joy, sorrow, hope,
passion, rapture, and despair," for the look was not that
of jealousy alone, although it certainly partook of its na-
ture, but a little also of interest, and a little of sorrow; and
when he turned away, and slowly descended the stairs, his
eyes were full of tears, and his thoughts far,— -far away;
whither?
CHAPTER XXX.
Quæ fert adolescentia
Ea ne me celet consuefeci filium.
TERENT.
Muttering these wayward fancies, Clarence use, com-
pleted his toilet, sent for his horses, and repaired to a vil-
lage about seven miles from London, where Talbot, having
yielded to Clarence's fears and solicitations, and left his
former insecure tenement, now resided under the guard and
care of an especial and private watchman.
It was a pretty, quiet villa, surrounded by a plantation
and pleasure ground of some extent for a suburban resi-
dence, in which the old philosopher (for though, in some
respects, still frail and prejudiced, Talbot deserved that
name) held his home. The ancient servant, on whom four
years had passed lightly and favoringly, opened the door to
Clace, with his usual smile of greeting, and familiar yet
respectful salutation, and ushered our hero into a room, fur-
nished with the usual fastidious and rather feminine luxury
which characterized Talbot's tastes. Sitting with his back
studiously turned to the light, which was only admitted
through curtains of crimson velvet; and propped, in a large
easy chair, by cushions of the same costly material, Clar-
ence found the wreck of what once was the gallant, gay
Lothario of the mode and monde.
There was not much alteration in his countenance, since
we (viz. you, dear reader, and ourself, not Clarence)
last saw him; the lines, it is true were a little more de-
cided, and the cheeks a little more sunken, but the dark
eye beamed with all its wonted vivacity, and the delicate
contour of the mouth preserved all its physiognomical char-
acteristics of the inward man. He rose with somewhat
more difficulty than he was formerly wont to do, and his
limbs had lost much of their symmetrical proportions; yet
it had pressed that of the boyish attaché four years since;
the kind clasp of his hand was as firm and warm as when
and the voice, which expressed his salutation, yet breathed
its unconquered suavity and distinctness of modulation.
After the customary greetings and inquiries were given and
returned, the young man drew his chair near to Talbot's,
and said,
of use?"
"You sent for me, dear sir; have you any thing more
or, and I hope
important than usual to impart to me ? —
this is the case, have you at last thought of any commis-
sion, however trifling, in the execution of which I can be
"Yes, Clarence, I wish your judgment to select me
some strawberries, you know that I am a great epicure
in fruit,
published. There, are you contented? And now, tell me
and get me the new thing Dr. Johnson has just
all about your horse, does he step well? Has he the true
English head and shoulder? Are his legs fine, yet strong?
Is be full of spirit and devoid of vice? the rich wine with-
out the hot adulteration just sufficient to make you feel
life without reminding you of death."
—
"He is all this, sir, thanks to you for him "
"Ah!" cried Talbot,
"Old as I am, for riding sports unfit,
The shape of horses I remember yet.'
And now let us hear how you like Ranelagh! and, abov8
all, how you liked the ball last night?"
1
THE next morning Clarence was lounging over his
breakfast, and glancing listlessly now at the pages of the
newspapers, now at the various engagements for the week,
which lay confusedly upon his table, when he received a And the vivacious old man listened with the profoundest
note from Talbot, requesting to see him as soon as possible. appearance of interest to all the particulars of Clarence's
"Had it not been for that man," said Clarence to him- animated detail. His vanity, which made him wish to be
self,
"what should I have been now? When my own kin
own kin loved, had long since taught him the surest method of be-
cast me off, when I stood alone and friendless in the wide coming so; and with him, every visiter, old, young, the
world, it was a stranger's hand which raised and guided man of books, or the disciple of the world, was sure to
ine. But, (and here the natural and somewhat excusa- find the readiest and even eagerest sympathy in every
ble pride of Clarence broke out,) "but at least, I have not amusement or occupation. But for Clarence, this interest
disgraced his friendship. I have already ascended the lay deeper than in the surface of courtly breeding. Grat.
roughest, because the lowest, steps, on the hill where for-itude had first bound to him his adopted son, then a tie,
tune builds her temple. I have already won for the name I yet unexplained, and lastly, but not least, the pride of pro
have chosen some golden opinions,' to gild its obscurity. tection. He was vain of the personal and mental attrac
One year more may confirm my destiny, and ripen hope into tions of his protégé, and eager for the succes de société cí
success: then, then, I may perhaps throw off a disguise one whose honors would reflect credit on himself.
that, while it befriended, has not degraded me, and avow
myself to her! Yet, if I did, it is but an exchange of
names; my own is neither prefaced by titles, nor hallowed
by wealth. No better that I should continue to advance
that name, which I require no ancestors to ennoble, and
which none have authority to question, than recur to one
which I have been deemed unworthy to bear. Well, well,
these are bitter and as yet vain thoughts; let me turn to oth-ped into his othice of Mentor.
ers. How beautiful Lady Flora looked last night! and,
he, -- he, — but enough of this: I must dress, and then to
Talbot."
But there was one part of Clarence's account of the
last night to which the philosopher paid a still deeper at-
tention, and on which he was more minute in his advice ;
what this was, I cannot, as yet, reveal to the reader.
The conversation then turned on light and general mat
ters. The scandal, the literature, the politics, the on dits
of the day; and lastly upon women; thence Talbot drop-
"A celebrated cardinal said, very wisely, that few ever
did any thing among men until women were no longer an
object to thein. That is the reason, by the by, why I never
174
BULWER'S NOVELS.
succeeded with the former, and why people seldom acquire
any reputation, except for a hat or a horse, till they marry.
Look round at the various occupations of life. How few
bachelors are eminent in any of them! So you see, Clar-
ence, you will have my leave to marry Lady Flora as soon
as you please.
>>
Clarence colored, and rose to depart. Talbot followed
him to the door, and then said, in a careless way, "By the
by, I had almost forgotten to tell you that, as you have now
many new expenses, you will find the yearly sum you have
hitherto received, doubled. To give you this information
is the chief reason why I sent for you this morning. God
bless you, my dear boy."
And Talbot shut the door, despite his politesse, in the
face and thanks of his adopted son.
CHAPTER XXXI.
There is a great difference between seeking to raise a laugh
from every thing, and seeking, in every thing, what justly may
be laughed at.
LORD SHAFTESBURY.
BEHOLD our hero, now in the full flush and zenith of
distinguished dissipations! Courteous, attentive, and an-
imated, the women did not esteem him the less for admir-
ing them rather than himself; while, by the gravity of his
demeanor to men,— the eloquent, yet unpretending flow of
his conversation, whenever topics of intellectual interest
were discussed, the plain and solid sense which he threw
into his remarks, and the avidity with which he courted
the society of all distinguished for literary or political em-
inence, he was silently, but surely, establishing himself in
esteem as well as popularity, and laying the certain foun-
dation of future honor and success.
Thus, although he had only been four months returned to
England, he was already known and courted in every cir-
cle, and universally spoken of as among "the most rising
young gentlemen" whom fortune and the administration
had marked for their own. His history, during the four
years in which we lost sight of him, is briefly told.
He soon won his way into the good graces of Lord As-
peden; became his private secretary, and occasionally his
Confidant. Universally admired for his attraction of form
and manner, and, though aiming at reputation, not averse
to pleasure, he established that sort of name which a good
person and a little succès auprès des dames readily obtains;
and thus when (a year before his return to England) Lady
Westborough and her beautiful daughter, then only sixteen,
in the progress of a continental tour, he
had become rather a lion, and consequently a fit person to
flirt with the marchioness and dance with the daughter.
Hence his love to the latter, and the secret but treasured
vows to which Clarence had alluded in the ball-room.
came to
Lord Aspeden being recalled, Clarence accompanied him
to England; and the ex-minister, really liking much one.
who was so useful to him, had faithfully promised to procure
him the office and honor of secretary, whenever his lordship
should be reappointed minister.
name,
|
Three intimate acquaintances had Clarence Linden. The
one was the Honorable Henry Trollolop, the second Mr.
Callythorpe, and the third Sir Christopher Findlater. We
will sketch them to you in an instant. Mr. Trollolop was
a short, stout gentleman, with a very thoughtful counte-
nance, that is to say, he wore spectacles, and took snuff.
Mr. Trollolop, -we delight in pronouncing that soft liquid
-was eminently distinguished by a love of meta-
physics, metaphysics were, in a great measure, the order
of the day; but fate had endowed Mr. Trollolop with a
singular and felicitous confusion of idea. Reid, Berkeley,
Cudworth, Hobbes, all lay jumbled together in most edify-
ing chaos at the bottom of Mr. Trollolop's capacious mind;
and whenever he opened his mouth, the imprisoned ene-
mies came rushing and scrambling out, overturning and
contradicting each other, in a manner quite astounding to
the ignorant spectator. Mr. Callythorpe was meager,
thin, sharp, and yellow. Whether from having a great
propensity for nailing stray acquaintances, or being par-
ticularly heavy company, or from any other cause better
known to the wits of the period than to us, he was occa-
sionally termed by his friends the "yellow hammer." The
peculiar characteristics of this gentleman were his sinceri-
ty and friendship. These qualities led him into saying
hings the most disagreeable, with the civilest and coolest
-
-
manner in the world, always prefacing them wita
"You know, my dear so and so, I am your true friend.*
If this proof of amity was now and then productive of al-
tercation, Mr. Callythorpe, who was a great patriot, had
another and a nobler plea, Sir," he would say, putting
his hand to his heart,
ting
"sir, I'm an Englishman, - I
know not what it is to feign." Of a very different stamp
was Sir Christopher Findlater. Little cared he for the
subtleties of the human mind, and not much more for the
disagreeable duties of "an Englishman. Honest and
jolly, red in the cheeks, empty in the head,
-born to
twelve thousand a year, educated in the country, and
heir to an earldom, Sir Christopher Findlater piqued
himself, notwithstanding his worldly advantages, usually so
destructive to the kindlier affections, on having the best
heart in the world; and this good heart, having a very bad
head to regulate and support it, was the perpetual cause of
error to the owner and evil to the public.
-
One evening when Clarence was alone in his rooms, the
Honorable Mr. Trollolop entered.
CC
My dear Linden," said the visiter, "how are you!'
"I am, as I hope you are, very well," answered Cla-
rence.
"The human mind," said Trollolop, taking off his
great coat,
"Sir Christopher Findlater, and Mr. Callythorpe, sir,"
said the valet.
"Pshaw! What has Sir Christopher Findlater to do
with the human mind?" muttered Mr. Trollolop.
Sir Christopher entered with a swagger and a laugh.
"Well, old fellow, how do you do? deused cold this
evening."
Though it is an evening in May," observed Clarence;
"but then, this cursed climate."
Climate," interrupted Mr. Callythorpe, "it's no cli-
mate at all; I am an Englishman, and I never abuse my
country.
"England, with all thy faults I love thee still."
Very true," murmured Trollolop, who had only heard
one part of the sentence; "there is no climate, neither
here, nor elsewhere: the climate is in your mind, the chair
stupid enough to think the two latter are in the room; the
is in your mind, and the table too, and I dare say you are
human mind, my dear Findlater,
"Don't mind me, Trollolop," cried the baronet, “I
can't bear your clever heads; give me a good heart;
that's worth all the heads in the world, d n me if it
is not! Eh, Linden!"
"Your good heart," cried Trollolop, in a passion,
-(for all your self-called philosophers are a little choleric,)
your good heart is all cant and nonsense, there is
no heart at all, we are all mind."
sed
CC
"I'll be hanged if I'm all mind," said the baronet.
"At least," quoth Linden, gravely, “no one ever accu-
you of it before.”
mind, un moulin à raisonnement.
"We are all mind," pursued the reasoner; "we are all
Our ideas are derived
from two sources, sensation or memory. That neither our
thoughts, nor passions, nor ideas, formed by the imagina-
tion, exist without the mind, everybody will allow;
therefore, you see, the human mind is, -in short, there is
nothing in the world but the human mind ! ”
"Nothing could be better demonstrated," said Cla-
rence.
"I don't believe it," quoth the baronet.
"But you do believe it, and you must believe it," cried
Trollolop," for the Supreme Being has implanted within
us the principle of credulity,' and therefore you do be
lieve it."
"But I don't," cried Sir Christopher.
"You are mistaken," replied the metaphysician, calmly;
“because I must speak truth."
*r
"there
Why must you, pray?" said the baronet.
Because," answered Trollolop, taking snuff,
is a principle of veracity implanted in our nature.
"I wish I were a metaphysician," said Clarence, with
a sigh.
"I am glad to hear you say so, for you know, my dear
Linden," said Callythorpe, "that I am your true friend,
and I must therefore tell you that you are shamefully igno
rant. You are not offended?
>>
* Berkeley; Sect. iii. Principles of Human Knowledge
THE DISOWNED.
178
"Not all " said Clarence, trying to smile.
"And you my dear Findlater," (turning to the baro-
net,) "you know that I wish you well, you know that
I never flatter, I'm your real friend, so you must not be
angry; but you really are not considered a Solomon."
"Mr. Callythorpe ?" exclaimed the baronet, in a rage,
[the best hearted people can't always bear truth,]' what
you mean?"
do
"You must not be angry, my good sir, you must not,
really. I can't help telling you of your faults, for I am a
true Briton, sir, a true Briton, and leave lying to slaves
and Frenchmen.
""
"You are in an error," said Trollolop; "Frenchmen
don't lie, at least not naturally, for in the human mind, as
I before said, the Divine Author has implanted a princi-
ple of veracity which,"
"My dear sir," interrupted Callythorpe, very affection-
ately, you remind me of what people say of you."
“
Memory may be reduced to sensation, since it is only
a weaker sensation," quoth Trollolop, "but proceed."
"You know, Trollolop," said Callythorpe, in a singu-
larly endearing intonation of voice, you know that I
never flatter: flattery is unbecoming a true friend, nay,
more, it is unbecoming a native of our happy isles; and
people do say of you, that you know nothing whatsoever,
no, not an iota, of all that nonsensical worthless philosophy,
of which your are always talking. Lord St. George said
the other day that you were very conceited.'-'No, not
conceited' replied Ďr.- only ignorant.' So if I were
you, Trollokop, I would cut metaphysics, you're not
offended?"
<<
By no means," cried Trollolop, foaming at the mouth.
For me part," said the good-hearted Sir Christopher,
whose wrb had now subsided, rubbing a pair of large,
well-fed king hands, -"for my part, I see no good in
any of these things; I never read, never, and I don't
see how I m a bit the worse for it. A good man, Linden,
n my opinion, only wants to do his duty, and that is very
easily dor"
"A good man! and what is good?" cried the meta-
physician triumphantly. "Is it implanted within us?
Hobbes, according to Reid, who is our last, and consequent-
y best, philosopher, endeavours to demonstrate that there is
no difference between right and wrong."
“ I have no idea of what you mean,” cried Sir Christo-
pher.
“Idea!” exclaimed the pious philosopher. "Sir, give
me leave to tell you that no solid proof has ever been ad-
vanced of the existence of ideas; they are a mere fiction
and hypothesis. Nay, sir, hence arises that skepticism
which disgraces our philosophy of the mind.' Ideas!
Findlater, you are a skeptic and an idealist."
"I?" cried the affrighted baronet; " upon my honor I
am no such thing. Every body knows that I am a Christian,
and -"
"Ah!" interrupted Callythorpe, with a solemn look,
every body knows that you are one of those horrid per-
sons, those atrocious deists, and atheists, and skeptics,
from whom the church and freedom of old England have
I am a true Briton of the good old
school; and I confess, Mr. Trollolop, that I do not like to
hear any opinions but the right ones.
suffered such danger.
<<
Right ones, being only those which Mr. Callythorpe
professes," sad Clarence.
"Exactly so!" rejoined Mr. Callythorpe.
"The human mind," commenced Mr. Trollolop, stirring
the fire; when Clarence, who began to be somewhat tired
of this conversation, rose.— "You will excuse me," said
Fe," but I am particularly engaged, and it is time to dress.
Harrison will get you tea, or whatever else you are inclin-
ed for."
“The human mind," renewed Trollolop, not heeding the
interruption; and Clarence forthwith left the room.
CHAPTER XXXII.
You blame Marcius for being proud.
Coriolanus.
Here is another fellow, a marvellous pretty hand at fashion-
ag a compliment.
Tanner of Tyburn.
THERE was a brilliant ball at Lady T 's, a person-
age who, every one knows, did, in the year 17—, give the
best balls, and have the best dressed people at them, n Lon
don. It was about half-past twelve, when Clarence, re-
leased from his three friends, arrived at the countess's.
When he entered, the first thing which struck him, was
Lord Borodaile in close conversation with Lady Flora.
*
Clarence paused for a few moments; and then, saunter
ing toward them, caught Flora's eye, colored, and ad-
vanced. Now, if there was a haughty man in Europe, it
was Lord Borodaile. He was not proud of his birth, nor
fortune, but he was proud of himself; and, next to that
pride, he was proud of being a gentleman. He had an ex-
ceeding horror of all common people; a Claverhouse-sort
of supreme contempt to puddle blood;" his lip seemed to
wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern self-admiration,
rather than self-love, sat upon his forehead as on a throne
He had, as it were, an awe of himself; his thoughts were
so many mirrors of Viscount Borodaile, dressed en dieu
His mind was a little Versailles, in which self sate like
Louis XIV., and saw nothing but pictures of its self, some-
times as Jupiter, and sometimes as Apollo. What marvel,
then, that Lord Borodaile was a very unpleasant compan-
ion; for every human being he had " something of con-
tempt." His eye was always eloquent in disdaining: to
the plebeian it said, "You are not a gentleman;" to the
prince, "You are not Lord Borodaile."
Yet, with all this, he had his good points. He was
brave as a lion; strictly honorable, even in play; and
though very ignorant, and very self-sufficient, had that sort
of dogged good sense which one very often finds in men of
stern hearts, who, if they have many prejudices, have little
feeling, to overcome.
Caddy
Very stifly, and very haughtily, did Lord Borodaile
draw up, when Clarence approached, and addressed Lady
Flora; much more stifly, and much more haughtily, did he
return, though with old fashioned precision of courtesy.
Clarence's bow, when Lady Westborough introduced them
to each other. Not that this hauteur was intended as a
particular affront; it was only the agreeability of his lord-
ship's general manner.
"Are you engaged?" said Clarence to Flora.
"I am at present to Lord Borodaile.”
After him, may I hope ?"
Lady Flora nodded assent, and disappeared with Lord
Borodaile.
His royal highness the Duke of - came up to Lady
Westborough; and Clarence, with a smiling countenance,
and an absent heart, plunged into the crowd. There he
met Lord Aspeden, in conversation with the Earl of Hol-
denworth, one of the administration.
Ah, Linden!" said the winning diplomatist, shaking
Clarence cordially by the hand," how are you! You have
been dancing of course? Ah? how wonderfully you ac-
complish a cotillion, nay! 'tis true, upon my honor it is!
You always remind me of the beautiful lines of the poet,
"We thought thy head unequall'd; now we greet
That head as far less heavy than thy feet.”
Clarence bowed. "Your lordship's compliments are
beyond all hope of return.’
""
"Nay, nay, my dear boy, never despair! consider I have
been twenty years in diplomacy.
"You forget," said Lord Holdenworth," that you prom.
ised to introduce me to your friend, Mr. Linden."
"Ah! so I did. Linden, let me introduce you to Lord
Holdenworth. I do assure your lordship that you will find
my young friend exceedingly clever; he plays the flute
beautifully; and your friend, Lord Quintown, when I told
him of it the other night, very justly said, that, that,
well, I quite forget what he said; but, however, rude it
may seem in me to do so, I do assure your lordship that it
is nothing more than my constant custom. I never can
remember a single word of what our friend says. But he
is so eloquent. His oratory always reminds me of the poet's
fine line on a stream,
"Which runs, and as it runs, for ever shall run on."
And at this flattering quotation, Lord Aspeden ceased,
and looked around for applause. Meanwhile, Lord Hol-
denworth entered into conversation with Clarence, in a
familiar tone and manner, not usually exercised by men in
power toward young gentlemen of twenty-three.
will dine with me, then, to-morrow, Mr. Linden?" said
the great man, as he moved away.
" You
Clarence bowed; and, turning, beheld fady Flora
whose hand he immediately claimed
176
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
'Tis true his nature may with faults abound ;
But who will cavil when the heart is sound?
STEPHEN MONTAGUE.
Dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria currunt.
Hon.
THE next day Sir Christopher Findlater called on
Clarence. "Let us lounge into the park," said he.
"With pleasure," replied Clarence; and into the park
they lounged.
By the way they met a crowd, who were hurrying a man
to prison. The good-hearted Sir Christopher stopped,
Who is that poor follow?" said he.
"It is the celebrated " - (in England all criminals are
celebrated. Thurtell was a hero, Thistlewood a patriot,
and Fauntleroy was discovered to be exactly Bonaparte !)
"it is the celebrated robber, John Jefferies, who broke
into Mrs. Wilson's house, and cut the throats of herself
and her husband, wounded the maid servant, and split the
child's skull with the poker."
Clarence pressed forward:
:-"I have seen that man
before," thought he. He looked again, and recognised
the face of the robber who had escaped from Talbot's house,
on the eventful night which had made Clarence's fortune.
It was a strongly marked, and rather handsome counte-
nance, which would not be easily forgotten: and a single
circumstance of excitement will stamp features on the
memory, as deeply as the commonplace intercourse of years.
"John Jefferies!" exclaimed the baronet,
"let us come
away."
،،
Linden," continued Sir Christopher, "that fellow
was my servant once. He robbed me to some considerable
extent, I caught him. He appealed to my heart, and you
know, my dear fellow, that was irresistible, so I let him off.
Who could have thought he would have turned out so?"
And the baronet proceeded to eulogize his own good nature,
by which it is just necessary to remark that one iniscreant
had been saved for a few years from transportation, in
order to rob and murder ad libitum, and, having fulfilled the
office of a common pest, to suffer on the gallows at last.
What a fine thing it is to have a good heart!
Both our gentlemen now sunk into a revery, from which
they were awakened, at the entrance of the park, by a
young man in rags, who, with a piteous tone, supplicated
charity. Clarence, who, to his honor be it spoken, spent
an allotted and considerable part of his income in judicious
and laborious benevolence, had read a little of political
morals, then beginning to be understood, and walked on.
The good-hearted baronet put his hand in his pocket, and
gave the beggar half a guinea, by which a young, strong
man, who had only just commenced the trade, was confirin-
ed in his imposition for the rest of his life; and, instead
of the useful support, became the pernicious encumbrance,
of society.
Sir Christopher had now recovered his spirits. "What's
like a good action!" said he to Clarence, with a swelling
breast.
"N ---that
that is to say, yes. I can, my ɔ
servant, Collard, is out of place, and is as ignoran as-
as
""
"I or you are," said Lord St. George, with a laugh.
Precisely," replied the baronet.
“Well, then, I take your recommendation: send him te
me to-morrow at twelve."
"I will,” said Sir Christopher.
My dear Findlater," cried Clarence, when Lord St.
George was gone, did you not tell me, some time ago,
ries ? and now you recommend him to Lord St. George!"
that Collard was a great rascal, and closely lié with Jefle-
Hush, hush, hush!" said the baronet : "he was a
great rogue to be sure; but, poor fellow, he came to me
yesterday, with tears in his eyes, and said he should starve
if I would not give him a character; so what could I do?"
"At least, tell Lord St. George the truth," observed
Clarence.
re-
"But then Lord St. George would not take him!
joined the good-hearted Sir Christopher, with forcible
naïveté. "No, no, Linden, we must not be so hard-heart
ed; we must forgive and forget;" and so saying, the bar-
onet threw out his chest, with the conscious exultation of
this little history is, that Lord St. George, having been
a man who has uttered a noble sentiment. The moral of
pillaged "through thick and thin," as the proverb has it,
for two years, at last missed a gold watch, and Monsieur
Collard finished his career, as his exemplary tutor, Mr
John Jefferies, had done before him. Ah! what a fine
thing it is to have a good heart.
But to return, just as our wanderers had arrived at the
farther end of the park, Lady Westborough and her daugh-
ter passed them. Clarence, excusing himself to his friend,
hastened toward thein, and was soon occupied in saying
the prettiest things in the world to the prettiest person,
at least in his eyes; while Sir Christopher, having done
as much mischief as a good heart well can do in a walk
of an hour, returned home to write a long letter to his
mother, against "learning, and all such nonsense, which
only served to blunt the affections and harden the
heart."
"Admirable young man!" cried the mother, with
tears in her eyes: "a good heart is better than all the
heads in the world."
Amen!
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Arbaces. Why now you flatter,
Mardonius.—I never understood the word.
A King and no King.
PUNCTUALLY at the appointed dinner hour, did Cla
rence find himself at the house of Lord Holdenworth.
Trollolop, the other Lord Aspeden; Lady Holdenworth, a
Two persons only had yet arrived. The one was Mr
meek, mild, matronly woman, was sitting by the window,
and his lordship standing, à l'Anglais, with his back to the
grate, even though there was no fire from which to exclude
the rest of the party.
In all houses, it was Clarence's great rule, for which he
with the mistress, cost what it might with the rest. Accord-
was indebted to the precepts of Talbot, to make friends
with the mistress, cost what it might with the rest. Accord-
ingly, he lost no time in paying his court to Lady Holden-
The park was crowded to excess; our loungers were
Joined by Lord St. George. His lordship was a staunch
Tory. He could not endure Wilkes, liberty, or general
education. He launched out against the enlightenment* of
"What has made you so bitter?" said Sir Chris-worth, a person who, being neither young, handsome, nor
opher.
domestics.
My valet," cried Lord St. George," he has in-
ented a new toasting fork, is going to take out a patent,
make his fortune, and leave me; that's what I call ingrati-
tude, Sir Christopher; for I ordered his wages to be raised
five pounds but last year.
CC
دو
"It was very ungrateful," said the ironical Clarence.
Very!" reiterated the good-hearted Sir Christopher.
"You cannot recommend me a valet, Findlater,"
newed his lordship, "a good, honest, sensible fellow, who
can neither read nor write?"
re-
greatly à la mode, was very little accustomed to such at-
tention, and par conséquence, very easily pleased. Just as
Clarence had succeeded in winning his way into the good
graces of the countess, the door was thrown open, and
Lord Quintown entered. Then came another nobleman,—
then another, then a lady, then another;
increased, the daylight waned,-the number was comple-
ted, and the dinner began.
the party
Lord Aspeden sat next to Madame de Crumenbach, one
of the plumpest (plumpness is a beauty) women in al.
Austria, and wife of one of the thinnest men in the same
empire; les éxtrêmes se touchent; below him, though not im-
* The ancestors of our present footmen, if we may believe mediately, sat Clarence; and opposite to Clarence, Mr.
Sir William Temple, seem to have been to the full as intellec- Henry Trollolop, a person whom Callythorpe, rather hu-
tual as their descendants. "I have had," observes the philoso-morously than (according to Cicero's and Berkeley's ap
plication of the epithet) justly, designated by the title of
the "Minute Philosopher."
phic statesmen, "several servants fur gone in divinity, others in
poetry; have known in the families of some friends, a keeper
deep in the Rosicrusian mysteries, and a 1 undress firm in those
of Epicurus."
Were you at Lady T.'s ball last night?" said Lord
THE DISOWNED.
177
Aspeden to Madame de Crumenbach, with his most insin-
aating air.
"Yes," replied madame, in French, "what a charming
ball it was!""
“Ah,” observed Lord Aspeden, inclining his face closely
to Madame de Crumenbach, with the air of one going to
make a charming remark, "I knew you would think so,
you must be very fond of dancing.
It was with the greatest difficulty poor Madame de Cru-
menbach could descend the stairs; judge then of the pecu-
liar appositeness of the diplomatist's polite observation.
"Lord Aspeden," said the handsome Lord Quintown,
"suffer me to take wine with you !”
What the diplomatist replied escaped every ear but that
for which it was intended; but, by the courtly bow and
smile which accompanied his words, and the hurried look
of discomfiture with which Quintown turned to renew his
conversation with his next neighbour, we imagine that
Lord Aspeden's answer was made with his usual happiness
of expression.
CC
The dinner past, the dessert appeared, the Duchess
of Cosmowell sat opposite to Lord Aspeden,
she painted
more systematically than any woman in London, since the
death of Lady E-
who kept a repairer.
Lord Aspeden, who took every thing for la belle nature,
and particularly admired a fine complexion, had long
watched his opportunity. It came, he seized it.
"Your grace must allow me," said he, with his sweet-
est smile," to send you a peach."
The duchess shook her head, (you may be sure it was
very gently, "for gentle motions are required by art."
No! well, then," said Lord Aspeden, with a senti-
inental sigh, "I must take one for your sake."
"And why for my sake " asked the duchess, smiling.
"Because" answered Lord Aspeden, with a profound
now," it reminds me of your grace's complexion; for, as
the dramatist has said,
DOW,
"In her cheek the hues
Were painted in the fashion of a peach.”
The duchess drew back, and Lord Aspeden looked
the picture of vanity at a dinner table smiling on itself.
The ladies withdrew, the men drew nearer to each
other; presently all was silence, and then the great deeps
were broken up, and all was the "flow of soul." Sir
John Seaford, a prodigious eater, and a particularly good
ellow, found himself next to Lord Aspeden
"Mantua væ miseræ nimium Vicina Cremona."
Now, all the world knows that Sir John Seaford had, in
17, one of the prettiest wives possible. We say all the
world knows, for it was not poor Lady Seaford's fault, if
all the world did not know it; and at that particular time,
Mr. Tarleton, the Grammont of the day, flattered himself
that he knew more about the matter than all the rest.
"A splendid woman, the Duchess of Cosmowell," said
Lord Aspeden, emphatically, to Sir John.
"Humph! a miserable confiture this!" said the par-
ticularly good fellow.
"And what is more," resumed Lord Aspeden, with a
confidential air, "I think she is very much like Lady Seat
ford."
"You do, do you, my lord," said Sir John. "May I
request you to pass the wine."
"I do declare," resumed the flattering diplomatist,
"that Lady Seaford is the paragon' of London; and
when I told Mr. Tarleton so, the other night, he said, very
prettily, that then you were the crescent; meaning I
suppose, that you were always coupled together."
>
My dear lord," cried Sir John, across the table," just
make room for me beside you. I have something to speak
to you about."
And the baronet rising with a most un-
wonted celerity, Lord Aspeden was " left alone in his glo-
ry."
voce.
"How rude some people are," said he to Clarence, sotto
"It's only we of the corps diplomatique who know
any thing des petites mœurs et des grâces de la cour.
Politics were now touched upon. A severe attack had
been made on the administration about three nights ago,
and Lord Quintown was a little sore on the subject.
"We must depend on your vote to-morrow night," said
he to Lord Aspeden, " for it 's absolutely necessary that
we should muster strong, and set a good face on the mat-
ter."
VOL 1
23
|
6
"True, my lord," said Lord Aspeden, en souriant aim-
ablement, "for Machiavel well observes that a good face
is thought the sign of a good conscience,' and I may, there-
fore well say to your lordship, in the beautiful lines of
Pope:
"That's thy wall of brass
Compared to this a minister 's an ass!"?
There was a general smile. Lord Aspeden smiled more
than all the rest. It was the sweetest compliment he had
ever paid, and two quotations into the bargain.
"Few people," said he, in a whisper to Clarence
"combine wit and learning: that union is reserved for
us."
But if Lord Aspeden had so well availed himself of hi
opportunities, his attaché had been no less on the alert
He had quoted Swift to a Whig who had ratted, and his
own speeches to the handsome minister. He had talked
without ceasing to the silent Mr. Mumford, and listene
without speaking to the loquacious Earl of Chatterton.
The party rose, and Clarence left the room first.
"What a wonderful young man!" said Lord Quin
town.
"Wonderful!" said the Whig who had ratted.
"So modest," said Mr. Mumford.
"And so eloquent," added the Earl of Chatterton.
"He is indeed prodigiously clever," observed Lord As-
peden, "and very musical too. You must hear him play
the flute."
"While his minister plays the fool," muttered Lord
Quintown.
"Chacun à son métier!" answered Lord Holdenworth,
who overheard him. "Will your lordship join the la-
dies? "'*
CHAPTER XXXV.
What say you to men of wit? I hope their conversation
of a higher degree in your esteem.
The Humors and Conversations of the Town.
"My dear Linden," said Mr. Trollolop (how the name
glides off my pen!) "this is unworthy a philosopher. We
are both asked to Mrs. Mossop's, all the literati will be
there. It is not yet too late, let us go. The human
mind —
""
—
"We will go !" interrupted Clarence.
They passed Lord Aspeden. He was whispering little
melodies into the ear of the Duchess of Cosmowell. "To
your grace," said he, raising his voice, in order that the
two young men might hear, to profit by his appropriate
flattery, to
of our great poet,
your grace may indeed be applied the lines
You are all
CC
"That painting can express,
Or
The closing door shut out the concluding .ne from the
ears of our adventurer and philosopher.
The Mrs. Mossop of that day was the Lydia of this.
Is there a man of wit, taste, or notoriety in England, who
has not heard of Lydia. If so, let him, for a punishment,
(the moral legislation of the present age punishes our mis-
fortunes, not our faults,) go and drink tea with Lady De
He will then know, by contrast, the value of Lydia. Poor
Lydia! who among all thy friends mourns while he misses
thee! But thou wast a philosopher in thy patience, and
didst know the depth and breadth of all worldly friend-
ships. Thou didst know that while the tie lasts there is
union, and when death divides it forgetfulness flings the
broken-strings into her panniers, where all the loves,
hatred, hopes, and fears of our ancestors lie "with the
things before the flood." How unjust are we in our selfish
ness, when we ask from our summer acquaintances that
strength and fidelity of fondness which we find not in the
Loves wherein we have built our shelter from the winds, and
anchored our refuge in the storm! How often the wounds
of our vanity make the secret of our pathos. We sigh be-
cause we grave no lasting character in the very hearts
which, while we repine that they cannot bless us, we own
that we cannot bless; and we breathe our mortifications
into music, because the minions we despise are
*It has been objected to the character of Lord Aspeden, that
no English diplomatist could be such a fool; yet my Lord Í
was ambassado. at Vienna.
173
BULWER'S NOVELS.
whom he recognised the truth of the usual description given
of the great lexicographer.
"It is indeed, sir! said Mr. Boswell, staring at him.
with eyes so ludicrously dilated that Clarence could scarce-
ly forbear laughing: it is indeed. How do you feel, sir ?
Somewhat awe-stricken, eh! But never mind it. Had you,
"None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less."
Happy, perhaps, for us, that our poetry decreases as our
knowledge advances. Happy, even though we regret the
change, that the over keenness of the sword is blunted, that
it gains in its strength what it looses in its edge, and is no
longer too sharp for the sheath, and too brittle for resist-like me, the extreme happiness to be intimately acquainted
ance.
When Clarence and the "Minute Philosopher" arrived
at Mrs. Mossop's, they found about a dozen people assem-
bled. The lady herself reclined on a sofa, and was not
the least animated of the party, nor altogether forgetful of
the day when she was more anxious for the distinction of
the belle than the reputation of the savante.
Have you
The conversation turned upon painting.
seen Sir Joshua's last picture?" said Mr. Nettletop,
usually termed Nose Nettletop, a great literary character,
for he had seen the pyramids, contemplated answering Ju-
nus, wore a loose neck-cloth, and had a nose to which
hat of the stranger in Slawkenbergius's tale was a snub.
"No," answered Trollolop, with contempt, for, like
all false pretenders to science, he affected to despise the
arts, no, such trifles I hold to be unworthy of the human
CC
mind!
"And pray," said Lady Dryaden, who was a bit of a
humorist, "do you so very highly estimate the human
mind?"
"Estimate it, madam! by no means we are only
better than the brutes because of our exterior organization."
"You do well to despise the fine arts, then," said Lady
Dryaden.
"Sir Joshua," observed some one, sagely, " is a very
tolerable painter."
"In the human mind," said Trollolop, taking snuff em-
phatically, and see-sawing himself to and fro in his chair,
"in the human mind we may resolve our original per-
ceptions into particular principles of the human constitu-
tion -"
When, at that instant, the chair, not being accustomed
to be see-sawed by a philosopher, gave way, and Mr. Trol-
lolop fell with a sudden violence on the floor.
It was a very heavy fall," cried Lady Dryaden, pity-
ingly.
It was a law of nature," said the philosopher, rising,
and rubbing himself, with tears in his eyes.
"The chair was in fault," observed Mrs. Mossop; "it is
an easy chair.”
"I should think, rather," said Mr. Nose Nettletop,
wisely, "that the floor was in fault; it is a hard floor.'
"You are both mistaken," said Mr. Trollolop; "my
constitution was in fault: hardness and motion are partic-
ular principles of the human constitution.”
"I cannot think so," said Nose Nettletop, crossing his
legs with the determined manner of one who is about to
contest a point.
"You cannot think so!" cried the philosopher, who,
being still in pain, was naturally inclined to be testy;
"then give me leave to tell you, sir, that you violate one of
the most sacred laws of Nature. In the human mind, Mr.
Nettletop," (and here Trollolop looked round with a seri-
ous air,) "there is an original principle, implanted by the
Supreme Being, to confide in the veracity of others, and to
believe what they tell us.
""
"How learned Mr. Trollolop is!" said a gentleman,
more credulous than wise, to Mr. Perrivale.
"Yes,"growled
Yes, growled the wit; "he is what Etherege calls
a person of great acquired follies.'"
Clarence moved away toward another group: he was
stopped by a gentleman, who appeared to him somewhat
inspired by the rosy god a very ludicrous air of self-im-
portance sat upon a countenance naturally a little pert, and
somewhat insignificant. Walking on his tiptoes up to
Clarence, with whom he was very slightly acquainted, this
gentleman said, - "I congratulate you, I congratulate you
heartily, Mr. Linden.”
"Pardon me, Mr. Boswell, for what?"
C
with that illustrious sage, you would grow accustomed to
the air of greatness, nay, you would partake of its na
ture. I will tell you a wonderful anecdote of my immorta
friend. As we were driving the other day to Ashbourne,
Dr. Johnson recommended me to drink water only; for,'
said he, with his usual intelligence, and unrivalled profund-
ity of observation, - for if you drink water only, you are
sure never to get drunk; whereas if you drink wine, you
are never sure!'"*
"Admirable, indeed!" said Clarence, dryly, "I won-
der you do not give such notable sayings to the world; it
would be ten thousand pies if in the existence of type
and paper, the public were deprived of so much of the
Johnsonian ethereality!'"
"But the public shan't, sir, it shan't,' said Mr. Bos-
well, with great vivacity. "I have them all down in a
book already."
CC
"I suppose," said Clarence," that I dare not venture to
ask an introduction to your extraordinary friend?”
Why, yes, sir! he is the most affable of beings,
little rough or so; may tell you, you are a knave or a fool;
but he is really the gentlest of moralists.
I will give you,
sir, a memorable instance. I thought I had had reason to
complain of my illustrious friend, at a dinner party at Sir
Joshua Reynolds's, upon the 12th of April last; and some
time afterward I told him he had been too hard upon me.
Sir,' said the enlightened sage,
C you are an unnatural
Scotchman, ignorant of your own interest. You resemble
a drum, and it is only by being too hard upon you, that I
can arouse you from your empty inanity into the distinction
of making a noise.' There was something truly dignified
in this benevolent rebuke; and it is the more remarkablo
because it contains a sort of puu, a species of wit general-
ly odious to my illustrious friend!
:
"Good heavens!" thought Clarence, in astonishment,
can any man be such a simpleton as to boast of being a
butt." Poor Clarence! he knew not that it was reserved
for Mr. Boswell to be the Dogberry of the age, and to feel
proud "of writing himself an ass.
"But come, sir," said Mr. Boswell," I will just whis-
per your wish to my illustrious friend, and I do not doubt
that he will render you happy for life, by suffering you to
spend a few minutes in listening to the profound wisdom of
the great Dr. Johnson."
:
Clarence bowed the whisper was made; an introduc-
tion took place; and Clarence, drawing a chair into the
verge of the Johnsonian vicinity, was, in the opinion of
Mr. Boswell, rendered happy for life.
With the person who sat next to him, Clarence was
greatly struck. This was a stout and somewhat clumsily
built man, tawdrily dressed, and of rather an affected man-
ner; but Clarence had already learnt that great men are not
altogether free from the peculiarities of little men, and did
not, on account of a few innocent coxcombries, do as Mr.
Boswell was inclined to do, and set down his neighbor as
a fool; on the contrary, he imagined that he saw in a fore-
head remarkably broad, and finely developed, and in an
eye, which, while the rest of the countenance seemed
supine and heavy, never relaxed in a quick, though half care-
less, observation of all around, something not only con-
tradicting the clownish stupidity usually supposed to char-
acterize the air of the person in question, but strongly
indicative of genius.
"Who is my neighbour to the right ?" whispered Cla-
rence to Boswell.
"O! only Goldy!
ferent contempt.
Goldy !
CC
" said Boswell, with a tone of indif
repeated Clarence ; "who is he?"
Why, sir, he is the author of the Traveller,' and the
History of England,' and some other very ingenious
"For what, sir!" answered Mr. Boswell, elevating his
eyebrows, "for what do you not see, sir, that you are pieces."
?
in the same room, nay, within a few feet of the Colossus of
the
age?
Do you not feel elated as it were, -now that
you are breathing the Johnsonian ethereality?"
"Is that indeed, the celebrated Dr. Johnson?" said
Clarence, looking toward a large and singular figure in
"What! is that the great Goldsmith, the first poet, comic
writer, and novelist, (without the most distant comparison,)
of the day?" said Clarence, in surprise that Mr. Boswell,
having so much admiration for the author of the Rambler,'
Literally in Boswell's Life, Vol. III. p. 165.
<
THE DISOWNED.
179
and London,' had tone for the author of the Traveller'
and Vicar of Wakefield.'
<
"The same, sir," said Boswell, blowing his nose.
"He does not like the great Johnson to call him Goldy,
though that illustrious personage calls even me Bozzy.'
You surprise me !" said Clarence.
"Hist!" said Boswell, "the doctor is about to speak.'
And Clarence listened, and was indeed delighted and
surprised. The doctor was a little excited by a home
thrust from Beauclerk, (who, secure in the courage and
ready wit of a man who had made his intellect live for
the world, appears to have been the boldest of Johnson's
coterie,) and excited into warmth without reaching rude-
ness, his eloquence rioted in one of its happiest and most
luxuriant displays.
After a speech, rather of oratorical than conversational
length, Johnson concluded, by observing that "Truth,
requiring unwearied solicitation, frequently yielded to the
modesty of patience what she had denied to the arrogance
of wisdom or the impetuosity of genius.”
Then," said Goldsmith, who had for some time
been in vain endeavouring to speak, and who now re-
taliated by a reproof joined to a compliment, "then,
doctor, the lady is more likely to favor your listeners than
yourself."
in the opposite direction? Because, my dear reader, in
Hanover-square lived Lady Westborough, and it was Cla-
rence's nightly custom to watch at a certain hour beneath
the windows of that house which held the lady of his love,
until he had caught one glimpse of her form, or, some-
times, for she appreciated the gallantry, though she re-
proached the indiscretion, till he received some token in
return, -a look, a gesture, a flower, dropped from the
window, or a kiss of the hand, committed to the heraldry
of the air.
It was a beautiful, still night, and the stars looked ou
upon the deserted streets, making even cities holy
Clarence walked on, calmly and musingly, yielding him.
self up to the mellow and tender melancholy which such
nights instil into all hearts, not yet grown too chilled and
stubborn for romance. When he came to the house, all
was silent; the shutters were closed, and the lights veiled.
With a sickening and disappointed heart, he turned away.
As he entered George-street, he observed a man before
him walking with an uneven and agitated step. His right
hand was clenched, and he frequently raised it as with a
sudden impulse, and struck fiercely as if at some imagined
enemy. He is one of the magazine poets, thought Clarence,
or possibly the laureate himself.
The stranger slackened his pace. Clarence passed him,
and, turning round to satisfy a curiosity which his supposi-
tion had inspired, his eye met a dark, lowering, iron coun-
"What a pity," said Mr. Boswell, with an air of con- tenance, which, despite the lapse of four years, he recogni-
temptuous superiority, "what a pity that poor Goldy shouldsed on the moment;- it was Wolfe, the republican.
attempt to shine!"
"Sir," said Doctor Johnson, “ you are politely un-
civil!
יי !
And forthwith Mr. Boswell blazed off in an harangue.
"Bozzy," said the doctor with a paternal air, inter-
rupting his disciple in a most luminous period, Bozzy,
you certainly exhibit a singular ostentation of colloquial
volubility."
C
—
The delighted Laird of Auchinleck bowed.
"Such praise from the illustrious Johnson is more val-
uable than degrees from all the universities of Europe.
>>
Why, yes, sir," resumed the sage, more gravely;
your talk is to your intellect what extravagance is to
poverty: the nakedness of the reality is not concealed by
the glitter of the show; and, while the spendthrift ima-
gines he is attracting applause by his profusion, he is
exciting only ridicule for his pretensions, or compassion
for his folly."
What a pity poor Bozzy should attempt to shine,"
said Beauclerk, dryly; and the doctor rising with a chuckle,
the group was broken up.
Clarence lounged away, and found himself by Trol-
olop.
"The human mind," said the would-be-metaphysician,
"I think I have now proved to your satisfaction, is a
substance, unextended and indivisible; and, consequently,
a mere bundle of ideas. It is, you perceive, incapable of
attaining above a certain pitch, and is therefore enabled to
arrive at the highest perfection; and, consequently, before
many centuries are past, all the world will be philosophers,
and as nothing exists to a philosopher, the philosophers will
De all the world !
"I understand you then," said Lady Dryaden. "In
a few centuries, as there will be nothing but philosophers,
who are nothing, every thing will be nothing."
"Clearly so !" said Trollolop, taking snuff.
"What a fine thing for philosophers!" cried Lady
Dryaden.
By no means" said Mr. Nose Nettletop, gravely; "for
when they have reduced every thing into nothing, they
will only fall to work again, and make every thing out of
othing."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"Make way, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, or you will compel me to
do that I may be sorry for!"
"You shall make no way here but at your peril," said Sir
Geoffrey; "this is my ground."
Peveril of the Peak.
WHEN Clarence left Mrs. Mossup's house, why, instead
of returning home like a rational man, did he go exactly
A very common complaint with Mr. Boswell See his Life
*
œf Jeanson.
Clarence moved, involuntarily, with a quicker step; but,
in a few minutes, Wolfe, who was vehemently talking to
himself, once more passed him: the direction he took was
also Clarence's way homeward, and he therefore followed
the republican, though at some slight distance, and on the
opposite side of the way. A gentleman on foot, apparent-
ly returning from a party, met Wolfe, and, with an air,
half unconscious, took the wall; though, according to old
fashioned rules of street courtesy, he was on the wrong
side for asserting the claim. The stern republican started,
drew himself up to his full height, and sturdily and dogged-
ly placed himself directly in the way of the unjust claim-
ant. Clarence was now nearly opposite to the two, and
saw all that was going on.
With a motion, a little rude and very contemptuous, the
passenger attempted to put Wolfe aside, and win his path.
Little did he know of the unyielding nature he had to do
with; the next instant, the republican, with a strong hand,
forced him from the pavement into the very kennel, and
silently and coldly continued his way.
The wrath of the discomfited passenger was vehemently
kindled.
"Insolent dog!" cried he, in a loud and arrogant tone,
your baseness is your protection." Wolfe turned rapid-
ly, and made but two strides before he was once more by
the side of his defeated opponent.
"What were you pleased to observe?" said he, in his
low, deep, hoarse voice.
Clarence stopped. There will be mischief done here,
thought he, as he called to mind the stern temper of the
republican.
Merely," said the other, struggling with his rage,
"that it is not for men of my rank to avenge the insults
offered us by those of yours!
"Your rank,” said Wolfe, bitterly retorting the con-
tempt of the stranger, in a tone of the loftiest disdain;
your rank, poor changeling! And what are you, that you
should lord it over me? Are your limbs stronger? your
muscles firmer ? your proportions juster? or, if you dis-
claim physical comparisons, are your mental faculties of a
higher order than his who now mocks at your pretensions,
and challenges you to prove them?
them? Are the treasures of
science expanded to your view? Are you lord of the ely-
sinn of poetry, or the thunderbolts of eloquence? Have
you wit to illumine, or judgment to combine, or energy to
control or are you, what in reality you appear, dwindled
and stunted in the fair size and sinews of manhood,
overbearing, yet impotent, tyrannical, yet ridiculous?
Fool! fool! (and here Wolfe's voice rose, and his dark
countenance changed its expression of mockery into fierce
ness,)-go home and revenge yourself on your slaves,
for the reproof you have drawn down upon yourself! Go:
goad! gall! trample! the more you grind your minions
now, the more terrible will be their retribution hereafter
130
BULWER'S NOVELS.
*
Excite them beyond endurance, with your weak and frivo-
lous despotisms, the debauched and hideous abortions of a
sickly and unnatural state of civilization! Go! every
insult, every oppression you heap on those whom God has
subjected to your hand, but accelerates the day of their
emancipation, but files away, link by link, the iron of
their bondage, -but sharpens the sword of justice, which,
in the first wrath of an incensed and awakened people,
becomes also for their conquered oppressors the weapon of
.evenge!"
The republican ceased, and pushing the stranger aside,
turned slowly away. But this last insult enraged the pas-
senger (who, during the whole of the reformer's harangue,
had been almost foaming with passion) beyond all pru-
dence. Before Wolfe had proceeded two paces, he mutter-
ed a desperate, but brief, oath, and struck the reformer
with a strength so much beyond what his slight and small
figure appeared to possess, that the powerful and gaunt
frame of Wolfe recoiled backward several steps, and, had
it not been for the iron railing of the neighbouring area,
would have fallen to the ground.
Clarence pressed forward; the face of the rash aggressor
was turned toward him; the features were Lord Boro-
daile's. He had scarcely time to make this discovery,
before Wolfe had recovered himself. With a wild and
savage cry, rather than exclamation, he threw himself
upon his antagonist, twined his sinewy arms round the
frame of the struggling, but powerless, nobleman, raised
him in the air, with the easy strength of a man lifting a
child, held him aloof for one moment, with a bitter and
scornful laugh of wrathful derision, and then dashed him
to the ground, and, planting his foot upon Borodaile's
breast, said,
"So shall it be with all of you: there shall be but one
instant between your last offence and your first but final
debasement. Lie there! it is your proper place! By the
only law which you yourself acknowledge, the law which
gives the right divine to the strongest; if you stir limb or
muscle I will crush the breath from your body.
But Clarence was now by the side of Wolfe, a new and
more powerful opponent.
"Look you," said he: "you have received an insult,
and you have done justice yourself. I condemn the offence,
and quarrel not with you for the punishment; but that
punishment is now past: remove your foot, or,
"What?"shouted Wolfe, fiercely, every vein in his
countenance swelling, and his lurid and vindictive eye,
from its black and shaggy brow, flashing with the released
fire of long-pent and cherished passions.
"Or," answered Clarence, calmly, "I will hinder you
from committing murder."
At that instant, the watchman's voice was heard, and
the night's guardian himself was seen hastening from the
far end of the street toward the place of contest. Wheth-
er this circumstance, or Clarence's answer, somewhat
changed the current of the republican's thoughts, or
whether his anger, suddenly raised, was now as suddenly
subsiding, it is not easy to decide; but he slowly and deli-
berately moved his foot from the breast of his baffled foe,
and, bending down, seemed endeavouring to ascertain the
mischief he had done. Lord Borodaile was perfectly in-
sensible.
"You have killed him!" cried Clarence, in a voice of
horror," but you shall not escape;" and he placed a des-
perate and nervous hand on the republican.
"Stand off," said Wolfe, "my blood is up! I would not
do more violence to-night than I have done. Stand off!
the man moves; his hour is not yet come.
And Lord Borodaile, uttering a long sigh and attempting
to rise, Clarence released his hold of the republican, and
bent down to assist the fallen nobleman. Meanwhile,
Wolfe, muttering to himself, turned from the spot, and
strode haughtily away.
The watchman now came up, and, with his aid, Clarence
raised Lord Borodaile. Bruised, stunned, half-insensible
as he was, that personage lost none of his characteristic
stateliness; he shook off the watchman's arm, as if there
was contamination in the touch; and his countenance, still
menacing and defying in its expression, turned abruptly
coward Clarence as if he yet expected to meet and struggle
with a foe.
"How are you, my lord?" said Linden; "not severely
mrt. I trust ?"
Mr. Linden,
"Well, quite well," cried Boroaaile.
I think I thank you cordially for your assistance; but
think?—I
the dog, the rascal, where is he?”
"Gone," said Clarence.
—
"Gone! Where, where?" cried Borodaile; "that
living man should insult me, and yet escape !
"Which way did the fellow go?" said the watchman,
anticipative of half a crown. "I will run after him in a
trice, your honor,- I warrant I nab him."
"I leave my
rr
No, no,-" said Borodaile, haughtily;
quarrels to no man: if I could not master him myself, no
one else shall do it for me. Mr. Linden, excuse me, but
I am perfectly recovered, and can walk very well without
your polite assistance. Mr. Watchman, I am obliged to
you; there is a guinea to reward your trouble."
With these words, intended as a farewell, the proud
patrician, smothering his pain, bowed with extreme cour
tesy to Clarence,-again thanked him, and walked on un-
aided, and alone.
"He is a game blood," said the watchman, pocketing
the guinea.
"He is worthy his name," thought Clarence; "though
he was in the wrong, my heart yearns to bim."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Things wear a vizard which I think to like not.
Tanner of Tyburn.
CLARENCE, from that night, appeared to have formed a
sudden attachment to Lord Borodaile.
He took every op
portunity of cultivating his intimacy, and invariably treated
him with a degree of consideration which his knowledge.
of the world told him was well calculated to gain the good
will of his haughty and arrogant acquaintance; but all this
was ineffectual in conquering Borodaile's coldness and
reserve. To have been once seen in a humiliating and
degrading situation is quite sufficient to make a proud man
hate the spectator, and, with the confusion of all prejudiced
minds, to transfer the sore remembrance of the event to
the association of the witness. Lord Borodaile, though
always ceremoniously civil, was immovably distant; and
avoided, as well as he was able, Clarence's insinuating
approaches and address. To add to his indisposition to
increase his acquaintance with Linden, a friend of his, a
captain in the Guards, once asked him who that Mr. Lin-
den was? and on his lordship's replying that he did not
know, Mr. Percy Bobus, the son of a wine merchant,
though the nephew of a duke, rejoined, Nobody does
know."
"Insolent intruder !" thought Lord Borodaile: "A man
whom nobody knows to make such advances to me!"
A still greater cause of dislike to Clarence arose from
jealousy. Ever since the first night of his acquaintance
with Lady Flora, Lord Borodaile had paid her unceasing
attention. In good earnest, he was greatly struck by her
beauty, and had for the last year been thinking of the ne-
cessity of presenting the world with a Lady Borodaile.
Now, though his lordship did look upon himself in as fa-
vorable a light as a man well can do, yet he could not but
own that Clarence was very handsome, had a devilish
gentlemanlike air,-talked with a better grace than the
generality of young men, and danced to perfection.
detest that fellow!" said Lord Borodaile, involuntarily
and aloud, as these unwilling truths forced themselves upon
his mind.
" I
"Whom do you detest?" asked Mr Percy Bobus, whe
was lying on the sofa in Lord Borodaile's drawing-room
and admiring a pair of red heeled shoes which decorated
his feet.
"That puppy, Linden!" said Lord Borodaile, adjusting
his cravat.
"He is a deused puppy, certainly!" rejoined Mr. Percy
Bobus, turning round in order to contemplate more exactly
the shape of his right shoe. "I can't bear conceit, Bo
rodaile."
“Nor I,—I abhor it,—it is so d—d disgusting!" replied
Lord Borodaile, leaning his chin upon his two hands, and
looking full into the glass. "Do you use Mac Neil's di-
vine pomatum ?"
No, it's too hard; I get mine from Paris: shall I send
you some?"
THE DISOWNE D.
181
"Do," said Lord Borodaile.
"Mr. Linden, my lord," said the servant, throwing
open the door; and Clarence entered.
"I am very fortunate," said he, with that smile which
to few ever resisted, " to find you at home, Lord Borodaile;
but as the day was wet, I thought I should have some
chance of that pleasure: I therefore wrapped myself up
my roquelaire, and me voici !"
in
Now, nothing could be more diplomatic than the com-
pliment of choosing a wet day for a visit, and exposing one's
self to the "pitiless shower," for the greater probability
of finding the visited at home. Not so thought Lord Boro-
daile; he drew himself up, bowed very solemnly, and said,
with cold gravity,
"You are very obliging, Mr. Linden."
Clarence colored, and bit his lip as he seated himself.
Mr. Percy Bobus, with true insular breeding, took up the
newspaper.
"I think I saw you at Lady C.'s last night," said Cla-
rence; did you stay there long?"
rr
No, indeed," answered Borodaile; "I hate her
parties
"One does meet such odd people there," observed Mr.
Percy Bobus; "creatures one never sees any where else."
"I hear," said Clarence, who never abused any one,
even the givers of stupid parties, if he could help it, and
therefore thought it best to change the conversation,
<< I
hear, Lord Borodaile, that some hunters of yours are to be
sold. I purpose being a bidder for Thunderbolt."
*
"I have a horse to sell you, Mr. Linden," cried Mr.
Percy Bobus, springing from the sofa into civility, a su-
perb creature.
"Thank you,” said Clarence, laughing; "but I can only
afford to buy one, and I have taken a great fancy to Thun-
derbolt."
Lord Borodaile, whose manners were very antiquated in
their affability, bowed. Mr. Bobus sank back into his
sofa, and resumed the paper.
A pause ensued.
Clarence was chilled in spite of him-
self. Lord Borodaile played with a paper cutter.
"Have you been to Lady Westborough's lately?" said
Clarence, breaking silence.
"I was there last night," replied Lord Borodaile.
"Indeed!" cried Clarence. "I wonder I did not see
you there, for I dined with them.”
Lord Borodaile's hair curled of itself." He dined there,
and I only asked in the evening," thought he; but his sar-
castic temper suggested a very different reply.
"Ah," said he, elevating his eyebrows," Lady West-
borough told me she had some people to dinner, whom she
had been obliged to ask. Bobus, is that the Public Adver-
tiser? See whether that d-d fellow Junius has been wri-
ting any more of his stupid letters.'
Clarence was not a man apt to take offence, but he felt
his bile rise it will not do to show it, thought he; so he
made some further remark in a jesting vein; and, after a
very ill sustained conversation of some minutes longer,
rose, apparently in the best humor possible, and departed,
with a solemn intention never again to enter the house.
Thence he went to Lady Westborough's.
The marchioness was in her boudoir; Clarence was, as
usual, admitted, for Lady Westborough loved amusement
above all things in the world, and Clarence had the art of
affording it better than any young man of her acquaintance.
On entering, he saw Lady Flora hastily retreating through
an opposite door. She turned her face toward him for one
nicment, that moment was sufficient to freeze his blood:
the large tears were rolling down her cheeks, which were
as white as death, and the expression of those features,
usually so laughing and joyous, was that of utter and inef-
fable despair.
Lady Westborough was as lively, as bland, and as agree-
able as ever; but Clarence thought he detected something
restrained and embarrassed lurking beneath all the graces
of her exterior manner; and the single glance he had
caught of the pale and altered face of Lady Flora was not
calculated to reassure his unind or animate his spirits. His
visit was short; when he left the room, he lingered for a
few moments in the antichamber, in the hope of again see-
ing Lady Flora. While thus loitering, his ear caught the
sound of Lady Westborough's voice : When Mr. Linden
calls again, you have my orders never to admit him into this
vom; he will be shown into the drawing-room,"
With a hasty step and a burning cheek Clarence quitted
the house, and hurried, first to his solitary apartments, and
thence (like all men under the fever of excitement, impa-
tient of loneliness) to the peaceful retreat of his benefactor.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A maiden's thoughts do check my trembling hand.
DRAYTON.
THERE is something very delightful in turning from the
unquietness and agitation, the fever, the ambition, the
harsh and worldly realities of man's character, to the gen
tle and deep recesses of woman's more secret heart. With
in her musings is a realm of haunted and fairy thought, to
which the things of this turbid and troubled life have no
entrance. What to her are the changes of state, the rival-
ries and contentions which form the staple of our exist
ence ? For her there is an intense and fond philosophy,
before whose eye substances flit and fade like shadows, and
shadows grow glowingly into truth. Her soul's creations
are not as the moving and mortal images seen in the com-
mon day they are things, like spirits steeped in the dim
moonlight, heard when all else are still, and busy when
earth's laborers are at rest! They are
"Such stuff
As dreams are made of, and their little life
Is rounded by a sleep."
Her's is the real and uncentered poetry of being, which per-
vades and surrounds her as with an air, which peoples her
visions and animates her love, which shrinks from earth
into itself, and finds marvel and meditation in all that it
beholds within, and which spreads even over the heaven in
whose faith she so ardently believes the mystery and the
tenderness of romance
LETTER THE FIRST, FROM LADY FLORA ARDENNE
TO MISS ELEANOR TREVANION.
You
"You say that I have not written to you so punctually
of late as I used to do before I came to London, and you
impute my negligence to the gayeties and pleasures by
which I am surrounded. Eh bien! my dear Eleanor,
could you have thought of a better excuse for me?
know how fond we, ay, dearest, you as well as I, - used
to be of dancing, and how earnestly we were wont to an-
ticipate those children's balls at my uncles which were the
only ones we were ever permitted to attend. I found a
stick the other day, on which I had cut seven notches, sig-
nificant of seven days more to the next ball, -we reckon-
ed time by balls then, and danced chronologically. Well,
my dear Eleanor, here I am now, brought out, tolerably
well behaved, only not dignified enough, according to mam-
-as fond of laughing, talking, and dancing as ever ;
and yet, do you know, a ball, though still very delightful, is
far from being the most important event in creation; its
anticipation does not keep me awake of a night; and, what
is more to the purpose, its recollection does not make me
shut up my inkstand, burn my portefeuille, and forget you,
all of which you seem to imagine it has been able to effect.
ma,
"No, dearest Eleanor, you are mistaken; for were she
twice as giddy and ten times as volatile as she is, your own
Flora could never, never forget you, nor the happy hours
we have spent together, nor the pretty goldfinches we had
in common, nor the little Scotch duets we used to sing to-
gether, nor our longings to change them into Italian, nor
our disappointment when we did so, nor our laughter at
Signior Shriekalini, nor our tears when poor darling Bijou
died. And do you remember, dearest, the charming green
lawn where we used to play together, and plan tricks for
your governess? She was very, very cross, though, I
think, we were a little to blame, too. However, I
much the worst! And pray, Eleanor, don't you remember
how we used to like being called pretty, and told of the
conquests we should make? Do you like all that now?
For my part, I am tired of it, at least from the generality
of one's flatterers.
was
"Ah! Eleanor, or heigho! as the young ladies in novels
write, do you remember how jealous I was of you at
and how spiteful I was, and how you were an angel, and
bore with me, and kissed me, and told me that, that I
182
BULWER'S NOVELS.
I
had nothing to fear! Well, Clar, I mean Mr. Linden,
is now in town, and sc popular, and so admired! I wish
we were at again, for there we saw him every day,
and now we don't neet more than three times a week ;
and though I like hearing him praised above all things, yet
I feel very uncomfortable when that praise comes from very,
very pretty women. I wish we were at
again;
Mamma, who is looking more beautiful than ever, is very
kind she says nothing, to be sure, but she must see how,
that is to say, she must know that, that I,I
mean that Clarence is very attentive to me, and that I blush
and look exceedingly silly whenever he is; and therefore
suppose that whenever Clarence thinks fit to ask me, I
shall not be under the necessity of getting up at six o'clock,
and travelling to Gretna Green, through that odious North
road, up the Highgate Hill, and over Finchley Common.
"But when will he ask you?' My dearest Eleanor,
that is more than I can say. To tell you the truth, there
is something about Linden which I cannot thoroughly un-
derstand. They say he is nephew and heir to the Mr. Tal-
bot, whom you may have heard papa talk of as the cheva-
lier le plus à la mode in his day; but if so, why the hints,
the insinuations, of not being what he seems, which Clar-
ence perpetually throws out, and which only excite my in-
terest without gratifying my curiosity? It is not,' he
has said more than once,
C as an obscure adventurer that I
will claim your love' and if I venture, which is very
seldom, (for, pour dire vrai, I am a little afraid of him,) to
question his meaning, he either sinks into utter silence, for
which, if I had loved according to book, and not so natural-
ly, I should be very angry with him, or twists his words
into another signification, such as that he would not claim
me till he had become something higher and nobler than he
is now. Alas, my dear Eleanor, it takes a long time to
make an ambassador out of an attaché.
"See now if you reproach me justly with scanty cor-
respondences. If I write a line more, I must begin a new
sheet, and that will be beyond the power of a frank,
a thing which would, I know, break the heart of your dear,
good, generous, but a little too prudent annt, and irrevoca-
bly ruin me in her esteem. So God bless you, dearest
Eleanor, and believe me most affectionately yours,
"FLORA ARDENNE."
LETTER THE SECOND, FROM THE SAME TO THE
SAME.
"PRAY, dearest Eleanor, does that good aunt of yours,
now, don't frown, I am not going to speak disrespect-
fully of her, -ever take a liking to young gentlemen whom
you detest, and insist upon the fallacy of your opinion, and
the unerring rectitude of hers? If so, you can pity and
comprehend my grief. Mamma has formed quite an at-
tachment to such a disagreeable person. He is Lord Bo-
rodaile, the eldest, and, I believe, the only son of Lord
Ulswater. Perhaps you may have met him abroad, for he
has been a great traveller; his family is among the most
ancient in England, and his father's estate covers half a
county. All this mamma tells me, with the most earnest
air in the world, whenever I declaim upon his impertinence.
or disagrecability, (is there such a word? there ought to
be.) 'Well,' said I to-day, what's that to me? It
may be a great deal to you,' replied inamma, significantly,
and the blood rushed from iny face to my heart. She could
not, Eleanor, she could not mean, after all her kindness to
Clarence, and in spite of all her penetration into my heart,
-O, no, no,- she could not. How terribly suspicious
this love makes one!
<
•
"But if I disliked Lord Borodaile at first, I have hated
him of late; for, somehow or other, he is always in the
way. If I see Clarence hastening through the crowd to
ask me to dance, at that very instant, up steps Lord Boro-
daile with his cold, changeless face, and his haughty, old-
fashioned bow, and his abominable dark complexion, —
and mamma smiles, and he hopes he finds me disengaged,
and I am hurried off, and poor Clarence looks so
disappointed and so wretched! You have no idea how
ill-tempered this makes me. I could not help asking Lord
Borodaile, yesterday, if he was never going abroad again,
and the hateful creature played with his cravat, and an-
swered Never!' I was in hopes that my sullenness
would drive his lordship away; tout au contraire, Noth-
*ng,' said he to me the other day, when I was in full pout,
|
|
|
nothing is so plebeian as good humor! Patricia lood
always in a ferment!'
in
I wish, then, Eleanor, that he could see your gɔvern-
ess; she must be majesty itself in his eyes!
Ah, dearest, how we belie ourselves. At this mo
ment, when you might think, from the idle, rattling, silly,
flow of
flow of my letter, that my heart was as light and free as it
sunny trees, in the merry days of our childhood, the tears
was when we used to play on the green lawn, and under the
are running down my cheeks; see where they have fallen
on the page, and my head throbs as if my thoughts were
too full and heavy for it to contain. It is past one! I am
alone, and in my own room.
H—
Mamma is gone to a rout at
House; but I knew I should not meet Clarence
there, and so I said I was ill, and remained at home. I have
done so often of late, whenever I have learnt from him that
he was not going to the same place as mamma. Indeed, I
love much better to sit alone and think over his words and
looks; and I have drawn, after repeated attempts, a pro-
file likeness of him; and O, Eleanor, I cannot tell you
how dear it is to me; and yet there is not a line, not a
look of his countenance which I have not learnt by heart,
without such useless aids to my memory. But I am sham-
ed of telling you all this, and my eyes ache so that I can
write no more.
"Ever, as ever, dearest Eleanor, your affectionate
friend."
LETTER THE THIRD, FROM THE SAME TO THE
SAME.
has been so cruel; but she cannot, she cannot intend it, or
"ELEANOR, I am undone! My mother, my mother
she knows very little of my heart. With some, ties may
be as easily broken as formed; with others they are twined
around life itself.
Clarence dined with us yesterday, and was unusually
animated and agreeable. He was engaged on business with
people in the evening; Lord Borodaile among the rest;
Lord Aspeden afterward, and left us early. We had a few
and my mother spoke of Clarence, and his relationship to,
and expectations from, Mr. Talbot. Lord Borodaile
sneered; You are mistaken,' said he, sarcastically; Mr.
Linden may feel it convenient to give out that he is related
to so old a family as the Talbots; and since God only
knows who or what he is, he may as well claim alliance
with one person as another; but he is certainly not the
nephew of Mr. Talbot of Scarsdale Park, for that gentle
inan had no sisters, and but one brother, who left an only
daughter, that daughter had also but one child, certainly no
relation to Mr. Linden. I can vouch for the truth of this
statement; for the Talbots are related to, or at least nearly
connected with, myself; and I thank heaven that I have
a pedigree, even in its collateral branches, worth learning
by heart." And then Lord Borodaile,-I little thought,
when I railed against him, what serious cause I should
have to hate him,-turned to me, and harassed me with
his tedious attentions the whole of the evening.
"This morning mamma sent for me into her boudoir.
'I have observed,' said she, with the greatest indifference,
that Mr. Linden has, of late, been much too particular in
his manner toward you,―your foolish and undue famil-
iarity with every one has perhaps given him encourage-
ment. After the gross imposition which Lord Borodaile
exposed to us last night, I cannot but consider the young
man as a mere adventurer, and must not only insist on your
putting a total termination to civilities, which we must
henceforth consider presumption, but I myself shall consider
it incumbent upon ine greatly to limit the advances he has
thought proper to inake toward my acquaintance.'
"You may guess how thunderstruck I was by this
speech. I could not answer; my tongue literally clove to
my mouth, and I was only relieved by a sudden and violent
burst of tears. Mamma looked exceedingly displeased,
and was just going to speak, when the servant threw open
the door, and announced Mr. Linden. I rose hastily, and
had only just time to escape, as he entered; but when
heard that dear, dear voice, I could not resist turning for
one moment. He saw me,- and was struck mute, for the
agony of my soul was stamped visibly on my countenance.
That moment was over, with a violent effort I tore my
self away.
God bless you!
"Eleanor, I can now write no more.
and me too,—for I am very, very unhappy.
"F. A "
THE DISOWNED.
183
CHAPTER XXXIX.
What a charming character is a kind old man.
STEPHEN MONTAGUE.
"CHEER up, my dear boy," said Talbot, kindly, “we
must never despair. What though Lady Westborough has
forbidden you the boudoir, a boudoir is a very different thing
from a daughter, and you have no right to suppose that the
veto extends to both. But now that we are on this subject,
do let me reason with you seriously. Have you not al-
ready tasted all the pleasures, and been sufficiently annoyed
by some of the pains, of acting the Incognito?" Be ruled
by me resume your proper name; it is at least one which
the proudest might acknowledge; and its discovery will
remove the greatest obstacle to the success which you so
ardently desire."
C
Clarence, who was laboring under strong excitement,
paused for some moinents, as if to collect himself, before
he replied: "I have been thrust from my father's home,-
I have been made the victim of another's crime,— I have
been denied the rights and the name of son; perhaps,-
(and I say this bitterly,)—justly denied them, despite of
What would you have me do?
my own 10nocence.
Re-
suine a name never conceded to me,- perhaps not right-
eously mine, thrust myself upon the unwilling and shrink-
ing hands which disowned and rejected me,- blazon ny
virtues by pretensions which I myself have promised to
forego, and foist myself on the notice of strangers by the
very claims which my nearest relations dispute? Never,-
Jever, never! With the simple name I have assumed,
the friend I myself have won,- you, my generous benefactor,
my real father, who never forsook, nor insulted me for my
misfortunes, with these, I have gained some steps in the
ladder; with these and those gifts of nature, a stout heart,
and a willing hand, of which none can rob me, I will either
ascend the rest, even to the summit, or fall to the dust, un-
known, but not contemned; unlamented, but not despised."
"Well, well," said Talbot, brushing away a tear which
he could not deny to the feeling, even while he disputed the
judgment of the young adventurer," well, this is all very
fine and very foolish; but you shall never want friend or
father while I live, or when I have ceased to hre; but
come, sit down, share my dinner, which is not very good,
and my dessert, which is help me to entertain two or
three guests who are coming to me in the evening to talk
on literature, sup, and sleep; and to-morrow you shall
return home, and see Lady Flora in the drawing-room, if
you cannot in the boudoir."
And Clarence was easily persuaded to accept the in-
vitation.
Bess.
Talbot was not of those men who are forced to exert
themselves to be entertaining. He had the pleasant and
easy way of imparting his great general and curious infor-
mation, that a man, partly humorist, partly philosopher,
who values himself on being a man of letters and is in
spite of himself a man of the world always ought to pos-
Clarence was soon beguiled from the remembrance
of his mortifications, and, by little and little, entirely
yielded to the airy and happy flow of Talbot's conversation.
In the evening, three or four men of literary eminence
(as many as Talbot's small Tusculum could accommodate
with beds) arrived, and in a conversation, free alike from
the jargon of pedants and the insipidities of fashion, the
night fled away swiftly and happily, even to the lover.
CHAPTER XL.
We are here (in the country) among the vast and noble scenes
of nature; we are there (in the town) among the pitiful shifts
of policy. We walk here in the light and open ways of the
divine bounty, we grope there in the dark and confused laby-
rinths of human malice; our senses are here feasted with all the
clear and genuine taste of their objects, which are all sophisti-
J
cated there, and for the most part overwhelmed with their con-
traries; here pleasure, methinks, looks like a beautiful, constant,
and modest wife; it is there an impudent, fickle, and painted
harlot.
COWLEY.
poem,
LUCRETIUS has said beautifully, in the most hackneyed
passage of his
that there is nothing sweeter than to
behold afar, from the quiet and safe temples of philosophy,
the great crowd rolling 'elow, wandering, confused, erring,
seeking to and fro the viam va e, wasting days and nights
in the laborious pursuit of wealth and honor, and in the
vague hope to enjoy them when possessed.*
Here, as at the hush of night, I lay aside the master-
pieces of human invention, and recur to these idle and
worthless pages (how far short of the vague dreams of
future excellence which the enthusiasm of boyhood killed
and conceived!) here, amid the trees waving before my
windows in the air of the solemn night, which breathes
wild and fresh from the recesses of many woods, and over
the free grass of the untilled and unpeopled wastes which
surround my home, here, as the dim fire struggles (like
our own pent and restless spirit) upward from the mass
which clogs, and amid the vapor which curls around it,
and the lone lamp casts its light on walls covered with the
breathing canvass, relics or copies of no ignoble hands,
and on the greater treasures which knowledge has con-
densed into few volumes, matter for incalculable thought,
here, when I recall my remembrances of the word be-
yond
"That great sea, whose ebb and flow
At once is deaf and loud,"
and sit myself down to weave them into a workdly tak,
there comes over me a gentle, but deep delight,
—
"Like babbling gossips, safe, who hear the war
Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not."
But this is not now my theme. Draw up the curtain'
The scene is the opera.
The pit is crowded; the connoisseurs in the front row
are in a very ill humor. It must be confessed, that ex-
treme heat is a little trying to the temper of a critic.
The opera, then, was not what it is now, nor even what
it had been in a former time. It is somewhat amusing to
find Goldsmith questioning, in one of his essays, whether
the opera could ever become popular in England? But on
the night on which the reader is summoned to that "thea-
tre of sweet sounds," a celebrated singer from the conti-
nent made his first appearance in London, and all the
world thronged to "that odious opera-house," to hear or
to say they had heard the famous Sopraniello.
A most unusually full house, my lord," said the lean
Mr. Callythorpe, to the courtly Lord Aspeden.
"So full," replied his lordship, with a bow, "tnat it is
quite refreshing to see you.
One loves a contrast you
know.
"" D
"Refreshing sight, when at the crowded feast,
We hail thy head, -
-one empty spot at least.'"'
-d impertinent!" muttered Mr. Callythorpe.
Clarence now joined them, and, after a few conventional
phrases, Lord Aspeden sauntered away.
-
"Horrid fool, that Lord Aspeden!" said Callythorpe ;
"if he had stayed two minutes longer, I should have told
him so, for I never flatter, it is unworthy an English
gentleman. By the by, I must go and court Lady
for a card to her next rout. Do you know, my dear Cla-
rence, that Lord Borodaile says you are no relation to Tal-
bot? and the people begin to ask a great many questions
about you, just as if you were a sharper? You are not
offended? I'm your true friend, and always take your
part."
“Thank you,” said Clarence, hiding, with a laugh, his
vexation ; and so adieu. I am going to make my round
through the boxes."
"O, Mr. Foreigner, Mr. Foreigner," said Clarence to
himself, as he ascended the stairs," whose name I forget,
but who didst tell the credulous Duke of Orleans, that,
while in all other nations, people inquired into your rank,
your power, your pedigree, or your fortune, in England the
only question ever asked about you was, • What sort of a
man he is?' O, Mr. Foreigner, how grievously were you
mistaken, or how lamentably are we changed!
With a nervous step, Clarence proceeded to Lady West-
borough's box; and it was many minutes that he lingered
by the door before he summoned courage to obtain admission.
He entered; the box was crowded; but Lady Flora
* Voltaire, so generally wrong when he asserts a fact, is some
times wonderfully in the right when he impeaches an opinion.
There is a very acute commentary upon this passage in Lucre-
tius, to be found in the "Dictionnaire Philosophique," article
'Curiosité. Voltaire's interpretation of the causes of our ples
sure at the distresses from which we are exempt, is both better
and more benevolent than the teral sense of Lucretius
134
BULWER'S NOVELS.
was not there. Lord Borodaile was sitting next to Lady |
Westborough. As Clarence entered, Lord Borodaile
raised his eyebrows, and Lady Westborough her glass.
However disposed a great person may be to drop a lesser one,
no one of real birth or breeding ever cuts another. Lady
Westborough, therefore, though much colder, was no less
eivil than usual; and Lord Borodaile bowed lower than ever
to Mr. Linden, as he punctiliously called him. But Cla-
rence's quick eye discovered instantly that he was no wel-
come intruder, and that his day with the beautiful marchi-
oness was over. His visit, consequently, was short and
embarrassed. When he left the box, he heard Lord Boro-
daile's short, slow, sneering laugh, followed by Lady West-
borough's "hush" of reproof.
His blood boiled. He hurried along the passage, with
his eyes fixed upon the ground, and his hand clenched.
What, ho! Linden, my good fellow; why you look as
f all the ferocity of the great Figg were in your veins,"
cried a good-humored voice. Clarence started, and saw
young and high-spirited Duke of Haverfield.
the
"Are you going behind the scenes?" said his grace.
I have just come thence; and you had much better drop
into La Meronville's box with me. You sup with her to
night, do you not ?
"No, indeed!" replied Clarence;
replied Clarence; "I scarcely know
her, except by sight."
""
Well, and what think you of her?"
"That she is the prettiest Frenchwoman I ever saw."
"Commend me to secret sympathies!" cried the duke.
"She has asked me three times who you were, and told
me three times that you were the handsomest man in Lon-
don, and had quite a foreign air; the latter recommendation
being of course far greater than the former. So, after this,
you cannot refuse to accompany me to her box, and make
her acquaintance. "
64
Nay, answered Charence, "I shall be too happy to
profit by the taste of so discerning a person: but it is cruel
in you, duke, not to feign a little jealousy, -a little reluc-
tance to introduce so formidable a rival."
“O, as to me,” said the duke, "I only like her for her
mental, not her personal, attractions. She is very agree-
able, and a little witty; sufficient attractions for one in her
situation.”
ઃઃ
'But, do tell me a little of her history," said Clarence;
for, in spite of her renown, I only know her as La belle
Meronville. Is she not living en ami with some one of our
acquaintance?"
“To be sure,” replied the duke, "with Lord Borodaile.
She is prodigiously extravagant; and Borodaile affects to
be prodigiously fond, a thing which you and I, who know
(thanks to Trollolop) that there is only a certain fund of
affection in the human mind,' and that all Lord Borodaile's
is centred in Lord Borodaile, are convinced cannot really
be the case."
cause.
•
"Is he jealous of her ?" said Clarence.
"Not in the least! nor, indeed, does she give him any
She is very gay, very talkative, gives excellent
suppers, and always has her box at the opera crowded
with admirers; but that is all. She encourages many, and
favors but one. Happy Borodaile! My lot is less fortu-
nate! You know, I suppose, that Julia has deserted me!
"You astonish me, and for what?"
"O, she told me, with a vehement burst of tears, that
sbe was convinced I did not love her, and that a hundred
pounds a month was not sufficient to maintain a milliner's
apprentice. I answered the first assertion by an assurance
that I adored her; but I preserved a total silence with re-
gard to the latter: and so I found Trevanion tête-à-tête with
her the next day."
" said Clarence.
“What did ?
you
"Sent my valet to Trevanion with an old coat of mine,
my complinients, and my hopes that, as Mr. Trevanion
was so fond of my cast off conveniences, he would honor
me by accepting the accompanying trifle."
"He challenged you, without doubt ?”
"Challenged me! No: he tells all his friends that I am
the wittiest man in Europe."
"A fool can speak the truth, you see," said Clarence,
laughing.
Thank you, Linden; you shall have my good word
with La Meronville for that; mais allons.
Mademoiselle de la Meronville, as she pointedly entitled
serself, was one of those charm ng adventuresses, who,
making the most of a good education and a prepossessing
person, a delicate turn for letter writing, and a lively vein
of conversation, come to England for a year or two, as
Spaniards were wont to go to Mexico, and who return to
their native country with a profound contempt for the bar
barians whom they have so egregiously despoiled. M. de
la Meronville was small, beautifully formed, had the pret
tiest hands and feet in the world, and laughed musically
By the by, how difficult it is to laugh, or even to smile, a
once naturally and gracefully. It is one of Steele's fines
touches of character, where he says of Will Honeycomb,
"He can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs
easily."
In a word, the pretty Frenchwoman was precisely form-
ed to turn the head of a man like Lord Borodaile, whose
pride made him love being courted, and whose unintellec-
tuality required to be amused. Madame de la Meronville
received Clarence with a great deal of grace, and a little
reserve, the first chiefly natural, the last wholly artificial.
Well," said the duke, (in French,) " you have not
told me who are to be of your party this evening,-Boro-
daile, I suppose, of course?
C6
"No, he cannot come to-night."
"Ah, quel malheur ! then the hock will not be iced
enough, Borodaile's looks are the best wine coolers in
the world."
"Fie!" cried La Meronville, glancing toward Clar-
ence: "I cannot endure your malevolence; wit makes
you very bitter."
"And that is exactly the reason why La belle Meron-
ville loves me so: nothing is so sweet to one person as bit-
terness upon another; it is human nature and French nature
(which is a very different thing) into the bargain."
"Bah! my lord duke, you judge of others by your-
self."
"To be sure I do," cried his grace; "and that is the
best way of forming a right judgment. Ah! what a foot
that little figurante has, you don't admire her, Linden? "
No, duke; my admiration is like the bird in the cage,
-chained here, and cannot fly away!" answered Clar
ence, with a smile at the frippery of his compliment.
"Ah monsieur," cried the pretty Frenchwoman, leaning
back, " you have been at Paris, I see,-one does not learn
those graces of language in England. I have been five
months in your country, brought over the prettiest dresses
imaginable, and have only received three compliments, and
(pity me!) two out of the three were upon my pronuncia-
tion of 'How do you do!" "
CC
"Well,"
" said Clarence, "I should have imagined that
in England, above all other countries, your vanity would
have been gratified, for you know we pique ourselves on
our sincerity, and say all we think."
"Yes! then you always think very unpleasantly; what
an alternative! which is the best, to speak ill, or to think
ill of one?"
"Pour l'amour de Dieu," cried the duke, "don't ask
such puzzling questions; you are always getting into those
moral subtleties, which I suppose you learn from Boro-
daile. He is a wonderful netaphysician, I hear, — I can
answer for his chemical powers; the moment he enters a
room the very walls grow damp: as for me, I dissolve; I
should flow into a fountain, like Arethusa, if happily his
lordship did not freeze one again into substance as fast as
he dampens one into thaw.”
"I should be very
•
Fi done!" cried La Meronville.
angry, had you not taught me to be very indifferent,
"To him!" said the duke, drily. "I'm glad to hear
He is not worth une grande passion, believe me, -- but
tell me, ma belle, who else sups with you ?
it.
D'abord, Monsieur Linden, I trust," answered La
Meronville, with a look of invitation, (not an inviting
look,) to which Clarence bowed and smiled his assent,
"Milord D and Mons. Trevanion, Mademoiselle
Caumartin, and Monsieur Le Prince Pietro d' Urbini.”
Nothing can be better arranged," said the duke
"But see, they are just going to drop the curtain. Let
me call your carriage.'
"You are too good, milord," replied La Merouville,
with a bow, which said, " of course;" and the duke, who
would not have stirred three paces for the first princess of
the blood, hurried out of the box (despite of Clarence's
offer to undertake the commission) to inquire after the car-
riage of the most notorious adventuress of the day.
THE DISOWNED.
185
Clarence was alone in the box with the beautiful French-
woman. To say truth, Linden was far too much in love
with Lady Flora, and too occupied, as to his other thoughts,
with the projects of ambition, to be easily led into any
disreputable or criminal liaison; he therefore conversed
with his usual ease, though with rather more than his usual
gallantry, without feeling the least touched by the charms
of La Meronville, or the least desirous of supplanting Lord
Borodaile in her favor.
The duke reappeared, and announced the carriage. As,
with La Meronville leaning on is arm, Clarence hurried
out, he accidentally looked up, and saw on the head of the
stairs Lady Westborough with her party (Lord_Borodaile
among the rest) in waiting for her carriage. For almost
the first time in his life, Clarence felt ashamed of himself;
his cheek burned like fire. and he involuntarily let go the
fair hand which was leaning upon his arm. However, the
weaker our cause the better face we should put upon it,
and Clarence, recovering his presence of mind, and vainly
hoping he had not been perceived, buried his face as well
as he was able in the fur collar of his cloak, and hur-
ried on.
"You saw Lord Borodaile ?" said the duke to La
Meronville, as he handed her into her carriage.
"Yes, I accidentally looked back after we had passed
him, and then I saw him."
"Looked back!" said the duke; "I wonder he did
not turn you into a pillar of salt.”
"Fi donc!" cried La belle Merouville, tapping his
grace playfully on the arm, in order to do which she was
forced to lean a little harder upon Clarence's, which she
had not yet relinquished, "Fi donc !
François chez
My carriage is just behind," said the duke, "You
will go with me to La Meronville's of course?"
moi!"
-
Really, my dear duke," said Clarence, "I wish I
could excuse myself from this party. I have another en-
gagement."
"Excuse yourself! and leave me to the mercy of Made-
moiselle Caumartin, who has the face of an ostrich, and
talks me out of breath! Never, my dear Linden, never!
Besides I want you to see how well I shall behave to Tre-
vanion. Here is the carriage. Entrez, mon cher."
And Clarence, weakly perhaps and foolishly (but he was
very young and very unhappy, and so, longing for an escape
from his own thoughts) entered the carriage, and drove
to the supper party, in order to prevent the Duke of Ha-
verfield being talked out of breath by Mademoiselle Cau-
martin, who had the face of an ostrich.
CHAPTER XLI.
Yet truth is keenly sought for, and the wind.
Charg'd with rich words, pour'd out in thought's defence;
Whether the church inspire that eloquence,
Or a Platonic piety, confined
To the sole temple of the inward mind:
And one there is who builds immortal lays,
Though doomed to trend in solitary ways;
Darkness before, und danger's voice behind!
Yet not alone
WORDSWORTH.
LONDON, thou Niobe, who sittest in stone, amid thy
stricken and fated children; nurse of the desolate, that
hidest in thy bosom the shame, the sorrows, the sins of
many sons; in whose arms the fallen and the outcast
shroud their distresses, and shelter from the proud man's
contumely; epitome and focus of the disparities and mad-
dening contrasts of this wrong world, that assemblest to-
gether in one great heap the woes, the joys, the elevations,
the debasements of the various tribes of man; mightiest
of levellers, confounding in thy whirlpool all ranks, all
minds, the graven labors of knowledge, the straws of the
maniac, purple and rags, the regalities and the loath-
someness of earth, palace and lazar-house combined !
Grave of the living, where, mingled and massed together,
we couch, but rest not, "for in that sleep of life what
dreams do come, each vexed with a separate vision,
"shadows" which "grieve the heart," unreal in their
substance, but faithful in their warnings, flitting from the
eye, but graving unfleeting memories on the mind, which
reproduce new dreams over and over, until the phantasm
ceases, and the pall of a heavier torpor falls upon the
VOL. 1.
24
--
|
brain, and all is still, and dark, and hushed!" From
the stir of thy great Babel," and the fixed tinsel glave in
which sits pleasure like a star, "which shines, but warms
not with its powerless rays, we turn to thy deeper and
more secret haunts. Thy wilderness is all before us,
where to choose our place of rest;" and, to our eyes,
thy mysteries are bared, and thy hidden recesses are pierc-
ed as with a spell.
-
The clock of St. Paul's had tolled the second hour o
morning. Within a small and humble apartment in the
very heart of the city, there sat a writer, whose lucubra-
tions, then obscure and unknown, were destined, years after-
ward, to excite the vague admiration of the crowd, and
the deeper homage of the wise. They were of that nature
which is slow in winning its way to popular esteem; the
result of the hived and hoarded knowledge of years, the
produce of deep thought and sublime aspirations, influenc
ing, in its bearings, the interests of the many, yet only ca
pable of analysis by the judgment of the few. But the
stream broke forth at last from the cavern to the daylight,
although the source was never traced; or, to change the
image,
albeit none know the hand which executed, and
the head which designed, the monument of a mighty iu-
tellect has been at length dug up, as it were, from the envi-
ous earth, the brighter for its past obscurity, and the more
certain of immortality from the temporary neglect it has
sustained.
The room was, as we before said, very small and meanly
furnished; yet were there a few articles of costliness and
luxury scattered about, which told that the tastes of its
owner had not been quite humbled to the level of his for-
tunes. One side of the narrow chamber was covered with
shelves, which supported books, in various languages; and
though chiefly on scientific subjects, not utterly confined to
them. Among the doctrines of the philosopher, and the
golden rules of the moralist, were also seen the pleasant
dreams of poets, the legends of Spencer, the refining mor-
alities of Pope, the lofty errors of Lucretius, and the sub-
lime relics of our "dead kings of melody."*
And over
the hearth was a picture, taken in more prosperous days, of
one, who had been, and was yet, to the tenant of that
abode, better than fretted roofs and glittering banquets, the
objects of ambition, or even the immortality of fame. It
was the face of one very young and beautiful, and the deep,
tender eyes looked down, as with a watchful fondness, upon
the lucubrator and his labors. While beneath the window,
which was left unclosed, for it was scarcely June, were
simple, yet not inelegant vases, filled with flowers:
"Those lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave."†
The writer was alone, and had just paused from his em-
ployment he was leaning his face upon one hand, in a
thoughtful and earnest mood, and the air which came chill,
but gentle, from the window, slightly stirred the locks from
the broad and marked brow, over which they fell in thin
but graceful wares. Partly owing perhaps to the waning
light of the single lamp, and the lateness of the hour, his
cheek seemed very pale, and the complete, though contem-
plative, rest of the features, partook greatly of the quiet of
habitual sadness, and a little of the languor of shaken
health; yet the expression, despite of the proud cast of the
brow and profile, was rather benevolent than stern or dark
in its pensiveness, and the lines spoke more of the wear
and harrow of deep thought, than the inroads of ill-regula-
ted passion.
There was a slight tap at the door, the latch was
raised, and the original of the picture I have described en-
tered the apartment.
Time had not been idle with her since that portrait had
been taken the round elastic figure had lost much of its
youth and freshness; the step, though light, was languid
and in the centre of the fair, smooth cheek, which was a
little sunken, burned one deep bright spot, fatal sign to
those who have watched the progress of the most deadly
and deceitful of our national inaladies; yet still the form
and countenance were eminently interesting and lovely;
and, though the bloom was gone for ever, the beauty, which
not even death could wholly have despoiled, remained to
triumph over debility, misfortune, and disease.
She approached the student, and laid her hand upon his
shoulder,
* Shakspeare and Milton.
† Herrick.
186
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Dearest !" said he, tenderly yet reproachfully," yet
up, and the hour so late, and yourself so weak? Fie, I
must learn to scold you."
"And how," answered the intruder, "how could I sleep
or rest while you are consuming your very life in those
thankless labors ?”
"By which," interrupted the writer, with a faint smile,
we glean our scanty subsistence."
to the indigence of poverty its husiliation; wroth with
the arrogance of those who weigh in the shallow scales oʻ
their meagre knowledge the product of lavish thought, and
of the hard hours for which health, and sleep, and spirit
have been exchanged; sharing the lot of those who
would enchant the old serpent of evil, which refuses the
voice of the charmer! struggling against the prejudice
and bigoted delusion of the bandaged and fettered herd to
"Yes," said the wife, (for she held that relation to the whom, in our fond hopes and aspirations, we trusted to
student,) and the tears stood in her eyes, "I know well give light and freedom ; seeing the slavish judgments we
that every morsel of bread, every drop of water, is wrung would have redeemed from error clashing their chains at us
from your very heart's blood, and I, I am the cause of in ire;
I am the cause of in ire; -made criminal by our very benevolence;
all; but surely you exert yourself too much, more than can martyrs whose zeal is rewarded with persecution, whose
be requisite. These night damps, this sickly and chilling prophecies are crowned with contempt! - Better, O better
air, heavy with the rank vapors of the coming morning, that I had not listened to the vanity of a heated brain, —
are not suited to thoughts and toils which are alone suffi- better that I had made my home with the lark and the wild
cient to sear your mind and exhaust your strength. Come, bee, among the fields and the quiet hills, where life, if ob-
my own love, to bed and yet, first, come and look upon scurer, is less debased, and hope, if less eagerly indulged,
our child, how sound she sleeps! I have leant over her for is less bitterly disappointed. The frame, it is true, might
the last hour, and tried to fancy it was you whom I watch- have been bowed to a harsher labor, but the heart would at
ed, for she has learnt already your smile, and has it even least have had its rest from anxiety, and the mind is re
when she sleeps."
laxation from thought.
"She has cause to smile," said the husband, bitterly.
"She has, for she is yours! and even in poverty and hum-
ble hopes, that is an inheritance which may well teach her
pride and joy. Come, love, the air is keen, and the damp
rises to your forehead, yet stay, till I have kissed it
away.",
Mine own love," said the student, as he rose and wound
his arm round the slender waist of his wife, "wrap your
shawl closer over your bosom, and let us look for one in-
stant upon the night. I cannot sleep till I have slaked the
fever of my blood the air has nothing of coldness in its
breath to me."
And they walked to the window and looked forth. All
All
was hushed and still in the narrow street; the cold gray
clouds were hurrying fast along the sky, and the stars, weak
and waning in their light, gleamed forth at rare intervals
upon the mute city, like the expiring watch-lamps of the
dead.
They leaned out, and spoke not; but when they looked
above upon the melancholy heavens, they drew nearer to
each other, as if it were their natural instinct to do so,
whenever the world without seemed discouraging and sad.
At length the student broke the silence; but his thoughts,
which were wandering and disjointed, were breathed less
to her than vaguely and unconsciously to himself.
breaks, another and another! day upon day! while
we drag on our load like the blind beast which knows not
when the burden shall be cast off, and the hour of rest be
"Morn
|
M
the
The wife's tears fell upon the hand she clasped. The
student turned, and his heart smote him for the selfishness
of his complaints. He drew her closer and closer to his
bosom; and, gazing fondly upon those eyes which years of
indigence and care might have robbed of their young lus-
tre, but not of their undying tenderness, he kissed away her
tears, and addressed her in a voice which never failed to
charm into forgetfulness her grief.
"Dearest and kindest," he said, " was I not to blame
for accusing those privations or regrets which have only
made us love each other the more! Trust me, mine own
treasure, that it is only in the peevishness of an inconstant
and fretful humor, that I have murmured against my for-
tune. For, in the midst of all, I look upon you, my angel.
my comforter, my young dream of love, which God, in his
mercy, breathed into waking life, I look upon you, and
am blest and grateful. Nor in my juster moments do I ac
cuse even the nature of these studies, though they bring us
so scanty a reward. Have I not hours of secret and over
flowing delight, the triumphs of gratified research,― flashes
of sudden light, which reward the darkness of thought, and
light up my solitude as a revel? -These feelings of rap-
ture, which naught but science can afford, amply repay her
disciples for worse evils and severer hardships than it has
been my destiny to endure. Look along the sky, how the
vapors struggle with the still yet feeble stars even so
have the mists of error been pierced, though not scattered,
by the dim but holy lights of past wisdom and now the
morning is at hand, and in that hope we journey on, doubt-
ful, but not utterly in darkness. Nor is this all my hopes;
there is a loftier and more steady comfort than that which
mere philosophy can bestow. If the certainty of future
"And so life frets itself away! Four years have passed fame bore Milton rejoicing through his blindness, or cheered
over our seclusion, four years! a great segment in the Galileo in his dungeon, what stronger and holier support
little circle of our mortality; and of those years what day shall not be given to him who has loved mankind as his
has pleasure won from labor, or what night has sleep brothers, and devoted his labors to their cause? who
snatched wholly from the lamp? Weaker than the miser, has not sought, but relinquished, his own renown?
the insatiable and restless mind traverses from east to west; has braved the present censures of men for their future ben-
and from the nooks, and corners, and crevices of earth col-efit, and trampled upon glory in the energy of benevolence?
lects, fragment by fragment, grain by grain, atom by atom,
the riches which it gathers to its coffers, for what?
starve amid the plenty! The fantasies of the imagination
bring a ready and substantial return not so the treasures
of thought.* Better that I had renounced the soul's labor
for that of its hardier frame, -better that I had sweated
in the eye of Phoebus,' than eat my heart with crosses and
with cares,'— seeking truth and wanting bread, adding
come."
The woman pressed his hand to her bosom, but made no
rejoinder, she knew his mood, and the student con-
tinued.
Ju
M
-
——
to
If the poet, the novelist, the man of letters, sometimes, even
In the present day, complains justly of the neglect of his con-
temporaries, how can the philosopher, who outstrips his age, un-
til time grows up to the measure of his intellect, hope to be
In literature,
appreciated, since he is not even understood?
unless it be mingled with moral or political reasonings, there
are, comparatively speaking, few prejudices, and still fewer hos-
tile interests, to contend with or assuage. But in science,
wherever the innovator treads, he tramples upon a long cherish-
ed opinion he is girt round with the sanctity of error. Fond
of excitement, we pant for novelty in fiction; interested in the
existence of present doctrines, we shudder at novelty in truth.
Happy is he who is only neglected, - - not persecuted or starved!
Happy he who, amid Arcadian plenty, ponders at his leisure
upon the subtleties of schoolmen. Let him not lament, si FRUST-
A sapit, but rejoice that inter literas NON esurit.
(A)
who
Will there not be for him something more powerful than
fame to comfort his sufferings now, and to sustain his hopes
beyond the grave? If the wish of mere posthumous honor
be a feeling rather vain than exalted, the love of our race
affords us a more rational and noble desire of remembrance.
Come what will, that love, if it animates our toils, and
directs our studies, shall, when we are dust, make our
relics of value, our efforts of avail, and consecrate the de
sire of fame, which were else a passion selfish and impure,i
by connecting it with the welfare of ages, and the eternal
interests of the world and its Creator! Come, we will to
bed."
CHAPTER XLII.
A man may be formed by nature for an admirable citizer and
yet, from the purest motives, be a dangerous one to the stiʊe in
which the accident of birth has placed him.
STEPHEN Montague.
THE night again closed, and the student once more re
sumed his labors. The spirit of his hope and comforter of
THE DISOWNED
1.87
his toils sat by him, ever and anon lifting her fond eyes
from her work to gaze upon his countenance, to sigh, and
to return sadly and quietly to her employment.
A heavy step ascended the stairs, the door opened, and
the tall figure of Wolfe, the republican, presented itself.
The female rose, pushed a chair towards him with a smile
and grace suited to better fortunes, and retiring from the
table, reseated herself silent and apart.
"It is a fine night," said the student, when the mutual
greetings were over. Whence come you?"
"From contemplating human misery and worse than hu-
man degradation," replied Wolfe, slowly seating himself.
"Those words specify no place,
they apply univer-
sally," said the student, with a sigh.
66
Ay, Glendower, for misgovernment is universal,"
rejoined Wolfe.
Glendower made no answer.
“O!” said Wolfe, in the low, suppressed tone of intense
passion which was customary to him, "it maddens me to
look upon the willingness with which men hug their trap-
pings of slavery, bears, proud of the rags which deck,
and the monkeys which ride them. But it frets me yet
more when some lordling sweeps along, lifting his dull eyes
above the fools whose only crime and debasement are,
what? their subjection to him! Such a one I encoun-
tered a few nights since; and he will remember the meet-
ing longer than I shall. I taught that god to tremble.'"
The female rose, glanced towards her husband, and
silently withdrew.
Wolfe paused for a few moments, looked curiously and
pryingly around, and then rising, went forth into the pas-
sage to see that no loiterer or listener was near, returned,
and drawing his chair close to Glendower, fixed his dark
eye upon him, and said,
"You are poor, and your spirit rises against your lot;
you are just, and your heart swells against the general op-
pression you behold; can you not dare to remedy your ills,
and those of mankind?”
"I can dare," said Glendower, calmly, though haugh-
tily,
"all things but crime."
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"And which is crime? the rising against, or the sub-
mission to, evil government? Which is crime, I ask you ?
"That which is the most imprudent," answered Glen-
dower. "We may sport in ordinary cases with our own
safeties, but only in rare cases with the safety of others."
Wolfe rose, and paced the narrow room impatiently to
and fro. He paused by the window, and threw it open.
"Come here," he cried,- come, and look out.
Glendower did so, all was still and quiet.
Why did you call me ? " said he ; "I see nothing."
"Nothing!" exclaimed Wolfe; "look again, look
on yon sordid and squalid huts, look at yon court, that
from this wretched street leads to abodes to which these
are as palaces look on yon victims of vice and famine
plying beneath the midnight skies their filthy and infec-
tious trade. Wherever you turn your eyes, what see you
Misery, loathsomeness, sin!
sin! Are
Are you a man, and call you
these nothing? And now lean forth still more, see
a ar off, by yonder lamp, the mansion of ill-gotten and
griping wealth. He who owns those buildings, what did
he that he should riot while we starve? He wrung from
the negro's tears and bloody sweat the luxuries of a pam-
pered and vitiated taste: he pandered to the excesses of
the rich; he heaped their tables with the product of a na-
tion's groans. Lo! his reward! He is rich, - pros-
perous, honored! He sits in the legislative assembly;
he declaims against immorality; he contends for the safety
of property, and the equilibrium of ranks. Transport
yourself from this spot for an instant, — imagine that you
survey the gorgeous homes of aristocracy and power,
the palaces of the west. What see you there?-the few
sucking, draining, exhausting the blood, the treasure, the
very existence of the many. Are we, who are of the many,
wise to suffer it ?
| ing dist! ess of the country, the increasing severity and mis-
Your
rule of the administration, will soon afford it us.
talents, your benevolence, render you worthy to join us.
Do so, and -"
cr
"Hush!" interrupted the student; you know not
what you say you weigh not the folly, the madness of
your design!
your design! I am a man more fallen, more sunken, more
disappointed than you. I too, have had at my heart the
burning and lonely hope which, through years of mis
fortune and want, has comforted me with the thought of
serving and enlightening mankind,—I, too, have devoted
to the fulfilment of that hope, days and nights, in which
the brain grew dizzy, and the heart heavy and clogged, with
the intensity of my pursuits. Were the dungeon and the
scaffold my reward, heaven knows that I would not flinch
eye or hand, or abate a jot of heart and hope in the thank-
less prosecution of my toils. Know me, then, as one of
fortunes more desperate than your own; of an ambition
more unquenchable; of a philanthropy no less ardent; and
I will add, of a courage not less firm and behold the utter
hopelessness of your projects with others, when to me they
only appear the visions of an enthusiast.”
Wolfe sunk down in the chair.
"Is it even so?" said he, slowly and musingly, "Ar-
my hopes but delusions ?- Has my life been but one idle
though convulsive, dream? Is the goddess of our religion
banished from this great and populous earth, to the seared
and barren hearts of a few solitary worshippers, whom all
else despise as madmen, or perserute as idolaters ? - And
if so, shall we adore her the less? No! though we perish
in her cause, it is around her altar that our corpses shall be
found!"
My friend," said Glendower, kindly, for he was
touched by the sincerity, though opposed to the opinions
of the republican,
of the republican," the night is yet early: we will trim
the lamp, and sit down to discuss our several doctrines
calmly, and in the spirit of truth and investigation.”
Away!" cried Wolfe, rising and slouching his hat
over his bent and lowering brows; "away. I will not
listen to you, I dread your reasonings, I would not
have a particle of my faith shaken. If I err, I have erred
from my birth: erred with Brutus and Tell, Hampden and
Milton, and all whom the thousand tribes and parties of
earth consecrate with their common_gratitude and eternal
reverence. In that error I will die! If our party can strug-
gle not with hosts, there may yet arise some minister with
the ambition of Caesar, if not his genius, of whom a
single dagger can rid the earth!”
"And if not?" said Glendower.
"I have the same dagger for myself!" replied Wolfe,
as he closed the door.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Thus I clothe my naked villany
With old odd ends, stolen forth of Holy Writ,
And seem a saint when most I play the devil.
SHAKSPEARE.
THE only two acquaintances in this populous city, whom
Glendower possessed, who were aware that in a former
time he had known a better fortune, were Wolfe, and a
person of far higher worldly estimation, of the name of
Crauford. With the former, the student had become ac-
quainted by the favor of chance, which had for a short
time made them lodgers in the same house. Of the
Of the par-
ticulars of Glendower's earliest history, Wolfe was utterly
ignorant; but the addresses upon some old letters, which
he had accidentally seen, had informed him that Glendower
had formerly borne another name; and it was easy to glean
from the student's conversation that something of greater
distinction and prosperity than he now enjoyed was cou
pled with the appellation he had renounced. Proud, mel-
ancholy, austere, - brooding upon thoughts whose very
loftiness received somewhat of additional grandeur from
the gloom which encircled it, Glendower found, in the
Listen," said the republican, laying his hand upon ruined hopes and the solitary lot of the republican, that
Glendower's shoulder, "listen to me. There are in this congeniality which neither Wolfe's habits, nor the excess
country men whose spirits not years of delayed hope, of his political fervor, might have afforded to a nature
wearied persecution, and bitterer than all, misrepresenta- which philosophy had rendered moderate, and early cir-
tions from some, and contempt from others, have yet cumstances refined. Crauford was far better acquainted
quelled and tamed. We watch our opportunity; the
We watch our opportunity; the grow-than Wolfe with the reverses Glendower had undergone
"Are we of the many?" said Glendower.
“We could be," said Wolfe, hastily.
"I doubt it," replied Glendower.
188
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Many years ago he had known, and indeed travelled with 1
him upon the continent; since then they had not met till
about six months prior to the time in which Glendower is
presented to the reader. It was in an obscure street of the
city that Crauford had then encountered Glendower, whose
haunts were so little frequented by the higher orders of so-
ciety, that Crauford was the first, and the only one, of his
former acquaintance, with whom for years he had been
brought into contact. That person recognised him at once,
accosted him, followed him home, and three days afterward
surprised him with a visit. Of manners which, in their
dissimu ation, extended far beyond the ease and breeding
of the world, Crauford readily appeared not to notice the
altered circumstances of his old acquaintance; and, by a
tone of conversation artfully respectful, he endeavoured to
remove from Glendower's mind that soreness which his
knowledge of human nature told him his visit was calculat-
ed to create.
flourishing firm, and a name of great respectability in h
profession to his son. That son was a man whom many
and opposite qualities rendered a character of very singu
lar and uncommon stamp. Fond of the toiling acquisition
of money, he was equally attached to the ostentatious pa-
geantries of expense. Profoundly skilled in the calculat-
ing business of his profession, he was devoted equally to
the luxuries of pleasure; but the pleasure was suited well
to the mind which pursued it. The divine intoxication of
that love where the delicacies and purities of affection con-
secrate the humanity of passion, was to him a thing that
not even his youngest imagination had ever dreamt of.
The social concomitants of the wine cup, (which have for
the lenient an excuse, for the austere a temptation,) — the
generous expanding of the heart, the increased yearning
to kindly affection, the lavish spirit throwing off its ex-
uberance in the thousand lights and emanations of wit,
these, which have rendered the molten grape, despite of its
excesses, not unworthy of the praises of immortal hymns,
and taken harshness from the judgment of those averse to
its enjoyment, these never presented an inducement to
the stony temperament and dormant heart of Richard
Crauford.
J
There is a certain species of pride which contradicts the
ordinary symptoms of the feeling, and appears most eleva-
ted when it would be reasonable to expect it should be
most depressed. Of this sort was Glendower's. When
he received the guest who had known him in his former
prosperity, some natural sentiment of emotion called, it is He looked upon the essences of things internal as the
true, to his pale cheek a momentary flush, as he looked common eye upon outward nature, and loved the many
round his humble apartment, and the evident signs of pov-shapes of evil as the latter does the varieties of earth, not
erty it contained; but his address was calm and self-pos- for their graces, but their utility. His loves, coarse and
sessed, and whatever mortification he might have felt, no low, fed their rank fires from an unmingled and gross
intonation of his voice, no tell-tale embarrassment of man- depravity. His devotion to wine was either solitary and
ner, revealed it. Encouraged by this air, even while he unseen, for he loved safety better than mirth,
or in
was secretly vexed by it, and perfectly unable to do justice company with those whose station flattered his vanity, not
to the dignity of mind which gave something of majesty, whose fellowship ripened his crude and nipped affections.
rather than humiliation, to misfortune, Crauford resolved Even the recklessness of vice in him had the character of
to repeat his visit, and by intervals, gradually lessening, prudence; and, in the most rapid and turbulent stream of
renewed it, till acquaintance seemed, though little tinctur- his excesses, one might detect the rocky and unmoved
ed, at least on Glendower's side, by friendship, to assume heart of the calculator at the bottom.
the semblance of intimacy. It was true, however, that he
had something to struggle against in Glendower's manner,
which certainly grew colder in proportion to the repetition
of the visits; and, at length, Glendower said, with an
ase and quiet which abashed, for a moment, an effrontery
noth of mind and manner which was almost without par-
allel, -"Believe me, Mr. Crauford, I feel fully sensible
of your attentions; but as circumstances at present are
such as to render an intercourse between us little congenial
to the habits and sentiments of either, you will probably
understand and forgive my motives in wishing no longer
to receive civilities which, however I may feel, I am una-
ble to return.
Crauford colored, and hesitated, before he replied:
Forgive me, then," said he, " for my fault. I did ven-
ture to hope that no circumstances would break off an ac-
quaintance to me so valuable. Forgive me, if I did mag-
if I did mag-
ine that an intercourse between mind and nind could be
equally carried on, whether the mere body were lodged in
a palace or a hovel ;" and then, suddenly changing his tone
into that of affectionate warmth, Crauford continued:
'My dear Glendower, my dear friend, I would say, if I
durst, is not your pride rather to blame here? Believe me,
m my turn, I fully comprehend and bow to it; but it
wounds me beyond expression. Were you in your proper
station, a station much higher than my own, I would come
to you at once, and proffer my friendship, as it is, I can-
not; but your pride wrongs me, Glendower, — indeed it
does."
And Crauford turned away, apparently in the bitterness
of wounded feeling.
Glendower was touched and his nature, as kind as it
was proud, immediately smote him for conduct certainly
ungracious, and perhaps ungrateful. He held out his hand
o Crauford; with the most respectful warmth, that per-
onage seized and pressed it: and from that time Crau-
ford's visits appeared to receive a license which, if not
perfectly welcome, was at least never again questioned.
"I shall have this man, now," muttered Crauford be-
tween his ground teeth, as he left the house, and took his
way to his counting house. There, cool,
There, cool, bland, fawning,
and weaving in his close and dark mind various specula-
tions of guilt and craft, he sat among his bills and gold,
like the very gnome and personification of that mammon
of gain, to which he was the most supple, though conceal-
ed, adherent.
Richard Crauford was of a new, but not unimportant
family. His father had en red into commerce, and left a
Cool, sagacious, profound in dissimulation, and not only
observant of, but deducing sage consequences from, those
human inconsistencies and frailties by which it was his aim
to profit, he cloaked his deeper vices with a masterly hypo-
crisy; and for those too dear to forego, and too difficult to
conceal, he obtained pardon by the intercession of virtues
it cost him nothing to assume.
it cost him nothing to assume. Regular in his attendance
at worship, professing rigidness of faith beyond the
tenets of the orthodox church, subscribing to the public
charities, where the common eye knoweth what the pri
vate hand giveth,
vate hand giveth, methodically constant to the forms of
business, primitively scrupulous in the proprieties of
speech,- hospitable, as least to his superiors, and, being
naturally smooth, both of temper and address, popular with
his inferiors, it was no marvel that one part of the world
forgave, to a man rich and young, the irregularities of
dissipation; that another forgot real immorality in favor
of affected religion; or that the remainder allowed the
most unexceptionable excellence of words to atone for the
unobtrusive errors of a conduct which prejudiced not them.
"It is true," said his friends, "that he loves women too
much; but he is young, he will marry and amend.'
Mr. Crauford did marry, and, strange as it may seem,
for love,- - at least for that brute-like love of which only
he was capable. After a few years of ill usage on his side,
and endurance of his wife's, they parted. Disgusted with
her person, and profiting by her gentleness of temper, he
sent her to an obscure corner of the country, to starve upon
the miserable pittance which was all he allowed her from
his superfluities. Even then, such is the effect of the
showy proprieties of form and word,— Mr. Crauford sank
not in the estimation of the world.
Ang
"It was easy to see, "said the spectators of his do
mestic drama, "that a man in temper so mild, — in his
business so honorable, so civil of speech, so attentive
to the stocks and the sermon, could not have been the
party to blame. One never knew the rights of matrimonial
disagreements, nor could sufficiently estimate the provoking
disparities of temper. Certainly Mrs. Crauford never did
look in good humor, and had not the open countenance of
her husband; and certainly the very excesses of Mr. Crau-
ford betokened a generous warmth of heart, which the sub-
lenness of his conjugal partner might easily chill and revolt.'
And thus, unquestioned and unblamed, Mr. Crauford
walked onward in his beaten way; and secretly laughing
at the toleration of the crowd, continued, at his luxurious
villa, the orgies of a passionless, yet brutal sensuality.
So far might the character of Richard Crauford find
THE DISOWNED.
199
parallels in hypocrisy and its success. Dive we now deeper,
into his soul. Possessed of talents which, though of a se-
condary rank, were in that rank consummate, Mr. Crau-
ford could not be a villain by intuition, or the irregular
bias of his nature: he was a villain upon a grander scale:
he was a villain upon system. Having little learning and
less knowledge, out of his profession, his reflection expen-
ded itself upon apparently obvious deductions from the
great and mysterious book of life. He saw vice prosperous
in externals, and from this sight his conclusion was drawn.
"Vice," said he, " is not an obstacle to success; and if so,
it is at least a pleasanter road to it than your narrow and
thorny ways of virtue." But there are certain vices which
But there are certain vices which
require the mask of virtue, and Crauford thought it easier
to wear the mask than to school his soul to the reality.
So to the villain he added the hypocrite. He found the
success equalled his hopes, for he had both craft and ge-
nius: nor was he, naturally, without the minor amiabilities,
which, to the ignorance of the herd, seem more valuable
than coin of a more important amount. Blinded as we are
by prejudice, we not only mistake but prefer decencies to
moralities; and, like the inhabitants of Cos, when offered
the choice of two statues of the same goddess, we choose,
not that which is the most beautiful, but that which is the
most dressed.
Accustomed easily to dupe mankind, Crauford soon grew
to despise them; and from justifying roguery by his own
interest, he now justified it by the folly of others; and, as
no wretch is so unredeemed as to be without excuse to
himself, Crauford actually persuaded his reason that he was
vicious upon principle, and a rascal on a system of moral-
ity. But why the desire of this man, so consummately
worldly and heartless, for an intimacy with the impoverish-
ed and powerless student? This question is easily answer-
ed. In the first place, during Crauford's acquaintance
with Glendower abroad, the latter had often, though inno-
cently, galled the vanity and self-pride of the roturier
affecting the aristocrat, and in poverty the roturier was
anxious to retaliate. But the desire would probably have
passed away
after he had satisfied his curiosity, or gloated
his spite, by one or two insights into Glendower's home,
for Crauford, though at times a malicious, was not a vin-
dictive, man, had it not been for a much more powerful
object which afterward occurred to him. In an extensive
scheme of fraud, which for many years this man had car-
ried on, and which for secrecy and boldness was almost
unequalled, it had of late become necessary to his safety to
have a partner, or rather tool. A man of education, talent,
and courage, was indispensable, and Crauford had resolved
that Glendower should be that man. With the supreme
confidence in his own powers which long success had given
him, with a sovereign contempt for, or rather disbelief
in, human integrity, and with a thorough conviction that
the bribe to him was the bribe with all, and that none
could on any account be poor if they had the offer to be rich,
Crauford did not bestow a moment's consideration upon
the difficulty of his task, or conceive that in the nature and
mind of Glendower there could exist any obstacle to his
design.
Men addicted to calculation are accustomed to suppose
those employed in the same mental pursuit arrive, or ought
to arrive, at the same final conclusion. Now, looking
upon Glendower as a philosopher, Crauford looked upon
him as a man, who, however he might conceal his real
opinions, secretly laughed, like Crauford's self, not only at
the established customs, but at the established moralities,
of the world. Ill acquainted with books, the worthy
Richard was, like all men similarly situated, somewhat in-
fected by the very prejudices he affected to despise; and the
vulgar ill-opinion of the hearts of those who cultivate the
head, he in no small degree shared. Glendower himself
had confirmed this opinion by lauding, though he did not
entirely subscribe to, those moralists who have made an
enlightened self-interest the proper measure of all human
conduct; and Crauford, utterly unable to comprehend this
system in its grand, naturally interpreted it in a partial,
sense. Espousing self-interest as his own code, he deemed
that in reality Glendower's principles did not differ greatly
from his; and as there is no pleasure to a hypocrite like
that of finding a fit opportunity to unburden some of his
real sentiments, Crauford was occasionally wont to hold
some conference and argument with the student, m which
ais opinions were not utterly cloaked in their usual dis-
guise; but, cautious even in his candor, he always forbore
stating such opinions as his own: he merely mentioned
them as those which a man, beholding the villanies and
follies of his kind, might be tempted to form; and thus
Glendower, though not greatly esteeming nis acquaint-
ance, looked upon him as one ignorant in his opinions,
but not likely to err in his conduct.
no,
These conversations did, however, it is true, increase
Crauford's estimate of Glendower's integrity, but they by
no means diminished his confidence of subduing it. Hon-
or, a deep and pure sense of the divinity of good, the
steady desire of rectitude, and the supporting aid of a sin-
cere religion, these he did not deny to his intended
tool; he rather rejoiced that he possessed them. With the
profound arrogance, the sense of immeasurable superior-
ity which men of no principle invariably feel for those
Those very vir-
who have it, Crauford said to himself,
tues will be
tues will be my best dupes, they cannot resist the temp-
tations I shall offer, but they can resist any offer to be-
tray me afterward, for no man can resist hunger, but your
he!
fine feelings, your nice honor, your precise religion,
he he! these can teach a man very well to resist a
common inducement: they cannot make him submit to be
his own executioner; but they can prevent his turning
king's evidence, and being executioner to another. No,
it is not to your common rogues that I may dare
trust my secret, -my secret, which is my life! It is
precisely of such a fine, Athenian, moral rogue as I shall
But he has
make my proud friend, that I am in want.
some silly scruples; we must beat them away,- we must
not be too rash; and, above all, we must leave the best
argument to poverty. Want is
Want is your finest orator; —a
starving wife, -a famished brat, he! he ! - these are
your true tempters, your true fathers of crime, and
fillers of jails and gibbets. Let me see: he has no money,
I know, but what he gets from that bookseller. What
bookseller, by the by? Ah, rare thought! I'll find out,
and cut off that supply. My lady wife's cheek will look
somewhat thinner next month, I fancy,— he ! he ! But
'tis a pity, for she is a glorious creature! Who knows
but I may serve two purposes? However, one at present;
business first, and pleasure afterward, and faith, the bus
iness is damnably like that of life and death."
Muttering such thoughts as these, Crauford took his way
one evening to Glendower's house.
CHAPTER XLIV
Iago. Virtue; a fig !-'tis in ourselves that we are th
Othello.
and thus.
"So,so, my little one, don't let me disturb you. Ma
dam, dare I venture to hope your acceptance of this fruit !
I chose it myself, and I am somewhat of a judge. O'
Glendower, here is the pamphlet you wished to see.
With this salutation, Crauford drew his chair to the ta
ble by which Glendower sate, and entered into conversa
tion with his purposed victim. A comely and a pleasing
countenance had Richard Crauford ! the lonely light of the
room fell upon a face which, though forty years of guile
had gone over it, was as fair and unwrinkled as a boy's.
Small, well cut features, -a blooming complexion, - eyes
of the lightest blue, a forehead high, though narrow,
and a mouth from which the smile was never absent: these,
joined to a manner at once soft and confident, and an ele-
gant, though unaffected, study of dress, gave to Crauford
a personal appearance well suited to aid the effect of his
hypocritical and dissembling mind.
Well, my friend," said he, "always at your books,
eh! Ah! it is a happy taste; would that I had culti-
vated it more; but we who are condemned to business have
little leisure to follow our own inclinations. It is only on
Sundays that I have time to read, and then, (to say truth
I am an oldfashioned man, whom the gayer part of the
world laughs at,) and then I am too occupied with the
Book of Books to think of any less important study."
Not deeming that a peculiar reply was required to this
pious speech, Glendower did not take that advantage of
Crauford's pause which it was evidently intended that he
should. With a glance toward the student's wife, our mer
cantile friend continued:
"I did once, - once, in my
young dreams, intend, that whenever I married, I would
Madd
·
190
BULWER'S NOVELS.
relinquish a profession for whien, after all, I am but little
calculated. I pictured to myself a country retreat, well
etored with books; and having concentrated in one home
all the attractions which could have tempted my thoughts
abroad, I had designed to surrender myself solely to those
studies which, I lament to say, were but ill attended to in
my earlier education. But,-but," (here Mr. Crauford
sighed deeply, and averted his face,) "fate willed it
otherwise ! "
M
Whatever reply of sympathetic admiration or condolence
Glendower might have made, was interrupted by one of
those sudden and overpowering attacks of faintness which
had of late seized the delicate and declining health of his
wife. He rose, and leant over her with a fondness and
alarm which curled the lip of his visiter.
"Thus it is," said Crauford to himself, "with weak
inds, under the influence of habit. The love of lust be-
the love of custom, and the last is as strong as the
hen she had recovered, she rose, and (with her child)
red to rest, the only restorative she ever found effectual
for her complaint. Glendower went with her, and, after
having seen her eyes, which swam with tears of gratitude
at his love, close in the seeming slumber she affected in or-
der to release him from his watch, he returned to Crauford.
He found that gentleman leaning against the chimney-piece
with folded arms, and apparently lost in thought. A very
good opportunity had Glendower's absence afforded to a
man whose boast it was never to lose one. Looking over
the papers on the table, he had seen and possessed himself
of the address of the bookseller, the student dealt with.
"So much for business, -now for philanthropy," said Mr.
Crauford, in his favorite antithetical phrase, throwing him-
self in his attitude against the chimney-piece.
As Glendower eutered, Crauford started from his revery,
and, with a melancholy air and persive voice, said,
"Alas, my friend, when I look at this humble apart-
ment, the weak health of your unequalled wife,
your ob-
scurity, your misfortunes; when I look upon these, and
contrast them with your mind, your talents, all that you
were born and fitted for, I cannot but feel tempted to be-
lieve with those who imagine the pursuit of virtue a chimera,
and who justify their own worldly policy by the example of
all their kind."
>>
truth, Glendower, there was something very plausible it
this manner of putting the question."
"You might, in answering it," said Glendower, “havs
put the point in a manner equally plausible, and more true.
was he to commit a great crime against the millions con.
nected by social order, for the sake of serving a single
family, and that his own?"
Quite right," answered Crauford: "that was just the
point of view in which I did put it: but the man, who was
something of a reasoner, replied, 'Public law is instituted
for public happiness. Now if mine and my children's hap-
piness is infinitely and immeasurably more served by this
comparatively petty fraud than my employer's is advanced
by my abstaining from, or injured by my committing it,
why the origin of law itself allows me to do it.' What say
you to that, Glendower? It is something in your own
Utilitarian, or, as you term it, Epicurean* principle; is it
not?" and Crauford, shading his eyes, as if from the light,
watched narrowly Glendower's countenance, while he con-
cealed his own.
"Poor fool!" said Glendower : "the man was ignor.
ant of the first lesson in his moral primer. Did he not
know that no rule is to be applied to a peculiar instance,
but extended to its most general bearings? Is it necessary
even to observe that the particular consequence of fraud in
this man might, it is true, be but the ridding his employer
of superfluities, scarcely missed, for the relief of most ur-
gent want in two or three individuals; but the general con-
sequences of fraud and treachery would be the disorgani-
zation of all society! Do not think, therefore, that this
man was a disciple of my, or of any, system of morality."
"It is very just, very," said Mr. Crauford, with a be-
nevolent sigh; but you will own that want seldom allows
great nicety in moral distinctions, and that, when those
whom you love most in the world are starving, you may be
pitied, if not forgiven, for losing sight of the after laws of
nature, and recurring to her first ordinance, self-preserva-
tion."
"We should be harsh, indeed," answered Glendower,
"if we did not pity; or, even while the law, condemned,
if the individual did not forgive."
دو
*
"So I said, so I said," cried Crauford ; "and in in-
terceding for the poor fellow, whose pardon I am happy to
say I procured, I could not help declaring, that if I were
“Virtue,” said Glendower, “ would indeed be a chimera, placed in the same circumstances, I am not sure that my
did it require support from those whom you have cited.' crime would not have been the same.
"'True,
""
-inost true, answered Crauford, somewhat "No man could feel sure!" said Glendower, dejectedly.
disconcerted in reality, though not in appearance; " and yet, Delighted and surprised with this confession, Crauford
strange as it may seem, I have known some of those per- continued: "I believe, — I fear not; thank God, our
sons very good, admirably good men. They were extreme- virtue can never be so tried; but even you, Glendower,
ly moral and religious; they only played the great game for even you, philosopher, moralist as you are,—just, good,
worldly advantages upon the same terms as the other play-wise, religious, -even you might be tempted, if you saw
ers; nay, they never made a move in it without most fer-
vently and sincerely praying for divine assistance."
"I readily believe you," said Glendower, who always,
if possible, avoided a controversy,
"the easiest person
to deceive is one's own self.”
ઃઃ
Admirably said," answered Cranford, who thought it,
nevertheless, one of the most foolish observations he had
ever heard; "admirably said!—and yet my heart does
gr eve bitterly for the trials and distresses it surveys. One
must make excuses for poor human frailty; and one is often
placed in such circumstances as to render it scarcely possi-
ble, without the grace of God,” (here Crauford lifted up
his eyes,) -
"not toe urged, as it were, into the reason-
ings and actions of the world."
Not exactly comprehending this observation, and not
very closely attending to it, Glendower merely bowed, as in
assent, and Crauford continued
your angel wife dying for want of the aid, the very suste-
nance, necessary to existence, and your innocent and
beautiful daughter stretch her little hands to you, and cry in
the accents of famine for bread.”
The student made no reply for a few moments, but avert-
ed his countenance, and then, in a slow tone, said, “Let
us drop this subject: none know their strength till they are
tried self-confidence should accompany virtue, but not
precede it."
"the
A momentary flash broke from the usually calm, cold eye
of Richard Crauford. "He is mine," thought he: "
very name of want abases his pride: what will the reality
do? O human nature, how I know and mock thee!
"You are right," said Crauford, aloud; "let us talk of
the pamphlet.
>>
And after a short conversation upon indifferent subjects,
the visiter departed.
Early the next morning was Mr. Crauford seen on foot,
taking his way to the bookseller, whose address he had
learnt. The bookseller was known as a man of a strongly
"I remember a remarkable instance of this truth. One
of my partner's clerks, had, throngisfortune or impru-
dence, fallen into the greatest distress. His wife, his
children, (he had a numerous family) were on the lit-evangelical bias. "We must insinuate a lie or two," said
eral and absolute verge of starvation. Another clerk, taking
advantage of these circumstances, communicated to the dis-
ressed man a plan for defrauding his employer. The poor
eHow yielded to the temptation, and was at last discovered.
I spoke to him myself, for I was interested in his fate, and
had always esteemed him. What,' said I, was your mo-
tive to this fraud?' My duty!' answered the man fer-
vently; My duty! Was I to suffer my wife, my children
<
C
1
<
Crauford, inly, "about Glendower's principles. He. he
it will be a fine stroke of genius to make the upright trades-
man suffer Glendower to starve, out of a principle of re-
ligion. But who would have thought my prey had been so
easily snared ? why, if I had proposed the matter last
night, I verily think he would have agreed to it."
J
* See the article on Mr. Moore's Epicurean in the Westmin
ster Review. Though the strictures on that work are harsh and
to starve before iny face, when I could save them at a litue unjust, yet the part relating to the real philosophy of Epicurus
personal risk? No, my duty forbade it!' — and m
is one of the most masterly things in criticism
THE DISOWNED
101
Amusing himself with these thoughts, Crauford arrived
at the bookseller's. There he found fate had saved him
from one crime at least. The whole house was in confu-
sion, the bookseller had that morning died of an apo-
plectic fit.
is won,
so, so,
broke hot and sultry through half-closed curtains of roseate
silk, playing in broker. beams upon rare and fragrant exo-
tics, which cast the perfumes of southern summers over a
chamber, moderate, indeed, as to its dimensions, but dee.
orated with a splendor rather gaudy than graceful, and in-
dicating much more a passion for luxury than a refinement
of taste.
At a small writing table sat the beautiful La Meronville.
She had just finished a note, written (bow Jean Jacques
would have been enchanted!) upon paper couleur de rose,
with a mother-of-pearl pen, formed as one of Cupid's darts,
dipped into an inkstand of the same material, which was
shaped as a quiver, and placed at the back of a little Love,
exquisitely wrought. She was folding this billet when a
page, fantastically dressed, entered, and announcing Lord
Borodaile, was immediately followed by that nobleman.
Eagerly and almost blushingly did La Meronville thrust the
note into her bosom, and hasten to greet and to embrace
Lord Borodaile flung himself on one of the
sofas with a listless and discontented air. The experienced
Frenchwoman saw that there was a cloud on his brow,
"My dear friend," said she, in her own tongue, “
seem vexed, has any thing annoyed you?"
No, Cecile, no. By the by, who supped with you last
night?"
"Good God! how shocking!" said Crnuford to the
foreman ; "but he was a most worthy man, and Provi-
dence could no longer spare him. The ways of Heaven
are inscrutable! Oblige me with three copies of that
precious tract termed the Divine Call.' I should like to
be allowed permission to attend the funeral of so excellent
a man. Good morning, sir,-Alas! alas!" and shak-
ing his head piteously, Mr. Crauford left the shop.
"Hurra!" said he, almost audibly, when he was once
more in the street, "hurra! my victim is made, my game
death or the devil fights for me. But, hold,
there are other booksellers in this monstrous city!-ay,
but not above two or three in our philosopher's way. I
must forestall him there,
her adorer.
that is soon settled.
Now, then, I must leave him a little while undisturbed, to
his fate. Perhaps my next visit may be to him in jail;
your debtor's side of the Fleet is almost as good a pleader
he! he he!
as an empty stomach,
but the stroke
must be made soon, for time presses, and this d—d busi-
ness spreads so fast, that if I don't have a speedy help, it
will be too auch for my hands, griping as they are. How-
ever, if it holds on a year longer, I will change my seat in
the lower house for one in the upper; twenty thousand
pounds to the minister may make a merchant a very pretty
peer. O brave Richard Crauford, wise Richard Crau-
ford, fortunate Richard Crauford, noble Richard Crauford!
Why, if thou art ever hanged, it will be by a jury of peers.
Gad, the rope would then have a dignity in it, instead of
disgrace. But stay, here comes the Dean of ; not
orthodox, it is said, rigid Calvinist!-out with the
Divine Call !'"
C
When Mr. Richard Crauford repaired next to Glen-
dower, what was his astonishment and dismay at hearing
he had left his home, none knew whither, nor could give
the inquirer the slightest clue.
"How long has he left?" said Crauford to the landlady.
"Five days, sir."
“And will he not return to settle any little debts he may
have incurred?" said Crauford.
-
O! the Duke of Haverfield,
'yot
your friend."
My friend!" interrupted Borodaile, haughtily,
"he's no friend of mine, -a vulgar, talkative fellow,
my friend, indeed!"
CC
Well, I beg your pardon: then there was Mademoiselle
Caumartin, and the Prince Pietro del Orbino, and Mr
Trevanion, and Mr. Lin-Lin-Linten, or Linden."
And, pray, will you allow me to ask how you became
acquainted with Mr. Lin Lin Linten, or Linden ?"
Assuredly, through the Duke of Haverfield.'
"Humph, - Cecile, my love, that young man is not fit
to be the acquaintance of my friend, allow me to strike
him from your list."
Certainly, certainly!" said La Meronville, hastily,
and stooping as if to pick up a fallen glove, though, in re
ality, to hide her face from Lord Borodaile's searching eye,
the letter she had written fell from her bosom. Lord Bor-
odaile's glance detected the superscription, and before La
Meronville could regain the note, he had possessed himself
of it.
"O, no, sir, he paid them all before he went. Poor
gentleman, for though he was poor, he was the finest "A Monsieur, Monsieur Linden!" said he, coldly, read-
and most thorough gentleman I ever saw ! my heart bleding the address; " and, pray, how long have you correspon-
for him. They parted with all their valuables to discharge ded with that gentleman ?"
their debts the books, aud instruments, and busts, all
went; and what I saw, though he spoke so indifferently
about it, hurt him most, he sold even the lady's picture.
'Mrs. Croftson,' said he, Mr. the painter, will
send for that picture the day after I leave you. See that
he has it, and that the greatest care is taken of it in de-
livery.
C
"And you cannot even guess where he has gone to ?"
No, sir; a single porter was sufficient to convey his
remaining goods, and he took him from some distant part
of the town.
"Ten thousand devils!" muttered Crauford, as he
turned away. "I should have foreseen this! He is lost
now. Of course he will again change his name, and in the
d▬▬d holes and corners of this gigantic puzzle of houses,
how shall I ever find him out?- and time presses too!
Well, well, well! there is a fine prize for being cleverer,
or, as fools would say, more rascally than others; but
there is a world of trouble in winning it. But come,
I
will go home, lock myself up, and get drunk! I am as
melancholy as a cat in love, and about as stupid: and,
faith, one must get spirits in order to hit on a new inven-
tion. But if there be consistency in fortune, or success in
porseverance, or wit in Richard Crauford, that man shall
et be my victim, and preserver !
CHAPTER XLV.
Revenge is now the cud
That I do chew. I'll challenge him.
C
—
Beaumont and Fletcher.
WE return to the world of fashion,' as the adınırers of
be polite novel of would say. The noonday sun.
Now La Meronville's situation at that moment was by no
means agreeable. She saw at one glance that no falsehood
nor artifice could avail her; for Lord Borodaile might deem
himself fully justified in reading the note, which would con-
tradict any glossing statement she might make.
She saw
this. She was a woman of independence,
cared not a
straw for Lord Borodaile at present, though she had had a
caprice for him, - knew that she might choose her bon ami
out of all London, and replied, -
"That is the first letter I ever wrote to him; but I own
that it will not be the last.
Lord Borodaile turned pale.
"And will you suffer me to read it?" said he; for even
in these cases he was punctiliously honorable.
La Meronville hesitated. She did not know him. "If
I do not consent," thought she, "he will do it without the
consent: better submit with a good grace." "Certain
ly!" she answered with an air of indifference.
Borodaile opened and read the note; it was as follows:
"You have inspired me, with a feeling for you which as-
tonishes myself. Ah, why should that love be the strongest
which is the swiftest in its growth? I used to love Lord
Borodaile,
Borodaile, I now only esteem him, the love has flown
to you.
If I judge rightly from your words and your eyes,
this avowal will not be unwelcome to you. Come and as-
sure me, in person, of a persuasion so dear to my heart.
"C. L. M."
"A very pretty effusion!" said Lord Borodaile, sarcas-
tically, and only showing his inward rage by the increasing
paleness of his complexion, and a slight compression of his
lip. "I thank you for your confidence in me. All I ask
is, that you will not send this note till to-morrow. Allow
me to take my leave of you first, and to find in Mr. Liuden
a successor rather than a rival.”
“Your request, my friend,” said La Meronville, adjust-
92
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ng her hair," is but reasonable. I see that you understand
these arrangements; and for my part, I think that the end
of love should always be the beginning of friendship,-let
it be so with us?"
"You do me too much honor," said Borodaile, bowing
profoundly. "Meanwhile I depend upon your promise,
and bid you, as a lover, farewell for ever.”
With his usual slow step Lord Borodaile descended the
stairs, and walked toward the central quartier of town.
His meditations were of no soothing nature.
"To be seen
by that man in a ridiculous and degrading situation, -to
be pestered with his d-d civility, to be rivalled by him.
with Lady Flora, to be duped and outdone by him with
my mistress! Ay all this have I been; but vengeance
shall come yet. As for La Meronville, the loss is a gain ;
and thank heaven, I did not betray myself by venting my
passion and making a scene. But it was I who ought to
have discarded her, not the reverse, and, — death and
confusion, for that upstart, above all men !
men! And she
talked in her letter about his eyes and words. Insolent
coxcomb, to dare to have eyes and words for one who be-
longed to ine. Well, well, he shall smart for this. But let
me consider, I must not play the jealous fool, must not
fight for a ***** must not show the world that a
man, nobody knows who, could really outwit and outdo me,
- me, - Francis Borodaile !- No, no, I must throw
the insult upon him, must myself be the aggressor,—
and the challenged; then, too, I shall have the choice of
weapons, - pistols, of course. Where shall I hit him, by
the by? I wish I shot as well as I used to do at Naples.
I was in full practice then. Cursed place, where there was
nothing else to do but to practice !"
Immersed in these, or somewhat similar reflections, did
Lord Borodaile enter Pall Mall.
>>
you
"Ah, Borodaile!" said Lord St. George, suddenly
emerging from a shop. "This is really fortunate,
allow me to join you.
are going my way exactly,
Now Lord Borodaile, to say nothing of his happening at
hat time to be in a mood more than usually unsocial, could
never at any time bear the thought of being made an instru-
ment of convenience, pleasure, or good fortune to another.
He, therefore, with a little resentment at Lord St. George's
familiarity, coldly replied, "I am sorry that
that I |
cannot avail
myself of your offer. I am sure my way is not the same as
yours.
CC
Then," replied Lord St. George, who was a good-
natured, indolent man, who imagined every body was as
averse to walking alone as he was, "then I will make
mine the same as yours."
Borodaile colored though always uncivil, he did not
like to be excelled in good manners; and therefore replied,
that nothing but extreme business at White's could have
induced him to prefer his own way to that of Lord St.
George.
It
The good-natured peer took Lord Borodaile's arm.
was a natural incident, but it vexed the punctilious viscount,
that any man should take, not offer, the support.
"So, they say," observed Lord St. George, "that young
Linden is to marry Lady Flora Ardenne."
"Les on-dits font la gazette des fous," rejoined Boro-
daile, with a sneer. "I believe that Lady Flora is little
likely to contract such a mésalliance.”
“Mésalliance!” replied Lord St. George. I thought
Linden was of a very old family, which you know the West-
boroughs are not, and he has great expectatious,
وو
"Which are never to be realized," interrupted Boro-
daile, laughing scornfully.
"Ah, indeed!" sad Lord St. George, seriously.
"Well, at all events, he is a very agreeable, unaffected
young man, and, by the by, Borodaile, you will incet him
shez moi to-day, you know you dine with me!
A
19
"Meet Mr. Linden!" I shall be proud to have that
honor," said Borodaile, with sparkling eyes: "will Lady
Westborough be also of the party?"
"No, poor Lady St. George is very ill, and I have
taken the opportunity to ask only men.'
"You have done wisely, my lord," said Borodaile,
secum multa revolvens; " and I assure you I wanted no
kunt to remind me of your invitation."
Here the Duke of Haverfield joined them. The duke
never bowed to any one of the male sex; he therefore
modded to Borodaile, who, with a very supercilious formality,
took off his hot in returning the salutation. The viscount
had at least this men in his pride, that if it was reservea
to the humble, it was contemptuous to the high: his inte
riors he wished to remain where they were; his equals he
longed to lower.
So I dine with you, Lord St. George, to-day,” said
the duke; "who shall I meet?"
"Lord Borodaile, for one," answered St. George
(The duke smiled at the viscount, and then, loosening hi
neckcloth, exclaimed, " Hang these stiffeners, they derange
one entirely." Lord St. George resumed: " My brother,
Aspeden, Findlater, Urbino, and Linden.'
Linden!" cried the duke; "I am very glad to hear
it, c'est un homme fait exprès pour moi. He is very clever,
and not above playing the fool; has humor without sitting
for a wit, and is a good fellow without being a bad man.
I like him excessively.
up
"Lord St. George," said Borodaile, who seemed tha
day to be the very martyr of the unconscious Clarence
"I wish you good morning. I have only just remembere
an engagement which I must keep before I go to White's
à l'honneur !”
his
And with a bow to the duke and a remonstrance from
Lord St. George, Borodaile effected his escape. His com-
plexion was, insensibly to himself, more raised than usual,
step more stately; his mind, for the first time for years,
was fully excited and engrossed. Ah, w.at a delightfu
thing it is for an idle man, who has been dying of ennui, to
find an enemy!
CHAPTER XLVI.
You must challenge him ;
There's no avoiding, one or both must drop.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
HA, ha, ha,-bravo, Linden!" cried Lord St
George, from the head of his splendid board, in approba-
tion of some witticism of Clarence's; and ha, ha, ha! o
he, he, he! according to the cachinnatory intonations of
the guests, rung around.
"Your lordship seems unwell," said Lord Aspeden to
Borodaile; "allow me to take wine with you."
Lord Borodaile bowed his assent.
CC
" have you
Pray," said Mr. St. George to Clarence,
seen my friend Talbot lately?
"This very morning," replied Linden: "indeed, I
generally visit him three or four times a week, — he often
asks after you.'
وو
"Indeed!" said Mr. St. George, rather flattered: "he
does me much honor; but he is a distant connexion of mine,
and I suppose I must attribute his recollection of me to
that cause. He is a near relation of yours, too, I think,-
is he not ?"
“I am related to him," answered Clarence, coloring.
Lord Borodaile leant forward, and his lip curled. Though,
in some respects, a very weak man, he had, as we have
said, his good points. He hated a lie as much as Achilles
did; and he believed in his heart of hearts that Clarence
had just uttered one.
CC
Why," observed Lord Aspeden, making one of his
luminously-unfortunate remarks, why, Lord Borodaile,
the Talbots, of Scarsdale, are branches of your genealogi
cal tree; therefore your lordship must be related to La-
den; -
C
you are
two cherries on one stalk!
"We are by no means related," said Lord Borodaile,
with a distinct and clear voice, intended expressly for Cla-
rence; "that is an honor which I must beg leave most
positively to disclaim."
There was a dead silence,
the eyes of all who heard
a remark so intentionally rude, were turned immediately
towards Clarence. His cheek burnt like fire; he hesitated
a moment, and then said, in the same key, though with a
little trembling in his intonation,—
"Lord Borodaile cannot be more anxious to disclaim it
than I am."
"And yet," returned the viscount, stung to the soul,
"they who advance false pretensions ought at least to
support them."
"I do not understand you, my lord," said Clarence.
Possibly not," answered Borodaile, carelessly: "there
is a maxim which says that people not accustomed to speak
truth cannot comprehend it in others."
THE DISOWNED
19.
do not
If you
and shoot well. I shall never forgive you,
put an end to that piece of rigidity."
Clarence continued to walk about the room in great agi-
tation the duke looked at him with some surprise. At
last Linden paused by the window, and said, half uncon-
"It must be so, I cannot avoid fighting!
"Avoid fighting!" cried his grace, in undisguised as-
tonishment. No, indeed, but that is the least part of
the matter, -you must kill as well as fight him."
Unlike the generality of modern heroes, who are always
in a passion, off-hand, dashing fellows, in whom irasci-
bility is a virtue, - Clarence was peculiarly sweet tem-
pered by nature, and had, by art, acquired a command
over all his passions to a degree very uncommon in so
young a man. He made no reply to the inexcusable af-sciously,-
front he had received. His lip quivered a little, and the
flush of his countenance was succeeded by an extreme
paleness, this was all he did not even leave the room
immediately, but waited till the silence was broken by
some well-bred member of the party: and then, pleading
an early engagement as an excuse for his retiring so soon,
he rose, and departed.
very
There was throughout the room a universal feeling of
sympathy with the affront, and indignation against the of
fender; for, to say nothing of Clarence's popularity, and
the extreme dislike in which Lord Borodaile was held,
there could be no doubt as to the wantonness of the out-
rage or the moderation of the aggrieved party. Lord Bo-
rodaile already felt the punishment of his offence his
:
pride, while it rendered him indifferent to the spirit, had
hitherto kept him scrupulous as to the formalities, of the
bienséances de société ; and he could not but see the gross-
ness with which he had suffered himself to violate them,
and the light in which his conduct was regarded. How-
ever, this internal discomfort only rendered him the more
imbittered against Clarence, and the more confirmed in his
revenge. Resuming, by a strong effort, all the external
indifference habitual to his manner, he attempted to enter
into a conversation with those of the party who were next
to him; but his remarks produced answers brief and cold:
even Lord Aspeden forgot his diplomacy and his smile;
Lord St. George replied to his observations by a monosyl-
lable; and the Duke of Haverfield, for the first time in
his life, asserted the prerogative which his rank gave him
of setting the example, his grace did not reply to Lord
Borodaile at all. In truth, every one present was serious-
ly displeased. All civilized societies have a paramount
interest in repressing the rude. Nevertheless, Lord Boro-
daile bore the brunt of his unpopularity with a steadiness
and unembarrassed composure worthy of a better cause;
and finding, at last, a companion disposed to be loquacious
in the person of Sir Christopher Findlater, (whose good
heart, though its first impulses resented more violently than
that of any heart present the discourtesy of the viscount,
yet soon warmed to the désagrémens of his situation, and
hastened to adopt his favorite maxim of forgive and forget,)
Lord Borodaile sat the meeting out; and if he did not
leave the latest, he was, at least, not the first to follow
Clarence. L'orgueil ou donne le courage, ou il y supplée.
Meanwhile Linden had returned to his solitary home.
He hastened to his room, locked the door, flung him-
sell on his sofa, and burst into a violent and almost femin-
ine paroxysm of tears. This fit lasted for more than an
hour and when Clarence at length stilled the indignant
swellings of his beart, and rose from his supine position,
he started, as his eye fell upon the opposite mirror, so hag-
gard and exhausted seemed the forced and fearful calmness
of his countenance. With a hurried step, with arms
now folded on his bosom, - now wildly tossed from him,
and the hand so firmly clenched, that the very bones seem-
ed working through the skin, with a brow now fierce,
now only dejected, and a complexion which one while
burnt as with the crimson flush of a fever, and at another
was wan and colorless, like his whose cheek a spectre has
blanched, Clarence paced his apartment, the victim not
only of shame, the bitterest of tortures to a young and
high mind, —but of other contending feelings, which al-
ternately exasperated and palsied his wrath, and gave to
his resolves at one moment an almost savage ferocity, and
at the next an almost cowardly vacillation.
—
The clock had just struck the hour of twelve, when a
knock at the door announced a visiter. Steps were heard
on the stairs, and presently a tap at Clarence's room door.
He unlocked it, and the Duke of Haverfield entered.
"I am charmed to find you at home," cried the duke,
with his usual half kind, half careless address. "I was
determined to call upon you, and be the first to offer my
services in this unpleasant affair."
Clarence pressed the duke's hand, but made no answer.
"Nothing could be so unhandsome as Lord Borodaile's
conduct," continued the duke. "I hope you both fence
VOL. 1
25
and
"Kill him!" cried Clarence, wildly, "whom!
then sinking into a chair, he covered his face with his hands
for a few moments, and seemed to struggle with his emo-
tions.
"Well," thought the duke, "I never was more mistaken
in my life. I could have bet my black horse against Tre-
vanion's Julia, which is certainly the most worthless thing
I know, that Linden had been a brave fellow but these
English heroes always go into fits at a duel: one manages
such things, as Sterne says, better in France."
Clarence now rose, calm and collected. He sat down,
-wrote a brief note to Borodaile, demanding the fullest
apology, or the earliest meeting, put it into the duke's
hands, and said, with a faint smile, "My dear duke, dare I
ask you to be second to a man who has been so grievously
affronted, and whose genealogy has been so disputed?"
My dear Linden," said the duke warmly, "I have al-
ways been grateful to my station in life for this advantage,
the freedom with which it has enabled me to select my own
acquaintance, and to follow my own pursuits. I am now
more grateful to it than ever, because it has given me a
better opportunity than I should otherwise have had of
serving one whom I have always esteemed. In entering
into your quarrel, I shall at least show the world that there
are some men, not inferior in pretensions to Lord Boro-
daile, who despise arrogance and resent overbearance even
to others. Your cause I consider the common cause of
society; but I shall take it up, if you will allow me, with
the distinguishing zeal of a friend."
M
Clarence, who was much affected by the kindness of this
speech, replied in a similar vein; and the duke, having
read and approved the letter, rose.
"There is, in my
opinion," said he, "no time to be lost. I will go to
Borodaile this very evening, adieu, mon cher: you shall
kill the Argus, and then carry off the Io. I feel in a
double passion with that ambulating poker, who is only
malleable when he is redhot, when I think how honorably
scrupulous you were with La Meronville last night, not-
withstanding all her advances; but I go to bury Cæsar, not
to scold him. Au revoir."
CHAPTER XLVII.
Conon.-You 're well met, Crates,
Crates. If we part so, Conon.
—
Queen of Corinth.
Ir was, as might be expected from the character of
the aggressor! Lord Borodaile refused all apology, and
agreed with avidity to a speedy rendezvous. He chose pis-
tols, (choice, then, was not merely nominal,) and selected
Mr. Percy Bobus for his second, a gentleman who was
much fonder of acting in that capacity than in the more
honorable one of a principal.
honorable one of a principal. The author of "Lacon,
a very brilliant collection of commonplaces, says,
"that if
all seconds were as averse to duels as their principals, there
would be very little blood spilt in that way;" and it was
certainly astonishing to compare the zeal with which Mr.
Bobus busied himself about this "affair," with that testified
by him on another occasion, when he himself was more
immediately concerned.
The morning came. Bobus breakfasted with his friend.
"Damn it, Borodaile," said he, as the latter was receiv
ing the ultimate polish of the friseur, "I never saw you
look better in my life. It will be a great pity if that fellow.
shoots you.'
me, -no!
"Shoots me!" said Lord Borodaile, very quietly, -
that is quite out of the question; but joking
apart, Bobus, I will not kill the young man. Where shaft
I hit him?
"In the cap of the knee," said Mr. Percy, breaking an
egg
194
BULWER'S NOVELS.
cr
"Nay, that will lame him for life," said Lord Borodaile,
putting on his cravat with peculiar exactitude.
"Serve him right," said Mr. Bobus. "Hang him, I
never got up so early in my life, it's quite impossible to
Pat at this hour. O apropos, Borodaile, have you left any
little memoranda for me to execute ?"
“Memoranda ! — for what?" said Borodaile, who had
now just finished his toilet.
"O!" rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus," in case of acci-
dent, you know: the man may shoot well, though I never
shoot well, though I never
saw him in the gallery."
cer-
Pray," said Lord Borodaile, in a great though sup-
pressed passion, pray, Mr. Bobus, how often have I to
tell you, that it is not by Mr. Linden that my days are to
terminate: you are sure that Carabine saw to that trigger?"
"Certain,” said Mr. Percy, with his mouth full,
tain, God bless me, here's the carriage, and breakfast
not half done yet."
"Come, come,
" cried Borodaile, impatiently,
must breakfast afterward. Here, Roberts, see that we
have fresh chocolate, and some more rognons, when we
return."
CC
we
"I would rather have them now," sighed Mr. Bobus,
foreseeing the possibility of the return being single,
Ihis! redibis ? &c.
"Come, we have not a moment to lose," exclaimed
Borodaile, hastening down the stairs; and Mr. Percy
Bobus followed, with a strange mixture of various regrets,
partly for the breakfast that was lost, and partly for the friend
that might be.
When they arrived at the ground, Clarence and the duke
were already there: the latter, who was a dead shot, had
fully persuaded himself that Clarence was equally adroit,
and had, in his providence for Borodaile, brought a surgeon.
This was a circumstance of which the viscount, in the
pienitude of his confidence for himself and indifference
for his opponent, had never once dreamt.
The ground was measured, the parties were about to
take the ground. All Linden's former agitation was van-
ished, his mien was firm, grave, and determined, but
ne showed none of the careless and fierce hardihood which
characterized his adversary; on the contrary, a close ob-
server might have remarked something sad and dejected
amid all the tranquillity and steadiness of his brow and
air.
"For heaven's sake," whispered the duke, as he with-
drew from the spot, square your body a little more to
your left, and remember your exact level. Borodaile is
much shorter than you."
There was a brief, dread pause,-the signal was given,
Borodaile fired, his ball pierced Clarence's side; the
wounded inan staggered one step, but fell not. He raised
his pistol; the duke bent eagerly forward; an expression of
disappointment and surprise passed his lips: Clarence had
fired in the air. The next inoment Linden felt a deadly
sickness come over him,— he fell into the arms of the sur-
geon. Borodaile, touched by a forbearance which he had
so little right to expect, hastened to the spot. He leaned
over his adversary in greater remorse and pity than he
would have readily confessed to himself. Clarence unclos-
ed his eyes; they dwelt for one moment upon the subdued
and earnest countenance of Borodaile.
"Thank God," he said, faintly, "that you were not the
victim,” and with these words he fell back insensibly. They
carried him to his lodgings. His wound was accurately
examined. Though not mortal, it was of a dangerous na-
ture; and the surgeons ended a very painful operation, by
promising a very lingering recovery.
What a charming satisfaction for being insulted!
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Je me contente de ce qui pent s'écrire, et je rêve tout ce qui
DE SEVIGNE.
peut se rêver.
ABOUT a week after his wound, and the second morning of
is return to sense and consciousness, when Clarence open-
ed his eyes, they fell upon a female form seated watchfully
and anxiously by his bedside. He raised himself in mute
surprise, and the figure, startled by the motion, rose, drew
the curtain, and vanished. With great difficulty he rang
With great difficulty he rang
his bell. His valet, Harrison, on whose mind, though it
was of no very exalted order, the kindness and suavity of
his master had made a great impression, instantly appea
ed.
"Who was that lady ?" asked Linden.
she here ?"
"How came
Harrison smiled,—“O, sir, pray please to lie down,
and make yourself easy: the lady knows you very well,
and would come here; she insists upon staying in the house,
so we have made up a bed in the drawing-room, and she
has watched by you night and day. She speaks very little
English, to be sure, but your honor knows, begging your
pardon, how well I speak French.'
"French!" said Clarence, faintly, "French? In heav-
en's name who is she?
"A Madame, Madame, La Melon-veal, or some
such name, sir," said the valet.
Clarence fell back, At that moment his hand was pres-
sed. He turned, and saw Talbot by his side. The kind
old man had not suffered La Meronville to be Linden's only
nurse, - notwithstanding his age and peculiarity of habits,
he had fixed his abode all the day in Clarence's house, and
at night, instead of returning to his own home, had taken
up his lodgings at the nearest hotel.
With a jealous and anxious eye to the real interest and
respectability of his adopted son, Talbot had exerted all
his address, and even all his power, to induce La Meron-
ville, who had made her settlement previous to Talbot's, to
quit the house, but in vain. With that obstinacy which a
Frenchwoman, when she is sentimental, mistakes for no-
bility of heart, the ci-devant amante of Lord Borodaile in-
sisted upon watching and tending one, of whose sufferings,
she said and believed she was the unhappy, though inno-
cent, cause and whenever more urgent means of removal
were hinted at, La Meronville flew to the chamber of her
beloved, apostrophized him in a strain worthy of one of
D'Arlincourt's heroines, and, in short, was so unreasonably
outrageous, that the doctors, trembling for the safety of
their patient, obtained from Talbot a forced and reluctant
acquiescence in the settlement she had obtained.
Ah! what a terrible creature a Frenchwoman is, when,
instead of coquetting with a caprice, she insists upon con-
ceiving a grande passion. Little, however, did Clarence,
despite his vexation, when he learnt of the bienveillance of
La Meronville, foresee the whole extent of the consequences
it would entail upon him: still less did Talbot, who in his
seclusion knew not the celebrity of the handsome adventur-
ess, calculate upon the notoriety of her motions, or the ill
effect her ostentatious attachment would have upon Clar-
In order to
ence's prosperity as a lover to Lady Flora.
explain these consequences more fully, let us, for the pre-
sent, leave our hero to the care of the surgeon, his friends,
and his would-be mistress; and while he is more rapidly re-
covering than the doctors either hoped or presaged, let us
renew our acquaintance with a certain fair correspondent.
LETTER FROM THE LADY FLORA ARDENNE TO MISS
FLEANOR TREVANION.
"MY DEAREST ELEANOR, -I have been very ill, or
you
would sooner have received an answer to your kind,
too kind and consoling letter. Indeed, I have only just left
my bed: they say that I have been delirious, and I believe
it; for you cannot conceive what terrible dreams I have
had. But these are all over now, and every one is so kind
my poor mother above all! It is a pleasant thing
to be ill when we have those who love us to watch our re
to ine,
covery.
"I have only been in bed a few days; yet it seems to me
as if a long portion of my existence were past,
-as if I
had stepped into a new era. You remember that my last
letter attempted to express my feelings at mamma's speech
about Clarence, and at my seeing him so suddenly. Now,
dearest, I cannot but look on that day, on these sensations,
as on a distant dream. Every one is so kind to me, mam-
ma caresses and soothes me so fondly, that I fancy I must
have been under some illusion. I am sure they could not
seriously have meant to forbid his addresses. No, no: I
feel that all will yet be well,—so well, that even you, who
feel that all will yet be well,
are of so contented a temper, will own, that if you were not
Eleanor, you would be Flora.
cr
'I wonder whether Clarence knows that I have been
ill. I wish you knew him.- Well, dearest, this letter,-
a very unhandsome return, I own, for yours, must coll
tent you at present, for they will not let me write more, →
THE DISOWNED.
193
dough, so far as I am concerned, I am never so weak, in
frame I mean, but what I could scribble to you about him.
Addio,
CC
·
carissima.
F. A.
'I have prevailed on mamma, who wished to sit by me
and amuse me, to go to the opera to-night, the only amuse-
ment of which she is particularly fond. Heaven forgive
me for my insincerity, but he always comes into our box,
and I long to hear some news of him.'
no,
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
"ELEANOR, dearest Eleanor, I am again very ill, but
not as I was before, ill from a foolish vexation of mind:
I am now calm, and even happy. It was from an in-
crease of cold only that I have suffered a relapse. You
may believe this, I assure you, in spite of your well meant
but bitter jests upon my infatuation, as you very rightly call
it, for Mr. Linden. You ask me what news from the
opera? Silly girl that I was, to lie awake hour after hour,
and refuse even to take my draught, lest I should be sur-
prised into sleep, till mamma returned. I sent Jermyn
down, directly I heard her knock at the door, (O, how
anxiously I had listened for it!) to say that I was still
awake and longed to see her. So, of course, mamina came
up, and felt my pulse, and said it was very feverish, and
wondered the draught had not composed me, with a great
deal more to the same purpose, which I bore as patiently
as I could, till it was my turn to talk; and then I admired
her dress and her coiffure, and asked if it was a full house,
and whether the prima donna was in voice, &c. &c. : till,
at last, I won my way to the inquiry of who were her visi-
ters. 'Lord Borodaile,' said she, and the Duke of
and Mr. St. George, and Captain Leslie, and Mr. De Retz,
and many others. I felt so disappointed, Eleanor, but did
not dare ask whether he was not of the list; till, at last,
iny mother observing me narrowly, said, And, by the
by, Mr. Linden looked in for a few minutes. I am glad,
my dearest Flora, that I spoke to you so decidedly about
him the other day.' Why, mama?' said I, hiding my
face under the clothes. 'Because,' said she, in rather
a raised voice, ‘he was quite unworthy of you!—but it is
late now,
and you should
go to sleep,-to-morrow I will
tell you more.' I would have given worlds to press the
question then, but could not venture. Mamma kissed and
left me.
I tried to twist her words into a hundred mean-
ings, but in each I only thought that they were dictated by
some worldly information, some new doubts as to his
birth or fortune; and, though that supposition distressed
me greatly, yet it could not alter my love, or deprive me of
hope; and so I cried, and guessed, and guessed, and cried,
till at last I cried myself to sleep.
'
-
C
>
"When I awoke, mamma was already up, and sitting
'beside me: she talked to me for more than an hour upon
ordinary subjects, till at last perceiving how distrait and
even impatient I appeared, she dismissed Jermyn, and
spoke to me thus:-
you,
“You know, Flora, that I have always loved
more perhaps than I ought to have done, more certainly than
I have loved your brothers and sisters; but you were my
chlest child, my first-born, and all the earliest associations
of a mother are blent and entwined with you. You may
be sure therefore that I have ever had only your happiness
in view, and that it is only with a regard to that end that
I now speak to you.'
man
No,
Aspeden returned to England, and, with him, Mr. Linden.
You again met the latter in society almost as constantly as
before; a caprice nearly conquered was once more renew-
ed; and in my anxiety that you should marry, not for
aggrandizement, but happiness, I own to my sorrow, that I
rather favored than forbade his addresses. The young
remember, Flora, appeared in society as the
nephew and heir of a gentleman of ancient family and con-
siderable property; he was rising in diplomacy, popular in
the world, and, so far as we could see, of irreproachable
character; this must plead my excuse for tolerating his
visits, without instituting further inquiries respecting him,
and allowing your attachment to proceed without ascertain-
ing how far it had yet extended. I was awakened to a
seuse of my indiscretion, by an inquiry, which Mr. Lin-
den's popularity rendered general, viz. if Mr. Talbot
was his uncle, — who was his father, who his more im-
mediate relations? and at that time Lord Borodaile in
formed us of the falsehood, he had either asserted or allowed
to be spread, in claiming Mr. Talbot as his relation.
This, you will observe, entirely altered the situation of
Mr. Linden with respect to you. Not only his rank in
life became uncertain, but suspicious. Nor was this all:
his very personal respectability was no longer unimpeach
able. Was this dubious and intrusive person, without a
name, and with a sullied honor, to be your suitor ?
Flora; and it was from this indignant conviction that I
spoke to you some days since. Forgive me, my child, if I
was less cautions, less confidential than I am now. I did
not imagine the wound was so deep, and thought that I
should best cure you by seeming unconscious of your
danger. The case is now changed; your illness has con-
vinced me of my fault, and the extent of your unhappy
attachment; but will my own dear child pardon me if I
still continue, if I even confirm, my disapproval of her
choice? Last night at the opera Mr. Linden entered my
box. I own that I was cooler to him than usual. He
soon left us, and after the opera I saw him with the Duke
of Haverfield, one of the most incorrigible roués of the
day, leading out a woman of notoriously bad character,
and of the most ostentatious profligacy. He might have
had some propriety, some decency, some concealment at
least, but he passed just before me, before the mother of
the woman to whom his vows of honorable attachment
were due, and who at that very instant was suffering from
her infatuation for him. Now, Flora, for this man, an
obscure and possibly a plebeian adventurer,
claim to notice has been founded on falsehood, whose
only merit, a love of you, has been, if not utterly destroy-
ed, at least polluted and debased,
for this man, poor
alike in fortune, character, and honor, can you any
longer profess affection or esteem?'
whose only
Never, never, never! cried I, springing from the
bed, and throwing myself upon my mother's neck.
Never: I am your own Flora once more.
I will never
suffer any one again to make me forget you,' and then
I sobbed so violently that mamma was frightened, and
made me lie down, and left me to sleep. Several hours
have passed since then, and I could not sleep nor think,
and I would not cry, for he is no longer worthy of my
tears; so I have written to you.
"O, how I despise and hate myself for having so utter-
ly, in my vanity and folly, forgotten my mother, that dear,
kind, constant friend, who never cost me a single tear, but
for my own ingratitude. Think, Eleanor, what an affront
to me, to me, who, he so often said, had made all other
women worthless in his eyes. Do I hate him? No, 1
cannot hate. Do I despise? No, I will not despise, bu
I will forget him, and keep my contempt and latred fo.
- I am worn out. Write soon, or
rather come, if possible, to your affectionate but unworthy
friend,
F. A.
"Good heavens ! Eleanor, he is wounded. He has
fought with Lord Borodaile. I have just heard it; Jermyn
told me.
Can it, can it be true? What, what have 1
said against him? Hate?-forget? No, no! I never
loved him till now."
God bless you,
“I was a little frightened, Eleanor, by this opening, but
I was much more touched; so I took mamma's hand, and
kissed and wept silently over it; she continued. I
observed Mr. Linden's attention to you at ; I knew
nothing more of his rank and birth then, than I do at pre-myself.
sent; but his situation in the embassy and his personal
appearance naturally induced me to suppose him a gentle-
man of family, and, therefore, if not a great, at least not
an inferior match for you, so far as worldly distinctions
are concerned. Added to this, he was uncommonly hand-
some, and had that general reputation for talent which is
often better than actual wealth or hereditary titles. I there-
fore did not check, though I would not encourage, any
attachment you might form for him; and nothing being de-
clared or decisiva on either side when we left
I ima-
gined that if your flirtation with him did even amount to a
momentary and girlish fantasy, absence and change of
scene would easily and rapidly efface the impression. I
believe that in a great measure it was effaced, when Lord
|
G
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
(After an interval of several weeks.)
"TIME has flown, my Eleanor, since you left me, after
your short but kind visit, with a heavy but healing wing
196
BULWER'S NOVELS.
I do not think I shall ever again be the giddy girl I have
been; but my head will change, not my heart; that was
never giddy, and that shall still be as much yours as ever.
You are wrong in thinking I have not forgotten, at least
enounced all affection for, Mr. Linden. I have, though
with a long and bitter effort. The woman for whom he
fought went, you know, to his house, immediately on hear-
ing of his wound. She has continued with him ever
since. He had the audacity to write to me once; my
nother brought me the note, and said nothing. She read
my heart aright. I returned it unopened. He has even
called since his convalescence. Mamma was not at home
to him. I hear that he looks pale and altered. I hope
not at least I cannot resist praying for his recovery. I
stay within entirely; the season is now over, and there are
no parties: but I tremble at the thought of meeting him
even in the park or the gardens. Papa talks of going into
the country next week. I cannot tell you how eagerly I
look forward to it; and you will then come and see me,
- will you not, dearest Eleanor ?
—
"Ah! what happy days we will have yet; we will read
Italian together, as we used to do; you shall teach me
your songs, and I will instruct you in mine: we will keep
birds as we did, let me see,- eight years ago.
You
will never talk to me of my folly: let that be as if it had
never been ; but I will wonder with you about your future
choice, and grow happy in anticipating your happiness. O,
how selfish I was some weeks ago, then I could only
overwhelm you with my egotisms; now, Eleanor, it is your
turn, and you shall see how patiently I will listen to yours.
Never fear that you can be too prolix; the diffuser you
are, the easier I shall forgive myself.
"Are you fond of poetry, Eleanor? I used to say so,
but I never felt that I was till lately. I will show you my
favorite passages, in my favorite poets, when you come to
see me. You shall see if yours corresponds with mine. I
am so impatient to leave this horrid town, where every thing
seems dull, yet feverish, insipid, yet false. Shall we
not be happy when we meet? If your dear aunt will come
with you, she shall see how I (that is, my mind) am im-
proved. Farewell.
"Ever your most affectionate,
"F. A."
CHAPTER XLIX.
"Brave Talbot, we will follow thee."
Henry the Sixth.
My letter insultingly returned, myself refused ad-
mittance, -not a single inquiry made during my illness,-
indifference joined to positive contempt By heaven, it is
insupportable!
ઃઃ
My dear Clarence," said Talbot to his young friend,
who, fretful from pain, and writhing beneath his mortifica-
tion, walked to and fro his chamber with an impatient
stride;
CC my dear Clarence, do sit down, and not irritate
wound by such violent exercise. I am as much en-
your
raged as yourself at the treatment you have received, and
no less at a loss to account for it. Your duel, however un-
fortunate the event, must have done you credit, and obtain-
ed you a reputation both for generosity and spirit; so that
it cannot be to that occurrence that you are to attribute
the change. Let us rather suppose that Lady Flora's at-
tachment to you has become evident to her father and
mother, that they naturally think it would be very unde-
sirable to marry their daughter to a man whose family no-
body knows, and whose respectability he is forced into
fighting in order to support. Suffer me then to call upon
Lady Westborough, whom I knew many years ago, and
explain your origin as well as your relationship to me."
Linden paused irresolutely.
"Were I sure that Lady Flora was not utterly influ-
enced by her mother's worldly views, I would gladly con-
sent to your proposal, — but,
" but you
"Forgive me, Clarence," cried Talbot;
really argue much more like a very young man than I ever
heard you before, -even four years ago. To be sure,
Lady Flora is influenced by her mother's views. Would
you have her otherwise? Would you have her, in defi-
ance of all propriety, modesty, obedience to her parents,
and right feeling for herself, encourage an attachment to a
person not only unknown, but who does not even conde-
scend to throw off the incognito to the woman he addres
ses? Come, Clarence, give me my instructions, and let
me act as your ambassador to-morrow."
Clarence was silent.
"I may consider it settled, then," replied Talbot:
"meanwhile you shall come home and stay with me: the
pure air of the country, even so near town, will do you
more good than all the doctors in London; and besides,
you will thus be enabled to escape from that persecuting
Frenchwoman.'
"In what manner?" said Clarence.
rr
Why, when you are in my house, she cannot well take
up her abode with you; and you shall, while I am for
warding your suit with Lady Flora, write a very flattering
very grateful letter of excuses to Madame la Meronville.
But leave me alone to draw it up for you; meanwhile, let
Harrison pack up your clothes and medicines, and we will
effect our escape while Madame la Meronville yet sleeps."
Clarence rung the bell, the orders were given, executed,
and, in less than an hour, he and his friend were on their
road to Talbot's villa.
As they drove slowly through the grounds to the house,
Clarence was sensibly struck with the quiet and stillness.
which breathed around. On either side of the road the
honeysuckle and rose cast their sweet scents to the summer
wind, which, though it was scarcely noon, stirred freshly
among the trees, and waved, as if it breathed a second
youth over the wan cheek of the convalescent. The old
servant's ear had caught the sound of wheels, and he came
to the door, with an expression of quiet delight on his dry
countenance, to welcome in his master. They had lived
together for so many years that they were grown like one
another. Indeed, the veteran valet prided himself on his
happy adoption of his master's dress and manner. A proud
man, we ween, was that domestic, whenever he had time
and listeners for the indulgence of his honest loquacity;
many an ancient tale of his master's former glories was
then poured from his unburdening remembrance. With
what a glow, with what a racy enjoyment, did he expand
upon the triumphs of the past; how eloquently did he par-
ticularize the exact grace with which young Mr. Talbot
was wont to enter the room, in which he instantly became
the cynosure of ladics' eyes: how faithfully did he minute
the courtly dress, the exquisite choice of color, the costly
splendor of material, which were the envy of gentles, and
the despairing wonder of their valets; and then the zest
with which the good old man would cry, -"I dressed the
boy!" Even still, this modern Scipio (Gil Blas' Scipio, not
Rome's) would not believe that his master's sun was utter-
ly set he was only in a temporary retirement, and would,
one day or other, reappear and reastonish the London
world. "I would give my right arm," Jasper was wont
to say,
"to see master at court. How fond the king would
be of him. Ah! well, well; I wish he was not so mel-
ancholy like with his books, but would go out like other
people!"
"Nous
Poor Jasper! Time is, in general, a harsh wizard in
his transformations; but the change which thou didst la-
ment so bitterly, was happier for thy master than all his
former" palmy state "of admiration and homage.
avons recherché le plaisir," says Rousseau, in one of his own
inimitable antitheses, -"et le bonheur a fui loin de nous.'
But in the pursuit of pleasure we pick up some stray flow-
ers of wisdom, and when that pursuit is over, happiness
will come at last to our prayers, and help us to extract and
hive the honey which these flowers will afford us.
Talbot leant kindly upon his servant's arm as he descen-
ded from the carriage, and inquired after his rheumatism
with the anxiety of a friend. The old housekeeper, wait-
ing in the hall, next received his attention; and in entering
the drawing-room, with that consideration, even to ani-
mals, which his worldly benevolence had taught him, he
paused to notice and caress a large gray cat, which rubbed
herself against his legs. Doubtless there is some pleasure
in making even a gray cat happy.
Clarence, having patiently undergone all the shrugs, and
sighs, and exclamations of compassion, at his reduced and
wan appearance, which are the especial prerogatives o.
ancient domestics, followed the old man into the room.
Papers and books, though carefully dusted were left scru-
pulously in the places in which Talbot had last deposited
them, (incomparable good fortune! what would we not
give for such chamber hand-maidens !) - fresh flowers
G
THE DISOWNED.
197
vere in all the stands and vases; the large library chair
was jealously set in its accustomed place, aud all wore, to
Falbot's eyes, that cheerful yet sober look of welcome and
familiarity which makes a friend of our house.
The old man was in bigh spirits.
"I know not how it is," said he, "but I feel younger
than ever! You have often expressed a wish to see my
family seat at Scarsdale: it is certainly a great distance
hence, but as you will be my compagnon de voyage, I think
I will try and craw there before the summer is over; or,
what say you,
Clarence, shall I lend it to you and Lady Flo-
ra for the honeymoon ?—You blush! A diplomatist blush!
Ah, how the world has changed since my time! But
come, Clarence, suppose you write to La Meronville?"
"Not to-day, sir, if you please," said Linden, "I feel
so very weak."
•
"As you please, Clarence; but some years hence you
will learn the value of the present. Youth is always a
procrastinator, and, consequently, always a penitent."
And thrs Talbot ran on into a strain of conversation, half
serious half gay, which lasted till Clarence went up stairs
o lie down and ID'se on Lady Flora Ardenne.
CHAPTER L.
La vie est un sommeil. Les vieillards sont ceux dont le som-
meil a été plus long: ils ne commencent à se réveiller que
quand il faut mourir.
LA BRUYERE.
You wonder why I have never turned author, with my
constant love of literature and my former desire of fame,"
said Talbot, as he and Clarence sate alone after dinner,
discussing many things; "the fact is, that I have often
intended it, and as often have been frightened from my de-
sign. Those terrible feuds, those vehement disputes,
those recriminations of petty magnificent abuse, so insep-
arable from literary life, appear to me too dreadful for a
rin not utterly hardened or malevolent, voluntarily to en-
fouriter. Good heavens! what acerbity sours the blood of
an author! The manifestos of opposing generals, advanc-
to pillage, to burn, to destroy, contain not a tithe of the
ferocity which animates the pages of literary controversial
ists! No term of reproach is too severe, no vituperation
100 excessive ! - the blackest passions, the bitterest, the
meanest malice, pour caustic and poison upon every page!
It seems as if the greatest talents, the most elaborate
knowledge, only sprung from the weakest and worst regu-
Lated mind, as exotics from dung. The private records,
the public works of men of letters, teem with an immitiga-
ble fury! Their histories might all be reduced into these
sentences, they were born, they quarrelled, they
|
I
"There seems,
" said Clarence, "to be a sort of re-
action in sophistry and hypocrisy ; there has, perhaps,
never been a deceiver who was not, by his own passions,
himself the deceived."
"Very true," said Talbot ; "and it is a pity that his-
torians have not kept that fact in view; we should then
have had a better notion of the Cromwells and Mahomets
of the past, than we have now, nor judged those as utter
But to return to
imposters who were probably half dupes.
myself. I think you will already be able to answer to your
own question, why I did not turn author, now that we have
given a momentary consideration to the désagrémens con-
sequent on such a profession. But in truth, now at the
close of my life, I often regret that I had not more courage,
for there is in us all a certain restlessness in the persua-
sion, whether true or false, of superior knowledge or intel-
lect, and this urges us on to the proof; or, if we resist its
impulse, renders us discontented with our idleness, and
disappointed with the past. I have every thing now in my
possession which it has been the desire of my later years
to enjoy health, retirement, successful study, and the af
fection of one in whose breast, when I am gone, my mein-
ory will not utterly pass away. With these advantages,
added to the gifts of fortune, and an habitual elasticity of
spirit, I confess that my happiness is not free from a biting
and frequent regret: I would fain bave been a better citi-
zen; I would fain have died in the consciousness, not only
that I had improved my mind to the utmost, but that I had
turned that improvement to the benefit of my fellow crea-
tures. As it is, in living wholly for myself, I feel that my
philosophy has wanted generosity; and my indifference to
glory has proceeded from a weakness, not, as I once per-
suaded myself, from a virtue; but the fruitlessness of my
existence has been the consequence of the arduous frivoli-
ties and the petty objects in which my early years were
consumed; and my mind, in losing the enjoyments which
it formerly possessed, had no longer the vigor to create
for itself a new soil, from which labor it could only hope
for more valuable fruits. It is no contradiction to see
those who most eagerly courted society in their youth,
shrink from it the most sensitively in their age; for they
who possess certain advantages, and are morbidly vaiu of
them, will naturally be disposed to seek that sphere for
which those advantages are best calculated; and when
youth and its concomitants depart, the vanity so long fed
still remains, and perpetually mortifies them by recalling
not so much the qualities they have lost, as the esteem
which accompanied their possession; and by contrasting
not so much their own present alteration, as the change
they experience in the respect and consideration of others.
What wonder, then, that they eagerly fly from the world,
which has only mortification for their self-love, or that we
find, in biography, how often the most assiduous votaries
of pleasure have become the most rigid of recluses? For
my part, I think that that love of solitude which the an-
cients so eminently possessed, and which, to this day, is con-
sidered by some as the sign of a great mind, nearly always
arises from a tenderness of vanity, easily wounded in the
commerce of the rough world; and that it is from disap-
pointment that the hermitage is sought. Diderot did right,
even at the risk of offending Rousseau, to write against
solitude. The more a moralist binds man to man, and for-
bids us to divorce our interests from our kind, the more
"Ah!" said Talbot, "but the vanity of discovery is no effectually is the end of morality obtained. They only are
fess acute than that of creation: the self-love of a philoso- justifiable in seclusion who, like the Greek philosophers,
plier is no less self-love than that of a poet. Besides, those make that very seclusion the means of serving and
sects the most sure of their opinions, whether in religion enlightening their race, who from their retreats send
or science, are always the most bigoted and persecuting. forth their oracles of wisdom, and make the desert
Moreover, nearly all men deceive themselves in disputes, which surrounds them eloquent with the voice of truth.
and imagine that they are intolerant, not through private But remember, Clarence, (and let my life, useless in itself,
jealousy, but public benevolence; they never declaim have at least this moral,) that for him who in no-wise
against the injustice done to themselves, no, it is the ter- cultivates his talent for the benefit of others; who is
rible injury done to socisty which grieves and inflames them. contented with being a good hermit at the expense of being
It is not the bitter expressions against their dogmas which a bad citizen; who looks from his retreat upon a life wasted
gives them pain: by no means; it is the atrocious doc- in the difficiles nuge of the most frivolous part of the world,
trines, so prejudicial to the country, if in politics, — so nor redeems in the closet the time he has misspent in the
pernicious to the world, if in philosophy, which their saloon; remember, that for him seclusion loses its dignity,
duty, not their vanity, induces them to denounce and anath-philosophy its comfort, benevolence its hope, and even reſi-
enratize. Look at Warburton's View of Lord Boling-gion its balm. Knowledge, unemployed, will preserve us
broke's Philosophy! was there ever such a delusion in ar- from vice,—for vice is but another name for ignorance,
gument? yet that delusion blinded his own mind more than but knneledge employed, is virtue. Perfect happiness, in car
t ever did that of his reader: and the Episcopal champi- present state, is impossible; for Hobbes says justly, that
on, no doubt, thought he was wonderfully just when he was our nature is inseparable from desires, and that the very
only wonderfully abusive."
word desire (the craving for something not possessed) na
died!"
—
is per-
“But,” said Clarence, "it would matter little to the
world if these quarrels were confined merely to poets and
men of imaginative literature, in whom irritability
haps almost necessarily allied to the keen and quick sus-
cept bilities which constitute their genius. These are more
to be lamented and wondered at among philosophers, the-
ologians, and men of science; the coolness, the patience,
the benevolence, which ought to characterize their works,
should at least moderate their jealousy, and soften their
disputes.
>>
—
|
198
BULWER'S NOVELS.
- a sincere and unre-
phies that our prescat felicity is not complete. But there is
one way of attaining what we may term, if not utter, at
least mortal happiness; it is this,-
laxing activity for the happiness of others. In that one
maxim is concentrated whatever is noble in morality, sub-
line in religion, or unanswerable in truth. In that pursuit
we have all scope for whatever is excellent in our hearts,
and none for the petty passions which our nature is heir to.
Thus engaged, whatever be our errors, there will be nobility,
not weakness, in our remorse; whatever our failure, virtue,
not selfishness, in our regret ; and, in success, vanity itself
will become holy and triumph eternal. As astrologers
were wont to receive upon inetals the benign aspect of
the stars, so as to detain and fix, as it were, the felicity of
that hour which would otherwise be volatile and fugitive,'
even so will that success leave imprinted upon our memory
a blessing which cannot pass away, preserve for ever
upon our names, as on a signet, the hallowed influence of
the hour in which our great end was effected, and treasure
up the relics of heaven in the sanctuary of the human
frame."
As the old man ceased, there was a faint and hectic flush
over his face, an enthusiasm on his features, whic, ge
made almost holy, and which Clarence had never observed
there before. In truth, his young listener was deeply af-
fected, and the advice of his adopted parent was afterward
impressed with a more awful solemnity upon his remem-
brance. Already he had acquired much worldly lore from
Talbot's precepts and conversation. He had obtained even
something better than worldly lore, a kindly and indul-
gent disposition to his fellow creatures; for he had seen
that foibles were not inconsistent with generous and great
qualities, and that we judge wrongly of human nature,
when we ridicule its littleness. The very circumstances
which make the shallow misanthropical, incline the wise to
be benevolent. Fools discover that frailty is not incom-
patible with great men ; they wonder and despise: but the
discerning find that greatness is not incompatible with
frailty, and they admire and indulge.
But a still greater benefit than this of toleration did Clar-
ence derive from the commune of that night. He became
strengthened in his honorable ambition, and nerved to un-
relaxing exertion. The recollection of Talbot's last words,
on that night, occurred to him often and often, when sick
at heart, and languid with baffled hope! - it roused him
from that gloom and despondency which are always unfavor
able to virtue, and incited him once more to that labor in
the vineyard which, whether our hour be late or early,
will, if earnest and devoted, obtain a blessing and reward.
The hour was now waxing late, and Talbot, mindful of
his companion's health, rose to retire. As he pressed
Clarence's hand and bade him farewell for the night, Lin-
den thought there was something more than usually impres-
sive in his manner, and affectionate in his words. Perhaps
this was the natural result of their conversation.
:
The next morning, Clarence was awakened by a noise.
He listened, and heard distinctly an alarmned cry proceeding
from the room in which Talbot slept, and which was oppo-
site to his own. He rose hastily and hurried to the cham-
ber. The door was open, the old servant was bending over
the bed Clarence approached, and saw that he supported
his master in his arms. "Good God!" he cried, what
is the matter?" The faithful old man lifted up his face to
Clarence, and the big tears rolled fast from eyes, in
which the sources of such emotion were well nigh dried up.
"He loved you well, sir! he said, and could say no
He dropped the body gently, and throwing himself
on the floor, sobbed aloud. With a foreboding and chilled
heart, Clarence bent forward; the face of his benefactor
ay directly before him, and the hand of death was upon it.
The soul had passed to his account hours since, in the hush
of night passed, apparently, without a struggle or a pang,
like the wind, which animates the harp one moment, and
the next is gone.
more.
eye
upon
Linden seized his hand, it was heavy and cold; his
rested the miniature of the unfortunate Lady Mer-
ton, which, since the night of the attempted robbery, Talbot
had worn constantly round his neck. Strange and power-
ful was the contrast of the pictured face, in which not a
toior had yet faded, and where the hues, and fulness, and
prime of youth dwelt, unconscious of the lapse of years,
with the aged and shrunken countenance of the deceased.
* Bacon de Augmentis Scientiarum.
In that contrast was a sad and mighty mora; it wrought,
as it were, a contact between youth and age, and conveyed
a rapid but full history of our passions and our life.
The servant looked up once more on the countenance ;
he pointed towards it, and muttered, -
"See, see! how
awfully it is changed!
"But there is a smile upon it!" said Clarence, as hi
flung himself beside the body, and burst into tears.
CHAPTER LI.
Virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are in
censed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, bu
BACON.
adversity doth best discover virtue.
It is somewhat remarkable, that while Talbot was be
queathing to Clarence as the most valuable of legacies, the
doctrines of a philosophy he had acquired, perhaps too late
to practise, Glendower was carrying those very doctrines,
so far as his limited sphere would allow, into the rule and
exercise of his life.
Since the death of the bookseller, which we have before
recorded, Glendower had been left utterly without resource.
The others to whom he applied were indisposed to avail
themselves of an unknown ability. The trade of book-
making was not then as it is now, and if it had been, it
would not have suggested itself to the high-spirited and un-
worldly student. Some publishers offered, it is truc, a re-
ward tempting enough for an immoral tale; others spoke of
the value of an attack upon the Americans; one suggested
an ode to the minister, and another hinted that a pensior
might possibly be granted to one who would prove extortion
not tyranny. But these insinuations fell upon a dull ear,
and the tribe of Barabbas were astonished to find that an
author could imagine interest and principle not synonymous.
Struggling with want, which hourly grew more imperi-
ous and urgent; wasting his heart on studies which brought
fever to his pulse, and disappointment to his ambition;
gnawed to the very soul by the mortifications which his pov-
crty gave to his pride; and watching with tearless eyes, but
a maddening brain, the slender form of his wife, now wax-
ing weaker and fainter, as the canker of disease fastened
upon the core of her young but blighted life, there was yet
a high, though, alas! not constant consolation within him,
whenever, from the troubles of this dim spot, his thoughts
could escape, like birds released from their cage, and lose
themselves in the might, and lustre, and freedom of their
native heaven.
"If the wind scatter, or the rock receive," thought he,
as he looked upon his secret and treasured work, these
seeds, they were at least dispersed by a hand which asked
no selfish return, and a heart which would have lavished
the harvest of its labors upon those who know not the hus-
bandman, and trample his hopes into the dust."
But by degrees, this comfort of a noble and generous na-
turc, these whispers of a vanity rather to be termed holy
than excusable, began to grow unfrequent and low. The
cravings of a more engrossing and heavy want than those
of the mind came eagerly and rapidly upon him; the fair
cheek of his infant became pinched and hollow; his wife,
-(O woman! in ordinary cases so mere a mortal, how,
in the great and rare events of life, dost thou swell into the
angel!) his wife conquered nature itself by love, and
starved herself in silence, and set bread before him with a
smile, and bade him eat.
"But you,
you?
pause.
?" he would ask inquiringly, and then
“I have dined, dearest : I want nothing: eat, love, eat.”
But he ate not. The food robbed from her seemed to
him more deadly than poison; and he would rise and dash
his hand to his brow, and go forth alone, with nature un-
satisfied, to look upon this luxurious world, and learn con-
tent.
It was after such a scene that, one day, he wandered
forth into the streets, desperate and confused in mind, and
fainting with hunger, and half insane with fiery and wrong
thoughts, which dashed over his barren and gloomy soul,
and desolated, but conquered not! It was evening: he
stood (for he had strode on so rapidly, at first, that his
strength was now exhausted, and he was forced to pause)
leaning against the railed area of a house, in a lone and
unfrequented street. No passenger shared the dull and
THE DISOWNED.
199
obscure thoroughfare. He stood, literally, in scene as in
heart, solitary amid the great city, and wherever he looked,
-lo! there were none !
"Two days," said he, slowly and faintly, two days,
and bread has only once passed my lips; and that was
snatched from her. from those lips which I have fed with
sweet and holy kisses, and whence my sole comfort in this
weary life has been drawn. And she, ay, she starves,
and my child, too. They complain not, they murmur
not, but they lift up their
eyes to me and ask for
Merciful God! thou didst make man in benevolence; thou
dost survey this world with a pitying and paternal eye,
save, confort, cherish them, and crush me if thou wilt! "
At that moment a man darted suddenly from an obscure
alley, and passed Glendower at full speed; presently came
a cry, and a shout, and the rapid trampling of feet, and, in
another moment, an eager and breathless crowd rushed
upon the solitude of the street.
|
—
vehemence of his gesture, he said, in a trembling tone, as
he hastily pulled out his purse,
"There, there! do not hurt me, take it,- take all !'
Glendower knew the voice, as a sound not unfamiliar to
him; his pride, that grand principle of human action,
which in him, though for a moment suppressed, was unex-
tinguishable, returned in full force. "None," thought he,
"who know me, shall know my full degradation also."
And he turned away; but the stranger, mistaking this
"Take this,
motion, extended his hand to him, saying,
my friend, you will have no need of force!" and as
he advanced nearer to his supposed assailant, he beheld,
by the pale lamp-light, and instantly recognised his fea-
tures.
"Ah!" cried he, in astonishment, but with internal
rejoicing, -"ah is it you who are thus reduced !"
"You say right, Crauford," said Glendower, sullenly,
"it
and drawing himself up to his full height," it is I! but you
are mistaken; I am a beggar, not a ruffian!"
"Good heavens!" answered Crauford; "how fortunate
that we should meet! Providence watches over us unceas
ingly! I have long sought you in vain. But "—(and here
the wayward malignity, sometimes, though not always, the
characteristic of Crauford's nature, irresistibly broke out)
-" but that you, of all men, should suffer so,-you, proud,
susceptible, virtuous beyond human virtue, you, whose
fibres are as acute as the naked eye, that you should
bear this, and wince not!"
"Where is he?" cried a hundred voices to Glendower,
-"where,
which road did the robber take ?" But
Glendower could not answer; his nerves were unstrung,
and his dizzy brain swam and reeled: and the faces which
peered upon him, and the voices which shrieked and yelled
in his ear, were to him as the forms and sounds of a
ghastly and eltrich world. His head drooped upon his
bosom, he clung to the area for support, the crowd
passed on, they were in pursuit of guilt, they were
thirsting after blood, they were going to fill the dungeon
and feed the gibbet, what to them was the virtue they
could have supported, or the famine they could have relieved?
But they knew not his distress, nor the extent of his weak-wince! "
ness, or some would have tarried and aided, for there is,
after all, as much kindness as cruelty in our nature; per-
haps they thought it was only some intoxicated and maud-
lin idler, - or, perhaps, in the heat of their pursuit, they
thought not at all.
-
So they rolled on, and their voices died away, and their
steps were hushed, and Glendower, insensible and cold as
the iron he clung to, was once more alone. Slowly he re-
vived; he opened his dim and glazing eyes, and saw the
evening star break from its chamber, and, though sullied
by the thick and foggy air, scatter its holy smiles upon the
polluted city.
He looked quietly on the still night, and its first watcher
among the hosts of heaven, and felt something of balm
sink into his soul; not, indeed, that vague and delicious
calm, which in his boyhood of poesy and romance he had
drank in, by green solitudes, froin the mellow twilight;
but a quiet, sad and sober, circling gradually over his mind,
and bringing it back, from its confused and disordered
visions and darkness, to the recollection and reality of his
bitter life.
By degrees the scene he had so imperfectly witnessed,
the flight of the robber, and the eager pursuit of the mob,
grew over him: a dark and guilty thought burst upon his
ind.
"You do my humanity wrong!" said Glendower, with
a bitter and almost ghastly smile; "I do worse than
you
"Ay, is it so!" said Crauford: "have awakened
at last? Has your philosophy taken a more impassioned
dye ?”
"Mock me not!" cried Glendower; and his eye, usu-
ally soft in its deep thoughtfulness, glared wild and savage
upon
the hypocrite, who stood trembling, yet half sneering,
at the storm he had raised, my passions are even now
beyond my mastery, — loose them not upon you!"
Nay," said Crauford gently, "I meant not to vex or
wound you. I have sought you several times since the last
night we met, but in vain; you had left your lodgings, and
none knew whither. I would fain talk with you. I have
a scheme to propose to you which will make you rich for
ever, — rich, —literally rich! -not merely above poverty,
but high in affluence!"
Glendower looked incredulously at the speaker, who
continued
"The scheme has danger, that you can dare!
Glendower was still silent; but his set and stern coun-
tenance was sufficient reply.
"Some sacrifice of your
pride,” continued Crauford, "that also you can bear!”
and the tempter almost grinned with pleasure as he asked
the question.
has it not!"
"Come home with me, then," said Crauford; "you
seem faint and weak: nature craves food, come and
partake of mine, we will then talk over this scheme, and
arrange its completion."
"He who is poor," said Glendower, speaking at last,
"has a right to pride. He who starves has it too; but
"I am a man, like that criminal," said he fiercely. "Ihe who sees those whom he loves famish, and cannot aid,
have nerves, sinews, muscles, flesh; I feel hunger, thirst,
pain, as acutely; why should I endure more than he can ?
Perhaps he had a wife, a child, and he saw them starv-
ing inch by inch, and he felt that he ought to be their pro-
tector, and so he sinned.-- And I,-I can I not sin too
for mine ? can I not dare what the wild beasts, and the
fierce hearts of my brethren dare for their mates and young?
One gripe of this hand, -one cry from this voice,
my board might be heaped with plenty, and my child feed,
and she smile as she was wont to smile, for one night at
least."
and
And as these thoughts broke upon him, Glendower rose,
and with a step firm, even in weakness, he strode uncon-
sciously onward.
A figure appeared; Glendower's heart beat thick. He
slouched his hat over his brows, and for one moment wrest-
led with his pride, and his stern virtue; the virtue conquer-
ed, but not the pride; and even the office of the suppliant
seemed to him less degrading than that of the robber. He
sprung forward, extended his hands toward the stranger,
and cried in a sharp voice, the agony of which rung through
the long dull street with a sudden and echoless sound,
Charity, food!
''
The stranger paused, one of the boldest of men in his
own line, he was as timid as a woman in any other; mis-
taking the meaning of the petitioner, and terrified by the
"I cannot," answered Glendower, quietly.
"And why?"
"Because they starve at home!"
"Heavens!" said Cranford, affected for a moment into
sincerity," it is indeed fortunate that business should
have led me here; but, meanwhile, you will not refuse this
trifle, -as a loan merely. By and by our scheme will
make you so rich, that I must be the borrower."
Glendower did hesitate for a moment, - he did swallow
a bitter rising of the heart; but he thought of those at
home, and the struggle was over.
"I thank you," said he; "I thank you for their sake:
the time may come," and the proud gentleman stopped
short, for his desolate fortunes rose before him, and forbacs
all hope of the future.
"Yes!" cried Crauford, "the time may come when
you will repay me this money a hundred fold. But where
do you live? You are silent. Well, you will not inform
me, -1 understand you. Meet me, then, here, on this
very spot, three nights hence, -you will not fail?"
«I will not," said Glendower; and pressing Crauford's
200
BULWER'S NOVELS.
nand with a generous and grateful warmth, which might
have softened a heart less obdurate, he turned away.
Folding his arms, while a bitter yet joyous expression
crossed his countenance, Crauford stood still, gazing upon
the retreating orm of the noble and unfortunate man whom
he had marked for destruction.
"Now," said he, "this virtue is a fine thing, a very
fine thing to talk so loftily about. A little craving of the
internal juices, a little pinching of this vile body, as your
philosophers and saints call our better part, and lo! it
oozes out like water through a leaky vessel, and the vessel
sinks! No, no; virtue is a weak game, and a poor game,
and a losing game. Why, there is that man, the very pink
of integrity and rectitude, he is now only wanting tempta-
tion to fall, — and he will fall, in a fine phrase too, I'll be
sworn! And then, having once fallen, there will be no
medium, he will become utterly corrupt; while I, hon-
est Dick Crauford, doing as other wise men do, cheat a
trick or two, in playing with fortune, without being a whit
the worse for it. Do I not subscribe to charities; am I
not constant at church, ay, and meeting to boot; kind to
my servants, obliging to my friends, loyal to my king?
'Gad, if I were less loving to myself, I should have been
far less useful to my country! And, now, now, let me see
woat has brought me to these filthy suburbs? Ah, Madam
Woman, incomparable woman! On, Richard
Cranford, thou hast made a good night's work of it hith-
erto! — business seasons pleasure!" and the villain upon
system moved away.
H
Glendower hastened to his home; it was miserably
changed, even from the humble abode in which we last saw
him. The unfortunate pair had chosen their present resi-
dence from a melancholy refinement in luxury; they had
chosen it because no one else shared it with them, and their
famine, and pride, and struggles, and despair, were with-
out witness or pity.
With a heavy step Glendower entered the chamber where
his wife sat. When at a distance he had heard a faint
mon, but as he had approached, it ceased; for she, from
whom it came, knew his step, and hushed her grief and
pain, that they might not add, even by an atom, to his
OWN. The peevishness, the querulous and stinging irrita-
tions of want, came not to that affectionate and kindly
heart; nor could all those biting and bitter evils of fate,
which turn the love that is born of luxury into rancor and
gall, scathe the beautiful and holy passion which had knit
into one those two unearthly natures. They rather clung
the closer to each other, as all things in heaven and earth
spake in tempest or in gloom around them, and coined
their sorrows into endearment, and their looks into smiles,
and strove each from the depth of despair, to pluck hope
and comfort for the other.
This, it is true, was more striking and constant in her
than in Glendower! for in love, man, be he ever so gener-
ous, is always outdone. Yet even when, in moments of
Yet even when, in moments of
extreme passions and conflict, the strife broke from his
breast into words, never once was his discontent vented
upon her, or his reproaches lavished on any but fortune or
himself, or his murmurs mingled with a single breath
wounding to her tenderness, or detracting from his love.
He threw open the door; the wretched light cast its
sickly beams over the squalid walls, foul with green damps,
and the miserable yet clean bed, and the fireless hearth,
2 the empty board, and the pale cheek of the wife, as
she rose and flung her arms round his neck, and murmured
om mer joy and welcome. “There,” said he, as he extri-
cated himself from her, and flung the money upon the ta-
ble, “there, love, pine no more, feed yourself and our
daughter, and then let us sleep and be happy in our dreams.”
A writer, one of the most gifted of the present day, has
told the narrator of this history, that no interest of a high
nature can be given to extremic poverty. I know not if
this be true; yet if I mistake not our human feelings, there
is nothing so exalted, or so divine, as a great and brave
spirit working out its end through every earthly obstacle
and evil watching through the utter darkness, and steadi-
y defying the phantoms which crowd around it; wrestling
with the mighty allurements, and rejecting the fearful voice
of that WANT which is the deadliest and surest of human
'empters; nursing through all calamity the love of species,
and the warmer and closer affections of private ties ; sac-
rificing no duty, resisting all sin; and amid every horror and
every humiliation, feeding the still and bright light of that
genius which, like the lamp of the fabulist, though it may
waste itself for years amid the depths of solitude, and the
silence of the tomb, shall live and burn immortai and un-
dimmed, when all around it is rottenness and decay!
And yet I confess that it is a painful and bitter task to
record the humiliations, the wearing, petty, stinging humil
iations of poverty; to count the drops as they slowly fall,
one by one, upon the fretted and indignant heart; to partic-
ularize, with the scrupulous and nice hand of indifference,
the fractional and divided movements in the dial-plate of
misery; to behold the delicacies of birth, the masculine
pride of blood, the dignities of intellect, the wealth of
knowledge, the feminacies and graces of womanhood,
all that ennoble and soften the stony mass of commonplaces
which is our life, frittered into atoms, trampled into the
dust and mire of the meanest thoroughfares of distress;
life and soul, the energies and aims of man, ground into one
prostrating want, cramped into one levelling sympathy with
the dregs and refuse of his kind, blistered into a single gal-
ling and festering sore: this is, I own, a painful and a
bitter task; but it hath its redemption: a pride even in de-
basement, a pleasure even in wo and it is therefore that
while I have abridged, I have not shunned it.
some whom the lightning of fortune blasts, only to render
holy. Amid all that humbles and scathes, amid all that
shatters from their life its verdure, smites to the dust the
pomp and summit of their pride, and in the very heart of
existence writeth a sudden and "strange defeature," they
stand erect, riven, not uprooted, — a monument less of
pity than of awe! There are some who, exalted by a
spirit above all casualty and woe, seem to throw over the
most degrading circumstance the halo of an innate and con-
secrating power; the very things which, seen alone, are
despicable and vile, associated with them become almost
venerable and divine; and some portion, however dim and
feeble, of that intense holiness which, in the INFANT GOD,
shed majesty over the manger and the straw, not denied to
those who, in the depth of affliction, cherish the angel Vir-
tue at the'r hearts, flings over the meanest localities of
earth an emanation from the glory of heaven!
CHAPTER LII.
There are
Letters of divers hands, which will absolve
Ourselves from long narration.
Tanner of Tyburn.
ONE morning, about a fortnight after Talbot's death,
Clarence was sitting alone, thoughtful and melancholy,
when the three following letters were put into his hand :-
FROM THE DUKE OF HAVERFIELD.
"LET me, iny dear Linden, be the first to congratulate
you upon your accession of fortune: five thousand a year,
Scarsdale, and eighty thousand pounds in the funds, are
very pretty foes to starvation! Ah, my dear fellow, if
you had but shot that frosty Caucasus' of humanity, that
pillar of the state, made not to bend, that- but you know
already whom I mean, and so I will spare you more of my
lamentable metaphors: had you shot Lord Borodaile, your
happiness would now be complete. Everybody talks of
your luck. La Meronville tending on you with her white
hands, the prettiest hands in the world, who would not
be wounded, even by Lord Borodaile, for such a nurse?
and then Talbot's, yet I will not speak of that, for you
are very unlike the present generation; and who knows but
you may have some gratitude, some affection, some natural
feeling in you. I had once; but that was before I went to
France, those Parisians, with their fine sentiments, and
witty philosophy, play the devil with one's good old fash-
ioned feelings. So Lord Aspeden is to have an Italian
mission. How delightful for the southern rascals! Will
he not, like their own autumns, wither and chill with the
gentlest air imaginable? By the by, shall you go with him,
or will you not rather stay at home, and enjoy your new
dine out,
race,
fortunes, — hunt,
vote in
dance,
the House of Commons, and, in short, do al that an Eng-
lishman and a gentleman should do? Ornamento e splen.
dor del secol nostro. Let me have the reversion of La Me
Write me a line
ronville, that is, if she will be reverted.
whenever you have nothing better to do.
And believe me,
"Most truly yours,
HAVERFIELD.
THE DISOWNED.
201
"Will you sell your black mare, or will you buy my
brown one? Utrum horum mavis accipe, the only piece of
Latin I rememver.”
LETTER FROM LORD ASPEDEN.
"MY DEAR LINDEN,
Suffer me to enter most fully
into your feelings. Death, my friend, is common to all we
must submit to its dispensations. I heard accidentally of
the great fortune left you by Mr. Talbot, (your father, I
suppose I may venture to call him.) Indeed, though there
is a silly prejudice against illegitimacy, yet, as our immor-
tal bard says,
"Wherefore base?
When thy dimensions are as well compact,
Thy mind as generous and thy shape as true
As honest madam's issue!"
For my part, my dear Linden, I say, on your behalf, that
it is very likely that you are a natural son,
you are a natural son, for such are al-
ways the luckiest and the best. Ah! we who are of the
corps diplomatique, know well how to turn a compliment.
"You have probably heard of the honor his majesty has
conferred upon me, in appointing to my administration the
city of
As the choice of a secretary has been left
to me, I need not say how happy I shall be to keep my
romise to you. Indeed, as I told Lord yesterday
norning, I do not know anywhere a young man who has
nore talent, to say nothing of your skill on the flute. But,
my dear young friend, there are sad whispers about your
morality and your acquaintance with that notorious French
oman. Now you see, Linden, that we, who know les
usages du monde et les mœurs de la cour, we, of the corps
diplomatique, are not very scrupulous in these matters but
we must humor the vulgar, and love, as our illustrious
Shakspeare says, 'wisely, not too well.' A hint will, I
know, be sufficient to a young gentleman of your sense and
discretion, for the Swan of Avon has very prettily sung,
Thou wast a pretty fellow, when thou hadst no need to
care for her frowning; now thou art an O without a figure;
I am better than thou art now, I am a fool, thou art
nothing.'
"Adieu, my dear young friend; you will, I know, ap-
preciate this advice.
you,
"And believe me very truly yours,
ASPEDEN."
LETTER FROM MADAME DE LA MERONVILLE.
(Translated.)
I waited on you, —
nursed
rence was a natural son of the deceased; and so strong in
England is the aristocratic aversion to unknown lineage,
that this belief, unflattering as it was, procured for Linden
a much higher consideration on the score of birth than he
might otherwise have enjoyed. Furthermore, will the
above correspondence testify the general éclat of Madame
La Meronville's attachment, and the construction naturally
put upon it. Nor do we see much left for us to explain,
with regard to the Frenchwoman herself, which cannot
equally well be gleaned, by any judicious and intelligent
reader, from the epistle last honored by his perusal. Cla-
rence's conscience did, indeed, smite him severely, for his
negligence and ill requital to one, who, whatever her faults
or follies, had at least done nothing with which he had a
right to reproach her. It must, however, be considered,
in his defence, that the fatal event which had so lately
occurred, the relapse which Clarence had suffered in con-
sequence, and the melancholy confusion and bustle in which
the last week or ten days had been passed, were quite suf
ficient to banish her from his remembrance. Stil she was
a woman, and had loved, or seemed to love; and Clarence,
as he wrote to her a long, kind, and almost brotherly
letter, in return for her own, felt that, in giving pain to
another, one often suffers as much for avoiding as for com-
mitting a sin.
We have said his letter was kind,
-
g)
it was also frank,
and yet prudent. In it he said that he had long loved
another, which love alone could have rendered him in-
sensible to her attachment; that he, nevertheless, should
always recall her memory with equal interest and admira
tion; and then, with a tact of flattery which the nature of
the correspondence and the sex of the person addressed
rendered excusable, he endeavoured, as far as he was able,
to soothe and please the vanity which the candor of his
avowal was calculated to wound.
When he had finished this letter, he despatched another
to Lord Aspeden, claiming a reprieve of some days before
he answered the proposal of the diplomatist. After these
epistolary efforts, he summoned his valet, and told him,
apparently in a careless tone, to find out if Lady Westbo
rough was still in town. Then throwing himself on the
couch, he wrestled with the grief and melancholy which
the death of a friend, and more than a father, might well
cause in a mind less susceptible than his, and counted the
dull hours crawl onward till his servant returned. "Lady
Westborough and all the family had been gone a week to
their seat in
CC
CC
,,
Well," thought Clarence, “had he been alive, I could
have intrusted my cause to a mediator; as it is, I wil
"You have done me wrong, great wrong. I loved plead; or rather assert it, myself. Harrison," said he
tended you,
aloud,
you,
see that my black mare is ready by sunrise to-
gave all up for you; and you forsook me, forsook me
morrow; I shall leave town for some days."
without a word. True, that you had been engaged in a
melancholy duty, but, at least, you had time to write a
ine, to cast a thought, to one who had shown for you the
Love that I have done. But we will pass over all this; I
will not reproach you, it is beneath me. The vicious
upbraid, — the virtuous forgive! I have, for several days,
left your house. I should never have come to it, had you
not been wounded, and, as I fondly imagined, for my sake.
Return when you will, I shall no longer be there to perse-
cute and torment you.
"Pardon this letter. I have said too much for myself,
- a hundred times too much to you; but I shall not sin
again. This intrusion is my last.
"CECILE DE LA MERONVILLE."
These enters will, probably, suffice to clear up that part
of Clarence's history which had not hitherto been touched
upon; they will show that Talbot's will (after several
legacies to his old servants, his nearest connexions, and two
charitable institutions, which he had founded, and for some
fears supported) had bequeathed the bulk of his property
to Clarence. The words in which the bequest was made
were kind and somewhat remarkable. To my relation
and friend, commonly know by the name of Clarence Lin-
den, to whom I am bound alike by blood and affection,"
&c. These expressions, joined to the magnitude of the
bequest, the apparemly unaccountable attachment of the
old man to his heir, and the mystery which wrapt the ori-
gin of the latter, all concurred to give rise to au opinion,
easily received, and soon universally accredited, that Cla-
VOL 1
26
"Not in your present state of health, sir, surely?" said
Harrison, with the license of one who had been a nurse.
"Allow me to make my own plans," answered Cla-
rence, haughtily. "See that I am obeyed." And Harri-
son, wondering and crest-fallen, left the room.
in England are only accessible to those who join wealth to
"Rich, independent, free to aspire to the heights which
ambition, I have at least," said Clarence, proudly, “no
unworthy pretensions even to the hand of Lady Flora
Ardenne. If she can love me for myself, if she can trust
to my honor, rely on my love, feel proud in my pride, and
aspiring in my ambition, then, indeed, this wealth will be
welcome to me, and the disguised name, which has cost
me so many mortifications, become graceful, since she wil
not disdain to share it.”
CHAPTER LIII.
A little druid wight,
Of wither'd aspect; but his eye was keen
With sweetness mix'd,- in russet brown bedight.
THOMSON'S Castle of Indolence.
Thus holding high discourse, they came to where
The cursed carle was at his wonted trade,
Still tempting heedless men into his snare,
In witching wise, as I before have said.
Ibid.
It was a fine, joyous summer morning when Clarence
set out, alone, and on horseback, upon his enterprise of
love and adventure. If there be any thing on earth mere
202
BULWER'S NOVELS.
reviving and inspiriting than another, it is, to my taste, a
bright day, a free horse, a journey of excitement before
one, and loneliness !-Rousseau,—in his own way, a great
though rather a morbid epicure of this world's enjoyments,
talks with rapture of his pedestrian rambles when in his
first youth. But what are your foot-ploddings, your ambu-
lating rejoicings, to the free etherealities which our cour-
ter's light bound and exulting spurnings of the dull earth
bring to the spirit! For my own part, I do not love to
touch the sordid clay, the mean soil to which we gravitate,
- I do not love that the mire, and the dust, and the stony
roughness of the plebeian and vulgar sod, whence spring
all the fleshy and grovelling particles of our frames, should
weary the limbs and exhaust the strength and make the free
blood grow languid with a coarse fatigue. If we must
Buccumb to the power of weariness, let it come by the buo-
yant and rushing streams of the air through which we can
cleave without touching the meaner element below; let it
come by the continuity of conquest over the noble slave we
have mastered to our will, and not by the measured labor
of planting one jaded step after another upon this insensate
earth.
But there are times when an iron and stern sadness
locks, as it were, within itself our capacities of enjoyment;
and the song of the birds, and the green freshness of the
summer morning, and the glad motion of his generous steed,
brought neither relief nor change to the musings of the
young adventurer.
He rode on for several miles without noticing any thing
on his road, and only now and then testifying the nature of
solitude by brief and abrupt exclamations and sentences,
which proclaimed the melancholy yet exciting subjects of
his meditations. During the heat of the noon, he rested
at a small public house about *** miles from town; and
resolving to take his horse at least ten miles further before
his day's journey ceased, he remounted toward the evening,
and slowly resumed his way.
He was now entering the same county in which he first
made his appearance in this history. Although several
miles from the spot on which the memorable night with
the gipsies had been passed, his thoughts reverted to its
remembrance, and he sighed as he recalled the eager hopes
which then fed and animated his heart. While thus musing,
be heard the sound of hoofs behind him, and presently came
by a sober looking man, on a rough, strong pony, laden |
(besides its master's weight) with saddle bags of uncom-
mon size, and to all appearance substantially and artfully
filled.
Clarence looked, and, after a second survey, recognised
the person of his old acquaintance Mr. Morris Brown.
Not equally reminiscent was the worshipful itinerant, who,
in the great variety of forms and faces which it was his
professional lot to encounter, could not be expected to pre-
serve a very nice or distinguishing recollection of each.
"Your servant, sir, your servant," said Mr. Brown, as
he rode his pony alongside of our traveller.
"Are you
going as far as W- this evening?"
will
"I hardly know yet," answered Clarence; "the length
"the length
of
my ride depends upon my horse rather than myself.”
"Oh, well, very well," said Mr. Brown: "but you will
allow me, perhaps, sir, the honor of riding with you as far
as you go.
You give me much gratification by your proposal, Mr.
Brown," said Clarence.
The broker looked in surprise at his companion.
you know ine, sir?"
"So
"I do," replied Clarence. "I am surprised that you
have forgotten me.
وو
w
Slowly Mr. Brown gazed, till at last his memory began
to give itself the rousing shake, -"God bless me, sir, I
beg you a thousand pardons, I now remember you per-
fectly, Mr. Linden, the nephew of my old patroness Mrs.
patroness Mrs.
Minden. Dear, dear, how could I be so forgetful! I hope,
by the by, sir, that the shirts wore well. I am thinking you
will want some more. I have some capital cambric of cu-
riously fine quality, and texture, from the wardrobe of the
late Lady Waddilove."
"What, Lady Waddilove still?" cried Clarence.
cried Clarence.
"Why, my good friend, you will offer next to furnish
me with pantaloons from her ladyship's wardrobe."
"Why, really, sir, I see you preserve your fine spirits;
but I do think I have one or two pair of plum-colored
velvet inexpressibles, that passed into my possession when
•
her ladyship's husband died, which might, perhaps, wits
a leetle alteration, fit you, and at all events, would be a very
elegant present from a gentleman to his valet."
"Well, Mr. Brown, whenever I or my valet wear plum
colored velvet breeches, I will certainly purchase those
in your possession; but, to change the subject, can you
inform me what have become of my old host and hostess
the Copperases, of Copperas Bower?"
"Oh, sir, they are the same as ever,- nice genteel people
they are, too. Master Adolphus has grown into a fine
young gentleman, very nearly as tall as you and I are. His
worthy father preserves his jovial vein, and is very merry
whenever I call there. Indeed, it was but last week that
he made an admirable witticism. Bob,' said he,- (Tom
you remember Tom, or De Warens, as Mrs. Copperas
was pleased to call him -Tom is gone,)- Bob, have you
stopt the coach ?' 'Yes, sir,' said Bob. • And what
coach is it?' asked Mr. Copperas.
coach is it?' asked Mr. Copperas. It be the Swallow,
sir,' said the boy. The Swallow! oh, very well,' cried
Mr. Copperas; then now, having swallowed in the roll, I
will e'en roll in the Swallow !' Ha! ha ha! sir, very
facetious, was it not?"
"Very, indeed," said Clarence; "and so Mr. de Wa-
rens has gone; how came that ?"
"Why, sir, you see, the boy was always of a gay turn,
and he took to frisking it, as he called it, of a night, and
so he was taken up for thrashing a watchman, and appeared
before Sir John, the magistrate, the next morning."
"Caractacus before Cæsar!" observed Linden: "And
what said Cæsar?”
"Sir!" said Mr. Brown.
"I mean, what said Sir John ?
"Oh! he asked him his name, and Tom, whose head
Mrs. Copperas (poor good woman!) had crammed with
pride enough for fifty footboys, replied, 'De Warens,' with
all the air of a man of independence. 'De Warens !'
cried Sir John, amazed, we'll have no De's here: take
him to Bridewell!' and so Mrs. Copperas, being without
a footboy, sent for me, and I supplied her, with Bob."
"Out of the late Lady Waddilove's wardrobe too ?"
said Clarence.
CC
C
Ha, ha! that's well, very well, sir. No, not exactly,
but he was the son of her late ladyship's coachman. Mr.
Copperas has had two other servants of the name of Bob
before, but this is the biggest of all, so he humorously calls
him Triple Bob Major!' You observe that road to the
right, sir, it leads to the mansion of an old customer of
mine, General Cornelius St. Leger! many a good bargain
have I sold to his sister. Heaven rest her! when she
died, I lost a good friend, though she was a little hot or so,
to be sure. But she had a relation, a young lady, such
a lovely, noble looking creature, it did cne's heart, ay,
one's eyes also, good to look at her and she's gone too,
well, well, one loses one's customers sadly; it makes me
feel old and comfortless to think of it. Now yonder, as
far as you can see among those distant woods, lived an-
other friend of mine, to whom I offered to make some very
valuable
valuable presents upon his marriage with the young lady 1
spoke of just now, but, poor gentleman, he had not time to
accept them; he lost his property by a lawsuit a few
months after he was married, and a very different person
now has Mordaunt Court."
M
"Mordaunt Court!" cried Clarence; "do you mean
to say that Mr. Mordaunt has lost that property?"
CC
Why, sir, one Mr. Mordaunt has lost it, and another
has gained it but the real Mr. Mordaunt has not an acre
in this county or elsewhere, I fear, poor gentleman. He is
universally regretted, for he was very good and very gener-
ous, though they say he was also mighty proud and reserved;
but, for my part, I never perceived it. If one is not proud
one's self, Mr. Linden, one is very little apt to be hurt oy
pride in other people."
"And where is Mr. Mordaunt ?" asked Clarence, as
he recalled his interview with that person, and the interest
with which Algernon then inspired him.
CC
That, sir, is more than any of us can say. He has
disappeared altogether. Some declare that he has gone
abroad, others that he is living in Wales in the greatest
poverty. However, wherever he is, I am sure that he can-
not be rich; for the lawsuit quite ruined him, and the
young lady he married had not a farthing.'
"Poor Mordaunt," said Clarence, musingly.
“I think, sir, that the squire would not be best pleased
THE DISOWNED.
203
i he heard you pity him. I don't know why, but he cer-
ainly looked, walked, and moved like one whom you felt
it very hard to pity. But I am thinking that it is a great
shame that the General should not do any thing for Mr.
Mordaunt's wife, for she was his own flesh and blood;
and I am sure he had no cause to be angry at her marrying
a gentleman of such old family as Mr. Mordaunt. I am a
great stickler for birth, sir,I learnt that from the late
Lady W.
'Brown,' she said, and I shall never forget her
ladyship's air when she did say it, Brown, respect your
superiors, and never fall into the hands of the republicans
and atheists.'”
<
"And why," said Clarence, who was much interested
in Mordaunt's fate, "did General St. Leger withhold his
consent?"
"That we don't exactly know, sir; but some say, that
Mr. Mordaunt was very high and proud with the General,
and the General was, to the full, as fond of his purse as Mr.
Mordaunt could be of his pedigree,
and so, I suppose,
one pride clashed against another, and made a quarrel be-
tween them.'
""
M
"Would not the General, then, relent after the mar-
riage?"
"O! no, sir, for it was a runaway affair. Miss
Diana St. Leger, his sister, was as hot as ginger upon it,
and fretted and worried the poor General, who was never of
the mildest, about the match, till at last he forbade the poor
young lady's very name to be mentioned. And when Miss
Diana died, about two years ago, he suddenly introduced a
tawny sort of cretur, whom they call a mulatto or creole, or
some such thing, into the house; and it seems that he has
had several children by her, whom he never durst own dur-
ing Miss Diana's life, but whom he now declares to be his
heirs. Well, they rule him with a rod of iron, and suck
him as dry as an orange. They are a bad, griping set, all
of them; and I am sure, I don't say so from any selfish
feeling, Mr. Linden, though they have forbid me the house,
and called me, to my very face, an old cheating Jew. Think
of that, sir!-I, whom the late Lady W. in her exceed-
ing friendship, used to call honest Brown,' — 1, whom
your worthy
>>
“And who,” uucourteously interrupted Clarence, "has
Mordaunt Court now?"
Why, a distant relation of the last squire's, an elderly
gentleman who calls himself Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt. I
am going there to-morrow morning, for I still keep up a
connexion with the family. Indeed the old gentleman
bought a lovely little ape of ine, which I did intend as a
present to the late (as I may call him) Mr. Mordaunt ; so,
though I will not say I exactly like him, he is a hard
hand at a bargain, yet at least I will not deny him his
due.'
___
"What sort of person is he? What character does he
bear?" asked Clarence.
scarce got sixty yards before he heard the itinerant mer-
chant cry out, "Mr. Linden, Mr. Linden!" and look-
ing back, he beheld the honest Brown putting his shaggy
pony at full speed, in order to overtake him: so he pulled
"Well, Mr. Brown, what do you want?"
up.
Why, you see, sir, you gave me no exact answer
about the plum-colored velvet inexpressibles," said Mr.
Brown.
CHAPTER LIV.
Are we contemned!
The Double Marriage.
Ir was dusk when Clarence arrived at the very same inu
at which, more than five years ago, he had assumed his
present name. As he recalled the note addressed to him,
and the insignificant sum (his whole fortune) which it con-
tained, he could not help smiling at the change his lot had
since then undergone: but the smile soon withered when he
thought of the kind and paternal hand from which that
change had proceeded, and knew that his gratitude was no
longer availing, and that that hand, in pouring its last fa-
vors upon him, had become cold. He was ushered into
No. Four, and left to his meditations till bed time.
The next day he recommenced his journey. Westbo-
rough Park was, though in another county, within a short
ride of W- ; but as he approached it, the character of
the scenery became essentially changed. Bare, bold, and
meager, the features of the country bore somewhat of a
Scottish character. On the right side of the road was a
precipitous and perilous descent, and some workmen were
placing posts along a path for foot-passengers on that side
nearest the carriage-road, probably with a view to preserve
unwary coachmen or equestrians from the dangerous vicin-
ity to the descent, which a dark night might cause them to
incur. As Clarence looked idly on the workmen, and pain-
fully on the crumbling and fearful descent I have described,
he little thought that that spot would, a few years after, be-
come the scene of a catastrophe affecting in the most pow.
erful degree the interests of his future life. Our young
traveller put up his horse at a small inn, bearing the West-
borough arms, and situated at a short distance from the park
gates. Now that he was so near his mistress,
now that
less than an hour, nay, than the fourth part of an hour,
might place him before her, and decide his fate, his heart,
which had hitherto sustained him, grew faint, and present-
ed, first fear, then anxiety, and, at last, despondency to his
imagination and forebodings.
"At all events," said he, "I will see her alone before I
will confer with her artful and proud mother, or her cipher
of a father. I will then tell her all my history, and open
to her all my secrets: I will only conceal from her my pre-
"I really find it hard to answer that question," said the sent fortunes, for even if rumor should have informed her
gossiping Mr. Brown. "In great things he is very lavish of them, it will be easy to give the report no sanction; I
and ostentatious, but in small things he is very penurious have a right to that trial. When she is convinced that, at
and saving, and miser-like, and all for one son, who is least, neither my birth nor character cau disgrace her, I
deformed and very sickly. He seems to doat on that boy; shall see if her love can enable her to overlook my suppos-
and now I have got two or three little presents in these bags ed poverty, and to share my uncertain lot. If so, there
for Mr. Henry. God forgive me, but when I look at the will be some triumph in undeceiving her error and reward-
poor creature, with his face all draw up, and his sour, ill- ing her generosity: if not, I shall be saved from involving
tempered voice, and his limbs crippled, I almost think it my happiness with that of one who looks only to my world-
would be better if he were in his grave, and the rightfully possessions. I owe it to her, it is true, to show her that
Mr. Mordaunt, who would then be the next heir, in his
place."
So, then, there is only this unhappy cripple between
Mr Mordaunt and the property!" said Clarence.
Exactly so, sir. But will you let me ask where you
shall put up at W. ? I will wait upon you, if you will
give me leave, with some very curious and valuable articles,
highly desirable either for yourself or for little presents to
your friends."
cr
"I thank you," said Clarence, "I shall make no stay
at W.
but I shall be glad to see you in town next
week. Favor me, meanwhile, by accepting this trifle."
Nay, nay, sir," said Mr. Brown, pocketing the mon-
CV, "I really cannot accept this, any thing in the way
of exchange, a ring, or a seal, or—
"No, no, not at present," said Clarence; "the night is
coming on, and I shall make the best of my way. Good-
Dy, Mi. Brown; " and Clarence trotted off; but he had
>>
I am no low-born pretender; but I owe it also to myself to
ascertain if my own individual qualities are sufficient to
gain her hand."
Fraught with these ideas, which were natural enough to
a man whose peculiar circumstances were well calculated
to make him feel rather soured and suspicious, and whose
pride had been severely wounded by the conterapt with
which bis letter had been treated, Clarence walked into
the park, and, hovering around the house, watched and
waited that opportunity of addressing Lady Flora, which
he trusted her habits of walking would afford him; but
hours rolled away, the evening set in, and Lady Flora had
not once quitted the house.
More disappointed and sick at heart than he liked to
confess, Clarence returned to his inn, took his solitary
meal, and strolling once more into the park, watched be
neath the windows till midnight, endeavouring to guess
which were the casements of her apartments, and feeling
204
BULWER'S NOVELS.
his heart beat high at every light which flashed forth and
disappeared, and every form which flitted across the win-
dows of the great staircase. Little did Lady Flora, as she
sat in her rooin alone, and, in tears, musing over Clarence's
fancied worthlessness and infidelity, and told her heart
again and again that she loved no inore, little did she
know whose eye kept vigils without, or whose feet brushed
away the rank dews beneath her windows, or whose
thoughts, though not altogether unmingled with reproach,
were riveted with all the ardour of a young and first love
upon her.
so happy at my freedom and escape. What, ho!
my horse instantly!"
CHAPTER LV.
Lucr.— What has thy father done?
Beat.
What have I done?
Am I not innocent?
waites
The Cenci.
THE twilight was darkening slowly over a room of no-
It was unfortunate for Linden that he had no opportunity ble dimensions, and costly fashion. Although it was the
of personally pleading his suit; his altered form and faded height of summer, a low fire burnt in the grate; and,
countenance would at least have ensured a hearing and an stretching his hands over the feeble flame, an old man, of
interest for his honest though somewhat haughty sincerity; about sixty, sat in an arm-chair, curiously carved with ar-
but though that day, and the next, and the next, were pass-morial bearings. The dim yet fitful flame cast its upward
ed in the most anxious and unremitting vigilance, Clarence light upon a countenance, stern, haughty, and repellant,
only once caught a glimpse of Lady Flora, and then she
where the passions of youth and manhood had dug them-
was one amid a large party: and Clarence, fearful of a pre- selves graves in many an iron line and deep furrow: the
mature and untimely discovery, was forced to retire into the forehead, though high, was narrow and compressed, the
thicknesses of the park, and lose the solitary reward of his brows sullenly overhung the eyes, and the nose, which was
singularly prominent and decided, age had sharpened, and
brought out as it were, till it gave a stubborn and very for-
bidding expression to the more sunken features over which
it rose with exaggerated dignity. Two bottles of wine, a
few dried preserves, and a water glass, richly chased, and
ornamented with gold, showed that the inmate of the apart-
ment had passed the hour of the principal repast, and his
loneliness at a time usually social seemed to indicate that
few olive branches were accustomed to overshadow his
table
watches almost as soon as he had won it.
Wearied and racked by his suspense, and despairing of
obtaining any favorable opportunity for an interview with-
out such a request, Clarence at last resolved to write to
Lady Flora, entreating her assent to a meeting, in which
he pledged himself to clear up all that had hitherto seemed
doubtful in his conduct and mysterious in his character.
Though respectful, urgent, and bearing the impress of truth
and feeling, the tone of the letter was certainly that of a
man who conceived he had a right to a little resentment for
the past, and a little confidence for the future. It was
what might well be written by one who imagined his affec-
tion had once been returned, but would as certainly have
been deemed very presumptuous by a lady who thought that
the affection itself was a liberty.
Having penned this epistle, the next care was how to
convey it. After much deliberation, it was at last commit-
ted to the care of a little girl, the daughter of the lodge-
keeper, whom Lady Flora thrice a week personally instruc-
ted in the mysteries of spelling, reading, and calligraphy.
With many injunctions to deliver the letter only to the
bands of the beautiful teacher, Clarence trusted his despatch-
es to the little scholar, and, with a trembling frame, and
trembling frame, and
wistful eye, watched Susan take her road, with her. green
satchel and her shining cheeks, to the great house.
One hour, two hours, three hours passed, and the mes-
senger had not returned. Restless and impatient, Clar-
ence walked back to his inn, and had not been there many
minutes before a servant, in the Westborough livery, ap-
peared at the door of the humble hotel, and left the following
letter for his perusal and gratification.
"SIR,
"The letter intended for my daughter has just been given
to me by Lady Westborough. I know not what gave rise
to the language, or the very extraordinary request for a
landestine meeting, which you have thought proper to ad-
ress Lady Flora Ardenne; but you will allow me to
bserve, that if you intend to confer upon my daughter the
onor of a ma.. nonial proposal, she fully concurs with me
and her mother in the negative, which I feel necessitated
to put upon your obliging offer.
I need not add that all correspondence with my daugh-
ter must close here. I have the honor to be,
Sir, your very obedient servant,
"Westborough Park.
To Clarence Linden, Esq."
"WESTBOROUGH.
Had Clarence's blood been turned to fire, his veins could
not have swelled and burnt with a fiercer heat than they did,
as he read the above letter, --a masterpiece, perhaps, in
the line of what may be termed the "dd civil" of
epistolary favors.
"Insufferable arrogance!" he muttered within his
teeth. "I will live to repay it. Perfidious, unfeeling wo-
man, what an escape I have had of her! Now, now,
I am on the world, and alone, thank heaven. I will ac-
cept Aspeden's offer, and eave this country; when I re-
turn, it shall not be as an humble suitor to Lady Flora
Ardenne. Pish! how the name sickens me but come, I
have a father, -at least a nominal one. He is old and
I will see him once
weak, and may die before I return.
more, and then, heigh for Italy' O! I am so happy, –
O! I am so happy,
The windows of the dining-room reached to the ground,
and without, the closing light just enabled one to see a thick
copse of wood, which, at a very brief interval of turf,
darkened immediately opposite the house. While the old
man was thus bending over the fire, and conning his eve-
ning contemplations, a figure stole from the copse I have
mentioned, and, approaching the window, looked pryingly
into the apartment; then with a noiseless hand it opened
the spring of the casement, which was framed on a peculiar
and old-fashioned construction, that required a practised
and familiar touch, — entered the apartment, and crept on,
silent and unperceived by the inhabitant of the room, till
it paused, and stood motionless, with folded arms, scarce
three steps behind the high back of the old man's chair.
In a few minutes the latter moved from his position, and
slowly rose; the abruptness with which he turned brought
the dark figure of the intruder full and suddenly before him:
he started back, and cried in an alarmed tone,
there?"
The stranger made no reply.
"Who is
The old man, in a voice in which anger and pide ming-
led with fear, repeated the question. The figure advanced,
dropped the cloak in which it was wrapt, and presenting
the features of Clarence Linden, said, in a low but clear
tone,
"Your son!
The old man dropped his hold of the bell rope, which he
had just before seized, and leaned, as if for support, against
the oak wainscot; Clarence approached.
"Yes!" said he, mournfully, "your unfortunate, your
offending, but your guiltless son. More than five years I
have been banished from your house. I have been thrown,
while yet a boy, without friends, without guidance, without
name, upon the wide world, and to the mercy of chance. I
come now to you as a man, claiming no assistance, and ut-
tering no reproach, but to tell you that him whom an earth-
ly father rejected, God has preserved; that without one
unworthy or debasing act I have won for myself the friends
who support, and the wealth which dignifies life, since it
renders it independent. Through all the disadvantages I
have struggled against, I have preserved unimpaired my
honor, and unsullied my conscience; you have disowned,
but you might have claimed me without shame.
these hands are clean!
Father,
A strong and evident emotion shook the old man's
frame. He raised himself to his full height, which was
still tall and commanding, and in a voice, the natural harsh-
ness of which was rendered yet more repellant by pas-
sion, replied, "Boy! your presumption is insufferable.
What to me is your wretched fate? Go,-go-go to
your miserable mother; find her out, claim kindred
there; live together, toil together, rot together; but come
THE DISOWNED.
205
not to me!
disgrace to my house, ask not admittance
o my affections; the law may give you my name, but
sooner would I be torn piecemeal than own your right to it.
If your want money, name the sum, take it; cut up my
tortune to shreds, seize my property, revel on it,
but come not here. This house is sacred; pollute it not:
I disown you; I discard you; I—ay, I detest, I loathe
you!"
-
And with these words, which came forth as if heaved
from the inmost heart of the speaker, who shook with the
fury he endeavoured to stifle, he fell back into his chair;
and fixed his eyes, which glared fearfully through the in-
creasing darkness, upon Linden, who stood high, erect,
and sorrowfully, before him.
Unhappy old man!" said Clarence: "have not the
years which have seared your form and whitened your
locks brought some meekness to your rancor, some mercy
to your injustice, for one whose only crime against you
seems to have been his birth. But I said I came not to
reproach, -nor do I. Many a bitter hour, many a pang
of shame, and mortification, and misery, which have made
scars in my heart that will never wear away, my wrongs
have cost me; but let them pass. Let them not swell
your
future and last account whenever it be required. I am
about to leave this country, with a heavy and foreboding
heart; we may never meet again on earth. I have no
longer any wish, any chance of resuming the name you
nave deprived me of. I shall never thrust myself on your
relationship, or cross your view. Lavish your wealth upon
him whom you have placed so immeasurably above me in
your affections. But, I have not deserved your curse,
father; give me your blessing, and let me depart in
"Peace! and what peace have I had what respite
from guawing shame, the foulness and leprosy of humilia- |
tion and reproach, since, -since-? But this is not your
fault, you say: no, no, it is another's; and you are only
the mark of my stigma, my disgrace, not its perpetrator.
Ha! a nice distinction, truly. My blessing, you say !
Coine, kneel; kneel, boy, and have it!"
peace.
Clarence approached, and stood bending and bareheaded
before his father, but he knelt not.
Why do you not kneel?" cried the old man, vehe-
mently.
"It is the attitude of the injurer, not of the injured!"
said Clarence, firmly.
—
Injured! !-insolent reprobate, is it not I who am
injured? Do
you not read it in my brow, here, here?
and the old man struck his clenched hand violently against
his temples. "Was I not injured,”—(he continued, sink-
ing his voice into a key unnaturally low,)—" did I not
trust implicitly? did I not give up my heart without
suspicion? -was I not duped deliciously? was I not
kind enough, blind enough, foot enough, and was I not
betrayed, damnably, filthily betrayed? But that was no
njury. Was not my old age turned into a drought, a sap-
.ess tree, a poisoned spring? -were not my days made
a curse to me, and my nights a torture? - was I not, am
I not, a mock, and a by-word, and a miserable, impotent,
unavenged old man? Injured ! But this is no injury!
- Boy, boy, what are your wrongs to mine?"
Father!" cried Clarence, deprecatingly, "I am not
the cause of your wrongs: is it just that the innocent
should suffer for the guilty?
<<
""
-
M
my son!"
Speak not in that voice!" cried the old man,—
"that
voice! fie, fie on it. Hence! away! away, boy!
- why tarry you? My son, and have that voice?
Pooh, you are not my son. Ha, ha!
"What am I, then?" said Clarence, soothingly; for he
was shocked and grieved, rather than irritated, by a
wrath which partook so strongly of insanity.
I will tell you," cried the father, "I will tell you
what you are, you are my curse!"
"Farewell!" said Clarence, much agitated, and retir-
ing to the window by which he had entered; " may your
heart never smite you for your cruelty! Farewell! may
the blessing you have withheld from me be with you !
:
J
-
Stop! stay!" cried the father; for his fury was check-
ed for one nomen and his nature, fierce as it was, re-
ented but Clarence was already gone, and the miserable
old man was left alone to darkness, and solitude, and the
passions which can make a hell of the human heart!
'
CHAPTER LVI.
Sed quæ præclara, et prospera tanti,
Ut rebus lætis par sit mensura malorum.
JUVENAL.
We are now transported to a father and a son of a very
different stamp.
It was about the hour of one, P. M., when the door of
Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt's study was thrown open, and the
servant announced Mr. Brown.
—
"Your servant, sir, your servant, Mr. Henry," said
the itinerant, bowing low to the two gentlemen thus ad-
dressed The former, Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt, might be
about the same age as Linden's father. A shrewd, sensi-
ble, ambitious man of the world, he had made his way
from the state of a younger brother, with no fortune and
very little interest, to considerable wealth, besides the
property he had acquired by law, and to a degree of con-
sideration for general influence and personal ability,
which, considering he had no official or parliamentary rank,
very few of his equals enjoyed. Persevering, steady, craf-
ty, and possessing, to an eminent degree, that happy art of
canting," which is the great secret of earning character
and consequence in England, the rise and reputation of
Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt appeared less to be wondered
at than envied; yet even envy was only for those who
could not look beyond the surface of things. He was at
heart an anxious and unhappy man. The evil we do
in the world is often paid back in the bosom of home.
Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt was, like Crauford, what might
be termed a mistaken utilitarian: he had lived utterly
and invariably for self; but instead of uniting self-in-
terest with the interest of others, he considered them
as perfectly incompatible ends. But character was
among the greatest of all objects to him; so that, though
he had rarely deviated into what might fairly be termed a
virtue, he had never transgressed what might rigidly be
called a propriety. He had not the genius, the wit, the
moral audacity of Crauford: he could not have indulged in
one offence with impunity, by a mingled courage and
hypocrisy in veiling others, he was the slave of the for-
mula which Crauford subjugated to himself. He was only
so far resembling Crauford, as one man of the world re-
sembles another in selfishness and dissimulation: he could
be dishonest, not villanous, much less a villain upon
system. He was a canter, Crauford a hypocrite: his ut-
tered opinions were, like Crauford's, differing from his
conduct; but he believed the truth of the former even while
sinning in the latter: he canted so sincerely that the tears
came in his eyes when he spoke. Never was there a man
more exemplary in words: people who departed from him
went away impressed with the idea of an excess of
honor, - a plethora of conscience. "It was almost e
pity," said they, "that Mr. Vavasour was so romantic;"
|
and thereupon they named him as executor to their wills
and guardian to their sons. None but he could, in carry-
ing the lawsuit against Mordaunt, have lost nothing in
reputation by success. But there was something so spe-
cious, so ostensibly fair in his manner and words, while
he was ruining Mordaunt, that it was impossible not to
suppose he was actuated by the purest motives, the most
holy desire for justice, not for himself, he said, for he
was old, and already rich enough, but for his son !
From that son came the punishment of all his offences,
-the black drop at the bottom of a bowl, seemingly so
sparkling. To him, as the father grew old, and desirous
of quiet, Vavasour had transferred all his selfishness, as if
to a securer and more durable firm. The child, when
young, had been singularly handsome and intelligent; and
Vavasour, as he toiled and toiled at his ingenious and
graceful cheateries, pleased himself with anticipating the
importance and advantages the heir to his labors would
enjoy. For that son he certainly had persevered more
arduously than otherwise he might have done in the law-
suit, of the justice of which he better satisfied the world
than his own breast; for that son, he rejoiced as he
looked around the stately halls and noble domain from
which the rightful possessor had been driven; for that son
he extended economy into penuriousness, and hope into
anxiety; and, too old to expect much more from the world
himself, for that son he anticipated, with a wearing and
feverish fancy, whatever wealth could purchase, beauty
win, or intellect command.
|
M
2:06
BULWER'S NOVELS.
:
But as if, like the Castle of Otranto, there was some-
thing in Mordaunt Court which contained a penalty and a
doom for the usurper, no sooner had Vavasour possessed
himself of his kinsman's estate, than the prosperity of his
life dried and withered away, like Jonah's gourd, in a sin-
gle night. His son, at the age of thirteen, fel! from a scaf-
fold, on which the workmen were making some extensive
alterations in the old house, and became a cripple and vale-
tudinarian for life. But still Vavasour, always of a san-
guine temperament, cherished a hope that surgical assist-
ance might restore him from place to place, from professor
to professor, from quack to quack, he carried the unhappy
boy, and as each remedy failed, he was only the more impa-
trent to devise a new one. But as it was the mind as well
as person of his son in which the father had stored up
his
ambition; so, in despite of this fearful accident, and the
wretched health by which it was followed, Vavasour never
suffered his son to rest from the tasks, and tuitions, and
lectures of the various masters by whom he was surrounded.
The poor boy, it is true, deprived of physical exertion, and
naturally of a serious and applicative disposition, required
very little urging to second his father's wishes for his men-
tal improvenient; and as the tutors were all of the orthodox
university calibre, who imagine that there is no knowledge
(but vanity) in any other works thau those in which their
own education has consisted; so Henry Vavasour became
at once the victor and victim of Bentleys and Scaligers,
word-weighers and metre-scanners, till, utterly ignorant of
every thing which could have softened his temper, dignified
his misfortunes, and reconciled him to his lot, he was sink-
ing fast into the grave, soured by incessant pain into moro-
sity, envy, and bitterness; exhausted by an unwholesome
and useless application to unprofitable studies; an excel-
lent scholar, (as it is termed,) with the worst regulated
and worst informed mind of almost any of his contempo-
raries equal to himself in the advantages of ability, original
goodness of disposition, and the costly and profuse expen-
diture of education.
But the vain father, as he heard, on all sides, of his son's
talents, saw nothing sinister in their direction; and though
the poor boy grew daily more contracted in mind, and
broken in frame, Vavasour yet hugged more and more
closely to his breast the hope of ultimate cure for the latter,
and future glory for the former. So he went on heaping
money, and extending acres, and planting, and improving,
and building, and hoping, and anticipating, for one at whose
very feet the grave was already dug!
But we left Mr. Brown in the study, making his bow and
professions of service to Mr Vavasour Mordaunt and his son.
“Good day, honest Brown," said the former, a middle
sized and rather stout man, with a well powdered head, and
a sharp, shrewd, and very sallow countenance ; good
day, - have you brought any of the foreign liqueurs you
spoke of, for Mr. Henry ?"
CC
Yes, sir, I have some curiously fine eau d'or and liqueurs
des îles, besides the marasquino and curaçon. The late
Lady Waddilove honored my taste in these matters with
her special approbation."
My dear boy," said Vavasour, turning to his son, who
lay extended on the couch, reading, not the Prometheus,
(that most noble drama ever created,) but the notes upon it,
"my dear boy, as you are fond of liqueurs, I desired
Brown to get some peculiarly fine; perhaps,
"Pish!" said the son, fretfully interrupting him, "do,
I beseech you, take your hand off my shoulder. See now,
you have made me lose my place. I really do wish
would leave me alone for one moment in the day.'
you
I beg your pardon, Henry," said the father, looking
reverently on the Greek characters which his son preferred
to the newspaper. "it is very vexatious, I own; but do
taste these liqueurs. Dr. Lukewarm said you might have
every thing you liked
"
But quiet!" muttered the cripple.
"I assure you, sir," said the wandering merchant,
"that they are excellent; allow me, Mr. Vavasour Mor-
daunt, to ring for a corkscrew. I really do think, sir, that
Mr. Henry looks much better, I declare he has quite a
color.”
"No, indeed!" said Vavasour, eagerly.
" Well, it
seems to me, too, that he is getting better. I intend him
to try Mr. E- 's patent collar in a day or two; but that
will in some measure prevent his reading. A great pity:
for I am very anxious that he should lose no time in his
studies just at present. He goes to Cambridge in October.
"Indeed, sir. Well, he will set the town in a blaze, I
is,
guess, sir! Everybody says what a fine scholar Mr. Henry
-even in the servant's hall! "
"Ay, ay," said Vavasour, gratified even by this praise
"he is clever enough, Brown; and, what is more," (and
here Vavasour's look grew sanctified,) "he is good enough
|
His principles do equal honor to his head and heart. He
would be no son of inine if he were not as much the gentle-
man as the scholar,”
The youth lifted his heavy and distorted face from his
book, and a sneer raised his lip for a moment; but a sudden
spasm of pain seizing him, the expression changed, and
Vavasour, whose eyes were fixed upon him, hastened to his
assistance.
"Throw open
the window, Brown; ring the bell,-call-"
"Pooh, father,' cried the boy, with a sharp, angry voice,
"I am not going to die yet, nor faint either; but it is all
your fault. If you will have those odious, vulgar people
here for your own pleasure, at least suffer me, another day
to retire."
"My son, my son !" said the grieved father, in reproach
ful anger, "it was my anxiety to give you some trifling en.
joyment that brought Brown here, you must be sensible
of that!"
"You tease me to death," grumbled the peevish unfor-
tunate.
Well, sir," said Mr. Brown, "shall I leave the bot-
tles here? or do you please that I should give them to the
butler? I see that I am displeasing and troublesome to
Mr. Henry; but as my worthy friend and patroness, the
late Lady-
>>
Go, — go,
go, honest Brown!" said Vavasour, (who
desired every man's good word,)-"go, and give the
liqueurs to Preston. Mr. Henry is extremely sorry that
he is too unwell to see you now; and I, I have the heart
of a father for his sufferings.'
Mr. Brown withdrew. "Odious and vulgar,'
," said
he to himself, in a little fury,- for Mr. Brown peculiarly
valued himself on his gentility, _"odious and vulgar!"
To think of his little lordship uttering such shameful words!
However, I will go into the steward's room, and abuse him
there. But, I suppose, I shall get no dinner in this house,
nonsense,
M
no, not so much as a crust of bread; for while the old
gentleman is launching out into such prodigious expenses
on a great scale,
on a great scale, making heathenish temples, and spoil-
ing the fine old house with his new picture gallery and
he is so close in small matters, that I warrant
not a candle-end escapes him; griping and pinching, and
squeezing with one hand, and scattering money, as if it
were dirt, with the other, and all for that cross, ugly, de-
formed, little whipper-snapper of a son. 'Odious and vul-
gar,' indeed! What shocking language. Mr. Algernon
Mordaunt would never have made use of such words,
know. And, bless me, now I think of it, I wonder where
that poor gentleman is, the young heir here is not long
for this world, I can see; and who knows but what Mr.
Algernon may be in great distress; and I am sure, as far
as four hundred pounds, or even a thousand, or two thou-
sand, go, I would not mind lending it to him, only upon
the post-obits of Squire Vavasour and his hopeful. I like
doing a kind thing; and Mr. Algernon was always very
good to me; and I am sure I don't care about the security,
though I think it will be as sure as sixpence; for the old
gentleman must be past sixty, and the young one is the
worse life of the two. We should help one another, it
is but one's duty: and if he is in great distress, he would
not mind a handsome premium. Well, nobody can say
Morris Brown is not as charitable as the best Christian
breathing; and, as the late Lady Waddilove very ustly
observed, Brown, believe me, a prudent risk is the surest
gain!' I will lose no time in finding the late squire out.”
Muttering over these reflections, Mr. Brown took his
way to the steward's room.
CHAPTER LVII.
Clar.— How, two letters ?
The Lover's Progre
LETTER FROM CLARENCE LINDEN, ESQ., TO THE DUKE OF
HAVERFIELD.
"Hotel
Calais.
"MY DEAR DUKE,- After your kind letter, you wh
forgive me for not having called upon you before I left Eng
THE DISOWNED.
207
ad; for you have led me to hope that I may dispense
with ceremony toward you; and, in sad and sober earnest,
I was in no mood to visit even you during the few days I
was in London, previous to my departure. Some French
philosopher has said that, 'the best compliment we can pay
our friends, when in sickness or misfortune, is to avoid
them.' I will not say how far I disagree with this senti-
ment: but I know that a French philosopher will be an un-
answerable authority with you; and so I will take shelter
even under the battery of an enemy.
"I am waiting here for some days, in expectation of
Lord Aspeden's arrival. Sick as I was of England, and
all that has lately occurred to me there, I was glad to
have an opportunity of leaving it sooner than my chef dip
lomatique could do; and I amuse myself very indifferently
in this dull town, with reading all the morning, plays all
the evening, and dreams of my happier friends all the night.
"And so you are sorry that I did not destroy Lord Bo-
rodaile. My dear duke, you would have been much more
sorry if I had! What could you then have done for a living
Pasquin for your stray lampoons and vagrant sarcasms?
Had an unfortunate bullet carried away
"That peer of England, - pillar of the state,
as you terin him, pray on whom could Duke Humphrey
unfold his griefs? Ah, my lord, better as it is, believe
and, whenever you are at a loss for a subject for wit,
you will find cause to bless my forbearance, and congratu-
late yourself upon the existence of its object.
me ,
Dare I hope that, amid all the gayeties which court
you, you will find time to write to me? If so, you shall
have in return the earliest intelligence of every new sopra-
no, and the most elaborate criticisms on every budding
figurante of our court.
"Have you met Trollolop lately, and in what new
pursuit are his intellectual energies engaged? There, you
see, I have fairly entrapped your grace into a question,
which common courtesy will oblige you to answer. Adieu.
Ever, my dear duke,
Most truly yours, &c."
LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF HAVERFIELD TO
CLARENCE LINDEN, ESQ.
"A thousand thanks, mon cher, for your letter, though it
was certainly less amusing and animated than I could have
wished it for your sake, as well as my own; yet it could
not have been more welcomely received, had it been as
witty as your conversation itself. I heard that you had
accepted the place of secretary to Lord Aspeden, and that
you had passed through London on your way to the conti-
nent, looking, (the amiable Callythorpe, who never
flatters,' is my authority,) more like a ghost than your-
self. So you may be sure, my dear Linden, that I was
very anxious to be convinced, under your own hand, of
your carnal existence.
C
Sir Christopher,
You have no idea how shocking it was.
one day, heard his brother, who had just entered the
Dragoons, ridiculed for his want of spirit, by Major Elton,
the honest heart of
who professed to be his best friend,
our worthy baronet was shocked beyond measure at this
perfidy, and the next time his brother mentioned Elton's
name with praise, out came the story. You may guess the
rest young Findlater called out Elton, who shot him
through the lungs !-'I did it for the best,' cried Sir
Christopher.
"La pauvre petite Meronville ! What an Ariadne !
Just as I was thinking to play the Bacchus to your These
us, up steps an old gentleman from Yorkshire, who hears
it is fashionable to marry bonas robas, proposes honorable
matrimony, and deprives me and the world of La Meron-
ville! The wedding took place on Monday last, and the
happy pair set out to their seat in the North. Verily, we
shall have quite a new race in the next generation, I ex-
pect all the babes will skip into the world, with a pas de
zephyr, singing in sweet trebles-
"Little dancing loves we are:
Who the deuse is our papa?
"I think you will be surprised to hear that Lord Boro-
daile is beginning to thaw,-I saw him smile the other
day! Certainly, we are not so near the North Pole as we
were! He is going, and so am I, in the course of the au-
tumn, to your old friends, the Westboroughs. Report says
that he is un peu épris de la belle Flore; but, then, Report
is such a liar! - For my own part I always contradict her.
"Tell me how Lord Aspeden's flatteries are received in
Italy. Somewhat like snow in that country, I should im-
agine, -more surprising than agreeable! I eagerly em-
brace your offer of correspondence, and assure you that
there are few people by whose friendship I conceive my-
You will believe this;
self so much honored as by yours.
for you know that, like Callythorpe, I never flatter. Fare-
well for the present.
Sincerely yours,
"HAVERFIELD.”
Q. Eliz.
K. Rich.
CHAPTER LVIII.
Shall I be tempted of the devil thus ?
Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good.
Q. Eliz.-Shall I forget myself to be myself?
SHAKSPEARE.
IT wanted one hour to midnight, as Crauford walked
slowly to the lonely and humble street where he had ap
pointed his meeting with Glendower. It was a stormy
and fearful night. The day had been uncommonly sultry,
and as it died away, thick masses of cloud came laboring
along the air, which lay heavy and breathless, as if under
a spell, -as if in those dense and haggard vapors the rider
of the storm sat, like an incubus, upon the atmosphere be-
neath, and paralyzed the motion and wholesomeness of the
sleeping winds. And about the hour of twilight, or rather
when twilight should have been, instead of its quiet star,
from one obscure corner of the heavens flashed a solitary
gleam of lightning, lingered a moment,
"Take care of yourself, my good fellow, and don't im-
agine, as I am apt to do, that youth is like my hunter,
Fearnought, and will carry you over every thing. In re-
turn for your philosophical maxim, I will give you another.
In age we should remember that we have been young, and
in youth, that we are to be old.' Ehem! - am I not pro-
"And ere a man had power to say, Behold!
found as a moralist? I think a few such sentences would
The jaws of darkness did devour it up.”
become my long face well; and to say truth, I am tired of But then, as if awakened from a torpor by a signal uni-
being witty, every one thinks he can be that, -so Iversally acknowledged, from the courts and quarters of
will borrow Trollolop's philosophy, take snuff, wear a
wig out of curl, and grow wise, instead of merry.
The streets
heaven, came, blaze after blaze, and peal upon peal, the
light and voices of the elements when they walk abroad.
The rain fell not; all was dry and arid. The mood of na-
ture seemed not gentle enough for tears; and the lightning,
livid and forked, flashed from the sullen and motionles■
clouds with a deadly fierceness, made trebly perilous by the
panting drought and stagnation of the air.
were empty and silent, as if the huge city had been doom-
ed and delivered to the wrath of the tempest, and ever
and anon the lightnings paused upon the housetops, shook
and quivered as if meditating their stroke, and then, baf-
fled, as it were, by some superior and guardian agency,
vanished into their gloomy tents, and made their next ae-
scent from some opposite corner of the skies.
Apropos of Trollolop; let me not forget that you
honor him with your inquiries. I saw him three days
since, and he asked me if I had been impressed lately with
the idea vulgarly called Clarence Linden; and he then
proceeded to inform me that he had heard the atoms which
composed your frame were about to be resolved into a new
form. While I was knitting my brows very wisely at this
intelligence, he passed on to apprize me that I had neither
length, breadth, or extension, or any thing but mind.
Flattered by so delicate a compliment to my understand
ing, I yielded my assent; and he then shifted his ground,
and told me that there was no such thing as mind,
we were but modifications of matter, and that, in a It was a remarkable instance of the force with which a
word, I was all body. I took advantage of this doctrine, cherished object occupies the thoughts, and of the all-suffi.
and forthwith removed my modification of matter from his. ciency of the human mind to itself, the slowness and uncon-
Findlater as just lost his younger brother in a duel.sciousness of danger with which Crauford, a man luxurious
that
208
BULWER'S NOVELS.
as well as naturally timid, moved amid the angry fires of
heaven, and brooded, undisturbed, and sullenly serene, over
the project at his heart.
Giga
a
"A rare night for our meeting," thought he, "I suppose
ne will not fail me. Now let me con over my task. I must
not tell him all yet. Such babes must be led into error be-
fore they can walk, -just a little inkling will suffice,
glimpse into the arcana of my scheme. Well, it is indeed
fortunate that I met him, for verily I am surrounded with
danger, and a very little delay in the assistance I am forced
to seek, might exalt me to a higher elevation than the peer-
age."
Such was the meditation of this man, as, with a slow,
shuffling walk, characteristic of his mind, he proceeded to
the appointed spot.
A cessation of unusual length in the series of the light-
nings, and the consequent darkness, against which the dull
and scanty lamps vainly struggled, prevented Crauford and
another figure, approaching from the opposite quarter, see-
ing each other till they almost touched. Crauford stopped
abruptly.
"Is it you?" said he.
"It is a man who has outlived fortune!" answered
Glendower, in the exaggerated and metaphorical language
which the thoughts of men who imagine warmly, and are
excited powerfully, so often assume.
"Then," rejoined Crauford, "you are the more suited
for my purpose. A little urging of necessity behind is a
marvellous whetter of the appetite to danger before. He!
he!" And as he said this, his low, chuckling laugh, jar-
ringly enough contrasted with the character of the night
and his companion.
Glendower replied not a pause ensued; and the light-
ning, which, spreading on a sudden from east to west, hung
over the city, - a burning and ghastly canopy, showed
the face of each to the other, working, and almost haggard,
as it was, with the conception of dark thoughts, and ren-
dered wan and unearthly by the spectral light in which it
was beheld. "It is an awful night !" said Glendower.
"True," answered Crauford, "a very awful night;
but we are all safe under the care of Providence.-Jesus!
what a flash ! Think you it is a favorable opportunity for
our conversation?"
"Why not?" said Glendower; "what have the thunders
and wrath of heaven to do with us?"
"H-e-m! h-e-m! God sees all things," rejoined
Crauford, "and avenges himself on the guilty by his
storms!"
CC
Ay; but those are the storms of the heart! I tell you
that even the innocent may have that within to which the
loudest tempests without are peace! But guilt, you say,-
what have we to do with guilt?
Crauford hesitated, and, avoiding any reply to this ques
tion, drew Glendower's arm within his own, and, in a low
half-whispered tone, said, -
There is in all creation but one evident law, self-preser
vation! Split it as you like into hairbreadths and atoms
it is still fundamentally and essentially unaltered. Glen.
dower, that self-preservation is our bond now.
Of myself
I do not at present speak, I refer only to you: self
preservation commands you to place implicit confidence in
ine; it impels you to abjure indigence, by accepting the
proposal I am about to make to you.
"You, as yet, speak enigmas," said Glendower; "but
they are sufficiently clear to tell me their sense is not such
as I have heard you utter.
"You are right. Truth is not always safe, safe either
to others, or to ourselves! But I bare open to you now my
real heart look in it, I dare to say that you will behold
charity, benevolence, piety to God, love and friendship at
this moment to yourself; but I own, also, that you will be-
hold there a determination, which, to me, seems courage
not to be the only idle being in the world, where all ar
busy; or worse still, to be the only one engaged in a perilou
and uncertain game, and yet shunning to employ all the arts
of which he is master. I will own to you that, long since,
had I been foolishly inert, I should have been, at this mo
ment, more penniless and destitute than yourself. I live
happy, respected, wealthy! I enjoy in their widest range
the blessings of life. I dispense those blessings to others.
Look round the world,-whose name stands fairer than
mine? whose hand relieves more of human distresses?
whose tongue preaches purer doctrines? None, Glendower,
none. I offer to you means not dissimilar to those I have
chosen, fortunes not unequal to those I possess. Nothing
but the most unjustifiable fastidiousness will make you hes
itate to accept my offer."
"You cannot expect that I have met you this night with
a resolution to be unjustifiably fastidious," said Glendower,
with a hollow and cold smile.
Crauford did not immediately answer, for he was con-
sidering whether it was yet the time for disclosing the im-
portant secret. While he was deliberating, the sullen
clouds began to break from their suspense. A double dark-
ness gathered around, and a few large drops fell on the
ground in token of a more general discharge about to fol-
low from the floodgates of heaven. The two men moved
onward, and took shelter under an old arch.
-
Crauford first broke silence. "Hist," said he, “hist,
do you hear any thing?"
"Yes! I heard the winds and the rain, and the shak-
ing of houses, and the plashing pavements, and the reek-
ing housetops, nothing more.
-
Looking long and anxiously around to certify himself
that none was indeed the witness of their conference, Crau-
ford approached close to Glendower, and laid his hand
heavily upon his arm. At that moment a vivid and length-
ened flash of lightning shot through the ruined arch, and
gave to Crauford's countenance a lustre which Glendower
almost started to behold. The face, usually so smooth,
calm, bright in complexion, and almost inexpressive from
its extreme composure, now agitated by the excitement of
the moment, and tinged by the ghastly light of the skies,
became literally fearful. The cold blue eye glared out
from its socket, the lips blanched, and parting in act to
speak, showed the white glistening teeth; and the corners
of the mouth, drawn down in a half sneer, gave to the
"Glendower, survey mankind; look with a passionless
and unprejudiced eye upon the scene which moves around
us: what do you see anywhere but the same reacted and
eternal law of nature, all, all preying upon each other.
Or if there be a solitary individual who refrains, he is as a
man without a common badge, without a marriage garment,
and the rest trample him under foot! Glendower, you are
such a man! Now hearken, I will deceive you not; I hon-cheeks, rendered green and livid by the lightning, a lean
or you too much to beguile you, even to your own good. I
own to you, fairly and at once, that in the scheme I shall
unfold to you, there may be something repugnant to the fac-
titious and theoretical principles of education, -something
hostile to the prejudices, though not to the reasonings, of
the mind; but —"
"Hold!” said Glendower, abruptly, pausing and fixing
his bold and searching eye upon the tempter; “hold!
there will be no need of argument or refinement in this
case tell me at once your scheme, and at once I will ac-
cept or reject it!"
CC
:
Gently," answered Crauford: "to all deeds of con-
trac. there is a preamble. Listen to me yet further when
I have ceased, I will listen to you. It is in vain that you
place man in cities, it is in vain that you fetter him with
laws, it is in vain that you pour into his mind the light
of an imperfect morality, of a glimmering wisdom, of an
ineffectual religion in all places he is the same, the
same savage and crafty being, who makes the passions
which rule himself the tools of his conquest over others!
―
r
and hollow appearance, contrary to their natural shape.
"It is," said Crauford, in a whispered but distinct tone,
a perilous secret that I am about to disclose to you. I,
indeed, have no concern in it, but my lords the judges
have, and you will not therefore be surprised if I forestall
the ceremonies of their court, and require an oath.”
Then, his manner and voice suddenly changing into an
earnest and deep solemnity, as excitation gave him an
cloquence more impressive, because unnatural to his ordi-
nary moments, he continued; "By these lightnings and
commotions above, — by the heavens, in which they revel
in their terrible sports, — by the earth, whose towers they
crumble, and herbs they blight, and creatures they blast
into cinders at their will, by Him whom, whatever be
the name He bears, all men in the living world worship and
tremble before, by whatever is sacred in this great and
mysterious universe, and at the peril of whatever can
wither, and destroy, and curse, swear to preserve invio
lable and for ever the secret I shall whisper to your car!'
The profound darkness which now, in the pause of the
THE DISOWNED.
209
nightning, wrap the scene, hid from Crauford all sight of
the effect he had produced, and even the very outline of
Giendower's figure: but the gloom made more distinct the
voice which thrilled through it upon Crauford's ear.
"Promise me that there is not dishonor, nor crime,
which is dishonor, in this confidence, and I swear."
Crauford ground his teeth. He was about to reply im-
petuously, but he checked himself. "I am not going,
thought he, "to communicate my own share of this plot,
but merely to state that a plot does exist, and then to point
out in what manner he can profit by it, -so far, therefore,
there is no guilt in his concealment, and, consequently, no
excuse for him to break his vow.
""
""
Rapidly running over this self-argument, he said aloud,
I promise!
CC
And," rejoined Glendower, "I swear!"
At the close of this sentence another flash of lightning
again made darkness visible, and Glendower, beholding
the countenance of his companion, again recoiled; for its
mingled haggardness and triumph seemed to his excited
imagination, the very expression of a fiend!" Now,"
said Cranford, relapsing into his usual careless tone, some-
what enlivened by his sneer, now, then, you must not in-
terrupt me in my disclosure, by those starts and exclama-
tions which break from your philosophy like sparks from
flint. Hear me throughout."
CC
And, bending down, till his mouth reached Glendower's
ear, he commenced his recital. Artfully hiding his own
agency, the master-spring of the gigantic machinery of
fraud, which, too mighty for a single hand, required an as-
sistant, throwing into obscurity the sin, while, knowing
the undaunted courage and desperate fortunes of the man,
he did not affect to conceal the danger, - expatiating upon
the advantages, the immense and almost inexhaustible re-
sources of wealth which his scheme suddenly opened upon
one in the deepest abyss of poverty, and slightly sketching,
as if to excite vanity, the ingenuity and genius by which
the scheme originated, and could only be sustained,
Crauford's detail of temptation, in its knowledge of human
nature, in its adaptation of act to principles, in its weblike
craft of self-concealment, and the speciousness of its lure,
was indeed a splendid masterpiece of villanous invention.
But while Glendower listened, and his silence flattered
Crauford's belief of victory, not for one single moment
did a weak or yielding desire creep around his heart.
Subtly as the scheme was varnished, and scarce a tithe of
its comprehensive enormity unfolded, the strong and acute
mind of one long accustomed to unravel sophistry and gaze
on the loveliness of truth, saw at once that the scheme
proposed was of the most unmingled treachery and base-
ness. Sick, chilled, writhing at heart, Glendower leant
against the damp wall; as every word, which the tempter
fondly imagined was irresistibly confirming his purpose,
tore away the last prop to which, in the credulity of hope,
the student had cling, and mocked while it crushed the
fondness of his belief.
Crauford ceased, and stretched forth his hand to grasp
Glendower's. He felt it not. "You do not speak, my
friend," said he; "do you deliberate, or have you not
decided?" Still no answer came. Surprised, and half
alarmed, he turned round, and perceived, by a momentary
flash of lightning, that Glendower had risen, and was
moving away toward the mouth of the arch.
"Good heavens! Glendower," cried Crauford, "where
are you going?"
Anywhere," cried Glendower, in a sudden paroxysm
of indignant passion, "anywhere in this great globe of
suffering, so that the agonies of my human flesh and heart
are not polluted by the accents of crime! And such crime !
Why, I would rather go forth into the highways, and
win bread by the sharp knife, and the death struggle, than
sink my soul in such mire and filthiness of sin. Fraud,
fraud, treachery! Merciful Father! what can be my
state, when these are supposed to tempt me !
Astonished and aghast, Crauford remained rooted to the
spot.
"O!" continued Glendower, and his noble nature
was wrung to the utmost; “O, man, man! that 1
should have devoted my best and freshest years to the
dream of serving thee! In my boyish enthusiasm, in my
brief day of pleasure and of power, in the intoxication of
love, in the reverse of fortune, in the squalid and obscure
chambers of degradation and poverty, that one hope ani-
VOL. I.
27
|
mated, cheered, sustained me through all! In temptation
did this hand belie, or in sickness did this brain forego, or
in misery did this heart forget, thy great and advancing
cause? In the wide world, is there one being whom
have injured, even in thought, one being who, in the
fellowship of want, should not have drunk of my cup, or
broken with me the last morsel of my bread !—and now,
now, is it come to this!"
And hiding his face with his hands, he gave way to a
violence of feeling, before which the weaker nature of
Crauford stood trembling and abashed. It lasted not long;
he raised his head from its drooping posture, and, as he
stood at the entrance of the arch, a prolonged flash from
the inconstant skies shone full upon his form. Tall, erect,
still, the gloomy and ruined walls gave his colorless coun-
tenance and haughty stature in bold and distinct relief
all trace of the past passion had vanished: perfectly calm
and set, his features borrowed even dignity from their
marble paleness, and the marks of suffering, which the last
few months had writ in legible characters on the cheek and
brow. Seeking out, with an eye to which the intolerable
lightnings seemed to have lent something of their fire, the
cowering and bended form of his companion, he said, -
;
"Go home, miserable derider of the virtue you cannot
understand,-go to your luxurious and costly home,-go and
repine that human nature is not measured by your mangled
and crippled laws; amid men, yet more fallen than I am,
hope to select your victim;-amid prisons, and hovels, and
roofless sheds, amid rags and destitution, and wretches
made mad by hunger, hope that you may find a villain.-
I leave you to that hope, and to remembrance!"
As Glendower moved away, Crauford recovered himself.
Rendered desperate by the vital necessity of procuring
some speedy aid in his designs, and not yet perfectly per-
suaded of the fallacy of his former judgment, he was resol-
ved not to suffer Glendower thus easily to depart. Smoth-
ering his feelings by an effort violent even to his habitual
hypocrisy, he sprung forward, and laid his hand upon
Glendower's shoulder.
"Stay, stay," said he, in a soothing and soft voice; "you
have wronged me greatly. I pardon your warmth, -
nay, I
honor it; but hereafter you will repent your judgment of
me. At least, do justice to my intentions. Was I an
actor in the scheme proposed to you?-what was it to me?
Was I in the smallest degree to be benefited by it? Could
I have any other motive than affection for you? If I erred,
it was from a different view of the question; but is it not
the duty of a friend to find expedients for distress, and to
leave to the distressed person the right of accepting or re-
jecting them? But let this drop for ever;- partake of my
fortune, be my adopted brother. Here, I have hundreds
about me at this moment; take them all, and own at least
that I meant you well.”
Feeling that Glendower, who at first had rainly endea-
voured to shake off his hand, now turned toward him, though
at the moment it was too dark to see his countenance,
the wily speaker continued, "Yes, Glendower, if by that
name I must alone address you, take all I have, there is
no one in this world dearer to me than you are. I am a
lonely and disappointed man, without children or ties. I
sought out a friend who might be my brother in life, and
my heir in death. I found you, be that to me !"
"and
"I am faint and weak," said Glendower, slowly,
I believe my senses cannot be clear; but a minute since,
and you spoke at length, and with a terrible distinctness,
words which it polluted my very ear to catch, and now you
speak as if you loved me. Will it please you to solve the
riddle?
pride,
so;
1
The truth is this," said Crauford:
"I knew you
pride, — I feared you would not accept a permanent pecu
niary aid, even from friendship. I was driven therefore
to devise some plan of independence for you: I could thin}
of no plan but that which I proposed. You speak of it a
wicked: it
may be
but it seemed not wicked to me.
may have formed a wrong,-I own it is a peculiar -syster
of morals; but it is, at least, sincere. Judging of m
proposal by that system, I saw no sin in it. I saw, toc
inuch less danger than, in the honesty of my heart, I spok
of. In a similar distress, I solemnly swear, I myself woul
have adopted a similar relief. Nor is this all; the pla
proposed would have placed thousands in your power. For
give me if I thought your life, and the lives of those most.
dear to you, of greater value than these sums to the per
210
BULWER'S NOVELS.
зons defrauded,
ay defrauded, if you will: forgive me
f I thought that with these thousands you would effect
far more good to the community than their legitimate own-
ers. Upon these grounds, and on some others, too tedious
ow to state, I justified my proposal to my conscience.
Pardon me, I again beseechi you: accept my last proposal;
be my partner, my friend my heir; and forget a scheme
never proposed to you, if I had hoped (what I hope now)
that you would accept the alternative which it is my pride
to offer, and which you are not justified, even by pride, to
efuse."
"Great Source of all knowledge!" ejaculated Glen-
dower, scarce audibly, and to himself. Supreme and
unfathomable God! dost thou most loathe or pity thine
abased creatures, walking in their dim reason upon this
little earth, and sanctioning fraud, treachery, crime, upon
a principle borrowed from thy laws! O! when - when
will thy full light of wisdom travel down to us, and guilt
and sorrow, and this world's evil mysteries, roll
away like
vapors before the blaze !"
"I do not hear you my friend," said Crauford. "Speak
aloud; you will, I feel you will, accept my offer, and be-
come my brother!
-
“ I will not.”
Away!" said Glendower.
. He wanders, his brain is touched! "muttered Crau-
ford, and then resumed aloud, —“ Glendower, we are both
unfit for talk at present, both unstrung by our late jar.
You will meet ine again to-morrow, perhaps?
I will ac-
company you now to your door."
"Not a step our paths are different."
"Well, well, if you will have it so, be it as you please.
I have offended; you have a right to punish me, and play
the churl to-night; but your address ?"
"Yonder," said Glendower, pointing to the heavens.
"Come to me a month hence, and you will find me there!"
" that we
Nay, nay, my friend, your brain is heated, but you
leave me! Well, as I said, your will is mine; at least take
some of these paltry notes in earnest of our bargain ; re-
member when next we meet you will share all I have.'
"You remind me," said Glendower, quietly,
have old debts to settle. When last I saw you, you lent me
a certain sum, there it is, take it,— count it, there
is but one poor guinea gone.
Fear not,
even to the ut-
termost farthing you shall be repaid."
*
Why, why, this is unkind, ungenerous. Stay, stay,
but waving his hand impatiently, Glendower darted away,
and passing into another street, the darkness effectually
closed upon his steps.
—
:
—
"Fool, fool that I am," cried Crauford, stamping vehe-
mently on the ground, "in what point did iny wit fail
me, that I could not win one whom very hunger had driven
into my net? But I must yet find him, and I will,-
the police shall be set to work these half-confidences may
ruin me. And how deceitful he has proved; to talk more
diffidently than a whining harlot upon virtue, and yet be so
stubborn upon trial! Dastard that I am too, as well as
fool, — I felt sunk into the lust by his voice. But pooh, I
must have him yet; your worst villains make the most noise
about the first step. True, that I cannot storm, but I will
undermine. But, wretch that I am, I must win him or
another soon, or I perish on a gibbet, — Out, base thought!"
CHAPTER LIX.
Formam quidem ipsam, Marce fili, et tanquam faciem hones-
ti vides; que, si oculis cerneretur, mirabiles amores (ut ait
Plato) excitaret sapientiæ.
TULLY.
It was almost dawn when Glendower returned to his
home. Fearful of disturbing his wife, he stole with mute.
steps to the damp and rugged chamber, where the last son
of a princely line, and the legitimate owner of lands and
halls which ducal rank might have envied, held his miser-
able asylum. The first fint streaks of coming light broke
through the shutterless and shattered windows, and he saw
that she reclined in a deep skep upon the chair beside their
child's couch. She would not go to bed herself till Glen-
Jower returned, and she had sat up, watching and praying,
and listening for his footsteps, till, in the utter exhaustion
of debility and sickness, sleep had fallen upon her. Glen-
dower bent over her.
+
Co
"Sleep," said he, "sleep on! The wicked do not come
to thee now. Thou art in a world that has no fellowship
with this, a world from which even happiness is not ban-
ished! Nor woe, nor pain, nor memory of the past, nor
despair of all before thee, make the characters of thy pres
ent state! Thou forestallest the forgetfulness of the grave,
and thy heart concentrates all earth's comfort in one word,
Oblivion.' Beautiful, how beautiful thou art even yet!
that smile, that momentary blush, years have not conquered
them They are as when, my young bride, thou didst lean
first upon my bosom, and dream that sorrow was no more!
And I have brought thee unto this. These green walls
make thy bridal chamber, yon fragments of bread thy
bridal board. Well! it is no inatter! thou art on thy way
to a land, where all things, even a breaking heart, are at
rest. I weep not; wherefore should I weep! Tears are
not for the dead, but their survivors. I would rather see thee
drop inch by inch into the grave, and smile as I beheld it,
than save thee for an inheritance of sin. What is there in
this little and sordid life, that we should strive to hold it?
What in this dreadful dream, that we should fear to
wake?"
And Glendower knelt beside his wife, and despite his
words, tears flowed fast and gushingly down his cheeks;
and wearied as he was, he watched upon her slumbers, till
they fell from the eyes to which his presence was more joy-
ous than the day.
It was a beautiful thing, even in sorrow, to see that cou-
ple, whom want could not debase, nor inisfortune, which
makes even generosity selfish, divorce! All that fate had
stripped from the poetry and graces of life, had not shaken
one leaf from the romance of their green and unwithered
affections! They were the very type of love in its holiest
and most enduring shape: their hearts had grown together,
;
their being had flowed through caves and deserts, and
reflected the storms of an angry heaven; but its waters had
indissolubly mingled into one! Young, gifted, noble, and
devoted, they were worthy victims of this blighting and bit-
ter world! Their garden was turned into a wilderness
but, like our first parents, it was hand in hand that they
took their solitary way! Evil beset them, but they swerv-
ed not; the rains and the winds fell upon their unsheltered
heads, but they were not bowed; and through the mazes and
briers of this weary life, their bleeding footsteps strayed
not, for they had a clue! The mind seemed, as it were, to
become visible and external as the frame decayed, and to
cover the body with something of its own invulnerable
power; so that whatever should have attacked the mortal
and frail part, fell upon that which, imperishable and divine,
resisted and subdued it!
It was unfortunate for Glendower that he never again met
Wolfe; for neither fanaticism of political faith, nor stern-
ness of natural temper, subdued in the republican the real
benevolence and generosity which redeemed and elevated
his character nor could any impulse of party zeal have
induced him, like Crauford, systematically to take advan-
tage of poverty in order to tempt to participation in bus
schemes. From a more evil companion Glendower had not
yet escaped: Crauford, by some means or other, found out
his abode, and lost no time in availing himself of the dis
covery. In order fully to comprehend his unwearied per
secution of Glendower, it must constantly be remembered,
that to this persecution he was bound by a necessity which,
urgent, dark, and implicating life itself, rendered him cal-
lous to every obstacle, and unsusceptible of all remorse.
With the exquisite tact which he possessed, he never open-
ly recurred to his former proposal of fraud he contented
himself with endeavoring to persuade Glendower to accept
pecuniary assistance: but in vain. The veil once torn from
his character no craft could restore. Through all his pre-
tences, and sevenfold hypocrisy, Glendower penetrated at
once into his real motives: he was not to be duped by as-
surances of friendship which he knew the very dissimilar-
ities between their natures rendered impossible. He had
seen at the first, despite of all allegations to the contrary,
that, in the fraud Crauford had proposed, that person could
by no means be an uninfluenced and cold adviser. In after
conversations, Crauford, driven by the awful interest he had
in success, from his usual consummateness of duplicity, be.
trayed in various important minutie how deeply he was im
plicated in the crime for which he had argued; and not even
the visible and progressive decay of his wife and child
could force the stern mind of Glendower into accepting
THE DISOWNED.
211
those wages of iniquity which he knew well were only of
fered as an earnest or a snare.
that one miscreant, however ingenious, cannot, unassisted,
support it with impunity.
with impunity. You want help: I am he in
whom you have dared believe that you could find it. You
are detected, now be undeceived!"
"Is it so?" said Crauford; and as he saw that it was
no longer possible to feign, the poison of his heart broke
forth in its full venom. The fiend rose from the reptile
and stood exposed in its natural shape. Returning Gler
dower's stern but lofty gaze with an eye to which all evi
passions lent their unholy fire, he repeated, "Is it so?-
then you are more penetrating than I thought; but it is
indifferent to me. It was for your sake, not mine, most
righteous inan, that I wished you might have a disguise to
satisfy the inodesty of your punctilios. It is all one to
Richard Crauford whether you go blindfold or with open
eyes into his snare. Go you must, and shall. Ay, frowns
will not awe me. You have desired the truth; you shall
have it. You are right, I hate you, hate you with a
soul whose force of hatred you cannot dream of. Your
pride, your stubbornness, your coldness of heart, which
things that would stir the blood of beggars, cannot warm,
There is a majesty about extreme misery, when the
nind falls not with the fortunes, which no hardihood of
vice can violate unabashed. Often and often, humbled
and defeated, through all his dissimulation, was Crauford
driven from the presence of the man whom it was his bit-
terest punishment to fear most when most he affected to
despise; and as often, recollecting his powers, and fortify-
ing himself in his experience of human frailty when suf-
ficiently tried, did he return to his attempts. He waylaid
the door and watched the paths of his intended prey.
He
knew that the mind which even best repels temptation first
urged, hath seklom power to resist the same suggestion, it
if
daily, dropping, unwearying, presenting itself in eve-
ry form, obtruded in every hour, losing its horror by
custom, and finding in the rebellious bosom itself its
smoothest vizard and most alluring excuse.
And it was,
indeed, a mighty and perilous trial to Glendower, when
rushing from the presence of his wife and child, when
fainting under accumulated evils, when almost delirious
with sickening and heated thought, to hear at each prompt-
ing of the wrung and excited nature, each heave of the
black fountain that in no mortal breast is utterly exhaust-
ed, one smooth, soft, persuasive voice for ever whispering,
“Relief!”—relief, certain, utter, instantaneous ! — the
voice of one pledged never to relax an effort or spare a
pang, by a danger to himself, a danger of shame and
Heath, the voice of one who never spake but in friend-gibbet! Ay! the gibbet. That night on which we made
ship and compassion, profound in craft, and a very sage
the disguises with which language invests deeds.
its sert,
in
But VIRTUE has resources buried in itself, which we
<now not, till the invading hour calls them from their re-
treats. Surrounded by hosts without, and when nature
nature
itself turned traitor, is its most deadly enemy within; it
issumes a new and a superhuman power, which is greater
than nature itself. Whatever be its creed, whatever be
-from whatever segment of the globe its ori-
ɓons quize, virtue is God's empire, and from his throne of
throngz be will defend it. Though cast into the distant
earth, and struggling on the dim arena of a human heart,
all things above are spectators of its conflict, or enlist-
ed in its cause. The angels have their charge over it,
the banners of archangels are on its side; and from
sphere to sphere, through the illimitable ether, and round
the impenetrable darkness at the feet of God, its triumph
is hymned by harps, which are strung to the glories of the
Creator!
One evening, when Crauford had joined Glendower on his
solitary wanderings, the dissembler renewed his attacks.
But why not," said he, "accept from my friendship
what to my benevolence you would deny? I couple with
my offers, my prayers rather, no conditions. How then
do you, can you, reconcile it to your conscience, to suffer
your wife and child to perish before your eyes?"
you
your icy and passionless virtue, -I hate, I hate
all! You are right also, most wise inquisitor, in suppo-
sing that in the scheme proposed to you, I am the princi-
pal,-I am! You were to be the tool, and shall. I have
offered you mild inducements, pleas to soothe the tech-
nicalities of your conscience, - -you have rejected then,
Now choose between my first offer and the
be it so.
the appointment, which shall not yet be in vain,- - on that
night you stopped me in the street, you demanded mon-
ey, — you robbed me, I will swear, I will prove it.
Now, then, tremble, man of morality, dupe of your own
strength, you are in my power, tremble! Yet in my
safety is your escape,
safety is your escape, I am generous.
I am generous. I repeat my origi-
nal offer, wealth, as great as you will demand, or,
gibbet the gibbet, do I speak loud enough ?-do
you hear?"
the
"Poor fool!" said Glendower, laughing scornfully, and
moving away. But when Crauford, partly in mockery,
partly in menace, placed his hand upon Glendower's shoul-
der, as if to stop him, the touch seemed to change his
mood from scorn to fury, turning abruptly round, he
seized the villain's throat with a giant's strength, and cried
out, while his whole countenance worked beneath the tem-
pestuous wrath within, "What if I squeeze out thy poison
ous life from thee this moment! and then once more
bursting into a withering laughter, as he surveyed the ter
ror which he had excited, he added,
"C no, no; thou art too
vile!"— and, dashing the hypocrite against the wall of a
neighboring house, he strode away.
""
Recovering himself slowly, and trembling with rage and
fear, Crauford gazed round, expecting yet to find he had
sported too far with the passions he had sought to control.
When, however, he had fully satisfied himself that Glendow-
“Man,— man," said Glendower, "tempt me no more, er was gone, all his wrathful and angry feelings returned with
let them die! At present, the worst is death, what redoubled force. But their most biting torture was the
offer me is dishonor.”
consciousness of their impotence. For after the first par-
oxysm of rage had subsided, he saw too clearly, that his
threat could not be executed without incurring the most im-
minent danger of discovery. High as his character stood,
it was possible that no charge against him might excite sus-
"Dopicion; but a word might cause inquiry, and inquiry
would be ruin. Forced, therefore, to stomach his failure,
his indignation, his shame, his hatred, and his vengeance,
his own heart became a punishment almost adequate to his
vices.
"Heavens ! -how uncharitable is this! Can you call
the mere act of accepting money from one who loves you,
dishonor ?
"It is in vain that you varnish your designs," said
Glendower, stopping, and fixing his eyes upon him.
you not think that cumming ever betrays itself? In a thou-
sand words, in a thousand looks, which have escaped
you, but not me, I know that, if there be one being on this
earth whom you hate, and would injure, that being is my-
self. Nay, start not, listen to me patiently. I have
sworn that it is the last opportunity you shall have. I will
not subject inyself to farther temptation: I am now sane;
but there are things which may drive me mad, and in mad-
ness you might conquer. You hate me: it is out of the
nature of earthly things that you should not. But even
were it otherwise, do you think that I could believe you
would come from your voluptuous home to these miserable
retreats; that, among the lairs of beggary and theft, you
would lie in wait to allure me to forsake poverty, without
a stronger motive than love for one who affects it not for
you? I know you, I have read your heart, I have
I have
penetrated into that stronger motive, it is your own
safety. In the system of atrocity you proposed to me, you
are the principal. You have already bared to me enough
of the extent to which that system reaches, to convince ne
忄
​"But my foe will die," said he, clenching his fist so
firmly that the nails almost brought blood from the palm:
"he will starve, famish; and see them, his wife, his
child, - perish first!
perish first! I shall have my triumph, though I
shall not witness it!
But now, away to my villa: there,
at least, will be some one whom I can mock, and beat, and
trample, if I will! Would, would, would that I were
that very man, destitute as he is! His neck, at least, is
safe: if he dies, it will not be upon the gallows, nor among
the hootings of the mob! O, horror! horror!
What are
my villa, my wine, my women, with that black thought,
ever following me like a shadow? Who, who, while an
avalanche is sailing over him, who would sit down to
feast? ?"
Leaving this man to shun or be overtaken by fate, we re-
turn to Glendower. It is needless to say that Crauford vis-
212
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ited him no more; and, indeed, shortly afterward Glen-
dower again changed his home. But every day and every
hour brought new strength to the disease which was creeping
and burning through the veins of the devoted wife; and
Glendower, who saw, on earth, nothing before them but a
jail, from which, as yet, they had been miraculously deliv-
ered, repined not as he beheld her approach to a gentler
and benigner home. Often he sat, as she was bending over
their child, and gazed upon her cheek with an insane and
fearful joy at the characters which consumption had there
engraved; but when she turned toward him her fond eyes,
(those deep wells of love, in which truth lay hid, and which
neither languor nor disease could exhaust,) the unnatural
hardness of his heart melted away, and he would rush from
the house, to give vent to an agony against which fortitude
and manhood were in vain!
There was no hope for their distress. His wife had, un-
known to Glendower, (for she dreaded his pride,) written
several times to a relation, who, though distant, was still
the nearest in blood which fate had spared her, but ineffec-
tually; the scions of a large and illegitimate family, which
family, which
surrounded him, utterly prevented the success, and gener-
ally interrupted the application of any claimant on his
riches but themselves. Glendower, whose temper had ever
kept him aloof from all but the commonest acquaintances,
knew no human being to apply to. Deprived by birth of
the coarser refuges of poverty, and utterly unable to avail
himself of the mine which his knowledge and talents should
have proved, sick, and despondent at heart, and debar-
red by the loftiness of honor, or rather principle that noth-
ing could quell, from any unlawful means of earning bread,
which to most minds would have been rendered excusable
by the urgency of nature, Glendower marked the days drag
on in dull and protracted despair, and envied every corpse
that he saw borne to the asylum in which all earth's hopes
seemed centred ›nd confined.
CHAPTER LX.
For ours was not like earthly love;
And must this parting be our very last?
No! I shall love thee still when death itself is past.
*
*
*
*
Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart, no more that felt.
Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt.
-
CAMPBELL.
discovering Mordaunt, and with the delivery of the follow
ing epistle:
"You are now, sir, the heir to that property which,
some years ago, passed from your hands into mine. My
son, for whom alone wealth, or, I may say life, was valu
able to me, is no more. I only, an old, childless man
stand between you and the estates of Mordaunt.
Do not
wait for my death to enjoy them. I cannot live here,
where every thing reminds me of my great and irreparable
loss. I shall remove next month into another home.
Consider this, then, as once more yours. The house, I
believe, you will find not disimproved by my alterations;
the mortagages on the estate have been paid off; the for
mer rental you will perhaps allow my steward to account
to you for, and after my death the present one will be
yours. I am informed that you are a proud man, and not
likely to receive favors. Be it so, sir!—it is not as a
favor on your side that I now make you this request,
there are circumtances connected with my treaty with
your father, which have of late vexed my conscience, and
conscience,
conscience, sir, must be satisfied at any loss.
But we
shall meet, perhaps, and talk over the past; at present I
will not enlarge on it. If you have suffered by me, I am
sufficiently punished, and my only hope is to repair your
losses.
I am, &c.
"H. VAVASOUR MORDAUNT."
Such was the letter, so important to Mordaunt, with
which our worthy friend was charged. Bowed to the dust
as Vavasour was by the loss of his son, and open to con-
science as affliction had made him, he had lived too long
for effect, not to be susceptible to its influence, even to the
last.
last. Amid all his grief, and it was intense, there were
some whispers of self-exaltation at the thought of the éclat
which his generosity and abdication would excite; and
with true worldly morality, the hoped-for plaudits of others
gave a triumph, rather than humiliation, to his reconcile-
inent with himself.
To say truth, there were indeed circumstances con-
nected with his treaty with Mordaunt's father, calculat-
ed to vex his conscience. He knew that he had not only
taken great advantage of Mr. Mordaunt's distress, but
that, at his instigation, a paper, which could for ever have
prevented Mr. Mordaunt's ɛale of the property, had been
destroyed. These circumstacnes, during the life of his
son, he had endeavoured to forget or to palliate. But griet
is the father of remorse; and at the death of that idolized
son, the voice at his heart grew imperious, and he lost the
power, in losing the motive, of reasoning it away.
Mr. Brown's advertisement was unanswered; and, with
the zeal and patience of the Christian proselyte's tribe
and calling, the good man commenced, in person, a most
elaborate and painstaking research. For a long time, his
endeavours were so ineffectual, that Mr. Brown, in de-
spair, disposed of the two Indian jars for half their value,
and heaved a despondent sigh, whenever he saw the great
Turkey carpet rolled up in his warehouse with as much
obstinacy as if it never meant to unroll itself again.
At last, however, by dint of indefatigable and minute
investigation, he ascertained that the object of his search
had resided in London, under a feigned name; from lodg-
ing to lodging, and corner to corner, he tracked him, till
at length he made himself master of Mordaunt's present
retreat. A joyful look did Mr. Brown cast at the great
Turkey carpet, as he passed by it, on his way to his street
door, on the morning of his intended visit to Mordaunt.
"It is a fine thing to have a good heart," said he, in the
true style of Sir Christopher Findlater, and he, again
eyed the Turkey carpet. "I really feel quite happy at
the thought of the pleasure I shall give
"I WONDER," said Mr. Brown to himself, as he spur-
red his shaggy pony to a speed very unusual to the steady
habits of either party,
"I wonder where I shall find
him. I would not for the late Lady Waddilove's best dia-
mond cross have any body forestall me in the news.
Το
think of my young master dying so soon after my last visit,
or rather my last visit but one, and to think of the old
gentleman taking on so, and raving about his injustice
to the rightful possessor, and saying that he is justly pun-
ished, and asking me so eagerly if I could discover the re-
treat of the late squire, and believing me so implicitly when
I undertook to do it, and giving me this letter!" And here
Mr. Brown wistfully examined an epistle sealed with
black wax, peeping into the corners, which irritated rather
than satisfied his curiosity. "I wonder what the old
gentleman says in it, I suppose he will, of course, give
up the estate and house. Let me see, that long picture
gallery, just built, will, at all events, want furnishing.
That would be a famous opportunity to get rid of the Indian
jars, and the sofas, and the great Turkey carpet. How After a walk through as many obscure and filthy wynds,
lucky that I should just have come in time to get the letter. and lanes, and alleys, and courts, as ever were threaded
But let me consider how I shall find him out, an adver- by some humble fugitive from justice, the patient Morris
tisement in the paper? Ah! that's the plan. Algernon came to a sort of court, situated among the miserable
Mordaunt, Esq. something greatly to his advantage, hovels in the vicinity of the Tower.
:
He paused, wonder-
apply to Mr. Brown, &c.' Ah! that will do well, very ingly, at a dwelling in which every window was broken,
well. The Turkey carpet won't be quite long enough. I and where the tiles, torn from the roof, lay scattered in
wish I had discovered Mr. Mordaunt's address before, forlorn confusion beside the door; where the dingy bricks
and lent him some money during the young gentleman's looked crumbling away, from very age and rottenness, and
life; it would have seemed more generous. However I the fabric, which was of great antiquity, seemed so rock
can offer it now, before I show the letter. Bless me, it's ing and infirm, that the eye looked upon its distorted
getting dark. Come, Dobbin, gee-up!" Such were the and overhanging position with a sensation of pain and
lucubrations of the faithful friend of the late Lady Waddi- dread; where the very rats had deserted their loathsome
ove, as he hastened to London, charged with the task of cells, from the insecurity of their tenure, and the ragged
C
THE DISOWNED.
2:2
mothers of the abject neighborhood forbade their brawl-
ing children to wander under the threatening walls, lest
they should keep the promise of their mouldering aspect,
and, falling, bare to the obstructed and sickly day the se-
crets of their prison house. Girt with the foul and reek-
ng lairs of that extreme destitution which necessity urges
Irresistibly into guilt, and excluded, by filthy alleys, and
an eternal atmosphere of smoke and rank vapor, from the
blessed sun and the pure air of heaven, the miserable
mansion secmed set apart for every disease to couch within,
-too perilous even for the hunted criminal, too dreary
even for the beggar to prefer it to the bare hedge, or the
inhospitable porch, beneath whose mockery of shelter the
frosts of winter had so often numbed him into sleep.
Thrice did the heavy and silver headed cane of Mr.
Brown resound upon the door, over which was a curious
the door, over which was a curious
carving of a lion dormant, and a date, of which only the
two numbers 15 were discernible. Roused by a note so
unusual, and an apparition so unwontedly smug as the
worthy Morris, a whole legion of dingy and smoke-dried
brats came trooping from the surrounding huts, and with
many an elvish cry, and strange oath, and cabalistic word,
which thrilled the respectable marrow of Mr. Brown, they
collected in a gaping, and, to his alarmed eye, a menacing
group, as near to the house as their fears and parents would
permit them.
At
"It is very dangerous," thought Mr. Brown, looking
shiveringly up at the hanging and tottering roof, "and very
appalling," as he turned to the ragged crowd of infant re-
probates which began with every moment to increase.
last he summoned courage, and inquired, in a tone half
soothing and half dignified, if they could inform him how
to obtain admittance, or how to arouse the inhabitants.
An old crone, leaning out of an opposite window with
matted hair hanging over a begrimed and shrivelled counte-
nance, made answer. No one," she said, in her pecu-
liar dialect, which the worthy man scarcely comprehended,
“lived there, or had done so for years;" but Brown knew
better ; and while he was asserting the fact, a girl put her
head out of another hovel, and said, that she had some-
tumes seen, at the dusk of the evening, a man leave the
house, but whether any one else lived in it she could not tell.
Again Mr. Brown sounded an alarm, but no answer came
forth, and in great fear and trembling, he applied violent
hands to the door; it required but little force, it gave way;
he entered ; and, jealous of the entrance of the mob with-
out, reclosed and barred, as well as he was able, the shat-
tered door. The house was unnaturally large for the neigh-
borhood, and Brown was in doubt, whether first to ascend
a broken and perilous staircase, or search the rooms below;
he decided on the latter; he found no one, and with a
misgiving heart, which nothing but the recollection of the
great Turkey carpet could have inspired, he ascended
the quaking steps. All was silent. But a door was un-
closed. He entered, and saw the object of his scarch before
him.
Over a pallet bent a form, on which, though youth seem-
ed withered, and even pride broken, the unconquerable soul
left somewhat of grace and of glory, that sustained the be-
holder's remembrance of better days, a child in its first in-
fancy knelt on the nearest side of the bed, with clasped hands
and vacant eyes that turned toward the intruder, and
remained riveted on his steps with a listless and lack-lustre
gaze. But Glendower, or rather Mordaunt, as he bent
over the pallet, spoke not, moved not; his eyes were riveted
on one object; his heart seemed turned into stone, and his
veins curdled into ice. Awed and chilled by the breathing
desolation of the spot, Brown approached, and spoke, he
scarcely knew what; the habitual nature of his thoughts,
which cast something ludicrous into his words, doubled, as
it were, the terror, because it took from the exaggeration
of the scene.
" he concluded his address,
"the master of Mordaunt Court ;" and he placed the let-
and he placed the let-
ter in the hands of the person he thus greeted.
"Awake, hear me !" cried Algernon, to Isabel, as she
ay extended on the couch; and the messenger of glad
tidings, for the first time seeing her countenance, shuddered,
and knew that he was in the chamber of death.
“ You are,
"Awake, my own, own love! Happy days are in store
for us yet our misery is past; you will live, live to bless
me in riches, as you have done in want.'
Isabel raised her eyes to his, and a smile, sweet, com-
forting, an 1 full of love, passed the lips which were, about
to close for ever. "Thank heaven," she murmured, "for
your dear sake. It is pleasant to die now, and thus!"
and she placed the hand that was clasped in her relax-
ing and wan fingers, within the bosom which had been, for
anguished and hopeless years, his ayslum and refuge, anl
which now,
when fortune changed, as if it had only breath -
ed as a comfort for his afflictions, was, for the first time,,
and for ever to be cold, cold even to him!
"You will live, -you will live," cried Mordaunt, it
wild and incredulous despair, "in mercy live! You
who have been my angel of hope, do not, - O God, O God
do not desert me now!
But that faithful and loving heart was already deaf t
his voice, and the film grew darkening and rapidly over the
eye, which still, with undying fondness, sought nim ou
through the shade and agony of death. Sense and consci
ousness were gone, and dim and confused images whirled
round her soul, struggling a little moment before they
sunk into the depth and silence where the past lies
buried. But still mindful of him, and grasping, as it were,
at his remembrance, she clasped, closer and closer, the icy
hand which she held, to her breast. "Your hand is cold,
dearest, it is cold," said she, faintly, "but I warm it
here!" And so her spirit passed away, and Mordaunt
felt afterward, in a lone and surviving pilgrimage, that her
last thought had been kindness to him, and her last act had
spoken a forgetfulness even of death, in the cares and devo-
tion of love!
CHAPTER LXI.
Change and time take together their flight.
Golden Violet.
ONE evening in autumn, about three years after the date
of our last chapter, a stranger on horseback, in deep mourn-
ing, dismounted at the door of "the Golden Fleece," in
the memorable town of W. He walked into the tap-
room, and asked for a private apartment and accoinmoda-
tion for the night. The landlady, grown considerably
plumper than when we first made her acquaintance, just
lifted up her eyes to the stranger's face, and summoning a
short, stout man, (formerly the waiter, now the second
helpmate of the comely hostess,) desired him, in a tone
which partook somewhat more of the authority indicative
of their former relative situations than of the obedience
which should have characterized their present, to "show
the gentleman to the Griffin, No. Four."
The stranger smiled as the sound greeted his ears, and
he followed not so much the host as the hostess's spouse
into the apartment thus designated. A young lady, who
some eight years ago little thought that she should still be
in a state of single blessedness, and who always honored
with an attentive eye the stray travellers who, from their
youth, loneliness, or that ineffable air which usually desig-
nates the unmarried man, might be in the same solitary
state of life, turned to the landlady, and said, -
Mother, did you observe what a handsome gentleman
that was ?"
"No," replied the landlady, "I only observed that he
brought no servant.
army ?
"I wonder," said the daughter, "if he is in the
he has a military air!"
"I suppose he has dined," muttered the landlady to
herself, looking towards the larder.
CC no reason
"Have you seen Squire Mordaunt within a short period
of time?" said, somewhat abruptly, a little thick-set man,
who was enjoying his pipe and negus in a sociable way
at the window-seat. The characteristics of this person-
age were, a spruce wig, a bottle nose, an elevated eye-
brow, a snuff-colored skin and coat, and an air of that
consequential self-respect which distinguishes the plikso-
pher who agrees with the French sage, and sees
in the world why a man should not esteem himself.”
No, indeed, Mr. Bossolton," returned the landlady;
but I suppose that, as he is now in the Parliament House,
he will live less retired. It is a pity that the inside of that
noble old hall of his should not be more seen, and after
all the old gentleman's improvements, too! They say that
the estate now, since the mortgages were paid off, is above
ten thousand pounds a year, clear !"
C
And, if I am not induced into an error," rejoined
214
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Mr. Bossolton, refilling his pipe, "old Vavasour left a great
sum of ready money besides, which must have been an
aid, and an assistance, and an advantage, mark me, Mis-
tress Merrylack, to the owner of Mordaunt Hall, that has
escaped the calculation of your faculty, and the and
the faculty of your calculation! "
→
other, I quite forget too; but it is some distant borough
The old gentleman wanted him to stand fo the county, bu
he would not hear of it; perhaps he did not like the pub.
licity of the thing, for he is mighty reserved.”
"Proud, haughty, arrogant, and assumptious!
" said
Mr. Bossolton, with a puff of unusual length.
"Nay, nay," said the daughter, (young people are al
ways the first to defend,) "I'm sure he's not proud, he
does a mort of good, and has the sweetest smile possible!
I wonder if he'll marry again? He is very young yet, not
above two or three-and-thirty." (The kind damsel would
not have thought, two or three-and-thirty very young somə
years ago; but we grow wonderfully indulgent to the age
of other people as we grow older ourselves !)
-
M
"And what an eye he has!" said the landlady. "Well,
for my part, but, bless me. Here, John, John,
John, waiter, husband, I mean, here's a carriage
and four at the door. Lizzy, dear, is my cap right?
And mother, daughter, and husband, all flocked, charg-
pected guests. With a disappointment, which we who
keep not iuns can but very imperfectly conceive, the trio
beheld a single personage,
-a valet, descend from the
box, open the carriage door, and take out, a desk !-
Of all things human, male or female, the said carriage was
utterly empty.
"You mistake, Mr. Boss, as, in the friendliness of
diminutives, Mrs. Merrylack sometimes appellatived the
grandiloquent practitioner, "You mistake the old
gentleman left all his ready money in two bequests,
the one to the college of, in the university of Cam-
bridge, and the other to an hospital in London. I remember
the very words of the will, they ran thus, Mr. Boss:
And whereas my beloved son, had he lived, would have
had he lived, would have
been a member of the college of, in the university of
Cambridge, which he would have adorned by his genius,
learning, youthful virtue, and the various qualities which
did equal honor to his head and heart, and would have
rendered him alike distinguished as the scholar and the
Christian, I do devise and bequeath the sun of thirty-ed with simper, courtesy, and bow, to receive their ex-
seven thousand pounds sterling, now in the English funds,'
&c. &c.; and then follows the manner in which he will
have his charity vested and bestowed, and all about the
prize which shall be for ever designated and termed The
Vavasour Prize,' and what shall be the words of the Latin
speech which shall be spoken when the said prize be deli-
vered, and a great deal more to that effect; so, then, he
passes to the other legacy, of exactly the same sum, to the
hospital usually called and styled in the city of Lon-
don, and says And whereas we are assured by the Holy
Scriptures, which, in these days of blasphemy and sedition,
it becomes every true Briton and member of the established
church to support, that charity doth cover a multitude
of sins,' - so I do give and devise,' &c. &c., to be for
ever termed in the deeds,' &c. &c., 'of the said hospital,
The Vavasour Charity; and always provided that, on
the anniversary of the day of my death, there be such prayer
as shall hereafter, in this my last will, be dictated, for
my soul; and a sermon afterward, by a clergyman of the
established church, on any text appropriate to the day and
deed so commemorated.' But the conclusion is most beau-
tiful, Mr. Bossolton: -And now, having discharged my
duties, to the best of my humble ability, to my God, my
king, and my country, and dying in the full belief of the
Protestant church, as by law established, I do set my hand
and seal, &c. &c.'
.
"A very pleasing, and charitable, and devout, and vir-
tuous testament or will, Mrs. Merrylack," said Mr. Bos-
solton; "and in a time when anarchy with gigantic strides
does devastate, and devour, and harm the good old customs
of our ancestors and forefathers, and tramples, with its
poisonous breath, the magna charta, and the glorious revo-
lution, it is beautiful,-ay, and sweet, mark you, Mrs.
Merrylack, to behold a gentleman of the aristocratic classes,
or grades, supporting the institutions of his country with
such remarkable energy of sentiments, and with
with Mistress Merrylack with sentiments of such
remarkable energy."
and
Pray," said the daughter, adjusting her ringlets, by
a little glass which hung over the tap, "how long has Mr.
Mordaunt's lady been dead?"
"O! she died just before the squire came to the proper-
ty," quoth the mother. "Poor thing,—she was so pretty,
I am sure I cried for a whole hour when I heard it ! 1
think it was three years last month, when it happened.
Old Mr. Vavasour died about two months afterward."
"The afflicted husband," (said Mr. Bossolton, who was
the victim of a most fiery Mrs. Boss at home,) "went into
foreign lands or parts, or, as it is vulgarly termed, the con-
tinent, immediately after an event or occurrence so fatal
to the cup of his prosperity, and the sunshine of his enjoy-
ment, did he not, Mrs. Merrylack ?"
"He did. And you know, Mr. Boss, he only returned
about six months ago."
• And of what borough, or burgh, or town, or city, is he
the member and representative?" asked Mr. Jeremiah
Bossolton, putting another lump of sugar into his negus.
"I have heard, it is true, but my memory is short; and, in
the multitude and multifariousness of my professional en-
gagements, I an often led into a forgetfulness of matters
tess important in their variety, and less -less various in
their importance."
"Why," answered Mrs. Merrylack, "somehow or
M
The valet bustled up to the landlady: "My master 's
here, ma'am, I think, rode on before!"
"And who is your master?" asked Mrs. Merrylack,-
a thrill of alarm, and the thought of No. Four, coming
across her at the same time.
"Who!" said the valet, rubbing his hands; "who!
why, Clarence Talbot Linden, Esq., of Scarsdale Park,
county of York, late secretary of legation at the court of
now M. P., and one of his majesty's under secreta-
ries of state.
CC
>
w
run,
Mercy upon us!" cried the astounded landlady," and
No. Four! only think of it. Run, John, — John,
light a fire (the night 's cold, I think) — in the Ele-
phant, No. Sixteen, beg the gentleman's pardon, — say
it was occupied till now; ask what he'll have for dinner,
fish, flesh, fowl, steaks, joints, chops, tarts,
or, if it's
too late, (but it 's quite early yet,
you may put back the
day an hour or so,) ask what he 'll have for supper,
John, rua : — what's the oaf staying for, run, I tell
you! Pray, sir, walk in, (to the valet, our old friend
Mr. Harrison,) you'll be hungry after your journey, I
think; no ceremony, I beg."
run,
"but
"He's not so handsome as his master," said Miss
Elizabeth, glancing at Harrison discontentedly, -
he does not look like a married man, somehow. I'll just
step up stairs, and change my cap; it would be but civil
if the gentleman's gentleman sups with us.
us."
Meanwhile Clarence, having been left alone in the quiet
enjoyment of No. Four, had examined the little apartment
with an interest not altogether unmingled with painful re-
flections. There are few persons, however fortunate, who
can look back to eight years of their life, and not feel
somewhat of disappointment in the retrospect: few per-
sons, whose fortunes the world envy, to whom the token of
past time, suddenly obtruded on their remembrance, does
not awaken hopes destroyed, and wishes deceived, which
that world has never known. We tell our triumphs to the
crowd, but our own hearts are the sole confidants of our
sorrows.
Twice," said Clarence to himself, "twice
before have I been in this humble room; the first was
when, at the age of eighteen, I was just launched into the
world, a vessel which had for its only hope the motto of
the chivalrous Sidney,
Aut viam inveniam, aut faciam ;'
yet, humble and nameless as I was, how well I can recall
the exaggerated ambition, nay, the certainty of success, as
well as its desire, which then burnt within me. I smile
now at the overweening vanity of those hopes,
some, in-
deed, realized, but how many nipped and withered for
ever! seeds, of which a few fell upon rich ground, and
prospered, hut of which how far the greater number were
scattered, some upon the wayside, and were devoured by
immediate cares; some on stony places, and when the sun
of manhood was up, they were scorched, and because they
had no root, withered away; and some among thorns, and
the thorns sprang up and choaked them.
and choaked them. I am now rich.
honored, high in the favor of courts, and not altogether us
THE DISOWNED.
21
Known or unesteemed arbitrio p pularis auræ: and yet I
almost think I was happier when, in that flush of youth
and inexperience, I looked forth into the wide world, and
imagined that from every corner would spring up a triumph
for my vanity, or an object for my affections. The next
ime I stood in this little spot, I was no longer the depen-
lant of a precarious charity, or the idle adventurer, who
ad no stepping-stone but his ambition. I was then just
declared the heir of wealth, which I could not rationally
have hoped for five years before, and which was in itself
sufficient to satisfy the aspirings of ordinary men. But I
was corroded with anxieties for the object of my love, and
regret for the friend whom I had lost perhaps the eager-
ness of my heart for the one rendered me, for the moment,
too little mindful of the other; but, in after years, memory
took ample atonement for that temporary suspension of
her duties. How often have I recalled, in this world of
cold ties and false hearts, that true and generous friend,
from whose lessons my mind took improvement, and from
whose warnings, example; who was to ine, living, a fa-
ther, and from whose generosity, whatever worldly advan-
tages I have enjoyed, or distinctions I have gained, are de-
rived! Then I was going with a torn, yet credulous heart,
to pour forth my secret and my passion to her, and within
one little week thence, how shipwrecked of all hope, ob-
ject, and future happiness I was! Perhaps, at that time,
I did not sufficiently consider the excusable cautions of the
world, -- I should not have taken such umbrage at her
father's letter, I should have revealed to him my birth,
and accession to fortune, nor bartered the truth of cer-
tain happiness for the trials and manœuvres of romance.
But it is too late to repent now. By this time my image
must be wholly obliterated from her heart: — she has seen
me in the crowd, and passed me coldly by, her cheek is
pale, but not for me; and in a little,
little while, she
will be another's, and lost to me for ever!
never forgotten her through change or time,
harsh projects of ambition, the labors of business, or
the engrossing schemes of political intrigue. Never!
but this is a vain and foolish subject of reflection now.
Yet have I
the hard and
And not the less reflecting upon it for that sage and ve-
racious recollection, Clarence turned from the window,
against which he had been leaning, and drawing one of the
four chairs to the solitary table, he sat down, moody and
disconsolate, and leaning his face upon his hands, pursued
the confused, yet not disconnected, thread of his meditations.
The door abruptly opened, and Mr. Merrylack appeared.
"Dear me, sir!" cried he, "a thousand pities you
should have been put here, sir! Pray step up stairs,
gir; the front drawing-room is just vacant, sir; what will
you please to have for dinner, sir?" &c. &c., according to
the instructions of his wife. To Mr. Merrylack's great
dismay, Clarence, however, resolutely refused all attempts
at locomotion, and contenting himself with intrusting the
dinner to the discretion of the landlady, desired to be left
alone till it was prepared.
Now, when Mr. John Merrylack returned to the tap-
room, and communicated the stubborn adherence to No.
Four, manifested by its occupier, our good hostess felt ex-
ceedingly discomposed. "You are so stupid, John," said
she, "I'll go and expostulate hike with him;" and she was
rising for that purpose, when Harrison, who was taking
particularly good care of himself, drew her back: “I
know my master's temper better than you do, ma'am," said
he; and when he is in the humor to be stubborn, the very
devil himself could not get him out of it. I dare say he
wants to be left to himself: he is very fond of being alone
now and then; state affairs, you know, (added the valet,
mysteriously touching his forehead,) and even I dare not
disturb him for the world; so make yourself easy, and I'll
go to him when he has dined, and I have supped. There is
time enough for No. Four, when we have taken care of
number one Mies, your health ! ”
The landlady, reluctantly overruled in her design, reseat-
ed herself.
“Mr. Clarence Linden, M. P., did you say, sir?" said
the learned Jeremiah: "surely, I have had that name or
appellation in my books; but I cannot, at this instant of
time, recall to my recollection the exact date and circuu-
stance of my professional services to the gentleman so de-
gignated, styled, or, I may say, termed.'
|
a very
with my master many years, never had the pleasure of
seeing you before, nor of travelling this road,
hilly road it is, sir. Miss, this negus is as bright as your
eyes, and as warm as my admiration."
"O, sir !"
CC
Pray," said Mr Merrylack, who, like most of his
tribe, was a bit of a politician, "is it the Mr. Linden who
made that long speech in the House the other day?
“Precisely, sir. He is a very eloquent gentleman, in-
deed pity he speaks so little, - never made but that one
long speech since he has been in the House, and a capital
one it was, too. You saw how the prime minister compli
mented him upon it. A speech,' said his lordship, which
had united the graces of youthful genius, with the sound
calculations of matured experience !'"
the
"Did the prime minister really so speak!" said Jere
miah: "what a beautiful and noble, and sensible compli-
inent! I will examine my books when I go home,
graces of youthful genius, with the sound calculations of
matured experience!'"
"If he is in the Parliament House," quoth the landlady,
"I suppose he will know our Mr. Mordaunt, when the
squire takes his scat, next- what do you call it - ses-
"It is to see
r
sions ?"
"Know Mr. Mordaunt ?" said the valet.
him that we have come down here. We intended to have
gone there to-night, but master thought it too late, and
saw he was in a melancholy humor; we therefore resolved
to come here; and so master took one of the horses frora
the groom, whom we have left behind with the other, and
came on alone. I take it, he must have been in this town
before, for he described the inn so well.- Capital cheese
this; as mild, as mild as your sweet smile, Miss !”
"O, sir!"
"I re-
"Pray, Mistress Merrylack," said Mr. Jeremiah Bos-
solton, depositing his pipe on the table, and awakening
from a profound revery in which, for the last five minutes,
his senses had been buried, "pray, Mistress Merrylack, do
you not call to your mind, or your reminiscence, or your
your recollection, a young gentleman, equally comely in bis
aspect and blandiloquent (ehem!) in his address, who had
the misfortane to have his arm severely contused and afflic-
ted by a violent kick from Mr. Mordaunt's horse, even in
the yard in which your stables are situated, and who re-
mained for two or three days in your house, or tavern, or
hotel? I do remember that you were grievously perplexed
because of his name, the initials of which only he
gave, or
intrusted, or communicated to you, until you did exam-”
"I remember," interrupted Miss Elizabeth,
member well, -a very beautiful young gentleman, who had
a letter directed to be left here, addressed to him by the let-
ters C. L., and who was afterward kicked, and who ad-
mired your cap, mother, and whose name was Clarence
Linden. You remember it well enough, mother, surely?"
"I think I do, Lizzy," said the landlady, slowly; for
her memory, not so much occupied as her daughter's by
beautiful young gentlemen, struggled slowly with dim ideas
of the various travellers and visiters with whom her house
had been honored, before she came, at last, to the reminis
cence of Clarence Linden, “ I think I do, — and Squire
Mordaunt was very attentive to him, and he broke one
of the panes of glass in No. Eight, and gave me half a
guinea to pay for it. I do remember, perfectly, Lizzy.
So that is the Mr. Linden now here! only think!”
—
"I should not have known him, certainly," said Miss
Elizabeth; "he is grown so much taller, and his hair looks
quite dark now, and his face is much thinner than it was ;
but he's very handsome still, — is he not, sir?
is he not, sir?" turning to
the valet.
"Ah! ah! well enough," said Mr. Harrison, stretch-
ing out his right leg, and falling away a little to the left, in
the manner adopted by the renowned Gil Blas, in his ad-
dress to the fair Laura, "well enough; but he's a little too
tall and thin, I think.”
Mr. Harrison's faults in shape were certainly not those
of being too tall and thin.
Perhaps so!" said Miss Elizabeth, who scented the
vanity by a kindred instinct, and had her own reasons for
pampering it,
perhaps so!"
But he is a great favorite with the ladies; all the same,
however, he only loves one lady. Ah, but I must not say
"Can't say, I am sure, sir," said Harrison,—“lived | who, though I know. However, she is so handsome; such
216
BULWER'S NOVELS.
eyes, they would go through you like a skewer, but not like
yours, miss, which, I vow and protest, are as bright as a
service of plate."
“O, Sir !”
And amid these graceful compliments the time slipped
away, till Clarence's dinner, and his valet's supper being
fairly over, Mr. Harrison presented himself to his master,
a perfectly different being in attendance to what he was in
companionship,-flippancy, impertinence, forwardness, all
merged in the steady, sober, serious demeanor which char-
acterize the respectful and well-bred domestic.
Clarence's orders were soon given. They were limited
to the appurtenances of writing; and as soon as Harrison
reappeared with his master's writing-desk, he was dismiss-
ed for the night
Very slowly did Clarence settle himself to his task, and
attempt to escape the ennui of his solitude, or the restless-
ness of thought feeding upon itself, by inditing the follow-
ing epistle.
TO THE DUKE OF HAVERFIELD.
"I was very unfortunate, my dear duke, to miss seeing
you, when I called in Arlington-street, the evening before
last, for I had a great deal to say to you,— something upon
public and a little upon private affairs. I will reserve the
latter, since I only am the person concerned, for a future
opportunity. With respect to the former,
*
"And now having finished the political part of my let-
ter, let me congratulate you most sincerely upon your ap-
proaching marriage with Miss Trevanion. I do not know
her myself; but I remember that she was the bosom friend
of Lady Flora Ardenne, whom I have often heard speak of
her in the highest and most affectionate terms, so that I
imagine her brother could not better atone to you for dis-
honestly carrying off the fair Julia some three years ago,
than by giving you his sister in honorable and orthodox ex-
change, the gold armor for the brazen.
—
"As for my lot, though I ought not, at this moment, to
dim yours by dwelling upon it, you know how long, how
constantly, how ardently I have loved Lady Ficra Arden-
ne, how, for her sake, I have refused opportunities of al-
liance which might have gratified, to the utmost, that
worldliness of heart which so many who saw me only in
the crowd have been pleased to impute to me. You know
that neither pleasure, nor change, nor the insult I received
from her parents, nor the sudden indifference which I so
little deserved from herself, has been able to obliterate her
image. You will therefore sympathize with me, when I
inform you that there is no longer any doubt of her mar-
riage with Borodaile, (or rather Lord Ulswater, since his
father's death,) as soon as the sixth month of his mourning
expires; to this period only two months remain.
"Heavens! when one thinks over the past, how incred-
ulous one could become to the future: when I recall all
the tokens of love I received from that woman, I cannot
persuade myself that they are now all forgotten, or rather,
all lavished upon another.
"But I do not blame her, may she be happier with
him than she could have been with me! and that hope shall
hisper peace to regrets which I have been foolish to in-
dulge so long, and it is perhaps well for me that they are
about to be rendered for ever unavailing.
"I am staying at an inn, without books, companions, or
any thing to beguile time and thought, but this pen, ink,
and paper.
You will see, therefore, a reason and an ex-
cuse for my scribbling on to you, till my two sheets are
filled, and the hour of ten (one can't well go to bed earlier)
arrived.
for this night, and defer my visit to Mordaunt Court tik
to-morrow morning. In truth, I was not averse to renew-
ing an old acquaintance, not, as you in your malice
would suspect, with my hostess, but with her house. Some
years ago, when I was eighteen, I first made a slight ac-
quaintance with Mordaunt at this very inn, and now, at
twenty-six, I am glad to have one evening to myself on
the same spot, and retrace here all that has since happened
to me.
G
"Now, do not be alarmed; I am not going to inflict
upon you the unquiet retrospect with which I have just
been vexing myself; no, I will rather speak to you of my
acquaintance and host to be. I have said that I first met
Mordaunt some years since at this inn, an accident, for
which his horse was to blame, brought us acquainted, — I
spent a day at his house, and was much interested in his
conversation; since then, we did not meet till about two
years and a half ago, when we were in Italy together.
During the intermediate interval Mordaunt had married, -
kst his property by a lawsuit, disappeared from the
worid (whither none knew) for some years,
the estate he had lost by the death of his kinsman's heir,
recovered
and shortly afterward by that of the kinsman himself, and
had become a widower, with one only child, a beautiful
little girl of about four years old. He lived in perfect se
clusion, avoided all intercourse with society, and seemed
so perfectly unconscious of having ever seen me before,
whenever in our rides or walks we met, that I could not
venture to intrude myself on a reserve so rigid and unbrok-
en as that which characterized his habits and life.
"The gloom and loneliness, however, in which Mor-
daunt's days were spent, were far from partaking of that
selfishness so common, almost so necessarily common, to re-
cluses. Wherever he had gone in his travels through Italy,
he had left light and rejoicing behind him. In his resi
dence at
C
while unknown to the great and gay, he
was familiar with the outcast and the destitute. The pris
on, the hospital, the sordid cabins of want, the abodes (so
frequent in Italy, that emporium of artists and poets) where
genius struggled against poverty and its own improvidence,
all these were the spots to which his visits were paid,
and in which the very stones prated of his whereabout.'
It was a strange and striking contrast to compare the sick-
ly enthusiasm of those who flocked to Italy, to lavish their
sentiment upon statues, and their wealth in the modern
impositions palmed upon their gross tastes as the master-
pieces of ancient art, it was a noble contrast, I say, to
compare that ludicrous and idle enthusiasm with the quiet
and wholesome energy of mind and heart which led Mor
daunt, not to pour forth worship and homage to the uncon-
scious monuments of the dead, but to console, to relieve, and
to sustain the woes, the wants, the feebleness of the living.
Yet, while he was thus employed in reducing the mise-
ries and enlarging the happiness of others, the most settled
melancholy seemed to mark himself as her own.’ Clad
in the deepest mourning, a stern and unbroken gloom sat
for ever upon his countenance. I have observed, that if in
his walks or rides, any one, especially of the better classes,
appeared to approach, he would strike into a new path.
He could not bear even the scrutiny of a glance or the fel
lowship of a moment; and his mien, high and haughty,
seemed not only to repel others, but to contradict the meek-
ness and charity which his own actions so invariably and
unequivocally displayed. It must, indeed, have been a
powerful exertion of principle over feeling, which induced
him voluntarily to seek the abodes and intercourse of the
rude beings he blessed and relieved.
"We met at two or three places to which my weak and
imperfect charity had led me, especially at the house of a
sickly and distressed artist; for in former life I had inti-
"You remember having often heard me speak of a very mately known one of that profession; and I have since
extraordinary man whom I met in Italy, and with whom I attempted to transfer to his brethren that debt of kindness
became intimate. He returned to England some months which an early death forbade me to discharge to himself.
ago; and on hearing it, my desire of renewing our ac- It was thus that I first became acquainted with Mordaunt's
quaintance was so great, that I wrote to invite myself to occupations and pursuits; for what ennobled his benevo
his house. He gave me what is termed a very obliginglence was the remarkable obscurity in which it was veiled
answer, and left the choice of time to myself. You see It was in disguise and in secret that his generosity flowed;
now, most noble Festus, the reason of my journey hither- and so studiously did he conceal his name, and hide even
wards.
his features, during his brief visits to the house of
mourning,' that none but one who (like myself) is a close
and minute observer and investigator of whatever has once
become an object of interest, could have traced his hand in
the various works of happiness it had aided or created
His house, a fine old mansion, is situated about five or
six miles from this town; and, as I arrived here late in
the evening, and knew that his habits were reserved and
beculiar, I thought it better to take mine case in my inn'
•
THE DISOWNED.
217
“One day, among some old ruins, I met him with his
young daughter. By great good fortune I preserved the
latter, who had wandered away from her father, from a fall
of loose stones which would inevitably have crushed her.
I was myself much hurt by my effort, having received upon
my shoulder a fragment of the falling stones; and thus our
old acquaintance was renewed, and gradually ripened into
intimacy; not, I must own, without great patience and
constant endeavour on my part for his gloom and lonely
habits rendered him utterly impracticable of access to any
(as Lord Aspeden would say) but a diplomatist. I saw a
great deal of him during the six months I remained in Italy,
and, but you know already how warmly I admire his ex-
traordinary powers, and venerate his character. Lord
Aspeden's recall to England separated us.
"A general election ensued. I was returned for
I entered eagerly into domestic politics, your friendship,
Lord Aspeden's kindness, my own wealth and industry,
made my success almost unprecedently rapid. Engaged,
heart and hand, in those minute yet engrossing labors for
which the aspirant in parliamentary and state intrigue must
unhappily forego the more enlarged though abstruser specu-
lations of general philosophy, and of that morality which
may be termed universal politics, I have necessarily been
employed in very different pursuits from those to which
Mordaunt's contemplations are devoted; yet have I often
recalled his maxims, with admiration at their depth, and
obtained applause for opinions which were only imperfectly
filtered from the pure springs of his own.
ours,
"It is about six months since he has returned to Eng-
land, and he has very lately obtained a seat in parliament,
so that we may trust soon to see his talents displayed upon
a more public and enlarged theatre than they hitherto have
been; and, though I fear his politics will be opposed to
I anticipate his public début with that interest which
genius, even when adverse to one's self, always inspires.
Yet I confess that I am desirous to see and converse with
him once more in the familiarity and kindness of private
intercourse. The rage of party, the narrowness of secta-
rian zeal, soon exclude from our friendship all those who
differ from our opinions; and it is like sailors holding com-
mune for the last time with each other, before their several
vessels are divided by the perilous and uncertain sea, to
confer in peace and retirement for a little while with those
who are about to be launched with us in that same unquiet
ocean, where any momentary caprice of the winds may dis-
join us for ever, and where our very union is only a sympa-
thy in toil, and a fellowship in danger.
CC
Adieu, my dear duke! it is fortunate for me that our
public opinions are so closely allied, and that I may so
reasonably calculate in private upon the happiness and honor
of subscribing myself your affectionate friend, C. L."
Such was the letter to which we shall leave the expla-
nation of much that has taken place within the last three
years of our tale, and which, in its tone, will serve to show
the kindness and generosity of heart and feeling that mingled
(rather increased than abated by the time which brought
wisdom) with the hardy activity and resolute ambition that
characterized the mind of our "Disowned." We now
consign him to such repose as the best bedroom in the
Golder Fleece can afford, and conclude the chapter
CHAPTER LXII.
Though the wilds of enchantment all vernal and bright,
In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,
Abandon my soul, iiko a dream of the night
And leave but a desert behind.
Be hush'd, my dark spirit, for wisdom condemns,
When the faint and the feeble deplore;
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems
A thousand wild waves on the shore ! CAMPBELL.
“SHALL I order the carriage rund, sir?" said Har-
ison," it is past one.
"Yes, - yet stay, the day is fine,-I will ride,—
lc. the carriage come on in the evening, see that my horse is
saddled, you looked to his mash last night?"
"I did, sir. He seems wonderfully fresh: would you
please to have me stay here with the carriage, sir, till the
groom comes on with the other horse ?"
28
Vol. 1.
|
"Ay; do, I don't know yet how far strange servants
may be welcome where I am going."
"Now, that's lucky!" said Harrison to himself, as he
shut the door: "I shall have a good five hours opportu
nity of making my court here. Miss Elizabeth is really
a very pretty girl, and might not be a bad match. I
don't see any brothers; who knows but she may succeed
to the inn, hem! A servant may be ambitious as well as
his master, I suppose?"
So meditating, Harrison sauntered to the stables,— saw
(for he was an admirable servant, and could, at a pinch,
dress a horse as well as its master) that Clarence's beau
tiful steed received the utmost nicety of grooming whica
the hostler could bestow,-led it himself to the door,- held
the stirrup for his master, with the mingled humility and
grace of his profession, and then strutted away,-" pride
on his brow, and glory in his eye,". to be the cynosure
and oracle of the tap-room.
Meanwhile, Linden rode slowly onwards. As he passed
that turn of the town by which he had for the first time
entered it, the recollection of the eccentric and would-be
gipsy flashed upon him. "I wonder," thought he, "where
that singular man is now, whether he still preserves his
itinerant and woodland tastes,-
"Si flumina Sylvasque inglorius amet,'
or whether, as his family increased in age or number, he
has turned from his wanderings, and at length found out
'the peaceful hermitage.' How glowingly the whole scene
der habitants, the mingled bluntness, poetry, honest good
of that night comes across me, the wild tents, their wil-
nature, and spirit of enterprise, which constituted the
chief's nature,-
the jovial meal and mirth round the wood
fire, and beneath the quiet stars, and the eagerness an
zest with which I then mingled in the merriment. Alas:
-how ill the fastidiousness and refinement of after days
repay us for the elastic, buoyant, ready zeal, with which
pausing to ask if its cause and nature be congenial to our
our first youth enters into whatever is joyous, without
habits, or kindred to our tastes. After all, there really
was something philosophical in the romance of the jovial
gipsy, childish as it seemed; and I should like much to
know if the philosophy has got the better of the romance,
or the romance, growing into habit, become commonplace,
after I leave Mordaunt, I will try and find out my old
and lost both its philosophy and its enthusiasm. Well,
friend."
With this resolution, Clarence's thoughts took a new
channel, and dwelt upon Mordaunt, till he found himself
entering his domain. As he rode through the park, where
brake and tree were glowing in the yellow tints which au-
tunn, like ambition, gilds ere it withers, he paused for a
moment, to recall the scene, as he last beheld it, to his
memory. It was then spring,-spring in its first and
flushest glory, when not a blade of grass but sent a per-
fume to the air, the happy air,
>>
when every cluster of the brown fern, that now lay dull and
"Making sweet music while the young leaves danced:"
motionless around him, and amid which the melancholy
deer stood afar off, gazing upon the intruder, was vocal
with the blithe melodies of the infant year; the sharp, yet
sweet, voices of birds, "those fairy-formed and many
colored things and (heard at intervals) the chirp of
the merry grasshopper, or the hum of the awakened bee. He
sighed, as he now looked around, and recalled the change,
both of time and season: and with that fondness of heart
which causes man to knit his own little life to the varieties
of time, the signs of heaven, or the revolutions of nature,
he recognised something kindred in the change of scene to
the change of thought and feeling which years had wrought
in the beholder.
Awaking from his revery, he hastened his horse's
pace, and was soon within sight of the house. Vavasour,
during the few years he had possessed the place, had con-
ducted and carried through improvements and additions t
the old mansion, upon a scale equally costly and judicious.
The heavy and motley magnificence of the architecture in
which the house had been built, remained unaltered; but a
wing on either side, though exactly corresponding in style
with the intermediate building, gave, by the long Gothic
colonnade which ran across the one, and the stately win
dows which adorned the other, an air not only of grandes
extent, but more cheerful lightness to the massy and anti-
219
BULWER'S NOVELS.
quated pile. It was, assuredly, in the point of view by
which Clarence now approached it, a structure which pos-
sessed few superiors in point of size and effect; and har-
monized so well with the noble extent of the park, the
ancient woods, and the venerable avenues, that a very slight
effort of imagination and love of antiquarian musings might
have poured from the massive portals the pageantries of
old days, and the gay galliard of chivalric romance with
which the scene was in such accordance, and which in a
former age it had so often witnessed.
Ah, little could any one who looked upon that gorgeous
pile, and the broad lands which, beyond the boundaries of
the park, swelled on the nils of the distant landscape, stud-
ded at frequent intervals with the spires and villages, which
adorned the wide baronies of Mordaunt, little could he
who thus gazed around, have imagined that the owner of
all he surveyed had passed the glory and verdure of his
manhood in the bitterest struggles with gnawing want, and
rebellious pride, and urgent passion, without friend or aid
but his own haughty and supporting virtue, sentenced to
bear yet in his wasted and barren heart the sign of the
storm he had resisted, and the scathed token of the light-
ning he had braved. None but Crauford, who had his
own reasons for taciturnity, and the itinerant broker,
easily bribed into silence, had ever known of the extreme
poverty from which Mordaunt had passsed to his right-
ful possessions. It was whispered, indeed, that he had
been reduced to narrow and straitened circumstances;
but the whisper had been only the breath of rumor, and
the imagined poverty far short of the reality; for the
pride of Mordaunt (the great, almost the sole failing in
his character) could not endure that all he had borne and
baffled should be bared to the vulgar eye; and, by a rare
anomaly of mind, indifferent as he was to renown, he was
morbidly susceptible of shame.
When Clarence rang at the icy-covered porch, and made
inquiry for Mordaunt, he was informed that the latter was
in the park, by the river, where most of his hours, during
the day time, were spent.
"Shall I send to acquaint him that you are come, sir?"
said the servant.
"No," answered Clarence, "I will leave my horse to
one of the grooms, and stroll down to the river in search of
your master."
Suiting the action to the word, he dismounted, consigned
his steed to the groom, and following the direction indi-
cated to him, bent his way to the "river."
now
As he descended the hill, the brook (for it did not de-
Berve, though it received, a higher name) opened enchant-
ingly upon his view. Amid the fragrant reed and the wild
flower, still sweet, though fading, and tufts of tedded grass,
all of which, when crushed beneath the foot, sent a ining
led tribute to its sparkling waves, the wild stream took its
gladsome course, now contracted by gloomy firs, which,
bending over the water, cast somewhat of their own sad-
ness upon its surface, -now glancing forth from the shade,
as it broke into dimples and laughed in the sun,
washing the guarled and spreading roots of some lonely
ash, which, hanging over it, still and droopingly, seemed,
he hermit of the scene, to moralize on its noisy and vari-
ous wanderings, -now winding round the hill, and losing
itself at last amid thick copses, where day did never more
than wink and glimmer, and where, at night, its waters,
brawling on their stony channel, seemed like a spirit's
wail, aud harmonized well with the scream of the gray
owl, wheeling from her dim retreat, or the moaning and
rare sound of some solitary deer.
As Clarence's eye roved admiringly over the scene be-
fore him, it dwelt at last upon a small building situated on
the wildest part of the opposite bank: it was entirely
overgrown with ivy, and the outline only remained to show
the gothic antiquity of the architecture. It was a single
square tower, built none knew when or wherefore, and,
consequently, the spot of many vagrant guesses and wild
legends among the surrounding gossips. On approaching
yet nearer, he perceived, alone and seated on a little mound
beside the tower, the object of his search.
Mordaunt was gazing with a vacant yet earnest eye upon
the waters beneath; and so intent was either his mood, or
ook, that he was unaware of Clarence's approach. Tears
ast and large were rolling from those haughty eyes, which
en who shrunk from their indifferent glance little deemed
were capable of such weak and feminine emotion. Far,
far through the aching void of time were the houghts of
the reft and solitary mourner; they were dwelling, in all
the vivid and keen intensity of grief which dies not, upon
the day when, about that hour and on that spot, Fe sat,
with Isabel's young cheek upon his bosom, and listened to
a voice which was now only for his dreams. He recalled
the moment when the fatal letter, charged with change and
poverty, was given to him, and the pang which had rent
his heart as he looked around upon a scene over which
spring had then just breathed, and which he was about to
leave to a fresh summer and a new lord; and then, that
deep, fond, half-fearful gaze with which Isabel had met his
and the feeling, proud even in its melancholy, with
which he had drawn toward his breast all that earth had
now for him, and thanked God in his heart of hearts that
she was spared.
eye,
A
"And I am once more master," thought he, "not oary
of all I then held, but all which my wealthier forefathers
possessed. But she who was the sharer of my sorrows and
want, O, where is she? rather, ah! rather a hundred-
fold that her hand was still clasped in mine, and her spirit
supporting me through poverty and trial, and her soft voice
inurmuring the comfort that steals away care, than to be
thus heaped with wealth and honor, and alone, -alone
where never more can come love, or hope, or the yearnings
of affection, or the sweet fulness of a heart that seems
fathomless in its tenderness, yet overflows! Had my lot,
when she left me, been still the steepings of bitterness, the
stings of penury, the moody silence of hope, the damp and
chill of sunless and aidless years, which rust the very iron
of the soul away; had my lot been thus, as it had been, I
could have borne her death, I could have looked upon her
grave and wept not, nay, I could have comforted my own
struggles with the memory of her escape; but thus, at the
very moment of prosperity, to leave the altered and prom-
ising earth, to house with darkness and with death;' no
little gleam of sunshine, no brief recompense for the ago
nizing past, no momentary respite between tears and the
tomb. O, heaven! what, what avail is a wealth which
comes too late, when she, who could alone have made wealth
bliss, is dust; and the light, that should have gilded many
and happy days, flings only a wearying and ghastly glare
upon the tomb?"
Starting from these reflections, Mordaunt half-uncon-
sciously rose, and dashing the tears from his eyes, was
about to plunge into the neighboring thicket, when, looking
up, he beheld Clarence, now within a few paces of him.
He started, and seemed for one moment irresolute whether
to meet or shun his advance, but probably deeming. it too
late for the latter, he banished, by one of those violent ef-
forts with which men of proud and strong minds vanquish
emotion, all outward sign of the past agony and hasten-
ing toward his guest, greeted him with a welcome which,
though from ordinary hosts it might have seemed cold, ap-
peared to Clarence, who knew his temper, more cordial than
he had ventured to anticipate.
CHAPTER LXIII.
My father urged me sair,
But my mither did na speak,
Though she looked into my face.
Till my heart war like to break.
Auld Robin Gray.
"IT is rather singular," said Lady Westborough to her
daughter, as they sat alone one afternoon in the music
room at Westborough Park, "it is rather singular that
Lord Ulswater should not have come yet. He said he
should certainly be here before three o'clock.”
CC
to
"You know, mamma, that he has some military duties to
detain him at W," answered Lady Flora, bending over
a drawing, in which she appeared to be earnestly engaged.
True, my dear, and it was very kind in Lord
quarter the troop he commands in his native county; and
very fortunate that W. being his head quarters, should
also be so near us. But I cannot conceive that any duty
can be sufficiently strong to detain him from you," added
Lady Westborough, who had been accustomed all her life
to a devotion unparalleled in this age. "You seem very
indulgent, Flora."
"Alas! -she should rather say, very indifferent,
thought Lady Flora; but she did not give her thought utter
THE DISOWNED.
219
ance. She only looked up at her mother for a moment and
smiled faintly.
Whether there was something in that smile, or in the
pale cheek of her daughter, that touched her, we know not,
but Lady Westborough was touched; she threw her arms
round Lady Flora's neck, kissed her fondly, and said,
"You do not seem well, to-day, my love,
are you ?
"O! very, very well," answered Lady Flora, re-
turning her mother's caresses, and hiding her eyes, to which
the tears had started.
"My child," said Lady Westborough, "you know that
both myself and your father are very desirous to see you
married to Lord Ülswater, of high and ancient birth, of
great wealth, young, unexceptionable in person and char-
ncter, and warmly attached to you, it would be impossi-
ble even for the sanguine heart of a parent to ask for you a
more eligible match. But if the thought really does make
you wretched, and yet how can it?"
- -
"I have consented," said Flora, gently: "all I ask is,
do not speak to me more of the the event than you can
avoid."
Lady Westborough pressed her hand, sighed, and replied
not.
The door opened, and the marquis, who had within the
last year become a cripple, with the great man's malady,
dira podagra, was wheeled in on his easy chair: close be-
hind him followed Lord Ulswater.
"I have brought you," said the marquis, who piqued
himself on a vein of dry humor, I have brought you,
young lady, a consolation for my ill humors. Few gouty
old fathers make themselves as welcome as I do,—eli,
Ulswater!"
"Dare I apply to myself Lord Westborough's compli-
ment?" said the young nobleman, advancing toward Lady
Flora; and drawing his seat near her, he entered into that
whispered conversation so significant of courtship. But
there was little in Lady Flora's manner, by which an ex-
perienced eye would have detected the bride elect: no sud-
den blush, no downcast, yet sidelong look, no trembling of
the small and fairy-like hand, no indistinct confusion of the
voice, struggling with unanalyzed emotions. No, all
was calm, cold, listless; her cheek changed not tint nor
hue, and her words, clear and collected, seemed to contra-
dict whatever the low murmurs of her betrothed might well
be supposed to insinmate. But, even in his behaviour, there
was something which, had Lady Westborough been less
contented than she was with the externals and surface of
manner, would have alarmed her for her daughter. A
cloud, sullen and gloomy, sat upon his brow, and his lip,
alternately, quivered with something like scorn, or was
compressed with a kind of stifled passion. Even in the
exultation that sparkled in his eye, when he alluded to their
approaching marriage, there was an expression that almost
might have been termed fierce, and certainly was as little
like the true orthodox ardour of " gentle swain," as Lady
Flora's sad and half-unconscious coldness resembled the
diffident passion of the " blushing maiden.”
"You have considerably passed the time in which we
expected you, my Lord," said Lady Westborough, who, as
a beauty herself, was a little jealous of the deference due
to the beauty of her daughter.
"It is true," said Lord Ulswater, glancing toward the
opposite glass, and smoothing his right eyebrow with his
forefinger, "it is true, but I could not help it. I had a
great deal of business to do with my troop,- I have put
them into a new manœuvre. Do you know, my lord,
(turning to the marquis,) I think it very likely the soldiers
may have some work on the of this month.'
Where, and wherefore?" asked Lord Westborough,
whom a sudden twinge forced into the laconic.
"At W
Some idle fellows hold a meeting there
on that day; and if I may judge by bills and advertise-
ments, chalkings on the wall, and, more than all, popular
rumor, I have no doubt but what riot and sedition are
intended, the magistrates are terribly frightened.
hope we shall have some cutting and hewing, I have no
patience with the rebellious dogs.'
>>
I
"For shame,- for shame !" cried Lady Westbor-
ough, who, though a worldly, was by no means an unfeeling
woman; "the poor people are misguided, — they mean no
harın.”
Lord Ulswater smiled scornfully. "I never dispute up-
on politics, but at the head of my men," said he, and turn-
ad the conversation.
Shortly afterward Lady Flora, complaining of indispo-
sition, rose, left the apartment, and retired to her own
There she sat, motionless, and white as death for
more than an hour. A day or two afterwar Miss Tre-
vanion received the following letter from her.
room.
"Most heartily, most truly do I congratulate you, my
dearest Eleanor, upon your approaching marriage. You
may reasonably hope for all that happiness can afford; and
though you do affect (for I do not think that you feel)
a fear lest you should not be able to fix a character, volatile
and light, like your lover's, yet, when I recollect his warmth
of heart, and high sense, and your beauty, gentleness,
charms of conversation, and purely disinterested love for
one whose great worldly advantages might so easily bias or
adulterate affection, I own that I have no dread for your
future fate; no feeling that can at all darken the brightness
of anticipation. Thank you, dearest, for the delicate
kindness with which you allude to my destiny,
me, in
deed, you cannot congratulate as I can you. But do not
grieve for me, my own generous Eleanor: if not happy, I
shall, I trust, be at least contented. My poor father im-
plored me with tears in his eyes, my mother pressed my
hand, but spoke not; and I, -I whose affections were
withered, and hopes strewn, should I not have been hard-
hearted indeed, if they had not wrung from me a consent?
And, O! should I not be utterly lost, if in that consent
which blessed them, I did not find something of peace and
consolation?
"Yes, dearest, in two months, only two months, I shall
be Lord Ulswater's wife; and when we meet, you shall
look narrowly at me, and see if he or you have any right
to complain of me.
Have you seen Mr. Linden lately? Yet, do not an-
swer the question; I ought not to cherish still that fatal,
clinging interest, for one who has so utterly forgotten me.
But I do rejoice in his prosperity: and when I hear his
praises, and watch his career, I feel proud that I should
once have loved him! O, how could he be so false, so
cruel, in the very midst of his professions of undying, un-
swerving faith to me, at the very moment when I was ill,
miserable, wasting my very heart, for anxiety on his ac
count, and such a woman too! And had he loved
me, even though his letter was returned, would not his
conscience have told him he deserved it, and would he not
have sought me out in person, and endeavoured to win from
my folly his forgiveness. But without attempting to see
me, or speak to me, or soothe a displeasure so natural, to
leave the country in silence, almost in disdain; and when
we met again, to greet me with coldness and hauteur, and
never betray by word, sign, or look, that he had ever been
to me more than the merest stranger! Fool, fool, that I
am, to waste another thought upon him; but I will not,
and ought not to do so. In two months I shall not even
have the privilege of memory.
I wish, Eleanor, for I assure you that I have tried
and tried, that I could find any thing to like and esteem
(since love is out of the question) in this man, who seems
so great, and, to me, so unaccountable a favorite with my
parents. His countenance and voice are so harsh and
stern; his manner at once so self-complacent and gloomy,
his sentiments so narrow, even in their notions of honor;
his very courage so savage, and his pride so constant and
offensive, that I in vain endeavour to persuade myself of
his virtues, and recur, at least, to the unwearying affection
for me which he professes. It is true that he has been
three times refused; that I have told him I cannot love
him; that I have even owned former love to another: he
still continues his suit, and by dint of long hope has at
length succeeded. But at times I could almost think that
he married me from very hate, rather than love, there is
such an artificial smoothness in his stern voice, such a
latent meaning in his eye; and when he thinks I have not
noticed him, I have, on suddenly turning toward him, per-
ceived so dark and lowering an expression upon his coun-
tenance, that my heart has died within me for very fear.
"Had my mother been the least less kind, my father
the least less urgent, I think, nay, I know, I could not
have gained such a victory over myself as I have done in
consenting to the day. But enough of this. I did not think
I should have run on so long and so foolishly; but we, dear
est, have been children, and girls, and women together:
we have loved each other with such fondness and unreserve,
that opening my heart to you seems only another phrase
for thinking aloud
20
BULWER'S NOVELS.
M
"However, in two months I shall have no right even to
noughts, perhaps I may not even love you,-till then,
dearest Eleanor, I am, as ever, your affectionate and faith-
ful friend,
F. A.”
Had Lord Westborough, indeed, leen "less urgent,
or her motherless kind," nothing cc uld ever have wrung
from Lady Flora her consent to a marriage so ungenial and
ill-omened. And it is worthy of observation, that while
Isabel, whose lot, in this instance, somewhat resembled
Lady Flora's, had been driven by harst.ness and force into
a despair in which was hurried away and lost, as in a
whirlpool, not only the prudence, but almost that feminacy
of sex which her gentle and modest nature had, above all
others, possessed, an entirely opposite persecution of love
and kindness, and wooing prayers, and silent looks, had
won from Lady Flora a consent to a marriage equally re-
pugnant with that proposed to Isabel, and a compliance
with wishes which were worse than torture to her soul.
Thrice had Lord Ulswater (then Lord Borodaile) been
refused, before his final acceptation; and those who judge
only from the ordinary effects of pride, would be aston-
ished that he should have still persevered. But his pride
was that deep rooted feeling which, so far from being re-
pelled by a single blow, fights stubbornly and doggedly on-
ward, till the battle is over, and its object gained. From
the moment he had resolved to address Lady Flora Arden-
ne, he had also resolved to win her. For three years, de-
spite of a refusal, first gently, then more peremptorily,
urged, he fixed himself in her train. He gave out that he
was her affianced. In all parties, in all places, he forced
himself near her, unheeding alike of her frowns or indif-
ference; and his rank, his hauteur, his fierceness of mien,
and acknowledged courage, kept aloof all the less arrogant
and hardy pretenders to Lady Flora's favor. For this,
indeed, she rather thanked than blamed him; and it was
the only thing which in the least reconciled her modesty to
his advances, or her pride to his presumption.
He had been prudent as well as bold. The father he
had served, and the mother he had won. Lord Westbo-
rough, addicted a little to politics, a good deal to show,
and devotedly to gaming, was often greatly and seriously
embarrassed. Lord Ulswater, even during the life of his
father, (who was lavishly generous to him,) was provided
with the means of relieving his intended father-in-law's
necessities; and, caring little for money in comparison to
a desired object, he was willing enough, we do not say to
bribe, but to influence Lord Westborough's consent. These
matters of arrangement were by no means concealed from
the marchioness, who, herself ostentatious and profuse,
was in no small degree benefited by them; and though they
did not solely procure, yet they certainly contributed to
conciliate, her favor.
Few people are designedly and systematically wicked:
even the worst find good motives for bad deeds; and are
as intent upon discovering glosses for conduct, to deceive
themselves, as to delude others. What wonder, then,
that poor Lady Westborough, never too rigidly addicted to
self-examination, and viewing all things through a very
worldly inedium, saw only, in the alternate art and urgency
employed against her daughter's most real happiness, the
various praiseworthy motives of permanently disent ungling
Lady Flora from an unworthy attachment, of procuring
for her an establishment proportioned to her rank, and a
husband whose attachment, already shown by such singu-
lar perseverance, was so likely to afford her every thing
which, in Lady Westborough's eyes, constituted felicity.
All our friends, perhaps, desire our happiness; but, then,
st must invariably be in their own way. What a pity that
they do not employ the same zeal in making us happy in
Ours!
CHAPTER LXIV.
If thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for un-
derstanding;
If thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid
treasures;
while Lady Flora was alternately struggling against and
submitting to the fate which Lady Westborough saw ap
proach with gladness, the father with indifference, and
the bridegroom with a pride that partook less of rapture
than revenge, our unfortunate lover was endeavouring to
glean, from Mordaunt's conversation and example, some-
what of that philosophy so rare except in the theories of
the civilized and the occasional practice of the barbarian;
which, though it cannot give us a charm against misfortune,
bestows, at least, upon us the energy to support it.
We have said already, that when the first impression
produced by Mordaunt's apparent pride and coldness wore
away, it required little penetration to discover the benevo-
lence and warmth of his mind. But none ignorant of his
original dispositions, or the misfortunes of his life, could
ever have pierced the depth of his self-sacrificing nature, or
measured the height of his lofty and devoted virtue. Many
men may, perhaps, be found, who will give up to duty a
cherished wish, or even a darling vice, but few will ever
habits which have almost become, by long use, their hap-
renounce to it their rooted tastes, or the indulgence of those
piness itself. Naturally melancholy and thoughtful, feed-
ing the sensibilities of his heart upon fiction, and though
addicted to the cultivation of reason rather than fancy, hav-
ng perhaps more of the deeper and acuter characteristics
of the poet than those calm and half-callous properties of
calculating moralist, Mordaunt was above all men fondly
nature, supposed to belong to the metaphysician and the
addicted to solitude, and inclined to contemplations less use-
ful than profound. The untimely death of Isabel, whom he
had loved with that love which is the vent of hoarded and
lavishing the wealth of a soul that overflows with secreted
passionate inusings, long nourished upon romance, and
tenderness, upon the first object that can bring reality to
fiction, that event had not only darkened melancholy into
gloom, but had made loneliness still more dear to his hab-
its by all the ties of memory, and all the consecrations of
regret. The companionless wanderings, the midnight
closet, the thoughts which, as Hume said of his own,
seclusion: these were rendered sweeter than ever to a mind
could not exist in the world, but were all busy with life in
for which the ordinary objects of the world were now ut-
terly loveless; and the musings of solitude had become, as
it were, a rightful homage and offering to the dead! We
may form, then, some idea of the extent to which, in Mor-
daunt's character, principle predominated over inclination,
and regard for others over the love of self, when we see him
tearing his spirit from his beloved retreats and abstracted
fastidious and refined characteristics were particularly cal-
contemplations, and devoting it to duties from which its
culated to revolt.
culated to revolt. When we have considered his attach-
ment to the hermitage, we can appreciate the virtue which
made him among the most active citizens in the great world;
when we have considered the natural selfishness of grief,
the pride of philosophy, the indolence of meditation, the
eloquence of wealth, which says, "rest and toil not," and
the temptation within, which says, obey the voice;"
when we have considered these, we can perhaps do justice
to the man who, sometimes on foot and in the coarsest at-
tire, travelled from inn to inn, and from hut to hut; who
happiness of his desire, who, breaking aside an aversion
made human misery the object of his search, and human
to rude contact, almost feminine in its extreme, voluntarily
coarsest intrusions; for whom the wail of affliction, or the
sought the meanest companions, and subjected himself to the
the moan of hunger, was as a summons which allowed nei-
ther hesitation nor appeal; who seemed possessed of an
ubiquity for the purposes of good, almost resembling that
attributed to the wanderer in the magnificent fable of
Melmoth," for the temptations to evil; who, by a zeal
and labor that brought to habit and inclination a thousand
martyrdoms, made his life a very hour-glass, in which each
sand was a good deed or a virtuous design.
'
Many plunge into public affairs, to which they have had
a previous distaste, from the desire of losing the memory of
a private affliction; but so far from wishing to heal the
wounds of remembrance by the anodynes which society
can afford, it was only in retirement that Mordaunt found
the flowers from which balm could be distilled. Many are
Then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the through vanity magnanimous, and benevolent from the sel
KRowledge of God.
Proverbs, ch. ii. ver. 35.
WHILE Clarence was this misjudged by one whose af
'ections and conduct he, in turn, naturally misinterpreted,
fishness of fame; but so far from seeking applause where
he bestowed favor, Mordaunt had sedulously shrouded him-
self in darkness and disguise. And by that increasing pro-
pensity to quiet, so often found among those addicted to
THE DISOWNED
221
ofty o. abstruse contemplation, he had conquered the ambi-
hon of youth with the philosophy of a manhood that had
forestalled the afections of age. Many, in short, have be-
come great or good to the community by individual motives
easily resolved into common and earthly elements of desire;
but they who inquire diligently into human nature have not
often the exalted happiness to record a character like Mor-
daunt's, actuated purely by a systematic principle of love,
which covered mankind, as heaven does earth, with an at-
mosphere of light extending to the remotest corners, aud
penetrating the darkest recesses.
It was one of those violent and gusty evenings, which
give to an English autumn something rude, rather than gen-
tie, in its characteristics, that Mordaunt and Clarence sat
together,
"And sowed the hours with various seeds of talk.”
The young Isabel, the only living relic of the departed
one, sat by her father's side, upon the floor; and, though
their discourse was far beyond the comprehension of her
years, yet did she seem to listen with a quiet and absorbed
attention. In truth, child as she was, she so loved, and al-
most worshipped, her father, that the very tones of his
voice had in them a charm, which could always vibrate, as
it were, to the heart, and hush her into silence; and that
melancholy and deep, though somewhat low voice, when it
swelled or trembled with thought, which in Mordaunt
was feeling,-made her sad, she knew not why; and
when she heard it, she would creep to his side, and put her
little hand on his, and look up at him with eyes, in whose
tender and glistening blue the spirit of her mother seemed
to float. She was serious, and thoughtful, and loving, be-
yond the usual capacities of childhood; perhaps her soli-
tary condition, and habits of constant intercourse with one
so grave as Mordaunt, and who always, when not absent
on his excursions of charity, loved her to be with him, had
given to her mind a precocity of feeling, and tinctured the
simplicity of infancy with what ought to have been the
colors of after years. She was not inclined to the sports
of her age,
she loved, rather, and above all else, to sit
by Mordaunt's side, and silently pore over some book, or
feminine task, and to steal her eyes every now and then
away from her employment, in order to watch his motions,
or provide for whatever her vigilant kindness of heart ima-
gined he desired. And often, when he saw her fairy and
lithe form hovering about him, and attending on his wants,
or her beautiful countenance glow with pleasure when she
fancied she supplied them, he almost believed that Isabel
yet lived, though in another form, and that a love, so intense
and holy as her's had been, might transmigrate, but could
not perish.
|
earthly countenance of Tully, the only Roman (except Lu-
cretius) who might have been a Greek. There the mute
marble gave the broad front of Bacon, (itself a world,) —
and there the features of Locke showed how the mind
wears away the links of flesh, with the file of that thought
which makes all things, even the soul, free! And over
other departments of those works which remind us that
man is made little lower than the angels, the stern face of
the Florentine who sung of hell, contrasted with the quiet
grandeur enthroned on the fair brow of the English poet,
"blind but bold," and there the glorious but genial
countenance of him who has found in all humanity a friend,
conspicuous among sages and minstrels, claimed brother-
hood with all.
The fire burned clear and high, casting a rich twilight
(for there was no other light in the room) over that gothic
chamber, and shining cheerily upon the varying counten-
ance of Clarence, and the more contemplative features of
his host. In the latter might you see that care and thought
had been harsh, but not inhallowed, companions. In the
lines which crossed his expanse of brow, time seemed to
have buried many hopes; but his mien and air, if loftier,
were gentler than in younger days; and though they had
gained somewhat in dignity, had lost greatly in reserve.
There was in the old chamber, with its fretted roof and
ancient "
ancient" garniture," the various books which surrounded
it, walls that the learned built to survive themselves, and in
the marble likenesses of those for whom thought had won
eternity, joined to the hour, the breathing quiet, and the
hearth-light, by whose solitary rays we love best in the eyes
of autumn to discourse on graver or subtler themes,
there was in all this a spell which seemed particularly to
invite and to harmonize with that tone of conversation,
some portions of which we are now about to relate.
"How loudly," said Clarence," that last gust swept by,
- you remember that beautiful couplet in Tibullus, -
"Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem,
Et dominam tenero detinuisse sinu."*
Ay," answered Mordaunt, with a scarcely audible
sigh, that is the feeling of the lover at the immites ven-
tos,' but we sages of the lamp make our mistress wisdom,
and when the winds rage without, it is to her that we cling.
See how, from the same object, different conclusions are
drawn the most common externals of nature, the wind
and the wave, the stars and the heavens, the very earth on
which we tread, never excite in different bosoms the same
ideas; and it is from our own hearts, and not from an out-
ward source, that we draw the hues which color the web
of our existence.”
"You remember
"It is true," answered Clarence.
that in two specks of the moon the enamoured maiden per-
ceived two unfortunate lovers, while the ambitious curate
conjectured that they were the spires of a cathedral? But
it is not only to our feelings, but also to our reasonings, that
we give the colors which they wear. The moral, for in-
stance, which to one man seems atrocious, to another is
divine. On the tendency of the same work, what three
people will agree? And how shall the most sanguine mor-
alist hope to benefit mankind when he finds that, by the
multitude, his wisest endeavours to instruct are often consid-
The young Isabel had displayed a passion for music so
early, that it almost seemed innate; and as, from the mild
and wise education she received, her ardor had never been
repelled on the one hand or overstrained on the other, so,
though she had but just passed her seventh year, she had
attained to a singular proficiency in the art, an art that
suited well with her lovely face, and fond feelings, and in-
nocent heart; and it was almost heavenly, in the literal
acceptation of the word, to hear her sweet, though childish
voice, swell along the still pure airs of summer, and her
angelic countenance all rapt and brilliant with the enthusi-ered but as instruments to pervert ? >>
asin which her own melodies created.
-
Never had she borne the bitter breath of unkindness, or
writhed beneath that customary injustice which punishes in
others the sins of our own temper, and the varied fretful-
ness of caprice; and so she had none of the fears and
moannesses, and acted untruths which so usually pollute and
debase the innocence of childhood. But the promise of
her ingenuous brow, (over which the silken hair flowed,
parted into two streams of gold,) and of the fearless but
tender eyes, and of the quiet smile which sat for ever upon
the resy mouth, like Joy watching Love, was kept in its
fullest extent by the mind, from which all thoughts, pure,
kind, and guileless flowed, like waters from a well, which a
pirit has made holy for its own dwelling.
On this evening, we have said that she sat by her fath-
er's side, and listened, though she only in part drank in its
jense, to his conversation with his guest.
The room was of great extent, and surrounded with
books, over which, at close intervals, the busts of the de-
parted great and the immortal wise looked down. There
was the sublime beauty of Plato, the harsher and more
"I believe," answered Mordaunt," that it is from our
ignorance that our contentions flow; we debate with strife
and with wrath, with bickering and with hatred, but of
the thing debated upon we remain in the profoundest dark-
ness. Like the laborers of Babel, while we endeavour in
vain to express our meaning to each other, the fabric by
which, for a common end, we would have ascended to hea-
ven from the ills of earth, remains for ever unadvanced and
incomplete. Let us hope that knowledge is the universal
language which shall reunite us. As, in their sublime al
legory, the ancients signified that only through virtue we
arrive at honor, so let us believe that only through knowl
edge can we arrive at virtue!"
And yet," said Clarence," that seems a melancholy
truth for the mass of the people, who have no time for the
researches of wisdom.”
"Not so much so as at first we might imagine," answer
ed Mordaunt : "the few smooth all paths for the many.
The precepts of knowledge it is difficult to extricate from
Sweet on our couch to hear the winds above,
And cling with closer heart to her we love
222
BULWER'S NOVELS
error: but, once discovered, they gradually pass into max-
ims ; ard thus what the sage's life was consumed in ac
quiring becomes the acquisition of a moment to posterity.
Knowledge is like the atmosphere, in order to dispel the
vapor and dislodge the frost, our ancestors felled the forest,
drained the marsh, and cultivated the waste, and we now
breathe, without an effort, in the purified air and the chast-
ened climate, the result of the labor of generations and the
progress of ages' As, to-day, the common mechanic
may
equal in science, however inferior in genius, the friar
whom his contemporaries feared as a magician, so the opin-
ions which now startle as well as astonish, may be re-
ceived hereafter as acknowledged axioms, and pass into
ordinary practice. We cannot even tell how far the san-
guine † theories of certain philosophers deceive them when
they anticipate, for future ages, a knowledge which shall
bring perfection to the mind, baffle the diseases of the
body, and even protract to a date now utterly unknown,
the final destination of life: for wisdom is a palace of
which only the vestibule has been entered; nor can we
guess
what treasures are hid in those chambers, of which
the experience of the past can afford us neither analogy
nor clue.”
"It was, then," said Clarence, who wished to draw
his companion into speaking of himself, "it was, then,
from your addiction to studies not ordinarily made the sub-
ject of acquisition, that you date, (pardon me) your gener-
osity, your devotedness, your feeling for others, and your
indifference to self?"
"You flatter me,
," said Mordaunt, modestly; (and we
may be perinitted to crave attention to his reply, since it
unfolds the secret springs of a character so singularly good
and pure ;)-"you flatter me; but I will answer you, as
if you had put the question without the compliment; nor,
perhaps, will it be wholly uninstructive, as it will certainly
be new, to sketch, without recurrence to events, or what I
may call exterior facts, a brief and progressive history of
one human mind.
“Our first era of life is under the influence of the primi-
ve feelings we are pleased, and we laugh; hurt, and
we weep: we vent our little passions the moment they are
excited; and so much of novelty have we to perceive, that
we have little leisure to reflect. By and by, fear teaches
By and by, fear teaches
us to restrain our feelings; when displeased, we seek to
revenge the displeasure, and are punished; we find the
excess of our joy, our sorrow, our anger, alike considered
criminal, and chidden into restraint. From harshness we
become acquainted with deceit the promise made is not
fulfilled, the threat not executed, the fear falsely excited,
and the hope wilfully disappointed we are surrounded by
systematized delusion, and we imbibe the contagion.
"From being forced into concealing the thoughts which
we do conceive, we begin to affect those which we do not:
so early do we learn the two main tasks of life, to sup-
press and to feign, that our memory will not carry us be-
yond that period of artifice to a state of nature when the
twin principles of veracity and belief were so strong as to
lead the philosophers of a modern school into the error of
terming them innate. §
"It was with a mind restless and confused, feelings
which were alternately chilled and counterfeited, (the ne-
cessary results of my first tuition,) that I was driven to
mix with others of my age. They did not like me, nor do
I blame them. Les manières que l'on néglige comme de
petites choses, sont souvent ce qui fait que les hommes déci-
dont de vous en bien ou en mal. Manner is acquired so im-
perceptibly that we have given its origin to nature, as we
*Roger Bacon.
† See Condorcet on the Progress of the Human Mind; written
some years after the supposed date of this conversation, but in
which there is a slight, but eloquent and affecting view of the
philosophy to which Mordaunt refers.
Mr. Reader, although we will own to thee that some trifling
pains have been lavished on the following remarks, in order to
render them as little tedious as their nature will allow of, yet
we have, also. in our exceeding care for thy entertainment, so
contrived it, that thou mayest skip the whole, without penalty
of losing a single atom connected with the tale, which is, indeed,
all that in reason thou canst be expected to interest thyself
bout. So, leaving choice to thy discretion, we give our hint
the clegant and forcible phraseology of the illustrious Will
Honeycomb.
Sir, I know you hate long things,
may contract it, or how you will,
moral in it."
—
Reid on the Human Mind.
but if you like it you
but I think it has a
do the origin of all else for which our ignorance can find
no other source. Mine was unprepossessing; I was dis
liked, and I returned the feeling; I sought not, and I was
shunned. Then I thought that all were unjust to me, and
I grew bitter, and sullen, and morose: I cased myself in the
stubbornness of pride, I pored over the books which spoke
of the worthlessness of man, and I indulged the discon-
tent of myself by brooding over the frailties of my kind.
My passions were strong, they told me to suppress
thein. The precept was old, and seemed wise, I at-
tempted to enforce it. I had already begun, in earlier
infancy, the lesson: I had now only to renew it. Fortu-
nately I was diverted from this task, or my mind, in con-
quering its passions, would have conquered its powers. I
learnt, in after lessons, that the passions are never to be sup-
pressed; they are to be directed; and when directed, rather
to be strengthened than subdued.
"Observe how a word may influence a life; a man
whose opinion I esteemed, made of me the casual and trite
remark, that my nature was one of which it was impos-
sible to augur evil or good, it might be extreme in either.'
This observation roused me into thought could I indeed
be all that was good or evil? had I the choice, and could
hesitate which to choose? but what was good, and what
was evil? that seemed the most difficult inquiry.
"I asked and received no satisfactory reply; in the
words of Erasmus, - totius negotii caput ac fontem ignorant,
divinant, ac delirant omnes: so I resolved myself to inquire
and to decide. I subjected to my scrutiny the moralist and
the philosopher: I saw that on all sides they disputed, but
I saw that they grew virtuous in the dispute; they uttered
much that was absurd about the origin of good, but much
more that was exalted in its praise: and I never rose from
any work which treated ably upon morals, whatever were
its peculiar opinions, but I felt my breast enlightened, and
my mind ennobled by my studies. The professor of one
sect commanded me to avoid the dogmatist of another, as
the propagator of moral poison; and the dogmatist retali-
ated on the professor; but I avoided neither: I read both,
and turned all into honey and fine gold.' No inquiry into
wisdom, however superficial, is undeserving attention. The
vagaries of the idlest fancy will often chance, as it were,
upon the most useful discoveries of truth, and to serve as a
guide to after and to slower disciples of wisdom; even as
the peckings of birds, in an unknown country, indicate to
the adventurous seamen the best and the safest fruits.
"From the works of men I looked into their lives, and
I found that there was a vast difference (though I am not
aware that it has before been remarked) between those
who cultivated a talent, and those who cultivated the mind;
I found that the mere men of genius were often erring or
criminal in their lives; but that vice or crime in the dis-
ciples of philosophy was strikingly unfrequent and rare.
The extremest culture of reason had not, it is true, heen
yet carried far enough to preserve the laborer from follies
of opinion, but a moderate culture had been sufficient to
deter him from the vices of life. And only to the sons of
wisdom, as of old to the sages of the east, seemed given
the unerring star, which, through the travail of earth, and
the clouds of heaven, led them at the last to their God!
C
C
C
"When I gleaned this fact from biography, I paused,
and said, Then must there be something excellent in
wisdom, if it can, even in its most imperfect disciples, be
thus beneficial to morality.' Pursuing this sentiment, I
redoubled my researches, and, behold, the object of my
quest was won! I had before sought a satisfactory answer
to the question, What is virtue?' from men of a thou
sand tenets, and my heart had rejected all I had received.
'Virtue,' said some, and my soul bowed reverently to the
dictate, virtue is religion." I heard and humbled myself
before the divine book. Let me trust that I did not hum-
awed; for, either it limited virtue to the mere belief, or,
ble myself in vain! But the dictate satisfied less than it
by extending it to the practice, of religion, it extended
also inquiry to the method in which the practice should be
applied. But with the firs. interpretation of the dictate,
who could rest contented?- for, while in the perfect en-
forcement of the tenets of our faith, all virtue may
found, so in the passive and the mere belief in its divinity,
we find only an engine as applicable to evil as to good
be
the torch which should illumine the altar has also light-
ed the stake, and the zeal of the persecutor has been no
less sincere than the heroism of the martyr. Rejecting.
THE DISOWNED.
223
therefore, this interpretation, I accepted the other: I felt
in my heart, and I rejoiced as I felt it, that in the practice.
of religion the body of all virtue could be found. But, in
that conviction, had 1 at once an answer to my inquiries?
Could the mere desire o good be sufficient to attain it,
and was the attempt at virtue synonymous with success?
On the contrary, have not those most desirous of obeying
the precepts of God often sinned the most against their
spirit, and has not zeal been frequently the most ardent when
crime was the most rife ? * But what, if neither sincer-
ity nor zeal was sufficient to constitute goodness, what,
if in the breasts of the best intentioned, crime had been
fostered, the more dangerously, because the more disgui-
sed, — what ensued? That the religion which they pro-
fessed, they believed, they adored, they had also misunder-
stood; and that the precepts to be drawn from the holy
book, they had darkened by their ignorance, or perverted
by their passions! Here, then, at once, my enigma was sol-
ved: here, then, at once, I was led to the goal of my inqui-
ry! Ignorance, and the perversion of passion, are but the
same thing though under different names; for only by
omorance are our passions perverted. Therefore what
followed? that, if by ignorance the greatest of God's
gifts had been turned to evil, knowledge alone was the
light by which even the pages of religion should be read.
It followed, that the Providence that knew that the nature
it had created should be constantly in exercise, and that
only through labor comes improvement, had wisely or-
dained that we should toil even for the blessing of its holi-
est and clearest laws. It had given us, in religion, as in
this magnificent world, treasures and harvests which might
be called forth in incalculable abundance; but had decreed
that through our exertions only should they be called forth;
-a palace more gorgeous than the palaces of enchant-
ment was before us, but its chambers were a labyrinth
which required a clue.
C
"What was that clue? Was it to be sought for in the
corners of earth, or was it not beneficently centred in our-
selves? Was it not the exercise of a power easy for us to
use, if we would dare to do so? Was it not the simple ex-
ertion of the discernment granted to us for all else?
Was it not the exercise of our reason? 'Reason!' cried
the zealot, pernicious and hateful instrument, it is fraught
with peril to yourself and to others; do not think for a
moment of employing an engine so fallacious and so dan-
gerous.' But I listened not to the zealot: could the steady
and bright torch which, even where the Star of Beth-
lehem had withheld its diviner light, had guided some
patient and unwearied steps to the very throne of virtue,
become but a deceitful meteor to him who kindled it for the
ait of religion, and in an eternal cause? Could it be
perilous to task our reason, even to the utmost, in the in-
vestigation of the true utility and hidden wisdom of the
works of God, when God himself had ordained that only
through some exertion of our reason should we know either
from nature or revelation that he himself existed? But,'
cried the zealot again, but mere mortal wisdom teaches
men presumption, and presumption, doubt.' ‹ Pardon
ine,' I answered, it is not wisdom, but ignorance, which
teaches men presumption; genius may be sometimes arro-
gant, but nothing is so diffident as knowledge.' 'But,'
resumed the zealot, those accustomed to subtle inquiries
may dwell only on the minutiae of faith, inexplicable,
because useless to explain, and argue from those minutia
against the grand and universal truth.' Pardon me
again: it is the petty, not the enlarged, mind, which pre-
fers castistry to conviction; it is the confined and short
sight of ignorance, which, unable to comprehend the great
bearings of truth, pries only into its narrow and obscure
corners, occupying itself in scrutinizing the atoms of a
part, while the eagle eye of wisdom contemplates, in its
widest scale, the luminous majesty of the whole. Survey
*There can be no doubt that they who exterminated the
Albigenses, established the Inquisition, and lighted the fires
C
C
C
at Smithfield, were actuated, not by a desire to do evil, but
(monstrous as it may seem) to do good; not to counteract,
but to enforce what they believed the wishes of the Almighty;
so that a good intention, without the enlightenment to direct it
to a fitting object, may be as pernicious to human happiness as
one the most fiendish. We are told of a whole people, who
used to murder their guests, not from ferocity or interest, but
from the pure and praiseworthy motive of obtaining the good
qualities, which they believed, by the murder of the der cased,
levolved upon them!
our faults, our errors, our vices, - fearful and fertile field;
trace them to their causes,- all those causes resolve them.
selves into one, - ignorance! - For, as we have already
seen that from this source flow the abuses of religion, so,
also, from this source flow the abuses of all other bless-
ings, of talents, of riches, of power: for we abuse
things, either because we know not their real use, or be-
cause, with an equal blindness, we imagine the abuse more
adapted to our happiness. But as ignorance, then, is the
sole spring of evil, so, as the antidote to ignorance is
knowledge, it necessarily follows that, were we consummate
in knowledge, we should be perfect in good. He therefore
who retards the progress of intellect, countenances crime,.
nay, to a state, is the greatest of criminals; while he who
circulates that mental light more precious than the visual,
is the holiest improver, and the surest benefactor of his
race! Nor let us believe, with the dupes of a shallow
policy, that there exists upon the earth one prejudice that
can be called salutary, or one error beneficial to per-
petuate. As the petty fish, which is fabled to possess the
property of arresting the progress of the largest vessel to
which it clings, even so may a single prejudice, unnoticed
or despised, more than the adverse blast, or the dead calm, de-
lay the bark of knowledge in the vast seas of time.
"It is true that the sanguineness of philanthropists may
have carried them too far; it is true (for the experiment
has not yet been made) that God may have denied to us, in
this state, the consummation of knowledge, and the con-
sequent perfection in good; but because we cannot be per-
fect, are we to resolve we will be evil? One step in knowl-
edge is one step from sin: one step from sin is one step
nearer to heaven. O! never let us be deluded by those,
who, for political motives, would aduiterate the divinity of
religious truths: never let us believe that our Father in
heaven rewards most the one talent unemployed, or that
prejudice, and indolence, and folly, find the most favor in
his sight! The very heathen has bequeathed to us a nobler
estimate of his nature; and the same sentence which so
sublimely declares TRUTH IS THE BODY OF GOD,' ae-
clares also AND LIGHT IS HIS SHADOW.'*
•
C
"Persuaded, then, that knowledge contained the key to
virtue, it was to knowledge that I applied. The first
grand lesson which it taught me was the solution of a
phrase most hackneyed, least understood, viz. common
sense.' + It is in the Portico of the Greek sage that that
phrase has received its legitimate explanation; it is there
we are taught that common sense' signifies the sense of
the common interest.' Yes! it is the most beautiful truth in
morals that we have no such thing as a distinct or divided
interest from our race. In their welfare is ours; and, by
choosing the broadest paths to effect their happiness, we
choose the surest and the shortest to our own. As I read
and pondered over these truths,
and pondered over these truths, I was sensible that a great
change was working a fresh world out of the former mate-
rials of my mind. My passions, which before I had
checked into uselessness or exerted to destruction, now
started forth in a nobler shape, and prepared for a new
direction instead of urging me to individual aggrandize-
ment, they panted for universal good, and coveted the re-
ward of ambition only for the triumphs of benevolence.
:
-
"This is one stage of virtue, I cannot resist the be-
lief that there is a higher it is when we begin to love vir-
tue, not for its objects, but itself. For there are in knowl-
edge these two excellences : — first, that it offers to every
man, the most selfish and the most exalted, his peculiar in-
ducement to good. It says to the former, Serve mankind,
and you serve yourself;' to the latter, In choosing the best
means to secure your own happiness, you will have the sub-
lime inducement of promoting the happiness of mankind.'
"The second excellence of knowledge is, that even the
selfish man, when he has once begun to love virtue from lit-
the motives, loses the motives as he increases the love; and
at last worships the deity, where before he only coveted the
gold upon its altar. And thus I learned to love virtue
solely for its own beauty. I said with one who, among
1
much dross, has many particles of ore, If it be not estim-
able in itself, I can see nothing estimable in following it for
the sake of a bargain.' §
"I looked round the world, and saw often virtue in
rags.
and vice in purple; the former conduces to happiness, it in
* Plato.
† Plato.
Η Κοινονη μοσύνη - Sensus communis.
Lord Shaftesbury.
224
BULWER'S NOVELS.
I
true, but the happiness lies within, and not in externals.
contemned the deceitful folly with which writers have termed
it poetical justice to make the good ultimately prosperous
in wealth, honor, fortunate love, or successful desires.
Nothing false, even in poetry, can be just; and that pre-
tended moral is, of all, the falsest. Virtue is not more ex-
empt than vice from the ills of fate, but it contains within
itself always an energy to resist them, and sometimes an
anodyne to soothe, -to repay your quotation from Ti-
bullus :
"Crura sonant ferro,
sed canit inter opus !'
"When in the depths of my soul I set up that divinity of
this nether earth, which Brutus never really understood, if,
because unsuccessful in its efforts, he doubted its existence,
I said in the proud prayer with which I worshipped it,
Poverty may humble my lot, but it shall not debase thee;
my lot, but it shall not debase thee;
Temptation may shake my nature, but not the rock on
which thy temple is based; Misfortune may wither all the
hopes that have blossomed around thine altar, but I will
sacrifice dead leaves when the flowers are no more. Though
all that I have loved perish, all that I have coveted fade
away, I may murmur at fate, but I will have no voice but
that of homage for thee! Nor, while thou smilest upon
my way, would I exchange with the loftiest and happiest of
thy foes! More bitter than aught of what I then dream.
ed have been my trials, but I have fulfilled my vow!
,
-
"I believe that alone to be a true description of virtue
which makes it all-sufficient to itself, that alone a just
portraiture of its excellence which does not lessen its in-
ternal power by exaggerating its outward advantages, nor
degrade its nobility by dwelling only on its rewards. The
The
grandest moral of ancient lore has ever seemed to me that
which the picture of Prometheus affords in whom neither
the shaking earth, nor the rending heaven, nor the rock
without, nor the vulture within, could cause regret for past
benevolence, or terror for future evil, or envy, even amid
tortures, for the dishonorable prosperity of his insulter!*
Who, that has glowed over this exalted picture, will tell us
that we must make virtue prosperous in order to allure to
it, or clothe vice with misery in order to revolt us from its
image! O! who, on the contrary, would not learn to
adore virtue, from the bitterest sufferings of such a votary,
a hundredfold more than he would learn to love vice from
the gaudiest triumphs of its most fortunate disciples ?"
and though I have been three days married, I am still a
lover! In the second place, I expect you to be very grate-
ful that, all things considered, I write to you so soon; pour
dire vrai, mon cher, it would not be an ordinary inducemen
that could make me put pen to paper'[Is not that the
true vulgar, commercial, academical, metaphorical epistola.
ry style?] so shortly after the fatal ceremony. So, had
I nothing to say but in reply to your comments on state
affairs, (hang them!) or in applause of your Italian
friend, of whom I say, as Charles II. said of the honest
yeoman, 'I can admire virtue, though I can't imitate it!
I think it highly probable that your letter might still remain
in a certain box of tortoise-shell and gold, (formerly be-
longing to the great Richelieu, and now in my possession,)
in which I at this instant descry, with many a glance o
woe and boding dire,' sundry epistles, in manifold hand-
writings, all classed under the one fearful denomination, -
unanswered.'
"No, my good Linden, my heart is inditing of a better
matter than this. Listen to me, and then stay at your
host's or order your swiftest steed, as seems most meet to
you.
-
"You said rightly that Miss Trevanion, now her Grace
of Haverfield, was the intimate friend of Lady Flora Ar-
denne. I have often talked to her, viz., Eleanor, not
Lady Flora, - about you and was renewing the conversa-
tion yesterday, when your letter, accidentally lying before
me, reminded me of you. Sundry little secrets passed, in
due conjugal course, from her possession into mine. I
find that you have been believed, by Lady Flora, to have
played the perfidious with La Meronville, that she never
knew of your application to her father, and his reply,
that, on the contrary, she accused you of indifference in
going abroad without attempting to obtain an interview, or
excuse your supposed infidelity, that her heart is utterly
averse to a union with that odious Lord Boro-bah,
I mean Lord Ulswater: and that
prepare, Linden,
she still cherishes your memory, even through time, change,
and fancied desertion, with a tenderness which which
deuse take it, I never could write sentiment, but you un-
derstand me; so I will not conclude the phrase. Nothing
in oratory,' said my cousin D who was, entre nous,
more honest than eloquent, like a break ''—' down! you
should have added,' said I.
—
ઃઃ I now, my dear Linden, leave you to your fate. For
Something there was in Mordaunt's voice and air, and
my part, though I own Lord Ulswater is a lord whom la-
the impassioned glow of his countenance, that long after he dies in love with the etcæteras of married pomp might well
had ceased, thrilled in Clarence's heart, "like the remem- desire, yet I do think it would be no difficult matter for you
bered tone of a mute lyre." And when a subsequent event to eclipse him! I cannot, it is true, advise you to run
led him at rash moments to doubt whether virtue was in-away with Lady Flora, Gentlemen don't run away with
deed the chief good, Linden recalled the words of that
night, and the enthusiasm with which they were uttered,
repented that in his doubt he had wronged the truth, and
felt that there is a power in the deep heart of man to which
even destiny is submitted!
CHAPTER LXV.
Will you hear the letter?
*
*
*
*
This is the motley minded gentleman that I have before met
.n the forest.
As You Like It.
A MORNING or two after the conversation with which
our last chapter concluded, Clarence received the following
letter from the Duke of Haverfield: -
"YOUR letter, my dear Linden, would have been an-
swered before, but for an occurrence which is generally
supposed to engross the attention of all the persons con-
cerned in it. Let me see,ay, three, yes, I have been
exactly three days married! Upon my honor, there is much
less in the event than one would imagine; and the next
time it happens, I will not put myself to such amazing
trouble and inconvenience about it. But one buys wisdom
only by experience. Now, however, that I have commu-
micated to you the fact, I expect you, in the first place, to
excuse my negligence for not writing before; for (as I know
you are fond of the literæ humaniores, I will give the scnti-
ment the dignity of a quotation)
“Un veritable amant ne connoit point d'amis ; ' +
• Mercury.— See the Prometheus of Eschylus.
† Corneille
the daughters of gentlemen, though they do sometimes with
their wives! (those feats, thank heaven, are pretty well
confined to officers on half-pay, mercurial attorneys, and
descendants of the Irish kings!) but, without running
away, you may win your betrothed and Lord Ulswater's
intended. A distinguished member of the House of Com-
mons, owner of Scarsdale, and representative of the most
ancient branch of the Talbots, -
-mon Dieu! you might
marry a queen-dowager, and decline settlements!
And, so, committing thee to the guidance of that
winged god, who, if three days afford any experience, has
made thy friend forsake pleasure only to find happiness, I
bid thee, most gentle Linden, farewell.
"HAVERFIELD."
Upon reading this letter, Clarence felt as a man sudden-
ly transformed! From an exterior of calm and apathy, at
the bottom of which lay one bitter and corroding recollec-
tated and confused; yet, amid all, was foremost a burning
tion, he passed at once into a state of emotion, wild, agı-
and intense hope, which for long years he had not permit-
ted himself to form.
He descended into the breakfast parlour. Mordaunt,
later than Clarence's, was not yet down; and our lover
whose hours of appearing, though not of rising, were much
had fult leisure to form his plans, before his host made his
entrée.
:
"Will you ride to-day?" said Mordant "there are
some old ruins in the neighborhood, well worth the trouble
of a visit.'
"I grieve to say," answered Clarence," that I must
take my leave of you. I have received intelligence, this
morning, which may greatly influence my future life, and
by which I am obliged to make an excursion to another
THE DISOWNED.
224
part of the country, nearly a day's journey on horseback,
hence."
Mordaunt looked at his guest, and conjectured by his
heightened color, and en embarrassment which he in vain
endeavored to conceal, that the journey might have some
cause for its suddenness and despatch which the young sen-
ator had his peculiar reasons for concealing. Algernon
contented himself, therefore, with expressing his regret at
Linden's abrupt departure, without incurring the indiscreet
hospitality of pressing a longer sojourn beneath his roof.
was
Immediately after breakfast, Clarence's horse
brought to the door, and Harrison received orders to wait
with the carriage at W, until his master returned.
Not a little surprised, we trow, was the worthy valet at
his master's sudden attachment to equestrian excursions.
Mordaunt accompanied his visiter through the park, and
Look leave of hun with a warmth which sensibly touch-
ed Clarence, in spite of the absence and excitement of his
thoughts; indeed, the unaffected and simple character of
Linden, joined to his acute, bold, and cultivated mind, had
taken strong hold of Mordaunt's interest and esteein.
It was a mild autumnal morning, but thick clouds in the
rear prognosticated rain: and the stillness of the wind,
he low flight of the swallows, those volucrine Bruces of
he air, and the lowing of the cattle, slowly gathering to-
ward the nearest shelter within their appointed boundaries,
confirmed the inauspicious omen. Clarence had passed
the town of W, and was entering into a road singu-
larly hilly, when he "was aware," as the quaint old writers
of former days expressed themselves, of a tall stranger,
mounted on a neat, well trimmed galloway, who had for
the last two minutes been progressing toward a closely
parallel line with Clarence, and had, by sundry glances
and hems, denoted a desire of commencing acquaintance
and conversation with his fellow traveller.
At last he summoned courage, and said, with a respect-
ful, though somewhat free, air, "That is a very fine horse
of yours, sir, — I have seldom seen so fast a walker: if
all his other paces are equally good, he must be quite a
treasure.
,,
"All men have their vanities. Clarence's was as much
in his horse's excellences as his own; and, gratified even
with the compliment of a stranger, he replied to it by
joining in the praise, though with a modest and measured
forbearance, which the stranger, if gifted with penetra-
tion, could easily have discerned was more affected than
sincere.
-
"And yet, sir," resuired Clarence's new companion,
"my little palfrey might perhaps keep pace with your
steed look, I lay the rein on his neck,
and, you see,
he rivals, by heaven, he outwalks yours."
Not a little piqued and incensed, Linden also relaxed
his rein, and urged his horse to a quicker step; but the
lesser competitor not only sustained, but increased his su-
periority; and it was only by breaking into a trot that
Linden's impatient and spirited steed could overtake him.
Hitherto Clarence had not honored his new companion
with more than a rapid and slight glance; but rivalry,
even in trifles, begets respect, and our defeated hero now
examined him with a more curious eye.
The stranger was between forty and fifty, an age in
which, generally, very little of the boy has survived the
advance of manhood; yet was there a hearty and frank
exhilaration in the manner and look of the person we de-
scribe, which is rarely found beyond the first stage of
youth. His features were comely and clearly cut, and his
hair and appearance indicative of a man who might equal-
ly have belonged to the middle or the upper orders. But
Clarence's memory, as well as attention, was employed in
is survey of the stranger; and he recognised, in a counte-
nance on which time had passed very lightly, an old and
oft-times recalled acquaintance. However, he did not im-
mediately make himself known, "I will first see,
hought he, “whether he can remember his young guest in
dhe bronzed stranger, after eight years' absence."
>
"Well," said Clarence, as he approached the owner of
the palfrey, who was laughing with childish glee at his
conquest, "well, you have won, sir; but the tortoise
might beat the hare in walking, and I content myself with
thinking that at a trot or a gallop the result of a race would
have been very different.”
would like to try either, I should have no objection to ven-
ture a trifling wager on the event.
""
"You are very good," said Clarence, with a smile in
which urbanity was a little mingled with contemptuous in
credulity; "but I am not now at leisure to win your
money I have a long day's journey before me, and inust
not tire a faithful servant; yet I do candidly confess that
I think," (and Clarence's recollection of the person he ad-
"that my
dressed made him introduce the quotation,)
horse
"Excels a common one
In shape, in courage, color, pace, and bone.'
"Eh, sir," cried our stranger, as his eyes sparkled at
the verses: "I would own that your horse were worth all
the horses in the kingdom, if you brought Will Shakspeare
to prove it. And I am also willing to confess that your
steed does fairly merit the splendid praise which follows
the lines you have quoted,
"Round hoofed, short jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide,'
"Come," said Clarence," your memory has atoned for
your horse's victory, and I quite forgive your conquest, in
return for your compliment; but suffer me to ask how long
you have commenced cavalier. The Arab's tent is, if 1 err
not, more a badge of your profession than the Arab's
steed."
King Cole (for the stranger was no less a person) looked
at his companion in surprise. "So, you know me, then
sir! well, it is a hard thing for a man to turn honest, when
people have so much readier a recollection of his sins than
his reform."
CC
Reform," quoth Clarence," am I then to understand
that your majesty has abdicated your dominions under the
greenwood tree?"
"said Cole, eying his acquaintance inquisi-
“You are,
tively:
"I
you are:
"I fear no more the heat of the sun,
Nor the furions winter's rages;
I my worldly task have done,
Home am gone and ta'en my wages
congratulate you," said Clarence ;
"but only m
part, for I have often envied your past state, and do not
know enough of your present to say whether I should
equally envy that."
Why," answered Cole, "after all, we commit a great
error in imagining that it is the living wood or the dead
wall which makes happiness. My mind to me a kingdom.
is,”—and it is that which you must envy, if you honor any
thing belonging to me with that feeling.
CC
The precept is both good and old," answered Cla-
rence; yet I think it was not a very favorite maxim of
yours some years ago. I remember a time when you
thought no happiness could exist out of dingle and bosky
dell. If not very intrusive on your secrets, may I know
how long you have changed your sentiments and manner of
life? The reason of the change I dare not presume to
ask.'
CC
"Certainly," said the quondam gipsy, musingly,
certainly I have seen your face before, and even the tone
of your voice strikes me as not wholly unfamiliar; yet I
cannot, for the life of me, guess whom I have the honor of
addressing. However, sir, I have no hesitation in aaswer-
ing your questions. It was just five years ago, last summer,
when I left the tents of Kedar. I now reside about a mile
hence. It is but a hundred yards off the high road, and if
you would not object to step aside and suffer a rasher, or
aught else, to be the shoeing-horn to draw on a cup of
ale,' as our plain forefathers were wont wittily to say,
why, I shall be very happy to show you my habitation.
You will have a double welcome, from the circumstance of
my having been absent from home for the last three days.
Clarence, mindful of his journey, was about to decliue
the invitation, when a few heavy drops falling, began to
fulfil the cloudy promise of the morning, "Trust," said
Cole, one who has been for years a watcher of the signs
and menaces of the weather,- - we shall have a violent
shower immediately. You have now no choice but to ac-
company me home.
Well," said Clarence, yielding with a good grace,
"I am glad of so good an excuse for intruding ou Your.
I am not so sure of that, sir," said the sturdy stranger,
patting the arched neck of his little favorite; "if you, hospitality.
VOL. I.
24
226
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"'O, sky!
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak.'
"Bravo!" cried the ex-chief, too delighted to find a
comrade so well acquainted with Shakspeare's sonnets, to
heed the little injustice Clarence had done to the sky, in
accusing it of a treachery its black clouds had by no means
deserved. Bravo, sir; and now, my palfrey against
your steed, trot, - eh, - or gallop?
S
“And in that arbor, Lucy, that is, my wife,-sits in
the summer evenings with her father and our children; and
then, ah! see our pets come to welcome me "-point-
ing to the deer, who had advanced within a few yards of
him, but, intimidated by the stranger, would not venture
within reach," Lucy loved choosing her favorites among
animals which had formerly been wild, and faith I loved it
But
against too.
you observe the house, sir,—it was built in the
reign of Queen Anne: it belonged to my mother's family
but my father sold it, and his son five years ago rebought
it. Those arms belong to my maternal ancestry. Look,
"Trot, if it must be so," said Clarence, superciliously;
"but I am a few paces before you."
"So much the better," cried the jovial chief. "Little
John's mettle will be the more up, -on with you, sir,
Le who breaks into a canter loses,·
-on!"
And Clarence slightly touching his beautiful steed, the
race was begun. At first his horse, which was a remark-
able stepper, as the modern Messrs. Dickinson and Dyson
would say, greatly gained the advantage.
"To the right,"
cried the ci-devant gipsy, as Linden had nearly passed a
narrow lane which led to the domain of the ex-king. The
turn gave to "Little John ” an opportunity which he
seized to advantage; and to Clarence's indignant surprise,
he beheld Cole now close behind,
and now,
now beside,
- now before! In the heat of the moment he put spurs
rather too sharply to his horse, and the spirited animal im-
mediately passed his competitor, but, in a canter!
ス
​CC
S
-
Victoria," cried Cole, keeping back his own steed, —
victoria, confess it!"
<<
Pshaw," said Clarence, petulantly.
Nay, sir, never mind it," quoth the retired sovereign;
perhaps it was but a venial transgression of your horse,
and on other ground I should not have beat you."
It is very easy to be generous when one is quite sure one
is the victor. Clarence felt this, and muttering out some-
thing about the sharp angle in the road, turned abruptly from
all farther comment on the subject, by saying,
"We are
now, I suppose, entering your territory? Does not this
white gate lead to your new (at least new to me) abode ?"
"It does," replied Cole, opening the said gate, and
pausing as if to suffer his guest and rival to look round and
admire.
The house, in full view, was of red brick, small and
square, faced with stone copings, and adorned in the centre
with a gable roof, on which was a ball of glittering metal.
A flight of stone steps led to the porch, which was of fair
size and stately, considering the proportions of the man-
sion, over the door was a stone shield of arms, sur-
mounted by a stag's head; and above this heraldic orna-
ment was a window of great breadth, compared to the other
conveniences of a similar nature. On either side of the
house ran a slight iron fence, the protection of sundry plots
of gay flowers and garden shrubs, while two peacocks were
seen slowly stalking toward the enclosure to seek a shelter
from the increasing shower. At the back of the building,
At the back of the building,
thick trees and a rising hill gave a meet defence from the
winds of winter; and in front, a sloping and small lawn
afforded pasture for a few sheep, and two pet deer. To-
ward the end of this lawn were two large fishponds, shaded
by rows of feathered trees. On the margin of each of
these, as if emblematic of ancient customs, was a common
tent; and in the intermediate space was a rustic pleasure-
house, fenced from the encroaching cattle, and half hid by
surrounding laurel, and the parasite ivy.
Altogether there was a quiet and old fashioned comfort,
and even luxury, about the place, which suited well with
the eccentric character of the abdicated chief; and Clar-
ence, as he gazed around, really felt that he might, per-
haps, deem the last state of the owner not worse than the
first.
Unmindful of the rain, which now began to pour fast
a1 1 ful), Cole suffered “ Little John's "rein to fall over his
neck, and the spoiled favorite to pluck the smooth grass be-
neath, while he pointed out to Clarence the various beau-
ties of his seat.
"There, sir," said he, "by those ponds in which, I as-
sure you, old Isaac might have fished with delight, I pass
many a summer's day. I was always a lover of the angle,
and the farthest pool is the most beautiful bathing place
imaginable; as glorious Jeoffrey Chaucer says,
"The gravel's gold; the water pure as glass,
Th bankés round the well environing;
And softé as velvet the youngé grass
Tt thereupon lustily come springing.'
-
"
look at the peacocks creeping along,— poor pride theirs
that can't stand the shower! But, egad, that reminds me
of the rain. Come, sir, let us make for our shelter "
And esuming their progress, a minute more brought them
to the old fashioned porch. Cole's ring summoned a man,
not decked in "livery gay," but "clad in serving frock,'
who took the horses with a nod, half familiar, half respect
ful, at his master's injunctions of attention and hospitality
to the stranger's beast; and then our old acquaintance,
striking through a small low hall, ushered Clarence into the
chief sitting-room of the mansion.
CHAPTER LXVI.
We are not poor; although we have
No roofs of cedar, nor our brave
Baiæ, nor keep
Account of such a flock of sheep,
Nor Bullocks fed
To lard the shambles; barbles bred
To kiss our hands; nor do we wish
For Pollio's lampries in our dish.
If we can meet and so confer
Both by a shining salt cellar,
And have our root,
Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof,
And ceiling free
From that cheap candle-bawdery ;
We'll eat our bean with that fell mirth
As we were lords of all the earth.
HERRICK, from HORACE.
On entering the room, Clarence recognised Lucy, whom
eight years had converted into a sleek and portly matron of
about thirty-two, without stealing from her countenance its
original expression of mingled modesty and good-nature.
She hastened to meet her husband with an eager and joyous
air of welcome seldom seen on matrimonial faces after so
many years of wedlock.
A fine, stout boy, of about eleven years old, left a cross-
bow, which, on his father's entrance, he had appeared ear-
nestly employed in mending, to share with his mother the
salutation of the returned. An old man sat in an arm-
chair by the fire, gazing on the three with an affectionate
and gladdening eye, and playfully detaining a child of about
four years old, who was struggling to escape to dear
papa!
">
The room was of oak wainscot, and the furniture plain,
solid, and strong, and cast in the fashion still frequently
found in those country houses which have remained unal-
tered by innovation since the days of George II.
et.
Three rough-coated dogs, of a breed that would have
puzzled a connoisseur, gave themselves the rousing shake,
and, deserting the luxurious hearth, came in various wel-
come to their master. One rubbed itself against his sturdy
legs, murmuring soft rejoicings; he was the grandsire of
the canine race, and his wick of life burnt low in the sock-
Another sprung up almost to the face of his master,
and yelled his very heart out with joy that was the son,
exulting in the vigor of matured dog-hood! — and the third
scrambled and tumbled over the others, uttering his prans
in a shrill treble, and chiding most snappishly at his two
progenitors for interfering with his pretensions to notice :
that was the infant dog, the little reveller in puppy child-
ishness! Clarence stood by the door, with his fine coun-
tenance smiling benevolently at the happiness he beheld,
the group
and congratulating himself that, for one moment,
had forgot that he was a stranger.
As soon as our gipsy friend had kissed his wife, shaken
hands with his eldest hope, shaken his head at the young-
est, smiled his salutation at the father-in-law, and patted
into silence the canine claimants of his favor, he turned to
Clarence, and saying, half bashfully, half good-humoredly
THE DISOWNED.
227
"See what a troublesome thing it is to return home, even
after three days' absence. Lucy, dearest, welcome a new
friend!" he placed a chair by the fireside for his guest,
and motioned him to be seated.
The chief expression of Clarence's open and bold coun-
tenance was centered in the eyes and forehead; and as he
now doffed his hat, which had hitherto concealed that ex-
pression, Lucy and her husband recognised him simultane-
ously
"I am sure, sir," cried the former," that I am glad to
see you once more !
""
ex-
"Ah! iny young guest under the gipsy awning!
claimed the latter, shaking him heartily by the hand:
"where were my eyes, that they did not recognise you
before?
"Eight years," answered Clarence, "have worked more
change with me and my friend here," (pointing to the boy,
whom he had left last so mere a child,) "than they have
with you and his blooming mother. The wonder is, not
that you did not remember me before, but that you remem-
ber me now ! "
وو
"You are altered, sir, certainly," said the frank chief.
"Your face is thinner, and far graver: and the smooth
cheeks of the boy (for, craving your pardon, you were little
more then) are somewhat darkened by the rough chin and
bronzed complexion with which time honors the man.
And the good Cole sighed, as he contrasted Linden's
ardent countenance and elastic figure, when he had last
beheld him, with the serious and thoughtful face of the
person now before him; yet did he inly own that years, if
they had in some things deterioriated from, had in others
mproved, the effect of Clarence's appearance: they had
brought decision to his mien, and command to his brow,
and had enlarged, to an ampler measure of dignity and
power, the proportions of his form. Something too there
was in his look, like that of a man who has stemmed fate,
and won success; and the omen of future triumph, which
our fortuneteliing chief had drawn from his features, when
first beheld, seemed already, in no small degree, to have
been fulfilled.
Having seen her guest stationed in the seat of honor
opposite her father, Lucy withdrew for a few moments,
and when she reappeared, was followed by a neat-handed
sort of Phillis for a country maiden, bearing such kind of
savoury messes as the house might be supposed to
afford.
>>
"At all events, mine host," said Clarence, "you did
you did
not desert the fleshpots of Egypt when you forsook its
tents.
>>
<6
"Nay," quoth the worthy Cole, seating himself at the
table, either under the roof or the awning, we may say,
in the words of the old epilogue, *
"We can but bring you meat and set you stools,
And to our best cheer say, You all are welcome.'
“We are plain people still; but if you can stay till din-
ner, you shall have a bottle of such wine as our fathers'
honest souls would have rejoiced in.
>>
"I am truly sorry that I cannot tarry with you, after so
fair a promise," replied Clarence; but before night I
must be many miles hence."
Lucy came forward, timidly. “Do you remember this
ring, sir? said she, (presenting one,) you dropt it in
my boy's frock, when we saw you last."
"I did so," auswered Clarence. "I trust that he will
not now disdain a stranger's offering. May it be as omi-
gous of good luck to him as my night in your caravan has
proved to me."
"I am heartily glad to hear that it has proved so," said
Cole, now, let us fall to."
LC
CHAPTER LXVII.
Out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learn'd.
SHAKSPEARE.
"IF you are bent upon leaving us so soon," said the
honest Cole, as Clarence, refusing all farther solicitation to
stay, seized the opportunity which the cessation of the rain
afforded him, and rose to depart, -"if you are bent upon
leaving us so soon, I will accompany you back again into
The mam road, as in duty bound.”
To the play of "All Fools," by Chapman.
"What, immediately on your return?" said Clarence,
“no, no,— not a step. What would my fair hostess
say to me if I suffered it?"
Rather what would she say to me if I neglected such
a courtesy? Why, sir, when I meet one who knows Shak-
speare's sonnets, to say nothing of the lights of the lesser
stars, as well as you, only once in eight years, do you not
think I would make the most of him?
would make the most of him? Besides, it is but
a quarter of a mile to the road, and I love walking after a
shower."
"I am afraid, Mrs. Cole," said Clarence, " that I must
be selfish enough to accept the offer." And Mrs. Cole,
blushing and smiling her assent and adieu, Clarence shook
hands with the whole party, grandfather and child inclu-
ded, and took his departure.
As Cole was now a pedestrian, Linden threw the rein
over his arm, and walked on foot by his host's side.
"So," said he, smiling, "I must not inquire into the
reasons of your retirement?"
"On the contrary," replied Cole, "I have walked with
you the more gladly from my desire of telling them to you,
for we all love to seem consistent, even in our chimeras
About six years ago, I confess that I began to wax a little
weary of my wandering life; my child, in growing up, re-
quired playmates: shall I own that I did not like him to
find them among the children of my own comrades? The
old scamps were good enough for me, but the young ones
were a little too bad for my son. Between you and me
only be it said, my juvenile hope was already a little cor-
rupted. The dog Mim, you remember Mim, sir,
secretly taught him to filch as well as if he had been a
bantling of his own; and, faith, our smaller goods and
chattels, especially of an edible nature, began to disap-
pear, with a rapidity and secrecy that our itinerant palace
could very ill sustain. Among us (i. e. the gipsies) there
is a law by which no member of the gang may steal from
another; but my little heaven-instructed youth would by no
means abide by that distinction; and so boldly designed
and well executed were his rogueries that my paternal
anxiety saw nothing before him but Botany Bay on the one
hand, and Newgate Courtyard on the other."
"A sad prospect for the heir apparent!"
rence.
quoth Cla-
"It was so ! answered Cole, " and it made me deli-
berate. Then, as one gets older, one's romance oozes out
a little in rheums and catarrhs. I began to perceive that,
though I had been bred, I had not been educated, as a
gipsy; and, what was worse, Lucy, though she never com-
plained, felt that the walls of our palace were not exempt
from the damps of winter, nor our royal state from the
Caliban curses of
""Cramps and
Side stitches that do pen our breath up.'
"She fell ill; and during her illness I had sundry bright
visions of warm rooms and coal fires, a friend, with whom
I could converse upon Chaucer, and a tutor for my son,
who would teach him other arts than those of picking
ashamed of my own thoughts; and I do not know whether
pockets and pilfering larders. Nevertheless, I was a little
they would have been yet put into practice, but for a tri-
Aling circumstance which converted doubt and longing into
certainty.
"Our crank cuflins had for some time looked upon me
with suspicion and coldness: my superior privileges and
and my generosity to them; but by degrees they lost re-
comforts they had at first forgiven, on account of my birth
spect for the one and gratitude for the other; and as I had
in a great measure ceased from participating in their ad-
ventures, or, during Lucy's illness, which lasted several
months, joining in their festivities, they at length consider-
ed me as a drone in a hive, by no means compensating by
my services as an ally for my admittance into their horde
as a stranger. You will easily conceive, when this once
became the state of their feelings toward me, with how ill
a temper they brooked the lordship of my stately caravan,
and my assumption of superior command. Above all, the
women, who were very much incensed at Lucy's constant
seclusion from their orgies, fanned the increasing discon-
tent; and, at last, I verily believe that no eyesore could.
have been more grievous to the Egyptians than my wooden,
habitation and the smoke of its single chimney.
From ill will, the rascals proceeded to ill acts; and
one dark night, when we were encamped on the very
BULWER'S NOVELS
same ground as that which we occupied when we received
you, three of them, Mim at their head, attacked me in mine
own habitation. I verily believe, if they had mastered me,
they would have robbed and murdered us all; except, per-
haps, my son, whom they thought I ill used, by depriving
him of Mim's instructive society. Howbeit, I was still
stirring when they invaded me, and by the help of the po-
ker, and a tolerably strong arm, I repelled the assailants;
but that very night, I passed from the land of Egypt, and
made with all possible expedition to the nearest town,
which was, as you may remember, W-
•
"Here, the very next day, I learnt that the house I now
inhabit was to be sold. It had (as I before said) belonged
to my mother's family, and my father had sold it a little
before his death. It was the home from which I had been
stolen, and to which I had been returned: often in my
starlit wanderings had I flown to it in thought; and now
it seemed as if Providence itself, in offering to any age the
asylum I had above all others coveted for it, was interested
in my retirement from the empire of an ungrateful people,
and my atonement, in rest, for my past sins in migration.
Well, sir, in short, I became the purchaser of the
place you have just seen, and I now think that, after all,
there is more happiness in reality than romance like the
laverock, here will I build my nest,
،،
"
"Here give my weary spirit rest,
And raise my low pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love.'"
And your son," said Clarence, "has he reformed ?"
"O, yes," answered Colc. "For my part, I believe
the mind is less evil than people say it is; its great charac-
teristic is imitation, and it will imitate the good as well as
the bad, if we will set the example. I thank heaven, sir,
that my boy now might go from to Dan to Beersheba, and
not filch a groat by the way."
•6
CC
What do you intend him for ?" said Clarence.
>>
"But your
May you find, and I not lose it, sir," said the wande
er reclaimed; and, shaking hands, the pair parted.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Nævia Rufo
Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur:
Cœnat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est
Nævia; si non sit Nævia, mutus erit.
Scriberet hesterna patri cum luce salutem
Nævia lux, inquit, Nævia numen, ave.
MART.
"THE last time," said Clarence to himself, "that 1
travelled this road, on exactly the same errand that I trav
el now, I do remember that I was honored by the company
of one, in all respects the opposite to mine honest host;
for, whereas in the latter there is a luxuriant and wild ec-
centricity, an open and blunt simplicity, and a shrewd
sense, which looks not after pence, but peace; 80, in the
mind of the friend of the late Lady Waddilove, there was
a flat and hedged-in primness and narrowness of thought,
an enclosure of bargains and profits of all species,
mustard pots, rings, monkeys, chains, jars, and plum-col-
ored velvet inexpressibles; his ideas, with the true alchymy
of trade, turned them all into gold; yet was he also as
shrewd and acute as he with whose character he contrasts,
-equally with him seeking comfort and gladness, and an
asylum for his old age. Strange that all tempers should
have a common object, and never a common road to it
But, since I have begun the contrast, let me hope that it
be extended in its omen unto me; let me hope that, as
my encountering with the mercantile Brown brought
me il luck in my enterprise, thereby signifying the crosses
and vexations of those who laber in the cheateries and
overreachings which constitute the vocation of the world
;
so my meeting with the philosophical Cole, who has, both
in vagrancy and rest, found cause to boast of happiness,
authorities from his studies to favor his inclination to each,
and reason to despise what he, with Sir Kenelm Digby,
would wisely call,
may
"The fading blossoms of the earth;'
nor the good word of fools, but happy love, and the bourne
of its quiet home.'
Why, he loves adventure, and faith, I can't break him
of that, for I love it too, so I think I shall get him a com-
mission in the army, in order to give him a fitting and le-
gitimate sphere wherein to indulge his propensities.
"You could not do better," said Clarence.
fine sister, what says she to your amendment?"
"O! she wrote me a long letter of congratulation upon
so my meeting with him may prove a token of good speed
it; and every other summer, she is graciously pleased to to mine errand, and thereby denote prosperity to one who
pay me a visit of three months long; at which time, I ob-seeks not riches, nor honor, nor the conquest of knaves,
serve, that poor Lucy is unusually smart and uncomfortable.
We sit in the best room, and turn out the dogs; my father-
in-law smokes his pipe in the arbor, instead of the draw-
ing-room; and I receive sundry hints, all in vain, on the
propriety of dressing for dinner. In return for these at
entions on our part, my sister invariably brings my boy a
present of a pair of white gloves, and my wife a French
riband of the newest pattern; in the evening, instead of
my reading Shakspeare, she tells us anecdotes of high life,
and, when she goes away, she gives us, in return for our hos-
pitality, a very general and very gingerly invitation to her
house. Lacy sometimes talks to me about accepting it ;
but I turn a deaf ear to all such overtures, and so we con-
tinue much better friends than we should be if we saw more
of each other.'
""
"And how long has your father-in-law been with you ?
"Ever since we have been here. He gave up his farm
and cultivates mine for me; for I know nothing of those
agricultural matters. I made his coming a little surprise,
in order to please Lucy: you should have witnessed their
meeting."
ence;
“I think I have now learned all particulars," said Clar-
"it only remains for me to congratulate you; but
are you, in truth, never tired of the monotony and sameness
of domestic life?"
"Yes' and then I do, as I have just done, saddle
Little John, and go on an excursion of three or four days,
or even weeks, just as the whim seizes me: for I never re-
jurn till I am driven back by the yearning for home, and
the feeling that, after all one's wanderings, there is no place
like it. Whether in private life, or public, sir, in parting
with a little of one's liberty one gets a great deal of com-
fort in exchange."
"I thank you truly for your frankness," said Clarence :
"it has solved many doubts with respect to you that have
often occurred to me. And now we are in the main road,
and I must bid you farewell: we part, but our paths lead to
the same object, you return to happiness, and I seek it."
Thus, half meditating, half moralizing, and drawing,
like a true lover, an omen of fear or hope from occurren-
ces in which plain reason could have perceived neither
type nor token, Clarence continued, and concluded, his
day's journey. He put up at the same little inn he had
visited three years ago, and watched his opportunity of
seeing Lady Flora alone. More fortunate in that respect,
than he had been before, such opportunity the very next
day presented to him.
CHAPTER LXIX.
Sir Valentine!
Duke.
Thur. Yonder is Silvia, and Silvia's mine.
Val. Thurio, give back.
The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
“I THINK, mamma," said Lady Flora to her mother,
"that, as the morning is so beautiful, I will go into the
pavilion to finish my drawing."
"But Lord Ulswater will be here in an hour, or per-
haps less, may I tell him where you are, and suffer him
to join you?"
"If you will accompany him," answered Lady Flora,
coldly, as she took up her portefeuille, and withdrew.
Now the pavilion was a small summer house of stone,
situated in the most retired part of the grounds belonging
to Westborough Park. It was a favorite retreat with
Lady Flora, even in the winter months, for warm carpet-
ing, a sheltered site, and a fireplace, constructed more for
comfort than economy, made it scarcely less adapted to
that season than to the more genial suns of summer
The morning was so bright and mild that Lady Flora
left
open the door as she entered; she seated herself at the
table, and, unmindful of her pretended employment, suffer-
THE DISOWNED.
229
ed the mrtefeuille to remain unopened. Leaning her cheek
upon her hand, she gazed vacantly on the ground, and
scarcely felt the tears which gathered slowly to her eyes,
but, falling not, remained within the fair lids, chill and
motionless, as if the thought which drew them there was
born of a sorrow less agitated than fixed and silent.
The shadow of a man darkened the threshold, and there
paused.
Slowly did Flora raise her eyes, and the next moment
Clarence Linden was by her side, and at her feet.
"Flora," said he, in a tone trembling with its own
emotions," Flora, have years indeed separated us for
ever, o. dare I hope that we have misconstrued each
other's hearts, and that at this moment they yearn to be
united with more than the fondness and fidelity of old?
Speak to me, Flora, one word.'
But she had sunk on the chair overpowered, surprised,
and almost insensible: and it was not for some moments
that she could utter words rather wrung from, than dicta-
ted by, her thoughts.
Cruel and insuling, for what have you come?
is it at such a time that you taunt me with the remembrance
of my past folly, or your, your" (she paused for a
moment, confused and hesitating, but presently recovering
herself, rose, and added, in a calmer tone), "Surely,
you have no excuse for this intrusion, you will suffer me
to leave you.
my cause.
""
“No !” exclaimed Clarence, violently agitated, "no!
Have you not wronged me, stung me, wounded me to the
core by your injustice! and will you not hear now how
differently I have deserved from you!-On a bed of fever
and pain I thought only of you; I rose from it animated
by the hope of winning you! Though, during the danger
of my wound, and my consequent illness, your parents
alone, of all my intimate acquaintances, neglected to
honor with an inquiry the man whom you professed to con-
scerate with your regard, yet scarcely could my hand trace
a single sentence before I wrote to you requesting an inter-
view, in order to disclose my birth, and claim your plight-
ed faith! That letter was returned to me unanswered,
unopened. My friend and benefactor, whose fortune i
now inherit, promised to call upon your father, and advocate
Death anticipated his kindness. Scarcely had
die ground closed upon his coffin, before, even impiously
occupied with you, I came to this very spot! For three
days I hovered about your house, seeking the meeting I
now enjoy! I could not any longer bear the torturing sus-
peuse I endured, -I wrote to you, your father answer-
el the letter. Here, here I have it still, read!
note well the cool, the damning insult of each line !
that you knew not of this: I rejoice at it! Can you won-
der that, on receiving it, I subjected myself no more to
such affronts? I hastened abroad. On my return I met
Where? In crowds, in the glitter of midnight
assemblies, in the whirl of what the vain call pleasure!
I observed your countenance, your manner; was there in
either a single token of endearing or regretful remem-
brance? None! I strove to harden my heart; I entered into
politics, business, intrigue, I hoped, I longed, I burned,
to forget you, but in vain !
you.
My da
a
I see
was flushed with rage, which he in vain endeavoured to con-
ceal; and the smile of scorn that he strove to summon to
his lip made a ghastly and unnatural contrast with the
"be it
lowering of his brow, and the fire of his eyes,-
so, sir," he said, slowly advancing, and confronting Cla-
rence. "You will dispute my claims to the hand Lady
Flora Ardenne has long promised to one who, however un-
worthy of the gift, knows, at least, how to defend it. It
is well; let us finish the dispute elsewhere. It is not the
first time we shall have met, if not as rivals, as foes."
Clarence turned from him without reply, for he saw Lady
Westborough had just entered the pavilion, and stood mute
aud transfixed at the door, with surprise, fear, and anger
depicted upon her regal and beautiful countenance.
"It is to you, madam," said Clarence, approaching to-
ward her, "that I venture to appeal. Your daughter and
I, four long years ago, exchanged our vows; you flattere
me with the hope that those vows were not displeasing to
you; since then, a misunderstanding, deadly to my happi-
ness and hers, divided us. I come now to explain it. My
birth may
have seemed obscure; I come to clear it my
conduct doubtful; I come to vindicate it. I find Lord
Ulswater my rival. I am willing to compare my preten-
sions to his. I acknowledge that he has titles, which I
have not, that he has wealth, to which mine is but com-
petence, but titles and wealth, as the means of happi-
ness, are to be referred to your daughter, to none else. You
have only, in an alliance with me, to consider my charac-
ter and my lineage: the latter flows from blood as pure as
that which warms the veins of my rival; the former stands
already upon an eminence to which Lord Ulswater, in his
loftiest visions, could never aspire. For the rest, madam,
I adjure you, solemnly, as you value your peace of mind,
your daughter's happiness, your freedom from the agonies
of future remorse, and unavailing regret, — I adjure you
not to divorce those whom God, who speaks in the deep
heart, and the plighted vow, has already joined. This is
a question in which your daughter's permanent woe or last-
ing happiness, from this present hour to the last sand of
life, is concerned. It is to her that I refer it, let her be
the judge.
>>
And Clarence moved from Lady Westborough, who, ag-
itated, confused, awed by the spell of a power and a na-
ture of which she had not dreamed, stood pale and speech-
less, vainly endeavouring to reply,
less, vainly endeavouring to reply, he moved from her to-
ward Lady Flora, who leant, sobbing and convulsed with
contending emotions, against the wall; but Lord Ulswater,
whose fiery blood was boiling with passion, placed himself
between Clarence and the unfortunate object of the con-
tention.
"Touch her not, approach her not!" he said, with a
fierce and menacing tone. "Till you have proved your
pretensions superior to mine, unknown, presuming, and
probably base born, as you are, you will only pass over my
body to your claims."
Clarence stood still for one moment, evidently striving
to master the wrath which literally swelled his form beyond
its ordinary proportions; and Lady Westborough, recov-
ering herself in the brief pause, passed between the two,
and, taking her daughter's arm, led her from the pavilion.
"Stay, madam, for one instant !" cried Clarence; and
he caught hold of her robe.
Lady Westborough stood quite erect and still, and draw-
"At last I heard that rumor, though it had long prece-
ded, had not belied, the truth, and that you were to be
married, married to Lord Ulswater! I will not say
what I suffered, or how idly I summoned pride to resisting her stately figure to its full height, said with that quiet
affection! But I would not have come now to molest you,
Flora,
—to trouble your nuptial rejoicings with one thought
of me, if, forgive me, I had not suddenly dreamt that I had
cause to hope you had mistaken, not rejected, my heart;
that, -- you turn away, Flora! you blush!
you weep
O, tell me, by one word, one look, that I was not de-
—
ceived!"
"No, no, Clarence," said Flora, struggling with her
tears; "it is too late, too late now! Why, why, did I
not know this before? I have promised, I am pledged!
in less than two months I shall be the wife of another!
"Never," cried Clarence, “never! You promised on
a false belief; they will not bind you to such a promise.
Who is he that claims you? I am his equal in birth,
in the world's name,
and O, by what worlds his superi-
or in love! I will advance my claim to you in his very
teeth, nay, I will not stir from these domains till you,
vour father, and my rival have repaired my wrongs,
"Be it so, sir,"-cried a voice behind, and Clarence
ed and beheld Lord Ulswater! His dark countenance
dignity by which a woman so often stills the angrier pas-
sions of men, "I lay the prayer and command of a mother
upon you, Lord Ulswater, and on you, sir, whatever be
your real rank and name, not to make mine and my daugh-
ter's presence the scene of a contest which dishonors both.
Still farther, if Lady Flora's hand and my approval be an
object of desire to either, I make it a peremptory condi
tion, with both of you, that a dispute already degrading to
her name pass not from word to act. For you, Mr. Lin-
den, if so I may call you, I promise that my daughter shal
be left free and unbiassed to give that reply to your singu.
lar conduct which I doubt not her own dignity and scuse
will suggest ! "
By heaven!" exclaimed Lord Ulswater, utterly be
side himself with rage, which, suppressed at the beginning
of Lady Westborough's speech, had been kindled into
double fury by its conclusion, "you will not suffer Lady
Flora, no, nor any one but her affianced bridegroom, her
only legitimate defender, to answer this arrogant intruder!
You cannot think that her hand, the hand of iny future
230
BULWER'S NOVELS.
wife, shall trace line or word t One who has so insulted
her with his addresses, and me with his rivalry."
"Man!" cried Clarence, abruptly, and seizing Lord
Ulswater fiercely by the arm, "there are some causes
which will draw fire from ice, beware, - beware how
you incense ine to pollute my soul with the blood of a
"What!" exclaimed Lord Ulswater.
Clarence bent down and whispered one word in his ear.
Hal that word been the spell with which the sorcerers
of old disarmed the fiend, it could not have wrought a
greater change upon Lord Ulswater's mien and face. He
staggered back several paces; the glow of his swarthy
cheek faded into a death-like paleness; the word which
passion had conjured to his tongue died there in silence;
and he stood with eyes dilated and fixed on Clarence's face,
on which their increasing gaze seemed to force some un-
willing certanty.
But Linden did not wait for him to recover his self-pos-
session, he hurried after Lady Westborough, who, with
her daughter, was hastening home.
—
"Pardon me, Lady Westborougn," he said, (as he ap-
proached,) with a tone and air of deep respect, pardon
me, but will you suffer me to hope that Lady Flora and
yourself will, in a moment of greater calmness, consider
over all I have said? and, that she,
that you, Lady
Flora, (added he, changing the object of his address,) will
vouchsafe one line of unprejudiced, unbiassed reply, to a
love which, however misrepresented and calumniated, has
in it, I dare to say, nothing that can disgrace her to whom,
with an enduring constancy, and undimmed, though unhop-
ing, ardour, it has been inviolably dedicated?'
Lady Flora, though she spoke not, lifted her eyes to his,
and in that glance was a magic which made his heart burn
with a sudden and flashing joy that atoned for the darkness
of years.
"I assure you, sir," said Lady Westborough, touched,
in spite of herself, with the sincerity and respect of Cla-
rence's bearing," that Lady Flora will reply to any letter
of explanation or proposal: for myself, I will not even see
ner answer. Where shall it be sent to you?"
"I have taken my lodgings at the inn, by your park gates.
I shall remain there, till, till,
وو
Clarence paused, for his heart was full; and, leaving the
sentence to be filled up, as his listeners pleased, he drew
himself aside from their path, and suffered them to proceed.
As he was feeding his eyes with the last glimpse of
their forms, ere a turn in the grounds snatched them from
his view, he heard a rapid step behind, and Lord Ulswater,
approaching, laid his hand upon Linden's shoulder, and
said, calmly,
"Are you furnished with proof to support the word you
uttered?"
"I am!" replied Clarence, haughtily.
"And will you favor me with it?"
"At your leisure, my lord," rejoined Clarence.
"Enough! - Name your time, and I will attend you.
“On Tuesday:
:- I require till then to produce my wit-
nesses."
>
""
CC
"So be it, yet stay
yet stay on Tuesday I have military basi-
ness at W
some miles hence, the next day let it be,
the place of meeting where you please.
"Here, then, my lord," answered Clarence ; you
have insulted me grossly, before Lady Westborough, and
your affianced bride, and before them my vindication and
answer should be given.'
"You are right," said Lord Ulswater ; "be it here,
at the hour of twelve.” Clarence bowed his assent, and
withdrew.
Lord Ulswater remained on the spot, with downcast eyes,
and a brow on which thought had succeeded passion.
If true," said he aloud, though unconsciously, "if
this be true, why then I owe him reparation, and he shall
have it at my hands. I owe it to him on my account, and
เ that of one now no more. Till we meet, I will not again
see Lady Flor; after that meeting, perhaps, I may resign
her for ever.'
رو
And with these words the young nobleman, who, despite
of many evil and overbearing qualities, had, as we have
Baid, his redeeming virtues, in which a capricious and un-
steatly generosity was one, walked slowly to the house,
wrote a brief note to Lady Westborough, the purport of
which the next chapter will disclose; and then, summoning
ais horse, flung himself on its back, and rode hastily away.
CHAPTER LXX.
We will examine if those accidents,
Which common fame calls injuries, happen to him
Deservedly or no.
The New Inn.
FROM LORD ULSWATER TO LADY WESTBOROUGH.
"FORGIVE me, dearest Lady Westborough, for my vio-
lence, you know and will allow for the infirmities of my
temper. I have to make you and Lady Flora one request,
which I trust you will not refuse me.
"Do not see or receive any communication from Mr.
Linden till Wednesday; and on that day, at the hour of
twelve, suffer me to meet him at your house. I will then
either prove him to be the basest of impostors, or, if I fail
in this, and Lady Flora honors my rival with oue sentiment
of preference, I will, without a murmur, submit to her
decree and my rejection. Dare I trust that this petition
will be accorded to one who is, with great regard and es-
" &c. &c. &c."
teem,
"This is fortunate," said Lady Westborough, gently,
to her daughter, who, leaning her head on her mother's
bosom, suffered hopes, the sweeter for their long sleep, to
"We shall
divide, if not wholly to possess, her heart.
have now time well and carefully to reflect over what will
be best for your future happiness. We owe this delay to
one to whom you have been affianced. Let us, therefore,
now merely write to Mr. Linden, to inform him of Lord
Ulswater's request; and to say that if he will meet his
lordship at the time appointed, we, that is I, shall be hap-
py to see him."
Lady Flora sighed, but she saw the reasonableness of
her mother's proposal, and, pressing Lady Westborough's
hand, murmured her assent.
"At all events," thought Lady Westborough, as she
wrote to Clarence, "the affair can but terminate to advan-
tage. If Lord Ulswater proves Mr. Linder's unworthi-
ness, the suit of the latter is, of course, at rest for ever; if
not, and Mr. Linden be indeed all that he asserts, my
daughter's choice cannot be an election of reproach. Lor‍l
Ulswater promises peaceably to withdraw his pretensions;
and though Mr. Linden may not possess his rank or fortune,
he is certainly one with whom, if of ancient blood, any
family would be proud of an alliance."
Blending with these reflections a considerable share of
curiosity and interest in a secret which partook so strongly
of romance, Lady Westborough despatched her note to
Clarence. The answer returned was brief, respectful, and
not only acquiescent in, but grateful for, the proposal.
With this arrangement both Lady Westborough and
Lady Flora were compelled, though with very different
feelings, to be satisfied; and an agreement was tacitly esta-
blished between them, to the effect that if Linden's name
passed unblemished through the appointed ordeal, Lady
Flora was to be left to, and favored in, her own election,
While, on the contrary, if Lord Ulswater succeeded in the
proof he had spoken of, his former footing in the family
was to be fully reestablished, and our unfortunate adven-
turer for ever discarded.
To this Lady Flora readily consented for with a san-
guine and certain trust in her lover's truth and honor, which
was tenfold more strong for her late suspicions, she would
not allow herself a doubt as to the result; and with an
impatience, mingled with a rapturous exhilaration of spirit,
which brought back to her the first greenness and radiancy
of her youngest years, she counted the hours and moments
to the destined day.
Meanwhile Lady Westborough, satisfied that in neither
case her daughter's happiness (i. e. marriage) could mate-
rially suffer, and with a little prepossession in favor of
Clarence, which counterbalanced in some measure his
worldly disadvantages, in comparison with the broad lands
and lofty name of Ulswater, soothed her impatience by
wondering at the singularity of Clarence's sudden reap
pearance, his mysterious secret, and the fate which, having
preserved her (beauty as she was) through her best day's
in all the brilliant tameness of patrician life, bad at last
implicated her, in the person of her daughter, in the denoue-
ment of what might be called, for such life, a very tole-
rable mystery and romance.
While such was the state of affairs at Westborough
Park, Clarence was again on horseback, and on another
THE DISOWNED.
excursion. By the noon of the day following that which
had seen his eventful meeting with Lady Flora, he found
himself approaching the extreme boundaries of the coun-
tv in which Mordaunt Court and the meinorable town of
were situated. The characteristics of the coun-
try were now materially changed from those which gave to
the vicinity of Algernon's domains its wild and uncultiva-
ted aspect.
W
now presented to the eye a vast pile of Grecian, or rather
Italian, architecture, heterogeneously blended with the
massive window, the stiff coping, and the heavy roof
which the age immediately following the revolution intro-
duced. The extent of the building, and the grandeur of
the circling demesnes, were sufluent to render the uan-
sion imposing in effect; while, perhaps, the very style of the
architecture, to our own taste, or rather associations, not
As Clarence slowly descended a hill of considerable displeasing, was calculated to conjoin a stately comfort
deficien-
steepness and length, a prospect of singular and luxurious with magnificence, and to atone in solidity for any
beauty opened to his view. The noblest of England's riv- cy in grace. At a distance from the house, and placed on
ers was seen through "turfs, and shades, and flowers," a much more commanding site, were some ancient and
pursuing its silver-winding way. On the opposite banks ivy-grown ruins, now scanty indeed, and fast mou dering
lay, embosomed in the golden glades of autumn, the busy into decay, but sufficient to show the antiquarian the re-
and populous town that from the height seemed still and mains of what once had been a hold of no ordinary size
lifeless as an enchanted city over which the mid-day sun and power. These were the wrecks of the old mansior,
hung like a guardian spirit. Behind, in sweeping diver- which was recorded by tradition to have been reduced to
sity, stretched wood and dale, and fields despoiled of their this state by accidental fire, during the banishment of its
rich harvest, yet still presenting a yellow surface to the loyal owner, in the time of the protectorate. Upon his
eye; and ever and anon some bright patch of green, de- return, the present house was erected and the rumors
manding the gaze as if by a lingering spell from the past of that day paid the builders in the gold of that great
spring; while, here and there, spire and hamlet studded | French king who well knew how to corrupt in peace as to
the landscape, or some lowly cot lay, backed by the rising devastate in war, and who found few Englishmen, in the
ground or the silent woods, white and solitary, and send- reign of the vilest of the Stuarts, proof against the example
ing up its faint tribute of smoke in spires to the altars of which their royal master had condescended to set them.
heaven. The river was more pregnant of life than its That founder of the new mansion left, however, a gal- .
banks; barge and boat were gliding gayly down the wave, lant and not ungracious name to his posterity; and his pic-
and the glad oar of the frequent and slender vessels conse- tured likeness, on which the reckless gayety, unthinking
crated to pleasure was seen dimpling the water, made by courage, and searing though frivolous vices of the age, were
distance smoother than glass.
admirably fixed upon the canvass, a portrait alike of the
individual and the times, -was still more lingeringly dwelt
upon by the exhibiting attendant and the listening visiter,
than all the grim visages and mailed figures of his nobler
and ruder ancestors, which had been snatched from the
conflagration of their ancient hall to deck the home and
monument of their glittering yet unworthy successor.
As Clarence was thus stationed, he perceived an elderly
man approach toward him. "This is fortunate," said he
to himself, "the very person I have been watching for
Well, years have passed lightly over old Wardour; still the
same precise garb, the same sturdy and slow step,
same upright form. Of a verity he is, in outward man at
least, the pink and pattern of stewards, and would have
been a fitting seneschal for Sir Hubert himself!"
On the right side of Clarence's road, as he descended
the hill, lay wide plantations of fir and oak, divided from
the road by a park paling, the uneven sides of which were
covered with brown moss, and which, at rare openings in
the young wood, gave glimpses of a park, seemingly ex-
tending over great space, the theatre of many a stately
and oaken grove, which might have served the
druids with fane and temple meet for the savage sublimity
of their worship.
copse,
Upon these unfrequent views, Clarence checked his
horse, and gazed, with emotions sweet yet bitter over the
pales, along the green expanse which they contained. And
once, when through the trees he caught a slight glimpse of
the white walls of the mansion they adorned, all the years
of his childhood seemed rolled fresh and revived upon his
heart, thrilling to its farthest depths with a mighty and
sorrowful, yet sweet, melody, and
"Singing of boyhood back, -the voices of his home."
Home! yes, amid those groves had the April of his life
lavished its mingled smiles and tears! There was the
spot hallowed by his earliest joys! and the scene of sor-
rows still more sacred than joys!—and now, after many
years, the exiled boy came back, a prosperous and thought-
ful man, to take but one brief glance of that home which
to him had been less hospitable than a stranger's dwelling,
and to find a witness, among those who remembered him,
of his very birth and identity!
He wound the ascent at last, and entering a small town
at the foot of the hill, which was exactly facing the larger
one on the opposite shore of the river, put up his horse at
one of the inns: and then, with an indifferent brow, but a
beating heart, remounted the hill, and, entering the park
by one of its lodges, found himself once more in the haunts
of his childhood!
CHAPTER LXXI.
O, the steward, the s'eward, — I might have guess'd as much.
Tales of the Crusaders.
THE evening was already beginning to close, and Clar-
was yet wandering in the park, and retracing, with
his heart's eye, each knoll, and tree, and tuft, once SO
familiar to his wanderings.
ence
At the time we shall again bring him personally before
e reader, he was leaning against an iron fence that,
running along the left wing of the house, separated the
pleasure-grounds from the park, and gazing, with folded
arms and wistful eyes, upon the scene on which the dusk
of twilight was gradually gathering.
The house was built originally in the reign of Charles
"I : it had since received alterations and additions, and
—
the
The person thus designated now drew near enough for
parlance; and, in a tone a little authoritative, though very
respectful, inquired if Clarence had any business to trans-
act with him.
"I beg pardon," said Clarence, slouching his hat over
his face,
for lingering so near the house at this hour: but
I have seen it many years ago, and, indeed, been a guest
within its walls; and it is rather my interest for an old
friend, than my curiosity to examine a new one, which you
are to blame for my trespass,
دو
O, sir," answered Mr. Wardour, a short and rather
stout man, of about sixty-four, attired in a chocolate-coat,
gray breeches, and silk stockings of the same dye, which,
by the waning light, took a sombrer and sadder hue,
"O, sir, pray make no apology. I am only sorry the
hour is so late, that I cannot offer to show you the interior
of the house: perhaps, if you are staying in the neighbor-
hood, you would like to see it to-morrow. You were here,
I take it, sir, in my old lord's time?"
"I was! upon a visit to his second son,
been boys together."
we had
"What! Master Clinton ?" cried the old man, with ex-
treme animation; and then suddenly changing his voice, ad-
ded, in a subdued and saddened tone, "Ah! poor young
gentleman, I wonder where he is now?
V
no.
C
Why, is he not in this country?" asked Clarence.
"Yes,
that is, I can't exactly say where he is,
- I wish I could, poor Master Clinton, I loved him as
"Is there any
my own son.
You surprise me," said Clarence.
thing in the fate of Clinton L'Estrange that calls forth your
pity? If so, you would gratify a much better feeling thran
curiosity if you would inform me of it. The fact is, that
I came here to seek him; for I have been absent from the
country many years, and on my return my first inquiry was
for my old friend and schoolfellow.
None knew any thing
of him in London, and I imagined, therefore, that he migh
have settled down into a country gentleman. I was fully
prepared to find him marshalling the fox-hounds or beating
232
BULWER'S NOVELS.
he preserves; and you may consequently imagine my mor-
tification on learning, at my inn, that he had not been re-
eiding here for many years; further I know not!
Ay, ay, sir, said the old steward, who had lis-
tened very attentively to Clarence's detail, "had you
pressed one of the village gossips a little closer, you would
doubtless have learned more! But it's a story I don't
much love telling, although formerly I could have talked of
Master Clinton by the hour together, to any one who would
have had the patience to listen to me."
"You have really created in me a very painful desire to
learn more," said Clarence; " and if I am not intruding on
any family secrets, you would oblige me greatly by what-
ever information you may think proper to afford to an early
and attached friend of the person in question."
"Well, sir, well," replied Mr. Wardour, who, without
imputation on his discretion, loved talking as well as any
other old gentleman of sixty-four, "if you will condescend
to step up to my house, I shall feel happy and proud to con-
verse with a friend of my dear young master's; and you are
heartily welcome to the information I can give you.
"I thank you sincerely," said Clarence; "but suffer me
to propose as an amendment to your offer, that you accom-
pany me for an hour or two to my inn "
"Nay, sir," answered the old gentleman, in a piqued
tone, "I trust you will not disdain to honor me with your
company. Thank heaven, I can afford" (an Englishman's
constant thought and expression) "to be hospitable now
and then."
Clarence, who seemed to have his own reasons for the
amendment he had proposed, still struggled against this
offer, but was at last, from fear of offending the honest
steward, obliged to accede.
Striking across a path, which led through a corner of the
plantation, to a space of ground containing a small garden,
quaintly trimmed in the Dutch taste, and a brick house of
moderate dimensions, half overgrown with ivy and jessa-
mine, Clarence and his inviter paused at the door of the
said mansion, and the latter welcomed his guest to his
abode.
"Pardon me," said Clarence, as a damsel in waiting
opened the door, "but a very severe attack of rheumatism
obliges me to keep on my hat; you will, I hope, indulge me
in my rudeness?"
"To be sure, — to be sure, sir. I myself suffer terribly
from rheumatism in the winter, though you look young,
sir, very young, to have an old man's complaint. Ah, the
people of my day were more careful of themselves, and that
is the reason we are such stout fellows in our age.
And the worthy steward looked complacently down at
legs, which very substantially filled their comely invest-
ments.
"Truc, sir," said Clarence, laying his hand upon that
of the steward, who was just about to open the door of an
apartment; "but suffer me at least to request you not to
introduce me to any of the ladies of your family. I
could not, were my very life at stake, think of affronting
them by not doffing my hat. I have the keenest sense of
what is due to the sex, and I must seriously entreat you, for
the sake of my health during the whole of the coming win-
er, to suffer our conversation not to take place in their
presence.
"Sir,
I honor your politeness," said the prim little
steward: "I, myself, like every true Briton, reverence the
ladies; we will, therefore, retire to my little study. Mary,
girl," (turning to the attendant,) "sce that we have a
nice chop for supper, in half an hour: and tell your mis-
tress that I have a gentleman of quality with me upon par-
ticular business, and must not be disturbed.”
With these injunctions, the steward led the way to the
farther end of the house, and, having ushered his guest into
a small parlour, adorned with sundry law-books, a great
map of the estate, a print of the late owner of it, a rusty
gun slung over the fireplace, two stuffed pheasants, and a
Little mahogany buffet, having, we say, led Clarence to
this sanctuary of retiring stewardshin, he placed a seat for
uim, and said,
Lot sorry
Between you
and me, sir, be it respectfully said, I am
that our little confabulation should pass alone.
Ladies are very delightful, very delightful, certainly ;
But they won't let one tell a story one's own way, — they
-they
ire fidgetty, you know, sir, fidgetty,-nothing more;
"'s a trifle, but it's unpleasant; besides, my wife was Mas-
e
!
ter Clinton's foster-mother, and she can't hear a word abou
him, without running on into a long rigmarole of what he
did as a baby, and so forth. I like people to be chatty, sir,
but not garrulous; I can't bear garrulity, at least in a
female. But, suppose, sir, we defer our story till after sup-
per? A glass of wine or warm punch makes talk glide
more easily; besides, sir, I want something to comfort me
when I talk about Master Clinton. Poor gentleman, he
was so comely, so handsome!"
"Did you think so!" said Clarence, turning toward the
fire.
"Think so!" ejaculated the steward, almost angrily;
and forthwith he launched out into an encomium on the
perfections, personal, moral, and mental, of Master Clin.
ton, which lasted till the gentle Mary entered to lay the
cloth. This reminded the old steward of the glass of wine
which was so efficacious in making talk glide easily ; and,
going to the buffet before mentioned, he drew forth two bot-
tles, both of port. Having carefully and warily decanted
both, he changed the subject of his praise, and, assuring
Clarence that the wine he was about to taste was, at least,
as old as Master Clinton, having been purchased in joyous
celebration of the young gentleman's birth-day, he whiled
away the minutes with a glowing culogy on its generous
qualities, till Mary entered with the coenatorial viands.
Clarence, with an appetite sharpened, despite his ro-
mance, by a long fast, did ample justice to the fare; and
the old steward, warming into familiarity with the vir
tues of the far-famed port, chatted and laughed in a strain
half simple and half shrewd, which rendered him no disa-
greeable or mirthless host.
The fire being stirred up to a free blaze, the hearth swept,
and all the tokens of supper, save and except the kingly
bottle and its subject glasses, being removed, the steward
and his guest drew closer to each other, and the former
began his story.
CHAPTER LXXII.
The actors are at hand, and by their show,
You shall know all that you are like to know.
Midsummer Night's Dream.
You know, probably, sir, that my late lord was twice
married by his first wife he had three children, only one
of whom, the youngest, though now the present earl, sur-
vived the first period of infancy. When Master Francis,
as we always called him, in spite of his accession to the
title of viscount, was about six years old, my lady died, and,
a year afterward, my lord married again. His second
wife was uncommonly handsome: she was a Miss Talbot,
(a Catholic,) daughter of Colonel Talbot, and niece to the
celebrated beau, Squire Talbot, of Scarsdale Park. Poor
lady! they say that she married my lord through a momen-
tary pique against a former lover.
tary pique against a former lover. However that may be,
she was a fine, high-spirited creature, very violent in tem-
per, to be sure, but generous and kind when her passion
was over; and however haughty to her equals, charitable
and compassionate to the poor.
"She had but one son, Master Clinton. Never, sir
shall I forget the rejoicings that were made at his birth;
for my lord doated on his present wife, and had disliked
his first, whom he had married for her fortune; and it was
therefore natural that he should prefer the child of the pre-
sent wife to Master Francis. Ah, it is sad to think how
love can change! Well, sir, my lord seemed literally to be
wrapt up in the infant he nursed it, and fondled it, and
hung over it, as if he had been its mother rather than its
father. My lady desired that it might be christened by one
of her family names; and my lord consenting, it was cal
led Clinton. (The wine is with you, sir! Do observe
that it has not changed color in the least, notwithstanding
its age!)
My lord was fond of a quiet, retired life; indeed, he
was a great scholar, and spent the chief part of his time
among his books.
Dr. Latinas, the young gentleman's
tutor, said his lordship made Greek verses better than Dr.
Latinas could make English ones, so you may judge of his
learning. But my lady went constantly to town, and wa
among the gayest of the gay; nor did she often come dow
here without bringing a whole troop of guests. Lord help
us, what goings on there used to be at the great house!
THE DISOWNED.
233
uch dancing and music, and dining, and supping, and
shooting parties, fishing parties, gipsy parties: you would
have thought all England was merry-making there.
"But my lord, though he indulged my lady in all her
whims and extravagance, seldom took much share in thêm
himself. He was constantly occupied with his library and
children, nor did he ever suffer either Master Francis or
Master Clinton to mix with the guests. He kept them very
close at their studies, and when the latter was six years old,
I do assure you, sir, he could say his Propria que maribus
better than I cau. - (You don't drink, sir.) When Mas-
ter Francis was sixteen, and Master Clinton eight, the
former was sent abroad on his travels with a German tutor,
and did not return to England for many years afterward;
meanwhile Master Clinton grew up to the age of fourteen,
increasing in comeliness and goodness. He was very fond
of his studies, much more so than Master Francis had been,
and was astonishingly forward for his years. So my lord
loved him better and better, and would scarcely ever suffer
him to be out of his sight.
"When Master Clinton was about the age I mentioned,
viz. fourteen, a gentleman of the name of Sir Clinton Man-
ners became a constant visiter at the house. Report said
that he was always about my lady in London, at Ranelagh,
and the ball-rooms and routs, and all the fine places, — and
certainly he was scarcely ever from her side in the pleasure
parties at the park. But my lady said that he was a cousin
of hers, and an old playmate in childhood, and so he was,
and unhappily for her, something more too. My lord,
however, shut up in his library, did not pay any attention
to my lady's intimacy with Sir Clinton; on the contrary,
as he was a cousin and friend of hers, his lordship seemed
always happy to see him, and was the only person in the
neighborhood who had no suspicion of what was going on.
"O, sir, it's a melancholy story, and I can scarcely
persuade myself to tell it. (It is really delicious wine this,
six-and-twenty years old last birth-day, -to say nothing
of its age before I bought it, Ah!) - Well, sir, the
blow came at last like a thunder-clap, my lady, finding
disguise was in vain, went off with Sir Clinton. Letters
were discovered which showed that they had corresponded
for years,
- that he was her lover before her marriage,
that she, in a momentary passion with him, had accepted
my lord's offer, that she had always repented her pre-
cipitation, and that she had called her son after his
name, all this, and much more, sir, did my lord learn, as
it were, at a single blow.
"He obtained a divorce, and Sir Clinton and my lady
went abroad. But from that time
But from that time my lord was never the
same man. Always proud and gloomy, he now became
intolerably violent and morose. He shut himself up, saw
no company of any description, rarely left the house, and
never the park, and, from being one of the gayest places
in the country, sir, the mansion became as dreary and de-
serted as if it had been haunted. (It is for you to begin
the second bottle, sir.)
"But the most extraordinary change in my lord was in
his conduct to Master Clinton, from doating upon him,
to a degree that would have spoilt any temper less sweet
than my poor young master's, he took the most violent
aversion to him. From the circumstance of his name, and
the long intimacy existing between my lady and her lover,
his lordship would not believe that Master Clinton was his
own child; and I must confess there was good ground for
his suspiciona. Besides this, Master Clinton took very
much after his mother. He had her eyes, hair, and beau-
tiful features, so that my lord could never see him without
being reminded of his disgrace: therefore, whenever the
poor young gentleman came into his presence, he would
drive him out with oaths and threats which rung through
the whole house. He could not even bear that he should
have any attendance or respect from the servants, for he
considered him quite as an alien like, and worse than a
stranger; and his lordship's only delight seemed to con-
sist in putting upon him every possible indignity and affront.
But Master Clinton was a high-spirited young gentleman,
and after having in vain endeavoured to soothe my lord by
compliance and respect, he at last utterly avoided his lord-
ship's presence.
"He gave up his studies in a great measure, and wan-
dered about the park and woods all day; and sometimes
even half the night; his mother's conduct, and his father's
unkindness seemed to prey upon his health and mind, and,
30
VOL I.
at last, he grew almost as much altered as my lord. From
being one of the merriest boys possible, full of life and
spirits, he became thoughtful and downcast, his step lost
its lightness, and his eye all the fire which used once quite
to warm one's heart when one looked at it; in short, sir,
the sins of the mother were visited as much upon the child
as the husband. (Not the least tawny, sir, you see, though
it is so old!)
My lord at first seemed to be glad that he now never
saw his son; but, by degrees, I think he missed the pleas-
ure of venting his spleen upon him; and so he ordered my
young master not to stir out without his leave, and confined
him closer than ever to his studies. Well, sir, (if it were
not for this port, I could not get out another sentence !)
there used then to be sad scenes between them; my lord
was a terribly passionate man, and said things sharper than
a two-edged sword, as the Psalms express it
it ; and though
Master Clinton was one of the mildest and best tempered
boys imaginable, yet he could not at all times curb his spir-
it; and, to my mind, when a man is perpetually declaring
he is not your father, one may now and then be forgiven in
forgetting that you are to behave as his son.
Things went on in this way sadly enough for about
three years and a half, when Master Clinton was near
eighteen. One evening, after my lord had been unusually
stormy, Master Clinton's spirit warmed, I suppose, and,
from word to word, the dispute increased, till my lord, in
a furious rage, ordered in the servants, and told them to
horsewhip his son. Imagine, sir, what a disgrace to that
noble house! But there was not one of them who would
not rather have cut off his right hand than laid a finger
upon Master Clinton, so greatly was he beloved; and, at
last, my lord summoned his own gentleman, a German, six
feet high, entirely devoted to his lordship, and commanded
him, upon pain of instant dismissal, to make use, in his
presence, of a horsewhip, which he put into his hand.
"The German did not dare to refuse, so he approached
Master Clinton. The servants were still in the room, and
perhaps they would have been bold enough to rescue Mas-
ter Clinton, had there been any need of their assistance;
but he was a tall youth, as bold as a hero, and, when the
German approached, he caught him by the throat, threw
him down, and very nearly strangled him; he then, while
my lord was speechless with rage, left the room, and did
not return all night. (What a body it has, sir, — Ah! )
"The next morning I was in a little room adjoining my
lord's study, looking over some papers and maps. His
lordship did not know of my presence, but was sitting alone
at breakfast, when Master Clinton suddenly entered the
study; the door leading to my room was ajar, and I heard
all the conversation which ensued.
CC
My lord asked him very angrily how he had dared ab-
sent himself all night but Master Clinton making no re-
ply to this question, said, in a very calm, loud voice, which
I think I hear now, My lord, after the insult you have
presumed,(yes, sir, presumed was the word,) - to offer
to me, it is perhaps unnecessary to observe that nothing
could induce me to remain under your roof. I come, there-
fore, to take my last leave of you.'
You
"He paused, and my lord, (probably, like me, being ta
ken by surprise,) making no reply, he continued.
have often told me, my lord, that I am not your son; and it
is possible that I may not be so, so much the less,
therefore, am I bound to submit to the injustice and cruelty
which the experience of nearly four years warrants me to
expect for the future, — and so much the more must you re-
joice at the idea of ridding your presence of an intruder.”
And how, sir, do you expect to live, except upon my
bounty?' exclaimed my lord. 'You remember,' answer-
ed my young master,that an humble dependant of my
mother's family, who had been our governess in childhood,
left me,
at her death, the earnings of her life. I believe
they amount to nearly a thousand pounds, — I look to your
lordship's honor either for the principal or the yearly inter-
est, as may please you best farther I ask not from you.'
And do you think, sir,' cried my lord, almost screaming
with passion, that upon that beggarly pittance you shall
go forth to dishonor, more than it is yet dishonored, the
name of my ancient house? Do you think, sir, that that
name to which you have no pretension, though the law ini
quitously grants it to you, shall be sullied either with trade
or robbery for to one or the other you must necessarily be
?
driven.' I foresaw your speech, my lord, and am prepared
234
BULWER'S NOVELS.
with an answer. Far be it from me to thrust myself into any
family, the head of which thinks proper to reject me,
far
be it from me to honor my humble fortunes with a name
which I am as willing as yourself to disown: I purpose,
herefore, to adopt a new one; and whatever may be my fu-
ture fate, that name will screen me both from your remem-
brance and the world's knowledge. Are you satisfied now,
my lord?
>
"His lordship did not answer for some minutes; at last,
he said sneeringly, Go, boy, go! I am delighted to hear
you have decided so well. Leave word with my steward
where you wish your clothes to be sent to you; God forbid
I should rob you either of your wardrobe or your princely
fortune. Wardour will transmit to you the latter, even to
the last penny, by the same conveyance as that which is
honored by the former. And now good morning, sir; yet
stay, and mark my words, -never dare to reënter my
house, or to expect an iota more of fortune or favor from
me. And, hark you, sir, — if you dare violate your word,
if you dare, during my life at least, assume a name which
you were born to sully, my curse, my deepest, heartiest,
eternal curse, be upon your head in this world and the
next!' Fear not, my lord, my word is pledged,' said the
young gentleman; and the next moment I heard his parting
step in the hall.
C
Sir, my heart was full, (your glass is empty !) and my
head spun round as if I were on a precipice: but I was de-
termined my young master should not go till I had caught
another glimpse of his bonny face, so I gently left the room
was in, and hastening out of the house by a private en-
trance, met Master Clinton in the park, not very far from
the spot where I saw you, sir, just now. To my surprise,
there was no sign of grief or agitation upon his counte-
nance: I had never seen him look so proud, or, for years,
so happy.
"Wardour,' said he, in a gay tone, when he saw me,
I was going to your house: my father has at last resolved
that I should, like my brother, commence my travels, and
I wish to leave with you the address of the place to which
my clothes, &c. will be sent.'
C
>
"I could not contain any longer when I heard this, sir ;
I burst into tears, confessed that I had accidentally heard
his conversation with my lord, and besought him not to de-
part so hastily, and with so small a fortune; but he shook
his head, and would not hear me. 'Believe me, my good
Wardour,' said he, that since my unhappy mother's flight,
I have never felt so elated or so happy as I do now: one
should go through what I have done to learn the rapture of
independence.' He then told me to have his luggage sent
to him, under his initials of C. L., at the Golden Fleece,
the principal inn in the town of W- which, you know,
sir, is at the other end of the county, on the road to Lon-
don; and then, kindly shaking me by the hand, he broke
away from me; but he turned back before he had got three
paces, and said, (and then, for the first time, the pride of
bis countenance fell, and the tears stood in his eyes,) War-
dour, do not divulge what you have heard: put as good a
face upon my departure as you can, and let the blame, if
any, fall upon me, not upon your master: after all, he is to
be pitied, not blamed, and I can never forget that he once
loved me.' He did not wait for my answer, perhaps he did
not like to show me how much he was affected, but hurried
down the park, and I soon lost sight of him. My lord that
very morning sent for me, demanded what address his son
had left, and gave me a letter, enclosing, I suppose, a bill
for my poor young master's fortune, ordering it to be sent
with the clothes immediately.
sir,
C
"Sir, I have never seen or heard aught of the dear gen-
tlenian since you must forgive me, I cannot help tears,
(the wine is with you.”)
"But the mother, the mother!" said Clarence, earnest-
ly, "what became of her she died abroad, two years
since, did she not ?"
"She did, sir," answered the honest steward, refilling
his glass. "They said that she lived very unhappily with
Sir Clinton, who did not marry her, owing, I believe, to
her religion, till all of a sudden she disappeared, none
knew whither."
Clarence redoubled his attention.
on her death-bed, and so affectingly, I suppose, that even
my stern lord was in tears for several days after he received
it. But the principal passage in it was relative to her son:
it assured my lord, (for so with his own lips he told me just
before he died, four months ago,) that Master Clinton was
in truth his son, and that it was not till she had been tempt-
ed many years after her marriage, that she had fallen; she
implored my lord to believe this on the word of one for
whom earth and earth's objects were no more;' those were
her words.
"At last," resumed the steward, "two years ago, a let-
ver caine from her to my lord; she was a nun in some con-
vent, (in Italy, I think,) to which she had at the time of
her disappearance secretly retired. The letter was written
>
"Six months ago, when my lord lay on the bed from
which he never rose, he called me to him, and said, -
Wardour, you have always been the faithful servant o
our house, and warmly attached to my second son; tell my
poor boy, if ever you see him, that I did at last open my
eyes to my error, and acknowledge him as my child; tell
him that I have desired his brother, (who was then, sir,
kneeling by my "d's side,) as he values my blessing, to
seek him out and repair the wrong I have done him; and
add, that my best comfort in death was the hope of his for
giveness!"
"Did he, did he say that?" exclaimed Clarence, who
had been violently agitated during the latter part of this
recital, and now sprung from his seat, -"My father, my
father would that I had borne with thee more,- mine,-
mine was the fault, from him should have come the for-
giveness."
The old steward sat silent and aghast. At that instant
his wife entered, with a message of chiding at the lateness
of the hour upon her lip, but she started back when she saw
Clarence's profile, as he stood leaning against the wall:
"Good heavens!" cried she, " is it, is it, yes, it is my
young master, my own foster-son !
Rightly had Clarence conjectured, when he had shunned
her presence. Years had, indeed, wrought a change in his
figure and face: acquaintance, servant, friend, relation, the
remembrance of his features had passed from all; but she
who had nursed him as an infant on her lap, and fed him
from her breast, she who had joined the devotion of clan-
ship to the fondness of a mother, knew him at a glance.
"Yes," cried he, as he threw himself into her withered
and aged arms, "it is I, the child you reared, come, after
many years, to find too late, when a father is no more,
that he had a right to a father's home."
CHAPTER LXXIII.
Let us go in,
And charge us there upon interrogatories,
And all will answer all things faithfully.
SHAKSPEARE.
"BUT did not any one recognise you in your change of
name?" said the old foster-mother, looking fondly upon
Clarence, as he sat the next morning by her side.
could one forget so winsome a face who had once seen it ?"
"How
"You don't remember," said Clarence, (as we will yet
continue to call our hero,) smiling, " that your husband had
forgotten it.
CC
Ay, sir," cried the piqued steward, "but that was be-
cause you wore your hat slouched over your eyes; if you
had taken off that, I should have known you directly.'
"However that may be," said Clarence, unwilling to
dwell longer on an occurrence which he saw hurt the
feelings of the kind Mr. Wardour, "it is very easy to ex
plain how I preserved my incognito. You recollect that
my father never suffered me to mix with my mother's guests:
so that I had no chance of their remembering me, espe
cially as, during the last three years and a half, no stranger
had ever entered our walls. Add to this, that I was in the
very time of life in which a few years work the greatest
change, and on going to London, I was thrown entirely
among people who could never have seen me before. For-
tunately for me, I became acquainted with my mother's
uncle, circumstances subsequently led me to disclose my
birth to him, upon a promise that he would never call me
by any
other name than that which I had assumed.
who was the best, the kindest, the most generous of human
beings, took a liking to me. He insisted not only upon his
relationship to me, as iny grand unclo, but upon the justice
of repairing to me the wrongs his unhappy niece had caused
The delicacy of his kindness, -- the ties of blood, ·
me.
He,
THE DISOWNED.
235
and an acride. which had enabled me to be of some ser-
vice to him, all prevented my resisting the weight of obli-
gation with which he afterward oppressed me. He procured
me an appointment abroad: I remained there four years.
When I returned, I entered, it is true, into very general
society; but four years had, as you may perceive, altered
me greatly; and even had there previously existed any
chance of any being recognised, that alteration would,
probably, have been sufficient to ensure my secret."
"But your brother, my present lord, did you never
meet him, sir?"
CC
Often, my good mother; but you remember that I was
little more than six years old when he left England, and
when he next saw me I was about two and twenty: it
would have been next to a miracle, or, at least, would have
required the eyes of love like yours to have recalled me to
memory after such an absence.
"Well, -to return to my story, -I succeeded, partly
as his nearest relation, but principally from an affection
dearer than blood, to the fortune of my real uncle and
adopted father. Fate prospered with me: I rose in the
world's esteem and honor, and soon became prouder of my
borrowed appellation than of all the titles of my lordly line.
Circumstances occurring within the last week, which it
will be needless to relate, but which may have the greatest
influence over my future life, made it necessary to do what
I had resolved I would never do, prove my identity and
origin. Accordingly I came here to seek you."
But why did not my honored young master disclose
himself last night?" asked the steward.
"I might say," answered Clarence, "because I antici-
pated great pleasure in a surprise; but I had another rea-
son, -it was this: I had heard of my poor father's death,
and I was painfully anxious to learn if at the last he had
testified any relenting toward me, and yet more so to
ascertain the manner of my unfortunate mother's fate.
Both abroad and in England, I had sought tidings of her
everywhere, but in vain in mentioning my mother's re-
tiring into a convent, you have explained the reason why
my efforts were so fruitless. With these two objects in
view, I thought myself more likely to learn the whole truth
as a stranger than in my proper person; for in the latter
case I deemed it probable that your delicacy and kindness
might tempt you to conceal whatever was calculated to
wound my feelings, and to exaggerate any thing that might
tend to flatter or to soothe them. Thank heaven, I now
learn that I have a right to the name my boyhood bore, that
birth is not branded with the foulest of private crimes,
and that in death my father's heart yearned to his too hasty
but repentant son. Enough of this, I have now only to
request you, my friend, to accompany me, before daybreak,
on Wednesday morning, to a place several miles hence.
Your presence there will be necessary to substantiate the
my
proof for which I came hither.'
"With all my heart, sir," cried the honest steward;
"and after Wednesday you will, I trust, resume your
rightful name ?”
Certainly," replied Clarence; "since neither I, nor
the memory of him from whom I inherit it, have any longer
a reason for shame at its possession."
Leaving Clarence now for a brief while to renew his ac-
quaintance with the scenes of his childhood, and to offer
the tribute of his filial tears to the ashes of a father whose
injustice had been but "the stinging of a heart the world
had stung,"
we return to some old acquaintances in the
various conduct of our drama.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
Upon his couch the veiled Mokanna lay.
The Veiled Prophet.
THE autumn sun broke through an apartment in a villa
in the neighbourhood of London, furnished with the most
prodigal, yet not tasteless, attention to luxury and show,
within which, beside a table strewed with newspapers, let-
ers, and accounts, lay Richard Crauford, extended care-
essly upon a sofa, which might almost have contented the
Sybarite, who quarrelled with a rose leaf. At his elbow
was a bottle half emptied, and a wine glass just filled.
An expression of triumph and enjoyment was visible upon
his handsome, but usually inexpressive, countenance.
S
-
"Well," said he, taking up a newspaper, "let us rea
this paragraph again. What a beautiful sensation it is to
see one's name in print! 'We understand that Richard
Crauford, Esq., M. P. for is to be raised to the dig-
nity of the peerage. There does not, perhaps, exist in the
country a gentleınan more universally beloved and esteem-
ed,' — (mark that, Dicky Crauford.)—The invariable
generosity with which his immense wealth has been em-
ployed, his high professional honor, the undeviating
and consistent integrity of his political career,' (ay, t
be sure, it is only your honest fools who are inconsistent,
no man can deviate who has one firm principle, self-inter-
est,*) — his manly and energetic attention to the welfare
of religion,' (he, he, he!) conjoined to a fortune a
most incalculable, render this condescension of our gracious
sovereign no less judicious than deserved! We hear that
the title proposed for the new peer is that of Viscount In-
nisdale, which, we believe, was formerly in the noble fam-
ily of which Mr. Crauford is a distant branch.'
"He he he! Bravo! bravo! Viscount Innisdale !
—
noble family, distant branch, the devil I am!
What an ignoramus my father was, not to know that!
Why, rest his soul, he never knew who his grandfather
was; but the world shall not be equally ignorant of that
important point. Let me see, who shall be Viscount Innis-
dale's great grandfather? Well, well, whoever he is,
here's long life to his great grandson ! 'Incalculable for-
tune!' Ay, ay, I hope, at all events, it will never be cal
culated. But now for my letters. Bah, this wine is a
thought too acid for the cellars of Viscount Iunisdale!
What, another from mother H- ! Dark eyes, small
mouth, sings like an angel, — eighteen! Pish! I am
too old for such follies now; 'tis not pretty for Viscount
Innisdale. Humph! - Lisbon, -seven hundred pounds
five shillings and seven pence,- halfpenny, is it, or farth-
ing? I must note that down. Loan for the King of Prus-
sia. Well, must negotiate that to-morrow. Ab, Hockit,
the wine-merchant,-pipe of claret in the docks, vint
age of 17. Bravo! all goes smooth for Viscount Innis
dale! Pish! from my damnable wife! What a pil for
my lordship! What says she?
"Dawlish, Devonshire.
"You have not, my dearest Richard, answered my let-
of your silence: I know well that you have a great deal to
ters for months. I do not, however, presune to complain
occupy your time, both in business and pleasure. But one
little line, dear Richard, one little line, surely, that is not
too much now and then. I am most truly sorry to trouble
be as saving as possible;'-[Pish!
you again about money: and you must know that I strive to
-curse the woman,
sent her twenty pounds three months ago !] - but I re-
ally am so distressed, and the people here are so pressing;
and at all events, I cannot bear the thought of your wife
being disgraced. Pray, forgive me, Richard, and believe
how painful it is in me to say so much. I know you will
answer this! and, O, do, do, tell me how you are.
"Ever your affectionate wife,
´´ CAROLINE CRAUFORD.'
"Was there ever poor man so plagued?
-Where's my
note-book? Mem. Send Car. tomorrow 201. to last her
the rest of the year. Mem. Send Mother H-
Mem. Pay Hockit's bill 8301. Bless me what shall I do
with Viscountess Innisdale? Now, if I were not married,
I would be son-in-law to a duke. Mem. Go down to
Dawlish, and see if she won't die soon. Healthy situa-
tion, I fear, devilish unlucky, must be changed. Mem.
Swamps in Essex. Who's that?”
5001.
A knock at the door disturbed Mr. Crauford in his med-
itations. He started up, hurried the bottle and glass under
the sofa, where the descending drapery completely hid
them; and, taking up a newspaper, said in a gentle tone,
"Come in." A small, thin man, bowing at every step,
entered.
CC
"Ah! Bradley, is it you, my good fellow?" said Crau-
ford,.
glad to see you, -a fine morning; but what
brings you from town so early?"
k
CC
Why, sir," answered Mr. Bradley, very obsequiously,
something unpleasant has—"
"Merciful heaven!" cried Crauford, blanched into the
whiteness of death, and starting up from the sofa with a
Singular confusion of terms! Self-interest was also the
prevailing principle of Mordaunt's philosophy!
*
23€
BULWER'S NOVELS.
violence which frightened the timid Mr. Bradley to the oth-ly preceding that appointed for the far famed meeting a
er end of the room,— "the counting house, the books,
all safe?"
"Yes, sir, yes, at present, but,
"But what, man?"
Why, honored sir," resumed Mr. Bradley, bowing to
the ground, "your partner, Mr. Jessopp, has been very in-
quisitive about the accounts. He says, Mr. Da Costa, the
Spanish merchant, has been insinuating very unpleasant
hints, and that he must have a conversation with you at
your earliest convenience; and when, sir, I ventured to
remonstrate about the unreasonableness of attending to
what Mr. Da Costa said, Mr. Jessopp was quite abusive,
and declared that there seemed some very mysterious com-
munication between you (begging your pardon, sir,) and
me, and that he did not know what business I, who had no
share in the firm, had to interfere."
"But," said Crauford, "you were civil to him, did
not reply hotly, —eh, my good Bradley ?"
“Lord forbid, sir, -Lord forbid, that I should not know
my place better, or that I should give an unbecoming word
to the partner of my honored benefactor. But, sir, if I
dare venture to say so, I think Mr. Jessopp is a little jeal-
ous, or so, of you; he seemed quite in a passion at a para-
graph in the paper, about my honored master's becoming a
lord."
ng
we must
"Right, honest Bradley, right: he is jealous,
soothe him. Go, my good fellow, go to him with my
compliments, and say, that I will be with him by one.
Never fear, this business will be easily settled."
And bowing himself out of the room, Bradley withdrew.
Left alone, a dark cloud gathered over the brow of Mr.
Crauford.
"I am on a precipice," thought he; "but if my own
brain does not turn giddy with the prospect, all yet may be
safe. Cruel necessity, that obliged me to admit another
into the business, that foiled me of Mordaunt, and drove
me upon this fawning rascal. So, so,- I almost think
there is a providence, now that Mordaunt has grown rich;
but then his wife died, ay, God saved him, but the
devil killed her. He, he, he! But seriously,
riously, there is danger in the very air I breathe! I must
away to that envious Jessopp instantly; but first let me
finish the bottle.”
CHAPTER LXXV.
A strange harmonious inclination
Of all degrees to reformation.
Hudibras.
se-
ABOUT seven miles from W-, on the main road from
there was in 17- a solitary public house; which,
by the by, is now a magnificent hotel. Like many of its
brethren in the more courtly vicinity of the metropolis, this
amanum hospitium peregrinæ gentis, then had its peculiar
renown for certain dainties of the palate; and various in
degree and character were the numerous parties from the
neighboring towns and farms, which upon every legitimate
holyday were wont to assemble at the mansion of mine
host of "the Jolly Angler," in order to feast upon eel-pie,
and grow merry over the true Herefordshire cider.
But upon that especial day on which we are about to in-
troduce our reader into the narrow confines of its common
parlour, the said hostel was crowded with persons of a
very different description from the peaceable idlers who
were ordinarily wont to empty mine host's larder, and for-
get the price of corn over the divine inspirations of poma-
rial nectar Instead of the indolent, satisfied air of the
saturnalian merry-maker, the vagrant angler, or the gen-
tleman farmer, with his comely dame who "walked in silk|
attire, and siller had to spare; " instead of the quiet yet
giad countenances of such hunters of pleasure and caters
of ecl-pie, or the more obstreperous joy of urchins let loose
from school to taste some brief and perennial recreation,
and mine host's delicacies at the same time; instead of
these, the little parlour presented a various and perturbed
group, upon whose features neither cel-pic nor Hereford-
shire cider had wrought the relaxation of a holyday, or the
serenity of a momentary content.
The day to which we now refer was the one immediate-
* Voitaire. "Dieu a pusi ce fripon, le diable a noyé les
autres." Candide.
-
W. ; and many of the patriots, false or real, who jour
neyed from a distance to attend that rendezvous, had halt-
ed at our host's of the Jolly Angler; both as being within
a convenient space from the appointed spot, and as a tab-
ernacle where promiscuous intrusion, and (haply) immode-
rate charges, were less likely to occur than at the bustling
and somewhat extortionary hotels and inns of the town of
W
The times in which this meeting was held were those of
great popular excitement and discontent; and the purport
of the meeting proposed was to petition parliament against
the continuance of the American war, and the king against
the continuance of his ministers.
Placards, of an unusually inflammatory and imprudent
nature, had given great alarm to the more sober and well
disposed persons in the neighborhood of W- -; and so
much fear was felt or assumed upon the occasion, that a
new detachment of Lord Ulswater's regiment had been es
pecially ordered into the town; and it was generally ru-
mored that the legal authorities would interfere, even by
force, for the dispersion of the meeting in question. These
circumstances had given the measure a degree of general
and anxious interest which it would not otherwise have ex-
cited; and while every body talked of the danger of at-
tending the assembly, every body resolved to thrust himself
into it.
It was about the goodly hour of noon, and the persons
assembled were six in number, all members of the most
violent party, and generally considered by friend and foe
as embracers of republican tenets. One of these, a little,
oily, corpulent personage, would have appeared far too sleek
and well fed for a disturber of things existing, had not a
freckled, pimpled, and fiery face, a knit brow, and a small
black eye of intolerable fierceness, belied the steady and
contented appearance of his frame and girth. This gen-
tleman, by name Christopher Culpepper, spoke in a quick,
muffled, shuffling sort of tone, like the pace of a Welsh
pony, somewhat lame, perfectly broken-winded, but an ex-
emplary ambler for all that.
Next to him sat, with hands clasped over his knees, a
thin, small man,
thin, small man, with a countenance prematurely wrinkled,
and an air of great dejection. Poor Castleton! his had
been, indeed, the bitter lot of a man, honest but weak,
who attaches himself, heart and soul, to a public cause
which, in his life at least, is hopeless. Three other men
were sitting by the open window, disputing, with the most
vehement gestures, upon the character of Wilkes; and at
the other window, alone, silent, and absorbed, sat a man
whose appearance and features were singularly calculated
to arrest and concentrate attention. His raven hair, griz-
zled with the first advance of age, still preserved its strong,
wiery curl, and luxuriant thickness His brows, large,
bushy, and indicative of great determination, met over eyes
which, at that moment, were fixed upon vacancy with a
look of thought and calmness very unusual to their ordina-
ry restless and rapid glances. His mouth, that great seat
of character, was firmly and obstinately shut; and though,
at the first observation, its downward curve and iron se-
verity wore the appearance of unmitigated harshness, dis-
dain, and resolve, yet a more attentive deducer of signs
from features would not have been able to detect in its ex-
pression any thing resembling selfishness or sensuality, and
in that absence would have found sufficient to redeem the
more repellant indications of mind which it betrayed.
Presently the door was opened, and the landlord, mak-
ing some apology to both parties for having no other
apartment unoccupied, introduced a personage whose dress
and air, as well as a kind of saddle bag, which he would
not intrust to any other bearer than himself, appeared to
denote him as one rather addicted to mercantile than polit-
ical speculations. Certainly he did not seem too much at
home among the patriotic reformers who, having glared
upon him for a single moment, renewed, without remark,
their several attitudes or occupations.
The stranger, after a brief pause, approached the solitary
reformer whom we last described; and making a saluta-
tion, half timorous and half familiar, thus accosted him,-
"Your servant, Mr. Wolfe, your servant. I think I
had the pleasure of hearing you a long time ago at the
Westminster election: very eloquent you were, sir, very!”
Wolfe looked up for an instant at the face of the speak
er, aud, not recoguising it, turned abruptly away, threw
THE DISOWNED.
237
open the window, and, leaning out, appeared desirous of
escaping from all further intrusion on the part of the stran-
ger: but that gentleman was by no means of a nature easi-
ly abashed.
"Fine day, sir, for the time of year, very fine day,
indeed. October is a charming month, as my lamented
friend and customer, the late Lady Waddilove, was accus-
tomed to say.
Talking of that, sir, as the winter is now
approaching, do you not think it would be prudent, Mr.
Wolfe, to provide yourself with an umbrella? I have an
admirable one which I might dispose of: it is from the
effects of the late Lady Waddilove. Brown,' said her
ladyship, a short time before her death, Brown, you
are a good creature; but you ask too much for the Dres-
den vase.
We have known each other a long time, you
must take fourteen pounds ten shillings, and you may have
that umbrella, in the corner, into the bargain. Mr. Wolfe,
the bargain was completed, and the umbrella became
mine, it may now be yours.'
And so saying, Mr. Brown, depositing his saddle-bag
on the ground, proceeded to unfold an umbrella of singu-
lar antiquity and form, a very long stick, tipped with
ivory, being surmounted with about a quarter of a yard of
sca-green silk, somewhat discolored by time and wear.
"It is a beautiful article, sir," said Mr. Brown, admir-
ingly surveying it, --" is it not?"
"Pshaw!" said Wolfe, impatiently, "what have I
to do with your goods and chattels ? go and palm the
cheatings and impositions of your pitiful trade upon some
casier gull."
''
Cheatings and impositions, Mr. Wolfe!" cried the
slandered Brown, perfectly aghast: "I would have you
to know, sir, that I have served the first families in the
country, ay, and in this county too, and never had such
words applied to me before. Sir, there was the late Lady
Waddilove, and the respected Mrs. Minden, and her nephew,
the ambassador, and the Duchess of Pugadale, and Mr.
Mordaunt, of Mordaunt Court, poor gentleman, though
he is poor no more," and Mr. Brown proceeded to enume-
rate the long list of his customers.
Now, we have stated that Wolfe, though he had never
known the rank of Mordaunt, was acquainted with his
real name; and, as the sound caught his ear, he muttered,
Mordaunt, Mordaunt, ay, but not my former ac-
quaintance, not him who was called Glendower. No, no,—
the man cannot mean him.”
kr
"Yes, sir, but I do mean him," cried Brown, in a rage.
"I do mean that Mr. Glendower, who afterward took
another name, but whose real appellation is Mr. Algernon
Mordaunt, of Mordaunt Court, in this county, sir.”
ra-
"What description of man is he?" said Wolfe;
ther tall, slender, with an air and mien like a king's, I
was going to say, but better than a king's, like a
freeman's?"
CC
•
Ring the bell, then, and summon the landlord," said,
very pertinently, one of the three disputants upon the char-
acter of Wilkes.
The landlord appeared; dinner was ordered.
"Pray," said Wolfe," has that man, Mr. Brown, I
think he called himself, left the inn?"
"He has, sir, for he was mightily offended at something
which
"And how far," interrupted Wolfe, "hence does Mr.
Mordaunt live?
"
"About five miles on the other side of W.
answered mine host.
66
95
Wolfe rose, seized his hat, and was about to depart.
Stay, stay," cried citien Christopher Culpepper;
you will not leave us till after dinner?"
"I shall dine at W "answered Wolfe, quitting
the room.
"Then our reckoning will be heavier," said Culpepper.
"It is not handsome in Wolfe to leave us,― whe w!
Really I think that our brother in the great cause has of
late relaxed in his attentions and zeal to the goddess of our
devotions, whe w!
>>
"It is human nature!" cried one of the three dispo
tants upon the character of Wilkes.
"It is not human nature!" cried the second disputant,
folding his arms doggedly, in preparation for a discussion.
"Contemptible human nature!" exclaimed the third
disputant, soliloquizing with a supercilious expression of
hateful disdain.
"Poor human nature!" murmured Castleton, looking
upward with a sigh; and though we have not given to that
gentleman other words than these, we think they are almost
sufficient to let our readers into his character.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
Silvis, ubi passim
Palantes error certo de tramite pellit,
Ille sinistrorsum hic dextrorsum abit; unus utrique
Error, sed variis illudit partibus.
HORAT.
As Wolfe strode away from the inn, he muttered to
himself,
"Can it be that Mordaunt has suddenly grown rich?
If so, I rejoice at it. True, that he was not for our cause,
but he had the spirit and the heart which belonged to it.
Had he not been bred among the prejudices of birth,
or had he lived in stormier times, he might have been the
foremost champion of freedom. As it is, I rather lament
than condemn. Yet I would fain see him once more. Per-
haps prosperity may have altered his philosophy. But cau
he, indeed, be the same Mordaunt of whom that trading
itinerant spoke? Can he have risen to the pernicious emi-
nence of a landed aristocrat? Well, it is worth the jour-
ney; for if he have power in the neighbourhood, I am
certain that he will exert it for our protection; and at the
worst, I shall escape from the idle words of my compa-
Ay, ay, the same," answered Mr. Brown, sullenly;
but why should I tell you, cheating and imposition,'
indeed! — I am sure my word can be of no avail to you,
and I shan't stay here any longer to be insulted, Mr.
Wolfe, — which, I am sure, talking of freemen, no free-triots. O! if it were possible that the advocates could
man ought to submit to; but as the late Lady Waddilove
ɔnce very wisely said to me, Brown, never have any thing
to do with those republicans, they are the worst tyrants of
all.' Good morning, Mr. Wolfe, gentlemen, your ser-
vant, cheating and imposition,' indeed!" and Mr.
Brown banged the door as he departed.
"Wolfe," said Mr. Christopher Culpepper,
that man?"
"who is
"I know not," answered the republican, laconically,
and gazing on the ground, apparently in thought.
|
debase the glory of the cause, how long since should I
have flinched from the hardship and the service to which
my life is devoted! Self-interest, Envy, that snarls at
all above it, without even the beast's courage to bite,-
Folly, that knows not the substance of freedom, but loves
the glitter of its name,- Fear, that falters, Crime, that
seeks in licentiousness an excuse, Disappointment, only
craving occasion to rail,-Hatred,- Sourness, consting of
zeal, but only venting the blackness of rancor and evil
passion, all these make our adherents, and give our foes
"He has the air of a slave," quoth the free Culpepper, the handle and the privilege to scorn and to despise. But
and slaves cannot bear the company of freemen; there- man chooses the object, and fate only furnishes the tools.
fore he did right to go, whew! -Had we a pro-Happy for our posterity, that when the object is once gained,
per, and thorough, and efficient reform, human nature
would not be thus debased by trades, and callings, and
barte.'s, and exchange, for all professons are injurious to the
character and the dignity of man, whe w!-but, as 1
shall prove upon the hustings to-morrow, it is in vain to
hope for any amendment in the wretched state of things
until the people of these realms are fully, freely, and fairly
represente:!, whe w! Gentlemen, it is past two,
and we have not ordered dinner, whe
(N. B.
this ejaculation denotes the kind of snufile which lent
peculiar energy to the dicta of Mr. Culpepper.)
gd
ود ! W
the frailty of the tools will be no more! "
Thus soliloquizing, the republican walked rapidly on-
ward, till a turn of the road brought before his eye the
form of Mr. Brown, seated upon a little rough pony, and
whistling as he went, for want of thought."
"Wolfe quickened his pace, and soon overtook him.
"You must forgive me, my good man," said he sooth-
ingly, “I meant not to impeach your honesty or your cal
ing. Perhaps I was hasty and peevish; and, in sad
earnest, I have much to tease and distract me.
"Well, sir, well," answered Mr. Brown, greatly molli
239
BULWER'S NOVELS.
fied: "I am sure no Christian can be m ne forgiving than
I am; and since you are sorry for what you were pleased
let us think no more about it. But touching the
umbrella, Mr. Wolfe, -have you a mind for that interest-
ing and useful relic of the late Lady Waddilove?"
to say,
Not at present, I thank you," said Wolfe, mildly:
"I care little for the inclemencies of the heavens, and you
may find many to whom your proffered defence from them
may be more acceptable. But tell me if the Mr. Mor-
daunt you mentioned was ever residing in town, and in
very indifferent circunstances!
دو
Probably he was," said the cautious Brown, who, as
we before said, had been bribed into silence, and who now
grievously repented that passion had betrayed him into the
Imprudence of candor; but I really do not busy myself
about other people's affairs. Brown,' said the late Lady
Waddilove to me, 'Brown, you are a good creature,
and never talk of what does not concern you. Those, Mr.
Wolfe, were her ladyship's own words!"
CC
"As you please," said the reformer, who did not want
shrewdness, and saw that his point was already sufficiently
gained; as you please. And now, to change the sub-
ject, I suppose we shall have your attendance at the meet-
ing at W.
-to-morrow?"
"Ah," replied the worthy Brown; "I thought it likely
I should meet many of my old customers in the town on
such a busy occasion; so I went a little out of my way
home to London, in order to spend a night or two there.
Indeed, I have some valuable articles for Mr. Glumford,
the magistrate, who will be in attendance to morrow.'
"They say
"observed Wolfe," that the magistrates,
against all law, right, and custom, will dare to interfere
with, and resist, the meeting. Think you report says
true ?"
,,
"Nay," returned Brown, prudently, "I cannot ex-
actly pretend to decide the question: all I know is that
Squire Glumford said to me, at his own house, five days
ago, as he was drawing on his boots, Brown,' said he,
Brown, mark my words, we shall do for those rebellious
dogs!"
•
-
:
"Did he say so?" muttered Wolfe between his teeth.
"O, for the old times, or those yet to come, when our an-
swer would have been, or shall be, the sword!
"And you know," pursued Mr. Brown, "that Lord
Ulswater and his regiment are in the town, and have even
made great preparations against the meeting a week ago.
"I have heard this," said Wolfe; "but I cannot think
that any body of armed men dare interrupt or attack a
convocation of peaceable subjects, met solely to petition
parliament against famine for themselves and slavery for
their children.
rue,
A
>>
"Famine!" quoth Mr. Brown. "Indeed it is very
very!
times are dreadfully bad. I can scarcely
get my own living, - parliament certainly ought to do
something; but you must forgive me, Mr. Wolfe; it may
be dangerous to talk with you on these matters; and, now
I think of it, the sooner I get to W- the better, good
morning, a shower's coming on, you won't have the
umbrella, then?"
"
CC
-
They dare not," said Wolfe to himself, no, no,
they dare not attack us, they dare not;" and clenching
his fist, he pursued, with a quicker step, and more erect
mien, his solitary way.
W
>
When he was about the distance of three miles from
he was overtaken by a middle-aged man, of a
frank air and a respectable appearance. "Good day, sir,
said he; "we seem to be journeying the same way, will
be against your wishes to join company?"
Wolfe assented, and the stranger resumed:
ɛuppose, sir, you intend to be present at the meeting
at W- to-morrow. There will be an immense con-
course, and the entrance of a new detachment of soldiers,
and the various reports of the likelihood of their interfer-
ence with the assembly, make it an object of some interest
and anxiety to look forward to."
"True, true, " said Wolfe, slowly, eyeing his new
acquaintance with a deliberate and scrutinizing attention.
"It will, indeed, be interesting to see how far an evil and
hardy government will venture to encroach upon the rights
of the people, which it ruins while it pretends to rule."
"Of a truth," rejoined the other, "I rejoice that I am
no politician. I believe my spirit is as free as any cooped
in the narrow dungeon of earth's clay can well be; yet I
|
|
confess that it has drawn none of its liberty from book
pamphlet, speech, or newspaper, of modern times."
"So much the worse for you, sir," said Wolfe, sourly,
"the man who has health and education can find no excuso
for supineness or indifference to that form of legislation by
which his country decays or prospers."
CC
Why," said the other gayly," I willingly confess my.
self less of a patriot than a philosopher; and as long as 1
am harmless, I strive very little to be useful in a public ca.
pacity; in a private one, as a father, a husband, and a
neighbour, I trust I am not utterly without my value."
Pish!" cried Wolfe; "let no man who forgets his
public duties prate of his private merits. I tell you, man,
that he who can advance by a single hair's-breadth the hap
piness or the freedom of mankind, has done more to save
his own soul than if he had paced every step in the narrow
circle of his domestic life with the regularity of clock-
work.'
"You may be right," quoth the stranger, carelessly;
"but I look on things in the mass, and perhaps see only
the superficies, while you, I perceive already, are a lover
of the abstract. For my part, Harry Fielding's two defi-
nitions seem to me excellent. Patriot, a candidate
for a place!' 'Politics, the art of getting such a place !
Perhaps, sir, as you seem a man of education, you remem
ber the words of our great novelist ?"
"No!" answered Wolfe, a little contemptuously, "I
cannot say that I burden my memory with the deleterious
witticisms and shallow remarks of writers of fancy. It
has been a mighty and spreading evil to the world, that the
vain fictions of the poets, or the exaggerations of novelists,
have been hitherto so welcomed and extolled. Better had
it been for us if the destruction of the lettered wealth at
Alexandria had included all the lighter works which have
floated, from their very levity, down the stream of time,
an example and a corruption to the degraded geniuses of
later days."
The eyes of the stranger sparkled. "Why, you out-
goth the Goth!" exclaimed he, sharply. "But you surely
preach against what you have not studied. Confess that
you are but slightly acquainted with Shakspeare, and Spen-
ser, and noble Don Chaucer. Ay, if you knew them as
well as I do, you would, like me, give
"To hem faith and full credence,
And in your heart have hem in reverence."
"Pish!" again muttered Wolfe; and then rejoined
aloud, "It grieves me to see time so wasted, and judgment
so perverted, as yours appear to have been; but it fills me
with pity and surprise, as well as grief, to find that, so far
from shame at the effeminacy of your studies, you appear
to glory and exult in them."
CC
May the Lord help me, and lighten thee," said Cole,
for it was he. "You are at least not a novelty in hu-
nan wisdom, whatever you may be in character; for you
are far from the only one proud of being ignorant, and pity.
ing those who are not so.
Wolfe darted one of his looks of fire at the speaker,
who, nothing abashed, met the glance with an eye, if not as
fiery, at least as bold.
"I see," said the republican, "that we shall not agree
upon the topics you have started. If you still intrude your
society upon me, you will, at least, choose some other sub-
ject of conversation."
"Pardon me," said Cole, whose very studies, while
they had excited, in their self-defence, his momentary
warmth, made him habitually courteous and urbane,
pardon me for my hastiness of expression. I own my-
self in fault." And with this apology, our ex-king slid
into the new topics which the scenery and the weather af
forded him.
Wolfe, bent upon the object of his present mission,
made some inquiries respecting Mordaunt; and though
Cole only shared the uncertain information of the country
gossips, as to the past history of that person, yet the little
he did know was sufficient to confirm the republican in his
belief of Algernon's identity; while the ex-gipsy's account
of his rank and reputation in the country made Wolfe
doubly anxious to secure, if possible, his good offices and
interference on behalf of the meeting. But the conversa-
tion was not always restricted to neutral and indifferent
ground, but, ever and anon, wandered into various allusions
or opinions, from the one, certain to beget retort or contro-
versy in the other.
THE DISOWNED.
Had we time, and our reader patience, it would have
been a rare and a fine contrast to have noted more at large
the differences of thought and opinion between the compan-
ons; each in his several way so ardent for liberty, and so
impatient of the control and customs of society; each so
enthusiastic for the same object, yet so coldly contemptuous
1. the enthusiasm of the other. The one guided only by
his poetical and erratic tastes, the other solely by dreams,
seeming to the world no less baseless, yet, to his own mind,
bearing the name of stern judgment and inflexible truth.
Both men of active and adventurous spirits, to whom forms
were fetters, and ceremonies odious; yet, deriving from that
mutual similarity only pity for mutual perversion, they were
memorable instances of the great differences congeniality
itself will occasion, and of the never-ending varieties
which minds, rather under the influence of imagination
than judgment, will create.
Nor would it have been uninteresting, had we dived more
deeply into the several educations of their lives, to have
unravelled those differences, connected those similarities,
and traced each to the circumstances, minute in appear-
ance, yet mighty in effect, by which the philanthropist must
hope, and the moralist calculate, that all characters have
hitherto been formed, and shall hereafter be amended. We
are aware that our jovial Ægyptian will be the greater fa-
vorite in any comparison between himself and the republi-
can; yet we cannot help pausing to observe that whatever
the failings of the latter, he had been guided throughout
life by a principle which, if mistaken, was at least inflexible;
while the other had obeyed only an alternate impulse and
indolence, selfish in their cause, though, perhaps, innocent
in their effect.
I know not, therefore, if we envy our lover of poetry the
most, whether we ought not, even in our condemnation of
his errors, to give the palm of approbation to the self-sac-
rificing, if self-deceiving, worshipper of truth.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
Gratis anhelans, multa agendo, nihil agens.
PHEDRUS.
UPON entering the town, the streets displayed all the
bustle and excitement which the approaching meeting was
eminently calculated to create in a place ordinarily quies-
cent and undisturbed; groups of men were scattered in
different parts, conversing with great eagerness; while
here and there, some Demosthenes of the town, impatient
of the coming strife, was haranguing his little knot of ad-
miring friends, and preparing his oratorical organs by pet-
ty skirmishing for the grand battle of the morrow. Now
and then the eye roved upon the gaunt forms of Lord Uls-
water's troopers, as they strolled idly along the streets, in
pairs, perfectly uninterested by the great event which set
all the more peaceable inmates of the town in a ferment,
and returning, with a slighting and supercilious glance, the
angry looks and muttered anathemas which, ever and anon,
the hardier spirits of the petitioning party, liberally be-
stowed upon them.
As Wolfe and his comrade entered the main street, the
former was accosted by some one of his compatriots, who,
seizing him by the arm, was about to apprise the neighbour-
ing idlers, by a sudden exclamation, of the welcome en-
trance of the eloquent and noted republican. But Wolfe
perceived and thwarted his design.
>>
"Hush! said he, in a low voice; "I am only now on
my way to an old friend, who seems a man of influence in
these parts, and may be of avail to us on the morrow; keep
silence, therefore, with regard to my coming till I return.
I would not have my errand interrupted."
"As you will," said the brother spirit; "but who have
you here,
—a fellow laborer?" and the reformer pointed
to Cole, who, with an expression of shrewd humor, blended
with a sort of philosophical compassion, stood at a little
distance waiting for Wolfe, and eyeing the motley groups
assembled before him.
"No," answered Wolfe; "he is some vain and idle
sower of unprofitable flowers; a thing who loves poetry,
and, for aught I know, writes it; but that reminds me that
I must rid myself of his company; yet stay, do you
-
know this neighbourhood sufficiently to serve me as a guide?"
Ay," quoth the other; "I was born within three miles
of the 'own.'
"Indeed!” rejoined Wolfe; "then, perhaps, you can
tell me if there is any way of reaching the place called
Mordaunt Court, without passing through the more public
and crowded thoroughfares of the town."
"To be sure," rejoined the brother spirit; "you have
only to turn to the right up yon hill, and you will in an in-
stant be out of the purlieus and precincts of W- and
on your shortest road to Mordaunt Court; but surely it is
not to its owner that you are bound?"
"And why not?" said Wolfe.
"Because," replied the other, "he is the wealthiest, the
highest, and as report says, the haughtiest aristocrat of
these parts.
"So much the better, then," said Wolfe, "can he aid
us in obtaining a quiet hearing to-morrow, undisturbed by
those liveried varlets of hire, who are termed, in sooth,
Britain's defence! Much better, when we think of all
they cost us to pamper and to clothe, should they be termed
Britain's ruin;
Britain's ruin; but, farewell for the present; we shall
meet to-night; your lodgings-
Yonder," said the other, pointing to a small inn op-
posite; and Wolfe, nodding his adieu, returned to Cole,
whose vivacious and restless nature had already made him
impatient of his companion's delay.
I
"I must take my leave of you now," said Wolfe, "which
do with a hearty exhortation that you will change your
studies, fit only for effeminate and enslaved minds."
"And I return the exhortation," answered Cole. "Your
studies seem to me tenfold more crippling than mine:
mine take all this earth's restraint from me, and yours
seem only to remind you that all earth is restraint: mine
show me whatever worlds the fondest fancy could desire:
yours only the follies and change of this. In short, while
my mind to me a kingdom is,' yours seems to consider the
whole universe itself nothing but a great meeting for the
purpose of abusing ministers and demanding reform ! "
Not too well pleased by this answer, and at the same
time indisposed for the delay of further reply, Wolfe con-
tented himself with an iron sneer of disdain, and, turning
on his heel, strode rapidly away in the direction his friend
had indicated.
C
Meanwhile, Cole followed him with his eye, till he was
out of sight, and then muttered to himself,
"Never was
there a fitter addition to old Barclay's Ship of Fools!'
I should not wonder if this man's patriotism leads him
from despising the legislature into breaking the law; and,
faith, the surest way to the gallows is less through vice
than discontent; yet, I would fain hope better things for
him,― for, methinks, he is neither a common declaimer,
nor an ordinary man.
With these words the honest Cole turned away, and,
strolling toward the Golden Fleece, soon found himself
in the hospitable mansion of Mistress and Mister Merry-
lack.
While the ex-king was taking his ease at his inn, Wolfe
proceeded to Mordaunt Court. The result of the meeting
that there ensued, was a determination on the part of
Algernon to repair immediately to W
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
The commons here in Kent are up in arms.
Second part of Henry VI.
WHEN Mordaunt arrived at W- he found that the
provincial deities, (who were all assembled at dinner with
the principal inhabitants of the town,) in whose hands the
fate of the meeting was placed, were in great doubt and
grievous consternation. He came in time, first to balance
the votes, and ultimately to decide them.
His mind, pru-
dent and acute, when turned to worldly affairs, saw in a
glance the harmless, though noisy, nature of the meeting;
and he felt that the worst course the government or the
county could pursue would be to raise into importance, by
violence, what otherwise would meet with ridicule from
most, and indifference from the rest.
His large estates, his ancient name, his high reputation
for talent, joined to that manner, half eloquent and half
commanding, which rarely fails of effect when deliberation
only requires a straw on either side to become decision,
all these rendered his interference of immediate avail; and
it was settled that the meeting should, as similar assemblies
had done before, proceed and conclude, undisturbed by the
240
BULWER'S NOVELS.
higher powers, so long as no positive act of sedition to the
government or danger to the town was committed.
Scarcely was this arrangement agreed upon, before Lord
Ulswater, who had hitherto been absent, entered the room
in which the magisterial conclave was assembled. Mr.
Glumford (whom our readers will possibly remember as
the suitor to Isabel St. Leger, and who had at first oppos-
ed, and then reluctantly subscribed to, Mordaunt's inter-
ference) bustled up to him.
"So, so, my lord," said he, since I had the honor of
seeing your lordship, quite a new sort of trump has been
turned up.
"I presume, sir," said he, "that you are an officer o
this man's regiment ?"
"I am the commanding officer, sir," said Lord Ulswas
ter, very little relishing the air and tone of the person who
addressed him.
"Then," answered the man (who was, indeed, no other
than Wolfe, who, having returned to W with Mor-
daunt, had already succeeded in embroiling himself in a
dispute) then, sir, I look to you for his punishment,
and my redress; " and Welfe proceeded, in his own exag-
gerated language, to detail a very reasonable cause of
complaint. The fact was, that Wolfe, meeting one of his
compatriots, and conversing with him somewhat loudly,
had uttered some words which attracted the spleen of the
Mr. Glumford explained. Lord Ulswater's cheek grew soldier, who was reeling home, very comfortably intoxi-
scarlet. "So Mr. Mordaunt has effected this wise altera-cated; and the soldier had, most assuredly, indulged in a
tion " said he.
""
"I do not comprehend your metaphorical elegancies of
speech, Mr. Glumford," said Lord Ulswater.
"Nobody else, my lord, nobody else; and I am sure,
though your lordship's estates are at the other end of the
county, yet they are much larger than his; and since your
lordship has a troop at your command, and that sort of
thing, I would not, if I were your lordship, suffer any such
opposition to your wishes."
Without making a reply to this harangue, Lord Ulswater
stalked haughtily up to Mordaunt, who was leaning against
the wainscot, and conversing with those around him.
r
"I cannot but conceive, Mr. Mordaunt," said he, with
a formal bow, "that I have been misinformed in the intel-
ligence I have just received.”
"Lord Ulswater will, perhaps, inform me to what in-
telligence he alludes ?"
"That Mr. Mordaunt, the representative of one of the
noblest families in England, has given the encouragement
and influence of his name and rank to the designs of a se-
ditious and turbulent mob."
Mordaunt smiled slightly, as he replied,
"Your lord-
ship rightly believes that you are misinformed.
It is pre-
cisely because I would not have the mob you speak of
seditious or turbulent, that I have made it my request that
the meeting of to-morrow should be suffered to pass off
undisturbed."
"Then, sir,” cried Lord Ulswater, striking the table,
with a violence which caused three reverend potentates of
the province to start back in dismay, "I cannot but con-
sider such interference on your part to the last degree im-
politic and uncalled for these, sir, are times of great
danger to the state, and in which it is indispensably requi-
site to support and strengthen the authority of the law."
"I waive, at present," answered Mordaunt, "all reply
to language neither courteous nor appropriate. I doubt not
but that the magistrates will decide as is most in accordance
with the spirit of that law which, in this and in all times,
should be supported."
"Sir," said Lord Ulswater, losing his temper more and
more, as he observed that the bystanders, whom he had
been accustomed to awe, all visibly inclined to the opinion
of Mordaunt, "sir, if your name has been instrumental in
producing so unfortunate a determination on the part of the
magistrates, I shall hold you responsible to the government
for those results which ordinary prudence may calculate
upon."
"When Lord Ulswater," said Mordaunt, sternly, "has
learned what is due, not only to the courtesies of society,
but to those legitimate anthorities of his country, who (he
ventures to suppose) are to be influenced, contrary to their
sense of duty, by any individual, then, he may, perhaps,
find leisure to make himself better acquainted with the na-
ture of those laws which he now so vehemently upholds.”
"Mr. Mordaunt, you will consider yourself answerable
to me for those words,” said Lord Ulswater, with a tone of
voice unnaturally calm; and the angry flush of his coun-
tenance was supplanted by a livid paleness.
"At all times, and in every sense," answered Mordaunt;
and Lord Ulswater, turning on his heel, left the room.
As he repaired homeward, he saw one of his soldiers
engaged in a loud and angry contest with a man, in the plain
garb of a peaceful citizen; a third person standing by, ap-
peared ineffectually endeavoring to pacify the disputants.
A rigid disciplinarian, Lord Ülswater allowed not even
party feeling, roused as it was, to conquer professional hab-
its.
He called off the soldier, and the man with whom
the latter had been engaged immediately came up to Lord
Ulswater, with a step as haughty as his own. The third
person, who had attempted the peacemaker, followed him.
|
copious abuse of the d- d rebel, who could not walk the
streets without chattering sedition.
Wolfe's friend confirmed the statement.
The trooper attempted to justify himself; but Lord
Ulswater saw his intoxication in an instant, and, secret y
vexed that the complaint was not on the other side, order-
ed the soldier to his quarters, with a brief but sure threat
of punishment on the morrow. Not willing, however, to
part with the "d-d rebel," on terms so flattering to
the latter, Lord Ulswater, turning to Wolfe, with a severe
and angry air, said,
"As for you, fellow, I believe the whole fault was on
your side; and if you dare again give vent to your disaf-
fected ravings, I shall have you sent to prison, to tame
your rank blood upon bread and water. Begone, and
think yourself fortunate to escape now!"
The fierce spirit of Wolfe was in arms on the instant;
and his reply, in subjecting him to Lord Ulswater's threat,
might at least have prevented his enlightening the public
on the morrow, had not his friend, a peaceable, prudent
man, seized him by the arm, and whispered,
"What
are you about! Consider for what you are here, ano
ther word may rob the assembly of your presence. A man
bent on a public cause must not, on the eve of its trial,
enlist in a private quarrel."
CC
True, my friend, true," said Wolfe, swallowing his
rage, and eyeing Lord Ulswater's retreating figure with
a menacing look; "but the time may yet come when I
shall have license to retaliate on the upstart."
"So be it," quoth the other, "he is our bitterest
enemy. You know, perhaps, that he is Lord Ulswater, of
the regiment it has been at his instigation that the
magistrates proposed to disturb the meeting. He has
been known publicly to say that all who attend the assem-
bly ought to be given up to the swords of his troopers."
"The butchering dastard!—to dream even of attack-
ing unarmed men; but enough of him, I must tarry yet
in the street to hear what success our intercessor has ob-
tained." And as Wolfe passed the house in which the ma-
gisterial conclave sat, Mordaunt came out and accosted
him.
"You have sworn to me that your purpose is peacea-
ble?" said Mordaunt.
Unquestionably," answered Wolfe.
"And
you will pledge yourself that no disturbance, that
can be either effected, or counteracted, by yourself and
friends, shall take place?"
"I will."
CC
Enough!" answered Mordaunt. "Remember, that
if you commit the least act that can be thought dangerous,
I may not be able to preserve you from the military. As
it is, your meeting will be unopposed.
,,
Contrary to Lord Ulswater's prediction, the meeting
went off as quietly as an elderly maiden's tea party. The
speakers, even Wolfe, not only took especial pains to re-
commend order and peace, but avoided, for the most part,
all inflammatory enlargement upon the grievances of which
they complained. And the sage foreboders of evil, who
had locked up their silver spoons, and shaken their heads
very wisely, for the last week, had the agreeable mortifi-
cation of observing rather an appearance of good-humor
upon the countenances of the multitude, than that ferocious
determination against the lives and limbs of the well af-
fected which they had so sorrowfully anticipated.
As Mordaunt (who had been present during the whole
time of the meeting) mounted his horse, and quitted the
ground, Lord Ulswater, having just left his quarters, where
he had been all day in expectation of some violent act o
THE DISOWNED
241
the orators or the mob, de.nanding his military services,
rede up to Mordaunt.
A
"After what has passed between us," said he, th
unusual and punctilious ceremony of address," Mr. Mor-
daunt must be aware of the satisfaction I am necessitated
to require."
"Lord Ulswater," answered Mordaunt, "will find me
at any time prepared to give, since he has forestalled me in
demanding, the satisfaction to which he refers."
"To-morrow," said Lord Ulswater, "I have the mis-
fortune to be unavoidably engaged. The next day, if it
suit you, punctually at the hour of two, I shall be at the
column in the wood before us, only attended with a
friend."
"I will not fail you, my lord," answered Mordaunt;
and with this comfortable arrangement, so agreeably con-
cluded, Lord Ulswater once more bowed to his horse's
mane, and withdrew.
It so happened that Wolfe, wishing to speak to Mor-
daunt, had followed him from the ground, and overheard
Lord Ulswater's last speech. In his design of addressing
Mordaunt, Wolfe was, however, frustrated; for Algernon,
immediately on the conclusion of Lord Ulswater's errand,
set spurs to his horse, and not observing the republican,
was speedily out of sight.
CC
-
Well, well," muttered Wolfe, "I know not why I
should grieve at this, yet I do; they are both aristocrats,
and foes to the happiness of the multitude. Of what
greater avail, therefore, are the private virtues of the one
than the arrogance and insolence of the other? No, no;
let them both perish, let their own vitiated rules of
honor become their own punishment and doom; and yet
Mordaunt, his generosity, his talent, his Pish
what are these to us?" And the stern Wolfe steeled his
heart, and plunging once more into the crowd, soou lost
among his compatriots all recollection of the scene he had
witnessed.
But fate was surely, though darkly, working out her own
end, and neither her tool nor her victim dreamt yet of the
method or the hour.
conscious, from his character, that it could contain nothing
detrimental to the, -to the consideration and delicacy due
to Lady Flora Ardenne."
Clarence bowed. "So far as I am concerned," said he,
"I feel confident that Lady Westborough will not repent
of her condescension."
There was a pause.
It is singular," said Lady Westborough, looking to the
French clock upon an opposite table, " that Lord Ulswater
is not yet arrived.”
"It is," said Clarence, scarcely conscious of his words,
and wondering whether Lady Flora would deign to appear
Another pause. Lady Westborough felt the awkward
ness of her situation.
Clarence made an effort to recover himself.
ઃ
I do not see," said he,
"said he, "the necessity of delaying the
explanation I have to offer to your ladyship till my Lord
Ulswater deems it suitable to him to appear. Allow me at
once to enter into a history, told in few words, and easily
proved."
Stay," said Lady Westborough, struggling with her
curiosity; "it is due to one who has stood in so peculiar a
situation in our family to wait yet a little longer for his
coming. We will, therefore, till the hour is completed,
postpone the object of our meeting."
Clarence again bowed, and was silent. Another and a
longer pause ensued; it was broken by the sound of the
clock striking,
clock striking, the hour was completed.
"Now," began Clarence, when he was interrupted
by a sudden and violent commotion in the hall. Above all,
was heard a loud and piercing cry, in which Clarence re-
cognised the voice of the old steward. He rose abruptly,
and stood motionless and aghast his eyes met those of
Lady Westborough, who, pale and agitated, lost, for the
moment, all her habitual self-command. The sound in-
creased: Clarence rushed from the room into the hall; the
open door of the apartment revealed to Lady Westborough,
as to him, a sight which allowed her no farther time for
hesitation. She hurried after Clarence into the hall, gave
one look, uttered one shriek of horror, and fainted.
CHAPTER LXXIX.
Jam te premet nox, fabulæque Manes
Et domus exilis Plutonia.
HOR.
CHAPTER LXXX.
Iden. But thou wilt brave me in these saucy terms.
Cade. Brave thee! ay, by the best blood that ever war
broached, and beard thee too.
SHAKSPEARE.
THE morning was dull and heavy, as Lord Ulswater
mounted his horse, and unattended, took his way toward "You see, my lord," said Mr. Glumford to Lord Uls
Westborough Park. His manner was unusually thought-water, as they rode slowly on, "that as long as those re
ful and absent; perhaps two affairs upon his hands, either
of which seemed likely to end in bloodshed, were sufficient
to bring reflection even to the mind of a cavalry officer
He had scarcely got out of the town before he was over-
taken by our worthy friend. Mr. Glumford. As he had
been a firun ally of Lord Ulswater in the contest respecting
the meeting, so, when he joined and saluted that nobleman,
Lord Ulswater, mindful of past services, returned his
greeting with an air rather of condescension than hauteur.
To say truth, his lordship was never very fond of utter
oneliness, and the respectful bearing of Glumford, joined
to that mutual congeniality which sympathy in political
views always occasions, made him more pleased with the
society than shocked with the intrusion of the squire; so
that when Glunford said, "If your lordship's way lies
along this road for the next five or six miles, perhaps your
lordship will allow me the honor of accompanying you,"
Lord Ulswater graciously signified his consent to the pro-
posal, and carelessly mentioning that he was going to
Westborough Park, slid into that conversation with his
new companion which the meeting and its actors afforded.
Turn we for an instant to Clarence. At the appointed
hear he had arrived at Westborough Park, and, bidding
his companion, the trusty Wardour, remain within the
chaise which had conveyed them, he was ushered with a
trembling heart, but a mien erec, and self-composed, into
Lady Westborough's presence; the marchioness as alone.
"I am sensible, sir,” said she, with a little embarrass-
ment," that it is not exactly becoming to my station and
circumstances to suffer a meeting of the present nature be-
tween Lord Ulswater and yourself to be held within this
aouse; but I could not resist the request of Lord Ulswater,
VOL. I.
31
bellious scoundrels are indulged in their spoutings and
meetings, and that sort of thing, that, that there will be
no bearing them.”
S
Very judiciously remarked, sir," replied Lord Uk
water. "I wish all gentlemen of birth and consideration
viewed the question in the same calm, dispassionate, and
profound light that you do. Would to heaven it were left
to me to clear the country of those mutinous and dangerous
rascals, I would make speedy and sure work of it."
"I am certain you would, my lord,-I am certain you
would. It is a thousand pities that pompous fellow, Mor-
daunt, interfered yesterday, with his moderation, and pol-
icy, and all that sort of thing, —so foolish, you know, my
lord, -mere theory, and romance, and that sort of thing:
we should have had it all our own way, if he had not."
Lord Ulswater played with his riding whip, but did not
reply. Mr. Glumford continued:
Pray, my lord, did your lordship see what an ugly, iN-
dressed set of dogs those meetingers were, that Wolfe,
above all?-O, he 's a horrid looking fellow. By the by,
he left the town this very morning; I saw him take leave of
his friends in the street just before I set out.
He is going
to some other meeting, on foot, too. Only think of the
folly of talking about policy, and prudence, and humanity,
and that sort of thing of sparing such a pitiful poor fellow
as that, can't afford a chaise or a coach even,-my
lord,-positively can't.”
"You see the matter exactly in its true light, Mr. Glum-
ford," said his lordship, patting his fine horse, which was.
somewhat impatient of the slow pace of his equine com
panion.
“A very beautiful animal of your lordship's," said M÷
242
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Glumford, spurring his own horse, - a heavy dull quadru-
ped, with an obstinate ill-set tail, a low shoulder, and a
Roman nose. "I am very partial to horses myself, and
love a fine horse as well as any body.'
Lord Ulswater cast a glance at his companion's steed;
and seeing nothing in its qualities to justify this assertion.
of attachment to the beau en cheval, was silent. Lord Uls
water never flattered even his mistress, much less Mr.
Glamford.
"I will tell you, my lord," continued Mr. Glumford,
"what a bargain this horse was ;" and the squire pro-
ceeded, much to Lord Ulswater's discontent, to detail the
history of his craft in making the said bargain.
|
entirely into the middle of the path, so that what with the
posts on one side, and the abrupt and undefended precipice,
if we may so call it, on the other, it was quite impossible
for any horseman to pass the republican, unless over his
body.
Lord Ulswater marked the motion, and did not want
penetration to perceive the cause. Glad of an opportunity
to wreak some portion of his irritation against a member
of a body so offensive to his mind, and which had the day
before obtained a sort of triumph over his exertions against
them; and rendered obstinate in his intention by the pique
he had felt at Glumnford's caution, Lord Ulswater, tighten-
ing his rein, and humming, with apparent indifference, a
The riders were now entering a part of the road, a little popular tune, continued his progress till he was within a
more than two miles from Westborough Park, in which foot of the republican. Then, checking his horse for a
the features of the neighbouring country took a bolder and moment, he called, in a tone of quiet arrogance, to Wolfe
ruder aspect than they had hitherto worn. On one side of to withdraw himself on one side till he had passed.
the road the view opened upon a descent of considerable The fierce blood of the reformer, which the least breath
depth, and the dull sun looked drearily over a valley in of oppression sufficed to kindle, and which yet boiled with
which large fallow fields, a distant and solitary spire, and the remembrance of Lord Ulswater's threat to him two
a few stinted and withering trees, forined the chief charac- nights before, was on fire at this command. He stopped
teristics. On the other side of the road a narrow footpath short, and turning half round, stood erect in the strength
was separated from the highway by occasional posts and and power of his singularly tall and not ungraceful form.
on this path Lord Ulswater, (how the minute and daily "Poor and proud fool," said he, with a voice of the most
occurrences of life show the grand pervading principles of biting scorn, and fixing an eye eloquent of ire and menaced
character,) was, at the time we refer to, riding, in pre- danger upon the calmly contemptuous countenance of the
ference to the established thoroughfare for equestrian and patrician, poor and proud fool, do you think that your privi-
aurigal travellers. The side of this path farthest from the leges have already reached so pleasant a pitch that you may
road was bordered by a steep declivity of stony and gravel-ride over men like dust? Off, fool,
the basest peasant
ly earth, which almost deserved the dignified appellation
of a precipice; and it was with no small exertion of dex-
trous horsemanship that Lord Ulswater kept his spirited
and susceptible steed upon the narrow and somewhat peri-
lous path, in spite of its frequent starts at the rugged des-
cent below.
"I think, my lord, if I may venture to say so," said
Mr. Glumford, having just finished the narration of his
bargain, "that it would be better for you to take the high
oad just at present; for the descent from the footpath is
steep, and abrupt, and deused crumbling; so that if your
lordship's horse shied or took a wrong step, it might be
attended with unpleasant conscquences, a fall, or that
sort of thing."
"You are very good, sir," said Lord Ulswater, who,
like most proud people, conceived advice an insult; “but
I imagine myself capable of guiding my horse, at least
upon a road so excellent as this."
"Certainly, my lord, certainly; I beg your pardon;
but, bless me, who is that tall fellow in black, talking to
himself yonder, my lord? The turn of the road hides
him from you just at present; but I see him well. Ha, ha!
what gestures he uses! I dare say he is one of the peti-
tioners, and, yes, my lord, by Jupiter, it is Wolfe him-
self! You had better (excuse me, my lord) come down
from the footpath, it is not wide enough for two people,
and Wolfe, I dare say, a d-d rascal, would not get out
of the way for the devil himself! He's a nasty, black, |
fierce-looking fellow; I would not for something meet him
in a dark night, or that sort of thing!"
"I do not exactly understand, Mr. Glumford," returned
Lord Ulswater, with a supercilious glance at that gentle-
inan, what peculiarities of temper you are pleased to
impute to me, or from what you deduce the supposition that
I shall move out of my way for a person like Mr. Woolt,
or Wolfe, or whatever be his proper appellation.
"I beg your pardon, my lord, I am sure, "answered
Glumford "of course your lordship knows best, and if
the rogue is impertinent, why I'm a magistrate, and will
commit him; though, to be sure," continued our righteous
Daniel, in a lower key, "he has a right to walk upon the
footpath without being rode over, or that sort of thing."
The equestrians were now very near Wolfe, who, turning
hastily around, perceived, and immediately recognised
Lord Ulswater. "Ah-ha," muttered he to himself,
"here comes the insolent thirster for blood, grudging us,
seemingly, even the meagre comfort of the path which his |
horse's hoofs are breaking up, - yet thank heaven," ad-
ded the republican, looking with a stern satisfaction at the
narrowness of the footing, "he cannot very well pass me,
and the free lion does not move out of his way for such
tervile though pampered and dangerous kine as those to
which this creature belongs.
Actuated by this rought, Wolfe almost insensibly moved
|
in England, degraded as he is, would resist, while he vidi-
culed, your arrogance."
Without deigning any reply, Lord Ulswater spurred
his horse; the spirited animal bounded forward, almost
on the very person of the obstructer of the path; with un-
common agility, Wolfe drew aside from the danger, seized,
with a powerful grasp, the bridle, and abruptly arresting
the horse, backed it fearfully toward the descent. Incensed
beyond all presence of mind, the fated nobleman raised his
whip, struck violently at the republican. The latter, as he
felt the blow, uttered a single shout of such ferocity that it
curdled the timorous blood of Glumford, and with a giant
and iron hand he backed the hore several paces down the
precipice. The treacherous ea h crumbled beneath the
weight, and Lord Ulswater, spurring his steed violently at
the same instant that Wolfe so sharply and strongly curbed
it, the affrighted animal reared violently, forced the rein
from Wolfe, stood erect for a moment of horror to the spec-
tator, and then, as its footing and balance alike failed it,
fell backward, and rolled over and over its unfortunate and
helpless rider.
"Good God!" cried Glumford, who had sat quietly
upon his dozing horse, watching the result of the dispute,
"what have you done? you have killed his lordship,
positively killed him, and his horse, too, I dare say. You
shall be hanged for this, sir, as sure as I am a magistrate,
and that sort of thing."
Unheeding this denunciation, Wolfe had made to the
spot where rider and horse lay blent together at the foot of
the descent; and, assisting the latter to rise, bent down to
examine the real effect of his violence. "Methinks,"
said he, as he looked upon the hueless, but still defying fea-
tures of the horseman, “methinks I have seen that face
years before?— but where? perhaps my dreams have
foretold me this."
Lord Ulswater was utterly senseless; and as Wolfe raised
him, he perceived the right side of the head was covered
with blood, and that one arm seemed crushed and broken.
Meanwhile a carriage had appeared, -was hailed by
Glumford, stopped; and, on being informed of the cir
cumstances and the rank of the sufferer, the traveller, a sin-
gle gentleman, descended, assisted to raise the unhappy
nobleman, placed him in the carriage, and obeying
Glumford's instructions, proceeded slowly to Westborough
Park.
"But the ruffian, the rebel, the murderer!" said
Mr. Glumford, both querulously and inquiringly, looking
toward Wolfe, who, without having attempted to assist his
victim, stood aloof, with arms folded, and an expression of
sated ferocity upon his speaking features.
"O! as to him, quoth the traveller, stepping into his
carriage, in order to support the mangled man,
you,
sir, and my vaiet can bring him along with you, or take him
to the next town, or do, in short, with him just as vou
THE DISOWNED.
243
phrase, on y be sure he does not escape,
G
drive on, post-her: in rapid and hasty words, he signified the wish of the
dying man, and hurried her, confused, trembling, and
scarce conscious of the melancholy scene she was about to
witness, to the side of her affianced bridegroom.
Doy very gently.” And poor Mr. Gluinford found the
ryuscular form of the stern Wolfe consigned to the sole care
of himself and a very diminutive man in pea-green silk
stockings, who, however excellently well he might perform
the office of valet, was certainly by no means calculated in
physical powers for the detention of a criminal.
Wolfe saved the pair a world of trouble and anxiety.
Sir," said he, gravely turning to Glumford, "you be-
held the affray, and whatever its consequences, will do me
the common justice of witnessing as to the fact of the first
aggressor it will, however, be satisfactory to both of us
to seize the earliest opportunity of putting the matter apon
a legal footing, and I shall, therefore, return to W-
which town you will doubtless accompany me.
"With all my heart!" cried Mr. Glumford, feeling as
if a mountain of responsibility were taken from his breast.
And I wish to God you may be transported instead of
ranged!"
CHAPTER LXXXI.
But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew,
And dull the film along his dim eye grew.
BYRON.
to
THE light broke partially through the half-closed shut-
ters of the room in which Lord Ulswater, who, awak-
ened to sense and pain by the motion of the carriage, had
now relapsed into insensibility, lay. By the side of the
sofa on which he was laid, knelt Clarence, bathing one hand
with tears violent and fast; on the opposite side leant over,
with bald front, and an expression of ningled fear and sor-
row upon his inteat countenance, the old steward; while,
at a little distance, Lord Westborough, who had been
wheeled into the room, sat mute in his chair, aghast with
bewilderment and horror, and counting every moment to
the arrival of the surgeon, who had been sent for. The
stranger to when the carriage belonged stood by the win-
dow, detailing, in a low voice, to the chaplain of the house,
what particulars of the occurrence he was acquainted with,
while the youngest scion of the family, a boy of about ten
and who, in the general confusion, had thrust him-
self unnoticed into the room, stood close to the pair, with
open mouth and thirsting ears, and a face on which child-
ish interest at a fearful tale was strongly blent with the
more absorbed feeling of terror at the truth.
Slowly Lord Ulswater opened his eyes, they rested
apon Clarence.
years,
(C
>>
Mad
My brother, my brother!" cried Clarence, in a
voice of powerful anguish, -" is it thus, thus that you
have come hither to- He stopped in the gushing ful-
ness of his heart. Extricating from Clarence the only
hand he was able to use, Lord Ulswater raised it to his
brow, as if in the effort to clear remembrance; and then,
turning to Wardour, seemed to ask the truth of Clarence's
claim,
at least so the old man interpreted the meaning of
his eye, and the faint and scarce intelligible words which
broke from his lips.
>
"It is, it is, my honored lord, eed he, struggling
with his emotion, "it is your brother, - your lost
brother, Clinton L'Estrange." And as he said these
words, Clarence felt the damp chill hand of his brother
press his own, and knew by that pressure and the smile,-
kind, though brief from exceeding pain, with which the
ill-fated nobleman looked upon him, that the claim long un-
known was at last acknowledged, and the ties long broken
united, though in death.
r
—
The surgeon arrived, the room was cleared of all but
Clarence, the first examination was sufficient. Unaware
of Clarence's close relationship to the sufferer, the surgeon
took him aside, -"A very painful operation," said he,
might be performed, but it would only torture, in vain,
the last moments of the patient; no human skill can save,
or even protract his life."
The doomed man who, though in great pain, was still
sensible, stirred. His brother flew toward him.
“Flora,”
be murmured, in a tone so low, that nothing but the acute
and strained nerves of his listener couldhave distinguished
its meaning, "let me see her, I impoře.
Curbing, as much as he was able, his emotion, and con-
quering his reluctance to leave the sufferer even for a mo-
ment, Clarence flew in search of Lady Flora. He found
|
I have been by the death-beds of many men, and I have
noted that shortly before death, as the frame grows wea
ker, the fiercer passions yield to those feelings better har
monizing with the awfulness of the hour. Thoughts soft
and tender, which seemed little to belong to the character
in the health and vigor of former years, obtain then an
empire, brief indeed, but utter for the time they last,
and this is the more impressive, because (as in the present
instance I shall have occasion to portray) in the moments
which succeed and make the very latest of life, the ruling
passion, suppressed for an interval by such gentler feelings.
again returns to take its final triumph over that frail clay,
which, through existence, it has swayed, agitated, and
moulded like wax unto its will.
When Lord Ulswater saw Flora approach and bend
weepingly over him, a momentary softness broke over a
face on which was rapidly gathering a sterner pride than
even that which it had worn in life. Taking her hand, he
extended it toward Clarence; and, turning to the latter,
faltered out, "Let this, my, brother, atone,
for
;" apparently unable to finish the sentence, he
then relaxed his hold and sunk upon the pillow: and so
still, so apparently breathless, did he remain for several
minutes, that they thought the latest agony was over.
As, yielding to this impression, Clarence was about to
withdraw the scarce conscious Flora from the chamber,
words, less tremulous and indistinct than aught which he
had yet uttered, broke from Lord Ulswater's lips. Clar-
ence hastened to him; and, bending over his countenance,
saw that, even through the rapid changes and shades of
death, it darkened with the peculiar characteristics of
C
the
the unreleased soul within: the brow was knit into
more than its wonted sternness and pride: and in the eye,
which glared upon the opposite wall, the light of the wan
ing life broke into a momentary blaze,
that flash, so
rapid and evanescent, before the air drinks in the las
spark of the being it has animated, and night,
starless and eternal, falls over the extinguished lamp .
The hand of the right arm (which was that unshattered by
the fall) was clenched and raised; but, when the word
which came upon Clarence's ear had ceased, it fell heavily
by his side, like a clod of that clay which it had then be
come. In those words, it seemed as if, in the confused
delirium of passing existence, the brave soldier mingled
some dim and bewildered recollection of former battles,
with that of his last most fatal, though most ignoble, strife.
"Down, down with them," he muttered between his
teeth, though in a tone startingly deep and audible; "down
with them No quarter to the infidels, strike for Eng-
land and Effingham. Ha! who strives for flight
there ?-- kill him, -no mercy, I say, - none!
·
there
there, - I have despatched him, ha!-ha!-What
still alive,―off, slave, off!—O, slain,--slain in a ditch, by
a base-born hind, O, bitter, bitter, bitter!" And
with these words, of which the last, from their piercing
anguish and keen despair, made a dread contrast with the
fire and defiance of the first, the jaw fell,- the flashing
and fierce eye glazed and set, and all of the haughty and
bold patrician which the earth retained was dust!
CHAPTER LXXXII.
Il n'est jamais permis de détériorer une ame humaine pour
l'avantage des autres, ni de faire un scélérat pour le service
des honnêtes gens.
ROUSSEAU.
As the reader approaches the termination of this narra-
tive, and looks back upon the many scenes he has passed,
perhaps, in the mimic representation of human life, he
may find no unfaithful resemblance to the truth.
As, among the crowd of characters jostled against each
other in their course, some drop off at the first, the second,
or the third stage, and leave a few only continuing to the
last, while fate chooses her agents and survivors among
those whom the bystander, perchance, least noticed as the
objects of her selection, and they who, haply, seemed to
him, at first, among the most conspicuous as characters,
sink, some abruptly, some gradually, into actors of the
least importance in events; as the reader notes the same
244
BULWER'S NOVELS.
passic, in different strata, producing the most opposite
qualities, and gathers from that notice some estimate of
the vast perplexity in the code of morals, deemed by the
shallow so plain a science, when he finds that a similar
and single feeling will produce both the virtue we love and
the vice we detest, the magnanimity we admire and the
meanness we despise; as the feeble hands of the author
force into contrast ignorance and wisdom, the affectation
of philosophy and its true essence, coarseness and refine-
ment, the lowest vulgarity of sentiment with an exaltation
of feeling approaching to morbidity, the reality of virtue
with the counterfeit, the glory of the divinity with the
hideousness of the idol, sorrow and eager joy, marriage
and death, tears and their young successors, smiles; as
all, blent together, these varieties of life form a single yet
many-colored web, leaving us to doubt whether, in for-
tune the bright hue or the dark, in character, the base
material or the rich, predominate, - the workman of the
web could almost reconcile himself to his glaring and
great deficiency in art, by the fond persuasion that he has,
at least in his choice of tint and texture, caught something
of the likeness of nature: but he knows, to the abasement
of his vanity, that these enumerated particulars of resem-
blance to life are common to all, even to the most unskil-
ful of his brethren; and it is not the mere act of copying a
true original, but the rare circumstance of force and accu-
racy in the copy, which can alone constitute a just preten-
sion to merit, or flatter the artist with the hope of a mode-
rate success.
The news of Lord Ulswater's untimely death soon spread
around the neighbourhood, and reached the ears of Mor-
daunt at the very hour he was preparing for the appointed
meeting with that illstarred nobleman. Finding himself
forestalled by a more deadly and a surer foe, Algernon re-
paired to W to gather from Wolfe some less exagge-
rated account of the affray than that which the many
tongues of rumor had brought to him.
>
It was no difficult matter to see the precise share of blame
to be attached to Wolfe; and, notwithstanding the biassed
account of Glumford, and the strong spirit of party then
existing in the country, no rational man could, for a mo-
ment, term the event of a sudden fray a premeditated mur-
der, or the violence of the aggrieved the black offence of
a wilful criminal. Wolfe, therefore, soon obtained a re-
lease from the confinement to which he had been first com-
mitted; and, with a temper made still more exasperate
than before, by the evident disposition of his auditors to
have treated him, had it been possible, with the utmost
rigor, he returned to companions well calculated, by their
converse and bent of mind, to inflame the fester of his
moral constitution.
-
ritability of their riders; and a few, among whom were
two women and three children, lost their lives. Wolfe
had been one of the crowd, and the scene, melancholy
as it really was, and appearing to his temper unredeemed
and inexcusable on the part of the soldiers, left on his
mind a deep and burning impression of revenge. Justice
(as they termed it) was demanded by strong bodies of the
people upon the soldiers; but the administration, deeming
it politic rather to awe than to conciliate, advised the sove-
reign, so far from censuring the military, to thank them for
their exertions.
From that time Wolfe appears to have resolved upon
the execution of a design, which he had long imperfectly
and confusedly meditated.
This was no less a crime (and to him did conscientious-
ly seem no less a virtue) than to seize a favorable opportu-
nity for assassinating the most prominent member of the
administration, and the one who, above all the rest, was
the most odious to the disaffected. It must be urged, in
extenuation of the atrocity of this design, that a man per-
petually brooding over one scneme, which to him has be
come the very sustenance of existence, and which scheme,
perpetually frustrated, grows desperate by disappointment,
acquires a heat of morbid and oblique enthusiasm, which
may not be unreasonably termed insanity; and that, at the
very time Wolfe reconciled it to his conscience to commit
the murder of his fellow creature, he would have moved
out of his path for a worm. Assassination, indeed, seem-
ed to him justice; and the execution of a felon the glory of
martyrdom.
Thank heaven, that neither religion nor liberty is to be
judged by the occasional madness of its defenders. The
hosts of an invading and impious conqueror may be under
a better discipline, and commit fewer irregularities, than
a patriot army, heated into excess by the very holiness of
the cause they support. "All is not (says Lord Shaftes
bury with justice) fucus, or mere varnish; nor is the face
of truth less fair for all the counterfeit vizards which have
been put upon her.'
CHAPTER LXXXIII
And thou that, silent at my knee,
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,
Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see
Pure through its depths, -a thing without disguise:
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast,
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest,
Mine own, whose young thoughts fresh before me rise,
It is not much that I may guide thy prayer,
hful
And circle thy young soul with free and healthful air.
HEMANS.
THE events we have recorded, from the time of Clar-
ence's visit to Mordaunt to the death of Lord Ulswater,
took place within little more than a week. We have now
to pass in silence over several weeks: and, as it was the
commencement of autumn when we introduced Clarence
and Mordaunt to our reader, so it is the first opening of
winter in which we will resume the thread of our narra.
tion.
It happens, generally, that men very vehement in any
particular opinion choose their friends, not for general sim-
ilarity of character, but in proportion to their mutual con-
geniality of sentiment upon that particular opinion; it hap-
pens, also, that those most audibly violent, if we may so
speak, upon any opinion, moral or political, are rarely the
wisest or purest of their party. Those with whom Wolfe
was intimate were men who shared none of the nobler char-
acteristics of the republican; still less did they participate,
or even comprehend, the enlightened and benevolent views
for which the wise and great men of that sect, a sect to Mordaunt had removed to London; and, although he had
which all philanthropy is, perhaps too fondly, inclined to not yet taken any share in public business, he was only
lean, have been so conspicuously eminent. On the con- watching the opportunity to commence a career, the bril-
trary, Wolfe's comrades, without education, and conse- liancy of which, those who knew aught of his mind, began
quently without principle, had been driven to disaffection, already to foretell. But he mixed little, if at all, with the
by desperate fortunes and ruined reputations, acting upon gayer occupants of the world's prominent places. Absorb-
minds polluted by the ignorance, and hardened among the ed alternately in his studies and his labors of good, the
dross of the populace. But the worst can, by constant in- halls of pleasure were seldom visited by his presence and
tercourse, corrupt the best; and the barriers of good and they who, in the crowd, knew nothing of him but his name,
evil, often confused in Wolfe's mind by the blindness of and the lofty bearing of his mien, recoiled from the cold-
his passions, seemed, as his intercourse with these lawless ness of his exterior, and, while they marvelled at his re-
and ruffian associates thickened, to be at last utterly brok-tirement and reserve, saw in both but the moroseness of
en down and swept away.
the student, and the gloom of the misanthropist.
Unhappily too, -soon after Wolfe's return to London, But the nobleness of his person, the antiquity of his
the popular irritation showed itself in mobs, perhaps birth, his wealth, his unblemished character, and the
rather to be termed disorderly than seditions; the minis- interest thrown over his name, by the reputation of talent,
ters, however, thought otherwise; the military were sum- and the unpenetrated mystery of his life, all powerfully
moned, and, in dispersing the mob, much injury, resulting, spake in his favor to that sex who judge as not only from
it is to be hoped, from accident, not design, ensued to many what we are to others, but from what they imagine we can
of the persons assembled. Some were severely wounded be to them. From such allurements, however, as from all
by the swords of the soldiers, others maimed and tram- elsc, the mourner turned only the more deeply to cherish the
pled upon by the horses, which shared the agitation or ir-memory of the dead; and it was a touching and holy sight
-
THE DISOWNED.
215
to mark the mangled excess of melancholy and fondness
with which he watched over that treasure in whose young
beauty and guileless heart, his departed Isabel had yet left
the resemblance of her features and her love. There seem-
ed between them to exist even a dearer and closer tie than
that of daughter and sire; for, in both, the objects which
usually divide the affections of the man or the child, had but
a feeble charm: Isabel's mind had expanded beyond her
years, and Algernon's had outgrown his time; so that neith-
er the sports natural to her age, nor the ambitions ordinary
to his, were sufficient to wean or to distract the clinging and
the unity of their love. When, after absence, his well
known step trod lightly in the hall, her ear, which had listen-
ed, and longed, and thirsted for the sound, taught her fairy
feet to be the first to welcome his return; and when the
slightest breath of sickness menaced her slender frame, it
was his hand that smoothed her pillow, and his smile that
cheered away her pain; and when she sunk into sleep, she
knew that a father's heart watched over her through the
long but untiring night, that a father's eye would be the
first which, on waking, she would meet.
"O! beautiful, and rare as beautiful," was that affec-
tion; in the parent no earthlier or harder sternness in au-
thority, nor weakness in doating, nor caprice in love, — in
the child no fear debasing reverence, yet no familiarity
diminishing respect. But love, whose pride is in serving,
seemed to make at once soft and hallowed the offices mu-
tually rendered; and nature, never counteracted in her dic-
tates, wrought, without a visible effort, the proper channels
into which those offices should flow; and that charity,
which not only covers sins, but lifts the veil from virtues,
whose beauty might otherwise have lain concealed, linked
them closer and closer, and threw over that link the sanc-
tity of itself. For it was Algernon's sweetest pleasure to
make her young hands the ministers of good to others, and
to drink, at such times, from the rich glow of her angel
countenance, the purified selfishness of his reward. And
when after the divine joy of blessing, which, perhaps, the
youngest taste yet more vividly than their sires, she threw
he is around his neck, and thanked him with glad tears
for Huxury he had bestowed upon her, how could they,
in that gushing overtlow of heart, help loving each other
the more, or feeling that in that love there was something
which justihed the excess?
Nor have we drawn with too exaggerating a pencil, nor,
though Isabel's mind was older than her years, extended
that prematureness to her heart. For, where we set the
example of benevolence, and see that the example is in
naught corrupted, the milk of human kindness will flow not
the least readily from the youngest breast, and out of the
mouth of babes will come the wisdom of charity and love!
Ever since Mordaunt's arrival in town, he had sought
out Wolfe's abode, for the purpose of ministering to the
poverty under which he rightly conjectured that the repub-
Ican labored. But the habitation of one, needy, distres-
sed, seldom living long in one place, and far less notorious
of late than he had formerly been, was not easy to discover;
nor was it till after long and vain search that he ascertain
ed the retreat of his singular acquaintance. The day in
which he effected this object we shall have hereafter occa-
sion to specify Meanwhile we return to Mr. Cranford.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
Plot on thy little hour, and skein on skein
Wcave the vain mesh, in which thy subtle soul
Broods on its venom! Lo! behind, before,
Around thee, like an armament of cloud,
The black fate labors onward !
ANON.
THE dusk of a winter's evening gathered over a room
n Crauford's house in town, only relieved from the closing
darkness by an expiring and sullen fire, beside which Mr.
Bradley sat, with his feet upon the fender, apparently stri-
ving to coax some warmth into the icy palms of his spread
bands. Crauford himself was walking up and down the
room with a changeful step, and ever and anon glancing
his bright, shrewd eye at the partner of his fraud, who,
seemingly unconscious of the observation he underwent,
appeared to occupy his attention solely with the difficulty
of warming his meagre and withered frame.
Ar'u't you very cold there, sir?" said Bradley, after
|
CC
a long pause, and pushing himself farther into the verge of
the dying embers, inay I not ring for some more
coals,?"
Hell and the -: I beg your pardon, my good Brad-
ley, but you vex me beyond patience: how can you think
of such trifles when our very lives are in so imminent a
danger?"
"I beg your pardon, my honored benefactor, they are in-
deed in danger!"
"Bradley, we have but one hope,-fidelity to each
other. If we persist in the same story, not a tittle can be
brought home to us, - not a tittle, my good Bradley; and
though our characters may be a little touched, why, what is
a character? Shall we eat less, drink less, enjoy less,
when we have lost it? Not a whit. No, my friend, we
will go abroad: leave it to me to save from the wreck of
our fortunes enough to live upon like princes."
"If not like peers, my honored benefactor."
"'Sdeath!-yes, yes, very good, he he! lie! if not
peers. Well, all happiness is in the senses, and Richard
Crauford has as many senses as Viscount Innisdale ; but
had we been able to protract inquiry another week, Brad.
ley, why, I would have been my lord, and you Sir John."
"You bear your losses like a hero, sir," said Mr. Brad-
ley
"To be sure; there is no loss, man, but life, none;
let us preserve that, and it will be our own fault if we
don't, and the devil take all the rest.
But bless me, it
grows late, and, at all events, we are safe for some ours;
the inquiry won't take place till twelve to-morrow, why
should we not feast till twelve to-night. Ring, my good
fellow, dinner must be nearly ready."
Why, honored sir," said Bradley, "I want to go home
to see my wife, and arrange my house. Who knows but I
may sleep in Newgate to-morrow.
Crauford, who had been still walking to and fro, stop-
ped abruptly at this speech, and his eye, even through the
gloom, shot out a livid and fierce light, before which the
timid and humble glance of Mr. Bradley quailed in an
instant.
"Go home! no, my friend, no, I can't part with you
to-night, no, not for an instant. I have many lessons to
give you. How are we to learn our parts for to-morrow,
if we don't rehearse them beforehand? Do you not know
that a single blunder may turn what I hope will be a farce,
into a tragedy? Go home! pooh, pooh, why, man, I
have not seen my wife, nor put my house to rights, and i.
you do but listen to me, I tell you again and again that not
a hair of our heads can be touched.
-
"You know best, honored sir; I bow to your decision."
"Bravo, honest Brad! and now for dinner. I have the
most glorious champagne that ever danced in foam to your
lip. No counsellor like the bottle, believe me!"
And the servant entering to announce dinner, Crauford
took Bradley's arm, and leaning affectionately upon it,
passed through an obsequious and liveried row of domestics
to a room blazing with light and plate. A noble fire was
the first thing which revived Bradley's spirit, and as he
spread his hands over it before he sat down to the table, he
surveyed, with a gleam of gladness upon his thin cheeks,
four vases of glittering metal formerly the boast of a king,
in which were inmersed the sparkling genii of the grape.
Crauford, always a gourmand, ate with unusual appetite,
and pressed the wine upon Bradley with an eager hospi-
tality, which soon somewhat clouded the senses of the
worthy man. The dinner was removed, the servants re-
tired, and the friends were left alone.
"A pleasant trip to France!" cried Crauford, filling a
bumper. "That's the land for hearts like ours. I tell
you what, little Brad, we will leave our wives behind us,
and take, with a new country, and new names, a new lease
of life. What will it signify to men, making love at Paris,
what fools say of them in London? Another bumper, hon-
est Brad -a bumper to the girls! What say you to
that, eh ?”
CC
Lira-lira,
Lord, sir, you are so facetious,
owned that a black eye is a great temptatær.
-so witty! It must be
la-la!" And Mr. Bradley's own eyes role oyously.
"Bravo, Brad!
Burgundy! Your glass is-"
-a song, a song! but treason to King
st
Empty honored sir, I know it!-- Lira -lira la !.
but it is easily filled! We, who have all our lives been
pouring from one vessel into another, know how to keep it
up to the last!
246
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Courage then, cries the knight, we may yet be forgiven.
Or at a worst buy the bishop's reversion in heaven;
Our frequent escapes in this world show how true 'tis,
That go.d is the only Elixir Salutis.
"Derry down, derry down.
"All you, who to swindling conveniently creep,
Ne'er piddle, by thousands the treasury sweep;
Your safety depends on the weight of the sum,
For no rope was yet made that could tie up a plum.
"Derry down, &c." *
"Bravissimo, little Brad! you are quite a wit! See
what it is to have one's faculties called out. Come, a toast
to old England, the land in which no man ever wants a
farthing who has wit to steal it. - Old England for ever!'
your rogue is your only true patriot!"— and Crauford
poured the remainder of the bottle, nearly three parts full,
into a beaker, which he pushed to Bradley. That convi-
vial gentleman emptied it at a draught, and faltering out,
"Honest Sir John! -room for my Lady Bradley's car-
riage," dropped down on the floor insensible.
Crauford rose instantly, satisfied himself that the intox-
ication was genuine, and giving the lifeless body a kick of
contemptuous disgust, left the room, muttering," The dull
ass, did he think it was on his back that I was going to
ride off! Hehe! - he! But stay, let me feel my
pulse. Too fast by twenty strokes! One's never sure of
the mind if one does not regulate the body to a hair! Drank
too much, must take a powder before I start:"
-
Mounting by a back staircase to his bedroom, Crauford
unlocked a chest, took out a bundle of clerical clothes, a
large shovel hat, and a huge wig. Hastily, but not care-
lessly, induing himself in these articles of disguise, he
then proceeded to stain his fair cheeks with a preparation |
which soon gave them a swarthy hue. Putting his own
clothes in the chest, which he carefully locked, (placing the
key in his pocket,) he next took from a desk on his dres-
sing table a purse; opening this, he extracted a diamond
of great size and immense value, which, years before, in
preparation of the event that had now taken place, he had
purchased.
46
What are
His usual sneer curled his lip as he gazed at it. " Now,"
said he,
is it not strange that this little stone should sup-
ply the mighty wants of that grasping thing, man! Who
talks of religion, country, wife, children!
This petty
mineral can purchase them all! O, what a bright joy
speaks out in your white cheek, my beauty!
all human charins to yours? Why, by your spell, most
magical of talismans, iny years may walk, gloating and
revelling, through a lane of beauties, till they fall into the
grave! Pish! - that grave is an ugly thought,
- a very,
very ugly thought! But come, my sun of hope, 1 must
eclipse you to a while! Type of myself,
while you
hide, I hide also: and when I once more let you forth to
!"
the day, then shine out, Richard Crauford, shine out!
So saying, he sewed a diamond carefully in the folds of his
shirt; and rearranging his dress, took the cooling powder,
which he weighed out to a grain, with a scrupulous and un-
trembling hand, descended the back stairs, - opened the
door, and found himself in the open street.
C
—
""
the
The clock struck ten as he entered a hackney coach and
drove to another part of London. What, so late!
thought he "I must be at Dover in twelve hours,
:
ressel sails then. Humph! - some danger yet! What
a pity that I could not trust that fool. He !
Hehe! - he!
what will he think to-morrow, when he wakes and finds
that only one is destined to swing!
The hackney-coach stopped, according to his directions,
at an inn in the city. Here Crauford asked if a note had
been left for Dr. Stapy!ton. One (written by himself) was
given to him. "Merciful heaven!" cried the false doctor,
as he read it, my daughter is on the bed of death !"
""
The landlord's look wore anxiety, the doctor seemed
for a moment paralyzed by silent woe. He recovered, shook
his head piteously, and ordered a post-chaise and four on to
Canterbury without delay.
"
It is an ill wind that blows nobody good?" thought
the landlord, as he issued the order into the yard.
The chaise was soon out, the doctor entered, off
went the post-boys,—and Richard Cranford feeling his
diamond, turned his thoughts to safety and to France.
A little, unknown man, who had been sitting at the bar
for the last two hours, sipping brandy and water, and who,
From a ballad called "The Knight and the Prelate."
*
from his extreme taciturnity and quiet had been scarcely
observed, now rose. "Landlord," d he, "do you
know who that gentleman is?"
CC
Why," quoth the Boniface, "the letter to him was
directed, For the Rev. Dr. Stapylton, - will be called
for.'"
"Ah!" said the little man, yawning,
r I shall have
a long night's work of it. Have you another chaise and
four in the yard !”
"To be sure, sir, to be sure!" cried the landlord, in
astonishment.
"Out with it, then! Another glass of brandy and
water, a little stronger, no sugar!"
The landlord stared, the bar-maid stared,—even the
head waiter, a very stately person, stared too.
"Hark ye," said the little man, sipping his brandy
and water, "I am a deused good-natured fellow, so I'll
make you a great man to-night; for nothing makes a man
so great as being let into a great secret. Did you ever
hear of the rich Mr. Crauford ?
CC
Certainly, - who has not ?"
"Did you ever see him?"
"No! I can't say I ever did "
"You lie, landlord, you saw him-night.
"Sir!" cried the landlord, bristling up.
very
The little man pulled out a brace of pistols, and
quietly began priming them out of a si all powder flask.
The landlord started back, the head waiter cried
rape,' and the bar-maid murder.'
"Who the devil are you, sir?" cried the landlord.
"Mr. Tickletrout, the celebrated officer, thief-taker,
as they call it. Have a care, ma'am, the pistols are loaded.
I see the chaise is out, there's the reckoning, landlord.”
"O Lord! I'm sure I don't want any reckoning,
great an honor for my poor house to be favored with your
company; but (following the little man to the door) who
did you please to say you were going to catch?"
"Mr. Crauford, alias Dr. Stapylton."
P
too
"Lord! Lord! to think of it, how shocking!
What has he done?
"Swindled, I believe."
'
My eyes! And why, sir, did you not catch him when
he was in the bar ?
"Because then I should not have got paid for my jour-
ney to Dover. Shut the door, boy; first stage on to Can-
terbury."
Mr
And drawing a woollen night-cap over his ears,
Tickletrout resigned himself to his nocturnal excun sion.
On the very day on which the patent for his peerage was
to have been inade out, on the very day on which he had
afterward calculated on reaching Paris, - on that very day
was Mr. Richard Crauford lodged in Newgate, fully com
mitted for a trial of life and death.
CHAPTER LXXXV
There, if, O gentle love! I read aright
The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond:
'Twas listening to those accents of delight
She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond
Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond
CAMPBELL.
This
"AND you will positively leave us for London," said
Lady Flora, tenderly, "and to-morrow, too!"
was said to one who, under the name of Clarence Linden,
bas played the principal part in our drama, and who n
by the death of his brother, succeeding to the honors o
house, we present to our reader as Clinton L'Estra
Earl of Ulswater.
They were alone in the memorable pavilion; and though
it was winter, the sun shown cheerily into the apartment;
and through the door, which was left partly open, the ever-
greens, contrasting with the leafless boughs of the oak and
beech, could be just descried, furnishing the lover with
some meet simile of love, and deceiving the eyes of those
G
willing to be deceived with a resemblance to the departed
summer. The unusual mildness of the day seemed to ope-
those children of light and
rate genially upon the birds,
song; and they grouped blithely beneath the window and
round the door, where the hand of the kind young spirit of
the place had so often ministered to their wants. Every
THE DISOWNED.
241
ow and then, too, you might hear the shrill glad note of
the blackbird keeping measure to his swift and low flight,
and sometimes a vagrant hare from the neighbouring pre-
serves sauntered fearlessly by the half shut door, secure,
from long experience, of an asylum in the vicinity of one
who had drawn from the breast of Nature a tenderness
and love for all its offspring.
Her lover sat at Flora's feet; and, looking upward,
seemed to seck out the fond and melting eyes which, too
conscious of their secret, turned bashfully from his gaze.
He had drawn her arm over his shoulder; and clasping
that small and snowy hand, which, long coveted with a
miser's desire, was at length won, he pressed upon it a
thousand kisses, -sweeter beguilers of time than even
words All had been long explained, the space between
weir hearts annihilated, doubt, anxiety, misconstruc-
tion, those clouds of love, had passed away, and left not a
rack to obscure its heaven.
"And you will leave us to-morrow,
morrow?"
must it be to-
Ah! Flora, it must; but see, I have your lock of
hair,
beautiful dark hair, to kiss, when I am away
your
from you, and I shall have your letters, dearest, -a letter
every day; and O! more than all, I shall have the hope,
the certainty, that when we meet again, you will be mine
for ever."
"And I, too, must, by seeing it in your hand-writing,
learn to reconcile myself to your new name.
Ah! I wish
you had been still Clarence, only Clarence. Wealth,
rank, power,
what are all these but rivals to your poor
Flora?"
“But Clinton is a name very, very like Clarence, dear-
est ;" and the imprisoned hand was kissed more passion-
ately than ever.
And, -and when will you return?"
Directly I can be spared, I have, you know, some
duties yet to discharge to the ministers, though I have
resigned my
official situation, and in the present crisis they
are anxious even for my assistance.'
Lady Flora sighed, and the next moment blushed; and,
what with the sigh and the blush, Clarence's lip wandered
from the hand to the check, and thence to a mouth on
which the west wind seemed to have left the sweets of a
thousand summers.
O! in this thorny and troubled earth, where love, the
offspring of some other world, finds rarely shelter but in
the wilderness and the cave, where sorrow and disap-
pointment, and shame, and the shadows of early death,
track its unguided footsteps, and watch, like the weird tor-
turers of Orestes, over its brief and perilous repose, it is
sweet to behold it, though only for an instant, enshrined in
a temple worthy to become its refuge, and meet for the
homage of our vows.
For ye, young lovers, whose bright fates have contrasted
the doom of those whom this wayward history has also re-
corded, those who through woe and want loved, as ye
shall do, through the equal trial of happiness and splendor,
for you, long years of sunshine are in store, years
which, in ripening your virtues, shall only increase your
capacities of love?- Pardon, if, for one brief moment,
your historian pauses, to mingle the gushings of his own affec.
tions with the tale which he dedicates to yours! Beautiful
being, whom now, in no wild and boyish vision, 1 behold,
with thy soft eyes which are as the mirrors of human ten-
derness, and thy pure brow where never cloud or shade
ruled the abode of all gentle and woman thought, and thy
fairy and fond step, where the vigilance and care of love
preside and sleep not, hast thou filled the fountains of my
heart with a mighty and deep stream, and shall they
not overflow ? Thy cheek is paler than it was, my love,
and thy smile has a fainter play, and the music of thy sweet
voice is more low and hushed, and the zephyr that waiteth
on thy footstep flags at times with a weaker wing; so that
when I look on thee my eyes have tears, but they are not
the tears of sorrow; for to me there is a brighter lustre in
thy youth than when in the glory of an earlier spring the
check of the very Hebe would have been dim to thine!
Has not the bloom of affection a richer damask than the
bloom of 'realth? In thy looks I behold the loveliness of
comfort and of hope, and thy smile has the beauty of the
steps which, upon the mountain top, are the messengers of
glad tidings. Thou hast trusted thine ALL with me; and
while the vessel yet lives through the stormy tide thy trea-
But the blast and the einpest have
a
sures shall be safe!
already shattered the bark, and the clouds are still black,
and the land lies viewless and afar; and, in truth, the way-
ward heart, that thou hast so often borne with, thou mayest
have yet but a little longer to endure, for my wanderings
have not been without a shadow, nor my slumbers without
a vision, and even now the voice of a warning that will
not be stilled falls low but ominously in my ear! Ah,
sweeter far than fame is the still sleep in which all contests,
all envy, are at rest, the early doom where the eye dwel-
leth in death upon the vigils of affection, and the heart is
not sentenced to survive youth, and love, and hope,
mourner over many tombs ! For time bereaves us of all,
nor can aught that has earth's mixture (and what but thy
tenderness has not?) endure its test it is not only the
links, but the garlands of life that are loosed with the sil-
ver cord, and the heart's last treasure is broken long before,
the heart itself breaks with the golden bowl at the cistern.
But for thee, my latest and my living dream, for thee
what blessing shall I invoke ? In the silence I have made
a vow; in the night I have recorded a pledge. Come under
the shadow of my soul; and while it yet lives to the things
of earth, it is in my vow and my pledge that thy blessing
shall be found!
CHAPTER LXXXVI.
—
A Hounsditch man, one of the devil's near kinsmen,
broker.
Every Man in his Humor.
We have here discovered the most dangerous piece of lechery
that ever was known in the commonwealth.
Much Ado about Nothing.
Ir was an evening of mingled rain and wind, the hour
about nine, when Mr. Morris Brown, under shelter of that
admirable umbrella of sea-green silk, to which we have be-
fore had the felicity to summon the attention of our readers,
was, after a day of business, plodding homeward his weary
way. The obscure streets through which his course was
bent were at no time very thickly thronged, and at the pre-
sent hour the inclemency of the night rendered them utterly
deserted. It is true that now and then a solitary female,
holding up, with one hand, garments already piteously
bedraggled, and with the other thrusting her unbrella in
the very teeth of the hostile winds, might be seen crossing
the intersected streets, and vanishing amid the subterranean
recesses of some kitchen area, or tramping onward amid
the mazes of the metropolitan labyrinth, till, like the
cuckoo, "heard," but no longer " seen, the echo of her
retreating pattens made a dying music to the reluctant ear;
or indeed, at intervals of unfrequent occurrence, a vehicle
of hackney appellation jolted, rumbling, clattering, bump-
ing over the uneven stones, as if groaning forth its grati
tude to the elements for which it was indebted for its fare
Sometimes also a chivalrous gallant of the feline species
ventured its delicate paws upon the streaming pavement,
and shook, with a small but dismal cry, the raindrops from
the pyramidal roofs of its tender ears.
But, save these occasional infringements on its totality,
solitude, dark, comfortless, and unrelieved, fell around the
creaking footsteps of Mr. Morris Brown.
"I wish,'
soliloquized the worthy broker, "that I had been able ad-
vantageously to dispose of this cursed umbrella of the late
Lady Waddilove; it is very little calculated for any but a
single lady of slender shape, and though it certainly keeps
the rain off my hat, it only sends it with a double dripping
upon my shoulders. Pish, deuse take the umbrella, I shall
catch my death of cold."
These complaints of an affliction that was assuredly
sufficient to irritate the naturally sweet temper of Mr.
Brown, only ceased, as that industrious personage paused
at the corner of the street, for the purpose of selecting the
driest part through which to effect the miserable act of
crossing to the opposite side. Occupied in stretching his
neck over the kennel, in order to take the fullest survey of
its topography which the scanty and agitated lamps would
allow, the unhappy wanderer, lowering his umbrella, suf-
fered a cross and violent gust of wind to rush, as if on pur
pose, against the interior. The rapidity with which this
was done, and the sudden impetus, which gave to the infla
ted parapluie the force of a balloon,
ted parapluie the force of a balloon, happening to occur ex
actly at the moment Mr. Brown was stooping with such.
BULWET & NOVELS.
wistfua.
S
over the pavemos, nai gentleman, to his in-
expressible dismay, was absolutely lifted, as it were, from his
present footing, and immersed in a running rivulet of liquid
mire, which flowed immediately below the pavement. Nor
was this all, for the wind, finding itself somewhat im-
prisoned in the narrow receptacle it had thus abruptly en-
tered, made so strenuous an exertion to extricate itself, that
it turned Lady Waddilove's memorable relic utterly inside
out; so that when Mr. Brown, aghast at the calamity of his
immersion, lifted his eyes to heaven, with a devotion that
had in it more of expostulation than submission, he beheld,
by the melancholy lamps, the apparition of his umbrella,
the exact opposite to its legitimate conformation, and
seeming, with its lengthy stick, and inverted summit, the
actual and absolute resemblance of a gigantic wine glass.
"Now," said Mr. Brown, with that ironical bitterness
8 common to intense despair, "now that's what I call
now that's what I call
pleasant.'
›
As if the elements were guided and set on by all the de-
parted souls of those whom Mr. Brown had, at any time,
overreached in his profession, scarcely had the afflicted
broker uttered this brief sentence, before a discharge of
rain tenfold more heavy than any which had yet fallen,
tumbled down in literal torrents upon the defenceless head
of the itinerant.
"This won't do," said Mr. Brown, plucking up courage,
and splashing out of the little rivulet, once more into terra
firma, "this won't do, — I must find a shelter somewhere.
Dear, dear, how the wet runs down me. I am for all the
world like the famous dripping well in Derbyshire. What
a beast of an umbrella! I'll never buy one again of an
old lady, hang me if I do."
the
As the miserable Morris uttered these sentences, which
gushed out, one by one, in a broken stream of complaint, he
looked round and round, before, behind, beside,
for some temporary protection or retreat. In vain,
uncertainty of the light only allowed him to discover houses,
in which no portico, extended its friendly shelter, and
where even the doors seemed divested of the narrow ledge
wherewith they are, in more civilized quarters, ordinarily
crownea.
"I shall certainly have the rheumatism all this winter,"
said Mr. Brown, hurrying onward as fast as he was able.
Just then, glancing desperately down a narrow lane, which
crossed his path, he perceived the scaffolding of a house, in
which repair or alteration had been at work. A ray of
hope flashed across him; he redoubled his speed, and, en-
tering the welcome haven, found himself entirely protected
from the storm. The extent of the scaffolding was, in-
deed, rather considerable; and, though the extreme nar-
rowness of the lane, and the increasing gloom of the night,
left Mr. Brown in almost total darkness, so that he could
not perceive the exact peculiarities of his situation, yet he
was perfectly satisfied with the shelter he had obtained;
and after shaking the rain from his hat, squeezing his
coat sleeves and lappets, satisfying himself that it was only
about the shoulders that he was thoroughly wetted, and
Carusting two pocket handkerchiefs between his shirt and
his skin, as preventives to the dreadful rheumatism, Mr.
Brown leant luxuriantly back against the wall in the
farthest corner of his retreat, and busied himself with en-
deavoring to restore his insulted umbrella to its original
utility of shape.
|
so I shall just step under cover of this scaffolding for ■
few minutes, and if you like the rain so much, my very
good friend, why there is plenty of room in the lane to
(ugh, ugh, —ugh,) to enjoy it."
——
As the speaker ended, the dim light, just faintly glim
mering at the entrance of the friendly shelter, was obscured
by his shadow, and, presently afterward, his companion
joining him, said,
"Well, if it must be so; but how think you you can be
fit to brave all the perils of our scheme, when you shrink,
like a palsied crone, from the sprinkling of a few water-
drops ?""
G
"A few water-drops, my very good friend," answered
the other, "a few, what call you them, ay, water-
falls rather, (ugh, ugh ;) but let me tell you, my bro.
ther citizen, that a man may not like to get his skin wet
with water, and would yet thrust his arm up to the verv
elbow in blood? (ugh, ―ugh.")
"The devil!" mentally ejaculated Mr. Brown, who, at
the word scheme, had advanced one step from his retreat,
but who now, at the last words of the intruder, drew back
as gently as a snail into his shell; and although his
person
was far too much enveloped in shade to run the least chance
of detection, yet the honest broker began to feel a little
tremor vibrate along the chords of his thrilling frame, and
a new anathema against the fatal umbrella rise to his
lips.
"Ah!" quoth the second, "I trust that it may be so ;
but to return to our project, are you quite sure that these
two identical ministers are in the regular habit of walking
homeward from that parliament which their despotism has
so degraded ?"
Sure, ay, that I am; Davidson swears to it?"
"And you are also sure of their persons, so that, even
in the dusk, you can recognise them! for, you know, I have
never seen them."
"Sure as five-pence!" returned the first speaker, to
whose mind the lives of the persons referred to were of
considerably less value than the sum elegantly specified in
his metaphorical reply.
Then," said the other, with a deep, stern determina-
tion of tone, "then shall this hand, by which one of the
proudest of our oppressors has already fallen, be made a
still worthier instrument of the wrath of heaven!"
"You are a d―d pretty shot, I believe," quoth the first
speaker, as indifferently as if he were praising the address
of a Norfolk squire.
"Never yet did my eye misguide me, or my aim swerve
a hair's breadth from its target! I thought once, when I
learnt the art as a boy, that in battle, rather than in the
execution of a single criminal, that skill would avail
me."
"Well, we shall have a glorious opportunity to-morrow
night!" answered the first speaker ; "that is, if it does
not rain so infernally as it does this night: but we shall
have a watch of many hours, I dare say.
tor;
CC
r
"That matters but little," replied the other conspira
nor even if, night after night, the same vigil is
renewed and baffled, so that it bring its reward at last.”
Right," quoth the first; "I long to be at it!ugh!
ugh!
what a confounded cough I have it will be my
death soon, I'm thinking.
"If so," said the other, with a solemnity which seemed
ludicrously horrible, from the strange contrast of the words
and object,
"die at least with the sacredness of a brave
and noble deed upon your conscience and your name !”
Ugh! ugh! I am but a man of color, but I am a
patriot, for all that, my good friend! See, the violence of
the rain has ceased; we will proceed" and with these
words the worthy pair left the place to darkness and Mr.
Brown.
re
Our wanderer had been about three minutes in this situ-
ation, when he heard the voices of two men, who were
hastening along the lane.
"But do stop, "said one; and these were the first
words distinctly audible to the ear of Mr. Brown, "do
stop, the rain can't last much longer, and we have a long
way yet to go.
No, no,
"said the other, in a voice more imperious,
et better accented than the first, which was evidently ple- “O, Lord!” said the latter, stepping forth, and throw-
beian, and somewhat foreign in its tone, no, we have no ing, as it were, in that exclamation, a whole weight of
time. What signify the inclemencies of the weather, to suffocating emotion from his chest. "What bloody mis-
men feeding upon an inward and burning thought, and made
creants! Murder his majesty's ministe s!-'shoot them
by the workings of the mind, almost callous to the contin-like pigeons!'-d-d pretty shot!' indeed. O, Lord!
gencies of the frame?
الد
"Nay, ny very good friend," said the first speaker with
positive, though not disrespectful, earnestness, that may
ll be very fine for you, who have a constitution like a
horse; but I am quite a what call you it, an invalid,
ch! and have a devilish cough ever since I have been in
bis d―d country, beg your pardon, no offence to it, -
-
A
what would the late Lady Waddilove,who always hated even
the whigs so cordially, say, if she were alive! But how
providential that I should have been here; who knows but
I may save the lives of the whole administration, and get
a pension, or a little place in the post-office! I'll go to
the prune minister directly, this very minute! Pish!
i'n't you right now you cursed thing? upbraiding the
THE DISOWNED.
249
ambrella, which, half right and half wrong, seemed endued
with an instinctive obstinacy for the sole purpose of tor-
menting its owner.
However, losing this petty affliction in the greatness of
his present determination, Mr. Brown issued out of his
lair, and hastened to put his benevolent and loyal inten-
tions into effect.
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
When laurell'd ruffians die, the heaven and earth
And the deep air give warning. Shall the good
Perish and not a sign!
ANON.
pre-
IT was the evening after the event recorded in our last
chapter; all was hushed and dark in the room where
Mordaunt sat alone; the low and falling embers burnt dull
in the grate, and through the unclosed windows the high
stars rode pale and wan in their career. The room, situ-
ated at the back of the house, looked over a small garden,
where the sickly and hoar shrubs, overshadowed by a few
wintry poplars and grim firs, saddened in the dense atmos-
phere of fog and smoke, which broods over our island city.
An air of gloom hung comfortless and chilling over the
whole scene externally and within. The room itself was
large and old, and its far extremities, mantled as they
were with dusk and shadow, impressed upon the mind
that involuntary and vague sensation, not altogether un-
mixed with awe, which the eye, resting upon a view that
it can but dimly and confusedly define, so frequently com-
municates to the heart. There was a strange oppression
at Mordaunt's breast, with which he in vain endeavoured
to contend. Ever and anon, an icy but passing chill, like
the shivers of a fever, shot through his veins, and a wild
and unearthly and objectless awe stirred through his hair,
and his eyes
filled with a glassy and cold dew, and sought
as by a self-impulsion the shadowy and unpenetrated
places around, which momnently grew darker and darker.
Little addicted by his peculiar habits to an over-indulgence
of the imagination, and still less accustomed to those ab-
solute conquests of the physical frame over the mental,
which seem the usual sources of that feeling we call
sentiment, Mordaunt rose, and walking to and fro along
the room, endeavoured by the exercise to restore to his
veins their wonted and healthful circulation. It was past
the hour in which his daughter retired to rest; but he was
often accustomed to steal up to her chamber, and watch
her in her young slumbers; and he felt this night a more
than usual desire to perform that office of love: so he left
the room, and ascended the stairs. It was a large old
house (now a ducal possession) that he tenanted. The
staircase was broad, and lighted from above by a glass
dome; and as he slowly ascended, and the stars gleamed
down still and ghastly upon his steps, he fancied, but he
knew not why, that there was an omen in their gleam.
He entered the young Isabel's chamber; there was a light
burning within: he stole to her bed, and, putting aside
the curtain, felt, as he looked upon her peaceful and pure
beauty, a cheering warmth gather round his heart. How
lovely is the sleep of childhood! What worlds of sweet,
yet not utterly sweet, associations, does it not mingle with
the envy of our gaze! What thoughts, and hopes, and
cares, and forebodings does it not excite! There lie in that
yet ungrieved and unsullied heart what unnumbered sources
of emotion! what deep fountains of passion and woe!
Alas! whatever be its earlier triumphs, the victim must
fall at last! As the hart which the jackals pursue, the
moment its race is begun, the human prey is foredoomed
for destruction, not by the single sorrow, but the thousand
cares; it may baffle one race of pursuers, but a new suc-
ceeds; as fast as some drop off exhausted, others spring
up anew and to perpetuate the chase; and the fated
though flying victim, never escapes, but in death.
There was a faint smile upon his daughter's lip, as Mor-
daunt bent down to kiss it; the dark lash rested on the
snowy lid, ah! that tears had no well beneath its sur-
face and her breath stole from her rich lips with so
regular and calm a motion, that like the "forest's leaves,"
seemed stirred with prayer!"* One arm lay over
the coverlid, the other pillowed her head, in the unrivalled
*And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
VOL. I
32
it
A
—
-
BYRON
grace of infancy! that grace which we might almost be
lieve could come from the modelling, though unseen soul,
only when the form at rest suffered it more palpably to
stir within; and only from that soul, whose unchecked and
pervading loveliness no art had yet distorted and no guilt
alloyed. And the spirit of that fairy and fair child had so
little of human dross! Her very solitude and separation
from others of her age, had surrounded her with an atmos-
phere where the breath of no ruder sentiment had mingled
Her thoughts seemed scarcely to rest upon the mortal soil
which she trod, but might, in no exaggerated image, be
likened to those birds, the exiles of Eden, which, borne
upon wings that have yet the blessing of their home, never
touch the unholy earth over which their pilgrimage is
doomed.
Mordaunt stooped once more, for his heart filled as he
gazed upon his child, to kiss her cheek again, and to
mingle a blessing with the kiss. When he rose, upon that
fair, smooth face there was one bright and glistening
drop; and Isabel stirred in sleep, and, as if suddenly
vexed by some painful dream, she sighed deeply as she
stirred. It was the last time that the cheek of the young
and predestined orphan was ever pressed by a father's
kiss, or moistened by a father's tear! He left the room
silently; no sooner had he left it, than, as if without the
precincts of some charmed and preserving circle, the chill
and presentiment at his heart returned. There is a feel-
ing which perhaps all have in a momentary hypochondria
felt at times: ita strong and shuddering impression
which Coleridge has imbodied in his own dark and super-
natural verse, that something not of earth is behind us,
that if we turned our gaze backward, we should behold
that which would make the heart as a bolt of ice, and the
eye shrivel and parch within its socket. And so intense
is the fancy that, when we turn, and all is void, from that
very void we could shape a spectre, as fearful as the image
our terror had foredrawn! Somewhat such feeling had
Mordaunt now, as his steps sounded hollow and echoless
on the stairs, and the stars filled the air around him with
their shadowy and solemn presence. Breaking by a vio-
lent effort from a spell of which he felt that a frame some-
what overtasked of late was the real enchanter, he turned
once more into the room which he had left to visit Isabel.
He had engaged his personal attendance at an important
motion in the House of Commons for that night, and some
political papers were left upon his tables, which he had
promised to give to one of the members of his party. He
entered the room, purposing to stay only a minute: an
hour passed before he left it; and his servant afterward
observed that, on giving him some orders as he passed
through the hall to the carriage, his cheek was as white as
marble, and that his step, usually so haughty and firm,
reeled and trembled like a fainting man's. Dark and in
explicable fate! weaver of wild contrasts, demon of this
hoary and old world, that movest through it, as a spirit
moveth over the waters, filling the depths of things with a
solemn mystery, and an everlasting change! thou sweepest
sweepest over joy, and, lo, it is a grave! Engine and
over our graves, and joy is born from the ashes: thou
tool of the Almighty, whose years cannot fade, thou chang-
est the earth as a garment, and as a vesture it is changed;
thou makest it one vast sepulchre and womb united, swal-
lowing and creating life! and reproducing, over and over,
from age to age, from the creation to the creation's doom,
the same dust and atoms which were our fathers, and which
are the sole heirlooms that through countless generations
they bequeath and perpetuate to their sous!
CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
Methinks, before the issue of our fate,
A spirit moves within us, and impels
The passion of a prophet to our lips.
ANON.
O vitæ philosophia dux, virtutis indagatrix ?
TULI
UPON leaving the House of Commons, Mordaunt was
accosted by Lord Ulswater, who had just taken his seat
in the upper house Whatever abstraction or whatever
weakness Mordaunt might have manifested before he had
left his home, he had now entirely conquered both; and it
250
BULWER'S NOVELS.
was with his usual collected address that he replied to |
Lord Ulswater's salutations, and congratulated him on his
change of name, and accession of honors.
It was a night of uncommon calm and beauty; and, al-
though the moon was not visible, the frosty and clear sky,
"clad in the lustre of its thousand stars," seemed scarce
ly to mourn either the hallowing light, or the breathing
poesy of her presence; and, when Lord Ulswater propos-
ed that Mordaunt should dismiss his carriage, and that
they should walk home, Algernon consented not unwil-
lingly to the proposal. He felt, indeed, an unwonted relief
in companionship; and the still air and the deep heavens
seemed to woo him from more unwelcome thoughts, as
with a softening and a sister's love.
"Let us,
before we return home," said Lord Ulswater,
"stroll for a few moments toward the bridge; I love look-
ing at the ver on a night like this."
Whoever inquires into human circumstances will be
struck to find how invariably a latent current of fatality
appears to pervade them. It is the turn of the atom in
the scale which makes our safety, or our peril; our glory,
or our shame; our sceptre, or our grave! A secret voice
at Mordaunt's heart prompted him to dissent from this
proposal, trifling as it seemed, and welcome as it was to
his present and peculiar mood: he resisted the voice,
the inoment passed away, and the last seal was set upon
his doom, they moved onward toward the bridge. At
first, both were silent, for Lord Ulswater used the ordinary
privilege of a lover, and was absent and absorbed, and
his companion was never the first to break the taciturnity
natural to his habits. At last Lord Ulswater said,
At last Lord Ulswater said, "I
rejoice that you are now in the sphere of action most like-
y to display your talents, you have not spoken yet, I
think; indeed, there has been no fitting opportunity, but
you will soon, I trust.
"I know not," said Mordaunt, with a melancholy
smile, "whether you judge rightly in thinking the sphere
of political exertion one the most calculated for me; but
I feel at my heart a foreboding that my planet is not fated
to shine in any earthly sphere. Sorrow and misfortune
have dimmed it in its birth, and now it is waning toward
its decline."
cr
"Its decline!" repeated his companion, no, rath-
er its meridian. You are in the vigor of your years, the
noon of your prosperity, the height of your intellect and
knowledge; you require only an effort to add to these bles-
sings the most lasting of all, fame!"
"Well," said Mordaunt, and a momentary light flashed
over his countenance, "the effort will be made. I do not
pretend not to have felt ambition. No man should make it
his boast, for it often gives to our frail and earth-bound
virtue both its weapon and its wings; but when the soil is
exhausted, its produce fails; and when we have forced our
hearts to too great an abundance, whether it be of flowers
that perish, or of grain that endures, the seeds of after
hope bring forth but a languid and scanty harvest. My
earliest idol was ambition; but then came others, love and
knowledge, and afterward the desire to bless. That de-
sire you may term ambition; but we will suppose them
separate passions; for by the latter I would signify the
thirst for glory, either in evil or in good: and the former
teaches us, though by little and little, to gain its object, no
less in secrecy than for applause; and wisdom, which
opens to us a world, vast but hidden from the crowd, es-
tablishes also over that world an arbiter of its own, so that
its disciples grow proud, and communing with their own
hearts, care for no louder judgment than the still voice
within. It is thus that indifference, not to the welfare, but
to the report, of others grows over us; and often, while
we are the most ardent in their cause, we are the least
anxious for their esteem."
you
"And yet," said Lord Ulswater, "I have thought the
passion for esteem is the best guaranty for deserving it."
"Nor without justice, other passions may supply its
place, and produce the same effects; but the love of true
glory is the most legitimate agent of extensive good, and
do right to worship and enshrine it. For me it is
dead; it survived,ay, the truth shall out!-poverty,
want, disappointment, baffled aspirations, al., all, but
the deadness, the lethargy of regret when no one was
left upon this altered earth to animate its efforts, to sinile
upon its success, then the last spark quivered and died; -
* Marlow.
M
me no more,
W
but forgive me,
and, and,
- on this subject I am no
often wont to wander. I would say that ambition is for
not so are its effects; but the hope of serv-
ing that race whom I have loved as brothers, but who have
never known me, who, by the exterior (and here some-
thing bitter mingled with his voice,) pass sentence on the
heart, in whose eyes I am only the cold, the wayward,
the haughty, the morose, the hope of serving them is to
me, now, a far stronger passion than ambition was hereto-
fore; and, whatever for that end the love of fame would
have dictated, the love of mankind will teach me still more
ardently to perform.
They were now upon the bridge. - Pausing, they leant
over, and looked along the scene before them. Dark and
hushed, the river flowed sullenly on, save where the reflec-
ted stars made a tremulous and broken beam on the black
surface of the water, or the lights of the vast city which
lay in shadow on its banks, scattered at capricious inter-
vals, a pale but unpiercing wanness, rather than lustre,
along the tide; or, save where the stillness was occasion-
ally broken by the faint oar of the boatman, or the call of
his rude voice, mellowed by distance and the element into
a tone not utterly displeasing.
But behind them as they leant, the feet of passengers, on
the great thoroughfare, passed not oft, but quick; and
that sound, the commonest of earth's, made, - as they
lingered, rarer and rarer by the advancing night, con-
trasted, rather than destroyed, the quiet of the heaven, and
the solemnity of the silent stars.
"It is an old, but a just comparison," said Mordaunt's
companion, "which has likened life to a river such as we
now survey, gliding alternately in light or in darkness, in
sunshine or in storin, to that great ocean in which all waters
meet."
"If," said Algernon, with his usual thoughtful and pen-
sive smile, "we may be allowed to vary that simile, I
would, separating the universal and eternal course of des-
tiny from the fleeting generations of human life, compare
the river before us to that course, are not it, but the city
scattered on its banks, to the varieties and mutability of
life. There (in the latter) crowded together in the great
chaos of social union, we herd in the night of ages, fling-
ing the little lustre of our dim lights over the sullen tide
which rolls beside us, seeing the tremulous ray glitter or
the surface, only to show us how profound is the gloom
which it cannot break, and the depths which it is too faint
to pierce. There crime stalks, and woe hushes her moan,
and poverty crouches, and wealth riots, and death, in all
and cach, is at his silent work. But the stream of fate,
unconscious of our changes and decay, glides on to its in-
gulphing bourne; and, while it mirrors the faintest smile or
the lightest frown of heaven, beholds, without a change
upon its surface, the generations of earth perish, and be
renewed, along its banks !”
There was a pause and by an involuntary and natural
impulse, they turned from the waves beneath, to the heaven,
which, in its breathing contrast, spread all eloquently, yet
hushed, above. They looked upon the living and intense
stars, and felt palpably at their hearts that spell, — wild,
but mute, which nothing on or of earth can inspire; that
pining of the imprisoned soul, that longing after the im
mortality on high, which is perhaps no imaginary type of
the immortality ourselves are heirs to.
C
"It is on such nights as these," said Mordaunt, whe
first broke the silence, but with a low and soft voice," that
we are tempted to believe that in Plato's divine fancy there
is as divine a truth,
is as divine a truth, that our souls are indeed of the
saine essence as the stars,' and that the mysterious yearn-
ing, the impatient wish which swells, and soars within us
to mingle with their glory, is but the instinctive and natu
ral longing to reunite the divided portion of an immorta
spirit, stored in these cells of clay, with the original lustre
of the heavenly and burning whole."
"And hence then," said his companion, pursuing the
idea, "might we also believe in that wondrous and wild in-
fluence which the stars have been fabled to exercise over
our fate; hence night we shape a visionary clue to their
imagined power over our birth, our destinies and our death."
"Perhaps," rejoined Mordaunt, and Lord Ulswater has
since said that his countenance, as he spoke, wore an awful
and strange aspect, which lived long and long afterward in
the memory of his companion, "perhaps there are tokens
and signs between the soul and the things of heaven which
THE DISOWNED.
251
to not wholly shame the doctrine of him from whose
bright wells Plato drew (while he colored with his own
gorgeous errors) the waters of his sublime lore." As Mor-
daunt thus spoke, his voice changed he paused abruptly,
abruptly,
and, pointing to a distant quarter of the heavens, said,
"Look yonder; do you see, in the far horizon, one large
in the far horizon, one large
and solitary star, that, at this very moment, seems to wax
pale and paler, as my hand points to it?"
"I see it,
it shrinks and soars, while we gaze, into
the farther depths of heaven, as if it were seeking to rise
to some higher orbit.”
"And do you see," rejoined Mordaunt, " yon fleecy but
dusky cloud, which sweeps slowly along the sky toward
it? What shape does that cloud wear to your eyes?"
"It seems to me," answered Lord Ulswater, "to as-
suine the exact semblance of a procession, whether of mirth
or burial, the human shape appears to me as distinctly
moulded in the thin vapors as in ourselves; nor would it
perhaps ask too great indulgence from our fancy, to image
among the darker forms in the centre of the cloud one
bearing the very appearance of a bier, the plume, and the
caparison, and the steeds, and the mourners!
look, the likeness seems to me to increase!"
Still, as I
"Strange," said Mordaunt, musingly, "how strange is
this thing which we call the mind! Strange that the dreams
and superstitions of childhood should cling to it with so
inseparable and fond a strength! I remember, years since,
that I was affected even as I am now, to a degree which
wiser men might shrink to confess, upon gazing on a cloud
exactly similar to that which at this instant we behold. But
see, that cloud has passed over the star; and now, as it
olls away, look, the star itself has vanished into the
neavens.
>>
"But I fear," answered Lord Ulswater, with a slight
smile, "that we can deduce no omen either from the cloud
or the star would, indeed, that nature were more visibly
knit with our individual existence! Would that in the
heavens there were a book, and in the waves a voice, and on
the earth a token, of the mysteries and enigmas of our
fate ! "
"And yet," said Mordaunt, slowly, as his mind gradu-
ally rose from its dreamlike oppression to its wonted and
healthful tone, “yet, in truth, we want neither sign nor
omen from other worlds to teach us all that it is the end of
existence to fulfil in this. and that seems to me a far less
exalted wisdom which enables us to solve the riddles, than
that which elevates us above the chances of the future."
"But can we be placed above those chances, can we
become independent of that fate to which the ancients.
taught that even their deities were submitted?
common name ! The soul, into which that spirit has
breathed its glory, is not only above fate, it profits by her
assaults! Attempt to weaken it, and you nerve it with a
new strength, -to wound it, and you render it more invul-
nerable, to destroy it, and you make it immortal! This,
indeed, is the sovereign
indeed, is the sovereign whose realm every calamity in-
creases, the hero whose triumph every invasion aug-
ments! standing on the last sands of life, and encircled
by the advancing waters of darkness and eternity, it be
comes in its expiring effort doubly the victor and the king!
Impressed, by the fervor of his companion, with a sympa-
thy almost approaching to awe, Lord Ulswater pressed
Mordaunt's hand, but offered no reply; and both, excited
by the high theme of their conversation, and the thoughts
which it produced, moved in silence from their post, and
walked slowly homeward.
CHAPTER LXXXIX.
Is it possible?
Is't so I can no longer what I would;
No longer draw back at my liking! I
Must do the deed because I thought of it.
*
*
What is thy enterprise, thy aim, thy object?
Hast honestly confessed it to thyself?
*
*
*
O bloody, frightful deed!
*
Was that my purpose when we parted?
O God of justice!
COLERIDGE's Walenstein.
WE need scarcely say that one of the persons overheard
by Mr. Brown was Wolfe, and the peculiar tone of orator-
ical exaggeration, characteristic of the man, bas already
informed the reader with which of the two he was iden-
tified.
--
On the evening after that conversation, the evening
fixed for the desperate design on which he had set the last
hazard of his life, the republican, parting from the com-
panions with whom he had passed the day, returned home
to compose the fever of his excited thoughts, and have a
brief hour of solitary meditation, previous to the commit
tal of that act which he knew must be his immediate pass-
port to the jail and the gibbet. On entering his squalid
and miserable home, the woman of the house, a blear-eyed
and filthy hag, who was holding to her withered breast an
infant, which, even sucking the stream that nourished its
tainted existence, betrayed upon its haggard and bloated
countenance the polluted nature of the mother's milk, from
which it drew at once the support of life and the seeds of
Let us not so wrong the ancients," answered Mor- death,
death, this woman, meeting him in the narrow passage,
daunt; "their poets taught it, not their philosophers. arrested his steps, to acquaint him that a gentleman had
Would not virtue be a dream, a mockery indeed, if it were, that day called upon him, and left a letter in his room, with
like the herb of the field, a thing of blight and change, of strict charge of care and speed in its delivery. The visiter
withering and renewal, a minion of the sunbeam and the had not, however, communicated his name, though the curi-
cloud? Shall calamity deject it? Shall prosperity polosity excited by his mien and dress had prompted the crone
lute? then let it not be the object of our aspiration, but the particularly to demand it.
byword of our contempt. No: let us rather believe, with
the great of old, that when it is based on wisdom, it is
throned above change and chance! throned above the things
of a petty and sordid world! throned above the Olympus
of the heathen! throned above the stars which fade, and
the moon which waneth in her course! Shall we believe
less of the divinity of virtue than an Athenian sage? Shall
we, to whose eyes have been revealed, without a cloud, the
blaze and the glory of heaven, make virtue a slave to those
chains of earth which the pagan subjected to her feet?
But if by her we can trample on the ills of life, are we not,
a hundredfold more, by her, the vanquishers of death? All
creation lies before us: shall we cling to a grain of dust?
All immortality is our heritage: shall we gasp and sicken
for a moment's breath? What if we perish within an hour?
what if already the black cloud lowers over us, what
if from our hopes and projects, and the freshwoven ties
which we have knit around our life, we are abruptly torn,
shall we be the creatures or the conquerors of fate? Shall
we be the exiled from a home, or the escaped from a dun-
geon?
Are we not as birds which look into the great air
only through a barred cage? Shall we shrink and mourn
when the cage is shattered, and all space spreads around
NS. our element and our empire? No, it was not for
this that, in an elder day, virtue and valor received but a
* Socrates, who taught the belief in omens.
Little affected by this incident, which to the hostess seemed
no unimportant event, Wolfe pushed the woman aside, with
an impatient gesture, and, scarcely conscious of the abuse
which followed this motion, hastened up the sordid stairs
to his apartment. He sat himself down upon the foot o
his bed, and, covering his face with his hands, surrendered
his mind to the tide of contending emotions which rushed
upon it.
What was he about to commit? Murder! murder in
its coldest and most premeditated guise! "No!" cried
he aloud, starting from the bed, and dashing his clenched
hand violently against his brow,
CC no, no,-no! - it
is not murder, it is justice! Did not they, the hirelings of
oppression, ride over their crushed and shrieking country.
men, with drawn blades and murtherous hands? Was I
not among them at that hour? Did I not with these eyes
see the sword uplifted, and the smiter strike? Were not
my ears filled with the groans of their victims and the
savage yells of the trampling dastards?
- yells which rung
in triumph over women and babes and weaponless men?
And shall there be no vengeance? Yes, it shail fall, not
upon the tools, but the master, not upon the slaves, but
the despot! Yet," said he, suddenly pausing, as his voice
sank into a whisper,
sank into a whisper," assassination! in another hour,
perhaps, - a deed irrevocable, -a seal set upon two souls,
the victim's and the judge's! Fetters and the felon's
252
BULWER'S NOVELS.
cord before ine ! the shouting mob, the stigma !--- no, |
no, it will not be the stigma; the gratitude, rather, of future
times, when motives will be appreciated and party hushed!
Have I not wrestled with wrong from my birth ?- - have I
not rejected all offers from the men of an impious power?
have I made a moment's truce with the poor man's foe?
- have I not thrice purchased free principles with an im-
prisoned frame?-have I not bartered my substance, and
my hopes, and the pleasures of this world for my unmoving,
unswerving faith to the great cause? - am I not about to
crown all by one blow, one lightning blow, destroying at
once myself and a criminal too mighty for the law? and
shall not history do justice to this devotedness, this
absence from all self, hereafter, and admire, even if it
condemn ?"
—
Buoying himself with these reflections, and exciting the
jaded current of his designs once more into an unnatural
impetus, the unhappy man ceased, and paced with rapid
steps the narrow limits of his chamber his eye fell upon
something bright, which glittered amid the darkening
shadows of the evening. At that sight his heart stood still
for a moment; it was the weapon of intended death: he
took it up, and as he surveyed the shining barrel, and felt
the lock, a more settled sternness gathered at once over his
fierce features and stubborn heart. The pistol had been
bought and prepared for the purpose with the utmost nicety,
not only for use but show; nor is it unfrequent to find in
such instances of premeditated ferocity in design, a fearful
kind of coxcombry lavished upon the means.
Striking a light, Wolfe reseated himself deliberately,
and began, with the utmost care, to load the pistol: that
scene would not have been an unworthy sketch for those
painters who possess the power of giving to the low a force
almost approaching to grandeur, and of augmenting the
terrible by a mixture of the ludicrous; the sordid chamber,
the damp walls, the high window, in which a handful of
discolored paper supplied the absence of many a pane :
the single table of rough oak, the rush-bottomed and broken
chair, the hearth unconscious of a fire, over which a mean
bust of Milton held its tutelary sway, while the dull rush-
light streamed dimly upon the swarthy and strong counte-
nance of Wolfe, intent upon his work, —a countenance in
which the deliberate calmness that had succeeded the late
struggle of feeling had in it a mingled power of energy and
haggardness of languor, the one of the desperate design,
the other of the exhausted body, while in the knit brow,
and the iron lines, and even in the settled ferocity of ex-
pression, there was yet something above the stamp of the
vulgar ruffian,—something eloquent of the motive no less
than the deed, and significant of that not ignoble perver-
sity of mind which diminished the guilt, yet increased the
dreadness of the meditated crime, by mocking it with the
name of virtue.
As he had finished his task, and, hiding the pistol in his
person, waited for the hour in which his accomplice was to
summon him to the fatal deed, he perceived close by him.
on the table, the letter which the woman had spoken of,
and which, till then, he had,' in the excitement of his mind,
utterly forgotten. He opened it mechanically, an enclo-
sure fell to the ground. He picked it up, - it was a bank-
note of considerable amount. The lines in the letter were
few, anonymous, and written in a hand evidently disguised.
They were calculated peculiarly to touch the republican,
and reconcile him to the gift. In them the writer profes-
sed to be actuated by no other feeling than admiration for
the unbending integrity which had characterized Wolfe's
life, and the desire that sincerity in any principles, how-
ever they might differ from his own, should not be rewarded
only with indigence and ruin.
temptations to which ours are as breezes which woo, to
storms which "tumble towers," -nor can we tell how far
the acerbity of want, and the absence of wholesome sleep,
and the indignity of the rich, and the rankling memory of
better fortunes, or even the mere fierceness which absolute
hunger produces in the humors and veins of all that hold
nature's life, nor can we tell how far these madden the
temper, which is but a minion of the body, and plead in
irresistible excuse for the crimes which our wondering
virtue, haughty because unsolicited, stamps with its
loftiest reprobation!
M
The cloud fell from Wolfe's brow, and his eye gazed,
musingly and rapt, upon vacancy. Steps were heard
ascending, the voice of a distant clock tolled with a
distinctness which seemed like strokes palpable as well as
audible to the senses; and as the door opened, and his
accomplice entered, Wolfe muttered, -"Too late,
late! " and first crushing the note in his hands, then
tore it into atoms, with a vehemence which astonished his
companion, who, however, knew not its value.
G
too
"Come," said he, stamping his foot violently upon the
floor, as if to conquer by passion all internal relenting,-
come, my friend, not another moment is to be lost; let
us hasten to our holy deed!"
"I trust," said Wolfe's companion, when they were in
the open street, "that we shall not have our trouble in
vain; it is a brave night for it! Davidson wanted us to
throw grenades into the ministers' carriages, as the best
plan; and, faith, we can try that, if all else fails!"
Wolfe remained silent, indeed he scarcely heard his
companion; for a sullen indifference to all things around
him had wrapt his spirit, that singular feeling, or rather
absence from feeling, common to all men, when bound on
some exciting action, upon which their minds are already
and wholly bent; which renders them utterly without
thought, when the superficial would imagine they were the
most full of it, and leads them to the threshold of that
event which had before engrossed all their most waking
and fervid contemplation with a blind and mechanical un-
consciousness, resembling the influence of a dream.
They arrived at the place they had selected for their sta-
tion, sometimes walking to and fro, in order to escape
observation, sometimes hiding behind the pillars of a
neighbouring house, they awaited the coming of their
victims. The time passed on, the streets grew more
and more empty; and, at last, only the visitation of the
watchman, or the occasional steps of some homeward
wanderer, disturbed the solitude of their station.
At last, just after midnight, two men
men were seen ap-
proaching toward them, linked arm-in-arm, and walking
very slowly.
"there
-
"Hist, hist," whispered Wolfe's comrade,
they are at last, — is your pistol cocked?"
Ay," answered Wolfe," and yours, man, - :olect
yourself,
your hand shakes.”
"It is with the cold, then," said the ruffian, using, un-
consciously, a celebrated reply, -"Let us withdraw be-
hind the pillar."
They did so, the figures approached them; the night,
though starlit, was not sufficiently clear to give the assas-
sins more than the outline of their shapes, and the charac-
ters of their height and air.
CC
Which," said Wolfe, in a whisper,- for, as he had
said, he had never seen either of his intended victims,
"which is my prey
accents;
?
O, the nearest to you," said the other, with trembling
accents; "you know his d-d proud walk, and erect head,
that is the way he answers the people's petitions, I'll
be sworn. The taller and farther one, who stoops more
in his gait, is mine."
The strangers were now at hand.
"You know you are to fire first, Wolfe," whispered
the nearer ruffian, whose heart had long failed him, and
who was already meditating escape.
"But are you sure, quite sure of the identity of our
prey ?" said Wolfe, grasping his pistol.
It is impossible to tell how far, in Wolfe's mind, his own
desperate fortunes might, insensibly, have mingled with
the motives which led him to his present design : certain it
is that, wherever the future is hopeless, the mind is easily
converted from the rugged the criminal; and equally
certain it is that we are apt to justify to ourselves many
offences in a cause where we have made great sacrifices:
and, perhaps, if this unexpected assistance had come to "Yes, yes," said the other; and, indeed, the air of the
Wolfe a short time before, it might, by softening his heart, nearest person approaching them bore, in the distance,
and reconciling him in some measure to fortune, have ren- a strong resemblance to that of the minister it was suppos
dered him less susceptible to the fierce voice of poli-ed to designate. His companion, who appeared much
tical hatred and the instigation of his associates. Nor can
ve, who are removed from the temptations of the poor,
younger, and of a mien equally patrician, but far less proud,
seemed listening to the supposed minister with the most
THE DISOWNED.
253
Birnes
attention. Apparently occupied with their con-
versation, when about twenty yards from the assassins,
they stood still for a few moments.
""
Stop, Wolfe, stop," said the republican's accomplice,
whose Indian complexion, by fear, and the wan light of
the lamps and skies, faded into a jaundiced and yellow
huc, while the bony whiteness of his teeth made a grim
contrast with the glare of his small, black, sparkling eyes.
Stop, Wolfe, hold your hand. I see, now, that I was
mistaken; the farther one is a stranger to me, and the
nearer one is much thinner than the minister: pocket your
pistol, — quick, — quick, and let us withdraw.'
Wolfe dropped his hand, as if dissuaded from his de-
sign; but, as he looked upon the trembling frame and
chattering teeth of his terrified accomplice, a sudden, and
not unnatural, idea darted across his mind, that he was
wilfully deceived by the fears of his companion; and that
the strangers, who had now resumed their way, were
indeed what his accomplice had first reported them to be.
Filled with this impression, and acting upon the moment-
ary spur which it gave, the infatuated and fated man push-
ed aside his comrade, with a muttered oath at his cowar-
dice and treachery, and taking a sure and steady, though
quick, aim at the person, who was now just within the
certain destruction of his hand, he fired the pistol. The
stranger reeled, and fell into the arms of his companion.
"Hurra! cried the murderer, leaping from his hiding
place, and walking with rapid strides toward his victim,
"hurra! for liberty and England!"
Scarce had he uttered these prostituted names, before
the triumph of misguided zeal faded suddenly and for ever
from his brow and soul.
The wounded man leaned back in the supporting arms
of his chilled and horror-stricken friend; who, kneeling
on one knee to support him, fixed his eager eyes upon the
pale and changing countenance of his burden, unconscious
of the presence of the assassin.
said.
his
Speak, Mordaunt, speak! how is it with you!" he
Recalled from his torpor by the voice, Mordaunt opened
eyes, and muttering, "My child, my child," sunk back
again; and Lord Ulswater (for it was he) felt, by his
increased weight, that death was hastening rapidly on its
victim.
"O!" said he bitterly, and recalling their last con-
Tersation,-"O! where,-where, when this man,-the
wise, the kind, the innocent, almost the perfect, falls
thus in the very prime of existence, by a sudden blow from
an obscure hand,-unblest in life, inglorious in death,-O!
where, where is this boasted triumph of virtue, or where
is its reward!
>
True to his idol at the last, as these words fell upon his
dizzy and receding senses, Mordaunt raised himself by a
sudden, though momentary, exertion; and fixing his eyes
full upon Lord Ulswater, his moving lips, (for his voice
was already gone,) seemed to shape out the answer,
"It is
here !""
With this last effort, and with an expression upon
his aspect which seemed at once to soften and to hallow
the haughty and calm character which in life it was wont
to bear, Algernon Mordaunt fell once more back into the
arms of his companion, and immediately expired.
CHAPTER XC.
Come, death, these are thy victims; and the axe
Waits those who claimed the chariot. Thus we count
Our treasures in the dark, and when the light
Breaks on the cheated eye, we find the coin
Was skulls-
Yet the while
ANON.
Fate links strange contrasts, and the scaffold's gloom
Is neighbor'd by the altar.
WHEN Cranford's guilt and imprisonment became
known; when inquiry developed, day after day, some new
maze in the mighty and intricate machinery of his sublime
dishonesty; when houses of the most reputed wealth and
profuse splendor, whose affairs Crauford had transacted,
were discovered to have been for years utterly undermined
and beggared, and only supported by the extraordinary
genius of the individual, by whose extraordinary guilt, now
Do longer concealed, they were suddenly and irretrievably
destroyed; when it was ascertained tha, for nearly the
fifth part of a century, a system of villany had been car
ried on throughout Europe, in a thousand different rela
tions, without a single breath of suspicion, and yet which a
single breath of suspicion could at once have arrested and
exposed; when it was proved that a man, whose luxury
had exceeded the nomp of princes, and whose wealth was
supposed more exhaustible than the enchanted purse of
Fortunatus, had for eighteen years been a penniless pen-
sioner upon the prosperity of others; when the long scroll
of this almost incredible fraud was slowly, piece by piece,
unrolled before the terrified curiosity of the public, an in-
vading army at the Temple gates could scarcely have
excited such universal consternation and dismay.
The mob, always the first to execute justice, in their own
inimitable way, took vengeance upon Crauford, by burning
the house no longer his, and the houses of the partners, who
were the worst and most innocent sufferers for his cr me.
No epithet of horror and hatred was too severe for the offen-
der; and serious apprehensions for the safety of Newgate,
his present habitation, were generally expressed. The
more saintly members of that sect, to which the hypocrite
had ostensibly belonged, held up their hands, and declared
that the fall of the Pharisee was a judgment of Providence.
Nor did they think it worth while to make, for a moment,
the trifling inquiry, how far the judgment of Providence
was also implicated in the destruction of the numerous
and innocent families he had ruined !
—
But, whether from that admiration for genius, common
to the vulgar, which forgets all crime in the cleverness of
committing it, or from that sagacious disposition peculiar
to the English, which makes a hero of any person emi-
nently wicked, no sooner did Crauford's trial come on,
than the tide of popular feeling experienced a sudden revul-
sion. It became, in an instant, the fashion to admire and
to pity a gentleman so talented and so unfortunate. Like
nesses of Mr. Crauford appeared in every print-shop in
town, the papers discovered that he was the very fac-
simile of the great king of Prussia. The laureate made an
ode upon him, which was set to music; and the public
learnt, with tears of compassionate regret at so romantic a
circumstance, that pigeon pies were sent daily to his
prison, ma's by the delicate hands of one of his former
mistresses. Some sensation, also, was excited by the cir-
cumstance of his poor wife (who soon after died of a
broken heart) coming to him in prison, and being with
difficulty torn away; but then, conjugal affection is so very
commonplace, and there was something so engrossingly
pathetic in the anecdote of the pigeon pies !
It must be confessed that Crauford displayed singular
address and ability upon his trial; and fighting every inch
of ground, even to the last, when so strong a phalanx of
circumstances appeared against him, that no hope of a
favorable verdict could for a moment have supported him;
he concluded the trial with a speech delivered by himself,
so impressive, so powerful, so dignified, yet so impas-
sioned, that the whole audience, hot as they were, dis-
solved into tears.
Sentence was passed,- Death! But such was the in-
fatuation of the people that every one expected that a par-
don, for a crime more complicated and extensive than halt
the Newgate calendar could equal, would of course be ob-
tained. Persons of the highest rank interested themselves
in his behalf and up to the night before his execution,
expectations, almost amounting to certainty, were enter
tained by the criminal, his friends, and the public. On
that night was conveyed to Crauford the positive and pe-
remptory assurance that there was no hope. Let us now
enter his cell, and be the sole witnesses of his solitude.
Crauford was, as we have seen, a man in some respects
of great moral courage, of extraordinary daring in the for-
mation of schemes, of unwavering resolution in supporting
them, and of a temper which rather rejoiced in, than shun-
ned, the braving of a distant danger for the sake of an ad-
equate reward. But this courage was supported and fed
solely by the self-persuasion of consummate genius, and his
profound confidence both in his good fortune, and the in-
exhaustibility of his resources. Physically he was a cow-
ard! immediate peril to be confronted by the person, not the
mind, had ever appalled him like a child. He had never
dared to back a spirited horse. He had been known to
remain for days in an obscure alehouse in the country, to
which a shower had accidentally driven him, because it had
254
BULWER'S NOVELS.
been 1lly reported that a wild beast had escaped from a
caravan, and been seen in the vicinity of the mn. No dog
had ever been allowed in his household, lest it might go
mad In a word, Crauford was one to whoin life and sen-
sual enjoyments were every thing, the supreme blessings;
supreme blessings;
the only blessings.
As long as he had the hope, and it was a sanguine hope,
of saving life, nothing had disturbed his mind from its se-
renity. His gayety had never forsaken him; and his cheer-
fulness and fortitude had been the theme of every one ad-
mitted to his presence. But when this hope was abruptly
and finally closed, when death, immediate and unavoid-
able, death,
death, — the extinction of existence, -the cessation
of sense, stood bare and hideous before him, his genius
seemed at once to abandon him to his fate, and the inherent
weakness of his nature to gush over every prop and barrier
of his art.
K
—
into his soul, but it supported, while it tortured. Even
now, as we gaze upon his inflexible and dark countenance,
no transitory emotion, -no natural spasm of sudden fear for
the catastrophe of the morrow, -no intense and working
passions struggling into calm, no sign of internal hurri-
canes, rising, as it were, from the hidden depths, agitate
the surface, or betray the secrets of the unfathomable world
within. The mute lip, the rigid brow, the downcast
eye, -a heavy and dread stillness, brooding over every
feature, these are all that we behold!
The fatal hour had come! and, through the long dim
passages of the prison, four criminals were led forth to ex-
ecution. The first was Crauford's associate, Bradley.
This man prayed fervently; and, though he was trembling
and pale, his mien and aspect bore something of the calm-
ness of resignation.
Is it that thought sleeps, locked in the torpor of a sense-
less and rayless dream; or that an evil incubus weighs upon
it, crushing its risings, but deadening not its pangs? Does
memory fly to the green fields and happy home of his child-
hood, or the lonely studies of his daring and restless youth,
or his earliest homage to that spirit of freedom which shone
bright, and still, and pure, upon the solitary chamber of
"No hope!" muttered he, in a voice of the keenest him who sung of heaven; or (dwelling on its last and
anguish, "no hope, merciful God, none, none !
most fearful object) rolls it only through one tumultuous and
What, I, — I, - - who have shamed kings in luxury, I to convulsive channel, - Despair! Whatever be within the
die on the gibbet, among the reeking, gaping, swinish silent and deep heart, pride, or courage, or callousness,
crowd with whom
O, God, that I were one of them or that stubborn firmness which, once principle, has grown
even! that I were the most loathsome beggar that ever crept habit, cover all as with a pall; and the strong nerves, and
forth to taint the air with sores! that I were a toad im- the hard endurance of the human flesh, sustain what the im-
mured in a stone, sweltering in the atmosphere of its own mortal mind perhaps quails beneath, in its dark retreat,
venom ! a snail crawling on these very walls, and track- but once dreamt that it would glory to bear.
ing his painful path in slime! -any thing, any thing,
but death! And such death, the gallows, the scaffold,
the halter, the fingers of the hangman paddling round
the neck where the softest caresses have clung and sated.
To die, — die, die! What, I, whose pulse now beats so
strongly, whose blood keeps so warm and vigorous a
motion ! — in the very prime of enjoyment and manhood,
all life's million paths of pleasure before me,
swing to the winds, - to hang, ay,
to be cut down, distorted and hideous,
the earth with worms, to rot, or · or
a hell, better that even, than annihilation!
"Fool,
fool! dainnable fool that I was, (and in his
sudden rage he clenched his own flesh till the nails met in
it,) had I but got to France one day sooner! Why don't
you whom I have banquetted,
and feasted, and lent money to! one word from you
might have saved me, — I will not die! I don't deserve it!
I am innocent! - I tell you not guilty, my lord,
guilty! Have you no hearts, no consciences? murder,
murder,
murder!" and the wretched man sunk upon
the ground, and tried, with his hands, to grasp the stone
floor, as if to cling to it from some imaginary violence.
Turn we from him to the cell in which another criminal
awaits also the awful coming of his latest morrow.
J
you save me,
—
save me,
―
-
to die, - to
ay, - to hang !
to be thrust into
or, hell! is there
not
Pale, motionless, silent, with his face bending over
his bosom, and hands clasped tightly upon his knees, Wolfe
sat in his dungeon, and collected his spirit against the ap-
proaching consummation of his turbulent and stormy fate,
his bitterest punishment had been already past; myste-
rious chance, or rather the power above chance, had denied
to him the haughty triumph of self applause. No soph-
istry, now, could compare his doom to that of Sidney, or
his deed to the act of the avenging Brutus.
Murder, — causeless, objectless, universally execra-
ted, — rested, and would rest (till oblivion wrapt it) upon
his name. It had appeared, too, upon his trial, that he
had, in the information he had received, been the mere tool
of a spy, in the minister's pay; and that, for weeks before
his intended deed, his design had been known, and his con-
spiracy only not bared to the public eye, because political
craft awaited a riper opportunity for the disclosure. He
had not then merely been the blind dupe of his own pas-
sions, but, more humbling still, an instrument in the hands
of the very men whom his hatred was sworn to destroy.
Not a wreck, -not a straw, of the vain glory, for which
he had forfeited life, and risked his soul, could he hug to a
sinking heart, and say, "This is ny support."
>>
The remorse of gratitude imbittered his cup still farther.
On Mordaunt's person had been discovered a memorandum
of money anonymously enclosed to Wolfe on the day of the
nurder; and it was couched in words of esteem which
melted the fierce heart of the republican into the only tears
he had shed since childhood. From that time, a sullen
silent spirit, fen upon him. He spoke to none, heeded
none. he made no defence in trial, no complaint of se-
7ལ་【y, -no appeal from judgment. The iron had entered
|
It has been said that there is no friendship among the
wicked. I have examined this maxim closely, and
believe it, like most popular proverbs, false. In wicked-
ness there is peril; and mutual terror is the strongest of
ties. At all events, the wicked can, not unoften, excite
an attachment in their followers denied to virtue. Habi-
tually courteous, caressing, and familiar, Crauford had,
despite of his own suspicions of Bradley, really touched
the heart of one, whom weakness and want, not nature,
had gained to vice; and it was not till Crauford's guilt
was by other witnesses undeniably proved, that Bradley
could be tempted to make any confession tending to impli
cate him.
He now crept close to his former partner, and frequent
ly clasped his hand, and besought him to take courage, and
to pray. But Crauford's eye was glassy and dim, and his
veins seemed filled with water, -so numbed, and cold,
and white, was his cheek. Fear, in him, had passed its
paroxysm, and was now insensibility; it was only when
they urged him to pray that a sort of benighted conscious-
ness strayed over his countenance, and his ashen lips mut-
tered something which none heard.
After him came the Creole, who had been Wolfe's ac-
complice. On the night of the murder, he had taken ad-
vantage of the general loneliness, and the confusion of the
few present, and fled. He was found, however, fast
asleep, in a garret, before morning, by the officers of jus-
tice; and, on trial, he had confessed all. This man was
in a rapid consumption. The delay of another week
would have given to nature the termination of his life.
He, like Bradley, seemed earnest and absorbed in prayer.
Last came Wolfe, his tall, gaunt frame worn, by con-
finement and internal conflict, into a gigantic skeleton; his
countenance, too, had undergone a withering change: his
grizzled hair seemed now to have acquired only the one
hoary hue of age; and, though you might trace in his air
and eye the sternness, you could no longer detect the fire,
of former days. Calm, as on the preceding night, no
emotion broke over his dark, but not defying features. He
rejected, though not irreverently, all aid from the benevo-
lent priest, and seemed to seek, in the pride of his own
heart, a substitute for the resignation of religion.
"Miserable man!" at last said the good clergyman, in
whom zeal overcame kindness, "have you, at this awful
hour, no prayer upon your lips?"
A living light shot then, for a moment, over Wolfe's eye
and brow. "I have!" said he; and, raising his clasped
hands to heaven, he continued, in the memorable words of
Sidney, "Lord, defend thy own cause, and defend
those who defend it! Stir up such as are faint; direct
* Milton.
THE DISOWNED.
255
those that are willing; confirm those that waver; give wis-
dom and integrity to all: order all things so as may most
redound to thine own glory!'
*
"I had once hoped," added Wolfe, sinking in his tone,
"I had once hoped that I might with justice have con-
tinued that holy prayer; but," he ceased abruptly:
the glow passed from his countenance, his lips quivered,
and the tears stood in his eyes; that was the only weak-
ness he betrayed, and those were his last words.
Crauford continued, even while the rope was put round
him, mute and unconscious of every thing. It was said
that his pulse (that of an uncommonly strong and healthy
man on the previous day) had become so low and faint
that, an hour before his execution, it could not be felt. He
and the Creole were the only ones who struggled. Wolfe
died, seemingly, without a pang.
From these feverish and fearful scenes the mind turns,
with a feeling of grateful relief, to contemplate the happi-
ness of one whose candid and high nature, and warm af-
fections, fortune, long befriending, had at length blest.
It was on an evening in the earliest flush of returning
spring, that Lord Ulswater, with his beautiful bride, en-
tered his magnificent domains. It had been his wish and
order, in consequence of his brother's untimely death, that
no public rejoicings should be made on his marriage; but
the good old steward could not persuade himself entirely
to enforce obedience to the first order of his new master;
and as the carriage drove into the park gates, crowds on
crowds were assembled, to welcome and to gaze.
No sooner had they caught a glimpse of their young
lord, whose affability and handsome person had endeared
him to all who remeinbered his early days, and of the half
blushing, half smiling countenance beside him, than their
enthusiasm could be no longer restrained. The whole
scene rang with shouts of joy, -— and, through an air filled
with blessings, and amid an avenue of happy faces, the
bridal pair arrived at their home.
"Ah! Clarence, (for so I must still call you,)" said
Fiora, her beautiful eyes streaming with delicious tears,
"let us never leave these kind hearts; let us live among
them, and strive to repay and deserve the blessings which
they shower upon us! Is not benevolence, dearest, better
than ambition?'
"Can it not rather, my own Flora, be ambition itself?"
CONCLUSION.
So rest you, merry gentlemen.
Monsieur Thomas.
THE author has now only to take his leave of the less
important characters whom he has assembled together;
and then, all due courtesy to his numerous guests being
performed, to retire himself to repose.
In the second
First, then, for Mr. Morris Brown:
year of Lord Ulswater's marriage, the worthy broker paid
Mrs. Minden's nephew a visit, in which he persuaded that
gentleman to accept, "as presents," two admirable fire-
screens, the property of the late Lady Waddilove: the
same may be now seen in the housekeeper's room, at Bo-
rodaile Park, by any person willing to satisfy his curiosity
and,
the housekeeper. Of all farther particulars respect-
ing Mr. Morris Brown, history is silent.
In the obituary for 1792, we find the following para-
graph: — Died at his house in Putney, aged seventy-three,
Sir Nicholas Copperas, Knt., a gentleman well known on
the Exchange for his facetious humor. Several of his
bons-mats are still recorded in the common council. When
residing, many years ago, in the suburbs of London, this
worthy gentleman was accustomed to go from his own
house to the Exchange, in a coach called the Swallow,'
that passed his door just at breakfast time; upon which oc-
casion he was wont wittily to observe to his accomplished
spouse,
And now,
Mrs. Copperas, having swallowed
in the roll, I will e'en roll in the Swallow ! His whole
property is left to Adolphus Copperas, Esq. banker.”
And, in the next year, we discover,
C
* "Grant that I may die glorifying thee for all thy mercies,
and that at the last thou hast permitted me to be singled out as
& witness of thy truth, and even by the confession of my op-
posers for that OLD CAUSE in which I was from my youth en-
gaged, and for which thou hast often and wonderfully declared
thyself."
Died, on Wednesday last, at her jointure house,
Putney, in her sixty-eighth year, the amiable and elegant
Lady Copperas, relict of the late Sir Nicholas, Knt."
Lord Aspeden was a frequent guest at the house of
Lord Ulswater, delighting every one with his graceful
urbanity. By a note of the latter, (dated twenty-four
years after his marriage, and now in our possession,) we
find his lordship attributed the failure of his eldest son, in
an election for the county, entirely to the envy excited by
some courtly compliment of our ci-devant minister; we
may therefore conclude that this polished diplomatist
arrived at a good old age.
Mr. Trollolop, having exhausted the whole world of
metaphysics, died, like Descartes, "in believing he had
left nothing unexplained."
r
Mr. Callythorpe entered the House of Commons, at the
time of the French revolution. He distinguished himself
by many votes in favor of Mr. Pitt, and one speech which
ran thus: Sir, I believe my right honorable friend who
spoke last (Mr. Pitt) designs to ruin the country; but J
will support him through all; honorable gentlemen may
laugh, but I'm a true Briton, and will not serve my
friend the less because I scorn to flatter him.”
Sir Christopher Findlater lost his life by an acciden
arising from the upset of his carriage; his good hear
not having suffered him to part with a drunken coachman
Mr. Glumford turned miser in his old age; and died of
want, and an extravagant son.
Our honest Cole and his wife were always among the
most welcome visiters at Lord Ulswater's.
In his ex-
treme old age, the ex-king took a journey to Scotland, to
see the author of "The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” Nor
should we do justice to the chief's critical discernment if
we neglected to record that, from the earliest dawn of that
great luminary of our age, he predicted its meridian splen-
dor. The eldest son of the gipsy-monarch inherited his
father's spirit, and is yet alive, a general, and G. C. B.
Mr. Harrison married Miss Elizabeth, and succeeded to
the Golden Fleece.
-
The Duke of Haverfield and Lord Ulswater continued
their friendship through life; and the letters of our dear
Flora to her correspondent, Eleanor, did not cease, even
with that critical and perilous period to all maiden corres-
pondence, marriage. If we may judge from the subse-
quent letters which we have been perinitted to see, Eleanor
never repented her brilliant nuptials, nor discovered (as
the Duchess of
once said from experience)" that
dukes are as intolerable for husbands as they are delight-
ful for matches."
And Isabel Mordaunt ? Ah! not in these pages shall
her history be told even in epitome. Perhaps for some
future narrative, her romantic and eventful fate may be
reserved. Suffice it, for the present, that the childhood of
the young heiress passed in the house of Lord Ulswater,
whose proudest boast, through a triumphant and prosper-
ous life, was to have been her father's friend; and that, as
she grew up, she inherited her mother's beauty and gentle
heart, and seemed to bear, in her deep eyes and melan
choly smile, some remembrance of the scenes in which
her first infancy had been passed.
But for him, the husband and the father, whose trials
through this wrong world I have portrayed, — for him let
there be neither murmurs at the blindness of fate, nor
sorrow at the darkness of his doom. Better that the lofty
and bright spirit should pass away before the petty busi-
ness of life had bowed it, or the sordid mists of this low
earth breathed a shadow on its lustre! Who would have
asked that spirit to have struggled on for years in the in-
trigues,
the hopes,
the objects of meaner souls? Who
would have desired that the heavenward and impatient
heart should have grown inured to the chains and toil of
this enslaved state, or hardened into the callousness of
age? Nor would we claim the vulgar pittance of com-
passion for a lot which is exalted above regret! Pity is for
our weaknesses, -to our weaknesses only be it given. It
is the aliment of love, it is the wages of ambition, it
is the rightful heritage of error! But why should pity be
entertained for the soul which never fell ?-for the cour-
age which never quailed?—for the majesty never hum-
bled for the wisdom which, from the rough things of
the common world, raised an empire above earth and des-
tiny?-for the stormy life? it was a triumph! for
the early death? - it was an immortality!
M
I have stood beside Mordanne's tomb hie will had
256
BULWER'S NOVELS.
directed that he should sleep not in the vaults of his haugh- |
ty line, and his last dwelling is surrounded by a green
ard pleasant spot. The trees shadow it like a temple; and
a silver, though fitful brook wails, with a constant yet not
ungrateful dirge, at the foot of the hill on which the tomb
is placed. I have stood there in those ardent years when
our wishes know no boundary, and our ambition no curb;
yet, even then, I would have changed my wildest vision of
romance for that quiet grave, and the dreams of the dis-
tant spirit whose relics repose beneath it.
To you who have gone with him through a journey that
|
has, perchance, often wearied, and at times displeased,
you, the author has now only to add his thanks and his
farewell. He may scarcely ask you to pardon the failures
which a greater ability might have shunned, and the errors
which a more practised attention might not have incurred;
but forgive him, at least, if at intervals he has paused from
recital to linger too long over reflection, forgive him, i
his desire to mingle utility with interest has appeared, to
you, too frequent and unveiled; and believe, that if he
ever meet you again, he will be neither forgetful of hi
faults, nor ungrateful for your indulgence.
THE END OF THE DISOWNED,
DEVEREUX.
A TALE.
'He that knows most men's manners, must of necessity
Best know his own, and mend those by example.
Pure and strong spirits
Do, like the fire, still covet to fly upward."
THE QUEEN OF CORINTH, ACT 2, Sonax 4.
Vol. 1.
୫୫
THE AUTO-BIOGRAPHER'S
INTRODUCTION.
My life has been one of frequent adventure and consta.it
excitement, it has been passed to this present day in a
stirring age, and not without acquaintance of the most em-
inent and active spirits of the time. Men of all grades,
and of every character, have been familiar to me. War,
- love, — ambition, the scroll of sages, the festivals
of wit, — the intrigues of state,—all that agitates man-
kind, the hope and the fear, the labor and the pleasure,-
the great drama of vanities, with the little interludes of
wisdom; - these have been the occupations of my man-
hood; these will furnish forth the materials of that
history which is now open to your survey. Whatever be
the faults of the historian, he has no motive to palliate
what he has committed, or to conceal what he has felt.
Children of an after century, the very time in which
these pages will greet you, destroys enough of the connex-
ion between you and myself, to render me indifferent alike
to your censure and your applause. Exactly one hundred
years from the day this record is completed, will the seal
I shall place on it be broken, and the secrets it contains be
disclosed. I claim that congeniality with you which I have
found not among my own coevals. Their thoughts, their
feelings, their views, have nothing kindred to my own. I
speak their language, but it is not as a native, — they
know not a syllable of mine! With a future age my heart
may have more in common,—to a future age my thoughts
may be less unfamiliar, and my sentiments less strange; I
trust these confessions to the trial. Children of an after
century, between you and the being who has traced the
pages ye behold, that busy, versatile, restless being,-
there is but one step, but that step is a century! His
now is separated from your now, by an interval of three
generations! While he writes, he is exulting in the vigor
of health and manhood,— while ye read, the very worms
are starving upon his dust. This commune between the
living and the dead, this intercourse between that which
breathes and moves,
and is,
and that which life animates
not, nor mortality knows, annihilates falsehood, and
chills even self-delusion into awe. Come, then, and look
upon the picture of a past day, and of a gone being, with-
out apprehension of deceit, and as the shadows and
lights of a checkered and wild existence flit before you, –
watch if, in your own hearts, there be aught which mirrors
the reflection.
MORTON DIVEREUX
NOTE BY THE EDITOR.
Ir the hero of the following tale is not altogether de-
Deived in his hope of congeniality with those to whom he
has bequeathed his memoirs, the reader will find himself
led through the scenes of the past century in company with
one possessing many of the peculiarities of thought and
feeling characteristic of the present. One opinion, how-
ever, entertained by Count Devereux, seems almost exclu-
sively to belong to a former day; viz. the opinion he ex-
presses of his friend and contemporary, Lord Bolingbroke.
For my own part, I do not think that the portrait he has
drawn of that remarkable man has been colored by undue
partiality. If, on the one hand, Lord Bolingbroke's good
qualities have not been misconstrued into vices, neither, on
the other, have his affectations or his errors been extolled
into virtues; and I incline to believe that his character,
a character which, in my interpretation of history, was ir
regular, not abandoned, — faulty, not vicious, — has been
no less unexamined by his biographical commentators, than
landered by his political enemies. If I am deceived in
this opinion, I know at least that I have been deceived not
|
in consequence of my prejudices, bur. in spite of them, for
my party tenets would not bias me in favor of Lord Boling-
broke as a Tory, nor my sentiments on the subtleties of
moral philosophy incline me to esteem him as a metaphy-
sician.* I must be pardoned for these observations, which
seemed to me rendered necessary by the notes which I have
(in Books IV,— VI., wherein any more favorable view of
Lord Bolingbroke has chiefly been taken) added to the
text. If any excuse is required for attacking in those notes
"The Literary Superstition," which renders men unwilling
to have the opinions they have formed, however erroneous-
ly, of celebrated characters, shaken and disturbed, I beg
to refer the reader to the words of Horace Walpole, (one,
by the by, of Lord Bolingbroke's bitterest maligners,) pro-
fixed to the small but valuable work, entitled “ An Inquiry
respecting Clarendon, &c., by Hon. G. Agar Ellis."
* As if in corroboration of the opinion vulgarly held, that
Lord Bolingbroke's philosophical sentiments, or rather philo
sophical errors, were very partially, if at all, divulged during
his life, the reader wil, fi no aliusion whatsoever to them in
these pages, when indeed shoy woukl b bvious.y out of place
DEVEREUX.
BOOK I.
b
CHAPTER I.
the hero s birth and parentage.
Nothing can differ more
from the end of things than their beginning.
My grandfather, Sir Arthur Devereux, (peace be with
his ashes!) was a noble old knight and cavalier, possessed
of a property sufficiently large to have maintained in full
dignity half a dozen peers, such as peers have been since
the days of the first James. Nevertheless, my grandfather
loved the equestrian order better than the patrician, rejected
all offers of advancement, and left his posterity no titles
but those to his estate.
C
Sir Arthur had two children by wedlock,
both sons;
at his death, my father, the youngest, bade adieu to the
old hall and his only brother, prayed to the grim portraits
of his ancestors to inspire him, and set out, -to join as a
volunteer the armies of that Louis, afterward surnamed le
grand. Of him I shall say but little; the life of a soldier
the life of a soldier
has only two events worth recording, his first campaign and
his last. My uncle did as his ancestors had done before him,
and cheap as the dignity bad grown, went up to court to be
knighted by Charles II. He was so delighted with what
he saw of the metropolis, that he forswore all intention of
leaving it, took to Sedley and champagne, flirted with Nell
Gwynne, lost double the value of his brother's portion at
one sitting to the chivalrous Grammont, wrote a comedy
corrected by Etherege, and took a wife recommended by
Rochester. The wife brought him a child six months after
marriage, and the infant was born on the same day the
comedy was acted. Luckily for the honor of the house, my
uncle shared the fate of Plimncus, king of Sicyon, and all
the offspring he ever had (that is to say, the child and the
play) died as soon as they were born." My uncle was
now only at a loss what to do with his wife, that remain-
ing treasure, whose readiness to oblige him had been so
miraculously evinced. She saved him the trouble of long
cogitation, an exercise of intellect to which he was
never too ardently inclined. There was a gentleman of
the court, celebrated for his sedateness and solemnity; my
aunt was piqued into emulating Orpheus, and six weeks
after her confinement, she put this rock into motion, they
eloped. Poor gentleman!—it must have been a severe
trial of patience to a man never known before to transgress
the very slowest of all possible walks, -to have had two
events of the most rapid nature happen to him in the same
week. Scarcely had he recovered the shock of being ran
away with by my aunt, before, terminating for ever his
terminating for ever his
vagrancics, he was ran through by my uncle. The wits
made an epigram upon the event, and my uncle, who was
as bold as a lion at the point of a sword, was, to speak
frankly, terribly disconcerted by the point of a jest. He
retired to the country re a ût of disgust and gout. Here
his own bon naturel rose from the layers of art which had
ong oppressed it, and he solaced himself by righteously
governing domains worthy of a prince, for the mortifica-
tions he had experienced in the dishonorable career of a
courtier.
—
Hitherto I have spoken somewhat slightingly of my uncle,
and in his dissipation he deserved it, for he was both too
honest and too simple to shine in that galaxy of prostituted
genius of which Charles II. was the centre. But in retire-
ment he was no longer the same person, and I do not think
that the elements of human nature could have furnished
forth a more amiable character than Sir William Devereux,
residing at Christmas over the merriment of his great hall.
Good old man! his very defects were what we loved
best in him, vanity was so mingled with good nature
that it became graceful, and we reverenced one the most,
while we most smiled at the other.
One peculiarity had he, which the age he had lived in
and his domestic history rendered natural enough, viz. an
exceeding distaste to the matrimonial state: early mar
riages were misery; imprudent marriages idiotism, and
marriage at the best, he was wont to say, with a kindling
eye, and a heightened color, marriage at the best, was
the devil. Yet it must not be supposed that Sir William
Devereux was an ungallant man. On the contrary, never
did the beau sexe have an humbler or more devoted servant.
As nothing in his estimation was less becoming to a wise
man than matrimony, so nothing was more ornamental than
flirtation.
He had the old man's weakness, garrulity; and he told
the wittiest stories in the world, without omitting any thing
in them but the point. This omission did not arise from
the want either of memory or of humor; but solely from
a deficiency in the malice natural to all jesters. He could
not persuade his lips to repeat a sarcasm hurting even the
dead or the ungrateful; and when he came to the drop of
gall which should have given zest to the story, the milk of
human kindness broke its barrier despite of himself, and
washed it away. He was a fine wreck, a little prematurely
broken by dissipation, but not perhaps the less interesting
on that account; tall, and somewhat of the jovial old Eng-
lish girth, with a face where good nature and good living
mingled their smiles and glow. He wore the garb of
twenty years back, and was curiously particular in the
choice of his silk stockings. Between you and me, he was
not a little vain of his leg, and a compliment on that score
was always sure of a gracious reception.
The solitude of my uncle's household was broken by
an invasion of three boys, -none of the quietest, and
their mother, who, the gentlest and saddest of womankind,
seemed to follow them, the emblem of that primeval silence
from which all noise was born. These three boys were my
two brothers and myself. My father, who had conceived a
strong personal attachment for Louis Quatorze, never quit-
ted his service, and the great king repaid him by orders
and favors without number; he died of wounds received
in battle, - -a count and a marshal, full of renown, and des
titute of money. He had married twice: his first wife,
who died without issue, was a daughter of the noble house
of La Tremouille, his second, our mother, was of a younger
branch of the English race of Howard. Brought up in
her native country, and influenced by a primitive and re-
tired education, she never loved that gay land which her
husband had adopted as his own. Upon his death, she has
tened her return to England, and refusing, with somewhat
of honorable pride, the magnificent pension which Louis
wished to settle upon the widow of his favorite, came to
throw herself and her children upon those affections which
she knew they were extitled to claim.
My uncle was unaffectedly rejoiced to receive us. Го
say nothing of his love for my father, and his pride at be
honors the latter had won to their ancient house,
the good
gentleman was very well pleased with the idea of obtain-
ing four new listeners, out of whom he might select an
heir, and be soon grew as fond of us as we were of him
At the time of our new settlement, I had attained the age
of twelve; my second brother (we were twins) was born
an hour after ine; my third was about fifteen months young-
I had never been the favorite of the three. In the
er.
262
BULWER'S NOVELS.
first pace, my brothers (my youngest especially) were un-
commonly handsome, and, at most, I was but tolerably good
looking; in the second place, my mind was considered as
much inferior to theirs as my body; - I was idle and dull,
sullen and haughty; the only wit I ever displayed was in
sneering at my friends, and the only spirit, in quarrelling
with my twin brother; so said or so thought all who saw
us in our childhood; and it follows, therefore, that I was
either very unamiable or very much misunderstood.
·
But to the astonishment of myself and my relations,
my fate was now reversed, and I was no sooner set-
tled at Devereux Court, than I became evidently the ob-
ect of Sir William's preeminent attachment. The fact
was, that I really liked both the knight and his stories
better than my brothers did; and the very first time I had
seen my uncle, I had commented on the beauty of his stock
ing, and envied the constitution of his leg; from such tri-
fles spring affection ! In truth, our attachment so pro-
gressed that we grew to be constantly together; and while
my childish anticipations of the world made me love to lis-
ten to stories of courts and courtiers, my uncle returned the
compliment, by declaring of my wit as the angler declared
of the River Lea, that one would find enough in it, if one
would but angle sufficiently long.
tered. My uncle released his right leg, and my jest was
cut off. Nobody ever inspired a more dim, religious awe
than the Abbé Montreuil. The priest entered with a smile,
My mother hailed the entrance of an ally.
"Father," said she, rising, "I have just represented to
my good brother the necessity of sending my sons to school;
he has proposed an alternative, which I will leave you to
discuss with him.”
"And what is it?" said Montreuil, sliding into a chair,
and patting Gerald's head with a benignant air.
"To educate them himself," answered my mother, with
a sort of satirical gravity. My uncle moved uneasily in
his seat, as if, for the first time, he saw something ridicu
lous in the proposal.
The smile, immediately fading from the thin lips of the
priest, gave way to an expression of respectful approba-
tion. "An admirable plan," said he, slowly, "but liable
to some little exceptions, which Sir Willian will allow me
to indicate."
My mother called to us, and we left the room with her
The next time we saw my uncle the priest's reasonings
had prevailed. The following week we all three went to
school. My father had been a Catholic, my mother was of
the same creed, and consequently we were brought up in
that unpopular faith. But my uncle, whose religion had
been sadly undermined at court, was a terrible caviller at
the holy mysteries of Catholicism; and while his friends
termed him a Protestant, his enemies hinted, falsely
enough, that he was a skeptic. When Montreuil first fol
lowed us to Devereux Court, many and bitter were the
little jests my worthy uncle had provided for his reception;
and he would shake his head with a notable archness
whenever he heard our reverential description of the ex-
Nor was this all; my uncle and myself were exceedingly
ike the waters of Alpheus and Arethusa, nothing was
thrown into the one without being seen very shortly after-
ward floating upon the other. Every witticism or legend
Sir William imparted to me, (and some, to say truth, were
a little tinged with the licentiousness of the times he had
lived in,) I took the first opportunity of retailing, whatever
might be the audience; and few boys, at the age of thirteen,
can boast of having so often as myself excited the laughter
of the men and the blushes of the women. This circum-pected guest. But, somehow or other, no sooner had he
stance, while it aggravated my own vanity, delighted my
uncle's; and as I was always getting into scrapes on his
account, so he was perpetually bound, by duty, to de-
fend me from the charges of which he was the cause. No
man defends another long without loving him the better for
it; and perhaps Sir William Devereux and his eldest
nephew were the only allies in the world who had no jeal-
ousy of each other.
CHAPTER II.
A family consultation. A priest, and an æra in life.
-
"You are ruining the children, my dear Sir William,'
said my gentle mother, one day, when I had been particu-
larly witty," and the Abbé Montreuil declares it absolutely
recessary that they should go to school.”
"To school!" said my uncle, who was caressing his
night leg, as it lay over his left knee, "to school, mad-
am! you are joking. What for, pray?
"Instruction, my dear Sir William," replied my
mother.
"Ah, ah! I forgot that; true, true!" said my uncle,
lespondingly, and there was a pause. My mother counted
her rosary; my uncle sunk into a revery; my second brother
pinched my leg under the table, to which I replied by a
silent kick; and my youngest fixed his large, dark, speaking
eyes upon a picture of the Holy Family, which hung oppo-
site to him.
My uncle broke silence; he did it with a start.
“Ödd's fish, madam,' (my uncle dressed his oaths,
ike himself, a little after the example of Charles II.).
"odd's fish, madam, I have thought of a better plan than
that; they shall have instruction without going to school
for it."
"And how, Sir William ?
>>
"I will instruct them myself, madam,” and Sir William
slapped the calf of the leg he was caressing.
My mother smiled.
CC
Ay, madam, you may smile; but I and my Lord Dor-
set were the best scholars of the age; you shall read my
play.'
Do, mother," said I, "read the play. Shall I tell her
some of the jests in it, uncle?"
My mother shook her head in anticipative horror, and
aised her finger reprovingly. My uncle said nothing, but
winked at me; I understood the signal, and was about to
begin, when the door opened, and the Abbé Montreuil en-
seen the priest, than all his purposed railleries deserted
him. Not a single witticism came to his assistance, and
the calm, smooth face of the ecclesiastic seemed to operate
upon the fierce resolves of the facetious knight in the same
manner as the human eye is supposed to awe into impo-
tence the malignant intentions of the ignobler animals.
Yet nothing could be blander than the demeanour of the
Abbé Montreuil, — nothing more worldly, in their urbani-
ty, than his manner and address. His garb was as little
clerical as possible, his conversation rather familiar than
formal, and he invariably listened to every syllable the good
knight uttered, with a countenance and mien of the most
attentive respect.
What then was the charm by which this singular man
never failed to obtain an ascendency, in some measure
allied with fear, over all in whose company he was thrown?
That was a secret my uncle never could solve, and which,
only in later life, I myself was able to discover. It was
partly by the magic of an extraordinary and powerful
mind, partly by an expression of manner, if I may use
such a phrase, that seemed to sneer most when most it
affected to respect; and partly by an air like that of a
man never exactly at his ease; not that he was shy, or
ungraceful, or even taciturn, no! it was an indescriba-
ble embarrassment, resembling that of one playing a part,
familiar to him, indeed, but somewhat distasteful. This
embarrassment, however, was sufficient to be contagious,
and to confuse that dignity in others, which, strangely
enough, never forsook himself.
He was of low origin, but his address and appearance
did not betray his birth. Pride suited better with his
mien than familiarity,—and his countenance, rigid, thought-
ful, and cold, even through smiles, in expression was strik-
ingly commanding. In person he was slightly above the
middle standard; and had not the texture of his frame
been remarkably hard, wiry, and muscular, the total ab-
sence of all superfluous flesh would have given the lean
gauntness of his figure an appearance of almost spectral
emaciation In reality, his age did not exceed twenty-
eight years; but his high, broad forehead was already so
marked with line and furrow, his air was so staid and
quiet, his figure so destitute of the roundness and elasticity
of youth, that his appearance always impressed the be-
holder with the involuntary idea of a man onsiderably more
advanced in life. Abstemious to habitual penance, and
regular to mechanical exactness in his frequent and severe
devotions, he was as little inwardly addicted to the pleas-
ures and pursuits of youth, as he was externally possessed
of its freshness and its blcom.
DEVEREUX.
Nor was gravity with him the unmeaning veil to imbe
lity, which Rochefoucault has so happily called "the
mystery of the body." The variety and depth of his
learning fully sustained the respect which his demeanour
insensibly created. To say nothing of his lore in the dead
tongues, he possessed a knowledge of the principal Euro-
pean languages besides his own, viz. English, Italian, Ger-
man, and Spanish, rot less accurate and little less fluent than
that of a native; and he had not only gained the key to
these various coffers of intellectual wealth, but he had also
possessed himself of their treasures. He had been edu-
cated at St. Omers; and, young as he was, he had already
acquired no inconsiderable reputation among his brethren
of that illustrious and celebrated Order of Jesus, which
has produced both the worst and the best men that the
Christian world has ever known, which has, in its suc-
cessful zeal for knowledge, and the circulation of mental
light, bequeathed a vast debt of gratitude to posterity; but
which unhappily encouraging certain scholastic doctrines,
that by a mind at once subtle and vicious can be easily
perverted into the sanction of the most dangerous and
systematized immorality, has already drawn upon its pro-
fessors an almost universal odium, which, by far the great-
er part of them, is singularly undeserved.
So highly established was the good name of Montreuil
that, when, three years prior to the time of which I now
speak, he had been elected to the office he held in our fam-
ily, it was scarcely deemed a less fortunate occurrence for
us, to gain so learned and so pious a preceptor, than it was
for him to acquire a situation of such trust and confidence
in the household of a marshal of France, and the especial
favorite of Louis XIV.
It was pleasant enough to mark the gradual ascendency
he gained over my uncle; and the timorous dislike which
the good knight entertained for him, yet struggled to con-
ceal. Perhaps that was the only time in his life, in which
Sir William Devereux was a hypocrite.
M
Enough of the priest at present, I return to his charge.
To school we went, -our parting with our uncle was
quite pathetic, mine in especial. Harkye, sir count,"
whispered he, (I bore my father's title,) "harkye, don't
mind what the old priest tells you; your real man of wit
never wants the musty lessons of schools in order to make
a figure in the world. Don't cramp your genius, my boy;
read over my play, and honest George Etherege's Man
of Mode; they'll keep your spirits alive, after dozing
over those old pages which Homer (good soul !) dozed
over before. God bless you, my child,
write to me; —
no one, not even your mother, shall see your letters; — and,
and,
-and be sure, my fine fellow, that you don't fag too hard.
The glass of life is the best book, and one's natural wit,
the only diamond that can write legibly on it."
>
Such were my uncle's parting admonitions; it must be
confessed, that, coupled with the dramatic gifts alluded to,
they were likely to be of infinite service to the débutant
for academical honors. In fact, Sir William Devereux
was deeply impregnated with the notion of his time, that
ability and inspiration were the same thing, and that un-
less you were thoroughly idle, you could not be thoroughly
a genius. I verily believe that he thought wisdom got its
gems, as Abu Zeid al Hassan * declares some Chinese
obilosophers thought oysters got their pearls, viz. by
caping!
CHAPTER III.
A change, n conduct and in character. Our evil passions will
sometimes produce good effects; and, on the contrary, an alter.
ation for the better in manners will, not unfrequently, have
among its causes a little corruption of mind; for the feelings
are so ended, that in suppressing those disagreeable to
others, we often suppress those which are amiable in them-
selves.
My twin-brother, Gerald, was a tall, strong, handsome
boy, blessed with a great love for the orthodox academi-
cal studies, and extraordinary quickness of ability. Never-
theless, he was indolent by nature, in things which were
contrary to his taste, fond of pleasure, and among all
his personal courage, ran a certain vein of irresolution,
which rendered it easy for a cool and determined mind to
* In his Commentary on the Account of China by two Tra-
ellers.
awe or to persuade him. I cannot help thinking, too,
that, clever as he was, there was something commonplace
in the cleverness; and that his talent was of that mechan.
ical, yet quick nature, which makes wonderful boys, but
médiocre men. In any other family he would have been
considered the beauty; in ours he was thought the genius.
My youngest brother, Aubrey, was of a very different
disposition of mind, and frame of body; thoughtful, gentle,
susceptible, acute; with an uncertain bravery, like a
woman's, and a taste for reading, that varied with the
caprice of every hour. He was the beauty of the three,
and my mother's favorite. Never, indeed, have I seen the
countenance of man, so perfect, po glowingly, yet delicate
ly handsome, as that of Aubrey Devereux. Locks, soft
glossy, and twining into ringlets, fell in dark profusion
over a brow whiter than marble; his eyes were black and
tender, as a Georgian girl's; his lips, his teeth, the con-
tour of his face, were all cast in the same feminine and
faultless mould; his hands would have shamed those of
Madame de la Tisseure, whose lover offered six thousand
marks to any European who could wear her glove; and his
figure would have made Titania give up her Henchman,
and the king of the fairies be any thing but pleased with
the exchange.
Such were my two brothers; or, rather, (so far as the
internal qualities are concerned,) such they seemed to me;
for it is a singular fact that we never judge of our near
kindred with that certainty with which la science du monde
enables us to judge of others; and I appeal to any one,
whether of all people by whom he has been mistaken, he
has not been most often mistaken by those with whom he
was brought up.
I had always loved Aubrey, but they had not suffered
him to love me; and we had been so little together, that we
had in common none of those childish remembrances,
which serve, more powerfully than all else in later life,
to cement and soften affection. In fact, I was the scape-
goat of the family. What I must have been in early child-
hood, I cannot tell; but before I was ten years old I was
1
the object of all the despondency and evil forebodings o.
my relations. My father said I laughed at la gloire et le
grand monarque, the very first time he attempted to ex-
plain to me the value of the one, and the greatness of the
other. The countess said, I had neither my father's eye,
nor her own smile, that I was slow at my letters, and
quick with my tongue; and throughout the whole house,
nothing was so favorite a topic, as the extent of
my rude.
ness, and the venom of my repartee. Montreuil, on his
entrance into our family, not only fell in with, but favored
and fostered, the reigning humor against me; whether
from that divide et impera system, which was so grateful to
his temper, or from the mere love of meddling and intrigue,
which in him, as in Alberoni, attached itself equally to
petty and to large circles, was not then clearly apparent;
it was only certain that he fomented the dissensions, and
widened the breach between my brothers and myself.
Alas! after all, I believe, my sole crime was my candor.
I had a spirit of frankness, which no fear could tame, and
my vengeance for any infantine punishment, was in speak-
ing veraciously of my punishers. Never tell me of the
pang of falsehood to the slandered: nothing is so agoniz-
ing to the fine skin of vanity, as the application of a rough
truth!
was
As I grew older I saw my power, and indulged it; and
being scolded for sarcasm, I was flattered into believing I
had wit; so I punned and jested, lampooned and satirized,
till I was as much a torment to others, as I was tormented
myself. The secret of all this was, that I was unhappy
Nobody loved me,- I felt it to my heart of hearts
conscious of injustice, and the sense of it made me bitter
Our feelings, especially in youth, resemble that leaf,
which, in some old traveller, is described as expanding it-
self to warmth, but when chilled, not only shrinking and
lain concealed upon the opposite side of it before
closing, but presenting to the spectator, thorns which had
With my brother Gerald, I had a deadly and irrecon-
cilable feud. He was much stouter, taller, and stronger
than myself; and far from conceding to me that respect
which I imagined my priority of birth entitled me to
claim, he took every opportunity to deride my pretensions,
and to vindicate the cause of the superior strength and
vigor which constituted his own. It would have done
your heart good to have seen us cuff one another, we did
264
BULWER'S NOVELS.
it with such zeal. There is nothing in human passion like
a good brotherly hatred! My mother said, with the most
feeling earnestness, that she used to feel us fighting in the
womb: we certainly lost no time directly we were out of
It. Both my parents were secretly vexed that I had come
into the world an hour sooner than my brother; and Gerald
himself looked upon it as a sort of juggle, -a kind of
jockeyship by which he had lost the prerogative of birth-
right. This very early rankled in his heart, and he was
so much a greater favorite than myself, that instead of
rooting out so unfortunate a feeling on his part, my good
parents made no scruple of openly lamenting my seniority.
I believe the real cause of our being taken from the domes-
tic instructions of the abbé (who was an admirable
teacher) and sent to school, was solely to prevent my uncle
deciding every thing it my favor. Montreuil, however,
accompanied us to ou: academus, and remained with us
during the three years in which we were perfecting our-
selves in the blessings of education.
"
One's mother wit was a precious sort of necromancy
which could pierce every mystery at first sight; and all the
gifts of knowledge, in his opinion, like reading and writing
in that of the sage Dogberry, "came by nature. Alas! 1
was not under the same pleasurable delusion; I rather ex
aggerated than diminished the difficulty of my task, and
thought, at the first glance, that nothing short of a miracle
would enable me to excel my brother. Geraid, a boy of
natural talent, and as I said before, of great assiduity in the
orthodox studies, – especially favored too by the instruction
of Montreuil, had long been esteemed the first scholar of
our miscrocosm; and though I knew that with some
branches of learning I was more conversant than himself,
yet, as my emulation had been hitherto solely directed to
bodily contention, I had never thought of contesting with
him a reputation for which I cared little, and on a point in
which I had been early taught that I could never hope to
enter into any advantageous comparison with the "genius
of the Devereuxs.
—
"
At the end of the second year a prize was instituted A new spirit now passed into me, I examined myself
for the best proficient at a very severe examination; two with a jealous and impartial scrutiny, I we ghed my ac
inonths before it took place we went home for a few days. quisitions against those of my brother, I called forth
After dinner my uncle asked me to walk with him in the from their secret recesses, the unexercised and almost un-
park. I did so; we strolled along to the margin of a riv-known stores, I had from time to time laid
ulet, which ornamented the grounds. There my uncle, for
the first time, broke silence.
"Morton," said he, looking down at his left leg, "Mor-
ton let me see thou art now of a reasonable age
fourteen at least.
"Fifteen, if it please you, sir," said I, elevating my
stature as much as I was able.
CC
Humph! my boy; and a pretty time of life it is, too.
Your brother Gerald is taller than you by two inches."
"But I can beat him, for all that, uncle," said I, color-
ing, and clenching my fist.
M
My uncle pulled down his right ruffle. "'Gad SÜ, Mor-
ton, you're a brave fellow," said he; "but I wish you
were less of a hero and more of a scholar. I wish you
could beat him in Greek, as well as in boxing. I will
tell you what old Rowley said; " and my uncle occupied the
next quarter of an hour with a story. The story opened
the good old gentleman's heart, my laughter opened it
still more. "Hark ye, sirrah!" said he, pausing ab-
ruptly, and grasping my hand with a vigorous effort of love
and muscle," hark ye, sirrah,
I love you,
'sdeath, I
do. I love you better than both your brothers, and that
crab of a priest into the bargain; but I am grieved to the
heart to hear what I do of you. They tell me you are the
idlest and most profligate boy in the school; that you are
always beating your brother Gerald, and making a scurril-
ous jest of your mother or myself.
>>
"Who says so? who dares say so?" said I, with an em-
phasis that would have startled a less hearty man than Sir
William Devereux. They lie, uncle, by my soul they
do. Idle I am, profligate I may be,
be, — quarrelsome with
my brother I confess myself; but jesting at you or my
mother, nover, never. No, no; you, too, who have
been so kind to me, the only one who ever was! No,
do not think I could be such a wretch," and as I said
this the tears gushed from my eyes.
no;
"Look ye,
My good uncle was exceedingly affected.
child," said he, "I do not believe them. 'Sdeath, not
a word,· I would repeat to you a good jest now of Sed-
ey's, 'Gad, I would, but I am really too much moved just
at present. I tell you what, my boy, I tell you what you
shall do: there's a trial coming on at school —ch ?—well,
the abbé tells me Gerald is certain of being first, and you of
being last. Now, Morton, you shall beat your brother, and
shame the Jesuit. There, my mind's spoken, dry your
tears, my boy, and I'll tell you the jest Sedley made it
And the knight
was in the mulberry garden one day--"
told his story.
I dried my tears, pressed my uncle's hand, — escaped
hastened to my room,
from him as soon as I was able,
and surrendered myself to reflection.
When my uncle so good-naturedly proposed that I should
conquer Gerald at the examination, nothing appeared to
him more easy;
he was pleased to think I had more tal-
ent than my brother, and talent, according to his creed,
was the only master-key to unlock every science. A prob-
lem in Euclid, or a phase in Pindar, a secret in Astron-
my, or a knotty passage in the fathers, were all riddles,
with the solution of which, application had nothing to do.
|
up in
my men-
tal armory to moulder and to rust. I surveyed them with
a feeling that they might yet be polished into use, and ex-
cited alike by the stimulus of affection on one side, and
hatred on the other, my mind worked itself from despon-
dency into doubt, and from doubt into the sanguineness of
hope. I told none of my design,-I exacted from my
uncle a promise not to betray it, I shut myself in my
room, I gave out that I was ill, I saw no one, not even
the abbé,— I rejected his instructions, for I looked upon
him as an enemy; and for the two months before my trial,
I spent night and day in an unrelaxing application, d
which, till then, I had not imagined myself capable.
Ι
Though inattentive to the school exercises, I had never
been wholly idle. I was a lover of abstruser researches
than the hackneyed subjects of the school, and we had re-
ally received such extensive and judicious instructions fromn
the abbé during our early years, that it would have been
scarcely possible for any of us to have fallen into a tho-
rough distaste for intellectual pursuits. In the examina-
tion, I foresaw that much which I had previously acquired
might be profitably displayed, much secret and recondite
knowledge of the customs and manners of the ancients, as
well as their literature, which curiosity had led me to ob-
tain, and which I knew had never entered into the heads
of those who, contented with their reputation in the cus
tomary academical routine, had rarely dreamed of wander-
ing into less beaten paths of learning. Fortunately too,
for me, Gerald was so certain of success, that latterly he
omitted all precaution to obtain it; and as none of our
schoolfellows had the vanity to think of contesting with
him, even the abbé seemed to imagine him justified in bis
supineness.
The day arrived. Sir William, my mother, the whole
aristocracy in the neighborhood, were present at the trial.
The abbé came to my room a few hours before it com-
menced; he found the door locked.
Ungracious boy," said he, "admit me,
"admit me, I come at
the earnest request of your brother, Aubrey, to give you
some hints preparatory to the examination.
CC
"He bas indeed come at my wish," said the soft and
silver voice of Aubrey, in a supplicating tone; "do admit
him, dear Morton, for my sake!”
"Go," said I bitterly, from within, "go, ye are both
my foes and slanderers, you come to insult my disgrace
beforehand; but perhaps you will yet be disappointed.
"You will not open the door?" said the priest.
"I will not,
begone."
"He will indeed disgrace his family," said Montreuil,
moving away.
"He will disgrace himself," said Aubrey, dejectedly.
I laughed scornfully. If ever the consciousness of
strength is pleasant, it is when we are thought most weak.
The greater part of our examination consisted in the
answering of certain questions in writing, given to us in
the three days immediately previous to the grand and final
one; for this last day was reserved, the paper of compo-
sition (as
sition (as it was termed) in verse and prose, and the per-
sonal examination in a few showy but generally understood
subjects. When Gerald gave in his paper, and answered
DEVEREUX
265
the verbal questions, a buzz of admiration and anxiety
went round the room. His person was so handsome, his
address so graceful, his voice so assured and clear, that a
strong and universal sympathy was excited in his favor.
The head master publicly complimented him. He regretted
only the deficiency of his pu il in certain minor but im-
portant matters.
I came next, for I stood next to Gerald in our class. As
I walked up the hall, I raised my eyes to the gallery in
which my uncle and his party sat. I saw that my mother
was listening to the abbé, whose eye, severe, cold, and
contemptuous, was bent upon me. But my uncle leant
over the railing of the gallery, with his plumed hat in his
hand, which, when he caught my look, he waved gently, as
if in token of encouragement, and with an air so kind and
cheering, that I felt my step grew prouder, as I approach-
ed the conclave of the masters.
"Morton Devereux," said the president of the school,
in a calm, loud, austere voice, that filled the whole hall,
"we have looked over your papers on the three previous
days, and they have given us no less surprise than pleasure.
Take heed and time how you answer us now.
And then Rochester said, looking roguishly toward me,
the wittiest thing against Sedley that ever I heard, — it
was the most celebrated bon mot at court for three weeks,
he said, No, boy, od's-fish, it was so stinging I
can't tell it thee; faith, I can't. Poor Sid; he was a good
and he's dead now.
fellow, though malicious,
I'm sorry
And
I said a word about it. Nay, never look so disappointed,
boy. You have all the cream of the story as it is.
now put on your hat, and come with me. I've got leave for
you to take a walk with your old uncle.”
That night as I was undressing, I heard a gentle rap at
the door, and Aubrey entered. He approached me timidly,
and then, throwing his arms round my neck, kissed me in
silence. I had not for years experienced such tenderness
from him; and I sat now mute and surprised. At last I
said, with the sneer which I must confess I usually assumed
toward those persons whom I imagined I had a right to
think ill of,
“Pardon me, my gentle brother, there is something por-
tentous in this sudden change. Look well round the room,
and tell me at your earliest leisure what treasure it is that
you are desirous should pass from my possession into your
own.
>>
"Your love, Morton," said Aubrey, drawing back, but
in
pride, not anger; your ove,-I ask
At this speech a loud murmur was heard in my uncle's
party, which gradually spread round the hall. I again look-
ed up,
-my mother's face was averted that of the abbé apparently
:
was impenetrable, but I saw my uncle wiping his eyes, and nothing more.
felt a strange emotion creeping into my own. I turned
nastily away, and presented my paper, the head master
received it, and putting it aside, proceeded to the verbal
examination.
M
Conscious of the parts in which Gerald was likely to
fail, I had paid especial attention to the minutiae of schol-
arship, and my forethought stood me in good stead at the
present moment. My trial ceased, my last paper was
read.
I bowed, and retired to the other end of the hall.
a crowd was assembled
I was not so popular as Gerald,
round him, but I stood alone. As I leant against a col-
umn, with folded arms, and a countenance which I felt
betrayed little of my internal emotions, my eye caught Ger-
ald's. He was very pale, and I could see that his hand
trembled. Despite of our enmity, I felt for him. The
worst passions are softened by triumph, and I foresaw that
mine was at hand.
eľ.
The whole examination was over. Every boy had pass-
ed it. The masters retired for a moment, they reap-
peared and reseated themselves. The first sound I heard
was that of my own name. I was the victor of the day,
I was more, --I was one hundred marks before my broth-
My head swam round, my breath forsook me. Since
then I have been placed in many trials of life, had many tri-
umphs; but never was I so overcome as at that moment.
I left the hall, —I
I scarcely listened to the applauses with
which it rang.
I hurried to my own chamber, and threw
myself on the bed in a delirium of intoxicated feeling,
which had in it more of rapture, than any thing but the
gratification of first love, or first vanity, can bestow.
Ah! it would be worth stimulating our passious if it
were only for the pleasure of remembering their effect;
and all violent excitement should be indulged less for pres-
ent joy, than for future retrospection. My uncle's step was
the first thing which intruded on my solitude.
"Od's-fish, my boy," said he, crying like a child; "this
is fine work, 'Gad, so it is. I almost wish I were a boy
myself to have a match with you, -faith I do, - see what
it is to learn a little of life. If you had never read my
play, do you think you would have done half so well?-
o, my boy, I sharpened your wits for you. Honest George
Etherege and I, — we were the making of you; and when
you ceˇue to be a great man, and are asked what made you
80, you shall say, 'My uncle's play,' 'Gad, you shall.
Faith, boy,
,-never smile! - Od's-fish,
I'll tell you a
story as à propos to the present occasion as if it had been
!
"Of a surety, kind Aubrey," said I, "the favor seems
somewhat slight to have caused your modesty such delay in
requesting it. I think you have been now some years
nerving your mind to the exertion.”
"Listen to me, Morton," said Aubrey, suppressing his
emotion; "you have always been my favorite brother.
From our first childhood my heart yearned to you. Do you
not remember the time when an enraged bull pursued me,
and you, then only ten years old, placed yourself before it
and "defended me at the risk of your own life?
Do you
think I could ever forget that, child as I was ?- never,
Morton, never?"
Before I could answer, the door was thrown open and
the abbé entered. Children," said he, and the single
light of the room shone full upon his unmoved, rigid, com-
manding features, -"children, be as Heaven intended
you, friends and brothers. Morton, I have wronged you,
I own it, here is my hand; Aubrey, let all but early love,
and the present promise of excellence which your brother
displays, be forgotten.”
With these words, the priest joined our hands. I looked
on my brother, and my heart melted. I flung myself into
his arms and wept.
"This is well," said Montreuil, surveying us with a
kind of grim complacency, and taking my brother's arm,
he blessed us both, and led Aubrey away.
That day was a new era in my boyish life. I grew
henceforth both better and worse. Application and I,
having once shaken hands, became very good acquaintance.
I had hitherto valued myself upon supplying the frailties of
a delicate frame, by an uncommon agility in all bodily ex-
erciscs.
ercises. I now strove rather to improve the deficiencies of
my mind, and became orderly, industrious, and devoted to
study. So far so well; but as I grew wiser, I grew also
more wary. Candor no longer seemed to me the finest of
virtues. I thought before I spake; and second thoughts
sometimes quite changed the nature of the intended speech;
in short, gentlemen of the next century, to tell you the
exact truth, the little Count Devereux became somewhs of
a hypocrite.
CHAPTER IV.
A contest of art, and a league of friendship. — Two characte
in mutual ignorance of each other, and the reader nc wiser
than either of them.
Ho
made un put pose. Rochester, and I, and Sedley, were
walking one day, and entre nous, awaiting certain ap- THE abbé was now particularly courteous to me.
pointments, hem for my part I was a little melan-made Gerald and myself breakfast with him, and told us
holy or so, thinking of my catastrophe, that is, of my nothing was so amiable as friendship among brothers. We
play's catastrophe; and so, said Sedley, winking at Ro- agreed to the sentiment, and, like all philosophers, did no
chester, Our friend is sorrowful.' Truly,' said I, see- agree a bit the better for acknowledging the same first
ing they were about to banter me, -for you know they principles. Perhaps, notwithstanding his fine speeches,
were arch fellows; truly, little Sid,' (we called Sedley
Sid,) you are greatly mistaken;' you see, Morton, I
was thus sharp upon him, because, when you go to court,
you will discover that it does not do to take without giving.
VOL. I.
C
34
the abbe was the real cause of our continued want of cor-
diality. However, we did not fight any more; we avoided
each other, and at last became as civil and as distant, as
those mathematical lines, which appear to be taking all
266
BULWER'S NOVELS.
possible pains to approach one another, and never get a jot
the nearer for it. 0!
O! your civility is the prettiest inven-
tion possible for dislike. Aubrey and I were inseparable,
and we both gained by the intercourse. I grew more gen-
tle, and he more masculine; and, for my part, the kindness
of his temper so softened the satire of nine, that I learned
at last to smile full as often as to sneer.
The abbé had obtained a wonderful hold over Aubrey;
be had made the poor boy think so much of the next world,
that he had lost all relish for this. He lived in a perpetual
fear of offence, he was like a chymist of conscience, and
weighed minutiæ by scruples. To play, to ride, to run, to
laugh at a jest, or to banquet on a melon, were all sins to be
atoned for: and I have found (as a penance for eating
twenty-three cherries instead of eighteen) the penitent of
fourteen, standing, barefooted, in the coldest nights of win-
ter upon the hearth-stones, almost utterly naked, and shiv-
ering like a leaf, beneath the mingled effect of frost and
devotion. At first I attempted to wrestle with this exceeding
holiness, but finding my admonitions received with great
distaste and some horror, I suffered my brother to be happy
in his own way. I only looked with a very evil and jealous
eye upon the good abbé, and examined, while I encouraged
them, the motives of his advances to myself. What doubled
my suspicions of the purity of the priest, was my perceiv-
ing that he appeared to hold out different inducements for
trusting him, to each of us, according to his notions of our
respective characters. My brother Gerald he alternately
awed and persuaded, by the sole effect of superior intellect.
With Aubrey he used the mechanism of superstition.
me, he, on the one hand, never spoke of religion, nor, on
the other, ever used threats or persuasion to induce me to
follow any plan suggested to my adoption; every thing
seemed to be left to my reason and my ambition. He would
converse with me for hours upon the world and its affairs;
speak of courts and kings in an easy and unpedantic strain;
point out the advantage of intellect in acquiring power and
controlling one's species; and whenever I was disposed to
be sarcastic upon the human nature I had read of, he sup-
ported my sarcasm by illustrations of the human nature he
had seen. We were both, I think, (for myself I can
answer,) endeavouring to pierce the real nature of the
other; and perhaps the talent of diplomacy, for which,
years afterward, I obtained some applause, was first learnt
in my skirmishing warfare with the Abbé Montreuil.
To
At last the evening before we quitted school for good,
arrived. Aubrey had just left me for solitary prayers, and
I was sitting alone by my fire, when Montreuil entered gent-
ly. He sat himself down by me, and after giving me the
salutation of the evening, sunk into a silence which I was
the first to break.
CC
Pray, abbé,” said I, "have one's years any thing to
do with one's age?"
The priest was accustomed to the peculiar tone of my
sagacious remarks, and answered dryly,
"Mankind in general imagine that they have."
"Faith then," said I, "mankind know very little about
the matter. To-day I am at school and a boy, to-morrow
I leave school if I hasten to town I am presented at court,
and lo! I am a man; and this change within half a
dozen changes of the sun!-therefore, most reverend
father, I humbly opine that age is measured by events,
not years."
"And are you not happy at the idea of passing the age
of thraldom, and seeing arrayed before you the numberless
and dazzling pomps and pleasures of the great world?"
said Montreuil, abruptly, fixing his dark and keen eye upon
me.
"I have not yet fully made up my mind, whether to be
happy or not," said I, carelessly.
the thin lips of the priest; he rose, walked to the door,
and saw that it was carefully closed. I expected some im-
portant communication, but in vain; pacing the small room
to and fro, as if in a musing mood, the abbé remaine
silent, till, pausing opposite to some fencing foils, whico,
among various matters, (books, papers, quoits, &c.,) wer
thrown idly in one corner of the room, he said,
"They tell me that you are the best fencer in the school
is it so ?"
"I hope not, for fencing is an accomplishment in which
Gerald is very nearly my equal," I replied.
"You run, ride, leap too, better than any one else, ac-
cording to the votes of your comrades?"
Do
"It is a noble reputation," said I," in which I believe
I am only excelled by our huntsman's eldest son.
"You are a strange youth," repeated the priest ; '
pursuit seems to give you pleasure, and no success to gratify
your vanity. Can you not think of any triumph which would
elate you ?
I was silent.
"Yes," cried Montreuil, approaching me, yes,"
cried he, "I read your heart, and
"I read your heart, and I respect it; these are
petty competitions and worthless honors. You require a
nobler goal, and a more glorious reward. He who feels in
his soul that fate has reserved for him a great and exalted
part in this world's drama, may reasonably look with indif-
ference on these paltry rehearsals of common characters."
I raised my eye, and as it met that of the priest, I was
irresistibly struck with the proud and lighted expression
which Montreuil's look had assumed. Perhaps, something
kindred to its nature was perceptible in my own; for,
after surveying me with an air of more approbation than
he had ever honored me with before, he grasped my arm
firmly and said, "Morton you know me not,
for many
years I have not known you, that time is past. No
sooner did your talents develope themselves than I was the
first to do homage to their power: let us henceforth be
more to each other than we have been, let us not be
pupil and teacher, — let us be friends. Do not think that
I invite you to an unequal exchange of good offices,
may be the heir to wealth, and a distinguished name,-I
may seem to you but an unknown and undignified priest;
but the authority of the Almighty can raise up, from the
sheepfold and the cotter's shed, a power, which, as the
organ of his own, can trample upon sceptres, and dictate
to the supremacy of kings. And I — I‚”- the priest ab-
ruptly paused, checked the warmth of his manner, as i.
he thought it about to encroach on indiscretion, and sink
ing into a calmer tone, continued, "Yes, I, Morton, insig
nificant as I appear to you, can in every path through this
intricate labyrinth of life, be more useful to your desires
than you can ever be to mine. I offer to you, in my friend-
ship, a fervor of zeal and energy of power, which in none
your equals, in age, and station, you can hope to find.
Do
you accept my offer?"
of
you
"Can you doubt," said I, with eagerness," that I
would not avail myself of the services of any man, how-
ever displeasing to me, and worthless in himself? How,
then, can I avoid embracing the friendship of one so extra-
ordinary in knowledge and intellect as yourself? I do em-
brace it, and with rapture."
The priest pressed my hand. "But," continued he,
fixing his eyes upon mine, "all alliances have their condi-
tions, I require implicit confidence; and, for some
years, till time gives you experience, regard for your in-
terests induces me also to require obedience. Name any
wish you may form for worldly advancement, opulence,
honor, the smile of kings, the gifts of states, and, —I—I
will pledge myself to carry that wish into effect. Never
had castern prince so faithful a servant among the dives
and gerii as Morton Devereux shall find in me; but ques-
tion me not of the sources of my power,
character
be satisfied
when their channel wafts you the success you covet.
covet. And,
more, when I in my turn (and this shall be but rarely) re-
quest a favor of you, ask me not for what end, nor hesitate
to adopt the means I shall propose. You seemed startled;
are you content at this understanding between us, or will
you retract the bond ?”
It is a strange answer," said the priest; "but,"
(after a pause) "you are a strange youth, -a character
that resembles a riddle is at your age uncommon, and, par-
don me, unamiable. Age, naturally repulsive, requires a
mask ; and in every wrinkle you may behold the ambush
of a scheme; but the heart of youth should be open as its
countenance! However, I will not weary you with homilies,
et us change the topic. Tell me, Morton, do you repent
saving turned your attention of late to those graver and more
systematic studies which can alone hereafter obtain you
listinction ?"
"No, father," said I, with a courtly bow; "for the
change has gained me your good opinion.
A smile, of peculiar and undefinable expression, crossed
My father," said I, "there is enough to startle me in
your proposal; it greatly resembles that made by the old
man of the mountains to his vassals, and it would not ex-
actly suit my inclinations to be called upon some morning to
act the part of a private executioner."
The priest smiled. "My young friend," said be
DEVEREUX.
267
?"
those days have passed; neither religion nor friendship
requires of her votaries sacrifices of blood. But make
yourself easy; whenever I ask of you what offends your
conscience, even in a punctilio, refuse my request.
With
this exception, what say you
"That I think I will agree to the bond; but, father, I
am an irresolute person, I must have time to consider."
"Be it so.
To-morrow, having surrendered my charge
to your uncle, I depart for France.
-
For France!" said I; "and how? surely the war
will prevent your passage."
>>
The priest smiled. Nothing ever displeased me more
than that priest's smile. "The ecclesiastics," said he,
"are the ambassadors of heaven, and have nothing to do
with the wars of earth. I shall find no difficulty in cross-
ing the channel. I shall not return for several months,
perhaps not till the expiration of a year: I leave you, till
ther, to decide upon the terms I have proposed to you.
Meanwhile, gratify my vanity, by employing my power;
name soine commission in France which you wish me to
oxecute."
"I can think of none, yet stay," and I felt some
curiosity to try the power of which he boasted,—“I have
read that kings are blest with a most accommodating
memory, and perfectly forget their favorites when they can
be no longer useful. You will see, perhaps, if my father's
name has become a gothic and unknown sound at the court
of the great king. I contess myself curious to learn this,
though I can have no personal interest in it."
Enough, the commission shall be done. And now, my
child, heaven bless you! and send you many such friends
as the humble priest, who, whatever be his failings, has, at
least, the merit of wishing to serve those whom he loves."
So saying, the priest closed the door. Sinking into a
revery, as his footsteps died upon my ear, I muttered to
myself: Well, well, my sage ecclesiastic, the game is
not over yet; let us see if, at sixteen, we cannot shuffle
cards, and play tricks with the gamester of thirty. Yet,
he may be in earnest, and faith I believe he is; but I must
look well before I leap, or consign my actions into such
spiritual keeping. However, if the worst come to the worst,
if I do make this compact, and am deceived, if, above all,
I am ever seduced, or led blindfold into one of those snares
which priesteraft sometimes lays to the cost of honor,
why I shall have a sword, which I shall never be at a loss
and it can find its way through a priest's gown as
well as a soldier's corslet.”
to use,
Confess, that a youth, who could think so promptly of
his sword, was well fitted to wear onc.
CHAPTER V.
Aural hospitality, — An extraordinary guest, A fine gentleman
is not necessarily a fool.
WE were all three (my brothers and myself) precocious
geniuses Our early instructions, under a man, like the
bbé, at once learned and worldly, and the constant compa-
ny into which we had been admitted from our childhood,
made as premature adepts in the manners of the world;
and I, in especial, flattered myself that a quick habit of
observation rendered me no despicable profiter by my expe-
rience. Our academy, too, had been more like a college
than a school; and we had enjoyed a license, that seemed
to the superficial more likely to benefit our manners than to
strengthen our morals. I do not think, however, that the
Luter suffered by our freedom from restraint.
contraire, we the earlier learnt, that vice, stripped of the
piquancy of unlawfulness, is no such captivating goddess;
and our errors and crimes, in after life, had certainly not
their origin in our wanderings out of academical bounds.
|
|
many people as he could asse: ble out of the "mcb
of gentlemen who live with ease. But on our quitting
school, and becoming men, he resolved to set no bounds to
his hospitality. His doors were literally thrown open; and
as he was by far the greatest person in the district, to say
nothing of his wines, and his French cook, many of the
good people of London did not think it too great an honor
to confer upon the wealth representative, the Devereuxs
the distinction of their company and compl...ents. Heav-
ens! what notable samples of court breeding and furbelows
did the crane-neck coaches, which made our own family
vehicle look like a gilt tortoise, pour forth by couples and
leashes into the great hall, while my gallant uncle in a
new periwig, and a pair of silver-clocked stockings (a
present from a ci-devant fine lady) stood at the far end of
the picture gallery, to receive his visiters, with all the
graces of the last age.
My mother, who had preserved her beauty wonderfully,
sat in a chair of green velvet, and astonished the courtiers
by the fashion of a dress only just imported. The worthy
Countess (she had dropped in England the loftier distinction
of Madame la Maréchale) was however quite innocent of
any intentional affectation of the mode; for the new stom-
acher, so admired in London, had been the last alteration
in female garniture at Paris, a month before my father died.
Is not this "Fashion" a noble divinity to possess such
zealous adherents? - a pitiful, lackey-like creature, which
struts through one country with the cast-off finery of
another!
As for Aubrey and Gerald, they produced quite an effect;
and I should most certainly have been thrown irrevocably
into the back ground, had I not been born to the good for-
tune of an eldest son. This was far more than sufficient
to atone for the plainness of my person; and whad it was
discovered that I was also Sir William's favorite liste
astonishing what a beauty I became. Aubrey was declared
too effeminate; Gerald too tall. And the Duchess of
Lackland one day, when she had placed a lean, sallow, gi im
ghost of a daughter on either side of me, whispered my
uncle in a voice, like the aside of a player, intended for
none but the whole audience, that the young count had the
most imposing air and the finest eyes she had ever seen.
All this inspired me with courage, as well as conter apt;
and not liking to be beholden solely to my priority of birth
for my priority of distinction, I resolved to become as
agreeable as possible. If I had not in the vanity of my
heart resolved also to be "myself alone," fate would have
furnished me, at the happiest age for successful imitation,
with an admirable model.
1
Time passed on,- two years were flown since I had left
school, and Montreuil was not yet returned. I had passed
the age of eighteen, when the whole house, which, as it
was summer, when none but cats and physicians were sup
posed gifted by Providence with the power to exist in
town, was uncommonly full,the whole house, I say, was
thrown into a positive fever of expectation. The visit of
a guest, if not of greater consequence, at least of greater
interest than any who had hitherto honored my uncle, was
announced. Even the young count, with the most impos
ing air in the world, and the finest eyes, was forgotten by
everybody but the Duchess of Lackland and her daughters,
who had just returned to Devereux Court, to admire how
amazingly the count had grown. O! what a prodigy wis-
dom would be, if it were but blest with a memory as keen
and constant as that of interest.
Struck with the universal excitation, I went to my uncle
to inquire the name of the expected guest. My uncle was
Tout au
occupied in fanning the Lady Hasselton, a daughter of e
of King Charles's beauties. He had only time to auswer
me literally, and without comment; the guest's name was
Mr. St. John.
It is right that I should mention our prematurity of intel-
leet, because, otherwise, much of my language and reflec-
tion, as detailed in the first book of this history, might
seem ill suited to the tender age at which they occurred.
However, they approach, as nearly as possible, to my state
of mind at that period; and I have, indeed, often mortified
ay vanity in later life, by thinking how little the march of
time has ripened my abilities, and how petty would have
been the intellectual acquisitions of manhood, if they had
not brought me something like content.
My uncle had always, during his retirement, seen as
|
|
I had never conned the "Flying Post," and I knew
nothing about politics. "Who is Mr. St. John !” said
I; my uncle had renewed the office of a zephyr. The
daughter of the beauty heard and answered, "The most
charming person in England." I bowed and turned away
"How vastly explanatory!" said I. I met a furious poli-
tician. "Who is Mr. St. John ?" I asked.
"The cleverest man in England," answered the politi
cian, hurrying off with a pamphlet in his hand.
"Nothing can be more satisfactory," thought I. Stop-
ping a coxcomb of the first water, "Who is Mr. St. John?"
I asked.



268
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CC
com
ply
W
T
oug
ible
in England," answered the cox-
was my reflection on this re-
Whig parson,-" Who is
Date in England!" answered the
was too stunned to inquire more.
terwards the sound of carriage wheels
court-yard, then a slight bustle in the hall,
and the door of the ante-room being thrown open, Mr. St.
John entered.
He was
Was
Night,
Ꭲ .
cam
him
tur
nin
som:
bray
som
him, ot
perhaps
knowle
who a
both di
inan
those
house
many
way
ifica
PS.
MIC
the very prime of life, about the middle
mic and air so strikingly noble, that it
efore you recovered the general effect of
dently to examine its peculiar claims to ad-
t, however, nothing by a farther survey:
only an eminently handsome, but a very
Fintenance. Through an air of noncha-
mething of lassitude, through an ease of
es sinking into effeminate softness, some-
pon licentious effrontery, his eye thought-
ng, seemed to announce that the mind par-
the whim of the moment, or of those levi-
nur life, over which the grace of his manner
beculiar a charm. His brow was, perhaps,
arge and thick for the exactness of perfect sym-
it had an expression of great mental power and
on. His features were high, yet delicate, and
which, when closed, assumed a firin and rather
pression, softened, when speaking, into a smile
nagical enchantment. Richly, but not exraya-
sed, he seemed to cultivate, rather than d flain,
its of outward appearance; and whate
attract seemed so inherent in this sir
ich in others would have been in
. most natural : so that it is no e
o be well dressed, seemed to the
so much the result of art, a
beculiar to himself.
uv of
much
blic feeli
s the outward appearance
Chited
ies of a mi versation
the vic
jact.
resp
iliar ease
han all, the occas.
hance at moments.
had for its object
hip him.
! than that! upon p
my
life has hint:
uest through.
before dinner, St John wa
hipin curiosity seemed to ha
whom I have before mention.
stance, shy and uneasy; one of
ge of so favorable a butt for je.
stander in a witticism which drev
>
J
ar
}-
ith
not
I'me
r his
|
ley, and, in a fit of mingled poetry and melancholy, stroll
ed idly into the park. I came to the margin of the stream,
and to the very spot on which I had stood with my uncle
on the evening when he had first excited my emulation to
scholastic rather than manual contention with my brother.
I seated myself by the water side, and feeling indisposed
to read, leant my cheek upon my hand, and surrendered
my thoughts as prisoners to the reflections which I could
not resist.
I continued I know not how long in my meditation, till
I was roused by a gentle touch upon my shoulder; I look-
ed up, and saw St. John.
"Pardon me, count," said he, smiling,
"I should not
have disturbed your reflections, had not your neglect of an
old friend imboldened me to address you upon his behalf."
And St. John pointed to the volume of Cowley which he
had taken up without my perceiving it.
me,
"Well," added he, seating himself on the turf beside
"in my younger days, poetry and I were better friends
than we are now. And if I had Cowley as a companion,
I should not have parted with him as you have done even
for my own reflections."
<
You admire him, then?" said I.
Why, that is too general a question. I admire what
is fine in him, as in every one else, but I do not love him
the better for his points and his conceits. He reminds me
of what Cardinal Pallavicino said of Seneca, viz. that he
perfumes his conceits with civet and ambergris.' How-
ever, count, I have opened upon a beautiful motto for you
"Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying,
With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying;
Nor be myself too mute.'"
"What say you to that wish? If you have a grain of
poetry in you, such verse ought to bring it into flower."
Ay," answered I, though not exactly in accordance
with the truth; "but I have not the germ. I destroyed it
four years ago. Reading the dedications of poets cured
me of the love for poetry. What a pity that the divine
inspiration should have for its oracles such mean souls ?”
"Yes, and how industrious the good gentlemen are in
debasing themselves. Their ingenuity is never half so
much shown in a simile as in a compliment; and I know
not which to admire the most in Dryden, his translating
the Æneid, or his ordering the engravers of his frontis-
piece (upon the accession of King William) to give poor
Æneas an enormous nose."
I smiled at the anecdote; and St. John continued in a
graver tone.
"I know nothing in nature more melancholy than the
a rev-discovery of any meanness in a great man.
There is so
those
¡group,
od at a
any took
luded to
from all
little to redeem the dry mass of follies and errors from
which the materials of this life are composed, that any
thing to love or to reverence becomes as it were the Sab-
e Whig bath of the mind. It is bitter to feel, as we grow older,
how the respite is abridged, and how the few objects left
to our admiration are abased. What a foe not only to life,
but to all that dignifies and ennobles it, is time! Our af
fections and our pleasures resemble those fabulous trees
the fruits which they bring
described by
forth, are no sooner ripened into maturity, than they are
transformed into birds, and fly away. But these reflec-
tions cannot yet be familiar to you. Let us return to Cowley.
Do feel any

John, who, turning suddenly tow
parson,
hd sed an observation to him in the mos ectful tone.
Nord he cease talking with him (fatiguing as the con-
ence must have been, for never was there a duller eccle-
1 , than the gentleman conversed with) until we de-
vas a, to dinner. Then, for the first time, I learnt that
they ren constitute good, breeding that has not good
give the foundation; and then, too, as I was lead-
chief subjec Lackland to the great hall, by the tip of
with the
ade another observation. Passing the
Diego retu
say to fellow clerk,
I watche
dark ar!
rival! r
er!".
T
alor
IN
th
whe
?
the greatest man in England; " and
ed, "There is no policy like politeness;
er is the best thing in the world, either to
ame or to supply the want of it.”
CHAPTER VI.
dialogue, which might be dull if it were longer.
EE days after the arrival of St. John, I escaped
crowd of impertinents, scized a volume of Cow
o St. Oderic,-
tions cannot yepathy with his prose writings? For
you
some minds they haven great attraction.'
CC
They have for mine answered I; but then I am
naturally a dreamer; and acotemplative egotist is always
to me a mirror in which I behold myself."
"The world," answered St. John, with a melancholy
smile, "will soon dissolve, or for ever confirm your humor
for dreaming; in either case, Co-vley will not be less a
favorite. But you must, like me have long toiled in the
heat and travail of business, or of pleasure, which is more
wearisome still, in order fully to sympathize with those
beautiful panegyrics upon solitude, which make, perhaps,
the finest passages in Cowley. I have often thought that
he whom God hath gifted with a love of retirement, pos-
sesses as it were an extra sense. And among what our
poet so eloquently calls, the vast and noble scenes of
nature,' we find the balm for the wounds we have sustained
among the
among the pitiful shifts of policy for the attachment to
solitude is the surest preservative from the ills of life and

C

DEVEREUX
——
I uttered a loud cry, a..d sprung forward. I raised her
from the earth, and supported her in my arms; her com-
plexion, through whose pure and transparent white, the
wandering blood was wont so gently, yet so glowingly, to
blush, undulating while it blushed, as youngest rose-leaves
which the air just stirs into trembling,- was blanched into
the hues of death. My kisses tinged it with a momentary;
color, not its own; and yet as I pressed her to my heart,
methought hers, which seemed still before, began, as if by
an involuntary sympathy, palpably and suddenly to throb
gainst my own. My alarm inelted away as I held her
thus, nay, I would not, if I could, have recalled her yet |
to life; -I was forgetful, — I was unheeding,
I was
unconscious of all things else; -a few broken and passion
ate words escaped my lips, but even they ceased when I
felt her breath just stirring and mingling with my own.
seemed to me as if all living kind but ourselves had by a
spell departed from the earth, and we were left alone with
the breathless and inaudible nature from which spring the
love and the life of all things.
me, as,
It
Isora slowly recovered; her eyes, in opening, dwelt
her blood rushed at once to her cheek, and
upon nine,
as suddenly left it hueless as before. She rose from my
embrace, but I still extended my arms toward her; and
words, over which I had no control, and of which now I
have no remembrance, rushed from my lips. Still pale,
and leaning against the side of the arbour, Isora heard
confused, incoherent, impetuous, but still intel-
ligible to her, my released heart poured itself forth.
And when I had ceased, she turned her face toward me,
and my
blood seemed at once frozen in its channel. An-
uish, deep, ineffable anguish, was depicted upon every
eature; and when she strove at last to speak, her lips!
quivered so violently, that, after a vain effort, she ceased
bruptly. I again approached, I seized her hand, which
Covered with my kisses.
J
Will you not answer me, Isora?" said I, tremblingly.
silent then; but give me one look, one glance of hope,
rdon from those dear eyes, and I ask no more.
membr
flatter!
Well
tell ine
daughter of Spam aoes possess it
of which we dream not till we l
"Listen to me!" said she, a
ed a little at first, grew calm a
"You profess to love me,
I ain
•
!
and if, Count Devereux, I do not reje
for I am a woman, and a weak and fond
at least wrong you by encouraging hopes wh.
and I dare not fulfil. I cannot,
"here she st
fearful distinctness, —“I cannot, I can never
and when you ask me to be so, you know not
ask or what perils you incur. Enough, —I m
you. The poor exiled girl is grateful for ye.
and, and your affection. She will never for
never! But be this our last meeting, — ou VI
God bless you, Morton!" and, as she r
pierced and agonized as it was, in my coun
bent over me, for I knelt beside her, and
upon my cheek, "God bless you,
“You insult, you wound me,
cold and taunting kindness; tell me, tell me
you love better than me?
Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too pro
tain her; but when I said this, she came back, a
ment's pause, and laid her hand upon my arm.
that
anu
said I bit.
"If it make you happy to know my unhappi
said, and the tone of her voice made me look t
face, which was one deep blush, "know that I a
sensible- >>
1 he d no more, my lips pressed themselv
to hers, - a long, long kiss, burnin
oncentrating emotion, heart, soul, all
untari.
lla.
I
whole frame seemed sinking beneath her emo,
Faised her head, and looked hurriedly and fear-
my eye followed hers, and I then saw upon the
the recent print of a man's footstep, not my tu
ose by the spot where I had found Isora lay a
A pang shot through me, I felt my eyes
d my brow darken, as I turned to Isora, and
I see all, I have a rival, who has
you love me not, your affections are
ce it
you,
P
V
bed violently, but made no reply. "You love
but in a milder and more mournful tone,
it is enough, I will persecute you
vet, -"I paused a moment, for the re-
any a sign, which my heart had interpreted
shed upon me, and my voice faltered.
no right to murmur, only, Isora, only
our lips that you love another, and I will de-
part in
Very slowly, Isora turned her eyes to me, and even
through her tears they dwelt upon me with a tender and a
soft reproach.
"You love another?" said I, and from her lips,
which scarcely parted, came a single word which thrilled
to my heart like fire,
σε
"No!"
"No!" I repeated, "No ?- say that again, and
again yet who then is this, that has dared so to agitate
and overpower you? Who is he whom you have met, and
whom even now, while I speak, you tremble to hear me
recur ko? Answer me one word, is it this mysterious
stranger whom your father honors with his friendship?
is Barnard?"
Alat and fear again wholly engrossed the expression
nard
T
of Isola's countenance,
"Burnard!" she said, “ " yes, yes, it is Bar-
"Wis he?" I cried vehemently, -"who or what
is he
what nature is his influence upon you?
Conta
nd I poured forth a long tide of inqui-
ed
ad, Isora seemed to have recover-
Softness was mingled something of
trol, which was rare alike in her
but which, when a woman and a
35
to
ent
wis
is b
man
they
me;
tainly f
regard
sessed m
lie in wa
by force,*
and this
Full of
on foot
14.
to a single focus; and she tore he
as alone.
CHAPTER IX.
ery, and
aiter i
self up to se
ought me the
had urred;
·
1
este
tl..
S.

ՈՐ
18
ite
ed
of
*im
my
for
the

nd wh
een.
apt;
irth
ays pi
dat my ow
and irksome."
at most sincerely
ruptly, -a resolutie
said I, this Barnard;
demand and obtain, thoug
evidently subsists betwe
y my cloak round me, and reps
borhood of the Spaniard's opt
There was
Gear very commodious for aƒço”
dation both
and concealment. However, I u
little hill in opposite the house my warder's stat:
and lying at length on the ground, wrapt in my cloak,
full
I trusted to escape notice. The day passed,
no visir
appeared. The next morning I went from my own ro
through the subterranean passage, into the Castle C
the excavation I have before described was generall
On the shore I saw Gerald, by one of the
boats usually kept there. I passed him wi
amusements, which were always those of
fish or fowl. He answered me in the
threw his nets into the boat, and pushed o
is it that you go alone?" said I; "is the
in the capture of mackerel and dogfish, tha
no one to share it ?"
"There are other sports for men," answ
coloring indignantly, than those you imagine,-
is confined to amusements in which he is but a
seeks companionship; and if you could read characte.
my wise brother, you would know that the bold re
ever less idle and more :ortunate than the specu
dreamer!"
As Gerald said this, wich he did with a signifit..
emphasis he rowed vigorously across the water, and s



BULWER'S NOVELS.
ers it?
boat was soon halfway to the opposite islet. My eyes
edit musingly as it glided over the waves, and my
painfully revolved the words which Gerald had
What can he mean?" said I, half aloud,—“ yet
perhaps some low amour, some village
inspires him with that becoming fulness of pride
nglory,—joy be with so bold a rover!" and I strode
along the beach, toward my place of watch; once
turned to look at Gerald, he had then just touched
et, which was celebrated as much for the fishing it
ded, as the smuggling it protected.
+
rrived, at last, at the hillock, and resumed my station.
passed on, till, at the dusk of evening, the Spaniard
e out. He walked slowly toward the town; I followed
at a distance. Just before he reached the town, he
hed off by a path which led to the beach. As the eve-
g was unusually fresh and chill, I felt convinced that
e cause, not wholly trivial, drew the Spaniard forth to
it. My pride a little revolted at the idea of following
ut I persuaded myself that Isora's happiness, and
her father's safety, depended on my obtaining some
dge of the character and designs of this Barnard,
ppeared to possess so dangerous an influence over
ughter and sire; nor did I doubt but that the old
was now gone forth to meet him. The times were
of mystery and of intrigue; the emissaries of the
of Stuart were restlessly at work among all classes;
of them, obscure and mean individuals, made their
the more dangerously from their very (seeming) insig-
ince. My uncle, a moderate Tory, was opposed,
though quietly, and without vehemence, to the claims of the
banished house. Like Sedley, who became so stanch a
revol onist, he had seen the court of Charles II. and the
chard of his brother too closely to feel much respect for
either; but he thought it indecorous to express opposition
loudly, to a party among whom were man his early
friends; and the good old knight was to
attached to
private ties to be very much alive to p hg. How
ever, at his well-filled board, con
generally,
though displeasingly to himse, turno
blitics d I
had there often listened, of late, to uan s of th ger
to which we were exposed, and of the restiachinations
of the jacobites. I did not, therefore, scruple to suspect
this Barnard of some plot against the existing state; and I
did it the more from observing, that the Spaniard often
spoke bitterly of the English court, which had rejected
some claims he imagined himself entitled to make upon it;
and that he was naturally of a temper vehemently opposed
to quiet, and alive to enterprise. With this impression, I
deemed it fair to seize an opportunity of seeing at least,
en if I could not question, the man whom the Spaniard
self confessed to have state reasons for concealment;
my anxiety to behold one, whose very name could
agitate Isora, and whose presence could occasion the state
in which I had found her, sharpened this desire into the
very keenness of a passion.
4
While Alvarez descended to the beach, I kept the upper
path which wound along the cliff. There was a spot
where the rocks were rude and broken into crags, and
afforded me a place where, unseen, I could behold what
passed below. The first thing I beheld was a boat, ap-
proaching rapidly toward the shore; one man was seated
it; he reached the shore, and I recognised Gerald. That
dreadful moment. Alvarez now slowly joined him;
ained together for nearly an hour. I saw Gerald
Spaniard a letter, which appeared to make the
tof their conversation. At length they parted,
ps rather of respect than familiarity. Don
homeward, and Gerald reëntered the boat.
its progress over the waves with feelings of a
almost unutterable nature. My enemy my
uiner of my hopes !—my brother! my twin broth-
muttered bitterly between my ground teeth.
!
it skulked
he boat did not make to the open sea,
g the shore, till distance and shadow scarcely allowed
e to trace the outlines of Gerald's figure. It then touched
te beach, and I could just descry the dim snape of another
man enter; and Gerald, instead of returning homewards,
pushed out toward the islet. I spent the greater part of the
night in the open air. Wearied and exhausted by the
furious indulgence of my passions, I gained my room at
length There, however, as elsewhere, thought succeeded
Should I speak to
to thought, and scheme to scheme.
Gerald? Should I confide in Alvarez? Should I e.res
my suit to Isora? If the first, what could I hope to learn
from mine enemy? If the second, what could I gain from
the father, while the daughter remained averse to me? If
the third, the iny heart pointed, and the third scheme
I resolved to adopt.
But was I sure that Gerald was this Barnard? Might
there not be some hope that he was not? No, I coul
perceive none. Alvarez had never spoken to me of ac
quaintance with any other Englishman than Barnard
had no reason to believe that he ever held converse with
any other. Would it not have been natural too, unless
some powerful cause, such as love to Isora, induced silence,
would it not have been natural that Gerald should have
mentioned his acquaintance with the Spaniard? — Unless
some dark scheme, such as that which Barnard appeared
to have in common with Don Diego, commanded obscurity,
would it have been likely that Gerald should have met
Alvarez alone, at night, -on an unfrequented spot?
I cared not.
What that scheme was, I guessed not,
All
my interest in the identity of Barnard with Gerald Dever-
eux, was that derived from the power he seemed to pos-
sess over Isora. Here, too, at once, was explained the
pretended Barnard's desire of concealment, and the vigil-
ance with which it had been effected. It was so certain,
that Gerald, if my rival, would seek to avoid me, it was
so easy for him, who could watch all my motions, to secure
the power of doing so. Then I remembered Gerald's char-
acter through the country, as a gallant and a general lover,
-and I closed my eyes as if to shut out the vision when I
recalled the beauty of his form, contrasted with the com
parative plainness of my own.
—
—
"There is no hope," I repeated, and an insensibility
Dreadful and fierce
rather than sleep crept over me.
dreams peopled my slumbers; and when I started from
them at a late hour the next day, I was unable to rise from
my bed, my agitation and my wanderings had terminated
in a burning fever. In four days, however, I recovered suff
ciently to mount my horse, I rode to the Spaniar
house, I found there only the woman who had been
Diego's solitary domestic. The morning before, Alc
and his daughter had departed, none knew for
whither; but it was supposed their destination was 1
The woman gave me a note, it was from Iso
contained only these lines:
"Forget me, we are now parted for ever
value my peace of mind,—of happiness I do no
I imp
seek not to discover our next retreat.
think no more of what has been; you are
young. Life has a thousand paths for you
them will lead you from the remembrance
well, again and again!
ISORA D'A
With this note was another, in Frenc
Diego; it was colder and more formal tha
it thanked me for my attention
expected,
-
m Don
uld have
ds him,
in per-
it regretted that he could not take leave of
son, and it enclosed the sum which I had, in lending to
him, made the opening of our after acquaintance.
"It
It is well!" said I, calmly, to myself, "it is well;
I will forget her :" and I rode instantly home.
But,"
"I will yet strive to obtain
I resumed in my soliloquy,
I will yet
confirmation to what perhaps needs it not.
strive to see if Gerald can deny the depth of his Anjuries
towards me,
there will be at least some comfort in wit-
nessing either his defiance or his confusion.”
Agreeably to this thought, I hastened to seek Gerald.
I found him in bis apartment, shut the door, and seat.
ing myself, with a smile, thus addressed him;
Dear Gerald, I have a favor to ask of you
"What is it ?"
"How long have you known a certain Mr. Barnard ?"
Gerald changed color, his voice faltered as he repeated
the name
CC Barnard !
Yes," said I, with affected composare,
CC
وو
a great friend of Don Diego D'Alvarez.”
"I perceive," said Gerald, collecting bim
you are in some measure acquainted with n
far it is known to you I cannot gress; burd
fairly, that from me you will not incre
knowledge.'
When one is in a good sound rage,
calm one can be! I was certainly
arnard!
that
'; how
1, very
your
€


DEVEREUX.
275
Gerald's hardihood and assurance, but I continued, with a
zmie,
"And Donna Isora, how long, if not very intrusive on
your confidence, have you known her ?"
"I tell you," answered Gerald, doggedly,
answer no questions."
"that I will
"You remember the old story," returned I, "of the
"of the
two brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, whose very ashes
rofused to mingle? faith, Gerald, our love seems much of
the same tone. I know not if our ashes will exhibit so
laulable an antipathy; but I think our hearts and hands.
will do so while a spark of life animates them; yes,
though our blood,” (I added, in a voice quivering with
furious emotion,) prevents our contest by the sword, it
prevents not the hatred and the curses of the heart."
Gerald turned pale. "I do not understand you," he
faltered out, "I know you abhor me; but why, why
this excess of malice ?"
I cast on him a look of bitter scorn, and turned from
the room.
It is not pleasing to place before the reader these dark
passages of fraternal hatred; but in the record of all pas-
sions there is a moral; and it is wise to see to how vast a
sum the units of childish animosity swell, when they are
once brought into a heap by some violent event, and told
over by the nice accuracy of revenge.
But I long to pass from these scenes, and my history is
about to glide along others of more glittering and smiling
aspect. Thank heaven, I write a tale, not only of love,
ut of life; and that which I cannot avoid I can at least
condense.
CHAPTER X.
A very short chapter, containing a valet.
My uncle for several weeks had flattered himself that I
hd quite forgotten or foregone the desire of leaving Dev-
ercio. Court for London. Good easy inan! he was not a
Lale distressed when I renewed the subject with redoubled
firamess, and demanded an early period for that event. He
managed, however, still to protract the evil day. At one
time it was impossible to part with me because the house.
was so full; at another time it was cruel to leave him when
the house was so empty. Meanwhile, a change, not com-
mon to disappointed lovers, but very natural to my haugh-
tỷ and vain character, came over me.
I became a pro-
digious coxcomb, and the idlest pretty fellow imaginable.
The fact was, that when the first shock of Isora's depart-
ure passed away, I began to suspect the purity of her feel-
ings towards ine. Might not Gerald, the beautiful, the
stately, the glittering Gerald, have been a successful wooer
under that disguised name of Barnard, and hence Isora's
confusion when that name was mentioned, and hence the
power which its possessor exercised over her?
"Tell me !" said I, sinking my voice to a whisper," do
you think Gerald was my rival?" and I recounted the
causes of any suspicion.
Aubrey's countenance testified astonishment as he listened,
It is strange, very strange," said he; "and the
evidence of the boat is almost conclusive; still I do not
think it quite sufficient to leave no loop-hole of doubt. But
what matters it? you have conquered your love now."
"Ay," I said with a laugh, "I have conquered it, and
I am now about to find some other empress of the heart.
What think you of the Lady Hasselton ?-a fair dame and
sprightly.
sprightly. I want nothing but her love to be the most en-
viable of men, and a French valet-de-chambre to be the
most irresistible."
"The former is easier of acquirement than the latter, I
fear," returned Aubrey; "all places produce light dames,
but the war makes a scarcity of French valets."
"True," said I; "but I never thought of instituting a
comparison between their relative value. The Lady Has
selton, no disparagement to her merits, is but one woman,
-but a French valet, who knows his metier, arms one for
conquest over a thousand," and I turned to the saloon.
Fate, which had destined to me the valuable affections
of the Lady Hasselton, granted me also, at a yet earlier
period, the greater boon of a French valet. About two or
three weeks after this sapient communication with Aubrey,
the most charming person in the world presented himself
a candidate pour le bonheur supreme de soigner Monsieur le
Comte. Intelligence beamed in his eye; a modest assur-
ance reigned upon his brow; respect made his step as vig-
ilant as a zephyr's; and his ruffles were the envy of the
world!
I took him at a glance; and I presented to the admiring
inmates of the house a greater coxcomb than the Count
Devereux in the ethereal person of Jean Desmarais.
CHAPTER XI.
--
The hero acquits himself honorably as a coxcomb. — A fine
lady of the eighteenth century, and a fashionable dialogue. –
The substance of a fashionable dialogue being in all centuries
the same.
"I AM thinking, Morton," said my uncle, "that if you
are to go to town, you should go in a style suitable to your
rank. What say you to flying along the road in my green
and gold chariot? 'Sdeath, I'll make you a present of it.
Nay, no thanks; and you may have four of my black Flan-
ders mares to draw you.
>>
Now, my dear Sir William," cried Lady Hasselton,
who, it may be remembered, was the daughter of one of
King Charles's beauties, and who alone shared the break-
fast room with my uncle and myself,-"now, my dear Sir
William, I think it would be a better plan to suffer the
count to accompany us to town. We go next week. He
shall have a seat in our coach, --help Lovell to pay our
protect us at inns, scold at the waiter in
the pretty oaths of the fashion, which are so innocent that I
will teach them to his countship myself, and unless I am
much more frightful than my honored mother, whose beau-
ties
This idea once admitted soon gained ground. It is true
that Isora had testified something of favorable feelings to-
wards me; but this might spring from coquetry or compas-post-horses,
sion.
My
love had been a boy's love, founded upon beau-
ty, and colored by romance. I had not investigated the
character of the object; and I had judged of the mind
solely by the face. I might easily have been deceived,
I persuaded myself that I was! Perhaps Gerald had pro-
vided their present retreat for sire and daughter; perhaps
they at this moment laughed over my rivalry and my folly.
Methought Gerald's lip wore a contemptuous curve when
we met. "It shall have no cause," I said, stung to the
soul; "I will indeed forget this woman, and yet, thoughi
in other ways, eclipse this rival. Pleasure, ambition,
the brilliancy of a court, the resources of wealth in-
vite me to a thousand joys. I will not be deaf to the call.
Meanwhile I will betray to Gerald, ∙to no one, the
trace, the scar of the wound I have received; and I
will mortify Gerald, by showing him that, beauty as he is,
he shall be forgotten in my presence!"
Agreeably to this exquisite resolution, I paid incessant
court to the numerous dames by whom my uncle's mansion
was thronged; and I resolved to prepare, among them, the
reputation for gallantry and for wit which I proposed to es-
tablish in town.
"You are greatly altered since your love!" said Aubrey,
one day to me, "but not by your love. Own that I did
"ght dissuading you from its indulgence!'
you so gallantly laud, I think you will own, Sir Wil
liam, that this is better for your nephew than doing solitary
penance in your chariot of green and gold, with a hand-
kerchief tied over his head to keep away cold, and with no
more fanciful occupation than composing sonnets to the
four Flanders mares."
"'Sdeath, madam, you inherit your mother's wit as well
as beauty," cried my uncle, with an impassioned air.
"And his countship," said I, will accept vour invitation
without asking his uncle's leave."
"Come, that is bold for a gentleman of, — let me
thirteen, - are you not?"
22
"Really," answered I, "one learns to forget time so
terribly in the presence of Lady Hasselton, that I do not
remember even how long it has existed for me.
"Bravo," cried the knight, with a moistening eye.
you see, madam, the boy has not lived with his old uncle
for nothing.
CC
"I am lost in astonishment," said the lady, glancing
toward the glass; "why, you will eclipse all our beaux on
your first appearance; but, but, Sir William,
how
green those glasses have become! bless me, there is some-
276
BULWER'S NOVELS
hing so contagious in the effects of the country, that the
very mirrors grow verdant. But, count, count,
where are you, count ?-(I was exactly opposite to the
fair speaker,) — O, there you are,— pray,
0,
do you carry
a little pocket-glass of the true quality about you ? But,
of course you do,
lend it me.'
"I have not the glass you want, but I carry with me a
mirror that reflects your features much more faithfully.
"How! I protest I do not understand you!
"The mirror is here!" said I, laying my hand to iny
heart.
My
""
دو
“'Gad, — I must kiss the boy!" cried my uncle,
starting up.
"I have sworn," said I, fixing my eyes upon the lady, -
"I have sworn never to be kissed even by women.
You
must pardon me, uncle."
"I declare," cried the Lady Hasselton, flirting her fan,
which was somewhat smaller than the screen that one puts
into a great hall, in order to take off the discomfort of too
large a room, "I declare, count, there is a vast deal of
originality about you. But tell me, Sir William, where did |
your nephew acquire, at so early an age, (eleven you say
he is,)
such a fund of agreeable assurance?
''
>>
Nay, madamı, let the boy answer for himself."
Imprimis, then," said I, playing with the riband of
iny cane, Imprimis, early study of the best authors,-
Congreve and Farquhar, Etherege and Rochester. Sec-
ondly, the constant intercourse of company, which gives
one the spleen so overpoweringly, that despair inspires one
with boldness, -to get rid of them. Thirdly, the personal
example of Sir William Devereux; and, fourthly, the in-
spiration of hope."
"Hope, sir!" said the Lady Hasselton, covering her
face with her fan, so as only to leave me a glimpse of the
farthest patch upon her left cheek, "hope, sir!"
"Yes,
the hope of being pleasing to you. Suffer me
to add, that the hope has now become certainty."
Upon my word, count,
CC
"Nay, you cannot deny it, if one can once succeed in
impudence, one is irresistible."
"Sir William," cried Lady Hasselton, " you may give
the count your chariot of green and gold, and your four
Flanders mares, and send his mother's maid with him. He
shall not go with me.
"Cruel! and why?" said I.
CC
you are
"You are too, the lady paused, and looked at me
over her fan. She was really very handsome,
too old, count. You must be more than nine.”
"Pardon me," said I, "I am nine, -a very mystical
number nine is too, and represents the muses, who, you
know, were always attendant upon Venus,- or you, which
is the same thing; so you can no more dispense with my
company than you can with that of the graces."
"Good morning, Sir William!" cried the Lady Has-
selton, rising.
rr
I offered to hand her to the door; with great difficulty,
for her hoop was of the very newest enormity of circumfer-
ence, I effected this object. Well, count!" said she,
"I am glad to see you have brought so much learning
from school; make the best use of it while it lasts, for your
memory will not furnish you with a single simile out of the
mythology by the end of next winter.”
"That would be a pity!" said I, "for I intend having
as many goddesses as the heathens had, and I should like to
worship them in a classical fashion.'
"O the young reprobate!" said the beauty, tapping
me with her fan. And pray what other deities besides
Venus am I like ?
"All!" said I,
at least all the celestial ones!
Though halfway through the door, the beauty extricated
her hoop, and drew back; “Bless ine, the gods as well as
the goddesses?"
Certainly."
"You jest, tell me how."
Nothing can be easier; you resemble Mercury, because
of your thefts.
"Thefts!"
"Ay; stolen hearts and" (added I, in a whisper)
glances, Jupiter, partly because of your lightning,
which you lock up in the said glances, principally be-
cause all things are subservient to you, Neptune, because
you are as changeable as the seas, Vulcan, because you
ve among the flames you excite, and Mars, because,"
"You are so destructive." cried my uncle.
"Exactly so; and because,' added I, - as I shut tue
door upon the beauty," because, thanks to your hoop,
you cover nine acres of ground."
"Od's-fish, Morton," said my uncle, " you surprise me
at times, one while you are so reserved, at another so
assured; to-day so brisk, to-morrow so gloomy. Why now.
Lady Hasselton (she is very comely, eh! faith, but not
comparable to her mother) told me a week ago, that she
gave you up in despair, that you were dull, past hoping for;
and now, 'gad, you had a life in you that Sid himself could
not have surpassed. How comes it, sir, eh?”
66
Why, uncle, you have explained the reason; it was
exactly because she said I was dull, that I was resolved to
convict her in an untruth."
''
Well, now, there is some sense in that, boy; always
contradict ill report by personal merit. But what think you
of her ladyship? 'Gad, you know what old Bellair said
of Emilia. '
Make much of her, she's one of the best of
your acquaintance. I like her countenance and behaviour.
Well, she has a modesty not i' this age, a-dad she has.'
Applicable enough,
en, boy!"
J
――
"I know her value, sir, and esteem her accordingly,'
answered I, out of the same play, which, by dint of long
study, I had got by heart. But, to confess the truth,'
added I, "I think you might have left out the passage
about her modesty."
G
We
C
"There now,
you young chaps are so censorious, -
why, 'sdeath, sir, you don'. "think the worse of her virtue
because of her wit?"
Humph!"
"Ah, boy,
when you are my age, you'll know that
your demure cats are not the best; and that reminds me of
a little story, shall I tell it child?"
you,
"If it so please you, sir."
Zauns, where's my snuff-box? O, here it is.
Well, sir, you shall have the whole thing, from beginning
to end. Sedley and I were one day conversing together
about women. Sid was a very deep fellow in that game,
-no passion, you know,- no love on his own side,
nothing of the sort, all done by rule and compass,
knew women as well as dice, and calculated the exact
moment when his snares would catch them, according to
the principles of geometry. D-d clever fellow, faith,-
but a confounded rascal: but let it go no farther,
mum's the word! --must not slander the dead, - and it's
only my suspicion, you know, after all. Poor fellow, — I
don't think he was such a rascal; he gave a beggar an
angel once, well, boy, have a pinch? — Well, so I said
to Sir Charles, I think you will lose the widow, after all,-
'gad I do.' Upon what principle of science, Sir Wil-
liam ?' said he. Why, faith, man, she is so modest, you
see, and has such a pretty way of blushing.' Harkye,
friend Devereux,' said Sir Charles, smoothing his collar,
and mincing his words musically, as he was wont to do,-
harkye, friend Devereux, I will give you the whole ex-
perience of my life in one maxim, I can answer for its
being new, and I think it's profound, and that maxim is
—
No faith, Morton, no, I can't tell it thee, — it is
villanous, and then it's so desperately against all the sex.
"My dear uncle, don't tantalize me so,-pray tell it
me, it shall be a secret."
C
C
"No, boy, no,
it will corrupt thee, besides, it will
do poor Sid's memory no good. But 'sdeath, it was a
most wonderfully shrewd saying, — i'faith, it was. But
zounds, Morton, I forgot to tell you that I have had a
letter from the abbé to-day.'
"Ha! and when does he return?
"To-morrow, God willing!" said the knight, with a
sigh.
"So soon, or rather after so long an absence! Well,
I am glad of it. I wish much to see him before I leave
you.
"Indeed!" quoth my uncle, “ you have an advantage
over me, then?- But, od's-fish, Morton, how is it that
you grew so friendly with the priest before his departure?
He used to speak very suspiciously of thee formerly; and
when I last saw him, he lauded thee to the skies."
Why, the clergy of his faith have a habit of defending
the strong, and crushing the weak, I believe, that's all
He once thought I was dull enough to damn my fortune,
and then he had some strange doubts for my soul; now he
thinks me wise enough to become prosperous, and it ɛ
DEVEREUX
277
astonishing what a respect he has conceived for my princi-
ples."
“Ha! ha! ha! —you have a spice of your uncle's
huunor in you, and, 'gad you have no sinall knowledge
of the world, considering you have seen so little o. it.”
A hit at the popish clergy was, in my good uncle's eyes,
the exact acme of wit and wisdom. We are always clev-
er with those who imagine we think as they do. To be
shallow you must differ with people; to be profound you
must agree with them. Why, sir," answered the sage
nephew, "
you forget that I have seen more of the world
than inany of twice my age. Your house has been full of
company ever since I have been in it, and you set ne to
making observations on what I saw before I was thirteen.
And then, too, if one is reading books about real life, at
the very time one is mixing in it, it is astonishing how
naturally one remarks, and how well one reineinbers."
"Especially if one has a genius for it, eh, boy! And
then, too, you have read my play, turned Horace's Sat-
ires into a lampoon upon the boys at school,
been regu-
larly to assizes during the vacation, attended the county
"Especially if one has a genius for it,
said I.
eh, sir?”
There was no mistaking the purport of this speech, and
even in the midst of my gratified vanity, I drew back,
alarmed. The abbé noted the changed expression of my
countenance, and artfully turned the subject to comments
on the sword, on which I still gazed with a lover's ardour.
From thence he veered to a description of the grace and
greatness of the royal donor: he dwelt at length upon the
flattering terms in which Louis had spoken of my father,
and had inquired concerning myself; he enumerated all
the hopes that the illustrious house, into which my father
had first married, expressed for a speedy introduction to
his son; he lingered, with an eloquence more savouring of
the court than of the cloister, on the dazzling circle which
surrounded the French throne; and when iny vanity, my
curiosity, my love of pleasure, my ambition, all that are
most susceptible in young minds, were fully aroused, he
suddenly ceased, and wished me a good night.
..
Stay, mon père!" said 1; and looking at him more
attentively than I had hitherto done, I perceived a change
in his external appearance, which somewhat startled and
surprised me. Montreuil had always hitherto been remar-
balls, and been a most premature male coquet with the|kably plain in his dress; but he was now richly attired,
ladies. Od's-fish, boy!—it is quite curious to see how and by his side hung a rapier, which had never adorned it
the young sparks of the present day get on with their love- before. Something in his aspect seemed to suit the alter-
making.
ation in his garb: and whether it was that long absence
had effaced enough of the familiarity of his features, to
allow me to be more alive than formerly to the real impres-
sion they were calculated to produce, or whether a com-
mune with kings and nobles had of late dignified their old
expression, as power was said to have clothed the soldier-
mien of Cromwell with a monarch's bearing, I do not af-
fect to decide; but I thought that, in his high brow and
Roman features, the compression of his lip, and his calm
but haughty air, there was a nobleness, which I for the
first time acknowledged. Stay, my father," said I, sur-
veying him, "and tell me, if there is no irreverence in the
question, whether brocade and a sword are compatible
with the laws of the Order of Jesus?
“Besides, too," said my uncle, ironically,
had the abbe's instructions."
<<
you have
Ay, and if the priests would communicate to their
pupils their experience in frailty, as well as in virtue. how
wise they would make us!"
“Od's-fish! Morton, you are quite oracular. How got
you that fancy of priests?-by observation in life al-
ready?"
—by
"No, uncle, — by observation in plays, which you tell
me are the mirrors of life, you remember what Lee
says,
“Tis thought
That earth is more obliged to priests for bodies
Than heaven for souls.'"
Policy, Morton," answered Montreuil, "often dispen-
ses with custom, and the declarations of the Institute pro-
vide, with their usual wisdom, for worldly and temporary
occasions. Even while the constitution ordains us to dis-
card habits repugnant to our professions of poverty, the
following exception is made: Si in occurrenti aliquà oc-
casione, vel necessitate, quis vestibus melioribus, honestis
tamen, indueretur.'"
And my uncle laughed, and called me a smart fellow.
Confess, Monsieur le Lecteur, that when one can obtain the
name of a wit upon such easy terms, it would be a pity
not to contract for the title! Whenever you raise a
laugh, and are praised for your humor, humble yourself
and do penance, -you may be sure that you have said
something egregiously silly, or, at best, superlatively ill-ing display than ordinary?” said I.
natured!
CHAPTER XII.
-
"The abbé's return. A sword, and a soliloquy.
THE next evening, when I was sitting alone in my
room, the Abbé Montreuil suddenly entered. "Ah, is it
you? welcome!" cried I. The priest held out his arms,
and embraced me in the most paternal manner.
"It is your friend," said he, "returned at last to bless
and congratulate you. Behold my success in your ser-
vice,"
|
and the abbé produced a long leather case, richly
inlaid with gold.
"Faith, abbé," said I, "am I to understand that this is
a present for your eldest pupil ?”
"You are," said Montreuil, opening the case, and pro-
ducing a sword; the light fell upon the hilt, and I drew
back, dazzled with its lustre; it was covered with stones,
apparently of the most costly value. Attached to the hilt
was a label of purple velvet, on which, in letters of gold,
was inscribed, "To the son of Marshal Devereux, the
soldier of France, and the friend of Louis XIV.”
Before I recovered my surprise at this sight, the abbé
said,- "It was from the king's own hand that I received
this sword, and I have authority to inform you, that if ever
you wield it in the service of France, it will be accompa-
nied by a post worthy of your name."
"There is now, then, some occasion for a more glitter-
"and
There is, my pupil," answered Montreuil; "
whenever you embrace the offer of my friendship, made to
you more than two years ago, whenever, too, your am-
bition points to a lofty and sublime career, whenever, to
make and unmake kings, and, in the noblest sphere, to
execute the will of God, indemnifies you for a sacrifice
of petty wishes and momentary passions, I will confide to
you schemes worthy of your ancestors and yourself."
tr
With this the priest departed. Left to myself, I revolv-
ed his hints, and marvelled at the power he seemed to pos-
sess. "Closeted with kings," said I, soliloquizing.
bearing their presents through armed men and military
espionage, — speaking of empires and their overthrow, as
of ordinary objects of ambition, and be himself a low-
born and undignified priest, of a poor though a wise,
order, well, there is more in this than I can fathom; but
I will hesitate before I embark in his dangerous and con-
cealed intrigues, above all, I will look well ere I hazard
my
safe heritage of these broad lands in the service of that
house, which is reported to be ungrateful, and which is
certainly exiled.”
After this prudent and notable resolution, I took up the
sword, reëxamined it, kissed the hilt once and the
blade twice,-put it under my pillow,- sent for malet,
-undrest, went to bed, fell asleep, andamt
that I was teaching the Maréchal de Villars the thrust en
seconde.
But fate, that archgossip, which, like her prototypes on
"The service of France !" I repeated; "why, at pre-earth, settles all our affairs for us without our knowledge
sent, that is the service of an enemy
"An enemy only to a part of Engrand!" said the abbé,
emphatically; "perhaps I have overtures to you from other
monarchs, and the friendship of the court of France may
be synonymous rh the friendship a the true sovereign of
England
|
of the matter, had decreed that my friendship with the
Abbé Montreuil should be of very short continuance, and
that my adventures on earth should flow through a differem
channel than in all probability they would have done under
his spiritual direction
278
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER XIII.
The departure of one of
A mysterious etter. — A duel.
the family.
THE next morning I communicated to the abbé my in-
tention of proceeding to London. He received it with
favor. "I myself," said he, "shall soon meet you there;
- my office in your family has expired, and your mother,
after so long an absence, will perhaps readily dispense
with my spiritual advice to her. But time presses, since
you depart so soon, give me an audience to-night in your
apartment. Perhaps our conversation may be of mo-
<
ment."
I agreed, the hour was fixed, and I left the abbé to
'oin my uncle and his guests. While I was employing,
among them, my time and genius with equal dignity and
profit, one of the servants informed ine, that a man at the
gate wished to see me, and alone.
a
Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of the
room into the great hall, and desired him to bid the stran-
ger attend me there. In a few minutes, a small, dark
man, dressed between gentility and meanness, made his
appearance. He greeted me with great respect, and pre-
sented a letter, which, he said, he was charged to deliver
into my own hands, "with," he added in a low tone,
special desire, that none should, till I had carefully read
it, be made acquainted with its contents." I was not a
little startled by this request; and, withdrawing to one of
the windows, broke the seal. A letter, enclosed in the
envelope, in the abbe's own handwriting, was the first
thing that met my eyes. At that instant the abbé himself
rushed into the hall. He cast one hasty look at the mes-
senger, whose countenance evinced something of surprise
and consternation at beholding him; and, hastening up to
me, grasped my hand vehemently, and, while his eye dwelt
upon the letter I held, cried, "Do not read it, not a
word, not a word, there is poison in it!" And, so
saying, he snatched desperately at the letter. I detained
it from him with one hand, and pushing him aside with the
other, said,
I
"Pardon me, father, directly I have read it you shall
have that pleasure, -not till then ;" and, as I said this,
my eye falling upon the letter, discovered my own name
written in two places, my suspicions were aroused.
raised my eyes to the spot where the messenger had stood,
with the view of addressing some question to him respect-
ing his employer, when, to my surprise, I perceived he was
already gone. I had no time, however, to follow him.
"Boy," said the abbé, gasping for breath, and still
seizing me with his lean bony hand, boy, give me that
letter instantly. I charge you not to disobey me.'
"You forget yourself, sir," said I, endeavoring to shake
him off, " you forget yourself there is no longer between
us the distinction of pupil and teacher; and if you have
not yet learnt the respect due to my station, suffer me to
tell you that it is time you should."
61
""
"Give me the letter, I beseech you," said Montreuil,
changing his voice from anger to supplication; "I ask
your pardon for my violence; the letter does not concern
you, but me; there is a secret in those lines which you see
are in my handwriting, that implicates my personal safety.
Give it me, my dear, dear, son, your own houor, if not
your affection for me, demands that you should.”
I was staggered. His violence had confirmed my suspi-
cions, but his gentleness weakened them. "Besides,"
thought I, "the handwriting is his, and even if my life de-
pended upon reading the letter of another, I do not think
my honor would suffer me to do so against his consent. A
thought struck me,
"Will you swear," said I, "that this letter does not
?
concern me
lemnly," answered the abbé, raising his eyes.
All
you swear, that I am not even mentioned in it ?"
"Upon peril of my soul, I will.'
"Liar,
traitor, —perjured blasphemer?" cried I, in
an inexpressible rage, "look here, and here!" and I
pointed out to the priest various lines in which my name
legibly and frequently occurred. A change came over Mon-
treuil's face; he released my arm, and staggered back
against the wainscot; but recovering his composure instan
taneously, he said, "I forgot, my son, I forgot, - your
name is mentioned, it is true, but with honorable eulogy,
that is all."
|
"Bravo, honest father!" cried I, losing my fury in ad
miring surprise at his address, "bravo! However, if
that be all, you can have no objection to allow me to read
the lines in which my name occurs; your benevolence can-
not refuse me such a gratification as the sight of your written
panegyric."
"Count Devereux," said the abbé, sternly, while his
dark face worked with suppressed passion, "this is trifling
with me, and I warn you not to push my patience too far.
I will have that letter, or," he ceased abruptiy, and
touched the hilt of his sword.
"Dare you threaten me?" I said, and the natural fierce-
ness of my own disposition, deepened by vague but strong
suspicions of some treachery designed against me, spoke in
the tones of my voice.
"Dare I!" repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpen
ing his voice into a sort of inward screech. "Dare I!-
ay, were your whole tribe arrayed against me.
Give me
the letter, or you will find me now and for ever your most
deadly foe; deadly, -ay, deadly, deadly!" and he
shook his clenched hand at me, with an expression of coun-
tenance so malignant and menacing, that I drew back invo
luntarily, and laid my hand on my sword.
The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which
he had hitherto waited. Draw, then," he said through
his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier.
Though surprised at his determination, I was not back-
ward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I
drew my sword in time to parry a rapid and fierce thrust.
I had expected easily to master Montreuil, for I had skill at
my weapon; I was deceived; I found him far more adroit
than myself in the art of defence; and perhaps it would
have fared ill for the hero of this narrative, had Montreuil
deemed it wise to direct against my life all the science he
possessed. But the moment our swords crossed, the con-
stitutional coolness of the man, which rage or fear had for
a brief time banished, returned at once, and he probably
saw, that it would be as dangerous to him to take away the
life of his pupil, as to forfeit the paper for which he fought.
He therefore appeared to bend all his efforts toward disarm.
ing me. Whether or not he would have effected this it is
hard to say, for my blood was up, and any neglect of my
antagonist, in attaining an object very dangerous, when
engaged with a skilful and quick swordsman, might have
sent him to the place from which the prayers of his brethren
have (we are bound to believe) released so many thousands
of souls. But, meanwhile, the servants, who at first thought
the clashing of swords was the wanton sport of some young
gallants as yet new to the honor of wearing them, grew
alarmed by the continuance of the sound, and flocked hur-
riedly to the place of contest. At their intrusion, we mutu-
ally drew back. Recovering my presence of mind, (it was
a possession I very easily lost at that time,) I saw the un-
seemliness of fighting with my preceptor, and a priest. I
therefore burst, though awkwardly enough, into a laugh,
and affecting to treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill
between the abbé and myself, resheathed my sword and dis-
missed the intruders, who, evidently disbelieving my ver-
sion of the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging looks
Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to gloss
over our rencontre, now approached me.
"Count," he said, with a collected and cool voice, "suf-
fer me to request you to exchange three words with me, in a
spot
less liable than this to interruption."
"Follow me, then!" said 1, and I led the way to a
part of the grounds which lay remote and sequestered from
intrusion. I then turned round, and perceived that the
abbé had left his sword behind. "How is this?" I said,
pointing to his unarmed side, "have you not come hither
to renew our engagement?"
"No!" answered Montreuil. "I repent me of my
sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all possi-
bility of indulging it again. That letter, young man,
I
still demand from you; I demand it from your own sense of
honor and of right: it was written by me, it was not
intended for your eye, -it contains secrets implicating the
lives of others besides myself, — now, —
read it if you
will."
"You are right, sir!" said I, after a short pause;
"there is the letter; never shall it be said of Morton Dey-
ereux that he hazarded his honor to secure his safety. But
the tie between us is broken now and for ever.
So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode
away. I reëntered the great hall I saw by one of the
DEVEREUX
275
windows a sheet of paper, -1 picked it up, and perceived |
that it was the envelope in which the letter had been en-
closed. It contained only these lines, addressed to me, in
French :
"A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his
Bon a letter, the contents of which it is essential for his
safety that he should know.
C. D. B."
CC
Umph!" said I,
"a very satisfactory intination,
considering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux is so
very well assured that he shall not know one line of the
contents of the said letter. But let me see after this mes-
senger!" and I immediately hastened to institute inquiry
respecting him. I found that he was already gone; imme-
diately on leaving the hall he had remounted his horse, and
taken his departure. One servant, however, had seen him,
as he passed the front court, address a few words to my
valet. Desmarais, who happened to be loitering there. I
summoned Desmarais, and questioned him.
"The dirty fellow," said the Frenchman, pointing to
his spattered stockings with a lachrymose air," splashed
me, by a prance of his horse, from head to foot, and while
I was screaming for very anguish, he stopped and said,
Tell the Count Devereux that I was unable to tarry, but
that the letter requires no answer.
I consoled Desmarais for his misfortune, and hastened to
my uncle with a determination to reveal to him all that had
occurred. Sir William was in his dressing room, and his
gentleman was very busy in adorning his wig. I entreated
his goodness to dismiss the coiffeur, and then, without
much preliminary detail, acquainted him with all that had
passed between the abbe and myself.
་
The knight seemed startled when I came to the story of the
sword. Gad, Sir Count, what have you been doing?"
said he; "know you not that this may be a very ticklish
matter? The King of France is a very great man to be
sure, a very great man, and a very fine gentleman;
but you will please to remember that we are at war with
his majesty, and I cannot guess how far the acceptation of
such presents may be treasonable.
re
brey, and the glow of his countenance died away,
fear that we enjoy it too much."
1
"We hold different interpretations of our creed, then,"
said I, "for I esteem enjoynient the best proof of gratitude;
nor do I think we can pay a more acceptable duty to the
Father of all goodness, than by showing ourselves sensible
of the favors he bestows upon us.
Aubrey shook his head gently, but replied not.
"Yes," resumed I, after a pause,
tance.
CC
yes, it is indeed
a glorious and fair world which we have for our inheri-
Look, how the sunlight sleeps yonder upor
fields covered with golden corn, and seems, like the divine
benevolence of which you spoke, to smile upon the luxuri-
ance which its power created. This carpet at our feet,
covered with flowers that breathe, sweet as good deeds, to
the stream,
heaven,
that breaks through that distant
copse, laughing in the light of noon, and sending its voice.
through the hill and woodland, like a messenger of giad
tidings, the green boughs over our head, vocal with a
thousand songs, all inspirations of a joy too exquisite for
silence, the very leaves, which seem to dance and quiver
with delight
think you, Aubrey, that these are so sullen
as not to return thanks for the happiness they imbibe with
what are those thanks but the incense of their
being;
joy The flowers send it up to heaven in fragrance, the
air and the wave in music. Shall the heart of man be the
only part of his creation that shall dishonor his worship
with lamentation and gloom? When the inspired writers
call upon us to praise our Creator, do they not say to us
— Be joyful in God?'
your
J
> >>
"How can we be joyful with the judgment day ever be-
fore us?" said Aubrey,-"how can we be joyful," (and
bere a dark shade crossed his countenance, and his lip
trembled with emotion,) "while the deadly passions of this
world plead and rankle at the heart. O, none but they
who have known the full blessedness of a commune with
heaven, can dream of the whole anguish and agony of the
conscience, when it feels itself sullied by the mire and
crushed by the load of earth!" Aubrey paused, and his
words, his tone, - his look, made upon me a power-
me, he said, "Let us talk not of these matters,
me on more worldly topics."
speak to
" and I
And Sir William shook his head with a mournful sig-ful impression. I was about to answer, when, interrupting
ificance. Ah," cried he, at last, (when I had conclu-
ded my whole story,) with a complacent look, "I have not
ved at court, and studied human nature, for nothing; and
I will wager my best fullbottom to a nightcap, that the
crafty old fox is as much a jacobite as he is a rogue! The
letter would have proved it, sir, it would have proved it !”
"But what shall be done now?" said I; will you suf-
fer him to remain any longer in the house?"
Why," replied the knight, suddenly recollecting his
reverence to the fair sex, "he is your mother's guest, not
mine; we must refer the matter to her. But zauns, sir,
with all deference to her ladyship, we cannot suffer our
house to be a conspiracy hatch, as well as a popish chapel;
and to attempt your life too,— the devil! Od's-fish,
boy, I will go to the countess myself, if you will just let
Nicholls finish my wig, never attend the ladies cn
déshabille, — always, with them, take care of your person
most, when you most want to display your mind;" and my
uncle, ringing a little silver bell on his dressing table, the
sound immediately brought Nicholls to his toilet.
|
Trusting the cause to the zeal of my uncle, whose hatred
to the ecclesiastic would, I knew, be an efficacious adjunct
to his diplomatic address, and not unwilling to avoid being
myself the person to acquaint my mother with the suspec-
ted delinquency of her favorite, I hastened from the knight's
apartment in search of Aubrey. He was not in the house.
His attendants (for my uncle, with old fashioned grandeur |
of respect, suitable to his great wealth and aristocratic
temper, allotted to each of us a separate suite of servants as
well as of apartments) believed he was in the park. Thither
I repaired, and found him, at length, seated by an old tree,
with a large book of a religious cast before him, on which
his eyes were intently bent.
"I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle brother," said
“I
I, throwing myself on the green turf by his side; " in truth
you have chosen a fitting and fair place for study.
"I have chosen," said Aubrey, "a place meet for the
peculiar study I am engrossed in; for where can we better
read of the power and benevolence of God, thay among
the livg testimonies of both. Beautiful!
how very
beauti-is this happy world; but I fear," a lled Au-
|
"I sought you," said I, "that I might do so;
proceeded to detail to Aubrey as much of my private inter-
course with the abbé as I deemed necessary to warn him
from too close a confidence in the wily ecclesiastic. Aubrey
listened to me with earnest attention :- the affair of the
letter, the gross falsehood of the priest in denying the
mention of my name in the epistle, evidently dismayed him.
"But," said he, after a long silence—but it is not for
us, Morton, weak, ignorant, inexperienced as we are, —
to judge prematurely of our spiritual pastors. To them also
is given a far greater license of conduct than to us; and
ways enveloped in what to our eyes are mystery and shade;
nay, I know not whether it be much less impious to ques-
tion the paths of God's chosen, than to scrutinize those of
the Deity himself."
CC
Aubrey, Aubrey, this is childish!" said I, somewhat
moved to anger. "Mystery is always the trick of impos-
ture: God's chosen should be distinguished from their flock
only by superior virtue, and not by a superior privilege in
deceit."
But," said Aubrey, pointing to a passage in the book
before him, "see what a preacher of the word has said!"
and Aubrey recited one of the most dangerous maxims
in priesteraft, as reverently as if he were quoting from the
Scripture itself. "The nakedness of truth should never
be too openly exposed to the eyes of the vulgar. It was
wisely feigned by the ancients, that truth did lie concealed
in a well!"
7-
"Yes," said I, with enthusiasm, "but that well is like
the holy stream of Dodona, which has the gift of enlig
ing those who seek it, and the power of illumining every
torch which touches the surface of its water!
>>
Whatever answer Aubrey might have made was inter-
rupted by my uncle, who appeared approaching toward u
with unusual satisfaction depicted on his comely counte-
nance.
Well, boys, well," said he, when he came within hear-
-"a holyday for you! Od's-fish, and a holier day
than my old house has known since its former proprietor
ing,
BULWER'S NOVELS
Sir Hugo, of valorous memory, demolished the nunnery, of
which some remains yet stand on yonder eminence. Mor-
ton, my man of might, the thing is done, the court is
purified, the wicked one is departed. Look here, and
be as happy as I am at our release;" and he threw me a
note in Montreuil's writing :-
"To Sir William Devereux, Kt.
"MY HONORED FRIEND,
"In consequence of a dispute between your eldest nephew,
Count Morton Devereux, and myself, in which he desired
me to remember, not only that our former relationship of
tutor and pupil was at an end, but that friendship for his
person was incompatible with the respect due to his superior
station, I can neither so far degrade the dignity of letters,
nor, above all, so meanly debase the sanctity of my divine
profession, as any longer to remain beneath your hospitable
roof, -a guest not only unwelcome to, but insulted by,
your relation and apparent heir. Suffer me to offer you
my gratitude for the favors you have hitherto bestowed on
farewell for ever.
me, and to bid you
"I have the honor to be,
"With the most profound respect, &c.
"JULIAN MONTREUIL."
"Well, sir, what say you?" cried my uncle, stamping
his cane firmly on the ground, when I had finished reading
the letter, and had transmitted it to Aubrey.
"That the good abbé has displayed his usual skill in
composition. And my mother? Is she imbued with our
opinion of his priestship?"
"Not exactly, I fear. However, heaven bless her, she
is too soft to say nay.' But those Jesuits are so smooth-
tongued to women. 'Gad, they threaten damnation with
such an irresistible air, that they are as much William the
Conqueror as Edward the Confessor. Ha! master Aubrey,
have you become amorous of the old jacobite, that you
sigh over his crabbed writing, as if it were a billet-doux ?"
"There seems a great deal of feeling in what he says,
sir," said Aubrey, returning the letter to my uncle.
Feeling!" cried the knight; "ay, the reverend gentry
always have a marvellously tender feeling for their own in-
terest, eh, Morton ?"
"Rignt, dear sir," said I, wishing to change a subject
which I knew might hurt Aubrey; "but should we not join
yon party of dames and damsels? I see they are about to
make a water excursion.”
"'Sdeath, sir, with all my heart," cried the good-
natured knight: "I love to see the dear creatures amuse
themselves; for, to tell you the truth, Morton," said he,
sinking his voice into a knowing whisper, "the best thing
to keep them from playing the devil is to encourage them in
playing the fool! and, laughing heartily at the jest he had
purloined from one of his favorite writers, Sir William led
the way to the water-party.
CHAPTER XIV.
Being a chapter of trifles.
THE abbé disappeared! It is astonishing how well
every body bore his departure. My mother scarcely spoke
on the subject; but, along the irrefragable smoothness of
her temperament, all things glided without resistance to
their course, or trace, where they had been. Gerald, who,
occupied solely in rural sports or rustic loves, seldom
mingled in the festivities of the house, was equally silent on
the subject. Aubrey looked grieved for a day or two; but
his countenance soon settled into its customary and grave
softness; and, in less than a week, so little was the abbé
spoken of or missed, that you would scarcely have imagined
Jul Montreuil had ever passed the threshold of our gate.
The forgetfulness of one buried is nothing to the forgetful-
ness of one disgraced.
Meanwhile, I pressed for my departure; and, at length,
the day was finally fixed. Ever since that conversation
with Lady Hasselton, which has been set before the reader,
that lady had lingered and lingered, — though the house was
growing empty, and London, in all seasons, was, accord-
ing to her, better than the country in any, until the Count
Devereux, with that amiable modesty which so especially
characterized him, began to suspect that the Lady Hassel-
ton lingered upon his account. This emboldened that basn
ful personage to press in earnest for the fourth seat in the
beauty's carriage, which, we have seen in the conversation
before mentioned, had been previously offered to him in
jest. After a great affectation of horror at the proposal,
the Lady Hasselton yielded. She had always, she said,
been doatingly fond of children, and it was certainly ver
shocking to send such a chit as the little count to London
by himself.
The
My uncle was charmed with the arrangement.
beauty was a peculiar favorite of his, and, in fact, he was
sometimes pleased to hint that he had private reasons for
insinuation I am, however, more than somewhat suspicious,
love toward her mother's daughter. Of the truth of this
and believe it was only a little ruse of the good knight, in
and believe it was only a little ruse of the good knight, in
order to excuse the vent of those kindly affections with
had frequented made him ashamed to own it) his breast
which (while the heartless tone of the company his youth
overflowed. There was in Lady Hasselton's familiarity,
her ease of manner, a certain good-nature mingled
with her affectation, and a gayety of spirit which never flag-
ged, something greatly calculated to win favor with a
man of my uncle's temper.
An old gentleman who filled in her family the office of
"the chevalier" in a French one; viz. who told stories,
not too long, and did not challenge you for interrupting
them, who had a good air, and an unexceptionable ped-
igree, -a turn for wit, literature, note-writing, and the
management of lap-dogs, who could attend the dame de
la maison to auctions, plays, court, and the puppet-show,
who had a right to the best company, but would, on a
signal, give up his seat to any one the pretty capricieuse
whom he served might select from the worst, in short, a
very useful, charming personage, vastly liked by all,
and "prodigiously "respected by none; -this gentleman,
I say, by name Mr. Lovell, had attended her ladyship in
her excursion to Devereux Court. Besides him there came
also a widow lady, a distant relation, with one eye and a
sharp tongue, the Lady Needleham, whom the beauty
carried about with her as a sort of gouvernante or duenna.
These excellent persons made my compagnons de voyage,
and filled the remaining complements of the coach. To
say truth, and to say nothing of my tendresse for the Lady
Hasselton, I was very anxious to escape the ridicule of
crawling up to town, like a green beetle, in my uncle's
verdant chariot, with the four Flanders mares trained not
to exceed two miles an hour. And my Lady Hasselton's
private railleries, for she was really well bred, and made
no jest of my uncle's antiquities of taste, in his presence
| at least, had considerably heightened my intuitive dis-
like to that mode of transporting myself to the metropolis
The day before my departure, Gerald, for the first time,
spoke of it.
-
Glancing toward the mirror, which gave in full contrast
the magnificent beauty of his person, and the smaller pro-
portions and plainer features of my own, he said, with a
sneer, "Your appearance must create a wonderful sensa-
tion in town."
"No doubt of it," said I, taking his words literally,
and arraying my laced cravat with the air of a petit maître
"What a wit the count has!" whispered the Duchess
of Lackland, who had not yet given up all hope of the
elder brother.
"Wit," said the Lady Hasselton; "poor child, he is a
perfect simpleton ! "
CHAPTER XV.
The mother and son. - Virtue should be the sovereign of the
feelings, not their destroyer.
I TOOK the first opportunity to escape from the good
company, who were so divided in opinion as to my menta.
accomplishments, and repaired to my mother; for whom,
despite of her evenness of disposition, verging toward in-
sensibility, I felt a powerful and ineffaceable affection. In-
deed, if purity of life, rectitude of intentions, and fervor
of piety, can win love, none ever deserved it more than
she. It was a pity that, with such admirable qualities, she
had not more diligently cultivated her affections. The seed
was not wanting; but it had been neglected. Originally
DEVEREUX.
281
mtended for the veil, she had been taught, early in life, that
much feeling was synonymous with much sin; and she had
so long and so carefully repressed in her heart every at-
tempt of the forbidden fruit to put forth a single blossom,
that the soil seemed at last to have become incapable of
bearing it. If, in one corner of this barren, but sacred
spot, some green and tender verdure of affection did exist,
it was, with a partial and petty reserve for my twin-broth-
er, kept exclusive and consecrated to Aubrey. His con-
genial habits of pious silence and rigid devotion, his
softness of temper, — his utter freedom from all boyish ex-
cesses, joined to his almost angelic beauty, a quality
which, in no female heart, is ever without its value,
were exactly calculated to attract her sympathy, and work
themselves into her love. Gerald was also regular in his
habi's, attentive to devotion, and had, from an early period,
been high in the favor of her spiritual director. Gerald
too, if he had not the delicate and dreamlike beauty of
Aubrey, possessed attractions of more masculine and de-
cided order; and for Gerald, therefore, the countess gave
the little of love that she could spare from Aubrey. To
me she manifested the most utter indifference. My diffi-
cult and fastidious temper, - my sarcastic turn of mind,--
my violent and headstrong passions, my daring, reck-
less, and, when roused, almost ferocious nature, (there is a
vanity in telling as well as in concealing faults,) — all, espe-
cially revolted the even, and polished, and quiescent char-
acter of my maternal parent. The little extravagances of
my childhood seemed, to her pure and inexperienced mind,
the crimes of a heart naturally distorted and evil; my jest-
ing vein, which, though it never, even in the wantonness of
youth, attacked the substances of good, seldom respected
its semblances and its forms, she considered as the effusions
of malignancy; and even the bursts of affection, kindness,
and benevolence, which were by no means unfrequent in
my wild and motley character, were so foreign to her still-
ness of temperament, that they only revolted her by their
violence, instead of conciliating her by their nature.
Nor did she like me the better for the mutual understand-
ing between my uncle and myself.
On the contrary,
shocked by the idle and gay turn of the knight's conversa-
tion, the frivolities of his mind, and his heretical disregard
for the forms of the religious sect which she so zealously
espoused, she was utterly insensible to the points which re-
deemed and ennobled his sterling and generous character,
utterly obtuse to his warmth of heart, his overflowing
kindness of disposition, his charity, his high honor,
his justice of principle, that nothing save benevolence could
warp, and the shrewd penetrating sense, which, though
often clouded by foibles and humorous eccentricity, still
made the stratum of his intellectual composition. Never-
theless, despite of her prepossessions against us both, there
was in her temper something so gentle, meek, and un-
upbraiding, that even the sense of injustice lost its sting,
and one could not help loving the softness of her character,
while one was most chilled by its frigidity. Anger, hope,
fear, the faintest breath or sign of passion, never seemed to
stir the breathless languor of her feelings and quiet was so
inseparable from her image, that I have almost thought,
like that people described by Herodotus, her very sleep
could never be disturbed by dreams.
Yes! how fondly, how tenderly I loved her! What
tears, - secret, but deep,- bitter, but unreproaching, -
have I retired to shed, when I caught her cold and unaffec-
tionate glance. How (unnoticed and uncared for) have I
watched, and prayed, and wept, without her door, when a
transitory sickness or suffering detained her within; and
hov, when stretched myself upon the feverish bed, to which
my early weakness of frame often condemned me, how
eagerly have I counted the moments to her punctilious and
brief vist, and started as I caught her footstep, and felt my
heart leap within me as she approached; and then, as
I heard her cold tone, and looked upon her unmoved face,
how bitterly have I turned away with all that repressed and
crushed affection which was construed into sullenness or
disrespect. O mighty and enduring force of early associa-
tions, which almost seems, in its unconquerable strength,
to partake of an innate prepossession, that binds the son to
the mother, who concealed him in her womb, and pur-
chased life for him with the travail of death! fountain of
filial love, which coldness cannot freeze, nor injustice im-
bitter, nor pride divert into fresh channels, nor time and
the hot suns of our toiling manhood exhɛ ist, -even at this
VOL I.
36
moment, how livingly do you gush upon my heart, and
water with your divine waves the memories that yet flourish
amid the sterility of years!
I approached the apartments appropriated to my mother,
I knocked at her door; one of her women admitted me.
The countess was sitting on a high-backed chair, curiously
adorned with tapestry. Her feet, which were remarkable
for their beauty, were upon a velvet cushion; three hand-
maids stood round her, and she herself was busily employed
in a piece of delicate embroidery, an art in which she emi-
nently excelled.
"The count,-madam!" said the woman who had
admitted me, placing a chair beside my mother, and then
retiring to join her sister maidens.
"Good day to you, my son," said the countess, lifting
her eyes for a moment, and then dropping them again upon
her work.
"I have come to seek you, dearest mother, as I know
not if, among the crowd of guests and amusements wřick
surround us, I shall enjoy another opportunity of having a
private conversation with you. Will it please you to dis-
miss your women?"
And why, my
My mother again lifted up her eyes.
son surely there can be nothing between us which re-
quires their absence; what is your reason?
"I leave you to-morrow, madam; is it strange that a
son should wish to see his mother alone before his depar
ture?"
"By no means, Morton; but your absence will not be
very long, will it ?-dear, how unfortunate,
I have
dropt a stitch."
"Forgive my importunity, dear mother, but will you
dismiss your attendants!"
"If you wish it, certainly; but I dislike feeling alone,
especially in these large rooms; nor do I think our being
unattended quite consistent with our rank; however,
never contradict you, my son," and the countess directed
her women to wait in the ante-room.
"Well, Morton, what is your wish?"
،،
Only to bid you farewell, and to ask if London cor-
tains nothing which you will commission me to obtain for
you?”
The countess again raised her eyes from her work. "I
am greatly obliged to you, my dear son; this is a very
delicate attention on your part. I am informed that
stomachers are worn a thought less pointed than they were.
I care not, you well know, for such vanities; but respect
to the memory of your illustrious father renders me desirous
to wear a seemly appearance to the world, and my women
shall give you written instructions thereon to Madame
Tourville: she lives in St. James'-street, and is the only
person to be employed in these matters. She is a woman
who has known misfortune, and appreciates the sorrowfi
and subdued tastes of those whom an exalted station has
not preserved from like afflictions. So you go to-morrow,
will you get me the scissors? they are on the ivory table,
yonder. When do you return?"
"Perhaps, never!" said I, abruptly.
"Never, Morton; how singular, why?
"I may join the army, and be killed."
"I hope not. Dear, how cold it is, will you shut o
window ?- pray forgive my troubling you, but you woneS
send away the women. Join the army, you say į — it a a
very dangerous profession 'your poor father might be
alive now but for having embraced it; nevertheless
righteous cause, under the Lord of Hosts, there is a
glory to be obtained beneath its banners. Alas, however,
for its private evils! alas, for the orphan and the widow.
You will be sure, my dear son, to give the note to
Madame Tourville herself; her assistants have not her
knowledge of my misfortunes, nor indeed of my exact pro-
portions; and at my age, and in my desolate state, I would
fain be decorous in these things; and that reminds me of
dinner. Have you aught else to say, Morton ?"
"Yes!
" said I, suppressing my emotions, yes,
mother! do bestow on me one warm wish, one kind word,
before we part,
see, - I kneel for your blessing, will
you not give it me?"
"Bless you, my child, bless you! - look you now,
I have dropt my needle."
CC
I rose hastily, bowed profoundly,
bowed profoundly,- (my mother re
turned the courtesy with the grace peculiar to herself,) -
and withdrew. I hurried into the great drawing room,
BULWER'S NOVELS.
found Lady Needleham alone, -rushed out in despair,
encov tered the Lady Hasselton, and coquetted with her
the rest of the evening. Vain hope! to forget one's real
Seelings by pretending those one never felt.
-
The next morning, then, after suitable adieux to all
(Gerald excepted) whom I left behind, after some tears
too from my uncle, which, had it not been for the presence
of the Lady Hasselton, I could have returned with interest
-a:d after a long caress to his dog Ponto, which now, in
parting with that dear old man, seemed to me as dog
never seemed before, I hurried into the beauty's carriage,
bade farewell for ever to the Rubicon of life, and com-
menced my career of manhood and citizenship by learning
under the tuition of the prettiest coquet of her time, the
dignified duties of a court gallant, and a town beau.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
The hero in London. -Pleasure is often the shortest, as it is the
earliest road to wisdom, and we may say of the world what
Zeal-of-the-Land-Busy says of the pig booth, "We scape so
much of the other vanities by our early entering."
IT had, when I first went to town, just become the fash-
ion for young men of fortune to keep house, and give their
Bachelor establishments the importance hitherto reserved
for the household of a Benedict.
invitation. While such were the inmates of the ante
room, what picture shall we draw of the salon and its oc-
cupant ?
A table was covered with books, a couple of fencing
foils, a woman's mask, and a profusion of letters; a scar-
let cloak, richly laced, hung over, trailing on the ground.
Upon a slab of marble lay a hat, looped with the costliest
diamonds, a sword, and a lady's lute. Extended upon a
sofa, loosely robed in a dressing gown of black velvet, his
shirt collar unbuttoned, his stockings ungartered, his own
hair (undressed and released for a brief interval from the
false locks universally worn) waving from his forehead in
short yet dishevelled curls, his whole appearance stamped
with the morning negligence which usually follows mid-
night dissipation, lay a young man of about nineteen years.
His features were neither handsome nor unfavorable; and
his stature was small, slight, and somewhat insignificant,
but not, perhaps, ill formed either for active enterprise or
for muscular effort. Such, reader, is the picture of the
young prodigal who occupied the apartments I have describ-
ed, and such (though somewhat flattered by partiality) is
a portrait of Morton Devereux, six months after his arrival
in town.
The door was suddenly thrown open with that unhesita-
ting rudeness by which our friends think it necessary to sig-
nify the extent of their familiarity; and a young man of
about eight and twenty, richly dressed, and of a counte-
nance in which a dissipated nonchalance and an aristocra-
tic hauteur seemed to struggle for mastery, abruptly en-
Let the reader figure to himself a suite of apartments,
Dagnificently furnished, in the vicinity of the court. An
ante-room is crowded with divers persons, all messengers
a the various negociations of pleasure. There a French
valet, that inestimable valet Jean Desmarais, sitting
over a small fire, was watching the operations of a coffee-
pot, and conversing, in a mutilated attempt at the language
of our nation, though with the enviable fluency of his own,
with the various loiterers who were beguiling the hours
tney were obliged to wait for an audience with the master
nimself, by laughing with true English courtesy at the
master's Gallic representative. There stood a tailor with
ais books of patterns just imported from Paris, that
modern Prometheus, who makes man what he is! Next
to him a tall, gaunt fellow, in a coat covered with tarnished
ace, a nightcap wig, and a large whip in his hand, came
to vouch for the pedigree and excellence of the three
orses he intends to dispose of, out of pure love and amity
for the buyer. By the window stood a thin, starveling
poet, who, like the grammarian of Cos, might have puttered.
lead in his pockets to prevent being blown away, had he
not, with a more paternal precaution, put so much in his
works that he had left none to spare. Excellent trick of
the times, when ten guineas can purchase every virtue
under the sun, and when an author thinks to vindicate the
sins of his book, by proving the admirable qualities of the
paragon to whom it is dedicated.* There, with an air of su-
percilious contempt upon his smooth cheeks, a page, in
ple and silver, sat upon the table swinging his legs to and
fro, and big with all the reflected importance of a billet-doux.
There stood the pert haberdasher, with his box of silver-
fringed gloves, and lace which Diana might have worn.
At that time there was indeed no enemy to female chastity
like the former article of man-millinery, the delicate "A wise man by conversion, or fools by satiety."
whiteness of the glove, the starry splendor of the fringe, "Well, I dare say that is witty enough, but I never ad-
were irresistible, and the fair Adorna in poor Lee's trage-mire fine things of a morning. I like letting my faculties
dy of Caesar Borgia, is far from the only lady who has live till night in a deshabille,
live till night in a deshabille, let us talk easily and silli-
been killed by a pair of gloves.
ly of the affairs of the day. Imprimis, will you stroll to the
New Exchange? there is a black eye there, that mea
sures out ribands, and my green ones long to flirt w
pur-
Next to the haberdasher, dingy and dull of aspect, a
book-hunter bent beneath the load of old works, gathered
from stall and shed, and about to be resold according to
the price exacted from all literary gallants, who affect to
unite the fine gentleman with the profound scholar. A lit-
tle girl, whose brazen face and voluble tongue betrayed
the growth of her intellectual faculties, leant against the
wainscot, and repeated, in the ante-room, the tart ❤par-
tees which her mistress (the most celebrated actress of the
day) uttered on the stage; while a stout, sturdy, bull-
headed gentleman, in a gray surtout and a black wig,
mingled with the various voices of the motley group, the
gentle phrases of Hockley in the Hole, from which place
of polite merriment he came charged with a message of
Thank heaven. fo the honor of literature, tout cela est
changi. -
ED
"What! ho, my noble royster," cried he, flinging him-
self upon a chair, "still suffering from St. John's Bur-
gundy? Fie, fie, upon your apprenticeship!
why, be-
fore I had served half your time, I could take my three
bottles as easily as the sea took the good ship Revolu
tion,' - swallow them down with a gulp, and never show
the least sign of them the next morning.
C
"I readily believe you, most magnanimous Tarleton.
Providence gives to each of its creatures different favors,
to one wit, -to the other a capacity for drinking. A
thousand pities that they are never united !
"So bitter, count! — ah, what will ever cure you of
sarcasm?"
>>
-
it.
"With all my heart, and in return you shall accom
pany me to Master Powell's puppet-show.'
"You speak as wisely as Solomon himself in the pup
pet-show. I own that I love that sight; 'tis a pleasure to
the littleness of human nature to see great things abasca
by mimicry, -kings moved by bobbins, and the pomps o.
the earth personated by Punch."
"But how do you like sharing the mirth of the ground-
lings, the filthy plebeians, and letting them see how petty
are those distinctions which you value so highly, by show-
ing them how heartily you can laugh at such distinctions
yourself. Allow, my superb Coriolanus, that one purcha
ses pride by the loss of consistency.
DEVEREUX.
289
Ah, Devereux, you poison my enjoyment by the mere and should our mistress tarry too long, beguile our impa-
word plebeian! O, what a beastly thing is a common tience by a flirtation with her milliner. Is there not a breath-
does it not still smack
person! a shape of the trodden clay without any alloy.ing air of gayety about the place?
-a compound of dirty clothes, bacon breaths, villanous
bacon breaths, villanous of the Ethereges and Sedleys?"
smells, beggarly cowardice, and cattish ferocity. Pah,
Devereux! rub civet on the very thought!"
"Yet they will laugh to-day at the same things you
will, and consequently there will be a most flattering con-
geniality between you. Emotion, whether of ridicule,
whether raised at a puppet-show, a
anger, or sorrow,-
funeral, or a battle, your grandest of levellers. The
man who would be always superior should be always apa-
thetic."
"Oracular, as usual, count, but, hark ! the clock
gives tongue. One, by the Lord!-will you not dress?"
And I rose and dressed. We passed through the ante- princess,
We passed through the ante-
room, my attendant adjutores in the art of wasting money,
drew in a row.
up
-
is
—
"Pardon me, gentlemen," said I, ("Gentleman, in-
deed!" cried Tarleton,) "for keeping you so long. Mr.
favor me by
Snivelsnip, your waistcoats are exquisite, favor me by
conversing with my valet on the width of the lace for my
liveries, he has my instructions. Mr. Jockelton, your
horses shall be tried to-morrow at one. Ah, Mr. Rymer,
I beseech you to forgive
I beg you a thousand pardons,
the ignorance of my rascals in suffering a gentleman of
your merit to remain for a moment unattended to. I have
read your ode, it is splendid, the ease of Horace,
with the fire of Pindar, your Pegasus never touches the
earth, and yet
in his wildest excesses you curb him with
equal grace and facility. I object, sir, only to your dedi-
I object, sir, only to your dedi-
cation, it is too flattering.
—
By no means, my lord count, it fits you to a hair.”
"Pardon ine," interrupted I, "and allow me to trans-
fer the honor to Lord Halifax, - he loves men of merit,
- he loves also their dedications. I will mention it to
hin to-morrow,
every thing you say of ine will suit him
exactly. You will oblige me with a copy of your poem di-
rectly it is printed, and suffer me to pay your bookseller
for it now,
and through your friendly mediation: adieu!"
O, count, this is too generous.'
"A letter for me, my pretty page. Ah! tell her lady-
ship I shall wait upon her commands at Powell's, time
will move with a tortoise speed till I kiss her hands. Mr.
Fribbleden, your gloves would fit the giants at Guildhall,
my valet will furnish you with my exact size, you
will see to the legitimate breadth of the fringe. My little
My little
beauty, you are from Mrs. Bracegirdle, the play shall
succeed, I have taken seven boxes,-Mr. St. John prom-
ises his influence. Say, therefore, my Hebe, that the
thing is certain, and let me kiss thee, ma mignonne, thou
hast dew on thy lip already. Mr. Thumpem, you are a
fine fellow, and deserve to be encouraged; I will see that
the next time your head is broken
head is broken it shall be broken fair-
ly; but I will not patronize the bear, consider that
peremptory. What, Mr. Bookworm, again! I hope you
have succeeded better this time, the old songs had an
autumn fit upon them, and had lost the best part of their
leaves; and Plato had mortgaged one half his republic, to
pay, I suppose, the exorbitant sum you thought proper to
set upon the other. As for Diogenes Laertius, and his
philosophers,
CC
"Pish!" interrupted Tarleton; are you going, by
your theoretical treatises on philosophy, to make me learn
the practical part of it, and prate upon learning while I
am supporting myself with patience?"
"Pardon ne ! Mr. Bookworm, you will deposit
Your load, and visit me to-morrow at an earlier hour.
And now, Tarleton, I am at your service."
CHAPTER II.
T
Gay scenes and conversations. The New Exchange and the
puppet-show. The actor, the sexton, and the beauty.
"WELL, Tarleton," said I, looking round that mart of
millinery and love-making, which, so celebrated in the reign
of Charles II., still preserved the shadow of its old re-
down in that of Anne, "well, here we are upon the
classical ground so often commemorated in the comedies
which our chaste grandmothers thronged to sec Here we
can made appointments, while we profess to buy gloves,
"Right," said Tarleton, leaning over a counter, and
amorously eyeing the pretty coquet to whom it belonged,
while,
while, with the coxcombry then in fashion, he sprinkled
the long curls that touched his shoulders with a fragrant
shower from a bottle of jessamine water upou the counter,
"right; saw you ever such an eye? Have you snuf
this is for the nos-
of the true scent, my beauty, foh!
tril of a Welsh parson, -choleric and hot, my beauty,
pulverized horse-radish, why, it would make a nose of
the coldest constitution imaginable sneeze like a washed
schoolboy on a Saturday night. Ah, this is better, my
princess, there is some courtesy in this suuff, it flat-
ters the brain, like a poet's dedication. Right, Devereux
right, there is something infectious in the atmosphere; one
catches good humor, as easily as if it were cold. Shall
we stroll on ?—my Clelia is on the other side of the ex-
change. You were speaking of the playwriters,
what a
pity that our Ethereges and Wycherleys should be so frank
in their gallantry, that the prudish public already begins to
look shy on them.
look shy on them. They have a world of wit?"
CC
Ay," said I;" and, as my good uncle would say, a
world of knowledge of human nature, viz. of the worst
part of it. But they are worse than merely licentious,
they are positively villanous, pregnant with the most re-
demptionless scoundrelism, - cheating, lying, thieving, and
fraud; their humor debauches the whole moral system,
they are like the Sardinian herb,
they are like the Sardinian herb,—they make you laugh,
it is true,
But who comes
but they poison you in the act.
here!"
"O, honest Coll!-Ah, Cibber, how goes it with
you?"
The person thus addressed was a man of about the mid-
dle
dle age,
very grotesquely attired, and with a perriwig
preposterously long. His countenance (which, in its fea-
tures, was rather comely) was stamped with an odd mix-
ture of liveliness, impudence, and a coarse yet not unjoyous
spirit of reckless debauchery. He approached us with a
saunter, and saluted Tarleton with an air servile enough, in
spite of an affected familiarity.
.
"What think you," resumed my companion, we were
conversing upon
?
CC
Why, indeed, Mr. Tarleton," answered Cibber, bow
ing very low,
ing very low, "unless it were the exquisite fashion o.
your waistcoat, or your success with my lady duchess, I
know not what to guess.'
no,
"Pooh, man," said Tarleton haughtily, "none of your
compliments ;" and then added, in a milder tone,
Colly, we were abusing the immoralities that existed on the
stage, until thou, by the light of thy virtuous example, dids
undertake to reform it."
"Why," rejoined Cibber, with an air of mock sanctity,
"heaven be praised, I have pulled out some of the weeds
from our theatrical parterre,
"Hear you that, count? Does he not look a pretty fel-
low for a censor!"
Surely," said Cibber, "ever since Dickey Steele has
set up for a saint, and assumed the methodistical twang,
some hopes of conversion may be left even for such repro-
bates as myself. Where, may I ask, will Mr. Tarleton
drink to-night?"
"Not with thee, Coll. The Saturnalia don't happen
every day. Rid us now of thy company; but stop, I will
do thee a pleasure, know you this gentleman ?”
"I have not that extreme honor."
"Know a count then. Count Devereux,
Count Devereux, demean your-
self by sometimes acknowledging Colley Cibber, a rars
fellow at a song, a bottle, and a message to an actress; a
lively rascal enough, but without the goodness to be loved,
or the independence to be respected."
"Mr. Cibber," said I, rather hurt at Tarleton's speech,
though the object of it seemed to hear this description with
the most unruffled composure," Mr. Cibber, I am bappy,
and proud of an introduction to the author of the Care-
less Husband,’ Here is my address; oblige me with a
visit at your leisure."
"How could you be so galling to the poor devil?" said
I, when Cibber, with a profusion of bows and compliments,
had left us to ourselves.
“Ah, hang him, — a low fellow, who pins all his happi
284
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ness to the skirts of the quality, is proud of being despised,
and that which would excruciate the vanity of others, only
flatters his. And now for my Clelia."
After my companion had amused himself with a brief
airtation with a young lady who affected a most edifying
demureness, we left the exchange, and repaired to the pup-
pet-show.
As we entered the piazza, in which, as I am writing for
the next century, it may be necessary to say that Punch held |
is court, we saw a tall, thin fellow, loitering under the
columns, and exhibiting a countenance of the most ludic-
rous discontent. There was an insolent arrogance about
Tarleton's good nature, which always led him to consult
the whim of the moment at the expense of every other con-
sideration, especially if the whim referred to a member of
the canaille, whom my aristocratic friend esteemed as a
base part of the exclusive and despotic property of gen-
tlemen.
The first person I saw at the show, and indeed the ex
press person I came to see, was the Lady Hasselton.
Tarleton and myself separated for the present, and I re-
paired to the coquet: "Angels of grace!
" said I,
approaching; "and by the by, before I proceed another
word, observe, Lady Hasselton, how appropriate the ex-
clamation is to you! Angels of grace! why you have
moved all your patches! one, two, three, six,-
eight,
-as I am a gentleman, from the left side of your
cheek to the right! What is the reason of so sudden an
emigration?"
"I have changed my politics,* count, that is all, and
have resolved to lose no time in proclaiming the change.
But is it true that you are going to be married?
"Married! heaven forbid! which of my enemies spread
so cruel a report ?"
"O, the report is universal!" and the Lady Hasselton
flirted her fan with a most flattering violence.
"Egad, Devereux," said he, "do you see that fellow? "It is false, nevertheless! I cannot afford to buy a wife
ne her the audacity to affect spleen. Faith, I thought me- at present, for, thanks to jointures and pinmoney, these
lancholy was the distinguishing patent of nobility, we things are all matter of commerce; and (see how closely
will smoke him." And advancing toward the man of civilized life resembles the savage!) the English, like the
gloom, Tarleton touched him with the end of his cane. Tartar gentleman, obtains his wife only by purchase! But
The man started and turned round.
Pray, surrah," said who is the bride ?
Tarleton coldly, " pray who the devil are you, that you
presume to look discontented ?"
Why, sir," said the man, good-humoredly enough,
"I have some right to be angry.
"I doubt it, my friend," said Tarleton. "What is
your complaint? a rise in the price of tripe, or a drink-
ing wife those, I take it, are the sole misfortunes inci-
dental to your condition."
"If that be the case," said I, observing a cloud on our
friend's brow, "shall we heal thy sufferings? Tell us thy
complaints, and we will prescribe thee a silver specific
there is a sample of our skill.”
"The Duke of Newcastle's rich daughter, Lady Hen-
rietta Pelham.”
"What, Harley's object of ambition! † Faith, madam
the report is not so cruel as I thought for!"
"O, you fop! but it is not true?
"By my honor, I fear not; my rivals are too numerous
and too powerful. Look now, yonder! how they already
flock around the illustrious heiress, -note those smiles and
simpers. Is it not pretty to see those very fine gentlemen
imitating bumpkins at a fair, and grinning their best for a
gold ring! But you need not fear me, Lady Hasselton, my
love cannot wander if it would. In the quaint thought of
Sidney, love having once flown to my heart, burnt its
“Thank you, humbly, gentlemen," said the man, pock-
eting the money and clearing his countenance; "and, seri-wings there, and cannot fly away.
ously, mine is an uncommonly hard case. I was, till
within the last few weeks, the under-sexton of St. Paul's,
Covent Garden, and my duty was that of ringing the bells
for daily prayers: but a man of Belial came hitherward,
set up a puppet-show, and timing the hours of his exhibi-
ion with a wicked sagacity, made the bell I rang for
church serve as a summons to Punch; so, gentlemen, that
whenever your humble servant began to pull for the Lord,
ais perverted congregation began to flock to the devil; and
instead of being an instrument for saving souls, I was made
the innocent means of destroying them. O, gentlemen, it
was a shocking thing, to tug away at the rope till the sweat
ran down one, for four shillings a week; and to feel all the
ime that one was thinning one's own congregation, and
emptying one's own pockets."
"La, you know!" said the beauty; "I do not compre-
hend you exactly, your master of the graces does not
teach you your compliments properly.”
"Yes, he does, but in your presence I forget them; and
now," I added, lowering my voice into the lowest of
whispers, "now that you are assured of my fidelity, will
you not learn at last to discredit rumors and trust to me?"
"It was indeed a lamentable dilemma; and what did
you, Mr. Sexton ?"
"Do, sir? why, I could not stifle my conscience, and I
left my place. Ever since then, sir, I have stationed my-
elf in the piazza, to warn my poor, deluded fellow-crea-
ures of their error, and to assure them that when the
and to assure them that when the
ell of St. Paul's rings, it rings for prayers, and not for
puppet-shows; and, Lord help us, there it goes at this very
moment; and look, look, gentlemen, how the wigs and
hoods are crowding to the motion* instead of the minister."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Tarleton, "Mr. Powell is not
the first man who has wrested things holy to serve a carnal
purpose, and made use of church bells in order to ring in
money to the wide pouch of the church's enemies. Harkye,
my friend, follow my advice, and turn preacher yourself;
cant a cart opposite to the motion, and I'll wager a trifle
that the crowd forsake the theatrical mountebank in favor
of the religious one; for the more sacred the thing played
upon, the more certain is the gain."
"Body of me, gentlemen, cried the ex-sexton, "I'll
follow your advice."
"Do so, man, and never presume to look doleful again;
leave dulness to your superiors." †
And with this advice, and an additional compensation
for his confidence, we left the innocent assistant of Mr.
Powell, and marched into the puppet-show, by the sound of
the very bells the perversion of which the good sexton had
so pathetically lamented.
An antiquated wort in use for puppet-shows.
† See Spectator, No. 14, for a letter from this unfortunate
under-sexton.
"I love you too well!" answered the Lady Hasselton,
in the same tone, and that answer gives an admirable idea
of the affection of every coquet!
of the affection of every coquet! - love and confidence
with them are qualities that have a natural antipathy, and
can never be united. Our tête-à-tête was at an end, the
people round us became social, and conversation general.
"Betterton acts to-morrow night," cried the Lady
Pratterly, we must go !
وو
"We must go!" cried the Lady Hasselton.
"We must go!" cried all.
And so passed the time till the puppet-show was over,
and my attendance dispensed with.
It is a charming thing to be the lover of a lady of the
mode! One so honored does with his hours as a miser
with his guineas, viz. nothing but count them.
CHAPTER III.
More lions.
THE next night, after the theatre, Tarleton and I stroll-
ed into Wills's. Half a dozen wits were assembled.
Heavens! how they talked!-actors, actresses, poets,
statesmen, philosophers, critics, divines, were all pulled to
pieces with the most gratifying malice imaginable. We
sat ourselves down, and while Tarleton amused himself
with a dish of coffee and the "Flying Post," I listened
very attentively to the conversation. Certainly if we
would take every opportunity of getting a grain or two of
ed an excellent subsistence by asking every one who came
knowledge, we should soon have a chest full; a man eurn-
* Whig ladies patched on one side of the cheek, tories on
the other. Ed.
end of Har
Thus is the
Lord Bolingbroke tells us, that it was the main
ley's administration to marry his son to this lady.
fate of nations a bundle made up of a thousand little private
schemes. Ed.
‡ In the Arcadia, that museum of odditles and beauties.
DEVEREUX.
285
out of a tobacconist's shop for a pinch of snuff, and retail-
mg
the mixture as soon as he had filled his box.*
While I was listening to a tall, lusty gentleman, who
was abusing Dogget the actor, a well-dressed man entered,
and immediately attracted the general observation. He
was of a very flat, ill-favored countenance, but of a quick
eye, and a genteel air; there was, however, something
constrained and artificial in his address, and he appeared
to be endeavoring to clothe a natural good-humor with a
certain primness which could never be made to fit it.
"Ha, Steele!" cried a gentleman in an orange-colored
coat, who seemed, by a fashionable swagger of import-
ance, desirous of giving the tone to the company, -"Ha,
Steele! whence come you? from the chapel or the tav-
ern?" and the speaker winked round the room as if he
wished us to participate in the pleasures of a good thing.
Mr. Steele drew up, seemingly a little affronted; but his
good-nature conquering the affectation of personal sanctity,
which, at the time I refer to, that excellent writer was
pleased to assume, he contented himself with nodding to
the speaker, and saying :-
"All the world knows, Colonel Cleland, that you are a
wit, and therefore we take your fine sayings, as we take
change from an honest tradesman, -rest perfectly satis-
fied with the coin we get, without paying any attention
to it."
"Zounds, Cleland, you got the worst of it there,” cried
a gentleman in a flaxen wig. And Steele slid into a seat.
near my own.
Tarleton, who was sufficiently well educated to pretend
to the character of a man of letters, hereupon thought it
necessary to lay aside the "Flying Post," and to intro-
duce me to my literary neighbour.
"Pray," said Colonel Cleland, taking snuff, and swing-
ing
himself to and fro with an air of fashionable grace,
"has any one seen the new paper?"
"What!" cried the gentleman in the flaxen wig,
"what! the Tattler's successor, theSpectator?'"
"The same," quoth the colonel.
"To be sure,
flaxen ornament. People say Congreve writes it."
They are very much mistaken, then," cried a little
equare man with spectacles; "to my certain knowledge
Swift is the author.”
who has not?" returned he of the
66
-
"Pooh!" said Cleland, imperiously, -"pooh! it is
neither one nor the other; I, gentlemen, am in the secret,
— but, you take me,
eh? One must not speak well of
one's self, -mum is the word."
"Then," asked Steele, quietly,
that you, colonel, are the writer?
we are to suppose
"I never said so, Dicky; but the women will have it
that I am," and the colonel smoothed down his cravat.
CC
Pray, Mr. Addison, what say you?" cried the gen-
tleman in the flaxen wig, "are you for Congreve, Swift,
or Colonel Cleland?" This was addressed to a gentle-
man of a grave, but rather prepossessing mien; who, with
eyes fixed upon the ground, was very quietly, and, to all
appearance, very inattentively solacing himself with a
pipe; without lifting his eyes, this personage, then emi-
bent, afterwards rendered immortal, replied,
"Colonel Cleland must produce other witnesses to prove
his claim to the authorship of the Spectator; the wo-
men, we well know, are prejudiced in his favor.'
"That's true enough, old friend," cried the colonel,
looking askant at his orange-colored coat, "but faith,
Addison, I wish you would set up a paper of the same
Fort, d'ye see; you're a nice judge of merit, and
sketches of character would do justice to your friends.”
"If ever I do, colonel, I, or my coadjutors, will study
st east to do justice to you."t
your
"Prithee, Steele," cried the stranger in the spectacles,
"prithee, tell us thy thoughts on the subject: dost thou
know the author of this droll periodical?
I saw him this morning," replied Steele, carelessly.
“Aha! and what said you to him?”
"I asked him his name."
"And what did he answer?" cried he of the flaxen
wig, while all of us crowded round the speaker, with the
curiosity every one felt in the authorship of a work then
exciting the most universal and eager interest.
* Tattler.
†This seems to corroborate the suspicion entertained of the
Identity of Colonel Cleland with the Will Honeycomb of the
Spectator. ED
l
"He answered me solemnly," said Steele, "in the fol
lowing words,
«Græci carent ablativo — Itali dativo — Ego nominativo.'”
"Famous, capital!" cried the gentleman in specta-
cles; and then, touching Colonel Cleland, added, "what
does it exactly mean?"
"every
Ignoramus ! " said Cleland, disdainfully
school-boy knows Virgil."
"Devereux," said Tarleton, yawning, "what a d-d
delightful thing it is to hear so much wit,-pity that the
atmosphere is so fine that no lungs unaccustomed to it can
endure it long. Let us recover ourselves by a walk.”
Willingly," said I; and we sauntered forth into the
streets.
"Wills's is not what it was," said Tarleton; ""tis a
pitiful ghost of its former self, and if they had not intro.
duced cards, one would die of the vapors there "
"I know nothing so fade," said I, " as that mock liter-
air which it is so much the fashion to assume.
ary
"Tis
but a wearisome relief to conversation to have interludes
of songs about Strephon and Sylvia, recited with a lisp by
a gentleman with fringed gloves and languishing look."
"Fie on it," cried Tarleton, "let us seek for a fresher
topic. Are you asked to Abigail Masham's to-night, or
will you come to Dame de la Riviere Manley's?"
"Dame de la what! — in the name of long words who is
she?"
"O! learning made libidinous: one who reads Catullus
and profits by it."
"Bah! no, we will not leave the gentle Abigail for
her. I have promised to meet St. John, too, at the Ma-
shams'."
"As you like. We shall get some wine at Abigail's,
which we should never do at the house of her cousin of
Marlborough."
And comforting himself with this belief, Tarleton peace-
ably accompanied me to that celebrated woman, who did
the Tories such notable service, at the expense of being
termed by the Whigs, "one great want divided into two
parts,” viz. —a great want of every shilling belonging to
other people, and a great want of
other people, and a great want of every virtue that should
have belonged to herself.
have belonged to herself. As we mounted the staircase, a
door to the left (a private apartment) was opened, and I
saw the favorite dismiss, with the most flattering air of re-
spect, my old preceptor, the Abbé Montreuil. He received
her attentions as his due, and descending the stairs came
full upon me. He drew back,-changed neither hue nor
muscle,-bowed civilly enough, and disappeared. I had
not much opportunity to muse over this circumstance, for
St. John and Mr. Domville - excellent companions both
-joined us, and the party being small, we had the un
wonted felicity of talking as well as bowing to each other
It was impossible to think of any one else when St. John
chose to exert himself; and so even the Abbé Montreuil
glided out of my brain as St. John's wit glided into it. Wa
were all of the same way of thinking on politics, and there-
fore were witty without being quarrelsome — a rare thing.
The trusty Abigail.told us stories of the good queen, and
we added bon mots by way of corollary. Wine too, - wine
that even Tarleton approved, lit up our intellects, and we
spent altogether an evening such as gentlemen and Tories
very seldom have the sense to enjoy.
Dieu de l'esprit ! I wonder whether Tories of the next
century will be such clever, char:ning, well-informed fellows
as we were.
CHAPTER IV.
An intellectual adventure.
A LITTLE affected by the vinous potations which had
been so much an object of anticipation with my companion,
Tarleton and I were strolling homeward, when we perceived
a remarkably tall an engaged in a contest with a couple
of watchmen. Watchmen were in all cases the especial
and natural enemies of the gallants in my young days; and
no sooner did we see the unequal contest, than drawing our
swords with that true English valor which makes ali the
quarrels of other people its own, we hastened to the relief
of the weaker party.
Gentlemen," said the elder watchman, drawing back
236
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"this is no common brawl; we have been shamefully
beaten by this here madman, and for no earthly cause.
"Who ever did beat a watchman for any earthly cause,
you rascal?" cried the accused party, swinging his walk-
ing cane over the complainant's head with a menacing air.
Very true," cried Tarleton, coolly. "Seignors of the
watch, you are both made and paid to be beaten; ergo,
vou have no right to complain. Release this worthy cavalier,
and depart elsewhere to make night hideous with your
voices."
"Come, come," quoth the younger Dogberry, who per-
ceived a reinforcement approaching, " move on, good peo-
move on, good peo-
ple, and let us do our duty."
Which," interrupted the elder watchman, "consists in
taking this hulking swaggerer to the watchhouse.”
"Thou speakest wisely, man of peace," said Tarleton;
," said Tarleton;
"defend thyself; " and without adding another word, he
ran the watchman through, not the body, but the coat;
avoiding with great dexterity the corporeal substance of the
attacked party, and yet approaching it so closely as to give
the guardian of the streets very reasonable ground for ap-
prehension. No sooner did the watchman find the hilt
strike against his breast, than he uttered a dismal cry, and
fell upon the pavement as if he had been shot.
"Now for thee, varlet,” cried Tarleton, brandishing his
rapier before the eyes of the other watchman, "tremble at
the sword of Gideon.”
"O Lord, O Lord!" ejaculated the terrified comrade
"for heaven's
of the fallen man, dropping on his knees,
sake, sir, have a care.
“What argument canst thou allege, thou screech-owl of
the metropolis, that thou shouldst not share the same fate
as thy brother owl?"
"Ŏ, sir!" cried the craven night-bird, (a bit of a
humorist in its way,) "because I have a nest and seven
little owlets at home, and t'other owl is only a bachelor."
"Thou art an impudent thing to jest at us,
" said Tarle-
ton; but thy wit has saved thee: rise."
At this moment two other watchmen came up.
"Gentlemen," said the tall stranger whom we had
rescued, "we had better fly."
Tarleton cast at him a contemptuous look, and placed
himself in a posture of offence.
"Hark ye," said I, "let us effect an honorable peace.
Messieurs the watch, be it lawful for you to carry off the
slain, and us to claim the prisoners.
But our new foes understood not a jest, and advanced
upon us with a ferocity which might really have terminated
in a serious engagement, had not the tall stranger thrust his
bulky form in front of the approaching battalion, and cried
out with a loud voice, "Zounds, my good fellows, what's
all this for? If you take us up, you will get broken heads
to-night, and a few shillings perhaps to-morrow. If you
eave us alone you will have whole heads, and a guinea
between you. Now what say you?"
Well spoke Phedra against the dangers of eloquence,
(kaddi div Moyoi.*) The watchmen looked at each other.
"Why, really, sir," said one, "what you say alters the
case very much; and if Dick here is not much hurt, I don't
know what we may say to the offer."
So saying, they raised the fallen watchman, who, after
three or four grunts, began slowly to recover himself.
"Are you dead, Dick?" said the owl with seven owlets.
"I think I amn, "answered the other, groaning.
"Are you able to drink a pot of ale, Dick ?" cried the
tall stranger.
"I think I am," reiterated the dead man, very lack-a-
daisically. And this answer satisfying his comrades, the
articles of peace were subscribed to.
Now, then, the tall stranger began searching his pockets
with a most consequential air.
"'Gad, so!" said he at last; "not in my breeches pock-
et! well, it must be in my waistcoat. No! Well, 'tis
a strange thing, — demme it is!
demme it is! Gentlemen, I have had
the misfortune to leave my purse behind me, add to your
other favors by lending me wherewithal to satisfy these
nonest men.
""
M
And Tarleton lent him the guinea. The watchmen now
retired, and we were left alone with onr portly ally.
Placing his hand to his heart, he made us half a dozen
profound bows, returned us thanks for our assistance in
some very courtly phrases, and requested us to allow him
* See the Hippolytus of Euripides.
to make our acquaintance. We exchanged cards, and de-
parted on our several ways.
"I have met that gentleman before," said Tarleton
"Let us see what name he pretends to. Fielding,
Fielding,' ab, by the Lord, it is no less a person!
the great Fielding himself!"
is
―
"Is Mr. Fielding, then, as elevated in fame as in stat
ure?"
ing?
-
<
"What, is it possible that you have not yet heard of
Beau Fielding, who bared his bosom at the theatre in or-
der to attract the admiring compassion of the female part
of the audience?
"What!" I cried, "the Duchess of Cleveland's Field
The same,
the best looking fellow of his day! A
sketch of his history is in the Tattler,' under the name of
Orlando the Fair. He is terribly fallen as to fortune
since the day when he drove about in a car like a sea-shell,
with a dozen tall fellows, in the Austrian livery, black and
yellow, running before and behind him. You know he
claims relationship to the house of Hapsburg. As for the
present, he writes poems, makes love, is still good
natured, humorous, and odd, is rather unhappily addict-
ed to wine and borrowing, and rigidly keeps that oath of
the Carthusians, which never suffers them to carry any
money about them."
—
to-mor-
"An acquaintance more likely to yie.d amusement than
profit."
|
"Exactly so. He will favor you with a visit,
row, perhaps, and you will remember his propensities.
"Ah! who ever forgets a warning that relates to his
purse?"
"True!" said Tarleton, sighing. "Alas! my guinea:
thou and I have parted company for ever! vale, vale, in
quit Iolas!"
CHAPTER V.
The beau in his den, and a philosopher discovered.
MR. FIELDING having twice favored me with visits,
which found me from home, I thought it right to pay my
respects to him; accordingly one morning I repaired to his
abode. It was situated in a street which had been exces-
sively the mode some thirty years back; and the house still
exhibited a stately and somewhat ostentatious exterior. I
observed a considerable cluster of infantine raggamuffins
collected round the door, and no sooner did the portal open
to my summons, than they pressed forward in a manner in-
finitely more zealous than respectful. A servant in the
Austrian livery, with a broad belt round his middle, offi-
ciated as porter. "Look, look!" cried one of the youth-
ful
ful gazers, "look at the beau's keeper!" This imputation
on his own respectability, and that of his master, the do-
mestic seemed by no means to relish, for muttering some
maledictory menace, which I at first took to be German,
but which I afterward found to be Irish, he banged the
door on the faces of the intrusive impertinents, and said,
in an accent which suited very ill with his continental attire,
"And is it my master you're wanting, sir?"
"It is."
"And you would be after seeing him immadiately?"
Rightly conjectured, my sagacious friend.”
"Fait then, your honor, my master's in bed with a ter-
rible fit of the influensha, and can't see any one at all-
at all!"
Then, you will favor me by giving this card to your
master, and expressing my sorrow at his indisposition.
Upon this the orange-colored lackey, very quietly read-
ing the address on the card, and spelling letter by letter in
an audible mutter, rejoined,
▾
"Co-u (cou) n—t (unt) Count, D- -e- Och,
by my shoul, and it's Count Devereux after all, I'm think-
ing?"
"You think, sir, with equal profundity and truth."
"You may well say that, your honor. Stip in a bit,
I'll till my master,
it is himself that will see you in a
twinkling!"
"But you forget, Mr. Carroll, that your master is ill?"
said I.
"Sorrow a bit for the matter o' that, my master u
never ill to a jauntleman."
DEVEREUX
287
•
"By the Lord," cried Mr. Fielding, stroking down his
comely stomach, "there is a great show of reason in thy
excuses, but only the show, not substance, my noble count
You know me, you know my experience with the women,
I would not boast, as I'm a soldier, but 'tis some-
thing! nine hundred and fifty locks of hair have I got in
my strong box, under padlock and key; fifty within the
last week, true,
on my soul; so that I may pretend
to know a little of the dear creatures; well, I give thee
my honor, count, that they like a royster; they love a fel-
low who can carry his six bottles under a silken doublet;
there's vigor and manhood in it, and then, too, what a
power of toasts can a six-bottle man drink to his mistress!
O, 'tis your only chivalry now, — your modern substitute
for tilt and tournament; true, count, as I'm a soldier."
"I fear my dulcinea differs from the herd, then; for
she quarrelled with me for supping with St. John three
nights ago, and,
—
Ana with this assurance the beau's keeper " ushered of the glass of fashion,' rather than of the mould o
me up a splendid staircase into a large, dreary, faded apart form?? Confess, Mr. Fielding, that the women love not
nient, and left me to amuse myself with the curiosities with- an early tippler, and that they expect sover and sweet
in, while he went to perform a cure upon his master's "in-kisses from a pair of youngsters,' like us."
fluensha." The chamber, suiting with the house and the
owner, looked like a place in the other world, set apart
for the reception of the ghosts of departed furniture. The
hangings were wan and colorless, the chairs and sofas were
most spiritually unsubstantial, the mirrors reflected all
things in a sepulchral sea-green; even a huge picture of
Mr. Fielding himself, placed over the chimney-piece, seem-
ed like the apparition of a portrait, so dim, watery, and
indistinct had it been rendered by neglect and damp. On
a huge, tomb-like table, in the middle of the room, lay two
pencilled profiles of Mr. Fielding, a pawnbroker's ticket,
a pair of ruffles, a very little muff, an immense broadsword,
a Wycherly comb, a jackboot, and an old plumed hat;
to these were added a cracked pomatum-pot, containing
ink, and a scrap of paper, ornamented with sundry paint
ings of hearts and torches, on which were scrawled several
lines in a hand so large and round, that I could not avoid
seeing the first verse, though I turned away my eyes as
quickly as possible, that verse, to the best of my memo-
ry, ran thus
"Say, lovely Lesbia, when thy swain," Up-
on the ground lay a box of patches, a perriwig, and two or
three well thumbed books of songs. Such was the recep-
tion-room of Beau Fielding, one indifferently well calcula-
ted to exhibit the propensities of a man, half bully, half
fribble; a poet, a fop, a fighter, a beauty, a walking muse-
um of all odd humors, and a living shadow of a past re-
nown. "There are changes in wit as in fashion," said
Sir William Temple, and he proceeds to instance a noble-
man, who was the greatest wit of the court of Charles I.,
and the greatest dullard in that of Charles II. But ciel,
how awful are the revolutions of coxcombry! what a change
from Beau Fielding the Beauty, to Beau Fielding the Od-
dity!
After I had remained in this apartment about ten min-
utes, the great man made his appearance. He was attired
in a dressing-gown of the most gorgeous material and
color, but so old that it is difficult to conceive any period
of past time which it might not have been supposed to
have witnessed; a little velvet cap, with a tarnished gold
tassel, surmounted his head, and his nether limbs were
sheathed in a pair of military boots. In person, he still
retained the trace of that extraordinary symmetry he had
once possessed, and his features were yet handsome, though
the complexion had grown coarse and florid, and the ex-
pression had settled into a broad, hardy, farcical mixture
of effrontery, humor, and conceit.
But how different his costume from that of old! Where
was the long wig with its myriad curls?
with its myriad curls? the coat stiff
with golden lace? the diamond buttons, "the pomp,
pride, and circumstance of glorious war?" the glorious
war Beau Fielding had carried on throughout the female
world, finding in every saloon a Blenheim,
playhouse a Ramilies? Alas! to what abyss of fate will
not the love of notoriety bring men! To what but the
lust of show do we owe the misanthropy of Timon, or the
ruin of Beau Fielding!
in every
"By the Lord!" cried Mr. Fielding, approaching, and
shaking me familiarly by the hand, "by the Lord, I am
delighted to see thee! As I am a soldier, I thought thou
wert a spirit, invisible and incorporeal; and as long as I
was in that belief I trembled for thy salvation, for I knew
at least that thou wert not a spirit of heaven; since thy
door is the very reverse of the doors above, which we are
assured shall be opened unto our knocking. But thou art
early, count: like the ghost, in Hamlet, thou snuffest the
morning air. Wilt thou not keep out the rank atmos-
phere by a pint of wine and a toast?"
"Many thanks to you, Mr. Fielding; but I have at least
one property of a ghost, and don't drink after day-
break."
Nay, now, 'tis a bad rule! a villanous bad rule, fit
only for ghosts and gray-beards. We youngsters, count,
should have a more generous policy. Come now, where
didst thou drink last night? has the bottle bequeathed
thee a qualm or a headache which preaches repentance and
abstinence this morning?"
CC
No, but I visit my mistress this morning; would you
nave me smell of strong potations, and seem a worshipper
The Earl of Norwich.
""
"St. John," interrupted Fielding, cutting me off in
the beginning of a witticism, "St. John, famous fellow,
is he not? By the Lord, we will drink to his administra-
tion, you in chocolate, I in Madeira. O'Carroll, you dog,
O'Carroll, rogue, rascal, ass, dolt!"
"The same, your honor," said the orange-colored
lackey, thrusting in his lean visage.
"Ay, the same indeed, -thou anatomized son of St.
Patrick; why dost thou not get fat? thou shamest my
good living, and thy belly is a rascally minister to thee,
devouring all things for itself, without fattening a single
member of the body corporate. Look at me, you dog, am
I thin? Go and get fat, or I will discharge thee, - by
the Lord, I will! the sun shines through thee like an
empty wine glass."
"And is it upon your honor's lavings you would have
me get fat?" rejoined Mr. O'Carroll, with an air of de-
ferential inquiry.
"Now, as I live, thou art the impudentest varlet!"
cried Mr. Fielding, stamping his foot on the floor, with an
angry frown.
And is it for talking of your honor's lavings? an'
sure that's nothing at all, at all," said the valet, twirling
his thumbs with expostulating innocence.
CC
Begone, rascal!" said Mr. Fielding, "begone; go
to the Salop, and bring us a pint of Madeira, a toast, and
a dish of chocolate.”
CC
Yes, your honor, in a twinkling," said the valet, dis-
appearing.
"A sorry fellow," said Mr. Fielding, "but honeet
and faithful, and loves me as well as a saint loves gold;
'tis his love makes him familiar."
Here the door was again opened, and the sharp face of
Mr. O'Carroll again intruded.
"How now, sirrah!" exclaimed his master.
CC
Mr. O'Carroll, without answering by voice, gave a gro-
tesque sort of signal between a wink and a beckon. Mr.
Fielding rose, muttering an oath, and underwent a whis-
per. By the Lord," cried he, seemingly in a furious
passion, "and thou hast not got the bill cashed yet, though
I told thee twice to have it done last evening! Have I
not my debts of honor to discharge, and did I not give
the last guinea I had about me for a walking cane yester-
day? Go down to the city immediately, sirrah, and bring
me the change."
The valet again whispered.
"Ah," resumed Fielding, "ah, -so far you say, 'tis
true; 'tis a great way, and perhaps the count can't wait
till you return. Prithee, (turning to me,) prithee now,
ia
it not vexatious, -no change about me, and my fool not
cashed a trifling bill I have for a thousand or so, on Messrs.
Child and the cursed Salop puts not its trust even in
princes;
'tis their way,
'Gad now, — you have not a
guinea about you?"
What could I say? my guinea joined 1arleton's, in a
visit to that bourne whence no such traveller ever returned
Mr. O'Carroll now vanished in earnest, the wine and the
chocolate soon appeared. Mr. Fielding brightened up,
recited his poetry, blest his good fortune, promised to call
on me in a day or two; and assured me, with a round oath,
that the next time he had the honor of seeing me, be
288
BULWER'S NOVELS
would treat me with another pint of Madeira, exactly of
the same sort.
I remember well, that it was the evening of the same day
m which I had paid this visit to the redoubted Mr. Field-
ing, that, on returning from a drum at Lady Hasselton's,
where I had been enacting the part of a papillon, to the
great displeasure of the old gentlemen, and the great edifi-
cation of the young ladies, I entered my ante-room with so
silent a step, that I did not arouse even the keen senses of
Monsieur Desmarais. He was seated by the fire, with his
head supported by his hands, and intently poring over a
huge folio. I had often observed that he possessed a liter-
ary turn, and all the hours in which he was unemployed by
me, he was wont to occupy with books. I felt now, as I
stood still and contemplated his absorbed attention in the
contents of the book before him, a strong curiosity to know
the nature of his studies; and so little did my taste second
the routine of trifles in which I had been lately engaged,
that in looking upon the earnest features of the man, on
which the solitary light streamed calm and full, and im-
pressed with the deep quiet and solitude of the chamber,
together with the undisturbed sanctity of comfort presiding
over the small, bright hearth, and contrasting what I saw
with the brilliant scene brilliant with gaudy, wearing,
wearisome frivolities which I had just quitted, a sensa-
tion of envy, at the enjoyments of my dependant, entered
my breast, accompanied with a sentiment resembling hu-
miliation at the nature of my own pursuits. I am generally
thought a proud man, but I am never proud to my inferiors;
nor can I imagine pride where there is not competition. I
approached Desmarais, and said, in French,
"How is this? why did you not, like your fellows, take
advantage of my absence, to pursue your own amusements?
They must be dull, indeed, if they do not hold out to you
more tempting inducements than that colossal offspring of
the press."
"Pardon me, sir," said Desmarais, very respectfully,
and closing the book, "pardon me, I was not aware of
your return. Will monsieur doff his cloak; ?
"No; shut the door, wheel round that chair, and fa-
vor me with a sight of your book."
"Monsieur will be angry, I fear," said the valet,
(obeying my first two orders, but hesitating about the third,)
"with my course of reading: I confess it is not very com-
patible with my station."
Add
"Ah, some long romance, the Clelia, I suppose,
nay, bring it hither, that is to say, if it be movable by
single strength."
Thus urged, Desmarais modestly brought me the book.
Judge of my surprise, when I found it was a volume of
Leibnitz, a philosopher then very much the rage, because
one might talk of him very safely without having read him.*
Despite of my surprise, I could not help smiling when my
eye turned from the book to the student. It is impossible
to conceive an appearance less like a philosopher's than that
of Jean Desmarais. His wig was of a nicety that would
not have brooked the irregularity of a single hair; his dress
was not preposterous, for I do not remember, among gentles
or valets, a more really exquisite taste than that of Des-
marais; but it evinced, in every particular, the arts of the
toilet. A perpetual smile sat upon his lips, sometimes
it deepened into a sneer; but that was the only change it
ever experienced; an irresistible air of self-conceit gave
piquancy to his long, marked features, small glittering eye,
and withered cheeks, on which a delicate and soft bloom
excited suspicion of artificial embellishment. A very fit
frame of body this for a valet; but, I hundy opine, a very
unseemly one for a student of Leibnitz.
*
your
|
cessity!' We are the things and toys of fate; and
everlasting chain compels even the power that creates, as
well as the things created.
CC
"Ha!
"said I, who, though little versed at that time in
these metaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John often
speak of the strange doctrine to which Desmarais referred,
you are then, a believer in the fatalism of Spinosa ?
"No, monsieur," said Desmarais, with a complacent
smile, "my system is my own; it is composed of the
thoughts of others; but my thoughts are the cords which
bind the various sticks into a fagot."
r¢
“Well,” said I, smiling at me man's conceited air;
"and what is your main dogma?"
"Our utter impotence."
Pleasing! Mean you that we nave no free will?"
"None."
CC
Mot
Why, then, you take away the very existence of v ce
and virtue; and according to you, we sin or act wel
from our own accord, but because we are compelled and
preordered to it."
Desmarais's smile withered into the grim sneer with
which, as I have said, it was sometimes varied.
Monsieur's penetration is extreme; but shall I not pre-
pare his nightly draught?
"No; answer me at length; and tell me the difference
between good and ill, if we are compelled by necessity to
either."
Desmarais hemmed, and began. Despite of his caution,
the coxcomb loved to hear himself talk, and he talked,
therefore, to the following purpose:-
CC
Liberty is a thing impossible! Can you will a single
action, however simple, independent of your organization,
independent of the organization of others, independent
of the order of things past,-independent of the order of
things to come? You cannot. But if not independent,
you are dependent; if dependent, where is your liberty?
where your freedom of will? Education disposes our
characters, - can you control your own education, begun
at the hour of birth? You cannot. Our character, joined
to the conduct of others, disposes of our happiness, our sor-
row, our crime, our virtue. Can
you control your charac-
ter? We have already seen that you cannot.
Can you
control the conduct of others, others perhaps whom you
have never seen, but who may ruin you at a word,
despot, for instance, or a warrior? You cannot. What
remains that if we cannot choose our characters, nor
our fates, we cannot be accountable for either. If
you are
a good man, you are a lucky man: but you are not to be
praised for what you could not help. If you are a bad man,
you are an unfortunate one; but you are not to be execrated
for what you could not prevent."*
W
a
"Then, most wise Desmarais, if you steal this diamond
loop from my hat, you are only an unlucky man, not a
guilty one, and worthy of my sympathy, not anger?"
t
Exactly so; but you must hang me for it. You cannot
control events, but you can modify man. Education, law,
adversity, prosperity, correction, praise, modify him,
without his choice, and sometimes without his perception.
But once acknowledge necessity, and evil passions cease;
you may punish, you may destroy others, if for the safety
and good of the commonwealth; but motives for doing so
cease to be private: you can have no personal hatred to
men for committing actions which they were irresistibly
compelled to do.'
I felt, that however I might listen to and dislike these
sentiments, it would not do for the master to argue with the
domestic, especially when there was a chance that he might
have the worst of it. And so I was suddenly seized with
a fit of sleepiness, which broke off our conversation. Mean-
while I inly resolved in my own mind, to take the first op-
portunity of discharging a valet, who saw no difference
"And what," said I, after a short pause,
is
opinion of this philosopher? I understand that he has just
written a work,† above all praise and all comprehension.'
"It is true, monsieur, that it is above his own under-between good and evil, but that of luck; and who, by the
standing. He knows not what sly conclusions may be
drawn from his premises; but I beg monsieur's pardon, I
shall be tedious and intrusive."
"Not a whit; speak out, and at length. So you conceive
that Leibnitz makes ropes, which other: will make intc
ladders ?"
>
Exactly so,
" said Desmarais; "all his arguments go
to swell the sails of the great philosophical truth, Ne-
* Which is possibly the reason why there are so many disci-
ples of Kant at the present moment.— Ep.
The Theodicæa.
irresistible compulsion of necessity, might some day or
other have the involuntary misfortune to cut the throat of
his master.
I did not, however, carry this unphilosophical resolution
into effect. Indeed, the rogue doubting, perhaps, the
nature of the impression he had made on me, redoubled so
zealously his efforts to please ine in the science of his pro
fession, that I could not determine upon relinquishing sucn
Whatever pretensions Monsieur Desmarais may have made
to originality, this tissue of opinions à as old as philosophy it
self.-ED.
DEVEREUX.
288
a treasure for a speculative opinion, and I was too much
accustomed to laugh at my Sosia, to believe there could be
Any reason › fear him.
CHAPTER VI.
overthrow, screaming, and struggling, and grasping he
fiddle, which every now and then, touched involuntarily by
his fingers, uttered a dismal squeak, as if sympathizing in
the disaster it had caused, until the waiter an in, anc
raising the unhappy antiquary, placed him on a great chain
"O Lord!" groaned Don Saltero, "O Lord, — my
monsters, my monsters, the pagoda, the mandarin,
and the idol, where are they?—broken, — ruined,
A universal genius - Pericles turned barber. - Names of beau- annihilated!"
ties in 171.— The toasts of the Kit-Cat Club.
CC
—
No, sir, all safe, sir," said the waiter, a smart,
As I was riding with Tarleton toward Chelsea one day, small, smug, pert man; put 'em down in the bill, never-
be asked me if I had ever seen the celebrated Mr. Salter.theless, sir. Is it Alderman Atkins, sir, or Mr. Higgins ?"
“No,” said I, "but I heard Steele talk of him the other
night at Wills's. He is an antiquary, and a barber, is he
not?
Yes, a shaving virtuoso; really a comical and strange
character, and has oddities enough to compensate one for
the debasement of talking with a man in his rank.”
"Let us go to him forthwith," said I, spurring my horse
into a canter.
CC
Quod petis hic est," cried Tarleton; "there is his house."
And my companion pointed to a coffee-house
"What," said I, " does he draw wine as well as teeth?”
"To be sure: Don Saltero is a universal genius. Let
is dismount."
Consigning our horses to the care of our grooms, we
marched into the strangest looking place I ever had the
good fortune to behold. A long, narrow coffee-room, was
furnished with all manner of things that, belonging neither
to heaven, earth, nor the water under the earth, the re-
doubted Saltero might well worship without incurring the
crime of idolatry. The first thing that greeted my eyes
was a bull's head, with a most ferocious pair of vulture's
wings on its neck. While I was surveying this, I felt
something touch my hat. I looked up and discovered an
immense alligator swinging from the ceiling, and fixing a
monstrous pair of glass eyes upon me. A thing which
seemed to me like an immense shoe, upon a nearer approach,
expanded itself into an Indian canoe; and a most hideous
spectre, with mummy skin, and glittering teeth, that made
my blood run cold, was labelled, "Beautiful Specimen of
a Calmuc Tartar."
"Pooh," said Tarleton, "bring me some lemonade, -
send the pagoda to the bricklayer, the mandarin to the
surgeon, and the idol to the Bishop of London! There's
a guinea to pay for their carriage. How are you, don'?"
"O, Mr. Tarleton, Mr. Tarleton! how could you be sc
cruel ?"
"The nature of things demanded it, my good don. Did
I not call you a Chinese Adam? and how could you bear
that name without undergoing the fall?
"O, sir, this is no jesting matter, broke the railing on
my pagoda, bruised my arm, cracked my fiddle, and cut me
off in the middle of that beautiful air, -no jesting matter.”
"Come, Mr. Salter," said I, 'tis very true! bu
cheer up.
The gods,' says Seneca, look with pleasure
on a great man falling with the statesmen, the temples, inc
the divinities of his country; all of which, mandarin
pagoda, and idol, accompanied your fall. Let us ke a
bottle of your best wine, and the honor of your compainy
to drink it."
>
We car
No, count, no," said Tarleton, haughtily ;
drink not with the don; but we'll have the wine, and he
shall drink it. Meanwhile, don, tell us what possible com
bination of circumstances made the fiddler, barber, ana
tomist, and virtuozo ?
Don Saltero loved fiddling better than any thing in the
world, but next to fiddling he loved talking. So being
satisfied that he should be reimbursed for his pagoda, and
fortifying himself with a glass or two of his own wine, he
yielded to Tarleton's desire, and told his history. I be
lieve it was very entertaining to the good barber, but Tarle
While, lost in wonder, I stood in the middle of the apart-ton and I saw nothing extraordinary in it; and long before
ment, up walks a little man, as lean as a miser, and says to
me, rubbing his hands, -
CC
"Wonderful, sir, is it not?"
"Wonderful, indeed, don!" said Tarleton; "you look
like a Chinese Adam, surrounded by a Japanese creation.”
He, he, he, sir, you have so pleasant a vein," said the
ittle don, in a sharp shrill voice. But it has been all
done, sir, by one man; all of it collected by me, simple as
I stand."
CC
Simple, indeed," quoth Tarleton; "and how gets on
the fiddle?
Bravely, sir, bravely; shall I play you a tune?"
"No, no, my good don; another time."
“
Nay, sir, nay," cried the antiquary, "suffer me to
welcome your arrival properly."
And forthwith disappearing, he returned in an instant
with a marvellously ill-favored old fiddle. Throwing a
penseróso air into his thin cheeks, our don then began a
few preliminary thrummings, which set my teeth on edge,
and inade Tarleton put both hands to his ears. Three
sober-looking citizens, who had just set themselves down
to pipes and the journal, started to their feet like so many
pieces of clockwork; but no sooner had Don Saltero, with
a degagée air of graceful melancholy, actually launched into
what he was pleased to term a tune, than a universal irrita-
tion of nerves seized the whole company. At the first
At the first
overture the three citizens swore and cursed, at the second
division of the tune they seized their hats, at the third they
vanished. As for me, I found all my limbs twitching as if
they were dancing to St. Vitus's music; the very drawers
disappeared; the alligator itself twirled round, as if revivi-
fied by so harsh an experiment on the nervous system; and
I verily believe the whole museun, bull, wings, Indian
canoe, and Calmuc Tartar, would have been set into mo-
tion by this new Orpheus, had not Tarleton, in a paroxysm
of rage, seized him by the tail of the coat, and whirled him
round, fiddle and all, with such velocity, that the poor mu-
sician lost his equilibrium, and falling against a row of
Chinese monsters, brought the whole set to the ground,
where he lay covered by the wrecks that accompanied his
VOL. 1
37
2
it was over, we wished him an excellent good day, and a
new race of Chinese monsters.
That evening we were engaged at the Kit-Cat Club; for
though I was opposed to the politics of its members, they
admitted me on account of my literary pretensions. Hali
fax was there, and I commended the poet to his pro-
tection.
tection. We were very gay, and Halifax favored us with
three new toasts by himself. O Venus! what beauties we
made, and what characters we murdered!
Never was
there so important a synod to the female world, as the gods
of the Kit-Cat Club. Alas! I am writing for the children
of an after age, to whom the very names of those who made
the blood of their ancestors leap within their veins, will be
unknown. What cheek will color at the name of Carlisle
What hand will tremble as it touches the paper inscribed b
that of Brudenel? The graceful Godolphin, the sparklin
enchantment of Harper, the divine voice of Claverine, th
gentle and bashful Bridgewater, the damask cheek and ruby
lips of the Hebe Manchester, what will these be to the
race for whom alone these pages are penned? This history
is a union of strange contrasts! like the tree of the sun,
described by Marco Polo, which was green when approached
on one side, but white when perceived on the other,-
me it is clothed in the verdure and spring of the existing
time; to the reader it comes, covered with the hoariness
and wanness of the past.
CHAPTER VII,
M
to
A dialogue of sentiment succeeded by the sketch of a charzeter
in whose eyes sentiment was to wise men, what re igion is o
fools, viz. —- a subject of ridicule.
ST. JOHN was now in power, and in the full flush of his
many ambitious and restless schemes. I saw as much oʻ
him as the high rank be held in the state and the consequent
business with which he was oppressed, would suffer me, -
me who was prevented by religion from actively embracing
political party, and who therefore, though inclined to
a
290
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Toryism, associate pretty equally with all. St. John and
myself formed a great friendship for each other, a friend-
ship which no after change or chance could efface, but
which exists, strengthened and mellowed by time, at the
very hour in which I now write.
One evening he sent to tell me he should be alone, if I
would sup with him; accordingly I repaired to his house. He
was walking up and down the room with uneven and rapid
steps, and his countenance was flushed with an expression
of joy and triumph, very rare to the thoughtful and earnest
calm which it usually wore. "Congratulate me, Devereux,'
said he, seizing me eagerly by the hand," congratulate me!"
"For what!"
66
•
وو
Ay, true, you are not yet a politician, you cannot
yet tell how dear,- how inexpressibly dear to one who is,
a momentary and petty victory; but, if I were prime
minister of this country, what would you say?"
"That you could bear the duty better than any man liv-
ing;
but remember Harley is in the
in the way."
Ah, there's the rub," said St. John, slowly, and the
expression of his face again changed from triumph to
thoughtfulness; "but this is a subject not to your taste,
let us choose another." And flinging himself into a chair,
this singular man, who prided himself on suiting his con-
versation to every one, began conversing with me upon the
lighter topics of the day; these we soon exhausted, and at
last we settled upon that of love and women.
—
I ask a
which encircle it; leaf after leaf, in the green poetry on
which its beauty depends, droops, and withers, till nothing
but the bare and rude trunk is left. With all passion the
soul demands something unexpressed, some vague recess to
explore or to marvel upon, some veil upon the mental as
well as the corporeal deity. Custom leaves nothing
to romance, and often but little to respect. The whole
character is bared before us like a plain, and the heart's
eye grows wearied with the sameness of the survey. And
to weariness succeeds distaste, and to distaste one of the
myriad shapes of the Proteus Aversion; so that the passion
we would make the rarest of treasures, fritters down to a
very instance of the commonest of proverbs, and out of
familiarity cometh indeed contempt!"
"And are we then," said I, "for ever to forego the most
delicious of our dreams? Are we to consider love as an
entire delusion, and to reconcile ourselves to an eternal
loneliness and solitude of heart? What then shall fill the
crying and unappeasable void of our souls? What shall
become of those mighty sources of tenderness which, refu-
sed all channel in the rocky soil of the world, must have an
outlet elsewhere, or stagnate into torpor ?"
"Our passions," said St. John, "are restless, and will
make each experiment in their power, though vanity be the
result of all. Disappointed in love, they yearn toward
ambition; and the object of ambition, unlike that of love, never
being wholly possessed, ambition is the more durable passion of
the two. But sooner or later even that, and all passions, are
sated at last; and when wearied of too wide a flight, we
narrow bounds of our proper end, we grow satisfied with
the loss of rapture, if we can partake of enjoyment; and
the experience which seemed at first so bitterly to betray us,
becomes our most real benefactor, and ultimately leads us
to content. For it is the excess and not the nature of our
passions which is perishable. Like the trees which grew
by the tomb of Protesilaus, the passions flourish till they
reach a certain height, but no sooner is that height attained
than they wither away."
Before I could reply, our conversation received an abrupt
and complete interruption for the night. The door was
thrown open, and a man, pushing aside the servant with a
rude and yet a dignified air, entered the room unannounced,
and with the most perfect disregard to ceremony.
"I own," said I, "that in this respect, pleasure has
disappointed as well as wearied me. I have longed for
some better object of worship than the capricieuse of fash-limit our excursions, and looking round us, discover the
ion, or the yet more ignoble minion of the senses.
vent for enthusiasm, for devotion, — for romance, for
a thousand subtle and secret streams of unuttered and un-
utterable feeling. I often think that I bear within me the
desire and the sentiment of poetry, though I enjoy not its fac-
ulty of expression; and that that desire and that sentiment
denied legitimate egress, centre and shrink into one absorb-
ing passion, which is the want of love. Where am I to
satisfy this want? I look round these great circles of
gayety which we term the world, I send forth
my heart
as a wanderer over their regions and recesses, and it re-
turns sated, and pallid, and languid to myself again."
"You express a common want in every less worldly or
more morbid nature," said St. John, a want which I
myself have experienced, and which, if I had never felt,
I should never, perhaps, have turned to ambition, to con-
sole or to engross me. But do not flatter yourself that the
want will ever be fulfilled. Nature places us alone in this
inhospitable world, and no heart is cast in a similar mould
to that which we bear within us. We pine for sympathy;
we make to ourselves a creation of ideal beauties, in which
we expect to find it; but the creation has no reality; it is
the mind's phantasma which the mind adores; and it is be-
cause the phantasma can have no actual being that the inind
despairs. Throughout life, from the cradle to the grave, it
is no real or living thing which we demand, it is the real-
ization of the idea we have formed within us, and which,
as we are not gods, we can never call into existence.
are enamoured of the statue ourselves have graven; but
unlike the statue of the Cyprian, it kindles not to our hom-
age, nor melts to our embraces."
We
"I believe you," said I; "but it is hard to undeceive
ourselves. The heart is the most credulous of all fanatics,
and its ruling passion the most enduring of all superstitions.
O! what can tear from us to the last, the hope, the desire,
the yearning for some bosom which, while it mirrors our
own, parts not with the reflection. I have read, that in the
very hour and instant of our birth, one exactly similar to
ourselves, in spirit and form, is born also, and that a secret
and unintelligible sympathy preserves that likeness, even
through the vicissitudes of fortune and circumstance, until,
in the same point of time, the two beings are resolved once
more into the elements of earth. I confess that there is
something welcome, though unfounded, in the fancy, and
that there are few of the substances of worldly honor which
one would not renounce, to possess, in the closest and
fondest of all relations, this shadow of ourselves.'
"Alas!
said St. John," the possession, like all earthly
blessings, carries within it its own principle of corruption.
The deadliest foe to love is not change, nor misfortune, nor
jealousy, nor wrath, nor any thing that flows from passion,
or emanates from fortune; the deadliest fue to it is custom!
With custom die away the delusions and the mysteries
How d'ye do, Mr. St. John?" said he, -"how d'ye
do? Pretty sort of a day we've had. Lucky to find you
at home; that is to say, if you will give me some boiled
oysters and champagne for supper.
"With all my heart, doctor," said St. John, changing
his manner at once from the pensive to an easy and some-
what brusque familiarity, "with all my heart; but I am
glad to hear you are a convert to champagne: you spent a
whole evening last week in endeavoring to dissuade me
from the sparkling sin."
"Pish! I had suffered the day before from it; so, like
a true Old Bailey penitent, I preached up conversion to
others, not from a desire of their welfare, but a plaguy
sore feeling for my own misfortune. Where did you dine
to-day? At home! O! the devil! I starved on three
courses at the Duke of Ormond's."
"Aha! honest Matt was there?"
"Yes, to my cost. He borrowed a shilling of me for a
chair. Hang this weather, it costs me seven shillings a
day for coach-fare, besides my paying the fares of all my
poor brother parsons who come over from Ireland to solicit
my patronage for a bishopric, and end by borrowing half
a crown in the meanwhile. But Matt Prior will pay me
again, I suppose, out of the public money.
To be sure, if Chloe does not ruin him first."
"Hang the slut: don't talk of her. How Prior rails
against his place. * He says the excise spoils his wit,
and that the only rhymes he ever dreams of now-a-days
are docket' and 'cocket.'"
"Ha, ha! we must do something better for Matt, make
him a bishop or an ambassador. But pardon me, count,
I have not yet made known to you the most courted, au
thoritative, impertinent, clever, independent, haughty,
delightful, troublesome parson of the age: do homage to
Dr. Swift. Doctor, be merciful to my particular friend
Count Devereux.
Drawing himself up with a manner which contrasted
his previous one strongly enough, Dr Swift saluted me
* In the Customs
DEVEREUX.
291
with a dignity which might even be called polished, and
which certainly showed, that however he night prefer, as
ais usual demeanour, an air of negligence and semi-rude-
aess, he had profited sufficiently by his acquaintance with
the great, to equal them in the external graces, supposed
to be peculiar to their order, whenever it suited his incli-
nation. In person, Swift is about the middle height,
strongly built, and with a remarkably fine outline of throat
and chest; his front face is certainly displeasing, though
far from uncomely; but the clear chiselling of the nose,
the curved upper lip, the full round Roman chin, the hang-
ing brow, and the resolute decision, stamped upon the
whole expression of the large forehead, and the clear blue
eye, make his profile one of the most striking I ever saw.
He honoured me, to my great surprise, with a fine speech
and a compliment; and then, with a look, which menaced
to St. John the retort that ensued, he added: "And I
shall always be glad to think that I owe your acquaintance
to Mr. Secretary St. John, who, if he talked less about
operas and singers, thought less about Alcibiades and
Pericles; if he never complained of the load of business
not being suited to his temper, at the very moment he had
been working, like Gumdragon, to get the said load upon
his shoulders; and if he persuaded one of his sincerity
being as great as his genius, would appear to all time
as adorned with the choicest gifis that God has yet
thought fit to bestow on the children of men. Prithee
now, Mr. Sec. when shall we have the oysters? Will
be merry to-night, count?"
you
Certainly; if one may find absolution for the cham-
pagne.
I'll absolve you, with a vengeance, on condition that
you'll walk hotne with me, and protect the poor parson
from the Mohawks. Faith, they ran young Davenant's
chair through with a sword, t'other night. I hear they
have sworn to make daylight through my Tory cassock,
all Whigs you know, Count Devereux, nasty, dangerous
animals, how I hate them; they cost me five and six-
pence a week in chairs to avoid them.”
"Never mind, doctor, I'll send my servants home with
you," said St. John.
r
>>
Ay, a nice way of mending the matter; that's curing
the itch by scratching the skin off. I could not give your
tail fellows less than a crown apiece, and I could buy off
the bloodiest Mohawk in the kingdom, if he's a Whig, for
half that sum. But, thank heaven, the supper is ready.'
And to supper we went. The oysters and champagne
seemed to exhilarate, if it did not refine, the doctor's wit.
St. John was unusually brilliant. I myself caught the in-
fection of their humor, and contributed my quota to the
common stock of jest and repartee; and that evening,
spent with the two soundest and most extraordinary men
of the age, had in it more of broad and familiar mirth than
any I have ever wasted in the company of the youngest
and noisiest disciples of the bowl and its concomitants.
Even amid all the coarse ore of Swift's conversation, the
diamond perpetually broke out; his vulgarity was never
that of a vulgar mind. Pity that while he condemned St.
John's over affectation of the graces of life, he never per-
ceived that his own affectation of the grossièrctés of man-
ner was to the full as unworthy of the simplicity of intel-
lect;* and that the aversion to cant, which was the stron-
* It has been said, that Swift was only coarse in his later
years, and with a curious ignorance both of fact and of char-
acter, that Pope was the cause of the dean's grossness of taste.
There is no doubt that he grew coarser with age; but there
is also no doubt that, graceful and dignified as that great ge-
nius cou'd be when he pleased, he affected, at a period earlier
than the one in which he is now introduced, to be coarse
Ioth in speech and manner. I seize upon this opportunity,
mal à propos as it is, to observe that Swift's preference of
Harley to St. John, is by no means so certain as writers have
been pleased generally to assert. Warton has already noted
a passage in one of Swift's letters to Bolingbroke, to which I
will beg to call the reader's attention:
"It is you were my hero, but the other (Lord Oxford) ne-
ver was; yet if he were, it was your own fault, who taught
me to love him, and often vindicated him in the beginning of
your ministry, from my accusations. But I granted he had the
greatest inequalities of any man alive; and his whole scene
was fifty times more a what-d'ye-call-it than yours; for I de-
clare yours was unie, and I wish you would so order it that
the world may be as wise as I upon that article.”
I have to apologize for introducing this quotation, which I
bave done because (and I entreat the reader to remember this)
. observe that Count Devereux always speaks of Lord Boling-
broke as he was spoken of by the great men of that day,
pot by the little historians of this.- En.
gest characteristic of his mind, led him into the very faults
he despised, only through a more displeasing and offensive
road. That same aversion to cant is, by the way, the
greatest and most prevalent enemy to the reputation of
high and of strong minds; and in judging Swift's charac-
ter in especial we should always bear it in recollection.
This aversion, the very antipodes to hypocrisy, leads
men not only to disclaim the virtues they have, but to pre-
tend to the vices they have not. Foolish trick of disgui.
sed vanity! the world readily believes them. Like Jus-
tice Overdo, in the garb of poor Arthur of Bradley,
they may deem it a virtue to have assumed the disguise;
but they must not wonder if the sham Arthur is taken for
the real, beaten as a vagabond, and set in the stocks as
a rogue.
CHAPTER VIII.
"I
Lightly won, lightly lost.— A dialogue of equal instruction su
amusement. A visit to Sir Godfrey Kneller.
ONE morning, Tarleton breakfasted with me.
don't see the little page," said he, "who was always in
attendance in your ante-room,—
come of him ?
what the deuse has be-
"You must ask his mistress; she has quarrelled with
me, and withdrawn both her favor and her messenger."
"What, the Lady Hasselton quarrelled with you! Dia-
ble! Wherefore?
"Because I am not enough of the 'pretty fellow,'
am tired of carrying hood and scarf, and sitting behind
her chair through five long acts of a dull play; because I
disappointed her in not searching for her at every drum
and quadrille party; because I admired not her monkey,
and because I broke a tea-pot, with a toad for a cover."
"And is not that enough?" cried Tarleton. "Heav-
ens! what a black beadroll of offences; Mrs. Merton
would have discarded me for one of them. However, thy
account has removed my surprise; I heard her praise thee
the other day, -now as long as she loved thee, she always
abused thee like a pickpocket.
"Ha! - ha ! ha! and what said she in my
favor?
Why, that you were certainly very handsome, though
you were small; that you were certainly a great genius,
though every one would not discover it; and that you
certainly had quite the air of high birth, though you were
not near so well dressed as Beau Tippetly. But entre
nous, Devereux, I think she hates you, and would play you
a trick of spite,
if she
revenge is too strong a word,-
could find an opportunity."
"Likely enough, Tarleton; but a coquet's lover is al-
ways on his guard: so she will not take me unawares."
W
So be it. But tell me, Devereux, who is to be your
next mistress, Mrs. Denton, or Lady Clancathcart? the
world gives them both, to you.'
"The world is always as generous with what is worth-
less, as a bishop with his blessing. However, I promise
thee, Tarleton, that I will not interfere with thy claims
either upon Mrs. Denton or Lady Clancathcart."
re
Nay," said Tarleton, "I will own that you are a very
Scipio; but it must be confessed, even by you, satirist as
you are, that Lady Clancathcart has a beautiful set of
features."
"A handsome face, but so vilely made. She would
make a splendid picture if, like the goddess Laverna, sho
could be painted as a head without a body.”
r
"Ha!
-
ha!-ha! - you have a bitter tongue, count;
but Mrs. Denton, what have you to say against her?”
Nothing; she has no pretensions for me to contradict
She has a green eye, and a sharp voice, a mincing gait.
and a broad foot. What friend of Mrs. Denton's would
not, therefore, counsel her to a prudent obscurity?"
"She never had but one lover in the world," said Tarle-
ton," who was old, blind, lame, and poor; she accepted
him, and became Mrs. Denton."
Yes," said I, “she was like the magnet, and received
her name from the very first person* sensible of her attrac-
tion,”
"Well, you have a shrewd way of saying sweet things,"
said Tarleton; "but I must own that you rarely or never
* Magnes.
292
BULWER'S NOVELS.
direct it towards women individually. What makes you
break through your ordinary custom ?
"Because, in the first place, I am angry with women
collectively; and must pour my spleen through whatever
channel presents itself. And, in the second place, both
the Denton and the Clancathcart have been personally rude
to me; so that my ill-humor receives from spite a more
acrid venom.
"I allow the latter reason," said Tarleton, "but the
first astonishes me. I despise women myself, I always
did; but you were their most enthusiastic and chivalrous
defender a month or two ago.
What makes thee change,
my Sir Amadis ?"
"Disappointment!
'tis a
they weary, vex, disgust me,
selfish, frivolous, mean, heartless, out on them,
disgrace to have their love."
O, ciel! What a sensation the news of thy misogyny
will cause, the young, gay, rich, Count Devereux, whose
wit, vivacity, splendor of appearance in equipage and
dress, have thrown, in the course of one season, all the
most established beaux and pretty fellows into the shade;
to whom dedications, and odes, and billet-doux are so
much waste paper, who has carried off the most general
envy and dislike that any man ever was blest with, since
St. John turned politician, what! thou all of a sudden
to become a railer against the divine sex that made thee
what thou art! Fly, - fly, - unhappy apostate, or ex-
pect the fate of Orpheus, at least!
وو
"None of your railleries, Tarleton, or I shall speak to
you of plebeians, and the canaille."
I
"Sacre! my teeth are on edge already! Oh, the base,
base canaille, how I loathe it! Nay, Devereux, joking
apart, I love you twice as well for your new humor.
despise the sex heartily. Indeed, sub rosa be it spoken,
there are few things that breathe which I do not despise.
Human nature seems to me a most pitiful bundle of rags
and scraps, which the gods threw out of heaven, as the
dust and rubbish there.”
"A pleasant prospect of thy species," said I.
"By my soul it is. Contempt is to me a luxury. I
would not lose the privilege of loathing for all the objects
which fools ever admired. What does old Persius
What does old Persius say on
the subject?
"Hoc ridere meum tam nil, nulla tibi vendo
Iliade." "
"And yet, Tarleton," said I, "the littlest feeling of
all, is a delight in contemplating the littleness of other
people. Nothing is more contemptible than habitual con-
tempt."
"Prithee, now,
"answered the haughty aristocrat, "let
us not talk of these matters so subtly; leave me my enjoy-
ment without refining upon it. What is your first pursuit
for the morning?"
CC
Why, I have promised my uncle a picture of that in-
valuable countenance which Lady Hasselton finds so hand-
some; and I am going to give Kneller my last sitting."
"So 80,
I will accompany you; I like the old vain dog,
'tis a pleasure to hear him admire himself so wittily."
"Come, then!" said I, taking up my hat and sword;
and entering Tarleton's carriage, we drove to the painter's
abode.
"He,
|
"People in general," said Tarleton, grave y,
"believe
that Alexander had a wry neck, and was a very plain fel
low; but no one can know about Alexander like Sir God
frey Kneller, who has studied military tactics so accurately,
and who, if he had taken up the sword instead of the pencil,
would have been at least an Alexander himself."
By Got, Meester Tarleton, you are as goot a judge of
de talents for de war as Count Tevereux of de génie for de
painting! By Got, Meester Tarleton, I vill paint your
picture, and I vill make your eyes von goot inch bigger
than dey are!"
66
Large or small," said I, (for Tarleton, who had a
haughty custom of contracting his orbs till they were scarce
perceptible, was so much offended, that I thought it pruden
to cut off his reply,) "large or small, Sir Godfrey, Mr.
Tarleton's eyes are capable of admiring your genius; why,
your painting is like lightning, and one flash of your brush
would be sufficient to restore even a blind man to sight."
"It is tamned true," said Sir Godfrey, earnestly;
"aul
it did restore von man to sight once. By my shoul, it did!
But sit yourself town, Count Tevereux, and look over your
left shoulder, —ab, dat is it, — and now, praise on, Count
Tevereux; de thought of my genius gives you,
vat you
call it? von animation, -von fire, look you, by Got,
--
it does!"
And by dint of such moderate panegyric, the worthy Sir
Godfrey completed my picture, with equal satisfaction to
himself and the original. See what a beautifier is flattery,
a few sweet words will send the Count Devereux down
to posterity, with at least three times as much beauty as he
could justly lay claim to.
CHAPTER IX.
A development of character, and a long letter. A chapter, on
the whole, more important than it seems.
THE Scenes through which, of late, I have conducted
my reader, are by no means episodical; they illustrate far
more than mere narration, the career to which I was so
honorably devoted. Dissipation, women, wine,
Tarleton for a friend, Lady Hasselton for a mistress. 0
terque quaterque beatus! Let me now throw aside the mask.
To people who have naturally very intense and very acute
feelings, nothing is so fretting, so wearing to the heart, as
the commonplace liaisons or curtailed affections, which are
the properties and offspring of the world. We have seen
the birds which, with wings unclipt, children fasten to a
stake. The birds seek to fly, and are pulled back before
their wings are well spread; till, at last, they either per-
petually strain at the end of their short tether, exciting only
ridicule by their anguish, and their impotent impatience;
or sullen and despondent, they remain on the ground, with-
out an attempt to fly, nor creep, even to the full limit which
their fetters would allow. Thus is it with feelings of the
keen, wild nature I speak of; they are either striving for
ever to pass the little circle of slavery to which they are
condemned, and so move laughter by an excess of action,
* This picture, at present in my possession, represents the
count in an undress. The face is decidedly, though by no means
We found him employed in finishing a portrait of Lady remarkably, handsome; the nose is aquiline, the upper lip short
Godolphin.
and chiselled, the eyes gray, and the forehead, which is by far
he!" cried he, when he beheld me approach. the finest feature in the countenance, is peculiarly high, broad,
By Got, I am glad to see you, Count Tevereux, dis paint-caustic, and rather displeasing, from the extreme compression
massive. The mouth has but little beauty it is severe,
ing is tamned poor work by one's self, widout any one to
make des grands eux, and cry, 'O, Sir Godfrey Kneller,
Kneller,
how fine dis is !'"'
ઃઃ
Very true, indeed,” said I, no great man can be ex-
pected to waste his talents without his proper reward of
praise. But, heavens, Tarleton, did you ever see any thing
that hand, that arm, how exquisite!
If Apollo turned painter, and borrowed colors from the
rainbow, and models from the goddesses, he would not be
fit to hold the pallet to Sir Godfrey Kneller."
so wonderful?
" and 1
By Got, Count Tevereux, you are von grand judge of
painting," cried the artist, with sparkling eyes,
vill paint you as von tamned handsome man.
cr
Nay, my Apelles, you might as well preserve some
.ikeness."
"Likeness, by Got! I vill make you like, and handsome
poth. By Got, if you make ine von Apelles, I will make
you von Alexander
and
of the lips. The great and prevalent expression of the face is
energy.
The eye, the brow, the turn of the head, the erect
penetrating aspect, are all strikingly bold, animated, and even
daring. And this expression makes a singular contrast to that
in another likeness of the count, also in my possession, which
was taken at a much later period of life. The latter portrait
represents him in a foreign uniform, decorated with orders. The
peculiar sarcasm of the mouth is hidden beneath a very long and
thick mustachio, of a much darker color than the hair, (for in
both portraits, as in Jervas's picture of Lord Bolingbroke, the
hair is left undisguised by the odious fashion of the day.) Across
one cheek there is a slight scar, as of a sabre cut. The whole
character of this portrait is widely different from that in the
carlier one. Not a trace of the fire, the animation, which were
so striking in the physiognomy of the youth of twenty, are dis-
coverable in the calm, sedate, stately, yet somewhat stern ex
pression which seems immovably spread over the paler huc and
the more prominent features of the man of about four or five and
thirty. Yet, upon the whole, the face in the latter portrait is
handsomer; and, from its air of dignity and reflection, ever
more impressive thap that in the one I have first described.-ED
DEVEREUX.
293
and a want of adequate powe:, or they rest motionless and
toody, disdaining the petty dulgence they might enjoy,
till sullenness is construed into resignation, and despair
seems the apathy of content. Time, however, cures what
it does not kill and both bird and beast, if they pine not
to the death at first, grow tame and acquiescent at last.
What to me was the companionship of Tarleton, or the
attachment of Lady Hasselton? I had yielded to the one,
a I had half eagerly, half scornfully, sought the other.
1.se, and the avocations they brought with thein, con-
sumed my time, and of time murdered, there is a ghost,
which we term ennui. The hauntings of this spectre are
the especial curse of the higher orders; and hence springs
a certain consequence to the passions: persons in these
ranks of society so exposed to ennui, are either rendered
totally incapable of real love, or they love far more intensely
than those in a lower station; for the affections in them
are either utterly frittered away on a thousand petty objects,
(poor shifts to escape the persecuting spectre,) or else,
early disgusted with the worthlessness of these objects, the
heart turns within and languishes for something not found
in the daily routine of life. When this is the case, and
when the pining of the heart is once satisfied, and the
object of love is found, there are two mighty reasons why
the love should be most passionately cherished. The first
is the utter indolence in which aristocratic life oozes away,
and which allows full good for that meditation which can
nurse by sure degrees the weakest desire into the strongest
passion; and the second reason is, that the insipidity and
hollowness of all patrician pursuits and pleasures, render
the excitation of love more delicious and more necessary
to the “ignami terrarum domini," than it is to those orders
of society more usefully, more constantly, and more en-
grossingly engaged.
Wearied and sated with the pursuit of what was worth-
less, my heart, at last, exhausted itself in pining for what
was pure.
I recurred with a tenderness which I strug-
gled with at first, and which, in yielding to, I blushed to
acknowledge, to the memory of Isora. And in the world,
surrounded by all which might be supposed to cause me to
forget her, my heart clung to her far more endearingly than
it had done in the rural solitudes in which she had first al-
lured it. The truth was this: at the time I first loved her,
other passions, — passions almost equally powerful, shar-
ed her empire. Ambition and pleasure, vast whirlpools
of thought, had just opened themselves a channel in my
mind, and thither the tides of my desires were hurried and
lost. Now those whirlpools had lost their power, and the
channels, being dammed up, flowed back upon my breast.
Pleasure had disgusted me, and the only ambition I had yet
courted and pursued had pallied upon me still more. I
the only ambition, for as yet that which is of the loftier
and more lasting kind had not afforded me a temptation; and
the hope which had borne the name and rank of ambition
had been the hope rather to glitter than to rise.
say,
These passions, not yet experienced when I lost Isora,
had afforded me at that period a ready comfort and a sure
engrossment. And in satisfying the hasty jealousies of my
temper, in deeming Isora unworthy, and Gerald my rival,
I naturally aroused in my pride a dexterous orator as well
as a firm ally. Pride not only strengthened my passions,
it also persuaded them by its voice; and it was not till the
languid, yet deep stillness of sated wishes and palled de-
sires fell upon me, that the low accent of a love still sur-
viving at my heart made itself heard in answer.
I now began to take a different view of Isora's conduct.
I now began to doubt, where I had formerly believed; and
the doubt, first allied to fear, gradually brightened into
hope. Of Gerald's rivalry, at least of his identity with
Barnard, and, consequently, of his power over Isora, there
was, and there could be, no feeling short of certainty. But
of what nature was that power? Had not Isora assured
me that it was not love? Why should I disbelieve her?
Nay, did she not love myself? Had not her cheek blush-
ed and her hand trembled when I addressed her? Were
these signs the counterfeits of love? Were they not rather
of that heart's dye which zo skill can counterfeit ? She
had declared that she could not, that she could never be
mine: she had declared so with a fearful earnestness which
seemed to annihilate hope; but had she not also, in the
same meeting, confessed that I was dear to her? Had not
her lip given me a sweeter and a more eloquent assurance of
that confession than words? and could hope perish while
love existed? She had left me,She had bid me fare-
well for ever; but that was no proof of a want of love, or
of her unworthiness. Gerald, or Barnard, evidently pos-
sessed an influence over father as well as child. Their de
parture from might have been occasioned by him, and
she might have deplored, while she could not resist it or
she might not even have deplored; nay, she might have de-
sired, she might have advised it, for my sake as well as
hers, were she thoroughly convinced that the union of cur
loves was impossible.
But, then, of what nature could be this mysterious aa-
thority which Gerald possessed over her? That which he
possessed over the sire, political schemes might account for ;
but these, surely, could not have much weight for the daugi.
ter. This, indeed, must still remain doubtful and unac-
counted for. One presum ption, that Gerald was either no
favored lover, or that he was unacquainted with her retreat,
might be drawn from the continuance of his residence at
Devereux Court. If he loved Isora, and knew her
present
abode, would he not have sought her? Could he, I thought,
live away from that bright face, if once allowed to behold
it?-unless, indeed, (terrible thought!) there hung over
it the dimness of guilty familiarity, and indifference had
been the offspring of possession. But was that delicate
and virgin face, where changes, with every moment coursed
each other harmonious to the changes of the mind, as shad-
ows in a valley reflect the clouds of heaven; - was that face,
so ingenuous, so girlishly relevant of all,—even of the slight-
est, the most transitory emotion, the face of one hardened
in deceit and inured to shame? The countenance is, it
is true, but a faithless mirror : but what man that has
studied women will not own that there is, at least while the
down of first youth is not brushed away, in the eye and
cheek of a zoned and untainted innocence, that which sur-
vives not even the fruition of a lawful love, and has no
(nay, not even a shadowed and imperfect) likeness in the
face of guilt? Then, too, had any worldly or mercenary
sentiment entered her breast respecting me, would Isora
have flown from the suit of the eldest scion of the rich
house of Devereux ?—and would she, poor and destitute.
the daughter of an alien and an exile, would she have spon-
taneously relinquished any hope of obtaining that alliance
which maidens of the loftiest houses of England had not
disdained to desire? Thus confused and incoherent, but
thus yearning fondly toward her image and its imagined
purity, did my thoughts daily and hourly array them-
selves;
selves; and, in proportion as I suffered common ties to
drop from me one by one, those thoughts clung the more
tenderly to that tie which, though severed from the rich ar-
gosy of former love, was still indissolubly attached to the
anchor of its hope.
It was during this period of revived affection that I
received the following letter from my uncle :
"I thank thee for thy long letter, my dear boy; I read
it over three times with great delight. Od's-fish, Morton,
you are a sad Pickle, I fear, and seem to know all the
ways of the town as well as your old uncle did some thirty
years ago! 'Tis a very pretty acquaintance with humar
nature that your letters display. You put me in mind o
little Sid, who was just about your height, and who had just
such a pretty, shrewd way of expressing himself in simile
and point. Ah, it is easy to see that you have profited by
your old uncle's conversation, and that Farquhar and Eth-
erege were not studied for nothing.
But I have sad news for thee, my child, or rather, it
is sad for me to tell thee my tidings. It is sad for the old
birds to linger in their nest when the young ones take
wing and leave them; but it is merry for the young birds
to get away from the dull old tree, and frisk it in the sun-
shine, -merry for them to get mates, and have young
themselves. Now, do not think, Morton, that by speak-
ing of mates and young, I am going to tell thee thy broth.
ers are already married; nay, there is time enough for
those things, and I am not friendly to early weddings, nor,
to speak truly, a marvellous great admirer of that holy
ceremony at any age; for the which there may be private
reasons, too long to relate to thee now. Moreover, I fear
my young day was a wicked time, -a heinous wicked
time, and we were wont to laugh at the wedded state,
until, body of me, some of us found it no laughing matter.
"But to return, Morton,- -to return to thy brothers,
they have both left me; and the house seems to me not the
good old house it did when ye were all about me; and
somehow or other, I look now oftener to the churchyard
294
BULWER'S NOVELS
C
than I was wont to do. You are all gone now, all shot
up, and become men; and when your old uncle sees you
no more, and recollects that all his own contemporaries
are out of the world, he cannot help saying, as William
Temple, poor fellow, once prettily enough said, Methinks
it seems an impertinence in me to be still alive.' You
went first, Morton: and I missed you more than I cared
to say: but you were always a kind boy to those you loved,
and you wrote the old knight merry letters, that made him
laugh, and think he was grown young again, (faith, boy,
that was a jolly story of the three squires at Button's!)
and, once a week comes your packet, well filled, as if you
did not think it a task to make me happy, which your hand-
writing always does; nor a shame to my gray hairs that I
take pleasure in the same things that please thee! So,
thou seest, my child, that I have got through thy absence
pretty well, save that I have had no one to read thy letters
to; for Gerald and thou are still jealous of each other,
a great sin in thee, Morton, which I prithee to reform.
And Aubrey, poor lad, is a little too rigid, considering his
years, and it looks not well in the dear boy to shake his
head at the follies of his uncle. And as to thy mother, Mor-
ton, I read her one of thy letters, and she said thou wert a
graceless reprobate to think so much of this wicked world,
and to write so familiarly to thine aged relative. Now, I
am not a young man, Morton; but the word aged has a
sharp sound with it when it comes from a lady's mouth.
Well, after thou hadst been gone a month, Aubrey and
Gerald, as I wrote thee word long since, in the last letter
I wrote thee with my own hand, made a tour together for
a little while, and that was a hard stroke on me. But
after a week or two Gerald returned; and I went out in
my chair to see the dear boy shoot, 'sdeath, Morton, he
handles the gun well.
well. And then Aubrey returned alone :
but he looked pined, and moping, and shut himself up, and
as thou dost love him so, I did not like to tell thee, till
now when he is quite well, that he alarmed me much for
him; he is too much addicted to his devotions, poor child,
and seems to forget that the hope of the next world, ought
to make us happy in this. Well, Morton, at last, two
months ago, Aubrey left us again, and Gerald last week
set off on a tour through the sister kingdom, as it is called.
Faith, boy, if Scotland and England are sister kingdoms,
'tis a thousand pities for Scotland that they are not co-
heiresses.
to say
-
"I should have told thee of this news before, but I have
had, as thou knowest, the gout so villanously in my hand,
that till t'other day, I have not held a pen, and old
Nicholls, my amanuensis, is but a poor scribe; and I did
not love to let the dog write to thee on all our family
affairs, — especially as I have a secret to tell thee, which
makes me plaguy uneasy. Thou must know, Morton, that
after thy departure, Gerald asked me for thy rooms; and
though I did not like that any one else should have what
belonged to thee, yet I have always had a foolish antipathy
No!' so thy brother had them, on condition to
leave them exactly as they were, and to yield them to thee
whenever thou shouldst return to claim them. Well, Mor-
ton, when Gerald went on his tour with thy youngest broth-
er, old Nicholls, you know 'tis a garrulous fellow,
told me one night, that his son Hugh,
you remember
Hugh, a thin youth, and a tall, lingering by the beach
one evening, saw a man, wrapped in a cloak, come out of
the cast e cave, unmoor one of the boats, and push off te
the little island opposite. Hugh swears by more than yea
and
nay, that the man was Father Montreuil. Now, Mor-
ton, this made me very uneasy, and I saw why thy brother
Gerald wanted thy rooms, which communicate so snugly
with the sea. So I told Nicholls slyly, to have the great
iron gate at the mouth of the passage carefully locked;
and when it was locked, I had an iron plate put over the
whole lock, that the lean Jesuit might not creep even
through that. Thy brother returned, and I told him a tale
of the smugglers, who have really been too daring of late,
and insisted on the door being left as I had ordered; and
I told him moreover, though not as if I had suspected his
communication with the priest, that I interdicted all further
converse with that limb of the church. Thy brother heard
e with an indifferently bad grace: but I was perempto-
ry, and the thing was agreed on.
Well, child, the day before Gerald last left us, I went
take leave of him in his own room, to tell thee the
ruth, I had forgotten his travelling expenses ; —
when I was
M
on the stairs of the tower, I heard, — by the Lord I did
Montreuil's voice in the outer-room, as plainly as I ever
heard it at prayers. Od's-fish, Morton, I was an angered
and I made so much haste to the door, that my foot slippeċ
by the way; thy brother heard me fall, and came out,
but I looked at him, as I never looked at thee, Morton, and
entered the room. Lo, the priest was not there; I search-
ed both chambers in vain; so I made thy brother lift up
the trap door, and kindle a lamp, and I searched the room
below, and the passage. The priest was invisible. Thou
knowest, Morton, that there is only one egress in the pas-
sage, and that was locked, as I said before; so where the
devil, the devil indeed, could thy tutor have escaped?
He could not have passed me on the stairs without my
sceing him; he could not have leapt the window without
breaking his neck; he could not have got out of the pass-
age without making himself a current of air. Od's-fish,
Morton, this thing might puzzle a wiser man than thine
uncle. Gerald affected to be mighty indignant at my sus-
picions; but God forgive him, I saw he was playing a
part. A man does not write plays, my child, without
being keen-sighted in these little intrigues, and moreover,
it is impossible I could have mistaken thy tutor's voice,
which, to do it justice, is musical enough, and is the most
singular voice I ever heard, unless little Sid's be ex
cepted.
"A
Ꭺ propos of little Sid. I remember that in the Mall
when I was walking there alone, three weeks after my mar
riage, De Grammont and Sid joined me, I was in a mel-
ancholic mood,- ('sdeath, Morton, marriage tames a man,
as water tames mice) - Aha, Sir William,' cried Sedley,
C
thou hast a cloud on thee, prithee now brighten it away:
see, thy wife shines on thee from the other end of the Mall.'
'Ah, talk not to a dying man of his physic!' said Gram
mont,[that Grammont was a shocking rogue, Morton.]
Prithee, Sir William, what is the chief characteristic of
wedlock is it a state of war or of peace?' 'O, peace
to be sure!' cried Sedley, and Sir William and his lady
carry with then the emblem.' How?' cried I,- for I
do assure thee, Morton, I was of a different turn of mind.
'How!' said Sid, gravely, why the emblem of peace is
the cornucopia, which your lady and you equitably divide,
'
she carries the copia, and you the cor-. Nay, Morton,
nay, I cannot finish the jest, for after all, it was a sorry
thing in little Sid, whom I had befriended like a brother,
with heart and purse, to wound me so cuttingly, but 'tis
the
way with your jesters.
—
“Od's-fish, now how I have got out of my story! Well,
I did not go back to my room, Morton, till I had looked to
the outside of the iron door, and seen that the plate was as
firm as ever: so now you have the whole of the matter.
Gerald went the next day, and I fear me much lest he should
already be caught in some jacobite trap. Write me thy
advice on the subject. Meanwhile, I have taken the pre-
caution to have the trap-door removed, and the aperture
strongly boarded over.
"But 'tis time for me to give over. I have been four
days on this letter, for the gout comes now to me oftener
than it did, and I do not know when I may again write to
thee with my own hand; so I resolved I would e'en empty
my whole budget at once. Thy mother is well and bloom-
ing; she is, at the present, abstractedly employed m a
prodigious piece of tapestry, which, old Nicholls informs
me, is the wonder of all the women.
"Heaven bless thee, my child! Take care of thyself,
and drink moderately. It is hurtful, at thy age, to drink
above a gallon or so at a sitting. Heaven bless thee again,
and when the weather gets warmer, thou must come with
thy kind looks, to make me feel at home again. At pres
ent the country wears a cheerless face, and every thing
about us is harsh and frosty, except the blunt, good-for
nothing heart of thine uncle, and that, winter or summer,
is always warm to thee.
"WILLIAM DEVEREUX."
"P. S. I thank thee heartily for the little spaniel of the
new breed thou gottest me from the Duchess of Marlbo-
rough. It has the prettiest red and white, and the blackest
eyes possible. But poor Ponto is as jealous as a wife three
years married, and I cannot bear the old hound to be vexed,
so I shall transfer the little creature, its rival, to thy
mother."
This letter, tolerably characteristic of the blended sim.
DEVEREUX.
29.
phicity, penetration, and overflowing kindness of the writer,
occasioned me much cogitation. There was no doubt in
my
mind but that Gerald and Montreuil were engaged in
some intrigue for the exiled family. The disguised name
which the former assumed, the state reasons which D'Al-
varez confessed that Barnard, or rather Gerald, had for
concealment, and which proved, at least, that some state
plot in which Gerald was engaged was known to the Spau-
ard, joined to those expressions of Montreuil, which did
all but own a design for the restoration of the deposed line,
and the power which I knew he possessed over Gerald,
whose mind, at once bold and facile, would love the adven-
ture of the intrigue, and yield to Montreuil's suggestions on
its nature,
these combined circumstances left me in no
doubt upon a subject deeply interesting to the honor of our
house, and the very life of one of its members. Nothing,
however, for me to do, calculated to prevent or impede the
designs of Montreuil and the danger of Gerald, occurred
to me. Eager alike in my hatred and my love, I said,
inly, "What matters it whether one whom the ties of blood
never softened toward me, with whom from my childhood
pward I have wrestled as with an enemy, what matters it
whether he win fame or death in the perilous game he has
engaged in ?" And turning from this most generous and
most brotherly view of the subject, I began only to think
whether the search or the society of Isora also influenced
Gerald in his absence from homie. After a fruitless and
inconclusive meditation on that head, my thoughts took a
less selfish turn, and dwelt with all the softness of pity and
the anxiety of love upon the morbid temperament and
ascetic devotions of Aubrey. What, for one already so
abstracted from the enjoyments of earth, so darkened by
superstitious misconceptions of the true nature of God and
the true objects of his creatures, what could be antici-
pated, but wasted powers and a perverted life? Alas!
when will men perceive the difference between religion
and priestcraft? when will they perceive that reason, so
far from extinguishing religion by a more gaudy light,
sheds on it all its lustre? when will they perceive that noth-
ing contrary to sense is pleasing to virtue, and that virtue
itself is only valuable because it is the road to happiness?
It is fabled, that the first legislator of the Peruvians re-
ceived from the Deity a golden rod, with which in his
wanderings he was to strike the earth, until in some des-
tined spot the earth entirely absorbed it, and there,
and there alone, was he to erect a temple to the Divinity.
What is this fable but the cloak of an inestimable moral?
Our reason is the rod of gold; the vast world of truth
gives the soil; which it is perpetually to sound; and only
where without resistance the soil receives the rod which
guided and supported us, will our altar be sacred and our
worship be accepted.
CHAPTER X.
Being a short chapter, containing a most important event.
SIR WILLIAM's letter was still fresh in my mind, when
for want of some less noble quarter wherein to bestow my
tediousness, I repaired to St. John. As I crossed the hall
to his apartment, two men, just dismissed from his pres-
ence, passed me rapidly; one was unknown to me, but there
was no mistaking the other, it was Montreuil. I was
greatly startled: the priest not appearing to notice me, and
conversing in a whispered, yet seemingly vehement tone,
with his companion, hurried on, and vanished through the
street door. I entered St. John's room: he was alene,
and received me with his usual gayety.
"Pardon me, Mr. Secretary," said I; "but if not a
question of state, do inform me what you know respecting
the taller one of those two gentlemen who have just quit-
ted
you ?"
"It is a question of state, my dear Devereux, so my an-
swer must be brief,
very little."
"You know who he is?"
"Yes, a Jesuit, and a marvellously shrewd one: the
Abbé Montreuil.”
"He was my tutor."
"Ah, so I have heard."
“And you acquaintance with him is positively and bonâ
fide of a state nature?"
"Positively and bonâ fide.”
"I could tell you something of him; he is certainly 2
the service of the court at St. Germains, and a terrible
plotter on this side the channel."
"Possibly; but I wish to have no information respect
ing him."
One great virtue of business did St. John possess, and I
have never known any statesman who possessed it so emi-
nently: it was the discretional distinction between friends
of the statesman and friends of the man. Much and inti-
mately as I knew St. John, I could never glean from him
a single secret of a state nature, until, indeed, at a later
period, I leagued myself to a portion of his public
schemes. Accordingly I found him, at the present moment,
perfectly impregnable to my inquiries; and it was not till
I knew Montreuil's companion was that celebrated intri-
guant, the Abbé Gaultier, that I ascertained the exact na-
ture of the priest's business with St. John, and the exact
motive of the civilities he had received from Abigail Ma-
sham.* Being at last forced, despairingly, to give over
the attempt on his discretion, I suffered St. John to turn
the conversation upon other topics, and as these were not
much to the existent humor of my mind, I soon rose to
depart
Stay, count, " said St. John; "shall you ride tc-
'
day?”
"If you will bear me company.
"Volontiers,
-to say the truth, I was about to ask you
to canter your bay horse first with me to Spring Gardens,t
where I have a promise to make to the director; and sec-
ondly, on a mission of charity to a poor foreigner of rank
and birth, who, in his profound ignorance of this country,
thought it right to enter into a plot with some wise heads,
and to reveal it to some foolish tongues, who brought it to
us with as much clatter as if it were a second gunp wder
project. I easily brought him off that scrape, and I am
now going to give him a caution for the future. Poor gen-
tleman, I hear that he is grievously distressed in pecunia.
ry matters, and I always had a kindness for exiles. Who
knows but that a state of exile may be our own fate! and
this alien is sprung from a race as haughty as that of St.
John, or of Devereux.
John, or of Devereux. The res angusta domi must gall
him sorely!"'
"True," said I, slowly. "What may be the name of
the foreigner?"
Why, complain not hereafter that I do not trust you
in state matters, I will divulge,- D'Alvarez, Don
Diego, ―an hidalgo of the best blood of Andalusia; and
not unworthy of it, I fancy, in the virtues of fighting,
though he may be in those of council. But, heavens !
Devereux,
-you seem ill!"
"No, no! Have you ever seen this man?"
"Never. "
At this word a thrill of joy shot across me, for I knew
St. John's fame for gallantry, and I was suspicious of the
motives of his visit.
4
"St. John, I know this Spaniard, I know him well,
and intimately. Could you not commission me to do your
errand, and deliver your caution? Relief from me he
might accept; from you, as a stranger, pride might forbid
it; and you would really confer on me a personal and an
essential kindness, if you would give me so fair an oppor
tunity to confer kindness upon him."
"Eh bien ! I am delighted to oblige you in any way.
Take his direction: you see his abode is in a very pitiful
suburb. Tell him from me that he is quite safe at prescat;
but tell him also to avoid, henceforward, all imprudence,
all connexion with priests, plotters, et tous ces gens-la, as
he values his personal safety, or at least his continuance ra
* Piz.
-That Count Devereux ascertained the priest's com
munications and overtures from the chevalier. The precise
extent of Bolingbroke's secret negotiations with the exile
prince is still one of the darkest portions of the history củ
that time. That negotiations were carried on, both by Har
ley and by St. John, very largely, and very closely, I need not.
say that there is no doubt. Whether there was any guilt in.
the correspondence, — viz. whether sound policy and the good
of the nation did not require as well as justify it is a matter
to be left to the sound casuistry, and enlightened, unbiased,
and profound penetration of historians, like Galliculus, to de
cide; Galliculus, that defender of Whiggism and libeller G
freedom, whose writings would so admirably fulfil the true end
of party, traduce the great and exalt the little, were not
the rancor of the advocate rendered venomless by the imbe
cility of the man. - EL.
}
+ Vauxhall
-
296
BULWER'S NOVELS.
وو
this most hospitable country. It is not from every wood
that we make a Mercury, nor from every brain that we can
carve a Mercury's genius of intrigue.'
"Nobody ought to be better skilled in the materials requi-
site for such productions than Mr. Secretary St. John!
said I: "and now, adieu."
Adieu, if you won't ride with me. We meet at Sir
William Wyndham's to-morrow."
Masking my agitation till I was alone, I rejoiced when I
At last Isora, with a very quiet gesture of self-recovery,
moved toward the bed, and the next moment I was by her
siae If my life depended on it, I could not write one, no
not one syllable more of this scene.
CHAPTER XI.
found myself in the open streets. I summoned a hackney Containing more than any other chapter in the second book of
coach, and drove as rapidly as the vehicle would permit to
the petty and obscure suburb to which St. John had directed
me.
The coach stopped at the door of a very humble, but
not absolutely wretched, abode I knocked at the door.
A woman opened it, and in answer to my inquiries, told
me that the poor foreign gentleman was very ill,-
very ill
indeed, had suffered a paralytic stroke, not expected
to live
His daughter was with him now,
would see no
one, even Mr. Barnard had been denied admission.
At hat name, my feelings, shocked and stunned at first
by the unexpected intelligence of the poor Spaniard's dan-
ger, felt a sudden and fierce revulsion, -I combated it.
This is no time, I thought, for any jealous, for any selfish
emotion. If I can serve her, if I can relieve her father,
let me be contented. "She will see me " I said aloud,
and I slipped some money in the woman's hand.
an-old friend of the family, and I shall not be an unwel-
come intruder on the sick room of the sufferer.”
—
"[ am
"Intruder, sir, bless you, the poor gentleman is quite
speechless and insensible."
At hearing this, I could refrain no longer. Isora's dis-
consolate, solitary, destitute condition, broke irresistibly
upon me, and all scruple of more delicate and formal na-
ture vanished at once. I ascended the stairs, followed by
the old woman; she stopped me by the threshold of a room
on the second floor, and whispered "There." I paused an
instant, collected breath and courage, and entered. The
room was partially darkened. The curtains were drawn
closely around the bed. By a table, on which stood two or
three phials of medicine, I beheld Isora, listening with an
eager, a most eager and intent face, to a man whose garb
betrayed his healing profession, and who, laying a finger
on the outstretched palm of his other hand, appeared giv-
ing his precise instructions, and uttering that oracular
breath which, mere human words to him, - was a mes-
sage of fate itself, a fiat on which bung all that makes
life, life, to his trembling and devoted listener. Monarchs
of earth, ye have not so supreme a power over woe and
happiness as one village leech. As he turned to leave her,
she drew from a most slender purse a few petty coins, and
I saw that she muttered some words indicative of the shame
of poverty, as she tremblingly tendered them to the out-
stretched palm. Twice did that palm close and open on
the paltry sum; and the third time the native instinct of the
heart overcame the latter instinct of the profession. The
limb of Galen drew back, and shaking with a gentle oscil-
lation his capitalian honors, he laid the money softly on the
table, and buttoning up the pouch of his nether garment, as
if to resist temptation, he pressed the poor hand still ex-
tended toward him, and bowing over it with a kind respect
for which I did long to approach and kiss his most withered
and undainty cheek, he turned quickly round, and almost
fell against me in the abstracted hurry of his exit.
?"
"Hush!" said I, softly. "What hope of your patient?
The leech glanced at me meaningly, and I whispered to
him to wait for me below. Isora had not yet seen me. It
is a notable distinction in the feelings, that all but the soli-
tary one of grief quicken to a nerve-like quickness the
keenness of the senses, but grief blunts them to a most dull
obtuseness. I hesitated now to come forward; and so I
stood hat in hand by the door, and not knowing that the
tears streamed down my cheeks, as I fixed my gaze upon
Isora. She, too, stood still, just where the leech had left
her, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her head
drooping. The right hand whiche man had pressed had
sunk slowly and heavily by her side, with the small snowy
fingers half closed over the palm. There is no describing
the despondency which the listless position of that hand
spoke, and the left hand lay with a like indolence of sor-
row on the table, with one finger outstretched and pointing
toward the phials, just as it had, some moments before, sec-
onded the injunctions of the prim physician. Well, for my
part, if I were a painter, I would come now and then to a
aick chamber for a study.
this history.
My first proposal was to remove the patient, with all due
care and gentleness, to a better lodging, and a district more
convenient for the visits of the most eminent physicians.
When I expressed this wish to Isora, she looked at me long
and wistfully, and then burst into tears. "You wil not
deceive us," said she, "and I accept your kindness at
1
once, from him I rejected the same offer."
"Him? of whom speak you ? this Barnard, or
rather, but I know him!" A startling express ɔn
passed over Isora's speaking face.
"Know him!" she cried, interrupting me.
not, - you cannot !
"You do
p
if I
may so dare to
have a rival in
This Barnard,
"Take courage, dearest Isora,
call you,
take courage; it is fearful to
that quarter, but I am prepared for it.
tell me again, do you love him?”
"Love, O God, no!"
:
fear him, too,
"What then do you still fear him?
protected by the unsleeping eye and the vigilant hand of a
love like mine?"
"Yes!" she said, falteringly, "I fear for you !
"Me!" I cried, laughing scornfully, "me! nay, dear-
est, there breathes not that man whom you need fear on my
account. But, answer me, is not "
"For heaven's sake,- for mercy's sake!' cried Isora
eagerly, "do not question me,—I may not tell you who,
or what this man is, I am bound by a most solemn oath,
never to divulge that secret.
M
"I care not," said I, calmly, "I want no confirmation
of my knowledge, this masked rival is my own brother!
I fixed my eyes full on Isora while I said this, and she
quailed beneath my gaze: her cheek, her lips, were
utterly without color, and an expression of sickening and
keen anguish was graven upon her face. She made no
answer.
"Yes!" resumed I, bitterly," it is any brother, be it
so, I am prepared; but if you can, Isora, O! if you can,
say one word to deny it."
Isora's tongue seemed literally to cleave to her mouth
at last, with a violent effort, she muttered, "I have told
you, Morton, that I am bound by oath not to divulge this
secret; nor may I breathe a single syllable calculated to
do so if I deny one name, you may question me on more;
and, therefore, to deny one is a breach of my oath. But
beware!" she added, vehemently, "O! beware how your
suspicions, mere vague, baseless suspicions,― criminate
a brother; and above all, whomsoever you believe to be
the real being under this disguised name, as you value
your life, and therefore mine,- breathe not to him a sylla-
ble of your belief."
I was so struck with the energy with which this was
said, that after a short pause, I rejoined in an altered
tone,
"I cannot believe that I have aught against life to fear
from a brother's hand, but I will promise you to guard
against latent danger. But is your oath so peremptory,
that you cannot deny even one name? if not, and you
can deny this, I swear to you that I will never question you
another."
upon
Again a fierce convulsion wrung the lip and distorted the
perfect features of Isora.
perfect features of Isora. She remained silent for some
moments, and then murmured, "My oath forbids me even
that single answer,-tempt me no more,-now and for
ever I am mute upon this subject."
Perhaps some slight and momentary anger, or doubt, or
suspicion, betrayed itself upon my countenance, for Isora,
after looking upon me long and mournfully, said in a quiet
melancholy tone," I see your thoughts, and I do not re-
proach you for them: it is natura! that you should think ill
of one whom this mystery surrounds,-one too placed
under such circumstances of humiliation and distrust. I
have lived long in your country; I have seen, for the las
DEVEREUX.
297
few months, much of its inhabitants; I hare studied too
he works which profess to unfold its national and peculiar
character; I know that you have a mistrust of the people
of other climates; I know that you are cautious and full
of suspicious vigilance, even in your commerce with each
other; I know, too, (and Isora's heart swelled visibly as
she spoke,) that poverty itself, in the eyes of your commer-
cial countrymen, is a crime, and that they rarely feel con-
fidence or place faith in those who are unhappy ; why,
Count Devereux, why should I require more of you than
of the rest of your nation? Why should you think better
of the penniless and friendless girl,- the degraded exile,
the victim of doubt, which is so often the disguise of guilt,
than any other, any one even among my own people,
would think of one so mercilessly deprived of all the decent
and appropriate barriers by which a maiden should be
surrounded? No, no,-leave me as you found me,-
leave my poor father where you see him,- anywhere will
do for us to die in."
—
rr
"Isora!" I said, clasping her in my arms, 'you do
not know me yet; had I found you in prosperity, and in
the world's honor, had I wooed you in your father's halls,
and girt around with the friends and kinsmen of your race,
I might have pressed for inore than you will now tell me ;
I might have indulged suspicion where I perceived mystery,
and I might not have loved as I love you now! Now,
Isora, in misfortune, in destitution, I place, without reserve,
my whole heart,-its trust, its zeal, its devotion,-in your
keeping; come evil or good, storm or sunshine, I am
yours, wholly, and for ever. Reject me if you will, I will
return to you again; and never, never,- save from my
own eyes or your own lips,-will I receive a single evi-
dence detracting from your purity, or, Isora,- mine own,
own Isora, may I not add also,-from your love?"
"Too, too generous ! murmured Isora, struggling pas-
sionately with her tears, "may God forsake me if ever I
am ungrateful to thee; and believe,- believe, that if love,
more fond, more true, more devoted than woman ever felt
before, can repay you, you shall be repaid!
Why, at that moment, did my heart leap so joyously
within me?—why
why did I say inly, "The treasure I have
so long yearned for is found at last we have met, and
through the waste of years, we will walk together, and
never part again?" Why, at that moment of bliss, did
I not rather feel a foretaste of the coming wo! O, blind and
capricious fate, that gives us a presentiment at one while,
and withholds it at another! Knowledge, and prudence,
and calculating foresight, what are ye? warnings unto
others, not ourselves. Reason is a lamp which sheddeth afar
a glorious and general light, but leaveth all that is around
it in darkness and in gloom! We foresee and foretell the
destiny of others, we march credulous and benighted to
our own; and like Laocoon, from the very altars by which
we stand as the soothsayer and the priest, creep forth, un-
suspected and undreamt of, the serpents which are fated
to destroy us!
That very day then, Alvarez was removed to a lodging
more worthy of his birth, and more calculated to afford
hope of his recovery. He bore the removal without any
evident sign of fatigue; but his dreadful malady had taken
away both speech and sense, and he was already more than
half the property of the grave. I sent, however, for the
best medical advice which London could afford. They
met, prescribed, and left the patient just as they found him.
I know not, in the progress of science, what physicians
may be to posterity, but in my time they are false witnesses
subpoenaed against death, whose testimony always tells
less in favor of the plaintiff than the defendant.
Before we left the poor Spaniard's present lodging, and
when I was on the point of giving some instructions to the
andlady respecting the place to which the few articles of
property belonging to Don Diego and Isora were to be re-
moved, Isora made me a sign to be silent, which I obeyed,
"Pardon me," said she afterward; "but I confess that I
am anxious our next residence should not be known,
should not be subject to the intrusion of,- of this -"
"Barnard, as you call him. I understand you; be it
so!" and accordingly I enjoined the goods to be sent to
my own house, from whence they were removed to Don
Diego's new abode; and I took especial care to leave
with the good lady no clue to discover Alvarez and his
daughter, otherwise than through me. The pleasure af-
forded me of directing Gerald's attention to myself, I could
VOL. I.
36
not resist. "Tell Mr. Barnard, when he calls," said I,
"that only through Count Morton Devereux, will he hear
of Don Diego D'Alvarez, and the lady his daugher."
"I will, your honor," said the land lady; and the look-
ing at me more attentively, she added: "Bless me! now
when you speak, there is a very strong likeness between
yourself and Mr. Barnard."
I recoiled as if an adder had stung me, and hurried into the
coach to support the patient, who was already placed there.
Now then my daily post was by the bed of disease and
suffering in the chamber of death was my vow of love
ratified; and in sadness and in sorrow was it returned.
But it is in such scenes that the deepest, the most endear-
ing, and the most holy species of the passion is engen-
dered. As I heard Isora's low voice tremble with the sus-
pense of one who watches over the hourly severings of the
affection of nature and of early years: as I saw her light
step flit by the pillow which she smoothed, and her cheek
alternately flush and fade, in watching the wants which she
relieved; as I marked her mute, her unwearying tender-
ness, breaking into a thousand nameless but mighty cares,
and pervading like an angel's vigilance every, -
yea, the
minutest, -course into which it flowed, did I not be-
hold her in that sphere in which woman is most lovely, and
in which love itself consecrates its admiration, and puri-
fies its most ardent desires? That was not a time for our
hearts to speak audibly to each other; but we felt that
they grew closer and closer, and we asked not for the poor
eloquence of words. But over this scene let me not
linger.
One morning, as I was proceeding on foot to Isora's, I
perceived on the opposite side of the way Montreuil and
Gerald; they were conversing eagerly: they both saw me.
Montreuil made a slight, quiet, and dignified inclination of
the head: Gerald colored, and hesitated. I thought be
was about to leave his companion and address me; but
with a haughty and severe air, I passed on, and Gerald,
as if stung by my demeanor, bit his lip vehemently, and
followed my example. A few minutes afterward I felt an
inclination to regret that I had not afforded him an oppor-
tunity of addressing me. "I might," thought I, "have
then taunted him with his persecution of Isora, and defied
him to execute those threats against me, in which it was
evident, from her apprehensions for my safety, that he in-
dulged."
I had not, however, much leisure for these thoughts.
When I arrived at the lodgings of Alvarez, I found that a
great change had taken place in his condition; he had re-
covered speech, though imperfectly, and testified a return
to sense. I flew up stairs with a light step to congratu
late Isora: she met me at the door. "Hush!" she whis-
pered "my father sleeps!" But she did not speak with
the animation I had anticipated.
ور
"What is the matter, dearest ?" said I, following her
into another apartment: "you seem sad, and your eyes
are red with tears, which are not, methinks, entirely the
tears of joy at this happy change in father?
your
"I ani marked out for suffering," returned Isora, more
keenly than she was wont to speak. I pressed her to ex-
plain her meaning: she hesitated at first, but at length
confessed that her father had always been anxious for her
marriage with this soi-disant Barnard, and that his first
words on his recovery had been to press her to consent to
his wishes.
"My poor father," said she, weepingly, "speaks and
thinks only for my fancied good; but his senses as yet are
only recovered in part, and he cannot even understand me
when I speak of you. I shall die,' he said, 'I shall die, and
you will be left on the wide world!' I in vain endeavored
to explain to him that I should have a protector; he fell
asleep muttering those words, and with tears in his eyes.
“Does he know as much of this Barnard as you do ?"
said I.
"Heavens, no! -or he would never have pressed ma
to marry one so wicked."
"Does he know even who he is?"
"Yes," said Isora, after a pause, "but has not known
it long."
Here the physician joined us, and taking me aside, in-
formed me that, as he had foreboded, sleep had been tha
harbinger of death, and that Don Diego was no more. I
broke the news as gently as I could to Isora; but her
grief was far more violent than I could have paticipated :
198
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and nothing seemed to cut her so deeply to the heart, as
the thought that his last wish had been one with which she
had not complied, and could never comply.
I pass over the first days of mourning, I come to the
one after Don Diego's funeral. I had been with Isora in
the morning: I left her for a few hours, and returned at
the first dusk of evening with some books and music,
which I vainly hoped she might recur to for a momentary
abstraction from her grief. I dismissed my carriage, with
he intention of walking home, and addressing the woman-
ervant who admitted me, inquired, as was my wont, after
Isora. "She has been very ill," replied the woman,
since the strange gentleman left her."
"The strange gentleman?"
ever
"Yes, he had forced his way up stairs, despite of the
denial the servant had been ordered to give to all stran-
gers. He had entered Isora's room; and the woman, in
answer to my urgent inquiries, added that she had heard
his voice raised to a loud and harsh key in the apartment;
he had staid there about a quarter of an hour, and had
then hurried out, seemingly in great disorder and agita-
tion.
"What description of man was he?" I asked.
The woman answered that he was mantled from head to
foot in his cloak, which was richly laced, and his hat was
looped with diamonds, but slouched over that part of his
face which the collar of his cloak did not hide, so that she
could not further describe him than as one of a haughty
and abrupt bearing, and evidently belonging to the higher
ranks.
Convinced that Gerald had been the intruder, I hastened
up the stairs to Isora. She received me with a sickly and
faint smile, and endeavoured to conceal the traces of her
tears
"So!" said I, "this insolent persecutor of yours has
discovered your abode, and again insulted or intimidated
you.
He shall do so no more! I will seek him to-morrow,
and no affinity of blood shall prevent
S
دو
Morton, dear Morton!" cried Isora, in great alarm,
and yet with a certain determination stamped upon her
features, "hear me ! it is true this man has been here,
it is true that fearful and terrible as he is, he has agitated
and alarmed me; but it was only for you, Morton, by the
holy virgin, it was only for you! 'The moment,' said he,
and his voice ran shiveringly through my heart like a
dagger, the moment Morton Devereux discovers who is
his rival, that moment his death-warrant is irrevocably
sealed!""
Arrogant boaster!" I cried, and my blood burnt with
die intense rage which a much slighter cause would have
kindled from the natural fierceness of my temper.
" Does
he think my life is at his bidding, to allow or to withhold?
Unhand me, Isora, unhand me! I tell you I will seek him
this moment, and dare him to do his worst!
"Do so," said Isora, calmly, and releasing her hold;
"do so; but hear me first: the moment you breathe to him
your suspicions, you place an eternal barrier betwixt your-
self and me! Pledge me your faith that you will never,
while I live at least, reveal to him, to any one, whom
you suspect, — your reproach, your defiance, your knowl-
edge, nay, not even your slightest suspicion of his identity
with my persecutor, promise me this, Morton Devereux,
or, I, in my turn, before that crucifix, whose sanctity we
both acknowledge and adore, that crucifix which has de-
scended to my race for three unbroken centuries, which,
for my departed fathers in the solemn vow, and in the death
agony, has still been a witness, a consolation, and a pledge,
between the soul and its Creator,-by that crucifix which
my dying mother clasped to her bosom, when she committed
me, an infant, to the care of that heaven which hears and
records for ever our lightest word, I swear that I will
never be yours!"
ઃઃ
"Isora!" said I, awed and startled, yet struggling
against the impression her energy made upon me, you
know not to what you pledge yourself, or what you require
of me. If I do not seek out this man,
if I do not expose
to him my knowledge of his pursuit and unhallowed perse-
cution of you, if I do not effectually prohibit and prevent
their continuance, think well, what security have I for
your future peace of mind, nay, even for the safety of your
nonor or your life. A man thus bold, daring, and unbaffled
in his pursuit, thus vigilant and skilful in his selection of
time and occasion, -so that, despite my constant and anx-
ius endeavour to meet him in your presence, I have neve
been able to do so: from a man, I
say, thus
pertinaciɔusin
resolution, thus crafty in disguise, what may you not dread
when you have made him utterly fearless by the license of
impunity? Think too, again, Isora, that the mystery dis-
honors as much as the danger menaces. Is it meet that
my betrothed and my future bride should be subjected to
these secret and terrible visitations, visitations of a man
professing himself her lover, and evincing the vehemence
of his passion by that of his pursuit? Isora, Isora,
—
you have weighed not these things, you know not what
you demand of me.
me."
—
-
M
preserve
"I do!" answered Isora, "I do know all that I de-
mand of you, I demand of you only to preserve your life."
"How," said I, impatiently, "cannot my hand
my life? and is it for you, the daughter of a line of warriors,
to ask your lover and your husband to shrink from a single
foe?"
in
CC
No, Morton," answered Isora. "Were you going to
battle, I would gird on your sword myself, -were, too,
this man other than he is, and you were about to meet him
open contest, I would not wrong you, nor degrade you
betrothed, by a fear. But I know my persecutor well, -
fierce, unrelenting, dreadful in his dark and ungovernable
passions as he is, he has not the courage to confront you :
I fear not the open foe, but the lurking and sure assassin.
His very earnestness to avoid you; the precautions he has
taken, nay, from me, the certainty he has obtained to
that effect, -are alone sufficient to convince you that he
dreads personally to oppose your claim, or to vindicate
himself."
"Then what have I to fear?"
"Every thing! Do you not know that from men, at
once fierce, crafty, and shrinking from bold violence, the
stuff for assassins is always made? And if I wanted surer
proof of his designs than inference, his oath, it rings in
my ears now, -- is sufficient: The moment Morton Dev-
ereux discovers who is his rival, that moment his death-
warrant is irrevocably sealed.' Morton, I demand your
promise; or, though my heart break, I will record my own
Vow.
وو
C
CC
Stay, stay," I said, in anger and in sorrow : were
I to promise this, and for my own safety hazard yours,
what could you deem me ?”
"Fear not for me, Morton," answered Isora; " you
have no cause. I tell you that this man, villain as he is,
ever leaves me, humbled and abased. Do not think that
in all times, and all scenes, I am the foolish and weak
creature you behold me now. Remember, that you said
rightly I was the daughter of a line of warriors; and I have
that within me which will not shame my descent.
t
But, dearest, your resolution may avail you for a time;
but it cannot for ever baffle the hardened nature of a inan
I know my own sex, and I know my own ferocity were
once aroused."
CC
"But, Morton, you do not know me," said Isora, proudly,
and her face, as she spoke, was set, and even stern,
"I am
only the coward when I think of your; a word,
-a look of
mine, can abash this man; or, if it could not, I am never
without a weapon to defend myself, or,—or,
" Isora's
voice, before firm and collected, now faltered, and a deep
blush flowed over the marble paleness of her face.
"Or what?” said I, anxiously.
me at once.
-
"Or thee, Morton!" murmured Isora, tenderly, and
withdrawing her eyes from mine.
The tone, the look that accompanied these words, melted
I rose,
-I clasped Isora to my heart, and
pouring my kisses upon her soft lips, I said,-
"You are a strange compound, my own fairy queen; but
these lips, this cheek,
those eyes,
-are not fit features
for a heroine."
Morton, if I had less determination in my heart, I could
not love you so well."
"But tell me," I whispered, with a smile,
this weapon on which you rely so strongly?
"where is
"Here!" answered Isora, blushingly; and, extricating
herself from me, she showed me a small two-edged dagger,
which she wore carefully concealed within the folds of her
dress. I looked over the bright, keen blade with surprise,
and yet with pleasure at the latent resolution of a character
seemingly so soft. I say with pleasure, for it suited well
with my own fierce and wild temper. I returned the
weapon to her, with a smile and a jest.
DEVEREUX.
290
"Ah!” said Isora, shrinking from my kiss, "I should
not have been so bold, if I only feared danger for myself."
But if, for a moment, we forgot, in the gushings of our
affection, the object of our converse and dispute, we soon
returned to it again. Isora was the first to recur to it.
She reminded me of the promise she required; and she
spoke with a seriousness and a solemnity which I found
myself scarcely able to resist.
"But," I said, "if he ever molests you hereafter; if
again I find that bright cheek blanched, and those dear eyes
dimmed with tears, and I know that, in my own house,
come one has dared thus to insult its queen, am I to be still
torpid and inactive, lest a dastard and craven hand should
avenge my assertion of your honor and mine?"
have
-
“No, Morton: after our marriage, whenever that be,
you will have nothing to apprehend from him on the same
ground as before; my fear for you, too, will not be what it
is now; your honor will be bound in mine, and nothing
shall induce me to hazard it, no, not even your safety. I
ha every reason to believe that, after that event, he will
sect me no longer to his insults, how, indeed, can he,
under your perpetual protection? or, for what cause should
he attempt it, if he could? I shall be then yours, only
and ever yours,
what hope could, therefore, then nerve
his hardihood, or instigate his intrusions? Trust to me at
that time, and suffer me to, nay, I repeat, promise me
that I may, -trust in you now!
י !
three or four times, and each time I thought,
though the
darkness might well deceive me, that he looked up to the
windows. He made, however, no attempt at admission,
and appeared as if he had no other object than that of
watching by the house. Wearied and impatient at last, I
came from my concealment. "I may confirm my suspi-
cions," I repeated, recurring to my oath, and I walked
straight toward the stranger.
"Šir!" I said, very calmly, "I am the last person in
the world to interfere with the amusements of any other
gentleman; but I humbly opine, that no man can parade by
this house upon so very cold a night, without giving just
ground for suspicion to the friends of its inhabitants. I
happen to be among that happy number and I therefore,
with all due humility and respect, venture to request you to
seek some other spot for your nocturnal perambulations."
I made this speech purposely prolix, in order to have
time fully to reconnoitre the person of the one I addressed.
The dusk of the night, and the loose garb of the stranger,
certainly forbade any decided success to this scrutiny; but
methought the figure seemed, despite of my prepossessions,
to want the stately height and grand proportions of Gerald
Devereux. I must own, however, that the necessary inex-
actitude of my survey rendered this idea without just foun-
dation, and did not by any means diminish my arm
impression that it was Gerald whom I beheld. While I
spoke, he retreated with a quick step, but made no answer :
I pressed upon him, he backed with a still quicker step;
and when I had ended, he fairly turned round, and made at
full speed along the dark street in which I had fixed my
previous post of watch. I fled after him, with a step as
fleet as his own, bis cloak encumbered his flight,-I
gained upon him sensibly, he turned a sharp corner,-
threw me out, and entered into a broad thoroughfare. As
and presently a large band of those young men, who, un-
der the name of Mohawks, were wont to scour the town
nightly, and, sword in hand, to exercise their love of riot
under the disguise of party zeal, became visible in the mid-
dle of the street. Through them my fugitive dashed head-
long, and, profiting by their surprise, escaped unmolested.
I attempted to follow with equal speed, but was less suc-
cessful. "Halloo!" cried the foremost of the group,
placing himself in my way. "No such haste! Art Whig
or Tory? Under which king, -Bezonian, speak or die?"
"Have a care, sir," said I, fiercely, drawing my sword.
"Treason, treason! cried the speaker, confronting me
with equal readiness. "Have a care, indeed,-have at thee."
"Ha!" cried another, "t is a tory; 't is the secreta-
ry's popish friend, Devereux,- pike him, pike him.”
What could I do? I still combated her wish, and her
request; but her steadiness and rigidity of purpose made
me, though reluctantly, yield to them at last. So sincere,
and so stern, indeed, appeared her resolution, that I feared,
by refusal, that she would take the rash oath that would
separate us for ever. Added to this, I felt in her that con-
fidence which, I am apt to believe, is far more akin to the
latter stages of a real love, than jealousy and mistrust; and II sped after him, bacchanalian voices burst upon my ear,
could not believe that either now, or still less after our nup-
tials, she would risk aught of honor, or the seemings of
honor, from a visionary and superstitious fear. Despite,
therefore, of my keen and deep interest in the thorough dis-
covery of this mysterious persecutor; and, still more, in the
prevention of all future designs from his audacity, I con-
strained myself to promise her, that I would on no account
Beek out the person I suspected, or wilfully betray to him,
by word or deed, my belief of his identity with Barnard.
Though greatly dissatisfied with my self-compulsion, I
strove to reconcile myself to its idea. Indeed, there was
much in the peculiar circumstances of Isora, - much in the
freshness of her present affliction, much in the unfriend-
ed and utter destitution of her situation, that while, on
the one hand, it called forth her pride, and made stubborn
that temper, which was naturally so gentle and so soft; on
the other hand, made me yield even to wishes that I thought
unreasonable, and consider rather the delicacy and defer-
ence due to her condition, than insist upon the sacrifices
which, in more fortunate circumstances, I might have in-
agined due to myself. Still more indisposed to resist her
wish and expose myself to its penalty was I, when I con-
sidered her desire was the mere excess and caution of
her love, and when I felt that she spoke sincerely, when she
declared that it was only for me that she was the coward.
Nevertheless, and despite of all these considerations, it was
with a secret discontent that I took my leave of her, and
departed homeward.
ja
—
I had just reached the end of the street where the house
was situated, when I saw there, very imperfectly, for the
night was extremely dark, the figure of a man entirely
enveloped in a long cloak, such as was commonly worn by
gallants, in affairs of secrecy or intrigue; and in the paie
light of a single lamp near which he stood, something like
the brilliance of gems glittered on the large Spanish hat
which overhung his brow. I immediately recalled the de-
scription the woman had given me of Barnard's dress, and
the thought flashed across me that it was he whom I beheld.
"At all events," thought I, "I may confirm my doubts, if
may not communicate them, and I may watch over her
safety, if I may not avenge her injuries." I therefore took
advantage of my knowledge of the surrounding quartier,
passed the stranger with a quick step, and then, running
rapidly, returned by a circuitous route to the mouth of a
narrow and dark street, which was exactly opposite to
Isora's house. Here I concealed myself by a projecting
porch, and I had not waited long before I saw the dim form
of the stranger walk slowly by the house. He passed it
I
I had already ran my opponent through the sword arm,
and was in hopes that this act would intimidate the rest,
and allow my escape; but at the sound of my name and
political bias, coupled with the drawn blood of their con-
federate, the patriots rushed upon me with that amiable
fury generally characteristic of all true lovers of their coun-
try. Two swords passed through my body simultaneously,
and I fell bleeding and insensible to the ground. When I
recovered I was in my own apartments, whither two of the
gentler Mohawks had conveyed me; the surgeons were by
my bedside; I groaned audibly when I saw them. If
there is a thing in the world I hate, it is in any shape the
disciples of Hermes; they always remind me of that In
dian people (the Padæi, I think) mentioned by Herodo-
tus, who sustained themselves by devouring the sick. "Al
is well," said one, when my groan was heard.
not die," said another. "At least not till we have had
more fees," said a third, more candid than the rest.
thereupon they seized me, and began torturing my wounds
anew, till I fainted away with the pain. However, the
next day I was declared out of immediate danger; and the
first proof I gave of my convalescence was to make Desma-
rais discharge four surgeons out of five; the remaining one
I thought my youth and constitution might enable me to
endure.
"He will
And
That very evening, as I was turning restlessly in my
bed, and muttering, with parched lips, the name of "Iso-
ra," I saw by my side a figure covered from head to foot
in a long veil, and a voice low, soft, but thrilling through
my heart like a new existence, murmured, " She is here."
I forgot my wounds, I forgot my pain and my debility,
I sprung upward, the stranger drew aside the veil fro
her countenance, and I beheld Isora !
-
800
BULWER'S NOVELS
"Yes!" said she, in her own liquid and honeyed ac-
certs, which fell like balm upon my wound, and my spirit,
yes, she whom you have hitherto tended, is come, in her
turn, to render some slight, but woman's services to you.
She has come to nurse, and to soothe, and to pray for you,
and to be, till you yourself discard her, your handmaid and
your slave."
I would have answered, but raising her finger to her lips,
she rose and vanished; but from that hour my wound
healed, my fever slaked, and whenever I beheld her flitting
round my bed, or watching over me, or felt her cool fin-
gers wiping the dew from my brow, or took from her hand
my medicine, or my food, in those moments the blood
seemed to make a new struggle through my veins, and I
felt palpably within ne a fresh and delicious life - a life
full of youth, and passion, and hope - replace the vaguer
and duller being which I had hitherto borne.
-
con-
was one, and the one which had made upon her the mos
permanent impression, and perhaps had colored her tem
perament with its latent but rich hues of poetry,
stituted her amusement and her studies.
But who knows not that a woman's heart finds its fullest
occupation within itself? There lies its real study, and
within that narrow orbit, the mirror of enchanted thought
reflects the whole range of earth. There was it, that lone-
linéss and meditation nursed the mood which afterward,
with Isora, became love itself. But I do not wish now so
much to describe her character, as to abridge her brief
history. The first English stranger, of the male sex,
whom her father admitted to her acquaintance, was Bar-
nard. This man was, as I had surmised, connected with
him in certain political intrigues, the exact nature of which
she did not know. I continue to call him by a name
which Isora acknowledged was fictitious. He had never,
by actual declaration, betrayed to her his affections:
though, accompanied by a sort of fierceness which early
revolted her, they soon became visible. On the evening a
which I had found her stretched insensible in the garden,
and had myself made my first confession of love, I learn
that he had divulged to her his passion and real name;
that her rejection had thrown him into a fierce despair;
that he had accompained his disclosure with the most ter-
rejected, and against the safety of her father, whoin he
said a word of his could betray; that her knowledge of his
power to injure us, us, yes, Isora then loved me, and
then trembled for my safety, had terrified and overcome
her; and that in the very moment in which my horse's
hoofs were heard, and as the alternative of her non-compli-
ance, the rude suitor swore deadly and sure vengeance
against Alvarez and myself, she yielded to the oath he
prescribed to her, an oath that she would never reveal
the secret he had betrayed to her, or suffer me to know
who was my real rival.
There are some extraordinary incongruities in that very
mysterious thing sympathy. One would imagine that in a
description of things most generally interesting to all men,
the most general interest would be found; nevertheless, I be-
eve few persons would hang breathless over the progressive
history of a sick bed. Yet those gradual stages from dan-
ger to recovery, how delightfully interesting they are to all
who have crawled from one to the other! and who, at
some time or other, in his journey through that land of dis-rible threats against me, for whom he supposed himself
eases - civilized life- has not taken that gentle excur-
sion ? "I would be ill any day for the pleasure of getting
well," said Fontenelle to me one morning with his usual
naiveté; but who would not be ill for the mere pleasure of
being ill, if he could be tended by her whom he most
loves?
I shall not therefore dwell upon that most delicious pe-
riod of my life.—my sick bed, and my recovery from it.
I pass on to a certain evening in which I heard from Iso-
ra's lips the whole of her history, save what related to her
knowledge of the real name of one whose persecution con-
stituted the little of romance which had yet mingled with her
innocent and pure life. That evening,- how well I re-
member it! we were alone,- still weak and reduced, I lay
upon the sofa beside the window, which was partially open,
and the still air of an evening in the first infancy of spring,
came fresh, and fraught, as it were, with a prediction of
the glowing woods, and the reviving verdure, to my cheek.
The stars one by one kindled, as if born of heaven and twi-
light, into their nightly being; and through the vapor and
thick ether of the dense city, streamed their most silent light,
holy and pure, and resembling that which the Divine mercy
sheds upon the gross nature of mankind. But shadowy
and calm, their rays fell full upon the face of Isora, as she
ay on the ground beside my couch, and with one hand sur-
rendered to my clasp, looked upward till, as she felt my
gaze, she turned her cheek blushingly away. There was
quiet around and above us; but beneath the window we
heard, at times, the sound of the common earth, and then
insensibly our hands knit into a closer clasp, and we felt
them thrill more palpably to our hearts; for those sounds
reminded us both of our existence, and of our separation
rom the great herd of our race.
This was all that I could gather from her guarded con-
fidence; he heard the oath, and vanished, and she felt no
more till she was in my arms; then it was that she saw, in
the love and vengeance of my rival, a barrier against our
union; and then it was that her generous fear for me con-
quered her attachment, and she renounced me. Their de-
parture from the cottage so shortly afterward, was at her
father's choice and at the instigation of Barnard, for the
furtherance of their political projects; and it was from
Barnard that the money came which repaid my loan to Al-
The same person, no doubt, poisoned her father
against me, for henceforth Alvarez never spoke of me
with that partiality he had done before. They repaired to
London; her father was often absent, and often engaged
with men whom she had never seen before; he was ab-
sorbed and uncoinmunicative, and she was still ignorant of
the nature of his schemings and designs.
varez.
At length, after an absence of several weeks, Barnard
re-appeared, and his visits became constant; he renewed
his suit to her father as well as herself. Then commenced
that domestic persecution, so common in this very tyran-
nical world, which makes us sicken to hear, and which,
What is love but a division from the world, and a blend- had Isora been wholly a Spanish gir., she in all probabil-
ing of two souls, two immortalities divested of clay and ity, would never have resisted. so much of custom is there
ashes, into one? it is a severing of a thousand ties from in the very air of a climate. But she did resist it, partly
whatever is harsh and selfish, in order to knit them into a
because she loved me, and loved me more and more for
single and sacred bond! Who loves hath attained the an- our separation, and partly because she dreaded and ab-
chorite's secret; and the hermitage has become dearer horred the ferocious and malignant passions of my rival,
than the world. O respite from the toil and curse of our far beyond any other misery with which fortune could
social and banded state, a little interval art thou, suspend-threaten her. "Your father then shall hang or starve!” said
ed between two eternities, the past and the future,― a
star that hovers between the morning and the night, send-
ing through the vast abyss one solitary ray from heaven,
sut too far and faint to illumine while it hallows the
earth.
There was nothing in Isora's tale which the reader has
not already learnt, or conjectured. She had left her Anda-
lusian home in her early childhood, but she remembered it
well, and lingeringly dwelt over it, in description. It
was evident that little, in our colder and less genial isle,
had attracted her sympathy, or wound itself into her af-
fection. Nevertheless, I conceive that her naturally dreamy
and abstracted character had received from her resi-
dence and her trials here, much of the vigor and the he-
roism which it now possessed. Brought up alone, music
and books, few, though not ill chosen, for Shakspeare
From
Barnard, one day in uncontrollable frenzy, and left her.
He did not appear again at the house. The Spani:d'a
resources, fed, probably, alone by Barnard, failed.
house to house they removed, till they were reduced to that
humble one in which I had found them. There Barnard
again sought them; there, backed by the powerful advo
cate of want, he again pressed his suit, and at that exact
moment, her father was struck with the numbing curse of
his disease. "There and then," said Isora candidly, "I
might have yielded at last, for my poor father's sake, it
you had not saved me."
Once only, (I have before recorded the time,) did Bar-
nard visit her in the new abode I had provided for her,
and the day after our conversation on that event, Isora
watched and watched for me, and I did not. come. From
the woman of the house she at last learned the cause
DEVEREUX.
30
you,
"I forgot," she said timidly, and in conclusion, "I
forget womanhood, and modesty, and reserve; I forgot the
customas of your country, the decencies of my own;
I forgot every thing in this world, but you,
suffering and in danger; my very sense of existence
seemed to pass from me, and to be supplied by a breathless,
confused, and overwhelming sense of impatient agony,
which ceased not, till I was in your chamber, and by your
side! And and now, Morton, do not despise me for not
having considered more, and loved you less."
Despise you!" I murmured, and I threw my arms
around her, and drew her to my breast. I felt her heart
beat against my own: those hearts spoke though our lips
were silent, and their language seemed to say,
united now, and we will not part."
"We ar
The starlight, shining with a mellow and deep stillness
was the only light by which we beheld each other; it shone
the witness and the sanction of that internal voice, which
we owned but heard not. Our lips drew closer and closer
together, till they met! and in that kiss, was the type and
promise of the after ritual which knit two spirits into one.
Silence fell around us like a curtain, and the eternal night,
with her fresh dews and unclouded stars, looked alone
- an emblem of the eter-
upon the compact of our hearts,
nity, the freshness, and the unearthly, though awful bright,
ness of the love which it hallowed and beheld.
BOOK III
CHAPTER I.
—
Wherein the history makes great progress, and is marked by that unknown region which spreads beyond this great net;
one important event in human life.
SPINOSA is said to have loved, above all other amuse-
ments, to put flies into a spider's web; and the struggles
of the imprisoned insects were wont to bear, in the eyes of
this grave philosopher, so facetious and hilarious an appear-
ance, that he would stand and laugh thereat until the tears
*
>>
- we attempt to
step is accompanied with danger, -we look round and
above in despair, suddenly we feel within us a new im-
pulse and a new power!- we feel a vague sympathy with
that limitless beyond hath a mystic affinity with a part of
our own frame, we unconsciously extend our wings
(for the soul to us is the wings to the fly,)
to soar above this perilous snare, from which we
rise,
are unable to crawl. The old spider watcheth us in self-
hugging quiet, and, looking up to our native air, we think,
Out on it! We rise not a
-now shall we escape thee.
hair's breadth, we have the wings, it is true, but the feet
are fettered. We strive desperately again, the whole
web vibrates with the effort, it will break beneath our
strength. Not a jot of it!
tangled than ever! wings, feet, frame, the foul slime
where shall we turn every line of the web
is over all!
leads to the one den, we know not, we care not,
grow blind, confused, lost The eyes of our hideous
foe gloat upon us,—
she whetteth her insatiate maw,
leapeth towards us, she fixeth her fangs upon us, and so
endeth my parallel !
M
we cease, we are more en-
—
we
she
But what has this to do with my tale? Ay, reader, that
is thy question; and I will answer it by oue of mine.
When thou hearest a man moralize and preach of fate, art
thou not sure that he is going to tell thee of some one of
his peculiar misfortunes? Sorrow loves a parable as much
as mirth loves a jest. And thus, already and from afar, I
prepare thee, at the commencement of this, the third of
those portions into which the history of my various and
philos-wild life will be divided, for that event with which I pur-
pose that the said portion shall be concluded.
"coursed one another down his innocent nose.' Now it
so happeneth, that Spinosa, despite the general (and, in my
most meek opinion, the just) condemnation of his theoret-
ical tenets, was, in character and in nature, according to
the voices of all who knew him, an exceedingly kind, hu-
mane, and benevolent biped; and it doth, therefore, seem
a little strange unto us grave, sober members of the unphi-
losophical of Todλo, that the struggles and terrors of these
little winged creatures should strike the good subtleist in a
point of view so irresistibly ludicrous and delightful. But,
for my part, I believe that that most imaginative and wild
speculator beheld in the entangled flies nothing more than a
living simile, an animated illustration,- of his own beloved
vision of necessity; and that he is no more to be consid-
ered cruel for the complacency with which he gazed upon
these agonized types of his system, than is Lucan for dwell-
ing, with a poet's pleasure, upon the many ingenious ways
with which that grand inquisitor of verse has contrived to
vary the simple operation of dying. To the bard, the
butchered soldier was only an epic ornament; to the philos-
opher, the murdered fly was only a metaphysical illustra-
tion. For, without being a fatalist, or a disciple of Baruch
de Spinosa, I must confess that I cannot conceive a greater
resemblance to our human and earthly state, than the penible
predicament of the devoted flies. Suddenly do we find our-
selves plunged into that vast web, the world; and even
as the insect, when he first undergoeth a similar accident of
necessity, standeth amazed and still, and only, by little and
little, awakeneth to a full sense of his situation; so also at
the first, abashed and confounded, we remain on the mesh
we are urged upon, ignorant, as yet, of the toils around us,
and the sly, dark, immitigable foe, that lieth in yonder nook,
already feasting her imagination upon our destruction.
Presently we revive, - we stir, -we flutter,
and fate,
that foe, the old arch-spider, that hath no moderation in
now fixeth one of her many eyes upon us, and
giveth us a partial glimpse of her laidly and grim aspect.
We pause in mute terror, - we gaze upon the ugly spectre,
so imperfectly beheld, the net ceases to tremble, and the wily
enemy draws gently back into her nook. Now we begin to
breathe again, -we sound the strange footing on which we
tread, --we move tenderly along it, and again the grisly
monster advances on us ; again we pause,
not, but remains still, and surveyeth us;
her maw,
the foe retires
we see every
* One ought, however, to be very cautious before one con-
demns a philosopher. The master's opinions are generally pure:
It is the conclusions and corollaries of his disciples that "draw
the honey forth that drives men mad." Schlegel seems to have
#tudied Spinosa de fonte, und vindicates him very earuestly from
the charges br voht against him - atheism, &c. — ED.
-
—
wounds, and I am married to Isora!
It is now three months after my entire recovery from my
wounds, and I am married to Isora! - married, yes,
but privately married, and the ceremony is as yet closely
concealed. I will explain.
The moment Isora's anxiety for me led her across the
threshold of my house, it became necessary for her honor
that our wedding should take place immediately on my re-
covery: so far I was decided on the measure, now for
the method. During my illness, I received a long and most
affectionate letter from Aubrey, who was then at Devereux
-so affectionate was the heart-breathing spirit of
Court,
that letter, so steeped in all our old household remem
brances and boyish feelings, that, coupled as it was with a
certain gloom when he spoke of himself and of words
sins and trials, it brought tears to my eyes whenever I re-
curred to it; and many and many a time afterward,
did recur to it to convince myself that I was mistaken.
when I thought his affections seemed estranged from me, I
Shortly afterward I received also a brief epistle from my
uncle; it was as kind as usual, and it mentioned Aubrey's
return to Devereux Court: "That unhappy boy," said
Sir William, “is more than ever devoted to his religious
duties; nor do I believe that any priest-ridden poor devil,
in the dark ages, ever made such use of the scourge and
the penance.
Now, I have before stated that my uncle would, I knew,
be averse to my intended marriage; and on hearing that
Aubrey was then with him, I resolved, in replying to hia
802
BULWER'S NOVELS.
letter, to entreat the former to sound Sir William on the
subject I had most at heart, and ascertain the exact nature
and extent of the opposition I should have to encounter in
the step that I was resolved to take. By the same post I
wrote to the good old knight in as artful a strain as I was
able, dwelling at some length upon my passion, upon the
high birth, as well as the numerous good qualities of the
object, but mentioning not her name; and I added every
thing that I thought likely to enlist my uncle's kind and
warm feelings on my behalf. These letters produced the
following ones:
FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
M
"'SDEATH! nephew Morton, but I won't scold
thee, though thou deservest it. Let me see, thou art now
scarce twenty, and thou talkest of marriage, which is the
exclusive business of middle age, as familiarly as girls of
thirteen do of puppy dogs.' Marry! go hang thyself
rather. Marriage, my dear boy, is at the best a treacher-
ous proceeding; and a friend, -a true friend, will never
counsel another to adopt it rashly. Look you, — I have
had experience in these matters: and I think the moment
a woman is wedded, some terrible revolution happens in
her system; all her former good qualities vanish, hey pres-
to, like eggs out of a conjuror's box, 'tis true they ap-
pear on t'other side of the box, the side turned to other
people, but for the poor husband they are gone for ever.
Od's-fish, Morton, go to! I tell thee again that I have
had experience in these matters, which thou never hast
had, clever as thou thinkest thyself. If now it were a
good marriage thou wast about to make, - if thou wert
going to wed power, and money, and places at court, why,
something might be said for thee. As it is, there is no
And I am astonished how a boy of thy
sense could think of such nonsense. Birth, Morton, what
the devil does that signify, so long as it is birth in another
country? A foreign damsel, and a Spanish girl, too,
above all others! 'Sdeath, man, as if there was not
quicksilver enough in the English women for you, you must
make a mercurial exportation from Spain, must you!
Why, Morton, Morton, the ladies in that country are
proverbial. I tremble at the very thought of it.
But as
for my consent I never will give it, -never; and though I
threaten thee not with disinheritance and such like, yet I
do ask something in return for the great affection I have
always borne thee; and I make no doubt that thou wilt
readily oblige me in such a trifle as giving up a mere Span-
excuse, none.
ish donna. So think of her no more.
If thou wantest to
make love, there are ladies in plenty whom thou needest
not to marry. And for my part, I thought that thou wast
all in all with the Lady Hasselton, - heaven bless her
pretty face! Now don't think I want to scold thee, and
don't think thine old uncle harsh, God knows he is not;
but, my dear, dear boy, this is quite out of the question,
and thou must let me hear no more about it. The gout
cripples me so, that I must leave off. Ever thine own old
uncle,
"WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
|
ner, broke off to point out to me the extreme danger to my
interests that it would be to disoblige my uncle; who,
despite his general kindness, would, upon a disagreement
on so tender a matter as his sore point, and his most cher-
ished hobby, consider my disobedience as a personal af-
front. He also recalled to me all that my uncle had left
and done for me; and insisted, at all events, upon the ab-
solute duty of my delaying, even though I would not break
off, the intended measure. Upon these points he enlarged
much and eloquently; and this part of his letter certainly
left no cheering or comfortable impression upon my mind.
Now my good uncle knew as much of love, as L. Mum-
mius did of the fine arts,* and it was impossible to per-
suade him, that if one wanted to indulge the tender pas-
sion, one woman would not do exactly as well as another,
provided she were equally pretty. I knew, therefore, that
love for Isora, or, on the other, of acknowledging her
he was incapable, où the one hand, of understanding my
claims upon me. I had not, of course, mentioned to him
the generous imprudence which, on the news of my wound,
had brought Isora to my house; for if I had done so, my
uncle, with the eye of a courtier of Charles II., would
only have seen the advantage to be derived from the impro-
priety, not the gratitude due to the devotion; neither had
I mentioned this circumstance to Aubrey; it seemed to me
too delicate for any written communication; and therefore,
in his advice to delay my marriage, he was unaware of
that necessity which rendered the advice unavailing. Now,
then, was I in this dilemma, either to marry, and that
instanter, and so, seemingly, with the most hasty and the
most insolent decorum, incense, wound, and in his inter-
pretation of the act, contemn one whom I loved as I loved
my uncle, or, to delay the marriage, to separate from Isora,
and to leave my future wife to the malignant consequences
that would necessarily be drawn from a sojourn of weeks in
my house. This fact, there was no chance of concealing;
servants, the rascals, how I loathe them ! — have more
tongues than Argus had eyes, and my youthful extrava-
gance had filled my whole house with those pests of society.
The latter measure was impossible, the former was most
painful. Was there no third way? there was that of a
private marriage. This obviated not every evil; but it
removed many it satisfied my impatient love, it placed
Isora under a sure protection, it secured and established
her honor the moment the ceremony should be declared,
and it avoided the seeming ingratitude and indelicacy of
disobeying my uncle, without an effort of patience to ap-
pease him. I should have time and occasion then, I
winning that consent which I firmly trusted I should sooner
thought, for soothing and persuading him, and ultimately
or later extract from his kindness of heart.
K
G
That some objections existed to this mediatory plan, was
true enough those objections related to Isora rather than
to myself, and she was the first, on my hinting at the
pro-
posal, to overcome its difficulties. The leading feature in
Isora's character was generosity; and, in truth, I know
not a more dangerous quality, either to man or woman.
Herself was invariably the last human being whom she
seemed to consider: and no sooner did she ascertain what
"P.S. Upon consideration, I think, my dear boy, that
thou must want money, and thou art ever too sparing.mediately became that upon which she insisted. Would it
measure was the most prudent for me to adopt, than it im-
Messrs. Child, or my goldsmiths in Aldersgate, have my have been possible for me,
orders to pay to thy hand's writing whatever thou mayest world as I was thought to be,
-man of pleasure and of the
-no, my good uncle, though
desire; and I do hope that thou wilt now want nothing to
it went to my heart to wound thee so secretly, it would not
make thee merry withal. Why dost thou not write a
have been possible for me, even if I had not coined my
comedy? is it not the mode still?"
whole nature into love; even if Isora had not been to me,
what one smile of Isora's really was, it would not have been
possible to have sacrificed so noble and so divine a heart,
and made myself, in that sacrifice, a wretch for ever. No,
my good uncle, I could not have made that surrender to
thy reason, much less to thy prejudices. But if I have not
done great injustice to the knight's character; I doubt
whether even the youngest reader will not forgive him for a
want of sympathy with one feeling, when they consider how
susceptible that charming old man was to all others.
LETTER FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX.
But
"I HAVE sounded my uncle, dearest Morton, according
to your wishes; and I grieve to say that I have found bim
inexorable. He was very much hurt by your letter to him,
and declared he should write to you forthwith upon the sub-
⚫ect. I represented to him all that you have said upon the
virtues of your intended bride; and I also insisted upon
and I also insisted upon
your clear judgment and strong sense upon most points,
being a sufficient surety for your prudence upon this.
you know the libertine opinions, and the depreciating
judgment of women, entertained by my poor uncle; and
he would, I believe, have been less displeased with the
neinous crime of an illicit connexion, than the amiable
weakness of an imprudent marriage; I might say, of any
marriage, until it was time to provide heirs to the estate.
Here Aubrey, ir the most affectionate and earnest man-
"
And herewith I could discourse most excellent wisdom
upon that most mysterious passion of love. I coud show,
by tracing its causes, and its inseparable connexion with.
the imagination, that it is only in certain states of society,
as well as in certain periods of life, that love— real, pure,
* A Roman consul, who, removing the most celebrated
remains of Grecian antiquity to Rome, assured the persons
charged with conveying them that if they injured any, they
should make others to replace them.
DEVEREUX.
303
aigh love
-can be born. Yea, I could prove to the nicety
of a very problem, that in the court of Charles II., it would
have been as impossible for such a feeling to find root, as it
would be for myrtle trees to effloresce from a Duvillier peri-
wig. And we are not to expect a man, however tender and
affectionate he may be, to sympathize with that sentiment
in another, which, from the accidents of birth and position,
nothing short of a miracle could ever have produced in him-
self.
for me, and requesting me to meet her at an appointed place.
I looked twice over the letter, and discovered, in one corner
of it, two g's peculiar to the calligraphy of Lady Hasselton,
though the rest of the letter (bad spelling excepted) was
pretty decently disguised. Mr. Fielding was with me at
the time; "What disturbs you?" said he, adjusting his
knee-buckles.
"Read it!” said I, handing him the letter.
ઃઃ
Body of me, you are a lucky dog!" cried the bear
"You will hasten thither on the wings of love.”
"Not a whit of it," said I; "I suspect that it comes
from a rich old widow, whom I hate mortally."
We were married then in private by a Catholic priest.
St. John, and one old lady who had been my father's god-
mother, for I wished for a female assistant in the cere-
mony; and this old lady could tell no secrets, for being ex- "A rich old widow!" repeated Mr. Fielding, to whose
cessively deaf, nobody ever talked to her, and indeed she eyes there was something very piquant in a jointure, and
carcely ever went abroad, were the sole witnesses. I who thought consequently that there were few virginal equal
teɔk a small house in the immediate neighborhood of Lon- to a widow's flower's weeds. "A rich old widow, you
don; it was surrounded on all sides with a high wall which are right, count, you are right. Don't go, don't think of it.
defied alike curiosity and attack. This was, indeed, the I cannot abide those depraved creatures. Widow, indeed,
sole reason which had induced me to prefer it to many more quite an affront to your gallantry."
gaudy or more graceful dwellings. But within, I had
furnished it with every luxury that wealth, the most lavish
and unsparing, could procure. Thither, under an assumed
name, I brought my bride, and there was the greater part
of my
time spent. The people I had placed in the house
believed I was a rich merchant, and this accounted for my
frequent absences, (absences which prudence rendered
necessary,) for the wealth which I lavished, and for the
precautions of bolt, bar, and wall, which they imagined the
result of commercial caution.
O! the intoxication of that sweet Elysium, that Tadmor
in life's desert, - the possession of the one whom we have
first loved! It is as if poetry, and music, and light, and
the fresh breath of flowers, were all blent into one being,
and from that being rose our existence! It is content made
rapture, nothing to wish for, yet every thing to feel!
Was that air, the air which I had breathed hitherto
that earth, the earth which I had hitherto beheld? No,
my heart dwelt in a new world, and all these motley and
restless senses were melted into one sense, -deep, silent,
fathomless delight!
M
Well, too much of this species of love is not fit for a
worldly tale, and I will turn, for the reader's relief, to
worldly affections. From my first reunion with Isora, I
had avoided all the former objects and acquaintances in
which my time had been so charmingly employed. Tarleton
was the first to suffer by my new pursuit; "What has
altered you?" said he;" you drink not, neither do you
play. The women say you are grown duller than a Norfolk
parson, and neither the Puppet Show, nor the Water
Theatre, the Spring Gardens, nor the Ring, Wills's, nor
the Kit-Cat, the Mulberry Garden, nor the New Exchange,
witness any longer your homage and devotion. What has
come over you ?-speak!"
ઃઃ
<<
Apathy!"
go
"Ah! I understand; you are tired of these things,
-pish, man! — go down into the country, the green fields
will revive thee, and send thee back to London a new man!
One would indeed find the town intolerably dull, if the
country were not, happily, a thousand times duller,
to the country, count, or I shall drop your friendship."
Drop it!" said I, yawning, and Tarleton took pet,
and did as I desired him. Now had I got rid of my friend
as easily as I had found him, -a matter that would not
have been so readily accomplished, had not Mr. Tarleton
owed me certain moneys, concerning which, from the
moment he had "dropped my friendship," good breeding
effectually prevented his saying a single syllable to me ever
after. There is no knowing the blessings of money until
one has learnt to manage it properly.
So much, then, for the friend; now for the mistress.
Lady Hasselton nad, as Tarleton hinted before, resolved to
play me a trick of spite; the reasons of our rupture really
were, as I had stated to Tarleton, the mighty effects of
little things. She lived in a sea of trifles, and she was
desperately angry if her lover was not always sailing a
pleasure boat in the same ocean. Now this was expecting
too much from me, and after twisting our silken strings of
attachment into all manner of fantastic forms, we fell fairly
out one evening and broke the little ligatures in two. No
Booner had I quarrelled with Tarleton, than Lady Hassel-
tou received him in my place, and a week afterward I was
favored with an anonymous letter, informing me of the vio-
lent passion which a certain dame de la cour had conceived
ઃઃ
Very true," said I. Suppose you supply my place ?""
"I'd sooner be shot first," said Mr. Fielding, taking his
departure, and begging me for the letter to wrap some
sugar plums in.
Need I add, that Mr. Fielding repaired to the place of
assignation, where he received, in the shape of a hearty
drubbing, the kind favors intended for me? The story was
now left for me to tell, not for the Lady Hasselton, and
that makes all the difference in the manner a story is told,-
me narrante, it is de te fabula narratur, te narrante, and
it is de me fabula, &c. Poor Lady Hasselton! to be laughed
at, and have Tarleton for a lover. Quelle miserable!
I have gone back somewhat in the progress of my history,
in order to make the above honorable mention of my friend
and my mistress, thinking it due to their own merits, and
thinking it may also be instructive to young gentlemen who
have not yet seen the world, to testify the exact nature and
the probable duration of all the loves and friendships they
are likely to find in that Great Monmouth Street of glitter-
ing and of damaged affections! I now resume the order
of narration.
I wrote to Aubrey, thanking him for his intercession, but
concealing, till we met, the measure I had adopted. I
wrote also to my uncle, assuring him that I would take an
early opportunity of hastening to Devereux Court, and con-
versing with him on the subject of his letter. And, after
an interval of some weeks, I received the two following
answers from my correspondents; the latter arrived several
days after the former.
FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX.
"I am glad to understand from your letter, unexplana-
tory as it is, that you have followed my advice. I will
shortly write to you more at large; at present I am on the
eve of my departure for the north of England, and have
merely time to assure you of my affection.
AUBREY DEVEREUX.
P. S. "Gerald is in London, have you seen him?
O this world! this world! how it clings to us, despite our
education, our wishes, our conscience, our knowledge of
the dread hereafter ! "
LETTER FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
"MY DEAR NEPHEW,- Thank thee for thy letter, and
the new play thou sentest me down, and that droll new pa-
per, the Spectator; it is a pretty shallow thing enough,
though it is not so racy as Rochester, or little Sid would
have made it; but I thank thee for it, because it shows thou
wast not angry with thine old uncle for opposing thee on
thy love whimsies, (on which most young men are dread-
fully obstinate,) since thou didst provide so kindly for sis
amusement. Well, but, Morton, I hope thou hast got that
crotchet clear out of thy mind, and prithee now don't talk of
it when thou comest down to see me. I hate conversations
on marriage more than a boy does flogging, od's-fish, I
do. So you must humor me on that point.
CC
not
Aubrey has left me again, and I am quite alone,
that I was much better off when he was here, for he was
wont, of late, to shun my poor room like a ‘lazar-house,'
and when I spoke to his mother about it, she mutterea
something about ´example,' and 'corrupting.' 'Sdeath,
Morton, is your old uncle, who loves all living things, down
poor Ponto the dog, the sort of man whose example cor
rupts youth? As for thy mother, she grows more solita.
to
304
BULWER'S NOVELS.
every day; and I don't know how it is, but I am not so fond
of strange faces as I used to be. 'Tis a new thing for me to
be avoided and alone. Why, I remember even little Sid,
who had as much venom as most men, once said it was im-
possible to, Fie now
see if I was not going to preach
a sermon from a text in favor of myself. But come, Morton,
come, I long for your face again; it is not so soft as Au-
brey's, nor so regular as Gerald's, but it is twice as kind as
either Come, before it is too late; I feel myself going;
and, to tell thee a secret, the doctors tell me I
may not last
many months longer. Come, and laugh once more at the
old knight's stories. Come, and show him that there is
still some one not too good to love him. Come, and I will |
tell thee a famous thing of old Rowley, which I am too ill
and too sad to tell thee now.
"WM. DEVEREUX."
Need I say, that, upon receiving this letter, I resolved,
without any delay, to set out for Devereux Court? I sum-
moned Desmarais to me; he answered not my call; he was
from home —an unfrequent occurrence with the necessita-
rian valet. I waited his return, which was not for some
hours, in order to give him sundry orders for my departure.
The exquisite Desmarais hemmed thrice
"Will mon-
sieur be so very kind as to excuse my accompanying him ?"
said he, with his usual air and tone of obsequious respect.
"And why?" The valet explained. A relation of his
was in England only for a few days, the philosopher was
most anxious to enjoy his society, -
- a pleasure which fate
might not again allow him.
Though I had grown accustomed to the man's ser-
vices, and did not like to lose him even for a time, yet I
could not refuse his request; and I therefore ordered my
groom of the chambers to supply his place. This change,
however, determined me on a plan which I had before med-
itated, viz. the conveying of my own person to Devereux
Court on horseback, and sending my servant with my lug
gage in my post-chaise. The equestrian mode of travelling
is, indeed, to this day, the one most pleasing to ine; and
the reader will find me pursuing it many years afterward,
and to the same spot.
I might as well observe here, that I had never intrusted
Desmarais, no, nor one of my own servants, with the sc-
cret of my marriage with, or my visits to, Isora.
I am a
very fastidious person on those matters, and of all confi-
dants, even in the most trifling affairs, I do most eschew
those base, lie-coining, grasping, selfish, alley-souled ani-
mals, by whom we have the miserable honor to be served.
Even Desmarais, whose air was that of a nobleman, and
whose intellect was that of a scholar, was ruined in my eyes
oy his profession. There is altogether something so debas-
ing, so demoralizing in that same profession, that if I
wanted any thing to convince me of the necessity there is
'or a reform in the various constitutions of society, it would
be the relation between master and servant.
In order, then, to avoid having my horse brought me to
Isora's house, by any of these menial spies, I took the
steed which I had selected for my journey, and rode to
Isora's, with the intention of spending the evening there,
and commencing my excursion from thence with the morn-
ing light.
CHAPTER II.
Love. Parting. A death-bed.
—
-After all, human nature is a
beautiful fabric; and even its imperfections are not odious to
him who has studied the science of its architecture, and
formed a reverent estimate of its Creator
to the quiet and remote dwelling I had procure er, my
heart beat so vehemently, and my agitation was so intense,
that on arriving at the gate I have frequently been unable
for several minutes to demand admittance. There was,
therefore, in the mysterious danger which ever seemed to
hang over Isora, a perpetual irritation to a love otherwise
but little inclined to slumber; and this constant excitement
took away from the torpor into which domestic affection
generally languishes, and increased my passion even while
it diminished my happiness.
On my arrival now at Isora's I found her already sta.
tioned at the window, watching for my coming. How her
dark eyes lit into lustre when they saw me! How the
rich blood mantled up under the soft cheek which feeling
had refined of late into a paler hue, than it was wont,
when I first gazed upon it, to wear! Then how fled her
light step to meet me! How trembled her low voice to
welcome me! How spake, from every gesture of her grace-
ful and modelled form, the anxious, joyful, all-animating
It is a melancholy pleasure o the
gladness of her heart !
dry, harsh, after-thoughts of later life, to think one has
been thus loved; and one marvels, when one considers what
one is now,
how it could have ever been ! That love of
ours was never made for after years! It could never have
flowed into the common and cold channel of ordinary af-
fairs! It could never have been mingled with the petty
cares and the low objects with which the loves of all who
live long together in this sordid and most earthly earth, are
sooner or later blended! We could not have spared to
others an atom of the great wealth of our affection. We
were misers of every coin in that exhaustless treasury. It
would have pierced me to the soul to have seen Isora smile
upon
another. I know not, even, had we had children, if
I should not have been jealous of
I should not have been jealous of my child! Was this
selfish love? yes, it was intensely, wholly selfish ; but it
smaller scale polluted it. There was not on earth that
was a love made so only by its excess; nothing selfish on a
which the one would not have forfeited at the lightest de-
entwined together, that I could form no momentary idea of
sire of the other. So utterly were happiness and Isora
the former, with which the latter was not connected.
this love made for the many miry roads through which man
must travel? Was it made for age, or worse than age, for
that middle, cool, ambitious, scheming period of life, in
which all the luxuriance and verdure of things are pared
into tame shapes that mimic life, but a life that is estranged
from nature, in which art is the only beauty, and regu
No, in my heart of hearts, I feel
larity the only grace ?
that our love was not meant for the stages of life through
which I have already passed; it would have made us mis-
erable to see it fritter itself away, and to remember what
it once was. Better as it is! better to mourn over the
green bough than to look upon the sapless stem. You who
now glance over these pages, are you a mother? if so, an-
swer me one question, Would you not rather that the
child whom you have cherished with your soul's care, whom
you
Was
have nurtured at your bosoin, whose young joys your
eyes have sparkled to behold, whose lightest grief you have
wept to witness, as you would have wept not for your own;
over whose pure and unvexed sleep you have watched and
prayed, and as it lay before you thus still and unconscious
of your vigil, have shaped out, O such bright hopes for its
future lot; would you not rather that, while thus young and
innocent, not a care tasted, not a crime incurred, it went
down at once into the dark grave? Would you not rather
suffer this grief, bitter though it be, than watch the predes-
tined victim grow and ripen, and wind itself more and
more around your heart, and when it is of full and mature
age, and you yourself are stricken by years, and can form no
It is a noticeable thing how much fear increases love. new ties to replace the old that are severed, when woes have
I mean - for the aphorisin requires explanation how already bowed the darling of your hope, whom woe never
much we love, in proportion to our fear of losing (or even was to touch, when sins have already darkened the bright,
to our fear of injury done to) the beloved object. 'Tis an seraph, unclouded heart which sin never was to dim, be-
instance of the reaction of the feelings, the love produces hold it sink day by day altered, diseased, decayed, into the
the fear, and the fear reproduces the love. This is one tomb which its childhood had in vain escaped! Answer
reason, among many, why women love so much more
me: would not the earlier fate be far gentler than the last?
tenderly and anxiously than we do; and it is also one rea- And if you have known and wept over that early tomb,
son among many, why frequent absences are, in all stages if you have seen the infant flower fade away from the green
of love, the most keen exciters of the passion I never soil of your affections, if you have missed the bounding
breathed, away from Isora, without trembling for her safe-step, and the laughing eye, and the winning mirth which
ty. I trembled lest this Barnard, if so I should still con-
tinue to call her persecutor, should again discover and again
molest her. Whenever (and that was almost daily) I rode
made this sterile world a perpetual holyday, - Mother of
the lost, if
the lost, if you have known, and you still pine for these,
auswer me yet again, - - Is it not a comfort, even while you
DEVEREUX.
805
mourn, to think of all that that breast, now so silent, has
escaped ? The cream, the sparkle, the elixir of life, it
had already quaffed; is it not sweet to think it shunned the
wormwood and the dregs? Answer me, even though the
answer be in tears! Mourner, your child was to you what
my early and only love was to me; and could you pierce
down, down through a thousand fathom of ebbing thought,
to the far depths of my heart, you would there behold a
sorrow and a consolation, that have something in unison
with your own.
When the light of the next morning broke into our room,
Isora was still sleeping. Have you ever observed, that the
young, seen asleep and by the morning light, seem much
younger even than they are? partly because the air and
the light sleep of dawn bring a fresher bloom to the cheek,
and partly because the careless negligence and the graceful
postures exclusively appropriated to youth, are forbidden by
custom and formality through the day, and developing them-
selves unconsciously in sleep, they strike the eye like the
ease and freedom of childhood itself. The last of the above
reasons is not clear, I do not seek to clothe it in better
words, for it is not fully bodied forth to myself. But as I
looked upon Isora's tranquil and most youthful beauty, over
which there circled and breathed an ineffable innocence,
even as the finer and subtle air, which was imagined by
those dreamy bards who kindled the soft creations of naiad
and of nymph, to float around a goddess, I could not be-
lieve that aught evil awaited one for whom infancy itself
seemed to linger, linger as if no elder shape and less del-
icate hue were meet to be the garment of so much guileless-
ness and tenderness of heart. I felt, indeed, while I bent
over her, and her regular and quiet breath came upon my
cheek, that feeling which is exactly the reverse to a presen-
timent of ill. I felt as if, secure in her own purity, she had
nothing to dread, so that even the pang of parting was lost
in the confidence which stole over me as I then gazed.
I rose gently, went to the next room, and dressed myself.
I heard my horse neighing beneath, as the servant walked
him lazily to and fro. I re-entered the bed-chamber, in order
to take leave of Isora; she was already up. "What!" said
1, "it is but three minutes since I left you asleep, and I
stole away as gently as time does when with you.'
>>
"Ah said Isora, smiling and blushing too, "but for
my part, I think there is an instinct to know, even if all the
senses were shut up, whether the one we love is with us or
not. The moment you left me, I felt it at once, even in
sleep, and I woke. But you will not, no, you will not leave
me yet!"
I think I see Isora now, as she stood by the window
which she had opened, with a woman's minute anxiety, to
survey even the aspect of the clouds, and beseech caution
against the treachery of the skies. I think I see her now,
as she stood the moment after I had torn myself from her
embrace, and had looked back, as I reached the door, for
one parting glance - her eyes all tenderness, her lips part-
ed, and quivering with the attempt to smile
the long,
glossy ringlets (through whose raven hue, the purpureum
lumen broke like an imprisoned sunbeam) straying in dis-
hevelled beauty over her transparent neck; the throat hent
in mute despondency; the head drooping; the arms half ex-
tended, and dropping gradually as my steps departed; the
sunke, absorbed expression of face, form, and gesture, so
steeped in the very bitterness of dejection, all are before
me now, sorrowful, and lovely in sorrow, as they were
beheld years ago, by the gray, cold, comfortless light of
morning.
"God bless you
my own, own love," I said; and as
my look lingered, I added, with a full but an assured heart;
"and he will!" I tarried no more I flung myself on
my horse, and rode on as if I were speeding to, and not from
my bride.
The noon was far advanced, as the day after I left Isora,
I found myself entering the park in which Devereux Court
is situated. I did not enter by one of the lodges, but
through a private_gate. My horse was thoroughly jaded;
for the distance I had come was great, and I had ridden
rapidly; and as I entered the park, I dismounted, and
throwing the rein over my arm, proceeded slowly on foot.
I was passing through a thick, long plantation, which
belted the park, in which several walks and rides had been
cut, when a man crossed the same road which I took, at a
little distance before me. He was looking on the ground,
and appeared wrapt in such earnest meditation, that he,
VOL 1.
39
}
|
neither saw nor heard me. But I had seen enough of him
in that brief space of time, to feel convinced that it was
Montreuil whom I beheld. What brought him hither, him
whom I believed in London, immersed with Gerald in polit-
ical schemes, and for whom these woods were not only
interdicted ground, but must also have been but a tame
field of interest, after his audiences with ministers and
nobles! I did not, however, pause to consider on his appa-
rition; I rather quickened my pace toward the house, in
the expectation of there ascertaining the cause of his visit.
The great gates of the outer court were open as usual :
I rode unheedingly through them, and was soon at the door
of the hall. The porter, who unfolded to my summons the
ponderous door, uttered, when he saw me, an exclamation
that seemed to my ear to have in it more of sorrow than
welcome.
"How is your master?" I asked.
The man shook his head, but did not hasten to answer
and impressed with a vague alarm, I hurried on without
repeating the question. On the staircase I met old Nich-
olls, my uncle's valet: I stopped and questioned him. My
uncle had been seized on the preceding day with the gout in
his stomach, medical aid had been procured, but it was
feared ineffectually, and the physicians had declared, about
an hour before I arrived, that he could not, in human prob-
ability, outlive the night. Stifling the rising at my heart,
I waited to hear no more-I flew up the stairs — I was at
the door of my uncle's chamber-I stopped there, and lis-
tened; all was still-I opened the door gently- I stole
in, and creeping to the bedside, knelt down and covered
my face with my hands; for I required a pause for self-
possession, before I had courage to look up. When I raised
my eyes, I saw iny mother on the opposite side; she sat on
a chair with a draught of medicine in one hand, and a
watch in the other. She caught my eye, but did not speak ;
gave me a sign of recognition, and looked down again
upon the watch.
My uncle's back was turned to me, and
he lay so still, that for some moments I thought he was
asleep; at last, however, he moved restlessly.
she
"It is past noon!" said he to my mother, " is it not ?"
"It is three minutes and six seconds after four," replied
my mother, looking closer at the watch.
My uncle sighed. "They have sent an express for the
dear boy, madam ?" said he.
CC
Exactly at half past nine last evening," answered my
mother, glancing at me.
"He could scarce be here by this time," said my uncle,
and he moved again in the bed. "Pish, how the pillow
frets one.
"Is it too high?" said my mother.
No," said my uncle, faintly, "no, no, the dis-
comfort is not in the pillow, after all, — 'tis a fiue day, —
is it not?"
CC
out."
Very! "said my mother ; "I wish you could gɔ
"Od's-
My uncle did not answer: there was a pause
fish, madam, are those carriage wheels?"
"No, Sir William, but—”
"There are sounds in my ear,- my senses grow dim,"
sail my uncle, unheeding her, would that I might live
another day, I should not like to die without seeing him.
Sdeath, madam, I do hear something behind! — Sobs, as
I live! Who sobs for the old knight? and my uncle
turned round, and saw me.
My dear, dear uncle!" I said, and could say no
more.
CC
Ay, Morton," cried the kind old man, putting hus
hand affectionately upon mine. "Beshrew me, but I think
I have conquered the grim enemy now that you are come.
But what's this, my boy?- tears,— tears,
why little
Sid, no, nor Rochester either, would ever have believed
this if I had sworn it! Cheer up,
cheer up.
But seeing that I wept and sobbed the more, my uncle,
after a pause, continued in the somewhat figurative strain
which the reader has observed he sometimes adopted, and
which perhaps his dramatic studies had taught him.
that age
Nay, Morton, what do you grieve for?-
should throw off its fardel of aches and pains, and no
longer groan along its weary road, meeting cold looks
and unwilling welcomes, as both host and
grow
mrade
weary of the same face, and the spendthrift heart has no
longer quip or smile wherewith to pay the reckoning?
No, no, let the poor pedier shuffle of his dull pack,
306
BULWER S NOVELS
and fall asleep. But I am glad you are come: I would
sooner have one of your kind looks at your uncle's stale
saws or jests, than all the long faces about me, saving
only the presence of your mother;" and with his char-
acteristic gallantry, my uncle turned courteously to her.
"Dear Sir William!" said she, "it is time you should
take your draught; and then would it not be better that
you should see the chaplain, he waits without."
—
"Od's-fish," said my uncle, turning again to me, "'tis
the way with them all, when the body is past hope,
comes the physician, and when the soul is past mending,
comes the priest. No, madam, no, 'tis too late for either
-Thank ye, Morton, thank ye," (as I started up, took
the draught froin my mother's hand, and besought him to
drink it,)"'tis of no use; but if it pleases thee, I must,"
and he drank the medicine.
it was
My mother rose, and walked toward the door,
ajar, and, as my eye followed her figure, I perceived,
through the opening, the black garb of the chaplain.
"Not yet,"
"said she, quietly; "wait." And then glid-
ing away, she seated herself by the window in silence,
and told her beads.
My uncle continued:-"They have been at me, Morton,
as if I had been a pagan; and I believe, in their hearts,
they are not a little scandalized that I don't try to win the
next world, by trembling like an ague. Faith, now, I
never could believe that heaven was so partial to cowards;
nor can I think, Morton, that salvation is like a soldier's
muster roll, and that we may play the devil between hours,
so, that at the last moment, we whip in, and answer to our
names. Od's-fish, Morton, I could tell thee a tale of that;
but 'tis a long one, and we have not time now. Well,
well, for my part, I believe reverently and gratefully of
God, and do not think He will be very wroth with our
past enjoyment of life, if we have taken care that others
should enjoy it too; nor do I think, with thy good mother,
and Aubrey dear child, that an idle word has the same
weight in the Almighty's scales as a wicked deed.’
"Blessed, blessed are they," I cried, through my tears,
on whose souls there is as little stain as there is on
yours!"
"Faith, Morton, that's kindly said; and thou knowest
not how strangely it sounds, after their exhortations to
repentance. I know I have had my faults, and walked on
to our common goal in a very irregular line; but I never
wronged the living nor slandered the dead, nor ever shut
my heart to the poor, 'twere a burning sin if I had; and
I have loved all men and all things, and I never bore ill-
will to a creature. Poor Ponto, Morton, thou wilt take
care of poor Ponto, when I'm dead, nay, nay, don't
take on so. Go, my child, go, compose thyself while I
see the priest, for 'twill please thy poor mother; and
though she thinks harshly of me now, I should not like
her to do so to-morrow. Go, my dear boy, go."
I went from the room, and waited by the door, till the
office of the priest was over. My mother then came out,
and said Sir William had composed himself to sleep.
While she was yet speaking, Gerald surprised me by his
appearance. I learned that he had been in the house for
the last three days, and when I heard this, I involuntarily
accounted for the appearance of Montreuil. I saluted him
distantly, and he returned my greeting with the like pride.
He seemed, however, though in a less degree, to share, in
my emotions; and my heart softened to him for it. Never-
theless we stood apart, and met not as brothers should
have met by the death-bed of a mutual benefactor.
(4 Will you wait without?" said my mother.
So I
No," answered I, "I will watch over him."
stole in, with a light step, and seated myself by my uncle's
bedside. He was asleep, and his sleep was as hushed and
quiet as an infant's. I looked upon his face, and saw a
change had come over it, and was increasing sensibly;
but there was neither harshness nor darkness in the change,
awful as it was. The soul, so long nurtured on benevo-
lence, could not, in parting, leave a rude stamp on the
kindly clay which had seconded its impulses so well.
The evening had just set in, when my uncle woke; he
turned very gently, and smiled when he saw me.
"It is late!" said he, and I observed with a wrung
heart, that his voice was fainter.
“No, sir, not very," said I.
"Late enough, my child: the warm sun has gone down;
sad 't is a good time to close one's eyes, when all without
looks gray and chill: methinks it is easier to wish thee
farewell, Morton, when I see thy face indistinctly. I am
glad I shall not die in the daytime. Give me thy hand,
my child, and tell me that thou art not angry with thine old
heard tales of the girl, too, which make me glad for thy
uncle for thwarting thee in that love business. I have
sake, that it is all off, though I might not tell thee of them
before. 'Tis very dark, Morton. I have had a pleasant
sleep.- Od's-fish, I do not think a bad man would have
slept so well. The fire burns dim, Morton,-it is very
cold. Cover me up, double the counterpane over the
legs, Morton. I remember once walking in the Mal,-
little Sid said Devereux.' It is colder and colder, Mor-
ton, raise the blankets more over the back. Deve
reux,' said little Sid,- faith, Morton, 't is ice now,--
where art thou?-is the fire out, that I can't see thee!
Remember thine old uncle, Morton,- and, and, do n't
forget poor - Ponto! - Bless thee, my child,- bless you
all!"
And my uncle died '
CHAPTER III.
A great change of prospects.
T
•
I SHUT myself up in the apartments prepared for me,
(they were not those I had formerly occupied,) and re-
fused all participation in my solitude, till, after an interval
of some days, my mother came to summon me to the open-
ing of the will. She was more moved than I had ex-
pected. "It is a pity," said she, as we descended the
stairs, "that Aubrey is not here, and that we should be so
unacquainted with the exact place where he is likely to be,
that I fear the letter I sent him may be long delayed, or,
indeed, altogether miscarry."
"Is not the abbé here?"
"No!" answered my mother, " to be sure not."
"He has been here," said I, greatly surprised. "I cer·
tainly saw him on the day of my arrival.'
Impossible," said my mother, in evident astonishment,
and seeing that, at all events, she was unacquainted with
the circumstance, I said no more.
The will was to be read in the little room, where my
uncle had been accustomed to sit. I felt it as a sacrilege
to his memory to choose that spot for such an office, but I
said nothing. Gerald and my mother, the lawyer, (a
neighboring attorney named Oswald,) and myself, were the
only persons present; Mr. Oswald hemmed thrice, and
broke the seal.
broke the seal. After a preliminary, strongly character-
istic of the testator, he came to the disposition of the
estates. I had never once, since my poor uncle's death,
thought upon the chances of his will, indeed, knowing
myself so entirely his favorite, I could not, if I had thought
upon them, have entertained a doubt as to their result.
What then was my astonishment, when couched in terms
of the strongest affection, the whole bulk of the property
was bequeathed to Gerald; to Aubrey, the sum of forty,
to myself that of twenty thousand pounds, (a capital con-
siderably less than the yearly income of my uncle's princely
estates,) was allotted. Then followed a list of minor be-
quests,- -to my mother an annuity of three thousand year,
with the privilege of apartments in the house during her
life; to each of the servants legacies sufficient to render
them independent; to a few friends, and distant connex-
ions of the family, tokens of the testator's remembrance,-
even the horses to his carriage, and the dogs that fed from
his menials' table, were not forgotten, but were to be set
apart from work, and maintained in indolence during their
remaining span of life. The will was concluded, I could
not believe my senses: not a word was said as a reason
for giving Gerald the priority.
-
Mű
I rose calmly enough. "Suffer me, sir," said I to the
lawyer, " to satisfy my own eyes." Mr. Oswald bowed,
and placed the will in my hands. I glanced at Gerald as
I took it: his countenance betrayed, or feigned, an aston-
ishment equal to my own. With a jealous, searching, scru-
tinizing eye, I examined the words of the bequest; I ex-
amined especially (for I suspected that the names must have
been exchanged) the name in which my name and Ge-
rald's occurred. In vain all was smooth and fair to the
eye, not a vestige of possible erasure or alteration was vis-
ible. I looked next at the wording of the will: it was
DEVEREUX.
307
evidently my uncle's, no one could have feigned or im-
itated the peculiar turn of his expressions; and above all
many parts of the will, (the affectionate and personal
arts,) were in his own handwriting.
"The date,” said I, "is, I perceive, of very recent pe-
riod; the will is witnessed by two witnesses besides your-
self. Who, and where are they?"
"Robert Lister, the first signature, my clerk, he is since
dead, sir."
"Dead!" said I, " and the other witness, George Da-
vis?"
"Is one of Sir William's tenants, and is below, sir, in
waiting."
"Let him come up," and a middle sized, stout man,
with a blunt, bold, open countenance, was admitted.
"Did you witness this will?" said I.
"I did, sir."
"And this is your handwriting?" pointing to the
scarcely legible scrawl.
"Yees, sir," said the man, scratching his head. "I
think it be, they are my e's, and G, and D, sure enough.
"And do you know the purport of the will you signed?"
"Sir?"
G
"I mean, do you know to whom Sir William, stop,
Mr. Oswald, suffer the man to answer me to whom
Sir William left his property?"
"Noa, to be sure, sir; the will was a woundy long one,
and Maister Oswald there told me it was no use to read it
over to me, but merely to sign, as a witness to Sir William's
handwriting."
ished.
•
cr
Enough you may retire " and George Davis van-
"Mr. Oswald," said I, approaching the attorney, I
may wrong you, and, if so, I am sorry for it, but I suspect
there has been foul practice in this deed. I have reason to
be convinced that Sir William Devereux could never have
made this devise. I give you warning, sir, that I shall
bring the business immediately before a court of law, and
that if guilty of what, ay, tremble, sir, — I suspect, you
will answer for this deed at the foot of the gallows."
-
I turned to Gerald, who rose while I was yet speaking.
Before I could address him, he exclaimed, with evident and
extremne agitation,
-
"You cannot, Morton, you cannot, you dare not
insinuate that I, your brother, have been base enough to
forge, or to instigate the forgery of, this will?"
Gerald's agitation made me still less doubtful of his
guilt
"The case, sir," I answered coldly, "stands thus; my
uncle could not have made this will; it is a devise that will
seem incredible to all who knew aught of our domestic cir-
Fraud has been practised, how I know not!
by whom I do know!"
"Morton, Morton, this is insufferable, I cannot
bear such charges, even from a brother.'
cumstances.
"Charges! - your conscience speaks, sir, - not I ; no
one benefits by this frand but you : pardon me if I draw an
inference from a fact."
i
throwing obstacles in your way, I myself will join in the
inquiries you institute, and the expenses of the law."
I felt some difficulty in curbing my indignation while
Gerald thus spoke. I saw before me the persecutor of
Isora, the fraudulent robber of my rights, and I heard
this enemy speak to me of aiding in the inquiries which
were to convict himself of the basest, if not the blackest,
of human crimes; there was something too in the reserved
and yet insolent tone of his voice, which reminding me as
it did of our long aversion to each other, made my very
blood creep with abhorrence.
with abhorrence. I turned away, that I might
not break my oath to Isora, for I felt strongly tempted to
do so; and said in as calm an accent as I could command,
"The case will, I trust, require no king's evidence; and,
at least, I will not be beholden to the man whom my reason
condemns, for any assistance in bringing upon himself the
ultimate condemnation of the law."
Gerald looked at me sternly: "Were you not my
brother," said he, in a low tone," I would, for a charge so
dishonoring my fair name, strike you dead at my feet."
" that
"It is a wonderful exertion of fraternal love," I re-
joined, with a scornful laugh, but an eye flashing with pas-
sions a thousand times more fierce than scorn,
prevents your adding that last favor to those you have
already bestowed on me."
Gerald placed, with a muttered curse, his hand upon his
sword; my own rapier was instantly half drawn, when, to
save us from the great guilt of mortal contest against each
other, steps were heard, and a number of the domestics
charged with melancholy duties at the approaching rite,
were seen lowly sweeping in black robes along the oppo-
site gallery. Perhaps that interruption restored both of us
to our senses, for we said, almost in the same breath, and
nearly in the same phrase, "This way of terminating strife
is not for us;" and as Gerald spoke, he turned slowly
away, descended the staircase, and disappeared.
The funeral took place at night: a numerous procession
of the tenants and peasantry attended. My poor uncle !
there was not a dry eye for thee, but those of thine own
kindred. Tall, stately, erect in the power and majesty of
his unrivalled form, stood Gerald, already assuming the
dignity and lordship, which, to speak frankly, so well be-
came him; my mother's face was turned from me, but her
attitude proclained her utterly absorbed in prayer. As for
myself, my heart seemed hardened: I could not enfeoff to
the gaze of a hundred strangers, the emotions which I
would have hidden from those whom I loved the most;
wrapped in my cloak, with arms folded on my breast, and
eyes bent to the ground, I leaned against one of the pillars
of the chapel, apart, and apparently unmoved.
But when they were about to lower the body into the
vault, a momentary weakness came over me.
I made an
involuntary step forward, a single but deep groan of anguish
broke from me, and then covering my face with my mantle,
I resumed my former attitude, and all was still. The rite
was over; in many and broken groups the spectators passed
from the chapel : some to speculate on the future lord, some
to mourn over the late, and all to return the next morning
to their wonted business, and let the glad sun teach them to
forget the past, until for themselves the sun should be no
more, and the forgetfulness eternal.
The hour was so late that I relinquished my intention of
leaving the house that night: I ordered my horse to be in
readiness at daybreak, and before I retired to rest, I went
to my mother's apartments: she received me with more
feeling than she had ever testified before.
So saying, I turned on my heel, and abruptly left the
apartment. I ascended the stairs which led to my own:
there I found my servant preparing the paraphernalia in
which that very evening I was to attend my uncle's funeral.
I gave him, with a calm and collected voice, the necessary
instructions for following me to town immediately after that
event, and then I passed on to the room where the deceased
lay in state. The room was hung with black, the gorgeous
pil wrought with the proud heraldry of our line, lay over "Believe me, Morton," said she, and she kissed my fore-
the coffin, and by the lights which made, in that old cham- | head;
that old cham-head; "believe me, I can fully enter into the feelings which
ber, a more brilliant, yet more ghastly day, sat the hired
watchers of the dead.
I bade them leave me, and kneeling down beside the
coffin, I poured out the last expressions of my grief. I
rose, and was retiring once more to my room, when I en-
countered Gerald.
"Morton," said he, " I own to you, I myself am astound-
ed by my uncle's will. I do not come to make you offers,
you would not accept them; I do not come to vindicate
mysel,it is beneath me: and we have never been as
brothers, and we know not their language: but I do come
to demand you to retract the dark and causeless suspicions
you have vented against me, and also to assure you that if
you nave doubts of the authenticity of the will, so far from
|
you must naturally experience, on an event so contrary to
your expectations. I cannot conceal from you how much
I am surprised. Certainly Sir William never gave any of
us cause to suppose that he liked either of your brothers
Gerald less than Aubrey so much as yourself; nor, poor
man, was he in other things at all addicted to conceal his
opinions."
Have you
"It is true, my mother," said I; "it is true.
not therefore some suspicions of the authenticity of the
will?"
"Suspicions!” cried my mother. "No-impossible !
-suspicions of whom? You could not think Gerald so
base, and who else had an interest in deception? Besides,
the signature is undoubtedly Sir William's handwriting
308
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and the will was regularly witnessed; suspicions, Mor- |
ton-no, impossible! Reflect, too, how eccentric and
Reflect, too, how eccentric and
humorsome your uncle always was suspicions! -no, im-
possible !"
"Such things have been, my mother, nor are they uncom-
mon: men will hazard their souls, ay, and what to some is
more precious still, their lives too, for the vile clay we
call money. But enough of this now the law
:
that great
arbiter that eater of the oyster, and divider of its shells,
the law will decide between us, and if against me, as I
suppose and fear the decision will be why I must be a
suitor to fortune, instead of her commander. Give me your
blessing, my dearest mother; I cannot stay longer in this
house to-morrow I leave you."
And my mother did bless me, and I fell upon her neck
and clung to it. "Ah!" thought I, "this blessing is al-
most worth my uncle's fortune."
I returned to my room- there I saw on the table the
case of the sword sent me by the French king. I had left
it with my uncle, on my departure to town, and it had been
found among his effects and reclaimed by me. I took out
the sword, and drew it from the scabbard.
Come," said I, and I kindled with a melancholy, yet
a deep enthusiasm, as I looked along the blade, "come, my
bright friend, with thee, through this labyrinth, which we
call the world, will I carve my way! Fairest and speedi-
est of earth's levellers, thou makest the path from the low
valley to the steep hill, and shapest the soldier's axe into
the monarch's sceptre! The laurel, and the fasces, and |
the curule car, and the emperor's purple, what are these
but thy playthings, alternately thy scorn and thy reward?
Founder of all empires, propagator of all creeds, thou led- |
dest the Gaul and the Goth, and the gods of Rome and
Greece crumbled upon their altars! Beneath thee, the
fires of the Gheber waxed pale, and on thy point the badge
of the camel-driver blazed like a sun over the startled east!
Eternal arbiter, and unconquerable despot, while the pas-
sions of mankind exist! Most solemn of hypocrites,
circling blood with glory as with a halo, and consecrating
homicide and massacre with a hollow name, which the
parched throat of thy votary, in the battle, and the agony,
shouteth out with its last breath! Star of all human desti-
nies! I kneel before thee, and invoke from thy bright
astrology an omen and a smile."
CHAPTER IV.
tation and paleness of the attorney; the enormous advan
tages accruing to Gerald, and to no one else, from the terme
of the devise; when these were all united into one focus of
evidence, they appeared to me to leave no doubt of the
forgery of the testament, and the crime of Gerald. Nor
was there any thing in my brother's bearing and manner
calculated to abate my suspicious. His agitation was real;
his surprise might have been feigned; his offer of assistance
in investigation was an unmeaning bravado; his conduct
to myself testified his continued ill-will toward me
an ill.
will which might possibly nave instigated him in the fraud,
scarcely less than the whispers of interest and cupidity.
But while this was the natural and indelible impression
on my mind, I could not disguise from myself the extreme
difficulty I should experience in resisting my brother's
claim. As far as my utter want of all legal knowledge
would allow me to decide, I could perceive nothing in the
will itself which would admit of a lawyer's successful cavil:
my reasons for suspicion, so conclusive to myself, would
seein nugatory to a judge. My uncle was known as a
humorist; and prove that a man differs from others in one
thing, and the world will believe that he differs from them
in a thousand. His favor to me would be, in the popular
eye, only an eccentricity, and the unlooked-for disposition
of his will only a caprice. Possession, too, gave Gerald a
proverbial vantage ground, which my whole life might be
wasted in contesting; and his command of an immense
wealth might, more than probably, exhaust my spirit by de-
lay, and my fortune by expenses. Precious prerogative of
law to reverse the attribute of the Almighty! to fill the rich
with good things, but to send the poor empty away! In cur-
ruptissimâ republicâ plurimæ leges. Legislation perplexed,
is synonymous with crime unpunished. A reflection, by
the way, I should never have made, if I had never had a
lawsuit, sufferers are ever reformers.
Revolving, then, these anxious and unpleasing thoughts,
interrupted, at times, by regrets of a purer and less selfish
nature for the friend I had lost, and wandering, at others,
to the brighter anticipations of rejoining Isora, and drink.
ing from her eyes my comfort for the past, and my hope for
the future, I continued, and concluded my day's travel.
The next day, on resuming my journey, and on feeling
the time approach that would bring me to Isora, something
like joy became the most prevalent feeling on my mind
So true it is, that misfortunes little affect us, so long as we
have some ulterior object which, by arousing hope, steals
us from affliction. Alas! the pang of a moment becomes
intolerable, when we know of nothing beyond the moment,
which it soothes us to anticipate. Happiness lives in the
attack the present she defies you
An episode. --The son of the greatest man who (one only except-light of the future:-
ed) ever rose to a throne, but by no means of the greatest man
(save one) who ever existed.
BEFORE Sunrise the next morning, I had commenced
my return to London. I had previously intrusted to the
locum tenens of the sage Desmarais, the royal gift, and (sin-
gular conjunction !) poor Ponto, my uncle's dog. Here let
me pause, as I shall have no other opportunity to mention
him, to record the fate of the canine bequest. He accom-
panied me some years afterwards to France, and he died
there in extreme age.
I shed tears, as I saw the last relic
of my poor uncle expire, and I was not consoled even
though he was buried in the garden of the gallant Villars,
and immortalized by an epitaph from the pen of the courtly
Chaulieu.
Leaving my horse to select his own pace, I surrendered
myself to reflection upon the strange alteration that had
taken place in my fortunes. There did not, in my own
mind, rest a doubt but that some villany had been practised
with respect to the will. My uncle's constant and unvary-
ing favor toward me; the unequivocal expressions he him-
self from time to time had dropped indicative of his future.
intentions on my behalf; the easy and natural manner in
which he had seemed to consider, as a thing of course, my
heritage and succession to his estates; ail, coupled with the
frank and kindly character of my uncle, so little disposed
to raise hopes which he meant to disappoint, might alone
have been sufficient to arouse my suspicions at a devise so
But when
contrary to all past experience of the testator.
to these were linked the bold temper and the daring intel-
lect of my brother, joined to his personal hatred to myself;
nis close intimacy with Montreuil, whom I believed capable
of the darkest designs; the sudden and evidently concealed
appearance of the latter on the day my uncle died; the agi-
|
Darken the future, and you destroy her.
It was a beautiful morning: through the vapors, which
rolled slowly away beneath his beams, the sun broke glori-
ously forth; and over wood and hill, and the low plains
which, covered with golden corn, stretched immediately be-
fore ine, his smile lay in stillness, but in joy. And ever
from out the brake and the scattered copse, which at fre-
quent intervals beset the road, the merry birds sent a fitful
and glad music to mingle with the sweets and freshness of
the air.
I had accomplished the greater part of my journey, and
had entered into a more wooded and garden-like description
of country, when I perceived an old man, in a kind of low
chaise, vainly endeavouring to hold in a little but spirited
horse, which had taken alarm at some object on the road,
and was running away with its driver. The age of the
gentleman, and the lightness of the chaise, gave me some
alarm for the safety of the driver; so tying my own horse
to a gate, lest the sound of his hoofs might only increase the
speed and fear of the fugitive, I ran with a swift and noise-
less step along the other side of the hedge, and coming out
into the road, just before the pony's head, I succeeded in
arresting him, at rather a critical spot and moment.
old gentleman very soon recovered from his alarm, and, re-
turning me many thanks for my interference, requested me to
accompany him to his house, which he said was two or
three miles distant.
The
Though I had no desire to be delayed in my journey for
the mere sake of seeing an old gentleman's house, I thought
my new acquaintance's safety required me, at least, to offer
to act as his charioteer till we reached his house. To my
secret vexation at that time, though I afterward though the
petty inconvenience was amply repaid by a conference with
DEVEREUX.
309
very singular and once noted character, the offer was ac-
>epted. Surrendering my own steed to the care of a ragged
Joy, who promised to lead it with equal judginent and zeal,
I entered the little car, and keeping a firm hand and con-
stant eye on the reins, brought the offending quadruped into
a very equable and sedate pace.
"Poor Pob," said the old gentleman, apostrophizing his
horse; "poor Pob, like thy betters, thou knowest the weak
hand from the strong; and when thou art not held in by
power, thou wilt chafe against love; so that thou renewest
in my mind the remembrance of its favorite maxim, viz.
The only preventive to rebellion is restraint !'”
"Your observation, sir," said I, rather struck by this
address, "makes very little in favor of the more generous
feelings by which we ought to be actuated. It is a base
mind which always requires the bit and bridle."
"It is, sir," answered the old gentleman; "I I allow it;
but though I have some love for human nature, I have no
respect for it; and while I pity its infirmities, I cannot but
confess them.'
"Methinks, sir," replied I, "that you have uttered in
that short speech more sound philosophy than I have heard
for months. There is wisdom in not thinking too loftily of
human clay, and benevolence in not judging it too harshly,
and something, too, of magnanimity in this moderation; for
we seldom contemn mankind till they have hurt us, and
when they have hurt us, we seldom do any thing but detest
them for the injury."
"You speak shrewdly, sir, for one so young," returned
the old man, looking hard at me; "and I will be sworn
you have suffered some cares; for we never begin to think,
till we are a little afraid to hope.'
I sighed as I answered, "There are some men, I fancy,
to whom constitution supplies the office of care; who,
naturally melancholy, become easily addicted to reflection,
and reflection is a soil which soon repays us for whatever
trouble we bestow upon its culture.”
he did in the grandeur of his genius, and the profound
consistency of his ambition."
me,
'
"Sir," said my host, with a warmth that astonished
you seem to have known that man, so justly do you
judge him. Yes," said he, after a pause, yes, perhaps
no one ever so varnished to his own breast his designs,
no one so covetous of glory was ever so duped by con-
science, no one ever rose to such a height, through so
few acts that seemed to himself worthy of remorse.
At this part of our conversation, the servant entering,
announced dinner. We adjourned to another room, and
partook of a homely yet not uninviting repast
When
men are pleased with each other, conversation soon gets
beyond the ordinary surfaces of talk; and an exchange cf
deeper opinions is speedily effected by what old Barnes
quaintly enough terms, "The Gentleman Usher of al
Knowledge, Sermocination!"
―
It was a pretty, though small room, where we dined,
and I observed that in this apartment, as in the other into
which I had been first ushered, there were several books
scattered about, in that confusion and number, which show
that they have become to their owner both the choicest
luxury and the least dispensable necessary. So during
dinner time, we talked principally upon books, and I ob
served that those which my host seemed to know the best
were of the elegant and poetical order of philosophers,
who, more fascinating than deep, preach up the blessings
of a solitude which is useless, and a content, which, de-
prived of passion, excitement, and energy, would, if it could
ever exist, only be a dignified name for vegetation.
"So," said he, when the dinner being removed, we
were left alone with that substitute for all society, — wine!
so you are going to town: in four hours more you will be
in that great focus of noise, falsehood, hollow joy, and real
sorrow. Do you know that I have become so wedded to
the country, that I cannot but consider all those who leave
it for the turbulent city, in the same light, half wondering,
"True, sir!" said my companion, and there was a half compassionating, as that in which the ancients regard-
pause. The old gentleman resumed. "We are not fared the hardy adventurers who left the safe land and their
from my home now, (or rather my temporary residence, for happy homes, voluntarily to expose themselves in a frait
my proper and general home is at Cheshunt, in Hertford-vessel to the dangers of an uncertain sea. Here, when I
shire,) and, as the day is scarcely half spent, I trust you look out on the green fields, and the blue sky, the quiet
will not object to partake of a hermit's fare. Nay, nay, no herds, basking in the sunshine, or scattered over the un-
excuse I assure you that I am not a gossip in general or polluted plains, I cannot but exclaim with Pliny, This is
a liberal dispenser of invitations; and I think, if you refuse
refuse the true Movσcior!' this is the source from whence flow in-
me now, you will hereafter regret it."
spiration to the mind and tranquillity to the heart! And
in my love of nature, - more confiding and constant than
ever is the love we bear to women, - I cry with the tender
My curiosity was rather excited by this threat and re-
flecting that my horse required a short rest, I subdued my
impatience to return to town, and accepted the invitation.
We came presently to a house of moderate size, and rather
antique fashion. This, the old man informed ine, was his
present abode. A servant, almost as old as his master,
came to the door, and giving his arm to my host, led him,
for he was rather lame and otherwise infirm, across a small
hall into a long, low apartment. I followed.
A miniature, over the chimney-piece, of Oliver Crom-
well, forcibly arrested my attention.
"It is the only portrait I ever saw," said I," of the
protector, which impresses on me the certainty of a like-
ness; that resolute, gloomy brow, that stubborn lip,-
that heavy, yet not stolid expression, all seem to warrant
resemblance to that singular and fortunate man, to whom
folly appears to have been as great an instrument of suc-
cess as wisdom, and who rose to the supreme power, per-
naps, no less from a pitiable fanaticism than an admirable
genius. So true is it that great men often soar to their
height, by qualities the least obvious to the spectator, and,
(to stoop to a low comparison,) resemble that animal
which a common ligament supplies the place and possesses
the property of wings."
in
The old man smiled very slightly, as I made this remark.
"If this be true," said he, with an impressive tone,
"though we may wonder less at the talents of the protec
for, we must be more indulgent to his character, nor con-
demn him for insincerity, when at heart he himself was
deceived."
"It is in that light," said I,"that I have always viewed
nis conduct. And though myself, by prejudice, a cava-
lier and a Tory, I own that Cromwell (hypocrite as he
is esteemed) appears to me as much to have exceeded his
oyal antagonist and victim, in the virtue of sincerity, as
The flying squirrel
and sweet Tibullus
"Ego composito securus acervo
•
Despiciam dites,- despiciamque famem.'"
the most restless of us the most passionately) at times ex
"These," said I, "are the sentiments we all (perhaps
perience. But there is in our hearts some secret but irre
onward, in the great orbit of our destiny; nor do we find
sistible principle, that impels us, as a rolling circle, onward,
a respite, until the wheels on which we move are broken,
at the tomb."
CC
Yet," said my host, "the internal principle you speak
of can be arrested before the grave: at least stilled and
impeded. You will smile incredulously, perhaps, (for I
might once have been a monarch, and that obscurity seemed
see you do not know who I am,) when I tell you that I
to me more enviable than empire; I resigned the occa-
sion: the tide of fortune rolled onward, and left me safe,
but solitary and forsaken, upon the dry land. If you wan
der at my choice, you will wonder still more when I tell
you that I have never repented it.”
Greatly surprised, and even startled, I heard my host
make this strange avowal. Forgive me," said I," but
from whose experience I am now deriving a lesson ?"
you have powerfully excited my interest; dare I inquire
<<
"Not yet," said my host, smiling, "not till our conver-
sation is over, and you have bid the old anchorite adieu, in
all
probability, for ever: you will then know that you have
and contemned than any of his contemporaries. Yes," he
conversed with a man, perhaps more universally neglected
continued, "
yes, I resigned power and I got not praise
being would believe that I could have relinquished that
for my moderation, but contempt for my folly; no human
treasure through a disregard for its possession, which
* In the Gorania.
310
BULWER'S NOVELS
others would only have relinquished through an incapacity
to retain it; and that which, had they seen it recorded in
an ancient history, men would have regarded as the height
of philosophy, they despised when acted under their eyes,
as the extremest abasement of imbecility.
Yet I compare
my lot with that of the great man whoni I was expected to
equal in ambition, and to whose grandeur I might have
succeeded: and am convinced, that in this retreat I amı
more to be envied, than he in the plenitude of his power
and the height of his renown; yet is not happiness the aim
of wisdom and if my choice is happier than his, is it
not wiser ? ""
"Alas," thought 1, "the wisest men seldom have the
I,
.oftiest genius, and perhaps happiness is granted rather to
mediocrity of mind than to that of circumstances;
" but I
did not give so uncourteous a reply to my host an audible
utterance; on the contrary, "I do not doubt," said I, as
I rose to depart, "the wisdom of a choice which has
brought you self gratulation. And it has been said by a
man both great and good, a man to whose mind was open
the lore of the closet and the experience of courts, that
in wisdom or in folly, the only difference between one
man and another, is whether a man governs his passions
or his passions him.' According to this rule, which in-
deed is a classic and a golden aphorism, Alexander on the
throne of Persia might have been an idiot to Diogenes in
his tub. And now, sir, in wishing you farewell, let me
again crave your indulgence to my curiosity."
"Not yet, not yet," answered my host; and he led me
once more into the other room. While they were prepar-
ing my horse we renewed our conversation. To the best
of my recollection we talked about Plato; but I had now
become so impatient to rejoin Isora, that I did not accord
to my worthy host the patient attention I had hitherto
given him. When I took leave of him he blessed me,
and placed a piece of paper in my hand; "Do not open
this," said he, "till you are at least two miles from hence,
your curiosity will then be satisfied. If ever you travel
this road again, or if ever you pass by Cheshunt, pause
and see if the old philosopher is dead. Adieu !
And so we parted.
You may be sure that I had not passed the appointed
distance of two miles very far, when I opened the paper
and read the following words:-
"Perhaps, young stranger, at some future period of a
life, which I venture to foretell will be adventurous and
eventful, it may afford you a matter for reflection, perhaps
a resting-spot for a moral, to remember that you have
seen, in old age and obscurity, the son of him who shook
an empire, avenged a people, and obtained a throne, only
only
to be the victim of his own passions and the dupe of his
own reason. I repeat now, the question I before put to
-was the fate of the great protector, fairer than that
of the despised and forgotten
you,
"RICHARD CROMWELL."
"So," thought I," it is indeed with the son of the great-
est ruler England, or perhaps in modern times, Europe
has ever produced, that I have held this conversation upon
content. Yes, perhaps your fate is more to be envied than
that of your illustrious father; but who would envy it
more? Strange that while we pretend that happiness is
the object of all desire, happiness is the last thing which
we covet. Love, and wealth, and pleasure, and honor,
hese are the roads which we take, so long, that, accus-
tomed to the mere travel, we forget that it was first under-
taken, not for the course, but the goal; and in the com-
mon infatuation which pervades all our race, we make the
toil the meed, and in following the means forsake the end."
I never saw my host again; very shortly afterward he
died:* and fate, which had marked with so strong a sep-
aration the lives of the father and the son, united in that
death, -as its greatest, so its only universal, blessing,-
the philosopher and the recluse with the warrior and the
chief!
CHAPTER V.
In which the hero shows decision on more points than one. -
More of Isora's character is developed.
To use the fine image in the Arcadia, it was "when the
like a noble heart, began to show his greatest counte-
Richard Cromwell died in 1712.—
mun,
- ED.
|
nance in his lowest estate,
that I arrived at Isora's docr
I had written to her once, to announce my uncle's death
and the day of my return; but I had not mentioned in m
letter my reverse of fortunes: I reserved that communica
tion till it could be softened by our meeting. I saw by the
countenance of the servant who admitted me, that all was
well; so I asked no question, I flew up the stairs, · I
broke into Isora's chamber, and in an instant she was in
my arms. Ah, love, love! wherefore art thou so transito-
ry a pilgrim on the earth, an evening cloud which hovers
on our horizon, drinking the hues of the sun, that grows
ominously brighter as it verges to the shadow and the
night, and which, the moment that sun is set, wanders on
in darkness or descends in tears!
"And now, my bird of paradise," said I, as we sat
alone in the apartinent I had fitted up as the banqueting
room, and on which, though small in its proportions,
had lavished all the love of luxury and of show which
made one of my most prevailing weaknesses, and, now,
how has time passed with you since we parted?"
"Need you ask, Morton? Ah, bave you ever noted a
poor dog deserted by its master, or rather not deserted, for
that, you know, is not my case yet," added Isora, play-
fully, "but left at home while the master went abroad?
have you noted how restless the poor animal is, how it
refuses all company and all comfort, how it goes a hun-
dred times a day into the room which its master is wont
mostly to inhabit, how it creeps into the sofa or the
chair which the same absent idler was accustomed to
press, -how it selects some article of his very clothing,
and curls jealously around it, and hides and watches over
it, as I have hid and watched over this glove, Morton ?
Have you ever noted that humble creature whose whole
happiness is the smile of one being, when the smile was
away? then, Morton, you can tell how my time has
passed during your absence."
I answered İsora by endearments and by compliments.
She turned away from the latter.
"Never call me those fine names, I implore you," she
whispered; "call me only by those pretty pet words by
which I know you will never call any one else. Bee and
bird are my names, and mine only; but beauty and angel
are names you have given, or may give, to a hundred
others! Promise me, then, to address me only in our own
language."
I promise, and lo, the seal to the promise. But tell
me, Isora, do you not love these rare scents that make an
Araby of this unmellowed clime? Do you not love the
profusion of light which reflects so dazzling a lustre on that
soft cheek, and those eyes which the ancient romancer *
must have dreamt of when he wrote so prettily of eyes
that seemed a temple where love and beauty were mar
ried?' Does not yon fruit take a more tempting hue,
bedded as it is in those golden leaves? Does not sleep
scem to hover with a downier wing over those sofas on
which the limbs of a princess have been laid? In a word,
is there not in luxury and in pomp a spell which no gentler
or wiser mind would disdain ?
وو
"It may be so!" said Isora, sighing; "but the splendor
which surrounds us chills and almost terrifies me. I think
every proof of your wealth and rank puts me farther from
you; then, too, I have some remeinbrance of the
green sod,
and the silver rill, and the trees upon which the winds
young
sing and play; and I own that it is with the country and
not the town that all my ideas of luxury are wed.”
"But the numerous attendants, the long row of liveried
hirelings, through which you may pass, as through a lane,
the caparisoned steeds, the stately equipage, the jewelled
tiara, the costly robe which matrons imitate and
envy, the
music which lulls you to sleep, the lighted show, the gor-
geous stage; all these, the attributes or gifts of wealth, all
these that you have the right to hope you will one day or
other command, you will own are what you could very re-
luctantly forego ?”
:
"Do you think so, Morton? Ah, I wish you were of
my humble temper the more we limit and concentrate
happiness, the more certain, I think, we are of securing it:
they who widen the circle, encroach upon the boundaries of
danger; and they who freight their wealth upon a hundred
vessels are more liable, Morton, are they not, to the peril
* Sir Philip Sydney, who, if we may judge by the number o
quotations from his works scattered in this book, seems to have
ED
been an especial favorite with Count Devereux.
DEVEREUX.
81A
of the winds and waves, than they who venture it only up n
one?""
Admirably reasoned my little sophist; but if the one
ship sink?
"Why, I would embark myself in it as well as my wealth,
and should sink with it."
"Well, well, Isora, your philosophy will, perhaps, soon
De put to the test. I wil. talk to you to-morrow of busi-
aess."
"And why not to-night?"
"To-night, when I have just returned! No, to-night I
will only talk to you of love!"
As may be supposed, Isora was readily reconciled to my
change of circumstances, and indeed that sum which seemed
poverty me appeared positive wealth to her. But per-
haps few men are, by nature and inclination, more luxurious
and costly than myself; always accustomed to a profuse
expenditure at my uncle's, I fell insensibly, and con amore
on my début in London, into all the extravagances of the
age. Sir William, pleased, rather than discontented with
my habits, especially as they were attended by some éclat,
pressed upon me proofs of his generosity, which, since I
knew his wealth, and considered myself his heir, I did not
scruple to accept; and, at the time of my return to London
after his death, I had not only spent to the full the princely
allowance I had received from him, but was above half my
whole fortune in debt. However, I had horses and equipages,
jewels and plate, and I did not long wrestle with my pride
before I obtained the victory, and sent all my valuables to
the hammer. They sold pretty well, all things considered,
for I had a certain reputation in the world for taste and
munificence; and when I had received the product and paid
my debts, I found that the whole balance in my favor, in-
cluding, of course, my uncle's legacy, was 15,0002.
I
their religion without the estate to support it, for papacy
has become a terrible tax to its followers.”
"I wonder," said I, "whether the earth will ever be
governed by Christians, not cavillers; by followers of our
Saviour, not by cooperators of the devil; by men who obey
the former, and love one another,' not by men who walk
about with the latter, (that roaring lion,) seeking whom
they may devour.' Intolerance makes us acquainted with
strange nonsense, and fully is never so ludicrous as when
associated with something sacred, it is then like Punch
and his Wife in Powell's puppet-show, dancing in the ark.
Par exemple, to tell those who differ from us that they are
in a delusion, and yet to persecute them for that delusion,
is to equal the wisdom of our forefathers, who, we are told,
in the Dæmonologie of the Scottish Solomon, burnt a whole
monasterie of nunnes for being misled, not by men, but
dreames.""
And, being somewhat moved, I ran on for a long time iz
a very eloquent strain, upon the disadvantages of intoler-
ance; which, I would have it, was a policy as familiar to
Protestantism now as it had been to Popery in the dark
ages quite forgetting that it is not the vice of a peculiar
sect, but of a ruling party.
St. John, who thought, or affected to think very differ-
ently from me on these subjects, shook his head gently, but,
with his usual good breeding, deemed it rather too sore a
subject for discussion.
"I will tell you a discovery I have made,” said I.
"And what is it?
:
"Listen that man is wisest, who is happiest,-granted.
What does happiness consist in? Power, wealth, pop-
ularity, and, above all, content! Well then, no man ever
obtains so much power, so much money, so much pop-
ularity, and, above all, such thorough self-content, as a fool;
a fool, therefore, (this is no paradox,) is the wisest of
men. Fools govern the world in purple, the wise laugh
at them, but they laugh in rags. Fools thrive at court,-
fools thrive in state chambers,-fools thrive in boudoirs,-
fools thrive in rich men's legacies. Who is so beloved as
a fool? Every man seeks him, laughs at him, and hugs
him. Who is so secure in his own opinion,- so high in
complacency,― as a fool? suâ virtute involvit. Harkye,
St. John, let us turn fools,— they are the only potentates,-
the only philosophers of earth. O, motley, motley's your
only wear!
It was no bad younger brother's portion, perhaps, but I
was in no humor to be made a younger brother without a
struggle. So I went to the lawyers; they looked at the
will, considered the case, and took their fees. Then the
honestest of them, with the coolest air in the world, told me
to content myself with my legacy, for the cause was hope-
less; the will was sufficient to exclude ten elder sons.
need not add that I left this lawyer with a very contempti-
ble opinion of his understanding. I went to another, he
told me the same thing, only in a different manner, and I
thought him as great a fool as his fellow practitioner. At
ast I chanced upon a little brisk gentleman, with a quick
eye and a sharp voice, who wore a wig that carried con-
viction in every curl; had an independent, upright mein,
and such a logical, emphatic way of expressing himself that
I was quite charmed with him. This gentleman scarce
heard me out, before he assured me that I had a famous But, in good truth, nothing calculated to advance so com-
case of it, that he liked making quick work, and proceed-fortable and praiseworthy an end seemed to present itself.
ing with vigor, that he hated rogues, and delay, which was My religion was an effectual bar to any hope of rising in
the sign of a rogue, but not the necessary sign of law, that the state. Europe now began to wear an aspect that prom-
I was the most fortunate man imaginable in coming to him,ised universal peace, and the sword which I had so poet-
and, in short, that I had nothing to do, but to commence
proceedings, and leave all the rest to him. I was very
soon talked into this proposal, and very soon embarked in
the luxurious ocean of litigation.
Having settled this business so satisfactorily, I went to
receive the condolence and sympathy of St. John. Not-
withstanding the arduous occupations, both of pleasure and
of power, in which he was constantly engaged, he had found
ime to call upon me very often, and to express by letter
great disappointment that I had neither received nor re-
turned his visits. Touched by the phenomenon of so much
kindness in a statesman, I paid him, in return, the only
compliment in my power, viz. I asked his advice with a
view of taking it.
to that request,
"Pa…ics, — politics, my dear count," said he, in answer
nothing like it; I will get you a seat
in the House by next week, you are just of age, I think.
Heavens! a man like you, who has learning enough for a
German professor, assurance that would almost abash a
Milesian, -a very pretty choice of words, and a pointed
way of consummating a jest, why, with you by my side,
my dear count, I will soon -”
"St. John," said I, interrupting him, “you forget I am
■ Catholic !"
“Ah, I did forget that,” replied St. John, slowly,
Heaven help me, count, but I am sorry your ancestors
were not converted; it was a pity they should bequeath you
"Ha! ha!" laughed St. John; and rising, he insisted
upon carrying me with him to the rehearsal of a new play,
in order, as he said, to dispel my spleen, and prepare me
for ripe decision upon the plans to be adopted for bettering
my fortune.
ically apostrophized was not likely to be drawn upon any
more glorious engagement than a brawl with the Mohawks,
any incautious noses appertaining to which fraternity I was
fully resolved to slit whenever they came conveniently in
my way. To add to the unpromising state of my worldly
circumstances, my uncle's death had removed the only
legitimate barrier to the acknowledgement of my marriage
with Isora, and it became due to her to proclaim and pub
lish that event. Now, if there be any time in the world,
when a man's friends look upon him most coldly, when
they speak of his capacities of rising the most despond
ingly, when they are most inclined, in short, to set him down
as a silly sort of fellow, whom it is no use inconven
iencing one's self to assist, it is at that moment when he
has made what the said friends are pleased to term an in-
prudent marriage! It was, therefore, no remarkable in-
stance of good luck, that the express time for announcing
that I had contracted that species of marriage, was the ex-
press time for my wanting the assistance of those kind-
hearted friends. Then too, by the pleasing sympathies in
worldly opinion, the neglect of one's friends is always su
damnably neighboured by the exultation of one's foes. Never
was there a man who, without being very handsome very
rude, or very much in public life, had made unto himself more
enemies than it had been my lot to make. How the rascais
would all sneer and coin dull jests when they saw me so down
in the world! The very old maids, who, so long as they
812
BULWER'S NOVELS.
thought me single, would have declared that the will was
a fraud, would, directly they heard I was married, ask if
Gerald was handsome, and assert, with a wise look, that
my uncle knew well what he was about. Then the joy of
the Lady Hasselton, and the curled lip of the haughty
Tarleton! It is a very odd circumstance, but it is very
true, that the people we most despise have the most in-
fluence over our actions: a man never ruins himself by
giving dinners to his father, or turning his house into a
palace in order to feast his bosom friend on the con-
trary, 't is the poor devil of a friend who fares the worst,
and starves on the family joint, while mine host beggars
himself to banquet "that disagreeable Mr. A., who is such
an insufferable ass," and mine hostess sends her husband
to the Fleet, by vieing with "that odious Mrs. B., who
was always her aversion."
Just in the same manner, no thought disturbed me in the
step I was about to take, half so sorely as the recollection
of Lady Hasselton the coquet, and Mr. Tarleton the gam-
bler. However, I have said somewhere or other that noth-
ing selfish on a small scale polluted my love for Isora,-
nor did there. I had resolved to render her speedy and full
justice; and if I sometimes recurred to the disadvantages
to myself, I always had pleasure in thinking that they were
sacrifices to her. But to my great surprise, when I first an-
nounced to Isora my intention of revealing our marriage, I
Derceived in her countenance, always such a traitor to her
emotions, a very different expression from that which I
had anticipated. A deadly paleness spread over her whole
face, and a shudder seemed to creep through her frame.
She attempted, however, to smile away the alarm she had
created in me; nor was I able to penetrate the cause of an
emotion so unlooked for. But I continued to speak of the
public announcement of our union as of a thing decided ;
and at length she listened to me while I arranged the
method of making it, and sympathized in the future pro-
jects I chalked out for us to adopt. Still, however, when
I proposed a definite time for the re-celebration of our nup-
tials, she ever drew back, and hinted the wish for a longer
delay.
"Not so soon, dear Morton," she would say tearfully,
"not so soon; we are happy now, and perhaps when you
are with me always, you will not love me so well.'
I reasoned against this notion, and this reluctance, but
in vain; and day passed on day, and even week on week,
and our marriage was still undeclared. I now lived, how-
ever, almost wholly with Isora, for busy tongues could no
longer carry my secret to my uncle; and indeed, since I
had lost the fortune which I was expected to inherit, it is
astonishing how little people troubled their heads about my
movements or myself. I lived then almost wholly with
Isora,
and did familiarity abate my love? Strange
to say, it did not abate even the romance of it. The
reader may possibly remember a conversation with St.
John recorded in the second book of this history. "The
deadliest foe to love," said he, (he who had known all
love, that of the senses, and that also of the soul,) "is
not change, nor misfortune, nor jealousy, nor wrath, nor
any thing that flows from passion, or emanates from fortune.
The deadliest foe to it is CUSTOM."
Was St. John right ?—I believe that in most instances
he was; and perhaps the custom was not continued in my
case long enough for me to refute the maxim. But as yet,
But as yet,
the very gloss upon the god's wings was fresh as on the first
day when I had acknowledged his power. Still was Isora
to me the light and the music of existence !—still did my
heart thrill and leap within me, when her silver and fond
voice made the air a blessing. Still would I hang over her,
when her beauti ul features lay hushed in sleep, and watch
the varying hues of her cheek; and fancy, while she slept,
that in each low, sweet breath that my lips drew from hers,
was a whisper of tenderness and endearment! Still when
I was absent from her, my soul seemed to mourn a separa-
tion from its better and dearer part, and the joyous senses
of existence saddened and shrunk into a single want! Still
was her presence to my heart as a breathing atmosphere of
poesy which circled and tinted all human things; still was my
being filled with that delicious and vague melancholy which
the very excess of rapture alone produces, the knowledge
we dare not breathe to ourselves that the treasure in which
our heart is stored is not above the casualties of fate. The
*igh that mingles with the kiss, the tear that glistens in the
anpassioned and yearning gaze, the deep tide in our spirit,
ver whica the moon and the stars have power; the chain of
harmony within the thought, which has a mysterious lin
with all that is fair, and pure, and bright in nature, knit
ting as it were loveliness with love! all this, all that I
cannot express, all that to the young for whom the real
world has had few spells, and the world of vision has been
a home, who love at last and for the first time, all that to
them are known, were still mine.
In truth, Isora was one well calculated to sustain and tc
rivet romance. The cast of her beauty was so dreamlike,
and yet so varying-her temper was so little mingled with
the common characteristics of woman: it had so little of
caprice, so little of vanity, so utter an absence of all jealous
and all angry feeling; it was so made up of tenderness and
devotion, and yet so imaginative and fairylike in its fond-
ness, that it was difficult to bear only the sentiments of
earth, for one who had so little of earth's clay. She was
more like the women whom one imagines are the creations
of poetry, and yet of whom no poetry, save that of Shaks-
peare's, reminds us; and to this day, when I ge into the
world, I never see aught of our own kind which recalls
her, or even one of her features, to my memory But when
I am alone with nature, methinks a sweet sound, or a new-
born flower, has something of familiar power over those
stored and deep impressions which do make her image, and
it brings her more vividly before my eyes, than any shape or
face of her own sex, however beautiful it may be.
There was also another trait in her character, which,
though arising in her weakness, not her virtues, yet perpet-
uated the more dreamlike and imaginary qualities of our
passion: this was a melancholy superstition, developing
itself in forebodings and omens which interested, because
they were steeped at once in the poetry and in the deep sin-
cerity of her nature. She was impressed with a strong and
uncontrollable feeling, that her fate was predestined to a
dark course and an early end; and she drew from all things
around her, something to feed the pensive character of her
thoughts. The stillness of noon, the holy and eloquent
repose of twilight, its rosy sky, and its soft air, its shadows
and its dews, had equally for her heart a whisper and a
spell. The wan stars, where, from the eldest time, man
has shaped out a chart of the undiscoverable future; the
mysterious moon, to which the great ocean ministers from
its untrodden shrines; the winds, which traverse the vast
air, pilgrims from an eternal home to an unpenetrated
bourne; the illimitable heavens, where none ever gazed
without a vague craving for something that the earth can-
not give, and a vague sense of a former existence, in which
that something was
that something was enjoyed; the holy night,
enjoyed; the holy night,-- that solemn
and circling sleep, which seems in its repose to image our
death, and in its living worlds to shadow forth the immortal
realms which only through that death we can survey; — all
had, for the deep heart of Isora, a language of omen and
of doom. Often would we wander alone, and for hours
together, by the quiet and wild woods and streams that
surrounded her retreat, and which we both loved so well;
and often, when the night closed over us, with my arm
around her, and our lips so near, that our atmosphere was
our mutual breath, would she utter, in that voice which
"made the soul plant itself in the cars," the predic-
tions which had nursed themselves at her heart.
I remember one evening, in especial! the rich twilight
had gathered over us, and we sat by a slender and soft riv-
ulet, overshadowed by some stunted yet aged trees. We
had both, before she spoke, been silent for several minutes;
and only when, at rare intervals, the birds sent from the
copse that backed us a solitary and yesper note of music,
was the stillness around us broken. Before us, on the oppo-
site bank of the stream, lay a valley, in which shadow and
wood concealed all trace of man's dwellings, save at one
far spot, where from a single but rose a curling and thin
vapor, like a spirit released from earth, and losing grad.
ually its earthier particles, as it blends itself with the loftier
atmosphere of heaven.
CC
It was then that Isora, clinging closer to me, whispered
her forebodings of death. "You will remember," said she,
smiling faintly, you will remember me, in the lofty and
bright career which yet awaits you; and I scarcely know
whether I would not sooner have that memory, free as it
will be from all recollection of my failings and faults, and
all that I have cost you, than incur the chance of your
future coldness or decrease of love.”
And when Isora turned, and saw that the tears stood in
my eyes, she kissed them away and said, after a pause,
"It matters not, my own guardian angel, what becomes
DEVEREUX.
813
of me and now that I am near you, it is wicked to let my
folly cost you a single pang. But why should you grieve at
my forebodings? there is no thing painful or harsh in them
to me, and I interpret them thus: If my life passes away
before the common date, perhaps it will be a sacrifice to
yours. And it will, Morton,-it will. The love I bear to
you I can but feebly express now; all of us wish to prove
our feelings, and I would give one proof of mine for you.
It seems to me that I was made only for one purpose, to
love you; and I would fain hope, that iny death may be
some sort of sacrifice to you, some token of the ruling
passion and the whole object of my life."
As Isora said this, the light of the moon, which had just
risen, shone full upon her cheek, flushed as it was with a
deeper tint than it usually wore; and in her eye, - her fea-
tures,- her forehead, the lofty nature of her love seemed
to have stamped the divine expression of itself.
Have I lingered too long on these passages of life?
they draw near to a close, and a more adventurous and
stirring period of manhood will succeed. Ah, little could
they, who in after years beheld in me but the careless yet
stern soldier, the wily and callous diplomatist, — the com-
panion alternately so light and so moodily reserved, little
could they tell how soft, and weak, and doting my heart
was once!
CHAPTER VI.
-
An unexpected meeting. Conjecture and anticipation.
THE day for the public solemnization of our marriage
was at length appointed. In fact, the plan for the future
that appeared to me most promising, was to proffer my ser-
vices to some foreign court, and that of Russia held out to
me the greatest temptation. was therefore, anxious, as
soon as possible, to have an affair of such importance over,
and I purposed leaving the country within a week after-
ward. My little lawyer assured me that my suit would go
on quite as well in my absence, and whenever my presence
was necessary, he would be sure to inform me of it. I did
not doubt him in the least, it is a charming thing to have
confidence in one's man of business.
Of Montreuil I now saw nothing; but I accidentally
heard that he was on a visit to Gerald, and that the latter
had already made the old walls ring with premature hospi-
tality. As for Aubrey, I was in perfect ignorance of his
movements and the unsatisfactory shortness of his last
letter, and the wild expressions so breathing of fanaticism
in the postscript, had given me frequent sensations of anxi-
ety and alarm on his account. I longed above all to see
him,
to talk with him over old times and our future plans,
and to learn whether no new bias could be given to a tem-
perament which seemed to lean so strongly toward a self-
punishing superstition. It was about a week before the
day fixed for my public nuptials, that I received at last from
him the following letter:
"MY DEAREST BROTHER,
"I HAVE been long absent from home, absent on af
fairs on which we will talk hereafter. I have not forgot
ten you, though I have been silent, and the news of my poor
uncle's death has shocked me greatly. On my arrival here
I learnt your disappointment and your recourse to law. I
am not so much surprised, though I am as much grieved as
yourself, for I will tell you now what seemed to me unimpor-
tant before. On receiving your letter, requesting consent
to your designed marriage, my uncle seemed greatly dis-
pleased as well as vexed, and afterward he heard much
that displeased him more; from what quarter came his
news I know not, and he only spoke of it in innuendos and
angry insinuations. As far as I was able, I endeavoured
to learn his meaning, but could not, and to my praises of
you I thought latterly he seemed to lend but a cold ear; he
told me at last, when I was about to leave him, that you
had acted ungratefully to him, and that he should alter his
will. I scarcely thought of this speech at the time, or rather
I considered it as the threat of a momentary anger. Pos-
sibly, however, it was the prelude to that disposition of
property which has so wounded you, - I observe too that
the will bears date about that period. I mention this fact
to you,
- you can draw from it what inference you will;
but I do solemnly believe that Gerald is innocent of any
fraud toward you.
VOL I
40
"I am all anxiety to hear whether your love continues.
I beseech you to write to me instantly, and inform me at
that head as on all others. We shall meet soon.
"Your ever affectionate brother,
"AUBREY DEVEREUX.”.
There was something in this letter that vexed and dis
pleased
pleased me: I thought it breathed a tone of unkindness
and indifference, which my present circumstances rendered
peculiarly inexcusable. So far, therefore, from answering
it immediately, I resolved not to reply to it till after the
solemnization of my marriage. The anecdote of my uncle
startled me a little when I coupled it with the words my
uncle had used toward myself on his deathbed; viz., in
hinting that he had heard some things unfavorable to Isora,
unnecessary then to repeat; but still if my uncle had al-
tered his intentions toward me, would he not have mentioned
the change and its reasons? Would he have written to me
with such kindness, or received me with such affection?
I could not believe that he would and my opinions of the
fraud and the perpetrator, were not a whit changed by
Aubrey's epistle. It was clear, however, that he had joined
the party against me and as my love for him was exceed-
ingly great, I was much wounded by the idea.
All leave me," said I,
upon this reverse, all but
Isora!" and I thought with renewed satisfaction on the
step which was about to ensure to her a secure home and
an honorable station. My fears lest Isora should again be
molested by her persecutor were now pretty well at rest:
having no doubt in my own mind as to that persecutor's
identity, I imagined that in his new acquisition of wealth
and pomp, a boyish and unreturned love would easily ba
relinquished; and that, perhaps, he would scarcely regret
my obtaining the prize himself had sought for, when in
altered fortunes it would be followed by such worldly depre-
ciation. In short, I looked upon him as possessing a char-
acteristic common to most bad men, who are never so
influenced by love as they are by hatred; and imagined
therefore, that if he had lost the object of the former, he
could console himself by exulting over any decline of pros-
perity in the object of the latter.
σε
my
As the appointed day drew near, Isora's despondency
seemed to vanish, and she listened with her usual eager-
of enterprise. I resolved that our second wedding, though
ness in whatever interested me to my continental schemes
public, should be modest and unostentatious, suitable rath-
er to our fortunes than our birth. St. John, and a few old
friends of the family, constituted all the party I invited,
and I requested them to keep my marriage secret until the
very day for celebrating it arrived. I did this from a
desire of avoiding compliments intended as sarcasmus, and
visits rather of curiosity than friendship. On flew the
days, and it was now the one preceding my wedding. I
was dressing to go out upon a matter of business connected
with the ceremony, and I then, as I received my hat from
Desmarais, for the first time thought it requisite to ac
quaint that accomplished gentleman with the rite of the
morrow. Too well bred was Monsieur Desmarais to tes
tify any other sentiment than pleasure at the news; and he
received my orders and directions for the next day with
more than the graceful urbanity which made one & ways
feel quite honored by his attentions.
"And how goes on the philosophy ?" said I,
“faito,
since I am about to be married, I shall be likely to require
its consolations."
CC
►
Indeed, monsieur," answered Desmarais, with that
expression of self-conceit which was so curiously inter-
woven with the obsequiousness of his address, "indeed,
monsieur, I have been so occupied of late in preparing a
little powder very essential to dress, that I have not had
time for any graver, though not perhaps more important,
avocations."
"Powder, and what is it?"
"Will monsieur condescend to notice its effect?”
answered Desmarais, producing a pair of gloves which
were tinted of the most delicate flesh-color; the coloring
was so nice, that when the gloves were on, it would have
been scarcely possible, at any distance, to distinguish them
from the naked flesh.
""Tis a rare invention," said I.
"Monsieur is very good, but I flatter myself it is so,
rejoined Desmarais; and he forthwith ran on far mora
earnestly on the merits of his powder, than I had ever
heard him descant on the beauties of fatalism. I cut him
314
BULWER'S NOVELS.
short in the midst of his karangue; too much eloquence in
any line is displeasing in one's dependant.
recoils, baffled and bewildered, before the blackness of the
very moment whose boundaries we are about to enter.
The few friends I had invited to my wedding were still
with me, when one of my servants, not Desmarais, informed
me that Mr. Oswald waited for me. I went out to him.
ab-with
I had just concluded my business abroad, and was re-
turning homeward with downcast eyes, and in a very
stracted mood, when I was suddenly startled by a loud
voice that exclaimed in a tone of surprise: "What!
Count Devereux, how fortunate !
I looked up, and saw a little dark man, shabbily dress-
ed; his face did not seem unfamiliar to me, but I could
not at first remember where I had seen it; my look, I
suppose, testified my want of memory, for he said, with a
low bow,
"You have forgotten me, count, and I don't wonder at
it; so please you, I am the person who once brought you a
letter from France to Devereux Court."
At this, I recognised the bearer of that epistle, which
had embroiled me with the Abbé Montreuil. I was too
glad of the meeting to show any coolness in my reception
of the gentleman, and to speak candidly, I never saw a
gentleman less troubled with mauvaise honte.
"Sir!" said he, lowering his voice to a whisper, "it
is most fortunate, that I should thus have met you; I only
came to town this morning, and for the sole purpose of
seeking you out. I am charged with a packet, which I
believe will be of the greatest importance to your interests.
But,' " he added, looking round," the streets are no proper
place for my communication,-parbleu and morbleu, there
are those about, who hear whispers through stone walls,
suffer me to call upon you to-morrow."
"To-morrow! it is a day of great business with me,
but I can possibly spare you a few moments, if that will
suffice; or, on the day after, your own pleasure may be
the sole limit of our interview."
“Parbleu, monsieur, you are very obliging,-very; but
I will tell you in one word who I am, and what is my
business. My name is Marie Oswald: I was born in
France, and I am the half-brother of that Oswald who
drew up your uncle's will."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "is it possible that
you know any thing of that affair?"
"Hush, yes, all! my poor brother is just dead; and,
in a word, I am charged with a packet given me by him
on his death-bed. Now, will you see me if I bring it to-
morrow ?"
"Certainly; can I not see you to-night?"
"To-night? No, not well, parbleu and morbleu! I
want a little consideration as to the reward due to me for
my eminent services to your lordship. No: let it be to-
morrow."
"Well! at what hour? I fear it must be in the even-
mg."
"Seven, s'il vous plait, monsieur."
"Enough! be it so."
And Mr. Marie Oswald, who seemed, during the whole
of this short conference, to have been under some great
apprehension of being seen or overheard, bowed, and van-
ished in an instant, leaving my mind in a most motley state
of incoherent, unsatisfactory, yet sanguine conjecture.
CHAPTER VII.
The events of a single night.
|
"Parbleu !" said he, rubbing his hands, "I perceive it
is a joyous time with you, and I don't wonder you can only
spare me a few moments."
The estates of Devereux were not to be risked for
trifle, but I thought Mr. Marie Oswald exceedingly imper
tinent. "Sir," said I, very gravely, "pray be seated
and now to business. In the first place, may I ask to whom
I am beholden for sending you with that letter you gave me
at Devereux Court? and secondly what that letter con-
tained? - for I never read it."
"Sir," answered the man, "the history of the letter is
perfectly distinct from that of the will, and the former (to
discuss the least important first) is briefly this. You have
heard, sir, of the quarrels between Jesuit and Jansenist´"
"I have.
:
“Well,—but first, count, let me speak of myself.
There were three young men of the same age, born in the
same village in France, of obscure birth cach, and each
desirous of getting on in the world. Two were deused
clever fellows the third nothing particular. One of the
two at present shall be nameless; the third, who was noth
ing particular,' (in his own opinion, at least, though his
friends may think differently,) was Marie Oswald. We
soon separated: I went to Paris, was employed in different
occupations, and at last became secretary, and (why should
I disavow it?) valet to a lady of quality, and a violent
politician. She was a furious Jansenist; of course I adopt-
ed her opinions. About this time, there was much talk
among the Jesuits of the great genius and deep learning of
a young member of the order, Julian Montreuil. Though
not residing in the country, he had sent one or two books to
France, which had been published and had created a great
sensation. Well, sir, my mistress was the greatest in-
triguante of her party: she was very rich, and tolerably
liberal; and among other packets of which a messenger
from England was carefully robbed, between Calais and
Abbeville, (you understand me, sir, carefully robbed : par-
bleu ! I wish I were robbed in the same manner every day
in my life,) was one from the said Julian Montreuil, to a
political friend of his. Among other letters in this packet,
all of importance, -was one descriptive of the English
family with whom he resided. It hit them all, I am told,
off to a hair; and it described in particular, one, the sup-
posed inheritor of the estates, a certain Morton Count
Devereux. Since you say you did not read the letter, I
spare your blushes, sir, and I don't dwell upon what he said
of your talent, energy, ambition, &c.
I will only tell you
that he dilated far more upon your prospects than your pow
ers; and that he expressly stated what was his object in
staying in your family and cultivating your friendship,
he expressly stated that 30,000l. a year would be particu-
larly serviceable to a certain political cause which he had
strongly at heart."
"I understand you," said I; "the chevalier's?"
<<
Exactly. This sponge,' said Montreuil, I remember
the very phrase, this sponge will be well filled, and I
am handling it softly now, in order to squeeze its juices
hereafter according to the uses of the party we have so
Moments make the hues in strongly at heart." "
which years are colored.
MEN of the old age! wha' wonder that in the fondness
of a dim faith, and in the vague guesses, which, from the
frail ark of reason, we send to hover over a dark and un-
fathomable abyss, what wonder that ye should have wasted
hope and life in striving to penetrate the future! What
wonder that ye should have given a language to the stars,
and to the night a spell, and gleaned from the uncompre-
hended earth an answer to the enigmas of fate! We are
like the sleepers, who, walking under the influence of a
dream, wander by the verge of a precipice, while in their
own deluded vision they perchance believe themselves sur-
rounded by bowers of roses, and accompanied by those
they love; or, rather like the blind man, who can retrace
every step of the path he has once trodden, but who can
guess not a single inch of that which he has not yet tray-
elled, our reason can re-guide us over the roads of past
experience with a sure and unerring wisdom, even while it
"It was not a metaphor very flattering to my under-
standing," said I.
came,
True, sir. Well, as soon as my mistress learnt this,
she remembered that your father, the marshal, had been one
of her plus chers amis, in a word, if scandal says true, he
had been the cher ami. However, she was instantly resolved
to open your eyes, and ruin the maudit Jesuite: she enclosed
the letter in an envelope, and sent me to England with it. I
and I discovered in that mo-
I gave it to you,
ment, when the abbé entered, that this Julian Montreuil
was an old acquaintance of my own, -was one of the two
young men who I told you were such deused clever fellows.
Like many other adventurers, he had changed his name on
entering the world, and I had never till now suspected that
Julian Montreuil was Bertrand Collinot. Well, when I
saw what I had done, I was exceedingly sorry, for I had
liked my companion well enough not to wish to hurt him;
besides, I was a little afraid of him. I took horse, and
DEVEREUX
316
went about some other business I had to execute, nor did I
visit that part of the country again till a week ago, (now I
come to the other business,) when I was summoned to the
death-bed of iny half-brother, the attorney, peace be with
him! He suffered much from hypochondria in his dying
moments, I believe it is the way with people of his pro-
fession, and he gave me a sealed packet, with a last in-
junction to place it in your hands, and your hands only.
Scarce was he dead, — (do not think I am unfeeling, sir,
(do not think I am unfeeling, sir,
I had seen very little of him, and he was only my half-
brother, my father having married, for a second wife, a
foreign lady, who kept an inn, by whom he was blessed
with myself)-— scarce, I say, was he dead, when I hurried
up to town; Providence threw you in my way, and you
shall have the document upon two conditions."
"Which are, first, to reward you; secondly, to — "
"To promise you will not open the packet for seven
days."
The devil! and why?"
"I will tell you candidly : -one of the papers in the
packet I believe to be my brother's written confession,
nay, I know it is; and it will criminate one I have a love
for, and who, I am resolved, shall have a chance of
escape."
"Who is that one? Montreuil ?"
“No,
I do not refer to him; but I cannot tell you
more. I require the promise, count, it is indispensable.
If don't give it me, parbleu and morbleu, you shall not
have the packet.
you
There was something so cool, so confident, and so impu-
dent about this man, that I did not well know whether to
give way to laughter or to indignation. Neither, however,
would have been politic in my situation; and, as I said be-
fore, the estates of Devereux were not to be risked for a
trifle.
"Pray," said I, however, with a shrewdness which I
think did me credit,-" pray, Mr. Marie Oswald, do you,
expect the reward before the packet is opened ?”
By no means," answered the gentleman, who in his
own opinion was nothing particular; "by no means; nor
uotil you or your lawyers are satisfied that the papers en-
closed in the packet are sufficient fully to restore you to the
heritage of Devereux Court and its demesnes."
There was something fair in this; and as the only penalty,
to me, incurred by the stipulated condition, seemed to be
the granting escape to the criminals, I did not think it in-
cumbent upon me to lose my cause from the desire of a
prosecution.
Besides, at that time I felt too happy to be
revengeful; and so, after a moment's consideration, I con-
ceded to the proposal, and gave my honor as a gentleman,
- Mr. Oswald obligingly dispensed with an oath, that I
would not open the packet till the end of the seventh day.
Mr. Oswald then drew forth a piece of paper, on which
sundry characters were inscribed, the purport of which was,
that if through the papers given me by Marie Oswald, my
lawyers were convinced that I could become master of my
uncle's property now enjoyed by Gerald Devereux, I should
bestow on the said Marie, 5000l.: half at obtaining this
legal opinion, half at obtaining possession of the property.
I could not resist a smile, when I observed that the word
of a gentleman was enough surety for the safety of the man
he had a love for, but that Mr. Oswald required a written
bond for the safety of his reward. One is ready enough to
trust one's friends to the conscience of another, but as long
as a law can be had instead, one is rarely so credulous in
respect to one's money.
"The reward shall be doubled, if I succeed," said I,
signing the paper; and Oswald then produced a packet, on
which was writ, in a trembling hand, "For Count Mor-
ton Devereux, private,—and with haste." As soon as
As soon as
he had given me this precious charge, and reminded me
again of my promise, Oswald withdrew. I placed the
packet in my bosom, and returned to my guests.
Never had my spirit been so light as it was that evening.
The good people I had assembled thought matrimony never
made a man so little serious before. They did not, however,
stay long, and the moment they were gone, I hastened to
my own sleeping apartment, to secure the treasure I had
acquired. A small escritoire stood in this room, and in it
I was accustomed to keep whatever I considered most
precious. With many a wistful look and murmur at my
promise, I consigned the packet to one of the drawers of
his escritoire. As I was locking the drawer, the sweet
voice of Desmarais accosted me.
"Would monsieur,
59
he said, "suffer him to visit a friend that evening, in order
to celebrate so joyful an event in monsieur's destiny? It
was not often that he was addicted to vulgar merriment,
but on such an occasion he owned that he was tempted to
transgress his customary habits, and he felt that monsieur,
with his usual good taste, would feel offended, if his servant,
within monsieur's own house, suffered joy to pass the limits
of discretion, and enter the confines of noise and inebriety,
especially as monsieur had so positively interdicted all out-
ward sign of extra hilarity. He implored mille pardonnes
for the presumption of his request."
"It is made with your usual discretion, there are five
guineas for you: go and get drunk with your friend, and be
merry instead of wise. But tell me, is it not beneath a
philosopher to be moved by any thing, especially any thing
that occurs to another, much less to get drunk upon it?
"Pardon me, monsieur," answered Desmarais, bowing
to the ground; one ought to get drunk sometimes, because
the next morning one is sure to be thoughtful; and more-
over, the practical philosopher ought to indulge every emo-
tion, in order to judge how that emotion would affect
another; at least, this is my opinion."
"Well, go."
My most grateful thanks be with monsieur; monsieur's
nightly toilet is entirely prepared."
And away went Desmarais, with the light, yet slow step
with which he was accustomed to combine elegance with
dignity.
66
I now passed into the room I had prepared for Isora's
boudoir. I found her leaning by the window, and I per-
ceived that she had been in tears. As I paused to contem-
plate her figure, so touchingly, yet so unconsciously mourn-
ful in its beautiful and still posture, a more joyous sensation
than was wont to mingle with my tenderness for her swelled
at my heart. Yes," thought I, "you are no longer the
solitary exile, or the persecuted daughter of a noble but
ruined race; you are not even the bride of a man who must
seek in foreign climes, through danger and through hard-
ship, to repair a broken fortune and establish an adventurer's
name! At last the clouds have rolled from the bright star
of your fate, wealth, and pomp, and all that awaits the
haughtiest of England's matrons shall be yours." And at
these thoughts, fortune seemed to me a gift a thousand
times more precious than,- much as my luxuries prized it,
- it had ever seemed to me before.
I drew near and laid my hand upon Isora's shoulder, and
kissed her cheek. She did not turn round, but strove, by
bending over my hand and pressing it to her lips, to conceal
that she had been weeping. I thought it kinder to favor
the artifice, than to complain of it. I remained silent for
some moments, and I then gave vent to the sanguine ex-
pectations for the future, which my new treasure entitled
me to form. I had already narrated to her the adventure
of the day before, I now repeated the purport of my last
interview with Oswald: and growing more and more elated
as I proceeded, I dwelt at last upon the description of my
inheritance, as glowingly as if I had already recovered it.
I painted to her imagination its rich woods and its glassy
lake, and the fitful and wandering brook, that through brake
and shade went bounding on its wild way; I told her of my
early roamings, and dilated with a boy's rapture upon my
favorite haunts. I brought visibly before her glistening and
eager eyes, the thick copse where, hour after hour, in vague
verse, and still vaguer dreams, I had so often whiled away
the day; the old tree which I had climbed to watch the
birds in their glad mirth, or to listen unseen to the melan-
choly sound of the forest deer; the antique gallery and the
vast hall, which by the dim twilights I had paced with a
religious awe, and looked upon the pictured forms of my
bold fathers, and mused high and ardently upon my destiny
to be; the old gray tower which I had consecrated to my-
self, and the unwitnessed path which led to the yellow beach,
and the wild gladness of the solitary sea; the little arbor
which my earliest ambition had reared, that looked out
upon the joyous flowers and the merry fountain, and through
the ivy and the jessamine wooed the voice of the bird, and
the murmur of the summer bee; and when I had exhausted
my description, I turned to Isora, and said in a lower tone,
"And I shall visit these once more, and with you."
Isora sighed faintly, and it was not till I had pressed her
to speak, that she said :
"I wish I could deceive myself, Morton, but I cannot.
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BULWER'S NOVELS
-
C
I cannot root from my heart an impression that I shall
never again quit this dull city, with its gloomy walls and
its heavy air. A voice within me seems to say, Behold
from this very window the boundaries of your living wan-
derings.'
Isora's words froze all my previous exultation.
“It is in vain," said I, after chiding her for her despon-
dency," it is in vain to tell me that you have for this gloomy
notion no other reason than that of a vague presentiment.
It is time now that I should press you to a greater confi-
dence upon all points consistent with your oath to our
mutual enemy than you have hitherto given me. Speak,
dearest, have you not some yet unrevealed causes for
alarm ?"
It was but for a moment that Isora hesitated before she
answered with that quick tone which indicates that we force
words against the will.
"Yes, Morton, I will tell you now, though I would not
before the event of this day. On the last day that I saw
that fearful man, he said, I warn you, Isora D'Alvarez,
that my love is far fiercer than hatred; I warn you that
your bridals with Morton Devereux shall be stained with
blood. Become his wife, and you perish! Yea, though I
suffer hell's tortures for ever and for ever from that hour,
my own hand shall strike you to the heart!' Morton, these
words have thrilled through me again and again, as if again
they were breathed in my very ear; and I have often started
at night and thought the very knife glittered at my breast.
So long as our wedding was concealed, and concealed so
closely, I was enabled to quiet my fears till they scarcely
seemed to exist. But when our nuptials were to be made
public, when I knew that they were to reach the ears of
that fierce and unaccountable being, I thought I heard my
doom pronounced. This, mine own love, must excuse your
Isora, if she seemed ungrateful for your generous eagerness
to announce our union. And perhaps she would not have
acceded to it so easily as she has done, were it not that, in
the first place, she felt it was beneath your wife to suffer
any terror so purely selfish to make her shrink from the
proud happiness of being yours in the light of day; and if
she had not felt (here Isora hid her blushing face in my
bosom) that she was fated to give birth to another, and that
the announcement of our wedded love had become necessary
to your honor as to mine!"
times, I have fancied to read my destiny, and to find some
mysterious omen of my intended deeds, a haven which I
believe others have reached before me, and a home immor-
tal and unchanging, where, when my wearied and fettered
soul is escaped, as a bird, it shall flee away, and have its
rest at last.
her
"What think you of my choice?" said I. Isora looked
upward, but did not answer; and as I gazed upon
(while the pale light of heaven streamed quietly upon her
face) with her dark eyes, where the tear yet lingered,
though rather to soften than to dim, with her noble yet ten-
der features, over which bung a melancholy calm, with her
lips apart, and her rich locks wreathing over her marble
brow, and contrasted by a single white rose, (that rose
I have now,
I have now, I would not lose one withered leaf of it for
a kingdom) - her beauty never seemed to me of so rare an
order, nor did my soul ever yearn toward her with so deep
a love
It was past midnight. All was hushed in our brida
chamber. The single lamp, which hung above, burnt stik
and clear; and through the half-closed curtains of the win-
dow, the moonlight looked in upon our couch, quiet, and
pure, and holy, as if it were charged with blessings.
"Hush!" said Isora, gently; "do you not hear a noise
below?"
I listened, my sense of hearing is naturally duller than
my other senses. "Not a breath," said I. "I hear not
a breath, save yours.'
"It was my fancy then!" said Isora, "and it has
ceased now;" and she clung closer to my breast and fell
asleep. I looked on her peaceful and childish countenance,
with that concentrated and full delight, with which we clasp
all that the universe holds dear to us, and feel as if the uni-
verse held naught beside; and thus sleep also crept upon me.
I awoke suddenly; I felt Isora trembling palpably by my
side. Before I could speak to her, I saw, standing at a
little distance from the bed, a man wrapped in a long dark
cloak and masked
cloak and masked; but his eyes shone through the mask,
and they glared
and they glared full upon me. He stood with his arms
folded, and perfectly motionless; but at the other end of
the room, before the escritoire in which I had locked the
important packet, stood another man, also masked, and
wrapped in a disguising cloak of similar hue and fashion.
This man, as if alarmed, turned suddenly, and I perceived
then that the escritoire was already opened, and that the
packet was in his hand. I tore myself from Isora's clasp,-
I stretched my hand to the table by my bedside, upon which
my sword was always left it was gone! No matter!
I was young, strong, fierce, and the stake at hazard was
great. I sprung from the bed, I precipitated myself upon
the man who held the packet. With one hand I grasped
at the important document, with the other I strove to tear
the mask from the robber's face. He endeavoured rather
to shake me off, than to attack me; and it was not till I
had nearly succeeded in unmasking him, that he drew forth
a short poniard, and stabbed me in the side. The blow,
which seemed purposely aimed to avoid a mortal part,
staggered me, but only for an instant.
I renewed my
Though I was in reality awed even to terror by learning
from Isora's lip so just a cause for her forebodings; though
I shuddered with a horror surpassing even my wrath, when
I heard a threat so breathing of deadly and determined
passions; yet I concealed my emotions, and only thought of
cheering and comforting Isora. I represented to her how
guarded and vigilant should ever henceforth be the protec-
tion of her husband; that nothing should again separate
him from her side; that the extreme malice and fierce per-
secution of this man were sufficient even to absolve her
conscience from the oath of concealment she had taken ;
that I would procure from the sacred head of our church his
own absolution of that vow; that the moment concealment
was over, I could take steps to prevent the execution of my
rival's threats; that however near to me he might be ingripe at the packet, I tore it from the robber's hand, and
blood, no consequences arising from a dispute between us collecting my strength, now fast ebbing away, for one
could be so dreadful as the least evil to Isora; and more- effort, I bore my assailant to the ground, and fell struggling
over, to appease her fears, that I would solemnly promise with him.
he should never sustain personal assault or harm from my
hand; in short, I said all that my anxiety could dictate,
and at last I succeeded in quieting her fears, and she smiled
as brightly as the first time I had seen her in the little cot-
tage of her father. She seemed, however, averse to an
absolution from her oath, for she was especially scrupulous
as to the sanctity of those religious obligations; but I se-
cretly resolved that her safety absolutely required it, and
that at all events I would procure the papal absolution from
my own promise to her.
But my blood flowed fast from my wound, and my an-
tagonist, if less sinewy than myself, had greatly the advan-
tage in weight and size. Now, for one moment, I was up-
permost, but in the next his knee was upon my chest, and
his blade gleamed on high in the pale light of the lamp and
moon. I thought I beheld my death would to God
that I had! With a piercing cry, Isora sprang from the
bed, flung herself before the lifted blade of the robber, and
arrested his arm. This man had, in the whole contest,
acted with a singular forbearance, he did so now,— he
At last Isora, turning from that topic, so darkly interest-paused for a moment and dropped his hand. Hitherto, the
ing, pointed to the heavens, which, with their thousand
eyes of light, looked down upon us." Tell me, love," said
she, playfully, as her arm embraced me yet more closely,
"if,
if, among yonder stars we could choose a home, which
should we select ?"
I pointed to one which lay to the left of the moon, and
which, though not larger, seemed to burn with an intenser
lustre than the rest. Since that night it has ever been to
me a fountain of deep and passionate thought, a well wherein
fears and hopes are buried, a mirror in which, in stormy
other man had not stirred from his mute position: he now
moved one step toward us, brandishing a poniard like his
comrade's. Isora raised her hand supplicatingly toward
him, and cried out,-"Spare him, spare him ! — O, mer.
cy, mercy!".
With one stride he ruffian was by my
side he muttered some words which passion seemed to
render inarticulate, and half pushing aside his comrade, his
raised weapon flashed before my eyes, now dim and reel-
ing, I made a vain effort to rise, the blade descended,-
Isora, unable to arrest it, threw herself before it, her
DEVEREUX.
817
no more.
Blood, her heart's blood, gushed over me,—I saw and felt
-I saw and felt
When I recovered my senses, my servants were round
me, a deep red, wet stain upon the sofa on which I was
laid, brought the whole scene I had witnessed again before
me,― terrible and distinct, I sprang to my feet, and asked
for Isora; a low murmur caught my ear, I turned and
beheld a dark form stretched on the bed, and surrounded
like myself by gazers and menials,-I tottered toward that
bed, my bridal bed, I motioned, with a fierce gesture,
the crowd away, I heard my name breathed audibly,-
the next moment I was by Isora's side. All pain,-all
weakness, all consciousness of my wound, of my very
self, were gone,-life seemed curdled into a single agoniz-
ing and fearful thought. I fixed my eyes upon hers; and
though there the film was gathering dark and rapidly, I saw
yet visible and unconquered, the deep love of that faithful
and warm heart which had lavished its life for mine.
I threw my arms round her, I pressed my lips wildly to
hers. Speak,― speak ! "I cried, and my blood gushed
over her with the effort; "in mercy, speak!
Even in death and agony, the gentle being who had bɛen
" Do
as wax unto my lightest wish, struggled to obey me.
not grieve for me," she said, in a tremulous and broken
voice;
"it is dearer to die for you than to live!"
Those were her last words. I felt her breath abruptly
The heart pressed to mine, was still! I started up
in dismay, the light shone full upon her face. O God!
that I should live to write that Isora was — no more!
cease.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER 1.
where he found Isora and myself bleeding and lifeless, w zi
the escritoire broken open.
The only contradiction to this tale was, that the officers
A reentrance into life through the ebon gate, affliction.
of justice found the escritoire not broken open, but unlocked,
MONTHS passed away before my senses returned to me. but no key in it; and the key which belonged to it was found
I rose from the bed of suffering and of madness, calm, col- in a pocket-book in my clothes, where Desmarais, said,
lected immovable,-altered, but tranquil. All the vigi- rightly, I always kept it. How, then, had the escritoire
lance of justice had been employed to discover the mur been unlocked? it was supposed by the master-keys peculiar
derers, but in vain. The packet was gone; and directly to experienced burglars; this diverted suspicion into a new
I, who alone was able to do so, recovered enough to state channel, and it was suggested, that the robbery and the
the loss of that document, suspicion naturally rested on murder had really been committed by common housebreak-
Gerald, as on one whom that loss essentially benefited.
ers. It was then discovered, that a large purse of gold,
He came publicly forward to anticipate inquiry. He and a diamond cross, which the escritoire contained, were
proved that he had not stirred from home during the whole gone. And a few articles of ornamental bijouterie, which I
week in which the event had occurred. That seemed likely had retained from the wreck of my former profusion in such
enough to others; it is the tools that work, not the insti- baubles, and which were kept in a room below stairs, were
gator; the bravo, not the employer; but I, who saw in him, also missing. These circumstances immediately confirmed
ot only the robber, but that fearful rival, who had long the opinion of those who threw the guilt upon vulgar and
hreatened Isora that my bridals should be stained with blood, mercenary villains, and a very probable and plausible sup-
☛as somewhat staggered by the undeniable proofs of his ab- position was built on this hypothesis. Might not this Os-
ence from the scene of that night; and I was still more be- wald, at best an adventurer with an indifferent reputation,
wildered in conjecture, by remembering that so far as their have forged this story of the packet, in order to obtain admis-
disguises and my own hurried and confused observation sion into the house, and reconnoitre, during the confusion
could allow me to judge, the person of neither villain, still of a wedding, in what places the most portable articles of
less that of Isora's murderer, corresponded with the pro- value were stowed? a thousand opportunities in the open-
portions and height of Gerald. Still, however, whethering and shutting of the house-doors would have allowed an
mediately or immediately,—whether as the executor or the
designer,- not a doubt remained on my mind, that on his
head was justice due. I directed inquiry toward Mon-
treuil, he was abroad at the time of my recovery; but,
immediately on his return, he came forward boldly and at
once, to meet and even to court the inquiry I had institu-
ted he did more, he demanded on what ground, besides
my own word, it rested, that this packet had ever been in
my possession; and, to my surprise and perplexity, it was
utterly impossible to produce the smallest trace of Mr.
Marie Oswald. His half-brother, the attorney, had died,
it is true, just before the event of that night, and it was
a so true that he had seen Marie on his death-bed; but no
other corroboration of my story could be substantiated, and
no other information of the man obtained; and the parti-
zans of Gerald were not slow in hinting at the great in
terest I had in forging a tale, respecting a will, about the
authenticity of which I was at law.
:
ingenious villain to glide in; nay, he might have secreted
himself in my own room, and seen the place where I hal
put the packet, certain would he then be that I had select
ed, for the repository of a document I believed so important,
that place where all that I most valued was secured: and
hence he would naturally resolve to break open the escri
toire, above all other places, which, to an uninformed rob
ber, might have seemed not only less exposed to danger,
but equally likely to contain articles of value. The same
confusion which enabled him to enter and conceal himself,
would have also enabled him to withdraw and introduce his
accomplice. This notion was rendered probable, by his
insisting so strongly on my not opening the packet within a
certain time; had I opened it immediately, I might have
perceived that a deceit had been practised, and not hava
hoarded it in that place of security which it was the villain's
object to discover. Hence, too, in opening the escritoire,
he would naturally retake the packet, (which other plunder
ers might not have cared to steal,) as well as things of more
real price,
naturally retake it, in order that his previous
imposition might not be detected, and that suspicion might
be cast upon those who would appear to have an interest in
stealing a packet which I believed to be so inestimably im-
portant.
The robbers had entered the house by a backdoor, which
was found open. No one had perceived their entrance or
exit, except Desmarais, who stated, that he heard a cry,
that he, having spent the greater part of the night abroad,
had not been in bed above an hour before he heard it, that
he rose and hurried toward my room, whence the cry came,
that he met two men masked on the stairs, — that he What gave a still greater color to this supposition, was,
seized one, who struck him in the breast with a poniard, the fact that none of the servants had scen Oswald leave the
dashed him to the ground, and escaped-that he then im- house, though many had seen him enter. And what put his
mediately alarmed the house, and the servants accompany-guilt beyond a doubt in the opinion of many, was his sud-
ing him he proceeded, despite his wound, to my apartinent, den and mysterious disappearance. To my mind all thos
/
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BULWER'S NOVELS.
circumstances were not conclusive.
Both the men seemed
taller than Oswald; and I knew that that confusion, which
was so much insisted upon, had not thanks to my singu-
lar fastidiousness in those matters- existed. I was also
perfectly convinced that Oswald could not have been hid in
my room while I locked up the packet; and there was some-
thing in the behaviour of the murderer utterly unlike that of
a common robber, actuated by common motives.
All these opposing arguments were, however, of a nature
to be deemed nugatory by the world, and on the only one of
any importance, in their estimation, viz. the height of Os-
wald being different from that of the robbers, it was certainly
very probable, that in a scene so dreadful, so brief, so con-
fused, I should easily be mistaken. Having therefore once
flowed into this direction, public opinion soon settled into
the full conviction that Oswald was the real criminal, and
against Oswald was the whole strength of inquiry ultimately,
but still vainly, bent. Some few, it is true, of that kind
class, who love family mysteries, and will not easily forego
the notion of a brother's guilt for that of a mere vulgar
housebreaker, still shook their heads, and talked of Gerald;
but the suspicion was vague and partial, and it was only in
the close gossip of private circles, that it was audibly
vented.
I had formed an opinion by no means favorable to the
innocence of Mr. Jean Desinarais; and I took especial care
that the Necessitarian, who would only have thought rob-
bery and murder pieces of ill luck, should undergo a most
rigorous examination. I remembered that he had seen me
put the packet into the escritoire; and this circumstance
was alone sufficient to arouse my suspicion. Desmarais
bared his breast gracefully to the magistrate.
"Would a
man, sir," he said, a man of my youth, suffer such a scar
as that, if he could help it?" The magistrate laughed;
frivolity is often a rogue's best policy, if he did but know
it. One finds it very difficult to think a coxcomb can com-
mit robbery and murder. Howbeit Desmarais came off
triumphantly; and immediately after this examination,
which had been his second one, and instigated solely at any
desire, he came to me with a blush of virtuous indignation
on his thin cheeks. "He did not presume," he said, with
a bow profounder than ever, "to find fault with Monsieur
le Comte; it was his fate to be the victim of ungrateful sus-
picion; but philosophical truths could not always conquer
the feelings of the man, and he came to request his dismis-
sal." I I gave it him with pleasure.
I must now state my own feelings on the matter: but I
shall do so briefly. In my own mind, I repeat, I was fully
impressed with the conviction that Gerald was the real and
the head criminal; and thrice did I resolve to repair to
Devereux Court, where he still resided, to lie in wait for
him, to reproach him with his guilt, and at the sword's
point in deadly combat to seek its earthly expiation. I
spare the reader a narration of the terrible struggles, which
nature, conscience, all scruples and prepossessions of edu-
cation and of blood, held with this fierce resolution, the
unholiness of which I endeavoured to clothe with the name
of justice to Isora. Suffice it to say, that this resolution
I forewent at last; and I did so more from a feeling that,
despite my own conviction of Gerald's guilt, one rational
doubt rested upon the circumstance that the murderer
seemed to my eyes of an inferior height to Gerald, and that
the person whom I had pursued on the night I had received
that wound which brought Isora to my bedside, and who, it
was natural to believe, was my rival, appeared to me not only
also slighter and shorter than Gerald, but of a size that
seemed to tally with the murderer's.
This solitary circumstance, which contradicted my other
impressions, was, I say, more effectual in making me dis-
miss the thought of personal revenge on Gerald, than the
motives which virtue and religion should have dictated. The
deep desire of vengeance is the calmest of all the passions,
and it is the one which most demands certainty to the rea-
son, before it releases its emotions, and obeys their dictates.
The blow which was to do justice to Isora, I had resolved
should not be dealt till I had obtained the most utter cer-
tainty that it fell upon the true criminal. And thus, though
I cherished through all time, and though all change, the
ourning wish for retribution, I was doomed to cherish it in
secret, and not for years and years to behold a hope of at-
taining it. Once only I vented my feelings upon Gerald.
could not rest, or sleep, or execute the world's objects,
till I had done so ; but when they were thus once vented,
methought I could wait the will of time with a more settled
patience, and I reëntered upon the common career of life
more externally fitted to fulfil its duties and its aime.
That single indulgence of emotion followed immediately
after my resolution of not forcing Gerald into bodily con-
test I left my sword, lest I might be tempted to forget my
determination. I rode to Devereux Court, I entered
Gerald's chamber, while my horse stood unstalled at the
gate. I said but few words, but each word was a volume
I told him to enjoy the fortune he had acquired by fraud,
and the conscience he had stained with murder.
Enjoy
them while you may," I said, "but know that sooner or
later shall come a day, when the blood that cries from earth
shall be heard in heaven, and your blood shall
appease it.
Know if I seem to disobey the voice at my heart, I hear
it night and day, and I only live to fulfil at one time its
commands."
I left him stunned and horror-stricken. I flung myself
on my horse, and cast not a look behind as I rode from the
towers and domains of which I had been despoiled. Never
from that time would I trust myself to meet or see the de-
spoiler. Once, directly after I had thus braved him in his
usurped hall, he wrote to me. I returned the letter un-
opened. Enough of this; the reader will now perceive
what was the real nature of my feelings of revenge; and
will appreciate the reasons which, throughout this history,
will cause me never or rarely to recur to those feelings again,
until at least he will perceive a just hope of their consum-
mation.
I went with a quiet air and a set brow into the world. It
was a time of great political excitement. Though my
creed forbade me the open senate, it could not deprive me
of the veiled intrigue. St. John found ample employment
for my ambition, and I entered into the toils and objects of
my race with a seeming avidity, more eager and engrossing
than their own. In what ensues, you will perceive a great
change in the character of my memoirs. Hitherto, I chiefly
portrayed to you myself. I bared open to you my heart and
temper, my passions, and the thoughts which belong to our
passions. I shall now rather bring before you the natures
and the minds of others. The lover and the dreamer are
no more! The satirist and the observer, the derider of
human follies, participating while he derides, the worldly
and keen actor in the human drama, these are what the
district of my history on which you enter will portray me.
From whatever pangs to me the change may have been
wrought, you will be the gainer by that change. The gaudy
dissipation of courts; the vicissitudes and the vanities of
those who haunt them; the glittering jest, and the light
strain; the passing irony, or the close reflection; the
characters of the great; the colloquies of wit;
what delight the temper, and amuse the leisure more than
the hues of passion and the doom of love. As the monster
of the Nile is found beneath the sunniest banks, and in the
most freshening wave, the stream may seem to wander on
in melody and mirth, the ripple and the beam; but who
shall tell, what lurks, dark, and fearful, and ever vigilant.
below!
CHAPTER II.
Ambitious projects.
these are
It is not my intention to write a political history, instead
of a private biography. No doubt, in the next century,
there will be volumes enough written in celebration of that
era, which my contemporaries are pleased to term the
greatest that in modern times has ever existed. Besides,
in the private and more concealed intrigues with which I
was engaged with St. John, there was something which
regard for others would compel me to preserve in silence.
I shall therefore briefly state, that in 1712, St. John digni-
fied the peerage by that title which his exile and his genius
have rendered so illustrious.
out.
I was with him on the day this honor was publicly issued
I found him walking to and fro his room, with his
arms folded, and with a very peculiar compression of nis
nether lip, which was a custom he had when any thing
greatly irritated or disturbed him.
"Well," said he, stopping abruptly as he saw me,
" preti
DEVEREUX.
319
considering the peacock Harley brought so bright a plume
to nis own nest, we must admire the generosity which
spared this gay dunghil. feather to mine!
"How!" said I, though I knew the cause of his angry
metaphor. St. John used metaphors in speech scarcely less
than in writing.
-
J
1
"How!” cried the new peer, eagerly, and with one of
those flashing looks, which made his expression of indigna-
tion the most powerful I ever saw. "How ! Was the
acred promise grauted to me of my own collateral earldom,
the toil, the dif-
to be violated; and while the weight,
ficulty, the odium of affairs, from which Harley, the
despotic dullard, shrunk alike in imbecility and fear, had
been left exclusively to my share, an insult in the shape of
an honor, to be left exclusively to my reward? You know
my disposition is not to overrate the mere baubles of ambi-
tion; you know I care little for titles and for orders in
themselves; but the most worthless thing becomes of con-
sequer ce, if made a symbol of what is of value, cr designed
as the token of an affront. Listen: a collateral earldom
falls vacant, - it is partly promised me. Suddenly I am
dragged from the House of Commons, where I am all pow-
erful; I am given, not this earldom, which, as belonging
to my house, would alone have induced me to consent to a
removal from a sphere where my enemies allow I had
greater influence than any single commoner in the kingdom,
I am given not this, but a miserable compromise of dis-
tinction,
-a new and an inferior rank,-given it against
my will, thrust into the Upper House, to defend what
this pompous driveller, Oxford, is forced to forsake; and
not only exposed to all the obloquy of a most infuriate party,
opposed to me, but mortified by an intentional affront from
the party which, heart and soul, I have supported. You
know that my birth is to the full as nobre as Harley's,
you know that my influence in the Lower House is far
greater, -you know that my name in the country, nay,
throughout Europe, is far more popular, — you know that
the labor allotted to me has been far more weighty,you
know that the late peace of Utrecht is entirely my framing,
that the foes to the measure direct all their venom against
that the friends of the measure heap upon me all the
honor: when, therefore, this exact time is chosen for
breaking a promise formerly made to me,
when a pre-
tended honor, known to be most unpalatable to me, is
thrust upon me,
when, at this very time, too, six vacant
ribands of the garter flaunt by me; one resting on the knee
of this Harley, who was able to obtain an earldom for him-
Felf, -the others given to men of far inferior pretensions,
though not inferior rank, to my own,-myself markedly,
glaringly passed by,—how can I avoid feeling that things
despicable in themselves are become of a vital power, from
the evident intention that they should be insults to me!
The insects we despise as they buzz around us, become
dangerous when they settle on ourselves and we feel their
sting! But," added Bolingbroke, suddenly relapsing into
a smile, "I have long wanted a nickname, I have now
found one for myself. You know Oxford is called The
Dragon;' well, henceforth call me 'St. George;' for, as
sure as I live, will I overthrow the Dragon. I say this in
jest, but I mean it in earnest. And now that I have dis-
charged my bile, let us talk of this wonderful poem, which,
though I have read it a hundred times, I am never wearied
of admiring."
me,
M
“Ah,
the Rape of the Lock! It is indeed beautiful,
but I am not fond of poetry now By the way, how is it
that all our modern poets speak to the taste, the mind, the
judgment, and never to the feelings? Are they right in
doing so?"
My friend, we are now in a polished age. What have
feelings to do with civilization?"
“Way, more than you will allow. Perhaps the greater
our civilization, the more numerous our feelings. Our ani-
mal passions lose in excess, but our mental gain; and it is
to the mental that poetry should speak. Our English muse,
even in this wonderful poem, seems to me to be growing,
like our English beauties, too glitteringly artificial, — it
it
wears rouge and a hoop!"
"Ha! ha!
yes, they ornament now rather than create,
cut drapery rather than marble. Our poems remind me
of the ancient statues. Phidias made them, and Bubo and
Bombax dressed them in purple. But this does not apply
to young Pope, who has shown in this very poem that he
can work the quarry as well as choose the gems. But, see
B
—
•
I have worlds to do, first, there
the carriage awaits us.
is Swift to see, next, there is some exquisite Bourgogne
to taste,
taste well, and must assist; then, too,
you
there is the new actress; an, by the by, you must tell me
what you think of Bentley's Horace we will drive first to
my bookseller's to see it, Swift shall wait,- Heavens!
how he would rage if he heard me. I was going to say
what a pity it is that that man should have so much little-
ness of vanity; but I should have uttered a very foolish sen-
timent if I had."
And why ?"
"Because, if he had not so much littleness, perhaps he
would not be so great: what, but vanity, makes a man
write and speak, and slave, and become famous ? Alas!
and here St. John's countenance changed from gayety to
thought: "'tis a melancholy thing in human nature, that
so little is good and noble, both in itself and in its source?
Our very worst passions will often produce sublimer effects
than our best. Phidias (we will apply to him for another
illustration) made the wonderful statue of Minerva for his
country; but, in order to avenge himself on that country,
he eclipsed it in the far more wonderful statue of the Jupiter
Olympius. Thus, from a vicious feeling emanated a greater
glory than from an exalted principle; and the artist was
less celebrated for the monument of his patriotism than for
that of his revenge! But, allons mon cher, we grow wise
and dull. Let us go to choose our Burgundy, and our com-
rades to share it."
However, with his characteristic affectation of bounding
ambition, and consequently hope, to no one object in par-
ticular, and of mingling affairs of light importance with
those of the most weighty, Lord Bolingbroke might pretend
not to recur to, or to dwell upon, his causes of resentment,-
from that time they never ceased to influence him to a great
and, for a statesman, an unpardonable degree.
We cannot,
however, blame politicians for their hatred until, without
hating anybody, we have for a long time been politicians
ourselves; strong minds have strong passions, and men of
strong passions must hate as well as love.
The next two years passed, on my part, in perpetual
intrigues of diplomacy, combined with an unceasing, though
secret, endeavour to penetrate the mystery which hung over
the events of that dreadful night. All, however, was in
vain. I know not what the English police may be hereaf
ter, but, in my time, its officers seem to be chosen, like
honest Dogberry's companions, among "the most senseless
and fit men." They are, however, to the full, as much
knaves as fools; and perhaps a wiser posterity will scarcely
believe, that when things of the greatest value are stolen,
the owners, on applying to the chief magistrate, will often
be told that no redress can be given there, while one of the
officers will engage to get back the goods, upon paying the
thieves a certain sum in exchange; if this is refused, adieu
pour jamais à vos effets ! A pretty state of internal gov-
ernment!
It was about a year after the murder, that my mother in-
formed me of an event which tore from my heart its last
private tie, viz. the death of Aubrey. The last letter I had
received from him has been placed before the reader; it
was written at Devereux Court, just before he left it for
ever. Montreuil had been with him during the illness wnich
proved fatal, and which occurred in Ireland. He died of
consumption; and when I heard from my mother that Mon
treuil dwelt most glowingly upon the devotion he had man-
ifested during the last months of his life, I could not help
fearing that the morbidity of his superstition had done the
work of physical disease. On this fatal news, my mother
retired from Devereux Court, to a company of ladies of our
faith, who resided together, and practised the most ascetie
rules of a nuunery, though they gave not to their house that
ecclesiastical name. My mother had long meditated this
project, and it was now a melancholy pleasure to put it into
execution. From that period I rarely heard from her, and,
by little and little, she so shrunk from all worldly objects,
that my visits, and, I believe, even those of Gerald, became
unwelcome and distasteful.
As to my lawsuit, it went on gloriously, according to the
assertions of my brisk little lawyer, who had declared so
emphatically that he liked making quick work of a suit.
And, at last, what with bribery, and feeing, and pushing,
a day was fixed for the final adjustment of my claim, - it
came, the cause was heard and lost. I should have been
ruined, but for one circumstance; the old lady, my father's
820
BULWER'S NOVELS
godmother, who had witnessed my first and concealed mar-
riage, left me a pretty estate near Epsom. I turned it into
gold, and it was fortunate that I did so soon, as the reader
is about to see.
The queen died, and a cloud already began to look
menacing to the eyes of the Viscount Bolingbroke, and
therefore to those of the Count Devereux. "We will
weather out the shower," said Bolingbroke.
"Could not you," said I, "make our friend Oxford the
talapat?" and Bolingbroke laughed. All men find wit
in the jests broken on their enemies!
One morning, however, I received a laconic note from
him, which, notwithstanding its shortness and seeming
gayety, I knew well signified that something, not calcula-
ted for laughter, had occurred. I went, and found that his
new majesty had deprived him of the seals and secured his
papers. We looked very blank at each other. At last,
Bolingbroke smiled. I must say, that culpable as he was
in some points as a politician, culpable, not from being
ambitious, (for I would not give much for the statesman
who is otherwise,) but from not having inseparably linked
his ambition to the welfare of his country, rather than to
that of a party,
for, despite of what has been said of
him, his ambition was never selfish, culpable as he was
when glory allured him, he was most admirable when dan-
ger assailed him! † and, by the shade of that Tully whom
he so idolized, his philosophy was the most conveniently
worn of any person's I ever met. When it would have
been in the way, - at the supper of an actress, in the
levées of a court, in the boudoir of a beauty, in the
arena of the senate, in the intrigue of the cabinet, you
would not have seen, no! not a seam of the good old gar-
ment. But directly it was wanted, in the hour of pain,
in the day of peril, in the suspense of exile, in (worst
of all) the torpor of tranquillity, my extraordinary friend
unfolded it piece by plece, wrapped himself up in it,
sat down,- defied the world, and uttered the most beauti-
ful sentiments upon the comfort and luxury of his raiment,
that can possibly be imagined. It used to remind me, that
same philosophy of his, of the enchanted tent in the Arabian
tale, which, one moment, lay wrapped in a nut-shell, and
the next covered an army.
J
*A thing used by the Siamese for the same purpose as we
now use the umbrella. A work descriptive of Siam, by M. de la
Loubere, in which the talapat is somewhat minutely described,
having been translated into English, and having excited some
curiosity, a few years before Count Devereux now uses the
word, the allusion was probably familiar.- ED.
I know well that it has been said otherwise, and that Bol-
ingbroke has been accused of timidity for not staying in Eng-
land, and making Mr. Robert Walpole a present of his head.
The elegant author of "De Vere," who, indeed, appears to me
to have taken a view of Lord Bolingbroke's character more con-
sistent with the cant of a pseudo-philosophy than a deep consid-
eration of human nature, or a diligent comparison of historical
facts, has fallen into a very great, though a very hackneyed error,
in lauding Oxford's political character, and condemning Boling.
broke's, because the former awaited a trial, and the latter
shunned it. A very little reflection might, perhaps, have taught
the accomplished novelist, that there could be no comparison
between the two cases, because there was no comparison be-
tween the relative danger of Oxford and Bolingbroke. Oxford,
as their subsequent impeachment proved, was far more numer-
ously and powerfully supported than his illustrious enemy; and
there is really no earthly cause for doubting the truth of Bol-
ingbroke's assertion, viz. that, "He had received repeated and
certain information that a resolution was taken, by those who
had power to execute it, to pursue him to the scaffold." There
are certain situations in which a brave and a good man should
willingly surrender life; but I humbly opine that there may
sometimes exist a situation in which he should preserve it: and
if ever man was placed in that latter situation, it was Lord
Bolingbroke. To choose unnecessarily to put one's head under
the axe, without benefiting any but one's enemies by the act, is,
.n my eyes, the proof of a fool, not a hero; and to attack a man
for not placing his head in that agreeable and most useful pre-
dicament, -for preferring, in short, to live for a world, rather
than to perish by a faction, appears to be a mode of arguing that
has a wonderful resemblance to nonsense. When Lord Boling-
broke was impeached, two men only, out of those numerous
retainers in the Lower House who had been wont so loudly to
applaud the secretary of state, in his prosecution of those very
measures for which he was now to be condemned, two men
unly (General Ross and Mr. Hugerford) uttered a single syllable
in defence of the minister disgraced. This, by the way, is that
same generous, courageous, unswerving body of men whom
Lord John Russell has been pleased, in his late work, to call an
"admirable assembly." It is quite astonishing what a vast
quantity of unexpected intelligence may be packed up in the
Blastic valise of one little epithet.- ED.
Bolingbroke smiled, and quoted Cicero, and atter a
hour's conversation, which, on his part, was by no means
like that of a person whose very head was in no enviable
state of safety, he slid at once from a sarcasın upon Steel
into a discussion as to the best measures to be adopted
Let me be brief on this point! Throughout the whole of
that short session, he behaved in a manner more delicately
and profoundly wise than, I think, the whole of his pre-
vious administration can equal. He sustained, with the
most unflagging, the most unwearied, dexterity, the sink-
ing spirits of his associates. Without an act, or the
shadow of an act, that could be called time-serving, he
laid himself out to conciliate the king, and to propitiate
parliament; with a dignified prudence, which, while it
seemed above petty pique, was well calculated to remove
the appearance of that disaffection with which he was
charged, and discriminated justly between the king and
the new administration, he lent his talents to the assistance
of the monarch, by whom his impeachment was already
resolved on, and aided in the settlement of the civil list,
while he was in full expectation of a criminal accusation.
The new parliament met, and all doubt was over.
impeachment of the late administration was decided upon.
I was settling bills with my little lawyer one morning,
when Bolingbroke entered my room. He took a chair,
nodded to me not to dismiss my assistant, joined our con
versation, and when conversation was merged in accounts
he took up a book of songs, and amused himself with i
till my business was over and my disciple of Coke retired.
He then said, very slowly, and with a slight yawn,
"You have never been at Paris, I think?
"Never,
·
An
you are enchanted with that gay city."
"Yes, but when I was last there, the good people flat-
tered my vanity enough to bribe my taste. I shall be able
to form a more unbiassed and impartial judgment in a few
days.
A few days?"
"Ay, my dear count: does it startle you? I wonder
whether the pretty De Tencin will be as kind to me as she
was, and whether tout le monde (that most exquisite phrase
for five hundred people) will rise now at the opera on my
entrance. Do you think that a banished minister can have
any, the smallest, resemblance, to what he was when in
power? By gumdragon, as our friend Swift so euphoni-
ously and elegantly says, or swears, by gumdragon, I think
What altered Satan so after his fall? what gave him
horns and a tail? nothing but his disgrace. O! years,
and disease, plague, pestilence, and famine, never alter a
man so much as the loss of power.
not.
"You say wisely; but what am I to gather from your
words? is it all over with us in real earnest ?
"Us! with me it is indeed all over, you may stay
here for ever. I must fly, a packet boat to Calais, or a
room in the tower: I must choose between the two. I
had some thoughts of remaining, and confronting my trial,
but it would be fully; there is a difference between Oxford
and me. He has friends, though out of power: I have
none. If they impeach him, he will escape; if they im-
peach me, they will either shut me up like a rat in a cage,
for twenty years, till, old and forgotten, I tear my heart
out with my confinement, or they will bring me at once to
the block. No, no, I must keep myself for another day;
and while they banish me, I will leave the seeds of the
true cause to grow up till my return. Wise and exquisite
policy of my foes, Frustra Cassium amovisti, si glis-
cere et vigere Brutorum emulos passurus es.' But I have
no time to lose, - farewell my friend- God bless you,-
you are saved from these storms; and even intolerance,
which prevented the exercise of your genius, preserves you
now from the danger of having applied that genius to the
welfare of your country: God knows, whatever my faults,
I sacrificed what I loved better than all things,-study
and pleasure, to her cause. In her wars I served even
my enemy Marlborough, in order to serve her; her peace
I effected, and I suffer for it. Be it so,
I am
"Fidens animi atque in utrumque pars us.'
Once more I embrace you, farewell."
Nay," said I, "listen to me, you shall not go alone.
France is already, in reality, my native country; there did
I receive my birth, it is no hardship to return to my natale
solum; it is an honor to return in the company of Henry
St. John. I will have no refusal; my law case is over
DEVEREUX.
82.
my papers are few, my money I will manage to transfer. "And you will ask Walpole, Addison, and Steele,* to
Remember the anecdote you told me (yesterday) of Anax-join us; eh?" said Bolingbroke. No, we have ther
agoras, who, when asked where his country was, pointed engagements for to-night; but we shall meet again soon
with his finger to heaven. It is applicable, I hope, as well And the eccentric youth nodded his adieu, disappeared,
to me as to yourself; to me uncelebrated and obscure, to and a minute afterward was seated by the side of the Duch
you the senator and the statesman.
ese cf Marlborough.
In vain Bolingbroke endeavoured to dissuade me from
this resolution; he was the only friend fate nad left me, and
I was resolved that misfortune should not part us. At last
he embraced me tenderly, and consented to what he could
not resist. "But you cannot," he said, "
he said, "quit England
to-morrow night, as I must."
"Pardon me,' I answered, "the briefer the prepara-
tion, the greater the excitement and what in life is equal
to that?
>
"True," answered Bolingbroke: "to some natures, too
to some natures, too
restless to be happy, excitement can compensate for all;
compensate for years wasted, and hopes scattered; com-
pensate for bitter regret at talents perverted, and passions
unrestrained. But we will talk philosophically when we
have more leisure. You will dine with me to-morrow;
we will go to the play together; I promised poor Lucy
that I would see her at the theatre, and I cannot break my
word; and an hour afterward we will commence our ex-
cursion to Paris. And now I will explain to you the plan
I have arranged for our escape."
CHAPTER III.
The real actors spectators of the false ones.
IT was a brilliant night at the theatre! The boxes
were crowded to excess. Every eye was directed towards
Lord Bolingbroke, who, with his usual dignified and con-
summate grace of manner, conversed with the various
loiterers with whom, from time to time, his box was filled.
"Look yonder," said a very young man, of singular per-
sonal beauty, look yonder, my lord, what a panoply of
smiles the duchess wears to-night, and how triumphantly
she directs those eyes, which they say were once so beau-
tiful, to your box."
"Ah," said Bolingbroke, “her grace does me too much
honor; I must not neglect to acknowledge her courtesy;
and, leaning over the box, Bolingbroke watched his oppor-
tunity till the Duchess of Marlborough, who sat opposite
to him, and who was talking with great and evidently joy-
ous vivacity to a tall, thin man beside her, directed her
attention, and that of her whole party, in a fixed and con-
centrated stare, to the imperilled minister. With a dignified
smile Lord Bolingbroke then put his hand to his heart, and
Dowed profoundly; the duchess looked a little abashed, but
eturned the courtesy quickly and slightly, and renewed
Be conversation.
?
Faith, my lord," cried the young gentleman who had
Defore spoken, "you managed that well! No reproach is
like that which we clothe in a smile, and present with a
bow."
I am happy," said Lord Bolingbroke, "that my con-
duct receives the grave support of a son of my political
opponent."
"Grave support, my lord! you are mistaken: never
apply the epithet grave to any thing belonging to Philip
Wharton. But, in sober earnest, I have sat long enough
But, in sober earnest, I have sat long enough
with you to terrify all my friends, and must now show my
worshipful face in another part of the house. Count Dev-
ereux, will you come with me to the duchess's ?”
"What! the duchess's, immediately after Lord Bol-
ingbroke's! the Whig after the Tory; it would be as
trying to one's assurance, as a change from the cold bach
to the hot to one's constitution.”
"Well, and what so delightful as a trial in which one
triumphs and a change in which one does not lose even
one's countenance?"
"Take care, my lord," said Bolingbroke, laughing;
those are dangerous sentiments for a man like you, to
whom the hopes of two great parties are directed, to express
o openly, -even on a trifle, and in a jest."
"Tis for that reason I utter them. I like being the
object of hope and fear to men, since my miserable fortune
made me marry at fourteen, and cease to be aught but a
wedded thing to the women. But, sup with me në tha Rad-
ford, you my lord, and the com
VOL 1.
41
"There goes a boy," said Bolingbroke, "who at the
age of fifteen has in him the power to be the greatest man
of his day, and in all probability will only be the most sin-
gular. An obstinate man is sure of doing well; a wavering
or a whimsical one (which is the same thing) is as uncer-
tain, even in his elevation, as a shuttlecock. But ook to
the box at the right, do you see the beautiful Lady
Mary?"
Yes," said Mr. Trefusis, who was with us, she has
only just come to town, 'Tis said she and Ned Montague
live like doves.”
6C
"How?" said Lord Bolingbroke, “ that quick, restless
eye seems to have very little of the dove in it."
"But how beautiful she is!" said Trefusis, admiringly.
"What a pity that those exquisite hands should be s
dirty! It reminds me (Trefusis loved a coarse anec
dote) of her answer to old Madame de Noailles, who made
exactly the same remark to her. 'Do you call my hand.
dirty?' cried Lady Mary, holding them up with the mos
innocent naïveté, ah, madame, si vous voyez mes pieds!''
"Fi done!" said I, turning away; but who is tha
very small, deformed man behind her, he with the bright
black eye?"
'
CC
“
even
"Know you not?" said Bolingbroke: "tell it not ir
Gath!-'tis a rising sun whom I have already learnt to
worship, the young author of the Essay ou Criticism,'
and the Rape of the Lock.' Egad, the petit poëte seems to
eclipse us with the women as much as with the men. Do
you mark how eagerly Lady Mary listens to him,
though the tall gentleman in black, who in vain endeavours
to win her attentions, is thought the handsomest gallant in
London? Ah, genius is paid by smiles from all females
but fortune, little, methinks, does that young poet, in his
first intoxication of flattery and fame, guess what a lot of
contest and strife is in store for him. The very breath
which a literary man respires is hot with hatred, and the
youthful proselyte enters that career which seems to him
so glittering, even as Dame Pliant's brother in the Alche-
mist entered town, --not to be fed with luxury, and diet on
pleasure, but to learn to quarrel and live by his wits.'”
The play was now nearly over. With great gravity Lord
Bolingbroke summoned one of the principal actors to his
box, and bespoke a play for the next week leaning then
on my arm, he left the theatre. We hastened to his home,
put on our disguises, and without any adventure worth re-
counting, effected our escape, and landed safely at Calais.
Paris.
CHAPTER IV.
A female politician, and an ecclesiastical one. Sundry
other matters.
THE ex-minister was received both at Calais and at
Paris with the most gratifying_honors. He was then en-
tirely the man to captivate the French. The beauty of his
person, the grace of his manner, his consummate taste in al
things, the exceeding variety and sparkling vivacity of his
conversation, enchanted them. In later life he has grown
more reserved and profound, even in habitual intercourse.
and attention is now fixed to the solidity of the diamond,
as at that time one was too dazzled to think of any thing
but its brilliancy.
While Bolingbroke was receiving visits of state, 1 busied
myself in inquiring after a certain Madame de Balzac. The
reader will remember that the envelope of that letter which
Oswald had brought to me at Devereux Court, was signed
by the letters C. de B. Now, when Oswald disappeared
after that dreadful night to which even now I can scarcely
brance, and Oswald having said they belonged to a lady
bring myself to allude, these initials occurred to my remem
formerly intimate with my father, I inquired of my mother
if she could guess to what French lady such initials would
apply. She, with an evident pang of jealousy, mentioned
a Madame de Balzac; and to this lady I now resolved to
* All political opponents of Lord Bolingbroke
022
BULWER'S NOVELS.
address myself, with the faint hope of learning from her
some intelligence respecting Oswald. It was not difficult
to find out the abode of one who in her day had played no
inconsiderable rôle in that comedy of errors, the
great
world. She was still living at Paris: what Frenchwoman
would, if she could help it, live any where else? There
are a hundred gates," said the witty Madame de Choisi to
"which lead into Paris, but only two roads out of it,
the couvent, or (odious word !) the grave!
me,
""
sat a
I hastened to Madame Balzac's hotel. I was ushered
through three magnificent apartments into one, which to
my eyes seemed to contain a throne: upon a nearer inspec-
tion I discovered it was a bed. Upon a large chair, by a
very bad fire, it was in the month of March,
tall, handsome woman, excessively painted, and dressed in
manner, which to my taste, accustomed to English finery,
eemed singularly plain. I had sent in the morning to
request permission to wait on her, so that she was pre-
pared for my visit. She rose, offered me her cheek, kissed
mine, shed several tears, and in short testified a great deal
of kindness toward me. Old ladies who have flirted with
our fathers, always seem to claim a sort of property in the
sons !
Before she resumed her seat she held me out at arm's
length. "You have a family likeness to your brave
father," said she, with a little disappointment; “but—-”
"Madame de Balzac would add," interrupted I, filling
up the sentence which I saw her bienveillance had made
her break off, "Madame de Balzac would add, that I am
not so good looking. It is true: the likeness is transmit-
ted to me within rather than without; and if I have not
my father's privilege to be admired. I have at least his
capacities to admire," and I bowed.
Madame de Balzac took three large pinches of snuff.
"That is very well said," said she, gravely: very well,
indeed! not at all like your father though, who never
paid a compliment in his life. Your clothes, by the by,
are in exquisite taste: I had no idea that English people
had arrived to such perfection in the fine arts. Your face
is a little too long! You admire Racine, of course?
How do you like Paris?
All this was not said gayly or quickly: Madame de
Balzac was by no means a gay or a quick person. She
belonged to a peculiar school of Frenchwomen, who af-
fected a little languor, a great deal of stiffness, an indiffer-
ence to forms when forms were to be used by themselves,
and an unrelaxing demand of forms when forms were to
be observed to them by others. Added to this, they talked
plainly upon all matters, without ever entering upon senti-
ment. This was the school she belonged to; but she
possessed the traits of the individual as well as of the spe-
cies. She was keen, ambitious, worldly, not unaffection-
ate, nor unkind; very proud, a little of the devotee, be-
cause it was the fashion to be so, an enthusiastic ad-
mirer of military glory, and a most prying, searching, in-
triguing, and yet talentless schemer of politics.
little to plume himself upon in that respect He seemed,
however, from her account of him, to be more a rogua
than a villain; and from two or three stories of his cow-
ardice, which Madame de Balzac related, he appeared to
me utterly incapable of a design so daring and systematic
as that of which it pleased all persons who troubled them-
selves about my affairs, to suspect him.
Finding, at last, that no further information was to be
gained on this point, I turned the conversation to Mon-
treuil. I found from Madame de Balzac's very abuse of
him that he enjoyed a great reputation in the country, and
a great favor at court. He had been early befriended by
Father la Chaise, and he was now especially trusted and
esteemed by the successor of that Jesuit Le Tellier
Le Tellier, that rigid and bigoted servant of Loyola, the
sovereign of the king himself, - the destroyer of the Port
Royal, and the mock and terror of the bedevilled and per-
secuted Jansenists. Besides this, I learnt what has been
before pretty clearly evident, viz. that Montreuil was
greatly in the confidence of the chevalier, and that he was
supposed already to have rendered essential service to the
Stuart cause. His reputation had increased with every
year, and was as great for private sanctity as for political
talent.
When this information, given in a very different spirit
from that in which I retail it, was over, Madame de Bal-
zac observed, - Doubtless you will obtain a private au-
dience with the king?”
CC
"Is it possible, in his present age and infirmities?"
"It ought to be to the son of Le Maréchal Devereux.
"I shall be happy to receive madame's instructions how
to obtain the honor; her name would, I feel, be a greater
passport to the royal presence, than that of a deceased
soldier; and Venus's cestus may obtain that grace which
would never be accorded to the truncheon of Mars!"
Was there ever so natural and so easy a compliment ?
My Venus of fifty smiled.
case.
"You are mistaken, count," said she; "I have no in-
terest at court: the Jesuits forbid that to a Jansenist; bu
I will speak this very day to the Bishop of Fréjus : he is
related to me, and will obtain so slight a boon for you with
He has just left his bishopric: you know how he
hated it. Nothing could be pleasanter than his signing
himself, in a letter to Cardinal Quirini, Fleuri évêque de
Fréjus par l'indignation divine.' The king does not like
him much but he is a good man on the whole, though
Jesuitical: he shall introduce you."
CC
<
I expressed my gratitude for the favor, and hinted that
possibly the relations of my father's first wife, the haughty
and ancient house of La Tremouille, might save the Bishop
of Fréjus from the pain of exerting himself on my behalf.
"You are very much mistaken," answered Madame de
Balzac : priests point the road to court, as well as to
heaven: and warriors and nobles have as little to do with
the former, as they have with the latter, the unlucky Duc
de Villers only excepted, a man whose ill fortune is enough
to destroy all the laurels of France. Ma foi ! I believe the
pauvre duc might rival in luck that Italian poet, who said,
in a fit of despair, that if he had been bred a hatter, men
would have been born without heads."
Like Paris!" said I, answering only the last ques-
tion, and that not with the most scrupulous regard to truth,
"Can Madame de Balzac think of Paris, and not con-
ceive the transport which must inspire a person entering
it for the first time? But I had something more endear- And Madame de Balzac chuckled over this joke, till, see-
ag than a stranger's interest to attach me to it; I longeding that no further news was to be gleaned from her, I made
to express to my father's friend, my gratitude for the inter-
est which I venture to believe she on one occasion mani-
ested toward me."
“Ah! you mean my caution to you against that terrible
de Montreuil. Yes, I trust I was of service to you there.
And Madame de Balzac then proceeded to favor me with
the whole history of the manner in which she had obtain-
ed the letter she had sent me, accompanied by a thousand
anathemas against those atroces Jésuites, and a thousand
eulogia on her own genius and virtues. I brought her from
this subject, so interesting to herself, as soon as decorum
would allow me: and I then made inquiry if she knew
aught of Oswald, or could suggest any mode of obtaining
intelligence respecting him. Madame de Balzac hated
plain, blunt, blank questions, and she always travelled
through a widerness of parentheses before she answered
them. But at last I did ascertain her answer, and found
it utterly unsatisfactory. She had never seen or heard any
thing of Oswald since he had left her charged with her
commission to me. I then questioned her respecting the
character of the man, and found Mr. Marie Oswald had
my adieu and my departure.
Nothing could exceed the kindness manifested toward
me by my father's early connexions. The circumstance of
my accompanying Bolingbroke, joined to my age, and an
address which, if not animated or gay, had not been
acquired without some youthful cultivation of the graces,
gave me a sort of éclat as well as consideration. And
Bolingbroke, who was only jealous of superiors in power.
and who had no equals in any thing else, added greatly to
my reputation by his panegyrics.
Every one sought me; and the attention of society at
Paris would, to most, be worth a little trouble to repay.
Perhaps, if I had liked it, I might have been the rage; but
that vanity was over. I contented myself with being per-
mitted into society as an observer, without a single wish to
become the observed. When one has once outlived the
ambition de société, I know not a greater affliction than an
over-attention; and the Spectator did just what I should
have done in a similar case, when he left his lodgings,
"because he was asked every morning how he had slep
In the immediate vicinity of the court, the king's devotion
DEVEREUX.
323
age, and misfortunes, threw a damp over society; but there
were still some sparkling circles who put the king out of
the mode, and declared, that the defeats of his generals
made capital subjects for epigrams. What a delicate and
subtle air did hang over those soirées, where all that were
bright and lovely, and noble and gay, and witty and wise,
were assembled in one brilliant cluster! Imperfect as my
rehearsals must be, I think the few pages I shall devote to
a description of these glittering conversations, inust still
retain something of that original piquancy which the soirées
of no other capital could rival or appreciate.
One morning, about a week after my interview with
Madame de Balzac, I received a note from her, requesting
me to visit her that day, and appointing the hour.
Accordingly I repaired to the house of the fair politician.
I found her with a man in a clerical garb, and of a benevo-
lent and prepossessing countenance. She introduced him
to me as the Bishop of Fréjus, and he received me with an
air very uncommon to his countrymen, viz. with an case
that seemed to result from real good-nature, rather than
artificial grace.
"I shall feel," said he, quietly, and without the least
appearance of paying a compliment, "very glad to mention
your wish to his majesty; and I have not the least doubt
but that he will admit to his presence one who has such
hereditary claims on his notice. Madame de Maintenon,
by the way, has charged me to present you to her, whenever
you will give me the opportunity. She knew your admirable
mother well, and for her sake, wishes once to see you.
You know, perhaps, monsieur, that the extreme retirement
of her life renders this message from Madame de Maintenon
an unusual and rare honor.”
I expressed my thanks; the bishop received them with
a paternal rather than a courtier-like air, and appointed a
day for me to attend him to the palace. We then conversed
a short time upon indifferent matters, which, I observed,
the good bishop took especial pains to preserve clear from
French politics. He asked me, however, two or three
questions about the state of parties in England, about
finance and the national debt, about Ormond and Oxford:
and appeared to give the most close attention to my replies.
He smiled once or twice, when his relation, Madame de
Balzac, broke out into sarcases against the Jesuits, which
had nothing to do with the subjects in question.
"Ah, ma chère cousine," said he, " you flatter me by
showing, that you like me not as the politician, but the
private relation, —not as the Bishop of Fréjus, but as
André de Fleury.”
Madame de Balzac smiled, and answered by a compli-
ment. She was a politician for the kingdom, it is true,
but she was also a politician for herself. She was far from
exclaiming, with Pindar, "Thy business, O my city, I pre-
fer willingly to my own. Ah, there is a nice distinction
between politics and policy, and Madame de Balzac knew it.
The distinction is this: Politics is the art of being wise for
others! Policy is the art of being wise for one's self.
|
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•
posed to centre in one word, Boulainvilliers' The
good count had many rivals, it is true, but he had that
exquisite tact peculiar to his countrymen, of making the
very reputations of those rivals contribute to his own.
And while he assembled them around him, the lustre of
their bons mots, though it emanated from themselves, was
reflected upon him.
It was a pleasant, though not a costly apartment, in
which we found our host. The room was sufficiently full
of people to allow scope and variety to one group of talk-
ers, without being full enough to permit those little knots
and coteries which are the destruction of literary society.
An old man of about seventy, of a sharp, shrewd, yet pol-
ished and courtly expression of countenance, of a great
gayety of manner, which was now and then rather dis-
pleasingly contrasted by an abrupt affectation of dignity
that, however, rarely lasted above a minute, and never
withstood the shock of a bon mot, was the first person who
accosted us. This old man was the wreck of the once
celebrated Anthony Count Hamilton !
"Well, my lord," said he to Bolingbroke, "how do you
like the weather at Paris? it is a little better than the
merciless air of London, is it not? 'Slife! even in June,
one could not go open-breasted in those regions of cold and
catarrh,-a very great misfortune, let me tell you, my lord,
if one's cambric happened to be of a very delicate and
brilliant texture, and one wished to penetrate the inward
folds of a lady's heart, by developing, to the best advan-
tage, the exterior folds that covered his own.
"It is the first time," answered Bolinbroke, "that I
ever heard so accomplished a courtier as Count Hamilton,
repine, with sincerity, that he could not bare his bosom to
inspection."
"Ah!" cried Boulainvilliers, "but vanity makes a
man show much that discretion would conceal."
"Au diable with your discretion!" said Hamilton,
"tis a vulgar virtue. Vanity is a truly aristocratic quali-
ty, and every way fitted to a gentleman. Should I ever
have been renowned for my exquisite lace and weblike
cambric, if I had not been vain? Never, mon cher! I
should have gone into a convent and worn sackcloth, and,
from Count Antoine, I should have thickened into Saint
Anthony,”
Nay," cried Lord Bolingbroke, "there is as much
scope for vanity in sackcloth, as there is in cambric; for
vanity is like the Irish ogling master in the Spectator, and
if it teaches the playhouse to ogle by candlelight, it also
teaches the church to ogle by day! But, pardon me,
Monsieur Chaulieu, how well you look! I see that the
myrtle sheds its verdure, not only over your poetry, but
the poet.
And it is right that, to the modern Anaveon,
who has bequeathed to time a treasure it will never rego,
time itself should be gentle in return.”
Milord," answered Chaulieu, an old man. who,
though considerably past seventy, was animated, in pear-
ance and manner, with a vivacity and life that wou. have
done honor to a youth, Milord, it was beautifully said
by the Emperor Julian, that justice retained the graces in
her vestibule. I see, now, that he should have substituted
the word wisdom for that of justice.'
5
From Madame de Balzac's I went to Bolingbroke. "I
have just been offered the place of secretary of state, by the
English king on this side of the water," said he;-"I do
not, however, yet like to commit myself so fully. And, in-
deed, I am not unwilling to have a little relaxation of Come," cried Anthony Hamilton, "this will never
pleasure, after all these dull and dusty travails of state. do. Compliments are the dullest things imaginable. For
What say you to Boulainvilliers to-night- you are asked?”
God's sake let us leave panegyric to blockheads, and say
"Yes! all the wits are to be there, Anthony Hamil- something bitter to one another, or we shall die of e nui.
|
ton, and Fontenelle, young Arouet,
Chaulieu, that "Vous avez raison," said Boulainvilliers:
"Let us
charming old man. Let us go, and polish away the wrin- pick out some poor devil to begin with. Absent or pres-
kles of our hearts What cosmetics are to the face, wit
ent ? - Decide which."
is to the temper; and after all, there is no wisdom like
that which teaches us to forget."
"Come, then," said Bolingbroke, rising, "we will lock
up these papers, and take a melancholy
and take a melancholy drive, in order
that we may enjoy mirth the better by and by."
CHAPTER V.
A meeting of wits. — Conversation gone out to supper in her
dress of velvet and jewels.
BOULAINVILLIERS! Comte de St. Saire!
our great-grandchildren think of that name?
indeed a riddle! At the time I refer to, wit,
At the time I refer to, wit,
all things that charm and enlighten,
G
-grace,
What will
Fame is
learning,
were sup-
|
M
O, absent," cried Chaulieu; " 'tis a thousand times
more piquant to slander than to rally! Let us commence
with his majesty: Count Devereux, have you seen Madame
Maintenon and her devout infant since your arrival?"
"No! the priests must be petitioned before the mira-
cle is made public."
CC
"What!" cried Chaulieu, "would you insinuate that
his majesty's piety is really nothing less than a miracle?"
Impossible!" said Boulainvilliers, gravely; "piety
is as natural to kings as flattery to their courtiers: are we
not told that they are made in God's own image!"
"If that were true," said Count Hamilton, somewhat
profanely; "if that were true, I should no longer deny
the impossibility of atheism!"
"Fie, Count Hamilton," said an old gentleman, in
whom I recognised the great Huet, "fie, -- wit should
324
BULWER'S NOVELS.
beware how it uses wings, its province is earth, not
heaven."
Nobody can better tell what wit is not, than the learn-
ed Abbé Huet ! " answered Hamilton, with a mock air of
respect.
"Psha!" cried Chaulieu, " thought when we once
gave the rein to satire, it would carry us pelemele against
one another. But in order to sweeten that drop of lemon-
juice for you, my dear Huet, let me turn to Milord Boling-
broke, and ask him whether England can produce a scholar
equal to Peter Huet, who in twenty years wrote notes to
sixty-two volumes of Classics,* for the sake of a prince
who never read a line in one of them ?”
"We have some scholars," answered Bolingbroke;
"but we certainly have no Huet. It is strange enough,
but learning seems to me like a circle: it grows weaker
the more it spreads. We now see many people capable of
reading commentaries, but very few, indeed, capable of
writing them."
CC
"True," answered Huet; and in his reply he introduced
the celebrated illustration which is at this day mentioned
among his most felicitous bons mots. Scholarship, for-
merly the most difficult and unaided enterprise of genius,
has now been made, by the very toils of the first mari-
ners, but an easy and common-place voyage of leisure.
But who would compare the great men, whose very diffi-
culties not only proved their ardor, but brought them the
patience and the courage which alone are the parents of a
genuine triumph, to the indolent loiterers of the present
day, who having little of difficulty to conquer, have nothing
of glory to attain ? For my part, there seems to me the
same difference between a scholar of our days and one of
the past, as there is between Christopher Columbus and the
master of a packet-boat from Calais to Dover! "
S
«
"But," cried Anthony Hamilton, taking a pinch of snuff,
with the air of a man about to utter a witty thing; but
what have we, we spirits of the world, not imps of the
closet,' and he glanced at Huet, "to do with scholar-
ship? All the waters of Castaly which we want to pour
into our brain, are such as will flow the readiest to our
tongue.
CC
""
"In short, then," said I, "" you would assert that all a
friend cares for in one's head is the quantity of talk in it?
Precisely, my dear count," said Hamilton, seriously;
"and to that maxim I will add another, applicable to the
pposite sex. All that a mistress cares for in one's heart
the quantity of love in it."
"What, are generosity, courage, honor, to go for nothing,
with our mistress, then ?" cried Chaulieu.
"No; for she will believe, if you are a passionate lover,
hat you have all those virtues ; and if not, she won't be-
ieve that have one."
you
"Ah! it was a pretty court of love in which the friend
and biographer of Count Grammont learnt the art!" said
Bolingbroke.
"We believed so at the time, my lord; but there are as
many changes in the fashion of making love as there are in
that of making dresses. Honor me, Count Devereux, by
using my snuff-box, and then looking at the lid.”
"It is the picture of Charles the Second, which adorns
it, is it not?"
-
"No, Count Devereux, it is the diamonds which adorn
it. His majesty's face I thought very beautiful while he
was living; but now, on my conscience, I consider it the
ugliest phiz I ever beheld. But I pointed your notice to the
picture because we were talking of love; and old Rowley
believed that he could make it better than any one else.
All his courtiers had the same opinion of themselves; and
I dare say the beaux garçons of Queen Anne's reign would
say, that not one of King Charley's gang knew what love
O! 'tis a strange circle of revolutions, that love!
Like the earth, it always changes, and yet always has the
same materials.”
was.
"L'amour, — l'amour, ·toujours l'amour, with Count
"He is al-
Anthony Hamilton!" said Boulainvilliers.
ways on that subject; and sacre bleu ! when he was younger,
I am told he was like Cacus, the son of Vulcan, and
Dreathed nothing but flames."
"Solve me now a
"You flatter me," said Hamilton.
knotty riddle, my Lord Bolingbroke. Why does a young
man think it the greatest compliment to be thought wise,
while an old man thinks it the greatest compliment to be
old he has been foolish ?"
* The Delphin Classics
"
"Is love foolish then?" said Lord Bolingbroke.
"Can you doubt it?" answered Hamilton; it makes
a man think more of another than himself! I know not a
greater proof of folly!"
"Ab,
mon aimable ami "—— cried Chaulieu; "
the wickedest witty person I know. I cannot help loving
your language, while I hate your sentiments."
you are
My language is my own, my sentiments are those of
all men," answered Hamilton; "but are we not, by the
by, to have young Arouct here to-night? What a charin-
ing person he is?"
“
"Yes," said Boulainvilliers. "He said he should be
late; and I expect Fontenelle, too, but he will not come
before supper. I found Fontenelle this morning, convers-
ing with my cook on the best manner of dressing asparagus.
I asked him the other day, what writer, ancient or modern,
had ever given him the most sensible pleasure. After a
little pause, the excellent old man said, Daphnus.'
Daphnus' repeated I, - who the devil is he?'
Why,' answered Fontenelle, with tears of gratitude in ha
benevolent eyes, I had some hypochondriacal ideas, tha
suppers were unwholesome; and Daphnus is an ancient
physician, who asserts the contrary; and declares, -— think,
my friend, what a charming theory!
that the moon is a
great assistant of the digestion!" "
"Ha ha ha!" laughed the Abbé de Chaulieu.
"How like Fontenelle! what an anomalous creature 'tis !
He has the most kindness and the least feeling of any mar
I ever knew. Let Hamilton find a pithier description for
him if he can!"
Whatever reply the friend of the preux Grammont
might have made, was prevented by the entrance of a
young man of about twenty-one.
In person he was small, slight, and very thin. There
was a certain affectation of polite address in his manner
and mien, which did not quite become him; and though he
was received by the old wits with great cordiality, and on
a footing of perfect equality; yet the inexpressible air
which denotes birth, was both pretended to, and wanting.
This, perhaps, was however owing to the ordinary inex-
perience of youth; which, if not awkwardly bashful, is
generally awkward in its assurance. Whatever its cause,
the impression vanished directly he entered into conversa
tion. I do not think I ever encountered a man so bril
liantly, yet so easily witty. He had but little of the studied
allusion, the antithetical point, the classic metaphor,
which chiefly characterize the wits of my day. On the
contrary, it was an exceeding and naive simplicity, which
gave such unrivalled charm and piquancy to his conversa-
tion.
tion. And while I have not scrupled to stamp on my pages
some faint imitation of the peculiar dialogue of other emi-
nent characters, I must confess myself utterly unable to
convey the smallest idea of his method of making words
irresistible. Contenting my efforts, therefore, with de-
scribing his personal appearance, interesting, because
that of the most striking literary character it has been my
lot to meet,
M
I shall omit his share in the remainder of
the conversation I am rehearsing, and beg the reader to
recall that passage in Tacitus, in which the great historian
says, that in the funeral of Junia," the images of Brutus
and Cassius outshone all the rest, from the very circum-
stance of their being the sole ones excluded from the rite."
<<
nor
The countenance, then, of Marie Francis Arouet, (since
so celebrated under the name of Voltaire,) was plain in
feature, but singularly striking in effect; its vivacity was
the very perfection of what Steele once happily called
physiognomical eloquence." His eyes were dark, fiery
rather than bright, and so restless that they never dwelt in
the same place for a moment;* his mouth was at once the
worst and the most peculiar feature of his face: it betokened
humor, it is true; but it also betrayed malignancy, -
did it ever smile without sarcasm. Though flattering to
those present, his words against the absent, uttered by that
bitter and curling lip, mingled with your pleasure at their
wit a little fear at their causticity. I believe no one, be he
as bold, as callous, or as faultless as human nature can be,
could be one hour with that man and not feel apprehension.
Ridicule so lavish, yet so true to the mark, so wanton,
* The reader will remember that this is a description of Vol-
taire as a very young man. I do not know any where a more
impressive, almost a more ghastly contrast, than that which
the pictures of Voltaire, grown old, present to Largilliere's pic
ture of him at the age of twenty-four; and he was somewhat
younger than twenty-four, at the time of which the count now
speaks.-ED.
DEVEREUX
325
yet so seemingly just, --so bright, that while it wandered
Soun bits target, ut apparent, though terrible playfulness, it
surnet into the spot, and engraved there a brand, and a
token indelible and perpetual; this no man could witness,
when darted toward another, and feel safe for himself. The
very caprice and levity of the jester seemed more perilous,
because less to be calculated upon, than a systematic prin-
ciple of bitterness or satire. Bolingbroke compared him,
not unaptly, to a child who has possessed himself of Jupiter's
bolts, and who makes use of those bolts in sport, which a
god would only have used in wrath.
Arouet's forehead was not remarkable for height, but it
was nobly and grandly formed, and, contradicting that of
the mouth, wore a benevolent expression. Though so young,
there was already a wrinkle on the surface of the front, and
a prominence on the eyebrow which showed that the wit
and the fancy of his conversation were, if not regulated, at
least contrasted, by more thoughtful and lofty characteristics
of mind. At the time I write, this man has obtained a high
throne among the powers of the lettered world. What he
may yet be, it is in vain to guess he may be all that is
great and good, or, the reverse; but I cannot but believe
that his career is only begun. Such men are born monarchs
of the mind; they may be benefactors or tyrants; in either
case, they are greater than the kings of the physical empire,
because they defy armies and laugh at the intrigues of state.
From themselves only come the balance of their power, the
laws of their government, and the boundaries of their
realm.
We sat down to supper. "Count Hamilton," said
Boulainvilliers, "are we not a merry set for such old fel-
lows? Why, excepting Arouet, Milord Bolingbroke, and
Count Devereux, there is scarcely one of us under seventy.
Where, but at Paris, would you see bons vivans of our age?
Vivent la joie! — la bagatelle l'amour !”
"Et le vin de Champagne," cried Chaulieu, filling his
glass; but what is there strange in our merriment? Phile-
mon, the comic poet, laughed at ninety-seven. May we all
do the same ! "
"You forget,” cried Bolingbroke,
" cried Bolingbroke, “ that Philemon died
of the laughing.'
"Yes," said Hamilton; "but, if I remember right, it
was at seeing an ass eat figs. Let us vow, therefore, never
to keep company with asses!"
"Bravo, count," said Boulainvilliers, "you have put
the true moral on the story. Let us swear by the ghost of
Philemon, that we will never laugh at an ass's jokes,
practical or verbal.”
"Then we must always be serious, except when we are
with each other," cried Chaulieu. “O, I would sooner
take my chance of dying prematurely at ninety-seven, than
consent to such a vow!
"Fontenelle," cried our host, "you are melancholy.
What is the matter?
>>
*
"I mourn for the weakness of human nature," answered
Fontenelle, with an air of patriarchal philanthrophy. "I
told your cook three times about the asparagus; and now,
taste it. I told him not to put too much sugar, and he
has put none.
Thus it is with mankind, ever in extremes,
and consequently ever in error! Thus it was that Luther
said, so felicitously and so truly, that the human mind was
ike a drunken peasant on horseback, prop it on one side,
and it falls on the other."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Chaulieu, le pauvre Secrétaire
del'Académie des Sciences! Who would have thought one
could have found so much morality in a plate of asparagus!
Taste this salsifis.'
"Pray, Hamilton," said Huet, "what jeu de mots was
that made yesterday at Madame d'Epernonville's, which
gained you such applause ?"
you
" 'twas
"Ah, repeat it, count," cried Boulainvilliers;
the most classical thing I have heard for a long time.
Why," said Hamilton, laying down his knife and fork,
and preparing himself by a large draught of the Champagne,
-"why, Madame d'Épernonville appeared without her
tour; you know, Lord Bolingbroke, that tour is the polite
name for false hair. 'Ah sacre!' cried her brother, cour-
teously, ma sœur, que vous êtes laide aujourd'hui,
n'avez pas votre tour !' Voilà, pourquoi elle n'est pas si-
belle (Cybele,') answered I"
C
C
·VOUS
"Excellent! famous!" cried we all, except Huet, who
seemed to regard the punster with a very disrespectful eye.
Hamilton saw it. "You do not think, Monsieur Huet,
|
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[
:
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that there is wit in these jeux de mots,—perhaps you do
not admire wit at all?
>>
"Yes, I admire wit as I do the wind. When it shakes
the trees, it is fine; when it cools the wave, it is refreshing;
when it steals over flowers, it is enchanting; but when,
Monsieur Hamilton, it whistles through the keyhole, it is
unpleasant."
CC
"The very worst illustration I have heard," said Ham
ilton, coolly. Keep to your classics, my dear abbé.
When Jupiter edited the work of Peter Huet, he did with
wit, as Peter Huet did with Lucan, when he edited the
Classics, he was afraid it might do mischief, and so left
it out altogether.
Maka da
"Let us drink!" cried Chaulieu; "let us drink!" and
the conversation was turned again.
"What is that you say of Tacitus, Huet?" said Boul-
ainvilliers.
"That his wisdom arose from his malignancy," an-
swered Huet. "He is a perfect penetrator* into humaa
vices; but knows nothing of human virtues. Do you
think that a good man would dwell so clingingly on what is
evil? Believe me, no! A man cannot write much
and well upon virtue without being virtuous, nor enter
ninutely and profoundly into the causes of vice without
being vicious himself."
"It
It is true," said Hamilton; "and your remark, which
affects to be so deep, is but a natural corollary from the
hackneyed maxim, that from experience comes wisdom."
"But, for my part," said Boulainvilliers, "I think Ta-
citus is not so invariably the analyzer of vice as you would
make him. Look at the Agricola and the Germania."
"Ah! the Germany, above all things!" cried Hamil-
ton, dropping a delicious morsel of sanglier, in its way
from hand to mouth, in his hurry to speak.
"Of course,
the historian, Boulainvilliers, advocates the Germany, from
its mention of the origin of the feudal system, that in-
comparable bundle of excellences, which le Comte de
Boulainvilliers, has declared to be le chef d'œuvre de l'esprit
humain; and which the same gentleman regrets, in the
most pathetic terms, no longer exists in order that the
seigneur may feed upon des gros morceaux, de bœuf demi-
cru, may hang up half his peasants pour encourager les au-
tres, and ravish the daughters of the defunct pour leur don-
ner quelque consolation.
<<
>
Seriously, though," said the old Abbé de Chaulieu,
with a twinkling eye,
with a twinkling eye, "the last mentioned evil, my dear
Hamilton, was not without a little alloy of good.'
"Yes," said Hamilton, "if it was only the daughters;
but perhaps the seigneur was not too scrupulous with
regard to the wives."
"Ah! shocking, shocking!” cried Chaulieu, solemnly
Adultery is, indeed, an atrocious crime. I am sure I
would most conscientiously cry out with the honest preach-
er, Adultery, my children, is the blackest of sins.
I do declare, that I would rather have ten virgins in love
with me than one married woman !'"
C
We all laughed at this enthusiastic burst of virtue from
the chaste Chaulieu. And Arouet turned our conversation
toward the ecclesiastical dissensions between Jesuits and
Jansenists, that then agitated the kingdom. It was then
that Bolingbroke used that magnificent illustration, so sig.
nificant of all those ecclesiastical quarrels in which indulg-
ing the worst passions is termed zeal for the best cause;
and we prove beyond a doubt, how intensely we love God
by showing with what delightful animosity we can hate
one another! "The priests," said Bolingbroke, " re-
mind me of the nurses of Jupiter: they make a great
clamor, in order to drown the voice of their God.”
"Is it not a pity,
"Bravissimo!" cried Hamilton.
messieurs, that my Lord Bolingbroke was not a French-
man? He is almost clever enough to be one.'
“If he would drink a little more, he would be,” cried
Chaulieu, who was glowing gloriously plein de boisson.
"What say you, Morton ?" exclaimed Bolingbroke;
"must we not drink these gentlemen under the table for
the honor of our country ?»
"A challenge a challenge!" cried Chaulieu.
march first to the field!
-་ •
I
Conquest or death!" shouted Bolingbroke. And the
rites of Minerva were forsaken for those of Bacchus.
* A remark similar to this the reader will probably remember
in the IIuetiana, and will, I hope, agree with me in thinking !•
showy and untrue. - ED
896
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER VI.
A court, courtiers, and a king.
I THINK it was the second day after this "feast of rea-
son " that Lord Bolingbroke deemed it advisable to retire
to Lyons till his plans of conduct were ripened into de-
cision. We took an affectionate leave of each other; but |
before we parted, and after he had discussed his own pro-
jects of ambition, we talked a little upon mine. Although
was a Catholic and a pupil of Montreuil; although I had
filed from England, and had nothing to expect from the
house of Hanover, I was by no means favorably disposed
toward the chevalier and his cause. I wonder if this
avoval will seem oda to Englishmen of the next century.
To Englishmen of the present one, a Roman Catholic, and
a lover of priesteraft and tyranny, are two words for the
same thing; as if we could not murmur at tithes and taxes,
insecurity of property, or arbitrary legislation, just as
sourly as any other Christian community. No! I never
loved the cause of the Stuarts; unfortunate, and therefore,
interesting, as the Stuarts were: by a very stupid, and yet
uneffaceable confusion. of ideas, I confounded it with the
cause of Montreuil, and I hated the latter enough to dis-
like the former: I fancy all party principles are formed
much in the same manner. I frankly
told Bolingbroke
Iny disinclination to the chevalier.
"Between ourselves be it spoken," said he, "there is
"there is
but little to induce a wise man, in your circumstances, to
join James the third. I would advise you rather to take
advantage of your father's reputation at the French court,
and enter into the same service he did. Things wear a
dark face in England for you, and a bright one every-
where else."
"I have already," said I, "in my own mind, perceived
and weighed the advantages of entering into the service of
Louis. But he is old; he cannot live long. People now
pay court to parties, not to the king. Which party, think
you, is the best, that of Madame de Maintenon?
"Nay, I think not; she is a cold friend, and never asks
favors of Louis for any of her family. A bold game might
be played by attaching yourself to the Duchess d'Orleans,
(the duke's mother.) She is at daggers-drawn with
Maintenon, it is true, and she is a violent, haughty, and
coarse woman; but she has wit, talent, strength of mind,
and will zealously serve any person of high birth whọ
her respect. But she can do nothing for you till the king's
till the king's
death, and then only on the chance of her son's power.
But, let me sec, you say Fleuri, the Bishop of Fre-
jus, is to introduce you to Madame de Maintenon?'
"Yes; and has appointed the day after to-morrow for
that purpose.
of
pays
"Well, then, make close friends with him,
you will
not find it difficult; he has a delightful address, and if you
get hold of his weak points, you may win his confidence.
Mark me,-
- Fleuri has no faux-brilliant, no genius, indeed,
very prominent order; but he is one of those soft and
smooth mines which, in a crisis like the present, when par-
ties are contending and princes wrangling, always slip
silently and unobtrusively into one of the best places. Keep
in with Fréjus, you cannot do wrong by it; although you
must remember that at present he is in ill odor with the
king, and you need not go with him twice to Versailles.
But, above all, when you are introduced to Louis, do not
forget that you cannot please him better than by appearing
awe-stricken."
Such was Bolingbroke's parting advice. The bishop of
Frejus carried me with him (on the morning we had ap-
pointed) to Versailles. What a magnificent work of royal
imagination is that palace! I know not in any epic a
grander idea than terming the avenues which lead to it the
roads to Spain, to Holland, &c. In London, they would
have been the roads to Chelsea and Pentonville !
As we were driving slowly along in the bishop's carriage,
I had ample time for conversation with that personage, who
has since, as the Cardinal de Fleuri, risen to so high a
pitch of power. He certainly has in him very little of the
great man; nor do I know any where so striking an instance
of this truth, that in that game of honors which is played
at courts, we obtain success less by our talents than our
tempers. He laughed, with a graceful turn of badinage, at
the political peculiarities of Madame de Balzac and said
that it was not for the uppermost party to feel resentment at
|
the chafings of the under one. Sliding from this topic, be
then questioned me as to the gayeties I had witnessed. I
gave him a description of the party at Boulainvilliers'.
He seemed much interested in this, and showed more
shrewdness than I should have given him credit for, in dis-
cussing the various characters of the literati of the day
After some general conversation on works of fiction, he
artfully glided into treating on those of statistics and poli-
tics, and I then caught a sudden but thorough insight into
the depths of his policy. I saw that while he affected to
be indifferent to the difficulties and puzzles of state, he lost
no opportunity of gaining every particle of information
respecting thein: and that he made conversation, in which
he was skilled, a vehicle for acquiring that knowledge
which he had not the force of mind to create from his own
intellect, or to work out from the written labors of others.
If this made him a superficial statesman, it made him a
prompt one; and there was never so lucky a minister with
so little trouble to himself.*
As we approached the end of our destination, we talked
of the king. On this subject he was jealously cautious.
But I gleaned from him, despite of his sagacity, that it was
high time to make all use of one's acquaintance with Mad-
ame de Maintenon that one could be enabled to do; and
that it was so difficult to guess the exact places in whica
power would rest after the death of the old king, that
supineness and silence made at present the most profound
policy.
a
As we alighted from the carriage, and I first set my foot
within the palace, I could not but feel involuntarily, yet
powerfully impressed, with the sense of the spirit of the
place. I was in the precincts of that mighty court which
had gathered into one dazzling focus all the rays of genius
which half a century had emitted; the court at which time
had passed at once from the morn or civilization into its
full noon and glory; the court of Condé and Turenne, — of
Villars and of Tourville; the court where, over the wit
of Grammont, the profusion of Fouquet, the fatal genius of
Louvois, (fatal to humanity and to France,) love, real love,
had not disdained to shed its pathos and its truth, and to
consecrate the hollow pageantries of royal pomp, with the
tenderness, the beauty, and the repentance of La Vallière,
Still over that scene hung the spells of a genius which, if
artificial and cold, was also vast, stately, and magnificent;
a genius which had swelled in the rich music of Racine;
which had raised the nobler spirit and the freer thought of
Pierre Corneille;
Pierre Corneille; † which had given edge to the polished
weapon of Boileau; which had lavished over the brigh.
page of Molière, Molière, more wonderful than all, -
knowledge of the humors and the hearts of men, which no
dramatist, save Shakspeare, has surpassed. Within those
walls still glowed, though now waxing faint and dim, the
fame of that monarch, who had enjoyed, at least till his
later day, the fortune of Augustus, unsullied by the crimes
of Octavius. Nine times, since the sun of that monarch
rose, had the papal chair received a new occupant ! Six
sovereigns had reigned over the Ottoman hordes!
fourth emperor, since the birth of the same era, bore sway
over Germany!-Five czars, from Michael Romanoff to
the great Peter, had held, over their enormous territory,
the precarious tenure of their iron power ! — Six kings had
borne the painful cincture of the English crown; ‡ two of
those kings had been fugitives to that court, to the son
of the last it was an asylum at that moment.
What wonderful changes had passed over the face of
Europe during that single reign!
reign! In England only, what
a vast leap in the waste of events, from the reign of the
First Charles to that of George the First! I still lin
gered, I still gazed, as these thoughts, linked to one
another in an electric chain, flashed over me! I still
paused on the threshold of those stately halls which nature
herself had been conquered to rear! Where, through the
whole earth, could I find so meet a symbol for the character
and the name which that sovereign would leave to poster-
ity, as this palace itself afforded? A gorgeous monument
of regal state raised from a desert; crowded alike with
* At his death appeared the following punning epigram:
"Floruit sine fructu,
The
Defloruit sine luctu."- Ep.
Rigidly speaking, Corneille belongs to a period earlier than
that of Louis XIV., though he has been included in the era
formed by that reign. Ed.
† Besides Cromwell, viz. Charles I., Charles II, James I
William and Mary, Anne, George 1.
DEVEREUX.
327
empty pageantries and illustrious names; a prodigy of
elaborate artifice, grand in its whole effect,
petty in its
small details; a solitary oblation to a splendid selfishness,
and most remarkable for the revenues which it exhausted
and the poverty by which it is surrounded !
Fleuri, with his usual urbanity, an urbanity that, on a
great scale, would have been benevolence, had hitherto in-
dulged me in my emotions; he now laid his hand upon my
arm, and recalled me to myself. Before I could apologize
for my abstraction, the bishop was accosted by an old man
of evident rank, but of a countenance more strikingly de-
monstrative of the little cares of a mere courtier than any
I ever beheld. "What news, Monsieur le Marquis ?"
said Fleuri, smiling.
"O! the greatest imaginable the king talks of receiv-
ing the Danish minister on Thursday, which, you know, is
his day of domestic business! What can this portend! Be-
sides," and here the speaker's voice lowered into a whisper,
"I am told by the Duc de la Rochefoucault, that the king
intends, out of all ordinary rule and practice, to take physic
to-morrow; I can't believe it, - no, I positively can't;-
but don't let this go farther!"
"Heaven forbid!" answered Fleuri, bowing, and the
courtier passed on to whisper his intelligence to others.
"Who's that gentleman ?" I asked.
"The Marquis de Dangeau," answered Fleuri; "a
nobleman of great quality, who keeps a diary of all the
king says and does. It will perhaps be a posthumous pub-
lication, and will show the world of what importance noth-
ings can be made. I dare say, count, you have already, in
England, seen enough of a court to know, that there are
some people who are as human echoes, and have no exist-
ence except in the noise occasioned by another."
I took care that my answer should not be a witticism,
lest Fleuri should think I was attempting to rival him; and
BO we passed on in an excellent humor with each other.
We mounted the grand staircase, and came to an ante-
chamber, which, though costly and rich, was not remarka-
bly conspicuous for splendor. Here the bishop requested
me to wait for a moment. Accordingly, I amused myself
with looking over some engravings of different saints.
Meanwhile my companion passed through another door,
and I was alone.
After an absence of nearly ten minutes, he returned.
Madame de Maintenon," said he, in a whisper," is but
poorly to-day. However, she has eagerly consented to see
you, follow me!"
So saying, the ecclesiastical courtier passed on, with my-
self at his heels. We came to the door of a second cham-
ber, at which Fleuri scraped gently. We were admitted,
and found therein three ladies, one of whom was reading, a
second laughing, and a third yawning, and entered into
another chamber, where, alone, and seated by the window,
in a large chair, with one foot on a stool, in an attitude that
rather reminded me of my mother, and which seems to me
a favorite position with all devotees, we found an old wo-
man without rouge, plainly dressed, with spectacles on her
nose, and a large book on a little table before her. With
a most profound salutation, Fréjus approached, and, taking
me by the hand, said:
"Will madame suffer me to present to her the Count
Devereux ?"
CL
Madame de Maintenon, with an air of great meekness
and humility, bowed a return to the salutation.
The son
of Madame la Maréchale de Devereux will always be most
welcome to me!" Then, turning toward us,
Then, turning toward us, she pointed
to two stools, and, while we were seating ourselves, said, -
"And how did you leave my excellent friend?"
"When, madame, I last saw my mother, which is now
nearly a year ago, she was in health, and consoling herself
for the advance of years by that tendency to wean the
houghts from this world, which (in her own language) is
the divinest comfort of old age!
"Admirable woman!" said Madame de Maintenon,
casting down her eyes; "such are, indeed, the sentiments
in which I recognise the maréchale. And how does her
beauty wear? Those goten oks, and blue eyes, and that
snowy skin, are not yet, I suppose, wholly changed for an
adequate compensation of the beauties within!"
"Time, madame, has been gentle with her; and I have
often thought, though never, perhaps, more strongly than
at this moment, that there is in those divine studies, which
pre-
bring calm and light to the mind, something which
serves and embalms, as it were, the beauty of the body.'
A faint blush passed over the face of the devotee. No,
not even at eighty years of age is a compliment to
a woman's beauty misplaced! There was a slight pause,
I thought that respect forbade me to break it.
no,
"His majesty," said Fréjus, in the tone of one who is een-
sible that he encroaches a little, and does it with consequent
reverence, -"his majesty, I hope, is well."
"God be thanked, yes, as well as we can expect. It is
now nearly the hour in which his majesty awaits your per-
sonal inquiries."
Fleuri bowed as he answered,
"The king, then, will receive us to-day? My young
companion is very desirous to see the greatest monarch, and
consequently the greatest man, of the age."
"The desire is natural," said Madame de Maintenon;
and, then turning to me, she asked if I had yet seen King
James III.
I took care, in my answer, to express that even if I had
resolved to make that stay in Paris which allowed ne to
pay my respects to him at all, I should have deemed tha
both duty and inclination led me, in the first instance,
offer my hoinage to one who was both the benefactor of my
father, and the monarch whose realms afforded me pro-
tection.
"You have not, then," said Madame de Maintenon. " de-
cided on the length of your stay in France?"
CC
No," said I,—and my answer was regulated by my
desire to see how far I might rely on the services of one
who expressed herself so warm a friend of that excellent
woman, Madame la Maréchale, No, madame. France
is the country of my birth, if England is that of my parent-
age; and, could I hope for some portion of that royal favor
which my father enjoyed, I would rather claim it as the
home of my hopes than the refuge of my exile. But"
and I stopped short purposely.
The old lady looked at me very earnestly through her
spectacles for one moment, and then, hemming twice
with a little embarrassment, again remarked to Fréjus, that
the time for seeing the king was nearly arrived. Fréjus,
whose policy at that period was very like that of the con-
cealed queen, and who was, besides, far from desirous of
introducing any new claimants on Madame de Maintenon's
official favor, though he might not object to introduce them
to her private friendship, was not slow in taking the hint.
He rose, and I was forced to follow his example.
Madame de Maintenon thought she might safely indulge
in a little cordiality when I was just on the point of leaving
her, and accordingly blessed me, and gave me her hand,
which I kissed very devoutly. An extremely pretty hand
it was, too, notwithstanding the good queen's age. We
then retired, and repassing the three ladies, who were now
all yawning, repaired to the king's apartments.
What think you of madame !" said Fréjus.
"What can I think of her,” said I cautiously, "but that
greatness seems in her to take its noblest form, that of
simplicity?"
True," rejoined Fréjus, "never was there so meek ɛ
mind joined to so lowly a carriage
1 Do you remark any
trace of former beauty?"
"Yes, indeed, there is much that is soft in her counte-
nance, and much that is still regular in her features; but
what struck me most was the pensive and even sad tran-
quillity that rests upon her face when she is silent.”
The expression betrays the mind," answered F eau,
"and the curse of the great is ennui."
"Of the great in station," said I," but not necessarily
of the great in mind. I have heard that the Bishop ef
Frejus, notwithstanding his rank and celebrity, employs
every hour to the advantage of others, and consequently
without tedium to himself.”
"Aha!" said Fleuri, smiling gently, and patting my.
cheek; "see, now, if the air of palaces is not absolutely
prolific of pretty speeches." And, before I could answer,.
we were in the apartments of the king.
Leaving me a while to cool my heels in a gallery, filled
with the butterflies who bask in the royal sunshine, Fréjus
dhen disappeared among the crowd; he was scarcely gore
when I was agreeably surprised by seeing Count Hamilton.
approach toward me.
*Mort diable!" said he, shaking me by the hand, d
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ton, who had just turned to depart, "what. Count Antoine
Does any thing but whim bring you here to-day ?"
"No," answered Hamilton; "I am only here for the
same purpose as the poor go to the temples of Caitan, -
to inhale the steam of those good things which I see the priests
devour."
"Anglaise; "I am really delighted to see any one here
who does not insult my sins with his superior excellence
Eh, now, look round this apartment for a moment! Wheth-
er would you believe yourself at the court of a great king,
or the levée of a Roman cardinal? Whom see you chief-
ly? Gallant soldiers, with worn brows and glittering weeds;
wise statesmen, with ruin to Austria, and defiance to Rome, "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the good-natured bishop, not
in every wrinkle; gay nobles, in costly robes, and with the in the least disconcerted; and Count Hamilton, congratu-
bearing that so nicely teaches mirth to be dignified and dig-lating himself on his bon mot, turned away.
nity to be merry? No! cossack and hat, rosary and gown,
decking sly, demure, hypocritical faces, flit, and stalk, and
sadden round us. It seems to me," continued the witty
count, in a lower whisper, "as if the old king, having
fairly buried his glory at Ramilies and Blenheim, had sum-
moned all these good gentry to sing psalms over it! But
are you waiting for a private audience?"
"Yes, under the auspices of the Bishop of Fréjus."
"You might have chosen a better guide, the king has
been too much teased about him," rejoined Hamilton;
"and row, that we are talking of him, I will show you a
singular instance of what good manners can do at court, in
preference to good abilities. You observe yon quiet, mod-
est looking man, with a sensible countenance, and a cleri-
cal garb; you observe how he edges away when any one
approaches to accost him; and how, from his extreme
disesteem of himself, he seems to inspire every one with
the same sentiment. Well, that man is a namesake of
Fleuri's, the Prior of Argenteuil; he has come here, I sup-
pose, for some particular and temporary purpose, since, in
reality, he has left the court. Well, that worthy priest,
do remark his bow; did you ever see any thing so awk-
ward? is one of the most learned divines that the church
van boast of. he is as immeasurably superior to the smooth-
faced Bishop of Fréjus as Louis the Fourteenth is to my
old friend, Charles the Second. He has had equal oppor-
tunities with the said Bishop; been preceptor to the Prin-
ces of Conti, and the Count de Verman lois; and yet, I
will wager that he lives and dies a tutor, — a book-worm,
and a prior; while t'other Fleuri, without a particle of
merit, but of the most superficial order, governs already
kings through their mistresses, kingdoms through the kings,
may, for aught I know, expand into a prime minister,
and ripen into a cardinal.”
and
"Nay," said I, smiling, "there is little chance of so ex-
alted a lot for the worthy bishop.'
"Pardon me," interrupted Hamilton,
Hamilton, "I am an old
courtier, and look steadily on the game I no longer play.
Suppleness, united with art, may do any thing in a court
like this; and the smooth and unelevated craft of a Fleuri
may win even to the same height as the deep wiles of the
glittering Mazarin, or the superb genius of the imperious
Richelieu."
"Hist!" said I," the bishop has re-appeared. Who is
that old priest, with a fine countenance, and an address
that will, at least, please you better than that of the Prior
of Argenteuil, who has just stopped our episcopal cour-
tier ?",
"What! do you not know? It is the most celebrated
It is the most celebrated
preacher of the day, the great Massillon. It is said that
that handsoine person goes a great way towards winning
converts among the dames de la cour; it is certain, at least,
that when Massillon first entered the profession, he was to
the soul something like the spear of Achilles to the body;
and though very efficacious in healing the wounds of con-
science, was equally ready, in the first instance, to inflict
them."
"Ah," said I, "see the malice of wit; and see, above
how much more ready one is to mention a man's frail-
ties than to enlarge upon his virtues.'
*
“To be sure," answered Hamilton, coolly, and patting
his snuff-box, "to be sure, we old people like history
better than fiction; and frailty is certain, while virtue is
always doubtful.”
"Providence never assem-
"Don't judge of all people," said I, "by your experi-
ence among the courtiers of Charles the Second.'
"Right," said Hamilton.
bled so many rascals together before, without hanging
them. And he would, indeed, be a bad judge of human
nature who estimated the characters of men in general by
the heroes of Newgate and the victims of Tyburn. But
your bishop approaches. Adieu!"
"What" said Fleuri, joining me and saluting Hamil-
་
"I have spoken to his most Christian majesty," said the
bishop: "he is willing, as he before ordained, to admit
you to his presence. The Duc de Maine is with he king,
as also some other members of the royal family; but you
will consider this a private audience.”
I expressed my gratitude; we moved on, the doors of
an apartment were thrown open, and I saw myself in the
presence of Louis XIV.
person,
—
The room was partially darkened. In the centre of it,
on a large sofa, reclined the king; he was dressed (though
this I rather remembered than noted) in a coat of black
velvet, slightly embroidered; his vest was of white satin;
he wore no jewels nor orders, for it was only on grand or
gala days that he displayed personal pomp. At some little
distance from him stood three members of the royal family,
them I never regarded, all my attention was bent upon
the king. My temperament is not that on which greatness,
or indeed any external circumstances, make much impres-
sion, but, as following, at a little distance, the Bishop of
Fréjus, I approached the royal person, I must confess that
Bolingbroke had scarcely need to have cautioned me not to
appear too self-possessed.
appear too self-possessed. Perhaps, had I seen that great
monarch in his beaux jours, -in the plenitude of his power,
his glory,
the dazzling and meridian splendor of his
- his court, and his renown, pride might have
made me more on my guard against too great, or at least,
too apparent, an impression; but the many reverses of tha
magnificent sovereign, -reverses in which he had shown
himself more great than in all his previous triumphs and
earlier successes; his age, his infirmities, the very
clouds around the setting sun, — the very howls of joy at the
expiring lion, all were calculated, in my mind, to deepen
respect into reverence, and tincture reverence itself with
awe. I saw before me not only the majesty of Louis-le-
Grand, but that of misfortune, of weakness, of infirmity,
and of age; and I forgot at once, in that reflection, what
otherwise would have blunted my sentiments of deference,
viz. the crimes of his ministers, and the exactions of his
reign! Endeavouring to collect my mind from an embar-
rassment which surprised myself, I lifted my eyes toward
the king, and saw a countenance where the trace of the
superb beauty for which his manhood had been celebrated,
still lingered, broken, not destroyed, and borrowing a dignity
even more imposing from the marks of encroaching years,
and from the evident exhaustion of suffering and disease
-
-
Fleuri said, in a low tone, something which my ear did
not catch. There was a pause, only a moment's pause;
and then in a voice, the beauty of which I had hitherto
deemed exaggerated, the king spoke and in that voice
there was something so kind and encouraging, that I felt
re-assured at once. Perhaps its tone was not the less con-
ciliating from the evident effect which the royal presence
had produced upon me.
"You have given us, Count Devereux," said the king,
"a pleasure which we are glad, in person, to acknowledge
to you.
to you. And it has seemed to us fitting that the country in
which your brave father acquired his fame should also be
the asylum of his son.”
"Sire," answered I, "sire, it shall not be my fault if
that country is not henceforth my own and in inheriting
my father's name, I inherit also his gratitude and his
ambition.”
"It is well said, sir," said the king; and I once more
raised my eyes, and perceived that his were gent upon me.
" and
"It is well said,” he repeated, after a short pause ;
in granting to you this audience, we were not unwilling to
hope that you were desirous to attach yourself to our court.
The times do not require" (here I thought the old king's
voice was not quite so firm as before) "the manifestation
of your zeal in the same career as that in which your
gained laurels to France and to himself. But we will not
neglect to give employment to your abilities, if not to your
sword.”
father
DEVEREUX.
That sword which was given to me, sire," said I, "by
vour majesty, shall be ever drawn (against all nations but
one) at your command; and in being your majesty's peti-
tioner for future favors, I only seek some channel through
which to evince my gratitude for the past."
"We do not doubt," said Louis, "that whatever ingrats
we may make by testifying our good pleasure on your
behalf, you will not be among the number." The king
here made a slight, but courteous inclination, and turned
round. The observant Bishop of Fréjus, who had retired
to a little distance, and who knew that the king never liked
talking more than he could help it, gave me a signal. I
obeyed, and backed, with all due deference, out of the royal
presence.
So closed my interview with Louis XIV. Although his
majesty did not indulge in prolixity, I spoke of him for a
long time afterward as the most eloquent of men. Believe
me, there is no orator like a king; one word from a royal
mouth stirs the heart more than Demosthenes could have
done. There was a deep moral in that custom of the
moral in that custom of the
ancients, by which the Goddess of Persuasion was always
represented with a diadem on her head.
-
CHAPTER VII.
Reflections. — A soirée. The appearance of one important in
the history. A conversation with Madame de Balzac, highly
satisfactory and cheering. A rencontre with a curious old
soldier. The extinction of a once great luminary.
the
I HAD now been several weeks at Paris; I had neither
eagerly sought nor sedulously avoided its gayeties. It is not
that one violent sorrow leaves us without power of enjoy
ment; it only lessens the power, and deadens the enjoy
ment; it does not take away from us the objects of life,
it only forestalls the more indifferent calmness of age. The
blood no longer flows in an irregular, but delicious course
of vivid and wild emotion; the step no longer spurns
earth; nor does the ambition wander, insatiable, yet unde-
fined, over the million paths of existence; but we lose not
our old capacities, - they are quieted, not extinct. The
heart can never utterly and long be dormant; trifles may
not charm it any more, nor levities delight; but it has an
eye
that is not closed, and a pulse that has not yet ceased
to beat. We survey the scene that moves around, with a
gaze no longer distracted by every hope that flutters by ;
and it is therefore that we find ourselves more calculated
than before for the graver occupations of our race. The over-
flowing temperament is checked to its proper level, the ambi-
tion bounded to its prudent and lawful goal. The earth is no
longer so green, nor the heaven so blue, nor the fancy that
stirs within us so rich in its creations; but we look more nar-
rowly on the living crowd, and more rationally on the aims
of men. The misfortune which has changed us, has only
adapted us the better to a climate in which misfortune is a
portion of the air. The grief that has thralled our spirit
to a more narrow and dark cell, has also been a chain that
has linked us to mankind with a force of which we dreamt
not in the day of a wilder freedom and more luxuriant
aspirings. In later life, a new spirit, partaking of that
which was our earliest, returns to us. The solitude which
delighted us in youth, but which, when the thoughts that
make solitude a fairy land are darkened by affliction, be-
comes a fearful and a sombre void, resumes its old spell as
the more morbid and urgent memory of that affliction crum-
bles away by time. Content is a hermit; but so also is
apathy. Youth loves the solitary couch, which it surrounds.
with dreams. Age, or experience, (which is the mind's
age,) loves the same couch for the rest which it affords :
but the wide interval between is that of exertion, of labor,
and of labor among men. The woe which makes our
hearts less social often makes our habits more so. The
thoughts, which in calm would have shunned the world, are
driven upon it by the teinpest, even as the birds which for-
sake the habitable land can, so long as the wind sleeps, and
the thunder rests within its cloud, become the constant and
solitary brooders over the waste sea; but the moment the
storm awakes, and the blast pursues them, they fly, by an
overpowering instinct, to some wandering bark, some ves-
tige of human and social life; and exchange, even for dan
ger from the hands of men, the desert of an angry heaven,
and the solitude of a storm.
42
VOL. I
i
no
I heard no more, either of Malame de Maintenon or
the king. Meanwhile, my flight and friendship with Lord
Bolingbroke had given me a consequence in the eyes of the
exiled prince, which I should not otherwise have enjoyed;
and I was honored by very flattering overtures to enter
actively into his service. I have before said that I felt no
enthusiasm in his cause, and I was far from feeling it for
his person. My ambition rather directed its hopes toward
a career in the service of France. France was the coun-
try of my birth, and the country of my father's fame.
There no withering remembrances awaited me,
private regrets were associated with its scenes, and no
public penalties with its political institutions. And al-
though I had not yet received any token of Louis's remem-
brance, it was still early, in the ordinary routine of court
favors, to expect it; besides, his royal fidelity to his word
was proverbial; and, sooner or later, I indulged the Impe
to profit by the sort of promise he had insinuated to ne
I declined, therefore, with all due respect, the offers of the
chevalier, and continued to live the life of idleness and
expectation, until Lord Bolingbroke returned to Paris, and
accepted the office of secretary of state in the service of
the chevalier. As he has publicly declared his reasons in
this step, I do not mean to favor the world with his private
conversations on the same subject.
A day or two after his return, I went with him to a par-
ty given by a member of the royal family. The first per-
son by whom we were accosted, and I rejoiced at it, for
we could not have been accosted by a more amusing one,
- was Count Anthony Hamilton.
us;
"Ah! my Lord Bolingbroke," said he, sauntering up to
"how are you?-delighted to see you again, what
a charming green is your coat, certainly no one dresses
in better taste than you do,- not even our friend, my
brother count, here. Do look at Madame la Duchesse
d'Orleans! Saw you ever such a creature? Where are
you moving, my lord? Ah! see him, count, see him, glid-
ing off to that pretty duchesse of course, well, he has a
beautiful bow, it must be owned, why, you are not
going too ?—what would the world
what would the world say if Count Anthony
Hamilton were seen left to himself? No, no, come and
sit down by Madame de Cornuel, - she longs to be intro-
duced to you, and is one of the wittiest women in Europe.'
"Volontiers! provided she employs her wit ill-naturedly
and use it in ridiculing other people, not praising herself."
"O! nobody can be more satirical; indeed, what differ-
ence is there between wit and satire ? Come, count !"
And Hamilton introduced me forthwith to Madame de
Cornuel. She received me very politely; and turning to
two or three people who formed the circle round her, said,
with the greatest composure, "Messieurs, oblige me by
seeking some other object of attraction; I wish to have a
private conference with my new friend."
"I may stay?" said Hamilton.
"Ah! certainly; you are never in the way.
"In that respect, madame," said Hamilton, taking snuff,
and bowing very low, in that respect I must strongly
remind you of your excellent husband.”
Cate
"Fie!" cried Madame de Cornuel; then, turning to
me, she said, "Ah! monsieur, if you could have come to
Paris some years ago you would have been enchanted with
us, we are sadly changed. Imagine the fine old king,
thinking it wicked not to hear plays, but to hear players
act them, and so making the royal family a company of
comedians. Mon Dieu! how villanously they perform;
but do you know why I wished to be introduced to you ?
"Yes! in order to have a new listener; old listeners
must be almost as tedious as old news.
>>
Very shrewdly said, and not far from the truth. The
fact is, that I wanted to talk about all these fine people
present, to some one for whose ear my anecdotes would
have the charm of novelty. Let us begin with Louis Ar
mond, Prince of Conti;
-you see him ?"
What, that short-sighted, stout, and rather handsome
man, with a cast of countenance somewhat like the pic-
tures of Henri Quatre, who is laughing so merrily?"
"O Ciel! how droll! No, that handsome man is no
less a person than the Duc d'Orleans. You see a little
ugly thing like an anatomized ape, -there see,— he has
just thrown down a chair, and, in stooping to pick it up,
has almost fallen over the Dutch ambassadress,
Louis Armond, Prince of Conti. Do you know what the
Duc d'Orleans said to him the other day?
• Mon con
that is
520
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ami,' he said, pointing to the prince's limbs,- (did you
ever see such limbs out of a menagerie, by the by ?)-
• Mon bon ami, it is a fine thing for you that the psalmist
has assured us that the Lord delighteth not in any man's
legs.' Nay, don't laugh, it's quite true."
It was now for Count Hamilton to take up the ball of
satire; he was not a whit more merciful than the kind
Madame de Cornuel. "The prince," said he, "has so
exquisite an awkwardness, that, whenever the king hears
a noise, and inquires the cause, the invariable answer is,
that the Prince of Conti has just tumbled down.' But,
tell me what do you think of Madame d'Aumont? She is
in the English head-dress, and looks triste à la mort.”
"She is rather pretty, to my taste.
66
"Yes," cried Madame de Cornuel, interrupting le doux
Antoine, (it did one's heart good to see how strenuous-
ly each of them tried to talk more scandal than the other),
yes, she is thought very pretty; but I think her very
like a fricandeau, white, soft, and insipid. She is al-
ways in tears," (added the good-natured Cornuel,) “after
her prayers, both at morning and evening. I asked why;
and she answered, pretty simpleton, that she was always
forced to pray to be made good, and she feared heaven
would take her at her word! However, she has many
worshippers; and they call her the evening star.
They should rather call her the Hyades!" said Ham-
ilton, "if it be true that she sheds tears every morning
and night, and her rising and setting are thus always at-
tended by rain."
"Bravo, Count Antoine; she shall be so called in fu-
ture,"
said Madame de Cornuel. "But now, Monsieur
Devereux, turn your eyes to that hideous old woman."
"What! the Duchesse d'Orleans?
"The same.
>>
She is in full dress to-night; but in the
daytime you generally see her in a riding-habit and a man's
wig; she is
Hist!" interrupted Hamilton; "do you not tremble
to think what she would do if she overheard you; she is
such a terrible creature at fighting' You have no concep-
tion, count, what an arm she has. She knows her ugli-
She knows her ugli-
ness, and laughs at it, as all the rest of the world does.
The king took her hand one day, and said, smiling, 'What
could nature have meant when she gave this hand to a
German princess instead of a Dutch peasant?' 'Sire,'
said the duchesse, very gravely, 'nature gave this hand to
a German princess for the purpose of boxing the ears of
her dames d'atour!"""
"Ha! ha! ha!" said Madame de Cornuel, laughing;
"one is never at a loss for jokes upon a woman who eats
salad au lard, and declares, that, whenever she is unhap-
py, her only consolation is hain and sausages!
Her son
treats her with the greatest respect, and consults her in all
his amours, for which she professes the greatest horror,
and which she retails to her correspondents all over the
world, in letters as long as her pedigree. But you are
looking at her son; is he not of a good mien ?"
"Yes, pretty well; but does not exhibit to advantage
by the side of Lord Bolingbroke, with whom he is now
talking. Pray, who is the third personage that has just
joined them?"
"O the wretch it is the Abbé Dubois; a living proof
of the folly of the French proverb, which says that Mer-
caries should be made du marbre, and not du bois. Never
Never
was there a Mercury equal to the abbé; but, do look at
that old man to the left, he is one of the most remark-
able persons of the age."
"What! he with the small features, and comely coun-
tenance, considering his years?"
ઃઃ
The person thus flatteringly designated was Montreuil,
he had just caught my eye, among a group of men whe
were conversing eagerly.
"Hush, madame!" said I," spare me for a moment;
and I rose, and mingled with the abbé's companions
So, you have only arrived to-day?" I heard one o
them say to him.
No, I could not despatch my business before."
"And how are matters in England?
—
د,
a
Ripe! if the life of his majesty (of France) be
spared a year longer, we will send the Elector of Hanover
back in his principality.
"Hist!
>>
-
"said the companion, and looked toward me.
Montreuil ceased abruptly, -our eyes met, his fell. I
affected to look among the group as if I had expected to
find there some one I knew, and then, turning away, I
seated myself alone and apart. There, unobserved, I kept
my looks on Montreuil. I remarked that, from time to
time, his keen dark eye glanced toward me, with a look
rather expressive of vigilance than any thing else. Soon
afterward his little knot dispersed; I saw him converse
for a few moments with Dubois, who received him, I
thought, distantly; and then he was engaged in a long
conference with the Bishop of Fréjus, whom till then I had
not perceived among the crowd.
As I was loitering on the escalier, where I saw Mon-
treuil depart with the bishop, in the carriage of the latter,
Hamilton, accosting me, insisted on my accompanying him
to Chaulieu's, where a late supper awaited the sons of
wine and wit. However, to the good count's great aston-
ishment, I preferred solitude
ishment, I preferred solitude and reflection, for that
night, to any thing else.
Montreuil's visit to the French capital boded me no
good. He possessed great influence with Fleuri, and was
in high esteem with Madame de Maintenon, and, in ef-
fect, very shortly after his return to Paris, the Bishop of
Fréjus looked upon me with a most cool sort of benignan-
cy; and Madame de Maintenon told her friend, the Du-
chesse de St. Simon, that it was a great pity a young no-
bleman, of my birth and prepossessing appearance,― (ay !
my prepossessing appearance would never have occurred to
the devotee, if I had not seemed so sensible of her own),
should not only be addicted to the wildest dissipation,
but, worse still, to Jansenistical tenets. After this,
there was no nope for me, save in the king's word, which
his increasing infirmities, naturally engrossing his atten-
tion, prevented my hoping too sanguinely would dwell
very acutely on his remembrance. I believe, however, so
religiously scrupulous was Louis upon a point of honor, that,
had he lived, I should have had nothing to complain of.
but I anticipate!
Montreuil disappeared
from Paris, almost as suddenly as he had appeared there
And as drowning men catch at a straw, so, finding my af
fairs in a very low ebb, I thought I would take advice.
even from Madame de Balzac.
As it was,
I accordingly repaired to her hotel. She was at home,
and, fortunately, alone.
"You are welcome, mon fils," said she: "suffer me to
give you that title, you are welcome it is some days
since I saw you.
دو
"I have numbered thein, I assure you, madame," said I,
"and they have crept with a dull pace; but you know that
business has claims as well as pleasure!"
"True!" said Madame de Balzac, pompously; "I my-
self find the weight of politics a little insupportable, though
so used to it; to your young brain I can readily imagine
how irksome it must be !
"Would, madame, that I could obtain your experience
"The same," said Hamilton; " it is the notorious Choi-by contagion; as it is, I fear that I have profited little by
si. You know that he is the modern Tiresias, and has
been a woman as well as man."
"How do
you mean
?
"Ah, you may well ask!" cried Madame de Cornuel.
"Why, he lived for many years in the disguise of a wo-
man, and had all sorts of curious adventures."
"Mort diable ! " cried Hamilton; "it was entering
your ranks, madame, as a spy. I hear he makes but à
Borry report of what he saw there."
"Come, Count Antoine," cried the lively de Cornuel,
"we must not turn our weapons against each other; and
when you attack a woman's sex, you attack her individu-
ally. But what makes you look so intently, mon petit De-
vereux, at that ugly priest?"
my visit to his majesty. Madame de Maintenon will not
sce me, and the Bishop of Fréjus, (excellent man!) has
been seized with a sudden paralysis of memory, whenever
present myself in his way.'
That party will never do, I thought not," said
Madame de Balzac, who was a wonderful imitator of the
fly on the wheel; "my celebrity, and the knowledge that 1
loved you
for father's sake, were, I fear, sufficient to
destroy your interest with the Jesuits and their tools. Well,
well, we must repair the mischief we have occasioned you
What place would suit you best?"
،،
your
Why, any thing diplomatic. I would rather travel
at my age, than remain in luxury and indolence oven at
Paris!'
DEVEREUX.
An, notning like diplomacy!" said Madame de Bal-
Lac, with the air of a Richelieu, and emptying her snuff-
box at a pinch; "but have you, my son, the requisite
qualities for that science, as well as the tastes? Are you
capable of intrigue ? Can you say one thing and mean
another? Are you aware of the immense consequence of a
look or a bow? Can you live like a spider, in the centre
of an inexplicable net, inexplicable as well as dangerous,
to all but the weaver? That, my son, is the art of
politics that is to be a diplomatist!"
"Perhaps, to one less penetrating than Madame de Bal-
zac," answered I, "I might, upon trial, not appear utterly
ignorant of the noble art of state duplicity which she has so
eloquently depicted.'
"Possibly!" said the good lady; "it must, indeed, be
a profound dissimulator to deceive me."
"But what would you advise me to do in the present
crisis? What party to adopt, what individual to flatter?"
Nothing, I already discovered, and have already observed,
did the inestimable Madame de Balzac dislike more than a
downright question; she never answered it.
"Why, really," said she, preparing herself for a long
speech," I am quite glad you consult me, and I will give
you the best advice in my power. Ecoutez, donc, you
You
have seen the Duc de Maine?"
Certainly!"
there is the Duc d'Orleans,
talent, but you know,
call it,
you
"Hum! ha! it would be wise to follow him; but,
take me, - you understand. Then, you know, my son,
fond of pleasure, full of
there is a little, - what do you
you understand. As for the Duc de Bourbon,
'tis quite a simpleton, nevertheless we must consider,
- nothing like consideration, believe me, no diplomatist
ever hurries. As for Madame de Maintenon, you know,
and I know, too, that the Duchesse d'Orleans calls her an
old hag; but then, -a word to the wise, - Eh! what
shall we say to madame the duchesse herself, what a fat
woman she is, but excessively clever, such a letter
writer. Well, you see, my dear young friend, that it is a
very difficult matter to decide upon; but you must already
be fully aware what piau I should advise."
"Already, madame !
"To be sure! What have I been saying to you all this
time? did you not hear me? Shall I repeat my advice?
“O, no! I perfectly comprehend you now; you would
advise me, in short, to,—to,—do as well as I can."
"You have said it, my son. I thought you would under-
stand me, on a little reflection."
J
"To be sure, —
to be sure," said I.
And three ladies being announced, my conference with
Madame de Balzac ended.
I now resolved to wait a little till the tides of power
seemed somewhat more settled, and I could ascertain in
what quarter to point my bark of enterprise. I gave myself
rather more eagerly to society, in proportion as my political
schemes were suffered to remain torpid. My mind could
not remain quiet without preying on itself; and no evil
appeared to me so great as tranquillity. Thus the spring
and earlier summer passed on, till, in August, the riots
preceding the rebellion broke out in Scotland. At this
time I saw but little of Lord Bolingbroke in private; though,
with his characteristic affectation, he took care that the
load of business, with which he was really oppressed, should
not prevent his enjoyment of all gayety in public. And my
indifference to the cause of the chevalier, in which he was
so warmly engaged, threw a natural restraint upon our con-
versation, and produced an involuntary coldness in our in
tercourse; so impossible is it for men to be private friends,
who differ on a public matter.
•
One evening I was engaged to meet a large party, at a
country house about forty miles from Paris. I went, and
stayed some days. My horses had accompanied me; and,
when I left the château, I resolved to make the journey to
Paris à cheval. Accordingly, I ordered my carriage to
follow me, and, attended by a single groom, commenced
my expedition. It was a beautiful still morning: the first
day of the first month of autumn. I had proceeded about
ten miles, when I fell in with an old French officer. I re-
member, — though I never saw him but that once,-I
remember his face as if I had encountered it yesterday. It
was thin and long, and yellow enough to have served as a
caricature, rather than a portrait, of Don Quixote. He
|
had a hook nose, and a long sharp chin; and all the lines,
wrinkles, curves, and furrows, of which the human visage
is capable, seemed to have met in his cheeks. Neverthe
less, his eye was bright and keen, his look alert, — and
his whole bearing firm, gallant, and soldierlike. He was
attired in a sort of military undress wore a mustachio,
which, though thin and gray, was carefully curled; and, at
the summit of a very respectable wig, was perched a small
cocked hat, adorned with a black feather. He rode very
upright in his saddle; and his horse, a steady, stalwart
quadruped, of the Norman breed, with a terribly long tail,
and a prodigious breadth of chest, put one stately leg before
another in a kind of trot, which, though it seemed from its
height of action, and the proud look of the steed, a preten-
sion to motion more than ordinarily brisk, was, à la vérité,
a little slower than a common walk.
This noble cavalier seemed sufficiently an object of curi
osity to my horse, to induce the animal to testify his sur-
prise by shying, very jealously and very vehemently, in
passing him. This ill-breeding on his part was indignact
ly returned on the part of the Norman charger, who, utter-
ing a sort of squeak, and shaking his long mane and head,
commenced a series of curvets and capers, which cost the
old Frenchman no little trouble to appease. In the midst
of these equine freaks, the horse came so near me as to
splash my nether garment, with a liberality as little orna-
mental as it was pleasurable.
The old Frenchman, seeing this, took off his cocked hat
very politely, and apologised for the accident. I replied
with equal courtesy; and, as our horses slid into quiet,
their riders slid into conversation. It was begun, and
chiefly sustained by my new comrade; for I am little
addicted to commence unnecessary socialities myself,
though I should think very meanly of my pretensions to
the name of a gentleman and a courtier if I did not return
them when offered, even by a beggar.
"It is a fine horse of yours, monsieur," said the old
Frenchman; "but I cannot believe, pardon me for say.
ing so, that your slight English steeds are so well adapt-
ed to the purposes of war, as our strong chargers, — voici
le mien, par exemple."
p
"Has the
"It is very possible, monsieur," said I.
horse you now ride done service in the field as well as on
the road?"
"Ah! le pauvre petite mignon,— no !" (petite, indeed,
this little darling was seventeen hands high at the very
least,) "no, monsieur; it is but a young creature this;
his grandfather served me well! "
CC
"
"I need not ask you, monsieur, if you have borne arms;
the soldier is stamped upon you!
Sir, you flatter me highly!
highly!" said the old gentleman,
blushing to the very tip of his long lean ears, and bowing
as low as if I had called him a Conde; "I have followed
the profession of arms for more than fifty years."
Fifty years, 'tis a long time!"
CC
“A long time,” rejoined my companion, bowing again
to my profound truism, a long time to look back upon
with regret."
Regret! by heaven, I should think the remembrance
of fifty years' excitement and glory, would be a remem-
brance of triumph!"
06
-
The old man turned round on his saddle, and looked at
me for some moments very wistfully.
"You are young,
sir," he said;
sir," he said; "and at your years I should have though
with you, but, -" (then abruptly changing his voice,
he continued,) Triumph, did you say? Sir, I have had
three sons; they are dead, they died in battle, I did
not weep, —I did not shed a tear, sir, not a tear! But
I will tell you when I did weep. I came back an old man
to the home I had left as a young one. I saw the country
a desert. I saw that the noblesse had become tyrants,
the peasants had become slaves, such slaves savage
from despair-
-even when they were most gay, most fear-
fully gay from constitution. Sir, I saw the priest rack
and grind, and the seigneur exact and pillage, and the tax-
gatherer squeeze out the little the other oppressors had
left:-anger, discontent, wretchedness, famine, a terrible
separation between one order of people and another, an
incredible indifference to the miseries their despotism
caused, on the part of the aristocracy,
,- a sullen and vin-
dictive hatred for the perpetration of those miseries on the
part of the people, all places sold, -even all honors
#32
BULWER'S NOVELS.
G
to
priced at the court, which was become a public market,
a province of peasants, of living men bartered for a few
ivres, and literally passed from a hand to another,
be squeezed and drained anew by each new possessor,
in a word, sir, an abandoned court, au unredeemed no-
blesse, unredeemed, sir, by a single benefit which, in
other countries, even the most feudal, the vassal obtains
from the master, — a peasantry famished, a nation loaded
with debt, which it sought to pay by tears; these are what
I saw,
these are the consequences of that heartless and
miserable vanity, from which arose wars neither useful nor
honorable, these are the real components of that triumph,
as you term it, waich you wonder that I regret.
Now, although it was impossible to live at the court of
Louis XIV. in his latter days, and not feel, from the gen-
eral discontent that prevailed even there, what a dark truth
the old soldier's speech contained, yet I was somewhat
surprised by an euthusiasm so little military in a person
whose bearing and air were so conspicuously martial.
-
"You draw a melancholy picture," said I; "and the
wretched state of culture in which the lands that we now
pass through exhibit, is a witness how little exaggeration
there is in your coloring. However, these are but the or-
dinary evils of war, and if your country endures them, do
not forget that she has also inflicted thein. Remember
what France did to Holland, and own that it is but a retri-
bution that France should now find, that the injury we do
to others is (among nations as well as individuals) injury to
ourselves."
My old Frenchman curled his mustachios with the finger
and thumb of his left hand: this was rather too subtle a
distinction for him.
CC
"That may be true enough, monsieur," said he; but,
morbleu, those maudits Dutchmen deserve what they sus-
tained at our hands. No, sir, no, I am not so base as
to forget the glory my country acquired, though I weep
for her wounds."
"I do not quite understand you, sir," said I; "did you
not just now confess that the wars you had witnessed were
neither honorable nor useful? What glory, then, was to
be acquired in a war of that character, even though it was
so delightfully animated by cutting the throats of those
maudits Dutchmen ?'"
C
"Sir," answered the Frenchman, drawing himself up,
you did not understand me. When we punished Hol-
land, we did rightly. We conquered!"
Whether you conquered, or not, (for the good folk of
Holland are not so sure of the fact,)" answered I, "that
war was the most unjust in which your king was ever
engaged; but pray tell me, sir, what war is it that you
lament?
The Frenchman frowned,-whistled, put out his un-
der lip, in a sort of angry embarrassment, -and then,
spurring his great horse into a curvet, said,
"That last war with the English!"
"Faith,” said I, " that was the justest of all."
"Just!" cried the Frenchman, halting abruptly, and
darting at me a glance of fire, "just !- no more, sir! I
was at Blenheim, and at Ramilies!
As the old warrior said the last words, his voice fal-
tered ; and though I could not help inly smiling at the
confusion of ideas, by which wars were just or unjust, ac-
cording as they were fortunate or not, yet I respected his
feelings enough to turn away my face, and remain silent.
Yes," renewed my comrade, coloring with evident.
shame, and drawing his cocked hat over his brows, "yes,
I received my last wound at Ramilies.
Then my eyes
were opened to the horrors of war; then I saw and cursed
the evils of ambition; then I resolved to retire from the
armies of a king who had lost for ever his name, his glory,
and his country.
Was there ever a better type of the French nation than
this old soldier? As long as fortune smiles on them, it is
"Marchons au drable!" and " Vive la gloire!" Directly
they get beat, it is "Ma pauvre patrie!" and "Les calam-
ities affreuses de la guerre !
"However," said I, "the old king is drawing near the
end of his days, and is said to express his repentance at
the evils his ambition has occasioned."
The old soldier shoved back his hat, and offered me his
muff-box. I judged by this that he was a little mollified.
"Ah!" ne renewed after a pause, "ah! times are sad-
ly changed, since the year 1667; when the young k.ng,
he was young then, took the field, in Flanders, under the
great Turenne. Sacristie! What a hero he looked, upon
his white war-horse! I would have gone,
ay, and the
meanest and backwardest soldier in the camp would have
gone, into the very mouth of the cannon, for a look from
that inagnificent countenance, or a word from that mouth
which knew so well what words were! Sir, there was in
the war of seventy-two, when we were at peace with Great
Britain, an English gentlemen, then in the army, afterward
a marshal of France: I remember, as if it were but yes-
terday, how gallantly he behaved. The king sent to com
pliment him, after some signal proof of courage and conduct,
and asked what reward he would have. Sire,' answered
the Englishman, give me the white plume you wore this
day.' From that moment the Englishman's fortune was
made."
"The flattery went farther than the valor," said I,
smiling, as I recognised in the anecdote the first great step
which my father had made in the ascent of fortune.
"Sacristie!" cried the Frenchman,
cried the Frenchman, "it was no flattery
then. We so idolized the king, that mere truth would
have seemed disloyalty; and we no more thought that
praise, however extravagant, was adulation, when directed
to him, than we should have thought there was adulation
in the praise we would have given to our first mistress
But it is all changed now! Who now cares for the old
priest-ridden monarch!"
And upon this, the veteran, having conquered the mo-
mentary enthusiasm which the remembrance of the king's
earlier glories had excited, transferred all his genius of de-
scription to the opposite side of the question, and declaimed
with great energy, upon the royal vices and errors, which
were so charming in prosperity, and were now so detesta-
ble in adversity.
While we were thus conversing, we approached Ver-
sailles. We thought the vicinity of the town seemed un-
usually deserted. We entered the main street, crowds
were assembled, - a universal murmur was heard, ex-
citement sat on every countenance. Here an old crone was
endeavouring to explain something, evidently beyond his
comprehension, to a child of three years old; who, with
open mouth and fixed eyes, seemed to make up in wonder
for the want of intelligence there a group of old disband-
ed soldiers occupied the way, and seemed, from their mut
tered conversations, to vent a sneer and a jest at a priest,
who, with downward countenance and melancholy air, was
hurrying along.
One young fellow was calling out, "At least it is a holy
day and I shall go to Paris!" and, as a contrast to him,
an old withered artisan, leaning on a gold-headed cane,
with sharp avarice eloquent in every line of his face, mut-
tered out to a fellow miser, "No business to-day, no
money, John, no money!" ____ One knot of women, of all
ages, close by which my horse passed, was entirely occu-
pied with a single topic, and that so vehemently, that I
heard the leading words of the discussion. Mourning,
- becoming, --what fashion? how long ?-- O ciel !
Thus do follies weave themselves round the bier of death?
"What is the news, gentlemen?" said I.
"News, — what, you have not heard it! — The king is
CC
dead!
"Louis dead, -Louis the Great dead!" cried my
companion.
"Louis the Great?" said a sullen-looking man, —-
"Louis the persecutor ! "
Ah,
he's a Huguenot!" cried another, with hag-
gard cheeks and hollow eyes, scowling at the last speaker.
"Never mind what he says, the king was right when he
refused protection to the heretics, but was he right when
he levied such taxes on the Catholics?"
"Hush!" said a third, -"hush, it may be unsafe
to speak, there are spies about; for my part I think it
was all the fault of the noblesse."
"And the favorites!" cried a soldier, fiercely.
"And the harlots!" cried a hag of eighty
"And the priests!" muttered the Huguenot.
"And the tax gatherers!" added the lean Catholic.
We rode slowly on. My comrade was evidently and
powerfully affected.
"So, he is dead!" said he. "Dead, — well, well,
peace be with him He conquered in Holland, be
DEVEREUX.
333
humbled Genoa, he dictated to Spain, he commanded
Condé and Turenne, he, Bah! What is all this?"
(then, turning abruptly to me, my companion cried,) —
"I did not speak against the king, did I, sir?”
"Not much."
"I am glad of that, yes, very glad! And the old
man glared fiercely round on a troop of boys, who were
audibly abusing the dead lion. "I would have bit out my
tongue, rather than it had joined in the base joy of these
yelping curs. Heavens! when I think what shouts I have
heard, when the name of that man, then deemed little
less than a god, was but breathed! — and now, why do
you look at me, sir? My eyes are moist, I know it, sir,
I know it, sir,|
I know it. The old battered, broken soldier, who made
his first campaigns, when that which is now dust was the
idol of France, and the pupil of Turenne, the old sol-
dier's eyes shall not be dry, though there is not another tear
shed in the whole of this great empire.
"Your three sons,'
“No, sir,—I loved them when I was old; but I loved
Louis when I was young ! ""
them?"
دو
" said I; "you
you did not weep for
"Your oppressed and pillaged country," said I; "think
of that."
"No, sir, I will not think of it!" cried the old warrior,
in a passion. "I will not think of it,-to-day, at least."
"You are right, my brave friend; in the grave let us
bury even public wrongs; but let us not bury their remem-
brance. May the joy we read in every face that we pass,
-joy at the death of one whom idolatry once almost
seemed to deem immortal,— be a lesson to future kings!
My comrade did not immediately answer; but, after a
pause, and we had turned our backs upon the town, he
said,-
Joy, sir, you spoke of joy! Yes, we are French-
men; we forgive our rulers easily for private vices and pet-
ty faults; but we never forgive them, if they commit the
greatest of faults, and suffer a stain to rest upon
"What?" I asked, as my comrade broke off.
"The national glory, monsieur !" said he.
"You have hit it," said I, smiling at the turgid senti-
ment which was so really and deeply felt. "And had you
written folios upon the character of your countrymen, you
could not have expressed it better."
CHAPTER VIII.
after this event, one happened to myself, with which my
public career may be said to commence.
CC
I had spent the evening at a house in a distant part of
Paris, and invited by the beauty of the night, had dismissed
my carriage, and was walking home alone and on foot
Occupied with my reflections, and not very well acquainted
with the dangerous and dark streets of Paris, in which it
was very rare for those who have carriages to wander on
foot, I insensibly strayed from my appropriate direction.
When I first discovered this disagreeable fact, I was in a
filthy and obscure lane rather than street, which I did not
remember having ever honored with my presence before
While I was pausing in the vain hope and anxious endeavour
to shape out some imaginary chart, some map of the
mind," by which to direct my bewildered course, I heard
a confused noise proceed from another lane at right angles
with the one in which I then was. I listened, the sound
became more distinct; I recognised human voices in loud
and angry altercation, -a moment more, and there was a
scream. Though I did not attach much importance to the
circumstance, I thought I might as well approach nearer to
the quarter of noise. I walked to the door of the house
from which the scream proceeded; it was very small, and
mean. Just as I neared it, a window was thrown open, and
a voice cried, "Help! help! for God's sake, help!"
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Whoever you are, save us!" cried the voice, "and
that instantly, or we shall be murdered;" and, the moment
after, the voice ceased abruptly, and was succeeded by the
clashing of swords.
<
no answer;
I beat loudly at the door, I shouted out,
the scuffle within seemed to increase; I saw a small blind
alley to the left; one of the unfortunate women to whom
such places are homes was standing in it.
"What possi-
bility is there of entering the house?" I asked.
"O!" said she, "it does not matter; it is not the first
time gentlemen have cut each other's throats there."
"What is it a house of bad repute?"
Yes; and where there are bullies who wear knives,
and take purses, as well as ladies, who
"Good heavens !" cried I, interrupting her, "there is
no time to be lost. Is there no other way of entrance but
at this door?"
Yes, if you are bold enough to enter at another!"
"Where? >>
"Down this alley.”
Immediately I entered the alley; the woman pointed to
a small, dark, narrow flight of stairs; I ascended, the
sounds increased in loudness. I mounted to the second
-a light streamed from a door, the clashing of
swords was distinctly audible within, I broke open the
door, and saw myself a witness and intruder in a scene at
once ludicrous and fearful.
In which there is reason to fear that princes are not invaria-flight,
bly free from human peccadilloes.
ON entering Paris, my veteran fellow traveller took leave
of me, and I proceeded to my hotel. When the first excita-
tion of my thoughts was a little subsided, and after some
feelings of a more public nature, 1 began to consider what
influence the king's death was likely to have on my own
fortunes, I could not but see, at a glance, that for the cause
of the chevalier, and the destiny of his present exertions in
Scotland, it was the most fatal event that could have oc-
curred.
The balance of power, in the contending factions of
France, would, I foresaw, lie entirely between the Duke of
Orleans and the legitimate children of the late king; the
latter, closely leagued as they were with Madame de Main-
tenon, would not be much disposed to consider the welfare
of the bon Comte Devereux, and my wishes, therefore, nat-
urally settled on the former. I was not doomed to a long
suspense. Every one knows, that the very next day the
Duke of Orleans appeared before parliament, and was pro-
claimed regent; that the will of the late king was set aside;
and that the Duke of Maine became tout-à-coup as low in
power as he had always been despicable in intellect. A
little hubbub ensued; people in general laughed at the re-
gent's finesse; and the more sagacious admired the cour-
age and address of which the finesse was composed. The
regent's mother wrote a letter of sixty-nine pages about it;
and the Duchess of Maine boxed the duke's ears very
heartily for not being as clever as herself. All Paris teemed
with joyous forebodings; and the regent, whom every one,
some time ago, had suspected of poisoning his cousins,
every one now declared to be the most perfect prince that
could possibly be imagined, and the very picture of Henri
Quatre, in goodness as well as physiognomy. Three days
Three days
|
A table, covered with bottles and the remnants of a
meal, was in the centre of the room; several articles of
women's dress were scattered over the floor; two women
of unequivocal description were clinging to a man richly
dressed, and who having fortunately got behind an immense
chair, that had been overthrown, probably, in the scuffle,
managed to keep off, with awkward address, a fierce look-
ing fellow, who had less scope for the ability of his sword
arin, from the circumstance of his attempting to pull away
the chair with his left hand. Whenever he stooped to effect
this object, his antagonist thrust at him very vigorously, and
had it not been for the embarrassment his female enemies
occasioned him, the latter would, in all probability, hav¬
despatched or disabled his besieger. This fortified gentle-
man, being backed by the window, was, I immediately
concluded, the person who had called to me for assistance
At the other corner of the apartment was another cava-
lier, who used his sword with singular skill, but who, being
hard pressed by two lusty fellows, was forced to employ
that skill rather in defence than attack. Altogether, the
distorted appearance of the room, the broken bottles, the
Tumes with which the hot atmosphere teemed, the 'evident
profligacy of the two women, the half derobé guise of the
cavaliers, and the ruffian air and collected ferocity of the
assailants, plainly denoted that it was one of those perilous
festivals of pleasure in which imprudent gallants were often,
in that day, betrayed by treacherous Delilahs into the hands
of Philistines, who, not contented with stripping them for the
sake of plunder, frequently murdered them for the sake of
secrecv
334
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Having taken a rapid, but satisfactory, survey of the
scene, I did not think it necessary to make any preparatory
parley. I threw myself upon the nearest bravo with so
hearty a good will, that I ran him through the body before
ae had recovered his surprise at my appearance. This
somewhat startled the other two; they drew back, and
demanded quarter.
"Quarter, indeed!" cried the farther cavalier, releas-
ing himself from his astonished female assailants, and leap-
ing nimbly over his bulwark, into the centre of the room,
quarter, indeed, rascally ivrognes! No; it is our
turn now; and, by Joseph of Arimathea! you shall sup
with Pilate to-night." So saying, he pressed his old as-
sailant so fiercely, that, after a short contest, the latter
retreated till he had backed himself to the door, he then
suddenly turned round, and vanished in a twinkling. The
third and remaining ruffian was far from thinking himself
a match for three men; he fell on his knees, and implored
mercy. However, the ci-devant sustainer of the besieged
chair was but little disposed to afford him the clemency he
demanded, and approached the crest-fallen bravo with so
grim an air of truculent delight, brandishing his sword,
and uttering the most terrible threats, that there would have
been small doubt of the final catastrophe of the trembling
bully, had not the other gallant thrown himself in the way
of his friend.
"Put up thy sword," said he, laughing, and yet with an
air of command; we must not court crime, and then
punish it." Then, turning to the bully, he said, "Rise,
Sir Rascal! the devil spares thee a little longer, and this
gentleman will not disobey his, as well as thy master's
wishes. Begone!
The fellow wanted no second invitation: he sprang to
his legs and to the door. The disappointed cavalier as-
sisted his descent down the stairs with a kick, that would
have done the work of the sword to any flesh not accus-
tomed to such pedal applications. Putting up his rapier,
the milder gentleman then turned to the ladies, who lay
huddled together under shelter of the chair which their in-
ended victim had deserted.
DOW,
"Ah, mesdames," said he, gravely, and with a low
"I am sorry for your disappointment. As long as
you contented yourselves with robbery, it were a shame to
have interfered with your innocent amusements; but cold
steel becomes serious. Monsieur d'Argenson will favor
you with some inquiries to-morrow; at present, I recom-
mend you to empty what remains in the bottle. Adieu!
Monsieur, to whom I am so greatly indebted, honor me
with your arm down these stairs. You" (turning to his
friend)" will follow us, and keep a sharp look behind.
Allons! Vive Henri Quatre!
As we descended the dark and rough stairs, my new com-
panion said, "What an excellent antidote to the effects of
the vin de Champagne is this same fighting. I feel as if
I had not tasted a drop these six hours. What fortune
brought you hither, monsieur ?" addressing me.
We were now at the foot of the first flight of stairs, a
high and small window admitted the moonlight, and we
saw each other's faces clearly.
"That fortune," answered I, looking at my acquaint-
ance steadily, but with an expression of profound respect,
"that fortune which watches over kingdoms, and which,
I trust, may in no place or circumstance be a deserter from
your highness."
"Highness!
said my companion, coloring, and dart-
ing a glance, first at his friend, and then at me.
"Hist,
sir, you know me, then, speak low, you know, then, for
whom you have drawn your sword?"
Yes, so please your highness. I have drawn it this
night for Philip of Orleans; I trust yet, in another scene,
and for another cause, to draw it for the regent of France!"
A prince.
-
CHAPTER IX.
- An audience. And a secret embassy.
THE regent remained silent for a moment: he then said,
n an altered and grave voice, "C'est bien, monsieur ! I
thank you for the distinction you have made. It were not
amiss," (he added, turning to his comrade,)
would now and then deign, henceforward, to make the
to make the
"that you
same distinction. But this is neither time nor place for
parlance. On, gentlemen!"
I re-offered my arm to the prince; and I saw through his
heart, when he, though with great courtesy, refused it. A
man does not love you the better for discovering even his
greatness when he wishes to hide it. However, it was not
the love of the profligate, but a hold upon the prince, which
I desired, and for which I had played my game.
We left the house, passed into the street, and moved on
rapidly, and in silence, till the constitutional gayety o
the duke recovering its ordinary tone, he said, with a
laugh,
Well, now, it is a little hard that a man who has been
toiling all day for the public good should feel ashamed of
indulging for an hour or two at night in his private amuse-
ments; but so it is. 'Once grave, always grave!' is the
maxim of the world, — eh, Chatran ?
The companion bowed. "'Tis a very good saying,
please your royal highness, and is intended to warn us from
the sin of ever being grave!
"Ha-ha! you have un grand talent pour la morale, mon
bon Chatran!" cried the duke," and would draw a rule.
for conduct out of the wickedest bon mot of Dubois, Mon-
sieur, pardon me, but I have seen you before you are the
Count
""
"Devereux, monseigneur."
"True, true! I have heard much of you: you are inti-
mate with Milord Bolingbroke. Would that I had fifty
friends like him.”
CC
Monseigneur would have little trouble in his
his wish were realized," said Chatran.
regency if
“Tant mieux, so long as I had little odium as well as
little trouble, - a happiness which, thanks to you and Du-
bois, I am not likely to enjoy. Mais voilà la voiture !
And the duke pointed to a dark, plain carriage, which
we had suddenly come upon.
"Count Devereux," said the merry regent, "
r you will
enter: my duty requires that, at this seductive hour, I
should see a young gentleman of your dangerous age safely
lodged at his hotel !"
We entered, Chatran gave the orders, and we drove off
rapidly.
The regent hummed a tune, and his two companions.
listened to it in respectful silence.
"Well, well, messieurs," said he, bu, sting out at last
into open voice, "I will ever believe, in future, that the
gods do look benignantly on us worshippers of the Alma
Venus ! Do you know much of Tibullus, Monsieur Dev-
ereux ? And can you assist my memory with the continua-
tion of the line, --
"Quisquis amore tenetur eat — '"
““tutusque sacerque
Qualibet insidias non timuisse decet, "'
answered I.
"Bon!" cried the duke. "I love a gentleman from my
very soul, when he can both fight well and read Latin. I hate
a man who is merely a wine-bibber and blade-drawer. By
St. Louis, though it is an excellent thing to fill the stomach,
especially with Tokay, yet there is no reason in the world
why we should not fill the head too. But here we are.
Adieu, Monsieur Devereux, we shall see you at the
palais.
I expressed my thanks briefly at the regent's condescen-
sion, descended from the carriage, (which instantly drove
off with renewed celerity,) and once more entered my
hotel.
Two or three days after my adventure with the regent, I
thought it expedient to favor that eccentric prince with a
visit. During the early part of his regency, it is well
known how successfully he combated with his natural in-
dolence, and how devotedly his mornings were surrendered
to the toils of his new office; but when pleasure has grown
habit, it requires a stronger mind than that of Philippe le
Debonnair to give it a permanent successor in business.
Pleasure is, indeed, like the genius of the fable, the most
useful of slaves while you subdue it: the most intolerable
of tyrants the moment your negligence suffers it to subdue
you.
The hours in which the prince gave audience to the com-
rades of his lighter, rather than graver occupations, were
those immediately before and after his levee. I thought
that this would be the best season for me to present myself.
DEVEREUX.
Accordingly, one morning after the levee, I repaired to his
palace.
The ante-chamber was already crowded. I sat myself
quietly down in one corner of the room, and looked upon
the motley groups around. I smiled inly as they reminded
me of the scenes my own ante-room, in my younger days of
folly and fortune, was wont to exhibit; the same heteroge-
neous assemblage (only upon a grander scale) of the minis-
There
ters to the physical appetites and the mental tastes.
was the fretting and impudent mountebank, side by side
with the gentle and patient scholar,
the harlot's envoy
and the priest's messenger, the agent of the police, and
the licensed breaker of its laws, there; but what boots a
more prolix description? What is the ante-room of a great
man, who has many wants and many tastes, but a panorama
of the blended disparities of this compounded world?
While I was moralizing, a gentleman suddenly thrust his
head out of a door, and appeared to reconnoitre us. In-
stantly, the crowd swept up to him. I thought I might as
well follow the general example, and pushing aside some of
my fellow loiterers, I presented myself and my name to
the gentleman, with the most ingratiating air I could
command.
seigneur's example might enlighten them in a train ɔf
thought so erroneous?"
"C'est vrai. Nothing like example, eh, Dubois? What
would Philip of Orleans have been but for thee ?”
"L'exemple souvent n'est qu'un miroir trompeur,
Quelquefois l'un se brise où l'autre s'est sauvé,
Et par où l'un périt, un autre est conservé,'
answered Dubois out of Cinna.
"Corneille is right," rejoined the regent.
"After all,
to do thee justice, mon petit abbé, example has little to do
with corrupting us. Nature pleads the cause of pleasure,
as Hyperidas pleaded that of Phryne. She has no need o
eloquence: she unveils the bosom of her client, and the client
is acquitted."
"Monseigneur shows at least that he has learnt to profit
by my
humble instructions in the classics," said Dubois.
The duke did not answer. I turned my eyes to some
drawings on the table, -1 expressed my admiration of
them. They are mine," said the regent. "Ah! 1
should have been much more accomplished as a private
gentleman, than I fear I ever shall be as a public man of
toil and business. Business,-bah! But necessity is the
only real king in the world, the only enviable despot for
whom there is no law. What! are you going already,
Count Devereux ?"
<<
Monseigneur's ante-room is crowded with less fortu-
nate persons than myself, whose sins of envy and covetous-
ness I am now answerable for."
"Ah,
well! I must hear the poor devils; the only
The gentleman, who was tolerably civil for a great man's
great man, promised that my visit should be immediately
announced to the prince; and then, with the politest bow
imaginable, slapped the door in my face. After I had
waited about seven or eight minutes longer, the gentleman
re-appeared, singled me from the crowd, and desired me to
follow him: I passed through another room, and was pres-pleasure I have is in seeing how easily I can make them
ently in the regent's presence.
happy. Would to God, Dubois, that one could govern a
great kingdom only by fair words!
great kingdom only by fair words! Count Devereux, you
have seen me to-day as my acquaintance; see me again as
my petitioner. Bon jour, monsieur.”
I was rather startled when I saw by the morning light,
and in déshabille, the person of that royal martyr to dissi-
pation His countenance was red, but bloated, and a
weakness in his eyes added considerably to the jaded and
haggard expression of his features. A proportion of
stomach rather inclined to corpulency, seemed to betray the
taste for
gourmanderie, vljah the most radically coarse, and
yet (strange to my) dro inost generally accomplished and
really good-natured of royal profligates, combined with his
other qualifications. He was yawning very elaborately
over a great heap of papers, when I entered. He finished
his yawn, (as if it were too brief and too precious a recrea-
ion to lose,) and then said, "Good morning, Monsieur
Devereux; I am glad that you have found me out at last."
“I was afraid, monseigneur, of appearing an intruder on
your presence, by offering my homage to you before.
"So like my good fortune," said the regent, turning to a
man seated at another table at some distance, whose wily,
astute countenance, piercing eye, and licentious expression
of lip and brow, indicated at once the ability and vice which
composed his character. "So like my good fortune, is it
not, Dubois? If ever I meet with a tolerably pleasant fel-
low, who does not disgrace me by his birth or reputation,
he is always so terribly afraid of intruding! and whenever
pick up a respectable personage without wit, or a wit
without respectability, he attaches himself to me like a
burr, and can't live a day without inquiring after my
health."
Dubois smiled, bowed, but did not answer, and I saw
that his look was bent darkly and keenly upon me.
- eh ! "
Well," said the prince, “what think you of our opera,
Count Devereux ?—It beats your English one,
Ah, certainly, monseigneur; ours is but a reflection of
yours.
"So says your friend, Milord Bolingbroke, a person who
knows about operas almost as much as I do, which, vanity
apart, is saying a great deal. I should like very well to
visit England,
what should I learn best there? In Spain
(I shall always love Spain) I learnt to cook.”
"Monseigneur, I fear," answered I, smiling, " could ob-
tain but little additional knowledge in that art in our bar-
barous country. A few rude and imperfect inventions,
bave, indeed, of late years astonished the cultivators of the
science; but une nuit épaissee, rests still upon its main
principles and leading truths. Perhaps, what monseigneur
would find best worth studying in England would be, - les
dames."
“Ah! les dames all over the world!" cried the duke,
laughing; "but I hear your belles Anglaises are sentimental,
and love à l'Arcadienne.”
"It is true, at present: but who shall say how far mon-
And I retired, very well pleased with my reception :
from that time, indeed, during the rest of my short stay at
Paris, the prince honored me with his especial favor. But
I have dwelt too long in my séjour at the French court.
The persons whom I have described, and who alone made
that séjour memorable, must be my apology.
One day I was honored by a visit from the Abbé Dubois.
After a short conversation upon indifferent things, he ac-
costed me thus :-
your
"You are aware, Count Devereux, of the partiality
which the regent has conceived toward you. Fortunate
would it be for that prince," (here Dubois elevated his
brows with an ironical and arch expression,)" so good by
disposition, so injured by example, if his partiality had
been more frequently testified toward gentlemen of
merit. A mission of considerable importance, and one de-
manding great personal address, gives his royal highness an
opportunity of testifying his esteem for you. He honored
me with a conference on the subject, yesterday, and has
now commissioned me to explain to you the technical ob-
jects of this mission, and to offer to you the honor of con-
veying it. Should you accept the proposals, you will wait
upon his highness before his levee to-morrow.
"Fol
Dubois then proceeded, in the clear, rapid manner pe
culiar to him, to comment on the state of Europe.
France," said he, in concluding his sketch, "peace is abso-
lutely necessary.
A drained treasury, an exhausted coun-
try, require it. You see from what I have said, that Spain
and England are the principal quarters from which we are
to dread hostilities. Spain we must guard against, - Eng-
land we must propitiate; the latter object is easy in Eng-
land in any case, whether James or George be uppermost
For whoever is king in England will have quite enough to
do at home, to make him agree willingly enough to peace
abroad. The former requires a less simple and more en-
larged policy. I fear the ambition of the Queen of Spain,
and the turbulent genius of her minion Alberoni. We must
fortify ourselves by new forms of alliance, at various courts,
which shall at once defend us and intimidate our enemies.
We wish to employ some nobleman of ability and address
on a secret mission to Russia,- will you be that person?
Your absence from Paris will be but short; you will see a
very droll country, and a very droll sovereign; you will
return hither, doubly the rage, and with a just claim to
more important employment hereafter. What say you to
the proposal?"
"I must hear more," said I, " before I decide.”
The abbé renewed. It is needleɛs to repeat all tne
336
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ticulars of the commission that he enumerated. Suffice it
Suffice it
that after a brief consideration, I accepted the honor pro-
posed to me. The abbé wished me joy, relapsed into his
ordinary strain of coarse levity for a few minutes, and then
reminding me that I was to attend to the regent on the
morrow, departed. It was easy to see, that in the mind of
that subtle and crafty ecclesiastic, with whose manœuvres
private intrigues were always blended with public, this offer
of employment veiled a desire to banish me from the imme-
diate vicinity of the good-natured regent, whose favor the
aspiring abbé wished at that exact moment exclusively to
monopolize. Mere men of pleasure, he knew, would not
interfere with his ains upon the prince; mere men of busi-
ness, still less but a man who was thought to combine the
capacities of both, and who was moreover distinguished by
the regent, he deemed a more dangerous rival than the in-
estimable person thus suspected really was.
:
However, I cared little for the honest man's motives.
Adventure to me had always greater charms than dissipa-
tion, and it was far more agreeable to the nature of my
ambition to win distinction by any honorable method, than
by favoritism at a court, so hollow, so unprincipled, and
so grossly licentious as that of the regent. There, to be
the most successful courtier, was to be the most amusing
débauché. Alas, when the heart is away from its objects,
and the taste revolts at its success, pleasure is worse than
palling, it is a torture! and the devil in Jonson's play,
did not, perhaps, greatly belie the truth, when he averred
"that the pains in his native country were pastimes to the
life of a person of fashion.'
and six ladies, such ladies as the duke loved best,—witty,
lively, sarcastic, and good for nothing.
De Chatran accosted me.
"Je suis ravi, mon cher Monsieur Devereux," said he
gravely, "to see you in such excellent company, you
must be a little surprised to find yourself here!"
"Not at all! Every scene is worth one visit. He, my
good Monsieur Chatran, who goes to the house of correction
once is a philosopher, he who goes twice is a rogue!"
"Thank
J
you, count, what am I then, I have been
here twenty times?"
'
"Why, I will answer you with a story. The soul of a
Jesuit, one night, when its body was asleep, wandered down
to the lower regions; Satan caught it, and was about to
consign it to some appropriate place; the soul tried hard
to excuse itself: you know what a cunning thing a Jesuit's
soul is! Monsieur Satan,' said the spirit, no king
should punish a traveller as he would a native. Upon my
honor, I am merely here en voyageur.' Go, then, mon
père !' said le bon Satan, and the soul flew back to its body.
But the Jesuit died, and came a l'enfer a second time. Ha
was brought before his Satanic majesty, and made the same
excuse. No, no,' cried Beelzebub; once here is to be
only le diable voyageur, twice here, and you are le diable
tout bon.""
C
"Ha ha! ha!" said Chatran laughing; "I then am
the diable tout bon ! 't is well I am no worse; for we reckon
the roués a devilish deal worse than the very worst of the
devils but see, the regent approaches us."
And, leaving a very pretty enjouée looking lady, the re-
gent sauntered toward us. It was in walking, by the by
that he lost all the grace of his mien. I don't know, how
ever, that one wishes a great man to be graceful, so long
as he is familiar.
"Aha, Monsieur Devereux!" said he, "we will give
you some lessons in cooking to night, -we shall show you
how to provide for yourself in that barbarous country which
you are about to visit. Tout voyageur doit tout savoir !
A very admirable saying; which leads me to under-
stand that monseigneur has been a great traveller,” said I.
"Ay, in all things and all places, eb, count!" an-
said one, in virtuous amazement. • Ciel ! ma sœur !'
cries the other; what brought you?'"*
The Duke of Orleans received me the next morning
with more than his wonted bonhomie. What a pity that so
good-natured a prince should have been so bad a nian! He
enlarged more easily and carelessly than his worthy pre-
ceptor had done, upon the several points to be observed in
my mission; then very condescendingly told me he was
very sorry to lose me from his court, and asked me, at all
events, before I left Paris, to be a guest at one of his se-
lect suppers.
I appreciated this honor at its just value.
To these suppers, none were asked but the prince's chums,
or roués, * as he was pleased to call them. As entre nous
these chums were for the most part the most good-for-noth-swered the regent, smiling; "but, "here he lowered his
ing people in the kingdom, I could not but feel highly flat- voice a little, "I have never yet learnt how you came so
tered at being deemed, by so deep a judge of character as opportunely to our assistance that night. Dieu me damme !
the regent, worthy to join them. I need not say that the but it reminds me of the old story of the two sisters meet-
invitation was eagerly accepted, nor that I left Philippe leing at a gallant's house. 'O, sister, how came you here ??
Débonnaire impressed with the idea of his being the most
admirable person in Europe. What a fool a great man is
if he does not study to be affable; weigh a prince's con-
descension in one scale, and all the cardinal virtues in the
other, and the condescension will outweigh them all. The
Regent of France ruined his country as much as he well
could do, and there was not a dry eye when he died. Even
the memory of Charles II., who was both privately and
publicly the most consummate rascal that England ever saw,
is to this day rather popular than otherwise.
A day had now effected a change, -a great change in
my fate.
A new court, -a new theatre of action,
new walk of ambition, were suddenly opened to ine. Noth-
ing could be more promising than my first employment,
nothing could be more pleasing than the anticipation of
change. "I must force myself to be agreeable to-night,'
said I, as I dressed myself for the regent's supper,
must leave behind me the remembrance of a bon mot, or I
shall be forgotten."
a
" I
And I was right. In that whirlpool, the capital of
France, every thing sinks but wit; that is always on the
surface, and we must cling to it with a firm grasp if we
would not go down to "the deep oblivion."
CHAPTER X.
Royal exertions for the good of the people.
WHAT a singular scene was that private supper with
he Regent of France and his roués! The party consisted
of twenty: nine gentlemen of the court besides myself, four
men of low rank and character, but admirable buffoons,
* The term roué, now so comprehensive, was first given by the
regent to a select number of his friends; according to them, be-
cause they would be broken on the wheel for his sake; accord-
ing to himself, because they deserved to be so broken.-ED.
"Monseigneur is pleasant," said I, laughing; "but a
man does now and then (though I own it is very seldom)
do a good action, without having previously resolved to
commit a bad one !"
"I like your parenthesis," cried the regent, "it reminds
me of my friend St. Simon, who thinks so ill of mankind,
that I asked him, one day, whether it was possible for him
to despise any thing more than men ? Yes,' said he,
with a bow, women!
"His experience," said I, glancing at the female part
of the coterie, was, I must own, likely to lead him to
that opinion.'
'
CC
,,,
None of your sarcasms, monsieur," cried the gent.
"L'amusement est un des besoins de l'homme, — as I hear
young Arouct very pithily said the other day; and we owe
gratitude to whomsoever it may be that supplies that want.
Now, you will agree with me that none supply it like
women; therefore we owe them gratitude,- therefore
we must not hear them abused. Logically proved, 1
think!"
Yes, indeed," said I, "it is a pleasure to find they
have so able an advocate, and that your highness can so
well apply to yourself both the assertions in the motto of
the great master of fortification, Vauban, I destroy,
but I defend.'”
“Enough," said the duke, gayly; now to our fortifi-
cations; " and he moved away towards the women. I fol-
lowed the royal example; and soon found myself seated
We entered into
next to a pretty and very small woman.
conversation; and, when once begun, my fair companion
took care that it should not cease, without a miracle. By
the goddess Facundia, what volumes of words issued from
that little mouth! and on all subjects too! church,
state,
* The reader will remember a better version of this anec-
dote in one of the most popular of the English comedies.- ED
DEVEREUX.
33/
-
M
-law, politics, playhouses, lampoons, lace,
veries, kings, queens, roturiers,-beggars,-you
would have thought, had you heard her, so vast was her
confusion of all things, that chaos had come again. Our
royal host did not escape her. "You never before supped
here en famille," said she, "Mon Dieu ! it will do
your
heart good to see how much the regent will eat. He has
such an appetite, you know he never eats any dinner, in
order to eat the more at supper. You see that little dark
woman he is talking to? well, she is Madame de Para-
bère, he calls her his little black crow, was there ever
such a pet name? Can you guess why he likes her? Nay,
never take the trouble of thinking, I will tell you at
once, simply because she eats and drinks so much.
Parole d'honneur, 'tis true. The regent says he likes
sympathy in all things! - is it not droll? What a hideous
old man is that Noce, his face looks as if it had caught
the rainbow. That impudent fellow Dubois scolded him
or squeezing so many louis out of the good regent. The
yellow creature attempted to deny the fact. Nay,' cried
Dubois, you cannot contradict me; I see their very
ghosts in your face.'"
C
<
While my companion was thus amusing herself, Nocé,
unconscious of her panegyric on his personal attractions,
joined us.
"Ah! my dear Nocé," said the lady, most affectionate-
ly, "how well you are looking! I am delighted to see
you."
"I do not doubt it," said Nocé, "for I have to inform
you that your petition is granted; your husband will have
the place."
O, how eternally grateful I am to you!" cried the
lady in an extasy; my poor dear husband will be so re-
joiced. I wish I had wings to fly to him!
The gallant Nocé uttered a compliment, I thought
myself de trop, and moved away. I again encountered
Chatran.
"I overheard your conversation with madame la mar-
quise," said he, smiling; "she has a bitter tongue, has
she not ?"
Very! how she abused the poor rogue Nocé!"
"Yes, and yet he is her lover!"
"Her lover! -you astonish me; why, she seemed al-
most fond of her husband, the tears came in her eyes
when she spoke of him.
"She is fond of him!" said Chatran, dryly. "She
loves the ground he treads on, it is precisely for that
reason she favors Nocé; she is never happy but when she
is procuring something pour son cher bon mari.
She goes
to spend a week at Nocé's country house, and writes to
her husband, with a pen dipped in her blood, saying,
heart is with thee !
My
Certainly," said I, "France is the land of enigmas;
the sphynx must have been a Parisienne. And when Jupit-
er made man, he made two natures utterly distinct from
one another. One was human nature, and the other French
nature! "
the
At this moment supper was announced. We all adjourn- |
ed to another apartment, where, to my great surprise, I
observed the cloth laid, the sideboard loaded,
wines ready, but nothing to eat on the table! A Madame
de Savori, who was next me, noted my surprise.
"What astonishes you, monsieur ?" said she.
Nothing, madame!" said I, "that is, the absence of
all things."
"What! you expected to see supper
"I own my delusion,
"It is not cooked yet."
I did."
""
"O! well, I can wait!"
?
>>
"And officiate too!" said the petite Savori;
word, this is one of the regent's cooking nights.
"in a
Scarcely had I received this explanation, before there
was a general adjournment to an inner apartment, where
all the necessary articles for cooking were ready to cur
hand.
"The regent led the way,
To light us to our prey,
and, with an irresistible gravity and importance of de-
meanor, entered upon the duties of chef.
upon the duties of chef. In a very short
time we were all engaged. Nothing could exceed the
zest with which every one seemed to enter into the rites of
the kitchen. You would have imagined they had been
Dorn scullions, they handled the batterie de cuisine so natu-
VOL I.
43
rally. As for me, I sought protection with Madame de
Savori; and as, fortunately, she was very deeply skilled
in the science, she had occasion to employ me in many
minor avocations which her experience taught her would
not be above my comprehension.
but
After we had spent a certain time in this dignified occu
pation, we returned to the salle à manger. The attendants
Whether
placed the dishes on the table, and we all fell to.
out of self-love to their own performances, or complaisance
to the performances of others, I cannot exactly say,
certain it is that all the guests acquitted themselves d mer-
veille; you would not have imagined the regent the only one
who had gone without dinner to eat the more at supper.
Even that devoted wife to her cher bon mari, who had so
severely dwelt upon the good regent's infirmity, occupied
herself with an earnestness, that would have seemed almost
wolf-like in a famished grenadier.
Very slight indeed was the conversation till the supper
was nearly over, then the effects of the wine became more
perceptible. The regent was the first person who evinced
that he had eat sufficiently to be able to talk. Utterly dis-
pensing with the slightest veil of reserve or royalty, he
leant over the table, and poured forth a whole tide of jests.
The guests then began to think it was indecorous to stuff
theinselves any more, and as well as they were able, they
followed their host's example. But the most amusing per-
sonages were the buffoons: they mimicked, and joked, and
lampooned, and lied, as if by inspiration. As the bottle
circulated, and talk grew louder, the lampooning and the
lying were not, however, confined to the buffoons. On the
contrary, the best born and best bred people seemed to excel
the most in those polite arts. Every person who boasted a
fair name or a decent reputation at court, was seized, con-
demued, and mangled in an instant. And how elaborately
the good folks slandered! It was no hasty word and flip-
pant repartee which did the business of the absent; there
was a precision, a polish, a labor of malice, which showed
that each person had brought so many reputations already
The good-natured convivialists differed from ak
other backbiters that I have ever met, in the same manner
as the toads of Surinam differ from all other toads, viz.:
their venomous offspring were not half formed, misshapen
tadpoles of slander, but sprung at once into life,
shaped and fully developed.
cut up.
well
"Chantons!" cried the regent, whose eyes, winking and
rolling, gave token of his approaching that state which
equals the beggar to the king, "let us have a song. Nocé,
lift up thy voice, and let us hear what the tokay has put
into thy head!"
Nocé obeyed, and sang as men half drunk generally do
sing
O ciel!" whispered the malicious Savori, "what a
hideous screech, -one would think he had turned his face
into a voice!
“Bravissimo !" cried the duke when his guest had
ceased; "what happy people we are! Our doors are
|
locked, not a soul can disturb us, - we have plenty of
wine,- we are going to get drunk,—and we have all Paris
to abuse! What were you saying of Marshal Villars, my
little Parabére !”
And
pounce went the little Parabére upon the unfortunate
marshal. At last slander had a respite, -nonsense began
its reign, the full inspiration descended upon the orgies,
the good people lost the use of their faculties. Noise,
clamor, uproar, broken bottles, falling chairs, and (I grieve
to say) their occupants falling too,
concluded the scene
of the royal supper. Let us drop the curtain.
CHAPTER XI
An interview.
I WENT a little out of my way, on departing from Paris,
to visit Lord Bolingbroke, who at that time was in the
country. There are some men whom one never really sees
in capitals; one sees their masks, not themselves: Boling-
broke was one. It was in retirement, however brief it
might be, that his true nature expanded itself, and weary of
being admired, he allowed one to love, and even in the
wildest course of his earlier excesses, to respect him. My
visit was limited to a few hours, but it made an indelible.
impression on me.
338
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Once more," I said, as we walked to and fro in the
garden of his temporary retreat, "once more you are in
your element minister and statesman of a prince, and
chief supporter of the great plans which are to restore him
to his throne."
M
A slight shade passed over Bolingbroke's fine brow.
"To you, my constant friend," said he, "to you, who
of all my friends alone remained true in exile, and unshaken
by misfortune, to you
I will confide a secret that I would
intrust to no other. I repent me already of having espoused
this cause. I did so while yet the disgrace of an unmerited
attainder tingled in my veins while I was in the full tide
of those violent and warm passions which have so often.
misled me. Myself attainted, the best beloved of my
associates in danger, my party deserted, and seemingly
lost but for some bold measure such as then offered: these
were all that I saw. I listened eagerly to representations
I now find untrue; and I accepted that rank and power
from one prince which were so rudely and gallingly torn
from me by another. I perceive that I have acted impru-
dently, but what is done is done; no private scruples, no
private interest shall make me waver in a cause that I have
once pledged myself to serve; and if I can do aught to make
a weak cause powerful, and a divided party successful, I
will; hut, Devereux, you are wrong, this is not my element.
Ever in the paths of strife, I have sighed for quiet, and
while most eager in pursuit of ambition, I have languished
the most fondly for content. The littleness of intrigue dis-
gusts me, and while the branches of my power soared the
highest, and spread with the most luxuriance, it galled me
to think of the miry soil in which that power was condemned
to strike the roots,* upon which it stood, and by which it
must be nourished."
I
I answered Bolingbroke as men are wont to answer
statesmen who complain of their métier, half in compli- |
ment, half in contradiction, but he replied with unusual
seriousness.
"Do not think I affect to speak thus you know how
eagerly I snatch any respite from state, and how unmovedly
have borne the loss of prosperity and of power.
You are
now about to enter those perilous paths which I have trod
for years.
Your passions, like mine, are strong! Beware,
O, beware, how you indulge them without restraint! They
are the fires which should warm : let them not be the fires
which destroy."
Bolingbroke paused in evident and great agitation,
he resumed: I speak strongly, for I speak in bitterness;
I was thrown early into the world: my whole education
had been framed to make me ambitious: it succeeded in
its end. I was ambitious, and of all success, — success
in pleasure, success in fame. To wean me from the for-
mer, my friends persuaded me to marry, they chose my
wife for her connexions and her fortune, and I gained
those advantages at the expense of what was better than
either, happiness! You know how unfortunate has
been that marriage, and how young I was when it was
contracted. Can.you wonder that it failed in the desired
effect? Every one courted me, every teinptation assailed
me; pleasure even became more alluring abroad, when at
home I had no longer the hope of peace: the indulgence of
one passion begat the indulgence of another; and though
ny better sense prompted all my actions, it never restrained
them to a proper limit. Thus the cominencement of my
actions has been generally prudent, and their continuation
has deviated into rashness, or plunged into excess.
reux, I have paid the forfeit of my errors with a terrible
interest: when my motives have been pure, men have seen
a fault in the conduct, and calumniated the motives; when
my conduct has been blameless, men have remembered its
former errors, and asserted that its present goodness only
arose from some sinister intention: thus I have been
termed crafty, when I was in reality rash, and that was
Deve-
* Occasional Writer-No. I. The Editor has, throughout this
work, usually noted the passages in Bolingbroke's writings, in
which there occur similes, illustrations, or striking thoughts,
correspondent with those in the text. For the general vein of
⚫eflection or conversation ascribed in these pages to Lord Boling
roke, Count Devereux must be answerable.
¡
called the inconsistency of interest, which in reality was the
inconstancy of passion.* I have reason therefore to warn
you how you suffer your subjects to become your tyrants;
and believe me no experience is so deep as that of one
who has committed faults, and who has discovered their
Causes."
Apply, my dear lord, that experience to your future
career. Yo ou remember that the most sagacious of all pe-
dants, even though he was an emperor, has so happily ex-
pressed, Repentance is a goddess, and the preserver of
those who have erred. ""
May I find her so!" answered Bolingbroke; "but,
as Montaigne or Charron would say, 'l'homme se pipe,‡—
man is at once his own sharper and his own bubble.'
We
make vast promises to ourselves, and a passion, an ex-
ample, sweeps even the remembrance of those promises
from our minds. One is too apt to believe men hypocrites,
if their conduct squares not with their sentiments; but
perhaps no vice is more rare, for no task is more difficult, than
systematic hypocrisy: and the same susceptibility which
exposes men to be easily impressed by the allurements of
vice, render them at heart most struck by the loveliness of
virtue. Thus, their language and their hearts worship the
divinity of the latter, while their conduct strays the most
erringly toward the false shrines over which the former
presides. Yes! I have never been blind to the surpassing
excellence of GOOD. The still sweet whispers of virtue
have been heard, even when the storm has been loudest,
and the bark of reason been driven the most impetuously
over the waves: and at this moment, I am impressed with
a foreboding, that sooner or later, the whispers will not
only be heard, but their suggestion be obeyed; and that far
from courts and intrigue, from dissipation and ambition, I
shall learn, in retirement, the true principles of wisdom,
and the real objects of life."
Thus did Bolingbroke converse, and thus did I listen,
till it was time to depart. I left him impressed with a
melancholy that was rather soothing than distasteful.
Whatever were the faults of that most extraordinary and
most dazzling genius, no one was ever more candid § in
confessing his errors. A systematically bad man either
ridicules what is good, or disbelieves in its existence; but
no man can be hardened in vice, whose heart is still sensi-
ble of the excellence and the glory of virtue.
*This I do believe to be the real (though perhaps it is a new)
light in which Lord Bolingbroke's life and character are to be
viewed. The same writers who tell us of his ungovernable
-
passions, always prefix to his name the epithets "designing,
cunning, crafty," &c. Now I will venture to tell these histori-
ans that if they had studied human nature instead of party
pamphlets, they would have discovered that there are certain
incompatible qualities which can never be united in one char
acter, that no man can have violent passions to which he is
in the habit of yielding, and be systematically crafty and de-
signing. No man can be all heat, and at the same time all cool-
ness; but opposite causes not unoften produce like effects.
Passion usually makes men changeable, so sometimes does craft
hence the mistake of the uninquiring or the shallow; and
hence while
writes, and compiles, will the characters
of great men be transmitted to posterity misstated and be-
lied.- ED.
1
The Emperor Julian. The original expression is para-
phrased in the text.
+
"Spirit of patriotism."
It is impossible to read the letter to Sir W. Windham
without being remarkably struck with the dignified and yet open
candor which it displays. The same candor is equally visi
ble in whatever relates to himself, in all Lord Bolingbroke's
writings and correspondence, and yet candor is the last attri
bute usually conceded to him. But never was there a writer
whom people have talked of more and read less; and I do not
know a greater proof of this than the ever-repeated assertion
(echoed from a most incompetent authority) of the said letter
to Sir W. Windham being the finest of all Lord Bolingbroke's
writings. It is an article of great value to the history of the
times; but as to all the higher grades and qualities of compo-
sition it is one of the least striking (and on the other hand it is
one of the most verbally incorrect) which he has bequeated to
us, (the posthumous works always excepted.) I am not sure
whether the most brilliant passages, -the most noble illustra-
tions, the most profound reflections, and the most useful
truths, to be found in all his writings, are not to be gathered
from the least popular of them, - such as that volume entitled
"Political Tracts." .ED.
-
DEVEREUX
BOOK V.
CHAPTER I.
A portrait.
MYSTERIOUS impulse at the heart, which never suffers
us to be at rest, which urges us onward as by an unseen,
yet irresistible law, - human planets in a petty orbit, hur-
ried for ever and for ever, till our course is run and our
ight is quenched, through the circle of a dark and im-
penetrable destiny art thou not some faint forecast and
type of our wanderings hereafter? of the unslumbering na-
ture of the soul of the everlasting progress which we are
predoomed to make through the countless steps, and realms,
and harmonies in the infinite creation? O, often, in my
rovings, have I dared to dream so, often have I soared on
the wild wings of thought above the "smoke and stir" of
this dim earth, and wrought from the restless visions of my
mind, a chart of the glories and the wonders which the
released spirit may hereafter visit and behold!
What a glad awakening from self, what a sparkling
and fresh draught from a new source of being, - what a
wheel within wheel, animating, impelling, arousing all the
rest of this animal machine, is the first excitation of travel!
The first free escape from the bonds of the linked and tame
life of cities and social vices, the jaded pleasure and the
hollow love, the monotonous round of sordid objects and
dull desires, the eternal chain that binds us to things and
beings, mockeries of ourselves, alike, but O, how differ-
ent! the shock that brings us nearer to men only to make
us strive against them, and learn from the harsh contest of
veiled deceit and open force, that the more we share the
aims of others, the more deeply and basely rooted we grow
to the littleness of self.
I passed more lingeringly through France than I did
through the other portions of my route I had dwelt long
ercugh in the capital to be anxious to survey the country.
It was then that the last scale which the magic of Louis
Quatorze, and the memory of his gorgeous court had left
upon the moral eye, fell off, and I saw the real essence of
that monarch's greatness and the true relics of his reign.
I saw the poor, and the degraded, and the racked, and the
priest-ridden tillers and peoplers of the soil, which made
the substance beneath the glittering and false surface,
the body of that vast empire, of which I had hitherto be-
held only the face, and THAT darkly, and for the most part
covered by a mask!
No man can look upon France, beautiful France, her rich
soil, her temperate, yet maturing clime, the gallant and
bold spirits which she produces, her boundaries so indica-
ted and protected by nature itself, her advantages of ocean
and land, of commerce and agriculture, and not wonder
that her prosperity should be so bloated, and her real state
So wretched and diseased.
Let England draw the moral, and beware not only of
wars which exhaust, but of governments which impoverish.
A waste of the public wealth is the most lasting of public
afilictions; and the treasury which is drained by extrava-
gance must be refilled by crime.'*
I remember one beautiful evening an accident to my car-
riage occasioned my sojourn for a whole afternoon in a
small village. The cure honored me with a visit, and we
strolled, after a slight repast, into the hamlet. The priest
was complaisant, quiet in manner, and not ill informed, for
his obscure station and scanty opportunities of knowledge
he did not seem, however, to possess the vivacity of his
countrymen, but was rather melancholy and pensive, not
only in his expression of countenance, but his cast of
thought.
"You have a charming scene here; I almost feel as if it
were a sin to leave it so soon.”
We were, indeed, in a pleasant and alluring spot at the
time I addressed this observation to the good curé. A little
rivulet emerged from a copse to the left, and ran sparkling
* Tacitus.
commanded the whole scene.
Before,
and dimpling beneath our feet, to deck with a more living
verdure the village green, which it intersected with a wind-
ing nor unmelodious stream. We had paused, and I was
leaning against an old and solitary chestnut tree, which
The village was a little in
the rear, and the smoke from its few chimneys rose slowly
and beauteously to the silent and deep skies, not wholly
unlike the human wishes, which, though they spring from
they ascend to heaven. And froin the village, (when other
the grossness and the fumes of earth, purify themselves as
sounds, which I shall note presently, were for an instant
into a confused, yet thrilling sound, which fell upon the
still,) came the whoop of children, mellowed by distance
heart like the voice of our gone childhood itself.
in the far expanse, stretched a chain of hills on which the
autumn sun sunk slowly, pouring its yellow beams ver
groups of peasantry, which, on the opposite side of
ulet and at some interval from us, were scattered,artly
over the green, and partly gathered beneath the shade of a
little grove. The former were of the young, and those to
whom youth's sports are dear, and were dancing to the
merry music, which (ever and anon blended with the laugh
and the tone of a louder jest) floated joyously on our ears.
The fathers and matrons of the hamlet were inhaling a more
quiet joy beneath the trees, and I involuntarily gave a ten-
derer interest to their converse, by supposing them to
sanction to each other the rustic loves which they might
survey among their children.
V.
"Will not monsieur draw nearer to the dancers," said
the curé; "there is a plank thrown over the rivulet a little
lower down.”
CC
<<
"No!" said I, "perhaps they are seen to better ad-
vantage where we are: what mirth will bear too close an
inspection ?
True, sir," remarked the priest, and he sighed.
Yet," I resumed, musingly, and I spoke rather to my
self than to my companion; yet, how happy do they
flute and the dance, the glossy trees all glowing in the au-
seem! what a revival of our Arcadian dreams, are the
tumn sunset, the green sod, and the murmuring rill, and the
buoyant laugh startling the satyr in his leafy haunts; and
the rural loves which will grow sweeter still, when the sun
and the blush of a mellower hue!
has set, and the twilight has made the sigh more tender,
revival of a dream; why must it be only an interval of la-
and the blush of a mellower hue! Ah, why is it only the
bor and woe, the brief saturnalia of slaves,
the gre a
resting spot in a dreary and long road of travail and toil
"You are the first stranger I have met," said the cur,
"who seems to pierce beneath the thin veil of our Gal' c
gayety;
fraught with other feelings than a belief in the happiness f
the first to whom the scene we now survey s
our peasantry, and an envy at its imagined exuberanc‣
the happiest nations that are the gayest."
But as it is not the happiest individuals, so I fear it is r
"Your r
mark is deeper than the ordinary wisdom of your tribe 1.7
I looked at the cure with some surprise.
father," said I.
am;
in
-
"I have travelled over three parts of the globe," ›
swered the curé; "I was not always intended for wb I
" and the priest's mild eyes flashed with a sudden
light, that as suddenly died away. "Yes, I have traveled
over the greater part of the known world," he repeated, to
has many comforts to guard, and many rights to defend, he
a more quiet tone, "and I have noted, that where a mee
necessarily shares the thought and the seriousness of those
whose most earnest meditations are intent upon providing
who feel the value of a treasure which they possess, and
against its loss. I have noted, too, that the joy produc d
by a momentary suspense of labor, is naturally great, n
Proportion to the toil; hence it is, that no European mir h
day releases him from his task. Alas! that very mirth is
is so wild as that of the Indian slave, when a brief holy.
the strongest evidence of the weight of the previous chains
even as in ourselves we find the happiest moment we enjoy
340
BULWER'S NOVELS.
is that immediately succeeding the cessation of deep sorrow
to the mind, or violent torture to the body." *
I was struck by this observation of the priest.
"I see now," said I, "that as an Englishman, I have
no reason to repine at the proverbial gravity of my coun-
trymen, or to envy the lighter spirit of the sons of Italy and
France."
No," said the curé, "the happiest nations are those in
whose people you witness the least sensible reverses from
gayety to dejection; and that thought, which is the noblest
characteristic of the isolated man, is also that of a people.
Freemen are serious, they have objects at their heart wor
thy to engross attention. It is reserved for slaves to in-
dulge in
groans at one moment and laugh at another."
"At that rate," said I, "the best sign for France will
be, when the gayety of her sons is no longer a just prov
erb, and the laughing lip is succeeded by the thoughtful
brow."
"That day will be the Hegira of our political happi-
ness, "said the curé.
And we remained silent for several minutes; our con-
versation had shed a gloom over the light scene before us,
and the voice of the flute no longer sounded musically on
my ear. I proposed to the curé to return to my auberge.
As we walked slowly in that direction, I surveyed my coin-
panion more attentively than I had hitherto done.
He was
a model of masculine vigor and grace of form; and had I
not looked earnestly upon his cheek, I should have thought
him likely to outlive the very oaks around the hamlet
church where he presided. But the cheek was worn and
hectic, and seemed to indicate that the keen fire which
burns at the deep heart, unseen, but unslaking, would con-
sume the mortal fuel, long before time should even have
commenced his gradual decay.
"You have travelled then, much, sir?" said I, and the
Some of my voice was that of curiosity.
The good curé penetrated into my desire to hear some-
thing of his adventures; and few are the recluses who are
not gratified by the interest of others, or who are unwilling
to reward it by recalling those portions of life most cher-
ished by themselves. Before we parted that night, he told
me his little history. He had been educated for the army;
before he entered the profession he had seen the daughter
of a neighbor, loved her, and the old story she
loved him again, and died before the love passed the ordeal
of marriage. He had no longer a desire for glory, be he
nad for excitement. He sold his little property and trav
elled, as he had said, for nearly fourteen years, equally over
the polished lands of Europe, and the far climates, where
truth seems fable and fiction finds her own legends realized
or excelled.
He returned home, poor in pocket, and wearied in spirit.
He became what I beheld him. "My lot is fixed now,"
said he, in conclusion ; "but I find there is all the differ-
ence between quiet and content; my heart eats itself away
bere; it is the moth fretting the garment laid by, more
than the storm or the fray would have worn it.”
I said something, commonplace enough, about solitude,
and the blessings of competence, and the country. The
ouré shook his head gently, but made no answer; perhaps
he did wisely in thinking the feelings are ever beyond the
reach of a stranger's reasoning. We parted more affec-
tionately than acquaintances of so short a date usually do ;
and when I returned from Russia, I stopped at the village
on purpose to inquire after him. A few months had done
the work the moth had already fretted away the human
garment; and I walked to his lowly and nameless grave,
and felt that it contained the only quiet in which monotony
's not blended with regret.
M
CHAPTER II.
The entrance into Petersburgh. A rencontre with an inquisi-
tive and mysterious stranger. Nothing like travel.
Ir was certainly like entering a new world when I
had the frigid felicity of entering Russia. I expected to
I expected to
This reflection, if true, may console us for the loss of those
village dances and peasant holy days for which "merry England"
was once celebrated. The loss of them has been ascribed to the
gloomy influence of the Puritans; but it has never occurred to
the good poets who have so mourned over that loss, that it is
also to be ascribed to the liberty which those Puritans general-
ired, they did not introduce. - ED.
-
—
have found Petersburgh a wonderful city, and I was disap
pointed; it was a wonderful beginning of a city, and that
was all I ought to have expected. But never, I believe,
was there a place which there was so much difficulty in ar-
riving at such winds, such climate, such police ar-
rangements, arranged, too, by such fellows! six feet
high, with nothing human about them, but their unclean.
ness and ferocity! Such vexatious delays, difficulties, or-
deals, through which it was necessary to pass, and to pass,
too, with an air of the most perfect satisfaction and con-
tent. By the Lord! one would have imagined, at all
events, it must be an earthly paradise, to be so arduous of
access, instead of a Dutch-looking town, with comforth ss
canals, and the most terrible climate in which a civiliza?
creature was ever frozen to death. "It is just the city a
nation of bears would build, if bears ever became arch.
tects," said I to myself, as I entered the northern capital,
with my teeth chattering, and my limbs in a state of per-
fect insensibility.
My vehicle stopped, at last, at a hotel to which I had
been directed. It was a circumstance I believe peculiar
to Petersburgh, that at the time I speak of, none of its
streets had a name and if one wanted to find out a house,
one was forced to do so by oral description. A pleasant
thing it was, too, to stop in the middle of a street, to listen
to such description at full length, and find one's self rapidly
becoming ice as the detail progressed. After I was lodged,
thawed, and fed, I fell fast asleep, and slept for eighteen
hours, without waking once; to my mind it was a miracle
that I ever woke again.
I then dressed myself, and taking my interpreter, who
was a Livonian, a great rascal, but clever, who washed
twice a week, and did not wear a beard above eight inches
long, I put myself into my carriage, and went to deliver
my letters of introduction. I had one in particular to the
Admiral Apraxin; and it was with him that I was direct-
ed to confer, previous to seeking an interview with the
emperor. Accordingly I repaired to his hotel, which was
situated on a sort of quay, and was really, for Petersburgh,
very magnificent. In this quarter then, or a little later,
lived about thirty other officers of the court, General Ja-
goyinsky, General Cyernichoff, &c.; and, appropriately
enough, the most remarkable public building in the vicini-
ty, is the great slaughter-house, -a fine specimen that, of
practical satire!
On endeavouring to pass through the admiral's hall, I
had the mortification of finding myself rejected by his
domestics. As two men, in military attire, were instantly
admitted, I thought this a little hard upon a man who had
travelled so far to see his admiralship, and accordingly
hinted my indignation to Mr. Muscotofsky, my interpreter.
"You are not so richly dressed as those gentlemen,"
said he.
That is the reason, is it ???
If it so please St. Nicholas it is; and besides those
gentlemen have two men running before them, to cry
Clear the way
!
"I had better, then, dress myself better, and take tw
avant couriers."
"If it so please St. Nicholas."
Upon this I returned, robed myself in scarlet and gold,
took a couple of lackeys, returned to Admiral Apraxin's,
and was admitted in an instant. Who would have thought
these savages so like us? Appearances, you see, produce
realities all over the world!
The admiral, who was a very great man at court,
though he narrowly escaped Siberia, or the knout some
time after, was civil enough to me; but I soon saw that,
favorite as he was with the czar, that great man left but
petty moves in the grand chess-board of politics to be
played by any but himself; and my proper plan in this
court appeared evidently to be unlike that pursued in most
others, where it is better to win the favorite than the
prince. Accordingly I lost no time in seeking an inter-
view with the czar himself, and readily obtained an ap-
pointment to that effect.
On the day before the interview took place, I amused
myself with walking over the city, gazing upon its grow-
ing grandeur, and casting, in especial, a wistful eye upon
the fortress or citadel, which is situated in an island, sur-
rounded by the city; and upon the building of which, more
than one hundred thousand men are supposed to have per-
ished. So great a sacrifice does it require to conquer
nature
DEVEREUX.
341
While I was thus amusing myself, I observed a man in
a small chaise with one horse pass me twice, and look at
me very earnestly. Like most of my countrymen, I do
not love to be stared at however, I thought it better in
that unknown country to change my intended frown for
a good-natured expression of countenance, and turned
away. A singular sight now struck my attention: a couple
of men with beards that would have hidden a cassowary,
were walking slowly along in their curious long garments,
and certainly (I say it reverently) disgracing the sein-
blance of humanity, when just as they came by a gate, two
other men of astonishing height started forth, each armed
with a pair of shears. Before a second was over, off went
the beards of the first two passengers; and before another
second expired, off went the skirts of their garments too.
I never saw excrescences so expeditiously Ïopped. The
two operators, who preserved a profound silence during
this brief affair, then retired a little, and the mutilated
wanderers pursued their way with an air of extreme dis-
comfiture.
CC
Nothing like travel certainly!" said I unconsciously
aloud.
"True!" said a voice in English behind me. I turned,
and saw the man who had noticed me so earnestly in the
one horse chaise. He was a tall, robust man, dressed very
plainly, and even shabbily, in a green uniform, with a par-
row and tarnished gold face; and I judged him to be a
foreigner, like myself, though his accent and pronunciation
evidently showed that he was not a native of the country
in whose language ne accosted me.
"It is very true," said he again; "there is nothing
like travel!"
I
I thought it right to accept the offer; and we moved on,
side by side. I now looked pretty attentively at my gentle-
inan. I have said that he was tall and stout,
he was
also remarkably well built, and had a kind of seaman's
ease and freedom of gait and manner. His countenance
was very peculiar; short, firm, and strongly marked; a
small, but thick mustachio, covered his upper lip; the rest
of his face was shaved. His mouth was wide, but closed,
when silent, with that expression of iron resolution which
no feature but the mouth can convey. His eyes were large,
well opened, and rather stern; and when, which was often
in the course of conversation, he pushed back his hat from
his forehead, the motion developed two strong deep wrinkles
between the eyebrows, which might be indicative either of
thought or of irascibility, perhaps of both.
perhaps of both. He spoke
quick, and with a little occasional embarrassment of voice,
which, however, never communicated itself to his manner.
He seemed, indeed, to have a perfect acquaintance with
the mazes of the growing city; and, every now and then,
stopped to say when such a house was built, whither such
a street was to lead, &c. As each of these details betrayed
some great triumph over natural obstacles, and sometimes
over national prejudice, I could not help dropping a few
enthusiastic expressions in praise of the genius of the czar
The man's eyes sparkled as he beard them.
the czar creates
"It is easy to see," said I, "that you sympathize with
me, and that the admiration of this great man is not con-
fined to Englishmen. How little in comparison seem al!
other monarchs: they ruin kingdoms,
one. The whole history of the world does not afford an
instance of triumphs so vast, - so important, — so glorious
as his have been. How his subjects should adore him!
"No," said the stranger, with an altered and thoughtful
manner, "it is not his subjects, but their posterity, that will
"And travel," I rejoined, courteously,, "in those
places where travel seldom extends. I have only been six
days at Petersburgh, and till I came hither, I knew noth-appreciate his motives, and forgive him for wishing Russia
ing of the variety of human nature or the power of human
genius. But will you allow me to ask the meaning of the
very singular occurrence we have just witnessed ? "
66
"O, nothing," rejoined the man, with a broad strong
smile, nothing but an attempt to make men out of brutes.
This custom of shaving is not, thank heaven, much wanted
now, some years ago, it was requisite to have several
stations for barbers and tailors to perform their duties in.
Now this is very seldom necessary: those gentlemen
were especially marked out for the operation. By
(and here the man swore a hearty English and somewhat
seafaring oath, which a little astonished me in the streets
of Petersburgh) I wish it were as easy to lop off all old
customs! that it were as casy to clip the beard of the mind,
sir! Ha! -ha!"
"But the czar must have found a little difficulty in effect-
ing even this outward amendment; and to say truth, I see
so many beards about still, that I think the reform has
been more partial than universal."
Ah, those are the beards of the common people, the
czar leaves those for the present. Have you seen the docks
yet?"
tr
"No: I am not sufficiently a sailor to take much interest
in them."
-
"Humph! humph! you are a soldier, perhaps?"
"I hope to be so, one day or other, I am not yet!
"Not yet! humph! there are opportunities in plenty for
those who wish it. What is your profession then, and what
you know best?"
do
to be an empire of MEN. The present generation may
sometimes be laughed, sometimes forced, out of their more
barbarous habits and brutelike customs, but they cannot be
reasoned out of them; and they don't love the man who
attempts to do it. Why, sir, I question whether Ivan IV.,
who used to butcher the dogs between prayers for an occu-
pation, and between meals for an appetite, I question
whether his memory is not to the full as much loved as the
living czar. I know, at least, that whenever the latter
attempts a reform, the good Muscovites shrug up their
shoulders, and mutter, We did not do these things in the
good old days of Ivan IV.'”
"Ah! the people of all nations are wonderfully attached
to their ancient customs. I will tell you who seem to me
to have been the greatest enemies we living men over bad,
our ancestors!"
་
"Ha, ha!— true, →
good!" cried the stranger; and
then, after a short pause, he said, in a tone of deep feeling
which had not hitherto seemed at all a part of his character,
we should do that which is good to the human race, from
some principle within, and should not therefore abate our
efforts for the opposition, the rancour, or the ingratitude
that we experience without. It will be enough reward for
Peter I., if hereafter, when (in that circulation of knowl-
edge throughout the world which I can compare to nothing
better than the circulation of the blood in the human body)
the glory of Russia shall rest, not upon the extent of her
dominions, but that of her civilization, -not upon the
number of inhabitants, imbruted and besotted, but the num-
I was certainly not charmed with the honest inquisitive-ber of enlightened, of prosperous, and of free men; it will
ess of the stranger.
"Sir," said I, "sir, my profession is to answer no
questions; and what I know best is, to hold my tongue!"
The stranger laughed out. "Well, well, that is what all
Englishmen know best!" said he; "but don't be offended,
if you will come home with me I will give you a glass
of brandy!"
"I am very much obliged for the offer, but business
obliges me to decline it: good morning, sir."
"Good morning!" answered the man, slightly moving
huus hat, in answer to my saiutation.
We separated, as I thought, but I was mistaken. As
ill-luck would have it, I lost my way in endeavouring to
return home. While I was interrogating a French artisan,
who seemed in a prodigious hurry, as to my best route, up
comes my inquisitive friend in green again.
have lost your way, 1 o put you into it better than any
man in Petersla rgh !”
"Ha! you
be enough for him, if he be considered to have laid the first
stone of that great change, if his labors be fairly weighed
against the obstacles which opposed them, if, for his
honest and unceasing endeavour to improve millions, he is
not too severely judged for offences in a more limited circle,
and if, in consideration of having fought the great battle
against custom, circumstances, and opposing nature, he be
sometimes forgiven for not having invariably conquered
himself."
As the stranger broke off abruptly, I could not but fee, a
little impressed by his words and the energy with which
they were spoken. We were now in sight of my lodging.
I asked my guide to enter it but the change in our con.
versation seemed to have unfitted him a little for my com-
panionship.
No," said he, "I have business now; we shall meet
again; what's your name?"
Certainly," thought I, "no man ever scrupled se
342
BULWER'S NOVELS.
uttle to ask plan questions ;" however, I answered him
truly and freely.
"Devereux!" said he, as if surprised: "Ha! - well,
we shall meet again. Good day.
The czar
CHAPTER III.
The czarina. A feast at a Russian nobleman's,
THE next day I dressed myself in my richest attire;
and according to my appointment, went with as much state
as I could command to the czar's palace, (if an exceedingly
humble abode can deserve so proud an appellation.) AL-
though my mission was private, I was a little surprised by
the extreme simplicity and absence from pomp which the
royal residence presented. I was ushered for a few mo-
ments into a paltry ante-chamber in which were several
models of ships, cannon, and houses; two or three indif-
ferent portraits,
-one of King William III., another of
Lord Carmarthen. I was then at once admitted into the
royal presence.
There were only two persons in the room,- one a female,
the other a man; no officers, no courtiers, no attendants,
none of the insignia nor the witnesses of majesty. The
female was Catharine, the czarina; the man was the
stranger I had met the day before, -and Peter the Great.
I was a little startled at the identity of the czar with my
inquisitive acquaintance. However, I put on as assured a
countenance as I could. Indeed, I had spoken sufficiently
well of the royal person to feel very little apprehension at
having unconsciously paid so slight a respect to the royal
dignity.
Ho,-ho!" cried the czar, as I reverently approached
him; "I I told you we should meet soon!" and turning
round, he presented me to her majesty. That extraordi
nary woman received me very graciously; and though I
had been a spectator of the most artificial and magnificent
courts in Europe, I must confess that I could detect nothing
in the czarina's air calculated to betray her having been
the servant of a Lutheran minister and the wife of a Swe-
dish dragoon. Whether it was that greatness was natural
to her, or whether (which was more probable) she was an
instance of the truth of Suckling's hackneyed thought, in
Brennoralt, -“Success is a rare paint, hides all the
ugliness.
While I was making my salutations, the czarina rose
very quietly, and presently, to my no small astonishment,
brought me with her own hand a tolerably large glass of
raw brandy. There is nothing in the world I hate so
much as brandy; however, I swallowed the potation as if
it had been nectar, and made some fine speech about it,
which the good czarina did not seem perfectly to understand.
I then, after a few preliminary observations, entered upon |
my main business with the czar. Her majesty sat at a
ittle distance, but evidently listened very attentively to the
conversation. I could not but be struck with the singu-
larly bold and strong sense of my royal host. There was
no hope of deluding or misleading him by diplomatic sub-
terfuge. The only way by which that wonderful man was
ever misled, was through his passions. His reason con-
quered all errors but those of temperament. I turned the
conversation as artfully as I could upon Sweden and Charles
"Hatred to one power,
XII.
thought I, may pro-
duce love to another; and if it does, the child will spring
from a very vigorous parent. While I was on this sub-
ject, I observed a most fearful convulsion come over the
face of the czar, -one so fearful, that I involuntarily
looked away.
Fortunate was it that I did so. Nothing
ever enraged him more than being observed in those con-
stitutional contortions of countenance to which from his
youth he had been subjected.
""
tr
After I had conversed with the czar as long as I thought¦
decorum permitted, I rose to depart. He dismissed me
very complaisantly. I reëntered my fine equipage, and took
the best of my way home.
Two or three days afterward, the czar ordered me to be
invited to a grand dinner at Apraxin's. I went there, and
soon found myself in conversation with a droll little man,
a Dutch minister, and a great favorite with the czar.
The admiral and madame sa femme, before we sat down to
eat, handed round to each of their company a glass of
brandy on a plate.
"What an odious custom!" whispered the little Dutch
minister, smacking his lips, however, with an air of tole-
rable content.
Why," said I, prudently, "all countries have their
customs. Some centuries ago, a French traveller thought
it horrible in us Englishmen to eat raw oysters. But the
English were in the right to eat oysters; and perhaps,
by and by, so much does civilization increase, we shall think
the Russians in the right to drink brandy. But really (we
had now sat down to the entertainment) I am agreeably
surprised here. All the guests are dressed like my own
countrymen; a great decorum reigns around.
If it were
a little less cold, I might fancy myself in London or in
Paris."
Wait," quoth the little Dutchman, with his mouth ful
of jelly broth, -"wait till you hear them talk. What
think you, now, that lady next me is saying?
"I cannot guess,
-but she has the prettiest smile in the
world; and there is something at once so kind and so re-
spectful in her manner, that I should say, she was either
asking some great favor, or returning thanks for one."
Right," " cried the little minister, "I will interpret
for you. She is saying to that old gentleman, Sir, I am
extremely grateful,- (and may St. Nicholas bless you for
it), -for your very great kindness in having, the day be-
fore yesterday, at your sumptuous entertainment, made me
so deliciously drunk?'"'
"Si non
"You are witty, monsieur," said I, smiling.
e vero e ben trovato. >>
CC
"but
By my soul, it is true," cried the Dutchman;
hush! see, they are going to cut up that great pie.'
I turned my eyes to the centre of the table, which was
ornamented with a huge pasty. Presently it was cut open,
and out- walked a hideous little dwarf.
"Are they going to cat him?" said I.
“Ha,
ha!" laughed the Dutchman.
"No! this is
a fashion of the czar's, which the admiral thinks it good
policy to follow. See, it tickles the hebete Russians.
They are quite merry on it."
"To be sure," said I
witticisms savages understand."
"Ay, and if it were not for such jokes now and then,
the czar would be odious beyond measure; but dwarf pies
and mock processions make his subjects almost forgive
him for having shortened the lothes, and clipped their
beards."
practical jokes are the only
per;
"The czar is very fond of those ock processions?"
"Fond!" and the little man sunk his voice into a whis-
"he is the sublimest buffoon that ever existed. I will
tell you an instance: (do you like these Hungary wines,
by the by?) On the 9th of last June, the czar carried me
and half a dozen more of the foreign ministers, to his pleas-
ure-house, (Peterhoff.) Dinner as usual, all drunk with
Tokay, and finished by a quart of brandy each, from her
majesty's own hand. Carried off to sleep, -sume in the
garden, -some in the wood. Woke at four, still in the
clouds. Carried back to the pleasure-house, found the
czar there, made us a low bow, and gave us a hatchet apiece,
with orders to follow him. Off we trudged, rolling about
like ships in the Zuyder Sea, entered a wood, and were
immediately set to work at cutting a road in it. Nice work
for us of the corps diplomatique ! And, by my soul, sir, you
see that I am by no means a thin man! We had three
hours of it, -were carried back,
made drunk again,
sent to bed, woke in an hour, made drunk a third
time; and, because we could not be waked again, left in
peace till eight the next morning. Invited to court to
breakfast, -such headaches we had, longed for coffee,
found nothing but brandy, forced to drink, sick as
dogs, sent to take an airing upon the most damnable lit-
tle horses, not worth a guilder, no bridles nor saddles, -
bump,- bump,-bump we go,-up and down before the
czar's window, he and the czarina looking at us. I do
assure you I lost two stone by that ride, -two stone, sir!
—
czar
taken to dinner,- drunk again by the Lord, all bundled
on board a torrenschute, devil of a storm came on,
took the rudder,-czarina on high benches in the cabin,
which was full of water, — waves beating, winds blow-
ing, certain of being drowned, charming prospect!
tossed about for seven hours,-driven into the port of
Cronsflot. Czar leaves us, saying, 'Too much of a jest, eh,
gentlemen! All got ashore wet as dogfishes, made a fire,
stripped stark naked, (a Dutch ambassador stark naked, -
DEVEREUX
343
A
of it, sir !) crept into some covers of sledges, and
xt morning with the ague, positive fact, sir. Had
for two months. Saw the czar in August,
ching excursion to my pleasure-house,' said his majesty,
◆ must make another party there soon.
Any little Dutchman delivered himself of this little his-
tory, he was by no means forgetful of the Hungary wines;
and Bacchus and Venus have old affinity, he now began
to grow eloquent on the women.
"What think you of them yourself?" said he," they
have a rolling look, eh!"
"They have so," I answered, "but they all have black
teeth, what's the reason?"
They think it a beauty, and say white teeth are the
ign of a blackamoor.”
Here the Dutchman was accosted by some one else, and
there was a pause. Dinner at last ceased, the guests did
not sit long after dinner, and for a very good reason: the
brandy bowl is a great enforcer of a prostrate position. I
had the satisfaction of seeing the company safely under the
table. The Dutchman went first, and, having dexterously
manœuvred an escape from utter oblivion for myself, I
managed to find my way home, more edified thau delighted
by the character of a Russian entertainment.
CHAPTER IV.
Conversa ons with the czar. If Cromwell was the greatest
man (Car excepted) who ever rose to the supreme power,
Peter w the greatest man ever born to it.
·
It was ´ngular enough, that my introduction to the no-
tice of Per the Great and Philip the Debonnair should
have taker lace under circumstances so far similar, that
both those illustrious personages were playing the part
rather of subjects than of princes. I cannot, however, con-
ceive a greater mark of the contrast between their charac-
ters, than the different motives and manners of the incogui-
tos severally assumed.
Philip, in a scene of low riot and debauch, hiding the Ju-
piter under the Silenus, wearing the mask only for the
licentiousness it veiled, and foregoing the prerogative of
power solely for indulgence in the grossest immunities of
vice.
M
What
bearing and familiar manner I could not assume,
was it then that made the czar call upon me, at least twice
a week, in private, shut himself up with me by the hour
together, and endeavour to make me drunk with Tokay, in
order (as he very incautiously let out one night,) "" to learn'
the secrets of my heart?"
the secrets of my heart?" I thought, at first, that the na-
ture of my mission was enough to solve the riddle but we
talked so little about it, that, with all my diplomatic vani
ties fresh about me, I could not help feeling I owed the
honor I received, less to my qualities as a minister, than to
those as an individual.
At last, however, I found that the secret attraction was
what the czar termed the philosophical channel into which
our conferences flowed. I never saw a man so partial to
moral problems and metaphysical inquiries, especially to
those connected with what ought to be the beginning or
the end of all moral sciences, politics. Sometimes we
would wander out in disguise, and select some object from
the customs, or things around us, as the theme of reflection
and discussion; nor iu these moments would the czar ever
allow me to yield to his rank what I might not feel disposed
to concede to his arguments. One day, I remember
that he arrested me in the streets, and made me accompa-
ny him to look upon two men undergoing the fearful punish-
ment of the battaog; one was a German, the other a
Russian; the former shrieked violently, struggled in the
hands of his punishers, and, with the utmost difficulty,
was subjected to his penalty; the latter bore it patiently,
and in silence; he only spoke once, and it was to say,
"God bless the czar!"
*
"Can your majesty hear the man," said I, warmly,
when the czar interpreted these words to me,
"and not
pardon him ?”
The
Peter frowned, but I was not silenced. "You don't
know the Russians!" said he, sharply, and turned aside.
The punishment was now over. "Ask the German," said
the czar to an officer, "what was his offence ?
German, who was writhing and howling horribly, attered
some violent words against the disgrace of the punishment,
and the pettiness of his fault; what the fault was I forget.
"Now ask the Russian," said Peter. My punish-
ment was just!" said the Russian, coolly, putting on his
clothes as if nothing had happened; "God and the czar
were angry with me!"
CC
very pride which betrays agony under the disgrace of the
battaog, is exactly the very feeling that would have pro-
duced courage in the glory of the battle. A sense of honor
makes better soldiers and better men, than indifference to
pain."
"Come away, count," said the czar; "and now solve
Peter, on the contrary, parting with the selfishness of me a problem. I know both those men; and the German,
state, in order to watch the more keenly over the interests in a battle, would be the braver of the two. How comes
of his people, only omitting to preside in order to exam- it that he weeps and writhes like a girl, while the Russian
ine, and affecting the subject only to learn the better the bears the same pain without a murmur ?"
duties of the prince. Had I leisure, I might here pause to "Will your majesty forgive me?" said I;
" but I can-
point out a notable contrast, not between the czar and the not help wishing that the Russian had complained more
regent, but between Peter the Great and Louis le Grand; bitterly; insensibility to punishment is the sign of a brute,
both creators of a new era, -both associated with a vast not a hero. Do you not see that the German felt the indig-
change in the condition of two mighty empires. Therenity, the Russian did not; and do you not see that that
ceases the likeness, and begins the contrast; the blunt sim-
plicity of Peter, the gorgeous magnificence of Louis; the
sternness of a legislator for barbarians, the clemency of an
idol of courtiers. One the victorious defender of his coun-
try, ―a victory solid, durable, and just; the other the con-
quering devastator of a neighboring people, - a victory,
glittering, evanescent, and dishonorable.
The one, in
peace, rejecting parade, pomp, individual honors, and
transforming a wilderness into an empire; the other in-
volved in ceremony, and throned on pomp; and exhausting
the produce of millions to pamper the bloated vanity of au
individual. The one a fire that burns, without enlighten-viduals it may be a sign of virtue, I allow; but as a nation-
ing beyond a most narrow circle, and whose lustre is tracked
by what it ruins, and fed by what it consumes; the other
a luminary, whose light, not so dazzling in its rays, spreads
ver a world, and is noted, not for what it destroys, but for
what it vivifies and creates.
the czar.
I cannot say that it was much to my credit that, while I
thought the regent's condescension toward me natural
enough, I was a little surprised by the favor shown me by
At Paris, I had seemed to be the man of pleas-
ure; that alone was enough to charm Philip of Orleans.
But in Russia, what could I seem in any way calculated to
charm the czar? I could neither make ships, nor could
sail them when they were made; I neither knew, nor, what
was worse, cared to know, the stern from the rudder. Me-
chanics were a mystery to me; road-making was an incom-
prehensible science. Brandy I could not endure, -- a blunt
"But had I ordered the Russian to death, he would
have gone with the same apathy, and the same speech, 'It
is just! I have offended God and the czar!" "
"Dare I observe, sire, that that fact would be a strong
proof of the dangerous falsity of the old maxims which
extol an indifference to death as a virtue? In some indi-
al trait, it is the strongest sign of national misery. Look
round the great globe. What countries are those where
the inhabitants bear death with cheerfulness, or, at least,
with apathy? Are they the most civilized,—the most free
the most prosperous? Pardon me,-no! They are the
half-starved, half-clothed, half-human sons of the forest and
the waste; or, when gathered in States, they are slaves
without enjoyment or sense beyond the hour; and the reason
that they do not recoil from the pangs of death is, because
they have never known the real pleasures or the true objects
of life."
Yet," said the czar, musingly, "the contempt of death
was the great characteristic of the Spartans."
"And, therefore," said I," the great token that the
Spartans were a miserable horde. Your majesty admires
* A terrible kind of flogging, but less severe than the knout.
344
BULWER'S NOVELS.
England and the English; you have, beyond doubt, wit-
nessed an execution in that country; you have noted, even
where the criminal is consoled with religion, how he trem-
bles and shrinks,- how dejected, how prostrate of heart
he is before the doom is completed. Take now the vilest
slave, either of the Emperor of Morocco, or the great Czar
of Russia. He changes neither tint nor muscle: he re-
quires no consolation: he shrinks from no torture. What is
the inference ? That slaves dread death less than the free.
And it should be so. The end of legislation is not to make
death, but life, a blessing.
"You have put the matter in a new light," said the
czar; but you allow that, in individuals, contempt of
death is sometimes a virtue.'
:
CHAPTER V.
Return to Paris. Interview with Bolingbroke A gallant
adventure. Affair with Dubois. - Public life is a drama,
in which private vices generally play the part of the scene
shifters.
Ir is a strange feeling we experience on entering a great
city by night, a strange mixture of social and solitary
impressions. I say by night, because at that time we are
most inclined to feel; and the mind, less distracted than
in the day, by external objects, dwells the more intensely
upon its own hopes and thoughts, remembrances and asso-
ciations; and sheds over them, from that one feeling which
the room alone.
saw me.
"Yes, when it springs from mental reasonings, not phys-it cherishes the most, a blending and a mellowing hue.
ical indifference. But your majesty has already put in
It was at night that I reëntered Paris. I did not tarry
action one vast spring of a system, which will ultimately long at my hotel, before (though near upon midnight)
open to your subjects so many paths of existence that they conveyed myself to Lord Bolingbroke's lodgings. Know-
will preserve contempt for its proper objects, and not lavishing his engagements at St. Germains, where the chevalier
it solely, as they do now, on the degradation which sullies (who had but a very few weeks before returned to France,
life, and the axe that ends it. You have already begun after the crude and unfortunate affair of 1715) chiefly re-
the conquest of another and a most vital error in the phi-sided, I was not very sanguine in my hopes of finding him
osophy of the ancients that philosophy taught that man
at Paris. I was, however, agreeably surprised. His ser-
should have few wants, and made it a crime to increase, ing to introduce myself. I withheld the servant, and entered
vant would have ushered me into his study, but I was will-
and a virtue to reduce them. A legislator should teach, on
the contrary, that man should have many wants: for wants
are not only the sources of enjoyment, they are the
sources of improvement; and that nation will be the most
enlightened among whose populace they are found the most
numerous. You, sire, by circulating the arts, the graces,
and the wisdoms, if I may so say, of life, create a vast
herd of moral wants hitherto unknown, and in those wants
vill hereafter be found the prosperity of your people, the
fountain of
and the strength of your empire."
your resources, and the strength of
In conversation on these topics we often passed hours
together, and from such conferences the czar passed only
to those on other topics more immediately useful to him.
No man, perhaps, had a larger share of the mere human
frailties than Peter the Great; yet I do confess that when
I saw the nobleness of mind with which he flung aside his
rank as a robe, and repaired from man to man, the hun-
blest or the highest, the artisan or the prince,
the pros-
perity of his subjects his only object, and the acquisition
I do confess
of knowledge his only means to obtain it,
that mental sight refused even to perceive his frailties,
my
and that I could almost have bent the knee in worship to a
being whose benevolence was so pervading a spirit, and
whose power was so glorious a minister to utility.
M
-
Toward the end of January I completed my mission,
and took my leave of the court of Russia.
"Tell the regent," said Peter, "that I shall visit him
in France soon, and shall expect to see his drawings if I
show him my models."
In effect, the next month, (February 16,) the czar com-
menced his second course of travels. He was pleased to
testify some regard for me on my departure.
" If ever
you quit the service of the French court, and your own
does not require you, I implore you to come to me; I will
give you carte blanche as to the nature and appointments of
your office."
I need not say that I expressed my gratitude for the
rova condescension; nor that, in leaving Russia, I brought,
from the example of its sovereign, a greater desire to be
useful to mankind than I had known before. Pattern and
teacher of kings, if each country, in each century, had
produced one such ruler as you, either all mankind would
now be contented with despotism, or all mankind would be
free. O when kings have only to be good, to be kept for
ever in our hearts and souls as the gods and benefactors of
the earth, by what monstrous fatality have they been so
blind to their fame? When we remember the millions,
the generations, they can degrade, destroy, elevate, or
save, we might almost think, -even if the other riddles of
the present existence did not require a future existence to
save them, we might almost think an hereafter neces-
ay, were it but for the sole purpose of requiting the
virtues of princes, or their SINS.*
·
* Upon his death-bed, Peter is reported to have said, “God,
I dare trust, will look mercifully upon my faults, in considera-
t on of the good I have done my country. These are worthy
to be the last words of a king! Rarely has there been a mon-
arth who more required the forgiveness of the Creator; yet
never, perhaps, has there been a human being who more de-
served it. - Ep.
The door was ajar, and Bolingbroke neither heard nor
There was something in his attitude and aspect
which made me pause to survey him, before I made myself
known. He was sitting by a table covered with books.
A large folio (it was the Casaubon edition of Polybius)
was lying open before him. I recognised the work at
once; it was a favorite book with Bolingbroke, and we
had often discussed the merits of its author.
I smiled as
I saw that that book, which has to statesmen so peculiar
restless, ardent, and exalted spirit of the statesman before
an attraction, made still the study from which the busy,
me drew its intellectual food. But at the moment in which
I entered, his eye was absent from the page, and turned
abstractedly in an opposite though still downcast direction.
His countenance was extremely pale, his lips were tightly
compressed, and an air of deep thought, mingled, as it
seemed to me, with sadness, made the ruling expression of
"It is the torpor of ambi-
his lordly and noble features.
tion after one of its storms," said I inly; and I approached
and laid my hand on his shoulder.
After our mutual greetings, I said, "Have the dead
so strong an attraction, that at this hour they detain the
courted and courtly Bolingbroke from the admiration and
converse of the living ?"
"Have you
The statesman looked at me earnestly;
heard the news of the day?" said he.
"How is it possible? I have but just arrived at Paris."
You do not know, then, that I have resigned my office
under the chevalier?
66
CC
Resigned your office! "
Resigned is a wrong word,—I received a dismissal
Immediately on his return the chevalier sent for me,
desired me to prepare to follow him to
embraced ine, —
Lorraine; and three days afterward came the Duke of
Ormond to me, to ask me to deliver up the seals and
papers. I put the latter very carefully in a little letter case,
and voilà an end to the administration of Lord Boling-
broke. The Jacobites abuse me terribly, their king
accuses me of neglect, incapacity, and treachery,
fortune pulls down the fabric she had built for me, in order
to pelt me with the stones!
CC
>> *
and
My dear, dear friend, I am indeed grieved for you,
but I am more incensed at the infatuation of the chevalier.
Surely, surely, he must already have seen his error, and
solicited your return.`
C
"Return!" cried Bolingbroke, and his eyes flashed
fire; "return !-Hear what I said to the queen-mother, who
came to me to attempt a reconciliation: Madam,' said 1,
in a tone as calm as I could command, if ever this hand
draws the sword, or employs the pen, in behalf of that prince,
may it rot!' Return! not if my head were the price of re-
fusal ! Yet, Devereux," (and here Bolingbroke's voice
and manner changed,)
and manner changed,) "yet it is not at these tricks of fate
that a wise man will repine. We do right to cultivate
honors; they are sources of gratification to ourselves: they
are more, they are incentives to the conduct which worka
T
* Letter to Sir W. Windham. ED.
DEVEREUX
845
benefit to others; but we do wrong to afflict ourselves at
their loss. Nec querere nec spernere honores oportet. It is
good to enjoy the blessings of fortune; it is better to sub-
mit without a pang to their loss. You remember, when
you left me,
I was preparing myself for this stroke; believe
me, I am now prepared.
And in truth Bolingbroke bore the ingratitude of the
chevalier well. Soon afterward he carried his long-cher-
ished wishes for retirement into effect; and fate, who
delights in reversing her disk, leaving in darkness what she
had just illumined, and illumining what she had hitherto
left in obscurity and gloom, for a long interval separated us
from each other, no less by his seclusion than by the pub-
licity to which she condeinned myself.
Lord Bolingbroke's dismissal was not the only event
affecting me that had occurred during my absence from
France. Among the most active partisans of the cheva-
lier, in the expedition of Lord Mar, had been Montreuil.
So great, indeed, had been either his services or the idea
entertained of their value, that a reward of extraordinary
amount was offered for his head. Hitherto he had escaped,
and was supposed to be still in Scotland.
But what affected me more nearly was the condition of
Gerald's circumstances. On the breaking out of the rebel-
lion, he had been suddenly seized, and detained in prison;
and it was only upon the escape of the chevalier that he
was released nothing had, however, been apparently
proved against him: and my absence from the head quar-
ters of intelligence, left me in ignorance, both of the
grounds of his imprisonment, and the circumstances of his
release.
a little chamber, hung with tapestry, descriptive of the loves
of Mars and Venus.
of Mars and Venus. After I had cooled my heels in this
apartment for about a quarter of an hour, in sailed a tall
woman, of a complexion almost Moorish. I bowed, the
lady sighed. An éclaircissement ensued; and I found that
I had the good fortune to be the object of a caprice, in the
favorite mistress of the Abbé Dubois. Nothing was farther
from my wishes. What a pity it is that one cannot always
tell a woman one's mind!
I attempted a flourish about friendship, honor, and the
respect due to the amante of the most intimate ami I had
in the world.
"Pooh!" said the tawny Calypso, a little pettishly;
pooh! one does not talk of those things here."
"Madame,” said I, very energetically, "I implore you
to refrain. Do not excite too severe a contest between
passion and duty!
I feel that I must fly you, you are
already too bewitching."
And I rose. To speak frankly, I did not wish to risk
making a powerful enemy, for the sake of a woman whom
I thought particularly plain. Not altogether of my mind
was the tall lady. A farther conversation ensued, in the
midst of which, in rushes the femme de chambre, and announ-
ces, not monsieur the abbé, but monseigneur the regent. Of
course (the old resort in such cases) I was thrust into a
closet; in marches his royal highness, and is received very
cavalierly. It is quite astonishing to me what airs those
women give themselves, when they have princes to man-
age! However, my confinement was not long, — the closet
had another door, the femme de chambre slips round,
opens it, and I congratulate myself on my escape.
I heard, however, from Bolingbroke, who seemed to When a Frenchwoman is piqued, she passes all under-
possess some of that information which the ecclesiastical standing for my part, I think those very tall women,
intriguants of the day so curiously transmitted from court especially with that sultry, Moorish tinge in them, are.
to court, and corner to corner, that Gerald had retired to Well, it's no matter. The next day I am very quietly em-
Devereux Court, in great disgust at his confinement. How-ployed at breakfast, when my valet ushers in a masked
ever, when I considered his bold character, his close inti-
macy with Montreuil, and the genius for intrigue which
that priest so eminently possessed, I was not much inclined
to censure the government for unnecessary precaution in his
imprisonment.
There was another circumstance connected with the
rebellion, which possessed for me an individual and deep
interest. A man of the name of Barnard had been execu-
ted in England for seditious and treasonable practices. I
took special pains to ascertain every particular respecting
him. I learned that he was young, of inconsiderable note,
but esteemed clever; and had, long previously to the death
of the queen, been secretly employed by the friends of the
chevalier. This circumstance occasioned me much inter-
nal emotion, though there could be no doubt that the Bar-
nard whom I had such cause to execrate, had only borrowed
from this minion the disguise of his name.
The regent received me with all the graciousness and
complaisance for which he was so remarkable. To say the
truth, my mission had been extremely fortunate in its re-
sults; the only cause in which the regent was concerned,
the interests of which Peter the Great appeared to disre-
gard, was that of the chevalier: but I had been fully
Instructed on that head anterior to my legation.
There appears very often to be a sort of moral fitness
between the beginning and the end of certain alliances or
acquaintances. This sentiment is not very clearly ex-
pressed. I am about to illustrate it by an important event in
my political life. During my absence, Dubois had made
rapid steps toward being a great man. He was daily
growing into power, and those courtiers who were neither
too haughty nor too honest to bend the knee to so vicious,
yet able a minion, had already singled him out as a fit per-
son to flatter and to rise by. For me, I neither sought nor
avoided him; but he was as civil toward me as his brusque |
temper permitted him to be toward most persons and as
our careers were not likely to cross one another, I thought
I might reckon on his neutrality, if not on his friendship.
Chance turned the scale against me.
ap-
One day I received an anonymous letter, requesting me
to be, at such an hour, at a certain house in the Rue
It occurred to me as no improbable supposition that the
pointment might relate to my individual circumstances,
whether domestic or political, and 1 certainly had not at
the moment any ideas of gallantry in my brain. At the
hour prescribed, I appeared at the place of assignation.
My mind misgave me when I saw a female conduct me into
VOL. I
44
|
personage, and behold my gentlewoman again! Human
endurance will not go too far, and this was a case which
required one to be in a passion one way or the other; so I
feigned anger, and talked with exceeding dignity about the
predicament I had been placed in, the day before.
"Such must always be the case," said I, "when one is
weak enough to form an attachinent to a lady who encour-
ages so many others!
"For your sake," said the tender dame, "for
then, I will discard them all!"
your sake
There was something grand in this: it might have elicited
a few strokes of pathos, when, -never was there any thing
so strangely provoking, the Abbé Dubois himself was
heard in my ante-room. I thought this chance, but it was
more; the good abbé, I afterward found, had traced cause
for suspicion, and had come to pay me a visit of amatory
police. I opened my dressing-room door, and thrust in the
lady. "There," said I, "are the back-stairs, and at the
bottom of the back-stairs is a door."
Would not any one have thought this hint enough? By
no means; this very tall lady stooped to the littleness of
listening, and instead of departing, stationed herself by the
keyhole.
I never exactly learnt whether Dubois suspected the
visit his mistress had paid me, or whether he merely sur
mised, from his spies or her escritoire, that she harbored an
inclination toward me; in either case his policy was natural,
and like himself.
He sat himself down,- talked of the regent, of pleasure,
of women, and, at last, of this very tall lady in question.
"La pauvre diablesse," said he, contemptuously, "I had
once compassion on her: I have repented it ever since.
You have no idea what a terrible creature she is,
such a wen in her neck,- quite a goiter. Mort diable. "
(and the abbé spat in his handkerchieť.) "I would sooner
have a liaison with the witch of Endor!
bas
Not content with this, he went on in his usual gross and
displeasing manner to enumerate or to forge those various
particulars of her personal charms, which he thought most
likely to steel me against her attractions. Thank heaven.
at least,' thought I, that she has gone.'
Scarcely had this pious gratulation flowed from my heart,
before the door was burst open, and pale,— trembling,
eyes on fire, hands clenched, forth stalked the lady in
question. A wonderful proof how much sooner a woman
would lose her character, than allow it to be called not
worth the losing. She entered; and had all the furies of
346
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Hades .ent her their tongues, she could not have been more
aloquent. It would have been a very pleasant scene, if one
had no. oeen a partner in it. The old abbé, with his keen
astute marked face, struggling between surprise, fear, the
sense of the ridiculous, and the certainty of losing his mis-
tress; the lady, foaming at the mouth, and shaking her
clenched hand most menacingly at her traducer,myself
endeavouring to pacify, and acting, as one does at such
moments, mechanically, though one flatters one's self
afterward that one acted solely from wisdom.
But the abbe's mistress was by no means content with
vindicating herself, she retaliated, and gave so minute a
description of the abbe's own qualities and graces, coupled
with so many pleasing illustrations, that in a very little
time his coolness forsook him, and he grew in as great a
rage as herself. At last she flew out of the room. The
abbé, trembling with passion, shook me most cordially by
the hand, grinned from ear to ear, said it was a capital
joke, wished me good by, as if he loved me better than his
eyes, and left the house, my most irreconcilable and bitter
foe !
How could it be otherwise? The rivalship the abbé
might have forgiven, such things happened every day to
him, but the having been made so egregiously ridiculous,
the abbé, in common humanity of nature, could not forgive;
and the abbe's was a critical age for jesting on these mat-
ters, sixty or so. And then such unpalatable sarcasms
on his appearance! "It's all over in that quarter," said
I to myself," but we may find another," and I drove out
that very day to pay my respects to the regent.
a
What a pity it is that one's pride should so often be the
bane of one's wisdom! Ah! that one could be as good
man of the world in practice, as one is in theory! My
master stroke of policy at that moment would evidently have
been this: I should have gone to the regent, and made out
a story a little similar to the real one, but with this differ-
ence, all the ridicule of the situation should have fallen
upon me, and the little Dubois should have been elevated
on a pinnacle of respectable appearances. This, as the
regent told the abbé every thing, would have saved me. I
saw the plan, but was too proud to adopt it; I followed
another course in my game: I threw away the knave, and
played with the king, i. e. with the regent. After a little
preliminary conversation, I turned the conversation on the
abbé.
"Ah, the scélérat!" said Philip, smiling, "'tis a sad
dog, but very clever and loves me; he would be incompara-
ble, if he were but decently honest."
"At least,” said I, "he is no hypocrite, and that is some
praise
1
"Hem. " ejaculated the duc, very slowly, and then, after
a pause, he said, "Count, I have real kindness for you, and
I will therefore give you a piece of advice: think as well
of Dubois as you can, and address him as if he were all you
endeavoured to fancy him.
After this hint, which in the mouth of any prince but
Philip of Orleans would have been not a little remarkable
for its want of dignity, my prospects did not seem much
brighter: however, I was not discouraged.
"The abbé," said I, respectfully, " is a choleric man :
one may displease him; but dare I hope that, so long as I
preserve inviolate my zeal and my attachment to the interests
and the person of your highness, no,
>>
The regent interrupted me. "You mean nobody shall
successfully misrepresent you to me. No, count," (and
here the regent spoke with the earnestness and dignity,
which, when he did assume, few wore with a nobler grace)
I con-
no, count, I make a distinction between those who
minister to the state and those who minister to me.
sider your services too valuable to the former to put them
at the mercy of the latter. And now that the conversation
has turned upon business, I wish to speak to you about this
scheme of Gortz."
After a prolonged conference with the regent upon mat-
ters of business, in which his deep penetration into human
nature not a little surprised me, I went away, thoroughly
satisfied with my visit. I should not have been so, had I
added to my other accomplishments the gift of prophecy.
Above five days after this interview, I thought it would
be but prudent to pay the Abbé Dubois one of those visits of
homage which it was already become policy to pay him.
"If I go," thought I," it will seem as if nothing had hap-
pened; if I stay away, it will seem as if I attached impor-
tance to a scene I should appear to have forgotten
It so happened that the abbé had a very unusual visiter
that morning in the person of the austere but admirable
Duc de St. Simon. There was a singular, and almost inva-
riable distinction in the regent's mind between one kind
of regard and another. His regard for one order of persons
always arose either out of his vices or his indolence; his
regard for another, out of his good qualities and his strong
sense. The Duc de St. Simon held the same place in the
latter species of affection that Dubois did in the former
The duc was just coming out of the abbé's closet as I en-
tered the ante-room. He paused to speak to me, while
Dubois, who had followed the duc out, stopped for one mo
ment, and surveyed me with a look like a thunder cloud
I did not appear to notice it, but St. Simon did.
"That look," said he, as Dubois, beckoning to a gentle-
man to accompany him to his closet, once more disappeared,
"that look bodes you no good, count."
Pride is an elevation which is a spring-board at one time,
and a stumbling-block at another. It was with me more
often the stumbling-block than the spring-board.
" Mon
seigneur le Duc," said I haughtily enough, and rather in
too loud a tone, considering the chamber was pretty full,
"in no court to which Morton Devereux proffers his ser-
vices shall his fortune depend upon the looks of a low-born,
insolent, or a profligate priest."
>>
St. Simon, who was both very bitter and very fond of la
haute naissance, smiled sardonically. "Monsieur le compte,"
said he, rather civilly, "I honor your sentiments, and I
wish you success in the world, and a lower voice."
I was going to say something by way of retort, for I was
in a very bad humor, but I checked myself; "I need not,'
thought I, "make two enemies, if I can help it."
"I shall never, " I replied gravely, "I shall never de-
spair, so long as the Duc de St. Simon lives, of winning by
the same arts the favor of princes and the esteem of good
men,"
The duc was flattered, and replied suitably, but he very
soon afterward went away. I was resolved that I would
not go till I had fairly seen what sort of reception the abbe
would give me. I did not wait long, - he came out of his
closet, and, standing in his usual rude manner with his back
to the fire-place, received the addresses and compliments
of his visiters. I was not in a hurry to present myself,
but I did so at last with a familiar, yet rather respectful air.
Dubois looked at me from head to foot, and abruptly turn-
ing his back upon me, said with an oath, to a courtier who
stood next to him,- "The plagues of Pharaoh are come
again, only instead of Egyptian frogs in our chambers,
we have the still more troublesome guests, English ad-
venturers!
C
·
Somehow or other my compliments rarely tell; I am
lavish enough of them, but they generally have the air of
sarcasms; thank heaven, however, no one can accuse me
of ever wanting a rude answer to a rude speech.
"Ha!
ha ha!" said I now, in answer to Dubois, with a cour-
teous laugh," you have an excellent wit, abbé. A propos of
adventures, I met a Monsieur St. Laurent, principal of the
Institution of St. Michael, the other day, Count,' said
he, hearing I was going to Paris, you can do me an espe
cial favor! "What is it?' said I. 'Why a cast-off valet
of mine is living at Paris, - a terrible little scoundrel, who
ran off with an old coat of mine. I understand he gives
himself great airs, and calls himself an abbé, and a gentle-
man; but pray, if ever you meet him, give him a good
his name is William Du-
horse-whipping on my account,
bois. Depend upon it,' answered I to Monsieur St. Lau-
rent, that if he is servant to any one not belonging to
the royal family, I will fulfil your errand, and horsewhip
him soundly; if in the service of the royal family, why re-
spect for his masters must oblige me to content myself with
putting all persons on their guard against a little rascal,
who retains, in all situations, the manners of the apotheca-
ry's son, and the roguery of the director's valet.'
C
Appl
All the time I was relating this charming tle anecdote,
it would have been amusing to the ast degree, to note the
horrified countenances of the surrounding gentlemen. Du
bois was too confounded, too aghast to interrupt me, and
I left the room before a single syllable was uttered. Had
Dubois at that time been what he was afterward, cardina.
and prime minister, I should in all probability have had per-
manent lodgings in the Bastile, in return for my story
Even as it was, the abbé was not so grateful as he ought to
have been, for my taking so much pains to amuse him
Despite of my anger on leaving the favorite, I did not for
DEVEKEUX.
34"
get my prudence, and accordingly I hastened to the prince.
When the regent admitted me, I flung myself on my knee,
and told him, verbatim, all that had happened. The re-
gent, who seems to have had very little real liking for Du-
bois,* could not help laughing when I ludicrously described
to him the universal consternation my anecdote had ex-
cited.
"Courage, mon cher comte," said he, kindly, "you have
nothing to fear; return home and count upon an embassy!
I relied on the royal word, returned to my lodgings, and
spent the evening with Chaulieu and Fontenelle. The next
day the Duc de St. Simon paid me a visit. After a little.
preliminary conversation, he unburdened the secret with
which he was charged. I was desired to leave Paris in
forty-eight hours.
"Believe me," said St. Simon,
" said St. Simon, "that this message was
not intrusted to me by the regent, without great reluctance.
He sends you many condescending and kind messages;
says, he shall always both esteem and like you, and hopes
to see you again, some time or other, at the Palais Royal.
Moreover, he desires the message to be private, and has
intrusted it to me in especial, because hearing that I had a
kindness for you, and knowing I had a hatred for Dubois,
he thought I should be the least unwelcome messenger of
such disagreeable tidings. To tell
To tell you the truth, St. Si-
mon,' said the regent, laughing, I only consent to have
him banished, from a firm conviction, that if I do not, Du-
bois will take some opportunity of having him beheaded.'"
Pray," said I, smiling with a tolerable good grace,
pray give my most grateful and humble thanks to his
nighness, for his very considerate and kind foresight. I
could not have chosen better for myself than his highness
has chosen for me: my only regret on quitting France is,
at leaving a prince so affable as Philip, and a courtier so
virtuous as St. Simon."
CC
Though the good duc went every year to the Abbey de la
Trappe, for the purpose of mortifying his sins and
preserv
ing his religion in so impious an atmosphere as the Palais
Royal, he was not above flattery; and he expressed himself
toward me with particular kindness after my speech.
At court, one becomes a sort of human aut bear, and
learns to catch one's prey by one's tongue.
After we had eased ourselves a little by abusing Dubois,
the duc took his leave in order to allow me time to prepare
for my "journey," as he politely called it. Before he left,
he however asked me whither my course would be bent. I
told him, that I should take my chance with the Czar Peter,
and see if his czarship thought the same esteem was due to
the disgraced courtier as to the favored diplomatist.
That night I received a letter from St. Simon, inclosing
one addressed with all due form to the czar. "You will
consider the inclosed," wrote St. Simon, "a fresh proof
of the regent's kindness to you; it is a most flattering tes-
timonial in your favor, and cannot fail to make the czar
anxious to secure your services."
|
when I arrived there. I lost no time in following him, and
presented myself to his majesty one day after his dinner,
when he was sitting with one leg in the czarina's lap, and
a bottle of the best eau de vie before him. I had chosen my
time well; he received me most graciously, read my letter
from the regent, about which, remembering the fate of
Bellerophon, I had had certain apprehensions, but which
proved to be, in the highest degree, complimentary, and
then declared himself extremely happy to see me again.
However parsimonious Peter generally was toward foreign-
ers, I never had ground for personal complaint on that
The very next day I was appointed to a post of
honor and profit about the royal person; from this I was
transferred to a military station, in which I rose with great
rapidity; and I was only occasionally called from my war-
like duties, to be intrusted with diplomatic missions of the
highest confidence and importance.
score.
It is this portion of my life a portion of nine years, to
the time of the czar's death that I shall, in this history,
the most concentrate and condense. In truth, were I to
dwell upon it at length, I should make little more than a
mere record of political events, differing, in some re-
spects, it is true, from the received histories of the time,
but containing nothing to compensate, in utility, for the want
of interest. That this was the exact age for adventurers,
Alberoni and Dubois are sufficient proofs. Never was
there a more stirring, active, restless period, never one
in which the genius of intrigue was so pervadingly at work.
I was not less fortunate than my brethren. Although
scarcely four-and-twenty when I entered the czar's service,
my habits of intimacy with men much older, my cus-
tomary gravity, reserve, and thought, — my freedom, since
Isora's death, from youthful levity or excess, my early
entrance into the world, and a countenance prematurely
marked with the lines of reflection, and sobered by its hue,
made me appear considerably older than I was.
I kept
my own counsel, and affected to be so; youth is a great
enemy to one's success; and more esteem is often bestowed
upon a wrinkled brow than a plodding brain.
All the private intelligence which, during this space of
time, I had received from England, was far from volumin-
ous. My mother still enjoyed the quiet of her religious
retreat. A fire, arising from the negligence of a servant,
had consumed nearly the whole of Devereux Court, (the
fine old house! till that went, I thought even England held
one friend.) Upon this accident, Gerald had gone to Lon-
don; and though there was now no doubt of his having
been concerned in the rebellion of 1715, he had been favor-
ably received at court, and was already renowned through-
out London for his pleasures, his excesses, and his munifi-
cent profusion.
Montreuil, whose lot seemed to be always to lose, by
intrigue, what he gained by the real solidity of his genius,
had embarked very largely in the rash but gigantic schemes
of Gortz and Alberoni; schemes which, had they succeed-
I was not a little touched by this kindness, so unusual ined, would not only have placed a new king upon the Eng-
princes to their discarded courtiers, and this entirely recon-
ciled me to a change of scene, which, indeed, under any
other circumstances, my somewhat morbid love for action
and variety would have induced me rather to relish than
dislike.
Within thirty-six hours from the time of dismissal, I had
turned my back upon the French capital, and was moral-
izing most sagely on the observation I made as a preface
to this narrative of the causes of my departure, viz. “that
there appears very often to be a sort of moral fitness between
the beginning and end of certain alliances, or acquaint-
ances. It was indeed meet that the royal favor toward
that had commenced in a brothel, should be terminated
by a harlot
me,
CHAPTER VI.
A ng interval of years.— A change of mind and its causes.
THE last accounts received of the czar had reported him
to be at Dantzic. He had, however, quitted that place
*C the death of Dubois, he wrote to the Count de Nocé,
wh he had banished for an indiscreet expression against the
favorite, uttered at one of the regent's private suppers: "With
the beast dies the venom: I expect you to-night to supper at
the Palais Royal."
lish throne, but wrought an utter change over the whole
face of Europe. With Alberoni and with Gortz fell Mon-
trepil. He was banished France and Spain; the pen-
alty of death awaited him in Britain; and he was sup-
posed to have thrown himself into some convent in Italy,
where his name and his character were unknown. In this
brief intelligence was condensed all my information of the
actors in my first scenes of life. I return to that scene on
which I had now entered.
At the age of thirty-three, I had acquired a reputation
sufficient to content my ambition, my fortune was larger
than my wants, -I was a favorite in courts, I had been
successful in camps, I had already obtained all that
would have rewarded the whole lives of many men superior
to myself in merit, - more ardent than myself in desires.
I was still young,- my appearance, though greatly altered,
manhood had rather improved than impaired. I had
not forestalled my constitution by excesses, nor worn dry
the sources of enjoyment by too large a demand upon their
capacities; why was it then at that golden age, in the
very prime and glory of manhood, in the very zenith and
choly fell upon me? A melancholy so gloomy, that it
summer of success, that a deep, dark, pervading melan-
seemed to me as a thick and impenetrable curtain drɛ wu
gradually between myself and the blessed light of human
enjoyments. A torpor crept upon me,- an indolent, heavy,
clinging languor gathered over my whole frame, - the
848
BULWER'S NOVELS.
-
more
life, I was awakened by the spreading, as it were, of anoth
er disease, -the dead, dull, aching pain at my heart
was succeeded by one acute and intense; the absence of
thought gave way to one thought more terrible,
dark, -more despairing than any which had haunted me
since the first year of Isora's death; and from a numb-
ness and pause, as it were, of existence, existence became
too keen and intolerable a sense. I will enter into an
explanation.
At the court of
some-
physical and the mental: I sat for hours without book,
paper, object, thought, gazing on vacancy, stirring not,-
feeling not, -yes, feeling, but feeling only one sensation,
a sick, sad, drooping despondency, -a sinking in of the
heart, -a sort of gnawing within, as if something living
were twisted round my vitals, and finding no other food,
preyed, though with a sickly and dull maw, upon them.
This disease came upon me slowly: it was not till the be-
ginning of a second year from its obvious and palpable com-
mencement, that it grew to the height that I have descri-
there was an Italian, not uncele-
bed. It began with a distaste to all that I had been accus- brated for his wisdom, nor unbeloved for an innocence
tomed to enjoy or to pursue. Music, which I had always and intregrity of life, rarely indeed to be met with among
passionately loved, though from some defect in the organs his countrymen. The acquaintance of this man, who was
of hearing, I was incapable of attaining the smallest knowl- | about fifty years of age, and who was devoted, almost ex-
edge of the science, music lost all its diviner spells, all its clusively, to the pursuit of philosophical science, I had
properties of creating a new existence, a life of dreaming sedulously cultivated. His conversation pleased me; his
and vague luxuries, within the mind, it became only a wisdom improved me; and his benevolence, which remind-
monotonous sound, less grateful to the languor of my facul- ed me of the traits of La Fontaine, it was so infantine
ties, than an utter and dead stillness. I had never been made me incline to love him. Upon the growth of the
what is generally termed a boon companion, but I had had fearful malady of mind which seized me, I had discontin-
the social vanities, if not the social tastes: I had insensi- ued my visits and my invitations to the Italian; and Bezo
bly loved the board which echoed with applause at my sal- ni (so was he called) felt a little offended by my neglect
lies, and the comrades who, while they deprecated my As soon, however, as he discovered my state of mind, the
satire, had been complaisant enough to hail it as wit. One good man's resentment left him. He forced himself upon
of my weaknesses is a love of show, and I had gratified a my solitude, and would sit by me whole evenings,
feeling not the less cherished because it arose from a petty times without exchanging a word, sometimes with vain
source, in obtaining for my equipages, my mansion, my attempts to interest, to arouse, or to amuse me
banquets, the celebrity which is given no less to magnifi-
cence than to fame; now I grew indifferent alike to the
signs of pomp, and to the baubles of taste, - praise fell
upon a listless ear, and (rare pitch of satiety !) the pleas-
sures that are the offspring of our foibles delighted me no
more. I had early learned from Bolingbroke a love for
the converse of men, eminent, whether for wisdom or for
wit; the graceful badinage, or the keen critique, the
sparkling flight of the winged words which circled and
rebounded from lip to lip, or the deep speculation upon the
mysterious and unravelled wonders of man, of nature, and
the world, the light maxim upon manners, or the sage
inquiry into the nines of learning; all and each had pos-
sessed a link to bind my temper and my tastes to the graces
and fascination of social life. Now a new spirit en-
tered within me: the smile faded from my lip, and the jest
departed from my tongue; memory seemed no less treach-
erous than fancy, and deserted me the instant I attempted to
enter into those contests of knowledge in which I had been
not undistinguished before. I grew confused and embar-
rassed in speech, my words expressed a sense utterly dif-
ferent to that which I had intended to convey, and at last
as my apathy increased, I sat at my own board, silent and
lifeless, freezing into ice the very powers and streams of
converse which I had once been the foremost to circulate
and to warm.
At the time I refer to, I was minister at one of the small
continental courts, where life is a round of unmeaning eti-
quette and wearisome ceremonials, a daily labor of
trifles, - a ceaseless pageantry of nothings; I had been
sent there upon one important event, the business resulting
from it had soon ceased, and all the duties that remained
for me to discharge were of a negative and passive nature.
Nothing that could arouse, nothing that could occupy
faculties that had for years been so perpetually wound up
to a restless excitation, was left for me in this terrible re-
servoir of ennui. I had come thither at once from the
skirmishing and wild warfare of a Tartar foe; a war in
which, though the glory was obscure, the action was per-
petual and exciting. I had come thither, and the change
was as if I had passed from a mountain stream to a stag-
nant pool.
Society at this court reminded me of a state funeral,
every thing was pompous and lugubrious, even to the dra-
perv― even to the feathers, in other scenes consecrated
to associations of levity or of grace; the hourly pageant
swept on slow, tedious, mournful, and the object of the at-
endants was only to entomb the pleasure which they affect-
ed to celebrate. What a change for the wild, the strange,
the novel, the intriguing, the varying life, which, whether
in courts or camps, I had hitherto led. The internal
change that came over myself is scarcely to be wondered
at; the winds stood still, and the straw they had blown
from quarter to quarter, whether in anger or in sport,
Degan to moulder upon the spot where they had left it.
From this cessation of the aims, hopes, and thoughts of
At last, one evening, it was the era of a fearful suffering
to me, our conversation turned upon those subjects which
are at once the most important, and the most rarely discus-
sed. We spoke of religion. We first talked upon the theology
of revealed religion. As Bezoni warmed into candor, I
perceived that his doctrines differed from my own, and that
he inly disbelieved that divine creed which Christians pro-
fess to adore. From a dispute on the ground of faith, we
came to one upon the more debateable ground of reason. We
turned from the subject of revealed, to that of natural relig
ion, and we entered long and earnestly into that grandest of
all earthly speculations, the metaphysical proofs of the im-
mortality of the soul. Again the sentiments of Bezoni
were opposed to mine. He was a believer in the dark doc-
trine which teaches that man is dust, and that all things are
forgotten in the grave. He expressed his opinions with a
clearness and precision the more impressive because totally
devoid of cavil and of rhetoric. I listened in silence, but
with a deep and most chilling dismay. Even now I think
I see the man as he sat before me, the light of the lamp
falling on his high forehead and dark features; even now
I think I hear his calm, low voice, the silver voice of
his country, stealing to my heart, and withering the only
pure and unsullied hope which I yet cherished there.
Bezoni left me, unconscious of the anguish he bequeathed
me, to think over all he had said. I did not sleep, nor
even retire to bed. I laid my head upon my hands, and
surrendered myself to turbulent, yet intense, reflection.
Every man who has lived much in the world, and conversed
with its various tribes, has, I fear, met with many who, on
this momentous subject, profess the same tenets as Bezoni.
But he was the first person I had met of that sect who had
evidently thought long and deeply upon the creed he had
embraced. He was not a voluptuary, nor a boaster, nor a
wit. He had not been misled by the delusions either of
vanity or of the senses. He was a man, pure, innocent,
modest, full of all tender charities, and meek dispositions
toward mankind; it was evidently his interest to believe in
a future state he could have had nothing to fear from it.
Not a single passion did he cherish which the laws of an-
other world would have condemned. Add to this, what I
have observed before, that he was not a man fond of the
display of intellect, or one that brought to the discussions
of wisdom the artillery of wit.
of wisdom the artillery of wit. He was grave, humble,
and self-diffident, beyond all beings. I would have given a
kingdom to have found something in the advocate by which
I could have condemned the cause I could not, and I was
wretched.
I spent the whole of the next week among my books.
ransacked whatever in my scanty library the theologians
had written, or the philosophers had bequeathed upon that
mighty secret. I arranged their arguments in my mind. I
armed myself with their weapons. I felt my heart spring
joyously within me as I felt the strength I had acquired, and
I sent to the philosopher to visit me, that I might conquer
and confute him. He came but he spoke with pain and
DEVEREUX.
349
reluctance. He saw that I had taken the matter far more
deeply to heart than he could have supposed it possible in a
courtier, and a man of fortune and the world. Little did
he know of me or my secret soul. I broke down his re-
serve at last. I unrolled my arguments. I answered his,
and we spent the whole night in controversy. He left me,
and I was more bewildered than ever.
To speak truth, he had devoted years to the subject: I
had devoted only a week. He had come to his conclusions
step by step; he had reached the great ultimatum with
slowness, with care, and, he confessed, with anguish and
with reluctance. What a match was I, who brought a
nasty temper, and a limited reflection, on that subject, to a
reasoner like this? His candor staggered and chilled me
even more than his logic. Arguments that occurred not to
me upon my side of the question, he stated at length, and
with force; I heard, and till he replied to them I deemed
they were unanswerable; the reply came, and I had no
counter word. A meeting of this nature was often repeated;
and when he left me, tears crept into my wild eyes, and my
heart melted within me, and I wept !
per-
I must now enter more precisely than I have yet done
into my state of mind upon religious matters at the time
this dispute with the Italian occurred. To speak candidly,
I had been far less shocked with his opposition to me upon
matters of doctrinal faith, than with that upon matters of
abstract reasoning. Bred a Catholic, though pride, con-
sistency, custom made me externally adhere to my sect, I
inly perceived its errors, and smiled at its superstitions.
And in the busy world, where so little but present objects,
or human anticipations of the future, engross the attention,
I had never given the subject that consideration, which
would have (as it has since) enabled me to separate the
dogmas of the priest from the precepts of the Saviour, and
thus confirmed my belief as the Christian, by the very means
which would have loosened it as the sectarian. So that at
the time Bezoni knew me, a certain indifference to
haps arising from an ignorance of— doctrinal points, ren-
dered me little hurt by arguments against opinions which I
embraced indeed, but with a lukewarm and imperfeet affec-
tion. But it was far otherwise upon abstract points of
reasoning, far otherwise, when the hope of surviving this
frail and most unhallowed being was to be destroyed. I
might have been indifferent to cavil upon what was the word
of God, but never to question of the justice of God him-
self. In the whole world, there was not a more ardent be-
liever in our imperishable nature, nor one more deeply
more deeply
interested in the belief. Do not let it be supposed that be-
cause I have not often recurred to Isora's death, (or because
I have continued my history in a jesting and light tone,)
that that event ever passed from the memory which it had
turned to bitterness and gall. Never, in the mazes of in-
trigue, in the festivals of pleasure, in the tumults of ambi-
tion, in the blaze of a licentious court, or by the rude tents
of a barbarous host, never, my buried love, had I for-
gotten thee! That remembrance, had no other cause ex-
isted, would have led me to God. Every night, in what-
ever toils or objects, whatever failures or triumphs, the day
had been consumed, every night, before I laid my head
upon my widowed and lonely pillow, I had knelt down, and
lifted
my heart to heaves, blending the hopes of that heav-
en with the memory and the vision of Isora. Prayer had
seemed to me a commune not only with the living God, but
with the dead by whom his dwelling is surrounded. Pleas-
ant and soft was it to turn to one thought, to which all the
holiest portions of my nature clung, between the wearying
acts of this hard and harsh drama of existence. Even the
bitterness of Isora's early and unavenged death passed
away, when I thought of the heaven to which she was gone,
and in which, though I journeyed now through sin and
travail, and recked little if the paths of others differed from
my own, I yet trusted, with a solemn trust, that I should
meet her at last. There was I to requite her woes,
there was I to reward her devotion, there was I to merit
her with a love as undying, and at length as pure, as her
own. It was this that at the stated hour in which, after
my prayer to God for our re-union, I surrendered my spirit
to the bright and wild visions of her far, but not impassable
home, It was this which for that single hour made all
around me a paradise of delighted thoughts! It was not
the little earth, nor the cold sky, nor the changing wave,
nor the perishable turf, no, nor the dead wall, and the
Barrow chamber which were round me then! No dreamer
it
ww
|
|
Wherefore was this comfort?-
ever was so far from the localities of flesh and life, as I
was in that enchanted hour: a light seemed to settle upon
all things round me; her voice murmured on my ear, her
kisses melted on my brow; I shut my eyes, and I fancied
that I beheld her!
whence came the spell
which admitted me to this fairy land? What was the
source of the hope, and the rapture, and the delusion?
Was it not the deep certainty that Isora yet existed, that her
spirit, her nature, her love were preserved, were inviolate,
were the saine? That they watched over me yet, that she
knew that in that hour I was with her, that she felt my
prayer, that even then she anticipated the moment when my
soul should burst the human prison house, and be once more
blended with her own?
-
What! and was this to be no more? were those mys-
tic and sweet revealings to be mute to me for ever? Were
my thoughts of Isora to be henceforth bounded to the char-
nel-house and the worm ?-was she indeed no more? No
more, O intolerable despair! Why, there was not a
thing I had once known, not a dog that I had caressed, not
a book that I had read, which I could know that I should
see no more, and, knowing, not feel something of regret.
No more! were we, indeed, parted for ever and for ever?
Had she gone in her young years, with her warm affections,
her new hopes, all green and unwithered at her heart, at
once into dust, stillness, ice? And had I known her only
for one year, one little year, to see her torn from me by a
violent and bloody death, and to be left a mourner in this
vast and eternal charnel, without a solitary consolation or a
gleam of hope? Was the earth to be henceforth a mere
mass conjured from the bones, and fattened by the clay of
our dead sires? were the stars and the moon to be mere
atoms and specks of a chill light, no longer worlds, which
the ardent spirit might hereafter reach, and be fitted to en-
joy? Was the heaven, the tender, blue, loving heaven, in
whose far regions I had dreamt was Isora's home, and had,
therefore, grown better and happier when I gazed upon it,
to be nothing but cloud and air? And had the love, which
had seemed so immortal, and so springing from that which
had not blent itself with mortality, been but a gross lamp
fed only by the properties of a brute nature, and placed in
a dark cell of clay, to glimmer, to burn, and to expire with
the frail walls which it had illumined? Dust, death,
worms, were these all our heritage, all the heritage of
love and hope, of thought, of passion, of all that breathed,
and kindled, and exalted, and created within ?
Could I contemplate this idea, could I believe it possible?
I could not. But against the abstract, the logical arguments
for that idea, had I a reply?
had I a reply? I shudder as I write that
at that time I had not ! I endeavoured to fix my whole
thoughts to the study of those subtle reasonings which I had
hitherto so imperfectly conned; but my mind was jarring,
irresolute, bewildered, confused; my stake seemed too vast
to allow me coolness for the game.
Whoever has had cause for some refined and deep study
in the midst of the noisy and loud world, may perhaps
readily comprehend that feeling which now possessed me,
a feeling that it was utterly impossible to abstract and con-
centrate one's thoughts, while at the mercy of every intru-
der, and fevered and fretful by every disturbance. Meu,
early and long accustomed to mingle such reflections with
the avocations of courts and cities, have grown callous to
these interruptions, and it has been in the very heart of the
multitude that the profoundest speculations have been cher-
ished and produced; but I was not of this mould. The
world, which before had been distasteful, now grew insuf
ferable; I longed for some seclusion, some utter solitude,
some quiet and unpenetrated nook, that I might give my
undivided mind to the knowledge of these things, and
build the tower of divine reasonings by which I might as
cend to heaven. It was at this time, and in the midst of
my fiercest internal conflict, that the great czar died, and I
was suddenly recalled to Russia. "Now," I said, when I
heard of my release, "now shall my wishes be fulfilled."
I sent to Bezoni. He came; but he refused, as indeed
he had for some time done, to speak to me further upon the
question which so wildly engrossed me.
I forgive you,
said I, when we parted, "I forgive you for all that you
have cost me; I feel that the moment is now at hand when
my faith shall frame a weapon wherewith to triumph over
yours!
Father in heaven! thanks he to thee that my doubts
350
BULWER'S NOVELS.
were at last removed, and the cloud rolled away from my |
soul.
Bezoni embraced me and wept over me, "All good
men," said he, "have a mighty interest in your success;
for me there is nothing dark, even in the mute grave, if it
covers the ashes of one who has loved and served his
brethren, and done, with a wilful heart, no living creature
wrong."
Soon afterward the Italian lost his life in attending the
victims of a fearful and contagious disease, whom even the
regular practitioners of the healing art hesitated to visit.
At this moment I am, in the strictest acceptation of the
words, a believer and a Christian. I have neither anxiety
nor doubt upon the noblest and the most comforting of all
creeds, and I am grateful, among the other blessings which
faith has brought me, I am grateful that it has brought
me CHARITY! Dark to all human beings was Bezoni's
doctrine, dark, above all, to those who have mourned on
—
-
earth, -so withering to all the hopes which cling the most
enduringly to the heart, was his unhappy creed, that he
who knows how inseparably, though insensibly, our moral
legislation is woven with our supposed self-interest, will
scarcely marvel at, even while he condemns, the unwise
and unholy persecution which that creed universally sus-
tains! Many a most wretched hour, many a pang of
agony and despair, did those doctrines inflict upon myself;
but I know that the intention of Bezoni was benevolence,
and that the practice of his life was virtue and while my
reason tells me that God will not punish the reluctant and
involuntary error of one to whom all God's creatures were
so dear, my religion bids me hope that I shall meet him in
that world where no error is, and. where the Great Spirit,
to whom all human passions are unknown, avenges the
momentary doubt of his justice by a proof of the infinity of
his mercy.
BOOK VI.
:
CHAPTER I.
The retreat.
I ARRIVED at St. Petersburgh, and found the czarina,
whose conjugal perfidy was more than suspected, tolerably
resigned to the extinction of that dazzling life, whose in-
calculable and godlike utility it is reserved for posterity to
appreciate, I had almost said, to adore ! I have observed,
by the
way, that, in general, men are the less mourned by
their families in proportion as they are the more mourned
by the community. The great are seldom amiable; and
those who are the least lenient to our errors are invariably
our relations !
Many circumstances at that time conspired to make my
request to quit the imperial service appear natural and ap-
propriate. The death of the czar, joined to a growing
jealousy and suspicion between the English monarch and
Russia, which, though long existing, was now become more
evident and notorious than heretofore, gave me full oppor-
tunity to observe that my pardon had been obtained from
King George three years since, and that private as well as
national ties rendered my return to England a measure not
only of expediency, but necessity. The imperial Catharine
granted me my dismissal in the most flattering terms, and
added the high distinction of the order, founded in honor of
the memorable feat by which she had saved her royal con-
sort and the Russian army, to the order of St. Andrew,
which I had already received.
age to city or ruin, but, after a brief sojourn at Ravenna,
where I dismissed all my train, set out alone to find the
solitary cell, for which I now sickened with a hermit's
love.
It was at a small village at the foot of the Apennines,
that I found the object of my search. Strangely enough,
there blended with my philosophical ardour a deep mixture
of my
old romance. Nature, to whose voice the dweller in
cities, and struggler with mankind, had been so long obtuse,
now pleaded audibly at my heart, and called me to her
embraces, as a mother calls unto her wearied child. My
eye, as with a new vision, became opened to the mute yet
eloquent loveliness of this most fairy earth; and hill and
valley, the mirror of silent waters, the sunny stillness
of woods, and the old haunts of satyr and nymph,—revived
in me the fountains of past poetry, and became the recepta-
cles of a thousand spells, mightier than the charms of any
enchanter, save love, which was departed, youth, which
was nearly gone, —and nature, which, more vividly than
ever, existed for me still.
its margin!"
1
—
I chose, then, my retreat. As I was fastidious in its
choice, I cannot refrain from the luxury of describing it.
Ah, little did I dream that I had come thither, not only to
find a divine comfort, but the sources of a human and most
passionate wo! Mightiest of the Roman bards! in whom
tenderness and reason were so entwined, and who didst
sanctify even thine unholy errors with so beautiful and rare
a genius! what an invariable truth one line of thine has
expressed: "Even in the fairest fountain of delight, there
I transferred my wealth, become immense, to England, is a secret and evil spring eternally bubbling up and scatter-
and, with the pomp which became the rank and reputationing its bitter waters over the very flowers which surround
fortune had bestowed upon me, I commenced the long land
journey I had chalked out to myself. Although I had alleged
my
wish to revisit England as the main reason of my re-
tirement from Russia, I had also expressed an intention of
visiting and making a short séjour in Italy, previous to my
return to England. The physicians, indeed, had recom-
mended to me that delicious climate, as an antidote to the
ills my constitution had sustained in the freezing skies of the
north; and in my own heart I had secretly appointed some
more solitary part of the divine land for the scene of my
purposed hermitage and seclusion. It is indeed astonishing,
how those who have lived much in cold climates yearn for
lands of mellow light and summer luxuriance; and I felt for
a southern sky the same resistless longing which sailors, in
the midst of the vast ocean, nave felt for the green fields
and various landscape of the shore.
I traversed, then, the immense tracts of Russia,— passed
through Hungary, entered Turkey, which I had wished
to visit, where I remained a short time; and, crossing the
Adriatic, hailed, for the first time, the Ausonian shore. It
was the month of May, that month, of whose lustrous
beauty none in a northern climate can dream, that I en-
tered Italy. It may serve as an instance of the power with
which a thought that, however important, is generally
deemed of too abstract and metaphysical a nature deeply to
engross the mind, possessed me then, that I,—— no cold nor
enthusiastic votary of the classic muse, made no pilgrim-
In the midst of a little and most glossy vale was a small
cottage; that was iny home. The good people there per-
formed for me all the hospitable offices I required. At a
neighbouring monastery I had taken the precaution to make
myself known to the superior. Not all Italians, no, nor
all monks, belong to either of the two great tribes into
which they are generally divided, -knaves or fools. The
Abbot Anselmo was a man of rather a liberal and enlarged
mind; he not only kept my secret, which was necessary to
my peace, but he took my part, which was, perhaps, ne-
cessary to my safety. A philosopher, who desires only to
convince himself, and upon one subject, does not require
many books. Truth lies in a small compass; and, for my
part, in considering any speculative subject, I would soon-
er have with me one book of Euclid, as a model, than all
the Vatican, as authorities. But then I am not fond of
drawing upon any resources but those of reason for rea-
sonings; wiser men than I am
sonings; wiser men than I am are not so strict. The
few books that I did require were, however, of a nature
very illicit in Italy; the good father passed them to me
from Ravenna, under his own protection. "I was a holy
man," he said, "who wished to render the Catholic church
a great service, by writing a vast book against certain atro-
cious opinions; and the works I read were, for the most
part, works that I was about to confute." This report
gained me protection and respect; and, after I had ordered
DEVEREUX.
251
my agent at Ravenna to forward to the excellent abbot
a piece of plate, and a huge cargo of a rare Hungary wine,
it was not the abbot's fault if I was not the most popular
person in the neighbourhood.
But to my description : my home was a cottage, the
valley in which it lay was divided by a mountain stream,
which came from the forest Apennine, a sparkling and wild
stranger, and softened into quiet and calm as it proceeded
through its green margin in the vale. And that margin,
how dazzlingly green it was! At the distance of about a
mile from my hut, the stream was broken into a slight wa-
terfall, whose sound was heard distinct and deep in that
still place and often I paused, from my midnight thoughts,
to listen to its enchanted and wild melody. The fall was
unseen by the ordinary wanderer, for there the stream
passed through a thick copse; and even when you pierced
the grove, and gained the water-side, dark trees hung over
the turbulent wave, and the silver spray was thrown upward
through the leaves, and fell in diamonds upon the deep,
green sod.
This was a most favored haunt with me; the sun glancing
through the idle leaves, the music of the water, -the
solemn absence of all other sounds, except the songs of
birds, to which the ear grew accustomed, and, at last, in
the abstraction of thought, scarcely distinguished from the
silence, the fragrant herbs, and the unnumbered and
nameless flowers which formed my couch, -were all cal-
culated to make me pursue uninterruptedly the thread of
contemplation which I had, in the less voluptuous and harsh-
er solitude of the closet, first woven from the web of aus-
terest thought. I say pursue, for it was too luxurious and
sensual a retirement for the conception of a rigid and severe
train of reflection; at least it would have been so to me.
But when the thought is once born, such scenes seem to me
the most fit to cradle and to rear it. The torpor of the
physical, appears to leave to the mental, frame a full scope
nd power; the absence of human cares, sounds, and
ntrusions, becomes the best nurse to contemplation; and
even that delicious and vague sense of enjoyment which
would seem, at first, more genial to the fancy than the
mind, preserves the thought undisturbed, because content-
ed; so that all but the scheming mind becomes lapped in
sleep, and the mind itself lives distinct and active as a
dream; — a dream, not vague, nor confused, nor unsatisfy-
ing, but endowed with more than the clearness, the precis-
ion, the vigor, of waking life.
M
A little way from this waterfall was a fountain, a rem-
nant of a classic and golden age. Never did Naiad gaze
in a more glassy mirror, or dwell in a more divine retreat.
Through a crevice in an overhanging mound of the emerald
earth, the father stream of the fountain crept out, born like
Love, among flowers, and in the most sunny smiles; it then
fell, broadening and glowing, into a marble basin, at whose
bottom, in the shining noon, you might see a soil which
mocked the very hues of gold, and the water insects, in
their quaint shapes and unknown sports, grouping or gliding
in the midmost wave. A small temple, of the lightest archi-
lecture, stood before the fountain; and, in a niche therein,
a mutilated statute, possibly of the spirit of the place.
By this fountain, my evening walk would linger till the
short twilight melted away, and the silver wave trembled
in the light of the western star. O! then, what feelings
gathered over me as I turned slowly homeward; the air
still, breathless, shining, the stars, gleaming over the
the stars, gleaming over the
woods of the far Apennine, the hills growing huger in
the shade,
the small insects humming on the wing,-
and, ever and anon, the swift bat, wheeling round and
amid them,
the music of the waterfall deepening on the
ear; and the light and hour lending even a mysterious
charm to the cry of the weird owl, flitting after its prey,
all this had a harmony in my thoughts, and a food for the
meditations in which my days and nights were consumed.
The world moulders away the fabric of our early nature,
and solitude rebuilds it on a firmer base.
CI. APTER II.
The victory.
O EARTH! reservoir of life, over whose deep bosom
Brood the wings of the universal Spirit, shaking upon thee
a blessing and a power, -a blessing and a power to pro-
duce and reproduce the living from the dead, so that our
flesh is woven from the same atoms which were once the
atoms of our sires, and the inexhaustible nutriment of ex-
istence is decay! O eldest and most solemn earth, blending
even thy loveliness and joy with a terror and an awe! thy
sunshine is girt with clouds, and circled with storm and
tempest: thy day cometh from the womb of darkness, and
returneth unto darkness, as man returns unto thy bosom.
The green herb that laughs in the valley, the water that
sings merrily along the wood; the many-winged and all-
searching air, which garners life as a harvest, and scatters
it as a seed; all are pregnant with corruption, and carry
the cradled death within them, as an oak banqueteth the
destroying worm. But who that looks upon thee, and loves
thee, and inhales thy blessings, will ever mingle too deep a
moral with his joy? Let us not ask whence come the gar-
lands that we wreathe around our altars, or shower upon
our feast will they not bloom as brightly, and breathe
with as rich a fragrance, whether they be plucked from the
garden or the grave?
garden or the grave? O earth, my mother earth! dark
sepulchre that closes upon all which the flesh bears, but
vestibule of the vast regions which the soul shall pass, how
leapt my heart within me when I first fathomed thy real
spell !
-
Yes! never shall I forget the rapture with which I hail-
ed the light that dawned upon me at last! Never shall I
forget the suffocating, the full, the ecstatic joy, with
which I saw the mightiest of all human hopes accomplish-
ed; and felt, as if an angel spoke, that there is a life be-
yond the grave!
grave! Tell me not of the pride of ambition,
tell me not of the triumphs of science: never had ambition
so lofty an end as the search after immortality! never had
science so sublime a triumph as the conviction that im-
mortality will be gained! I had been at my task the whole
night, pale alchymist, seeking from meaner truths to
extract the greatest of all! At the first hour of day, lo!
the gold was there: the labor, for which I would have
relinquished life, was accomplished; the dove descended
upon the waters of my soul. I fled from the house. I
was possessed as with a spirit. I ascended a hill, which
looked for leagues over the sleeping valley. A gray mist
hung around me like a veil; I paused, and the great sun
broke slowly forth; I gazed upon its majesty, and my
heart swelled. "So rises the soul," I said, "from the
vapors of this dull being; but the soul waneth not, neither
setteth it, nor knoweth it any night, save that from which
it dawneth!"—The mists rolled gradually away, the
sunshine deepened, and the face of nature lay in smiles,
yet silently, before me. It lay before me, a scene that I
had often witnessed, and hailed, and worshipped; but it
was not the same: a glory had passed over it; it was steep-
ed in a beauty and a holiness, in which neither youth, nor
poetry, nor even love, had ever robed it before! The
change which the earth had undergone was like that of
some being we have loved,-when death is past, and from a
mortal it becomes an angel !
I uttered a cry of joy, and was then as silent as all
around me. I felt as if henceforth there was a new com-
pact between nature and myself. I felt as if every tree,
and blade of grass, were henceforth to be eloquent with a
voice, and instinct with a spell. I felt as if a religion had
entered into the earth, and made oracles of all that the
earth bears; the old fables of Dodona were to become rea-
lized, and the very leaves to be hallowed by a sanctity, and
to murmur with a truth. I was no longer only a part of
that which withers and decays; I was no longer a machine
of clay, moved by a spring, and to be trodden into the
mire which I had trod; I was no longer tied to humani
by links which could never be broken, and which, if bro-
ken, would avail me not. I was become, as by a mira-
cle, a part of a vast, though unseen spirit. It was not to
the matter, but to the essences, of things that I bore kin-
dred and alliance; the stars and the heavens resumed over
me their ancient influence; and, as I looked along the far
hills and the silent landscape, a voice seemed to swell from
the stillness, and to say, "I am the life of these things, a
spirit distinct from the things themselves. It is to me that
you belong for ever and for ever; separate, but equally in-
dissoluble; apart, but equally eternal!"
J
I spent the day upon the hills. It was evening when I
I lingered by the old fountain, and saw the
stars rise, and tremble, one by one, upon the wave. The
returned.
852
BULWER'S NOVELS.
hour was that which Isora had loved the best, and that
which the love of her had consecrated the most to me.
And never, O, never, did it sink into my heart with a
deeper sweetness, or a more soothing balin. I had once
more knit my soul to Isora's: I could once more look from
the toiling and the dim earth, and forget that Isora had left
me, in dreaming of our re-union. Blame me not, you who
indulge in a religious hope more severe and more sublime,
you who miss no footstep from the earth, nor pine for a
voice that your human wanderings can hear no more,
blame me not, you whose pulses beat not for the wild love
of the created, but whose spirit languishes only for a nearer
commune with the Creator, blame me not too harshly
for my mortal wishes, nor think that my faith was the less
sincere because it was tinted in the most unchanging dyes
of the human heart, and indissolubly woven with the
memory of the dead! Often from our weakness our strong-
est principles of conduct are born; and from the acorn,
which a breeze has wafted, springs the oak which defies
the storm.
The first intoxication and rapture consequent upon the
reward of my labor passed away; but, unlike other ex-
citation, it was followed not by languor, or a stated and
torpid calm; a soothing and delicious sensation possessed
me, -my turbulent senses slept; and memory, recalling
the world, rejoiced at the retreat which hope had ac-
quired.
I now surrendered myself to a nobler philosophy than
in crowds and cities I had hitherto known. I no longer
satirized, I inquired; I no longer derided, — I exam-
ined. I looked from the natural proofs of immortality to
the written promise of our Father, I sought not to
baffle men, but to worship truth, I applied
-I applied myself more
to the knowledge of good and evil, I bowed my soul be-
fore the loveliness of virtue; and though scenes of wrath
and passion yet lowered in the future, and I was again
speedily called forth, - to act, to madden, to con-
tend, perchance to sin, the image is still unbroken,
and the votary has still an offering for its altar!
M
-
CHAPTER III.
The Hermit of the Well.
THE thorough and deep investigation of those princi-
ples from which we learn the immortality of the soul,
and the nature of its proper ends, leads the mind through
such a course of reflection and of study, it is attended
with so many exalting, purifying, and, if I may so say,
etherealizing thoughts, that I do believe no man has ever
pursued it, and not gone back to the world a better and a
nobler man than he was before. Nay, so deeply must
these elevating and refining studies be conned, so largely
and sensibly must they enter the intellectual system, that I
firmly think that even a sensualist who has only consid-
ered the subject with a view to convince himself that he is
clay, and has therefore an excuse to the curious con-
science for his grosser desires; nay, should he come to his
wished-for, yet desolate, conclusion, from which the ab-
horrent nature shrinks and recoils, I do nevertheless firmly
think, should the study have been long and deep, that he
would wonder to find his desires had lost their poignancy,
and his objects their charm. He would descend from the
Alp he had climbed to the low level on which he formerly
deemed it a bliss to dwell, with the feeling of one who,
having long drawn in high places an empyreal air, has
become unable to inhale the smoke and the thick vapor
he inhaled of yore.
His soul, once aroused, would stir
within him, though he felt it not, and, though he grew
not a believer, he would cease to be only a voluptuary.
I meant at one time to have here stated the arguments
which had perplexed ine on one side, and those which af
terward convinced me on the other. I do not do so for
many reasons, one of which will suffice, viz. the evident and
palpable circumstance that a dissertation of that nature
would, in a biography like the present, be utterly out of
place and season. Perhaps, however, at a later period of
life, I may collect my own opinions on the subject into a
separate work, and bequeath that work to future genera-
tions, upon the same conditions as the present memoir.
One day I was favored by a visit from one of the monks
at the neighbouring abbey. After some general conver-
sation, he asked me if I had yet encountered the Herr
of the Well? (C
No," said I, "and I was going to add,
that I have not even heard of him, but I now remember
that the good people of the house have more than once
spoken to me of him as a rigid and self-mortifying re-
cluse.'
"Yes," said the holy friar; "heaven forbid that I
should say aught against the practice of the saints and
pious men to deny unto themselves the lusts of the flesh;
but such penances may be carried too far. However, it is
an excellent custom, and the Hermit of the Well is an ex-
cellent creature. Santa Maria! what delicious stuff is
that Hungary wine your scholarship was pleased to bestow
upon our father abbot. He suffered me to taste it the eve
before last. I had been suffering with a pain in the reins,
and the wine acted powerfully upon me as an efficacious
and inestimable medicine. Do you find, my son, that it
bore the journey to your lodging here, as well as it bore
it to the convent cellars?"
66
J
Why, really, my father, I have none of it here; bu
the people of the house have a few flasks of a better wine
than ordinary, if you will deign to taste it in lieu of the
Hungary wine."
.. Oh,
oh!" said the monk, groaning, "
trouble me much,
my reing
perhaps the wine may comfort me!"
and the wine was brought.
"It is not of so rare a flavor as that you sent to our
reverend father," said the monk, wiping his mouth with
his long sleeve. Hungary must be a charming place,
is it far from hence?-It joins the heretical,
I pray
your pardon, it joins the continent of England, I be-
lieve?"
CC
"Not exactly, father; but whatever its topography, it is
a rare country, for those who like it! but tell me of
this Herinit of the Well. How long has he lived here, -
and how came he by his appellation? Of what country is
he,
and of what birth?"
"You ask me too many questions at once, my son. The
country of the holy man is a mystery to us all. He speaks
the Tuscan dialect well, but with a foreign accent. Never-
theless, though the wine is not of Hungary, it has a pleas
ant flavor. I wonder how the rogues kept it so snugly
from the knowledge and comfort of their pious brethren of
the monastery.'
tr
"And how long has the hermit lived in your vicinity?"
Nearly eight years, my son. It was one winter's
evening that he came to our convent in the dress of a
worldly traveller, to seek our hospitality, and a shelter for
the night, which was inclement and stormy. He staid
with us a few days, and held some conversation with our
father abbot; and one morning, after roaming in the neigh-
bourhood to look at the old stones and ruins, which is the
custom of travellers, he returned, put into our box some
certain alms, and two days afterward he appeared in the
place he now inhabits, and in the dress he assumes.
"And of what nature, my father, is the place, and of
what fashion the dress?
CC
r
وو
Holy St. Francis!" exclaimed the father, with a sur-
prise so great, that I thought at first it related to the wine,
holy St. Francis, have you not seen the well yet?"
No, father, unless you speak of the fountain about a
mile and a quarter distant."
CC
R
Tush, tush!" said the good man, "what igno-
ramuses you travellers are! you affect to know what kind
of slippers Prester John wears, and to have been admitted
to the bed-chamber of the pagoda of China; and yet, when
one comes to sound you, you are as ignorant of everything
a man of real learning knows as an Englishman is of his
missal. Why, I thought that every fool in every country
had heard of the holy well of St. Francis, situated exactly
two miles from our famous convent, and that every fool in
the neighbourhood had seen it.
"What the fools, my father, whether in this neighbour-
hood or any other, may have heard or seen, I, who profess
not ostensibly to belong to so goodly an order, cannot pre-
tend to know; but be assured that the holy well of St.
Francis is as unfamiliar to me as the pagoda of China, -
God bless him
is to you
35
Upon this, the learned monk, after expressing due as
tonishment, offered to show it to me; and as I thought I
might, by acquiescence, get rid of him the sooner, and as,
moreover, I wished to see the abbot, to whom some books
for me had been lately sent, I agreed to the offer.
DEVEREUX.
351
the
The well, said the monk, lay not above a mile out of the
customary way to the monastery; and after we had finished
the flask of wine, we sallied out on our excursion,
monk upon a stately and strong ass, myself on foot.
The abbot had. on granting me his friendship and pro-
ection, observed that I was not the only stranger and re-
cluse on whom his favor was bestowed. He had then
mentioned the Hermit of the Well as an eccentric and
strange being, who lived an existence of rigid penance,
harmless to others, painful only to himself. This story had
been confirmed in the few conversations I had ever inter-
changed with my host and hostess, who seemed to take a
peculiar pleasure in talking of the solitary; and from
them I had heard also many anecdotes of his charity toward
the and his attention to the sick. All these circum-
stances came into my mind as the good monk indulged his
loquacity upon the subject, and my curiosity became, at
last, somewhat excited respecting my fellow recluse.
poor,
I now learned from the monk that the post of Hermit of
the Well was an office of which the present anchorite was
by no means the first tenant. The well was one of those
springs, frequent in Catholic countries, to which a legend
and a sanctity are attached; and twice a year, once in the
spring, once in the autumn, the neighbouring peasants flock-
ed thither, on a stated day, to drink, and lose their diseases
As the spring most probably did possess some medicinal
qualities, a few extraordinary cures had occurred; espe-
cially among those pious persons who took not biennial,
but constant, draughts; and to doubt its holiness was
downright heresy.
Now, hard by this well was a cavern, which, whether
first formed by nature or art, was now, apon the whole,
constructed into a very commodious abode; and here, for
vears beyond the memory of man, some solitary person had
fixed his abode, to dispense and to bless the water, to be
exceedingly well fed by the surrounding peasants, to wear
a long gown of serge or sackcloth, and to be called the
Hermit of the Well. So fast as each succeeding anchor-
ite died, there were enough candidates eager to supply his
place; for it was no bad métier to some penniless impostor
to become the quack and patentee of a holy specific. The
choice of these candidates always rested with the superior
of the neighbouring monastery; and it is not impossible that
he made an indifferently good per centage upon the annual
advantages of his protection and choice.
At the time the traveller appeared, the former hermit had
just departed this life, and it was, therefore, to the vacancy
thus occasioned, that he had procured himself to be elected.
The incumbent appeared quite of a different mould from the
former occupants of the hermitage. He accepted, it is
true, the gifts laid at regular periods upon a huge stone
between the hermitage and the well; but he distributed
among the donors alms far more profitable than their gifts.
He entered no village, borne upon an ass laden with twin
sacks, for the purpose of sanctimoniously robbing the
inhabitants; no profane songs were ever heard resounding |
from his dwelling by the peasant incautiously lingering at a
late hour too near its vicinity; my guide, the monk, com-
plained bitterly of his unsociability, and no scandalous le-
gend of nymphilike comforters and damsel visitants, haunt-
ing the sacred dwelling, escaped from the garrulous friar's
well-loaded budget.
"Does he study much?" said I, with the interest of a
student.
"I fear me not," quoth the monk. "I have had occa-
sion often to enter his abode, and I have examined all
things with a close eye, for, praised be the Lord, I have
faculties more than ordinarily clear and observant, -but I
have seen no books therein, excepting a missal and a Latin
or Greek Testament, I know not well which; —
nay, so
incurious or unlearned is the holy man, that he rejected
even a loan of the Life of St. Francis,' notwithstanding
it has many and rare pictures, to say nothing of its most
interesting and amazing tales."
C
More might the monk have said, had we not now sud-
denly entered a thick and sombre wood. A path cut
through it was narrow, and only capable of admitting a
traveller on foot or horseback; and the boughs over head
were so darkly interlaced that the light scarcely, and only
in broken and erratic glimmerings, pierced the canopy.
"It is the wood," said the monk, crossing himself,
"wherein the wonderful adventure happened to St. Fran-
cis, which I will one day narrate at length to you.”
VOI T
45
suppose?" said I.
"And we are near the well I suppose
"It is close at rand,´´ answered the monk.
In effect we had not proceeded above fifty yards before
the path brought us into a circular space of green sod, in
the midst of which was a small square stone building, of
plain, but not inelegant, shape, and evidently of great an-
tiquity. At one side of this building was an iron handle,
for the purpose of raising water, which casts itself into a
stone basin, to which was affixed, by a strong chain, an
iron cup. An inscription, in monkish Latin, was engraved
over the basin, requesting the traveller to pause and drink,
and importing that what that water was to the body, faith
was to the soul; near the cistern was a rude seat, formed
by the trunk of a tree. The door of the well-house was of
iron, and secured by a chain and lock; perhaps the pump
was so contrived that only a certain quantum of the sancti-
fied beverage could be drawn up at a time, without appli-
cation to some nechanism within and wayfarers were
thereby prevented from helping themselves ad libitum, and
thus depriving the anchorite of the profit and the necessity
of his office.
It was certainly a strange, lonely, and wild place; the
green sward round as a fairy ring, in the midst of trees,
which, black, close, and huge, circled it like a wall; and
the solitary gray building in the centre, gaunt and cold,
and startling the eye with the abruptness of its appearance,
and the strong contrast made by its wan hues to the dark
verdure and forest gloom around it.
I took a draught of the water, which was very cold and
tasteless, and reminded the monk of his disorder in the
reins, to which a similar potation might possibly be effica-
cious. To this suggestion the monk answered that he
would certainly try the water some other time; but that at
present the wine he had drunk might pollute its divine
properties. So saying, he turned off the conversation by
inviting me to follow him to the hermitage.
In our way thither he pointed out a large fragment of
stone, and observed that the water would do me evil instead
of good if I forgot to remuncrate its guardian. I took the
hint, and laid a piece of silver on the fragment.
A short journey through the wood brought us to the foot
of a hill covered with trees, and having at its base a strong
stone door, the entrance to the excavated home of the an-
chorite. The monk gently tapped thrice at this door, but
no answer came. "The holy man is from home," said he,
"let us return."
We did so; and the monk, keeping behind me, man-
aged, as he thought, unseen, to leave the stone as naked as
we had found it! We now struck through another path in
the wood, and were soon at the convent. I did not lose
the opportunity to question the abbot respecting his tenant.
I learnt from him little more than the particulars I have al-
ready narrated, save that in concluding his details, he said:
"I can scarcely doubt but that the hermit is, like your-
self, a person of rank; his bearing and his mien appear to
denote it. He has given, and gives yearly, large sums to
the uses of the convent; and, though he takes the customa
ry gifts of the pious villagers, it is only by my adrice, and
for the purpose of avoiding suspicion. Should he be con-
sidered rich, it might attract cupidity; and there are enough
bold hands and sharp knives in the country to place the
wealthy and the unguarded in some peril. Whoever he
may be, for he has not confided his secret to me, I do
not doubt but that he is doing penance for some great crime;
and, whatever be the crime, I suspect that its earth y pun-
ishment is nearly over. The hermit is naturally of a deli-
cate and weak frame, and year after year I have marked
him seasibly wearing away; so that when I last saw him,
three days since, I was shocked at the visible ravages which
disease or penance had engraven upon him. If ever death
wrote legibly, his characters are in that brow and cheek.”
"Poor man! Know you not even whom to apprize of
his decesse when he is no more?”
"I do not yet; but the last time I saw him he told me
that he found himself drawing near his end, and that he
should not quit life without troubling me with one request."
After this the abbot spoke of other matters, and my visit
expired.
Interested in the recluse more deeply than I acknow!-
edged to myself, I found my steps insensibly leading me
homeward by the more circuitous road which wound first
by the holy well. I did not resist the impulse, but walked
usingly onward by the waning twilight, for the day was
854
BULWER'S NOVELS.
dowed with consciousness might lie in the grave, feeling
the worm gnaw it, and the decay corrupt, and yet incapa-
ble of resistance or of motion. Your cheek is thin, but
firm; your eye is haughty and bright; you have the air of
one who has lived with men, and struggled and not bee
vanquished in the struggle. Suffered! No, man, no,
have not suffered!"
·you
"My father, it is not in the countenance that fate grave,
her records. I have, it is true, contended with my fellows,
and if wealth and honor be the premium, not in vain: bu.
I have not contended with sorrow with a like success; and
I stand before you, a being who, if passion be a tormentor,
and the death of the loved a loss, has borne that which the
most wretched will not envy.
now over, until I came to the well. As I emerged from
the wood, I started involuntarily and drew back. A figure,
robed from head to foot in a long sable robe, sate upon the
rude seat beside the well; sate so still, so motionless, that
coming upon it abruptly in that strange place, the heart
beat irregularly at an apparition so dark in bue, and so
deathlike in its repose. The hat, large, broad, and over-
hanging, which suited the costuine, was lying on the
ground and the face, which inclined upward, seemed to
woo the gentle air of the quiet and soft skies. I approached
a few steps, and saw the profile of the countenance more
distinctly than I had done before. It was of a marble
whiteness; the features, though sharpened and attenuated
by disease, were of surpassing beauty; the hair was exceed-
ingly, almost effeminately, long, and hung in waves of per-
fect jet on either side; the mouth was closed firmly, and
deep lines, or rather furrows, were traced from its corners
to either nostril. The stranger's beard, of a bue equally
black as the hair, was dishevelled and neglected, but not
very long; and one hand, which lay on the suble robe, was
80 thin and wan you might have deemed the very starlightful, merciful God, what would I say, what would I reveal!"
could have shone through it. I did not doubt that it was
the recluse whom I saw; I drew near and accosted him.
"Your blessing, holy father, and your permission to taste
the healing of your well.
Sudden as was my appearance, and abrupt my voice, the
hermit evinced by no startled gesture a token of surprise.
He turned very slowly round, cast upon me an indifferent
glance, and said, in a sweet and very low tone,
"You have my blessing, stranger; there is water in the
cistern, drink, and be healed."
I dipped the bowl in the basin, and took sparingly of the
water. In the accent and tone of the stranger, my ear,
accustomed to the dialects of many nations, recognised
something English; I resolved, therefore, to address him in
my native tongue, rather than the indifferent Italian in
which I had first accosted him.
"The water is fresh and cooling; would, holy father,
that it could penetrate to a deeper malady than the ills of
flesh: that it could assuage the fever of the heart, or lave
from the wearied mind the dust which it gathers from the
mire and travail of the world.”
Now the hermit testified surprise: but it was slight and
momentary. He gazed upon ine more attentively than he
had done before, and said, after a pause,
My countryman! and in this spot! It is not often
that the English penetrate into places where no ostentatious
celebrity dwells to sate curiosity and flatter pride. My
countryman! it is well, and perhaps fortunate. Yes,"
he said, after a second pause, yes; it were indeed a boon,
had the earth a fountain for the wounds which fester, and
the disease which consuines within."
دو
- but
"The earth has oblivion, father, if not a cure.
"It is false !" cried the hermit, passionately, and start-
ing wildly from his seat; "the earth has no oblivion. The
grave, is that forgetfulness? No, no, -there is no grave
for the soul! The deeds
The deeds pass, the flesh corrupts,
the memory passes not, and withers not. From age to age,
from world to world, through eternity, throughout creation,
it is perpetuated, an immortality, a curse, a hell!
Surprised by the vehemence of the hermit, I was still
more startled by the agonizing and ghastly expression of
his face.
upon a sore.
Again a fearful change came over the face of the recluse,
he grasped my arm more vehemently,
"You speak my
own sorrows, you utter my own curse,
I will see you
again, you may do my last will better than yon monks.
Can I trust you? — If you have in truth known misfortune,
I will! I will,-yea, even to the outpouring
Merci.
Suddenly changing his voice, he released mc, and said,
touching his forehead with a meaning gesture, and a quiet
smile, "You say you are my rival in pain Have you ever
known the rage and despair of the heart mount here? It
is a wonderful thing to be calm as 1 am now, when that
rising makes itself felt in fire and torture! "
"If there be aught, father, which a man who cares not
what country he visit, or what deed - so it be not of guilt
or shame he commit, can do toward the quiet of your
soul, say it, and I will attempt your will."
30
"You are kind, my son," said the herinit, resuming his
first melancholy and dignified composure of mien and bear-
ing, "and there is something in your voice, which seems
to me like a tone that I have heard in youth. Do you live
near at hand?"
"In the valley, about four miles hence; I am, like your-
self, a fugitive from the world.”
"Come to me then to-morrow at eve; to-morrow!-no,
that is a holy eve, and I must keep it with scourge and
prayer. The next at sunset. I shall be collected then,
and I would fain know more of you than I do. Bless
my son, allieu.'
you,
"Yet stay, father, may I not conduct you home?"
“ No,
my limbs are weak, but I trust they can carry
me to that home, till I be borne thence to my last. Fare-
well! the night grows, and man fills even these shades with
peril. The eve after next, at sunset, we meet again."
So saying, the hermit waved his hand, and I stood apart,
watching his receding figure, until the trees cloaked the
last glimpse from my view. I then turned homeward, and
reached my cottage in safety, despite of the hermit's cau-
tion. But I did not retire to rest: a powerful foreboding,
rather than suspicion, that, in the worn and wasted form
which I had beheld, there was identity with one whom I
had not met for years, and whom I had believed to be no
more, thrillingly possessed me.
"Can-can it be?" thought I. "Can grief have a
desolation, or remembrance an agony, sufficient to create
so awful a change? And of all human beings, for that one
to be singled out; that one in whom passion and sin were,
if they existed, nipped in their earliest gerin, and seem-
ingly rendered barren of all fruit! If, too, almost against
the evidence of sight and sense, an innate feeling has
marked in that most altered form the traces of a dread re-
cognition, would not his memory have been yet more vigi-
lant than mine? Am I so changed that he should have
looked me in the face so wistfully, and found there naught
The hermit drew near to me; he laid his thin hand
save the lineaments of a stranger ? And, actuated by
my arm, and looked long and wistfully in my face.
this thought, I placed the light by the small mirror which
then that a suspicion crept through me, which after obser- graced my chamber. I recalled, as I gazed, my features
vation proved to be true, that the wandering of those dark as they had been in earliest youth. No," I said, with a
eyes, and the meaning of that blanched brow, were tinc-sigh, there is nothing here that he should recognise."
tured with insanity.
"My father," said I, "pardon ine, if I have pressed
I also have that within which, did a stran-
ger touch it, would thrill my whole frame with torture, and
I would fain ask from your holy soothing, and pious com-
fort, something of alleviation or of fortitude."
upon
It was
"Brother, and fellow man, " said he, mournfully, "hast
thou in truth suffered? and dost thou still smart at the re-
membrance? We are friends then. If thou hast suffered
as much as I have, I will fall down and do homage to thee
as a superior; for pain has its ranks, and I think, at times,
that none ever climbed the height that I have done. Yet
you look not like one who has had nights of delirium, and
tays in which the heart lay in the breast, as a corpse en-
And I said aright my features, originally small and
delicate, had grown enlarged and prominent. The long
locks of my youth (for only upon state occasions did my
early vanity consent to the fashion of the day) were suc-
ceeded by curls, short and crisped; the hues, alternately
pale and hectic, that the dreams of romance had once
spread over my cheek, had settled into the unchanging
bronze of manhood; the smooth lip, and unshaven chin,
were clothed with a thick hair; the once unfurrowed brow
DEVEREUX.
355
was habitually knit in thought; and the ardent, restless
expression that boyhood wore, had yielded to the quiet, un-
moved countenance of one, in whom long custom has sub-
dued all outward sign of emotion, and many and various
events left no prevalent token of the mind, save that of an
habitual, but latent resolution. My frame, too, once
scarcely less slight than a woman's, was become knit and
muscular, and nothing was left by which, in the foreign
air, the quiet brow, and the athletic form, my very mother
could have recognised the slender figure and changeful face
of the boy she had last beheld. The very sarcasm of the
eye was gone and I had learnt the world's easy lesson,
to clothe bitterness within in the most rigid vesture of an
external composure.
CHAPTER IV
The solution of many mysteries. — A dark view of the life and
nature of man.
· con-
POWERFUL, though not clearly developed in my own
mind, was the motive which made me so strongly desire to
preserve the incoguito during my interview with the her
init. I have before said that I could not resist a vague,
but intense, helief that he was a person whom I had long
believed in the grave; and I had more than once struggled
against a dark, but passing, suspicion, that that person was
in some measure,mediately, though not directly,
nected with the mysteries of my former life. If both these
conjectures were true, I thought it possible that the ccm-
munication the hermit wished to make me might be made
yet more willingly to me as a stranger than if he knew who
was in reality his confidant. And, at all events, if I could
curb the impetuous gushings of my own heart, which
yearned for immediate disclosure, I might, by hint and
prelude, ascertain the advantages and disadvantages of
revealing myself.
I arrived at the well the hermit was already at the
place of rendezvous, seated in the same posture in which I
had before seen him. I made my reverence, and accosted
him.
I have noted one thing in others, and it was particularly
noticeable in me, viz. that few who mix very largely with
men, and with the courtier's or the citizen's design, ever
retain the key and tone of their original voice. The voice
of a young man is as yet modulated by nature, and ex-
presses the passion of the moment; that of the matured
pupil of art expresses rather the customary occupation of
his life whether he aims at persuading, convincing, or
commanding others, his voice irrecoverably settles into the
key he ordinarily employs; and, as persuasion is the means
men chiefly employ in their commerce with each other, es-
pecially in the regions of a court, so a tone of artificial
blandness and subdued insinuation is chiefly that in which
the accents of worldly men are clothed; the artificial into-
nation, long continued, grows into nature, and the very pithmit,
and basis of the original sound fritter themselves away.
The change was great in me, for at that time, which I
brought in comparison with the present, my age was one in
which the voice is yet confused and undecided, struggling
between the accents of youth and boyhood; so that even
this most powerful and unchanging of all claims upon the
memory was in a great measure absent in me; and nothing
but an occasional and rare tone could have produced even
that faint and unconscious recognition which the hermit
had confessed.
I must be pardoned these egotisms, which the nature of
my story renders necessary.
With what eager impatience did I watch the hours to
the appointed interview with the hermit languish themselves
away!
However, before that time arrived, and toward
the evening of the next day, I was surprised by the rare
honor of a visit from Anselmo himself. He came attended
by two of the mendicant friars of his order, and they carried
between them a basket of tolerable size, which, as mine
hostess afterward informed me, with many a tear, went
back somewhat heavier than it came, from the load of cer-
tain receptacula of that rarer wine which she had had, the
evening before, the indiscreet hospitality to produce.
The abbot caine to inform me that the hermit had been
with him that morning, making many inquiries respecting
me. "I told him," said he, "that I was acquainted
with
your name and birth, but that I was under a solemn
promise not to reveal them, without your consent; and I
am now here, my son, to learn from you whether that con-
sent may be obtained."
CC
Assuredly not, holy father!" said I, hastily; nor was
I contented until I had obtained a renewal of his promise
to that effect. This seemed to give the abbot some little
chagrin perhaps the hermit had offered a reward for my
discovery. However, I knew that Anselmo, though à
griping, was a trustworthy man, and I felt safe in his re-
newed promise. I saw him depart with great satisfaction,
and gave myself once more to conjectures respecting the
strange recluse.
As, the next evening, I prepared to depart toward the
hermitage, I took peculiar pains to give my person a for-
eign and disguised appearance. A loose dress, of rude
and simple material, and a high cap of fur, were pretty
successful in accomplishing this purpose. And, as I gave
the last look at the glass before I left the house, I said,
inly, "If there be any truth in my wild and improbable
conjecture respecting the identity of the anchorite, I think
time and this dress are sufficient wizards to secure me
from a chance of discovery. I will keep a guard upon
my words and tones, until, if my thought be verified, a
moment fit for unmasking myself arrives. But would to
God that the thought be groundless! In such circumstan-
ces, and after such an absence, to meet him. No; and
yot Well, tins meeting will decide."
|
"I have not failed you, father."
"That is rarely a true boast with men," said the her-
smiling mournfully, but without sarcasm;
"and were
the promise of greater avail, it might not have been so
rigidly kept."
The promise, father, seemed to me of greater weight
than you would intimate," answered I
"How mean you
?" said the hermit hastily.
CC
Why, that we may perhaps serve each other by our
meeting you, father, may comfort me by your counsels;
you, by my readiness to obey your requests."
I
1
The hermit looked at me for some moments, and, as
well as I could, I turned away my face from his gaze.
might have spared myself the effort.
might have spared myself the effort. He seemed to recog-
nise nothing familiar in my countenance; perhaps his
mental malady assisted my own alteration.
"I have inquired respecting you," he said after a pause,
and I hear that you are a learned and wise man, who
have seen much of the world, and played the part both of
soldier and of scholar in its various theatres is my in-
formation true?"
“Not true with respect to the learning, father, but true
with regard to the experience. I have been a ilgrim in
many countries of Europe."
"Come with
ou have
"Indeed!" said the hermit, eagerly.
me to my home, and tell me of the wonders
seen."
I assisted the hermit to rise, and he walked
ward the cavern, leaning upon my arm. O, how
touch thrilled through my frame! How I lon
"Are you not the one whom I have loved, an
and believed buried in the tomb ?" But I checl
We moved on in silence. The hermit's hand
door of the cavern, when he said, in a calm tone
evident effort, and turning his face from m
spoke :
owly to-
hat light
'd to cry,
mourned,
d myself.
as on the
out with
while he
"And did your wanderings ever carry you into he farther
regions of the north? Did the fame of the grea czar ever
lead you to the city he has founded ?”
I am right, I am right!
I am right!" thought I, as I nswered.
"In truth, holy father, I spent not a long time at Peters-
burgh; but I am not a stranger either to its onders, or
its inhabitants."
Possibly, then, you may have met with the English
favorite of the czar, of whom I hear in my retreat that
men have lately spoken somewhat large?" The hermit
paused again. We were now in a long, low passage,
almost in darkness. I scarcely saw him, yet
convulsed movement in his throat, before he uttered the
remainder of the sentence. "He is called the Count
Devereux."
Theard a
"Father,” said I, calmly, "I have both seen nd known
the man.
>>
Ha!" said the hermit, and he leant for a moment
against the wall; "known him, and, how, how
I mean, where is he at this present time?"
That, father, is a difficult question, respecting on
956
بیم
BULWER'S NOVELS.
who has led so active a life. He was ambassador at the
just before I left it.”
court of
We had now passed the passage, and gained a room of
tolerable size; an iron lamp burnt within, and afforded a
sufficient, but somewhat dim, light. The hermit, as I con-
cluded my reply, sunk down on a long stone bench, beside
a table of the same substance, and leaning his face on his
hand, so that the long, large sleeve he wore, perfectly con-
cealed his features, said, "Pardon me, my breath is short,
and my frame weak, I am quite exhausted, but will
-I
speak to you more anon.”
I uttered a short answer, and drew a small wooden stool
within a few feet of the hermit's seat. After a brief si-
lence he rose, placed wine, bread, and preserved fruits be-
fore me, and bade me eat. I seemed to comply with his
request, and the apparent diversion of my attention from
himself somewhat relieved the embarrassment under which
he evidently labored.
του
"Think you," he said, "that were my commission to
this to the Count Devereux, -you would execute it
faithfully and with speed? Yet stay, you have a high
mien, as of one above fortune, but your garb is rude and
poor; and if aught of gold could compensate your trouble,
the hermit has other treasuries besides this cell.'
"I will do your bidding, father, without robbing the
poor.
You wish then that I should seek Morton Deve-
reux, you wish that I should summon him hither, you
wish to see, and to confer with him!
""
"God of mercy forbid!" cried the hermit, and with
such vehemence that I was startled from the design of re-
vealing myself, which I was on the point of executing. "I
would rather that these walls would crush me into dust, or
that this solid stone would crumble beneath my feet.
even into a bottomless pit, than meet the glance on Mor-
ton Devereux ! "
CC
>>
ay,
"Is it even so?" said I, stooping over the wine cup;
ye have been foes then, I suspect. Well, it matters not,
tell me your errand, and it shall be done.'
"Done!" cried the hermit, and a new and certainly a
most natural suspicion darted within him, "done! and,
fool that I am! - who, or what are you, that I should
believe you take so keen an interest in the wishes of a man
utterly unknown to you? I tell you that my wish is, that
you should cross seas and traverse lands until you find the
man I have named to you. Will a stranger do this, and
without hire? no, no, I was a fool, and will trust
the monks, and give gold, and then my errand will be
sped."
Father, or rather, brother," said I, with a slow and
firm voice, "for you are of mine own age, and you have
the passion and the infirmity which make brethren of all
mankind, I am one to whom all places are alike: it mat-
ters not whether I visit a northern or a southern clime, — I
have wealth, which is sufficient to smooth toil, I have
leisure, which makes occupation an enjoyment. More than
this, I am one who in his gayest and wildest moments has
ever loved mankind, and would have renounced at any time
his own pleasure for the advantage of another. But at
this time, above all others, I am most disposed to forget
myself, and there is a passion in your words which leads
me to hope that it may be a great benefit which I can con-
fer
pon you."
"You speak well," said the hermit, musingly, "and I
may trust you: I will consider yet a little longer, and to-
morrow at this hour you shall have my final answer. If
you execute the charge I intrust to you, may the blessing
of a dying and most wretched man cleave to you for ever!
- But hush, the clock strikes, it is my hour of
prayer."
And, pointing to a huge black clock that hung opposite
the door, and indicated the hour of nine, (according to our
English mode of numbering the hours,) the hermit fell on
his knees, and, clasping his hands tightly, bent his face
over them in the attitude of humiliation and devotion. I
followed his example. After a few minutes, he rose,
"Once in every three hours," said he, with a ghastly ex-
pression,
"for the last twelve years have I bowed my soul
in anguish before God, and risen to feel that it was in
vain, I am cursed without and within!
"My father, my father, is this your faith in the mercies
of the Redeemer who died for man?
"Talk not to me of faith!" cried the hermit, wildly.
* Ye laymen and wordlings know nothing of its mysteries
وو
>>
|
and its powers. But begone! the dread hour is upon me
when my tongue is loosed, and my brain darkened, and 1 I
know not my words, and shudder at my own thoughts. Be
gone! no human being shall witness those moments,
they are only for God and my own soul.”
So saying, this unhappy and strange being seized me by
the arm, and dragged me toward the passage we had
entered. I was in doubt whether to yield to, or contend
with, him; but there was a glare in his eye, and a flush
upon his brow, which, while it betrayed the dreadful dis-
ease of his mind, made me fear that resistance to his wishes
night operate dangerously upon a frame so feeble and re-
duced. I therefore mechanically obeyed him. He opened
again the entrance to his rugged home, and the moonlight
streamed wanly over his dark robes and spectral figure.
"Go," said he, more mildly than before,
forgive the vehemence of one whose mind and heart are
go, and
alike broken within him. Go, but return to-morrow at
Your air disposes me to trust you."
sunset.
So saying, he closed the door upon me, and I stood
without the cavern alone.
But did I return home? Did I hasten to press my couch
in sleep and sweet forgetfulness, while he was in that
gloomy sepulture of the living, a prey to anguish, and torn
by the fangs of madness and a fierce disease? No,- on the
damp grass, beneath the silent skies, I passed a night
which I ween well could scarcely have been less wretch-
ed than his own. My conjecture was now, and in full,
confirmed. Heavens! how I loved that man, how, from
my youngest years, had my soul's fondest affections inter-
laced themselves with him! - with what anguish had I
wept his imagined death! and now to know that he lay
within those walls, smitten from brain to heart with so
fearful and mysterious a curse, to know, too, that he
dreaded the sight of me,-of me who would have laid down
my life for his! - the grave, which I imagined his home,
had been a mercy to a doom like this!
"He fears," I murmured, and I wept as I said it, "to
look on one who would watch over, and soothe, and bear
with him, with more than a woman's love! By what aw-
ful fate has this calamity fallen on one so holy and so
pure? or by what pre-ordered destiny did I come to these
solitudes, to find at the same time a new charm for the
earth, and a spell to change it again into a desert and a
place of wo ?
ear.
وو
All night I kept vigil by the cave, and listened if I could
catch moan or sound; but every thing was silent: the thick
walls of the rock kept even the voice of despair from my
The day dawned, and I retired among the trees, lest
he might come out unawares and see me. At sunrise I saw
him appear for a few moments, and again retire, and I then
hastened home, exhausted and wearied by the internal con-
flicts of the night, to gather coolness and composure for the
ensuing interview, which I contemplated at once with eager-
ness and dread.
At the appointed hour, I repaired to the cavern: the
door was partially closed; I opened it after hearing no
answer to my knock, and walked gently along the passage;
but I heard shrieks, and groans, and wild laughter, as I 1
neared the rude chamber. I paused for a moment, and then
in terror and dismay entered the apartment. It was empty,
but I saw near the clock a small door; from within which
the sounds that alarmed me proceeded. I had no scruple in
opening it; and found myself in a hermit's sleeping cham-
ber; a small, dark room, where, upon a straw pallet, lay
the wretched occupant in a state of frantic delirium. I
stood mute and horror-struck, while his exclamations of
frenzy burst upon my ear.
"There, there!" he cried, "I have struck thee to
the heart, and now I will kneel, and kiss those white lips,
and bathe my hands in that blood. Ha! - do I hate thee?
-hate, ay, hate, abhor, detest! Have you the beads
there? let me tell them. Yes, I will go to the confes-
sional, confess? No, no, all the priests in the world.
could not lift up a soul so heavy with guilt. Help,-help,
-help! I am falling, falling, there is the pit, and the
fire, and the devils! Do you hear them laugh?—I can
laugh too!-ha-ha-ha! Hush, I have written it all
out, in a fair hand, he shall read it, and then, O God !
what curses he will heap upon my head! Blessed St.
Francis, hear me ! Lazarus, Lazarus, speak for me!"
Thus did the hermit rave, while my flesh crept to hear
him. I stood by his bedside, and called on him; but he
DEVEREUX.
357
neither heard nor saw me. Upon the ground, by the bed's
head, as if it had dropt from under the pillow, was a
packet sealed and directed to myself: I knew the hand-
writing at a glance, even though the letters were blotted and
irregular, and possibly traced in the first moment that his
present curse fell upon the writer. I placed the packet in
my bosom the hermit saw not the motion, he lay back on
the bed, seemingly in utter exhaustion. I turned away,
and hastened to the monastery for assistance. As I hur-
ried through the passage, the hermit's shrieks again broke
upon me, with a fiercer vehemence than before. I flew
from them, as if they were sounds from the abyss of Hades.
I flew till, breathless, and half-senseless myself, I fell down
exhausted by the gate of the monastery.
|
+
our house was in favor of Gerald; and I believe he really
likes him to this day better than either of us. Partly your
sarcasms, partly Gerald's dispute with you, partly my
representations, for I was jealous even of the love of
Montreuil, -prepossessed him against you. He thought
too, that Gerald had more talent to serve his purposes than
yourself, and more facility in being moulded to them; and
he believed our uncle's partiality to you far from being un-
alienable. I have said that, at the latter period of his resi-
dence with us,
dence with us, he was an agent of the exiled cause At
the time I now speak of, he had not entered into the great
political scheme which engrossed him afterward. He was
merely a restless and aspiring priest, whose whole hope
object, ambition, was the advancement of his order. He
The two most skilled in physic of the brethren were knew that whoever inherited, or whoever shared, my uncle'
immediately summoned, and they lost not a moment in wealth, could, under legitimate regulation, promote any
accompanying me to the cavern. All that evening, until ends which the heads of that order might select; and he
midnight, the frenzy of the maniac seemed rather to in- wished therefore to gain the mastery over us all. Intrigue
crease than abate. But at that hour, exactly, indeed, as was essentially woven with his genius, and by intrigue only
the clock struck twelve, he fell at once into a deep sleep. did he ever seek to arrive at any end he had in view.* He
Then for the first time, but not till the wearied brethren soon obtained a mysterious and pervading power over Gerald
had, at this favorable symptom, permitted themselves to re- and myself. Your temper at once irritated him, and made
turn for a brief interval to the monastery, to seek refresh-bim despair of obtaining an ascendant over one who,
ment for themselves, and to bring down new medicines for though he testified in childhood none of the talents for
the patient, then, for the first time, I rose from the her- which he has since been noted, testified, nevertheless, a
mit's couch by which I had hitherto kept watch, and re- shrewd, penetrating, and sarcastic power of observation
pairing to the outer chamber, took forth the packet super- and detection. You, therefore, he resolved to leave to the
scribed with my nanie. There, alone in that gray vault, irregularities of your own nature, confident that they would
and by the sepulchral light of the single lamp, read what yielt him the opportunity of detaching your uncle from you,
I
follows:
and ultimately securing to Gerald his estates.
THE HERMIT'S MANUSCRIPT.
He
a
"The trial at school first altered his intentions.
imagined that he then saw in you powers which might be
rendered availing to him he conquered his pride,
great feature in his character, and he resolved to seek
your affection.
Your subsequent regularity of habits, and
success in study, confirmed him in his resolution; and
when he learnt from my uncle's own lips that the Devereux
estates would devolve on you, he thought that it would be
easier to secure your affection to him than to divert that af-
fection which my uncle had conceived for you. At this
time, I repeat, he had no particular object in view; none,
at least, beyond that of obtaining, for the interest of his
order, the direction of great wealth and some political in-
Ifluence. Some time after, I know not exactly when,
but before we returned to take our permanent abode at
Devereux Court, a share in the grand political intrigue
which was then in so many branches carried on throughout
England, and even Europe, was confided to Montreuil.
"Morton Devereux, if ever this reach you, read it,
shudder, and whatever your afflictions, bless God that you
are not as I ain. Do you remember my prevailing charac-
teristic as a boy? No, you do not. You will say, 'Devo-
tion!' It was not ! "Gentleness.' It was not,-
it was
JEALOUSY! Now does the truth flash on you? Yes,
that was the discase that was in my blood, and in my heart,
and through whose ghastly medium every living object was
beheld. Did I love you? Yes, I loved' you, ay, almost
with a love equal to your own. I loved my mother,
I loved Gerald, — I loved Montreuil. It was a part of my
nature to love, and I did not resist the impulse. You
loved better than all; but I was jealous of each. If my
mother caressed you or Gerald, if you opened your heart
to either, it stung me to the quick. I it was who said to
ny mother,
Caress him not, or I shall think you love him
better than me.' I it was who widened, from my veriest
childhood, the breach between Gerald and yourself. I it
was who gave to the childish reproach a venom, and to
the childish quarrel a barb. Was this love? Yes, it was
love; but I could not endure that ye should love one ano-
ther as ye loved me. It delighted me when one confided to
my ear a complaint against the other, and said, Aubrey,
this blow could not have come from thee!
،
"Montreuil early perceived my bias of temper: he might
have corrected it, and with ease. I was not evil in dispo-
sition; I was insensible of my own vice. Had its malig-
nity been revealed to me, I should have recoiled in horror.
Montreuil had a vast power over me; he could mould me
at his will. Montreuil, I repeat, might have saved me,
and thyself, and a third being, better and purer than either
of us was, even in his cradle. Montreuil did not : he had
an object to serve, and he sacrificed our whole house to it.
He found me one day weeping over a dog that I had killed.
Why did you destroy it?' he said; and I answered,
'Because it oved Morton better than nie! And the priest
aid, 'Tho. didst right, Aubrey!' Yes, from that time
he took advantage of my infirmity, and could rouse or
calm all my passions in proportion as he irritated or
soothed it.
C
that cause.
“You know this man's object during the latter period of
his residence with us: it was the restoration of the house
of Stuart. He was alternately the spy and the agitator in
Among more comprehensive plans for effecting
this object was that of sewing the heirs to the great wealth
great wealth
and popular name of Sir William Devereux. This was
only a minor mesh in the intricate web of his schemes;
but it is the character of the man to take exactly the same
pains, and pursue the same laborious intrigues, for a small
abject as for a great one. His first impression on entering
|
"In this, I believe he was the servant of his order,
rather than immediately of the exiled house; and I bave
since heard that even at that day he had acquired a great
reputation among the professors of the former. You, Mor-
ton, he decoyed not into this scheme before he left England:
he had not acquired a sufficient influence over you to trust
you with the disclosure. To Gerald and myself he was
more confidential. Gerald eagerly embraced his projects
through a spirit of enterprise, I through a spirit of awe
and of religion. RELIGION! Yes, then,
long af
ter, — now, -when my heart was and is the home of all
withering and evil passions, religion reigned, — reigns,
over me a despot and a tyrant. Its terrors haunt me at
this hour, they people the earth and the air with shapes
of ghastly menace! They, heaven pardon me! what
would my madness utter? Madness! madness? Ay,
that is the real scourge, the real fire, the real torture, the
real hell, of this fair earth !
"Montreuil, then, by different pleas, won over Gerald
and myself. He left us, but engaged us in constant corre-
spondence. 'Aubrey,' he said, before he departed, and
when he saw that I was wounded by his apparent cordi
ality toward you and Gerald, — Aubrey,' he said, sooth-
ing me on this point, think not that I trust Gerald or the
arrogant Morton as I trust you. You have my real heart
and my real trust. It is necessary to the execution of this
project, so important to the interests of religion, and so
agreeable to the will of heaven, that we should secure all
cooperators; but they, your brothers, Aubrey, are the
tools of that mighty design, -you are its friend. Thus it
was that, at all times when he irritated too sorely the vice
* It will be observed that Aubrey frequently repeats former
assertions; this is one of the most customary traits of insanity
ED.
358
BULWER'S NOVELS.
of my nature, he flattered it into seconding his views; and
thus, instead of conquering my evil passions, he conquered
by them. Curses, No, no, no! I will be calin.
"We returned to Devereux Court, and we grew from
boyhood into youth. I loved you then, Morton. Ah!
what would I not give now for one pure feeling, such as I
felt in your love?
love? Do
Do you remember the day on which you
had extorted from my uncle his consent to your leaving us
for the pleasures and pomps of London? Do you remem-
ber the evening of that day, when I came to seek you, and
we sat down on a little mound, and talked over your pro-
jects, and
you spoke then to me of my devotion, and my
purer and colder feelings? Morton, at that very moment
my veins burnt with passion!-at that very moment my
heart was feeding the vulture fated to live and prey within
it for ever! Thrice did I resolve to confide in you, as we
then sat together, and thrice did my evil genius forbid it.
You seemed, even in your affection to me, so wholly en-
grossed with your own hopes, you seemed so little to re-
gret leaving me, you stung, so often and so deeply, in
that short conference, that feeling which made me desire to
monopolize all things in those I loved, that I said inly,
Why should I bare my heart to one who can so little un-
derstand it?' And so we turned home, and you dreamt
not of that which was then within me, and which was des-
tined to be your curse and mine.
"Now many weeks previous to that night, I had seen
one whom to see was to love! Love! - I tell you, Mor-
ton, that that word is expressive of soft and fond emotions,
and there should be another expressive of all that is fierce,
and dark, and unrelenting in the human heart!-all that
seems most like the deadliest and the blackest hate, and
yet is not hate! I saw this being, and from that moment
my real nature, which had slept hitherto, awoke! I re-
member well, it was one evening in the beginning of sum-
mer that I first saw her. She sat alone in the little garden
beside the cottage door, and I pansed, and, unseen, looked
over the slight fence that separated us, and fed my eyes
with a loveliness that I thouglit, till then, only twilight or
the stars could wear! From that evening I came, night
after night, to watch her from the same spot; and every
time I beheld her, the poison entered deeper and deeper into
my system. At length I had an opportunity of being known
to her, of speaking to her, of hearing her speak, of
touching the ground she had hallowed,
she had hallowed, of entering the
home where she dwelt!
"I must explain: I said that both Gerald and myself
corresponded privately with Montreuil, -we were both
bound over to secrecy with regard to you, and this, my
temper, and Gerald's coolness with you, rendered an easy
obligation to both; I say my temper,
1
for I loved to
think I had a secret not known to another; and I carried
this reserve even to the degree of concealing from Gerald
himself the greater part of the correspondence between me
and the abbé. In his correspondence with each of us, Mon-
treuil acted with his usual skill; to Gerald, as the elder in
years, the proner to enterprise, and the manlier in aspect
and in character, was allotted whatever object was of real
trust or importance. Gerald it was, who under pretence of
pursuing his accustomed sports, conferred with the various
agents of intrigue who from time to time visited our coast;
and to me the obbé gave words of endearment, and affected
the anguage of more entire trust. Whatever,' he would
say n our present half-mellowed projects, is exposed to
danger, out promises not reward, I intrust to Gerald; here-
after, far higher employment, under far safer and surer aus-
pices, will be yours. We are the heads, be ours the
nobler occupation to plan, and let us leave to inferior
natures the vain and perilous triumph to execute what we
design.'
<
"All this I readily assented to; for, despite my acquies-
cence in Montreuil's wishes, I loved not enterprise, or
rather I hated whatever roused me from the dreamy and ab-
atracted indolence which was most dear to my temperament.
Sometimes, however, with a great show of confidence,
Montreuil would request me to execute some quiet and un-
important commission; and of this nature was one I received
while I was thus, unknown even to the object, steeping my
soul in the first intoxication of love. The plots tien car-
ried on by certain ecclesiastics, I need not say, extended, in
one linked chain, over the greater part of the continent.
Spain, in especial, was the theatre of these intrigues; and
among the tools employed in executing them were some,
who, though banished from that country, still, by the ans
they had held in it, carried a certain importance in their
very names. Foremost of these was the father of the wo-
man I loved; and foremost, in whatever promised occupa
tion to a restless mind, he was always certain to be.
C
A
To
"Montreuil now commissioned me to seek out a certain
Barnard, (an underling in those secret practices or services,
for which he afterward suffered, and who was then in that
part of the country,) and to communicate to him some mes-
sages, of which he was to be the bearer to this Spaniard.
A thought flashed upon me, Montreuil's letter men-
tioned, accidentally, that the Spaniard had never hitherto
seen Barnard :-could I not personate the latter, deliver
the messages myself, and thus win that introduction to the
daughter which I so burningly desired, and which, from
the great and close reserve of the father's habits, I might
not otherwise effect? The plan was open to two objec-
tions: one, that I was known personally in the town in the
environs of which the Spaniard lived, and he might there-
fore very soon discover who I really was; the other, that I
was not in possession of all the information which Barnard
might possess, and which the Spaniard might wish to learn;
but these objections had not much weight with me.
the first, I said, inly, I will oppose the most constant cau-
tion; I will go always on foot and alone, I will never be
seen in the town itself, and even should the Spaniard,
who seems rarely to stir abroad, and who, possibly, does
not speak our language, - even should he learn, by acci-
dent, that Barnard is only another name for Aubrey Dever-
eux, it will not be before I have gained my object; nor,
perhaps, before the time when I myself may wish to ac-
knowledge my identity.' To the second objection I saw a
yet more ready answer. I will acquaint Montreuil at
once,' I said, with my intention; I will claim his conni-
vance as a proof of his confidence, and as an essay of my
own genius of intrigue.' I did so the priest, perhaps de-
lighted to involve me so deeply, and to find me so ardent in
his project, consented. Fortunately, as I before said, Bar-
nard was an underling, young, — unknown, and ob-
scure. My youth, therefore, was not so great a foe to my
assumed disguise as it might otherwise have been. Mon-
treuil supplied all requisite information. I tried, (for the
first time, with a beating heart and a tremulous voice) the
imposition; it succeeded, I continued it. Yes, Morton,
yes!
—pour forth upon me your bitterest execration,
in me, in your brother,
in the brother so dear to you,
- in the brother whom you imagined so passionless,
pure, --so sinless, behold that Barnard, the lover,-
the idolatrous lover,
the foe, the deadly foe, – of Isora
d'Alvarez !""
M
SO
coherent and meaningless ravings.
Here the manuscript was defaced for some pages, by in-
dark fits of frenzy had at that time come over the writer.
coherent and meaningless ravings. It seemed as if one of his
At length, in a more firm and clear character than that
immediately preceding it, the manuscript continued as
follows:-
"I loved her, but even then it was with a fierce and om-
inous love, — (ominous of what it became.) Often in the
still evenings, when we stood together watching the sun
when my tongue trembled, but did not dare to speak,
when all soft and sweet thoughts filled the heart and
glistened in the eye of that most sensitive and fairy being,
set,
my
when my own brow, perhaps, seemed to reflect the same
emotions, feelings, which I even shudder to conceive,
raged within me. Had we stood together, in those mo-
ments, upon the brink of a precipice, I could have wound
arms around her, and leapt with her into the abyss. Every
thing but one nursed
my passion, nature, solitude,
early dreams, all kindled and fed that fire: religion only
combated it; I knew it was a crime to love any of earth's
creatures as I loved. I used the scourge and the fast* - I
wept hot, burning tears, I prayed, and the intensity of
my prayer appalled even myself, as it rose from my mad-
dened heart, in the depth and stillness of the lone night;
but the flame burnt higher and more scorchingly from the
opposition; nay, it was the very knowledge that my love
* I need not point out to the novel reader how completely the
character of Aubrey has been stolen in a certain celebrateg
French romance. But the writer I allude to is not so un-
merciful as Mr. de Balzac, who has pillaged scenes in the
Disowned, with the most gratifying politeness. I regret that
in all Mr. de Balzac's works I can find nothing that tempts me
to return the compliment.
DEVEREUX.
358
—
――
"It must have been that my eyes betrayed my feelings,
that Isora loved me not, that she shrunk from me even
at the first, why else should I not have called forth the
same sentiments which she gave to you? Was not my form
cast in a mould as fair as yours?— did not my voice whis-
per in as sweet a tone? did I not love her with as wild
a love? Why should she not have loved me? I was the
first whom she beheld, she woulday, perhaps she
would have loved me, if you had not come and marred all.
Curse yourself, then, that you were my rival! Curse
yourself that you made my heart as a furnace, and smit my
brain with frenzy, curse, O, sweet virgin, forgive me!
I know not, I know not what my tongue utters, or my
hand traces !
was criminal that made it assume so fearful and dark a | man !' I sid, a path of the blackest fury accom.
s'id,—and
shape. Thou art the cause of my downfall from heaven!' panied my threas, swear at you will never divulge to
1 muttered, when I looked upon Isora's calm face, thou
thou❘ Morton Lcvereux he is his real rival, that you will
feelest it not, and I could destroy thee and myself, myself never declare to hm, nor to any cne else, that Barnard
the criminal, thee the cause of the crime !
and Aubrey Devereux are the same, - swear this, or I
swear (and I repeated, with a solemn vehemence, that
dread oath) that I will stay here, that I will confront my
rival, that, the moment he beholds me, I will plunge this
sword in his bosom, and that, before I perish myself, I
will hasten to the town, and will utter there a secret which
will send your father to the gallows,
father to the gallows, — now, your choice!
"Morton, you have often praised, my uncle has often
There have
jested at, the womanish softness of my face.
been moments when I have seen that face in the glass, and
known it not, but started in wild affright, and fancied that
I beheld a demon; perhaps in that moment this change was
over it. Slowly Isora gazed upon me, slowly blanched
into the hues of death grew her cheek and lip,- slowly
that lip uttered the oath I enjoined. I released my gripe
and she fell to the earth, sudden and stunned as I stuck
by lightning. I stayed not to look on what I had iɔne,
I heard your step advance, — I fled by a pato that ea iron
the garden to the beach, and I reached my home without
retaining a single recollection of the space I had traversed
M
"You came, then, Morton, you came, -you knew her,
you loved her, she loved you.
I learned that you had
gained admittance to the cottage, and the moment I learned
it., I looked on Isora, and felt my fate, as by intuition: I
saw at once that she was prepared to love you, I saw the
very moment when that love kindled from conception into
form, I saw,
and at that moment my eyes recled and
my ears rung as with the sound of a rushing sea, and I
thought I felt a chord snap within my brain, which has never
been united again.
-
to attain it.
"Despite of the night I passed, -a night which I wil
leave you to imagine, I rose the next morning with a
burning interest learn from you what had passed after
my flight, and with a power, peculiar to the stormiest pas-
sions, of an outward composure while I listened to the re-
cital. I saw that I was safe, and I heard, with a joy so
rapturous that I question whether even Isora's assent to
my love would have given me an equal transport, that she
had rejected you. I uttered some advice to you, common-
place enough, it displeased you, and we sej arated.
"Once only after your introduction to the cottage, did I
think of confiding to you my love and rivalship; you re-
member one night when we met by the castle cave, and
when your kindness touched and softened me, despite of
myself. The day after that night I sought you, with the
intention of communicating to you all; and while I was yet
struggling with my embarrassment, and the suffocating tide "That evening, to my surprise, I was privately visited
of my
emotions, you premeditated me, by giving me your by Montreuil. He had some designs in hand which brought
confidence. Engrossed with your own feelings, you were him from France into the neighbourhood, but which made
not observant of mine; and as you dwelt and dilated upon him desirous of concealment. He soon drew from me my
your love for Isora, all emotions, save those of agony and secret; it is marvellous, indeed, what power he had of
of fury, vanished from my breast. I did not answer you penetrating, ruling, moulding my feelings and my thoughts.
then at any length, for I was too agitated to trust to prolix He wished, at that time, a communication to be made and
speech; but by the next day I had recovered myself, and I a letter to be given, to Alvarez. I could not execute this
resolved, as far as I was able, to play the hypocrite. He commission personally, for you had informed me of your
cannot love her as I do!' I said; perhaps I may, without intention of watching if you could not discover or meet
disclosure of my rivalship, and without sin in the attempt, with Barnard, and I knew you were absent from home on
detach him from her by reason.' Fraught with this idea, I that very purpose. Nor was Montreuil himself desirous of
collected myself, sought you, remonstrated with you, incurring the risk of being seen by you,
you over whom,
represented the worldly folly of your love, and uttered sooner or later, he then trusted to obtain a power equal
all that prudence preaches, in vain, when it preaches to that which he held over your brothers. Gerald then was
against passion!
chosen to execute the commission. He did so,
he met
Alvarez for the first and the only time on the beach, by the
town of
You saw him, and imagined you beheld
-
M
"Let ine be brief. I saw that I made no impression on
you, I stifled my wrath, - I continued to visit and watch
Isora. I timed "my opportunities well, my constant
knowledge of your motions allowed me to do that; bosides,
I represented to the Spaniard the necessity, through polit-
ical motives, of concealing myself from you; hence, we
never encountered each other. One evening, Alvarez had
gone out to meet one of his countrymen and confederates.
I found Isora alone, in the most sequestered part of the
garden, her loveliness, and her exceeding gentleness of
manner, melted me.
For the first time audibly, my heart
spoke out, and I told her of my idolatry. Idolatry !—ay,
that is the only word, since it signifies both worship and
guilt! She heard me timidly, gently, coldly. She spoke,
and I found confirmed, from her own lips, what my rea-
son had before told me, that there was no hope for me.
The iron that entered, also roused my heart. Enough!
I cried, fiercely, you love this Morton Devereux, and for
him I am scorned." Isora blushed and trembled, and all
my senses fled from me. I scarcely know in what words my
rage and my despair clothed themselves; but I know that I
divulged myself to her, I know that I told her I was the
I know that I told her I was the
brother, the rival,
the enemy of the man she loved. I
know that I uttered the fiercest and the wildest menaces
and execrations, I know that my vehemence so over-
powered and terrified her that her mind was scarcely less
clouded, less lost, rather, than my own. At that mo-
ment your horse's hoofs were heard; Isora's eye bright-
ened, and her mien grew firm. He comes,' she said,
she said,
and he will protect me!'- Hark !' I said, sinking my
voice, and, as my drawn sword flashed in one hand, the
other grasped her arm with a savage forse,-hark, wo-
―
•
C
|
the real Barnard.
But I anticipate,- for you did not inform me of that oc-
currence, nor the inference you drew from it, till afterward.
You returned, however, after witnessing that meeting, and
for two days your passions (passions which, intense and
fierce as mine, show that, under similar circumstances, you
might have been equally guilty) terminated in fever. You
were confined to your bed for three or four days; mean-
while I took advantage of the event. Montreuil suggested
a plan which I readily embraced. I sought the Spaniard,
and told him in confidence that you were a suitor, - but a
suitor upon the most dishonorable terms, -to his daughter.
I told him, moreover, that you meant, in order to deprive
Isora of protection, and abate any obstacles resulting from
her pride, to betray Alvarez, whose schemes you had detected,
to the government. I told him that his best and most pru
dent, nay, his only chance of safety for Isora and himself,
was to leave his present home, and take refuge in the vast
mazes of the metropolis. I told him not to betray to you
his knowledge of your criminal intentions, lest might
needlessly exasperate you. I fumished aim wherewithal to
repay you the sum which you had lent him, and by which
you had commenced his acquaintance; and I dictated to
him the very terms of the note in which the sum was to be
inclosed. After this I felt happy. You were separated
from Isora,- she might forget you,
|
-you might forget her.
I was possessed of the secret of her father's present retreat,
-1 might seek it at my pleasure, and ultimately so
hope whispered prosper in my love.
Some time afterward you mentioned your suspicions ar
360
BULWER'S NOVELS.
son.
Gerald; I did not corroborate, but I did not seek to destroy
them. C
They already hate each other,' I said: can the
hate be greater? meanwhile, let it divert suspicion from
me!' Gerald knew the agency of the real Barnard, though
he did not know that I had assumed the name of that per-
When you taxed him with his knowledge of the man,
he was naturally confused. You interpreted that confusion
into the fact of being your rival, while in truth it arose
from his belief that you had possessed yourself of his polit-
ical schemes. Montreuil, who had lurked chiefly in the
islet opposite the castle cave,' had returned to France on
the same day that Alvarez repaired to London. Previous
to this, we had held some conferences together upon my
love. At first he had opposed and reasoned with it, but
startled and astonished by the intensity with which it pos-
sessed me, he gave way to any veheinence at last. I have
said that I had adopted his advice in one instance. The
fact of having received his advice, the advice of one so
pious, so free from human passion, -so devoted to one
object, which appeared to him the cause of religion,―ad-
vice, too, in a love so fiery and overwhelming;— that fact
made me think myself less criminal than I had done before.
He advised me yet further. Do not seek Isora,' he said,
till some time has elapsed, -till her new-born love for
your brother has died away, till the impression of fear
you have caused in her is somewhat effaced, — till time and
absence too have done their work in the mind of Morton,
and you will no longer have for your rival, not only a
brother, but a man of a fierce, resolute, and unrelenting
temper.'
he had so darkly perverted, repaired to London; and that
soon after my departure for the same place, Gerald and
Aubrey left Devereux Court in company with each other;
but Gerald, whom very trifling things diverted from any
project, however important, returned to Devereux Court,
to accomplish the prosecution of some rustic amour, with-
out even reaching London. Aubrey, on the contrary, had'
proceeded to the metropolis, sought the suburb in which
Alvarez lived, procured, in order to avoid any probable
chance of meeting me, a lodging in the same obscure quar-
ter, and had renewed his suit to Isora. The reader is al-
ready in possession of the ill success which attended it.
Aubrey had at last confessed his real name to the father.
The Spaniard was dazzled by the prospect of so honorable
an alliance for his daughter. From both came Isora's per-
secution, but in both was it resisted. But this has been
before said;* and passing over passages in the manuscript,
of the most stormy incoherence and the most gloomy pas-
sion, I come to what follows:
"I learnt then, from Desmarais, that you had takeu
away her and the dying father; that you had placed them
in a safe and honorable home. That man, so implicitly
the creature of Montreuil, or rather of his own interest,
with which Montreuil was identified, was easily induced to
betray you also to me,
till time and betray you also to me, me whom he imagined, moreover,
utterly the tool of the priest, and of whose torturing inter-
est, in this peculiar disclosure, he was not at that time.
aware. I visited Isora in her new abode, and again and
again she trembled beneath my rage. Then, for the second
time, I attempted_force. Ha! ha!
Ha ha! Morton! I think I
see you now!-I think I hear your muttered curse!
Curse on! When you read this, I shall be beyond your
vengeance, beyond human power. And yet I think if I
were mere clay,
were mere clay, if I were the mere senseless heap of
ashes that the grave covers, - if I were not the thing that
must live for ever, and for ever, far away in unimagined
worlds, where naught that has earth's life can come,
should tremble beneath the sod as your foot pressed, and
your execration rung over it. A second time I attempted
force, a second time I was repulsed by the same means,
"I yielded to this advice,—partly because it promised
so fair, partly because I was not systematically vicious, and
I wished, if possible, to do away with our rivalship; and
principally because I knew, in the mean while, that if I was
deprived of her presence, so also were you; and jealousy
with me was a far more intolerable and engrossing passion
than the very love from which it sprung. So time passed
on; you affected to have conquered your attachment; you
affected to take pleasure in levity, and the idlest pursuits of
worldly men. I saw deeper into your heart. For the mo-
ment Í entertained the passion of love in my own breast,
my eyes became gifted with a second vision to penetrate
the nost mysterious and hoarded secrets in the love of
others.
I
by a woman's hand and a woman's dagger. But I
knew that I had one hold over Isora from which, while
she loved you, I could never be driven: I knew that by
"Two circumstances of importance happened before you threatening your life, I could command her will, and ter-
left Devereux Court for London; the one was the introduc-rify her into compliance with my own. I made her reiter-
tion to your service of Jean Desmarais, the second was your
ate her vow of concealment; and I discovered, by some
breach with Montreuil. I speak now of the first. A A very
words dropping from her fear, that she believed you already
early friend did the priest possess, born in the same village suspected me, and had been withheld, by her entreaties,
as himself, and in the same rank of life; he had received a from seeking ine out. I questioned her more, and soon
good education, and possessed natural genius. At a time perceived that it was (as indeed I knew before) Gerald
when, from some fraud in a situation of trust which he had whom you suspected, not me; but I did not tell this to
held in a French nobleman's family, he was in destitute and Isora. I suffered her to cherish a mistake profitable to
desperate circumstances, it occurred to Montreuil to pro- my disguise; but I saw at once that it might betray me,
vide for him by placing him in our family. Some accidental if you ever met and conferred at length with Gerald upon
and frivolous remark of yours, which I had repeated in my this point; and I exacted from Isora a pledge that she
correspondence with Montreuil, as illustrative of your man- would effectually and for ever bind you not to breathe a
ner, and your affected pursuits at that time, presented an
When I had left the room, I
single suspicion to him.
opportunity to a plan before conceived. Desinarais came returned once more to warn her against uniting herself
to England in a smuggler's vessel, presented himself to you with you. Wretch, selfish, accursed wretch that you were,
as a servant, and was accepted. In this plan Montreuil why did you suffer her to transgress that warning?
had two views, first, that of securing Desmarais a place
in England, tolerably profitable to himself, and convenient
for any plot or scheine which Montreuil might require of
him in this country; secondly, that of setting a perpetual
and most adroit spy upon all
your motions.
"As to the second occurrence to which I have referred,
viz your breach with Montreuil
>>
Here Aubrey, with the same terrible distinctness which
had characterized his previous details, and which shed a
double horror over the contrast the darker and more
frantic passages in the manuscript, related what the reader
will remember Oswald had narrated before, respecting
the letter he had brought from Madame de Balzac. It
seems that Montreuil's abrupt appearance in the hall had
been caused by Desmarais, who had recognised Oswald, on
his dismounting at the gate, and had previously known that
he was in the employment of the Jansenistical intriguante,
Madame de Balzac.
Aubrey proceeded then to say that Montreuil, invested
with far more direct authority and power than he had been
hitherto, in the projects of that wise order whose doctrines
|
"I fled from the house, as à fiend flies from a being
whom he has possessed. I returned at night to look up at
the window, and linger by the door, and keep watch beside
the home which held Isora. Such, in her former abode,
had been my nightly wont. I had no evil thought or foul
intent in this customary vigil, -no, not one! Strangely
enough, with the tempestuous and overwhelming emotions
which constituted the greater part of my love, was mingled
mur,
though subdued and latent,- -a stream of the softest,
yea, I might add, almost of the holiest tenderness. Often
after one of those outpourings of rage, and menace, and
despair, I would fly to some quiet spot, and weep, till all
the hardness of my heart was wept away. And often in
those nightly vigils 1 would pause by the door and mur-
This shelter, denied not to the beggar and the beg-
gar's child, this would you dong to me, if you could dream
that I was so near you. And yet, had you loved me, in-
stead of lavishing upor me all your hatred and your con
terpt,hed you loved me, I would have served and
word "pped you as ma knows not worship or service.
Yo: s'adder at my velacice now,--- I could not then
* See page 297.
ad
DEVEREUX.
861
have breathed a whisper to wound you. You tremble now
at the fierceness of my breast, you would then rather
have marvelled at its softness.'
—
"I was already at my old watch when you encountered
me, you addressed me, I answered not, you approached
you approached
me, and I fled. Fled, there, there was the shame,
and the sting, and the goad of my sentiments toward you.
I am not naturally afraid of danger, though my nerves are
sometimes weak, and have sometimes shrunk from it. I
have known something of peril in late years, when my
frame has been bowed and broken, — peril by storms at
sea, and the knives of robbers upon land, and I have
looked upon it with a quiet eye. But you, Morton Deve-
reux, you I always feared. I had seen from your childhood
others, whose nature was far stronger than mine, yield and
recoil at yours, I had seen the giant and bold strength
of Gerald quail before your bent brow, I had seen even
the hardy pride of Montreuil baffled by your curled lip,
and the stern sarcasm of your glance, I had seen you,
too, in your wild moments of ungoverned rage, and I
knew that if earth held one whose passions were fiercer
than my own, it was you. But your passions were sus-
tained even in their fiercest excess, --your passions were
the mere weapons of your mind; my passions were the
tortures and the tyrants of mine. Your passions second-
ed your will; mine blinded and overwhelmed it. From
my infancy, even while I loved you most, you awed me;
and years, in deepening the impression, had made it in-
delible. I could not confront the thought of your know-
ing all, and of meeting you after that knowledge. And
this fear, while it unnerved me at some moments, at others
only maddened my ferocity the more by the stings of
shame and self-contempt.
"I fled from you,
-you pursued, you gained upon
me, you remember now how I was preserved. I dashed
through the inebriated revellers who obstructed your path,
and I gained my own lodging, which was close at hand;
for the same day on which I learned Isora's change of
residence I changed my own, in order to be near it.
Did I feel joy for my escape? No, I could have gnawed
the very flesh from my bones in the agony
of my shame.
'I could brave,' I said, 'I could threat, I could offer
violence to the woman who rejected me, and yet I could
not face the rival for whom I am scorned! At that
moment a resolution flashed across my mind, exactly as
if a train of living fire had been driven before it. Mor-
ton, I resolved to murder you, and in that very hour! A
pistol lay on my table,-I took it, concealed it about my
person, and repaired to the shelter of a large portico,
beside which I knew that you must pass to your own home
in the same street. Scarcely three minutes had elapsed
between the reaching my house, and the leaving it on this
errand. I knew, for I had heard swords clash, that you
would be detained some time in the street by the rioters;
I thought it probable also that you might still continue the
search for ine; and I knew even that, had you hastened at
once to your home, you could scarcely have reached it be-
fore I reached my shelter. I hurried on, I arrived at
the spot,
-I screened myself, and awaited your coming.
You came, borne in the arms of two men, others followed
in the rear, I saw your face destitute of the hue and
aspect of life, and your clothes streaming with blood. I
was horror-stricken. I joined the crowd, I learnt that
you had been stabbed, and it was feared mortally.
“I did not return home, no, I went into the fields,
and lay out all night, and lifted up my heart to God, and
wept aloud, and peace fell upon me, at least what was
peace compared to the tempestuous darkness which had
before reigned in my breast. The sight of you, bleeding
and insensible, you against whom I had harbored a fra-
tricide's purpose,
had stricken as it were the weapon
from my hand, and the madness from my mind. I shud-
dered at what I had escaped, — I blessed God for my de-
liverance; and with the gratitude and the awe came repen-
tance, and repentance brought a resolution to fly, since I
could not wrestle with my nighty and dread temptation:-
the moment that resolution was formed, it was as if an incu-
bus were taken from my breast. Even the next morning I
did not return home, my anxiety for you was such that I
forgot all caution, — I went to
I went to your house myself,
one of your servants to whom I was personally unknown
inquired respecting you and learnt that your wound had
VOL. I.
46
I saw
1
|
I
not been mortal, and that the servant had overheard one of
the medical attendants say you were not even in danger.
"At this news I felt the serpent stir again within me,
but I resolved to crush it at the first, I would not even
expose myself to the temptation of passing by Isora's
house, I went straight in search of my house,
mounted, and fled resolutely from the scene of my soul's
peril. I will go,' I said, to the home of our childhood,
I will surround myself by the mute tokens of the early
love which my brother bore me,-I will think, - while
penance and prayer cleanse my soul from its black guilt,
I will think that I am also making a sacrifice to that
brother.'
—
"I returned then to Devereux Court, and I resolved to
forego all hope, all persecution,
all persecution,- of Isora! My broth-
er, my heart yearns to you at this moment, even though
years and distance, and above all, my own crimes, place a
gulf between us which I may never pass, it yearns to
you when I think of those quiet shades, and the scenes
where, pure and unsullied, we wandered together, when
life was all verdure and freshness, and we dreamt not of
what was to come! If even now my heart yearns to you,
Morton, when I think of that home and those days, be-
lieve that it had some softness and some mercy for you
then. Yes, I repeat, I resolved to subdue my own emo-
tions, and interpose no longer between Isora and yourself
Full of this determination, and utterly melted toward you,
I wrote you a long letter, such as we would have written
to each other in our first youth. Two days after that let-
ter, all my new purposes were swept away, and the whole
soil of evil thoughts which they had covered, not de-
stroyed, rose again as the tide flowed from it, black and
rugged as before.
66
The very night on which I had writ that letter, came
Montreuil secretly to my chamber. He had been accus-
tomed to visit Gerald by stealth, and at sudden moments;
and there was something almost supernatural in the man-
ner in which he seemed to pass from place to place, unmo-
lested and unseen. He had now conceived a villanous
project: and he had visited Devereux Court in order to
ascertain the likelihood of its success; he there found that
it was necessary to involve me in his scheme. My uncle's
physician had said privately that Sir William could not
live many months longer. Either from Gerald or my
mother, Montreuil learned this fact; and he was resolved, if
possible, that the family estates should not glide from all
chance of his influence over them into your possession.
Montreuil was literally as poor as the rigid law of his or-
der enjoins its disciples to be; all his schemes required the
disposal of large sums, and in no private source could he
hope for such pecuniary power as he was likely to find in
the coffers of any member of our family, -yourself only
excepted. It was this man's boast to want, and yet to
command, all things; and he was now determined that if
any craft, resolution, or guilt, could occasion the transfer
of my uncle's wealth from you to Gerald or to myself, it
should not be wanting.
"Now then he found the advantage of the dissension
with each other, which he had either sown or mellowed
in our breasts. He came to turn those wrathful thoughts,
which when he last saw me I had expressed toward you,
to the favor and success of his design.
He found my
mind strangely altered, but he affected to applaud the
change. He questioned me respecting my uncle's health,
and I told him what had really occurred, viz. that my un-
cle had, on the preceding day, read over to me some part
of a will which he had just made, and in which the vast
bulk of his property was bequeathed to you. At this news
Montreuil must have perceived at once the necessity of
winning my consent to his project, for, since I had seen
the actual testament, no fraudulent transfer of the property
therein bequeathed could take place without my knowledge
that some fraud had been recurred to. Montreuil knew
me well, be knew that avarice, that pleasure, that am-
bition, were powerless words with me, producing no effect
and affording no temptation; but he knew that passion,
jealousy, spiritual terrors, were the springs that moved
every part and nerve of my moral being. The two for-
mer, then, he now put into action, the last he held back
in reserve. He spoke to me no further upon the subject he
had then at heart; not a word further on the disposition of
the estates, he spoke to me only of Isora and of your he
BULWER'S NOVELS.
—
aroused, by hint and insinuation, the new sleep into which
all those emotions the furies of the heart had been
for a moment lulled. He told me he had lately seen Isora,
he dwelt glowingly on her beauty, - he commended my
heroism in resigning her to a brother whose love for her
was little in comparison to mine, who had, in reality,
never loved me, whose jest and irony had been levelled
no less at myself than at others. He painted your person
and your mind, in contrast to my own, in colors so
covertly depreciating as to irritate more and more, that
vanity with which jealousy is so woven, and from which,
perhaps, (a Titan son of so feeble a parent,) it is born.
He hung lingeringly over all the treasure that you would
enjoy, — and that I — I, the first discoverer, had so nobly,
and so generously relinquished.
-
C
"Relinquished!' I cried, no, I was driven from it,
I left it not while a hope of possessing it remained.' The
priest affected astonishment. -How! was I sure of that?
I had, it is true, wooed Isora; but would she, even if she
had felt no preference for Morton, would she have surren-
uered the heir to a princely wealth for the humble love of
the younger son? I did not know women, with them all
love was either wantonness, custom, or pride, it was the
last principle that swayed Isora. Had I sought to enlist it
on my side?
not at all. Again, I had only striven to
detach Isora from Morton; had I ever attempted the much
easier task of detaching Morton from Isora? No, never;'
and Montreuil repeated his panegyric on my generous sur-
render of my rights. I interrupted him; I had not sur-
I had not sur-
rendered, I never would surrender while a hope remained.
But, where was that hope, and how was it to be realized ?'
After much artful prelude, the priest explained. He pro-
posed to use every means to array against your union with
Isora, all motives of ambition, interest, and aggrandize-
ment. 'I know Morton's character,' said he, to its very
depths. His chief virtue is honor,-his chief principle is
ambition. He will not attempt to win this girl otherwise
than by marriage, for the very reasons that would induce
most men to attempt it, viz. her unfriended state, her pov-
erty, her confidence in him, and her love, or that semblance,
of love, which he believes to be the passion itself. This
virtue, I call it so, though it is none, for there is no virtue
but religion, this virtue then will place before him only
two plans of conduct, either to marry her or to forsake her.
Now then, if we can bring his ambition, that great lever of
his conduct, in opposition to the first alternative, only the
last remains ; I that we can employ that engine in your
say
behalf, leave it to me, and I will do so. Then, Aubrey,
in the moment of her pique, her resentment, her out-
raged vanity, at being thus left, you shall appear: not as
have hitherto done, in menace and terror, but soft,
subdued, with looks all love, with vows all penitence,
vindicating all your past vehemence by the excess of your
passion, and promising all future tenderness by the influ-
ence of the same motive, the motive which to a woman
pardons every error, and hallows every crime. Then will
she contrast your love with your brother's, then will the
scale fall from her eyes, then will she see what hitherto
she has been blinded to, that your brother, to yourself, is a
satyr to Hyperion, then will she blush and falter, and
hide her cheek in your bosom.'-' Hold, hold!' I cried;
'do with me what you will, counsel, and I will act !'"
Here again the manuscript was defaced by a sudden
burst of execration upon Montreuil, followed by ravings
that gradually blackened into the most gloomy and inco-
herent outpourings of madness; at length, the history pro-
ceeded.
you
ל
"You wrote to ask me to sound our uncle on the subject
of your intended marriage. Montreuil drew up my answer,
and I constrained myself, despite my revived hatred to you,
to transcribe its expressions of affection; my uncle wrote
to you also: and we strengthened his dislike to the step you
had proposed, by hints from myself disrespectful to Isora,
and an anonymous communication dated from London, and
to the same purport. All this while I knew not that
Isora had been in your house; your answer to my letter
seemed to imply that you would not disobey my uncle.
Montreuil, who was still lurking in the neighbourhood, and
who, at night, privately met or sought me, affected exulta-
tion at the incipient success of his advice. He pretended
to receive perpetual intelligence of your motions and con-
duct, and he informed me now that Isora had come to your
|
house on hearing of your wound; that you had not (agree.
ably, Montreuil added, to his view of your character)
taken advantage of her indiscretion; that immediately on
receiving your uncle's and my own letters, you had sepa
rated yourself from her; and that, though you still visited
her, it was apparently with a view of breaking off all con
nexion by gradual and gentle steps; at all events, you had
taken no measures toward marriage. Now then,' said
Montreuil, for one finishing stroke, and the prize is yours.
Your uncle cannot, you find, live long could he but be per-
suaded to leave his property to Gerald or to you, with only
a trifling legacy (comparatively speaking) to Morton, that
wordly-minded and enterprising person would be utterly
prevented from marrying a penniless and unknown for-
eigner. Nothing but his own high prospects, so utterly
above the necessity of fortune in a wife, can excuse such a
measure now, even to his own mind; if therefore, we can
effect this transfer of property, and in the meanwhile pre-
vent Morton from marrying, your rival is gone for ever, and
with his brilliant advantages of wealth, will also vanish
his merits in the eyes of Isora. Do not be startled at this
thought; there is no vice in it; I, your confessor, your tutor,
the servant of God, am the last person to counsel, to hint
even, at what is criminal; but the end sanctifies all means.
By transferring this vast property you do not only insure
object, but you advance the great cause of kings, the church,
and of the religion which presides over both. Wealth, in
Morton's possession, will be useless to this cause, perhaps
pernicious: in your hands or in Gerald's, it will be of in-
estimable service. Wealth produced from the public should
be applied to the uses of the public, yea, even though a
petty injury to one individual be the price.'
"Thus, and in this manner, did Montreuil prepare my
mind for the step he meditated; but I was not yet ripe for
it. So inconsistent is guilt, that I could commit murder,
wrong -almost all villany that passion dictated, but I
was struck aghast by the thought of fraud. Montreuil per-
ceived that I was not yet wholly his, and his next plan was
to remove me from a spot where I might check his meas.
ures. He persuaded me to travel for a few weeks.
· On
your return,' said he, consider Isora yours; meanwhile,
let change of scene beguile suspense.' I was passive in his
hands, and I went whither he directed.
your
my
"Let me be brief here on the black fraud that ensued.
Among the other arts of Jean Desmarais, was that of
copying exactly any handwriting. He was then in Lon-
don, in your service: Montreuil sent for him to come to
the neighbourhood of Devereux Court. Meanwhile, the
priest had procured from the notary who had drawn up,
and who now possessed, the will of my unsuspecting uncle,
that document. The notary had been long known to, and
sometimes politically employed by, Montreuil, for he was
half-brother to that Oswald, whom I have before mentioned
as the early comrade of the priest and Desmarais. This
circumstance, it is probable, first induced Montreuil to con-
template the plan of a substituted will. Before Desmarais
arrived, in order to copy those parts of the will which
uncle's humor had led him to write in his own hand, you,
alarmed by a letter from my uncle, came to the Court, and
on the same day Sir William (taken ill the preceding even-
ing) died. Between that day and the one on which the fu
neral occurred, the will was copied by Desmarais; only Ger-
ald's name was substituted for yours, and the forty thousand
a sum equal to tliat bestowed on my-
pounds left to him,
self, was cut down into a legacy of twenty thousand
pounds to you. Less than this, Montreuil dared not insert
as the bequest to you; and it is possible that the same regard
to probabilities prevented all mention of himself in the sub-
stituted will. This was all the alteration inade. My uncle's
writing was copied exactly; and, save the departure from
his apparent intentions in your favor, I believe not a parti-
cle in the effected fraud was calculated to excite suspicion.
Immediately on the reading of the will, Montreuil repaired
to me, and confessed what had taken place.
CC C
M
Aubrey,' he said, 'I have done this for your sake
partly; but I have had a much higher end in view than even
your happiness, or my affectionate wishes to promote it. I
live solely for one object,- the aggrandizement of that
holy order to which I belong; the schemes of that order are
devoted only to the interests of heaven, and by serving
them, I serve heaven itself. Aubrey, child of my adoption
and of my earthly hopes, those schemes require carnal in-
struments, and work, even through mammon, unto the goa.
DEVEREUX.
363
I
he said, has betrayed all; he drew me aside and told me
So. Harkye, Jean," he whispered, "harkye, — your
master has my brother's written confession, and the real
will; but I have provided for your safety, and if he pleases
it, for Montreuil's. The packet is not to be opened till
the seventh day, fly before then.” But I know,' added
Desmarais,
Desmarais, where the packet is placed;' and he took
Montreuil aside, and for a while I heard not what they
said; but I did overhear Desmarais at last, and I learnt
that it was your bridal night !
of righteousness. What I have done is just before God | rais; he came in terror and alarm. The villain Oswald,
and man. I have wrested a weapon from the hand of an
enemy, and placed it in the hand of an ally. I have not
touched one atom of this wealth, though, with the saine ease
with which I have transferred it from Morton to Gerald, I
might have made my own private fortune. I have not
touched one atom of it; nor for you, whom I love more
than any living being, have I done what my heart dictated.
might have caused the inheritance to pass to you. I have
not done so. Why? Because, then, I should have con-
sulted a selfish desire at the expense of the interests of
mankind. Gerald is fitter to be the tool those interests re-
quire than you are.
Gerald I have made that tool. You,
too, I have spared the pangs which your conscience, so pe-
culiarly, so morbidly acute, might suffer at being selected
as the instrument of a seeming wrong to Morton. All
required of you is silence. If your wants ever ask more
than your legacy, you have, as I have, a claim to that wealth
which your pleasure allows Gerald to possess. Meanwhile,
let us secure to you that treasure dearer to you than gold.'
"If Montreuil did not quite blind me by speeches of this
nature, my engrossing, absorbing passion, required little
to make it cling to any hope of its fruition. I assented,
therefore, though not without many previous struggles, to
Montreuil's project, or rather to his concealment; nay, I
wrote some time after, at his desire, and his dictation, a
letter to you, stating feigned reasons for my uncle's altera-
tion of former intentions, and exonerating Gerald from all
connivance in that alteration, or abetment in the fraud you
professed that it was your open belief had been committed.
This was due to Gerald; for, at that time, and for aught I
know, at the present, he was perfectly unconscious by what
means he had attained his fortune; he believed that your
love for Isora had given my uncle offence, and hence your
disinheritance; and Montreuil took effectual care to exas-
perate him against you, by dwelling on the malice which
your suspicions and your proceedings against him so glar-
ingly testified. Whether Montreuil really thought you
would give over all intention of marrying Isora upon your
reverse of fortune, which is likely enough, from his estimate
of your character, or whether he only wished, by any
means, to obtain my acquiescence in a measure important
to his views, I know not, but he never left me, nor ever
ceased to sustain my fevered and unhallowed hopes, from
the hour in which he first communicated to me the fraudu-
lent substitution of the will, till we repaired together to
London. This we did not do so long as he could detain me
in the country, by assurances that I should ruin all by ap-
pearing before Isora until you had entirely deserted her.
p
M
"Morton, hitherto I have written as if my veins were
filled with water, instead of the raging fire that flows
through them until it reaches my brain, and there it stops,
and eats away all things, —even memory, that once seemed
eternal! Now I feel as I approach the consummation of
-ha, — of what, ay, of what? Brother, did you ever,
when you thought yourself quite alone, at night,- not a
breath stirring, did you ever raise your eyes, and see ex-
actly opposite to you, à devil! a dread thing, that moves
not, speaks not, but glares upon you with a fixed, dead,
unrelenting eye-that thing is before me now, and wit-
nesses every word I write. But it deters me not! no, nor
terrifies me. I have said that I would fulfil this task, and
I have nearly done it; though at times the gray cavern
yawned, and I saw its rugged walls stretch, stretch
away, on either side, until they reached hell; and there I
beheld, but I will not tell you, till we meet there!
I am calra again, read on.
Now
"We could not discover Isora, nor her home; perhaps
the priest took care that it should be so; for, at that time,
what with his devilish whispers and my own heart, I often
scarcely knew what I was, or what I desired; and I sat for
hours and gazed upon the air, and it seemed so soft and still
that I longed to make an opening in my forehead that it
might enter there, and so cool and quiet the dull, throbbing,
scorching anguish that lay like molten lead in my brain;
at length we found the house. To-morrow,' said the abbe,
and he shed tears over me,
for there were times when
that hard man did feel, -to-morrow, my child, thou
shalt see her, but be soft and calm.' The morrow came;
but Montreuil was pale, paler than I had ever seen him,
and he gazed upon me and said, 'Not to-day, son, not to-
day; she has gone out, and will not return till nightfall.'
My brother, the evening came, and with it came Desma-
"What felt I then? The same tempestuous fury, the
same whirlwind and storm of heart that I had felt before,
at the mere anticipation of such an event? No; I felt a
bright ray
of joy flash through me. Yes, joy; but it was
that joy which a conqueror feels when he knows his mortal
foe is in his power, and when he dooms that enemy to
death.
death. They shall perish, and on this night,' I said
inly. I have sworn it, I swore to Isora that the bridal
couch should be stained with blood, and I will keep the
oath!' I approached the pair, they were discussing
the means for obtaining the packet. Montreuil urged
Desmarais to purloin it from the place where you had de-
posited it, and then to abscond; but to this plan Desma-
rais was vehemently opposed. He insisted that there
would be no possible chance of his escape from a search so
scrutinizing as that which would necessarily ensue, and he
was evidently resolved not alone to incur the danger of the
theft. The count,' said he,
said he, saw that I was present
when he put away the packet. Suspicion will fall solely
on me. Whither should I fly? No, I will serve you
with my talents, but not with my life.' • Wretch !' said
Montreuil, if that packet is opened, thy life is already
gone.' Yes,' said Desmarais; but we may yet pur-
loin the papers, and throw the guilt upon some other quar-
ter. What if I admit you when the count is abroad?
What if you steal the packet, and carry away other arti-
cles of more seeming value? What, too, if you wound
me in the arm or breast, and I coin some terrible tale of
robbers, and of my resistance, could we not manage then
to throw suspicion upon common house-breakers,
nay,
could we not throw it upon Oswald himself? Let us
silence that traitor by death, and who shall contradict our
tale? No danger shall attend this plan. I will give you
the key of the escritoire, the theft will not be the work
of a noment.' Montreuil at first demurred to this propo-
sal, but Desmarais was, I repeat, resolved not to incur the
danger of the theft alone; the stake was great, and it was
not Moutreuil's nature to shrink from peril, when once it
became necessary to confront it. "Be it so," he said at
last,
last, though the scheme is full of difficulty and of danger :
be it so. We have not a day to lose. To-morrow the
count will place the document in some place of greater
safety, and unknown to us, — the deed shall be done to-
night.
night. Procure the key of the escritoire, — admit me
this night, I will steal disguised into the chamber, — I
will commit the act from which you, who alone could com-
mit it with safety, shrink. Instruct me exactly as to
the place where the articles you speak of are placed: I
will abstract them also. See, that if the count wake, he
has no weapon at hand. Wound yourself, as you say, in
some place not dangerous to life, and to-morrow, or within
an hour after my escape, tell what tale you will. I will
go, meanwhile, at once to Oswald; I will either bribe his
silence -ay, and his immediate absence from England—
or he shall die. death that secures our own self-preserva-
tion is excusable in the reading of all law, divine or hu-
man!'
—
"I heard, but they deemed me insensible: they had al-
ready begun to grow unheeding of my presence. Mon-
treuil saw me, and his countenance grew soft. 'I know
all,' I said, as I caught his eye which looked on me in
pity, I know all, they are married. Enough! with
my hope ceases my love: care not for me.
"Montreuil embraced and spoke to me in kindness and
in praise. He assured me that you had kept your wed-
ding so close a secret that he knew it not, nor did even
Desmarais, till the evening before,
till after he had pro-
posed that I should visit Isora that very day. I know not,
I care not, whether he was sincere in this. In whatever
way one line in the dread scroll of his conduct be read,
the scroll was written in guile, and in blood was it sealed.
I appeared not to notice Montreuil or his accomplice any
364
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Montreuil stole | though I had found the unrelenting foe and the escaped mur
derer of Isora, the object of the execration and vindic-
tiveness of years, not one single throb of wrath, not one
single sentiment of vengeance was in my breast. I passed
at once to the bedside of my brother; he was awake, but
still and calm, the calm and stillness of exhausted nature.
I knelt down quietly beside him. I took his hand, and I
shrunk not from the touch, though by that hand the only
woman I ever loved had perished.
more. The latter left the house first.
forth, as he thought, unobserved; he was masked, and in
complete disguise. I, too, went forth.
too, went forth. I hastened to a
shop, where such things were to be procured; I purchased
a mask and a cloak similar to the priest's. I had heard
Montreuil agree with Desmarais that the door of the house
should be left ajar, in order to give greater facility to the
escape of the former; I repaired to the house in time to
see Montreuil enter it. A strange, sharp sort of cunning,
which I had never known before, ran through the dark confu-
sion of my mind. I waited for a minute, till it was likely
that Montreuil had gained your chamber: I then pushed
open the door, and ascended the stairs. I met no one,-
the moonlight fell around me, and its rays seemed to me
like ghosts, pale and shrouded, and gazing upon me with
wan and lustreless eyes. I know not how I found your
chamber, but it was the only one I entered. I stood in the
same room with Isora and yourself, -ye lay in sleep,
Isora's face
O God! I know no more, no more of
that night of horror, -save that I fled from the house reek-
ing with blood,—a murderer,—and the murderer of Isora !
Then came a long, long dream. I was in a sea of
blood, blood-red was the sky, and one still, solitary star
that gleamed far away with a sickly and wan light, was
the only spot, above and around, which was not of the
same intolerable dye. And I thought my eyelids were cut
off, as those of the Roman consul are said to have been,
and I had nothing to shield my eyes from that crimson light,
and the rolling waters of that unnatural sea. And the red
air burnt through my eyes into my brain, and then that
also, methought, became blood; and all memory, all
images of memory, all idea, — wore a material shape
and a material color, and were blood, too. Every thing
was unutterably silent, except when my own shrieks rang
over the shoreless ocean, as I drifted on. At last I fixed
my eyes, the eyes which I might never close, upon
that pale and single star; and after I had gazed a little
while, the star seemed to change slowly slowly,—until it
grew like the pale face of that murdered girl, and then it
vanished utterly, and all was blood.
"Look up, Aubrey!" said I, struggling with tears which,
despite of my most earnest effort, came over me; "look
up, all is forgiven. Who on earth shall withhold pardon
from a crime which on earth has been so awfully punished?
Look up, Aubrey; I am your brother, and I forgive you.
You are right, -my childhood was harsh and fierce; and
had you feared me less you might have confided in me, and
you would not have sinned and suffered as you have done
now. Fear me no longer. Look up, Aubrey, it is Morton
who calls you. Why do you not speak? My brother, my
brother, - a word, a single word, I implore you
For one moment did Aubrey raise his eyes,
ment did he meet mine. His lips quivered wildly, -I
heard the death-rattle, he sunk back, and his hand
dropped from my clasp. My words had snapped asunder
the last chord of life. Merciful heaven! I thank thee that
those words were the words of pardon !
CHAPTER V.
one mo-
In which the history makes a great stride toward the final catas
trophe. The return to England, and the visit to a devotee.
After
AT night, and in the thrilling forms of the Catholic
ritual, was Aubrey Devereux consigned to earth.
that ceremony I could linger no longer in the vicinity of
the hermitage. I took leave of the abbot, and richly en-
dowed his convent in return for the protection it had afford-
ed to the anchorite and the masses which had been said for
his soul. Before I left Anselmo, I questioned him if any
friend to the hermit had ever, during his seclusion, held any
communication with the abbot respecting him. Anselmo,
after a little hesitation, confessed that a man, a French-
man, seemingly of no high rank, had several times visited
the convent, as if to scrutinize the habits and life of the an-
chorite; he had declared himself commissioned by the her-
mit's relatives to make inquiry of him from time to time;
but he had given the abbot no clue to discover himself,
though Anselmo had especially hinted at the expediency of
being acquainted with some quarter to which he could
direct any information of change in the hermit's habits or
health. This man had been last at the convent about two
months before the present date; but one of the brothers de-
very day on which the hermit died. The description of
this stranger was essentially different from that which
would have been given of Montreuil, but I imagined that if
not the abbé himself, the stranger was one in his confi-
dence or his employ.
This vision was sometimes broken, - sometimes varied
by others, but it always returned; and when at last I
completely woke from it, I was in Italy, in a convent.
Montreuil had lost no time in removing me from England.
But once, shortly after my recovery, for I was mad for
many months, he visited me, and he saw what a wreck
I had become. He pitied me; and when I told him I
longed above all things for liberty, for the green earth
and the fresh air, and a removal from that gloomy abode,
he opened the convent gates, and blessed me, and bade ine
go forth.
All I require of you,' said he, is a promise.
If it is understood that you live, you will be persecuted by
inquiries and questions, which will terminate in a convic-
tion of your crime: let it therefore be reported in England
that you are dead. Consent to the report, and promiseclared that he had seen him in the vicinity of the well on the
never to quit Italy, or to see Morton Devereux.
"I promised,—and that promise I have kept; but I
promised not that I would never reveal to you, in writing,
the black tale which I have now recorded. May it reach
you. There is one in this vicinity who has promised to
bear it to you; he says he has known misery, and when
he said so, his voice sounded in my ear like yours; and I
looked upon him, and thought his features were cast some-
what in the same mould as your own so I have trusted
him. I have now told all. I have wrenched the secret
from my heart in agony and with fear.
and with fear. I have told all,
though things, which I believe are fiends, have started forth
from the grim walls around to forbid it, though dark
wings have swept by me, and talons, as of a bird, have at-
tempted to tear away the paper on which I write, — though
eyes, whose light was never drunk from earth, have glared
on me, and mocking voices and horrible laughter have
made my flesh creep, and thrilled through the marrow of
my bones, I have told all, I have finished my last
labor in this world, and I will now lie down and die.
AUBREY DEVEREUX.'
The paper dropped from my hands. Whatever I had
felt in reading it, I had not flinched once from the task.
From the first word even to the last, I had gone through
the dreadful tale, nor uttered a syllable, nor moved a limb.
And now as I rose, though I had found the being who to
me had withered this world into one impassable desert,
I now repaired to Rome, where I made the most exten-
sive, though guarded, inquiries after Montreuil, and at
length I learnt that he was lying concealed, or rather unno-
ticed, in England, under a disguised name; having, by
friends, or by money, obtained therein a tacit connivance,
though not an open pardon. No sooner did I learn this in-
telligence, than I resolved forthwith to depart to that coun-
try. I crossed the Alps, traversed France, and took ship
at Calais for Dover.
Behold me then upon the swift seas, bent upon a double
purpose, reconciliation with a brother whom I had
wronged, and vengeance, no, not vengeance, but justice,
against the criminal I had discovered! No! it was not
revenge, it was no infuriate, no unholy desire of inflict-
ing punishment upon a personal foe, which possessed me,
it was a steady, calin, unwavering resolution, to obtain
justice against the profound and systematized guilt of a
villain who had been the bane of all who had come within
his contact, that nerved my arm and engrossed my heart.
Bear witness, heaven, I am not a vindictive man! I have,
it is true, been extreme in hatred, as in love; but I have
ever had the power to control myself from yielding to
its impulse. When the full persuasion of Gerald's crime
DEVEREUX.
365
reigned within me, I had thralled my emotion, I had curb-
ed it within the circle of my own heart, though there, thus
pent and self-consuming, it was an agony and a torture; I
had resisted the voice of that blood which cried from the
earth against a murderer, and which had consigned the
solemn charge of justice to my hands. Year after year I
had nursed an unappeased desire; nor ever, when it stung
the most, suffered it to become an actual revenge. I had
knelt in tears and in softness by Aubrey's bed, I had
poured forth my pardon over him, I had felt, while I did
so, no, not so much sternness as would have slain a worm.
By his hand had the murderous stroke been dealt, — on his
soul was the crimson stain of that blood which had flowed
through the veins of the gentlest and the most innocent of
God's creatures, and yet the blow was unavenged and
the crime forgiven. For him there was a palliative, or
even a gloomy but an unanswerable excuse. In the con-
fession which had so terribly solved the mystery of my life,
the seeds of that curse, which had grown at last into
MADNESS, might be discovered even in the first dawn of
Aubrey's existence. The latent poison might be detected
in the morbid fever of his young devotion, in his jealous
cravings of affection, in the first flush of his ill-omened
love, even before rivalship and wrath began. Then, too,
his guilt had not been regularly organized into one cold and
deliberate system,
-it broke forth in impetuous starts, in
frantic paroxysms,
it was often wrestled with, though
by a feeble mind, it was often conquered by a tender,
though a fitful temper, it might not have rushed into the
last and most awful crime, but for the damning instigation
and the atrocious craft of one, who (Aubrey rightly said)
could wield and mould the unhappy victim at his will.
Might not, did I say? Nay, but for Montreuil's accursed
influence, had I not Aubrey's own word that that crime
never would have been committed? He had resolved to
stifle his love, his heart had already melted to Isora and
he had already tasted the sweets of a virtuous
resolution, and conquered the first bitterness of opposition
to his passion. Why should not the resolution, thus aus-
piciously begun, have been mellowed into effect? Why
should not the grateful and awful remembrance of the crime
he had escaped continue to preserve him from meditating
crime anew? And (O, thought, which, while I now
write, steals over me and brings with it an unutterable
horde of emotions!) but for that all-tainting, all-withering
influence, Aubrey's soul might at this moment have been
pure from murder, and Isora, the living Isora, — by my
to me,
side!
in that sin; and my indignation became mixed with horror
when I saw Montreuil working to that end of fraud by the
instigation not only of a guilty and unlawful passion, but
of the yet inore unnatural and terrific engine of frenzy,
of a maniac's despair. Over the peace the happiness
the honor the virtue of a whole family, through fraud
and through blood, this priest had marched onward to the
goal of his icy and heartless ambition, unrelenting and
unrepenting; but not," I said, as I clenched my hand
till the nails met in the flesh, "not for ever unchecked and
unrequited!"
—
But in what manner was justice to be obtained? A pub-
lic court of law? What! drag forward the deep dishonor
of my house, the gloomy and convulsive history of
my departed brother, his crime and his insanity? What!
bring that history, connected as it was with the fate of
Isora, before the curious, and the insolent gaze of the bab-
bling world? Bare that awful record to the jests, to the
scrutiny, the marvel and the pity, of that most coarse of
all tribunals -an English court of law? and that most
torturing of all exposures -the vulgar comments of an
English public? Could I do this? Yea, in the sternness
of my soul, I felt that I could submit even to that humilia-
tion, if no other way presented itself by which I could
arrive at justice. Was there no other way?— at that
question conjecture paused, I formed no scheme, or
rather, I forined a hundred, and rejected them all; my mind
settled, at last, into an indistinct, unquestioned, but proph-
etic resolution, that, whenever my path crossed Montre-
uil's, it should be to the destruction of one of us. I asked
not how, nor when, the blow was to be dealt; I felt only a
solemn and exultant certainty that, whether it borrowed
the sword of the law, or the weapon of private justice,
mine should be the hand which brought retribution to the
ashes of the dead and the agony of the survivor.
So soon as my mind had subsided into this determina-
tion, I suffered my thoughts to dwell upon subjects less
sternly agitating. Fondly did I look forward to a meeting
with Gerald, and a reconciliation of all our early and most
frivolous disputes. As an atonement for the injustice my
suspicions had done him, I resolved not to reclaim my in-
heritance. My fortune was already ample, and all that I
cared to possess of the hereditary estates were the ruins of
the old house, and the copses of the surrounding park ;
these Gerald would, in all likelihood, easily yield to me;
and, with the natural sanguineness of my temperament, I
already planned the reconstruction of the ancient building,
and the method of that solitary life in which I resolved that
the remainder of my years should be spent.
Turning from this train of thought, I recurred to the mys-
terious and sudden disappearance of Oswald: that I was
now easily able to account for. There could be no doubt
but that Montreuil had, (immediately after the murder,) as
he declared he would, induced Oswald to quit England, and
preserve silence, either by bribery or by threats. And
when I recalled the impression which the man had made
upon me, -an impression certainly not favorable to the
exaltation or the rigid honesty of his mind, I could not
but imagine that one or the other of these means Montreuil
found far from difficult of success. The delirious fever into
which the wounds and the scenes of that night had thrown
me, and the long interval that consequently elapsed before
inquiry was directed to Oswald, gave him every opportu
nity and indulgence in absenting himself from the country,
and it was not improbable that he had accompanied Aubrey
to Italy.
What wonder, as these thoughts came over me, that
sense, feeling, reason, gradually shrunk and hardened into
one stern resolve? I looked as from a height over the
whole conduct of Montreuil: I saw him in our early infan-
cy with (beyond the general policy of intrigue) no definite
motive, no fixed design, which might somewhat have les-
sened the callousness of the crime, not only fomenting dis-
sensions in the hearts of brothers, not only turning the
season of warm affections and yet of unopened passion into
strife and rancor, but seizing upon the inherent and
reigning vice of our bosoms, which he should have scized
to crush, in order only by that master-vice to weave our
characters and sway our conduct to his will, whenever a
cool-blooded and merciless policy required us to be of that
will the minions and the tools. Thus had he taken hold
of the diseased jealousy of Aubrey, and by that handle,
joined to the latent spring of superstition, guided him, on
his wretched course of misery and guilt. Thus, by a
moral irresolution in Gerald had he bowed him also to his Here I paused, in deep acknowledgment of the truth of
purposes, and by an infantine animosity between that bro- Aubrey's assertion, that, "under similar circumstances, I
ther and myself, held us both in a state of mutual hatred might perhaps have been equally guilty." My passions had
which I shuddered to recall. Readily could I now perceive indeed been intense and fierce as his own; and there
my charges or my suspicions against Gerald, which, was a dread coincidence in the state of mind into which
in ordinary circumstances, he might have dispassionately each of us had been thrown by the event of that night, which
come forward to disprove, had been represented to him by made the epoch of a desolated existence to both of us; if
Montreuil in the light of groundless and wilful insults; and mine had been but a passing delirium, and his a confirmed
thus he had been led to scorn that full and cool explanation and lasting disease of the intellect, the causes of our mal-
which, if it had not elucidated the mystery of my allic-ady had been widely different. He had been the criminal
tions, would have removed the false suspicion of guilt-I only the sufferer.
from himself, and the real guilt of wrath and animosity
from me.
that
The crime of the forged will, and the outrage to the
dead and to myself, was a link in his woven guilt which I
regarded the least. I looked rather to the black and the
consummate craft by which Aubrey had been implicated
|
>>
How
Thus as I leaned over the deck, and the waves bore me
homeward, after so many years and vicissitudes, did. the
shadows of thought and memory flit across me.
seemingly apart, yet how closely linked, had been the great
events in my wandering and wild life. My early acquain
ance with Bolingbroke, whom for more than nine yours
366
BULWER'S NOVELS.
had not seen, and who, at a superficial glance, would seem
to have exercised influence over my public, rather than my
private, life, how secretly, yet how powerfully had that
circumstance led even to the very thoughts which now pos-
sessed me, and to the very object on which I was now
bound. But for that circumstance, I might not have learnt
of the retreat of Don Diego D'Alvarez in his last illness;
I might never have renewed my love to Isora; and what-
ever had been her fate, destitution and poverty would have
been a less misfortune than her union with me. But for
my friendship for Bolingbroke, I might not have visited
France, nor gained the favor of the regent, nor the ill
offices of Dubois, nor the protection and kindness of the
czar. I might never have been ambassador at the court of
nor met with Bezoni, nor sought an asylum for a
spirit sated with pomp, and thirsting for truth, at the foot
of the Apennines, nor read that history (which, indeed,
might then never have occurred) that now rankled at my
heart, urging my movements and coloring my desires.
Thus, by the finest, but the strongest, meshes, had the
thread of my political honors been woven with that of my
private afflictions. And thus, even at the licentious festi-
vals of the regent of France, or the lifeless parade of the
court of
the dark stream of events had flowed on-
ward beneath my feet, bearing me insensibly to that very
spot of time, from which I now surveyed the past, and
looked upon the mist and shadows of the future.
Adverse winds made the little voyage across the channel
a business of four days. On the evening of the last we
landed at Dover. Within thirty miles of that town was my
mother's retreat; and I resolved, before I sought a recon-
ciliation with Gerald, or justice against Montreuil, to visit
her seclusion. Accordingly, the next day, I repaired to
her abode.
What a contrast is there between the lives of human
beings! Considering the beginning and the end of all mor-
tal careers are the same, how wonderfully is the interval
varied! Some, the weeds of the world, dashed from shore
to shore, all vicissitude, - enterprise, strife, dis-
quiet; others, the world's lichen, rooted to some peaceful
rock, growing, flourishing, withering on the same
spot, scarce a feeling exercised, -scarce a sentiment
called forth, scarce a tithe of the properties of their very
nature expanded into action.
There was an air of quiet and stillness in the red quad-
rangular building, as my carriage stopped at its porch,
which struck upon me, like a breathing reproach to those
who sought the abode of peace with feelings opposed to the
spirit of the place. A small projecting porch was covered
with ivy, and thence issued an aged portress in answer to
my summons.
"The Countess Devereux," said she, "is now the su-
perior of the society," (convent they call it not,) "and
rarely admits any stranger.'
I gave in my claim to admission, and was ushered into a
small parlour all there, too, was still, the brown oak
wainscoting, the huge chairs, the few antique portraits,
the uninhabited aspect of the chamber,- all were silently
cloquent of quietude, but a quietude comfortless and
but a quietude comfortless and
sombre. At length, my mother appeared, I sprung for-
ward, --my childhood was before me, years, care,-
change, were forgotten, — I was a boy again,
I was a boy again, I sprung
forward, and was in my mother's embrace! It was long
before, recovering myself, I noted how lifeless and chill
was that embrace; but I did so at last, and my enthusiasm
withered at once.
M
uriance and golden hue she had been once noted,- for here
they were not the victim of a vow, as in a nunnery they
would have been, and her dress was plain, simple, and
unadorned: save these alterations of attire, none were visi-
ble in her exterior, the torpor of her life seemed to have
paralyzed even time, the bloom yet dwelt in her un
wrinkled cheek, the mouth had not fallen, the faultless
features were faultless still. But there was a deeper still-
ness than ever breathing through this frame it was as if
the soul had been lulled to sleep, — her mien was lifeless,
her voice was lifeless, her gesture was lifeless, the
impression she produced was like that of entering some
chamber which has not been entered before for a century.
She consented to my request to stay with her all the day,
-a bed was prepared for me, and at sunrise the next
morning I was folded once more in the chilling mechanism
of her embrace, and dismissed on my journey to the me-
tropolis.
CHAPTER VI.
The retreat of a celebrated man, and a visit to a great poet.
I ARRIVED in town, and drove at once to Gerald's
house it was not difficult to find it, for in my young day
it had been the residence of the Duke of-
--; and,
wealthy as I knew was the owner of the Devereux lands, I
was somewhat startled at the extent and magnificence of
his palace. To my inexpressible disappointment, I found
that Gerald had left London but a day or two before my
arrival, on a visit to a nobleman nearly connected with our
family, and residing in the same county as that in which
Devereux Court was situated. Since the fire, which had
destroyed all of the old house but the one tower which I
had considered as peculiarly my own, Gerald, I heard, bad
always, in visiting his estates, taken up his abode at the
mansion of one or other of his neighbours; and to Lord
's house, I now resolved to repair. My journey was
delayed for a day or two, by accidentally seeing at the door
of the hotel, to which I drove from Gerald's house, the
favorite servant of Lord Bolingbroke. This circumstance
revived in me, at once, all my attachment to that personage,
and hearing he was at his country house, within a few miles
from town, I resolved the next morning to visit him. It
was not only that I contemplated with an eager, yet a mel
ancholy interest, an interview with one whose blazing ca-
reer I had long watched, and whose letters (for during the
years we had been parted he wrote to me often) seemed to
testify the same satiety of the triumphs and gauds of ambi
tion which had brought something of wisdom to myself; it
was not only that I wished to commune with that Boling-
broke in retirement whom I had known the oracle, of states-
men, and the pride of courts; nor even that I loved the
man, and was eager once more to embrace him; - a fiercer
and more active inotive urged me to visit one whose knowl-
edge of all men, and application of their various utilities,
were so remarkable, and who, even in his present peace
and retirement, would, not improbably, be acquainted with
the abode of that unquiet and plotting ecclesiastic whom
I now panted to discover, and whom Bolingbroke had on
old often guided or employed.
When my carriage stopped at the statesman's door, I
was informed that Lord Bolingbroke was at his farm.
Farm! how oddly did that word sound in my ear, coupled
as it was with the name of one so brilliant and so restless.
We sat down together, and conversed long and uninter- I asked the servant to direct me where I should find him,
ruptedly, but our conversation was like that of acquaint- and, following the directions, I proceeded to the search
ances, not the fondest and closest of all relations, (for I alone. It was a day toward the close of autumn, bright,
need scarcely add that I told her not of any meeting with soft, clear, and calm as the decline of a vigorous and genial
my
Auorey, nor undeceived her with respect to the date of his age. I walked slowly through a field robbed of its golden
death.) Every monastic recluse that I had hitherto seen, grain, and, as I entered another, I saw the object of my
even in the most seeming content with retirement, had search. He had seemingly just given orders to a person in
loved to converse of the exterior world, and had betrayed a laborer's dress, who was quitting him, and with down-
an interest in its events, for my mother only, worldly cast eyes he was approaching toward me. I noted how
objects and intercsts seemed utterly dead. She expressed slow and even was the pace which, once stately, yet rapid
little surprise to see me, little surprise at my alteration; and irregular, had betrayed the haughty, but wild, charac-
she only said that my mien was improved, and that I re- ter of his mind. He paused often, as if in thought, and I
minded her of my father; she testified no anxiety to hear of observed that once he stopped longer than usual, and seemed
my travels or my adventures,--she testified even no willing to gaze wistfully on the ground. Afterward (when I had
ness to speak of berseli, she described to me the life of joined him) we passed that spot, and I remarked, with a
ɔne day, and then told me that the history of ten years was secret smile, that it contained one of those little mounds in
told. A close cap confined all the locks for whose rich lux-
confined all the locks for whose rich lux-which that busy and herded tribe of the insect race, which
DEVEREUX.
307
pave been held out to man's social state at once as a mock-
ery and a model, held their populous home. There seemed
■ latent moral in the pause and watch of the disappointed
statesman by that mound, which afforded a clue to the na-
ture of his reflections.
vou
He did not see me till I was close before him, and had
called him by his name, nor did he at first recognise me,
for my garb was foreign, and my upper lip unshaven; and,
as I said before, years had strangely altered me but when
he did, he testified all the cordiality I had anticipated. I
linked my arm in his, and we walked to and fro for hours,
talking of all that had passed since and before our parting,
and feeling our hearts warm to each other as we talked.
"The last time I saw you," said he, "how widely did
our hopes and objects differ; yours from my own,
seemingly had the vantage-ground, but it was an artificial
eminence, and my level state, though it appeared less tempt-
ing, was more secure. I had just been disgraced by a mis-
guided and ungrateful prince. I had already gone into a
retirement, where my only honors were proportioned to my
fortitude in bearing condemnation, and my only flatterer
was the hope of finding a companion and a Mentor in my
self. You, my friend, parted with life before you; and
you only relinquished the pursuit of fortune at one court, to
meet her advances at another. Nearly ten years have
flown since that time,- my situation is but little changed,
– I am returned, it is true, to my native soil, but not to a
soil more indulgent to ambition and exertion than the scene
of my exile. My sphere of action is still shut from me,-
my mind is still banished.* You return
young in
but full of successes. Have they brought you happiness,
Devereux ? or have you yet a temper to envy my content?
"Alas!
said I," who can bear too close a search be-
Death the mask and robe ? Talk not of me now.
It is un-
gracious for the fortunate to repine; and I reserve whatever
may disquiet me within, for your future consolation and
advice. At present speak to me of yourself, — you are
happy, then ?"
the latter,
""
>>
years,
|
I am!
said Bolingbroke, emphatically. "Life seems
to me to possess two treasures,-one glittering and pre-
carious, the other of less rich a show, but of a more solid
value. The one is power, the other virtue; and there is
the other virtue; and there is
this main difference between the two,
-power is intrusted
to us as a loan ever required again, and with a terrible
arrear of interest; virtue obtained by us is a boon which we
can only lose through our own folly, when once it is acquired.
In my youth I was caught by the former, hence my errors
and my misfortunes! In my declining years I have sought
hence my palliatives and my consolation. But
you have not seen my home and all its attractions," added
Bolingbroke, with a smile, which reminded me of his former
self. I will show them to you.'
And we turned our
steps to the house.
As we walked thither, I wondered to find how little
melancholy was the change Bolingbroke had undergone.
Ten years, which bring man from his prime to his decay,
had indeed left a potent trace upon his stately form, and
the still unrivalled beauty of his noble features; but the
manner gained all that the form had lost. In his days of
more noisy greatness, there had been something artificial
and unquiet in the sparkling alternations he had loved to
assume. He had been too fond of changing wisdom, by a
quick turn, into wit, too fond of the affectation of bor-
dering the serious with the gay, the business with the
pleasure. If this had not taken from the rish of his man-
ner, it had diminished his dignity, and given it the air of
being assumed and insincere. Now, all was quiet, earnest,
and impressive; there was tenderness even in what was
melancholy and if there yet lingered the affectation of
blending the classic character with his own, the character
was more noble, and the affectation more unseen. But this
manner was only the faint mirror of a mind which, retain
ing much of its former mould, had been embellished and
exalted by adversity, and which, if it banished_not_its
former frailties, had acquired a thousand new virtues to
redeem them.
You see," said my companion, pointing to the walls of
the hall, which we had now entered, "the subject which
at present occupies the greater part of my attention.
meditating how to make the hall most illustrative of its
I am
* I need scarcely remind the reader that Lord Bolingbroke,
though he had received a full pardon, was forbidden to resume
his seat in the House of Lords.
- ED.
owner's pursuits. You see the desire of improving, of
creating, and of associating the improvement and the crea-
tion with ourselves, follows us, banished men, even to our
seclusion. I think of having those walls painted with the
implements of husbandry, and through pictures of spades
and ploughshares to express my employments, and testify
my content in them."
"Cincinnatus is a better model than Aristippus, confers
it," said I, smiling. "But if the serators come hither to
summon you to power, will you resemble the Roman, not
only in being found at your plough, but in your reluctance
to leave it, and your eagerness to return?"
"What shall I say to you?" replied Bolingbroke.
"Will you play the cynic, if I answer no? We should not
boast of despising power, when of use to others, but of
being contented to live without it. This is the end of my
philosophy! But let me present you to one whom I value
more now than I valued power at any time.'
As he said this, Bolingbroke threw open the door of an
apartinent, and introduced me to a lady with whom he had
found that domestic happiness denied him in his first mar
riage. The nicce of Madame de Maintenon, this most
charming woman, possessed all her aunt's wit, and far more
than all her aunt's beauty.* She was in weak health; but
her vivacity was extreme, and her conversation just what
should be the conversation of a woman who shines without
striving for it.
The business on which I was bound only allowed me to
stay two days with Bolingbroke, and this I stated at first,
lest he should have dragged me over his farm. It is very
odd to me, who think that, on a great legislative scale, I
am not quite ignorant of agricultural matters, how exceed-
ingly ignorant I am of them on a small scale; and I really
do hate oats and barley, when considered at so much per
sack, with a very unphilosophical hatred.
CC
Well," said my host, after vainly endeavouring to in-
duce me to promise a longer stay, "if you can only give us
two days, I must write and excuse myself to a great man
with whom I was to dine to-day: yet if it were not so in-
hospitable, I should like much to carry you with me to his
house; for I own that I wish you to see my companions,
and to learn that if I still consult the oracles, they are less
for the predictions of fortune than as the inspirations or
the god.
>>
"Ah!" said Lady Bolingbroke, who spoke in French,
"I know whom you allude to. Give him my homage, and
assure him, when he next visits us, we will appoint six
dames du palais to receive and pet him.”
Upon this I insisted upon accompanying Bolingbroke to
the house of so fortunate a being, and he consented to my
wish with feigned reluctance, but evident pleasure.
"And who," said I to Lady Bolingbroke, " is the happy
object of so much respect ?"
Lady Bolingbroke answered, laughing, that nothing was
so pleasant as suspense, and that it would be cruel in her
to deprive me of it; and we conversed with so much zest,
that it was not till Bolingbroke had left the room for some
moments, that I observed he was not present. I took the
opportunity to remark that I was rejoiced to find him so
happy, and with such just cause for happiness.
"He is happy, though, at times, he is restless. How,
chained to this oar, can he be otherwise?" answered Lady
Bolingbroke, with a sigh: " but his friends," she added,
"who most enjoy his retirement, must yet lament it. His
genius is not wasted here, it is true: where could it be
wasted? But who does not feel that it is employed in too
confined a sphere? And
And yet,
" and I saw a tear start
to her eye,
"I, at least, ought not to repine. I should
lose the best part of my happiness if there was nothing I
could console him for."
"Believe me," said I, "I have known Bolingbroke in
the zenith of his success; but never knew him so worthy
of congratulation as now !"
"Is that flattery to him or to me?" said Lady Boling
broke, smiling archly, for her smiles were quick successors
to her tears.
·
"Detur digniori!" answered I ; "but you must allow
* 'I am not ashamed to say to you that I admire her more
every hour of my life."-Letter from Lord Bolingbroke to
Swift.
Bolingbroke loved her to the last; and perhaps it is just to a
man so celebrated for his gallantries, to add that this beautiful
and accomplished woman seems to have admired and esteemed
as much as she loved him. - En.
368
BULWER'S NOVELS.
that, though it is a fine thing to have all that the world can
give, it is still better to gain something that the world can-
not take away.'
CC
“Et vous aussi étes philosophe!" cried Lady Bolingbroke,
gayly. Ah, poor me! In my youth, my portion was the
cloister;
* in my later years I am banished to the porch!
You have no conception, Monsieur Devereux, what wise
faces and profound maxims we have here; especially as
all who come to visit my lord think it necessary to quote
Tully, and talk of solitude as if it were a heaven! Les
pauvres bonnes gens! they seem a little surprised when
Henry receives them smilingly, begs them to construe the
Latin, gives them good wine, and sends them back to
London with faces half the length they were on their arrival.
Mais voici monsieur le fermier philosophe !"
And Bolingbroke entering, I took my leave of this lively
and interesting lady, and entered his carriage.
As soon as we were seated, he pressed me for my reasons
for refusing to prolong my visit. As I thought they would
be more opportune after the excursion of the day was over,
and as,
in truth, I was not eager to relate them, I begged
to defer the narration till our return to his house at night,
and then I directed the conversation into a new channel.
"My chief companion," said Bolingbroke, after de-
scribing to me his course of life," is the man you are about
to visit: he has his frailties and infirmities, and in say-
ing that, I only imply that he is human; but he is wise,
reflective, generous, and affectionate: add these qualities
to a dazzling wit, and a genius deep, if not subliine, and
what wonder that we forget something of vanity and some-
thing of fretfulness, effects rather of the frame than of
the mind; the wonder only is that, with a body the victim.
to every disease, crippled and imbecile from the cradle, his
frailties should not be more numerous, and his care, his
thoughts, and attentions not wholly limited to his own
complaints, for the sickly are almost of necessity selfish,
and that mind must have a vast share of benevolence
which can always retain the softness of charity and love
for others, when pain and disease constitute the mor-
bid links that perpetually bind it to self. If this great
character is my chief companion, my chief correspondent
is not less distinguished; in a word, no longer to keep you
in suspense, Pope is my companion, and Swift my corre-
spondent."
"You are fortunate, but so also are they. Your letter
informed me of Swift's honorable exile in Ireland; how
does he bear it?"
"Too feelingly, his disappointments turn his blood to
acid. He said, characteristically enough, in one of his
letters, that in fishing once when he was a little boy, he felt
almost
a great fish at the end of his line, which he drew up
to the ground, but it dropt in, and the disappointment, he
adds, vexes him to this day, and he believes it to be the
type of all his future disappointments; it is wonderful
how reluctantly a very active mind sinks into rest.'
*She was brought up at St. Cyr. - ED.
""
In this letter Swift adds, "I should be ashamed to say this if
you (Lord Bolingbroke) had not a spirit fitter to bear your own
misfortunes than I have to think of them;" and this is true.
Nothing can be more striking, or more honorable to Lord Bo-
lingbroke, than the contrast between Swift's letters and that no-
bleman's upon the subject of their mutual disappointments. I
especially note the contrast, because it has been so grievously
the cant of Lord Bolingbroke's decriers to represent his affection
for retirement as hollow, and his resignation in adversity as a
boast rather than a fact. Now I will challenge any one thor-
oughly and dispassionately to examine what is left to us of the
life of this great man, and after having done so, to select from
all modern history an example of one who, in the prime of life
and height of ambition, ever passed from a very active and ex-
iting career into retirement and disgrace, and bore the change,
long, bitter, and permanent as it was,- with a greater and
more thoroughly sustained magnanimity than did Lord Boling-
broke. He has been reproached for taking part in political con-
tests in the midst of his praises and "affected enjoyment" of
retirement; and this, made matter of reproach, is exactly the
subject on which he seems to me the most worthy of praise.
For, putting aside all motives for action, on the purity of which
men are generally increduloùs, as a hatred to ill government (au
antipathy wonderfully strong in wise men and wonderfully weak
in fools) the honest impulse of the citizen, and the better and high-
er sentiment, to which Bolingbroke appeared peculiarly alive, of
affection to mankind, - putting these utterly aside,
be owned that resignation is the more noble in proportion as it
is the less passive, that retirement is only a morbid selfishness
if it prohibit exertions for others; that it is only really dignified
and noble when it is the shade whence issue the oracles that are
to instruct mankind; and that retirement of this nature is the
-
it must
|
"Yet why should retirement be rest? Do you recollec
in the first conversation we ever had together, we talked
of Cowley? Do you recollect how justly, and even sub-
limely, he has said Cogitation is that which distinguishes
the solitude of a god from that of a wild beast ? ' "
"It is finely said," answered Bolingbroke; " but Swift
was born not for cogitation, but action, -for turbulent
times, not for calm. He ceases to be great directly he is
still; and his bitterness at every vexation is so great that
I have often thought, in listening to him, of the Abbé
de Cyran, who, attempting to throw nutshells out of the
bars of his window, and constantly failing in the attempt,
exclaimed in a paroxysm of rage, Thus does Providence
delight in frustrating my designs!'"'
65 But
you are fallen from a far greater height of hope than
Swift could ever have attained, you bear this change well,
but not, I hope, without a struggle."
"You are right, - -not without a struggle; while cor-
ruption thrives, I will not be silent; while bad men govern,
I will not be still."
In conversation of this sort passed the time, till we ar
rived at Pope's villa.
We found the poet in his study, — indeed, as some of
his pictures represent him, in a long gown and a velvet
cap. He received Bolingbroke with great tenderness,
and being, as he said, in robuster health than he had en-
joyed for months, he insisted on carrying us to his grotto.
I know nothing more common to poets than a pride in
what belongs to their houses; and, perhaps, to a man not
ill-natured, there are few things more pleasant than indul-
ging the little weaknesses of those we admire. We sat
down in a small temple made entirely of shells; and wheth-
er it was that the creative genius gave an undue charm
to the place, I know not: but as the murmur of a rill,
glassy as the Blandusian fountain, was caught and re-given
from side to side by a perpetual echo, and through an ar-
cade of trees, whose leaves, ever and anon, fell startingly
to the ground beneath the light touch of the autumn air,
you saw the sails on the river pass and vanish, like the
cares which breathe over the smooth glass of wisdom, but
may not linger to dim it, it was not difficult to invest the
place, bumble as it was, with a classic interest, or to re-
call the loved retreats of the Roman bards, without smil-
ing too fastidiously at the contrast.
"Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen.
Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margin green,
Or by the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the lovelorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Sweet Echo, dost thou shun those haunts of yore,
And in the dim caves of a northern shore
Delight to dwell!"
"Let the compliment to you, Pope," said Bolingbroke,
"atone for the profanation of weaving those wretched
lines of mine with those most musical notes of Milton.”
"Ah!" said Pope, "would that you could give me a
fitting inscription for my fount and grotto? The only one
I can remember is hackneyed, and yet it has spoilt me, I
fear, for all others.
"Hujus Nympha loci, sacri custodia fontis
Dormio dum blandæ sentio murmur aquæ ;
Parce meum, quisquis tanges cava marmora, somnum
Rumpere; sive bibas, sive luvêre, tace."*
"We cannot hope to match it," said Bolingbroke,
sole seclusion which a good and wise man will covet or com-
mend. The very philosophy which makes such a man seek the
quiet, makes him eschew the inutility of the hermitage. Very
little praiseworthy to me would have seemed Lord Bolingbroke
among his haymakers and ploughmen, if among haymakers and
ploughinen he had looked with an indifferent eye upon a prof-
ligate minister and a venal parliament; very little interest in
my eyes would have attached itself to his beans and vetches,
had beans and vetches caused him to forget that if he was hap-
pier in a farm, he could be more useful in a senate, and made
him forego, in the sphere of a bailifl, all care for reentering that
of a legislator. - En.
*This very inadequately translated by Pope. (See his letter
to Edward Blount, Esq. descriptive of his grotto.
"Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep,
And to the murmur of these waters sleep:
Ah, spare my slumbers; gently tread the cave,
And drink in silence, or in silence lave.”
It is, however, quite impossible to convey to an unlearned
reader the exquisite and spirit-like beauty of the Latin verses
.ED.
DEVEREUX.
368
But
he had for some years led a quiet and unoffending life, in
close retirement. "Lately, however," said Bolingbroke,
“I have learnt that the old spirit has revived, and I acci-
"though you know I value myself on these things.
tell me your news of Gay, is he growing wiser ?
"Not a whit; he is for ever a dupe to the spes credula;
always talking of buying an annuity, that he may be inde-dentally heard, three days ago, when conversing with one
pendent, and always spending as fast as he earns, that he
may appear munificent."
"Poor Gay! but he is a common example of the im-
providence of his tribe, while you are an exception. Yet
mark, Devereux, the inconsistency of Pope's thrift and
carefulness: he sends a parcel of fruit to some ladies with
this note, 'Take care of the papers that wrap the apples,
and return them safely; they are the only copies I have of
they are the only copies I have of
one part of the Iliad.' Thus, you see, our economist saves
his paper, and hazards his epic!"
Pope, who is always flattered by an allusion to his neg-
ligence of fame, smiled slightly and answered, "What
man, alas, ever profits by the lessons of his friends? How
many exact rules has our good Dean of St. Patrick laid
down for both of us, -how angrily still does he chide us
for our want of prudence and our love of good living. I
intend, in answer to his charges on the latter score, though
I vouch, as I well may, for our temperance, to give him
the reply of the sage to the foolish courtier
"What was that?" asked Bolingbroke.
C
Why, the courtier saw the sage picking out the best
dishes at table. How,' said he, with a sneer,
C are sages
such epicures?' Do you think, sir,' replied the wise
himself, do you
man, reaching over the table to help himself,
think, sir, that God Almighty made the good things of this
world only for fools?""
C
"How the dean will pish and pull his wig, when he
reads your illustration!" said Bolingbroke, laughing. “We
shall never agree in our reasonings on that part of philoso-
phy. Swift loves to go out of his way to find privation or
distress, and has no notion of Epicurean wisdom; for my
part, I think the use of knowledge is to make us happier.
would compare the mind to the beautiful statue of Love
by Praxiteles, when its eyes were bandaged, the coun-
tenance seemed grave and sad; but the moment you re-
moved the bandage, the most serene and enchanting smile
diffused itself over the whole face.”
well informed on state matters, that this most pure admin-
istration have discovered some plot or plots with which
Montreuil is connected; believe he will be apprehended
in a few days.'
"And where lurks he?
دو
"He was, I heard, last seen in the neighbourhood of
your brother's mansion at Devereux Court, and I imagine
it probable that he is still in that neighbourhood.'
This intelligence made me resolve to leave Dawley even
earlier than I had intended, and I signified to Lord Boling-
broke my intention of quitting him by sunrise the nex
morning. He endeavoured in vain to combat my resolu
tion. I was too fearful lest Montreuil, hearing of hiз
danger from the state, might baffle my vengeance by seek-
ing some impenetrable asylum, to wish to subject my meet-
ing with him, and with Gerald, whose cooperation I de-
sired, to any unnecessary delay. I took leave of my host
therefore that night, and ordered my carriage to be in
readiness by the first dawn of morning.
CHAPTER VII.
The plot approaches its dénouement.
ALTHOUGH the details of my last chapter have some-
this volume is destined to close, yet I do not think the des
what retarded the progress of that dénouement with which
tined reader will regret lingering over a scene in which,
after years of restless enterprise and exile, he beholds
the asylum which fortune had prepared for the most extra-
ordinary character with which I have adorned these pages
The horses
It was before daybreak that I commenced my journey.
The shutters of the house were as yet closed; the gray
mists rising slowly from the earth, and the cattle couched
beneath the trees, the cold, but breezeless freshness of the
So passed the morning, till the hour of dinner, and this
repast was served with an elegance and luxury which morning, the silence of the unawakened birds, all gave an
inexpressible stillness and quiet to the scene.
the sons of Apollo seldom command. As the evening closed, slowly ascended a little eminence, and I looked from the
our conversation fell upon friendship, and the increas-
ing disposition toward it which comes with increasing I sighed as I did so, and a sick sensation, coupled with
window of the carriage on the peaceful retreat I had left.
years. "Whilst my mind," said Bolingbroke, "shrinks
heart. No man
more and more from the world, and feels in its indepen-happily placed in this social world can guess the feelings
the thought of Isora, came chill upon my heart.
dence less yearning to external objects, the ideas of friend-
ship return oftener, they busy me, they warın me more.
Is it that we grow more tender as the moment of our great
separation approaches or is it that they who are to live
together in another state (for friendship exists not but for
the good) begin to feel more strongly that divine sympa-
thy which is to be the great bond of their future soci-
ety ? "+
of
up
envy with which a wanderer like me, without tie or
home, and for whom the roving eagerness of youth is over,
surveys those sheltered spots in which the breast garners
all domestic bonds, its household and holiest delights;
the companioned hearth, the smile of infancy, and dearer
than all, the eye that glasses our purest, our tenderest, our
most secret thoughts; these, -O, none who enjoy them
know how they for whom they are not have pined and
mourned for them!
I had not travelled many hours, when, upon the loneliest
part of the road, my carriage, which had borne me without
an accident from Rome to London, broke down. The
spot; thither I repaired: a blacksmith was sent for, and
I found the accident to the carriage would require several
hours to repair. No solitary chaise did the inn afford;
but the landlord, who was a freeholder and a huntsman,
boasted one valuable and swift horse, which he declared
was fit for an emperor or a highwayman. I was too im-
patient of delay not to grasp at this intelligence. I gave
While Bolingbroke was thus speaking, and Pope listened
with all the love and reverence which he evidently bore
to his friend stamped upon his worn but expressive coun-
tenance, I inly said, "Sure, the love between minds like
tl ese should live and last without the changes that ordina-postilions said there was a small inn about a mile from the
ry affections feel! Who would not mourn for the strength
of all human ties, if hereafter these are broken, and as-
perity succeed to friendship, or aversion to esteem! I, a
wanderer, without heir to my memory and wealth, shall
pass away, and my hasty and unmellowed fame will moul-
der with my clay; but will the names of those whom I
now behold ever fall languidly on the ears of a future race,
and will there not for ever be some sympathy with their
friendship, softer and warmer than admiration for their
fame?"
We left our celebrated host about two hours before mid-
night, and returned to Dawley.
On our road thither I questioned Bolingbroke respecting
Montreuil, and I found that, as I had surmised, he was
able to give me some information of that arch-schemer.
Gerald's money and hereditary influence had procured
tacit connivance at the Jesuit's residence in England, and
*Pope seems to have been rather capricious in this respect;
but in general he must be considered open to the sarcasm of dis-
pluying the bounteous host to those who did not want a dinner,
and the niggard to those who did. — Ep.
This beautiful sentiment is to be found, with very slight al-
teration, in a letter from Bolingbroke to Swift. - ED.
VOL. I
47
mine host whatever he demanded for the loan of his steed,
transferred my pistols to an immense pair of holsters,
obliged me, and, within an hour from the date of the acci-
which adorned a high demi-pique saddle, wherewith he
dent, recommenced my journey.
The evening closed, as I became aware of the presence
of a fellow traveller. He was, like myself, on horseback.
hue, and a large hat, which, flapping over his face, con-
He wore a short, dark gray cloak, a long wig of a raven
spired, with the increasing darkness, to allow me a very
imperfect survey of his features. Twice or thrice he had
passed me, and always with some salutation, indicative of
a desire for further aquaintance; but my mood is not natu•
rally too much inclined to miscellaneous sociality, and I
was at that time peculiarly covetous of my own compan
370
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ionship. I had, therefore, given but a brief answer to the
borseman's courtesy, and had ridden away from him with
a very unceremonious abruptness. At length, when he had
come up to me for the fourth time, and for the fourth time
had accosted me, my ear caught something in the tones of
his voice which did not seem to me wholly unfamiliar. I
regarded him with more attention than I had yet done, and
replied to him more civilly and at length. Apparently
encouraged by this relaxation from my reserve, the man
speedily resumed.
"Your horse, sir," said he, "is a fine animal, but he
seems jaded; —you have ridden far to-day, I'll venture to
guess?"
"I have, sir; but the town where I shall pass the night
is not above four miles distant, I believe."
"Hum,-ha! -you sleep at D, then ?" said the
horseman, inquisitively.
A suspicion came across me, we were then entering a
very lonely road, and one notoriously infested with high-
waymen. My fellow equestrian's company might have
some sinister meaning in it. I looked to my holsters, and
leisurely taking out one of my pistols, saw to its priming,
and returned it to its depository. The horseman noted
the motion, and he moved his horse rather uneasily, and I
thought timidly, to the other side of the road.
"You travel well armed, sir," said he, after a pause.
"It is a necessary precaution, sir," answered I, com-
posedly, "in a road one is not familiar with, and with
companions one has never had the happiness to meet be-
fore."
"Ahem!
ahem!-parbleu, monsieur le comte, you al-
lude to me; but I warrant this is not the first time we have
met.”
<<
I
"Ha!” said I, riding closer to my fellow traveller,
you know me, then, and we have met before.
thought I recognised your voice, but I cannot remember
when or where I last heard it.'
"O count, I believe it was only by accident that we
commenced acquaintanceship, and only by accident, you
see, do we now resume it. But I perceive that I intrude
on your solitude. Farewell, count, and a pleasant night
at your inn,"
"Not so fast, sir," said I, laying firm hand on my com-
panion's shoulder; "I know you now, and I thank Provi-
dence that I have found you. Marie Oswald, it is not
lightly that I will part with you!"
"With all my heart, sir, with all my heart. But mor-
bleu, monsieur le comte, do take your hand from my shoul-
der, I am a nervous man, and your pistols are loaded,
and perhaps you are choleric and hasty. I assure you
I am far from wishing to part with you abruptly, for I have
watched you for the last two days, in order to enjoy the
honor of this interview.”
"Indeed! your wish will save both of us a world of
trouble. I believe you may serve me effectually; if so,
will find me more desirous and more able than ever to
show my gratitude.'
you
"Sir, you are too good," quoth Mr. Oswald, with an
air far more respectful than any he had yet shown ine.
"Let us make to your inn, and there I shall be most happy
to receive your commands." So saying, Marie pushed on
his horse, and I urged my own to the same expedition.
"But tell me," said I, as we rode ou, "why you have
w shed to meet me? -me whom you so cruelly deserted
and forsook ?
followed you. Parbleu and morbleu, I find
you, and
you
take me for a highwayman!"
"Pardon my mistake the clearest-sighted men are
subject to commit such errors, and the most innocent to
suffer by them. So Montreuil persuaded you to leave
England, did he also persuade you to return?"
M
No, I was charged by the Institute with messages
to him and others. But we are near the town, count, let
us defer our conversation till then.”
We entered D- , put up our horses, called for an
apartment, -to which summons Oswald added another
for wine, and then the virtuous Marie commenced his
explanations. I was most deeply anxious to learn whether
Gerald had ever been made acquainted with the fraud by
which he had obtained possession of the estates of Deve-
reux; and I found that, from Desmarais, Oswald had
learnt all that had occurred to Gerald since Marie had left
England. From Oswald's prolix communication, I ascer-
tained that Gerald was, during the whole of the interval
between my uncle's death and my departure from England,
utterly unacquainted with the fraud of the will. He readi-
ly believed that my uncle had found good reason for alter-
ing his intentions with respect to me; and my law pro-
ceedings, and violent conduct toward himself, only ex-
cited his indignation, not aroused his suspicions. During
this time, he lived entirely in the country, indulging the
rural hospitality and the rustic sports which he especially
affected; and secretly, but deeply, involved with Montreuil
in political intrigues. All this time the abbé made no
further use of him than to borrow whatever sums he re-
quired for his purposes. Isora's death, and the confused
story of the document given me by Oswald, Montreuil had
interpreted to Gerald according to the interpretation of the
world: viz. he had thrown the suspicion upon Oswald,
as a common villain, who had taken advantage of my
credulity about the will, introduced himself into the
house on that pretence, attempted the robbery of the
most valuable articles therein, which, indeed, he had
succeeded in abstracting, and who, on my awaking and
contesting with him and his accomplice, had, in self-
defence, inflicted the wounds which had ended in
my delir-
ium, and Isora's death. This part of my tale Montreuil
never contradicted, and Gerald believed it to the present
day. The affair of 1715 occurred; the government, aware
of Gerald's practices, had anticipated his design of joining
the rebels, he was imprisoned, -no act of overt guilt
on his part was proved, or at least brought forward; and
the government, not being willing, perhaps, to proceed to
violent measures against a very young man, and the head
of a very powerful house, connected with more than thirty
brauches of the English hereditary nobility, he received
his acquittal just before Sir William Windham, and some
other suspected Tories, received their own.
An Nang
Prior to the breaking out of that rebellion, and on the
eve of Montreuil's departure for Scotland, the priest sum-
moned Desmarais, whom, it will be remembered, I had
previously dismissed, and whom Montreuil had since em-
ployed in various errands, and informed him that he had
obtained, for his services, the same post under Gerald
which the fatalist had filled under me. Soon after the
failure of the rebellion, Devereux Court was destroyed by
accidental fire; and Montreuil, who had come over in dis-
guise, in order to renew his attacks on my brother's coffers,
(attacks to which Gerald yielded very sullenly, and with
inany assurances that he would no more incur the danger
of political and seditious projects,) now advised Gerald to
go up to London, and, in order to avoid the suspicion of
the government, to mix freely in the gayeties of the court.
Gerald readily consented; for, though internally convinced
that the charms of the metropolis were not equal to those
of the country, yet he liked change, and Devereux Court
being destroyed, he shuddered a little at the idea of rebuild-
ing so enormous a pile. Before Gerald left the old tower
(my tower) which was alone spared by the flames, and
which he had managed to reside at, though without his
you apply words bet-household, rather than quit a place where there was
excellent shooting," Montreuil said to Desmarais, "This
ungrateful seigneur de village already betrays the ggard,
he must know what we know,-that is our only sure hola of
him, but he must not know it yet, and he proceeded
to observe that it was for the hot-beds of courtly luxury to
mellow and hasten an opportunity for the disclosure. "He
instructed Desmarais to see that Gerald (whom even a
"O, parbleu, spare me there! it was not I wo de-
serted you,
I was compelled to fly,-death, murder,
-on one side;-safety, money, and a snug place in Italy,
as a lay-brother of the Institute, on the other! What
could I do?—You were ill in bed, not likely to recov-
er, not able to protect me from my present peril, in a
state that in all probability never would require my ser-
vices for the future. O, Monsieur le comte, it was not
desertion, that is a cruel word, it was self-preserva-
word,—it
tion, and common prudence."
Well," said I, complaisantly, "
ter than I applied them. And how long have you been
returned to England?"
"Some few weeks, count, not more. I was in London
when you arrived, I heard of that event, I immedi-
ately repaired to your hotel, you were gone to my Lord
Bolingbroke's-I tullowed you thither, you had left
had left
Dawley when I arrived there, I learnt your route, and
J
'
"such
DEVEREUX.
371
M
valet, at least one so artful as Desmarais, might easily in-
fluence) partook to excess of every pleasure, at least of
every pleasure which a gentleman might, without deroga-
tion to his dignity,* enjoy. Gerald went to town, and
very soon became all that Montreuil desired.
Montreuil came again to England; his great project, Al-
beroni's project, had failed. Banished France and Spain,
Banished France and Spain,
and excluded Italy, he was desirous of obtaining an asylum
in England, until he could negotiate a return to Paris. For
the first of these purposes (the asylum) interest was requi-
site; for the latter (the negotiation) money was desirable.
He came to seek both these necessaries in Gerald Deve-
reux. Gerald had already arrived at that prosperous state
when money is not lightly given away. A dispute arose;
and Montreuil raised the veil, and showed the heir on what
terms his estates were held.
in me.
which he did not possess; and he seemed now both by
wine and familiarity, peculiarly disposed to be frank. It
was he who in Italy had been, among various other and
less private commissions, appointed by Montreuil to watch
over Aubrey; on my brother's death, he had hastened to
England, not only to apprize Montreuil of that event, but
charged with some especial orders to him from certain
members of the Institute. He had found Montreuil busy,
restless, intriguing, even in seclusion, and cheered by a
late promise, from Fleuri himself, that he should speedily
obtain pardon and recall. It was, at this part of Oswald's
story, easy to perceive the causes of his renewed confidence
Montreuil, engaged in new plans and schemes, at
once complicated and vast, paid but a slight attention to
the wrecks of his past projects. Aubrey dead, myself
abroad, Gerald at his command, - he perceived, in our
Rightly Montreuil had read the human heart. So long house, no cause for caution or alarm. This, apparently,
as Gerald lived in the country, and tasted not the full en- rendered him less careful of retaining the venal services of
joyments of his great wealth, it would have been highly per- Oswald, than his knowledge of character should have mide
ilous to have made this disclosure; for, though he had no him; and when that gentleman, then in London, accident-
great love for me, and was bold enough to run any danger, ally heard of my sudden arrival in this country, he at once
yet he was neither a Desmarais nor a Montreuil. He was
He was perceived how much more to his interest it would be to
that most capricious thing, a man of honor; and at that day serve me than to maintain an ill-remunerated fidelity to
he would instantly have given up the estate to me, and Mon- Montreuil. In fact, as I have since learnt, the priest's
treuil and the philosopher to the hangman. But, after two discretion was less to blame than I then imagined; for
or three years of every luxury that wealth could purchase, Oswald was of a remarkably impudent, profligate, and
after living in those circles, too, where wealth is the spendthrift turn; and his demands for money were consid-
highest possible merit, and public opinion, therefore, only erably greater than the value of his services; or perhaps, as
honors the rich, fortune became far more valuable, and the Montreuil thought, when Aubrey no longer lived, than the
conscience far less nice. Living at Devereux Court, Gerald consequence of his silence. When, therefore, I spoke
had only 30,000l. a year; living in London, he had all that seriously to my new ally of my desire of wreaking ultimate
30,000l. a year can purchase; a very great difference this justice on the crimes of Montreuil, I found that his zeal was
indeed! Honor is a fine bulwark against a small force; far from being chilled by my determination, nay, the very
but, unbacked by other principle, it is seldom well manned cowardice of the man made him ferocious; and the moment
enough to resist a large one. When, therefore, Montreuil he resolved to betray Montreuil, his fears of the priest's
showed Gerald that he could lose his estate in an instant, vengeance made him eager to destroy where he betrayed. I
that the world would never give him credit for innocence, am not addicted to unnecessary procrastination. Of the
when guilt would have conferred on him such advantages, unexpected evidence I had found I was most eager to avail
that he would therefore part with all those et cetera which myself. I saw at once how considerably Oswald's testi-
now, in the very prime of life, made his whole idea of hu-mony would lessen any difficulty I might have in an expla-
man enjoyments, that he would no longer be the rich, nation with Gerald, as well as in bringing Montreuil to
the powerful, the honored, the magnificent, the envied, the justice; and the former measure seemed to me necessary to
idolized lord of thousands, but would sink at once into a ensure, or at least to expedite, the latter. I proposed,
younger brother, dependent on the man he most hated for therefore, to Oswald, that he should immediately accompany
his very subsistence, for his debts would greatly excced me to the house in which Gerald was then a visiter; the
his portion, and an object through life of contemptuous honest Marie, conditioning only for another bottle, which
pity, or of shunning suspicion, that all this change could he termed a travelling comforter, readily acceded to my
happen at a word of Montreuil's, what wonder that he
wish. I immediately procured a chaise and horses; and
should be staggered, should hesitate and yield? Mon- in less than two hours from the time we entered the inn, we
treuil obtained, then, whatever sums he required; and were on the road to Gerald. What an impulse to the
through Gerald's influence, pecuniary and political, pro-
pecuniary and political, pro-wheel of destiny had the event of that one day given!
cured from the minister a tacit permission for him to remain At another time, I might have gleaned amusement from
in England, under an assumed name, and in close retire- the shrewd roguery of my companion, but he found me
ment. Since then, Montreuil (though secretly involved in then but a dull listener. I served him, in truth, as men of
treasonable practices) had appeared to busy himself solely his stamp are ordinarily served: so soon as I had extract-
in negotiating a pardon at Paris. Gerald had lived the ed from him whatever was meet for present use, I favored
life of a man who, if he has parted with peace of conscience, him with little further attention. He had exhausted all the
will make the best of the bargain, by procuring every kind communications it was necessary for me to know; so, in
of pleasure in exchange; and le petit Jean Desmarais, use- the midst of a long story about Italy, Jesuits, and the wis-
ful to both priest and spendthrift, had passed his time very dom of Marie Oswald, I affected to fall asleep; my com-
agreeably, laughing at his employers, studying philoso-panion soon followed my example in earnest, and left me to
phy, and filling his pockets; for I need scarcely add that
Gerald forgave him without much difficulty for his share in
the forgery. A man, as Oswald shrewdly observed, is sel-
dom inexorable to those crimes by which he has profited.
"And where lurks Montreuil now?" I asked,
neighbourhood of Devereux Court?"
-
in the
Öswald looked at me with some surprise. "How learnt
you that, sir? It is true. He lives quietly and privately
in that vicinity. The woods around the house, the caves
in the beach, and the little isle opposite the castle, afford
him in turn an asylum; and the convenience with which cor-
respondence with France can be there carried on makes the
scene of his retirement peculiarly adapted to his purposes."
I now began to question Oswald respecting himself; for
I was not warmly inclined to place implicit trust in the
services of a man who had before shown himself at once
mercenary and timid. There was little cant or disguise
about that gentleman; he made few pretences to virtues
This saving clause seems rather a subtle stroke of character
Montreuil, who probably foresaw that, in proportion as Ger-
ald enjoyed the pleasures, he would require the fortune of “the
gentleman." Ep.
|
I soon
meditate, undisturbed, over all that I had heard, and over
the schemes now the most promising of success.
taught myself to look with a lenient eye on Gerald's after-
connivance in Montreuil's forgery; and I felt that I owed
to my surviving brother so large an arrear of affection for
the long injustice I had rendered him, that I was almost
pleased to find something set upon the opposite score. AI
men, perhaps, would rather forgive than be forgiven. I re-
solved, therefore, to affect ignorance of Gerald's knowledge
of the forgery; and even should he confess it, to exert all
my art to steal from the confession its shame. From this
train of reflection, my mind soon directed itself to one far
fiercer and more intense; and I felt my heart pause, as if
congealing into marble, when I thought of Montreuil, and
anticipated justice.
It was nearly noon on the following day when we arrived
Lord -'s house. We found that Gerald had left it the
day before, for the enjoyment of the field-sports at Deve-
reux Court, and thither we instantly proceeded.
It has often seemed to me that if there be, as certain
ancient philosophers fabled, one certain figure pervading
all nature, human and universal, it is the circle Reund. in
372
BULWER'S NOVELS.
its
living thing! At once, and as by a word, the hardened
lava, the congealed stream of the soul's Etna, was uplifted
from my memory, and the bowers and palaces of old, the
world of a gone day, lay before me! With how wild an en-
thusiasm had I apostrophized that stream on the day in which
I first resolved to leave its tranquil regions and fragrant
margin for the tempest and tumult of the world. On that same
eve, too, had Aubrey and I taken sweet counsel together,
-on that same eve had we sworn to protect, to love, and
to cherish one another, and now! I saw the very
mound on which we had sat, a solitary deer made it his
the ruins around.
Mar
one vaзt monotony, one eternal gyration, roll the orbs of
space. Thus moves the spirit of creative life, kindling,
progressing, maturing, decaying, perishing, reviving, and
rolling again, and so onward for ever through the same
course; and thus, even, would seem to revolve the mysteri-
ous mechanism of human events and actions. Age, ere it
returns to the second childishness, the mere oblivion' from
which it passes to the grave, returns also to the memories
and the thoughts of youth; its buried loves arise,
past friendships rekindle. The wheels of the tired machine
are past the meridian, and the arch through which they now
decline, has a correspondent likeness to the opposing seg-couch, and as the carriage approached, the deer rose, and I
ment through which they had borne upward, in eagerness then saw that he had been wounded, perhaps in some con-
and triumph. Thus it is, too, that we bear within us an test with his tribe, and that he could scarcely stir from the
irresistible attraction to our earliest home. Thus it is that spot. I turned my face away, and the remains of
iny an-
we say, "It matters not where our mid-course is run, but cestral house rose gradually in view.
That house was,
we will die in the place where we were born,—in the point | indeed, changed: a wide and black heap of ruins spread
of space whence began the circle, there also shall it end!" around ; the vast hall, with its oaken rafters and huge
This is the grand orbit through which mortality passes only hearth, was no more, I missed that, and I cared not for
once; but the same figure may pervade all through which it the rest. The long galleries, the superb chambers, the
moves on its journey to the grave.* Thus, one peculiar scenes of revelry or of pomp, were like the court compan-
day of the round year has been to some an era, always col- ions who amuse, yet attach us not; but the hall- the
oring life with an event. Thus, to others, some peculiar old hall the old, hospitable hall, had been as a friend in
place has been the theatre of strange action, influencing all all seasons and to all comers, and its mirth had been as
existence, whenever, in the recurrence of destiny, that open to all as the heart of its last owner! My eyes wan-
place has been revisited. Thus was it said by an arch- dered from the place where it had been, and the tall, lone,
sorcerer of old, whose labors yet exist, though perhaps, at gray tower, consecrated to my ill-fated namesake, and in
the moment I write, there are not three living beings who which my own apartments had been situated, rose, like
know of their existence, that there breathes not that the last of a warrior baud, stern, gaunt, and solitary, over
man who would not find, did he minutely investigate the
events of life, that, in some fixed and distinct spot, or hour,
or person, there lived, though shrouded and obscure, the
pervading demon of his fate; and whenever, in their seve-
ral paths, the two circles of being touched, that moment
made the unnoticed epoch of coming prosperity or evil. I
remember well that this bewildering, yet not unsolemn
reflection, or rather fancy, was in my mind, as, after the
absence of many years, I saw myself hastening to the
nome of my boyhood, and cherishing the fiery hope of there
venging the doom of that love which I had there con-
eived. Deeply, and in silence, did I brood over the dark
shapes which my thoughts engendered; and I awoke not
from my reverie till, as the gray of the evening closed
around us, we entered the domains of Devereux Court.
The road was rough and stony, and the horses moved slowly
on. How familiar was every thing before me! the old
pollards which lay scattered in dense groups on either side,
and which had lived on from heir to heir, secure in the
little temptation they afforded to cupidity, seemed to greet
me with a silent, but intelligible welcome. Their leaves
fell around us in the autumn air, and the branches, as they
waved toward me, seemed to say, “Thou art returned, and
thy change is like our own: the green leaves of thy heart
have fallen from thee one by one, like us thou survivest,
but thou art desolate!" The hoarse cry of the rooks,
gathering to their rest, came fraught with the music of
young associations on my ear. Many a time in the laugh-
ing spring had I lain in these groves, watching, in the
young brood of those citizens of air, a mark for my child-
ish skill and careless disregard of life. We acquire mercy
We acquire mercy
as we acquire thought, I would not now have harmed one
of those sable creatures for a king's ransom !
-
As we cleared the more wooded belt of the park, and en-
tered the smooth space on which the trees stood alone and
at rarer intervals, while the red clouds, still tinged with
the hues of the departed sun, hovered on the far and up-
land landscape, like hope flushing over futurity, a mel
lowed, yet rapid murmur, distinct from the more distant
dashing of the sea, broke abruptly upon my ear.
the voice of that brook whose banks had been the dearest
haunt of my childhood; and now, as it burst thus suddenly
upon me, I longed to be alone, that I might have bowed
down my head and wept as if it had been the welcome of a
It was
* I have not assumed the editorial license to omit these inco-
herent observations, notwithstanding their close approximation
to jargon, not only because they seem to occur with a sort of
dramatic propriety in the winding-up of the count's narrative,
- the re-appearance of Oswald. the return to Deverenx Court,
und the scene that happens there; but also because they appear
to be strikingly characteristic of the vague aspirings,
Jess and half-analyzed longings after something "beyond the
visible diurnal sphere," which are so intimately blended with
he world ler traits of the cort's peculiar organization of mind.
ED.
the rest-
|
j
The carriage now passed more rapidly over the neglected
road, and wound where the ruins, cleared on either side, per-
mitted access to the tower. In two minutes more I was in
the same chamber with my only surviving brother. O, why
why can I not dwell upon that scene, that embrace, that
reconciliation? Alas, the wound is not yet scarred over.
I found Gerald, at first, haughty and sullen: he expected
my reproaches and defiance, against them he was har-
dened; he was not prepared for my prayers for our future
friendship and my grief for our past enmity, and he melted
at once!
To ac-
But let me hasten over this. I had well nigh forgot that,
at the close of my history, I should find one remembrance
so endearing and one pang so keen. Rapidly I sketched
to Gerald the ill fate of Aubrey; but lingeringly did I
dwell upon Montreuil's organized and most baneful influ-
ence over him, and over us all; and I endeavoured to
arouse in Gerald some sympathy with my own deep indig-
nation against that villain. I succeeded so far as to make
him declare that he was scarcely less desirous of justice
than myself; but there was an embarrassment in his tone
of which I was at no loss to perceive the cause.
cuse Montreuil publicly of his forgery, might ultimately
bring to light Gerald's latter knowledge of the fraud. I
hastened to say that there was now no necessity to submit
to a court of justice a scrutiny into our private, gloomy,
and eventful records. No, from Oswald's communications
I had learnt enough to prove that Bolingbroke had been
truly informed, and that Montreuil had still, and within the
few last weeks, been deeply involved in schemes of treason
full proof of which could be adduced, far more than suffi-
cient to insure his death by the public executioner. Upon this
charge, I proposed at the nearest town (the memorable sea-
port of ****) to accuse him, and to obtain a warrant
for his immediate apprehension; upon this charge 1 pro-
posed alone to proceed against him, and by it alone to take
justice upon his more domestic crimes.
My brother yielded at last his consent to my suggestions.
"I understand," said I," that Montreuil lurks in the
neighbourhood of these ruins, or in the opposite islet. Know
you, if he has made his ayslum in either at this present
time?"
"No, my brother," answered Gerald; "but I have
reason to believe that he is in our immediate vicinity, for I
received a letter from him three days ago, when at Lord
's, urging a request that I would give him a meeting
here, at my earliest leisure, previous to his leaving Eng
land.”
"Has he really, then, obtained permission to return to
France?"
"Yes," replied Gerald; "he informed me in this letter
that he had just received intelligence of his pardon.
CC
May it fit him the better," said I, with a stern smile.
DEVEREUX.
373
for a more lasting condemnation. But if this be true,
we have not a moment to lose a man so habitually vigi
lant and astute will speedily learn my visit hither, and for-
feit even his appointment with you, should he, which is
likely enough, entertain any suspicion of our reconciliation
with, and confidence in, each other; moreover, he may
hear that the government have discovered his designs, and
may instantly secure the means of flight. Let me, there-
Let me, there-
fore, immediately repair to ****, and obtain a warrant
against him, as well as officers to assist our search. In
the meanwhile you shall remain here, and detain him,
should he visit you; but where is the accomplice ? let us
seize him instantly, for I conclude he is with you?"
"What, Desinarais?" rejoined Gerald. Yes, he is
the only servant, besides the old portress, which these poor
ruins will allow me to entertain in the same dwelling with
myself the rest of my suite are left behind at Lord
's.
S. But Desmarais is not now within: he went out
about two hours ago."
"Ha!” said I, “in all likelihood to meet the priest,
shall we wait his return, and extort some information of
Montreuil's lurking-hole?
Before Gerald could answer, we heard a noise without,
and presently I distinguished the bland tones of the hypo-
critical fatalist, in soft expostulation with the triumphant
voice of Mr. Marie Oswald. I hastened out,
I hastened out, and discov-
ered that the lay-brother, whom I had left in the chaise,
having caught a glimpse of the valet gliding among the
ruins, had recognised, seized, and by the help of the pos-
tilions, dragged him to the door of the tower. The moment
Desmarais saw me, he ceased to struggle; he met my eye
with a steady, but not disrespectful firmness; he changed
not even the habitual hue of his countenance, he remained
perfectly still in the hands of his arresters; and if there
was any vestige of his mind discoverable in his sallow fea-
tures and glittering eye, it was not the sign of fear or con-
fusion, or even surprise; but a ready promptness to meet
danger, coupled, perhaps, with a little doubt whether to
defy or to seek first to diminish it.
Long did I gaze upon him,-struggling with internal rage
and loathing, the mingled contempt and desire of de-
struction with which we gaze upon the erect aspect of
some small, but venomous and courageous reptile, long
did I gaze upon him before I calmed and collected my
voice to speak,
"So I have thee at last! First comes the base tool, and
that will I first break, before 1 lop off the guiding hand.”
"So please monsieur my lord the count," answered
Desmarais, bowing to the ground; "the tool is a file, and
it would be useless to bite against it."
"We will see that,” said I, drawing my sword: " pre-
pare to die!" and I pointed the blade to his throat with
so sudden and menacing a gesture that his eyes closed
involuntarily, and the blood left his thin cheek as white as
ashes but he shrunk not.
:
"If monsieur," said he, with a sort of smile, "will
kill his poor old faithful servant, let him strike. Fate is
not to be resisted, and prayers are useless!"
"Oswald," said I, "release your prisoner; wait here,
and keep strict watch. Jean Desmarais, follow me.
I ascended the stairs, and Desmarais followed. "Now,"
I said, when he was alone with Gerald and myself, "your
days are numbered: you will fall, not by my hand, but by
that of the executioner. Not only your forgery, but your
robbery, your abetment of murder, are known to me;
your present lord, with an indignation equal to my own,
surrenders you to justice. Have you aught to urge, not in
defence, for to that I will not listen, but in atonement ?
Can you now commit any act which will cause me to fore-
go justice on those which you have committed?" Desma-
rais hesitated. rr
Speak," said I. He raised his eyes to
mine with an inquisitive and wistful look.
"Monsieur," said the wretch, with his obsequious smile,
monsieur has travelled,—has shone, --has succeeded,
monsieur must have made enemies: let him name them,
and his poor old faithful servant will do his best to become
the humble instrument of their fate.
Gerald drew himself aside, and shuddered. Perhaps,
till then, he had not been fully aware how slyly murder, as
well as fraud, can lurk beneath urbane tones and laced
ruffles.
|
"I have no enemy," said I, "but one; and the hang-
man will do my office upon him; but point out to me the,
exact spot where at this moment he is concealed, and you
shall have full leave to quit this country for ever. That
enemy is Julian Montreuil!"
t
Ah, ah!" said Desmarais, musingly, and in a tone
very different from that in which he usually spoke; "must
it be so, indeed? For twenty years of youth and manhood.
I have clung to that man, and woven my destiny with his,
because I believed him boru under the star which shines
on statesmen and on pontiffs. Does dread necessity now
impel me to betray him? Him, the only man I ever loved.
| So,
Count Devereux, strike me to the core,
I will not betray Bertrand Colinot!
CC
So,
- so!
Mysterious heart of man," I exclaimed inly, as I
gazed upon the low brow, the malignant eye, the crafty ip
of this wretch, who still retained one generous and noble
sentiment at the bottom of so base a breast. But if it
sprung there, it only sprung to wither!
CC
As thou wilt," said I; "remember, death is the alter
native. By thy birth-star, Jean Desmarais, I should ques
tion whether perfidy be not better luck than hanging, but
time speeds, farewell; I shall meet thee on thy day of
trial."
I turned to the door to summon Oswald to his prisoner.
Desmarais roused himself from the revery in which he ap-
peared to have sunk.
"Why do I doubt ?" said he, slowly. "Were the
alternative his, would be not hang me as he would hang
his dog if he went mad and menaced danger? My very
noble and merciful master," continued the fatalist, turning
to me, and relapsing into his customary manner,
"it is
enough! I can refuse nothing to a gentleman who has
such insinuating manners. Montreuil may be in your pow-
er this night; but that rests solely with me.
If I speak
not, a few hours will place him irrevocably beyond your
reach. If I betray him to you, will monsieur swear that I
shall have my pardon for past errors ???
"On condition of leaving England," I answered, for
slight was my comparative desire of justice against Des-
marais; and since I had agreed with Gerald not to bring
our domestic records to the glare of day, justice against
Desmarais was not easy of attainment; while, on the other
hand, so precarious seemed the chance of discovering
Montreuil before he left England, without certain intelli-
gence of his movements, that I was willing to forego any
less ardent feeling, for the speedy gratification of that
which made the sole surviving passion of my existence.
"Be it so," rejoined Desmarais; "there is better wine
in France! And monsieur, my present master, Mousieur
Gerald, will you too pardon your poor Desmarais for his
proof of the great attachment he always bore to
you ?
"Away, wretch!" cried Gerald, shrinking back;
"your villainy taints the very air ! ”
Desmarais lifted his eyes to heaven, with a look of ap-
pealing innocence; but I was wearied with this odious
farce.
"The condition is made," said I; "remember, it only
holds good if Montreuil's person is placed in our power.
Now explain.
33
"This night, then," answered Desmarais, "Montreuil
purposes to leave England by means of a French privateer,
or pirate, if that word please you better. Exactly at the
hour of twelve, he will meet some of the sailors upon the
seashore, by the Castle Cave; thence they proceed in
boats to the islet, off which the pirate's vessel awaits them.
If you would seize Montreuil, you must provide a force
adequate to conquer the companions he will meet. The
rest is with you; my part is fulfilled.”
"Remember! I repeat if this be one of thy inventions,
thou wilt hang.
"I have said what is true," said Desmarais, bitterly,
"and were not life so very pleasant to me, I would sooner
have met the rack.”
I made no reply; but, summoning Oswald, surrendered
Desmarais to his charge. I then held a hasty consultation
with Gerald, whose mind, however, obscured by feelings of
gloomy humiliation, and stunned, perhaps, by the sudden
and close following order of events, gave me but little as
sistance in my projects. I observed his feelings with great
pain; but that was no moment for wrestling with them. I
saw that I could not depend upon his vigorous coöpera
tion; and that even if Montreuil sought him, he might
want the presence of mind and the energy to detain him.
I changed, therefore, the arrangement we had first pro-
posed.
374
BULWER'S NOVELS.
to
"I will remain here," said I, "and I will instruct the
old portress to admit to me any one who seeks audience
with you. Meanwhile, Oswald and yourself, if you will
forgive, and grant my request to that purport, will repair
** and, informing the magistrate of our intelli-
gence, procure such armed assistance as may give battle to
the pirates, should that be necessary, and succeed in se-
curing Montreuil; this assistance may be indispensable; at
all events it will be prudent to secure it: perhaps for Os-
wald alone, the magistrates would not use that zeal and
expedition which a word of yours can command.'
""
Of mine?" said Gerald, “ say rather of yours; you
we the lord of these broad lands.”
"Never, my dearest brother, shall they pass to me from
their present owner; but let us hasten now to execute jus-
tice, we will talk afterward of friendship.'
I then sought Oswald, who, if a physical coward, was
morally a ready, bustling, and prompt man; and I felt that
I could rely more upon him than I could at that moment
pon Gerald: I released him therefore of his charge, and
made Desmarais a close prisoner, in the inner apartment
of the tower; I then gave Oswald the most earnest injunc-
tions to procure the assistance we might require, and to
return with it as expeditiously as possible: and cheered by
the warmth and decision of his answer, I saw him depart
with Gerald, and felt my heart beat high with the antici-
pation of midnight and retribution.
CHAPTER VIII.
The catastrophe.
It happened unfortunately, that the mission to ****
was indispensable. The slender accommodation of the
tower forbade Gerald the use of his customary attendants,
and the neighbouring villagers were too few in number,
and too ill provided with weapons, to encounter men cra-
dled in the very lap of danger; moreover, it was requisite,
above all things, that no rumor or suspicion of our intend-
ed project should obtain wind, and, by reaching Montre-
uil's ears, give him some safer opportunity of escape. I
had no doubt of the sincerity of the fatalist's communica-
tion, and if I had, the subsequent conversation I held with
him, when Gerald and Oswald were gone, would have been
sufficient to remove it. He was evidently deeply stung by
the reflection of his own treachery, and singularly enough,
with Montreuil seemed to perish all his worldly hopes and
aspirations. Desmarais, I found, was a man of much
higher ambition than I had imagined, and he had linked
himself closely to Montreuil, because from the genius and
the resolution of the priest he had drawn the most sanguine
auguries of his future power. As the night advanced,
he grew visibly anxious, and, having fully satisfied myself
that I might count indisputably upon his intelligence, I
once more left him to his meditations, and, alone in the
outer chamber, I collected myself for the coming event. I
had fully hoped that Montreuil would have repaired to the
tower in search of Gerald, and this was the strongest
reason which had induced me to remain behind : but time
waned, he came not, and at length it grew so late that I
began to tremble lest the assistance from **** should
not arrive in time.
CC
It struck the first quarter after e' : less than an
hour my enemy would be either in my power, or beyond its
reach; still Gerald and our allies came not: my suspense
grew intolerable; my pulse raged with fever; I could not
stay for two seconds in the same spot; a hundred times
had I drawn my sword, and looked eagerly along its bright
Once," thought 1, as I looked, thou didst cross
blade.
the blade of my mortal foe, and to my danger, rather than
victory; years have brought skill to the hand which then
guided thee, and in the red path of battle thou hast never
waved in vain. Be stained but once more with Inman
blood, and I will prize every drop of that blood beyond all
the triumphs thou hast brought me !" Yes, it had been
with a fiery and intense delight that I had learnt that Mon-
treuil would have companions to his flight in lawless and
hardened men, who would never yield him a prisoner with-
out striking for his rescue; and I knew enough of the
courageous and proud temper of my purposed victim to
feel assured that, priest as he was, he would not hesitate
to avail himself of the weapons of lis confederates, or to
-
aid them with his own. Then would it be lawful to op
pose violence to his resistance, and with my own hand to
deal the death-blow of retribution. Still as these thoughts
flashed over me, my heart grew harder, and my blood
rolled more burningly through my veins. They come
not, Gerald returns not," I said, as my eye dwelt on the
horologe, and saw the minutes creep one after the other,
"it matters not, HE at least shall not escape!
were he girt by a million, I would single him from the
herd; one stroke of this right hand is all that I ask of life.
then let them avenge him if they will." Thus resolved,
and despairing at last of the return of Gerald, I left the
tower, locked the outer door, as a still further security
against my prisoner's escape, and repaired with silent, but
swift, strides to the beach by the Castle Cave. It wanted
about half an hour to midnight; the night was still and
breathless, a dim mist spread from sea to sky, through
which the stars gleamed forth heavily, and at distant inter-
vals. The moon was abroad, but the vapors that surround-
ed her gave a watery and sicklied dulness to her light,
and wherever in the niches and hollows of the cliff, the
shadows fell, all was utterly dark, and unbroken by the
smallest ray: only along the near waves of the sea, and
the whiter parts of the level sand, were objects easily dis-
cernible. I strode to and fro, for a few minutes, before
the Castle Cave; I saw no one, and I seated myself in
stern vigilance upon a stone, in a worn recess of the rock,
and close by the mouth of the Castle Cave.
The spot
where I sat was wrapt in total darkness, and I felt assured
that I might wait my own time for disclosing myself. I
had not been many minutes at my place of watch, before I
saw the figure of a man approach from the left; he moved
with rapid steps, and once, when he passed along a place
where the wan light of the skies was less obscured, I saw
enough of his form and air to recognise Montreuil. He
neared the cave, he paused, he was within a few
paces of me, I was about to rise, when another figure
suddenly glided from the mouth of the cave itself.
"Ha!" cried the latter, "it is Bertrand Collinot,
fate be lauded!
Had a voice from the grave struck my ear, it would have
scarcely amazed me more than that which I now heard.
Could I believe my senses? the voice was that of Desmarais,
whom I had left locked within the inner chamber of the
tower. “Fly,” he resumed, "fly instantly; you have not
a moment to lose, already the stern Morton waits thee,-
already the hounds of justice are on thy track, tarry not for
the pirates, but begone at once.”
"You rave, man! What mean you
What mean you? the boats will be
here immediately. While you yet speak, methinks I can
descry them on the sea.
descry them on the sea. Something of this I dreaded when,
some hours ago, I caught a glimpse of Gerald on the road
* * *. I saw not the face of his companion, but I
would not trust myself in the tower; yet I must await the
boats, — flight is indeed requisite, but they make the only
means by which flight is safe!"
to
Curse
"Pray, then, thou who believest, pray that they may
come soon, or thou diest, and I with thee! Morton is
returned, is reconciled to his weak brother. Gerald and
Oswald are away to ****, for men to seize and drag
thee to a public death. I was arrested, threatened; but
one way to avoid prison and cord was shown me.
me, Bertrand, for I embraced it. I told them thou wouldst
fly to-night, and with whom. They locked me in the inner
chamber of the tower, Morton kept guard without. At
length I heard him leave the room, I heard him descend
the stairs, and lock the gate of the tower.
dreamt be of the wit of Jean Desmarais.
scorn bolt and bar, Bertrand Collinot.
searched me,
I used my instruments,
that with those instruments I could glide through stone
walls! I opened the door, — I was in the outer room,
I lifted the trap-door which old Sir William had boarded
over, and which thou hadst so artfully and perceptibly
replaced, when thou wantedst secret intercourse with thy
pupils, -1 sped along the passage, came to the iron door,
—
Ha ha! little
Thy friend must
They had not
thon knowest
touched the spring thou hadst inserted in the plate which
the old knight had placed over the keyhole, and have
come to repair my coward treachery, -to save and to fly
with thee. But while I speak, we tread on a precipice.
Morton has left the house, and is even now, perhaps, in
search of thee !"
"Ha! I care not if he be," said Montreuil, in a low,
DEVEREUX.
875
but haughty, tone. "Priest though I am, I have not as-
sumed the garb, without assuming also the weapon, of the
layman. Even now I have my hand upon the same sword
which shone under the banners of Mar; and which once,
but for my foolish mercy, would have rid me for ever of this
private foe."
now,
"Unsheath it
" said I, coming
Julian Montreuil !
from my retreat, and confronting the pair.
Montreuil recoiled several paces. At that instant a shot
boomed along the waters.
"Haste, haste!" cried Desmarais, hurrying to the waves,
as a boat, now winding the cliff, became darkly visible;
"haste, Bertrand, here are Bonjean and his men,
they are pursued !"
but
Once did Montreuil turn, as if to fly; but my sword was
at his breast, and, stamping fiercely on the ground, he drew
his rapier, and parried, and returned my assault; but he
retreated rapidly toward the water while he struck; and
wild and loud came the voices from the boat, which now
touched the shore.
come,
come,
-
a con-
"Come,
the officers are upon us;
we can wait not a moment!" and Montreuil, as he heard
the cries, mingled with oaths and curses, yet quickened his
pace toward the quarter whence they came.
His steps
were tracked by his blood, -twice had my sword passed
through his flesh; but twice had it failed my vengeance,
and avoided a mortal part. A second boat, filled also with
A second boat, filled also with
the pirates, followed the first; but then another and a larger
vessel bore black and fast over the water, the rush and
cry of men were heard on land, again and nearer a shot
broke over the heavy air,- another and another,
tinued fire. The strand was now crowded with the officers
of justice. The vessel beyond forbade escape to the oppo-
site islet. There was no hope for the pirates but in con-
test, or in dispersion among the cliffs or woods on the
shore. They formed their resolution at once, and stood
prepared and firm, partly on their boats, partly on the
beach around them. Though the officers were far more
numerous, the strife,
the strife, fierce, desperate, and hand to hand,
seemed equally sustained. Montreuil, as he retreated
before me, bore back into the general melée, and, as the
press thickened, we were for some moments separated. It
was at this time that I caught a glimpse of Gerald; he
seemed also then to espy me, and made eagerly toward me.
Suddenly he was snatched from my view. The fray re-
laxed; the officers, evidently worsted, retreated toward the
land, and the pirates appeared once more to entertain the
hope of making their escape by water. Probably they
thought that the darkness of the night might enable them
to baffle the pursuit of the adverse vessel, which now lay
expectant and passive on the wave. However this be, they
made simultaneously to their boats, and, among their num
bers, I descried Montreuil. I set my teeth with a calm and
prophetic wrath. But three strokes did my good blade
make through that throng before I was by his side; he had,
at that instant, his hold upon the boat's edge, and he stood
knee-deep in the dashing waters. I laid my grasp upon his
shoulder, and my cheek touched his own as I hissed in his
ear, "I am with thee yet! He turned fiercely, - he
strove, but he strove in vain, to shake off my grasp. The
boat pushed away, and his last hope of escape was over.
At this moment the moon broke away from the mist, and
we saw each other plainly, and face to face. There was a
ghastly but set despair in Montreuil's lofty and proud
countenance, which changed gradually to a fiercer aspect,
as he met my gaze.
Once more, foot to foot, and hand to
hand, we engaged; the increased light of the skies rendered
the contest more that of skill than it had hitherto been, and
Montreuil seemned to collect all his energies, and to fight
with a steadier and a cooler determination. Nevertheless
the combat was short. Once, my antagonist had the im-
prudence to raise his arm and expose his body to my thrust:
his sword grazed my cheek, I shall bear the scar to my
grave, mine passed twice through his breast, and he fell,
bathed in his own blood, at my feet.
وو
"Lift him!" I said, to the men who now crowded
round. They did so, and he unclosed his eyes, and glared
upon me as the death-pang convulsed his features, and gath-
ered in foam to his lips. But his thoughts were not upon
bis destroyer, nor upon the wrongs he had committed, nor
upon any solitary being in the linked society which he had
injured.
"Order of Jesus," he muttered, "had I but lived three
months longer, I—”
So died Julian Montreuil !
CONCLUSION.
MONTREUIL was not the only victim in the brief com-
bat of that night; several of the pirates and their pursuers
perished, and among the bodies we found Gerald. He had
been pierced by a shot through the brain, and was perfectly
lifeless when his body was discovered. By a sort of retri
bution, it seems that my unhappy brother received his
death-wound from a shot, fired (probably at random ) by
Desmarais; and thus the instrument of the fraud he had
tacitly subscribed to, became the minister of his death.
Nay, the retribution seemed even to extend to the very
method by which Desmarais had escaped; and, as the
reader has perceived, the subterranean communication
which had been secretly re-opened to deceive my uncle,
made the path which had guided Gerald's murderer to the
scene which afterward ensued The delay of the officers
had been owing to private re. gence, previously received
by the magistrate to whom Gerald had applied, of the num-
ber and force of the pirates, and his waiting in conse-
quence for a military reinforcement to the party to be de-
spatched against them. Those of the pirates who escaped
the conflict escaped also the pursuit of the hostile vessel
they reached the islet, and gained their captain's ship. A
few shots between the two vessels were idly exchanged,
and the illicit adventurers reached the French shore in safe-
ty; with them escaped Desmarais, and of him, from that
hour to this, I have heard nothing,— so capriciously plays
time with villains!
;
Marie Oswald has lately taken unto himself a noted inn
on the North Road, a place eminently calculated for the
display of his various talents; he has also taken unto him-
self a WIFE, of whose tongue and temper he has been
known already to complain with no Socratic meekness;
and we may, therefore, opine that his misdeeds have not
altogether escaped their fitting share of condemnation.
Succeeding at once, by the death of my poor brother, to
the DEVEREUX estates, I am still employed in rebuilding
on a yet more costly scale, my ancestral mansion. So eager
and impatient is my desire for the completion of my under-
taking, that I allow rest neither by night nor day, and half
the work will be done by torch-light. With the success of
this project terminates my last scheme of ambition.
Here, then, at the age of thirty-four, I conclude the his-
tory of my life. Whether in the star, which, as I now
write, shines in upou me, and which a romance, still unsub-
dued, has often dreamt to be the bright prophet of my fate,
something of future adventure, suffering, or excitation, is
yet predestined to me; or whether life will muse itself
away in the solitudes which surround the home of my past
childhood, and the scene of my present retreat, creates
within me but slight food for anticipation or conjecture. I
have exhausted the sources of those feelings which flow,
whether through the channels of anxiety or of hope, toward
the future; and the restlessness of my manhood, having
attained its last object, has done the labor of time, and
bequeathed me the indifference of age.
If love exists for me no more, I know well that the rem
ory of that which has been, is to me far more than a living
love is to others; and, perhaps, there is no passion so full
of tender, of soft, and of hallowing associations, as the
love which is stamped by death. If I have borne much,
and my spirit has worked out its earthly end in travail and
in tears, yet I would not forego the lessons which my life
has bequeathed me, even though they be deeply blended
with sadness and regret. No! were I asked what best
dignifies the present, and consecrates the past; what enables
us alone to draw a just moral from the tale of life; what
sheds the purest light upon our reason; what gives the
firmest strength to our religion; and, whether our remain-
ing years pass in seclusion or in action, is best fitted to soft-
en the heart to man, and elevate the soul to God, I would
answer, with Lassus, it is "EXPERIENCE!"
THE END OF DEVEREUX,
i
PAUL CLIFFORD.
Many of your lordships must recollect what used to take place on the high-roads in the neignborhooɑ of
this metropolis some years ago. Scarcely a carriage could pass without being robbed, and frequently the
passengers were obliged to fight with, and give battle to, the highwaymen who infested the roads. Duks
of Wellington's Speech on the Metropolis Police Bill, June 5th. Mirror of Parliament, 1829, page 2050.
Can any man doubt whether it is better to be a great statesman, or a common thief? —Jonathan Wild.
:
!
DEDICATORY EPISTLE.
то
Esq.
SOME years ago, my dear friend, when you and I had
more of the poetry of life at our hearts than, I fear, is left
to either of us now, I inscribed with your name a certain
slender volume of Poems, printed but not published. Of
the one hundred copies of those boyish indiscretions which,
ful! of all unimaginable errors of type and press, owed
their origin to a French printer, I have not to this day
given away more than two or three-and-twenty. I dedi-
cated to you then a book only to be circulated among
friends, on the tacit understanding that they were to be
alike willing to forgive and eager to commend. I dedicate
to you now a book which, the moment it passes from me,
goes among readers of whom even the kindly are too luke-
warm to praise, the hostile are pre-resolved to censure,
and every individual, with a cruel justice, holds it a right
to expect merit in an author upon all points, and to extend
him indulgence upon none.
This is the natural and estab-
lished boud of publication; and of course, like all who
publish, I am prepared for its conditions. But ere I again
appear before an audience not the less critical, scarcely
the less unfamiliar, for my having, in other performances,
braved its opinion, let me linger a few minutes behind the
scenes, and encourage myself with a friendly conference
with you. It gives me pain, my dear *
to think that I may not grace my pages with your name;
for I well know, that when after years shall open the fitting
opportunity to your talents, that name will not be lightly
held wherever honesty and truth, -a capacity to devise
what is good, and a courage to execute it, are considered
qualities worthy of esteem. But in your present pursuits
t can scarcely serve you to be praised by a novelist, and
named in the dedication to a novel; and your well-wishers
would not be pleased to find you ostentatiously exhibiting a
sanction to a book, which they would fain hope you may
never obtain the leisure to read.
Four years have passed since I dedicated to you the
Poems I refer to, they have not brought to either of us
an inconsiderable change. We are no longer the rovers of
the world, setting sail at our caprice, and finding enter-
prise at our will. We feel, though with a silent convic-
tion, that life has roads harsher and more barren than we
then imagined; and we look on the ways through which
we pass, not with the eager or the wandering glance of the
tourist of pleasure, but with the saturnine and wary eye of
the hackneyed trafficker of business. You are settled down
to the labors, honorable, indeed, but somewhat sterile,
→ of the bar; and I, "a mere spectator of other men's
fortunes and adventures,"* am drawing from the bustle of
the living world such quiet observation as, after it has lain
a little while within my own mind, you perceive re-pro-
duced in the pages of certain idle and very indifferent nov-
els. I cling, however, not the less fondly to my old faith,
that experience is the only investment which never fails to
G
q, J
- Burton.
repay us ten-fold what it cost; and that we cannot find
better and surer guides through those mazes of life, which
we have not only to pass but to retrace, than the error, or
the prejudice, or the regret which, with every interval, we
leave behind us, as landmarks, on our way.
When you receive these three volumes, printed, and la-
belled, and boarded, in all the uncut coxcombry of the very
last new novel, I know exactly the half-frown, half-smile,
with which you will greet them, and the friendly petulance
with which you will pish! and think what a pity it is that
should still write nothing else but a novel." - Is
-
it, indeed, a pity, my dear friend? Are you sure that in
writing something else I should write something better?
For my part, I often ask myself that question; and, if I
could answer it satisfactorily, this work would never have
been written. But let us view the matter fairly; what
else shall I write? There is Poetry, in the first place!
Will you, will any one read epic or sonnet, tale or
satire, tragedy or epigram? Whatever be the variety,
do you not except at once to the species ? and would
you not deem it a less fatigue and a greater profit, to skim
through three volumes, than to yawn over a single starza?
- A tide of popular opinion has set against poetry; and
in the literary world, as in the natural, the tide and the
hour can scarcely be neglected, even by the hardiest adven-
turer. - Putting, then, poetry out of our consideration,-
and I wish, for I have all the fondness and weakness of
first love still clinging about me, that you would even at-
tempt to convince me that I ought not to do so,
shall we
turn to Philosophy ? shall I write on the mind, or specu-
late on the senses? Alas! to what end? We may judge of
the demand for moral philosophy, when we reflect that
Hobbes's works* are out of print, and that Mills's Analy
sis has not been reviewed. I will frankly confess to you,
that writing is not with me its own reward; and that in or-
der to write, I must first have the hope to be read. Politics,
Essays, Travels, Biography, History; — are these subjects
on which one is more likely to obtain a decent, a tolerably
durable reputation, than one is by the composition of nov-
els? I fear not. Let us look around! What encourage-
ment to any of these subjects is held out to us? Are not
writings of this sort far more the ephemerals of literature
than writings of fiction?
* In a collected shape.
Does the biography, or the
Nor is this, as at the first glance it may appear, owing to the
fault or the unimportance of the writings themselves. While
"The Sketch Book" is found in every young lady's dressing-
room; and "Bracebridge Hall" is still in high request, in
every country book-club; "The Life of Columbus," invaluable
if only from the subject so felicitously chosen; "The Wars o
Grenada," scarcely less valuable from the subject so consum-
mately adorned, and so stirringly painted; are, the one slowly
passing into forgetfulness, and the other slumbering, with uncut
leaves, upon the shelf. Compare the momentary sensation pro-
with the sensation, durable and intense, which, replete as it is
duced by the first appearance of Lord King's "Life of Locke,"
with the treasure of Locke's familiar thoughts, it would have
produced twenty years ago! "Godwin's History of the Com.
monwealth," one of the most manly and impartial records ever
380
BULWER'S NOVELS.
essay, or the treatise, last even the year for which a novel
endures? And if it does not exceed the novel in durabili-
ty, it can scarcely equal it, you will allow, in popularity.
The literary idler who receives it from the library, sends
it away and waits for the review in the Quarterly; and the
friend, the familiar, to whom you make it a present, shuns
you during the rest of your life, lest you should inquire his
opinion. You see, my dear *** ***, I have viewed
the matter on a magnificent scale. I might have checked
e question at once; I might, instead of provoking dis-
cussion, by pointing out the unfitness of such attempts, have
quieted it by a gentle allusion to the inability of the at-
tempter; I might have exclaimed "Poetry! I am a
poetaster, not a poet. Philosophy!
Philosophy! I am a student, not
a discoverer. Essays! I have wearied you already with
essays in Devereux,' or the Disowned.'
Travels!
Where, oh! where have I travelled?" But this is not
the age in which men are so uninventive in motives as to
confess to a want of genius, or a scantiness of knowl
edge; and consequently, I beg you to believe that I write
novels, not because I cannot write any thing else, but be-
cause novels are the best possible things to be written.
and more presuming composition. Then, too, I fancy at
those "post-prandial hours," when a certain self-compla
cency diffuses its cheering caloric over the mind,
I fancy that I have also by accident stricken out a vein not
so wholly hackneyed, as that any
of my
immediate cotempora.
ries share the possession with myself: for the philosophical
novel is at present not only little cultivated in any shape,
but those who do break up the unpromising soil, are wi
ters essentially grave and didactic. Such is the gracerul
and all-accomplished author of "De Vere ; or the fine
creator of "St. Leon" and "Mandeville," to whose style
may be applied the simile applied somewhat too flatteringly
to that of Tertullian, that it is like ebony, at once dark
and splendid. The novel, blending chiefly the comic, and
occasionally the dramatic qualities with those of the re-
flective and analysing, is that which (except in "Dever-
eux") I have sought out as the province of my own at-
tempts; and in avoiding a competition with the distinguished
writers I have just referred to, I aimed originally at pa
dence, and gained perhaps something of novelty.
We live in a strange and ominous period for literature.
In books as in other manufactures, the great aim seems
the abridgment of labor; the idlest work is the most charm-
ing. People will only expend their time for immediate
returns of knowledge; and the wholesome and fair profit,
slow, but permanent, they call tedious in letters, and spec-
ulative in politics. This eager yet slothful habit of mind,
now so general, has brought into notice an emigrant, and
motley class of literature, formerly, in this country, little
known and less honored. We throw aside our profound
We throw aside our profound
researches, and feast upon popular abridgments; we for-
sake the old march through elaborate histories, for "a dip"
into entertaining memoirs. In this, our immediate bias
in literature, if any class of writing has benefited more
than another in popularity and estimation, it is the novel.
Readers now look into fiction for facts; as Voltaire, in his
witty philosophy, looked among facts for fiction. I do not
say that the novel has, in increased merit, deserved its in-
creased reputation: on the contrary, I think, that though
our style may be less prolix than it was in the last cen-
tury, our thoughts are more languid and our invention less
racy.*
* However this be, the fashion in literature, of which
I speak, has, among the wrecks of much that is great and
noble, opened to second-rate ability and mediocre knowl-
dge, paths that were shut to them before. And I, for one,
f I have lost as a member of the Public, have gained more
than proportionately as an Individual. I feel that I have
iust sufficient reading, or observation, or reflection, or tal-
ent of any sort, to make it possible that I may stumble in
a light fiction upon some amusing, perhaps even some use-
ful truths; while neither the reading, nor the observation,
nor the reflection, nor the talent, are in all probability suf-
ficient to entitle me to a momentary notice in any graver
written, lives less upon the memory than "Almacks;" and
"Cyril Thornton," produced some four years since, is in more
immediate vogue than the admirable history by the same au-
thor, published but the other day. True, that among a suc-
ceeding generation, there may possibly be a re-action, - leth-
argic octavos be awakened from their untimely trance, and en-
livened quartos "take up neir beds and walk!" But now when
people think as well as feel, and the present is to them that
matter of reference and consideration which the future was with
their more dreaming forefathers, -the fame that is only pos-
thumous, has become to all, but to poets, a very frigid and im-
potent inducement.
* In whatever I say of the novel, I cannot, of course, be sup-
posed to include the fictions of Sir Walter Scott. I must also
the
make two exceptions among the novels of his countrymen,
quaint and nervous humor of "Lawrie Todd," and the impas-
sioned boldness of "Adam Blair."
pu
You will observe that I have laid a stress on the words
immediate cotemporaries, for I do not deceive myself with
the idea that I have done any thing the least original; I
have only endeavoured to revive what had passed a little
into neglect; and if my books have had any success, it is
owing to the goodness of the school, and in spite of he
faults of the disciple. The combination of the philosor.ic
novel with the comic has indeed long since, in two great
authors, been carried to a perfection, which, I confess, I
think is not likely to be attained, longo intervallo, by any
succeeding writer. The first, and by far the greater of
these, (I speak of Fielding,) seems a man, who with a
universal fame has never met with a full appreciation. To
me, he appears not only incomparable as a novelist, — but
also one of the soundest thinkers, and most scientific mor-
alists that ever conferred honor on a country, and instruc-
tion on mankind. The second, Dr. Moore, has this remark-
able merit; he has made us forgive in him, two sins that
would have been beyond redemption in any other author, -
viz. in style an odious affectation of Gallicisms, and in
morals a furtive tendency to import the idea ready-made,
rather than to work out the raw material at home. To
these two may be added Miss Edgeworth, the most faultless,
if not the most brilliant of all novelists, past and present.
I do not class her among immediate cotemporaries, partly
because she seems to have altogether retired from the field,
and partly because the same settled and quiet judgment has
been passed upon her charming and useful tales which is in
general reserved for the decision of posterity. Though I
can only, then, advance a claim to the merit of the renewer,
not the creator, the furbisher of old pictures, not the ar-
tist of new, — I am yet very far from certain that I can
reach even an equal merit in any other branch of literature;
and thus you perceive a fourth * novel from my pen, where
your unreflecting friendship would have wished to see an
attempt in political morals or history : History! after
all, and despite of all discouragement, there is to every
student, every man of closet, or academic, recollections, a
wonderful stimulus, in that word! and, perhaps, I may al-
ready, and in defiance of my own judgment, and the warn-
ings around, have nursed within me some project in that
most noble yet least ransacked department of intellectual
* When I speak of my fourth novel, I omit "Falkland" from
the number, an early and crude attempt which I have never
hitherto owned, beyond my own small circle of friends;
and which I should not now speak of, were it not generally
known to be mine, at least among all who have ever heard
of it!
DEDICATORY EPISTLE.
88
ment.
a sorcer-
research, which in after years I may disappoint you and
embody. But this is not to be lightly begun, nor even im-
maturely conceived; and how many casualties may arise
to mar altogether the execution of such a project! how many
casualties, even at the best, may procrastinate it to the lan-
guor of age, and the energies slackened by long familiarity
with the crosses and contests of life! Often, when through
youth and manhood we imagine we are cherishing our con-
cluding triumph, we are only nursing our latest disappoint-
Meanwhile, at present, if I anticipate but little
gain, I can ineet but with a trifling loss: I do not set my
heart on the success of efforts, which, I allow with my en-
emies, (for to have enemies is the doom of literature, which
even the most ordinary writer does not escape,) are petty
and unimportant; I am not so elevated by the praise of
this man, or so humbled by the blame of that, as to forfeit
"the level temperature of the mind," or transgress the
small and charmed circle from which Reason,
ess when she confines her efforts, an impostor when she
enlarges them, — banishes the intrusion of others. Nor do
I myself believe that to any one who has formed the habit
of application, is the production of books, whatever be
their nature, (so long as they are neither in poetry nor ab-
stract science) attended with that utter and absorbing en-
grossment of time which is usually imagined. Life has
hours enough for all but the idle; and for my own part, if
I were not in the common habit of turning to more impor-
tant subjects, as a study, I should never have had the pre-
sumption to write even novels as a recreation. Do not
conceive, however, from what I have said, that I am going
to write novels all the rest of my life, I am excusing what
has been, and is, not prefacing what is to be.
I have now, my dear friend, said all that I wished to
touch upon in excuse for the nature of my productions. I
do not make you, nor, through you, my readers, an apology
for my egotism or my prolixity. To all writers a dedica-
tion is unchallenged and licensed ground to all readers is
granted a liberty, no less acknowledged, that of passing
over it with whatever rapidity they please. I have been
holding intercourse with you with as much frankness as if
the letters I now write were not presently to be translated
into the unfamiliar characters of the press; and if I have
gone a little too largely into general or into individual topics,
I must make amends by touching as briefly as possible on
the work now before you.
-
leisure himself, among labors more important, to embody
his own idea; or that, in giving me the canvass, he could
have given me also his skill to color and his valent to
create.
I can scarcely conceive, what you, who are rather fas
tidious about the niceties of language, will think of the
vulgar graces wherewith the greater part of my first volume
is adorned. I must own, that I have on this point steeled
myself against censure; for, independent of any latent ap-
plication or irony in the dialect* I refer to, I am willing
to risk an experiment, tried successfully in Scotland and
Ireland, though not in the present day attempted in Eng-
land:
of giving descriptive and appropriate dialogue to
classes of society, far more capable of yielding interest or
amusement to persons of any mental vigor, whatever be
their rank, than trite copies of the languid inanities of a
drawing-room, or lifeless portraits of originals, whose very
boast it is to be scarcely alive.t
*
For any occasional retaliation on critics, enemies, or
Scotchmen, — (with me, for the most part, they have been
found three appellations for the same thing,) for many very
hard words, and very smart hits against myself, I offer
no excuse ; - my retaliation is in the spirit of English war-
sonages to fictitious characters in the station or profession of
life which Old Bags and Long Ned adorn,- for the choice of
those personages he is by no means answerable. I mention
this, because it is but fair that I should take the chances of of-
malice in the caricatures referred to, will, I venture to foretell
fence on myself;- though the broadness, and evident want of
make those caricatured, the first-perhaps the only persons —
to laugh at the exaggerated resemblance.
* It must be remembered, too, that this dialect is not the cor-
ruption of uncouth provincialisms. The language of the thieves,
or the low Londoners, (a distinction, I fear, without a differ-
ence,) is perhaps one of the most expressive, -nay, one of the
most metaphysical in the world! What deep philosophy, for
instance, is there in this phrase "the oil of Palms!".
"-(mean
ing money!)
In some inimical, and rather personal but clever observa-
tions, made on me in a new periodical work, it is implied that
people living in good society cannot write philosophically, or,
it would seem, even well. I suppose of course the critic speaks
of persons who live only in good society; and though the re-
mark is not true, as it happeus, singularly enough, that the best
and most philosophical prose writers, in England especially,
have been gentlemen, and lived for the most part, as a matter
saying, that the remark, true or false, in this case by no means
of course among their equals, yet I shall content myself with
applies to me, who have seen quite as much of the lowest or-
ders as of any other, and who scarcely ever go into what is
termed the world.' By the way, the critic alluded to having
been pleased in a very pointed manner to consider me the hero
as well as author of my own book, (Pelham, I am induced to
say a few words on the subject. The year before Pelham ap
peared, I published "Falkland," in which the hero was essen
tially of the gloomy, romantic, cloud-like order; in short, Sit
Reginald Glanville out-Glanvilled. The matter-of-fact gentry
who say
"We," and call themselves critics, declared that
"Falkland" was evidently a personation of the author; next
year out came "Pelham," - the moral antipodes of “ Falkland,”
and the same gentry said exactly the same thing of " Pelham."
Will they condescend to reconcile this contradiction? The fact
is, that the moment any prominency, any corporeal reality is
given to a hero, and the hero (mark this) is not made ostenta-
hero and the author are the same person! This is one reason
tiously good,(nobody said I was like Mordaunt,) then the
why heroes now-a-days are made such poor creatures. Authors
a quiet set of people, rarely like to be personally mixed up with
their own creations. For my own part, though I might have
an especial cause of complaint in this incorporation, since I
have never even drawn two heroes alike, but made ench, Falk-
land, Pelham, Mordaunt, and Devereux, essentially different.
yet I am perfectly willing, if it gives the good people the least
pleasure, that my critics should confound me with Pelham
Nay, if Pelham be at all what he was meant to be, viz. a prac
tical satire on the exaggerated, and misanthropical romance of
the day, -a human being whose real good qualities put to
—
For the original idea of Paul Clifford, I am indebted
to a gentleman of considerable distinction in literature, and
whose kindness to me is one of my most gratifying remem-
brances. This idea, had the work been shorter, would
have pervaded the whole; as it is, it will be found embod-
ied in those parts which, I believe, will be the most pop-
nlar in the book; such as the scene at Gentleman George's,
the sketch of Bachelor Bill, &c. As example is more ex-
planatory than detail, I refer to these passages for the illus-
tration of my friend's suggestion, rather than attempt to
mfold and enlarge on it here. In justice to my friend, I
should add, first, that I feel I have given a very inadequate
form to a conception that appears to me peculiarly felicit-
ous; and secondly, that as I have made use of his idea rath-
er as an adjunct to my story, than as the principal ground-shame the sickly sentimentalism of blue skies and bare throats,
work of the story itself, all the faults of plot and deficiencies
of invention that may be found in the progress and dénoue-
ment of my tale, are solely and wholly to be laid to my
charge. *
It were to be wished that my friend had found
*I should add, also, that I alone am accountable for the per-
sonality of any caricatures in the scenes referred to: all that
my friend suggested, was the satirical adaptation of living per-
sombre coxcombries and interesting villanies; if he be at all
like this, I am extremely proud to be mistaken for him. For
though he is certainly a man who bathes and "lives cleanly,"
(two especial charges preferred against him by Messrs. the
Great Unwashed,) yet he is also brave, generous, inst; a true
friend, an active citizen, - perfect in accompusaments, — un-
shaken in principles ! - What, is this my portrait,
my fac-
simile, gentlemen ? Upon my word, I am extremely obliged
Pray go on! I would not interrupt you for the
to you
world!
-
·
392
BULWER'S NOVELS.
fare,
blows at one moment, and good-humor the next.-
As for Scotchmen, I am not quite sure that they have been
yet able to expel from my breast the lurking kindness which
it once bore towards them. It is not an easy matter
seriously to dislike, however ingeniously one may rail
against, the country that has produced Burns, and Scott,
and Campbell, a country too, by the way, with which
you claim a connexion, and of which the distinguished
friend I have mentioned in this epistle is a native. I re-
turn, only, gently enough at present, the first blows with
which they have assailed me; I know what to expect in
return, and shall scarcely be the one
"Who first cries 'Hold, enough!'"'
But, speaking dispassionately, our good fellow-subjects
on the other side of the Tweed have one little unpleasant
foible which makes them less charming than they otherwise
might be, they lose their temper the moment an English-
man gains a singular advantage, they become preposter-
ously angry if we get ever so small a name, nay ever so
small a fortune in our own country; they seem to imagine
that God Almighty has made them a present of England to
do exactly what they please with, and that the Englishman
who interferes with their monopoly commits the very worst
species of blasphemy. Whenever we rise the least little
step in the world, we are, it is true, sure to be abused; but
sure to be abused; but
I fancy, we shall find, on inquiry, that nine times out of
ten, the abuse has been uttered in broad Scotch!
It has been made an objection to this book, that the style
of the first volume differs from the style of the second and
third this difference was an especial object with me in
writing the work. Scenes in society essentially contrasted,
appear to require language suitable to the contrast, and I
cannot but think that one of the great and ordinary faults
in fiction, is the narrating all events, and describing all
varieties, with the same monotonous and unmodulating
tone.
The hero of the story is an attempt to portray an indi-
vidual of a species of which the country is now happily rid,
but which seem to me to have possessed as many of the
real properties of romance, especially comic and natural
romance, as the foreign Carbonari and exotic pirates whom
it has pleased English writers, in search of captivating
villains, to import to their pages. For my part, I will back
an English highwayman, masked, armed, mounted, and
trotting over Hounslow Heath, against the prettiest rascal
the Continent ever produced.
In conclusion, let me acid that I have endeavoured to take
warning from the errors of my preceding works. Perhaps
it will be found that, in this the story is better conducted,
and the interest more uniformly upneld, than in my other
productions. I have outlived the Recluse's desire to be
didascular, and have avoided alike essay-writing and digres
sion;- in a word, I have studied more than in my two last
works to write a tolerably entertaining novel. I have ad-
mitted only one episode of importance, the History of
Augustus Tomlinson; and I have only admitted that ex-
ception, because the history is no episode in the moral and
general design, though it is in the current of narration.
And now, my dear friend, it is high time that I should
end an epistle already too long, even for your patience.
Whatever be the fate of this book, or of those which have
preceded it; whether they have arisen like the insects
kindled from the Sicilian fountain, quickened with one
moment, and perishing with the next, or whether in spite
of a thousand faults which no one can detect easier than
myself, something, betokening, perhaps, no thoughtless or
irreverent inattention to the varieties of Nature, and no un-
kindly disposition towards her offspring, may detain them
on the public mind yet a little while beyond the brief season
which gave them birth,- one gratification I have at
least secured! I have associated this novel, which I in-
cline to hope may not be considered my worst, and which
possibly may be my last, with such remembrances as will
survive defeat, or endear success.
,
Adieu, my dear * * * * * *
Wishing you all health and happiness
Believe me your very
Affectionate Friend,
Hertford-street, April, 1830.
NOTE.
E. L. B
One or two Notes on, or allusions to, Moore's Life o
Byron, will be found in these pages Since they were
written, the subject has grown a little hackneyed, and the
remarks they embody have been in some measure forestalled.
At the time of composition, they were, however, new, and
appeared to me called for
PAUL CLIFFORD.
CHAPTER I.
Bay, ye opprest by some fantastic woes,
Some arring nerve that baffles your repose,
Who press the downy couch while slaves advance
With timid eye to read the distant glance;
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor teaze
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure;
How would you bear in real pain to lie
Despis'd, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath
Where all that's wretched paves the way to death?
CRABBE.
It was a dark and stormy night, the rain fell in tor-
rents, except at occasional intervals, when it was check-
ed by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets,
(for it is in London that our scene lies,) rattling along the
house-tops, and fiercelv agitating the scanty flame of the
lamps that struggled against the darkness. Through one
of the obscurest quarters of London, and among haunts lit-
tle loved by the gentlemen of the police, a man evidently
of the lowest orders was wending his solitary way. He
stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a
description correspondent with the appearance of the
quartier in which they were situated, and tended inquiry
for some article or another which did not seem easily to be
met with. All the answers he received were couched in
the negative; and as he turned from each door, he mut-
tered to himself, in no very elegant phraseology, his disap-
pointment and discontent. At length, at one house, the
landlord, a sturdy butcher, after rendering the same reply
the inquirer had hitherto received, added, But if this
vill do as vell, Dummie, it is quite at your sarvice!
Pausing reflectively for a moment, Dummie responded,
that he thought the thing proffered might do as well; and
thrusting it into his ample pocket he strode away with as
rapid a motion as the wind and the rain would allow. He
soon came to a nest of low and dingy buildings, at the
entrance to which, in half-effaced characters, was written
"Thames Court." Halting at the most conspicuous of
these buildings, an inn or ale-house, through the half-closed
windows of which, blazed out in ruddy comfort, the
beams of the hospitable hearth, he knocked hastily at the
door. He was admitted by a lady of a certain age, and
endowed with a comely rotundity of face and person.
"Hast got it, Dummie?" said she quickly, as she
closed the door on the guest.
"Noa, noa! not exactly,
but I thinks as ow
Pish, you fool!" cried the woman, interrupting him,
peevishly: "Vy, it is no use desaving of me. You knows
you has only stepped from my boosing ken to another, and
you has not been arter the book at all. So, there's the
poor cretur a-raving and a-dying, and you
"I
"Let I speak!" interrupted Dummie in his turn.
tells you, I vent first to Mother Bussblone's, who, I
knows, chops the whiners morning and evening to the
young ladies, and I axes there for a Bible, and, she
says, says she, I 'as only a "Companion to the Haltar !”
but you'll get a Bible, I thinks, at Master Talkins, the
cobbler,
-as preaches.' So I goes to Master Talkins,
and he says, says he, 'I 'as no call for the Bible,' cause
vy, I 'as a call vithout; but mayhap you'll be a-getting it
at the butcher's hover the vay, 'cause vy ? the butch-
er'll be damned ! So I goes hover the vay, and the
outcher savs, says he, I 'as not a Bible; but I 'as a book
of plays bound for all the vorld just like 'un, and mayhap
poor cretur may n't see the lifference.' So I takes the
the
plays, Mrs. Margery, and here they be surely! And
how's poor Judy?"
"Fearsome! she'll not be over the night, I'm a-think-
ing."
tr
Well, I'll track up the dancers !
So saying, Dummie ascended a doorless staircase,
across the entrance of which a blanket, stretched angularly
from the wall to the chimney, afforded a kind of screen;
and presently he stood within a chamber, which the dark
and painful genius of Crabbe might have delighted to por-
tray. The walls were white-washed, and at sundry places
strange figures and grotesque characters had been traced
by some mirthful inmate in such sable outline as the end of
a smoked stick, or the edge of a piece of charcoal, is wont
to produce. The wan and flickering light afforded by a
farthing candle gave a sort of grimness and menace to
these achievements of pictorial art, especially as they more
than once received embellishment from portraits of Satan,
such as he is accustomed to be drawn. A low fire burned
gloomily in the sooty grate; and on the hob hissed "the
still small voice" of an iron kettle. On a round deal-table
were two vials, a cracked cup, a broken spoon of some
dull metal, and upon two or three mutilated chairs were
scattered various articles of female attire. On another
table, placed below a high, narrow, shutterless casement,
(athwart which, instead of a curtain, a checked apron had
been loosely hung, and now waved fitfully to and fro in the
gusts of wind that made easy ingress through many a chink
and cranny,) were a looking-glass, sundry appliances of
the toilet, a box of coarse rouge, a few ornaments of more
show than value; and a watch, the regular and calm clink
of which produced that indescribably painful feeling which,
we fear, many of our readers who have heard the sound in
a sick chamber can easily recall. A large tester-bed stood
opposite to this table, and the looking-glass partially
reflected curtains of a faded stripe, and ever and anon, (as
the position of the sufferer followed the restless emotion of
a disordered mind) glimpses of the face of one on whom
death was rapidly hastening. Beside this bed now stood
Dummie, a small, thin man, dressed in a tattered plusn
jerkin, from which the rain-drops slowly dripped, and with
a thin, yellow, cunning physiognomy, grotesquely hideous in
feature, but not positively villanous in expression. On the
other side of the bed stood a little boy of about three
old, dressed as if belonging to the better classes, although
the garb was somewhat tattered and discolored. The
poor child trembled violently, and evidently looked with a
feeling of relief on the entrance of Dummie. And now
there slowly, and with many a phthisical sigh, heaved to-
ward the foot of the bed the heavy frame of the woman
who had accosted Dummie below, and had followed him,
haud passibus æquis, to the room of the sufferer; she stood
with a bottle of medicine in her hand, shaking its contents
up and down, and with a kindly yet timid compassion
spread over a countenance crimsoned with habitual liba-
tions. This made the scene; save that on a chair by the bed-
side lay a profusion of long glossy golden ringlets, which
had been cut from the head of the sufferer when the fever
had begun to mount upwards; but which, with a jealousy
that portrayed the darling littleness of a vain heart, she
had seized and insisted on retaining near her; and save
that, by the fire, perfectly inattentive to the event about to
take place within the chamber, and to which we of the
biped race attach so awful an importance, lay a large grey
cat curled in a ball, and dozing with half-shut eyes, and
ears that now and then denoted, by a gentle inflection, the
jar of a louder or nearer sound than usual upon her leth-
argic senses. The dying woman did not at first attend to
the entrance either of Dummie or the female at the foot o
years
384
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the bed; but she turned herself round toward the child,
and grasping his arm fiercely, she drew him toward her,
and gazed on his terrified features with a look in which
exhaustion and an exceeding wanness of complexion were
even horribly contrasted by the glare and energy of de-
lirium.
"If
you are like him," she muttered, "I will strangle
you, I will!-ay,- tremble ! you ought to tremble, when
your mother touches you, or when he is mentioned.
You have his eyes,
-you have! Out with them, out!—the
devil sits laughing in them! Oh! you weep, do you, little
one! Well now, be still, my love, be hushed! I would
not harm thee! harm,-O God, he is my child after all!"
and at these words she clasped the boy passionately to
ber oreast, and burst into tears!
"Coom now, coom!" said Dummie soothingly. "Take
the stuff, Judith, and then ve'll talk hover the hurchin !"
The mother relaxed her grasp of the boy, and turning
towards the speaker, gazed at him for some moments with
a bewildered stare at length she appeared slowly to
remember him, and said, as she raised herself on one hand,
and pointed the other toward him with an inquiring ges-
ture,
"Thou hast brought the book?”
Dummie answered by lifting up the book he had brought
from the honest butcher's.
"Clear the room, then!" said the sufferer, with that air
of mock command so common to the insane. "We would
be alone!"
Dummie winked at the good woman at the foot of the
bed; and she (though generally no easy person to order or
to persuade) left, without reluctance, the sick chamber.
"If she be a-going to pray!" murmured our landlady,
(for that office did the good matron hold,) "I may indeed
as well take myself off, for it's not werry comfortable like,
to those who be old, to hear all that 'ere !
With this pious reflection, the hostess of the "Mug,"
so was the hostelry called, heavily descended the creaking
stairs.
"Now, man!" said the sufferer sternly,
swear that
you will never reveal,- swear, I say! and by the great
God, whose angels are about this night, if ever you break
break
the oath, I will come back and haunt you to your dying
day!"
Dummie's face grew pale, for he was superstitiously
affected by the vehemence and the language of the dying
woman, and he answered as he kissed the pretended Bible,
that he swore to keep the secret, as much as he knew of
it, which, she must be sensible, he said, was very little. As
he spoke, the wind swept with a loud and sudden gust down
the chimney, and shook the roof above them so violently as
to loosen many of the crumbling tiles, which fell one after
the other, with a crashing noise, on the pavement below.
Dummie started in affright; and perhaps his conscience
smote him for the trick he had played with regard to the
false Bible. But the woman, whose excited and unstrung
nerves led her astray from one subject to another with pre-
ternatural celerity, said with a hysterical laugh, "See
Dummie, they come in state for me, give me the cap,
yonder! and bring the looking-glass ! "
Dummie obeyed, and the woman, as she in a low tone
uttered something about the unbecoming color of the ri-
bands, adjusted the cap on her head; and then saying in a
regretful and petulant voice, "Why should they have cut off
my hair? such a disfigurement !" bade Dummie desire
Mrs. Margery once more to ascend to her.
Left alone with her child, the face of the wretched moth-
er softened as she regarded him, and all the levities and all
the vehemences if we may use the word which, in
the turbulent commotion of her delirium, had been stirred
upward to the surface of her mind, gradually now sunk, as
leath increased upon her, and a mother's anxiety rose
to the natural level from which it had been disturbed and
abased. She took the child to her bosom, and clasping
him in her arms, which grew weaker with every instant,
she soothed him with the sort of chant which nurses sing
over their untoward infants; but the voice was cracked and
hollow, and as she felt it was so, the mother's eyes filled
with tears. Mrs. Margery now reëntered; and, turning
towards the hostess with an impressive calmness of manner
which astonished and awed the person she addressed, the
lying woman pointed to the child, and said,
You have been kind to me, very kind, and may God
|
you a
bless you for it! I have found that those whom the word
calls the worst, are often the most human. But I am not
going to thank you as I ought to do, but to ask of
last and exceeding favor. Protect my child till he grows
you have often said you loved him,
you are child.
less yourself, and a morsel of bread and a shelter for the
night, which is all I ask of you to give him, will not im-
poverish more legitimate claimants!"
up,
Poor Mrs. Margery fairly sobbing, vowed she would be
a mother to the child, and that she would endeavour to rear
him honestly, though a public house was not, she confessed,
the best place for good examples !
"Take him!" cried the mother hoarsely, as her voice,
failing her strength, rattled indistinctly, and almost died
within her. "Take him, rear him as you will, as you
can ! any example, any roof better than Here the
words were inaudible." And oh ! may it be a curse, and
a -. Give me the medicine, I am dying.'
""
The hostess, alarmed, hastened to comply, but before
she returned to the bedside the sufferer was insensible,-
nor did she again recover speech or motion. A low and
rare moan only testified continued life, and within two
hours that ceased, and the spirit was gone. At that time
our good hostess was herself beyond the things of this
outer world, having supported her spirits during the vigils
of the night with so many little liquid excitations, that
they finally ended in that torpor which generally succeeds.
excitement. Taking, perhaps, advantage of the opportu
nity the insensibility of the hostess afforded him, Dummie,
by the expiring ray of the candle that burnt in the death-
chamber, hastily opened a huge box, (which was generally
concealed under the bed, and contained the wardrobe of
the deceased,) and turned with irreverent hand over the
linens and the silks, until quite at the bottom of the trunk
he discovered some packets of letters;- these he seized,
and buried in the conveniences of his dress; he then ris-
ing and replacing the box, cast a longing eye toward the
watch on the toilet table, which was of gold; but he with-
drew his gaze, and with a long, querulous sigh, observed
to himself, "The old blone kens o' that, od rat her! but,
howsomever, I'll take this; who knows but it may be of
sarvice
sarvice - tannies to-day may be smash to-morrow!"*
and he laid his coarse hand on the golden and silky tresses
we have described, -""Tis a rum business, and puzzles
I; but naum's the word, for my own little colquarren. "t
With this brief soliloquy, Dummie descended the stairs,
and let himself out of the house.
CHAPTER II.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendors of that festive place.
Deserted Village.
THERE is little to interest in a narrative of early child-
hood, unless indeed one were writing on education. We
shall not therefore linger over the infancy of the motherless
boy left to the protection of Mrs. Margery Lobkins, or as
she was sometimes familiarly called, Peggy or Piggy Lob.
The good dame, drawing a more than sufficient income
from the profits of a house, which, if situated in an obscure
locality, enjoyed very general and lucrative repute; and
being a lone widow without kith or kin, had no temptation
to break her word to the deceased, and she suffered the or-
phan to wax in strength and understanding until the age
of twelve, a period at which we are now about to re-intro-
duce him to our readers.
The boy evinced great hardihood of temper, aud no
inconsiderable quickness of intellect. In whatever he at-
tempted, his success was rapid, and a remarkable strength
of limb and muscle seconded well the dictates of an
ambition turned, it must be confessed, rather to physical
than mental exertion. It is not to be supposed, however,
that his boyish life passed in unbroken tranquillity. Al-
though Mrs. Lobkins was a good woman on the whole, and
greatly attached to her protege, she was violent and rude in
temper, or, as she herself more flatteringly expressed it, "her
feelings were unkimmonly strong," and alternate quarrel
and reconciliation constituted the chief occupations of the
protegé's domestic life. As, previous to his becoming the
* Meaning, what is of no value now may be precious hereafter
† Colquarren, neck.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
"
We
monopolized by the gentlemen of the land of cakes,
know not how it may be the fashion to eat the said cakes 10
Scotland; but here the good emigrators seem to like them
carefully buttered on both sides. By the side of the editor
stood a large pewter tankard, above him hung an engrav-
ing of the wonderfully fat boar, formerly in the possession
of Mr. Fattem, Grazier." To his left rose the dingy form
of a thin, upright clock in an oaken case; beyond the
clock, a spit and a musket were fastened in parallels to the
wall. Below those twin emblems of war and cookery
were four shelves, containing plates of pewter and delf, and
terminating, centaur-like, in a sort of dresser. At the
other side of these domestic conveniences was a picture of
Mrs. Lobkins, in a scarlet body, and a hat and plume. At
the back of the fair hostess stretched the blanket we have
before mentioned. As a relief to the monotonous surface of
this simple screen, various ballads and learned legends were
pinned to the blanket. There might you read in verses,
<< Sally loved a sailor lad
As fought with famous Shovel !"
There might you learn, if of two facts so instructive you
were before unconscious, that
"Ben the toper loved his bottle,
Charley only loved the lasses!"
When of these, and various other poetical effusions, you
were somewhat wearied, the literary fragments, in humbler
prose, afforded you equal edification and delight. There
might you fully enlighten yourself as to the "Strange and
Wonderful News from Kensington, being a most full and
true relation, how a Maid there is supposed to have been
April last, about midnight." There too, no less interesting
carried away by an Evil Spirit, on Wednesday, 15th of
and no less veracious, was that uncommon anecdote, touch-
ing the chief of many-thorned powers, entitled, "The
Things which an Unclean Spirit did and said at Mascon,
Divell of Mascon; or the true relation of the Chief
in Burgundy, in the house of one Mr. Francis Pereaud,
edge of the Truth of the Story."
now made English by One that hath a Particular Knowl-
edge of the Truth of the Story.
ward of Mrs. Lobkins, he nad never received any other
appellation than "the child," the duty of christening him
devoved upon our hostess of "The Mug;" and, after some
deliberation, she blest him with the name of Paul, it was
a name of happy omen, for it had belonged to Mrs. Lobkins'
grandfather, who had been three times transported, and
twice hanged, (at the first occurrence of the latter descrip-
tion he had been restored by the surgeons, much to the
chagrin of a young anatomist, who was to have had the
honor of cutting him up.) The boy did not seem likely to
merit the distinguished appellation he bore, for he testified
no remarkable predisposition to the property of other people.
Nay, although he sometimes emptied the pockets of any
stray visitor to the coffee-room of Mrs. Lobkins, it ap-
peared an act originating rather in a love of the frolic, than
a desire of the profit; for, after the plundered person had
been sufficiently tormented by the loss, haply of such utili-
ties as a tobacco-box or a handkerchief; after he had, to the
secret delight of Paul, searched every corner of the apart-pathetic and unadorned, how,
ment, stamped, and fretted, and exposed himself by his
petulance to the bitter objurgation of Mrs. Lobkins, our
young friend would quietly and suddenly contrive, that the
article missed should return of its own accord to the pocket
from which it had disappeared. And thus, as our readers
nave doubtless experienced, when they have disturbed the
peace of a whole household for the loss of some portable
treasure which they themselves are afterwards discovered to
have mislaid; the unfortunate victim of Paul's honest inge-
nuity, exposed to the collected indignation of the spectators,
and sinking from the accuser into the convicted, secretly
cursed the unhappy lot which not only vexed him with the loss
of his property, but made it still more annoying to recover it.
Whether it was, that on discovering these pranks, Mrs.
Lobkins trembled for the future bias of the address they
displayed, or whether she thought that the folly of thieving
without gain required speedy and permanent correction,
we cannot decide; but the good lady became at last ex-
tremely anxious to secure for Paul the blessings of a liberal
education. The key of knowledge (the art of reading) she
had, indeed, two years prior to the present date, obtained
for him, but this far from satisfied her conscience; nay,
she felt that, if she could not also obtain for him the dis'
cretion to use it, it would have been wise even to have
withheld a key, which the boy seemed perversely to apply
to all locks but the right one. In a word, she was desirous
that he should receive an education far superior to those
whom he saw around him. And attributing, like most
ignorant persons, too great advantages to learning, she
conceived that, in order to live as decorously as the parson
of the parish, it was only necessary to know as much Latin.
One evening in particular, as the dame sat by her cheer-
ful fire, this source of anxiety was unusually active in her
mind, and ever and anon she directed unquiet and restless
glances towards Paul, who sat on a form at the opposite
corner of the bearth, diligently employed in reading the
Life and Adventures of the celebrated Richard Turpin.
The form on which the boy sat was worn to a glassy smooth-
ness, save only in certain places, where some ingenious
idler or another had amused himself by carving sundry
names, epithets, and epigrammatic niceties of language.
It is said, that the organ of carving upon wood is promi-
nently developed on all English skulls; and the sagacious
Mr. Coombe has placed this organ at the back of the head,
in juxtaposition to that of destructiveness, which is equally
large among our countrymen, as is notably evinced upon all
railings, seats, temples, and other things, belonging to
other people.
Opposite to the fire-place was a large deal-table, at which
Dummie, surnamed Dunnaker, seated near the dame, was
quietly ruminating over a glass of hollands and water.
Farther on, at another table in the corner of the room, a
gentleman with a red wig, very rusty garments, and linen
which seemed as if it had been boiled in saffron, smoked
his pipe, apart, silent, and apparently plunged in meditation.
This gentleman was no other than Mr. Peter Mac Grawler,
the editor of a magnificent periodical, entitled the "Asi-
næum," which was written to prove, that whatever is
popular is necessarily bad, a valuable and recondite
truth which the Asineum had satisfactorily demonstrated by
ruining three printers, and demolishing a publisher. We
need not add, that Mr. Mac Grawler was Scotch by birth,
since we believe it is pretty well known that all the peri-
edicals of this country have, from time immemorial, been
VOL. I.
49
Nor were these materials for Satanic History the only
prosaic and faithful chronicles which the bibliothecal blan-
ket afforded: equally wonderful, and equally indisputable,
was the account of "a young lady, the daughter of a duke,
with three legs, and the face of a porcupine." Nor less so,
The Awful Judgment of God upon Swearers, as exempli-
fied in the case of John Stiles, who Dropped down Dead
after swearing a Great Oath, and on stripping the unhappy
man they found 'Swear not at all' written on the Tail of
his Shirt!"
eyes
Twice had Mrs. Lobkins heaved a long sigh, as her
mie Dunnaker; and now, re-settling herself in her chair, an
turned from Paul to the tranquil countenance of Dum-
a motherly anxiety gathered over her visage,
Paul, my ben cull," said she, "what gibberish hast
got there?"
CC
student, without lifting his eyes from the page, through
Turpin, the great highwayman!" answered the young
which he was spelling his instructive way.
Mr. Dunnaker, as he applied his pipe to an illumined piece
"Oh! he be's a chip of the right block, dame!" said
of paper.
"He'll ride an oss foaled by a hacora yet, I
varrants ! "
indignation, and rocking herself to and fro in her huge
To this prophecy the dame replied only with a look o.
chair, she remained for some moments in silent thought.
At last she again wistfully eyed the hopeful boy, and calling
him to her side, communicated some order, in a dejected
whisper. Paul, on receiving it, disappeared behind the
blanket, and presently returned with a bottle and a wine-
glass. With an abstracted gesture, and an air that be
tokened continued meditation, the good damne took the
inspiring cordial from the hand of her youthful cupbearer,
And ere a man had power to say Behold
The jaw's of Lobkins had devoured it up,
So quick bright things come to confusion!"
The nectarean beverage seemed to operate cheerily on the
meron's system; and placing her hand on the boy's curl
ing head, she said, (like Andromache, dakruon gelosasa, or..
as Scott hath it, With a smile in her cheek, but a tear is
her eye,')
386
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Paul, thy heart be good! thy heart be good! - Thou
didst not spill a drop of the tape! Tell me, my honey,
why didst thou lick Tom Tobyson?"
"Because," answered Paul, "he said as how you ought
to have been hanged long ago!"
"Tom Tobyson is a-good-for-naught," returned the
dame," and deserves to shove the tumbler ;* but, oh my
child! be not too venturesome in taking up the sticks for a
blowen. It has been the ruin of many a man afore you,
and when two men goes to quarrel for a 'oman, they does n't
know the natur of the thing they quarrels about ; -- Inind
thy latter end, Paul, and reverence the old, without axing
what they has been before they passed into the wale of
years; thou may'st get me my pipe, Paul, it is up
stairs, under the pillow."
"There be nothing like a friend ir. need, Dummie; ana
somehow or other, I thinks as how you knows more of the
horigin of that 'ere lad than any of us!"
Me, dame!" exclaimed Dummie, with the broad gaze
of astonishment.
"Ah, you! you knows as how the mother saw more of
you just afore she died, than she did of 'ere one of us.
Noar, now,
-noar now! tell us all about 'un. Did she
steal 'un, think ? ""
66
ye
Lauk, mother Margery! dost think I knows? vot put
such a crotchet in your ead?"
"Well!" said the dame with a disappointed sigh, "I
always thought as how you were more knowing about it
than you owns.
—
Dear, dear, I shall never forgit the night
when Judith brought the poor cretur here, you know
she had been some nonths in my house afore ever I see'd
the urchin, and when she brought it, she looked so pale and
ghostly, that I had not the heart to say a word, so I stared
at the brat, and it stretched out its wee little hands to me.
And the inother frowned at it, and throwed it into my
lap!
While Paul was accomplishing this errand, the lady of
the Mug, fixing her eyes upon Mr. Dunnaker, said, "Dum-
mie, Dunimie, if little Paul should come to be scragged!"
"Whish!" muttered Dummie, glancing over his shoul-
der at MacGrawler,-" Mayhap that gemman," here his
voice became scarcely audible even to Mrs. Lobkins; but
his whisper seemed to imply an insinuation, that the illus-
trious editor of the Asinum might be either an informer,
or one of those heroes on whom an informer subsists.
"Ah! she vas a hawful voman, that 'ere!" said Dum
mie, shaking his head. "But howsomever, the hurchin
fell into good hands; for I be's sure you 'as been a better
ap-mother to 'un than the raal 'un!
Mrs. Lobkins's answer, couched in the same key,
peared to satisfy Duunaker, for, with a look of great con-
tempt, he chucked up his head, and said, "Oho! that be
all, be it ?"
Paul here re-appeared with the pipe, and the dume, hav-
ing filled the tube, leaned forward, and lighted the Virgin-
ian weed from the blower of Mr. Dunnaker. As in this
interesting occupation the heads of the hostess and the
guest approached each other, the glowing light playing
cheerily on the countenance of each, there was an honest
simplicity in the picture that would have merited the racy
and vigorous genius of a Cruikshank. As soon as the
Promethean spark had been fully communicated to the
lady's tube, Mrs. Lobkins, still possessed by the gloomy
idea she had conjured up, repeated,
46
Ah, Dummie, if little Paul should be scragged !"
Dummie, withdrawing the pipe from his mouth, heaved a
sympathizing puff, but remained silent; and Mrs. Lobkins,
turning to Paul, who stood with mouth open and ears erect
at this boding ejaculation, said,
"Dost think, Paul, they'd have the heart to hang
thee ?"
"I think they'd have the rope, dame!" returned the
youth.
"But you need not go for to run your neck into the
noose!" said the matron; and then, inspired by the spirit
of moralizing, she turned round to the youth, and gazing
upon his attentive countenance, accosted him with the fol-
lowing admonitions.
"Mind thy kittychism, child, and reverence old age.
Never steal, 'specially when any one be in the way. Never
go snacks with them as be older than you, 'cause why?
the older a cove be, the more he cares for his self, and the
less for his partner. At twenty, we diddle the public,- at
forty, we diddles our cronies! Be modest, Paul, and stick
to your sitivation in life. Go not with fine tobymen, who
burn out like a candle wot has a thief in it, all flare, and
gone in a whiffy! Leave liquor to the aged, who can't do
without it. Tape often proves a halter, and there be's no
ruin like blue ruin! Read your Bible, and talk like a
pious 'un. People goes more by your words than your
actions. If you wants what is not your own, try and do
without it; and if you cannot do without it, take it away
by insinivation, not bluster. They as swindles, does more
and risks ess than they as robs; and if you cheats top-
pingly, you may laugh at the topping cheat;† and now go
play,
Paul seized his hat, but lingered; and the dame guess-
ing at the signification of the pause, drew forth, and placed
in the boy's hand the sum of five halfpence and one farthing.
"There, boy," quoth she, and she stroked his head fondly
when she spoke. "You does right not to play for nothing,
It's loss of time! but play with those as be less than your-
sel" and then you can go for to beat 'em, if they says you go
for to cheat !
Paul vanished; and the dane, laying her hand on Dum-
mie's shoulder, said,
* Be whipped at the cart's tail.
† Gallows.
"I was always a fool about childer," rejoined Mrs.
Lobkins, "and I think as how little Paul was sent to be a
comfort to my latter end! fill the glass, Dummie.”
"I as heard as ow Judith was once blowen to a great
lord!"
"like
"Like enough!" returned Mrs. Lobkins,
enough! she was always a favorite of mine, for she had a
spuret (spirit) as big as my own; and she paid her rint
like a decent body, for all she was out of her sinses, or
nation like it."
“Ay, I knows as how you liked her,
not your vay, to let a room to a voman
'tis not respectable, and you only likes
Mug!
>>
'cause vy? 'tis
you says as ow
men to wisit the
an
"And I does n't like all of them as come here!
swered the dame: "'specially for Paul's sake; but what
can a lone 'oman do? Many's the gentlemen highwaymen
wot comes here, whose money is as good as the clerk's of
the parish. And when a bob* is in my hand, what does
it signify whose hand it was in afore?"
"That's what I calls being sinsible and practical,” said
Dummie, approvingly. "And arter all, though you 'as a
mixture like, I does not know a halehouse, vere a cove is
better entertained, nor meets of a Sunday more iligant
company, than the Mug!"
Here the conversation, which the reader must know had
been sustained in a key inaudible to a third person, received
a check from Mr. Peter MacGrawler, who, having finished
his reverie and his tankard, now rose to depart. First,
however, approaching Mrs. Lobkins, he observed that he
had gone on credit for some days, and demanded the amount
of his bill. Glancing toward certain chalk hieroglyphics
inscribed on the wall at the other side of the fireplace, the
dame answered, that Mr. MacGrawler was indebted to
her for the sum of one shilling and ninepence three
farthings.
After a short preparatory search in his waistcoat pockets,
the critic hunted into one corner a solitary half-crown, and
having caught it between his finger and thumb, he it
gave
to Mrs. Lobkins, and requested change.
As soon as the matron felt her hand anointed with what
has been called by some ingenious Johnson of St. Giles's
"the oil of palms," her countenance softened into a com-
placent smile; and when she gave the required change to
Mr. MacGrawler, she graciously hoped as how he would
recommend the Mug to the public.
"That you may be sure of," said the editor of the Asi
"There is not a place where I am so much at
næum.
home."
With that the learned Scotsman buttoned his coat and
went his
went his way.
"How spiteful the world be!" said Mrs. Lobkins after
a pause, 'specially if a 'oman keeps a fashionable sort of
a public? When Judith died, Joe, the dog's-meat man
said I war all the better for it, and that she left I a treasurs
to bring up the urchin. One would think a thumper maker
a man richer, 'cause why? every man thumps!· 1 got
* Shilling.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
387
nothing more than a watch and ten guineas, when Judy
died, and sure, that scarce paid for the burrel (burial.)”
"You forgits the two quids, I give you for the hold box
of rags,
much of a treasure I found there!" said Dum-
mie, with sycophantic archness.
Ay," cried the dame laughing, "I fancies you war
not pleased with the bargain. I thought you war too old a
rag-merchant to be so free with the bluut: howsomever, I
supposes it war the tinsel petticoat as took you in! "
"As it has mony a viser man than the like of I,” re-
joined Dummie, who to his various secret professions added
the ostensible one of a rag-merchant and dealer in broken
glass.
The recollection of her good bargain in the box of rags
opened our landlady's heart.
Drink, Dummie," said she good-humoredly,—" drink,
I scorns to score lush to a friend.”
Dummie expressed his gratitude, refilled his glass, and
the hospitable matron, knocking out from her pipe the dying
ashes, thus proceeded, -
"You sees, Dummie, though I often beats the boy, I
loves him as much as if I war his raal mother, - I wants
to make him an honor to his country and an ixciption to
my family!"
"Who all flashed their ivories at Surgeons' Hall!
added the metaphorical Dummie.
"True!" said the lady," they died game, and I be n't
ashamed of 'em. But I owes a duty to Paul's mother, and
I wants Paul to have a long life. I would send him to
school, but you know as how the boys only corrupt one
another. And so, I should like to meet with some decent
man as a tutor, to teach the lad Latin and vartue ! "
>>
My eyes! cried Dummie, aghast at the grandeur of
this desire.
"The boy is 'cute enough, and he loves reading," con-
tinued the dame. "But I does not think the books he
gets hold of will teach him the way to grow old."
“And ow came he to read anyhows?"
CC
Ranting Bob, the strolling player, taught him his let-
ters, and said he'd a deal of janius!
“And why shld not Ranting Bob tache the boy Latin
and vartue ?'"
"'Cause Ranting Bob, poor fell w, was lagged for doing
a panny !" answered the dame despondently.
There was a long silence it was broken by Mr. Dum-
mie slapping his thigh with the gesticulatory vehemence
of an Ugo Foscolo, that gentleman exclaimed,
"I'as it,
I 'as thought of a tutor for leetle Paul !
"Who's that? you quite frightens me, you 'as no marcy
on my narves," said the dame fretfully.
Vy, it be the gemman vot writes," said Dummie,
putting his finger to his nose, the gemman vot payed
you so flashly!”
M
"What! the Scotch gemman!
"The werry same!" returned Dummie.
The dame turned in her chair, and re-filled her pipe. It
was evident from her manner that Mr. Dunnaker's sugges-
tion had made an impression on her. But she recognised
two doubts as to its feasibility, one, whether the gentle-
man proposed would be adequate to the task, the other,
whether he would be willing to undertake it.
In the midst of her meditations on this matter, the dame
was interrupted by the entrance of certain claimants on her
hospitality; and Dummie soon after taking his leave, the
suspense of Mrs. Lobkins's mind touching the education of
little Paul, remained the whole of that day and night utterly
uurelieved.
CHAPTER III.
I own that I am envious of the pleasure you will have in find-
ing yourself more learned than other boys,-even those who
are older than yourself! What honor this will do you! What
distinctions, what applause will follow wherever you go!
LORD CHESTERFIELD's Letters to his Son.
Example, my boy,- example is worth a thousand precepts.
Maximilian Solemn.
TARPEIA was crushed beneath the weight of ornaments!
The language of the vulgar is a sort of Tarpeia! We have
therefore relieved it of as many gems as we were able; and
* Guineas
I Transported for burglary
in the foregoing scene, presented it to the gaze of our read-
ers, simplex munditiis. Nevertheless, we could timidly
imagine some gentler beings of the softer sex rather dis-
pleased with the tone of the dialogue we have given, did
we not recollect how delighted they are with the provincial
barbarities of the sister kingdom, whenever they meet them
poured over the pages of some Scottish story-teller. As,
unhappily for mankind, broad Scotch is not yet the univer-
sal language of Europe, we suppose our countrywomen will
not be much more unacquainted with the dialect of their
own lower orders, than with that which breathes nasal
melodies over the paradise of the North.
It was the next day, at the hour of twilight, when Mrs.
Margery Lobkins, after a satisfactory téte-ú-téte with
Mr. MacGrawler, had the happiness of thinking that she
had provided a tutor for little Paul. The critic having re-
cited to her a considerable portion of Propria que Maribus,
the good lady had no longer a doubt of his capacities for
teaching; and, on the other hand, when Mrs. Lobkins
entered on the subject of remuneration, the Scotsman pro-
fessed himself perfectly willing to teach any and every-
thing that the most exacting guardian could require.
was finally settled that Paul should attend Mr. MacGrawler
two hours a-day; that Mr. MacGrawler should be entitled
to such animal comforts of meat and drink, as the Mug af-
forded; and, moreover, to the weekly stipend of two shil
lings and sixpence, the shillings for instruction in the
classics, and the sixpence for all other humanities; or, as
Mrs. Lobkins expressed it, "two bobs for the Latin, and a
sice for the vartue !"
Let not thy mind, gentle reader, censure us for a devia
tion from probability, in making so excellent and learned◄
gentleman as Mr. Peter Mac Grawler the familiar guest of
the lady of the Mug.-First, thou must know that our story.
is cast in a period antecedent to the present, and one in
which the old jokes against the circumstances of author and
of critic had their foundation in truth; secondly, thou
must know, that by some curious concatenation of circum-
stances, neither bailiff nor bailiff's man was ever seen
within the four walls continent of Mrs. Margery Lobkins;
-thirdly, the Mug was nearer than any other house of
public resort to the abode of the critic;- fourthly, it afforded
excellent porter; and fifthly, O reader, thou dost Mrs.
Margery Lobkins a grievous wrong, if thou supposest that
her door was only open to those mercurial gentry who are
afflicted with the morbid curiosity to pry into the mysteries
of their neighbours' pockets, other visitors of fair repute
were not unoften partakers of the good matron's hospitality;
although it must be owned that they generally occupied the
private room in preference to the public one. And sixthly,
sweet reader, (we grieve to be so prolix,) we would just
hint to thee, that Mr. MacGrawler was one of those vast-
minded sages who, occupied in contemplating morals in
the great scale, do not fritter down their intellects by a
base attention to minute details. So that, if a descendant
of Langfanger did sometimes cross the venerable Scot in his
visit to the Mug, the apparition did not revolt that benevo
lent moralist so much as, were it not for the above hint, thy
ignorance might lead thee to imagine.
It is said, that Athenodorus the Stoic contributed greatly
by his conversation to amend the faults of Augustus, and to
effect the change visible in that fortunate man, after his ac-
cession to the Roman empire. If this be true, it may throw
a new light on the character of Augustus, and, instead of
being the hypocrite, he was possibly the convert. Certain
it is, that there are few vices which cannot be conquered by
wisdom; and yet, melancholy to relate, the instructions of
Peter MacGrawler produced but slender amelioration in
the habits of the youthful Paul. That ingenious stripling
had, we have already seen, under the tuition of Ranting
Bob, mastered the art of reading; nay, he could even con-
struct and link together certain curious pot-hooks, which
himself and Mrs. Lobkins were wont graciously to term
writing." So far, then, the way of MacGrawler was
smoothed and prepared.
But, unhappily, all experienced teachers allow that, the
main difficulty is not to learn, but to unlearn; and the
mind of Paul was already occupied by a vast number of
heterogeneous miscellanies, which stoutly resisted the ingress
either of Latin or of virtue. Nothing could wean him from
an ominous affection for the history of Richard Turpin it
was to him what, it has been said, the Greek authors should
be to the Academician, a study by day, d a dream by
¨d
788
BULWER'S NOVELS.
night. He was docile enough during lessons, and some-
times even too quick in conception for the stately march of
Mr. Mac Grawler's intellect. But it not unfrequently hap-
pened, that when that gentleman attempted to rise, he found
himself, like the lady in Comus, adhering to
"A venomed seat
Smeared with gums of glutinous heat;"
our readers to remember, that when Cardinal Richelieu was
dying, nothing enraged him so much as hinting that he was
ill. In short, if Horace is right, we are the very princes
of poets; for I dare say, Mr. Mac Grawler, that you,
and you, too, my little gentleman, perfectly remember the
words of the wise old Roman,
'Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet.
Having uttered this quotation with considerable self-
complacency, and thereby entirely completed his conquest
over Paul, Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, turning to Mac
Grawler, concluded his business with that gentleman, which
was of a literary nature, namely, a joint composition.
against a man who, being under five-and-twenty, and too
poor to give dinners, had had the impudence to write a
sacred poem. The critics were exceedingly bitter at this;
and having very little to say against the poem, the court
journals called the author
At Eton, journals called the author "a coxcomb," and the liberal
ones" the son of a pantaloon !"
or his legs had been secretly united under the table, and the
tie was not to be broken without overthrow to the superior
powers; these, and various other little sportive machina-
tions, wherewith Paul was wont to relieve the monotony of
literature, went far to disgust the learned critic with his
undertaking. But "the tape " and the treasury of Mrs.
Lobkins re-smoothed, as it were, the irritated bristles of his
mind, and he continued his labors with this philosophical
reflection, "Why fret myself! - if a pupil turn out well,
it is clearly to the credit of his master; if not, to the dis-
advantage of himself." Of course, a similar suggestion
never forced itself into the mind of Dr. Keate. At Eton,
the very soul of the honest head-master is consumed by his
zeal for the welfare of little gentlemen in stiff cravats.
But to Paul, who was predestined to enjoy a certain
quantum of knowledge, circumstances happened, in the com-
mencement of the second year of his pupilage, which pro-
digiously accelerated the progress of his scholastic career.
At the apartment of Mac Grawler, Paul one morning
encountered Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, a young man of great
promise, who pursued the peaceful occupation of making
for a leading newspaper, "Horrid Murders,' "Enormous
Melons," and "Remarkable Circumstances."
tleman, having the advantage of some years' seniority over
Paul, was slow in unbending his dignity; but observing
at last the eager and respectful attention with which the
stripling listened to a most veracious detail of five men
being inhumanly murdered in Canterbury Cathedral by the
Reverend Zedekiah Fooks Barnacle, he was touched by
the impression he had created, and shaking Paul graciously
by the hand, he told him, there was a deal of natural
shrewdness in his countenance; and that Mr. Augustus
Tomlinson did not doubt but that he (Paul) might have the
honor to be murdered himself one of these days. "You
understand me!" continued Mr. Augustus, "I mean
murdered in effigy,-assassinated in type,-while you
yourself, unconscious of the circumstance, are quietly en-
joying what you imagine to be existence.
your
This gen-
We never
kill common persons: to say truth, our chief spite is against
the church; we destroy bishops by wholesale. Some-
times, indeed, we knock off a leading barrister or so; and
express the anguish of the junior counsel at a loss so de-
structive to their interests. But that is only a stray hit;
and the slain barrister often lives to become attorney-gen-
eral, renounce Whig principles, and prosecute the very
press that destroyed him. Bishops are our proper food: we
send them to heaven on a sort of flying griffin, of which the
back is an apoplexy, and the wings are puffs. The Bishop
of -, whom we despatched in this manner the other day,
being rather a facetious personage, wrote to remonstrate
with us thereon: observing, that though heaven was a very
good translation for a bishop, yet that, in such cases, he
prefered the original to the translation.' As we murder
bishops, so is there another class of persons whom we only
afflict with lethiferous diseases. This latter tribe consists
of his majesty and his majesty's ministers. Whenever we
cannot abuse their measures, we always fall foul on their
health. Does the king pass any unpopular law,
we im-
mediately insinuate that his constitution is on its last legs.
Docs the minister act like a man of sense, - we instantly
observe, with great regret, that his complexion is remark-
ably pale. There is one manifest advantage in diseasing
people, instead of absolutely destroying them. The public
may flatly contradict us in one case, but it never can in the
other: it is easy to prove that a man is alive; but utterly
impossible to prove that he is in health. What if some
opposing newspaper take up the cudgels in his behalf, and
assert that the victim of all Pandora's complaints, whom
we send tottering to the grave, passes one half the day in
knocking up a "distinguished company at a shooting-
party, and the other half in outdoing the same "distinguished
company" after dinner? What if the afflicted individual
himself write us word that he never was better in his life,
we have only mysteriously to shake our heads, and ob-
serve, that to contradict is not to prove, that it is little
likely that our authority should have been mistaken, and,
(we are very fond of an historical comparison).- beg
,,
przemyslet
There was an ease, - a spirit, a life about Mr. A¬-
gustus Tomlinson, which captivated the senses of our young
hero; then, too, he was exceedingly smartly attired; wore
red heels and a bag; had what seemed to Paul quite the
air of a "man of fashion;" and, above all, he spouted the
Latin with a remarkable grace!
Some days afterwards, Mac Grawler sent our hero to
Mr. Tomlinson's lodgings, with his share of the joint
abuse upon the poet.
Doubly was Paul's reverence for Mr. Augustus Tomlin-
son increased by a sight of his abode. He found him set-
tled in a polite part of the town, in a very spruce parlour,
the contents of which manifested the universal genius of
the inhabitant. It hath been objected unto us by a most
discerning critic, that we are addicted to the drawing of
"universal geniuses." We plead Not Guilty in former in-
stances; we allow the soft impeachment in the instance of
Mr. Augustus Tomlinson. Over his fireplace were ranged
boxing-gloves and fencing-foils. On his table lay a cre-
mona and a flageolet. On one side of the wall were
shelves containing the Covent Garden Magazine, Burn's
Justice, a pocket Horace, a Prayer-book, Excerpta ex Ta-
cito, a volume of Plays, Philosophy made Easy, and a Key
to all Knowledge. Furthermore, there were on another
table a riding-whip, and a driving-whip, and a pair of
spurs, and three guineas, with a little mountain of loose
silver. Mr. Augustus was a tall, fair young man, with a
freckled complexion; green eyes and red eyelashes; a smil-
ing mouth, rather underjawed; a sharp nose; and a pro-
digiously large pair of ears. He was robed in a green
damask dressing-gown; and he received the tender Paul
most graciously.
There was something very engaging about our hero.
He was not only good-looking, and frank in aspect, but he
had that appearance of briskness and intellect which be-
long to an embryo rogue. Mr. Augustus Tomlinson pro-
fessed the greatest regard for him, asked him if he
could box, made him put on a pair of gloves,
and,
very condescendingly, knocked him down three times suc-
cessively. Next he played him, both upon his flageolet
More-
and his cremona, some of the most modish airs.
over, he sang him a little song.
him a little song of his own composing. He
then, taking up the driving-whip, flanked a fly from the
opposite wall, and throwing himself (naturally fatigued
with his numerous exertions) on his sofa, he observed,
a careless tone, that he and his friend Lord Dunshunner
were universally esteemed the best whips in the metropo
lis. "I," quoth Mr. Augustus, am the best on the road
but my lord is a devil at turning a corner."
in
Paul, who had hitherto lived too unsophisticated a life to
be aware of the importance of which a lord would natural-
ly be in the eyes of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, was not so
much struck with the grandeur of the connexion as the mur-
derer of the journals had expected. He merely observed,
by way of compliment, that Mr. Augustus and his com-
panion seemed to be "rolling kiddies.”
a smart
A little displeased with this metaphorical remark, --for
it may be observed that "rolling kiddy" is, among the
learned in such lore, the customary expression for
thief," the universal Augustus took that liberty to which,
by his age and station, so much superior to those of Paul,
he imagined himself entitled, and gently reproved our hero
for his indiscriminate use of flash phrases.
"A lad of your parts," said he, "for I see you aro
PAUL CLIFFORD.
389
clever by your eye, ought to be ashamed of using such |
vulga expressions. Have a nobler spirit, -a loftier
emulation, Paul, than that which distinguishes the little
rag muffins of the street. Know that, in this country,
genius and learning carry every thing before them; and if
you behave yourself properly, you may, one day or another,
be as high in the world as myself.
At this speech Paul looked wistfully round the spruce
parlour, and thought what a fine thing it would be, to be
lord of such a domain, together with the appliances of
flageolet and cremona, boxing-gloves, books, fly-flanking
flagellum, three guineas, with the little mountain of silver,
and the reputation-shared only with Lord Dunshunner
of being the best whip in London.
— -
"Yes!" continued Tomlinson, with conscious pride, -
I owe my rise to myself. Learning is better than house
or land. Doctrina sed vim,' &c. - you know what old
Horace says! — Why, Sir, you would not believe it; but I
was the man who killed his majesty the King of Sardinia,
in our yesterday's paper. Nothing is too arduous for genius.
Fag hard, my boy, and you may rival for the thing,
though difficult, may not be impossible - Augustus Tom-
linson !
except that which he searched for; by the soul of the
great Malebranche, whom Bishop Berkeley found suffering
under an inflammation in the lungs, and very obligingly
talked to death, an instance of conversational powers
worthy the envious emulation of all great metaphysicians
and arguers; by the soul of that illustrious man, it is
amazing to us what a number of truths there are broken up
into little fragments, and scattered here and there through
the world.
the world. What a magnificent museum a man might
make of the precious minerals, if he would but go out with
his basket under his arm, and his eyes about him! We,
ourself, picked up, this very day, a certain small piece of
truth, with which we propose to explain to thee, fair reader,
a sinister turn in the fortunes of Paul.
"Wherever," says a living sage, "you see dignity,
you may be sure there is expense requisite to support
it."*
So it was with Paul. A young gentleman whe
was heir-presumptive to the Mug, and who enjoyed a
handsome person with a cultivated mind, was necessarily
of a certain station in society, and an object of respect
in the eyes of the manoeuvring mammas in the vicinity
of Thames Court. Many were the parties of pleasure
to Deptford and Greenwich which Paul found himself
compelled to attend; and we need not refer our readers
to novels upon fashionable life, to inform them, that, in
good society, the gentlemen always pay for the ladies!
Nor was this all the expense to which his expectations
exposed him. A gentleinan could scarcely attend these
elegant festivities without devoting some little attention
to his dress; and a fashionable tailor plays the deuse with
one's yearly allowance.
We, who reside, be it known to you, reader, in Little
Brittany, are not very well acquainted with the manners of
the better classes in St. James's. But there was one
great vice among the fine people about Thames Court,
which we make no doubt does not exist anywhere else, viz.
these fine people were always in an agony to seem finer
than they were; and the more airs a gentleman or a lady
gave him or herself, the more important they became.
Joe, the dog's-meat man, had indeed got into society, en-
tirely from a knack of saying impertinent things to every
body; and the smartest exclusives of the place, who seldom
visited any one where there was not a silver teapot, used
to think Joe had a great deal in him, because he trundled
his cart with his head in the air, and one day gave the very
beadle of the parish "the cut direct."
At the conclusion of this harangue, a knock at the door
being heard, Paul took his departure, and met in the hall
a fine-looking person dressed in the height of the fashion,
and wearing a pair of prodigiously large buckles in his
shoes. Paul looked, and his heart swelled. "I may ri-
val," thought he those were his very words" I may
rival, for the thing, though difficult, is not impossible -
Augustus Tomlinson!" Absorbed in meditation, he went
silently home. The next day the memoirs of the great
Turpin were committed to the flames, and it was no-
ticeable that henceforth Paul observed a choicer propriety
of words, — that he assumed a more refined air of dignity,
and that he paid considerably more attention than heretofore
to the lessons of Mr. Peter Mac Grawler. Although it must
be allowed, that our young hero's progress in the learned
languages was not astonishing, yet an early passion for
reading growing stronger and stronger by application,
repaid him at last with a tolerable knowledge of the mother
tongue. We must however add, that his more favorite
and cherished studies were scarcely of that nature which a
prudent preceptor would have greatly commended. They
lay chiefly among novels, plays, and poetry, which last he
plays, and poetry, which last he
affected to that degree that he became somewhat of a poet
himself. Nevertheless, these literary avocations, profit-
less as they seemed, gave a certain refinement to his tastes,
which they were not likely otherwise to have acquired at
"The Mug;" and while they aroused his ambition to see
something of the gay life they depicted, they imparted to
his temper a tone of enterprise and of thoughtless generosi-
ty, which perhaps contributed greatly to counteract those and the reason is obvious: persons who have the power
evil influences towards petty vice, to which the examples to bestow on another an advantage he covets, would rather
around him must have exposed his tender youth. But, sell it than give it; and Paul, gradually increasing in pop-
alas! a great disappointment to Paul's hope of assistance ularity and ton, found himself, despite of his classical edu-
and companionship in his literary labors befell him. Mr. cation, no match for the finished, or, rather finishing gentle-
Augustus Tomlinson, one bright morning, disappeared, men with whom he began to associate. His first admit-
leaving word with his numerous friends, that he was tance into the select coterie of these men of the world was
going to accept a lucrative situation in the North of formed at the house of Bachelor Bill, a person of great
England. Notwithstanding the shock this occasioned to notoriety among that portion of the élite which emphati-
the affectionate heart and aspiring temper of our friend cally entitles itself "Flash!" However, as it is our rigid
Paul, it abated not his ardour in that field of science, which intention in this work to portray at length no episodical
't seemed that the distinguished absentee had so success- characters whatsoever, we can afford our readers but a
fully cultivated. By little and little, he possessed himself slight and rapid sketch of Bachelor Bill.
(in addition to the literary stores we have alluded to) of
all it was in the power of the wise and profound. Peter
Mac Grawler to impart unto him; and at the age of six-
teen he began (O the presumption of youth!) to fancy
himself more learned than his master.
CHAPTER IV.
He had now become a young man of extreme fashion, and as
much répandu in society as the utmost and most exigent cove-
ter of London celebrity could desire. He was, of course, a mem-
ber of the clubs &c. &c. &c. He was, in short, of that oft-
Jescribed set before whom all minor beaux sink into insignifi-
cance, or among whom they eventually obtain a subaltern grade,
by a sacrifice of a due portion of their fortune,
Almack's Revisited.
By the soul of the great Malebranche, who made “ A
Search after Truth," and discovered every thing beautiful
|
Now this desire to be so exceedingly fine not only made
the society about Thaines Court unpleasant, but expensive.
Every one vied with his neighbour; and as the spirit of
rivalry is particularly strong in youthful bosoms, we can
scarcely wonder that it led Paul into many extravagances.
The evil of all circles that profess to be select is high play,
This personage was of Devonshire extraction. His
mother had kept the pleasantest public house in town, and
at her death Bill succeeded to her property and popularity.
All the young ladies in the neighbourhood of Fidler's Row,
where he resided, set their caps at him: all the most fash
ionable prigs, or tobymen, sought to get him into their set;
and the most crack blowen in London would have given her
ears at any time for a loving word from Bachelor Bill.
But Bill was a long-headed, prudent fellow, and of a re-
markably cautious temperament. He avoided marriage
and friendship, viz. he was neither plundered nor cornuted
He was a tall, aristocratic cove, of a devilish neat address,
and very gallant, in an honest way, to the blowens. Like
most single men, being very much the gentleman so far as
money was concerned, he gave them plenty of "feeds,"
and from time to time a very agreeable "hop." His
bingo was unexceptionable; and as for his "stark
>>
* Popular Fallacies.
↑ Brandy
390
BULWER'S NOVELS.
naked,' * it was voted the most brilliant thing in nature.
In a very short time, by his blows-out and his bachelor-
ship, for single inen always arrive at the apex of haut
on easier than married, he became the very glass of
fashion; and many were the tight apprentices, even at the
west end of the town, who used to turn back in admira-
tion of Bachelor Bill, when, of a Sunday afternoon, he
drove down his varment gig to his snug little box on the
borders of Turnham Green. Bill's happiness was not,
however, wholly without alloy. The ladies of pleasure
are always so excessively angry when a man does not make
love them, that there is nothing they will not say against
him; and the fair matrons in the vicinity of Fiddler's Row
spread all manner of unfounded reports against poor Bache-
lor Bill. By degrees, however, for, as Tacitus has said,
doubtless with a prophetic eye to Bachelor Bill," the truth
gains by delay," these reports began to die insensibly
away; and Bill, now waxing near to the confines of middle
age, his friends comfortably settled for him, that he would
be Bachelor Bill all his life. For the rest, he was an ex-
cellent fellow, gave his broken victuals to the poor,
professed a liberal turn of thinking, and in all the quar-
rels among the blowens, (your crack blowens are a quar-
relsome set!) always took part with the weakest. Al-
though Bill affected to be very select in his company, he was
never forgetful of his old friends; and Mrs. Margery Lob-
kins having been very good to him when he was a little
boy in a skeleton jacket, he invariably sent her a card to
his soirées. The good lady, however, had not of late years
deserted her chimney-corner. Indeed, the racket of fash-
ionable life was too much for her nerves, and the invita-
tion had become a customary form not expected to be acted
upon, but not a whit the less regularly used for that reason.
As Paul had now attained his sixteenth year, and was a
fine, handsome lad, the dame thought he would make an
excellent representative of the Mug's mistress; and that,
for her protégé, a ball at Bill's house would be no bad com-
mencement of "Life in London." Accordingly, she inti-
mated to the Bachelor a wish to that effect, and Paul re-
ceived the following invitation from Bill.
"Mr. William Duke gives a hop and feed in a quiet way
on Monday next, and hops Mr. Paul Lobkins will be of the
party. N. B. Gentlemen is expected to come in pumps.
When Paul entered, he found Bachelor Bill leading off
the ball, to the tone of " Drops of Brandy," with a young
lady to whom, because she had been a strolling player,
the ladies' patronesses of Fiddler's Row had thought
proper to behave with a very cavalier civility. The good
Bachelor had no notion, as he expressed it, of such tan-
truins, and he caused it to be circulated among the finest of
the blowens, that "he expected all who kicked their heels
at his house would behave decent and polite to young Mrs.
Dot."
This intimation, conveyed to the ladies with all
that insinuating polish for which Bachelor Bill was so
remarkable, produced a notable effect; and Mrs. Dot, be-
ing now led off by the flash Bachelor, was overpowered
with civilities the rest of the evening.
|
|
"Ab
eyes with the air of a dandy about to be impertinent,
the name of a chapel - is it not? There's a sect
called the Muggletonians, I think?"
"As to that," said Paul, coloring at this insinuation
against the Mug, "Mrs. Lobkins has no more religion
than her betters; but the Mug is a very excellent house,
and frequented by the best possible company.
"Don't doubt it!" said Ned. Remember now that I
was once there, and saw one Dummie Dunnaker, — is not
that the name?—I recollect some years ago, when I first
came out, that Dummie and I had an adventure together;
- to tell you the truth, it was not the sort of thing I would
do now. But, would you believe it, Mr. Paul? this pitiful
fellow was quite rude to me the only time I ever met him
since; that is to say, the only time I ever entered the
Mug. I have no notion of such airs in a merchant, — a
merchant of rags! Those commercial fellows are getting
quite insufferable!"
"You surprise me!" said Paul. "Poor Dummie is
the last man to be rude.- He is as civil a creature as ever
lived."
Don't
"Or sold a rag!" said Ned. Possibly!
doubt his amiable qualities in the least. Pass the bingo,
my good fellow. Stupid stuff, this dancing!"
"Devilish stupid!" echoed Harry Finish across the
table. "Suppose we adjourn to Fish Lane, and rattle the
ivories !
ivories! What
What say you, Mr. Lobkins?"
Afraid of the ton's stern laugh, which scarce the
proud philosopher can scorn, " and not being very partial
to dancing, Paul assented to the proposition; and a little
party, consisting of Harry Finish, Allfair, Long Ned, and
Mr. Hookey, adjourned to Fish Lane, where there was a
club celebrated among men who live by their wits, at which
"lush" and " bacey were gratuitously sported in the
most magnificent manner. Here the evening passed away
very delightfully, and Paul went home without a
in his pocket.
""
"
-
"brad "
From that time, Paul's visits to Fish Lane became un-
fortunately regular, and in a very short period, we grieve
to say, Paul became that distinguished character,—a gen-
tleman of three outs, "out of pocket, out of elbows,
and out of credit." The only two persons whom he found
willing to accommodate him with a slight loan, as the ad-
vertisements signed X. Y. have it, were Mr. Dummie
Dunnaker and Mr. Pepper, surnamed the Long. The latter,
however, while he obliged the heir to the Mug, never con-
descended to enter that noted place of resort; and the
former, whenever he good-naturedly opened his purse-
strings, did it with a hearty caution to shun the acquain-
tance of Long Ned. "A parson," said Dummie, "" of
wery dangerous morals, and not by no manner of means
a fit sociate for a young gemman of cracter, like leetle
Paul! So earnest was this caution, and so especially
pointed at Long Ned, although the company of Mr.
Allfair or Mr. Finish might be said to be no less preju-
dicial, that it is probable that stately fastidiousness o
manner, which Lord Normanby rightly observes, in one o.
When the dance was ended, Bill very politely shook his excellent novels, makes so many enemies in the world,
hands with Paul, and took an early opportunity of intro- and which sometimes characterized the behaviour of Long
ducing him to some of the most "noted characters" of the Ned, especially toward the men of commerce, was a main
town. Among these was the smart Mr. Allfair, the in- reason why Dummie was so acutely and peculiarly alive to
At the same
sinuating Henry Finish,-
the immoralities of that lengthy gentleman.
-the merry Jack Hookey, the
knowing Charles Trywit, and various others, equally noted time we must observe, that when Paul, remembering what
for their skill in living handsomely upon their own brains, Pepper had said respecting his early adventure with Mr.
and the personals of other people. To say truth, Paul, Dunnaker, repeated it to the merchant, Dummie could not
who at that time was an honest lad, was less charmed than conceal a certain confusion, though he merely remarked,
he had anticipated by the conversation of these chevaliers with a sort of laugh, that it was not worth speaking about;
of industry. He was more pleased with the clever, though and it appeared evident to Paul that something unpleasan*
self-sufficient remarks of a gentleman with a remarkably to the man of rags, which was not shared by the uncon-
fine head of hair, and whom we would more impressively scious Pepper, lurked in the reminiscence of their past ac-
than the rest introduce to our reader, under the appellation quaintance. Howbeit, the circumstance glided from Paul's
of Mr. Edward Pepper, generally termed Long Ned. As attention the moment afterward; and he paid, we are con-
this worthy was destined afterwards to be an intimate cerned to say, equally little heed to the cautions against
associate of Paul, our main reason for attending the hop Ned with which Dummie regaled him.
at Bachelor Bill's is to note, as the importance of the
event deserves, the epoch of the commencement of their
acquaintance.
―
İ
Long Ned and Paul happened to sit next to each other
at supper, and they conversed together so amicably that
Paul, in the hospitality of his heart, expressed a hope that
' he should see Mi Pepper at the Mug!
Mug,
Mug, repeated Pepper, half shutting his
* Gin.
Perhaps (for we must now direct a glance toward his
domestic concerns) one great cause which drove Paul to
Fish Lane was the unconfortable life he led at home. For
though Mrs. Lobkins was extremely fond of her protegé,
yet she was possessed, as her customers emphatically re-
marked, "of the devil's own temper," and her native
coarseness never having been softened by those pictures of
gay society which had, in many a novel and comic farce, re-
fined the temperament of the romantic Paul, her manner a
PAUL CLIFFORD.
591
renting her maternal reproaches was certainly not a little
revolting to a lad of some delicacy of feeling. Indeed, it
often occurred to him to leave her house altogether, and
seek his fortunes alone, after the manner of the ingenious
Gil Blas, or the enterprising Roderick Random; and this
idea, though conquered and re-conquered, gradually swelled
and increased at his heart, even as swelleth that hairy ball
found in the stomach of some suffering heifer after its de-
cease. Among these projects of enterprise, the reader
will hereafter notice, that an early vision of the Green
Forest cave, in which Turpin was accustomed, with a
friend, a ham, and a wife, to conceal himself, flitted across
his mind. At this time he did not, perhaps, incline to the
mode of life practised by the hero of the roads; but he
certainly clung not the less fondly to the notion of the
cave.
The melancholy flow of our hero's life was now,
how-
ever, about to be diverted by an unexpected turn, and the
crude thoughts of boyhood, to burst "like Ghilan's Giant
Palin," into the fruit of a manly resolution.
Among the prominent features of Mrs. Lobkins's mind
was a sovereign contempt for the unsuccessful; the im-
prudence and ill-luck of Paul occasioned her as much scorn
as compassion. And when, for the third time within a
week, he stood with a rueful visage and with vacant pock-
ets, by the dame's great chair, requesting au additional
supply, the tides of her wrath swelled into an overflow.
"Look you, my kinchin cove," said she, and in
order to give peculiar dignity to her aspect, she put on,
while she spoke, a huge pair of tin spectacles, "If so be
as how you goes for to think as how I shall go for to sup-
ply your wicious necessities, you will find yourself planted
in Queer Street. Blow me tight, if I gives you another
mag.
>>
"But I owe Long Ned a guinea," said Paul," and
Duminie Dunnaker lent me three crowns. It ill becomes
your heir-apparent, my dear dame, to fight shy of his debts
of honor."
“Taradididle, do n't think for to wheedle me with your
debts and your honor," said the dame in a passion. "Long
Ned is as long in the forks (fingers) as he is in the back:
may
old Harry fly off with him! and as for Dummie Dun-
paker, I wonders how you, brought up such a swell, and
blest with the wery best of hedications, can think of putting
up with such wulgar sociates. I tells you what, Paul,
you'll please to break with them, smack and at once, or
devil a brad you'll ever get from Peg Lobkins!" So say-
ing, the old lady turned round in her chair, and helped her-
self to a pipe of tobacco
:
Paul walked twice up and down the apartment, and at
last stopped opposite the dame's chair he was a youth of
high spirit, and though he was warm-hearted, and had a
love for Mrs. Lobkins, which her care and affection for
him well deserved, yet he was rough in temper, and not
constantly smooth in speech: it is true that his heart smote
nim afterward, whenever he had said anything to annoy
Mrs. Lobkins; and he was always the first to seek a re-
conciliation; but warm words produce cold respect, and
sorrow for the past is not always efficacious in amending
the future. Paul then, puffed up with the vanity of his
genteel education, and the friendship of Long Ned, (who
went to Ranelagh, and wore silver-clocked stockings,)
stopped opposite to Mrs. Lobkins's chair, and said with
great solemnity,
"Mr. Pepper, madam, says very properly that I must
nave money to support myself like a gentleman; and if you
won't give it me, I am determined, with many thanks for
your past favors, to throw myself on the world, and seek
my fortune.'
If Paul was of no oily and bland temper, dame Marga-
ret Lobkine, it has been seen, had no advantage on that
score: we dare say the reader has observed, that noth-
ing so enrages persons on whom one depends as any ex-
pressed determination of seeking independence. Gazing
therefore for one moment at the open but resolute counte-
nance of Paul, while all the blood of her veins seemed
gathering in fire and scarlet to her enlarging cheeks, Dame
I feaks, Master Pride-in-duds! seek your fortune your-
self, will you? This comes of my bringing you up, and
letting you eat the bread of idleness and charity, you toad
of a thousand! Take that and be d―d to you!" and,
and,
suiting the action to the word, the tube which she had
d-
|
|
withdrawn from her mouth, in order to utter her gentle
rebuke, whizzed through the air, grazed Paul's cheek, and
finished its earthly career by coming in violent contact
with the right eye of Dummie Dunnaker, who at that ex-
act monient entered the room.
in
Paul had winced for a moment to avoid the missive,
the next he stood perfectly upright; his cheeks glowed, his
chest swelled; and the entrance of Dummie Dunnaker,
who was thus made the spectator of the affront he had re-
ceived, stirred his blood into a deeper anger and a more
bitter self-humiliation :-all his former resolutions of de-
parture, all the hard words, the coarse allusions, the
practical insults he had at any time received, rushed upon
him at once. He merely cast one look at the old woman,
whose rage was now half subsided, and turned slowly and
in silence to the door.
:
There is often something alarming in an occurrence,
merely because it is that which we least expect the as-
tute Mrs. Lobkins, remembering the hardy temper and fiery
passions of Paul, had expected some burst of rage, some
vehement reply; and when she caught with one wandering
eye his parting look, and saw him turn so passively and
mutely to the door, her heart misgave her, she raised her-
self from her chair, and made toward him. Unhappily
for her chance of reconciliation, she had that day quaffed
more copiously of the bowl than usual, and the sigus of
intoxication visible in her uncertain gait, her meaningless
eye, her vacant leer, her ruby cheek, all inspired Paul with
feelings which, at the moment, converted resentment into
something very much like aversion. He sprang from her
grasp to the threshold. "Where be you going, you imp
of the world?" cried the dame. "Get in with you, and
say no more on the matter; be a bob-cull, -drop the
bullies, and you shall have the blunt!"
But Paul heeded not this invitation.
"I will eat the bread of idleness and charity no longer,
said he sullenly.
"Good bye,
and if ever I can pay you
what I have cost you, I will!"
He turned away as he spoke; and the dame, kindling
with resentment at his unseemly return to her proffered
kindness, hallooed after him, and bade that dark-colored
gentleman who keeps the fire-office below, go along with
him.
Swelling with anger, pride, shame, and a half-joyous
feeling of emancipated independence, Paul walked on, he
knew not whither, with his head in the air, and his legs
marshalling themselves into a military gait of defiance.
He had not proceeded far, before he heard his name utter-
ed behind him, he turned, and saw the rueful face of
Duminie Dunnaker.
Very inoffensively had that respectable person been em-
ployed during the last part of the scene we have described,
in caressing his afflicted eye, and muttering philosophical
observations on the danger incurred by all those who are
acquainted with ladies of a choleric temperament: when
Mrs. Lobkins, turning round after Paul's departure, and
seeing the pitiful person of that Dummie Duunaker, whose
name she remembered Paul had mentioned in his opening
speech, and whom, therefore, with an illogical confusion
of ideas, she considered a party in the late dispute, ex
hausted upon him all that rage which it was necessary for
her comfort that she should unburden somewhere.
C
She seized the little man by the collar, the tenderes!
of all places in gentlemen similarly circumstanced with
regard to the ways of life, and giving him a blow, which
took effect on his other and hitherto undamaged eye, cried
out, "I'll teach you, you blood-sucker, (i. e. parasite) to
spunge upon those as has expectations. I'll teach you to
cozen the heir of the Mug,' you snivelling, whey-faced
ghost of a farthing rush-light. What! you'll lend my Paul
three crowns, will you? when you knows as how you told
me you could not pay me a pitiful tizzy. Oh, you're a
queer one, I warrants; but you wont queer Margery Lob-
kins. Out of
Out of my ken, you cur of the mange, out of my
ken; and if ever I claps my sees on you again, or if ever
I knows as how you makes a flat of my Paul, blow me
tight, but I'll weave you a hempen collar: I'll hang you,
you dog, I will. What! you will answer me, will you? -
O you viper, budge and begone! "
It was in vain that Dummie protested his innocence. A
violent coup de pied broke off all further parlance. He made
a clear house of the " Mug;" and the landlady thereof
tottering back to her elbow chair, sought out another pipe
392
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and, like all imaginative persons when the world goes
wrong with them, consoled herself for the absence of real-
ities by the creations of smoke.
Meanwhile, Dummie Dunnaker, muttering and murmur-
ing bitter fancies, overtook Paul, and accused that youth of
having been the occasion of the injuries he had just under-
gone. Paul was not at that moment in the humor best
adapted for the patient bearing of accusations; he answered
Mr. Dunnaker very shortly; and that respectable individual
still smarting under his bruises, replied with equal tartness.
Words grew high, and at length, Paul, desirous of conclu-
ding the conference, clenched his fist, and told the redoubted
Dummie that he would "knock him down.” There is
something peculiarly harsh and stunning in those three,
hard,-wirey,- sturdy, stubborn monosyllables. Their
very sound makes you double your fist, if you are a hero;
or your pace, if you are a peaceable man. They produced
an instant effect upon Dummie Dunnaker, aided as they
were by the effect of an athletic and youthful figure, already
fast approaching to the height of six feet, --a flushed
cheek, and an eye that bespoke both passion and resolution.
The rag-merchant's voice sunk at once, and with the coun-
tenance of a wronged Cassius, he whimpered forth, -
port!"
you say to a drop o' blue ruin?, as you likes to be con
nish, (genteel,) I doesn't care if I sports you a glass of
While Dunnaker was uttering this invitation, a
sudden reminiscence flashed across Paul: he bethought him
at once of Mac Grawler; and he resolved forthwith to
repair to the abode of that illustrious sage, and petition at
least for accommodation for the approaching night. So soon
as he had come to this determination, he shook off the
grasp of the amiable Dummie, and refusing, with many
thanks, his hospitable invitation, requested him to abstract
from the dame's house, and lodge within his own, until
called for, such articles of linen and clothing as belonged
to Paul, and could easily be laid hold of, during one of the
matron's evening siestas, by the shrewd Dunnaker. The
merchant promised that the commission should be speedily
executed; and Paul, shaking hands with him, proceeded to
the mansion of Mac Grawler.
We must now go back somewhat, in the natural course
of our narrative, and observe, that among the minor causes
which had conspired with the great one of gambling to
bring our excellent Paul to his present situation, was his
intimacy with Mac Grawler; for when Paul's increasing
years and roving habits had put an end to the sage's in-
structions, there was thereby lopped off from the precep-
tor's finances the weekly sum of two shillings and sixpence,
as well as the freedom of the dame's cellar and larder;
and as, in the re-action of feeling, and the perverse course
of human affairs, people generally repent the most of those
actions once the most ardently incurred; so poor Mrs. Lob-
Well, Dummie," said he, laughing, “ I did not mean kins, imagining that Paul's irregularities were entirely ow
to hurt you, and there's an end of it; and I am very sorrying to the knowledge he had acquired from Mac Grawler's
for the dame's ill-conduct; and so I wish you a good
morning."
"Knock me down!-O leetle Paul, vot vicked vhids
are those! Vot! Dummie Dunnaker as has dandled you
on his knee mony's a time and oft: vy, the cove's art is as
ard as junk, and as proud as a gardener's dog with a nose-
gay tied to his tail." This pathetic remonstrance softened
Paul's anger.
Vy, vere be you trotting to, leetle Paul?" said Dum-
inie, grasping him by the tail of the coat.
"The deuse a bit I know," answered our hero; " but I
think I shall drop a call on Long Ned."
"Avast there!" said Duminie, speaking under his
breath; "if so be as you von't blab, I'll tell
von't blab, I'll tell you a bit of a
secret. I heered as ow Long Ned started for Hampshire
this werry morning on a toby consarn!"*
"Ha!" said Paul," then hang me if I know what to
do!" As he uttered these words, a more thorough sense
of his destitution (if he persevered in leaving the Mug) than
he had hitherto felt rushed upon him; for Paul had designed
for a while to throw himself on the hospitality of his Pata-
gonian friend, and now that he found that friend was absent
from London, and on so dangerous an expedition, he was a
little puzzled what to do with that treasure of intellect and
wisdom which he carried about upon his legs. Already he
had acquired sufficient penetration (for Charles Trywit
and Harry Finish were excellent masters for initiating a
man into knowledge of the world) to perceive, that a
person, however admirable may be his qualities, does not
readily find a welcome without a penny in his pocket. In
the neighbourhood of Thames Court he had, indeed, many
acquaintances; but the fineness of his language, acquired
from his education, and the elegance of his air, in which
he attempted to blend, in happy association, the gallant
effrontery of Mr. Long Ned with the graceful negligence
of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, had made him many enemies
among those acquaintances; and he was not willing,
great was our hero's pride,— to throw himself on the chance
of their welcome, or to publish, as it were, his exiled and
crest-fallen state. As for those boon companions who had
assisted him in making a wilderness of his pockets, he had
already found, that that was the only species of assistance
which they were willing to render him in a word, he
could not, for the life of him, conjecture in what quarter
he should find the benefits of bed and board. While he
stood with his finger to his lip, undecided and musing, but
fully resolved at least on one thing, - not to return to the
Mug, little Dummie, who was a good-natured fellow at
he bottom, peered up in his face, and said, "Vy, Paul,
my kid, you ooks down in the chops: cheer up, care
Killed a cat!"
-
- SO
Observing that this appropriate and encouraging fact of
natural history did not lessen the cloud upon Paul's brow,
the acute Dummie Dunnaker proceeded at once to the grand
panacea for all evils, in his own profound estimation:
"Paul, my ben-cull," said he, with a knowing wink,
and nudging the young gentleman in the left side, "vot do
* Highway expedition.
instructions, grievously upbraided herself for her former
folly, in seeking for a superior education for her protegé ;
nay, she even vented upon the sacred head of Mac Grawler
himself her dissatisfaction at the results of his instructions.
In like manner, when a man who can spell comes to be
hanged, the anti-educationists accuse the spelling-book of
his murder. High words between the admirer of ignorant
innocence and the propagator of intellectual science ensued,
which ended in Mac Grawler's final expulsion from the
Mug.
There are some young gentlemen of the present day
addicted to the adoption of Lord Byron's poetry, with the
alteration of new rhymes, who are pleased graciously to
inform us, that they are born to be the ruin of all those who
love them; an interesting fact, doubtless, but which they
might as well keep to themselves. It would seern, by the
contents of this chapter, as if the same misfortune were
destined to Paul. The exile of Mac Grawler, the insults
offered to Dummie Dunnaker, — alike occasioned by him,
appear to sanction that opinion. Unfortunately, though
Paul was a poet, he was not much of a sentimentalist, and
he has never given us the edifying ravings of his remorse on
those subjects. But Mac Grawler, like Dunnaker, was re-
solved that our hero should perceive the curse of his fatality;
and as he still retained some influence over the mind of his
quondam pupil, his accusations against Paul, as the origin
of his banishment, were attended with a greater succes!
than were the complaints of Dummie Dunnaker on a simi-
lar calamity. Paul, who, like most people who are good
for nothing, had an excellent heart, was exceedingly grieved
at Mac Grawler's banishment on his account; and he en-
deavoured to atone for it by such pecuniary consolations as
he was enabled to offer. These Mac Grawler (purely, wo
may suppose, from a benevolent desire to lessen the boy's
remorse) scrupled not to accept; and thus, so similar often
are the effects of virtue and of vice, the exemplary Mac
Grawler conspired with the unprincipled Long Ned and tho
heartless Henry Finish, in producing that unenviable state
of vacuity, which now saddened over the pockets of Paul
As our hero was slowly walking toward the sage's
abode, depending on his gratitude and friendship for a tem-
porary shelter, one of those lightning flashes of thought
which often illumine the profoundest abyss of affliction,
darted across his mind. Recalling the image of the critic,
he remembered that he had seen that ornament of the Asi-
næum receive sundry sums for his critical lucubrations.
Why," said Paul seizing on that fact, and stopping
short in the street, why should I not turn critic
myself?"
CC
"
The only person to whom one ever puts a question, with
a tolerable certainty of receiving a satisfactory answer, is
one's self. The moment Paul started this luminous sug
*
PAUL CLIFFORD.
398
gestion, it appeared to him that he had discovered the
mines of Potosi. Burning with impatience to discuss with
the great Mac Grawler the feasibility of his project, he
quickened his pace almost into a run, and in a very few
minutes, having only overthrown one chimney-sweeper and
two applewomen by the way, he arrived at the sage's door.
CHAPTER V.
Ye realms yet unrevealed to human sight !
Ye canes athwart the hapless hands that write !
Ye critic chiefs, permit me to relate
The mystic wonders of your silent state!
VIRGIL, En. B. 6.
FORTUNE had smiled upon Mr. Mac Grawler since he
first undertook the tuition of Mrs. Lobkins's protegé. He
now inhabited a second-floor, and defied the sheriff and his
evil spirits. It was at the dusk of evening that Paul found
him at home and alone.
Before the mighty man stood a pot of London porter; a
candle, with an unregarded wick, shed its solitary light
apon his labors; and an infant cat played sportively at his
learned feet, beguiling the weary moments with the remnants
of the spiral cap, wherewith, instead of laurel, the critic had
hitherto nightly adorned his brows.
So soon as Mac Grawler, piercing through the gloomy
mist which hung about the chamber, perceived the person of
the intruder, a frown settled upon his brow.
"Have not I told you, youngster!" he growled, never
to enter a gentleman's room without knocking? I tell you,
sir, that manners are no less essential to human happiness
than virtue; wherefore, never disturb a gentleman in his
avocations, and sit yourself down without molesting the
cat">
Paul, who knew that his respected tutor disliked any one
to trace the source of the wonderful spirit which he infused
into his critical compositions, affected not to perceive the
pewter Hippocrene, and with many apologies for his want
of preparatory politeness, seated himself as directed. It
was then that the following edifying conversation ensued.
"The ancients," quoth Paul, "were very great men,
Mr. Mac Grawler.”
we make
They were so, sir," returned the critic,
it a rule in our profession to assert that fact !"
"But, sir," said Paul," they were wrong now and
then."
"Never! ignoramus, never!"
CC
They praised poverty, Mr. Mac Grawler!" said Paul
with a sigh.
"Hem!" quoth the critic, a little staggered, but pres-
ently recovering his characteristic acumen, he observed,
"It is true, Paul; but that was the poverty of other
people.
Criticism," renewed
There was a slight pause.
Paul, "must be a most difficult art.
M
A-hem ! — and what art is there, sir, that is not diffi-
cult? at least to become master of.'
True," sighed Paul; " or else
CC
"Or else what, boy?" repeated Mr. Mac Grawler, see-
ing that Paul hesitated either from fear of his superior
knowledge, as the critic's vanity suggested, or from (what
was equally likely) want of a word to express his meaning.
Why, I was thinking, sir," said Paul, with that des-
perate courage which gives a distinct and loud intonation
to the voice of all who set, or think they set, their fate
upon a cast: I was thinking that I should like to become
a critic myself!
“W— h · e-w!" whistled Mac Grawler, elevating
his eyebrows. “W— h e w! great ends have come
of less beginnings!"
Encouraging as this assertion was, coming as it did from
the lips of so great a man and so great a critic, at the very
moment too when nothing short of an anathema against ar-
rogance and presumption was expected to issue from those
portals of wisdom: yet, such is the fallacy of all human
hopes, that Paul's of a surety would have been a little less
elated, had he, at the same time his ears drank in the balm
of these gracious words, been able to have dived into the
source whence they emanated.
"Know thyself!" was a precept the sage Mac Grawler
ad endeavoured to obey; consequently the result of his
50
VOL 1
obedience was, that even by himself he was better known
than trusted. Whatever he might appear to others, he had
in reality no vain faith in the infallibility of his own talents
and resources; as well night a butcher deem himself a
perfect anatomist from the frequent amputation of legs of
mutton, as the critic of the Asinæum have laid "the flat-
tering unction to his soul," that he was really skilled in
the arts of criticism, or even acquainted with one of its
commonest rules, because he could with all speed out up
and disjoint any work, from the smallest to the greatest,
from the most superficial to the most superior; and thus it
was that he never had the want of candor to deceive him-
self as to his own talents. Paul's wish, therefore, was no
sooner expressed, than a vague but golden scheme of future
profit illumined the brain of Mac Grawler; in a word, he
resolved that Paul should henceforward share the labor of
his critiques; and that he, Mac Grawler, should receive
the whole profits in return for the honor thereby conferred
on his coadjutor.
Looking, therefore, at our hero with a benignant air,
Mr. Mac Grawler thus continued,-
"Yes, I repeat,
great ends have come from less be-
ginnings! - Rome was not built in a day, and I, Paul, I
myself was not always the editor of the Asinæum: you say
wisely, criticism is a great science,― a very great science,
and it may be divided into three branches; viz. to
tickle, to slash, and to plaster.' In each of these three, I
believe, without vanity, I am a profound adept! I wiini-
tiate you into all. Your labors shall begin this very · ven-
ing. I have three works on my table, they must bes-
patched by to-morrow night; I will take the most arus,
I abandon to you the others. The three consist of · Ro-
mance, an Epic, in twelve books, and an Inquiry i the
Human Mind, in three volumes; I, Paul, will tick e the
Romance, you this very evening shall plaster the Epe, and
slash the Inquiry!"
"Heavens, Mr. Mac Grawler!" cried Paul in craster-
nation, "what do you mean ?—I should never be even
able to read an Epic in twelve books and I shor'd fall
asleep in the first page of the Inquiry. No, no, leave me
the Romance, and take the other two uider your own pro-
tection!"
Although great genius is always berevolent, Mr. Mae
Grawler could not restrain a smile of i effable contempt at
the simplicity of his pupil.
Know, young gentleman," said he solemnly, "that
the Romance in question must be tickled; it is not given
to raw beginners to corquer that great mystery of our
science."
"Before we proceed farther, explain the words of the
art," said Paul, impatiently.
"Listen, then!" rejoined Mac Grawler, and as he
spoke the candle cast an awful glimmering on his counte
nance. "To slash is, speaking grammatically, to employ
the accusative, or acusing case; you must cut up your
book right and left, top and bottom, root and branch. To
plaster a book, is to employ the dative, or giving case, and
you must bestow on the work all the superlatives in the
language, you must lay on your praise thick and thin, and
not leave a crevice untrowelled. But to tickle, sir, is a
comprehensive word, and it comprises all the infinite vari-
eties that fill the interval between slashing and plastering
This is the nicety of the art, and you can only acquire
by practice; a few examples will suffice to give you an idea
of its delicacy.
'AL
"We will begin with the encouraging tickle.
though this work is full of faults; though the characters
are unnatural, the plot utterly improbable, the thoughts
hackneyed, and the style ungrammatical, yet we would by
no means discourage the author from proceeding; and in
the mean while we confidently recommend his work to the
attention of the reading public.'
"Take, now, the advising tickle.
"There is a good deal of merit in these little volumes,
although we must regret the evident haste in which they
were written. The author might do better, we recom
mend him a study of the best writers,' then conclude
by a Latin quotation, which you may take from one of the
mottoes in the Spectator.
"Now, young gentleman, for a specimen of the meta-
phorical tickle.
"We beg this poetical aspirant to remember the fate
of Pyrenæus, who, attempting to pursue the Muses, forgot
391
BULWER'S NOVELS.
that he had not the wings of the goddesses, flung himself
from the loftiest ascent he could reach, and perished.'
"This you see, Paul, is a loftier and more erudite sort
of tickle, and may be reserved for one of the Quarterly
Reviews. Never throw away a simile unnecessarily.
"Now for a sample of the facetious tickle.
... Mr.
has obtained a considerable reputation!
Some fine ladies think him a great philosopher, and he has
been praised in our hearing by some Cambridge Fellows,
for his knowledge of fashionable society.'
"For this sort of tickle we generally use the dullest of
our tribe, and I have selected the foregoing example from
the criticisms of a distinguished writer in the Asinæum,
whom we call, par excellence, the Ass.
"There is a variety of other tickles; the familiar, the
vulgar, the polite, the good-natured, the bitter; but in
general all tickles may be supposed to signify, however dis-
guised, one or the other of these meanings. This book
would be exceedingly good if it were not exceedingly bad.'
Or, 'This book would be exceedingly bad if it were not
exceedingly good.'
"You have now, Paul, a general idea of the superior
art required by the tickle?"
Our hero signified his assent by a
sound between a laugh and a groan.
tinued,-
sort of hysterical
Mac Grawler con-
Mac Grawler con-
"There is another grand difficulty attendant on this
class of criticism, it is generally requisite to read a few
pages of the work; because we seldom tickle without ex-
tracting, and it requires some judgment to make the con-
text agree with the extract; but it is not often necessary to
extract when you slash or when you plaster; when you
slash, it is better in general to conclude with,
"After what we have said, it is unnecessary to add,
that we cannot offend the taste of our readers by any quo-
tation from this execrable trash.' And when you plaster,
you may wind up with, 'We regret that our limits will
not allow us to give any extracts from this wonderful and
unrivalled work. We must refer our readers to the book
itself.'
"And now, sir, I think I have given you a sufficient
outline of the noble science of Scaliger and Mac Grawler.
Doubtless you are reconciled to the task I have allotted
you; and while I tickle the Romance, you will slash the
Inquiry and plaster the Epic!
"I will do my best, sir!" said Paul, with that mod-
est yet noble simplicity which becomes the virtuously am-
bitious; and Mac Grawler forthwith gave him pen and
paper, and set him down to his undertaking.
We do not, O gentle reader, seek to excuse this nasty
anathema :- the habits of childhood will sometimes reak
forth despite of the after-blessings of education. And we
set not up Paul for thine imitation as that model of virtue
and of wisdom, which we design thee to discover in Mac
Grawler.
When that great critic perceived Paul had risen, and
was retreating in high dudgeon towards the door, he rose
also, and repeating Paul's last words, said—“ Go to the
devil!' Not so quick, young gentleman, -festina lente,
all in good time. What though I did, astonished at
your premature request, say that you should receive noth-
ing; yet my great love for you may induce me to bestir
myself on your behalf. The Asinæum, it is true, only
gives three shillings an article in general; but I am its
editor, and will intercede with the proprietors on your be
half. Yes, yes. I will see what is to be done. Stop a
bit, my boy."
Paul, though very irascible, was easily pacified he
reseated himself, and, taking Mac Grawler's hand, said,—
Forgive me for my petulance, my dear sir, but, to
tell you the honest truth, I am very low in the world just
at present, and must get money in some way or another;
in short, I must either pick pockets or write (not gratui
tously) for the Asinæum."
And without further preliminary, Paul related his pres
ent circumstances to the critic; declared his determina-
tion not to return to the Mug; and requested, at least,
from the friendship of his old preceptor, the accommoda-
tion of shelter for that night.
Mac Grawler was exceedingly disconcerted at hearing
so bad an account of his pupil's finances, as wel. as pros-
pects; for he had secretly intended to regale himself that
evening with a bowl of punch, for which he purposed that
Paul should pay; but as he knew the quickness of parts
possessed by the young gentleman, as also the great affec-
tion entertained for him by Mrs. Lobkins, who, in all
probability, would solicit his return the next day, he
thought it not unlikely that Paul would enjoy the same
good fortune as that presiding over his feline companion,
which, though it had just been kicked to the other end of
the apartment, was now resuming its former occupation,
unhurt, and no less merrily than before. He therefore
thought it would be imprudent to discard his quondam
pupil, despite of his present poverty; and, moreover, al-
though the first happy project of pocketing all the profits
derivable from Paul's industry was now abandoned, he
still perceived great facility in pocketing a part of the
same receipts. He therefore answered Paul very warmly,
He had the good fortune to please Mac Grawler, who, that he fully sympathized with him in his present melan-
after having made a few corrections in style, declared he choly situation; that, so far as he was concerned, he would
evinced a peculiar genius in that branch of composition. share his last shilling with his beloved pupil; but, that he
And then it was that Paul, made conceited by praise, said, regretted at that moment he had only eleven-pence half-
looking contemptuously in the face of the preceptor, and penny in his pocket; that he would, however, exert himself
swinging his legs to and fro," And what, sir, shall I to the utmost in procuring an opening for Paul's literary
receive for the plastered Epic and the slashed Inquiry! genius; and that, if Paul liked to take the slashing and
As the face of the schoolboy who, when guessing, as he plastering part of the business on himself, he would will-
thinks rightly, at the meaning of some mysterious word in ingly surrender it to him, and give him all the profits,
Cornelius Nepos, receiveth not the sugared epithet of praise, whatever they might be. En attendant, he regretted that
but a sudden stroke across the os humerosve, even so, blank, a violent rheumatism prevented his giving up his own bed
puzzled, and thunder-stricken, waxed the face of Mr. Mac to his pupil, but that he might, with all the pleasure imag-
Grawler, at the abrupt and astounding audacity of Paul. inable, sleep upon the rug before the fire. Paul was so
"Receive!" he repeated, "receive! - Why, you im- affected by this kindness in the worthy man, that, though
pudent, ungrateful puppy! Would you steal the bread from not much addicted to the melting mood, he shed tears of
your old master? If I can obtain for your crude articles gratitude: he insisted, however, on not receiving the
an admission into the illustrious pages of the Asinæum, whole reward of his labors; and at length it was settled,
will you not be sufficiently paid, sir, by the honor? though with a noble reluctance on the part of Mac Graw-
Answer me that. Another man, young gentleman, would ler, that it should be equally shared between the critic and
have charged you a premium for his instructions; and the critic's protegé; the half profits being reasonably
here have I, in one lesson, imparted to you all the myste- awarded to Mac Grawler for his instructions and his rec-
ries of the science, and for nothing. And you talk to me
ommendation.
of 'receive!" receive! Young gentleman, in the
words of the immortal bard, 'I would as lief you had
talked to me of ratsbane !"""
—
"In fine, then, Mr. Mac Grawler, I shall get nothing
for my trouble," said Paul,
"To be sure not, sir; the very best writer in the Asi-
næum only gets three shillings an article!" Almost more
than he deserves, the critic might have added; for he who
writes for nobody should receive nothing!
"Then sir," quoth the mercenary Paul, profanely, and
ising, he kicked with one kick, the cat, the epic, and the
nquiry, to the other end of the room, "then, sir, you
may all go to the devil!"
CHAPTER VI.
Bad events peep out o' the tail of good purposer.
Bartholomew Fair.
It was not long before there was a visible improvement
in the pages of the Asinæum: the slashing part of that in
comparable journal was suddenly conceived and carried on
with a vigor and spirit which astonished the hallowed few
who contributed to its circulation. It was not difficult to
see that a new soldier had been enlisted in the service:
PAUL CLIFFORD.
895
there was something so fresh and hearty about the abuse,
that it could never have proceeded from the worn-out
acerbity of an old slasher. To be sure, a little ignorance
of ordinary facts, and an innovating method of applying
words to meanings which they never were meant to denote,
were now and then distinguishable in the criticisms of the
new Achilles; nevertheless, it was easy to attribute these
peculiarities to an original turn of thinking; and the rise
of the paper, upon the appearance of a series of articles
upon Contemporary Authors, written by this "eminent
hand," was so remarkable, that fifty copies, a number
perfectly unprecedented in the annals of the Asinæum,
were absolutely sold in one week indeed, remembering
the principle on which it was founded, one sturdy old writer
declared, that the journal would soon do for itself, and be-
come popular. There was a remarkable peculiarity about
the literary debutant, who signed himself" Nobilitas." He
not only put old words to a new sense, but he used words
which had never, among the general run of writers, been
used before. This was especially remarkable in the appli-
cation of hard names to authors. Once, in censuring a
popular writer for pleasing the public, and thereby growing
rich, the eminent hand" ended with," He who sur-
reptitiously accumulates bustle* is in fact nothing better than
a buzzgloak! " +
These enigmatical words and recondite phrases imparted
a great air of learning to the style of the new critic; and,
from the unintelligible sublimity of his diction, it seemed
doubtful whether he was a poet from Highgate, or a philoso-
pher from Koningsburg. At all events, the reviewer pre-
served his incognito, and while his praises were rung at no
less than three tea-tables, even glory appeared to him less
delicious than disguise.
In this incognito, reader, thou hast already discovered
Paul; and now, we have to delight thee with a piece of un-
exampled morality in the excellent Mac Grawler. That
worthy Mentor, perceiving that there was an inherent turn
for dissipation and extravagance in our hero, resolved mag-
nanimously rather to bring upon himself the sins of treach-
ery and mal-appropriation, than suffer his friend and former
pupil to incur those of wastefulness and profusion. Con-
trary, therefore, to the agreement made with Paul, instead
of giving that youth the half of those profits consequent on
his brilliant lucubrations, he imparted to him only one
fourth, and with the utmost tenderness for Paul's salvation,
applied the other three portions of the same to his own
necessities. The best actions are, alas ! often misconstrued
in this world; and we are now about to record a remark-
able instance of that melancholy truth.
One evening, Mac Grawler having "moistened his virtue"
in the same manner that the great Cato is said to have
done; in the confusion which such a process sometimes
occasions in the best regulated heads, gave Paul what ap-
peared to him the outline of a certain article, which he
wished to be slashingly filled up, but what in reality was the
following note from the editor of a monthly periodical.
"SIR,
C
"UNDERSTANDING that my friend, Mr. -, proprie-
tor of the Asinum, allows the very distinguished writer
whom you have introduced to the literary world, and who
signs himself Nobilitas,' only five shillings an article, I
beg, through you, to tender him double that sum the arti-
cle required will be of an ordinary length.
I am, Sir, &c.
Now, that very morning, Mac Grawler had informed
Paul of this offer, altering only, from the amiable motives.
we have already explained, the sum of ten shillings to that
of four; and no sooner did Paul read the communication
we have placed before the reader, than, instead of gratitude
to Mac Grawler for nis consideration of Paul's moral in-
firmities, he conceived against that gentleman the most
bitter resentment. He did not however vent his feelings at
once upon the Scotsman,- indeed, at that moment, as the
sage was in a deep sleep under the table, it would have
been to no purpose had he unbridled his indignation. But
he resolved without loss of time to quit the abode of the
critic. "And, indeed," said he, soliloquizing, "I am
heartily tired of this life, and shall be very glad to seek
some other employment. Fortunately, I have hoarded up
↑ Pickpocket.
→ Money
|
five guineas and four shillings, and with that independence
in my possession, since I have forsworn gambling, I can.
not easily starve.'
To this soliloquy succeeded a misanthropical reverie up-
on the faithlessness of friends; and the meditation ended
in Paul's making up a little bundle of such clothes, &., as
Dummie had succeeded in removing from the "Mug," and
which Paul had taken from the rag-nerchant's abode one
morning when Dummie was abroad.
When this easy task was concluded, Paul wrote a short
and upbraiding note to his illustrious preceptor, and left it
unsealed on the table. He then, upsetting the ink-bottle
on Mac Grawler's sleeping countenance, departed from the
house, and strode away he cared not whither.
The evening was gradually closing as Paul, chewing the
cud of his bitter fancies, found himself on London Bridge
He paused there, and, leaning over the bridge, gazed wist-
fully on the gloomy waters that rolled onward, caring not a
minnow for the numerous charming young ladies who have
thought proper to drown themselves in those merciless
waves, thereby depriving many a good mistress of an excel-
lent housemaid, or an invaluable cook, and many a treach-
erous Phaon of letters, beginning with "Parjured Vil
len," and ending with "Your affectionot but molancolly
Molly."
While thus musing, he was suddenly accosted by a gen
tleman in boots and spurs, having a riding-whip in one
hand, and the other hand stuck in the pocket of his inex-
pressibles. The hat of the gallant was gracefully and care-
fully put on, so as to derange as little as possible a pro-
fusion of dark curls, which, streaming with unguents, fell
low not only on either side of the face, but on the neck,
and even the shoulders of the owner. The face war
saturnine and strongly marked, but handsome and strik-
ing. There was a mixture of frippery and sternness in
its expression ; something between Madame Vestris
and T. P. Cooke, or between " lovely Sally" and a
Captain bold of Halifax." The stature of this person-
age was remarkably tall, and his figure was stout, mus-
cular, and well knit. In fine, to complete his portrait,
and give our readers of the present day an exact idea of
this hero of the past, we shall add that he was altogether
that sort of gentleman one sees swaggering in the Burling
ton Arcade, with his hair and hat on one side, and a mili-
tary cloak thrown over his shoulders; or prowling in
Regent Street, toward the evening, whiskered and cigarred.
Laying his hand on the shoulder of our hero, this gen-
tleman said, with an affected intonation of voice, "How
dost, my fine fellow? long since I saw you! dam-
me, but you look the worse for wear. What hast thou
been doing with thyself?"
"Ha!
cried our hero, returning the salutation of the
stranger, "and is it Long Ned whom I behold? I am,
indeed, glad to meet you; and I say, my friend, I hope
1
what I heard of you is not true!
"Hist!" said Long Ned, looking round fearfully, and
sinking his voice, "never talk of what you hear of gen-
tlemen, except you wish to bring them to their last dying
speech and confession. But come with me, my lad, there
is a tavern hard by, and we may as well discuss matters
over a pint of wine. You look cursed seedy, to be sure,
but I can tell Bill the waiter, famous fellow, that Bill!
that you are one of my tenants, come to complain of my
steward, who has just distrained you for rent, you dog!
No wonder you look so worn in the rigging. Come, follow
me. I can't walk with thee. It would look too like Nor
thumberland House and the Butcher's abode next door,
taking a stroll together."
CC
Really, Mr. Pepper," said our hero, coloring, and by
no means pleased with the ingenious comparison of h
friend, "if you are ashamed of my clothes, which I own
might be newer, I will not wound you with my
وو
Pooh! my lad, -pooh," cried Long Ned, interrupt-
ing him, "never take offence. I never do. I never take
any thing but money,—except, indeed, watches. I do n't
mean to hurt your feelings; all of us have been poer
once. 'Gad, I remember when I had not a dud to my
back, and now, you see me,— you see me, Paul!- -But
come, 'tis only through the streets you need separate from
me. Keep a little behind,
very little,
Ay, that will do," repeated Long Ned, mutteringly to hum-
that will do. -
self," they'll take him for a bailiff. It looks handsome now.
a-days to be so attended. It shows one had credit once !"
$96
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Meanwhile Paul, though by no means pleased with the
contempt expressed for his personal appearance by his
lengthy associate, and impressed with a keener sense than
ever of the crimes of his coat and the vices of his other
garment," “O breathe not its name!"-followed doggedly
and sullenly the strutting steps of the coxcombical Mr.
Pepper. That personage arrived at last at a small tavern,
and arresting a waiter who was running across the passage
into the coffee-room with a dish of hung-beef, demanded (no
doubt from a pleasing anticipation of a similar pendul-
ous catastrophe) a plate of the same excellent cheer, to be
carried, in company with a bottle of port, into a private
apartment. No sooner did he find himself alone with Paul,
than, bursting into a loud laugh, Mr. Ned surveyed his
comrade from head to foot, through an eye-glass which he
wore fastened to his button-hole by a piece of blue riband.
"Well, 'gad now," said he, stopping ever and anon,
as if to laugh the more heartily, stap my vitals, but
you are a comical quiz; I wonder what the women would
say, if they saw the dashing Edward Pepper, Esquire,
walking arm in arm with thee at Ranelagh or Vauxhall.
Nay, man, never be downcast; if I laugh at thee, it is
only to make thee look a little merrier thyself. Why, thou
lookest like a book of my grandfather's, called Burton's
Anatomy of Melancholy;' and faith, a shabbier bound copy
of it I never saw."
the practised and wary Mrs. Lobkins, deemed it prudent to
expose the exact nature of his own pursuits, and had con-
tented himself by gradually ripening the mind and the
finances of Paul into that state when the proposition of a
leap from a hedge would not be likely greatly to revolt the
person to whom it was made. He now thought that time
near at hand; and filling our hero's glass up to the brim,
thus artfully addressed him :
sensible pleasure; for curse me if it has not strengthened
'Courage, my friend! your narration has given me a
my favorite opinion, that every thing is for the best. If
it had not been for the meanness of that pitiful fellow, Mac
Grawler, you might still be inspired with the paltry ambi-
tion of earning a few shillings a-week, and vilifying a par-
cel of poor devils in the what-d'ye-call-it, with a hard
name; whereas now, my good Paul, I trust I shall be able
to open to your genius a new career, in which guineas are
had for the asking,
had for the asking, in which you may wear fine clothes,
and ogle the ladies at Ranelagh; and when you are tired
of glory and liberty, Paul, why you have only to make your
bow to an heiress, or a widow with a spanking join us,
and quit the hum of men like a Cincinnatus !
Though Paul's perception into the abstruser oranches of
morals was not very acute, and at that time the port
wine had considerably confused the few notions he pos-
sessed upon
"the beauty of virtue,"-yet he could not but
perceive, that Mr. Pepper's insinuated proposition was far
from being one which the bench of bishops, or a synod of
moralists, would conscientiously have approved; he con-
insequently remained silent; and Long Ned, after a pause,
continued,
"These jests are a little hard," said Paul, struggling
between anger
and an attempt to smile; and then recollect-
ing his late literary occupations, and the many extracts
be had taken from " Gleanings of the Belles Lettres," in
order to impart elegance to his criticisms, he threw out
his hand theatrically, and spouted with a solemn face,-
"Of all the griefs that harass the distres'd,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest!"
"Well now, prithee forgive me," said Long Ned, com-
posing his features; "and just tell me what you have been
doing the last two months.
Slashing and plastering!" said Paul, with conscious
pride.
"Slashing and what! the boy's mad,-what do you
mean, Paul ?"
"In other words," said our hero, speaking very slowly,
"know, O very Long Ned, that I have been critic to the
Asinæum."
If Paul's comrade laughed at first, he now laughed ten
times more merrily than ever. He threw his length of
limb upon a neighbouring sofa, and literally rolled with
cachinnatory convulsions; nor did his risible emotions
subside until the entrance of the hung-beef restored him to
recollection. Seeing, then, that a cloud lowered over
Paul's countenance, he went up to him, with something like
gravity; begged his pardon for his want of politeness; and
desired him to wash away all unkindness in a bumper of
all unkindness in a bumper of
port. Paul, whose excellent dispositions we have before
had occasion to remark, was not impervious to his friend's
apologies. He assured Long Ned, that he quite forgave
him for his ridicule of the high situation he (Paul) had
enjoyed in the literary world; that it was the duty of a
public censor to bear no malice; and that he should be
very glad to take his share in the interment of the hung-
beef.
The pair now sat down to their repast, and Paul, who
had fared but meagrely in that Temple of Athena over which
Mac Grawler presided, did ample justice to the viands be-
fore him By degrees, as he ate and drank, his heart open-
ed to his companion; and, laying aside that Asinaan dig-
nity which he had at first thought it incumbent on him to
assume, he entertained Pepper with all the particulars of
the life he had lately passed. He narrated to him his
breach with Dame Lobkins; his agreement with Mac
Grawler; the glory he had acquired, and the wrongs he
had sustained; and he concluded, as now the second bottle
made its appearance, by stating his desire of exchanging,
for some more active profession, that sedentary career
which he had so promisingly begun.
This last part of Paul's confession secretly delighted the
soul of Long Ned; for that experienced collector of the
highways, (Ned was, indeed, of no less noble a profes-
sion,) had long fixed an eye upon our hero, as one
whom he thought likely to be an honor to that enterprising
calling which he espoused, and an useful assistant to him-
elf. He had not, in his earlier acquaintance with Paul,
nen the youth was under the roof and the surveillance of
I was
"You know my genealogy, my good fellow?
the son of Lawyer Pepper, a shrewd old dog, but as hot as
Calcutta; and the grandson of Sexton Pepper, a great
author, who wrote verses on tombstones, and kept a stall
of religious tracts in Carlisle. My grandfather, the sexton,
was the best temper of the family; for all of us are a little
inclined to be hot in the mouth. Well, my fine fellow, my
father left me his blessing, and this devilish good head of
hair. I lived for some years on my own resources. I found
it a particularly inconvenient mode of life, and of late I have
taken to live on the public. My father and grandfather did
it before me, though in a different line. 'Tis the pleasant-
est plan in the world. Follow my example, and your
coat shall be as spruce as my own. - Master Paul, your
health!
t
"But, O longest of mortals!" said Paul, re-filling his
glass, "though the public may allow you to eat your mutton
off their backs for a short time, they will kick up at last,
and upset you and your banquet; in other words, - (par-
don my metaphor, dear Ned, in remembrance of the part I
have lately maintained in the Asinæum, that most magnifi-
cent and metaphorical of journals !) - in other words, the
police will nab thee at last; and thou wilt have the dis-
tinguished fate, as thou already hast the distinguishing char-
acteristic of Absalom!
"You mean that I shall be hanged," said Long Ned.
"That may or may not be; but he who fears death never
enjoys life. Consider, Paul, that though hanging is a bad
fate, starving is a worse; wherefore fill your glass, and let
us drink to the health of that great donkey, the people, and
may we never want saddles to ride it!
"To the great donkey," cried Paul, tossing off his
bumper, " may, your (y) ears be as long! But I own to
you, my friend, that I cannot enter into your plans. And
as a token of my resolution, I shall drink no more, for my
eyes already begin to dance in the air; and if I listen
longer to your resistless eloquence, my feet may share the
same fate?"
So saying, Paul rose; nor could any entreaty, on the part
of his entertainer, persuade him to resume his seat.
« Nay,
Nay, as you will," said Pepper, affecting a nonchalant
tone, and arranging his cravat before the glass.
as you will. Ned Pepper requires no man's companion-
ship against his liking; and if the noble spark of ambition
be not in your bosom, 'tis no use spending my breath in
blowing at what only existed in my too flattering opinion
of your qualities. So, then, you propose to return to Mac
Grawler, (the scurvy old cheat,) and pass the inglorious
remainder of your life in the mangling of authors, and the
murder of grammar? Go, my good fellow, go! scribble
again and for ever for Mac Grawler, and let him live upon
thy brains, instead of suffering thy brains to
??
PAUL CLIFFOR D.
397
Hold!" cried Paul.
Although I may have some
scruples which prevent my adoption of that rising line of
life you have proposed to me, yet you are very much mis-
taken if you imagine me so spiritless, as any longer to sub-
ject myself to the frauds of that rascal Mac Grawler. No!
My present intention is to pay my old nurse a visit. It ap-
pears to me passing strange, that though I have left her so
many weeks, she has never relented enough to track me
out, which one would think would have been no difficult
matter and now you see that I am pretty well off, having
five guineas and four shillings, all my own, and she can
scarcely think I want her money, my heart melts to her,
and I shall go and ask pardon for my haste. "
"Pshaw! sentimental," cried Long Ned, a little alarm-
ed at the thought of Paul's gliding from those clutches which
re thought had now so firmly closed upon him. Why,
you surely do n't mean, after having once tasted the joys of
independence, to go back to the boozing ken, and bear all
Mother Lobkins's drunken tantarums! Better have staid
Better have staid
with Mac Grawler, of the two !"
"You mistake me," answered Paul. "I mean solely
to make it up with her, and get her permission to see the
world. My ultimate intention is to travel."
«Ε
Right" cried Ned, "on the high-road,
horseback, I hope!'
and on
No, ny colossus of roads! No! I am in doubt
whether or not I shall enlist in a marching regiment,
(give me your advice on it,) I fancy I have a great turn for
the stage, ever since I saw Garrick in Richard. Shall I
tura stroller? - It must be a merry life."
or
"O, the devil!" cried Ned. "I myself once did Cas-
sio in a barn, and every one swore I enacted the drunken
scene to perfection; but you have no notion what a lament-
able life it is to a man of any susceptibility. No, my friend.
No! There is only one line in all the old plays worthy
thy attention, -
"Toby or not toby,* that is the question."
"I forget the rest!
•
"Well!" said our hero, answering in the same jocular
vein, - "I confess, I have the actor's high ambition.'
It is astonishing how my heart beat, when Richard cried
out, Come bustle, † bustle!'- Yes, Pepper avaunt !—
'A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.'"
"Well, well," said Long Ned, stretching himself," since
you are so fond of the play, what say you to an excursion
thither to-night? Garrick acts!
"Done! >> cried Paul.
"Done!" echoed lazily Long Ned, rising with that
blasé air which distinguishes the matured man of the world
from the enthusiastic tyro. "Done! and we will adjourn
afterward to the White Horse."
"But stay a moment," said Paul, if you remember, I
'owed you a guinea when I last saw you, here it is."
"Nonsense," exclaimed Long Ned, refusing the mon-
ey, -"nonsense! you want the money at present; pay
me when you are richer. Nay, never be coy about it,
debts of honor are not paid now as they used to be. We
lads of the Fish-Lane Club have changed all that. Well,
well, if I must.
Aud Long Ned, seeing, that Paul insisted, pocketed the
guinea. When this delicate matter had been arranged,
"Come," said Pepper, come, get your hat; but,
bless me! I have forgotten one thing.'
"What?"
Why, my fine Paul, consider, the play is a bang-up-
sort of a pace,
look at your coat, and your waistcoat,
thaf s al !"
Our hero was struck dumb with this argumentum ad
hominem. But Long Ned, after enjoying his perplexity,
relieved him of it, by telling him that he knew of an hon-
est tradesman who kept a ready-made shop, just by the
theatre, and who would fit him out in a moment.
In fact, Long Ned was as good as his word; he carried
Paul to a tailor, who gave him for the sum of thirty shil-
lings, half ready money, half on credit, a green coat with a
tarnished gold lace, a pair of red inexpressibles, and a pep-
per-and-salt waistcoat, it is true, they were somewhat
he largest, for they had once belonged to no less a per-
son than Long Ned himself: but Paul did not then regard
fhose niceties of apparel, as he was subsequently taught to
† Money.
The highway.
do by Gentleman George, (a personage hereafter to be in-
troduced to our reader,) and he went to the theatre, as well
satisfied with himself as if he had been Mr. T-
the count de M-
or
Our adventurers are now quietly seated in the theatre,
and we shall not think it necessary to detail the perform
ances they saw, nor the observations they made. Long
Ned was one of those superior beings of the road, who
would not for the world have condescended to appear any
where but in the boxes, and accordingly the friends pro-
cured a couple of places in the dress-tier. In the next box
to the one our adventurers adorned, they remarked more
especially than the rest of the audience, a gentleman and a
young lady seated next each other; the latter, who was
about thirteen years old, was so uncommonly beautiful, that
Paul, despite his dramatic enthusiasm, could scarcely divert
his eyes from her countenance to the stage. Her hair, of
a bright and fair auburn, hung in profuse ringlets about her
neck, shedding a softer shade upon a complexion in which
the roses seemed just budding, as it were, into blush. Her
eyes large, blue, and rather languishing than brilliant,
were curtained by the darkest lashes; her mouth seemed
literally girt with smiles, so numberless were the dimpies
that, every time the full, ripe, dewy lips were parted, rose
into sight, and the enchantment of the dimples was aided
by two rows of teeth more dazzling than the richest pearls
that ever glittered on a bride. But the chief charm of the
face was its exceeding and touching air of innocence, and
girlish softness; you might have gazed for ever upon that
first unspeakable bloom, that all untouched and stainless
down, which seemed as if a very breath could mar it.
Perhaps the face might have wanted animation; but, per-
haps also, it borrowed from that want an attraction ; the
repose of the features was so soft and gentle, that the eye
wandered there with the same delight, and left it with the
same reluctance which it experiences in dwelling on, or in
quitting, those hues which are found to harmonize the most
with its vision. But while Paul was feeding his gaze on
this young beauty, the keen glances of Long Ñed had found
an object no less fascinating in a large gold watch, which
the gentleman who accompanied the damsel, ever aud anon
brought to his eye, as if he were waxing a little weary
of the length of the pieces or the lingering progression of
time.
"What a beautiful face!" whispered Paul.
"Is the face gold then, as well as the back?" whis-
pered Long Ned in return.
Our hero started, frowned, and, despite the gigantic
stature of his comrade, told him very angrily, to find some
other subject for jesting. Ned in his turn stared, but made
no reply.
Meanwhile Paul, though the lady was rather too young
to fall in love with, began wondering what relationship her
companion bore to her. Though the gentleman altogether was
handsome, yet his features, and the whole character of his
face, were widely different from those on which Paul gazed
with such delight. He was not, seemingly, above five-
and-forty, but his forehead was knit into many a line and
furrow; and in his eyes, the light, though searching, was
more sober and staid than became his years. A disagree-
able expression played about the mouth, and the shape of
the face, which was long and thin, considerably detracted
from the prepossessing effect of a handsome aquiline nose,
fine teeth, and a dark, manly, though sallow complexion.
There was a mingled air of shrewdness and distraction in
the expression of his face. He seemed to pay very little
attention to the play, or to any thing about him; but he tes-
tified very considerable alacrity, when the play was over,
in putting her cloak around his young companion, and in
threading their way through the thick crowd that the boxes
were now pouring forth.
Paul and his companion silently, and each with very dif
ferent motives from the other, followed them. They were
now at the door of the theatre.
A servant stepped forward, and informed the gentleman
that his carriage was a few paces distant; but that it might
be some time before it could drive up to the theatre.
said the
"Can you walk to the carriage, my dear?
gentleman to his young charge, and, she auswering in the
affirmative, they both left the house, preceded by the ser
vant.
"Come on!" said Long Ned, hastily, and walking in
the same direction which the strangers had taken Paul
898
BULWER'S NOVELS.
readily agreed, they soon overtook the strangers. Long
Ned walked the nearest to the gentleman, and brushed by
him in passing. Presently, a voice cried "Stop thief! "
and Long Ned saying to Paul," Shift for yourself,-run!"
darted from our hero's side into the crowd, and vanished
in a twinkling. Before Paul could recover his amaze, he
found himself suddenly seized by the collar; he turned ab-
ruptly, and saw the dark face of the young lady's com-
panion.
"Rascal!" cried the gentleman, "my watch!"
"Watch!" repeated Paul, bewildered; and only for
ine sake of the young lady refraining from knocking down
his arrester. "Watch!"
66
Ay, young man!" cried a fellow in a great coat, who
now suddenly appeared on the other side of Paul; "this
gentleman's watch,- please your honor, (addressing the
complainant,) I be a watch too, — shall I take up this
chap?"
"By all means," cried the gentleman;
"I would not
have lost my watch for twice its value. I can swear I saw
this fellow's companion snatch it from my fob. The thief's
gone; but we have at least the accomplice. I give him in
strict charge to you, watchman; take the consequences if
you let him escape.
The watchman answered sullenly, that he did not want
to be threatened, and he knew how to discharge his duty.
"Don't answer me, fellow," said the gentleman, haugh-
tily; "do as I tell you!" and after a little colloquy, Paul
found himself suddenly marched off between two tall fel-
lows, who looked prodigiously inclined to eat him. By this
time, he had recovered his surprise and dismay; he did
not want the penetration to see that his companion had
really committed the offence for which he was charged; and
he also foresaw that the circumstance might be attended
with disagreeable consequences to himself. Under all the
features of the case, the thought that an attempt to escape
would not be an imprudent proceeding on his part; ac-
cordingly, after moving a few paces very quietly, and very
passively, he watched his opportunity, wrenched himself
from the gripe of the gentleman on his left, and brought the
hand thus released, against the cheek of the gentleman on
his right, with so hearty a good-will, as to cause him to
relinquish his hold, and retreat several paces toward the
areas in a slanting position. But that round-about sort of
blow with the left fist is very unfavorable toward the pres-
ervation of a firm balance; and before Paul had recovered
sufficiently to make an effectual "bolt," he was prostrated
to the earth by a blow from the other and undamaged watch-
which utterly deprived him of his senses; and when
man,
he recovered those useful possessions, (which a man may
reasonably boast of losing, since it is only the minority who
have them to lose,) he found himself stretched on a bench
in the watchhouse.
CHAPTER VII.
Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparelled as becomes the brave,
Old Giaffer sat in his Divan!
A
Much I misdoubt this wayward boy
Will one day work me more annoy.
Bride of Abydos.
THE learned and ingenious John Schweighauser, (a
name facile to spell and mellifluous to pronounce,)-(hath
been pleased, in that Appendix continens particulam doctrinæ
de mens: humanâ, which closeth the volume of his Opuscula
Academica, to observe,- (we translate from memory,)
that, "in the infinite variety of things which, in the thea-
tre of the world, occur to a man's survey, or in some man-
ner or another affect his body or his mind, by far the greater
part are so contrived as to bring to him rather some sense
of pleasure than of pain or discomfort." Assuming that
this holds generally good, in well-constituted frames, we
point out a notable example in the case of the incarcerated
Paul; for, although that youth was in no agreeable situa-
tion at the time present, and although nothing very en-
couraging smiled upon him from the prospects of the future,
yet, as soon as he had recovered his consciousness, and
given himself a rousing shake, he found an immediate
ource of pleasure in disco ering, first, that several ladies
and gentlemen bore him company in his imprisonment}
and, secondly, in perceiving a huge jug of water within hi
reach, which, as his awaking sensation was that of burning
thirst, he delightedly emptied at a draught.
He then,
stretching himself, looked around with a wistful earnest
ness, and discovered a back turned toward him, and recum-
bent on the floor, which, at the very first glance, appeared
to him familiar. Surely," thought he, "I know that
frieze coat, and the peculiar turn of those narrow shoulders.'
Thus soliloquizing, he raised himself, and, putting out
his leg, he gently kicked the reclining form. Muttering
strange oaths," the form turned round, and, raising itself
upon that inhospitable part of the body in which the intro-
duction of foreign feet is considered anything but an honor,
it fixed its dull blue eyes upon the face of the disturber of
its slumbers, gradually opening them wider and wider, unti
they seemed to have enlarged themselves into proportions
fit for the swallowing of the important truth that burst upon
them, and then from the mouth of the creature issued,-
Queer my glims, if that be n't little Paul! "
Not been long without
- Life is short; we must
Ay, Dummie, here I am!
being laid by the heels, you see!
make the best use of our time!"
Upon this, Mr. Dunnaker (it was no less respectable
a person) scrambled up from the floor, and, seating himself
on the bench beside Paul, said, in a pitying tone,
cr
Vy, laus-a-me! if you be n't knocked o' the head !
Your poll's as bloody as Murphy's face ven his throat's
cut!'
*
""Tis only the fortune of war, Dummie, and a mere
trifle: the heads manufactured at Thames Court are not
easily put out of order.-But tell me, how come you here?"
"VY,
I had been lushing heavy vet
"Till
kennel."
you grew light in the head, eh? and fell into the
"Yes."
Mine is a worse business than that, I fear :" and
therewith Paul, in a lower voice, related to the trusty Dum-
mie the train of accidents which had conducted him to his
present asylum. Dummie's face elongated as he listened :
however, when the narrative was over, he endeavoured such
consolatory palliatives as occurred to him. He represented,
first, the possibility that the gentleman might not take the
trouble to appear; secondly, the certainty that no watch
was found about Paul's person; thirdly, the fact that, even
by the gentleman's confession, Paul had not been the actual
offender; fourthly, if the worst came to the worst, what
were a few weeks' or even months' imprisonment ?
"Blow me tight!" said Dummie, "if it be n't as good
a vay of passing the time as a cove as is fond of snuggery
need desire!"
This observation had no comfort for Paul, who recoiled,
with all the maiden coyness of one to whom such unions are
unfamiliar, from a matrimonial alliance with the snuggery
of the House of Correction. He rather trusted to another
source for consolation; in a word, he encouraged the flat-
tering belief, that Long Ned, finding that Paul had been
caught instead of himself, would have the generosity to come
forward and exculpate him from the charge. On hinting
this idea to Dummie, that accomplished "man about town"
could not for some time believe that any simpleton could be
so thoroughly unacquainted with the world, as seriously to
entertain so ridiculous a notion; and, indeed, it is some-
what remarkable that such a hope should ever have told its
flattering tale to one brought up in the house of Mrs. Mar-
garet Lobkins. But Paul, we have seen, had formed many
of his notions from books; and he had the same fine the
ories of your "moral rogue that
possess the minds of
young patriots when they first leave college for the House
of Commons, and think integrity a prettier thing than
office.
وو
Mr. Dunnaker urged Paul, seriously, to dismiss so vague
and childish a fancy from his breast, and rather to think of
what line of defence it would be best for him to pursue.
This subject being at length exhausted, Paul recurred to
Mrs. Lobkins, and inquired whether Dummie had lately
honored that lady with a visit.
Mr. Dunnaker replied that he had, though with much
difficulty, appeased her anger against him for his supposed
abetment of Paul's excesses, and that of iate she had held
sundry conversations with Dummie respecting our hero
"Murphy's face," unlearned reader, arpeareth, in Irish
phrase, to mean "pig's head.”
PAUL CLIFFORD.
399
|
tice Burnflat, and as he came, watch in hand, (a borrowed
watch,) saying that his time was worth five guineas a mo-
ment, the Justice proceeded immediately to business.
—
"How long, fellow," asked Justice Burnflat,
you known your companion?"
"About half a year
"And what is his name and calling?"
Paul hesitated, and declined to answer.
"have
Aimself. Upon questioning Dummie farther, Paul learnt
the good matron's reasons for not evincing that solicitude
for his return which our hero had reasonably anticipated.
The fact was, that she, having no confidence whatsoever in Nothing could be clearer, shorter, or more satisfactory,
his own resources independent of her, had not been sorry than the evidence of Mr. Brandon. The corroborative testi-
of an opportunity effectually, as she hoped, to humble that mony of the watchman followed; and then Paul was called
pride which had so revolted her; and she pleased her van- upon for his defence. This was equally brief with the
ity by anticipating the time when Paul, starved into sub-charge; but, alas! it was not equally satisfactory. It
mission, would gladly, and penitently, re-seek the shelter cousisted in a firm declaration of his innocence. His com
of her roof, and, tamed as it were by experience, would rade, he confessed, might have stolen the watch; but he
never again kick against the yoke which her matronly pru- humbly suggested that that was exactly the very reason
dance thought it fitting to impose upon him. She contented why he had not stolen it.
Herself then with obtaining from Dummie the intelligence,
that our hero was under Mac Grawler's roof, and therefore,
out of all absolute evil; and, as she could not foresee the
ingenious exertions of intellect by which Paul had con-
verted himself into the "Nobilitas" of the Asinæum, and
thereby saved himself from utter penury, she was perfectly
convinced, from her knowledge of character, that the illus-
trious Mac Grawler would not long continue that protec-
tion to her rebellious protegé, which, in her opinion, was
bis only preservative from picking pockets or famishing.
To the former decent alternative she knew Paul's great and
jejune aversion, and she consequently had little fear for his
morals or his safety, in thus abandoning him for a while to
chance. Any anxiety too that she might otherwise have
keenly experienced was deadened by the habitual intoxica-
tion now increasing upon the good lady with age, and which,
though at times she could be excited to all her character-
istic vehemence, kept her senses for the most part plunged
into a lethæan stupor, or, to speak more courteously, in a
poetical abstraction from the things of the external world.
"But," said Dummie, as by degrees he imparted the so-
lution of the dame's conduct to the listening ear of his
companion, -"But I opes as ow ven you be out of this ere
scrape, leetle Paul, you vil take varning, and drop Meester
Pepper's acquaintance, (vich, I must say, I vas always a
sorry to see youh encourage,) and go home to the Mug, and
fam grasp the old mort, for she has not been like the same
She's a delicate-arted oman,
cretur ever since
you vent.
that Piggy Lob !"
So appropriate a panegyric on Mrs. Margaret Lobkins
might, at another time, have excited Paul's risible muscles;
but at that moment he really felt compunction for the uncer-
emonious manner in which he had left her, and the softness
of regretful affection imbued in its hallowing colors even
the image of Piggy Lob.
"A sad piece of business!" said the Justice, in a me -
ancholy tone, and shaking his head portentously.
The lawyer acquiesced in the aphorism; but with great
magnanimity observed, that he did not wish to be hard
upon the young man. His youth was in his favor, and his
offence was probably the consequence of evil company.
He suggested, therefore, that as he must be perfectly aware
of the address of his friend, he should receive a full
don, if he would immediately favor the magistrate with
that information. He concluded by remarking, with singu
lar philanthropy, that it was not the punishment of the
youth, but the recovery of his watch that he desired.
par-
Justice Burnflat, having duly impressed upon our hero's
mind the disinterested and Christian mercy of the com-
plainant, and the everlasting obligation Paul was under
to him for its display, now repeated, with double solemnity,
those queries respecting the habitation and name of Long
Ned, which our hero had before declined to answer.
Grieved are we to confess, that Paul, ungrateful for, and
wholly untouched by, the beautiful benignity of lawyer
Brandon, continued firm in his stubborn denial to betray
his comrade, and with equal obduracy he continued to in-
sist upon his own innocence and unblemished respectability
of character.
"Your name, young man?" quoth the Justice. "Your
name, you say is Paul, Paul what? you have many an
alias, I'll be bound.”
Here the young gentleman again hesitate at length he
replied,
"Paul Lobkins, your worship."
"Lobkins!" repeated the Judge,
hither, Saunders,
black books ? "
"Lobkins! come
have not we that name down in our
"So please your worship," quoth a little stout man,
very useful in many respects to the Festus of the Police,
there is one Peggy Lobkins, who keeps a public house,
a sort of flash ken, called the Mug, in Thames Court, not
exactly in our beat, your worship.
In conversation of this intellectual and domestic descrip-
tion, the night and ensuing morning passed away, till Paul
found himself in the awful presence of Justice Burnflat.
Several cases were disposed of before his own, and among
others Mr. Dummie Dunnaker obtained his release, though
not without a severe reprimand for his sin of inebriety,"
which no doubt sensibly affected the ingenuous spirit of that
noble character. At length Paul's turn came. He heard,
as he took his station, a general buzz. At first he imagined
it was at his own interesting appearance, but raising his
eyes, he perceived that it was at the entrance of the gen-
tleman who was to become his accuser.
"Hush," said some one near him, "'tis Lawyer Bran-
don. Ah, he's a 'cute fellow! It will go hard with the
person he complains of."
and
There was a happy fund of elasticity of spirit about our
hero, and though he had not the good fortune to have "a
blighted heart,' a circumstance which, by the poets and
philosophers of the present day, is supposed to inspire a
man with wonderful courage, and make him impervious to
all misfortunes; yet he bore himself up with wonderful
with wonderful
courage under his present trying situation, and was far
from overwhelmed, though he was certainly a little damped,
by the observation he had just heard.
Mr. Brandon was indeed a barrister of considerable
reputation, and in high esteem in the world, not only for
talent, but also for a great austerity of manners, which,
though a little mingled with sternness and acerbity for the
errors of other men, was naturally thought the more praise-
worthy on that account; there being, as persons of expe-
rience are doubtless aware, two divisions in the first class
of morality imprimis, a great hatred for the vices of one's
neighbour; secondly, the possession of virtues in one's
self.
}
Mr. Brandon was received with great courtesy by Jus-
Ho, ho!" said Justice Burnflat, winking at Mr.
Brandon, we must sift this a little. Pray, Mr. Paul
Lobkins, what relation is the good landlady of the Mug,
in Thames Court, to yourself?"
"None at all, sir," said Paul, hastily, -
-"she's only a
friend!
Upon this there was a laugh in the court.
"Silence," cried the Justice, "and I dare say, Mr.
Paul Lobkins, that this friend of yours will vouch for the
respectability of your character, upon which you are
pleased to value yourself."
CC
I have not a doubt of it, sir," answered Paul; and
there was another laugh.
"And is there any other equally weighty and praise
worthy friend of yours who will do you the like kind-
ness ?"",
Paul hesitated; and at that moment, to the surprise of
the court, but above all to the utter and astounding sur-
prise of himself, two gentlemen dressed in the height of
the fashion pushed forward, and, bowing to the Justice,
declared themselves ready to vouch for the thorough_re-
spectability and unimpeachable character of Mr. Paul
Lobkins, whom they had known, they said, for many years,
and for whom they had the greatest respect. While Paul
was surveying the persons of these kind friends, whom he
never remembered to have seen before in the course of his
life, the lawyer, who was a very sharp fellow, whispered
400
BULWER'S NOVELS.
to the magistrate, and that dignitary nodding as in assent,
and eyeing the new comers, inquired the names of Mr. Lob-
kins's witnesses.
"Mr. Eustace Fitzherbert, and Mr. William Howard
Russell," were the several replies.
Names so aristocratic produced a general sensation.
But the impenetrable Justice calling the same Mr. Saun-
ders he had addressed before, asked him to examine well
the countenances of Mr. Lobkins's friends.
As the alguazil eyed the features of the memorable Don
Raphael and the illustrious Manuel Morales, when the
former of those accomplished personages thought it conve-
nient to assume the travelling dignity of an Italian prince,
gou of the sovereign of the valleys which lie between
Switzerland, the Milanese, and Savoy, while the latter was
contented with being servant to Monseigneur le Prince; even
so, with far more earnestness than respect, did Mr. Saunders
eye the features of those high-born gentlemen, Messrs. Eu-
stace Fitzherbert, and William Howard Russell; but, after
⚫ long survey, he withdrew his eyes, made an unsatisfactory
and unrecognising gesture to the magistrate, and said,
"Please your worship, they are none of my flock; but Bill
Troutling knows more of this sort of genteel chaps than I
loes."
“Bid Bill Troutling appear ! "" was the laconic order.
At that naine, a certain modest confusion might have
been visible in the faces of Mr. Eustace Fitzherbert and
Mr. William Howard Russeli, had not the attention of the
court been immediately directed to another case.
A poor
voman had been committed for seven days to the House of
Correction on a charge of disrespectability. Her husband,
the person most interested in the matter, now came for-
ward to disprove the charge; and by help of his neighbours
be succeeded.
"It is all very true," said Justice Burnflat; "but as your
wife, my good fellow, will be out in five days, it will be
acarcely worth while to release her now."*
So judicious a decision could not fail of satisfying the
husband; and the audience became from that moment en-
lightened as to a very remarkable truth, viz. that five
days out of seven bear a peculiarly small proportion to the
remaining two; and that people in England have so pro-
digious a love for punishment, that though it is not worth
while to release an innocent woman from prison five
days sooner than one would otherwise have done, it is
exceedingly well worth while to commit her to prison for
seven !
When the husband, drawing his rough hand across his
eyes, and muttering some vulgar impertinence or another,
had withdrawn, Mr. Saunders said, –
"Here be Bill Troutling, your worship!
"Ob, well," quoth the Justice, -"and now, Mr. Eu-
stace Fitz, Hollo, how's this! where are Mr. William
Howard Russell, and his friend Mr. Eustace Fitzher-
bert ?"
"Echo, answered, Where?"
P
Those noble gentlemen, having a natural dislike to be
confronted with so low a person as Mr. Bill Troutling, had,
the instant public interest was directed from them, silently
disappeared from a scene where their rank in life seemed so
little regarded. If, reader, you should be anxious to learn
from what part of the world the transitory visitants appear-
ed, know, that they were spirits sent by that inimitable
magician, Long Ned, partly to report how matters fared in
the court; for Mr. Pepper, in pursuance of that old policy
which teaches that the nearer the fox is to the hunters, the
more chance he has of being overlooked, had, immediate-
ly on his abrupt departure from Paul, dived into a house in
the very street where his ingenuity had displayed itself, and
in which oysters and ale nightly allured and regaled an as-
sembly that, to speak impartially, was more numerous than
select: there had he learnt how a pickpocket had been
seized for unlawful affection to another man's watch, and
there, while he quietly seasoned his oysters, had he, with
his characteristic acuteness, satisfied his mind, by the con-
viction that that arrested unfortunate was no other than
Paul Partly therefore as a precaution for his own safety,
that he might receive early intelligence, should Paul's de-
fence make a change of residence expedient, and partly (out
of the friendliness of fellowship) to back his companion
A fact, occurring in the month of January last, 1830. Vide
*
the Morning Herald.
|
|
with such aid as the favorable testimony of two well-dressed
persons, little known
little known "about town," night confer, he had
despatched those celestial beings, who had appeared under
the mortal uaines of Eustace Fitzherbert, and William
Howard Russell, to the imperial court of Justice Burnflat.
Having thus accounted for the apparition, (the disapparition
requires no commentary) — of Paul's “friends," we return
to Paul himself.
Despite of the perils with which he was girt, our young
hero fought out to the last, but the Justice was not by any
means willing to displease Mr. Brandon; and observing
that an incredulous and biting sneer remained stationary on
that gentleman's lip, during the whole of Paul's defence, he
could not but shape his decision according to the well-
known acuteness of the celebrated kawyer. Paul was ac-
cordingly sentenced to retire for three months to that coun-
try-house situated at Bridewell, to which the ungrateful
functionaries of justice often banish their most active
citizens.
As soon as the sentence was passed, Brandon, whose
keen eyes saw no hope of recovering his lost treagare,
declared that the rascal had perfectly the Old-Bailey-cut of
countenance, and that he did not doubt but, if ever he lived
to be a judge, he should also live to pass a very different
description of sentence on the offender.
So saying, he resolved to lose no more time, and very
abruptly left the office, without any other comfort than the
remembrance that, at all events, he had sent the boy to a
place where, let him be ever so innocent at present, he was
certain to come out as much inclined to be guilty, as his
friends could desire; joined to such moral reflection as the
tragedy of Bombastes Furioso might have afforded to him-
self in that sententious and terse line,
Thy watch is gone, -watches are made to go !"
Meanwhile, Paul was conducted in state to his retreat,
in company with two other offenders, one a middle-aged
man, though a very old file,' who was sentenced for getting
money under false pretences, and the other a little boy, who
had been found guilty of sleeping under a colonnade: it be-
ing the especial beauty of the English law, to make no fine-
drawn and nonsensical shades of difference between vice and
misfortune; and its peculiar method of protecting the honest
being, to make as many rogues as possible in as short a
space of time.
CHAPTER VIII.
Common Sense. — What is the end of punishment, as regards
the individual punished?
Custom. To make him better.
Common Sense. - How do you punish young offenders who
are (from their youth) peculiarly alive to example, and whom it
is therefore more easy either to ruin or reform, than the ma-
tured?
Custom. We send them to the House of Correction, to as-
sociate with the damnedest rascals in the country!
""
Dialogue between Common Sense and Custom. -
(Fery scarce.)
As it was rather late in the day when Paul made his first
entre at Bridewell, he passed that night in the "receiving-
room. The next morning, as soon as he had been exau-
ined by the surgeon, and clothed in the customary uniform,
he was ushered, according to his classification, among the
good company who had been considered guilty of that com-
pendious offence, a misdemeanor.' Here a tall gentle-
man marched up to him, and addressed him in a certain
language, which might be called the free-masonry of flash;
and which Paul, though he did not comprehend verbatim,
rightly understood to be an inquiry whether he was a
thorough rogue and an entire rascal. He answered half in
confusion, half in anger, and his reply was so detri-
mental to any favorable influence he might otherwise have
exercised over the interrogator,- that the latter person-
age, giving him a pinch in the ear, shouted out, "Ramp,
ramp!
and, at that significant and awful word, Paul
found himself surrounded in a trice by a whole host of in-
genious tormentors. One pulled this member, another
pinched that; one cuffed him before, and another thrashed
him behind. By way of interlude to this pleasing occupa
tion, they stripped him of the very few things that in his
change of dress he had retained Ŏne carried off his hand
PAUL CLIFFORD.
401
kerchnet, a second his neckcloth, and a third, luckier than
either, possessed himself of a pair of cornelian shirt-but-
tons, given to Paul as a gage d'amour by a young lady who
sold oranges near the Tower. Happily, before this initia-
tory process, technically termed " ramping," and exercised
upon all new comers who seem to have a spark of decency
in them, had reduced the bones of Paul, who fought tooth-which I have sustained myself."
and-nail in his defence, to the state of magnesia; a man of
grave aspect, who had hitherto plucked his oakum in quiet,
suddenly rose, thrust himself between the victim and the
assailants, and desired the latter, like one having authori-
ty, to leave the lad alone, and go and be d- -d.
"I should be excessively obliged to you for your confi-
dence," said Paul, “and I doubt not but your life must be
excessively entertaining. Mine, as yet, has been but in-
sipid. The lives of literary men are not fraught with ad-
venture; and I question whether every writer in the Asi-
næum has not led pretty nearly the same existence as that
>>
In conversation of this sort, our newly-restored friends
passed the remainder of the day, until the hour of half-past
four, when the prisoners are to suppose night has begun,
and be locked up in their bedrooms. Tomlinson then, who
was glad to re-find a person who had known him in his
This proposal to resort to another place for amusement, beaux jours, spoke privately to the turnkey; and the result
though uttered in a very grave and tranquil manner, pro- of the conversation was the coupling Paul and Augustus in
duced that instantaneous effect which admonitions from the same chamber, which was a sort of stone box, that
great rogues generally work upon little. Messieurs the generally accommodated three, and was, for we have
"rampers
ceased from their amusements, and the ring-measured it, as we would have measured the cell of the
leader of the gang, thumping Paul heartily on the back, de- prisoner of Chillon, just eight feet by six
clared he was a capital fellow, and it was only a bit of a
spree like, which he hoped had not given him any offence.
Paul, still clenching his fist, was about to answer in no
pacific mood, when a turnkey, who did not care in the
least how many men he locked up for an offence, but who
did not at all like the trouble of looking after any one of
bis flock, to see that the offence was not committed, now
suddenly appeared among the set; and, after scolding them
for the excessive plague they were to him, carried off two
of the poorest of the mob to solitary confinement. It hap-
pened of course that these two had not taken the smallest
share in the disturbance. This scene over, the company
returned to picking oakum, the tread-mill, that admir-fraud.
ably just invention, by which a strong man suffers no fa-
tigue, and a weak one loses his health for life, not having
been then introduced in our excellent establishments for
correcting crime. Bitterly, and with many dark and
wrathful feelings, in which the sense of injustice at punish-
ment alone bore him up against the humiliations to which
be was subjected, bitterly, and with a swelling heart, in
which the thoughts that lead to crime were already forcing
their way through a soil suddenly warmed for their growth,
did Paul bend over his employment. He felt himself
touched on the arm; he turned, and saw that the gentleman
who had so kindly delivered him from his tormentors, was
now sitting next to him. Paul gazed long and carnestly
upon his neighbour, struggling with the thought, that he
had beheld that sagacious countenance in happier times,
although, now, alas! it was altered, not only by time and
vicissitude, but by that air of gravity which the cares
of mankind spread gradually over the face of the most
thoughtless, until all doubt melted away and he
exclaimed,
"Is that you, Mr. Tomlinson ?-how glad I am to see
you here!
;
"And I," returned the quondam murderer for the news-
papers, with a nasal twang, "should be very glad to see
myself anywhere else!
Paul made no answer, and Augustus continued.
"To a wise man all places are the same,' so it has
been said. I do n't believe it, Paul, I don't believe it.
-But a truce to reflection. I remembered you the mo-
ment I saw you, though you are surprisingly grown. How
is my friend Mac Grawler ?- still hard at work for the
Asinæum ?"
"I believe so," said Paul sullenly, and hastening to
change the conversation; "but tell me, Mr. Tomlinson,
how came you hither? I heard you had gone down to the
North of England to fulfil a lucrative employment."
CC
Possibly the world always misrepresents the actions
of those who are constantly before it!"
for we
"It is very true," said Paul, "and I have said the same
thing myself a hundred times in the Asinæum,
were never too lavish of our truths in that magnificent
journal. 'Tis astonishing what a way we made three
ideas go."
"You remind me of myself and my newspaper labors,"
rejoined Augustus Tomlinson: "I am not quite sure that
I had so many as three ideas to spare; for, as you say, it is
astonishing how far that number inay go, properly mana-
ged. It is with writers as with strolling players the
same three ideas that did for Turks in one scene, do for
Highlanders in the next :- but you must tell me your his-
Fory one of these days, and you shall hear mine.'
VOL. I.
51
S
We do not intend, reader, to indicate by broad colors
and in long detail, the moral deterioration of our nero;
because we have found, by experience, that such pains on
our part do little more than make thee blame our stupidity
instead of lauding our intention. We shall therefore only
work out our moral by subtle hints and brief comments;
and we shall now content ourselves with reminding thee,
that hitherto thou hast seen Paul honest in the teeth of
circumstances. Despite the contagion of the Mug, -de-
spite his associates in Fish Lane, despite his intimacy
with Long Ned, thou hast seen him brave temptation, and
look forward to some other career than that of robbery or
fraud. Nay, even in his destitution, when driven from the
abode of his childhood, thou hast observed how, instead of
resorting to some more pleasurable or libertine road of life,
he betook himself at once to the dull roof and insipid em-
ployments of Mac Grawler, and preferred honestly earning
his subsistence by the sweat of his brain, to recurring to
any of the numerous ways of living on others with which
his experience among the worse part of society must have
teemed, and which, to say the least of them, are more al-
luring to the young and the adventurous, than the barren
paths of literary labor. Indeed, to let thee into a secret,
it had been Paul's daring ambition to raise himself into a
worthy member of the community. His present circum-
stances, it may hereafter be seen, made the cause of a great
change in his desires; and the conversation he held that
night with the ingenious and skilful Augustus, went more
towards fitting him for the hero of this work, than all the
habits of his childhood, or the scenes of his earlier youth.
Young people are apt, erroneously, to believe, that it is a
bad thing to be exceedingly wicked. The House of Cor-
rection is so called, because it is a place where so ridicu
lous a notion is invariably corrected.
The next day, Paul was surprised, by a visit from Mrs.
Lobkins, who had heard of his situation, and its causes,
from the friendly Dummie, and who had managed to obtain
from Justice Burnflat, an order of admission. They met,
Pyramus and Thisbe like, with a wall, or rather an iron
gate, between them and Mrs. Lobkins, after an ejacula-
tion of despair at the obstacle, burst weepingly into the
pathetic reproach, —
"O Paul, thou hast brought thy pigs to a fine mar
ket!"
"'Tis a market proper for pigs, dear dame," said Paul,
who, though with a tear in his eye, did not refuse a joke
as bitter as it was inelegant; "for, of all others, it is the
spot where a man learns to take care of his bacon."
"Hold your tongue!" cried the dame angrily. "What
business has you to gabble on so while you are in limbo?"
"Ah, dear dame," said Paul, "we can't help these
rubs and stumbles on our road to preferment!"
CC
Boad to the scragging-post !" cried the dame. “I
tells you, child, you'll live to be hanged in spite of all my
care and 'tention to you, though I hedicated you as a schol-
ard, and always hoped as how you would grow up to be an
honor to your
CC
King and country," interrupted Paul. "We always
say honor to king and country, which means getting rich
and paying taxes. The more taxes a man pays, the great-
er honor he is to both,' as Augustus says.- Well,.dear
dame, all in good time."
"What! you is merry,
is you? Why does not you
Your heart is as hard as a brickbat. It looks
weep?
402
BULWER'S NOVELS.
quite unnatural and hyena-like, to be so devil-me-careish!" | variety of circumstance. It is the only politics for us who
So saying, the good dame's tears gushed forth with the
bitterness of a despairing Parisina.
C6
C
p
are the aristocrats of that free body who rebel agains
tyrannical laws! for, hang it, I am none of your democrats.
Nay, nay," said Paul, who, though he suffered far Let there be dungeons and turnkeys for the low rascals who
more intensely, bore the suffering far more easily than his whip clothes from the hedge where they hang to dry, or steal
patroness, we cannot mend the matter by crying. Sup-down an area in quest of silver spoons; but Houses of
pose you see what can be done for me. I dare say you Correction are not inade for men who have received an en-
may manage to soften the Justice's sentence by a little oil lightened education,
of palms; and if you can get me out before I am quite as a justice of peace can do,
who abhor your petty thefts as much
who ought never to be
corrupted, -a day or two longer in this infernal place will termed dishonest in their dealings, but, if they are found
do the business, I promise you, that I will not only live out, unlucky in their speculations !"*
honestly myself, but with people who live in the same
A pretty thing, in-
deed, that there should be distinctions of rank among other
members of the community, and none among us ! Where'
your boasted British constitution? I should like to know,
where are your privileges of aristocracy, if I, who am
gentleman born, know Latin, and have lived in the best
society, should be thrust into this abominable place with a
dirty fellow, who was born in a cellar, and could never
earn more at a time than would purchase a sausage? No,
Paul, and love liberty; but, thank heaven, I despise you
no! none of your levelling principles for me! Ian Meru.
democracies!"
manner."
"Buss me, Paul," said the tender Mrs. Lobkins, "buss
me, oh! but I forgits the gate! I'll see what can be
done. And here, my lad, here's summat for you in the
mean while. A drop o' the cretur to preach comfort to
vour poor stomach. Hush! smuggle it through, or they'll
see you.
Here the dame endeavoured to push a stone bottle
through the bars of the gate; but, alas! though the neck
passed through, the body refused, and the dame was forced
to retract the "cretur." Upon this, the kind-hearted
woman renewed her sobbings; and so absorbed was she in
her grief, that, seemingly quite forgetting for what purpose
she had brought the bottle, she applied it to her own mouth,
and consoled herself with that elixir vite which she had
originally designed for Paul.
This somewhat restored her; and after a most affecting
scene, the dame reeled off with the vacillating steps natu-
ral to woe, promising, as she went, that, if love or money
could shorten Paul's confinement, neither should be want-
ing. We are rather at a loss to know the exact influence
which the former of these arguments, urged by the lovely
Margaret, might have had with Justice Burnflat.
When the good dame had departed, Paul hastened to
re-pick his oakum and rejoin his friend. He found the
worthy Augustus privately selling little elegant luxuries,
such as tobacco, gin, and rations of daintier viands than
the prison allowed; for Augustus, having more money than
the rest of his companions, managed, through the
friendship of the turnkey, to purchase secretly, and to re-
sell at about four hundred per cent, such comforts as the
prisoners especially coveted. *
A proof," said Augustus dryly to Paul, "that, by
that, by
prudence and exertion, even in those places where a man
cannot turn himself, he may manage to turn a penny!"
CHAPTER IX.
Relate at large, my godlike guest, she said,
The Grecian stratagems, the town betrayed!
DRYDEN'S Virgil, B. ii. En.
Descending thence, they 'scaped!
Ibid.
;
A GREAT improvement had taken place in the character
of Augustus Tomlinson, since Paul had last encountered
that illustrious man. Then, Augustus had affected the man
of pleasure, the learned lounger about town, the all-ac-
the all-ac-
complished Pericles of the papers, -now quoting Horace,
-now flanking a fly from the leader of Lord Dunshunner
in a word, a sort of human half-way house between Lord
Dudley and the Marquis of Worcester. Now, a graver,
yet not a less supercilious air had settled upon his features;
the pretence of fashion had given way to the pretence of
wisdom; and, from the man of pleasure, Augustus Tom-
linson had grown to the philosopher. With this elevation
alone, too, he was not content: he united the philosopher
with the politician; and the ingenious rascal was pleased
especially to pique himself upon being "A moderate
Whig ! "Paul," he was wont to observe, "believe
me, moderate Whiggism is a most excellent creed. It
adapts itself to every possible change, to every conceivable
* A very common practice at the Bridewalls. The governor
at the Cold-Bath-Fields, seemingly a very intelligent and active
man, every way fitted for a most arduous undertaking, informed
us, in the only conversation we have had the honor to hold with
him that he thought he had nearly, or quite, destroyed in his
jurisdiction this illegal method of commerce, gloriously profita-
ble to the turnkey; and therefore, doubtless, (on that excellent
principle of the English constitution, that the more the govern-
ore make, the better for the gover ned,) highly salutary to the
public
|
a
Thus, half in earnest, half veiling a natural turn to sa
casm, would this moderate Whig run on for the hour to-
gether, during those long nights, commencing at half-past
four, in which he and Paul bore each other company.
One evening, when Tomlinson was so bitterly disposed
to be prolix that Paul felt himself somewhat wearied by
his eloquence, our hero, desirous of a change in the con-
versation, reminded Augustus of his promise to communi-
cate his history; and the philosophical Whig, nothing loth
to speak of himself, cleared his throat, and began.
HISTORY OF AUGUSTUS TOMLINSON.
My
(his
"Never mind who was my father, nor what was my na-
tive place! My first ancestor was Tommy Linn,
heir became Tom Linn's son :)-you have heard the bal
lad made in his praise,
'Tommy Linn is a Scotchman born,
His head is bald, and his beard is shorn;
He had a cap made of a bear skin;
An elder man is Tommy Linn !' &c.f
"There was a sort of prophecy respecting my ancestor's
descendants darkly insinuated in the concluding stanza of
this ballad :
'Tommy Linn, and his wife, and his wife's mother,
They all fell into the fire together;
They that lay undermost got a hot skin: -
We are not enough! said Tommy Linn.' ‡
"You see the prophecy; it is applicable both to gentle-
men rogues and to moderate Whigs; for both are under-
most in the world, and both are perpetually bawling out,
'We are not enough!”
to you.
C
"I shall begin my own history by saying, I went to a
North country school; where I was noted for my aptness in
learning, and
learning, and my skill at prisoner's base :'
:- Upon my
word I purposed no pun! I was intended for the church:
wishing, betimes, to instruct myself in its ceremonies, 1
persuaded my schoolmaster's maid-servant to assist me to-
ward promoting a christening. My father did not like this
premature love for the sacred rites. He took me home;
and, wishing to give my clerical ardor a different turn,
prepared me for writing sermons, by reading me a dozen
a day. I grew tired of this, strange as it may seem
Father,' said I, one morning, it is no use
talking, I will not go into the church,
that's positive.
Give me your blessing, and a hundred pounds, and I'll go
up to London, and get a living instead of a curacy.' My
father stormed, but I got the better at last.
becoming a private tutor; swore I had heard nothing was
the only things wanted were, pupils; and the
only way to get them, was to go to London, and let my
learning be known. My poor father!-well, he's gone,
and I am glad of it now! (the speaker's voice faltered)
got the better, I say, and I came to town, where I had
a relation a bookseller. Through his interest, I wrote a
book of Travels in Æthiopia, for an earl's son, who wanted
to become a lion; and a Treatise on the Greek Particle,
dedicated to the prime minister, for a dean, who wanted to
so easy,
-I
I talked of
* A phrase applied to a noted defaulter of the public money
† Sce Ritson's North-Country Chorister.
Ibid.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
403
Decoma a bishon. - Greek being, next to interest, the best
road to the mitre. These two achievements were liberally
paid; so I took a lodging in a first floor, and resolved to
make a bold stroke for a wife. What do
What do you think I did?
nay, never guess, it would be hopeless. First, I went
to the best tailor, and had my clothes sewn on my back ;
secondly, I got the peerage and its genealogies by heart;
thirdly, I marched one night, with the coolest deliberation
possible, into the house of a duchess, who was giving an
immense rout. The newspapers had inspired me with
this idea. I had read of the vast crowds which a lady' at
home' sought to win to her house. I had read of staircases
impassable, and ladies carried out in a fit; and common
sense told me how impossible it was that the fair receiver
should be acquainted with the legality of every importation.
I therefore resolved to try my chance, and, entered the
body of Augustus Tomlinson, as a piece of stolen goods.
Faith! the first night I was shy, I stuck to the staircase, and
ogled an old maid of quality, whom I had heard announced
as Lady Margaret Sinclair. Doubtless, she had never been
ogled before; and she was evidently enraptured with my
glances. The next night I read of a ball at the Countess
of
My heart beat as if I were going to be whipped;
but I plucked up courage, and repaired to her ladyship's.
There I again beheld the divine Lady Margaret; and, ob-
serving that she turned yellow, by way of a blush, when
she saw me, I profited by the port I had drunk as an en-
couragement to my entré, and lounging up in the most mo-
dish way possible, I remined her ladyship of an introduction
with which I said I had once been honored at the Duke of
Dashwell's, and requested her hand for the next cotillon.
Oh Paul! fancy my triumph! the old damsel said with a
sigh, She remembered me very well,' ha ha! ha! and
I carried her off to the cotillon like another Theseus bear-
ing away a second Ariadne. Not to be prolix on this
Not to be prolix on this part
of my life, I went night after night to balls and routs, for
admission to which half the fine gentlemen in London would
have given their ears. And I improved my time so well
with Lady Margaret, who was her own mistress, and had
five thousand pounds, -a devilish bad portion for some,
but not to be laughed at by me, that I began to think
when the happy day should be fixed. Meanwhile, as Lady
Margaret introduced ine to some of her friends, and my
lodgings were in a good situation, I had been honored with
some real invitations. The only two questions I ever was
asked were, (carelessly,) Was I the only son?' and on
my veritable answer Yes!' What,' (this was more
warmly put,). what was my county?'-luckily, my
County was a wide one, Yorkshire; and any of its in-
habitants whom the fair interrogators might have questioned
about me could only have answered, 'I was not in their part
of it.'
CC
Well, Paul, I grew so bold by success, that the devil
one day put it into my head to go to a great dinner-party
at the Duke of Dashwell's. I went, dined,-nothing
happened I came away, and the next morning I read in
the papers,
CC C
Mysterious affair, person lately going about, — first
houses, -most fashionable parties, nobody knows,
Duke of Dashwell's yesterday. Duke not like to make
disturbance—as — Royalty present!
,
"The journal dropped from my hands. At that moment,
the girl of the house gave me a note from Lady Margaret,
alluded to the paragraph;
wondered who was The
Stranger; hoped to see me that night at Lord A- -'s,
to whose party I said I had been asked; - speak then more
fully on those matters I had touched on ! in short, dear
Paul, a tender epistle! All great men are fatalists: I am
one now: fate made me a madman in the very face of
this ominous paragraph, I mustered up courage, and went
that night to Lord A- 's. The fact is, my affairs were
in confusion, I was greatly in debt: I knew it was ne-
cessary to finish my conquest over Lady Margaret as soon
as possible; and Lord Å- -'s seemed the best place for
purpose. Nay, I thought delay so dangerous after the
cursed paragraph, that a day might unmask me, and it
would be better therefore not to lose an hour in finishing
the play of The Stranger,' with the farce of the Honey
Moon.' Behold me then at Lord A- -'s, leading off
Lady Margaret to the dance. Behold me whispering the
Dwcelest of things in her ear. Imagine her approving my
suit, and gently chiding me for talking of Gretna Green.
the
Conceive all this, my dear fellow, and just at the height of
my triumph dilate the eyes of your imagination, and behold
the stately form of Lord A- , my noble host, marching
up to me, while a voice that, though low and quiet as an
evening breeze, made my heart sink into my shoes, said,
I believe, sir, you have received no invitation from Lady
A—— ? '
"Not a word could I utter, Paul, not a word. Had
it been the high road instead of a ball-room, I could have
· Ehem!
talked loudly enough, but I was under a spell.
I faltered at last: E-h-e-m! Some mistake, I-I.'
There I stopped. Sir,' said the earl, regarding me with
a grave sternness, you had better withdraw!'
Bless me! what's all this?' cried Lady Margaret,
dropping my palsied arm, and gazing on me as if she ex-
pected me to talk like a hero.
CC C
Oh,' said I, 'eh-e-m, eh-e-m, I will explain
to-morrow, ehem, e-b-e-m.' I made to the door; all
the eyes
in the room seemed turned into burning-glasses,
and blistered the very skin on my face.
face. I heard a gentle
shriek as I left the apartment; Lady Margaret fainting, I
suppose! There ended my courtship and my adventures
in the best society.' I fell melancholy at the ill success of
my scheme. You must allow, it was a magnificent project.
What moral courage! I admire myself when I think of it.
Without an introduction, without knowing a soul, to be-
come, all by my own resolution, free of the finest houses in
London, dancing with earls' daughters, and all but carry-
ing off an earl's daughter myself as my wife. If I had,
the friends must have done something for me; and Lady
Margaret Tomlinson might perhaps have introduced the
youthful genius of her Augustus to Parliament or the Min-
istry. Oh what a fall was there! yet faith, ha! ha! ba!
I could not help laughing, despite of my chagrin, when I
remembered that for three months I had imposed on these
' delicate exclusives,' and been literally invited by many
of them, who would not have asked the younger sons of
their own cousins; merely because I lived in a good street,
avowed myself an only child, and talked of my property in
Yorkshire! Ha! ha! how bitter the mercenary dupes
must have felt, when the discovery was made! what a pill
for the good matrons who had coupled my image with that
of some filial Mary or Jane, -ha! ha ha! the triumph
was almost worth the mortification. However, as I said
before, I fell melancholy on it, especially as my duns be-
came menacing. So, I went to consult with my cousin the
bookseller; he recommended me to compose for the journals,
and obtained me an offer. I went to work very patiently
for a short time, and contracted some agreeable friendships
with gentlemen whom I met at an ordinary in St. James's
Still, my duns, though I paid them by driblets, were the
plague of my life: I confessed as much to one of my new
friends. Come to Bath with me,' quoth he, for a week,
and you shall return as rich as a Jew. I accepted the offer,
and went to Bath in my friend's chariot. He took the
name of Lord Dunshunner, an Irish peer who had never
been out of Galway, and was not therefore likely to be
known at Bath. He took also a house for a year, filled it
with wines, books, and a sideboard of plate: as he talked
vaguely of setting up (at the next Parliament) for the town
he bought these goods of the towns-people, in order to en-
courage their trade; I managed secretly to transport them
to London and sell them; and as we disposed of them fifty
per cent. under cost price, our customers the pawnbrokers
were not very inquisitive. We lived a jolly life at Bath
for a couple of months, and departed one night, leaving our
housekeeper to answer all interrogatories. We had taken
the precaution to wear disguises, stuffed ourselves out, and
changed the hues of our hair: my noble friend was an adept
in these transformations, and though the police did not sleep
on the business, they never stumbled on us. I am espe-
cially glad we were not discovered, for I liked Bath ex-
cessively, and I intend to return there some of these days
and retire from the world, -on an heiress !
"Well, Paul, shortly after this adventure, I made your
acquaintance. I continued ostensibly my literary profes-
sion, but only as a mask for the labors I did not profess. A
circumstance obliged me to leave London rather precipi-
tately. Lord Dunshunner joined me in Edinburgh. Damn
it, instead of doing any thing there, we were done! The
veriest urchin that ever crept through the High Street in
more than a match for the most scientific of Englishmen.
404
BULWER'S NOVELS.
<
With us it is art; with the Scotch it is nature. They pick
your pockets, without using their fingers for it; and they
prevent reprisal, by having nothing for you to pick.
"We left Edinburgh with very long faces, and at Car-
lisle we found it necessary to separate For my part, I
went as a valet to a nobleman who had just lost his last
servant at Carlisle by a fever: my friend gave me the best
of characters! My new master was a very clever man.
He astonished people at dinner by the impromptus he had
prepared at breakfast; - in a word, he was a wit. He
soon saw, for he was learned himself, that I had received
a classical education, and he employed me in the confiden-
tial capacity of finding quotations for him. I classed these
alphabetically, and under three heads: Parliamentary,
Literary, Dining out.' These were again subdivided, into
'Fine,' 'Learned,' and 'Jocular;' so that my master
knew at once where to refer for genius, wisdom, and wit.
He was delighted with my management of his intellects.
In compliment to him, I paid more attention to politics
than I had done before, for he was a "great Whig," and
uncommonly liberal in every thing - but mouey! Hence,
Paul, the origin of my political principles; and, I thank
heaven, there is not now a rogue in England who is a bet-
ter, that is to say, more of a moderate, Whig than your
humble servant! I continued with him nearly a year.
He discharged me for a fault worthy of my genius, other
servants may lose the watch or the coat of their master; I
went at nobler game, and lost him his private char-
acter!"
How do you mean?”
Why, I was enamoured of a lady who would not have
looked at me as Mr. Tomlinson; so I took my inaster's
clothes, and occasionally his carriage, and made love to
my nymph, as Lord
Her vanity made her indis-
creet. The Tory papers got hold of it; and my master, in
a change of ministers, was declared by George the Third
to be too gay for a Chancellor of the Exchequer.' An
old gentleman who had had fifteen children by a wife like
a Gorgon was chosen instead of my master; and although
the new minister was a fool in his public capacity, the
moral public were perfectly content with him, because of
his private virtues !
"My master was furious, made the strictest inquiry,
found me out, and turned me out too!
"A Whig not in place has an excuse for disliking the
constitution. My distress almost made me a republican;
but, true to my creed, I must confess that I would only
have levelled upwards. I especially disaffected the ine-
quality of riches: I looked moodily on every carriage that
passed: I even frowned like a second Catiline, at the
steam of a gentleman's kitchen! My last situation had
not been lucrative; I had neglected my perquisites, in my
ardor for politics. My master too refused to give me a
character: who would take me without one?
"I was asking myself this melancholy question one
morning, when I suddenly encountered one of the fine.
friends I had picked up at my old haunt, the ordinary in
St. James's. His name was Pepper."
Pepper!" cried Paul.
Without heeding the exclamation, Tomlinson contin-
ued.
"We went to a tavern and drank a bottle together.
Wine made me communicative; it also opened my com-
rade's heart. He asked me to take a ride with him that
night towards Hounslow: I did so, and found a purse."
"How fortunate! Where?"
"In a gentleman's pocket. — I was so pleased with my
luck, that I went the same road twice a-week, in order to
see if I could pick up any more purses.
Fate favored me,
and I lived for a long time the life of the blest. Oh Paul,
know not, you know not what a glorious life is that
of a highwayman; but you shall taste it one of these days.
You shall, on my honor.
you
C
G
"I now lived with a club of honest fellows: we called
ourselves The Exclusives,' for we were mighty reserved
in our associates, and only those who did business on a
grand scale were admitted into our set.
For my part,
with all my love for my profession,
my profession, I liked ingenuity still
better than force, and preferred what the vulgar called
swindling, even to the high-road. On an expedition of this
sort, I rode once into a country town, and saw a crowd
assembled in one corner,- I joined it, and, guess my
feelings! bebeld my poor friend. Viscount Dunshunner,
just about to be hanged! I rode off as fast as I coul
thought I saw Jack Ketch at my heels. My horse threw
me at a hedge, and I broke my collar-bone. In the con
finement that ensued, gloomy ideas floated before me. }
did not like to be hanged; so I reasoned against my errors
and repented I recovered slowly, returned to town, and
repaired to my cousin the bookseller. To say truth, I had
played him a little trick; collected some debts of his by a
mistake, very natural in the confusion incident on my
distresses. However, he was extremely unkind about it;
and the mistake, natural as it was, had cost me his ac
quaintance.
"I went now to him with the penitential aspect of the
prodigal son, and, 'faith, he would not have made a bad
representation of the fatted calf about to be killed on my
return; so corpulent looked he, and so dejected! 'Grace-
less reprobate!' he began; 'your poor father is dead!
I was exceedingly shocked; but, never fear, Paul, I am
not about to be pathetic. My father had divided his fortune
among all his children; my share was 5001. The possession
of this sum made my penitence seem much more sincere in
the eyes of my good cousin; and after a very pathetic scene,
he took me once more into favor. I now consulted with
him as to the best method of laying out my capital and re-
covering my character. We could not devise any scheme
at the first conference; but the second time I saw him, my
cousin said, with a cheerful countenance, 'Cheer up, Augus-
tus, I have got thee a situation. Mr. Asgrave, the banker,
will take thee as a clerk. He is a most worthy man; and
having a vast deal of learning, he will respect thee for thy
acquirements.' The same day I was introduced to Mr.
Asgrave, who was a little man with a fine bald benevolent
head; and after a long conversation which he was pleased
to hold with me, I became one of his quill-drivers. I do n't
know how it was, but by little and little I rose in my inas-
ter's good graces: I propitiated him, I fancy, by disposing
of my 500l. according to his advice; he laid it out for me,
on what he said was famous security, on a landed estate.
Mr. Asgrave was of social habits, he had a capital house
and excellent wines. As he was not very particular in his
company, nor ambitious of visiting the great, he often suf-
fered me to make one of his table, and was pleased to hold
long arguments with me about the ancients. I soon found
out that my master was a great moral philosopher; and
being myself in weak health, sated of the ordinary pursuits
of the world, in which my experience had forestalled my
years, and naturally of a contemplative temperament, I
turned my attention to the moral studies which so fascina-
ted my employer. I read through nine shelves full of met-
aphysicians, and knew exactly the points in which those
illustrious thinkers quarrelled with each other to the great
advance of the science. My master and I used to hold
many a long discussion about the nature of good and evil
and as by help of his benevolent forehead and a clear dog-
ged voice, he always seemed to our audience to be the wiser
and better man of the two, he was very well pleased with
our disputes. This gentleman had an only daughter, an
awful shrew, with a face like a hatchet; but philosophers
overcome personal defects: and thinking only of the good
her wealth might enable me to do to my fellow-creatures, I
secretly made love to her. You will say, that was playing
my master but a scurvy trick in return for his kindness,
not at all, my master himself had convinced me, that there
was no such virtue as gratitude. It was an error of vulgar
moralists. I yielded to his arguments, and at length pri-
vately espoused his daughter. The day after this took
place, he summoned me to his study. So, Augustus,' said
he very mildly, you have married my daughter: nay, never
look confused; I saw a long time ago that you were resolved
to do so, and I was very glad of it.'
;
"I attempted to falter out something like thanks.
Never interrupt me!' said he. I had two reasons for
being glad; 1st. Because my daughter was the plague of
my life, and I wanted some one to take her off my hands;
2dly. Because I required your assistance on a particu-
lar point, and I could not venture to ask it of any one but
my son-in-law.
In fine, I wish to take you into partner-
ship!!!'
"Partnership!' cried I, falling on my knees. Noble,
-generous man!
Stay a bit,' continued my father-in-law. What funds
do you think requisite for the carrying on a bank? You
look puzzled! Not a shilling! You will put in just as
PAUL CLIFFORD.
436
much as I do. You will put in rather more; for you once
put
in five hundred pounds, which has been spent long ago.
I don't put in a shilling of my own. I live on my clients,
and I very willingly offer you half of them!'
>
Imagine, dear Paul, my astonishinent, my dismay! I
saw myself married to a hideous shrew, son-in-law to a
pennyless scoundrel, and cheated out of my whole fortune!
Compare this view of the question with that which had
blazed on me when I contemplated being son-in-law to the
rich Mr. Asgrave. I stormed at first. Mr. Asgrave took
Mr. Asgrave took
up Bacon on the Advancement of Learning, and made
no reply till I was cooled by explosion. You will perceive,
that when passion subsided, I necessarily saw that nothing
was left for me but adopting my father-in-law's proposal.
Thus, by the fatality which attended me, at the very time I
meant to reform I was forced into scoundrelism, and I was
driven into defrauding a vast number of persons by the
accident of being son-in-law to a great moralist. As Mr.
Asgrave was an indolent man, who passed his mornings in
speculations on virtue, I was made the active partner.
I spent the day at the counting-house; and when I came
hoice for recreatiou, my wife scratched my eyes out.'
"But were you never recognised as the stranger,' or
'the adventurer,' in your new capacity?"
C
وو
mer.
high
read a good deal of history, and something of morals; and
he had an ingenious way of defending his rascally practices
by syllogisms from the latter, and examples from the for-
These theories he clenched, as it were by a reference
to the existing politics of the day. Cheaters of the public,
on false pretences, he was pleased to term
"moderate
Whigs;" bullying demanders of your purse, were
Tories;" and thieving in gangs, was "the effect of the spirit
of party." There was this difference between Augustus
Tomlinson and Long Ned: Ned was the acting knave;
Augustus the reasoning one; and we may see therefore, by
a little reflection, that Tomlinson was a far more perilous
companion than Pepper, for showy theories are always
more seductive to the young and clever than suasive exam-
ples, and the vanity of the youthful makes them better
pleased by being convinced of a thing, than by being enticed
to it.
A day or two after the narrative of Mr. Tomlinson, Paul
was again visited by Mrs. Lobkins; for the regulations
against frequent visitors were not then so strictly enforced
as we understand them to be now; and the good dame
came to deplore the ill success of her interview with justice
Burnflat.
We spare the tender-hearted reader a detail of the
affecting interview that ensued. Indeed, it was but a
repetition of the one we have before narrated. We shall
only say, as a proof of Paul's tenderness of heart, that
when he took leave of the good matron, and bade “God
bless her," his voice faltered, and the tears stood in his
eyes, just as they were wont to do in the eyes of George
the Third, when that excellent monarch was pleased gra.
ciously to encore" God save the King!
No; for of course I assumed, in all my changes, both
aliases and disguises. And, to tell you the truth, my mar-
riage so altered me, that what with a snuff-colored coat,
and a brown scratch wig, with a pen in my right ear, I
looked the very picture of staid respectability. My face
grew an inch longer every day. Nothing is so respectable
as a long face! and a subdued expression of countenance
is the surest sign of commercial prosperity. Well, we went
on splendidly enough for about a year. Meanwhile I was "I'll be hanged," soliloquized our hero, as he slowly
wonderfully improved in philosophy. You have no idea bent his course towards the subtle Augustus, I'll be
how a scolding wife sublimes and rarefies one's intellect. hanged (humph! the denunciation is prophetic,) if I don't
Thunder clears the air, you know! At length, unhappily
At length, unhappily feel as grateful to the old lady for her care of me as if she
iny fame, (for I contemplated a magnificent moral his-had never ill used me, As for my parents, I believe I have
tory of man, which, had she lived a year longer, I should little to be grateful for, or proud of, in that quarter. My
have completed,) my wife died in child-bed.
wife died in child-bed. My father-in- poor mother, by all accounts, seems scarcely to have had
law and I were talking over the event, and finding fault with even the brute virtue of maternal tenderness; and in all
civilization, by the enervating habits of which, women die human likelihood I shall never know whether I had one
of their children, instead of bringing them forth without father or fifty. But what matters it? I rather like the
being even conscious of the circumstance: when a bit of better to be independent; and, after all, what do nine
paper, sealed awry, was given to my partner: he looked tenths of us ever get from our parents but an ugly name,
over it, finished the discussion, and then told me our and advice which, if we follow, we are wretched, and if
bank had stopped payment. 'Now, Augustus, said he, we neglect, we are disinherited?"
lighting his pipe with the bit of paper, 'you see the good
of having nothing to lose!
for
T
>
"We did not pay quite sixpence in the pound; but my
partner was thought so unfortunate that the British public
raised a subscription for him, and he retired on an annuity,
greatly respected and very much compassionated. As I
had not been so well known as a moralist, and had not
the prepossessing advantage of a bald, benevolent head,
nothing was done for me, and I was turned once more on
the wide world, to moralize on the vicissitudes of fortune.
My cousin the bookseller was no more, and his son cut me.
I took a garret in Warwick Court, and with a few books,
my only consolation, I endeavoured to nerve my mind to the
future. It was at this time, Paul, that my studies really
availed me. I meditated much, and I became a true phi-
losopher, viz. a practical one. My actions were henceforth
regulated by principle; and at some time or other I will
convince you that the road of true morals never avoids the
pockets of your neighbour. So soon as my mind had made
the grand discovery which Mr. Asgrave had made before
me, that one should live according to a system, for if you
do wrong, it is then your system that errs, not you,
took to the road, without any of those stings of conscience
which had hitherto arnoyed me in such adventures. I
formed one of a capital knot of Free Agents,' whom I
will introduce to you some day or other, and I soon rose
to distinction among them. But about six weeks ago, not
less than formerly preferring by-ways to high-ways, I at-
tempted to possess myself of a carriage, and sell it at
discount. I was acquitted on the felony, but sent hither
by Justice Burnflat on the misdemeanor. Thus far, my
young friend, hath as yet proceeded the life of Augustus
Tomlinson."
-
I
The history of this gentleman made a deep impression
on Paul. The impression was strengthened by the con-
versation subsequently holden with Augustus. That wor-
thy was a dangerous and subtle persuader. He had really
Comforting himself with these thoughts, which perhaps
took their philosophical complexion from the conversations
he had lately held with Augustus, and which broke off into
the muttered air of
66
Why should we quarrel for riches?”
Paul repaired to his customary avocations.
In the third week of our hero's captivity, Tomlinson
communicated to him a plan of escape that had occurred
to his sagacious brain. In the yard appropriated to the
amusements of the gentlemen "misdemeaning," there was
a water-pipe that, skirting the wall, passed over a door,
through which, every morning, the pious captives passed, in
their way to the chapel. By this, Tomlinson proposed to
escape; for to the pipe which reached from the door to
the wall, in a slanting and easy direction, there was a
sort of skirting-board; and a dextrous and nimble man
might readily, by the help of this board, convey himself
along the pipe until the progress of that useful conductor
(which was happily very brief) was stopped by the sum-
mit of the wall, where it found a sequel in another pipe,
that descended to the ground on the opposite side of the
wall. Now, on this opposite side was the garden of the
prison; in this garden was a watchman; and this watch-
was the hobgoblin of Tomlinson's scheme; "for
suppose us safe in the garden," said he, "what shall we do
with this confounded fellow ?"
man
"But that is not all," added Paul; " for even were there
no watchman, there is a terrible wall, which I noted
especially last week, when we were set to work in the
garden, and which has 1 pipe, save a perpendicular one,
that a man must have the legs of a fly to be able to climb!"
"Nousense!" returned Tomlinson: "I will show you
how to climb the stubbornest wall in Christendom, if one
has but the coast clear: it is the watchman the watch
man, we must
"What?" asked Paul, observing his comrade did no
conclude the sentence.
BULWER'S NOVELS
It was some time before the sage Augustus replied; he
then said, in a musing tone,
"I have been thinking, Paul, whether it would be con-
sistent with virtue, and that strict code of morals by which
all my actions are regulated, to— slay the watchman!"
"Good heavens ! cried Paul, horror-stricken.
"And I have decided," continued Augustus solemnly,
without regard to the exclamation, "that the action would
be perfectly justifiable !
""
"Villain!" exclaimed Paul, recoiling to the other end
of the stone box-(for it was night)
(for it was night) — in which they
were cooped.
"But," pursued Augustus, who seemed soliloquizing,
and whose voice, sounding calm and thoughtful, like
Young's in the famous monologue in Hamlet, denoted that
he heeded not the uncourteous interruption, "but opin-
ion does not always influence conduct; and although it
may be virtuous to murder the watchman, I have not the
heart to do it. I trust, in my future history, I shall not, by
discerning moralists, be too severely censured for a weak-
ness, for which my physical temperament is alone to
blame !
Despite the turn of the soliloquy, it was a long time
before Paul could be reconciled to farther conversation
with Augustus; and it was only from the belief, that the
moralist had leaned to the jesting vein, that he at length
resumed the consultation.
The conspirators did not, however, bring their scheme,
that night, to any ultimate decision. The next day, Au-
gustus, Paul, and some others of the company, were set to
work in the garden; and Paul then observed that his
friend, wheeling a barrow close by the spot where the
watchman stood, overturned its contents. The watchman
was good-natured enough to assist him in re-filling the bar-
row; and Tomlinson profited so well by the occasion, that,
that night, he informed Paul, that they would have nothing
to dread from the watchman's vigilance. "He has prom-
ised," said Augustus, "for certain con-si-de-ra-ti-ons, to
allow me to knock him down: he has also promised to be
so much hurt, as not to be able to move, until we are over
the wall. Our main difficulty now, then, is, the first step,
- namely, to climb the pipe unperceived!"
—
"As to that," said Paul, who developed, through the
whole of the scheme, organs of sagacity, boldness, and in-
vention, which charmed his friend, and certainly promised
well for his future career; "as to that, I think we may
manage the first ascent with less danger than you imagine:
the mornings, of late, have been very foggy; they are al-
most dark at the hour we go to chapel. Let you and I
close the file the pipe passes just above the door; our
hands, as we have tried, can reach it; and a spring of no
great agility will enable us to raise ourselves up to a foot-
ing on the pipe and the skirting-board. The climbing,
then, is easy; and, what with the dense fog, and our own
quickness, I think we shall have little difficulty in gaining
the garden. The only precautions we need use are, to
wait for a very dark morning, and to be sure that we are
the last of the file, so that no one behind may give the
alarm
"Or attempt to follow our example, and spoil the pie by
a superfluous plum!" added Augustus. "You counsel ad-
mirably; and one of these days, if you are not hung in
the mean while, will, I venture to argue, be a great logi-
cian,"
"You
The next morning was clear and frosty; but the day
after, was to use Tomlinson's simile, "as dark as if all the
negroes of Africa had been stewed down into air.”
might have cut the fog with a knife," as the proverb says.
Paul and Augustus could not even see how significantly
each looked at the other.
It was a remarkable trait of the daring temperament of
the former, that, young as he was, it was fixed that he
should lead the attempt. At the hour, then, for chapel,
the prisoners passed as usual through the door. When it
came to Paul's turn, he drew himself by his hands to the
pipe, and then creeping along its sinuous course, gained
the wall before he had even fetched his breath. Rather
more clumsily, Augustus followed his friend's example;
once his foot slipped, and he was all but over.
tended his hands involuntarily, and caught Paul by the leg.
Happily our hero had then gained the wall to which he was
elinging, and for once in a way, one rogue raised himself
He ex-
without throwing over another. Behold Tomlinson and
Paul now seated for an instant on the wall to recover
breath! the latter then, the descent to the ground was
not very great, letting his body down by his hands,
dropped into the garden.
"Hurt?" asked the prudent Augustus in a hoarse
whisper before he descended from his "bad eminence,"
being even willing
"To bear those ills he had;
Than fly to others that he knew not of,"-
without taking every previous precaution in his power.
"No!" was the answer in the same voice, and Augu
tus dropped.
So soon as this latter worthy had recovered the shock of
his fall, he lost not a moment in running to the other end
of the garden: Paul followed. By the way Tomlinson
stopped at a heap of rubbish, and picked up an immense
stone; when they came to the part of the wall they had
agreed to scale, they found the watchman, about whom
they needed not, by the by, to have concerned themselves;
for had it not been arranged that he was to have met them,
the deep fog would have effectually prevented him from
seeing them this faithful guardian Augustus knocked
down, not with the stone, but with ten guineas; he then
drew forth from his dress a thickish cord which he had
procured some days before of the turnkey, and fastening
the stone firmly to one end, threw that end over the wall.
Now the wall had (as walls of great strength mostly have)
an overhanging sort of battlement on either side, and the
stone, when flung over and drawn to the tether of the cord
to which it was attached, necessarily hitched against this
projection; and thus the cord was, as it were, fastened to
the wall, and Tomlinson was enabled by it to draw him-
self up to the top of the barrier. He performed this feat
with gymnastic address, like one who had often practised
it; albeit, the discreet adventurer had not mentioned in
his narrative to Paul any previous occasion for the prac-
tice. As soon as he had gained the top of the wall, he
threw down the cord to his companion, and, in considera-
tion of Paul's inexperience in that manner of climbing,
gave the fastening of the rope an additional security by
holding it himself. With slowness and labor Paul hoist-
ed himself up; and then, by transferring the stone to the
other side of the wall, where it made of course a similar
hitch, our two adventurers were enabled successively to
slide down, and consummate their escape from the House
of Correction.
"Follow me now!" said Augustus, as he took to his
heels; and Paul pursued him through a labyrinth of alleys
and lanes, through which he shot and dodged with a varia-
ble and shifting celerity that, had not Paul kept close upon
him, would very soon (combined with the fog) have snatch-
ed him from the eyes of his young ally. Happily the im-
maturity of the morning, the obscurity of the streets passed
through, and, above all, the extreme darkness of the atmos-
phere, prevented that detection and arrest which their
prisoners' garb would otherwise have insured them. At
length, they found themselves in the fields; and, skulking
along hedges, and diligently avoiding the high road, they
continued to fly onward, until they had advanced several
miles into "the bowels of the land." At that time "the
bowels" of Augustus Tomlinson began to remind him of
their demands, and he accordingly suggested the desirability
of their seizing the first peasant they encountered, and
causing him to exchange clothes with one of the fugitives,
who would thus be enabled to enter a public house and pro-
vide for their mutual necessities. Paul agreed to this prop-
osition, and accordingly they watched their opportunity
and caught a ploughman. Augustus stripped him of his
frock, hat, and worsted stockings; and Paul, hardened by
necessity and companionship, helped to tie the poor plough-
man to a tree. They then continued their progress for
about an hour, and, as the shades of evening fell around
them, they discovered a public house. Augustus entered,
and returned in a few minutes laden with bread and cheese,
and a bottle of beer. Prison fare cures a man of dainti-
ness, and the two fugitives dined on these unsavory vianda
with considerable complacency. They then resumed their
journey, and at length, wearied with exertion, they arrived
at a lonely haystack, where they resolved to repose for an
hour or two.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
401
CHAPTER X.
Unlike the ribald, whose licentious jest
Pollutes his banquet, and insults his guest;
From wealth and grandeur easy to descend,
Thou joy'st to lose the master in the friend;
We round thy board the cheerful menials see,
Gay with the smile of bland equality;
No social care the gracious lord disdains;
Love prompts to love, and reverence reverence gains.
Translation of Lucan to Piso, prefixed to
the twelfth Paper of The Rambler.
COYLY shone down the bashful stars upon our adven-
turers, as, after a short nap behind the haystack, they
stretched themselves, and looking at each other, burst into
an involuntary and hilarious laugh at the prosperous ter·
mination of their exploit.
Herto they had been too occupied, first by their flight,
then by hunger, then by fatigue, for self-gratulation; now
they rubbed their hands, and joked like runaway schoolboys,
at their escape.
By degrees their thoughts turned from the past to the
future; and "Tell me, my dear fellow," said Augustus,
dear fellow," said Augustus,
"what you intend to do. I trust I have long ago convinced
you, that it is no sin to serve our friends,' and to be true
to our party; and therefore, I suppose, you will decide
upon taking to the road!"
»
"It is very odd," answered Paul, "that I should have
any scruples left after your lectures on the subject; but I
own to you frankly, that, somehow or other, I have doubts
whether thieving be really the honestest profession I could
follow."
·
puz-
"Listen to me, Paul," answered Augustus; and his reply
is not unworthy of notice. "All crime and all excellence
depend upon a good choice of words.
I see you
look
zled; I will explain. If you take money from the public,
and
say you have robbed, you have indubitably committed
a great crime; but if you do the same and say you have
been relieving the necessities of the poor, you have done an ex-
have done an ex-
cellent action: if, in afterward dividing this money with
your companions, you say you have been sharing booty, you
have committed an offence against the laws of your country;
but if you observe that you have been sharing with your friends
the gains of your industry, you have performed one of the
noblest actions of humanity. To knock a man on the head
is neither virtuous nor guilty, but it depends upon the lan-
guage applied to the action to make it murder or glory.*
Why not say, then, that you have testified the courage of a
hero,' rather than the atrocity of the ruffian?? This is per-
fectly clear, is it not?"
C
"It seems so," answered Paul.
"It is so self-evident, that it is the way all governments
are carried on. If you want to rectify an abuse, those in
power call you disaffected. Oppression is order,' extortion
order,' extortion
is 'religious establishment,' and tares are the blessed con-
stitution.' Wherefore, my good Paul, we only do what all
other legislators do. We are never rogues so long as we
call ourselves honest fellows, and we never commit a
crime, so long as we can term it a virtue! What say you
now?"
Paul smiled, and was silent a few moments before he
replied:
"There is very little doubt but that you are wrong; yet
if
you are, so are all the rest of the world. It is of no use
to be the only white sheep of the flock. Wherefore, my
dear Tomlinson, I will in future be an excellent citizen,
relieve the necessities of the poor, and share the gains of my
dustry with my friends.”
CC
in-
Bravo," cried Tomlinson," and now that that is set-
t.ed, the sooner you are inaugurated the better. Since the
starlight has shone forth, I see that I am in a place I ought
to be very well acquainted with; or, if you like to be sus-
picious, you may believe that I have brought you purposely
in this direction; but first let me ask if you feel any great
desire to pass the night by this haystack, or whether you
* We observe in a paragraph from an American paper, copied
without comment into the Morning Chronicle of to-day, a sin-
gular proof of the truth of Tomlinson's philosophy. "Mr. Row-
land Stephenson, (so runs the extract,) the celebrated English
Banker, has just purchased a considerable tract of land, &c."
Most philosophical of paragraphists. "Celebrated English
Banker!" that sentence is a better illustration of verbal falla-
cics, than all Bentham's treatises put together,—“celebrated!"
O Mercury, what a dexterous epithet!
|
would like a song and the punch-bowl almost as much as
the open air, with the chance of being eat up in a pinch of
hay by some strolling cow?"
"You may conceive my choice," answered Paul.
"Well, then, there is an excellent fellow near here, who
keeps a public house, and is a firm ally and generous patron
of the lads of the cross. At certain periods they hold week-
ly meetings at his house: this is one of the nights. What
say you? shall I introduce you to the club ?”
"I shall be very glad if they will admit me !" returned
Paul, whom many and conflicting thoughts rendered la-
conic.
"Oh, no fear of that, under my auspices. To tell you
the truth, though we are a tolerant sect, we welcome every
new proselyte with enthusiasm. But are you tired?"
"A little; the house is not far, you say
"Lean on
me."
About a mile off,' answered Tomlinson.
Our wanderers now leaving the haystack, struck acroes
part of Finchley Common, for the abode of the worthy pub-
lican was felicitously situated, and the scene in which his
guests celebrated their festivities was close by that on which
they often performed their exploits.
As they proceeded, Paul questioned his friend touching
the name and character of "mine host; " and the all-
knowing Augustus Tomlinson answered him, Quaker-like,
by a question.
"Have you never heard of Gentleman George?"
"What the noted head of a flash public house in the
country? To be sure I have, often; my poor nurse, Dame
Lobkins, used to say he was the best-spoken man in the
trade!"
Ay, so he is still. In his youth, George was a very
handsome fellow, but a little too fond of his lass and his
bottle to please his father, a very staid old gentleman, who
walked about on Sundays with a bob-wig and a gold-head-
ed cane, and was a much better farmer on week days than
he was head of a public house. George used to be a remark-
ably smart-dressed fellow, and so he is to this day. He
has a great deal of wit, is a very good whist-player, has a
capital cellar, and is so fond of seeing his friends drunk,
that he bought some time ago a large pewter measure in
which six men can stand upright. The girls, or rather the
old women, to whom he used to be much more civil of the
two, always liked him; they say, nothing is so fine as his
fine speeches, and they give hin the title of Gentleman
George.' He is a nice, kind-hearted man in many things;
but he is breaking fast now. Pray heaven we shall have
no cause to miss him when he departs. And I do not
think we shall either, for his brother, who, poor fellow
has been a long time in the Fleet, is a sensible dog in his
way, and will succeed him. At all events Bill Squareyards
or Mariner Bill (so is the brother called) will, I fancy,
be more scrupulous about the public stock than Gentleman
George, who, to say truth, takes a most gentlemanlike share
of our common purse."
C
"What! is he avaricious?
<
But we are near the place
,,
"Quite the reverse; but he's so cursedly fond of build-
ing, he invests all his money (and wants us to invest all
oure) in houses; and there's one confounded dog of a brick-
layer, who runs him up terrible bills, -a fellow called
Cunning Nat,' who is equally adroit in spoiling ground
and improving ground rent."
"What do you mean?"
Ah, thereby hangs a tale.
now; you will see a curious set.
As Tomlinson said this, the pair approached a house
standing alone, and seemingly without any other abode in
the vicinity. It was of curious and grotesque shape, paint-
ed white, with a Gothic chimney, a Chinese sign post, (ən
which was depicted a gentleman fishing, with the words
"The Jolly Angler," written beneath,) and a porch that
would have been Grecian, if it had not been Dutch. It
stood in a little field, with a hedge behind it, and the com-
mon in front! Augustus stopped at the door, and, while
be paused, bursts of laughter rang cheerily within
Ah, the merry boys!" he muttered: "I long to be
with them!" and then with his clenched fist he knocked
four times on the door. There was a sudden silence, which,
lasted about a minute, and was broken by a voice within..
asking who was there. Tomlinson answered by some ca
balistic word; the door was opened, and a little boy pre-
sented himself.
408
BULWER'S NOVELS
"Well, my lad," said Augustus," and how is your mas-out four or five of the company (among whom our hero dis
ter? stout and hearty, if I may judge by his voice."
re
"Ay, Master Tommy, ay, he's boosing away at a fine
rate in the back-parlour, with Mr. Pepper and Fighting
Attie, and half a score more of them. He'll be woundy
glad to see you, I'll be bound.'
tus,
"Show this gentleman into the bar," rejoined Augus-
"while I
go and pay my respects to honest Geordie!"
The boy made a sort of a bow, and leading our hero in-
to the bar, consigned him to the care of Sal, a buxom bar-
maid, who reflected credit on the taste of the landlord, and
who received Paul with marked distinction and a gill of
brandy.
Paul had not long to play the amiable, before Tomlinson
rejoined him with the information, that Gentleman George
would be most happy to see him in the back-parlour, and
that he would there find an old friend in the person of Mr.
Pepper.
"What is he here?" cried Paul, "the sorry knave!
to let me be caged in his stead !
"Gently, gently, no misapplication of terms," said Au-
gustus; "that was not knavery, that was prudence, the
greatest of all virtues, and the rarest, - But come along,
and Pepper shall explain tomorrow.
Threading a gallery or passage, Augustus preceded our
hero, opened a door, and introduced him into a long low
apartment, where sat, round a table spread with pipes and
liquor, some ten or a dozen men, while at the top of the
table, in an arm-chair, presided Gentleman George. That
dignitary was a portly and comely gentleman, with a know-
ing look, and a Welsh wig, worn, as the Morning Chronicle
says of his majesty's hat, "in a dégagé manner, on one
side." Being afflicted with the gout, his left foot reclined
on a stool; and the attitude developed, despite of a lamb's-
wool stocking, the remains of an exceedingly good leg.
covered, to his surprise, his old friends, Mr. Eustace Fitz
herbert, and Mr. William Howard Russell,) came, at
length, to one with a very red face, and a lusty frame of
body. "That gentleman," said he, "is Scarlet Jem; a
dangerous fellow for a press, though he says he likes rob-
bing alone now, for a general press is not half such a good
thing as it used to be formerly. You has no idea what a
hand at disguising himself Scarlet Jem is. He has an old
wig which he generally does business in; and you would
not go for to know him again, when he conceals himself
under the wig. Oh, he 's a precious rogue, is Scarlet Jem'
he's
As for the cove on t'other side," continued the host of
the Jolly Angler,' pointing to Long Ned, "all I can say
of him, good, bad, or indifferent, is, that he has an unkim-
mon fine head of hair and now, youngster, as you knows
hin, spose you goes and sits by him, and he'll introduce
you to the rest; for, split my wig! (Gentleman George
was a bit of a swearer) — if I ben't tired, and so here's
to your health; and if so be as your name 's Paul, may you
alway rob Peter in order to pay Paul!"
*
This witticism of mine host being exceedingly well re-
ceived, Paul went, amidst the general laughter, to take
possession of the vacant seat beside Long Ned. That tal
gentleman, who had hitherto been cloud-compelling (as
Homer calls Jupiter) in profound silence, now turned to
Paul with the warmest cordiality, declared himself over-
joyed to meet his old friend once more, and congratulated
him alike on his escape from Bridewell, and his admission
to the councils of Gentleman George. But Paul, mindful
of that exertion of "prudence" on the part of Mr. Pepper,
by which he had been left to his fate and the mercy of Jus-
tice Burnflat, received his advances very sullenly. This
coolness so incensed Ned, who was naturally choleric, that
he turned his back on our hero, and being of an aristocratic
spirit, muttered something about "upstart, and vulgar cly-
fakers being admitted to the company of swell Tobymen."
This murmur called all Paul's blood into his cheek; for
though he had been punished as a clyfaker, (or pickpocket,)
nobody knew better than Long Ned whether or not he was
innocent; and a reproach from him came therefore with
double injustice and severity. He seized, in his wrath,
As Gentleman George was a person of majestic dignity
among the Knights of the Cross, we trust we shall not be
thought irreverent in applying a few of the words by which
the foresaid Morning Chronicle depicted his majesty, on
the day he laid the first stone of his father's monument, to
the description of Gentleman George.* "He had on a
handsome blue coat, and a white waistcoat; moreover,
"he laughed most good-humoredly," as, turning to Augus- Mr. Pepper by the ear, and telling him he was a shabby
tus Tomlinson, he saluted him with,
"So, this is the youngster you present to us.— Welcome
to the Jolly Angler !' Give us thy hand, young sir ;
I shall be happy to blow a cloud with thee."
"With all due submission," said Mr. Tomlinson, "I
think it may first be as well to introduce my pupil and friend
to his future companions."
"You speak like a leary cove," cried Gentleman George,
and turning round in his elbow-chair, he severally intro-
duced his guests to Paul,-
"Here," said he, pointing to a hearty-looking tar in his
professional dress, with a pleasant and English counte-
nance, "here, this be my brother Bill; he'll succeed to the
Jolly Angler.' You need not look so smirking about it,
Bill, 'tis a bit of a plague, the care of a public, I
can tell you, when the nowelty like of the thing be over.
But here, younker, here's a fine chap at my right hand,"
(the person thus designated was a thin military-looking
figure, in a shabby riding-frock, and with a commanding,
bold, aquiline countenance, a little the worse for wear,)
an old soldier; Fighting Attie we calls him: he's a devil
on the road. 'Halt, deliver, must and shall, can't
and shan't, — do as I bid you, or go to the devil,'
that's
all Fighting Attie's palaver; and, 'sdeath, it has a wonder-
ful way of coming to the point! Howsomever,
flyers does n't like him; and when he takes people's money,
he need not be quite so cross about it! Attie, let me in-
troduce a new pal to you." Paul made his bow, -
66
scoundrel, challenged him to fight.
So pleasing an invitation not being announced sotto voce,
but in a tone suited to the importance of the proposition,
every one around heard it; and before Long Ned could an-
swer, the full voice of Gentleman George thundered forth,—
cr
"Keep the peace there, you youngster. What are you
just admitted into our merry-makings, and must you be
wrangling already? hark ye, genmen, I have been
plagued enough with your quarrels before now, and the first
cove as breaks the present quiet of the 'Jolly Angler,' shall
be turned out neck and crop, shian 't he, Attie ?"
"Right about, march," said the hero.
Ay, that's the word, Attie," said Gentleman George
"and now, Mr. Pepper, if there be any ill blood 'twixt
you and the lad there, wash it away in a bumper of bingo,
and let's hear no more whatsomever about it.”
"I'm willing," cried Long Ned, with the deferential air
of a courtier, and holding out his hand to Paul. Our hero,
being somewhat abashed by the novelty of his situation and
the rebuke of Gentleman George, accepted, though with
some reluctance, the proffered courtesy.
Order being thus restored, the conversation of the con-
vivialists began to assume a most fascinating bias. They
talked with infinite goût of the sums they had levied on the
the high-public, and the peculations they had committed for what
one called the "good of the community," and another, the
"established order," meaning themselves. It was easy
to see in what school the discerning Augustus Tomlinson
had learnt the value of words.
"Stand at ease, man!" quoth the veteran, without
taking the pipe from his mouth.
Gentleman George then continued; and, after pointing
* A certain melancholy event having deprived us of Gentle-
nan George, this sketch will now, no doubt, be regarded with
the interest of history rather than of gossip. We should, in-
deed, have conceived it more decorous to have erased the de-
scription altogether, had not the extreme sorrow of all the
Knights of the Cross for the loss of Gentleman George been
instantly succeeded by their extreme joy for the accession of
Bill Squareyards. We reserve for our last pages a character of
the former. There, at least, shall be found a view of the past
which does not squint lecherously to the future.
There was something edifying in hearing the rascals !-
So nice was their language, and so honest their enthusiasm
for their own interests, you might have imagined you were
listening to a coterie of cabinet ministers conferring on
taxes, or debating on perquisites.
"Long may the Commons flourish!" cried punning
Georgie, filling his glass; "it is by the comtions we're fed,
and may they never know cultiwation!"
"Three times three!" shouted Long Ned; and the
toast was drunk as Mr. Pepper proposed.
* Peter a portmanteau.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
A little moderate, cultivation of the commons, to
speak frankly," said Augustus Tomlinson modestly, "might
not be amiss; for it would decoy people into the belief
that they might travel safely; and, after all, a hedge or a
barley-field is as good for us as a barren heath, where we
have no shelter if once pursued."
"You talks nonsense, you spooney!" cried a robber of
note, called Bagshot; who, being aged, and having been
a lawyer's footboy, was sometimes denominated" Old
Bags."
"You talks nonsense; these innowating ploughs are the
rain of us. Every blade of corn in a common is an en-
croachment on the constitution and rights of the gemmen
highwaymen. I'm old and may n't live to see these
things; but, mark my words, a time will come when a
man may go from Lunnun to Johnny Groat's without los-
ing a penny by one of us; when Hounslow will be safe,
and Finchley secure. My eyes, what a sad thing for us
that 'ill be ! "
The venerable old man became suddenly silent, and the
tears started to his eyes. Gentleman George had a great
horror of blue devils, and particularly disliked all disagree-
able subjects.
"Thunder and oons, Old Bags!" quoth mine host of
the Jolly Angler, "this will never do: we 're all met here
to be merry, and not to listen to your mullancolly tara ta-
rantarums. I says, Ned Pepper, spose you tips us a song,
and I'll beat time with my knuckles."
Long Ned, taking the pipe from his mouth, attempted,
like Lady Heron, one or two pretty excuses: these being
drowned by an universal shout, the handsome purloiner
gave the following song, to the tune of
thinned my flowing hair."
LONG NED'S SONG.
1.
"Oh, if my hands adhere to cash,
My gloves at least are clean,
And rarely have the gentry flash
In sprucer clothes been seen.
II.
Sweet Public, since your coffers must
Afford our wants relief,
Oh! soothes it not to yield the dust
To such a charming thief?
111.
I never robbed a single coach
But with a lover's air;
"Time has not
And though you might my course reproach,
You never could my hair.
IV.
John Bull, who loves a harmless joke,
Is apt at me to grin;
But why be cross with laughing folk,
Unless they laugh and win?
V.
John Bull has money in his box;
And though his wit's divine,
Yet let me laugh at Johnny's locks, -
And John may laugh at mine!"
And John may laugh at mine,' excellent!" cried
Gentleman George, lighting his pipe and winking at
Attie, "I hears as how you be a famous fellow with the
lasses."
Ned smiled and answered, "No man should boast;
but
Pepper paused significantly, and then glancing
at Attie, said, "Talking of lasses, it is my turn to
knock down a gentleman for a song, and I knock down
fighting Attie.
"I never sing," said the warrior.
"Treason, treason," cried Pepper; "it is the law, and
you inust obey the law; so begin.
"It is true, Attie," said Gentleman George.
There was no appeal from the honest publican's fiat; so,
in a quick and laconic manner, it being Attie's favorite
dogma, that the least said is the soonest mended, the war-
ior sung as follows
VOL 1
52
FIGHTING ATTIE'S SONG.
Air.-"He was formed for deeds of arms."
"Rise at six,- dine at two,
Rob your man without ado, -
Such my maxims; if you doubt
Their wisdom,
-to the right about!"
(Signing to a sallow gentleman on the
same side of the table to send up the
brandy bowl.)
"Pass round the bingo, — of a gun,
You musky, dusky, husky son !"
"Attie,
The sallow gentleman, in a hoarse
voice,)
-the bingo's now with me,
I can't resign it, yet, d'ye see !
(Attie,seizing the bowl,)
"Resign, resign it, cease your dust !”
(Wresting it away, and fiercely regard-
ing the sallow gentleman,)
"You have resigned it, — and you must.
CHORUS.
"You have resign'd it,
and you must!"
While the chorus, laughing at the discomforted tippler,
yelled forth the emphatic words of the heroic Autie, that
personage emptied the brandy at a draught, resumed his
pipe, and in as few words as possible, called on Bagshot
for a song. The excellent old highwayman, with great
diffidence, obeyed the request, cleared his throat, and
struck off with a ditty somewhat to the tune of " The
Old Woman."
OLD BAGS'S SONG.
"Are the days then gone, when on Hounslow Heath
We flash'd our nags?
When the stoutest bosoms quail'd beneath
The voice of Bags?
Ne'er was my work half undone, least
I should be nabb’d :
Slow was old Bags, but he never ceas'd
Till the whole was grabb'd.
CHORUS.
"Till the whole was grabb'd."
"When the slow coach paus'd, and the gemmen storm'¿
I bore the brunt,
And the only sound which my grave lips form'd
Was blunt, - still blunt!'
Oh! those jovial days are ne'er forgot!-
But the tape lags,
When I be's dead, you 'll drink one pot
To poor old Bags!
CHORUS.
"To poor old Bags!"
Ay, that we will, my dear Bagshot," cried Gent.eman
George, affectionately; but, observing a tear in the fine old
fellow's eye, he added, "Cheer up. What, ho! Cheer
up! Times will improve, and Providence may yet send
us one good year, when you shall be as well off as ever!
You shakes your poll. Well, do n't be humdurgeoned,
but knock down a gemman.
Dashing away the drop of sensibility, the veteran knock-
ed down Gentleman George himself.
Oh, dang it!" said George, with an air of dignity,
"I ought to skip, since I finds the lush; but howsomever
here goes.
GENTLEMAN GEORGE'S SONG.
Air. —“Old King Cole."
"I be's the cove, the merry old cove,
Of whose max all the Rufflers sing.
And a lushing cove, I thinks, by Jove,
Is as great as a sober king!
CHORUS.
"Is as great as a sober king.
"Whatever the noise, as is made by the boys,
At the bar as they lush away;
The devil a noise my peace alloys
As long as the rascals pay!
CHORUS.
As long as the rascals pay
410
BULWER'S NOVELS
"What if I sticks my stones and my bricks
With mortar, I takes from the snobbish,
All who can feel for the public weal,
Likes the public house to be bobbish.
CHORUS.
"Likes the public house to be bobbish."
"There, gemmen!" "said the publican, stopping short,
"that's the pith of the maker, and split my wig but I'm
short of breath now. So, send round the brandy, Augus-
tus, you sly dog, you keeps it all to yourself.""
By this time the whole conclave were more than half seas
over, or, as Augustus Tomlinson expressed it, "their more
austere qualities were relaxed by a pleasing and innocent
indulgence." Paul's eyes reeled, and his tongue ran loose.
By degrees the room swam round, the faces of his com-
rades altered, the countenance of Old Bags assumed an
awful and menacing air. He thought Long Ned insulted
him, and that Old Bags took the part of the assailant,
doubled his fists, and threatened to put the plaintiff's nob
into chancery, if he disturbed the peace of the meeting.
Various other imaginary evils beset him. He thought he
had robbed a mail-coach, in company with Pepper; that
Tomlinson informed against him, and that Gentleman
George ordered him to be hanged; in short, he labored
under a temporary delirium, occasioned by a sudden reverse
of fortune, from water to brandy; and the last thing of
which he retained any recollection, before he sunk under
the table, in company with Long Ned, Scarlet Jem, and
Old Bags, was, the bearing his part in the burden, of what
appeared to him a chorus of last dying speeches and con-
fessions, but what, in reality, was a song made in honor of
Gentleman George, and sung by his grateful guests as a
finale to the festivities. It ran thus: -
-
THE ROBBER'S GRAND TOAST.
* A tumbler of blue ruin, fill, fill for me!
Red tape those as likes it may drain,
But whatever the lush, it a bumper must be,
If we ne'er drinks a bumper again !
Now, - now in the crib, where a ruffler may lie,
Without fear that the traps should distress him,
With a drop in the mouth, and a drop in the eye,
Here's to Gentleman George, God bless him!
God bless him, God bless him!
Here's to Gentleman George,- God bless him!
"Mong the pals of the Prince, I have heard it's the go,
Before they have tippled enough,
To smarten their punch with the best curacoa,
More comish to render the stuff!
I boast not such lush!- but whoever his glass
Does not like, I'll be damn'd if I press him!
Upstanding, my kiddies, round, round let it pass !
Here's to Gentleman George, God bless him!
God bless him, God bless him!
Here's to Gentleman George, God bless him!
"Bee,
see, the fine fellow grows weak on the stumps,
Assist him, ye rascals, to stand!
Why, ye stir not a peg! Are you all in the dumps? -
Fight ng Attie, go, lend him a hand!
-
(The robbers crowd around Gentle-
man George, each, under pretence
of supporting him, pulling him first
one way and then another,)
'Come, lean upon me, at your service I am!
Get away from his elbow, you whelp! - him
You'll only upset! them 'ere fellows but sham!-
Here's to Gentleman George,- God help him!
God help him, God help him!
Here's to Gentleman George, -God help him! "
CHAPTER XI.
I boast no song in magic wonders rife,
But yet, O Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?
And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies
No form with which the soul may sympathize?
Young, innocent, on whose sweet foreliead mild
The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,
An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,
Or blest his noonday walk, - she was his only child.
Gertrude of Wyoming.
TIME, thou hast played strange tricks with us! and
wo bless the stars that made us a novelist, and permit us
-
now to retaliate Leaving Paul to the instructions of Au
gustus Tomlinson, and the festivities of the Jolly Angler,
and suffering him, by slow but sure degrees, to acquire the
graces and the reputation of the accomplished and perfect
appropriator of other men's possessions, we shall pass over
the lapse of years with the same heedless rapidity with
which they have glided over us, and summon our reader to
a very different scene from those which would be likely to
greet his eyes, were he following the adventures of our
new Telemachus. Nor wilt thou, dear reader, whom we
make the umpire between ourself and those who never read,
the critics; thou who hast, in the true spirit of gentle
breeding, gone with us among places where the novelty of
the scene has, we fear, scarcely atoned for the coarseness,
not giving thyself the airs of a dainty Abigail ; - not
prating lackey-like on the low company thou has met ;
nor wilt thou, dear and friendly reader, have cause to dread
that we shall weary thy patience by a " damnable iteration "
of the same localities. Pausing for a moment to glance
over the divisions of our story which lies before us like a
map, we feel that we may promise in future to conduct thee
among aspects of society, more familiar to thy habits;
where the unquessed events flow to their allotted gulf
through landscapes of more pleasing variety, and among
tribes of a more luxurious civilization.
Upon the banks of one of fair England's fairest rivers,
and about fifty miles distant from London, still stands an
old-fashioned abode, which we shall here term Warlock
Manor-House. It is a building of brick, varied by stone
copings, and covered in great part with ivy and jasmine.
Around it lie the ruins of the elder part of the fabric, and
these are sufficiently numerous in extent, and important in
appearance, to testify that the mansion was once not with-
out pretensions to the magnificent. These remains of
power, some of which bear date as far back as the reign of
Henry the Third, are sanctioned by the character of the
country immediately in the vicinity of the old manor-house.
A vast track of waste land, interspersed with groves of
antique pollards, and here and there irregular and sinuous
ridges of green mound, betoken to the experienced eye the
evidence of a dismantled chase or park, which must origi-
nally have been of no common dimensions. On one side
of the house, the lawn slopes toward the river, divided from
a terrace, which forms the most important embellishment
of the pleasure-grounds, by that fence to which has been
given the ingenious and significant name of "ha ha!"
A few scattered trees of giant growth are the sole obsta-
cles that break the view of the river, which has often seemed
to us, at that particular passage of its course, to glide with
unusual calmness and serenity. On the opposite side of
the stream, there is a range of steep hills, celebrated for
nothing more romantic than their property of imparting to
the flocks that browse upon their short and seemingly
stinted herbage, a flavor peculiarly grateful to the lovers
of that pastoral animal which changes its name into mut-
ton after its decease. Upon these hills the vestige of
human habitation is not visible; and at times, when no
boat defaces the lonely smoothness of the river, and the
evening has stilled, as it were, the sounds of labor and of
life, we know few scenes so utterly tranquil, so steeped in
quiet, as that which is presented by the old, quaint-fashion-
ed house and its antique grounds, the smooth lawn, the
silent and (to speak truly, though disparagingly) the sonie
what sluggish river, together with the large hills (to which
we know, from simple, though metaphysical causes, how
entire an idea of quiet, and even immovability peculiarly
those most peace-
attaches itself) and the white herds,
ful of God's creatures, that stud in white and fleecy
clusters the ascent.
G
In Warlock House, at the time we refer to, lived a gen-
tleman of the name of Brandon. He was a widower, and
had attained his fiftieth year, without casting much regret
on the past, or feeling much anxiety for the future. In a
word, Joseph Brandon was one of those careless, quiescent,
indifferent men, by whom a thought upon any subject is
never recurred to without a very urgent necessity. He was
good-natured, inoffensive, and weak; and if he was not an
incomparable citizen, he was, at least, an excellent vegeta-
ble. He was of a family of high antiquity, and formerly of
considerable note. For the last four or five generations,
however, the proprietors of Warlock House, gradually
losing something alike from their acres and their conse-
quence, had left to their descendant no higher rank than
PAUL CLIFFORD.
411
hostility, and obtained for him a character for virtues al-
most as high and as enviable as that which he had acquired
for abilities.
hat of a small country squire. One had been a Jacobite,
and had drunk out half a dozen farms in honor of Charley
over the water; Charley over the water was no very danger-
ous person, but Charley over the wine was rather more
ruinous; the next Brandon had been a fox-hunter, and fox-able career, his elder brother, who had married into a
hunters live as largely as patriotic politicians: Pausanias
tells us, that the same people who were the most notorious
for their love of wine, were also the most notorious for their
negligence of affairs. Times are not much altered since
Pausanias wrote, and the remark holds as good with the
English as it did with the Phigalei. After this Brandon,
came one who, though he did not scorn the sportsman,
rather assumed the fine gentleman. He married an heiress,
who, of course, assisted to ruin him: wishing no assistance
in so pleasing an occupation, he overturned her, (perhaps
not on purpose,) in a new sort of carriage which he was
learning to drive, and the good lady was killed on the spot.
She left the fine gentleman two sons, Joseph Brandon, the
Brandon, the
present thane, and a brother, some years younger. The
elder, being of a fitting age, was sent to school, and some-
what escaped the contagion of the paternal mansion. But
the younger Brandon, having only reached his fifth year at
the time of his mother's decease, was retained at home.
Whether he was handsome, or clever, or impertinent, or
like his father about the eyes, (that greatest of all merits,)
we know not; but the widower became so fond of him, that
it was at a late period, and with great reluctance, that he
finally intrusted him to the providence of a school.
While William was thus treading a noted and an honor-
clergyman's family, and soon lost his consort, had, with his
only child, a daughter named Lucy, resided in his paternal
mansion in undisturbed obscurity. The discreditable char-
acter and habits of the preceding lords of Warlock, which
had sunk their respectability in the county, as well as cur-
tailed their property, had rendered the surrounding gentry
little anxious to cultivate the intimacy of the present pro-
prietor; and the heavy mind and retired manners of Josepb
Brandon were not calculated to counterbalance the faults
of his forefathers, or to reinstate the name of Brandon in
its ancient popularity and esteem. Though dull and lit.le
cultivated, the squire was not without his "proper pride;
he attempted not to intrude himself where he was unwel-
come, avoided county meetings and county balls, smoked
his pipe with the parson, and not unoften with the surgeon
and the solicitor, and suffered his daughter Lucy to edu-
cate herself, with the help of the parson's wife, and to ripen
(for Nature was more favorable to her than art) into the
very prettiest girl that the whole county, -we long to say
the whole country,- at that time could boast off. Never
did glass give back a more lovely image than that of Lucy
Brandon, at the age of nineteen. Her auburn hair fell in
the richest luxuriance over a brow never ruffled, and a
Among harlots, and gamblers, and lords, and sharpers, cheek where the blood never slept; with every instant the
and gentlemen of the guards, together with their frequent color varied, and at every variation that smooth, pure,
accompaniments, guards of the gentlemen, viz. bailiffs, virgin cheek seemed still more lovely than before. She
William Brandon passed the first stages of his boyhood. had the most beautiful laugh that one who loved music
Ile was about thirteen when he was sent to school; and could imagine,
could imagine, silvery, low, and yet so full of joy! all
being a boy of remarkable talents, he recovered his lost her movements, as the old parson said, seemed to keep
time so well, that when, at the age of nineteen, he adjourn- time to that laugh; for mirth made a great part of her
ed to the university, he had scarcely resided there a single innocent and childish temper; and yet the mirth was femi-
term before he had borne off two of the highest prizes nine, never loud, nor like that of young ladies who have re-
awarded to academical merit. From the university he de-ceived the last finish at Highgate seminaries. Everything
parted on the "grand tour," at that time thought so neces- joyous affected her, and at once; -
air, - flowers, sun-
sary to complete the gentleman; he went in company with shine, butterflies. Unlike heroines in general, she very
a young nobleman, whose friendship he had won at the seldom cried, and she saw nothing charming in having the
university, staid abroad more than two years, and on his vapors. But she never looked so beautiful as in sleep!
return be settled down to the profession of the law.
and as the light breath came from her parted lips, and the
ivory lids closed over those eyes which only in sleep were
silent, and her attitude in her sleep took that ineffable
grace belonging solely to childhood, or the fresh youth into
which childhood merges, she was just what you might
imagine a sleeping Margaret, before that most simple and
gentle of all a poet's visions of womanhood had met with
Faust, and ruffled her slumbers with a dream of love.
+
Meanwhile, his father died, and his fortune, as a younger
brother, being literally next to nothing, and the family
estate (for his brother was not unwilling to assist him) be-
ing terribly involved, it was believed that he struggled for
some years with very embarrassed and penurious circum-
stances. During this interval of his life, however, he was
absent from London, and by his brother supposed to have
returned to the Continent: at length, it seems, he profited
by a renewal of his friendship with the young nobleman who
had accompanied him abroad, re-appeared in town, and ob-
tained, through his noble friend, one or two legal appoint-
ments of reputable emolument; soon afterward he got a
brief on some cause where a major had been raising a corps
to his brother officer, with the better consent of the brother
officer's wife than of the brother officer himself. Brandon's
abilities here, for the first time in his profession, found an
adequate vent; his reputation seemed made at once, he rose
rapidly in his profession, and, at the time we now speak
of, he was sailing down the full tide of fame and wealth, the
envy and the oracle of all young templars and barristers,
who having been starved themselves for ten years, began
now to calculate on the possibility of starving their clients.
At the very first commencement of his career, he had,
through the good offices of the nobleman we have mentioned,
obtained a seat in the House of Commons; and though his
eloquence was of an order much better suited to the bar
than the senate, he had nevertheless acquired a very ccu-
siderable reputation in the latter, and was looked upon by
many as likely to win to the same brilliant fortunes as the
courtly Mansfield, a great man, whose political principles
and urbane address Brandon was supposed especially to
affect as his own model. Of unblemished integrity in pub-
lic life, for as he supported all things that exist with the
most unbending rigidity, he could not be accused of incon-
sistency, William Brandon was (as we have said in a
former place of unhappy memory to our hero) esteemed in
private life the most honorable, the most moral, even the
most austere of men; and his grave and stern repute on
this score, joined to the dazzle of his eloquence and forensic
powers, had baffled in great measure the rancor of party
—
-
We cannot say much for Lucy's intellectual acquire-
ments; she could, thanks to the parson's wife, spell indif-
ferently well, and write a tolerable hand; she made pre-
serves and sometimes riddles,—it was more difficult to ques-
tion the excellence of the former than to answer the que-
ries of the latter. She worked to the admiration of all who
knew her, and we beg leave to say that we deem that "an
excellent thing in woman. She made caps for herself
and gowns for the poor, and now and then she accomplish-
ed the more literary labor of a stray novel that had wan
dered down to the Manor House, or an abridgment of an
cient history, in which was omitted every thing but the
proper names. To these attainments she added a certain
modicum of skill upon the spinnet, and the power of sing-
ing old songs with the richest and sweetest voice that ever
made one's eyes moisten, or one's heart beat.
Her moral qualities were more fully developed than her
mental. She was the kindest of human beings; the very
dog that had never seen her before, knew that truth at the
first glance, and lost no time in making her acquaintance.
The goodness of her heart reposed upon her face like sun-
shine, and the old wife at the lodge said poetically and
truly of the effect it produced, that one felt warm when
one looked on her." If we could abstract from the de-
scription a certain chilling transparency, the following
exquisite verses of a forgotten poet might express the
purity and lustre of her countenance
"Her face was like the milky way i' the sky;
A meeting of gentle lights without a name.”
some,
She was surrounded by pets of all kinds, ugly and nand-
from Ralph the raven, to Beauty the pheasant, and
* Suckling.
112
BULWER'S NOVELS.
from Bob, the sneeo-tog without a tail, to Beau, the Blen-
neim with blue ribands round his neck; all things loved her,
and she loved all things. It seemed doubtful at that time
whetner she would ever have sufficient steadiness and
strength of character. Her beauty and her character ap-
peared alike so essentially sexual, soft, yet lively, buoyant,
yet caressing, that you could scarcely place in her that moral
dependence, that you might in a character less amiable, but
ess yieldingly feminine. Time, however, and circumstance,
which alters and hardens, were to decide whether the in-
ward nature did not possess some latent, and yet undis-
covered properties. Such was Lucy Brandon in the year
, and in that year, on a beautiful autumnal evening,
we first introduce her personally to our readers.
She was sitting on a garden-seat by the river side, with
her father, who was deliberately conning the evening pa-
per of a former week, and gravely seasoning the ancient
news with the inspirations of that weed which so bitterly
excited the royal indignation of our British Solomon. It
nappens, unfortunately for us,- for outward peculiarities
are scarcely worthy the dignity to which comedy, whether
in the drama or the narrative, aspires,-that Squire Bran-
don possessed so few distinguishing traits of mind, that he
leaves his delineator little whereby to designate him, save
a confused and parenthetical habit of speech, by which
he
very often appeared to those who did not profit by long
experience, or close observation, to say exactly, and some-
what ludicrously, that which he did not mean to convey.
"I say, Lucy," observed Mr. Brandon, but without lift-
ing his eyes from the paper; "I say, corn has fallen,
think of that, girl, think of that. These times, in my
opinion, (ay, and in the opinion of wiser heads than mine,
though I do not mean to say that I have not some experi-
ence in these matters, which is more than can be said of
all our neighbours,) are very curious, and even dangerous.”
"Indeed, papa!" answered Lucy.
"And I say, Lucy, dear," resumed the squire after a
short pause, "there has been (and very strange it is, too,
when one considers the crowded neighbourhood, bless
me! what times these are !) a shocking murder committed
a shocking murder committed
upon (the tobacco-stopper, there it is) think, you know,
girl, just by Epping! an old gentleman!
"Dear, how shocking! by whom?"
-
Ay, that's the question! The coroner's inquest has
(what a blessing it is to live in a civilized country, where
a man does not die without knowing the why and the
wherefore) sat on the body, and declared (it is very
strange, but they do n't seem to have made much discovery;
for why we knew as much before) that the body was
found (it was found on the floor, Lucy) murdered; mur-
derer or murderers (in the bureau, which was broken open,
they found the money left quite untouched) - unknown!
Here there was again a slight pause, and passing to
another side of the paper, Mr. Brandon resumed, in a
quicker tone,
—
"Ha! well, now this is odd! but he 's a deused clever
fellow, Lucy! (that brother of mine has, and in a very
honorable manner too, which I am sure is highly credita-
ble to the family, though he has not taken too much notice
of me lately; a circumstance which, considering I am
his elder brother, I am a little angry at;)-distinguished
himself in a speech, remarkable, the paper says, for its
great legal-(I wonder,
(I wonder, by the by, whether William
could get me that agistment-money! 't is a heavy thing to
lose; but going to law, as my poor father used to say, is
like fishing for gudgeons [not a bad little fish, we can have
some for supper,] with guineas) — knowledge, as well as
its splendid and overpowering (I do love Will for keep-
ing up the family honor; I am sure it is more than I have
done, heigh-ho!) eloquence !"
W
"And on what subject has he been speaking, papa ?"
"Oh, a very fine subject; what you call a,-(it is as-
tonishing that in this country there should be such a wish
for taking away people's characters, which, for my part, I
do n't see is a bit more entertaining than what you are al-
ways doing, playing with those stupid birds,libel!"
But is not my uncle William coming down to see us?
He promised to do so, and made you quite happy, papa,
for two days. I hope he will not disappoint you; and I
am sure that it is not his fault if he ever seems to neglect
He spoke of you to me, when I saw him, in the
kindest and most affectionate manner.
I do think, my
dear father, that he loves you very much."
you.
ye
"Ahem!" said the squire, evidently flattered, and
not convinced. r
My brother Will is a very acute fellow,
and I make no, my dear little girl,-question, but that,
-(when you have seen as much of the world as I have,
you will grow suspicious) he thought that any good
word said of me to my daughter, would (you see, Lucy,
I am as clear-sighted as my neighbours, though I don't give
myself all their airs; which I very well might do, consid
ering my great-great-great-grandfather Hugo Brandon had
a hand in detecting the Gunpowder plot) - be told to me
again!
—
"Nay, but I am quite sure my uncle never spoke of you
to me with that intention."
ઃઃ
Possibly, my dear child; but when (the evenings are
much shorter than they were) did you talk with your uncle
about me?"
I
"Oh, when staying with Mrs. Warner, in London; to
be sure,
it is six years ago, but I remember it perfectly.
recollect in particular, that he spoke of you very hand-
somely to Lord Mauleverer, who dined with him one even-
ing when I was there, and when my uncle was so kind as
to take me to the play. I was afterward quite sorry
he was so good-natured, as he lost — (you remember J
told you the story) — a very
- a very valuable watch."
how long
that
"Ay, ay, I remember all about that, and so,—
friendship lasts with some people! Lord Mauleverer
dined with William. What a fine thing it is for a inan —
(it is what I never did, indeed, I like being what they call
Cock of the Walk, let me see, now I think of it, Pil-
lum comes to-night to play a hit at Backgammon) — to
make friends with a great man early in (yet Will did not
do it very early, poor fellow! ne struggled first with a
great deal of sorrow hardship, that is
-) life!
It is many years now, since Will has been hand-and-glove
with my 't is a bit of a puppy) Lord Mauleverer, — what
did you think of his lordship?"
"Of Lord Mauleverer ? Indeed I scarcely observed
him, but he seemed a handsome man, and was very polite
Mrs. Warner said he had been a very wicked person wher
he was young, but he seems good-natured enough now.
papa.
دو
"By the by," said the squire, "his lordship has just
been made (this new ministry seems very unlike the
old! which rather puzzles me; for I think it my duty,
d' ye see, Lucy, always to vote for his majesty's govern-
ment; especially seeing that old Hugo Brandon had a
hand in detecting the Gunpowder plot; and it is a little
odd, at least, at first, to think that good now, which one
has always before been thinking abominable) lord-lieu-
tenant of the county."
Lord Mauleverer our lord-lieutenant ?"
"Yes, child; and since his lordship is suco a friend of
my brother's, I should think, considering especially what
an old family in the county we are, not that I wish to
intrude myself where I am not thought as fine as the rest,
that he would be more attentive to us than Lord
was. But that, my dear Lucy, puts me in mind of Pillum,
and so, perhaps, you would like to walk to the parson's,
as it is a fine evening. John shall come for you at nine
o'clock with (the moon is not up then) — the lantern.
Leaning on his daughter's willing arm, the good old
man then rose and walked homeward; and so soon as she
had wheeled round his easy-chair, placed the backgammon-
board on the table, and wished the old gentleman an easy
victory over his expected antagonist, the apothecary, Lucy
tied down her bonnet, and took her way to the rectory.
When she arrived at the clerical mansion, and entered
the drawing-room, she was surprised to find the parson's
wife, a good, homely, lethargic old lady, run up to her,
seemingly in a state of great nervous agitation, and crying,
"Oh, my dear Miss Brandon! which way did
you come?
Did you meet nobody by the road? Oh, I am so fright-
ened! Such an accident to poor dear Doctor Slopperton.
Stopped in the king's highway, robbed of some tithe
money he had just received from Farmer Slowforth; if it
had not been for that dear angel, good, young man, God
only knows whether I might not have been a disconsolate
widow by this time."
While the affectionate matron was thus rumming on,
Lucy's eye, glancing round the room, discovered in an arm-
chair, the round and oily little person of Doctor Slopperton,
with a countenance from which all the carnation hues, save
in one circular excrescence on the nasal member that war
PAUL CLIFFORD.
418
kh, like the last rose of summer, blooming alone, were
faded into an aspect of miserable pallor : the little man tried
to conjure up a smile while his wife was narrating his mis-
fortune, and to mutter forth some syllable of unconcern; but
he looked, for all his bravado, so exceedingly scared, that
Lucy would, despite of herself, have laughed outright, had
not her eye rested upon the figure of a young man who had
the figure of a young man who had
been seated beside the reverend gentleman, but who had
risen at Lucy's entrance, and who now stood gazing upon
ner intently, but with an air of great respect. Blushing
deeply, and involuntarily, she turned her eyes hastily away,
and approaching the good doctor, made her inquiries into
the present state of his nerves, in a graver tone than she had
a minute before imagined it possible that she should have
been enabled to command.
Ah, my good young lady," said the doctor, squeezing
her hand," I, nay, I may say the church,- for am I not
its minister? - was in imminent danger;-but this excel-
lent gentleman prevented the sacrilege, at least in a great
measure. I only lost some of my dues, my rightful dues,
for which I console myself with thinking that the infamous
and abandoned villain will suffer hereafter."
"There cannot be the least doubt of that," said the young
man : "had he only robbed the mail coach, or broken into
a gentleman's house, the offence might have been expiable;
but to rob a clergyman, and a rector, too! Oh, the sac-
rilegious dog!"
"Your warmth does you honor, sir," said the doctor,
beginning now to recover," and I am very proud to have
made the acquaintance of a gentleman of such truly religious
opinions!
"Ah!" cried the stranger, my foible, sir, — if I
may so speak, is a sort of enthusiastic fervor for the
Protestant establishment,- Nay, sir, I never come across
the very nave of the church, without feeling an indescriba-
ble emotion, - a kind of sympathy, as it were,
- with,
with, you understand me, sir, I fear I express my-
self ill."
"Not at all, not at all!" exclaimed the doctor: "such
sentiments are uncommon in one so young.
pre-
"Sir, I learned them early in life from a friend and
ceptor of mine, Mr. Mac Grawler, and I trust they may con-
tinue with me to my dying day."
Here the doctor's servant entered with (we borrow a
phrase from the novel of ****) "the tea-equipage," and
Mrs. Slopperton betaking herself to its superintendence, in-
quired with more composure than hitherto had belonged to
her demeanour, what sort of a looking creature the ruffian
was?
"I will tell you, my dear, I will tell you, Miss Lucy,
all about it. I was walking home from Mr. Slowforth's,
with his money in my pocket, thinking, my love, of buying
you that topaz cross you wished to have."
"Dear good man!" cried Mrs. Slopperton; "what a
Gend it must have been to rob so excellent a creature !
دو
And," resumed the doctor, "it also occurred to me,
that the Madeira was nearly out, the Madeira, I mean,
with the red seal; and I was thinking it might not be amiss
to devote part of the money to buy six dozen more; and
the remainder, my love, which would be about one pound
eighteen, I thought I would divide, for he that giveth
to the poor, lendeth to the Lord!' among the thirty poor
families on the Common; that is, if they behaved well, and
the apples in the back garden were not feloniously ab-
stracted!"
"Excellent! charitable man!" ejaculated Mrs. Slop-
perton.
"While I was thus meditating, I lifted my eyes, and
saw before me two men; one of prodigious height, and
with a great profusion of hair about his shoulders; the
other was smaller, and wore his hat slouched over his face;
it was a very large hat. My attention was arrested by the
singularity of the tall person's hair, and while I was smiling
at its luxuriance, I heard him say to his companion,
Well, Augustus, as you are such a moral dog, he is in
your line, not mine, so I leave him to you.' - Little did I
think those words related to me. No sooner were they
uttered, than the tall rascal leaped over a gate and disap-
peared; the other fellow then marching up to me, very
smoothly asked me the way to the church, and while I was
explaining to him to turn first to the right and then to the
left, and so on,
for the best way is, you know, exceed-
ingly crooked the hypocritical scoundrel seized me by
jugated
the collar, and cried out, - 'Your money, or your life!'
I do assure you, that I never trembled so much; not, my
dear Miss Lucy, so much for my own sake, as for the sake
of the thirty poor families on the Common, whose wants
it had been my intention to relieve. I gave up the money,
finding my prayers and expostulations were in vain; and
the dog then, brandishing over my
the dog then, brandishing over my head an enormous blud-
geon, said, what abominable language! 'I think,
doctor, I shal! put an end to an existence derogatory to
yourself and useless to others.' At that moment the young
gentleman beside me, sprang over the very gate by which the
tall ruffian had disappeared, and cried, Hold, villain !'
On seeing my deliverer, the coward started back, and
plunged into a neighbouring wood. The good young gen-
tleman pursued him for a few minutes, but then returning to
my aid conducted me home; and, as we used to say at
school,
'Te rediisse incolumem gaudeo.'
Which being interpreted, means,- (Sir, excuse a pun, I
am sure so great a friend to the church understands Latin,)
that I am very glad to get back safe to my tea. He, he!
And now, Miss Lucy, you must thank that young gentleman
for having saved the life of your pastoral teacher, which act
will no doubt be remembered at the
great day!
As Lucy, looking toward the stranger, said something
in compliment, she observed a vague, and, as it were, cov-
ert smile upon his countenance, which immediately, and as
if by sympathy, conjured one to her own. The hero of the
adventure, however, in a very grave tone, replied to her
compliment, at the same time bowing profoundly,
"Mention it not, madam! I were unworthy of the name
of a Briton, and a man,
of a Briton, and a man, could I pass the highway without
relieving the distresses, or lightening the burden, of a fel-
low-creature. And," continued the stranger, after a mo-
mentary pause, coloring while he spoke, and concluding,
in the high-flown gallantry of the day, "methinks it
were sufficient reward, had I saved the whole church, in-
stead of one of its most valuable members, to receive the
thanks of a lady, whom I might reasonably take for one of
those celestial beings, to whom we have been piously taught
that the church is especially the care!
Though there might have been something really ridicu
lous in this overstrained compliment, coupled as it was with
the preservation of Dr. Slopperton, yet, coming from the
mouth of one whom Lucy thought the very handsomest per-
son she had ever seen, appeared to her any thing but ab-
surd; and, for a very long time afterward, her heart thrilled
with pleasure when she remembered that the cheek of the
speaker had glowed, and his voice had trembled, as he
spoke it.
The conversation now turning from robbers in particular,
dwelt upon robberies, in general. It was edifying to hear
the honest indignation with which the stranger spoke of the
lawless depredators with whom the country, in that day of
Macheaths, was infested.
"A pack of infamous rascals!" said he, in a glow;
"who attempt to justify their misdeeds by the example of
honest men; and who say, that they do no more than is done
by lawyers and doctors, soldiers, clergymen, and ministers
of state. Pitiful delusion, or rather, shameless hypoc-
risy!"
"It all comes of educating the poor," said the doctor
"The moment they pretend to judge the conduct of their
betters, there's an end of all order! They see nothing
sacred in the laws, though we hang the dogs ever so fast;
and the very peers of the land, spiritual and temporal, cease
to be venerable in their eyes.
Talking of peers,"
" said Mrs. Slopperton, "I hear tha
Lord Mauleverer is to pass by this road to-night, on his
way to Mauleverer Park. Do you know his lordship,
Miss Lucy he is very intimate with your uncle."
"I have only seen him once," answered Lucy.
"Are you sure that his lordship will come this road?”
asked the stranger, carelessly: "I heard something of it
this morning, but did not know it was settled.”
"His
"Oh, quite so!" rejoined Mrs. Slopperton.
lordship's gentleman wrote for post-horses to meet his
lordship at Wyburn, about three miles on the other side of
the village, at ten o'clock to-night. His lordship is very
impatient of delay.
"Pray," said the doctor, who had not much heeded this
turn in the conversation, and was now ' on hospitable cares
414
BULWER'S NOVELS.
intent;
>
"Pray, sir, if not impertinent, are you visit- |
ng, or lodging in the neighbourhood; or, will you take a
bed with us?",
"You are extremely kind, my dear sir; but I fear I
must soon wish you good evening. I have to look after a
little property I have some miles hence, which, indeed,
brought me down into this part of the world."
'
Property, in what direction, sir, if I may ask?"
quoth the doctor; "I know the country for miles."
"Do you, indeed? where's my property, you say?
Why, it is rather difficult to describe it, and it is, after all,
a mere trifle; it is only some common-land near the high-
road, and I came down to try the experiment of hedging
and draining."
""Tis a good plan, if one has capital, and does not re-
quire a speedy return."
"Yes; but one likes a good interest for the loss of prin-
cipal, and a speedy return is always desirable; although,
alas! it is often attended with risk!
"I hope, sir," said the doctor, if you must leave us so
goon, that your property will often bring you into our neigh-
bourhood."
"You overpower me with so much unexpected goodness,'
answered the stranger. "To tell you the truth, nothing
can give me greater pleasure, than to meet those again who
have once obliged me.
"How
"Whom you have obliged, rather!" cried Mrs. Slop-
perton, and then added, in a loud whisper to Lucy,
modest! but it is always so with true courage!"
"I assure you, madam,” returned the benevolent stran-
ger,
"that I never think twice of the little favors I render
my fellow-men, my only hope is, that they may be as
forgetful as myself."
Charmed with so much unaffected goodness of disposition,
the doctor and Mrs. Slopperton now set up a sort of duet
in praise of their guest: after enduring their commendations
and compliments for some minutes with much grimace of
disavowal and diffidence, the stranger's modesty seemed at
last to take pain at the excess of their gratitude; and ac-
cordingly, pointing to the clock, which was within a few
minutes of nine, he said,
"I fear, my respected host, and my admired hostess,
that I must now leave you; I have far to go.
"But are you yourself not afraid of the highwaymen ?”
cried Mrs. Slopperton, interrupting him.
"The highwaymen !" said the stranger, smiling. "No!
I do not fear them; besides, I have little about me worth
robbing."
་
Miss Brandon to indulge the stranger with a song. Never
had Lucy, who was not a shy girl, she was too innocen
to be bashful, felt nervous hitherto in singing before a
stranger; but now, she hesitated and faltered, and went
through a whole series of little natural affectations before she
complied with the request. She chose a song composed
somewhat after the old English school, which at that time
was reviving into fashion. The song, though conveying a
sort of conceit, was not, perhaps, altogether without ten-
derness; it was a favorite with Lucy, she scarcely knew
why, and ran thus :
—
-
LUCY'S SONG.
Why sleep, ye flowers, ah, why,
When the sweet eve is falling,
And the stars drink the tender sigh
Of winds to the fairies calling?
Calling with plaining note,
Most like a ringdove chiding,
Or a flute from some distant boat
O'er the glass of a still sea gliding.
Why sleep, ye flowers, ah, why,
What time we most must miss you?
Like a bride, see, the loving sky,
From your churlish sleep would kiss you.
Soft things, the dew, the breeze,
All soft things, are about you;
Awake, fair flowers, for scarcely these
Fill the yearning sense without you!
Wake ye not yet? Alas!
The silver time is fleeing!
-Fond idler, cease! those flowers but glass
The doom of thy changeless being '
Yea, ever, when the hours
As now seem the divinest,
Thou callest, I know, on some sleeping flowers,
And finding no answer,
pinest!"
When Lucy ended, the stranger's praise was less foud
than either the doctor's or his lady's; but how far more
sweet it was! and for the first time in her life Lucy made
the discovery, that eyes can praise as well as lips. For
our part, we have often thought that that discovery is an
epoch in life.
"He
It was now that Mrs. Slopperton declared her thorough
conviction that the stranger himself could sing,
had that about him," she said, "which made her sure of
it."
<<
"Do you superintend your property yourself?" said the
aoctor; who farmed his own glebe, and who, unwilling to
"Indeed, dear madam, said he, with his usual undefina-
part with so charming a guest, seized him now by the but-ble, half-frank, half-latent smile, my voice is but so so,
and my memory so indifferent, that even in the easiest
passages, I soon come to a stand. My best notes are in
the falsetto, and as for my execution,- but we won't talk of
that."
ton.
"Superintend it myself! - why, not exactly. There is
a bailiff, whose views of things do n't agree with mine, and
who now and then gives me a good deal of trouble!
"Then why don't you discharge him altogether."
"Ah! I wish I could but 't is a necessary evil. We
landed proprietors, my dear sir, must always be plagued
with something of the sort. For my part, I have found
those cursed bailiffs would take away, if they could, all the
ittle property one has been trying to accumulate. But,"
abruptly changing his manner into one of great softness,
"could I not proffer my services and my coinpanionship to
this
young ady? Would she allow me to conduct her home,
and, indeed, stamp this day upon my memory, as one of
the few delightful ones I have ever known?"
"Thank you, dear sir," said Mrs. Slopperton, answer-
ing at once for Lucy; "it is
"it is very considerate of you; and
I am sure, my love, I could not think of letting you go
home alone with old John, after such an adventure to the
poor dear doctor."
Lucy began an excuse which the good lady would not
hear. But as the servant whom Mr. Brandon was to send
with a lantern to attend his daughter home, had not ar-
rived, and as Mrs. Slopperton, despite her prepossessions
in favor of her husband's deliverer, did not for a moment
contemplate his accompanying, without any other attend-
ance, her young friend across the Selds at that unseasona-
ble hour; the stranger was forced, for the present, to re-
assume his seat; an open harpsicnord at one end of the
room gave him an opportunity to make some remark upon
music, and this introducing an eulogium on Lucy's voice,
from Mrs. Slopperton, necessarily ended in a request to
CC
Nay, nay; you are so modest," said Mrs. Slopperton;
"I am sure you could oblige us if you would."
"Your command," said the stranger, moving to the
"is
harpsichord," is all-sufficient and since you, madam,'
(turning to Lucy,) "have chosen a song after the old
school, may I find pardon if I do the same? My selec-
tion is, to be sure, from a lawless song-book, and is sup-
posed to be a ballad by Robin Hood, or, at least, one of
his merry men; a very different sort of outlaws from the
knaves who attacked you, sir!"
With this preface, the stranger sung to a wild yet jovial
air, with a tolerable voice, the following effusion:-
THE LOVE OF OUR PROFESSION; OR, THE
ROBBER'S LIFE.
"On the stream of the world, the robber's life
Is borne on the blithest wave;
Now it bounds into light in a gladsome strife,
Now it laughs in its hiding cave.
At his maiden's lattice he stays the rein,
How still is his courser proud!
(But still as a wind when it hangs o'er the main
In the breast of the boding cloud).
With the champed bit and the arched crest,
And the eye of a listening deer,
And the spirit of fire that pines at its est,
And the limbs that laugh at fear
PAUL CLIFFORD.
418
Fit slave to a lord whom all else refuse
To save at his desperate need;
By my troth! I think one whom the world pursues,
Hath a right to a gallant steed.
Away, my beloved, I hear their feet!
I blow thee a kiss, my fair,
And I promise to bring thee, when next we meet,
A braid for thy bonny hair.
Hurra for the booty! my steed, hurra!
Thorough bush, thorough brake go we;
And the coy moon smiles on our merry way,
Like my own love, timidly.'
The parson he rides with a jingling pouch,
How it blabs of the rifled poor!
The courtier he lolls in his gilded coach,
How it smacks of a sinecure!
The lawyer revolves in his whirling chaise,
Sweet thoughts of a mischief done;
And the lady that knoweth the card she plays,
Is counting her guineas won!
No, lady! - What, hollo, ye sinless men!
My claims ye can scarce refuse;
For when honest folk live on their neighbours, then
They encroach on the robber's dues!"
The lady changed cheek like a bashful maid,
The lawyer talk'd wondrous fair,
The parson blasphemed, and the courtier pray d,
And the robber bore off his share.
'Hurra! for the revel' my steed, hurra '
Thorough bush, thorough brake go we!
It is ever a virtue when others pay
To ruffle it merrily!'
Oh! there never was a life like the robber's,
Jolly, and bold, and free;
S
80
And it's end? why, a cheer from the crowd below
And a leap from a leafless tree! "
This very moral lay being ended, Mrs. Slopperton de-
clared it was excellent; though she confessed she thought
the sentiments rather loose. Perhaps the gentleman might
be induced to favor them with a song of a more refined
and modern turn, something sentimental, in short.
Glancing toward Lucy, the stranger answered, that he
only knew one song of the kind Mrs. Slopperton specified,
and it was so short, that he should scarcely weary her pa-
tience by granting her request.
At this moment, the river, which was easily descried
from the windows of the room, glimmered in the starlight,
and directing his looks toward the water, as if the scene
had suggested to him the verses he sung, he gave the fol-
lowing stanzas in a very low sweet tone, and with a far
purer taste than, perhaps, would have suited the preced-
ing and ruder song.
THE WISH.
"As sleeps the dreaming eve below,
Its holiest star keeps ward above,
And yonder wave begins to glow,
Like friendship bright'ning into love!
Ah! would thy bosom were that stream
Ne'er woo'd save by the virgin air!-
Ah! would I were that star, whose beam
Looks down and finds its image there!"
Scarcely was the song ended, before the arrival of Miss
Brandon's servant was announced, and her destined escort
starting up, gallantly assisted her with her cloak and her
hood, happy, no doubt, to escape in some measure, the
overwhelming compliments of his entertainers.
k
But," said the doctor, as he shook hands with his de-
liverer," by what name shall I remember and " - (lifting
his reverend eyes) ·
pray for the gentleman to whom Ï
<<
an: so much indebted ?
"You are very kind," said the stranger; my name is
Clifford. Madam," (turning to Lucy,) “
(turning to Lucy,) "may I offer my
hand down the stairs?
Lucy accepted the courtesy, and the stranger was half-
way down the staircase, when the doctor, stretching out
his little neck, exclaimed,
"Good evening, sir! I do hope we shall meet again."
"Fear not," said Mr. Clifford, laughing gayly, "I am
too great a traveller to make that hope a matter of impos
sibility. Take care, madam, -one step more."
The night was calm and tolerably clear, though the moon
had not yet risen, as Lucy and her companion passed
through the fields, with the servant preceding them at a
little distance with the lantern.
After a pause of some length, Clifford said, with a little
hesitation, "Is Miss Brandon related to the celebrated
barrister of her name?"
―
"He is my uncle," said Lucy; "do you know him?"
Only your uncle ?" said Clifford, with vivacity, and
evading Lucy's question, "I feared, hem!hem!
that is, I thought he might have been a nearer relation."
There was another, but a shorter pause, when Clifford re-
sumed, in a low voice, “Will Miss Brandon think me very
presumptuous if I say, that a countenance like her 's once
seen, can never be forgotten; and I believe, some years
since, I had the honor to see her in London, at the theatre.
It was but a momentary and distant glance that I was then
enabled to gain; and yet," he added, significantly,
sufficed ↑ "
« it
"I was only once at the theatre while in London, some
years ago," said Lucy, a little embarrassed; "and, indeed,
an unpleasant occurrence which bappened to my uncle,
with whom I was, is sufficient to make me remember it."
“Ha ! — and what was it?
Why, in going out of the playhouse, his watch was
stolen by some dexterous pickpocket."
"Was the rogue caught?" asked the stranger.
"Yes; and was sent the next day to Bridewell. My
uncle said he was extremely young, and yet quite hardened.
I remember that I was foolish enough, when I heard of his
sentence, to beg very hard that my uncle would intercede
for him; but in vain.”
"Did you, indeed, intercede for him?" said the stran-
ger, in so earnest a tone that Lucy colored for the twentieth
time that night, without seeing any necessity for the blush.
Clifford continued in a gayer tone, “Well, it is surprising
how rogues hang together. I should not be greatly sur-
prised if the person who despoiled your uncle, were one of
the same gang as the rascal who so terrified your worthy
friend the doctor. But is this handsome old place, your
home?
"This is my home," answered Lucy; "but it is an old-
fashioned, strange place; and few people, to whom it was
not endeared by associations, would think it handsome."
Pardon me!" said Lucy's companion, stopping, and
surveying, with a look of great interest, the quaint and
Elizabethan pile, which now stood close before them; its
dark bricks, gable-ends, and ivied walls, tinged by the
starry light of the skies, and contrasted by the river, which
rolled in silence below. The shutters to the large oriel
window of the room, in which the squire usually sat, were
still unclosed, and the steady and warm light of the apart-
ment shone forth, casting a glow, even to the smooth water
of the river at the same moment, too, the friendly bark
of the house-dog was heard, as in welcome; and was fol-
lowed by the note of the great bell, announcing the hour for
the last meal of the old-fashioned and hospitable family.
"There is a pleasure in this!" said the stranger, uncon-
sciously, and with a half sigh: "I wish I had a home!"
"And have you not a home?" said Lucy with naïveté.
"As much as a bachelor can have, perhaps," answered
Clifford, recovering without an effort his gayety and self-
possession." But you know we wanderers are not allowed
the same boast as the more fortunate Benedicts; we send
cur hearts in search of a home, and we lose the one with-
out gaining the other. But I keep you in the cold, and we
are now at your door."
"You will come in of course!" said Miss Brandon,
"and partake of our evening cheer."
·
The stranger hesitated for an instant, and then said in a
quick tone,
"No! many
many thanks; it is already late. Will
Miss Brandon accept my gratitude for her condescension,
in permitting the attendance of one unknown to her?'
As he thus spoke, Clifford bowed profoundly over the hand
of his beautiful charge; and Lucy, wishing him good-night,
hastened with a light step to her father's side.
Meanwhile, Clifford, after lingering a minute, when the
door was closed on him, turned abruptly away; and mut-
tering to himself, repaired with rapid steps, to whatever
object he had then in view.
418
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER XIV.
"prouse ye then.
My merry, merry men!"
JOANNA BAILLIE.
WHEN the moon rose that night, there was one spot
upon which she palely broke, about ten miles distant from
Warlock, which the forewarned traveller would not have
Deen eager to pass, but which might not have afforded a bad
study to such artists as have caught from the savage painter
of the Apennines a love for the wild and the adventurous.
Dark trees scattered far and wide over a broken, but ver-
dant sward made the back ground; the moon shimmered
through the boughs as she came slowly forth from her pa-
vilion of cloud, and poured a broader beam on two figures
just advanced beyond the trees. More plainly brought
into light by her rays than his companion, here a horseman,
clad in a short cloak that barely covered the crupper of the
steed, was looking to the priming of a large pistol which he
had just taken from his holster. A slouched hat, and a
mask of black crape, conspired with the action to throw
a natural suspicion on the intentions of the rider. His
norse, a beautiful dark grey, stood quite motionless, with
arched neck, and its short ears quickly moving to and fro,
demonstrative of that sagacious and anticipative attention
which characterizes the noblest of all tamed animals: you
would not have perceived the impatience of the steed, but
for the white foain that gathered round the bit, and for an
occasional and unfrequent toss of the head. Behind this
horseman, and partially thrown into the dark shadow of
the trees, another man, similarly clad, was busied in tight-
ening the girths of a horse, of great strength and size. As
he did so, he hummed, with no unmusical murmur, the air
of a popular drinking song.
"Sdeath, Ned," said his comrade, who had for some
time been plunged in a silent reverie, -"'sdeath! why
can you not stifle your love for the fine arts, at a moment
like this? That hum of thine grows louder every moment,
every moment,
at last I expect it will burst out into a full roar; recollect
we are not at Gentleman George's now !"
"The more 's the pity, Augustus, answered Ned.
"Soho, Little John! woaho, sir! a nice long night like
this, is made on purpose for drinking-Will you, sir?
keep still then!"
*
"Man never is, but always to be blest," said the moral-
izing Tomlinson; " you see you sigl for other scenes
even when you have a fine night and the chance of a God-
send before you.
>>
Ay, the night is fine enough," said Ned, who was
rather a grumbler, as, having finished his groomlike opera-
tion, he now slowly mounted. "Damn it, Oliver looks
out as broadly as if he were going to blab. For my part,
I love a dark night with a star here and there winking at
us, as much as to say, 'I see you, my boys, but I wont say
a word about it,' and a small, pattering, drizzling, mizzling
rain that prevents Little John's hoofs being heard, and
covers one's retreat, as it were. Besides, when one is a
little wet, it is always necessary to drink the more, to
keep the cold from one's stomach when one gets home."
"Or in other words," said Augustus, who loved a maxim
from his very heart; "light wet cherishes heavy wet!
"Good!" said Ned, yawning; "hang it, I wish the
captain would come. Do you know what o'clock it is ?-
Not far short of eleven, I suppose?"
"About that! hist, is that a carriage?-No-it is
only a sudden rise in the wind.”
Very self-sufficient in Mr. Wind to allow himself to
be raised without our help!" said Ned; "by the way,
we are of course to go back to the Red Cave."
"So Captain Lovett says Tell me, Ned, what do
you think of the new tenant Lovett has put into the cave?"
"Oh, I have strange doubts there," answered Ned,
shaking the hairy honors of his head; "I do n't half like
it; consider, the cave is our strong hold, and ought only
to be known
"To men of tried virtue," interrupted Tomlinson. "I
you; I must try and get Lovett to discard his
agree with you ;
singular protegé, as the French say.
'Gad, Augustus, how came you by so much learning?
You know all the poets by heart, to say nothing of Latin
nd French."
The moon.
|
“Oh, hang it, i was brought up like the captain, to †
literary way of life."
"That's what makes you so thick with him, I suppose.
He writes (and sings too) a tolerable song, and is cer
tainly a deused clever fellow. What a rise in the world
he has made! Do you recollect what a poor sort of way he
was in, when you introduced him at Gentleman George's ?
and now he 's the Captain Crank of the gang."
"The gang! the company you mean. Gang indeed:
One would think you were speaking of a knot of pick-
pockets. Yes, Lovett is a clever fellow; and, thanks to
me, a very decent philosopher!" It is impossible to con-
vey to our reader the grave air of importance, with which
Tomlinson made his concluding laudation. "Yes," said
he, after a pause, "he has a bold, plain way of viewing
things, and, like Voltaire, he becomes a philosopher, by
being a man of sense! Hist! see my horse's ears! some
one is coming, though I do n't hear him! keep watch!
The robbers became silent, the sound of distant hoofs
was distinctly heard, and as it came nearer, there was a
crash of boughs, as if a hedge had been ridden through;
presently the moon gleamed picturesquely on the figure of
a horseman, approaching through the copse in the rear of
the robbers. Now he was half seen among the sinuosities
of his forest-path; now in full sight, now altogether hid;
then his horse neighed impatiently; now he again came
in sight, and in a moment more, he had joined the pair!
The new comer was of a tall, sinewy frame, and in the first
bloom of manhood. A frock of dark green, edged with a
narrow silver lace, and buttoned from the throat to he
middle, gave due effect to an upright mein, a broad chest,
and slender, but rounded waist, that stood in no need of
the compression of the tailor. A short riding-cloak clasped
across the throat with a silver buckle, hung picturesquely
over one shoulder, while his lower limbs were cased in
military boots, which, though they rose above the knee,
were evidently neither heavy nor embarrassing to the
vigorous sinews of the horseman. The caparisons of the
steed,-
steed, the bit, the bridle, the saddle, the holster,— were
according to the most approved fashion of the day; and
the steed itself was in the highest condition, and of re-
markable beauty. The horseman's air was erect and
bold; a small but coal-black mustachio heightened the
resolute expression of his short, curved lip; and from
beneath the large hat which overhung his brow, his long
lock escaped, and waved darkly in the keen night air.
Altogether, horseman and horse exhibited a gallant, and
even a chivalrous appearance, which the hour and the
scene heightened to a dramatic and romantic effect.
"Ha! Lovett ?"
"How are you, my merry men?" were the salutations
exchanged.
1
ود
"What news?" said Ned.
"Brave news! look to it. My lord and his carriage
will be by in ten minutes at most.
"Have you got any thing more out of the parson I fright-
ened so gloriously?" asked Augustus.
!
"No; more of that hereafter. Now for our new prey
"Are
you sure our noble friend will be so soon at hand?
said Tomlinson, patting his stced, that now pawed in ex-
cited hilarity.
"Sure! I saw him change horses; I was in the stable
yard at the time; he got out for half an hour, to eat, I
fancy; be sure that I played him a trick in the meal.
while."
What force?" asked Ned.
"Self and servant.
"The post-boys?"
CC
Ay, I forgot them.
them."
Never mind, you must frighte
"Forward!" cried Ned, and his horse sprang from his
armed heel.
"One moment," said Lovett; "I must put on my mask,
-soho, Robin, soho! Now for it, forward!"
As the trees rapidly disappeared behind them, the riders
entered, at a hand gallop, on a broad track of waste land
interspersed with dykes and occasionally fences of hurdles,
over which their horses bounded like quadrupeds well
accustomed to such exploits.
Certainly at that moment, what with the fresh air, the
fitful moonlight now breaking broadly out, now lost in a
rolling cloud, the exciting exercise, and that racy and dan-
cing stir of the blood, which all action, whether evil or
•
PAUL CLIFFORD.
417
amble in its nature, raises in our veins; what with all this,
we cannot but allow the fascination of that lawless life,
a fascination so great that one of the most noted gentlemen
highwaymen of the day, one too, who had received an
excellent education, and mixed in no inferior society, is
reported to have said when the rope was about his neck,
and the good ordinary was exhorting him to repent of his
ill-spent life, Ill-spent, you dog! God! (smacking his
lips,) it was delicious!"
<6
"Fie! fie! Mr.
raise your thoughts to heaven!"
"But a canter across a common,-oh!" muttered the
criminal; and his soul cantered off to eternity.
So briskly leaped the heart of the leader of the three,
that as they now came in view of the main road, and the
distant wheel of a carriage whirred on the ear; he threw
up his right hand with a joyous gesture, and burst into a
boyish exclamation of hilarity and delight.
Whist, captain!" said Ned, checking his own spirits,
with a mock air of gravity, "let us conduct ourselves like
gentlemen; it is only your low fellows who get into such
confoundedly high spirits; men of the world, like us, should
do every thing as if their hearts were broken."
(6
*
*
Melancholy ever cronies with sublimity, and courage
* A maxim which would have pleased Madame de Stael, who
thought that philosophy consisted in fine sentiments. In the
Life of Lord Byron, just published by Mr. Moore, the distin-
guished biographer makes a similar assertion to that of the sage
Augustus; "When did ever a sublime thought spring up in the
soul, that melancholy was not to be found, however latent, in
its neighbourhood?" Now, with due deference to Mr. Moore,
this is a very sickly piece of nonsense, that has not even an
atom of truth to stand on. "God said, Let there be light, and
there was light!" we should like to know where lies the mel-
ancholy of that sublime sentence. "Truth," says Plato, "is
the body of God, and light is his shadow." In the name of
common sense, in what possible corner, in the vicinity of that
lofty image, lurks the jaundiced face of this eternal bête noire
of Mr. Moore's? Again, in that sublimest passage in the sub-
limest of the Latin poets (Lucretius) which bursts forth in hon-
or of Epicurus, is there any thing redolent of sadness? On the
contrary, in the three passages we have referred to, especially
in the two first quoted, there is something splendidly luminous
and cheering. Joy is often a great source of the sublime; the
suddenness of its ventings would alone suffice to make it
80. What can be more sublime than the triumphant Psalms of
David, intoxicated as they are with an almost delirium of trans-
port? Even in the gloomiest passages of the poets, where we
recognise sublimity, we do not often find melancholy. We are
stricken by terror, appalled by awe, but seldom softened into
endness. In fact, melancholy rather belongs to another class of
feelings than those excited by a sublime passage, or those which
engender its composition. On one hand, in the loftiest flights
of Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, we will challenge a critic.
to discover this "green sickness" which Mr. Moore would con-
vert into the magnificence of the plague. On the other hand,
where is the evidence that melancholy made the habitual tem-
peraments of those divine men? Of Homer, we know nothing;
of Shakspeare and Milton, we have reason to believe the ordi-
nary temperament was constitutionally cheerful. The latter
boasts of it. A thousand instances in contradiction to an asser-
tion it were not worth while to contradict, were it not so gen-
erally popular, so highly sanctioned, and so eminently perni-
cious to every thing that is manly and noble in literature, rush
to our memory. But we think we have already quoted enough
to disprove the sentence, which the illustrious biographer has
himself disproved in more than twenty passages which, if he is
pleased to forget, we thank heaven, posterity never will. Now
we are on subject of this Life, so excellent in many respects,
we cannot out observe that we think the whole scope of its
philosophy utterly unworthy of the accomplished mind of the
writer; the philosophy consists of an unpardonable distorting
of general truths, to suit the peculiarities of an individual, no-
ble indeed, but proverbially morbid, and eccentric. A striking
instance of this occurs in the labored assertion that poets
make but sorry domestic characters. What! because Lord
Byron is said to have been a bad husband, was (to go no farther
back for examples) was Walter Scott a bad husband? or was
Campbell? or is Mr. Moore himself? Why, in the name of
justice, should it be insinuated that Milton was a bad husband,
when, as far as any one can judge in the matter, it was Mrs.
Milton who was the bad wife? And why, oh! why should we
be told by Mr. Moore, a man, who to judge by Captain Rock
and the Epicurean, wants neither learning nor diligence,
are we to be told, with peculiar emphasis, that Lord Bacon
never married, when Lord Bacon not only married, but his mar-
riage was so advantageous us to be an absolute epoch in his
career? Really, really one begins to believe that there is not
such a thing as a fact in the world!
"Primus Grains homo mortale is tollere contra, &c."
why
To these instances we might especially add the odes of Pin-
dar, Horace, and Campbell.
VOL. I
53
is sublime!" said Augustus with the omp of a maxim
maker.
"Now for the hedge!" cried Lovett, unheeding his
comrades, and his horse sprang into the road.
The three men now were drawn up quite still and mo-
tionless by the side of the hedge. The broad road lay
before them curving out of sight on either side; the ground
was hardening under an early tendency to frost, and the
clear ring of approaching hoofs sounded on the ear of the
robbers, ominous, haply, of the chinks of "more attrac
tive metal," about, if hope told no flattering tale, to be
their own.
Presently the long-expected vehicle made its appearance
at the turn of the road, and it rolled rapidly on behind four
fleet post-horses.
"You, Ned, with your large steed, stop the horses; you,
Augustus, bully the post-boys; leave me to do the rest,
said the captain.
"Now,
"As agreed," returned Ned, laconically.
look at me! and the horse of the rain highwayman
sprang from its shelter. So instantaneous were the ope-
rations of these experienced tacticians, that Lovett's or-
ders were almost executed in a briefer time than it had
cost him to give them.
The carriage being stopped, and the post-boys white and
trembling, with two pistols (levelled by Augustus and Pep-
per) cocked at their heads, Lovett dismounting, threw
open
the door of the carriage, and in a very civil tone, and
with a very bland address, accosted the inmate.
"Do not be alarmed, my lord, you are perfectly safe;
we only require your watch and purse."
Really," answered a voice still softer than that of the
robber, while a marked and somewhat French counte-
nance, crowned with a fur cap, peered forth at the arrester,
"really, sir, your request is so modest, that I were
worse than cruel to refuse you. My purse is not very full,
and you may as well have it as oue of my rascally duns, -
but my watch, I have a love for,
and—”
"I understand you, my lord," interrupted the highway-
"What do you value your watch at ?"
Humph, to you it may be worth some twenty gui.
man.
neas.
"Allow me to see it!"
"Your curiosity is extremely gratifying," returned the
nobleman, as with great reluctance he drew forth a gold
repeater, set, as was sometimes the fashion of that day,
in precious stones. The highwayman looked slightly at
the bauble.
"Your lordship," said he with great gravity, was
too modest in your calculation, your taste reflects great-
er credit on you: allow me to asure you, that your watch
is worth fifty guineas, to us at the least, to show you
that I think so most sincerely, I will either keep it, and
we will say no more on the matter; or I will return it to
you upon your word of honor that you will give me a check
for fifty guineas payable by your real bankers to bear-
er for self.” Take your cho.ce; it is quite immaterial
to me!"
"Upon my honor, sir," said the traveller, with some
surprise struggling to his features, "your coolness and self-
possession are quite admirable. I see you know the
world."
"Your lordship flatters me!" returned Lovett, bow.
ing. "How do you decide?"
CC
Why, is it possible to write drafts without ink, pen,
or paper?"
Lovett drew back, and while he was searching in his
pockets for writing implements, which he always carried
about him, the traveller seized the opportunity, and sud-
denly snatching a pistol from the pocket of the carriage,
levelled it full at the head of the robber. The traveller
was an excellent and practised shot, he was almost
within arm's length of his intended victim, his pistols
were the envy of all his Irish friends. He pulled the trig
ger, the powder flashed in the pan, and the highway-
man, not even changing countenance, drew forth a small
ink-bottle, and placing a steel pen in it, handed it to the
nobleman, saying, with incomparable sang froid, “Would
you like, my lord, to try the other pistol? it so, oblige
me by a quick aim, as you must see the necessity of de-
spatch. If not, here is the back of a letter, un which you
can write the draft.”
413
BULWER'S NOVELS
The traveller was not a man apt to become embarrassed
in any thing, save his circumstances; but he certainly felt a
little discomposed and confused, as he took the paper, and
uttering some broken words, wrote the check. The
nighwayman glanced over it, saw it was writ according to
form, and then with a bow of cool respect, returned the
watch, and shut the door of the carriage.
Meanwhile the servant had been shivering in front,
boxed up in that solitary convenience termed, not eupho-
niously, a dickey. Him the robber now briefly ac-
costed.
"What have you got about you belonging to your
master ?"
the
Only his pills, your honor! which I forgot to put in
"Pills!" throw them down to me! The valet
tremblingly extracted from his side-pocket a little box,
which he threw down, and Lovett caught it in his
pand.
He opened the box, counted the pills
"One, two, four, twelve,
opened the carriage door.
J
aha!" He re-
"Are these your pills, my lord?"
The wondering peer, who had begun to re-settle him-
self in the corner of his carriage, answered, "that they
were.
My lord, I see you are in a high state of fever: you
were a little delirious just now when you snapped a pistol
in your friend's face. Permit me to recommend you a pre-
scription, swallow off all these pills!"
Q
"My God!" cried the traveller, startled into earnest-
ness: What do you mean? - twelve of those pills would
kill a man.
"Hear him!" said the robber appealing to his com-
rades who roared with laughter, "What, my lord, would
you rebel against your doctor? Fie, fie! be per-
suaded."
And with a soothing gesture he stretched the pill-box to-
wards the recoiling nose of the traveller. But, though a
man who could as well as any one make the best of a bad
condition, the traveller was especially careful of his health,
and so obstinate was he where that was concerned, that
he would rather have submitted to the effectual operation
of a bullet, than incurred the chance operation of an ex-
tra pill. He, therefore, with great indignation, as the box
was still extended toward him, snatched it from the hand
of the robber, and flinging it across the road, said, with
dignity, -
"Do your worst, rascals! But if you leave me alive,
shali
you repent the outrage you have offered to one of his
majesty's household!' Then, as if becoming sensible of
the ridicule of affecting too much in his present situation,
he added in an altered tone; " And now, for God's sake,
shut the door! and if you must kill somebody, there's my
servant on the box,- he 's paid for it."
This speech made the robbers laugh more than ever; and
Lovett, who liked a joke even better than a purse, imme-
diately closed the carriage-door, saying,-
"Adieu! my lord; and let me give you a piece of ad-
vice: whenever you get out at a country inn, and stay half-
an-hour while your horses are changing, take your pis-
ols with you, or you may chance to have the charge
drawn.”
With this admonition the robber withdrew; and seeing
hat the valet held out to him a long green purse, he said,
gently shaking his head,
"Rogues should not prey on each other, my good fellow.
You rob your master, - so do we, -let each keep what
he has got."
Long Ned and Tomlinson then backing their horses, the
carriage was freed; and away started the post-boys at a
Dace which seemed to show less regard for life than the
robbers themselves had evinced.
Meanwhile the captain remounted his steed, and the
three confederates, bounding in gallant style over the hedge
through which they had previously gained the road, galloped
off in the same direction they had come; the moon, ever
and anon, bringing into light their flying figures, and the
sound of many a joyous peal of laughter, ringing through
the distance along the frosty air.
Gold
CHAPTER XV.
What is here?
*
*
Thus much of this will make black white, — foul fair.
Timon of Athens
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly drest,
Fresh as a bridegroom.
I do not know the man I should avoid
Henry the Fourth.
So soon as that spare Cassius! He reads much.
He is a great observer; and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men.
Often he smiles; but smiles in such a sort,
As if he mocked himself, or scorned his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at any thing.
Julius Cæsar.
THE next day, late at noon, as Lucy was sitting with
her father, not as usual engaged either in work or in read.
ing, but seemingly quite idle, with her pretty foot upon the
squire's gouty stool, and her eyes fixed on the carpet, while
ber hands (never were hands so soft and so small as Lucy's,
though they may have been eclipsed in whiteness) ere
lightly clasped together and reposed listlessly on her knees,
the surgeon of the village abruptly entered with a face
full of news and horror. Old Squire Brandon was one of
those persons who always hear news, whatever it may be,
later than any of their neighbours, and it was not till all the
gossips of the neighbourhood had picked the bone of the
mattter quite bare, that he was now informed, through the
medium of Mr. Pillum, that Lord Mauleverer had on the
preceding night been stopped by three highwaymen in his
road to his country seat, and robbed to a considerable
amount.
The fame of the worthy Doctor Slopperton's mal-adven
ture having, long ere this, been spread far and wide, the
whole neighbourhood was naturally thrown into great con-
sternation. Magistrates were sent to, large dogs borrowed,
blunderbusses cleaned, and a subscription made throughout
the parish for the raising of a patrol. There seemed little
doubt but that the offenders, in either case, were members
of the same horde; and Mr. Pillum in his own mind was
perfectly convinced that they meant to encroach upon his
trade, and destroy all the surrounding householders who
were worth the trouble.
The next week passed in the most diligent endeavours,
on the part of the neighbouring magistrates and yeomanry,
to detect and seize the robbers, but their labors were utterly
fruitless; and one justice of peace, who had been particu-
larly active, was himself entirely "cleaned out" by an
old gentleman, who, under the name of Mr. Bagshot, -
rather an ominous cognomen, offered to conduct the unsus-
picious magistrate to the very spot where the miscreants
might be seized. No sooner, however, had he drawn the
poor justice away from his comrades into a lonely part of
the road, than he stripped him to his shirt. He did not
even leave his worship his flannel drawers, though the weath
er was as bitter as the dog-days of eighteen hundred and
twenty-nine.
"Tis not my way," said the hoary ruffian, when the
justice petitioned at least for the latter article of attire,
-I I
"'tis not my way, I be's slow about my work, but
does it thorough; so off with your rags, old 'un.”
This was, however, the only additional instance of ag-
gression in the vicinity of Warlock Manor-house; and by
degrees, as the autumn declined, and no farther enormities
were perpetrated, people began to look out for a new topic
of conversation. This was afforded them by a piece of
unexpected good fortune to Lucy Brandon.
Mrs. Warner, an old lady to whom she was slightly re
lated, and with whom she had been residing during her
brief and only visit to London, died suddenly, and in her
will declared Lucy to be her sole heiress. The property
which was in the funds, and which amounted to sixty
thousand pounds, was to be enjoyed by Miss Brandon im
mediately on her attaining her twenty-first year; mean
while the executors to the will were to pay to the young
heiress the annual sum of six hundred pounds. The joy
which this news created in Warlock Manor-house, may
easily be conceived. The squire projected improvements
here, and repairs there; and Lucy, poor girl, who had no
idea of money for herself, beyond the purchase of a new
PAUL CLIFFORD.
419
poney, or a gown from London, seconded with affectionate
pleasure all her father's suggestions, and delighted herself
with the reflection, that those fine plans which were to
nake the Brandons greater than the Brandons ever were
before, were to be realized by her own, own money!
It was at this identical time that the surrounding gentry
made a simultaneous and grand discovery, viz. of the
astonishing merits and great good sense of Mr. Joseph
Brandon. It was a pity, they observed, that he was of so
reserved and shy a turn, it was not becoming in a gentle-
it was not becoming in a gentle-
man of so ancient a family. But why should they not en-
deavour to draw him from his retirement into those more
public scenes which he was doubtless well calculated to
adorn?
Accordingly, as soon as the first month of mourning had
expired, several coaches, chariots, chaises, and horses,
which had never been seen at Warlock Manor-house before,
arrived there one after the other in the most friendly man-
ner imaginable. Their owners admired every thing,
the house was such a fine relic of old times! for their
parts they liked an oak-staircase! and those nice old.
windows! - and what a beautiful peacock!— and. God
save the mark! that magnificent chestnut-tree was worth a
forest! - Mr. Brandon was requested to make one of the
county hunt, not that he any longer hunted himself, but that
his name would give such consequence to the thing!-
Miss Lucy must come to pass a week with her dear friends
the Honorable Misses Sansterre-Augustus, their brother,
had such a sweet lady's horse ! — In short, the customary
change which takes place in people's characters after the
acquisition of a fortune, took place in the characters of
Mr. and Miss Brandon; and when people become suddenly
amiable, it is no wonder that they should suddenly gain a
rast accession of friends.
But Lucy, though she had seen so little of the world, was
not quite blind; and the squire, though rather obtuse, was
not quite a fool. If they were not rude to their new visitors,
they were by no means overpowered with gratitude at their
condescension. Mr. Brandon declined subscribing to the
hunt, and Miss Lucy laughed in the face of the Honorable
Augustus Sansterre. Among their new guests, however,
was one who to great knowledge of the world joined an ex-
treme and even brilliant polish of manners, which at least
prevented deceit from being disagreeable, if not wholly
from being unseen, this was the new lieutenant of the
county, Lord Mauleverer.
|
they even alluded to it in the House of Commons, that chaste
assembly, where the never-failing subject of reproach against
Mr. Pitt was the not being of an amorous temperament;
but they had not hitherto prevailed against the stout earl's
celibacy. It is true that if he was devoid of a wife, he had
secured to himself plenty of substitutes; his profession was
that of a man of gallantry; and though he avoided the
daughters, it was only to make love to the mothers. But
his lordship had now attained a certain age, and it was at
last circulated among his friends that he intended to look
out for a Lady Mauleverer.
CC
Spare your caresses," said his Toad-in-chief, to a
certain duchess who had three portionless daughters,
"Mauleverer has sworn that he will not choose among your
order; you know his high politics, and you will not wonder
at his declaring himself averse in matrimony as in morals
to a community of goods.'
The announcement of the earl's matrimonial design, and
the circulation of this anecdote, set all the clergymen's
daughters in England on a blaze of expectation; and when
Mauleverer came to -shire, upon obtaining the honor
of the lieutenancy, to visit his estates and court the friend-
ship of his neighbours, there was not an old young lady of
forty, who worked in broad-stitch, and had never been to
London above a week at a time, who did not deem herself
exactly the sort of person sure to fascinate his lordship.
It was late in the afternoon when the travelling chariot
of this distinguished person, preceded by two out-riders in
the earl's undress livery of dark green, stopped at the hall
door of Warlock House. The squire was at home actually
and metaphorically, for he never dreamt of denying himself
to any one, gentle or simple. The door of the carriage
being opened, there descended a small slight man, richly
dressed, (for lace and silk vestments were not then quite
discarded, though gradually growing less the mode,) and of
an air prepossessing, and distinguished, rather than dignified.
His years,
for his countenance, though handsome, was
deeply marked, and evinced the tokens of dissipation,
seemed more numerous than they really were; and though
not actually past middle age, Lord Mauleverer might fairly
have received the unpleasing epithet of elderly. However,
his step was firm, his gait upright, and his figure was con-
siderably more youthful than his physiognomy. The first
compliments of the day having passed, and Lord Mauleverer
having expressed his concern that his long and frequent
absence from the county had hitherto prevented his making
the acquaintance of Mr. Brandon, the brother of one of his
oldest and most esteemed friends, conversation became on
both sides rather an effort. Mr. Brandon first introduced
the subject of the weather, and the turnips, - inquired
whether his lordship was not very fond, (for his part he
used to be, but lately the rheumatism had disabled him, he
hoped his lordship was not subject to that complaint) — of
shooting!
>
A
-
Catching only the last words, for besides the awful
complexity of the squire's sentences, Mauleverer was
slightly afflicted by the aristocratic complaint of deafness,
the earl answered with a smile,
"The complaint of shooting! very good indeed, Mr.
Brandon; it is seldom that I have heard so witty a phrase.
No, I am not in the least troubled with that epidemic. It
is a disorder very prevalent in this county,'
CC
and
My lord!" said the squire, rather puzzled,
then observing that Mauleverer did not continue, he thought
it expedient to start another subject.
Though possessed of an immense property in that district,
Lord Mauleverer had hitherto resided but little on his
estates. He was one of those gay lords who are now some-
what uncommon in this country after mature manhood is
attained, who live an easy and rakish life, rather among their
parasites than their equals, and who yet, by aid of an agree-
able manner, natural talents, and a certain graceful and
light cultivation of mind, (not the less pleasant for its being
universally colored with worldliness, and an amusing rather
than offensive regard for self,) never lose their .egitimate
station in society; who are oracles in dress, equipages,
cookery, and beauty, and, having no character of their own,
are able to fix by a single word a character upon any one
else. Thus while Mauleverer rather lived the dissolute life
of a young nobleman, who prefers the company of agreeable
demirips to that of wearisome duchesses, than maintain
the decorous state befitting a mature age, and an immense
interest in the country, he was quite as popular at court,
where he held a situation in the household, as he was in
the green-room, where he enchanted every actress on the
right side of forty. A word from him in the legitimate
quarters of power went farther than a harangue from
another; and even the prudes, at least, all those who had
at least, all those who had
daughters, confessed that his lordship was a very
interesting character." Like Brandon, his familiar friend,
he had risen in the world (from the Irish baron to the
English earl) without having ever changed his politics, |
which were ultra-Tory; and we need not observe that he
was deemed, like Brandon, a model of public integrity. "Our friend is disaffected!" thought the lord-lieuten-
He was possessed of two places under Government, six ant, imagining that the last opprobious term was applied to
votes in the House of Commons, and eight livings in the the respectable personages specified in the parenthesis
church; and we must add, in justice to his loyal and Bowing with a polished smile to the squire, Mauleverer re-
religious principles, that there was not in the three king-plied aloud, that he was extremely sorry, that their conduct
doms a firmer friend to the existing establishment.
(meaning the ministers) did not meet with Mr. Brandon's
approbation.
Whenever a nobleman does not marry, people try to
take away his character. Lord Mauleverer had never
married the Whigs had been very bitter on the subject;
·
"I was exceedingly grieved to hear that your lordship,
in travelling to Mauleverer Park (that is a very ugly road
across the waste land; the roads in this country are in gen-
eral pretty good
eral pretty good for my own part, when I was a magis-
trate I was very strict in that respect) was robbed. You
have not yet I believe detected (for my part, though I do
not profess to be much of a politician, I do think that in
affairs of robbery there is a great deal of remissness in the
ministers) the villains?"
--
"Well," thought the squire," that is playing the cour
tier with a vengeance!"
"Meet with my approbation!"
420
BULWER S NOVELS.
said he, warmly : "how could your lordship think me-
(for though I am none of your saints, I am, I hope, a good
Christian; an excellent one, judging from your words, your
ordship must be !) -so partial to crime !"
CC
"I partial to crime!" returned Mauleverer, thinking
he had stumbled unawares on some outrageous democrat,
yet, smiling as softly as usual ; you judge me harshly,
Mr. Brandon; you must do me more justice, and you can
only do that by knowing me better."
Whatever unlucky answer the squire might otherwise
bave made, was cut off by the entrance of Lucy: and the
earl, secretly delighted at the interruption, rose to render
her his homage and to remind her of the introduction he had
formerly been so happy as to obtain to her through the
riendship of Mr. William Brandon a friendship," said
the gallant cobleman, " to which I have often before been
indebted, but which was never more agreeably excited on
my behalf."
;
t
Upon this, Lucy, who, though she had been so painfully
bashful during her meeting with Mr. Clifford, felt no over-
powering diffidence in the presence of so much greater a
person, replied laughingly, and the earl rejoined by a sec-
ond compliment. Conversation was now no longer an ef-
fort and Mauleverer, the most consummate of epicures,
whom even royalty trembled to ask without preparation, on
being invited by the unconscious squire to partake of the
family dinner, eagerly accepted the invitation. It was long
since the knightly walls of Warlock had been honored by
the presence of a guest so courtly. The good squire heaped
his plate with a profusion of boiled beef, and while the poor
earl was contemplating in dismay the alps upon alps which
he was expected to devour, the gray-headed butler, anxious
to serve him with alacrity, whipped away the overloaded
plate, and presently returned it, yet more astonishingly sur-
charged with an additional world of a composition of stony
color and sudorific aspect, which, after examining in mute
attention for some moments, and carefully removing, as well
as he was able, to the extreme edge of his plate, the earl
discovered to be suet pudding.
"You eat nothing, my lord!" cried the squire; "let
me give you (this is more underdone)" holding between
blade and fork in middle air a horrent fragment of scarlet,
shaking its gory locks," another slice."
Swift at the word dropped upon Mauleverer's plate the
harpy finger and ruthless thumb of the gray-headed butler.
"Not a morsel more," cried the earl, struggling with
the murderous domestic. My dear sir, excuse me; I
assure you I have never eat such a dinner before
never!
"Nay now!" quoth the squire, expostulating," you really
(and this air is so keen that your lordship should in-
dulge your appetite, if you follow the physician's advice,) eat
nothing!"
Again Mauleverer was at fault.
"The physicians are right, Mr. Brandon," said he,
very right, and I am forced to live abstemiously; indeed
I do not know whether, if I were to exceed at your hospi-
table table, and attack all that you would bestow upon me,
I should ever recover it. You would have to seek a new
lieutenant for your charming county, and on the tomb of the
last Mauleverer the hypocritical and unrelated heir would
inscribe,' Died of the visitation of beef, John, Earl, &c.'”
Plain as the meaning of this speech might have seemed
to others, the squire only laughed at the effeminate appetite
of the speaker, and inclined to think him an excellent fellow
or jesting so good-humoredly on his own physical infirmity.
But Lucy had the tact of her sex, and taking pity on the
earl's calamitous situation, though she certainly never
guessed at its extent, entered with so much grace and ease
into the conversation which he sought to establish between
them, that Mauleverer's gentleman, who had hitherto been
pushed aside by the zeal of the gray-headed butler, found an
opportunity, when the squire was laughing and the butler
staring, to steal away the overburdened plate, unsuspected
and unseen.
Despite, however, of these evils of board and lodgment,
Mauleverer was exceedingly well pleased with his visit, nor
did he terininate it till the shades of the night had begun to
close, and the distance from his own residence conspired
with experience to remind him that it was possible for a
highwayman's audacity to attack the equipage even of Lord
Mauleverer. He then reluctantly reentered his carriage,
and bidding the postilion drive as fast as possible, wrapped
himself in his roquelare, and divided his thoughts between
Lucy Brandon, and the Homard au gratin with which he
purposed to console himself immediately on his return home.
However, Fate, which mocks our most cherished hopes, or-
dained that on arriving at Mauleverer Park the owner
should be suddenly afflicted with a loss of appetite, a cold-
ness in the limbs, a pain in the chest, and various other un-
gracious symptoms of portending malady. Lord Mauleverer
went straight to bed; he remained there for some days, and
when he recovered, his physicians ordered him to Bath.
The Whig Methodists, who hated him, ascribed his illness
to Providence; and his lordship was firmly of opinion that
it should be ascribed to the beef and pudding. However
this be, there was an end, for the present, to the hopes of
young ladies of forty, and to the intended festivities at
Mauleverer Park. "Good God!" said the earl, as s
la
carriage wheels turned from his gates, "what a loss c
country tradesinen may be occasioned by a piece of under.
done beef, especially if it be boiled! "
About a fortnight had elapsed since Mauleverer's meteor.
ic visit to Warlock House, when the Squire received from
his brother the following epistle : —
MY DEAR JOSEPH,
of business which surrounds me, will, I am sure, forgive me
"You know my numerous avocations, and amid the presa
for being a very negligent and remiss correspondent. Nev-
ertheless, I assure you, no one can more sincerely sympa-
my charming
thize in that good fortune which has befallen
niece, and of which your last letter informed me, than I do.
Pray give my best love to her, and tell her how compla-
cently I look forward to the brilliant sensation she will
create, when her beauty is enthroned upon that rank which,
I am quite sure, it will one day or other command.
"You are not aware, perhaps, my dear Joseph, that I
have, for some time, been in a very weak and declining
state of health. The old nervous complaint in my face has
of late attacked me grievously, and the anguish is some-
times so great, that I am scarcely able to bear it. I believe
the great demand which my profession makes upon a frame
of body never strong, and now beginning prematurely to
feel the infirmities of time, is the real cause of my mala-
dies. At last, however, I must absolutely punish my pock-
et, and indulge my inclinations by a short respite from toil.
The doctors, sworn friends, you know, to the lawyers,
since they make common cause against mankind, have pe-
remptorily ordered me to lie by, and to try a short course of
air, exercise, social amusements, and the waters of Bath.
Fortunately this is vacation time, and I can afford to lose
a few weeks of emolument, in order, perhaps, to secure
many years of life. I purpose then, early next week, re-
pairing to that melancholy reservoir of the gay, where per-
sons dance out of life, and are fiddled across the Styx. In a
word, I shall make one of the adventurers after health,
who seek the goddess at King Bladud's pump-room. Will
your friend,
you and dear Lucy join me there? I ask it of
ship, and I am quite sure that neither of you will shrink
aghast at the proposal of solacing your invalid relation.
At the same time that I am recovering health, my pretty
piece will be avenging Pluto, by consigning to his domin-
ions many a better and younger hero in my stead. And it
will be a double pleasure to me to see all the hearts, &c.
I break off, for what can I say on that subject, which she
little coquette does not anticipate? It is high time that Lucy
should see the world; and though there are many at Bath,
above all places, to whom the heiress will be an object of
interested attentions, yet there are also many in that crowd-
ed city by no means undeserving her notice. What say
you, dear Joseph ? But I know already; you will not re
fuse to keep company with me in my little holyday, and
Lucy's eyes are already sparkling at the idea of new bon-
nets, Milsom Street, a thousand adorers, and the Pump-
rcom.
C
Ever, dear Joseph,
Yours affectionately,
WILLIAM BRANDON.
"P. S. I find that my friend Lord Mauleverer is at
Bath; I own that is an additional reason to take me
thither; by a letter from him, received the other day, I see
that he has paid you a visit, and he now raves about his
host and the heiress. Ah, Miss Lucy, Miss Lucy? are
you going to conquer him whom all London has, for years
more tha care to tell, (yet not many, for Mauleverer is
still young,) assailed in vain? Answer me ?”
PAUL CLIFFORD.
42
This letter created a considerable excitement in Warlock
House. The old squire was extremely fond of his brother,
and grieved to the heart, to find that he spoke so discour-
agingly of his health. Nor did the squire for a moment
hesitate at accepting the proposal to join his distinguished
relative at Bath. Lucy, also, -who had for her uncle,
possibly from his profuse yet not indelicate flattery, a very
great regard and interest, though she had seen but little of
him, urged the squire to lose no time in arranging mat-
ters for their departure, so as to precede the barrister, and
prepare every thing for his arrival. The father and daugh-
ter being thus agreed, there was little occasion for delay;
an answer to the invalid's letter was sent by return of post,
and on the fourth day from their receipt of the said epistle,
the good old squire, his daughter, a country girl, by way of
Abigail, the gray-headed butler, and two or three live
pets, of the size and habits most convenient for travelling,
were impelled along in the huge womb of the family coach,
on their way to that city, which, at that time, was gayer at
least, if somewhat less splendid, than the metropolis.
On the second day of their arrival at Bath, Brandon, (as
in future, to avoid confusion, we shall call the younger
brother, giving to the elder his patriarchal title of squire,)
joined them.
He was a man seemingly rather fond of parade, though
at heart he disrelished and despised it. He came to their
lodging, which had not been selected in the very best part
of the town, in a carriage and six, but attended only by
one favorite servant.
They found him in better looks and better spirits than
they had anticipated; few persons, when he liked it, could
be inore agreeable than William Brandon; but at times
there nixed with his conversation a bitter sarcasm, proba-
bly a habit acquired in his profession, or an occasional
tinge of morose and haughty sadness, possibly the conse-
quence of his ill-health. Yet his disorder, which was some-
what approaching to that painful affliction, the tic doloureux,
though of fits more rare in occurrence than those of that
complaint ordinarily are, never seemed even for an instant
to operate upon his mood, whatever that might be. That
disease worked unseen; not a muscle of his face appeared
to quiver; the smile never vanished from his mouth, the
blandness of his voice never grew faint as with pain, and,
in the midst of intense torture, his resolute and stern mind
conquered every external indication, nor could the most
observant stranger have noted the moment when the fit at-
tacked or released him. There was something inscrutable
There was something inscrutable
about the man. You felt that you took his character upon
trust, and not on your own knowledge. The acquaintance
of years would have left you equally dark as to his vices or
his virtues. He varied often; yet in each variation he was
equally undiscoverable. Was he performing a series of
parts, or was it the ordinary changes of a man's true tem-
perament, that you beheld in him? Commonly smooth,
quiet, attentive, flattering in social intercourse; he was
known in the senate and courts of law, for a cold asperity
and a caustic venoin, scarcely rivalled even in those areas
of contention. It seemed as if the bitterer feelings he
checked in private life, he delighted to indulge in public.
Yet, even there, he gave not way to momentary petulance or
gushing passion, all seemed with him systematic sarcasm,
or habitual sternness. He outraged no form of ceremonial,
or of society. He stung, without appearing conscious of
the sting; and his antagonist writhed not more beneath
the torture of his satire, than the crushing contempt of his
self-command. - Cool, ready, armed, and defended on all
points, sound in knowledge, unfailing in observation, equally
consummate in sophistry, when needed by himself, and in-
stantaneous in detecting sophistry in another; scorning no
art, however painful, begrudging no labor, however
weighty, minute in detail, yet not the less comprehend-
ing the whole subject in a grasp; such was the legal and
public character William Brandon had established, and
such was the fame he joined to the unsullied purity of his
moral reputation. But to his friends, he seemed only the
agreeable, clever, lively, and, if we may use the phrase in-
nocently, the worldly man, ―never affecting a superior sanc-
tity, or an over-anxiety to forms, except on great occasions;
and rendering his austerity of manners the more admired,
because he made it seem so unaccompanied by hypocrisy.
|
close in diurnal slumber, -"tell me, Miss Lucy, what you
think of Lord Maulevorer; do you find him agreeable?"
Very; too much so, indeed "
"Too much so that is an uncommon fault, Lucy;
unless you mean to insinuate that you find him too agreea-
ble for your peace of mind."
"Oh no! there is little fear of that; all that I meant
to express was, that he seems to make it the sole business
of his life to be agreeable; and that one imagines he had
gained that end by the loss of certain qualities which one
would have liked better."
CC
Umph! and what are they?
"Truth, sincerity, independence, and honesty of mind."
"My dear Lucy, it has been the professional study of
my life to discover a man's character, especially so far as
truth is concerned, in as short a time as possible; but you
excel me by intuition, if you can tell whether there be
sincerity in a courtier's character at the first interview you
have with him."
"Nevertheless, I am sure of my opinion," said Lucy,
laughing; "and I will tell you one instance I observed
among a hundred. Lord Mauleverer is rather deaf, and
he imagined, in conversation, that my father said one thing
it was upon a very trifling subject-the speech of some
member of Parliament, (the lawyer smiled,) when in
reality he meant to say another. Lord Mauleverer, in the
warmest manner in the world, chimed in with him, ap-
peared thoroughly of his opinion, applauded his sentiments,
and wished the whole country of his mind. Suddenly my
father spoke, Lord Mauleverer bent down his ear, and
found that the sentiments he had so lauded were exactly
those my
father the least favored. No sooner did he make
this discovery, than he wheeled round again, dextrously
and gracefully, I allow; condemned all that he had before
extolled, and extolled all that he had before abused!
"And is that all, Lucy!" said Brandon, with a keener
sneer on his lip than the occasion warranted. "Why, that
is what every one does; only some more gravely than
others. Mauleverer in society; I, at the bar; the minis
ter in Parliament; friend to friend; lover to ristress;
mistress to lover; half of us are employed in saying white
is black, and the other half in swearing that black is
white. There is only one difference, my pretty niece,
between the clever man and the fool; the fool
says wha
is false, while the colors stare in his face and give hin
the lie; but the clever man takes, as it were, a brush
and literally turns the black into white, and the white
into black, before he makes the assertion, which is ther
true. The fool changes, and is a liar; the clever mar
makes the colors change, and is a genius. But this is
not for your young years yet, Lucy.'
"Yet, I can't see the necessity of seeming to agree with
people," said Lucy, simply; "surely they would be jus
as well pleased if you differed from them civilly, and with
respect.
"No, Lucy," said Brandon, still sneering; "to be liked,
it is not necessary to be any thing but compliant; lie
cheat, make every word a snare, and every act a forgery
but never contradict. Agree with people, and they
make a couch for you in their hearts. You know the
story of Dante and the buffoon.
story of Dante and the buffoon. Both were entertained at
the court of the vain pedant, who called himself Prince
Scaliger; the former poorly, the latter sumptuously. -
'How comes it,' said the buffoon to the poet, that I am
so rich, and you so poor ?”—• I shall be as rich as you,
was the stinging and true reply whenever I can find s
patron as like myself as Prince Scaliger is like you!"
"Yet my birds," said Lucy, caressing the goldfinch
which nestled to her bosom," are not like me, and I love
them. Nay, I often think I could love those better whe
differ from me the most. I feel it so in books; when.
for instance, I read a novel or a play; and you, uncle, I
like almost in proportion to my perceiving in myself noth-
ing in common with you."
W
"Yes," said Brandon," you have, in common with me,
a love for old stories of Sir Hugo, and Sir Rupert, and all
the other Sirs' of our mouldered and by-gone race. Su
you shall sing me the ballad about Sir John de Brandon,
and the dragon he slew in the Holy Land. We will ad-
journ to the drawing-room, not to disturb your father "
Well," said Brandon, as he sat after dinner alone Lucy agreed, took her uncle's arm, repaired to the draw-
with his relations, and had seen the eyes of his brothering-room, and, seating herself at the harpsichord, sang to
422
BULWER'S NOVELS.
an inspiriting, yet somewhat rude air, the family ballad
her uncle had demanded.
It would have been amusing to note, in the rigid face of
the hardened and habitual man of peace and parchments,
a certain enthusiasm which ever and anon crossed his
cheek, as the verses of the ballad rested on some allusion
to the knightly house of Brandon, and its old renown. It
was an carly prejudice, breaking out despite of himself—
a flash of character, stricken from the hard fossil in which
it was embedded. One would have supposed that the sil-
liest of all prides, (for the pride of money, though meauer,
is less senseless,) family pride was the last weakness
which at that time the callous and astute lawyer would
have confessed, even to himself.
"Lucy," said Brandon, as the song ceased, and he gazed
on his beautiful niece with a certain pride in his aspect,
"I long to witness your first appearance in the world. This
appearance in the world. This
lodging, my dear, is not fit
but pardon me what I
was about to say is this; your father and yourself are here
at my invitation, and in my house you must dwell; you are
my guests, not mine host and hostess. I have, therefore,
already directed my servant to secure me a house, and pro-
vide the necessary establishment; and I make no doubt, as
he is a quick fellow, that within three days all will be ready;
you must then be the magnet of my abode, Lucy; and,
meanwhile, you must explain this to my brother, and, for
you know his jealous hospitality, obtain his acquiescence."
But "began Lucy.
But me no buts," said Brandon, quickly, but with an
affectionate tone of wilfulness; "and now, as I feel very
much fatigued with my journey, you must allow me to seek
my own room.”
"I will conduct you to it myself," said Lucy, for she was
anxious to show her father's brother the care and fore-
thought which she had lavished on her arrangements for his
comfort. Brandon followed her into an apartment, which
his eye
knew at a glance had been subjected to that female
superintendence, which makes such uses from what men
reject as insignificant; and he thanked her with more than
his usual amenity, for the grace which had presided over,
and the kindness which had dictated, her preparations. As
soon as he was left alone, he wheeled his arm-chair near
the clear bright fire, and resting his face upon his hand, in
the attitude of a man who prepares himself, as it were, for
the indulgence of meditation, he muttered:-
"Yes! these women are, first, what Nature makes them,
and that is good next, what we make them, and that is
evil! Now, could I persuade myself, that we ought to be
nice as to the use we put these poor puppets to, I should
shrink from enforcing the destiny which I have marked for
this girl. But that is a pitiful consideration, and he is but
a silly player who loses his money for the sake of preserving
his counters. So, the young lady must go as another score
to the fortunes of William Brandon. After all, who suffers?
After all, who suffers?
not she. She will have wealth, rank, honor: I shall suffer,
to yield so pretty and pure a gem to the coronet of, faugh!
How I despise that dog! but how I could hate, crush,
mangle him, could I believe that he despised ine! Could he
do so? Umph! No, I have resolved myself, that is impos-
sible. Well, let me hope, that matrimonial point will be
settled; and now, let me consider what next step I shall
take for myself, myself!ay, only myself ! — with
me perishes the last male of Brandon. But the light shall
not go out under a bushel.'
As he said this, the soliloquist sunk into a more absorbed,
and a silent reverie, from which he was disturbed by the
entrance of his servant. Brandon, who was never a dreamner,
save when alone, broke at once from his reflections.
"You have obeyed my orders, Barlow?" said he.
"Yes, sir," answered the domestic, "I have taken the
best house yet unoccupied, and when Mrs. Roberts (Bran-
don's housekeeper) arrives from London, every thing will,
I trust, be exactly to your wishes.
"Good! And you gave my note to Lord Mauleverer ?”
"With my own hands, sir; his lordship will await you
at home all to-morrow.
•
"Very well! and now, Barlow, see that your room is
within call, (bells, though known, were not common at
that day,) and give out that I am gone to bed and must not
be disturbed. What's the hour?"
"Just on the stroke of ten, sir."
"Place on that table my letter-case, and the inkstand.
Look in, to help me to undress, at half past one; I shall go
to bed at that hour. And,
And, stay,
stay, be sure, Barlow, that
my brother believes me retired for the night. He does no.
know my habits, and will vex himself if he thinks I sit
uj
so late in my present state of health."
Drawing the table with its writing appurtenances nearer
to his master, the servant left Brandon once more to his
thoughts or his occupations.
CHAPTER XVI.
Servant. Get away, I say, wid dat nasty bell.
Punch. Do you call this a bell? (patting it.) It is an orgɔn
Punch. I say it is an organ, (striking him with it,)—wha¡ ´o
Servant. I say it is a bell, a nusty bell!
Servant. An organ, Mr. Punch.
you say it is now?
The Tragical Comedy of Punch and Judy
THE next morning, before Lucy and her father had left
their apartments, Brandon, who was a remarkably early
riser, had disturbed the luxurious Mauleverer in his first
slumber Although the courtier possessed a villa some
miles from Bath, he preferred a lodging in the town, both
as being warmer than a rarely inhabited country-house, and
as being, to an indolent man, more immediately convenient
for the gayeties and the waters of the medicinal city.
As soon as the earl had rubbed his eyes, stretched him-
self, and prepared for the untimeous colloquy, Brandon
poured forth his excuses for the hour he had chosen for a
visit.
"Mention it not, my dear Brandon," said the good-
natured nobleman, with a sigh; "I am glad at any hour
to see you, and I am very sure, that what you have to com-
municate is always worth listening to."
"It was only upon public business, though of rather a
more important description than usual, that I ventured to
disturb you," answered Brandon, seating himself on a chair
by the bedside.
"This morning, -an hour ago, -- ¿ re-
ceived by private express, a letter from London, stating
that a new arrangement will positively be made in the
cabinet, nay, naming the very promotions and changes;
I confess, that as my name occurred, as also your own, in
these nominations, I was anxious to have the benefit of your
necessarily accurate knowledge on the subject, as well as
of your advice."
CC
Really, Brandon, said Mauleverer, with a half-peevish
smile, "any other hour in the day would have dere for the
business of the nation,' as the newspapers call that trouble-
some farce we go through; and I had imagined you would
not have broken my nightly slumbers, except for something
of real importance, the discovery of a new beauty, or the
invention of a new dish."
"Neither the one nor the other could you have expected
from me, my dear lord," rejoined Brandon;
you know
the dry triffes in which a lawyer's life wastes itself away,
and beauties and dishes have no attraction for us, except
the former be damsels deserted, and the latter patents in-
vaded. But my news, after all, is worth hearing, unless
you have heard it before."
"Not I! but I suppose I shall hear it in the course of
the day; pray heaven I be not sent for, to attend some
plague of a council. Begin!"
In the first place, Lord Duberly resolves to resign,
unless this negotiation for peace be made a cabinet ques-
tion !”
"Pshaw ! let him resign. I have opposed the peace so
long, that it is out of the question. Of course, Lord
Wanstead will not think of it, and he may count on my
boroughs. A peace! shameful, disgraceful, dastardly prop-
osition!"
"But, my dear lord, my letter says, that this unexpect
ed firmness on the part of Lord Duberly has produced so
great a sensation, that seeing the impossibility of forming
a durable cabinet without him, the king has consented to
the negotiation, and Duberly stays in!
"The devil ! what next!"
"Raffden and Sternhold go out in favor of Baldwin and
Charlton; and in the hope that you will lend your and
to
"I!" said Lord Mauleverer, very angrily; "I! lend
my aid to Baldwin, the Jacobin, and Charlton, the son of
a brewer!"
Very true" continued Brandon; "but in the hope
PAUL CLIFFORD.
423
that you might be persuaded to regard the new arrange-
ments with an indulgent eye, you are talked of, instead of
for the vacant garter and the office of
the Duke of
chamberlain."
"You don't mean it!" cried Mauleverer, starting from
his bed.
"A few other (but, I hear, chiefly legal) promotions are
to be made. Among the rest, my learned brother, the dem-
ocrat Sarsden, is to have a silk gown; Cromwell is to
be attorney-general, and, between ourselves, they have
offered me a judgeship.
J
"But the garter!" said Mauleverer, scarcely hearing
the rest of the lawyer's news, "the whole object, aim,
and ambition of my life. How truly kind in the king!
After all," continued the earl laughing, and throwing
bimself back, "opinions are variable, truth is not uni-
form, the times change, not we,- and we must have
peace instead of war!
"Your maxims are indisputable, and the conclusion you
come to is excellent," said Brandon.
CC
Why, you and I, my dear fellow," said the earl,
"who know men, and who have lived all our lives in the
world, must laugh behind the scenes at the cant we wrap
in tinsel, and send out to stalk across the stage. We
know that our Coriolanus of Tory integrity, is a corporal
kept by a prostitute; and the Brutus of Whig liberty is a
lackey turned out of place for stealing the spoons, but
we must not tell this to the world. So, Brandon, you
and be
must write me a speech for the next session,
sure it has plenty of general maxims, and concludes with
my bleeding country!'"
J
The lawyer smiled. "You consent then to the expul-
sion of Sternhold and Raffden? for, after all, that is the
question. Our British vessel, as the damned metaphor-
mongers call the state, carries the public good safe in the
hold like brandy, and it is only when fear, storm, or the devil
makes the rogues quarrel among themselves, and break up
the casks, that one gets above a thimble-full at a time.
We should go on fighting with the rest of the world for
ever, if the ministers had not taken to fight among them-
selves."
—
As for Sternhold," said the earl, "'tis a vulgar dog,
and voted for economical reform, besides, I do n't know
him; he may go to the devil, for aught I care; but Raff-
den must be dealt handsomely with, or, despite the garter,
I will fall back among the Whigs, who, after all, give tol-
erable dinners.”
"But why, my lord, must Raffden be treated better
than his brother recusant?"
|
me, for
give me the first vacancy among the chiefs. The place of
chief justice or chief baron is indeed the only fair remu-
neration for my surrender of the gains of my profession,
and the abandonment of my parliamentary and legal ca-
reer; the title might go (at least, by an exertion of interest)
to the eldest son of my niece, in case she married a com-
moner; or," added he after a pause, "her second son ir
case she married a peer."
"Ha,
true!" said Mauleverer quickly; and as if
struck by some sudden thought, "and your charming niece,
Brandon, would be worthy of any honor either to her chil-
dren or herself. You do not know how struck I was with her;
there is something so graceful in her simplicity; and in her
manner of smoothing down the little rugosities of Warlock
House, there was so genuine and so easy a dignity, that I
declare, I almost thought myself young again, and capable
of the self-cheat of believing myself in love. But, oh!
Brandon, imagine me at your brother's board!
whom ortolans are too substantial, and who feel, when I
tread, the slightest inequality in the carpets of Tournay !
- imagine me, dear Brandon, in a black-wainscot room,
hung round with your ancestors in brown wigs, with posies
in their button-holes, an immense fire on one side and a
thorough draught on the other, -a huge circle of beef be-
fore me, smoking like Vesuvius, and twice as large,
plateful (the plate was pewter, is there not a metal so
called?) of this mingled flame and lava sent under my very
nostril, and upon pain of ill-breeding to be despatched
down my proper mouth, -an old gentleman in fustian-
breeches and worsted stockings, by way of a butler, filling
me a can of ale,- and your worthy brother asking me if Î
would not prefer port, a lean footman in a livery (such a
livery, ye gods !) scarlet, blue, yellow, and green, a rain-
bow ill made! on the opposite side of the table looking at
the lord' with eyes and mouth equally open, and large
enough to swallow me,- and your excellent brother him-
self at the head of the table glowing through the mists of
the beef, like the rising sun in a sign-post, and then,
Brandon, turning from this image, behold beside me the
fair, delicate, aristocratic, yet simple loveliness of your
niece, and, but you ook
angry, I have offended
you.'
-
Ş
3
It was high time for Mauleverer to ask that question;
for, during the whole of the earl's recital, the dark face of
his companion had literally burnt with rage: and here we
may observe, how generally selfishness, which makes the
man of the world, prevents its possessor, by a sort of para-
dox, from being consummately so. For Mauleverer, occu-
pied by the pleasure he felt at his own wit, and never hav-
incessantly keen observer, had not, for a moment, thought
that he was offending to the quick the hidden pride of the
lawyer. Nay, so little did he suspect Brandon's real
weaknesses, that he thought him a philosopher, who would
have laughed alike at principles and people, however near
to him might be the latter, and however important the for-
mer. Mastering by a single effort, which restored his
cheek to its usual steady hue, the outward signs of his dis-
pleasure, Brandon rejoined,
I do not
"Because he sent me, in the handsomest manner possi-ing that magic sympathy with others, which creates the
ble, a pipe of that wonderful Madeira, which you know I
consider the chief grace of my cellars, and he gave up a
canal navigation bill which would have enriched his whole
county, when he knew that it would injure my property.
No, Brandon, curse public cant, we know what that is.
But we are gentlemen, and our private friends must not be
thrown to the devil, unless, at least, we do it in the civilest
manner we can.
"Fear not," said the lawyer; "you have only to say
the word, and the cabinet can cook up an embassy to
Owhyhee, and send Raffden there with a stipend of five
thousand a year.
"Ah! that's well thought of; or we might give him a
grant of a hundred thousand acres in one of the colonies,
or let him buy crown-land at a discount of eighty per cent.
So that's settled."
"And now, my dear friend," said Brandon, " I will tell
you frankly why I come so early; I am required to give a
hasty answer to the proposal I have received, namely of
the judgeship. Your opinion?"
"A judgeship! you a judge? What! forsake your
brilliant career for so petty a dignity!
you jest!
"Offend me! by no means, my dear lord.
wonder at your painful situation in an old country gentle-
man's house, which has not for centuries offered scenes fit
for the presence of so distinguished a guest. Never, I may
say, since the time when Sir Charles de Brandon enter-
tained Elizabeth at Warlock; and your ancester, (you knew
my old musty studies on those points of obscure antiquity,)
John Mauleverer, who was a noted goldsmith of London,
supplied the plate for the occasion.
"Fairly retorted," said Mauleverer, smiling; for though
the earl had a great contempt for low birth, set on high
places, in other men, he was utterly void of pride for his
own family
fairly retorted! but I never meant any
thing else but a laugh at your brother's housekeeping; a.
joke, surely, permitted to a man whose own fastidiousness
on these matters is so standing a jest. But, by heavens,
Brandon, to turn from these subjects, your niece is the
prettiest girl I have seen for twenty years; and if she
would forget my being the descendant of John Mauleverer,
the noted goldsmith of London, she may be Lady Maulev
erer as soon as she pleases.'
"Not at all,
listen. You know how bitterly I have
opposed this peace, and what hot enemies I have made
among the new friends of the administration: on the one
band, these enemies insist on sacrificing me; and on the
other, if I were to stay in the Lower House and speak for
what I have before opposed, I should forfeit the support of
a great portion of my own party; hated by one body, and
mistrusted by the other, a seat in the House of Commons
ceases to be an object. It is proposed that I should retire
on the dignity of a judge, with the positive and pledged,
though secret, promise of his majesty and the premier, to | joke
CC
Nay, now let us be serious, and talk of the judge.
ship," said Brandon, affecting treat the proposal as a
124
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"By the soul of Sir Charles de Brandon, I am seri-
ous!" cried the earl; " and as a proof of it, I hope you
will let me pay my respects to your niece to-day, — not
with my offer in my hand, yet for it must be a love-
match on both sides," and the earl, glancing toward an
opposite glass, which reflected his attenuated but comely
features, beneath his velvet night-cap, trimmed with mech-
lin, laughed half-triumphantly as he spoke.
A sneer just passed the lips of Brandon, and as instantly
vanished; while Mauleverer continued:
"And as for the judgeship, dear Brandon, I advise you
o accept 't, though you know best; and I do think no man
will stand a fairer chance of the chief-justiceship, or,
though it be somewhat unusual for common lawyers,
why not the woolsack itself? As you say, the second son
of your niece might inherit the dignity of the peerage !”
Well, I will consider of it favorably," said Brandon,
and soon afterwards he left the nobleman to renew his
broken repose.
r
"I can't laugh at that man," said Mauleverer to him-
self, as he turned round in his bed, "though he has much
that I should laugh at in another; and faith, there is one
little matter I might well scorn him for, if I were not a
philosopher. Tis a pretty girl, his niece, and with proper
instructions might do one credit; besides, she has 60,000l.
ready money; and faith, I have not a shilling for my own
pleasure, though I have, or, alas! had, fifty thousand a-
year for that of my establishment! In all probability, she
will be the lawyer's heiress, and he must have made, at
least, as much again as her portion; nor is he, poor devil,
a very good life. Moreover if he rise to the peerage? and
the second son,
Well, well! it will not be such a bad
match for the goldsmith's descendant, either."
With that thought, Lord Mauleverer fell asleep. He
lose about noon, dressed himself with unusual pains, and
was just going forth on a visit to Miss Brandon, when he
suddenly remembered that her uncle had not mentioned her
address, or his own. He referred to the lawyer's note of
the preceding evening; no direction was inscribed on it;
and Mauleverer was forced, with much chagrin, to forego
for that day the pleasure he had promised himself.
In truth, the wary lawyer, who, as we have said, de-
spised show and outward appearances as much as any man,
was yet sensible of their effect even in the eyes of a lover;
and moreover, Lord Mauleverer was one, whose habits of
life were calculated to arouse a certain degree of vigilance
on points of household pomp, even in the most unobser-
vant. Brandon therefore resolved that Lucy should not be
visited by her admirer, till the removal to their new abode
was effected; nor was it till the third day from that on
which Mauleverer had held with Brandon the interview we
have recorded, that the earl received a note from Brandon,
seemingly turning only on political matters, but inscribed
with the address and direction in full form.
Mauleverer answered it in person. He found Lucy at
home, and more beautiful than ever; and from that day his
mind was made up, as the mammas say, and his visits be-
came constant.
CHAPTER XVII.
The blessing of an hereditary nobility, the honorable pro-
fession of the law.-Common Phrases.
There is a festival where knights and dames,
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims,
Appear.
*
*
"Tis he, how came he thence,
*
*
*
what doth he here?
Lara.
THERE are two charming situations in life for a woman:
one, the first freshness of heiress-ship and beauty, the other,
youthful widowhood with a large jointure. It was at least
Lucy's fortune to enjoy the first. No sooner was she fairly
launched into the gay world, than she became the object of
universal idolatry. Crowds followed her wherever she
moved nothing was talked of, or dreant of, toasted, or
betted on, but Lucy Brandon; even her simplicity and utter
ignorance of the arts of fine life, enhanced the éclat of her
reputation Somehow or other, young people of the gentler
sex are rarely ill bred, even in their eccentricities; and
there is often a great deal of grace in inexperience. Her
uncle, who accompanied her everywhere, himself no sligh
magnet of attraction, viewed her success with a complacent
triumph, which he suffered no one but her father or herself
to detect. To the smooth coolness of his manner, nothing
would have seemed more foreign than pride at the notice
gained by a beauty, or exultation at any favor won from
the caprices of fashion. As for the good old squire, one
would have imagined hi far more the invalid than his
brother. He was scarcely ever seen; for though he went
everywhere, he was one of those persons who sink into a
corner the moment they enter a room. Whoever discovered
him in his retreat, held out their hands, and exclaimed,
"God bless me ! you here! we have not seen you for this
age?" Now and then, if in a very dark niche of the room
a card-table had been placed, the worthy gentleman toiled
through an obscure rubber, but more frequently he sat with
his hands clasped, and his mouth open, counting the number
of candles in the room, or calculating "when that d——d
music would be over.
Lord Mauleverer, though a polished and courteous man
whose great object was necessarily to ingratiate himself
with the father of his intended bride, had a horror of being
bored, which surpassed all other feelings in his mind. He
could not, therefore, persuade himself to submit to the
melancholy duty of listening to the squire's "linked
speeches long drawn out." He always glided by the honest
man's station, seemingly in an exceeding hurry, with a,
Ah, my dear sir, how do you do? How delighted I am to
see you! and your incomparable daughter ? — Oh, there
she is! - pardon me, dear sir. — you see my attraction,
au plaisir !"
Lucy, indeed, who never forgot any one, (except herself
occasionally,) sought her father's retreat as often as she was
able; but her engagements were so incessant, that she no
sooner lost one partner, than she was claimed and carried
off by another. However, the squire bore his solitude with
tolerable cheerfulness, and always declared that "he was
very well amused; although balls and concerts were neces-
sarily a little dull to one who came from a fine old place
like Warlock Manor-house, and it was not the same thing
that pleased young ladies (for to them, that fiddling and
giggling till two o'clock in the morning might be a very
pretty way of killing time) and their papas !"
What considerably added to Lucy's celebrity, was the
marked notice and admiration of a man so high in rank and
ton as Lord Mauleverer. That personage, who still retained
much of a vouthful mind and temper, and who was in his
nature more careless than haughty, preserved little or ne
state in his intercourse with the social revellers at Bath
He cared not whither he went, so that he was in the trair
of the young beauty; and the most fastidious nobleman of
tne English court was seen in every second and third rate
set of a great watering-place, the attendant, the flirt, and
often the ridicule of the daughter of an obscure and almost
insignificant country squire. Despite the honor of so dis-
tinguished a lover, and despite all the novelties of her situa
tion, the pretty head of Lucy Brandon was as yet, however,
perfectly unturned; and as for her heart, the only impres
sion that it had ever received was made by that wandering
guest of the village rector, whom she had never again seen,
but who yet clung to her imagination, invested not only
with all the graces which in right of a singularly handsome
person he possessed, but with those to which he never
could advance a claim, - more dangerous to her peace,
from the very circumstance of their origin in her fancy, not
his merits.
They had now been some little time at Bath, and Bran-
don's brief respite was pretty nearly expired, when a public
ball of uncommon and manifold attraction was announced.
It was to be graced not only by the presence of all the sur-
rounding families, but also by that of royalty itself; it
being an acknowledged fact that people dance much better,
and eat much more supper, when any relation to a king is
present.
"I must stay for this ball, Lucy," said Brandon, who,
after spending the day with Lord Mauleverer, returned
"I must stay
home in a mood more than usually cheerful.
for this one ball, Lucy, and witness your complete triumph,
even though it will be necessary to leave
you the very next
morning.
"So soon!" cried Lucy.
"So soon!" echoed the uncle with a smile; how good
PAUL CLIFFORD.
125
you are to speak thus to an old valetudinarian, whose com-
pany must have fatigued you to death; nay, no pretty de-
nials! But the great object of my visit to this place is
accomplished: I have seen you, I have witnessed your
debût in the great world, with, I may say, more than a fa-
ther's exultation, and I go back to my dry pursuits with the
satisfaction of thinking our old and withered genealogical
tree has put forth one blossom worthy of its freshest day.
"Uncle!" said Lucy, reprovingly, and holding up her
taper finger with an arch smile, mingling with a blush,
in which the woman's vanity spoke unknown to herself.
"And why that look, Lucy ?" said Brandon.
—
Because, because, well, no matter! you have
bren bred to that trade in which, as you say yourself, men
tell untruths for others, till they lose all truth for themselves.
But, let us talk of you, not me; are you really well enough
to leave us?"
Simple, and even cool as the words of Lucy's question,
when written, appear; in her mouth, they took so tender,
50 anxious a tone, that Brandon, who had no friend, nor
wife, nor child, nor any one in his household, in whom in-
terest in his health or welfare was as a thing of course;
and who was consequently wholly unaccustomed to the
accent of kindness, felt himself of a sudden touched and
stricken.
"Why, indeed Lucy," said he, in a less artificial voice
than that in which he usually spoke, "I should like still
to profit by your cares, and forget my infirmities and pains
in your society; but I cannot :- the tide of events, like
that of nature, waits not our pleasure! "
"But we may take our own time for setting sail!" said
Lucy.
"Ah, this comes of talking in metaphor," rejoined
Brandon, smiling; "They who begin it, always get the
worst of it. In plain words, dear Lucy, I can give no
more time to my own ailments. A lawyer cannot play
truant in term time without —-”
Losing a few guineas!" said Lucy, interrupting him.
"Worse than that, his practice and his name?"
"Better those than health and peace of mind."
"Out on you,
No!" said Brandon, quickly, and al-
nost fiercely; "We waste all the greenness and pith of
our life in striving to gain a distinguished slavery; and
when it is gained, we must not think that an humble inde-
pendence would have been better! If we ever admit that
thought, what fools,· what lavish fool we have been !-
No!" continued Brandon, after a momentary pause, and
in a tone milder and gayer, though not less characteristic
of the man's stubbornness of will,- -"after losing all
youth's enjoyments and manhood's leisure, in order that in
age, the mind, the all-conquering mind, should break its
way at last into the applauding opinions of meu, I should
be an effeminate idler, indeed, did I suffer, so long as its
'arring parts hold together, or so long as I have the power
to command its members, this weak body to frustrate the
labor of its better and nobler portion, and command that
which it is ordained to serve.'
Lucy knew not while she listened, half in fear, half in
admiration, to her singular relation, that, at the very moment
he thus spoke, his disease was preying upon him in one of
its most relentless moods, without the power of wringing
from him a single outward token of his torture. But she
wanted nothing to increase her pity and affection for a man
who, in consequence, perhaps, of his ordinary surface of
worldly and cool properties of temperament, never failed
to leave an indelible impression on all who had ever seen
that temperament broken through by deeper, though often
by more evil feelings.
"Shall you go to Lady 's rout?" asked Bran
don easily sliding back into common topics, -Lord Maule-
verer requested me to ask you.”
That depends on you and my father," said Lucy.
"If on me, I answer, yes?" said Brandon; "I like
bearing Mauleverer, especially among persons who do not
understand him; there is a refined and subtle sarcasm run-
ning through the common places of his conversation, which
cuts the good fools, like the invisible sword in the fable,
dat lopped off heads, without occasioning the owners any
other sensation than a pleasing and self-complacent titilla-
tion. How immeasurably superior he is in manner and
dress to all we meet here; does it not strike you?
no, — I can't
I can't say that it does exactly," re-
"Yes,
pined Lucy.
\OL. I.
4
54
"Is that confusion tender?" thought Brandon.
"In a word," continued Lucy," Lord Mauleverer is one
whom I think pleasing, without fascination; and amusing,
without brilliancy. He is evidently accomplished in mind,
and graceful in manner; and withal, the most uninteresting
person I ever met."
"Women have not often thought so!" said Brandon.
"I cannot believe that they can think otherwise."
A certain expression, partaking of scorn, played over
Brandon's hard features. It was a noticeable trait in him,
that while he was most anxious to impress Lucy with a
favorable opinion of Lord Mauleverer, he was never quite
able to mask a certain satisfaction at any jest at the earl's
expense, or any opinion derogatory to his general character
for pleasing the opposite sex; and this satisfaction was no
sooner conceived, that it was immediately combated by the
vexation he felt, that Lucy did not seem to share his own
desire that she should become the wife of the courtier.
There appeared, as if in that respect there was a contest in
his mind between interest on one hand, and private dislike,
or contempt, on the other.
"La-
;
"You judge women wrongly!" said Brandon.
dies never know each other; of all persons, Mauleverer is
best calculated to win them, and experience has proved my
assertion. The proudest lot I know for a woman, would
but it is
be the thorough conquest of Lord Mauleverer
impossible. He may be gallant, but he will never be sub-
dued.
dued. He defies the whole female world, and with_justice
and impunity. Enough of him. Sing to me, dear Lucy."
The time for the ball approached, and Lucy, who was a
charming girl, and had nothing of the angel about her, was
sufficiently fond of gayety, dancing, music, and admiration,
to feel her heart beat high at the expectation of the event.
At last, the day itself came. Brandon dined alone with
Mauleverer, having made the arrangement, that he, with
the earl, was to join his brother and niece at the ball.
Mauleverer, who hated state, except on great occasions,
when no man displayed it with a better grace, never suffered
his servants to wait at dinner when he was alone, or with
one of his peculiar friends. The attendants remained
without, and were summoned at will by a bell laid beside
the host.
The conversation was unrestrained.
"I am perfectly certain, Brandon," said Lord Maule-
verer, "that if you were to live tolerably well, you would
soon get the better of your nervous complaints. It is all
poverty of blood, believe me.— Some more of the fins, eh?
No! oh, hang your abstemiousness, it is d -d
unfriendly to eat so little! Talking of fins and friends,
heaven defend me from ever again forming au intimacy
with a pedantic epicure, especially if he puns!"
"Why
what has a pedant to do with fins?
"I will tell you,
M
(Ah, this Madeira!)—I suggested
to Lord Dareville, who affects the gourmand, what a cap-
ital thing a dish all fins, (turbot's fins) — might be made."
Capital!' said he, in a rapture,' dine on it with me to-
morrow. • Volontiers!' said I: the next day, after
indulging in a pleasing reverie all the morning, as to the
manner in which Dareville's cook, who is not without
genius, would accomplish the grand idea, I betook myself
punctually to my engagement. Would you believe it? when
the cover was removed, the sacrilegious dog of an Amphi-
tryon had put into the dish Cicero de finibus. There is
a work all fins!' said he."
"Atrocious jest!" exclaimed Brandon, solemnly.
"Was it not? Whenever the gastronomists set up a
religious inquisition, I trust they will roast every impious
rascal who treats the divine mystery with levity. Pun upon
cooking, indeed! Apropos of Dareville, he is to come in-
to the administration."
"You astonish me!" said Brandon, "I never heard
that; I don't know him. He has very little power;
he any talent ?"
Yes, one very great one, acquired though ! — ”
"What is it?"
"A pretty wife!"
has
"My lord!" exclaimed Brandon, abruptly, and naıf
rising from his seat.
Mauleverer looked up hastily, and, on seeing the expres
sion of his companion's face, colored deeply; there was
silence for some moments.
"Tell me," said Brandon, indifferently, helping himself
to vegetables, for he seldom touched meat, and a more
amusing contrast can scarcely be conceived, than that be-
426
BULWER'S NOVELS.
tween the earnest epicurism of Mauleverer, and the care-
less contempt of the sublime art manifested by his guest;
-"tell me, you who necessarily know every thing, wheth-
er the cabinet really is settled, whether you are to have
the garter, and I,- (mark the difference!)—the judge-
ship."
66
Why so,
I imagine, it will be arranged, viz.; if you
will consent to hang up the rogues, instead of living by the
fools!"
S
"One may unite both!" returned Brandon, "but I be-
lieve, in general, it is vice versâ ; fo we live by the rogues,
and it is only the fools we are able to hang up. You ask
me if I will take the judgeship. I would not, no, I
would rather cut my hand off,- (and the lawyer spoke
with great bitterness,) forsake my present career, despite
of all the obstacles that now encumber it; did I think that
this miserable body would suffer me, for two years longer,
to pursue it."
"You shock me!" said Mauleverer, a little affected,
but nevertheless applying the cayenne to his cucumber with
his usual unerring nicety of tact; " you shock ine, but you
are considerably better than you were.'
>>
"It is not!" continued Brandon, who was rather speak-
ing to himself than to his friend "it is not that 1 am
unable to conquer the pain, and to master the recreant
nerves; but I feel myself growing weaker and weaker be-
neath the continual exertion of my remaining powers, and
I shall die before I have gained half my objects, if I do not
my objects, if I do not
leave the labors which are literally tearing me to pieces."
But," said Lord Mauleverer, who was the idlest of
men, "the judgeship is not an easy sinecure."
"No! but there is less demand on the mind in that sta-
tion, than in my present one; and Brandon paused before
be continued. CC
Candidly, Mauleverer, you do not think
they will deceive me! you do not think they mean to leave
me to this political death without writing Resurgam' over
the hatchment ?"
They dare not!" said Mauleverer, quaffing his fourth
glass of Madeira.
"Well! I have decided on my change of life," said the
lawyer with a slight sigh.
"So have I on my change of opinion," chimed in the
earl. "I will tell you what opinions seem to me like."
"What?" said Brandon abstractedly.
"Trees!" answered Mauleverer, quaintly; "if they
can be made serviceable by standing, do n't part with a
stick; but when they are of that growth that sells well, or
whenever they shut out a fine prospect, cut them down, and
pack them off by all manner of means! — and now for the
second course.
"I wonder!" said the earl, when our political worthies
were again alone," whether there ever existed a minister
who cared three straws for the people, many care for
their party, but as for the country,
"It is all fiddlestick!" added the lawyer, with more
significance than grace.
cr
Right; it is all fiddlestick, as you tersely express it.
King, constitution, and church, for ever! which being in-
terpreted, means first, king, or crown influence, judgeships,
and garters; secondly, constitution, or fees to the law-
yer, places to the statesman, -laws for the rich, and
game laws for the poor; - thirdly, church, or livings for
our younger sons, and starvings for their curates!"
"Ha, ha!" said Brandon, laughing sardonically;
know human nature!'
>>
ше
"And how it may be gulled!" quoth the courtier.
"Here's a health to your neice! and may it not be long
before you hail her as your friend's bride!"
"Bride, et cetera," said Brandon with a sneer, meant
only for his own satisfaction. "But, mark me, my dear
lord, do not be too sure of her, she is a singular girl,
and of more independence than the generality of women.
She will not think of your rank and station in estimating
you; she will think only of their owner; and pardon me if
suggest to you, who know the sex so well, one plan that
it may not be unadvisable for you to pursue. Don't let
her fancy you entirely her's; rouse her jealousy, pique her
pride, let her think you unconquerable, and unless she
is unlike all women, she will want to conquer you.
The earl smiled. "I must take my chance!" said he
with a confident tone.
""
"The hoary coxcomb!" muttered Brandon between
ais teeth: "now will his own felly spoil all."
"And that reminds me," continued Mauleverer, "tha,
time wanes, and dinner is not over; let us not hurry, but
let us be silent, to enjoy the more- these truffles in cham-
paigne do taste them, they would raise the dead "
The lawyer smiled, and accepted the kindness, though
he left the delicacy untouched; and Mauleverer, whose
soul was in his plate, saw not the heartless rejection.
Meanwhile, the youthful beauty had already entered the
theatre of pleasure, and was now seated with the squire, at
the upper end of the half-filled ball-rocm.
A gay lady of the fashion of that time, and of that half
and half rank to which belonged the aristocracy of Bath,
one of those curious persons we meet with in the admirable
novels of Miss Burney, as appertaining to the order of fine
ladies,
ladies, made the trio with our heiress and her father, and
pointed out to them by name the various characters that
entered the apartments. She was still in the full tide of
scandal, when an unusual sensation was visible in the
environs of the door; three strangers, of marked mein, gay
dress, and an air which, though differing in each, was in
all alike remarkable for a sort of "dashing" assurance,
made their entré. One was of uncommon height, and pos-
sessed of an exceedingly fine head of hair; another was of
a more quiet and unpretending aspect, but nevertheless, he
wore upon his face a supercilious, yet not ill-humored
expression; the third was many years younger than his
companions, strikingly handsome in face and figure, alto-
gether of a better taste in dress, and possessing a manner
that, though it had equal ease, was not equally noticeable
for impudence and swagger.
وو
"Who can those be?" said Lucy's female friend in a
wondering tone, "I never saw them before they must be
great people they have all the airs of persons of quality!
Dear, how odd that I should not know them!
While the good lady, who, like all good ladies of that
stamp, thought people of quality had airs, was thus lament-
ing her ignorance of the new comers, a general whisper
of a similar import was already circulating round the
room, -"Who are they?" and the universal answer was,
"Can't tell -never saw them before !"
Our strangers seemed by no means displeased with the
evident and immediate impression they had made. They
stood in the most conspicuous part of the room, enjoying,
among themselves, a low conversation, frequently broken by
fits of laughter; tokens, we need not add, of their superemi-
nently good breeding. The beautiful figure of the young-
est stranger, and the simple and seemingly unconscious
grace of his attitudes, were not, however, unworthy of the
admiration he excited; and even his laughter, rude as it
really was, displayed so dazzling a set of teeth, and was
accompanied by such brilliant eyes, that before he had been
ten minutes in the room, there was scarcely a young lady
under thirty-nine not disposed to fall in love with him.
Apparently heedless of the various remarks which reach.
ed their ears, our strangers, after they had from their
station sufficiently surveyed the beauties of the ball, stroiled
arm in arm through the rooms. Having sauntered through
the ball and card-rooms, they passed the door to the en-
trance passage, and gazed with other loiterers, upon the
new comers ascending the stairs. Here the two younger
strangers renewed their whispered conversation, while the
tallest one, carelessly leaning against the wall, employed
himself for a few moments in thrusting his fingers through
his hair. In finishing this occupation, the peculiar state
of his ruffles forced itself upon the observation of our
gentleman, who, after gazing for some moments on an
envious rent in the right ruffle, muttered some indistinct
words, like, "the cock of that confounded pistol," and
then tucked up the mutilated ornament with a peculiarly
nimble motion of the fingers of his left hand: the next
moment, diverted by a new care, the stranger applied his
digital members to the arranging and caressing of a re-
markably splendid broach, set in the bosom of a shirt,
the rude texture of which formed a singular contrast with
the magnificence of the embellishment, and the fineness
of the one ruffle suffered by our modern Hyperion to make
its appearance beneath his cinnamon-colored coat sleeve
These little personal arrangements completed, and a daz
zling snuff-box released from the confinement of a side-
pocket, tapped thrice and lightened of two pinches of its
titillating luxury, the stranger now, with the guardian eys
of friendship, directed a searching glance to the dress of
his friends There, all appeared meet for his strictest
PAUL CLIFFORD.
427
crutiny, save indea that the supercilious-looking stran- able, and don't thrust yourselves upon me, as you are
ger having just aran forth his gloves, the lining of his accustomed to do, whenever you see no opportunity of
coat-pocket whica was rather soiled into the bargain-indulging me with that honor with the least show of pro
had not returned to its internal station; the tall stranger
seeing this little inelegance, kindly thrust three fingers
with a sudden and light dive into his friend's pocket, and
effectually repulsed the forwardness of the intrusive lining.
The supercilious stranger no sooner felt the touch, than
he started back and whispered his officious companion,
"What! among friends, Ned! fie now; curb the nature
in thee for one night, at least."
Before he of the flowing locks had time to answer, the
master of the ceremonies, who had for the last three min-
utes been eyeing the strangers through his glass, stepped
forward with a sliding bow, and the handsome gentleman,
taking upon himself the superiority and precedence over
his comrades, was the first to return the courtesy. He did
this with so good a grace, and so pleasing an expression of
countenance that the censor of bows was charmed at once,
and with a second and more profound salutation, announced
himself and his office.
"You would like to dance, probably, gentlemen ?" he
asked, glancing at each, but directing his words to the one
who had prepossessed him.
"You are very good," said the comely stranger; "for my
part, I shall be extremely indebted to you for the exercise
of your powers in my behalf; allow me to return with you
to the ball-room, and I can there point out to you the
objects of my especial admiration.'
The master of the ceremonies bowed as before, and he
and his new acquaintance strolled into the ball-room,
followed by the two comrades of the latter.
"Have you been long in Bath, sir?" inquired the
monarch of the rooms.
"No, indeed! we only arrived this evening!"
"From London ?
"
"No; we made a little tour across the country.
Ah! very pleasant this fine weather."
"Yes; especially in the evening."
"Oho! romantic!" thought the man of balls, as he
rejoined aloud, Why, the nights are agreeable, and the
moon is particularly favorable to us.'
"Not always!" quoth the stranger.
"True, - true,
the night before last was dark; but
in general, surely the moon has been very bright."
The stranger was about to answer, but checked himself,
and simply bowed his head as in assent.
"I wonder who they are?" thought the master of the
ceremonies. Pray, sir," said he in a low tone, is
that gentleman, that tall gentleman, any way related to
Lord ? I cannot but think I see a family like-
ness.
>>
"Not in the least related to his lordship," answered
the stranger;
"but he is of a family that have made a noise
in the world; though he (as well as my other friend) is
merely a commoner!" laying a stress on the last word.
Nothing, sir, can be more respectable than a common-
****, with a
ner of family," returned the polite Mr.
bow.
CC
"I
agree with you, sir," answered the stranger, with
another. "But, heaven!" and the stranger started, for
at that moment his eye caught for the first time, at the far
end of the room, the youthful and brilliant countenance of
Lury Brandon, "do I see rightly? or is that Miss
Brandon ?"
"It is, indeed, that lovely young lady," said Mr.
"I congratulate you on knowing one so admired. I sup-
pose that you, being blessed with her acquaintance, do not
need the formality of my introduction."
"Umph!" said the stranger, rather shortly and un-
courteously, "No! Perhaps you had better present
me!"
By what name shall I have that honor, sir?" dis-
creetly inquired the nomenclator.
"Clifford!" answered the stranger; Captain Clif-
ford!
! ""
Upon this, the prim master of the ceremonies, thread-
ing his path through the now fast-filling room, approached
towards Lucy to obey Mr. Clifford's request. Meanwhile,
that gentleman, before he followed the steps of the tutelary
spirit of the place, paused, and said to his friends, in a
tone careless, yet not without command, "Hark ye, gen-
demen, oblige me by being as civil and silent as ye are
|
priety!" So saying, and waiting no reply, Mr. Clifford
hastened after the master of the ceremonies.
"Our friend grows mighty imperious!" said Long Ned,
whom our readers have already recognised in the tall
stranger.
'
"Tis the way with your rising geniuses," answered
the moralizing Augustus Tomlinson;
suppose we go te
the card-room, and get up a rubber?"
"Well thought of," said Ned, yawning, -a thing he
was very apt to do in society; "and I wish nothing worse
to those who try our rubbers, than that they may be well
cleaned by them." Upon this witticism the colossus of
roads,
roads, glancing towards the glass, strutted off, arm in arm
with his companion to the card-room.
During this short conversation the re-introduction of
Mr. Clifford (the stranger of the rectory and deliverer of
Dr. Slopperton) to Lucy Brandon had been effected, and
the hand of the heiress was already engaged (according to
the custom of that time) for the two ensuing dances.
It was about twenty minutes after the above presenta-
tion had taken place, that Lord Mauleverer and William
Brandon entered the rooms, and the buzz created by the
appearance of the noted peer, and the distinguished lawyer,
had scarcely subsided, before the royal personage expected
to grace
"the festive scene, (as the newspapers say of
*
" and
a great room with plenty of miserable-looking people in
it,) arrived. The most disagreeable and the most attractive
persons in Europe may be found among the royal family
of England. His present majesty, for instance, among
the one class; and as for the other, what say you to his
royal highness the duke of
* *, a man
who, without flattery, may be said to unite he appear-
ance of the Hun with the soul of the Vandal The great
personage then at Bath belonged to the more pleasing class
of royalty, and in consequence of certain political intrigues,
he wished, at that time especially, to make himself as pop-
ular as possible. Having gone the round of the old ladies,
and assured them, as the Court Journal assures the old
ladies at this day, that they were "morning stars,
"swan-like wonders," the individual espied Brandon, and
immediately beckoned to him with a familiar gesture. The
smooth but saturnine lawyer approached the royal presence
with the manner that peculiarly distinguished him, and
which blended, in no ungraceful mixture, a species of stiff-
ness, that passed with the crowd for native independence,
with a supple insinuation, that was usually deemed the to-
ken of latent benevolence of heart. There was something,
indeed, in Brandon's address, that always pleased the
great; and they liked him the better, because, though he
stood on no idle political points, mere differences in the
view taken of a hairbreadth, such as a corn law, or a
Catholic bill; alteration in the church, or a reform in Par-
liament; yet he invariably talked so like a man of hecor,
-(except when with Mauleverer) · that his urbanity
seemed attachment to individuals, and his concessions to
power, sacrifices of private opinion for the sake of oblig-
ing his friends.
tr
I am very glad indeed," said the royal personage, to
see Mr. Brandon looking so much better. Never was the
crown in greater want of his services, and, if rumor speak
true, they will soon be required in another department of
his profession."
Brandon bowed, and answered : —
"So please your royal highness, they will always be at
the command of a king from whom I have experienced
such kindness, — in any capacity for which his majesty
may deem them fitting."
It is true then!" said his royal highness, significant-
ly, "I congratulate you! The quiet dignity of the
bench must seem to you a great change, after a career so
busy and restless?
-
I fear I shall feel it so at first, your royal highness,'
answered Brandon, "for I like even the toil of my pro-
fession, and at this moment when I am in full practice,
it more than ever, but, (checking himself at once,)-
his majesty's wishes, and my satisfaction in complying
with them, are more than sufficient to remove any moment-
ary regret I might otherwise have felt in quitting those
toils which have now become to me a second nature.
"It is possible," rejoined the royal individual, “that
428
BULWER'S NOVELS.
his majesty took into consideration the delicate state of
health, which, in common with the whole public, I grieve
to see, the papers have attributed to one of the most distin-
guished ornaments of the bar."
"So please your royal highness," answered Brandon,
coolly, and with a smile which the most piercing eye
could not have believed the mask to the agony then gnawing
at his nerves, "it is the interest of my rivals to exag-
gerate the little ailments of a weak constitution. I thank
Providence that I am now entirely recovered, and at no
time of my life have I been less unable to discharge,
far as my native and mental incapacities will allow, the
duties of any occupation, however arduous. Nay, as the
brute grows accustomed to the mill, so have I grown wedded
to business, and even the brief relaxation I have now
allowed myself, seems to me rather irksome than pleas-
urable."
SO
"I rejoice to hear you speak thus ;" answered his royal
highness, warmly, — and I trust for many years, and,"
added he in a lower tone, -"in higher offices more imme-
diately connected with the state, that we may profit by
your talents. The times are those in which many occasions
occur, that oblige all true servants of the constitution to
quit minor employments for that great constitutional one
that concerns us all, the highest, and the meanest; and,
(the royal voice sunk still lower) I feel justified in assur-
ing you, that the office of chief justice alone is not consid-
ered by his majesty as a sufficient reward for your generous
sacrifice of present ambition to the difficulties of govern-
ment."
Brandon's proud heart swelled, and at that moment the
veriest pains of hell would scarcely have been felt.
While the aspiring schemer was thus agreeably engaged,
Mauleverer, sliding through the crowd with that grace
which charmed every one, old and young, and addressing
to all he knew some lively or affectionate remark, made his
way to the dancers, among whom he had just caught a
glimpse of Lucy. -"I wonder," he thought, "whom she
is dancing with? I hope it is that ridiculous fellow, Mos-
sop, who tells a good story against himself; or that hand-
some ass, Belmont, who looks at his own legs, instead of
seeming to have eyes for no one but his partner. Ah! if
Tarquin had but known women as well as I do, he would
nave had no reason to be rough with Lucretia. 'Tis a
thousand pities, that experience comes to us in women, as
in the world, just when it begins to be no longer of use
to us!"
As he made these moral reflections, Mauleverer gained
the dancers, and beheld Lucy listening with downcast eyes,
and cheeks that evidently blushed, to a young man, whom
Mauleverer acknowledged at once to be one of the best-
looking fellows he had ever seen. The stranger's counte-
nance, despite an extreme darkness of complexion, was, to
be sure, from the great regularity of the features, rather
effeminate; but on the other hand, his figure, though
slender and graceful, betrayed to an experienced eye, an
extraordinary proportion of sinew and muscle and even
the dash of effeminacy in the countenance was accompanied
by so manly and frank an air, and was so perfectly free
from all coxcombry or self-conceit, that it did not in the
least decrease the prepossessing effect of his appearance.
An angry and bitter pang shot across that portion of Mau-
.everer's frame which the earl thought fit, for want of
another name, to call his heart. "How cursedly pleased
she looks!" muttered he. By heaven! that stolen glance
under the left eyelid, dropped as suddenly as it is raised!
-and he, ha!
how firmly he holds that little hand.
I think I see him paddle with it; and then the dog's earnest,
'ntent look, and she all blushes! though she dare not
ook up to meet his gaze, feeling it by intuition. -Oh! the
demure, modest, shamefaced hypocrite! How silent she
is ! She can prate enough to me. I would give my prom-
ised garter, if she would but talk to him. Talk, talk,
laugh, prattle, only simper, in God's name, and Í
shall be happy! But that bashful, blushing silence,
t is insupportable. Thank heaven the dance is over!
Thank heaven, again! I have not felt such pains since
the last nightmare I had, after dining with her father!"
G
A
CC
With a face all smiles, but with a mien in which more
dignity than he ordinarily assumed, was worn, Mauleverer
now moved toward Lucy, who was leaning on her partner's
arm.
The earl, who had ample tact where his consummate
selfishness did not warp it, knew well how to act the lover,
|
without running ridiculously into the folly of seeming to
play the hoary dangler. He sought rather to be lively
than sentimental, and beneath the wit to conceal the
suitor.
Having paid, then, with a careless gallar.try his firs
compliments, he entered into so animated a conversation,
interspersed with so many naïve yet palpably just observa-
tions on the characters present, that perhaps he had never
appeared to more brilliant advantage. At length, as the
music was about to re-commence, Mauleverer, with a care-
less glance at Lucy's partner, said, "Will Miss Brandon
now allow me the agreeable duty of conducting her to her
father?"
"I believe," answered Lucy, and her voice suddenly
became timid, "that according to the laws of the rooms, I
am engaged to this gentleman for another dance."
Clifford, in an assured and easy tone, replied in assent.
As he spoke, Mauleverer honored him with a more ac·
curate survey than he had hitherto bestowed on him; and
whether or not there was any expression of contempt or
superciliousness in the survey, it was sufficient to call пр
the indignant blood to Clifford's cheek. Returning the look
with interest, he said to Lucy, "I believe, Miss Brandon,
that the dance is about to begin ;" and Lucy obeying
the hint, left the aristocratic Mauleverer to his own medi-
tations.
At that moment, the master of the ceremonies came bow-
ing by, half afraid to address so great a person as Maulever-
er, but willing to show his respect by the profoundness of
his salutation.
! "said the earl, holding
"how
"Aha! my dear Mr.
out both his hands to the Lycurgus of the rooms;
are you? Pray can you inform me, who that young
man is, now dancing with Miss Brandon ?"
"It is, let me see,
Oh! it is a Captain Clifford, my
lord! Has your lord-
lord a very fine young man, my lord!
ship never met him?"
"Never! who is he? one under your more especial pat
ronage?
?" said the earl, smiling.
Nay, indeed!" answered the master of the ceremo-
nies, with a simper of gratification; " I scarcely know
who he is yet; the captain only made his appearance here
to-night for the first time. He came with two other gen-
tlemen: Ah! there they are!" and he pointed to the earl's
scrutinizing attention, the elegant forms of Mr. Augustus
Tomlinson, and Mr. Ned Pepper, just emerging from the
card-rooms. The swagger of the latter gentleman was so
peculiarly important, that Mauleverer, angry as he was,
could scarcely help laughing. The master of the ceremo-
nies noted the earl's countenance, and remarked, that
"that fine-looking man seemed disposed to give himself
airs!"
CC
Judging from the gentleman's appearance," said the
earl dryly, (Ned's face, to say truth, did betoken his affec-
tion for the bottle,) "I should imagine that he was much
more accustomed to give himself thorough draughts.
"Ah!" renewed the arbiter elegantiarum, who had
not heard Mauleverer's observation, which was uttered is
a very low voice, "Ah! they seem real dashers!"
"Dashers! repeated Mauleverer "true, haber-
dashers !'
Long Ned, now having in the way of his profession ac-
quitted himself tolerably well at the card-table, thought he
had purchased the right to parade himself through the
rooms, and show the ladies what stuff a Pepper could be
made off.
Leaning with his left hand on Tomlinson's arm, and em-
ploying the right in fanning himself furiously with his huge
chapeau bras, the lengthy adventurer stalked slowly along,
now setting out one leg jauntily, -now the other,
and ogling "the ladies" with a kind of Irish look, viz. a
look between a wink and a stare.
Released from the presence of Clifford, who kept a cer-
tain check on his companions, the apparition of Ned be
came glaringly conspicuous; and wherever he passed, a
universal whisper succeeded.
<< 'tis a
rr
I
"Who can he be ?" said the widow Matemore;
droll creature; but at a head of hair!
"For my part,' anwered the spinster Sneerall,
think he is a linen-a.per in disguise; for I heard him talk
to his companion of 'tape.""
"Well, well," thought Mauleverer," it would be but
kind to seek out Brandon, and hint to him ip what compa
PAUL CLIFFORD.
429
ny his niece seems to have fallen!' And so thinking, he
glided to the corner where, with a gray-headed old politi-
cian, the astute lawyer was conning the affairs of Eu-
rope.
In the interm, the second dance had ended, and Clif-
ford was conducting Lucy to her seat, each charmed with
the other, when he found himself abruptly tapped on the
back, and turning round in alarm, for such taps were
net unfamiliar to him, -he saw the cool countenance of
Long Ned, with one finger sagaciously laid beside the
nose.
"How now?" said Clifford between his ground teeth,
"did I not tell thee to put that huge bulk of thine as far
from me as possible?"
Umph!" grunted Ned, "if these are my thanks, I
may as well keep my kindness to myself; but know you,
my kid, that lawyer Brandon is here, peering through the
crowd at this very moment, in order to catch a glimpse of
that woman's face of thine.”
"Ha!" answered Clifford in a very quick tone,
"" be-
I will meet you without the rooms immedi-
gone then!
ately."
Clifford now turned to his partner, and bowing very low,
in reality to hide his face from those sharp eyes which had
once seen it in the court of Justice Burnflat, said, "1
trust, madam, I shall have the honor to meet you again;—
is it, if I may be allowed to ask, with your celebrated un-
cle that you are staying, or ---
"With my father," answered Lucy, concluding the sen-
tence Clifford had left unfinished; "but my uncle has been
with us, though I fear he leaves us to-morrow.
Clifford's eyes sparkled; he made no answer, but, how-
ing again, receded into the crowd, and disappeared. Sev-
eral times that night did the brightest eyes in Somerset-
shire rove anxiously round the rooms in search of our hero;
but he was seen no more.
It was on the stairs that Clifford encountered his com-
rades; taking an arm of each, he gained the door without
any adventure worth noting, -save that, being kept back
by the crowd for a few moments, the moralizing Augustus
Tomlinson, who honored the moderate Whigs by enroll-
ing himself among their number, took up, pour passer le
ems, a tall gold-headed cane, and weighing it across his
finger with a musing air, said, Alas! among our support-
ers we often meet heads as heavy, but of what a differ-
ent metal ! The crowd now permitting, Augustus wa
walking away with his companions, and in that absence of
mind, characteristic of philosophers, unconsciously bearing
with him the gold-headed object of his reflection, when
a stately footman stepping up to him, said, "Sir, my
cane !
CC
Cane, fellow!" said Tomlinson. A., I am so ab-
sent! here is thy cane Only think of my carrying off
the man's cane, Ned! ha! ha!"
"Absent, indeed!" grunted a knowing chairman,
watching the receding figures of the three gentlemen:
Body o'me! but it was the cane that was about to be
absent."
CHAPTER XVIII.
Whackum.-- “My dear rogues, dear boys, Bluster and Ding-
boy! you are the bravest fellows that ever scoured yet!"
SHADWELL's "Scourers."
•
Cato, the Thessalian, was wont to say, that some things may
te done unjustly, that many things may be done justly.
LORD BACON. Being a justification of every rascality.)
ALTHOUGH Our three worthies had taken unto them-
selves a splendid lodging in Milsom-street, which to please
Nea was over a hair-dresser's shop; yet, instead of return-
ng thither, or repairing to such taverns as might seem
best befitting their fashion and garb, they struck at once
from the gay parts of the town, and tarried not till they
reached a mean-looking ale-house in a remote suburb.
The door was opened to them by an elderly lady, and
Clifford, stalking before his companions into an apartment
at the back of the house, asked if the other gentlemen
were come vet.
"No!" returned the dame. "Old Mr. Bags came in
about ten minutes ago; but hearing more work might be
done, he went out again."
<<
Bring the lush and the pipes, old blone !" cried Ned,
throwing himself on a bench; "we are never at a loss for
company
15:
You, indeed, never can be, who are always inseparably
connected with the object of your admiration," said Tom-
linson, dryly, and taking up an old newspaper. Ned, who
though choleric, was a capital fellow, and could bear a joke
on himself, smiled, and drawing forth a little pair of scis-
sors, began trimming his nails.
"Curse me," said he, after a momentary silence, "if
this is not a devilish deal pleasanter than playing the fine
gentleman in that great room with a rose in one's button-
hole! What say you, Master Lovett?"
Clifford, (as henceforth we shall, despite his other aliases,
denominate our hero,) who had thrown himself at full
length on a bench at the far end of the room, and who
seemed plunged into a sullen reverie, now looked up for a
moment, and then turning round and presenting the dorsal
part of his body to Long Ned, muttered, "Pish!"
"Hark ye, Master Lovett!" said Long Ned, colɔring,
"I don't know what has come over you of late; but I
would have you to learn that gentlemen are entitled to cour-
tesy and polite behaviour; and so, d'ye see, if you ride
your high horse upon me, splice my extremities, if I won't
have satisfaction!"
Hist, man, be quiet,” said Tomlinson, philosophically
snuffing the candles,
Don't
"For companions to quarrel,
Is extremely immoral.
you see that the captain is in a reverie? what good
man ever loves to be interrupted in his meditations?
even Alfred the Great could not bear it! Perhaps, at this
moment, with the true anxiety of a worthy chief, the cap-
tain is designing something for our welfare!”
Captain, indeed," muttered Long Ned, darting a
wrathful look at Clifford, who had not deigned to pay any
attention to Mr. Pepper's threat; "for my part I cannot
conceive what was the matter with us, when we chose this
green slip of the gallows-tree, for our captain of the dis-
trict. To be sure, he did very well at first, and that
robbery of the old lord was not ill-planned - but lately
:
Nay, nay," quoth Augustus, interrupting the gigantic
grumbler,
grumbler, "the nature of man is prone to discontent. Al-
low that our present design of setting up the gay Lothario,
and trying our chances at Bath for an heiress, is owing as
much to Lovett's promptitude, as to our invention."
r
"And what good will come of it?" returned Ned, as
he lighted his pipe: answer me that? Was I not dressed
as fine as a lord and did not I walk three times up and
down that great room without being a jot the better for
it?"
Ah, but you know not how many secret conquests yor
may have made: you cannot win a prize by looking upon
it."
**
"Humph!" grunted Ned, applying himself discontent-
edly to the young existence of his pipe.
As for the captain's partner," renewed Tomlinson,
who maliciously delighted in exciting the jealousy of the
handsome "tax-collector," for that was the epithet by
which Augustus thought proper to entitle himself and com-
panions, "I will turn Tory if she be not already half in
love with him; and did you hear the old gentleman who
cut into our rubber say what a fine fortune she had? Faith,
Ned, it is lucky for us two, that we all agreed to go shares
in our marriage speculations; I fancy the worthy captain
will think it a bad bargain for himself."
"I am not so sure of that, Mr. Tomlinson," said Long
Ned, sourly eyeing his comrade.
M
"Some women may be caught by a smooth skin and a
showy manner, but real masculine beauty, eyes, coka,
and hair, Mr. Tomlinson, must ultimately make its way,
so hand me the brandy, and cease your jaw."
Well, well," said Tomlinson, “I'll give you a toast,
The prettiest girl in England; '-and that 's Miss
Brandon !”
CC
"You shall give no such toast, sir!" said Clifford,
starting from the bench, "what the devil is Miss Bran-
don to you? And now, Ned," (seeing that the tal!
hero looked on him with an
unfavorable aspect,)
"here's my hand; forgive me if I was uncivil. Tomlinson
will tell you in a maxim, men are changeable. Here's to
→
430
BULWER'S NOVELS.
your health, and it shall not be my fault, gentlemen, if we
have not a merry evening!"
This speech, short as it was, met with great applause
from the two friends, and Clifford, as president, stationed
himself in a huge chair at the head of the table. Scarcely
had he assumed this dignity, before the door opened, and
half-a-dozen of the gentlemen confederates trooped some-
what noisily into the apartment.
"Softly, softly, messieurs," said the president, recover-
ing all his constitutional gayety, yet blending it with a cer-
tain negligent command, "respect for the chair, if you
please! 'tis the way with all assemblies where the public
purse is a matter of deferential interest!"
Hear him!" cried Tomlinson.
"What, my old friend Bags!" said the president, "you
have not come empty-handed, I will swear; your honest
face is like the table of contents to the good things in your
pockets!
"Ah, Captain Clifford," said the veteran, groaning, and
shaking his reverend head, "I have seen the day when
there was not a lad in England forked so largely, so com-
prehensively-like, as I did. But, as King Lear says at
Common Garden, I be's old now!'"
"But your zeal is as youthful as ever, my fine fellow,"
said the captain, soothingly; "and if you do not clean out
the public as thoroughly as heretofore, it is not the fault of
your inclinations.”
"No, that it is not!" cried the "tax-collectors "
unanimously ; "and if ever a pocket is to be picked neatly,
quietly, and effectually," added the complimentary Clifford,
"I do not know to this day, throughout the three kingdoms,
a neater, quieter, and more effective set of fingers than Old
Bags's."
The veteran bowed disclaimingly, and took his seat
among the heartfelt good wishes of the whole assemblage.
"And now, gentlemen," said Clifford, as soon as the
revellers had provided themselves with their wonted luxu-
ries, potatory and famous, "let us hear your adventures, and
rejoice our eyes with their produce. The gallant Attie shall
but first, a toast,
begin,
-May those who leap from a
hedge never leap from a tree!'"
This toast being drunk with enthusiastic applause, Fight-
ing Attie began the recital of his little history.
•
|
"You sees, captain," said he, putting himself in a
martial position, and looking Clifford full in the face,
"that I'm not addicted to much blarney. Little cry and
much wool is my motto. At ten o'clock, A.M. saw the ene-
in the shape of a doctor of divinity. Blow me,'
my
says I, to Old Bags, but I'll do his reverence!'- Blow
me,' says Old Bags, but you shan't, you'll have us
scragged if you touches the church.' My grandmother!'
Bags tells the pals, — all in a fuss about it,
says I.
what care II puts on a decent dress, and goes to the
doctor as a decayed soldier, wot supplies the shops in the
turning line. His reverence, -a fat jolly dog as ever you
was at dinner over a fine roast pig. So I tells him
Splice me,
if the
I have some bargains at home for him.
doctor did not think he had got a prize! so he puts on his
boots, and he comes with me to my house. But when I gets
him into a lane, out come my pops. 'Give up, doctor,'
says I; others must share the goods of the church now.'
You has no idea what a row he made: but I did the thing,
and there's an end on 't."
see,
C
"Bravo, Attie !" cried Clifford, and the word echoed
round the board. Attie put a purse on the table, and the
next gentleman was called to confession.
"It skills not, boots not," gentlest of readers, to record
each of the narratives that now followed one another. Old
Bags, in especial, preserved his well-earned reputation, by
emptying six pockets, which had been filled with every pos-
sible description of petty valuables. Peasant and prince
appeared alike to have come under his hands; and, per-
haps, the good old man had done in one town more toward
effecting an equality of goods among different ranks, than
all the reformers, from Cornwall to Carlisle. Yet so keen
was his appetite for the sport, that the veteran appropriator
"forked more.
absolutely burst into tears at not having
"I love a warm-hearted enthusiasm, cried Clifford,
handling the movables, while he gazed lovingly on the an-
cient purloiner; May new cases never teach us to for-
get Old Bags!"
As soon as this "sentiment" had been duly drunk, and
Mr Bagshot had dried his tears and applied himself to his
favorite drink, which, by the way, was
"blue ruin,
the work of division took place. The discretion and
impartiality of the captain in this arduous part of his duty
attracted universal admiration; and each gentleman having
carefully pouched his share, the youthful president hemmed
thrice, and the society became aware of a purposed speech.
"Gentlemen!" began Clifford, and his main supporter,
the sapient Augustus, shouted out Hear!'- Gentlemen,
you
all know that when, some months ago, you were pleased,
partly at the instigation of Gentleman George, God
bless him!-partly from the exaggerated good opinion
expressed of me by my friends, to elect me to the high
honor of the command of this district; I myself was by
no means ambitious to assume that rank, which I knew well
was far beyond my merits, and that responsibility, which I
knew with equal certainty was too weighty for my powers.
Your voices, however, overruled my own, and as Mr. Mud-
dlepud, the great metaphysician, in that excellent paper the
Asinæum was wont to observe, the susceptibilities, in-
nate, extensible, incomprehensible, and eternal,' existing
in my bosom, were infinitely more powerful than the shal-
low suggestions of reason, that ridiculous thing which
all wise men and judicious Asinæans sedulously stifle."
Plague take the man, what is he talking about?" said
Long Ned, who we have seen was of an envious temper,
a whisper to Old Bags. Old Bags shook his head.
"In a word, gentlemen," renewed Clifford, "your
kindness overpowered me; and despite my
and despite my cooler inclina-
tions, I accepted your flattering proposal. Since then I
have endeavoured, so far as I have been able, to advance
your interests; I have kept vigilant eye upon all my
neighbours; I have, from county to county, established
numerous correspondents; and our exertions have been
carried on with a promptitude that has insured success.
CC
M
in
"Gentlemen, I do not wish to boast; but on these
nights of periodical meetings, when every quarter brings
us to go halves, - when we meet in private to discuss the
affairs of the public, show our earnings, as it were, in
privy-council, and divide them amicably, as it were, in the
cabinet,(Hear! hear! from Mr. Tomlinson,)
customary for your captain for the time being, to remind
you of his services, engage your pardon for his deficiencies,
and your good wishes for his future exertions. - Gentlemen!
has it ever been said of Paul Lovett that he heard of a
it is
prize and forgot to tell you of his news? (Never!
never!' loud cheering.) — Has it ever been said of him
that he sent others to seize the booty and staid at home to
think how it should be spent? ( No! no!' repeated
Has it ever been said of him that he took less
cheers.)
share than his due of your danger and more of your guin-
eas ?
(Cries in the negative, accompanied with vehe-
ment applause.) Gentlemen, I thank you for these flat-
tering and audible testimonials in my favor; but the points
on which I have dwelt, however necessary to my honor,
would prove but little for my merits; they might be wor.
thy notice in your comrade, you demand more subtle duties
in chief. Gentlemen! has it ever been said of Pat,
your
Lovett that he sent out brave men on forlorn hopes ? that b◄
hazarded your own heads by rash attempts in acquirik,
pictures of King George's? that zeal, in short, was greate
in him than caution? or that his love of a quid* ever mad
him neglectful of your just aversion to a quod ?† (Unani
mous cheering.)
"Gentlemen, since I have had the honor to preside ove
your welfare, Fortune, which favors the bold, has co
been unmerciful to you! But three of our companion
One, gen
have been missed from our peaceful festivities.
tlemen, I myself expelled from our corps for ungentleman
like practices: he picked pockets of fogles,‡ — it was a
vulgar employment. Some of you, gentlemen, have done
Jack Littlefork did it for
the same for amusement,
occupation. I expostulated with him in pubic and
in private; Mr. Pepper cut his society; Mr. Tomlin-
son read him an essay on Real Greatness of Soul:
all was in vain. He was pumped by the mob for the
The fault I had borne with,
theft of a bird's-eye wipe.
the detection was unpardonable: I expelled him.
Who 's here so base as would be a fogle-hunter? if any,
speak, for him have I offended! Who's here so rude as
would not be a gentleman ? if any, speak, for him have I
offended! I pause for a reply! What, none then none
Gentlemen, I may
have I offended. - (Loud cheers.)
- a guinea. 1 Quod, -a prison. Handkerchiefs.
* Quid,
PAUL CLIFFORD.
431
truly add, that I have done no more to Jack Littlefork than
should do to Paul Lovett! The next vacancy
in our
you
ranks was occasioned by the loss of Patrick Blunderbull.
You know, gentlemen, the vehement exertions that I made
to save that misguided creature, whom I had made exer-
tions no less earnest to instruct. But he chose to swindle
under the name of the Honorable Captain Smico;' the
peerage gave him the lie at once; his case was one of ag-
gravation, and he was so remarkably ugly, that he created
no interest.' He left us for a foreign exile; and if, as a
man, I lament him, I confess to you, gentlemen, as a
collector,' I am easily consoled.
“Our third loss must be fresh in your memory. Peter
Popwell, as bold a fellow as ever breathed, is no more!
-(a movement in the assembly) "Peace be with him!
He died on the field of battle; shot dead by a Scotch
colonel, whom poor Popwell thought to rob of nothing with
an empty pistol. His memory, gentlemen,-in solemn
silence !
""
C
tax-
"
"These make the catalogue of our losses,' (resumed
the youthful chief, so soon as the "red cup had crowned
the memory"
" of Peter Popwell,) - "I am proud, even in
sorrow, to think that the blame of those losses rests not
with me. And now, friends and followers! Gentlemen
of the road, the street, the theatre, and the shop! Prigs,
toby-men, and squires of the cross! According to the
laws of our society, I resign into your hands that power
which for two quarterly terms you have confided to mine,
ready to sink into your ranks as a comrade, not unwilling
to renounce the painful honor I have borne; borne with
much infirmity, it is true; but at least, with a sincere
desire to serve that cause with which you have intrusted
me
""
So saying, the captain descended from his chair, amidst
the most uproarious applause; and as soon as the first burst
had partially subsided, Augustus Tomlinson rising, with
one hand in his breeches' pocket and the other stretched
out, said:
LC
why
Gentlemen, I move that Paul Lovett be again chosen
as our captain for the ensuing term of three months.
(Deafening cheers.) Much might I say about his sur-
passing merits, but why dwell upon that which is obvious?
Life is short! Why should speeches be long? Our lives,
perhaps, are shorter than the lives of other men
should not our harangues be of a suitable brevity? Gentle-
men, I shall
I shall say but one word in favor of my excellent
friend; of mine, say I ay, of mine, of yours. He is a
friend to all of us! A prime minister is not more useful to
his followers, and more burdensome to the public, than I
am proud to say is, - Paul Lovett ! (Loud plaudits.) —
What I shall urge in his favor is simply this: The man
whom opposite parties unite in praising, must have super-
eminent merit. Of all your companions, gentlemen, Paul
Lovett is the only man, who to that merit can advance a
claim. (Applause.) - You all know, gentlemen, that our
body has long been divided into two factions; each jealous
of the other,
each desirous of ascendency, and each
emulous which shall put the greatest number of fingers into
the public pie. In the language of the vulgar, the one fac-
tion would be called swindlers,' and the other highway-
men.' I, gentlemen, who am fond of finding new names
for things, and for persons, and am a bit of a politician,
call the one whigs, and the other tories. (Clamorous cheer-
ing.)Of the former body I am esteemed no uninfluential
member; of the latter faction, Mr. Bags is justly considered
the most shining ornament. Mr. Attie and Mr. Edward
Pepper can scarcely be said to belong entirely to either:
they unite the good qualities of both: British compounds
some terni them: I term them liberal aristocrats ! (Cheers.)
- I now call upon you all, whig or swindler; tory or high-
'British compounds' or liberal aristocrats; I
call
upon you all, to name me one man whom you will all
agree to elect?"
wayman;
—
Al- "Lovett for ever!'
"Gentlemen!" continued the sagacious Augustus, "that
shout is sufficient; without another word, I propose as
your captain, Mr. Paul Lovett."
"And I seconds the motion!" said old Mr. Bags.
Our hero, being now, by the unanimous applause of his
confederates, restored to the chair of office, returned thanks
in a neat speech, and Scarlet Jem declared with great
solemnity, that it did equal honor to his head and heart.
The thunders of eloquence being hushed, flashes of light-
|
ning, or, as the vulgar say, glasses of gin," gleamed
about. Good old Mr. Bags stuck, however, to his blue
ruin, and Attie to the bottle of bingo: some, among whom
were Clifford, and the wise Augustus, called for wine; and
Clifford, who exerted himself to the utmost in supporting
the gay duties of his station, took care that the song should
vary the pleasures of the bowl. Of the songs chosen we
have only been enabled to preserve two. The first is by
Long Ned, and though we confess we can see but little in
it, yet (perhaps from some familiar allusion or another,
with which we are necessarily unacquainted,) it produced
a prodigious sensation, it ran thus:-
J
THE ROGUE'S RECIPE.
"Your honest fool a rogue to make,
As great as can be seen, sir,
Two hackneyed rogues you first must take,
Then place your fool between, sir.
Virtue's a dunghill cock, ashamed
Of self when pair'd with game ones,
And wildest elephants are tamed
If stuck betwixt two tame ones."
The other effusion with which we have the honor to favor
our readers, is a very amusing duet which took place between
Fighting Attie and a tall, thin robber, who was a dangerous
fellow in a mob, and was therefore called Mobbing Francis,
it was commenced by the latter.
MOBBING FRANCIS.
"The best of all robbers as ever I know'd,
Is the bold Fighting Attie, the pride of the road !—
Fighting Attie, my hero, I saw you to-day
A purse full of yellow-boys seize,
And, as just at present, I'm low in the lay,
I'll borrow a quid, if you please.
Oh bold Fighting Attie,
the knowing,
the natty,-
By us all it must sure be confest,
Though your shoppers and snobbers are pretty good robbers,
A soldier is always the best.
FIGHTING ATTIE.
“* Stubble your whids,
You wants to trick I!
Lend you my quids? -
Not one, by Dickey!
MOBBING FRANCIS
"Oh, what a beast is a niggardly ruffler,
Nabbing, — grabbing all for himself;
Hang it, old fellow, I'll hit you a muffler,
Since you wont give me a pinch of the pelf.
You has not a heart for the general distress,
You cares not a mag if our party should fall,
And if Scarlet Jem were not good at a press,
By Goles it would soon be all up with us all ! —
Oh! Scarlet Jem, he is trusty and trim,
Like his wig to his poll, sticks his conscience to him!
But I vows I despises the fellow who prizes
More his own ends than the popular stock, sir,
And the soldier as bones, for himself and his crones,
Should be bon'd like a traitor himself at the block, sir.”
This severe response of Mobbing Francis's did not in
the least ruffle the constitutional calmness of Fighting At-
tie; but the wary Clifford seeing that Francis had lost his
temper, and watchful over the least sign of disturbance
among the company, instantly called for another song, and
Mobbing Francis sullenly knocked down old Bags.
The night was far gone, and so were the wits of the
honest tax-gatherers: when the president commanded
silence, and the convivialists knew that their chief was
about to issue forth the orders for the ensuing term.
Nothing could be better timed than such directions, dur.
ing merriment, and before oblivion.
"Gentlemen! said the captain, "I will now, with your
leave, impart to you all the plans I have formed for each.
You, Attie, shall repair to London: be the Windsor road
and the purlieus of Pimlico your especial care.
Look you,
my hero, to these letters, they will apprise you of much
work; I need not caution you to silence. Like the oyster,
you never open your mouth but for something. Honest
old Bags, a rich grazier will be in Smithfield on Thurs-
day; his name is Hodges, and he will have somewhat like
a thousand pounds in his pouch. He is green, fresh, and
Hold your tongue.
432
BULWER'S NOVELS
-
avaricious; offer to assist him in defrauding his neigh-
bours in a bargain, and cease not till thou hast done that
with him which he wished to do to others. Be ex-
cellent old man! -like the frog-fish which fishes for other
fishes with two horns that resemble baits, the prey dart at
the horns, and are down the throat in an instant! For
thee, dearest Jem, these letters announce a prize :-fat is
Parson Pliant; full is his purse; and he rides from Henley
to Oxford on Friday, I need say no more! As for the
rest of you, gentlemen, on this paper you will see your des-
tinations fixed. I warrant you, ye will find enough work
till we meet again this day three months. Myself, Augus-
tus Tomlinson and Ned Pepper, remain at Bath; we have
business in hand, gentlemen, of paramount importance;
should you, by accident, meet us, never acknowledge us,
we are incog.; striking at high game, and putting on
falcon's plumes to do it in character,—you understand,
but this accident can scarcely occur, for none of you will
remain at Bath; by to-morrow night, may the road re-
ceive you.
And now, gentlemen, speed the glass, and
I'll give you a sentiment by way of a spur to it
Much sweeter than honey
Is other men's money!
Our hero's maxim was received with all the enthusiasm
which agreeable truisms usually create. And old Mr.
Bags rose to address the chair; unhappily for the edifica-
tion of the audience, the veteran's foot slipped before he
had proceeded further than "Mr. President:" he fell to the
earth with a sort of reel
"Like shooting stars, he fell to rise no more!"
His body made a capital footstool for the luxurious Pep-
per. Now Augustus Tomlinson and Clifford, exchanging
looks, took every possible pains to promote the hilarity of
the evening, and before the third hour of morning had
sounded, they had the satisfaction of witnessing the effects
of their benevolent labors in the prostrate forms of all
their companions. Long Ned, naturally more capacious
than the rest, succumbed the last.
"As leaves of trees," said the chairman, waving his
hand
"As leaves of trees the race of man is found,
Now fresh with dew, now withering on the ground."
"Well said, my Hector of highways!" cried Tomlin-
son, and then helping himself to the wine, while he em-
ployed his legs in removing the supine forms of Scarlet
Jem and Long Ned, he continued the Homeric quotation,
with a pompous and self-congratulatory tone.
"So flourish these when those have passed away!
"We managed to get rid of our friends," began Clif-
ford
"Like whigs in place," interrupted the politician.
"Right, Tomlinson, thanks to the milder properties of
our drink, and, perchance, to the stronger qualities of our
heads; and now tell me, my friend, what think you of our
chance of success? Shall we catch an heiress or not?"
cr
Why really," said Tomlinson, "women are like those
calculations in arithmetic which one can never bring to an
exact account; for my part, I shall stuff my calves, and
look out for a widow. You, my good fellow, seem to stand
a fair chance with Miss
Oh, name her not!" cried Clifford, coloring, even
through the flush which wine had spread over his counte-
nance. "Somehow or other, ours are not the lips by
which her name should be breathed; and faith, when I
think of her, I do it anonymously."
"What have you ever thought of her before this even-
ing?"
"You remem-
|
CC
"And your delight," added Tomlinson, "at hearing sne
is as rich as she is pretty.
"No!" answered Clifford, quickly;
"that thought
gives me no pleasure, you stare. I will try and explain.
You know, dear Tomlinson, I'm not much of a canter, and
yet my heart shrinks when I look on that innocent face, and
hear that soft, happy voice, and think that my love to her
can be only ruin and disgrace; nay, that my very address
is contamination, and my very glance toward her an insult."
Hey day! quoth Tomlinson, "have you been under
my instructions, and learned the true value of words? and
can you have any scruples left on so easy a point of con-
science? True, you may
science? True, you may call your representing yourself to
her as an unprofessional gentleman, and so winning her
affections, deceit; but why call it deceit when a genius
for intrigue' is so much neater a phrase in like manner,
by marrying the young lady, if you say you have ruined her
you justly deserve to be annihilated; but why not say you
have saved yourself,' and then, my dear fellow, you
have done the most justifiable thing in the world."
Pish, man!" said Clifford peevishly; none o thy
sophisms, and sneers!"
CC
(C
-
By the soul of Sir Edward Coke, I am serious ! — but
look you, my friend, this is not a matter where it is con-
venicnt to have a tender-footed conscience. You see these
fellows on the ground! — all d
all d―d clever, and so forth; but
you and I are of a different order. I have had a classical
education, seen the world, and mixed in decent society;
you, too, had not been long a member of our clab, before
you distinguished yourself above us all. Fortune smiled on
your youthful audacity. You grew particular in horses and
looking fellow, with an inborn air of gentility, and some sort
dress, frequented public haunts, and being a deuced good-
of education, you became sufficiently well received, to acquire
in a short time, the manner and tone of a
what shall
I say, a gentleınan, and the taste to like suitable asso-
public weal, the ungrateful dogs see that we are above
ciates. This is my case too! Despite our labors for the
them; a single envious breast is sufficient to give us to the
hangman; we have agreed that we are in danger, we have
agreed to make an honorable retreat! we cannot do so
without money; you know the vulgar distich among our
set. Nothing can be truer,
'Hanging is nation
More nice than starvation!"
you
You will not carry off some of the common stock, though I
think you justly might, considering how much
have put
into it; what, then, shall we do? Work we cannot ! Beg
we will not! and between you and me we are cursedly ex-
travagant! What remains but marriage?"
"It is true!" said Clifford, with a half-sigh.
"You may well sigh, my good fellow; marriage is a
lackadaisical proceeding at best; but there is no resource:
and now, when you have got a liking to a young lady who
is as rich as a she Croesus, and so gilded the pill as bright
as a lord mayor's coach, what the devil have you to do
with scruples?"
Clifford made no answer, and there was a long pause
perhaps he would not have spoken so frankly as he had done,
if the wine had not opened his heart.
"How proud," renewed Tomlinson," the good old
matron at Thames Court will be if you marry a lady! you
have not seen her lately?"
I
"Not for years," answered our hero" Poor old soul!
believe that she is well in health, and I take care that
she should not be poor in pocket."
"But why not visit her? Perhaps, like all great men,
especially of a liberal turn of mind, you are ashamed c´c.d
friends, eh?"
rr
man."
"Yes, for months," answered Clifford.
My good fellow, is that like me? Why you know the
ber some time ago, when we formed the plan for robbing beaux of our set look askant on me for not keeping up my
Lord Mauleverer, how, rather for frolic than profit, you dignity, robbing only in company with well-dressed gentle-
robbed Dr. Slopperton, of Warlock, while I compassion- men, and swindling under the name of a lord's nephew:
ately walked home with the old gentleman. Well, at the no, my reasons, are these: first, you must know that the
parson's house, I met Miss Brandon; - mind, if I speak old dame had set her heart on my turning out an honest
of her by name, you must not,
but I
-and by heaven !
won't swear. I accompanied her home. You know,
before morning we robbed Mauleverer, the affair made a
noise, and I feared to endanger you all if I appeared in the
vicinity of the robbery. Since then, business diverted my
thoughts; we formed the plan of trying a matrimonial spec-
ulation at Bath. I came hither, guess my surprise at
seeing her"-
"And so you have!" interrupted Augustus; "honest to
your party what more would you have from either prig or
politician?"
"I believe," continued Clifford, not heeding the inter-
ruption, "that my poor mother, before she died, desirea
that I might be reared honestly; and strange as may seem
to you, Dame Lobkins is a conscientious woman in het
it
PAUL CLIFFORD.
435
own way,
C
- it is not her fault if I have turned out as I
nave done. Now I know well that it would grieve her to
the quick to see me what I am. Secondly, my friend, un-
der my new names, various as they are,- Jackson and
Howard, Russell and Pigwiggin, Villiers and Gotobed,
Cavendish and Solomons, you may well suppose that the
good persons in the neighbourhood of Thames Court have
no suspicion that the adventurous and accomplished ruffler,
at present captain of this district, under the new appella-
tion of Lovett, is in reality no other than the obscure and
surnameless Paul of the Mug. Now you and I, Augustus,
have read human nature, though in the black letter, and I
know well that were I to make my appearance in Thames
Court, and were the old lady, (as she certainly would,
not from unkindness but insobriety, not that she loves me
less but heavy-wet more,) - to divulge the secret of that
appearance,
"You know well," interrupted the vivacious Tomlinson,
"that the identity of your former meanness with your pres-
ent greatness would be easily traced; the envy and jealousy
of your early friends aroused; a hint of your whereabout
and
your aliases given to the police, and yourself grabbed
with a slight possibility of a hempen consummation."
"You conceive me exactly!" answered Clifford : “ the
fact is, that I have observed in nine cases out of ten our
bravest fellows have been taken off by the treachery of some
early sweetheart or the envy of some boyish friend. My
destiny is not yet fixed; I am worthy of better things than
a ride in the cart with a nosegay in my hand; and though
I care not much about death in itself, I am resolved, if pos-
sible, not to die a highwayman; hence my caution, and that
prudential care for secrecy and safe asylums, which men
less wise than you have so often thought an unnatural con-
tras to my conduct on the road.'
"Fools!" said the philosophical Tomlinson: "what
has the bravery of a warrior to do with his insuring his
house from fire?
"However," said Clifford, "I send my good nurse a
fine gift every now and then to assure her of my safety;
and thus, notwithstanding my absence, I show my affection
by my presents; -excuse a pun!"
And have you never been detected by any of your
quondam associates?
"Never! remember in what a much more elevated
sphere of life I have been thrown; and who would
recog-
nise the scamp Paul with a fustian jacket, in gentleman
Paul with a laced waistcoat? Besides, I have diligently
avoided every place where I was likely to encounter those
who saw me in childhood. You know how little I fre-
quent flash houses, and how scrupulous I am in admitting
new confederates into our band; you and Pepper are the
only two of my associates (save my protegé, as you
express it, who never deserts the cave) that possess
a knowledge of my identity with the lost Paul; and as ye
have both taken that dread oath to silence, which to
disobey, until, indeed, I be in the gaol or on the gibbet, is
almost to be assassinated, I consider my secret is little
likely to be broken, save with my own consent."
"True," said Augustus, nodding; "one more glass, and
to-bed, Mr. Chairman."
"I pledge you my friend; our last glass shall be phi-
lanthropically quaffed; All fools, and may their money
be soon parted!""
"All fools!" cried Tomlinson, filling a bumper; "but I
quarrel with the wisdom of your toast; - may fools be rich,
and rogues will never be poor. I would make a better
livelihood of a rich fool than a landed estate.”
So saying, the contemplative and ever-sagacious Tomlin-
son tossed off his bumper, and the pair, having kindly
rolled, by pedal applications, the body of Long Ned into
a safe and quiet corner of the room, mounted the stairs,
arm in arm, in search of somnambular accommodations.
CHAPTER XIX.
That contrast of the harden'd and mature,
The calm brow brooding o'er the project dark,
With the clear, loving heart, and spirit pure
Of youth - I love-yet, hating, love to mark!
H. FLETCHER.
On the forenoon of the day after the ball, the carriage
of William Brandon, packed and prepared, was at the
VOL. I.
55
door of his abode at Bath; meanwhile, the lawyer was
closeted with his brother. "My dear Joseph," said the
barrister, "I do not leave you without being fully sensi-
ble of your kindness evinced to me, both in coming hither
contrary to your habits, and accompanying me every-
where, despite of your tastes."
"Mention it not, my dear William," said the kind-
hearted squire, "for your delightful society is to me the
most agreeable (and that's what I can say of very few
people like you; for, for my own part, I generally find the
cleverest men the most unpleasant) in the world! And I
think lawyers in particular — (very different, indeed, from
your tribe
you are!) perfectly intolerable!"
"I have now,
said Brandon, who with his usual ner-
vous quickness of action was walking with rapid strides to
and fro the apartment, and scarcely noted his brother's
compliment, "I have now another favor to request of
you. Consider this house and these servants yours, for
the next month or two at least. Do n't interrupt me—it
is no compliment - I speak for our family benefit." And
then seating himself next to his brother's arun-chair, for a
fit of the gout made the squire a close prisoner, Brandon
unfolded to his brother his cherished scheme of marrying
Lucy to Lord Mauleverer. Notwithstanding the constan-
cy of the earl's attentions to the heiress, the honest squire
had never dreamt of their palpable object; and he was
overpowered with surprise when he heard the lawyer's
expectations.
"But, my dear brother," he began, "so great a match
for my Lucy, the lord-lieutenant of the coun
k
And what of that?" cried Brandon proudly, and
interrupting his brother: "is not the race of Brandon,
which has inatched its scions with royalty, far nobler than
that of the upstart stock of Mauleverer - What is there
presumptuous in the hope that the descendant of the earls
of Suffolk should re-gild a faded name with some of the
precious dust of the quondam silversmith's of London ?
Besides," he continued, after a pause, "Lucy will be rich
very rich and before two years my rank may possibly
be of the same order as Mauleverer's !"
-
>
The squire stared; and Brandon, not giving him time
to answer, resumed. It is needless to detail the conver-
sation; suffice it to say, that the artful barrister did not
leave his brother till he had gained his point
till Joseph
Brandon had promised to remain at Bath in possession of
the house and establishment of his brother, to throw no
impediment on the suit of Mauleverer, to cultivate society
as before, and, above all, not to aların Lucy, who evi-
dently did not yet favor Mauleverer exclusively, by hinting
to her the hopes and expectations of her uncle and father.
Brandon, now taking leave of his brother, mounted to the
drawing room in search of Lucy. He found her leaning
over the gilt cage of one of her feathered favorites, and
speaking to the little inmate in that pretty and playful lan-
guage in which all thoughts, innocent, yet fond, should
be clothed. So beautiful did Lucy seem, as she was thus
engaged in her girlish and caressing employment, and so
utterly unlike one meet to be the instrument of ambitious
designs, and the sacrifice of worldly calculations, that
Brandon paused, suddenly smitten at heart, as he beheld
her; he was not, however, slow in recovering himself; he
approached. "Happy he," said the man of the world, "for
whom caresses and words like these are reserved!"
Lucy turned. "It is ill!" she said, pointing to the bird,
which sat with its feathers stiff and erect, mute and heed-
less even of that voice which was as musical as its own.
"Poor prisoner!" said Brandon, "even gilt cages and
sweet tones cannot compensate to thee for the loss of the
air and the wild woods !'"
"But," said Lucy anxiously, "it is not confinement
which makes it ill! If you think so, I will release i
instantly."
"How long have you had it?" asked Brandon
"For three years,
.said Lucy ܳܪ
"And is it your chief favorite ?"
"Yes; it does not sing so prettily as the other,
is far more sensible, and so affectionate."
Dut x
"Can you release it then?" asked Brandon, smiling;
"would it not be better to see it die in your custody, than
to let it live and to see it no more?"
one,
"Oh, no, no!" said Lucy, eagerly, "when I love aug
any thing, I wish that to be happy, not me ! "
As she said this, she took the bird from the cage, and
bearing it to the open window, kissed it, and held it on her
434
BULWER'S NOVELS.
hand, in the air. The poor bird turned a languid and sickly
eye around it, as if the sight of the crowded houses and
busy streets presented nothing familiar or inviting; and it
was not till Lucy, with a tender courage, shook it gently
from her, that it availed itself of the proffered liberty. It
flew first to an opposite balcony, and then recovering from
a short and, as it were, surprised pause, took a brief cir-
cu't above the houses, and after disappearing for a few
minutes, flew back, circled the window, and reëntering,
settled once more on the fair form of its mistress, and nes-
ued into her bosom.
Lucy covered it with kisses. "You see it will not leave
me!" said she.
"Who can ?" said the uncle warmly, charmed for the
inoment from every thought, but that of kindness for the
young and soft creature before him; "who can ?" he
repeated with a sigh," but an old and withered ascetic like
myself. I must leave you, indeed; see, my carriage is at
the door! Will my beautiful niece, among the gayeties that
surround her, condescend now and then to remember the
crabbed lawyer, and assure him by a line of her happiness
and health? Though I rarely write any notes, but those
upon cases, you, at least, may be sure of an answer. And
tell me, Lucy, if there be in all this city one so foolish as to
think that these idle gems, useful only as a vent for my
pride in
you, can add a single charm to a beauty above all
ornament ?
So saying, Brandon produced a leathern case, and touch-
ing a spring, the imperial flash of diamonds which would
have made glad many a patrician heart, broke dazzlingly
on Lucy's eyes.
No thanks, Lucy," said Brandon, in answer to his
niece's disclaiming and shrinking gratitude; "I do honor
to myself, not you; and now, bless you, my dear girl.
Farewell! Should any occasion present itself in which
you require an immediate adviser, at once kind and wise,
I beseech you, my dearest Lucy, as a parting request, to
have no scruples in consulting Lord Mauleverer. Besides
his friendship for me, he is much interested in you, and you
may consult him with the more safety and assurance; be-
cause (and the lawyer smiled) "he is perhaps the only
man in the world whom my Lucy could not make in love
with her. His gallantry may appear adulation; but it is
never akin to love. Promise me that you will not hesitate
in this ?
"
CHAPTER XX.
Why did the love him? - Curious fool, be stif
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness! - LORD BYron.
IN three weeks from the time of his arrival, Captai
Clifford was the most admired man in Bath. It is true,
that gentlemen who have a quicker tact as to the respecta-
bility of their own sex than women, might have looked a
little shy upon him, had he not himself especially shunned
appearing intrusive, and indeed rather avoided the society
of men than courted it; so that after he had fought a due
with a baronet, (the son of a shoemaker,) who called him
one Clifford, and had exhibited a flea-bitten horse, allowed
to be the finest in Bath, he rose insensibly into a certain
degree of respect with the one sex as well as popularity
with the other. But what always attracted and kept alive
suspicion, was his intimacy with so peculiar and dashing a
looking gentleman as Mr. Edward Pepper. People could
get over a certain frankness in Clifford's address, but the
most lenient were astounded by the swagger of Long Ned
Clifford, however, not insensible to the ridicule attached to
his acquaintances, soon managed to pursue his occupationa
alone; nay, he took a lodging to himself, and left Long
Ned and Augustus Tomlinson (the latter to operate as a
check on the former) to the quiet enjoyment of the hair-
dresser's apartments. He himself attended all public gaye-
ties, and his mien, and the appearance of wealth which he
maintained, procured him access into several private cir-
cles, which pretended to be exclusive. As if English peo-
ple who had daughters ever could be exclusive! Many
were the kind looks, nor few the inviting letters, which he
received. And if his sole object had been to marry an
heiress, he would have found no difficulty in attaining it.
But he devoted himself entirely to Lucy Brandon; and to
win one glance from her, he would have renounced all the
heiresses in the kingdom. Most fortunately for him, Mau-
leverer, whose health was easily deranged, had fallen ill the
very day William Brandon left Bath; and his lordship was
thus rendered unable to watch the movements of Lucy, and
undermine or totally prevent the success of her lover. Miss
Brandon, indeed, had at first, melted by the kindness of
her uncle, and struck with the sense of his admonition, (for
she was no self-willed young lady, who was determined to
be in love,) received Captain Clifford's advances with a
coldness which, from her manner the first evening they had
met at Bath, occasioned him no less surprise than mortifi-
cation. He retreated, and recoiled on the squire, who,
patient, and bored as usual, was sequestered in his favorite
corner. By accident, Clifford trod on the squire's gouty
digital, and in apologizing for the offence, was so struck by
the old gentleman's good-nature and peculiarity of express
ing himself, that without knowing who he was, he entered
into conversation with him. There was an off-hand sort of
liveliness and candor, not to say wit, about Clifford, which
always had a charm for the elderly, who generally like
frankness above all the cardinal virtues; the squire was
exceedingly pleased with him. The acquaintance, once
begun, was naturally continued without difficulty when
Clifford ascertained who was his new friend; and next
morning, meeting in the Pump-room, the squire asked
Clifford to dinner. The entré to the house thus gained,
the rest was easy. Long before Mauleverer recovered his
health, the mischief effected by his rival was almost beyond
redress; and the heart of the pure, the simple, the affec-
tionate Lucy Brandon was more than half lost to the law-
less and vagrant cavalier who officiates as the hero of this
tale.
Lucy gave the promise readily, and Brandon continued
in a careless tone: "I I hear that you danced last night with
a young gentleman whom no one knew, and whose com-
panions bore a very strange appearance. In a place like
Bath, society is too mixed, not to render the greatest cau-
tion in forming acquaintances absolutely necessary. You
must pardon me, my dearest niece, if I remark that a
young lady owes it not only to herself, but to her relations,
to observe the most rigid circumspection of conduct. This
is a wicked world, and the peach-like bloom of character
is easily rubbed away. In these points, Mauleverer can be
of great use to you. His knowledge of character, his
penetration into men, and his tact in manners, are un-
are un-
erring. Pray be guided by him: whomsoever he warns
you against, you may be sure is unworthy of your acquain-
God bless you! you will write to me often and
frankly, dear Lucy; tell me all that happens to you, - all
that interests, nay, all that displeases.'
Brandon then, who had seemingly disregarded the blushes
with which, during his speech, Lucy's cheeks had been
spread, folded his niece in his arms, and hurried, as if to
hide his feelings, into his carriage. When the horses had
turned the street, he directed the postilions to stop at Lord
Mauleverer's "Now," said he to himself, "if I can get One morning, Clifford and Augustus strolled out together.
this clever coxcomb to second my schemes, and play ac- "Let us," said the latter, who was in a melancholy mood,
cording to my game, and not according to his own vanity, "leave the busy streets, and indulge in a philosopnical con-
I shall have a knight of the garter for my nephew-in-versation on the nature of man, while we are enjoying a
law !"
tance.
Meanwhile Lucy, all in tears, for she loved her uncle
greatly, ran down to the squire to show him Brandon's
magnificent present.
Ah" said the squire, with a sigh, "few men were
born with more good, generous, and great qualities, (pity
only that his chief desire was to get on in the world; for
y part, I think no motive makes greater and more col·l-
easted rogues!\- than my brother William !
little fresh air in the country." Clifford assented to the
proposal, and the pair slowly sauntered up one of the hills
that surrounded the city of Bladud.
"There are certain moments," said Tomlinson, looking
pensively down at his kerseymere gaiters, "when we are
like the fox in the nursery rhyme,The fox had a wound
he could not tell where' -we feel extremely unhappy, and
we cannot tell why! a dark, and sad melancholy grows over
us, we shun the face of man, - we wrap ourselves in our
thoughts like silkworms, -we mutter fag ends of aisma
PAUL CLIFFORD.
435
Longs, tears come in our eyes, - we recall all the mis-
frtunes that have ever happened to us, we stoop in our
gait, and bury our hands in our breeches' pockets, we
say what is life?-a stone to be shied into a horse-pond!"
We pine for some congenial heart, and have an itch-
ing desire to talk prodigiously about ourselves: all other
subjects seem weary, stale, unprofitable—we feel as if a
fly could knock us down, and are in a humor to fall in love
and make a very sad piece of business of it. Yet with all
this weakness we have, at these moments, a finer opinion.
of ourselves than we ever had before. We call our me-
grims, the melancholy of a sublime soul—the yearnings of
an indigestion we denominate yearnings after immortality,
nay, sometimes a proof of the nature of the soul!
May I find some biographer who understands such sensa-
tions well, and may he style those melting emotions the
offspring of the poetical character,* which, in reality, are
the offspring of a mutton chop !"
"You jest pleasantly enough on your low spirits," said
Cliford; but I have a cause for mine."
"What then?" cried Tomlinson. "So much the easier
is it to cure them. The mind can cure the evils that spring
from the mind; it is only a fool, and a quack, and a drive!-
ler, when it professes to heal the evils that spring from the
body; my blue devils spring from the body, -conse-
quently, my mind, which, as you know, is a particularly
wise mind, wrestles not against them. Tell me frankly,
renewed Augustus, after a pause, do you ever repent?
Do you ever think, if you had been a shop-boy with a white
apron about your middle, that you would have been a hap-
pier and better member of society than you now are?”
CC
Repent! " said Clifford fiercely, and his answer opened
more of his secret heart, its motives, its reasonings, and its
peculiarities than were often discernible. "Repent!
that is the idlest word in our language. No, the moment
I repent, that moment I reform! Never can it seem to
me an atonement for crime, merely to regret it, my mind
would lead me not to regret, but to repair!- Repent!
No, not yet! The older I grow, the more I see of men,
and of the callings of social life, the more I, an open
kuave, sicken at the glossed and covert dishonesties around.
I acknowledge no allegiance to society. From my birth to
this hour, I have received no single favor from its customs.
or its laws; openly I war against it, and patiently will I
meet its revenge. This may be crime; but it looks light
in my eyes, when I gaze around, and survey on all sides the
masked traitors who acknowledge large debts to society,
who profess to obey its laws, adore its institutions,
and, above all, oh, how righteously!-attack all those
who attack it, and who yet lie, and cheat, and defraud, and
peculate, publicly reaping all the comforts, privately
filching all the profits. Repent! of what? I come into
the world friendless and poor, I find a body of laws
hostile to the friendless and the poor! To those laws
hostile to me, then, I acknowledge hostility in my turn.
Between us are the conditions of war.
Let them expose a
weakness, I insist on my right to seize the advantage,
let them defeat me, and I allow their right to destroy."†
Passion," said Augustus coolly, "is the usual enemy
of reason, in your case it is the friend."
W
The pair had now gained the summit of a hill which
comsanded a view of the city below. Here Augustus, who
was a little short-winded, paused to recover breath. As
soon as he had done so, he pointed with his fore-finger to
the scene beneath, and said enthusiastically, "What a
subject for contemplatiou."
Clifford was about to reply, when suddenly the sound of
aughter and voices was heard behind, "Let us fly!"
cried Augustus ;
"on this day of spleen man delights me
not,
nor woman either."
Stay!" said Clifford, in a trembling accent, for
* Vide "Moore's Life of Byron." In which it is satisfactorily
shown that, if a man fast forty-eight hours, then eat three lob-
sters, and drink God knows how many bottles of claret, -if,
When he wake the next morning, he sees himself abused as a
demon by half the periodicals of the country, if the afternoon.
be passed in interviews with his duns, or misunderstandings
with his wife, if, in a word, he be broken in his health, irregu-
ar in his habits, unfortunate in his affairs, unhappy in his home,
-and if, then, he should be so extremely eccentric as to be low-
spirited and misanthropical, the low spirits and misanthropy are
by no means to be attributed to the above ag eeable circumstances
but God wot, to the "poetical character!"
The author need not, he hopes, observe that these sentiments
are Mr. Paul Clifford's, not his.
among those voices he recognised one which had already
acquired over him an irresistible and bewitching power.
Augustus sighed, and reluctantly remained motionless
Presently a winding in the road brought into view a party
of pleasure, some on foot, some on horseback, others in
the little vehicles which even at that day haunted watering-
places, and called themselves “ flies," or "swallows."
But among the gay procession, Clifford had only eyes for
one! Walking with that elastic step which so rarely sur-
vives the first epoch of youth, by the side of the heavy
chair in which her father was drawn, the fair beauty of
Lucy Brandon threw, at least in the eyes of her lover, a
magic and a lustre over the whole group. He stood for a
moment, stilling the heart that leapt at her bright looks and
the gladness of her innocent laugh; and then recovering
himself, he walked slowly, and with a certain consciousness
of the effect of his own singularly-handsome person, toward
th party. The good squire received him with his usual
kindness, and informed him, according to that lucidus ordo,
which he so especially favored, of the whole particulars of
their excursion.
their excursion. There was something worthy of an art-
ist's sketch in the scene at that moment: - the old squire
in his chair, with his benevolent face turned toward Clif-
ford, and his hands resting on his cane, Clifford himself
bowing down his stately head to hear the details of the
father ; the beautiful daughter on the other side of the
chair, her laugh suddenly stilled, her gait insensibly more
composed, and blush chasing blush over the smooth and
peach-like loveliness of her cheek; -the party, of all sizes,
ages, and attire, affording ample scope for the caricaturist;
and the pensive figure of Augustus Tomlinson, (who, by the
by, was exceedingly like Liston,) standing apart from the
rest, on the brow of the hill where Clifford had left him,
and moralizing on the motley procession, with one hand hid
in his waistcoat, and the other caressing his chin, which
slowly and pendulously with the rest of his head, moved up
and down.
As the party approached the brow of the hill, the view
of the city below was so striking, that there was a general
pause for the purpose of survey. One young lady, in par-
ticular, drew forth her pencil, and began sketching, while
her mamma looked complacently on, and abstractedly de-
voured a sandwich. It was at this time, in the general
pause, that Clifford and Lucy found themselves, - heaven
knows how!
|
next to each other, and at a sufficient dis-
tance from the squire and the rest of the party to feel, in
some measure, alone. There was a silence in both which
neither dared to break; when Lucy, after looking at, and
toying with a flower that she had brought from the place
which the party had been to see, accidentally dropped it;
and Clifford and herself stooping at the same moment to
recover it, their hands met. Involuntarily, Clifford detained
the soft fingers in his own; his eyes, that encountered hers,
so spell-bound and arrested them, that for once they did not
sink beneath his gaze; his lips moved, but many and vehe-
ment emotions so suffocated his voice, that no sound es-
caped them. But all the heart was in the eyes of each;
that moment fixed their destinies. Henceforth there was
an era from which they dated a new existence; a uv leus
around which their thoughts, their remembrances, and heir
passions clung. The great gulf was passed; they stoon
the same shore; and felt, that though still apart and su-
nited, on that shore was no living creature but themse ves!
Meanwhile, Augustus Tomlinson, on finding himsel sur-
rounded by persons eager to gaze and to listen, broke rom
his moodiness and reserve. Looking full at his next high-
bour, and flourishing his right hand in the air, till he suffered
it to rest in the direction of the houses and chimney‹ be-
low, he repeated that moral exclamation, which had been
wasted on Clifford, with a more solemn and less passionate
gravity than before.
"What a subject, ma'am, for contemplation!"
CC
$
Very sensibly said, indeed, sir," said the lady add ass-
ed, who was rather of a serious turn.
"I never," resumed Augustus in a louder key, and look-
ing round for auditors, "I never see a great town from
the top of a hill, without thinking of an apothecary's
shop?"
С
Lord, sir!" said the lady. Tomlinson's end was gain-
ed;
struck with the quaintness of the notion, a litila
crowd gathered instantly around him, to hear it fa e
developed.
"Of an apothecary's shop, ma'am" repeated Tom
436
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Linson.
"There lie your simples, and your purges, and,
your cordials and your poisons; all things to heal, and to
strengthen, and to destroy. There are drugs enough in
that collection to save you, to cure you all; but none of you
know how to use them, nor what medicines to ask for, nor
what potions to take; so that the greater part of you
swallow a wrong dose, and die of the remedy !'"
"But if the town be the apothecary's shop, what, in
the plan of your idea, stands for the apothecary?" asked
an old gentleman, who perceived at what Tomlinson was
driving.
con-
C
worldly, hard-minded person, jostling our neighbours, aze
thinking of the main chance; -to us, thou art never sa
charming, as when we meet thee walking in thy gray hood,
through the emptying streets, and among the dying sounds
of a city. We love to feel the stillness, where all, two
hours back, was clamor. We love to see the dingy abodes
of trade and luxury, those restless patients of earth's con-
stant fever, contrasted and canopied by a heaven full of
purity, and quietness, and peace. We love to fill our
thoughts with speculations on man, - even though the man
be the muffin-man, rather than with inanimate objects,
hills and streams, things to dream about, not to medi
tate on. Man is the subject of far nobler contemplation,
of far more glowing hope, of a far purer and loftier vein
of sentiment, than all the floods and fells' in the universe;
and that, sweet evening, is one reason why we like that
the earnest and tender thoughts thou excitest within us,
should be rather surrounded by the labors and tokens of our
species, than by sheep, and bats, and melancholy, and
owls. But whether, most blessed evening, thou delightest
us in the country or in the town, thou equally disposest us
to make and to feel love! — thou art the cause of more
marriages and more divorces, than any other time in the
twenty-four hours. Eyes, that were cominon eyes to us
before, touched by thy enchanting and magic shadows, be-
come inspired, and preach to us of heaven. A softness
settles on features, that were harsh to us while the sun
shone; a mellow "light of love" reposes on the complex-
ion, which by day we would have steeped "full fathom
five" in a sea of Mrs. Gowland's lotion; and as for the
lip ! — Ah !
"The apothecary, sir," answered Augustus, stealing his
notion from Clifford, and sinking his voice, lest the true
proprietor should overhear him, Clifford was otherwise
employed, "the apothecary, sir, is the LAW! It is
the law that stands behind the counter and dispenses to
each man the dose he should take. To the poor, it gives
bad drugs gratuitously; to the rich, pills to stimulate the
appetite: to the latter, premiums for luxury; to the former
only speedy refuges from life! Alas! either your apotheca-
ry is but an ignorant quack, or his science itself is but in
its cradle. He blunders as much as you would do if left to
your own selection. Those who have recourse to him, sel-
dom speak gratefully of his skill. He relieves you, it is
true, but of your money, not your malady; and the only
branch of his profession in which he is an adept, is that
which enables him to bleed you! Oh, mankind!"
tinued Augustus, "what noble creatures you ought to be!
You have keys to all sciences, all arts, all mysteries, but
one! You have not a notion how you ought to be governed!
you cannot frame a tolerable law for the life and soul of
you! You make yourselves as uncomfortable as you can by
all sorts of galling and vexatious institutions, and you
throw the blame upon Fate.' You lay down rules it is
impossible to comprehend, much less to obey; and you call What then, thou modest hypocrite, to those who already
each other monsters, because you cannot conquer the in- and deeply love, what then of danger,
and of para-
possibility! You invent all sorts of vices, under pretence of dise dost thou bring?
making laws for preserving virtue; and the anomalous ar- Silent, and stilling the breath which heaved in both quick
tificialities of conduct yourselves produce, you say you are and fitfully, Lucy and Clifford sat together. The streets
born with; you make a machine by the perversest art were utterly deserted, and the loneliness, as they looked
you can think of, and you call it, with a sigh, Human Na- below, made them feel the more intensely not only the
With a host of good dispositions struggling at your emotions which swelled within them, but the undefined and
breasts, you insist upon libelling God Almighty, and declar- electric sympathy which, in uniting them, divided them
ing that he meant you to be wicked. Nay, you even call
Nay, you even call from the world. The quiet around was broken by a dis-
the man mischievous and seditious who begs and implores tant strain of rude music; and as it came nearer, two forms,
you to be one jot better than you are. Oh, mankind! of no poetical order, grew visible: the one was a poor
you are like a nosegay bought at Covent Garden. The
The blind man, who was drawing from his flute tones in which
flowers are lovely, the scent delicious; mark that glo- the melancholy beauty of the air compensated for any defi-
rious hue; contemplate that bursting petal; how beautiful, ciency (the deficiency was but slight) in the execution.
A
how redolent of health, of nature, -of the dew and woman, much younger than the musician, and with some-
breath and blessing of heaven, are you all! But as for the thing of beauty in her countenance, accompanied him,
dirty piece of string that ties you together, one would think holding a tattered hat, and looking wistfully up at the
you had picked it out of the kennel! "
windows of the silent street. We said two forms,
did the injustice of forgetfulness to another,- -a rugged
and simple friend, it is true, but one that noth minstrel and
wife had many and moving reasons to love. This was a
little wirey terrier, with dark, piercing eyes, that glanced
quickly and sagaciously in all quarters from beneath the
shaggy covert that surrounded them; slowly the animal
moved onward, pulling gently against the string by which
he was held, and by which he guided his master. Once
his fidelity was tempted; another dog invited him to play
the poor terrier looked anxiously and doubtingly round
and then uttering a low growl of denial, pursued
ture.'
-
So saying, Tomlinson turned on his heel, broke away
from the crowd, and solemnly descended the hill. The
party of pleasure slowly followed; and Clifford, receiving
an invitation from the squire to partake of his family din-
ner, walked by the side of Lucy, and felt as if his spirit
were drunk with the airs of Eden.
A brother squire, who, among the gayeties of Bath, was
almost as forlorn as Joseph Brandon himself, partook of
the lord of Warlock's hospitality. When the three gen-
tlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, the two elder sat
down to a game at backgammon, and Clifford was left to
the undisturbed enjoyment of Lucy's conversation. She
was sitting by the window when Clifford joined her. On
the table by her side were scattered books, the charm of
which (they were chiefly poetry) she had only of late
learned to discover; there also were strewn various little
masterpieces of female ingenuity, in which the fairy fingers
of Lucy Brandon were especially formed to excel. The
shades of evening were rapidly darkening over the empty
streets and in the sky, which was cloudless and transpa-
rently clear, the stars came gradually out one by one, until,
"As water does a sponge, so their soft light
Fill'd the void, hollow, universal air."
Beautiful evening! (if we, as well as Augustus Tomlin-
son, may indulge in an apostrophe,)- Beautiful evening!
for thee all poets have had a song, and surrounded thee
with rills and waterfalls, and dews, and flowers, and sheep,
and bats, and melancholy, and owls; yet we must confess
hat to us who in this very sentimental age are a bustling,
"The noiseless tenor of his way."
we
The little procession stopped beneath the window where
Lucy and Clifford sat; for the quick eye of the woman ha
perceived them, and she laid her hand on the blind man'ı
arm, and whispered him. He took the hint, and changea
his air into one of love. Clifford glanced at Lucy, her
cheek was dyed in blushes. The air was over,- another
succeeded, it was of the same kind; a third, the
- and then Clifford threw into
burden was still unaltered,
the street a piece of money, and the dog wagged his
abridged and dwarfed tail, and darting forward, picked it
up in his mouth, and the woman (she had a kind face !)
patted the officious friend, even before she thanked the
donor, and then she dropped the money with a cheering
word or two into the blind man's pocket, and the three
wanderers moved slowly on. Presently they came to a
place where the street had been mended, and the stones
lay scattered about. Here the woman no longer trusted to
PAUL CLIFFORD.
437
the dog's guidance, but anxiously hastened to the musician, |
and led him with evident tenderness and ininute watchful-
ness over the rugged way. When they had passed the
danger, the man stopped, and before he released the hand
which had guided hin, he pressed it gratefully, and then
both the husband and the wife stooped down and caressed
the dog. This little scene, one of those rough copies of
the loveliness of human affections, of which so many are
scattered about the highways of the world, both the lov-
ers had involuntarily watched; and now as they withdrew
their eyes,
those eyes settled on each other, Lucy's
swam in tears.
"To be loved and tended by the one I love," said
Clifford in a low voice, "I would walk blind and barefoot
over the whole earth!"
-
Lucy sighed very gently, and placing her pretty hands
(the one clasped over the other) upon her knee, looked
down wistfully on them, but made no answer. Clifford
drew his chair nearer, and gazed on her as she sat; the
long dark eyelash drooping over her eyes, and contrasting
the ivory lids; her delicate profile half turned from him,
and borrowing a more touching beauty from the soft light
that dwelt upon it, and her full yet still scarcely developed
bosom heaving at thoughts which she did not analyze, but
was content to feel at once vague and delicious; he gazed,
and his lips trembled — he longed to speak -he longed to
say but those words which convey what volumes have
endeavoured to express, and have only weakened by detail
"I love." How he resisted the yearnings of his heart,
we know not -but he did resist and Lucy, after a con-
fused and embarrassed pause, took up one of the poems on
the table, and asked him some questions about a particular
passage in an old bailad which he had once pointed to her
notice. The passage related to a border chief, one of the
Armstrongs of old, who having been seized by the English
and condemned to death, vented his last feelings in a pas-
sionate address to his own home- his rude tower- -and
his newly-wedded bride. "Do you believe," said Lucy,
as their conversation began to flow, "that one so lawless
and eager for bloodshed and strife, as this robber is
scribed to be, could be so capable of soft affections?"
"I do," said Clifford, "because he was not sensible
that he was as criminal as you esteem him. If a man
cherish the idea that his actions are not evil, he will retain
at his heart all its better and gentler sensations as much as
if he had never sinned. The savage murders his enemy,
and when he returns home, is not the less devoted to his
friend, or the less anxious for his children. To harden
and embrute the kindly dispositions, we must not only
indulge in guilt, but feel that we are guilty. Oh! many
that the world load with their opprobrium are capable of
acts nay, have committed acts, which in others, the
world would reverence and adore. Would you know
whether a man's heart be shut to the power of love; ask,
what he is -not to his foes, but to his friends! Crime,
too," continued Clifford, speaking fast and vehemently,
while his eyes flashed and the dark blood rushed to his
cheek -"crime what is crime? men embody their
worst prejudices, their most evil passions in a heteroge-
necus and contradictory code, and whatever breaks this
code, they term a crime. When they make no distinction
in the penalty
that is to say, in the estimation award-
ed both to inurder and to a petty theft imposed on the
weak will by famine, we ask nothing else to convince us
that they are ignorant of the very nature of guilt, and that
they make up in ferocity for the want of wisdom."
know
ment, accompanied as it was with sentiment and ardor,
that resembled our beau ideal of those chevaliers, ordinarily
peculiar to the continent-heroes equally in the drawing-
room and the field. Observant, courteous, witty, and
versed in the various accomplishments that combine (that
most unfrequent of all unions!) vivacity with grace, he
was especially formed for that brilliant world from which
his circumstances tended to exclude him. Under different
auspices, he might have been -pooh! We are running
into a most pointless common-place; what might any man
be under auspices different from those by which his life
has been guided ? Music soon succeeded to conversation,
and Clifford's voice was of necessity put into requisition.
Miss Brandon had just risen from the harpsichord, as be
sat down to perform mis part; and she stood by him with
the rest of the group while he sung. Only twice his eyes
stole to that spot which her breath and form made sacred
to him; once when he began, and once when he concluded
his song. Perhaps the recollection of their conversation
inspired him; certainly it dwelt upon his mind at the
threw a richer flush over his brow, and infused
moment
a more meaning and heartfelt softness into his tone
STANZAS.
"When I leave thee, oh! ask not the world what that heart
Which adores thee, to others may be !
I know that I sin when from thee I depart,
But my guilt shall not light upon thee.
My life is a river which glasses a ray
That hath deigned to descend from above;
Whatever the banks that o'ershadow its way,
It mirrors the light of thy love.
Though the waves may run high when the night wind awake,
Though broken and wild be the billows it makes,
And hurries the stream to its fall;
Thine image still trembles on ull.”
CC
While this ominous love between Clifford and Lucy was
thus finding fresh food in every interview and every oppor-
de-tunity, the unfortunate Mauleverer, firmly persuaded that
his complaint was a relapse of what he termed the " War-
lock Dyspepsia," was waging dire war with the remains
of the beef and pudding, which he tearfully assured his
physicians were lurking in his constitution." As Mau-
leverer, though complaisant-like most men of unmistake-
able rank to all his acquaintances, whatever might be
their grade, possessed but very few friends intimate
enough to enter his sick-chamber, and none of that few
were at Bath; it will readily be perceived that he was in
blissful ignorance of the growing fortunes of his rival; and
to say the exact truth,
to say the exact truth, illness, which makes a man's
thoughts turn very much upon himself, banished many of
the most tender ideas usually floating in his mind around
the image of Lucy Brandon. His pill superseded his pas
sion; and he felt that there are draughts in the world
more powerful in their effects than those in the phials of
Alcidonis.* He very often thought, it is true, how pleas-
ant it would be for Lucy to smooth this pillow, and Lucy
to prepare that mixture; but then, Mauleverer had an
excellent valet, who hoped to play the part enacted by Gil
Blas toward the honest licentiate; and to nurse a legacy
while he was nursing his master. And the earl, who
was tolerably good-tempered, was forced to confess, that
it would be scarcely possible for any one "to know his
ways better than Smoothson.” Thus, during his illness,
the fair form of his intended bride little troubled the peace
of the noble adorer. And it was not till he found himself
able to eat three good dinners consecutively, with a tolera
ble appetite, that Mauleverer recollected that he was vio-
lently in love. As soon as this idea was fully reinstated
in his memory, and he had been permitted by his doctor to
allow himself "a little cheerful society," Mauleverer re-
solved to go to the rooms for an hour or two.
Lucy looked in alarm at the animated and fiery coun-
tenance of the speaker; Clifford recovered himself, after a
moment's pause, and rose from his seat with the gay and
frank laugh which made one of his peculiar characteristics.
"There is a singularity in politics, Miss Brandon," said
ke, "which I dare say you have often observed, viz. that
those who are least important, are always most n. sy; and
that the chief people who lose their temper, are those who
have nothing to gain in return.”
As Clifford spoke, the doors were thrown open, and
some visitors to Miss Brandon were announced. The
good squire was still immersed in the vicissitudes of his
game, and the sole task of receiving and entertaining
the company,
as the chambermaids have it, fell, as
usual, upon Lucy. Fortunately for her, Clifford was one
of those rare persons who possess eminently the talents of
society. There was much in his gay and gallant tempera-
|
It may be observed that most Grands Seigneurs havs
some favorite place, some cherished Baie, at which they
love to throw off their state and to play the amiable instead
of the splendid; and Bath at that time, from its gayety, its
case, the variety of character to be found in its haunts, and
the obliging manner in which such characters exposed
themselves to ridicule, was exactly the place calculated to
please a man like Mauleverer, who loved at once to be
admired and to satirize. He was therefore an idolized
* See Marmontel's pretty tale of “Ies Quartes Flacons,”
435
BULWER'S NOVELS.
person at the city of Bladud, and as he entered the rooms
he was surrounded by a whole band of imitators and syco-
phants, delighted to find his lordship looking so much
better, and declaring himself so convalescent. As soon as
the earl had bowed and smiled, and shaken hands suffi-
ciently to sustain his reputation, he sauntered toward the
dancers in search of Lucy. He found her not only exactly
in the same spot in which he had last beheld her, but
dancing with exactly the same partner who had before
provoked all the gallant nobleman's jealousy and wrath.
Mauleverer, though not by any means addicted to pre-
paring his compliments beforehand, had just been conning
a delicate speech for Lucy; but no sooner did the person
of her partner flash on him than the whole flattery vanished
at once from his recollection. He felt himself grow pale;
and when Lucy turned, and, seeing him near, addressed
him in the anxious and soft tone which she thought due
to her uncle's friend on his recovery, Mauleverer bowed,
confused and silent; and that green-eyed passion, which
would have convulsed the mind of a true lover, altering a
little the course of its fury, effectually disturbed the manner
of the courtier.
Retreating to an obscure part of the room, where he
could see all without being conspicuous, Mauleverer now
employed himself in watching the motions and looks of the
young pair. He was naturally a penetrating and quick
observer, and in this instance jealousy sharpened his
talents; he saw enough to convince him that Lucy was
already attached to Clifford; and being, by that convic-
tion fully persuaded that Lucy was necessary to his own
happiness, he resolved to lose not a moment in banishing
Captain Clifford from her presence, or, at least, in insti-
tuting such inquiries into that gentleman's relatives, rank,
and respectability, as would, he hoped, render such banish-
ment a necessary consequence of the research.
Fraught with this determination, Mauleverer repaired.
at once to the retreat of the squire, and engaging him in
conversation, bluntly asked him, "Who the deuse Miss
Brandon was dancing with?"
"Miss Brandon is dancing with Mr. Muskwell, sir,
answered Clifford.
M
"Oh! she is! -Mr. Muskwell-humph!-- good fam
ily the Muskwells came from Primrose Hall. Pray,
captain, - not that I want to know for my own sake, for
I am a strange, odd person, I believe, and I am thoroughly
convinced -(some people are censorious, and others, thank
God, are not !) — of your respectability, — what family do
you come from? you won't think my my caution imper-
tinent?" added the shrewd old gentleman, borrowing
that phrase which he thought so friendly in the mouth of
Lord Mauleverer.
Clifford colored for a moment, but replied with a quie
archness of look, "Family, oh, my dear sir, I cerve
from an old family, a very old family indeed."
CC
So I always thought; and in what part of the world? ·
"Scotland, sir-all our family come from Scotland, vir
all who live long do, the rest die young."
Ay, particular air does agree with particular constitu
tions. I, for instance, could not live in all countries; not
you take me,
me, in the North!
"Few honest men can live there," said Clifford
dryly.
And," resumed the squire, a little embarrassed by the
nature of his task, and the cool assurance of his young
friend;
"And pray, Captain Clifford, what regiment do you
long to?"
C+
be-
Regiment ? oh, the Rifles !" answered Clifford.
(Deuse is in me,' muttered heif I can resist a jest
though I break my neck over it.')
on ?"
"A very gallant body of men!" said the squire
"No doubt of that, sir!"rejoined Clifford.
"And do you think, Captain Clifford," renewed the
squire," that it is a good corps for getting on?
'It is rather a bad one for getting off," muttered the
captain, and then aloud: "Why, we have not much interest
at court, sir."
"Oh! but then there is a wider scope, as my brother
the lawyer says, and no man knows better, for merit. I
dare say, you have seen many a man elevated from the
ranks?
66
Nothing more common, sir, than such elevation; and
so great is the virtue of our corps, that, I have also known
not a few willing to transfer the honor to their com
rades."
"You do n't say so!" exclaimed the squire, opening
his eyes at such disinterested magnanimity.
The squire, a little piqued at this brusquerie, replied by
a long eulogium on Paul, and Mauleverer, after hearing it
throughout with the blandest smile imaginable, told the
squire, very politely, that he was sure Mr. Brandon's
good-nature had misled him. "Clifford !" said he, re-
peating the name, "Clifford ! it is one of those names
which are particularly selected by persons nobody knows;
first, because the name is good, and, secondly, because it
is common. My long and dear friendship with your
brother makes me feel peculiarly anxious on any point "But," said Clifford, who began to believe he might
relative to his niece; and, indeed, my dear William, over- carry the equivoque too far, and who thought, despite of
rating perhaps my knowledge of the world, and my influ- his jesting, that it was possible to strike out a more agree-
ence in society, but not my affection for him, besoughtable vein of conversation; "but, sir, if you remember, you
me to assume the liberty of esteeming myself a friend, nay,
even a relation of yours and Miss Brandon's; so that I
trust you do not consider my caution impertinent."
The flattered squire assured him that he was particu-
larly honored, so far from deeming his lordship (which
never could be the case with people so distinguished as his
lordship was, especially !)-impertinent."
—
Lord Mauleverer, encouraged by this speech, artfully
renewed, and succeeded, if not in convincing the squire
that the handsome captain was a suspicious character, at
least in persuading him that common prudence required
that he should find out exactly who the handsome captain
was, especially as he was in the habit of dining with the
squire thrice a week, and dancing with Lucy every night.
See," said Mauleverer, "he approaches you now; I
will retreat to the chair by the fireplace, and you shall
cross-examine him I have no doubt you will do it with
he utmost delicacy.'
CC
So saying, Mauleverer took possession of a seat where
he was not absolutely beyond hearing (slightly deaf as he
was) of the ensuing colloquy, though the position of his
scat skreened him from sight. Mauleverer was esteemed
a man of the most punctilious honor in private life, and he
would not have been seen in the act of listening to other
neople's conversation for the world
Hemming with an air and rest self as Clifford
approached, the squire thus skilfully commenced the at-
ack"Ah, ha! my good Captain Clifford, and how do
you do? I saw you, (and I am very glad, my friend, as
every one else is to see you) — at a distance. And where
have you lef: my daughter?"
have not yet finished that youthful hunting adventure of
yours, when the hounds lost at Burnham Copse."
"Ob, very true," cried the squire, quite forgetting his
late suspicions; and forthwith he began a story that prom-
ised to be as long as the chase it recorded. So charmed
was he when he had finished it, with the character of the
gentleman who had listened to it so delightedly, that on
rejoining Mauleverer, he told the earl with an important
air, that he had strictly examined the young captain, and
that he had fully convinced himself of the excellence of his
family, as well as the rectitude of his morals. Mauleverer
listened with a countenance of polite incredulity; he had
heard but little of the conversation that had taken place
between the pair, but on questioning the squire upon the
sundry particulars of Clifford's birth, parentage, and prop-
erty, he found him exactly as ignorant as before. The
courtier however seeing farther expostulation was in vain,
contented himself with patting the squire's shoulder, and
saying with a mysterious urbanity, Ah, sir, you are too
good!"
66
With these words he turned on his heel, and, not yet
despairing, sought the daughter. He found Miss Brandon
just released from dancing, and with a kind of paternat
gallantry, he offered her his arm to parade the apartments.
After some preliminary flourish, and reference, for the thou-
sandth time, to bis friendship for William Brandon, the
earl spoke to her about that fine-looking young man, who
called himself Captain Clifford.”
“
Unfortunately for Mauleverer, he grew a little too un-
guarded, as his resentment against the interference of Clif-
ford warmed with his language, and he dropped in his
PAUL CLIFFORD.
439
anger one or two words of caution which especially offended
the delicacy of Miss Brandon.
"Take care how I encourage, my lord!" said Lucy,
with glowing cheeks, repeating the words which had so
affronted her, "I really must beg you
"You mean, dear Miss Brandon," interrupted Maulev-
erer, squeezing her hand with respectful tenderness, "that
you must beg me to apologize for my inadvertent expres-
sion. I do, most sincerely. If I had felt less interest in
your happiness, believe me, I should have been more guard-
ed in my language."
Miss Brandon bowed stiffly, and the courtier saw, with
secret rage, that the country beauty was not easily appeased
even by an apology from Lord Mauleverer. "I have
seen the time," thought he, "when young unmarried ladies
would have deemed an affront from me an honor! They
would have gone into hysterics at an apology!" Before
he had time to make his peace, the squire joined them, and
Lucy, taking her father's arm, expressed her wish to re-
turn home. The squire was delighted at the proposition.
It would have been but civil in Mauleverer to offer his as-
sistance n those little attentions preparatory to female de-
He hesitated for a moment,
parture from balls.
"It
keeps one so long in those cursed thorough draughts,"
thought he, shivering. "Besides, it is just possible that I
may not marry her, and it is no good risking a cold (above
all, at the beginning of winter) for nothing! Fraught
with this prudential policy, Mauleverer then resigned Lucy
to her father, and murmuring in her ear, that her dis-
pleasure made him the most wretched of men, concluded
his adieu, by a bow penitentially graceful.
G
About five minutes afterward, he himself withdrew. As
As
he was wrapping his corporeal treasure in his roquelaire of
sables, previous to immersing himself in his chair, he had
the mortification of seeing Lucy, who, with her father, from
some cause or other, had been delayed in the hall, handed
to the carriage by Captain Clifford. Had the earl watched
more narrowly, than in the anxious cares due to himself
he was enabled to do, he would, to his consolation, have
noted that Lucy gave her hand with an averted and cool
air, and that Clifford's expressive and beautiful features
bore rather the aspect of mortification than triumph.
He did not, however, see more than the action, and as
he was borne horieward with his flambeaux and footmen
preceding him, and the watchful Smoothson by the side of
the little vehicle, he muttered his determination of writing
by the very next pet to Brandon, all his anger for Lucy, and
all his jealousy of her evident lover.
While this doughty resolve was animating the great soul
of Mauleverer, Lucy reached her own room, bolted the
door, and throwing herself on her bed, burst into a long
and bitter paroxysm of tears. So unusual were such vis-
iters to her happy and buoyant temper, that there was
something almost alarming in the earnestness and obstinacy
with which she now wept.
"What!" said she bitterly, "have I placed my affec-
tions upon a man of uncertain character? and is my infat-
uation so clear that an acquaintance dare hint at its impru
dence? And yet his manner, his tone! No, no, there
can be no reason for shame in loving him!" and as she
said this, her heart smote her for the coldness of her man-
ner toward Clifford, on his taking leave of her for the
evening. "Am I," she thought, weeping yet more ve-
hemently taan before, "am I so worldly, so base, as to
feel altered toward him the moment I hear a syllable breathed
against his name? Should I not, on the contrary, have
clung to his image with a greater love, if he were attacked
by others? But my father, my dear father, and my kind,
prudent uncle, something is due to them; and they would
break their hearts, if I loved one whom they deemed un-
worthy. Why should I not summon courage, and tell him
of the suspicions respecting him? one candid word would
dispel them. Surely it would be but kind in me toward
him, to give him an opportunity of disproving all false and
dishonoring conjectures. And why this reserve? when so
often by look and hint, if not by open avowal, he has de-
clared that he loves me, and knows, he must know, that he
18 not indifferent to me? Why does he never speak of his
parents, his relations, his home?"
And Lucy, as she asked this question, drew from a bosom,
whose hue and shape might have rivalled her's who won
Cymon to be wise, a drawing which she herself had se-
* See Dryden poem of Cymon and Iphigenia.
| cretly made of her lover, and which, though inartificially
and even rudely done, yet had caught the inspiration of
memory, and breathed the very features and air that were
stamped already ineffaceably upon a heart unworthy of so
sullied an idol. She gazed upon the portrait as if it could
answer her question of the original, and as she looked, and
looked, her tears slowly ceased, and her innocent countenance
relapsed gradually into its usual and eloquent serenity.
Never, perhaps, could Lucy's own portrait have been taken
at a more favorable moment! The unconscious grace of he
attitude, her dress loosened, the modest and youthful voluptu
ousness of her beauty, the tender cheek to which the virgin
bloom, banished for awhile, was now all glowingly returning;
the little white soft hand on which that cheek leaned, while
the other contained the picture upon which her eyes fed; the
half-smile just conjured to her full, red, dewy lips, and gone
the moment after, yet again restored; all made a picture
of such enchanting loveliness, that we question whether
Shakspeare himself could have fancied an earthly shape
more meet to embody the vision of a Miranda or Viola.
The quiet and maiden neatness of the apartment gave effect
to the charm; and there was a poetry even in the snowy
furniture of the bed, the shutters partly unclosed and admit-
ting a glimpse of the silver moon, and the solitary lamp juet
contending with the purer ray of the skies, and so thiow
ing a mixed and softened light around the chamber.
She was yet gazing on the drawing, when a taint grain
of music stole through the air beneath her window, and it
gradually rose till the sound of a guitar became distinct and
clear, suiting with, not disturbing, the moonlit stillness of
the night. The gallantry and romance of a former day,
though at the time of our story subsiding, were not quite
dispelled; and nightly serenades under the casements of a
distinguished beauty were by no means of unfrequent occur-
rence. But Lucy, as the music floated upon
blushed
deeper and deeper, as if it had a dearer source to her heart
than ordina gallantry, and raising herself on one arm
from her tecumbent position, she leant forward to catch the
sound with a greater and more unerring certainty.
her ear,
After a prelude of some moments, a clear and sweet voice
accompanied the instrument, and the words of the song were
as follows:
CLIFFORD'S SERENADE.
"There is a world where every night
My spirit meets and walks with thine;
And hopes- I dare not tell thee light
Like stars of love — that world of mine!
"Sleep! — to the waking world my heart
Hath now, methinks, a stranger grown ——
Ah, sleep that I may feel thou art
Within one world that is my own!"
As the music died away, Lucy sunk back once more, and
the drawing which she held was pressed (with cheeks glow-
ing, though unseen, at the act) to her lips. And though the
character of her lover was uncleared, though she herself
had come to no distinct resolution, even to inform him of
the rumors against his name, yet so easily restored was her
trust in him, and so soothing the very thought of his vigi-
lance and his love, that before an hour had passed, her eyes
against grief, under her pillow, and in her dreams she mur-
were closed in sleep; the drawing was laid, as a spell
mured his name, and unconscious of reality and the future.
smiled tenderly as she did so !
CHAPTER XXI.
Come, the plot thickens! and another fold
Of the warm cloak of mystery wraps us around.
*
And for their loves?
Behold the seal is on them!
Banner of Tyburn
WE must not suppose that Clifford's manner and tone
were toward Lucy Brandon such as they seem to others.
Love refines every roughness; and that truth which nurtures
tenderness, is never barren of
grace. Whatever the habit
and comrades of Clifford's life, he had at heart many good
and generous qualities. They were not often perceptible, it
is true, first, because he was of a gay and reckless turn; see
440
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CC
ondly, because he was not easily affected by any external
circumstance; and thirdly, because he had the policy to
affect among his comrades only such qualities as were
likely to give him influence with them. Still, however,
nis better genius broke out whenever an opportunity pre-
sented itself. Though no Corsair," romantic and un-
real, an Ossianic shadow becoming more vast in proportion
as it recedes from substance; though no grandly-imagined
lie to the fair proportions of human nature, but an erring
man in a very prosaic and homely world; Clifford still
ningled a certain generosity and chivalric emprize, even
with the practices of his profession. Although the name
of Lovett, by which he was chiefly known, was one
peculiarly distinguished, in the annals of the adventurous,
it had never been coupled with rumors of cruelty or
outrage, and it was often associated with anecdotes of
courage, courtesy, good-humor, or forbearance. He was
one whom a real love was peculiarly calculated to soften
and to redeem. The boldness, the candor, the unselfish-
ness of his temper, were components of nature upon
which affection invariably takes a strong and deep hold.
Besides, Clifford was of an eager and aspiring turn;
and the same temper and abilities which had in a very
few years raised him in influence and popularity far
above all the chivalric band with whom he was con-
nected, when once inflamed and elevated by a higher pas-
sion, were likely to arouse his ambition from the level of
his present pursuits, and reform him, ere too late, into
a useful, nay, even an honorable member of society. We
trust that the reader has already perceived that, despite
his early circumstances, his manner and address were
not such as to unfit him for a lady's love. The compara-
tive refinement of his exterior is easy of explanation,
for he possessed a natural and inborn gentility, a quick
turn for observation, a ready sense both of the ridiculous
and the graceful; and these are materials which are soon
and lightly wrought from coarseness into polish. He had
been thrown too among the leaders and heroes of his band;
many not absolutely low in birth, nor debased in habit.
He had associated with the Barringtons of the day; gen-
tlemen who were admired at Ranelagh, and made speeches
worthy of Cicero, when they were summoned to trial. He
played his part in public places; and as Tomlinson was
wont to say after his Ciceronian fashion, "the triumphs
accomplished in the field, had been planned in the ball-
room. In short, he was one of those accomplished and
elegant highwaymen of whom we yet read wonders, and
by whom it would have been delightful to have been
robbed: and the aptness of intellect, which grew into wit
with his friends, softened into sentiment with his mistress.
There is something, too, in beauty, (and Clifford's person,
as we have before said, was possessed of even uncommon
attractions,) which lifts a beggar into nobility; and there
was a distinction in his gait and look which supplied the
air of rank, and the tone of courts. Men, indeed, skilled
like Mauleverer in the subtleties of manner, might perhaps
have easily detected in him the want of that indescribable
essence possessed only by persons reared in good socie-
ty; but that want being shared by so many persons of
indisputable birth and fortune, conveyed no particular
reproach. To Lucy, indeed, brought up in seclusion,
and seeing at Warlock none calculated to refine her taste
in the fashion of an air or phrase to a very fastidious
standard of perfection, this want was perfectly impercep-
tible: she remarked in her lover only a figure everywhere
unequalled an eye always eloquent with admiration —
a step from which grace could never be divorced - a voice
that spoke in a silver key, and uttered flatteries delicate in
thought and poetical in word: -even a certain originality
of mind, remark, and character, occasionally approaching
to the bizarre, yet sometimes also to the elevated, possessed
a charm for the imagination of a young and not unenthu-
siastic female, and contrasted favorably, rather than the
reverse, with the dull insipidity of those she ordinarily
saw. Nor are we sure that the mystery thrown about him,
irksome as it was to her, and discreditable as it appeared
o others, was altogether ineffectual in increasing her love
for the adventurer; and thus Fate, which transmutes in
ner magic crucible all opposing metals into that one which
she is desirous to produce, swelled the wealth of an ill-
placed and ominous passion, by the very circumstances
which should have counteracted and destroyed it.
We are willing, by what we have said, not to defend
Clifford, but to redeem Lucy in the opinion of our readers,
for loving so unwisely; and when they remember her
youth, her education, her privation of a mother, of all fe-
male friendship, even of the vigilant and unrelaxing care
of some protector of the opposite sex, we do not think tha
what was so natural will be considered by any inexcusa
ble.
Mauleverer woke the morning after the ball in better
health than usual, and consequently more in love than
ever. According to his resolution the night before, he
sat down to write a long letter to William Brandon; it
was amusing and witty as usual; but the wily nobleman.
succeeded, under the cover of wit, in conveying to Bran-
don's mind a serious apprehension lest his cherished mat-
rimonial project should altogether fai? The account of
Lucy and of Captain Clifford contained in the epistle,
instilled, indeed, a double portion of scarness into the
professionally acrid mind of the lawyer; and as it so
happened that he read the letter just before attending the
court upon a case in which he was counsel to the crown,
the witnesses on the opposite side of the question felt the
full effects of the barrister's ill-humor.
The case was one in which the defendant had been ex-
gaged in swindling transactions to a very large amount-
and, amid his agents and assistants, was a person ranking
among the very lowest orders, but who, seemingly enjoying
large connexions, and possessing natural acuteness and ad-
dress, appeared to have been of great use in receiving and
disposing of such goods as were fraudulently obtained. As
a witness against the latter person appeared a pawnbroker,
who produced certain articlos that had been pledged to him
at different times by this humble agent. Now, Brandon,
in examining the guilty go-between, became the more terri-
bly severe, in proportion as the man evinced that semblance
of unconscious stolidity, which the lower orders so ingeni-
ously assume, and which is so peculiarly adapted to enrage
and to baffle the gentlemen of the bar. At length Bran-
don, entirely subduing and quelling the stubborn hypocrisy
of the culprit, the man turned toward him with a look be-
tween wrath and beseechingness, muttering,
"Aha!- - If so be, Counsellor Brandon, you knew vat I
knows, you vould not go for to bully I so!"
"And pray, my good fellow, what is that you know that
should make me treat you as if I thought you an honest
man?"
The witness had now relapsed into sullenness, and only
answered by a sort of grunt. Brandon, who knew well
how to sting a witness into communicativeness,
tinued his questioning, till the witness, re-aroused into
anger, and it may be, into indiscretion, said, in a low
voice,
con-
"Hax Mr. Swoppem (the pawnbroker) what I sold 'im
on the 15th of February, exactly twenty-three year'n
ago."
Brandon started back, his lips grew white, he clenched
his hands with a convulsive spasın; and while all his fea-
tures seemed distorted with an earnest, yet fearful intensity
of expectation, he poured forth a volley of questions, so
incoherent, and so irrelevant, that he was immediately
called to order by his learned brother on the opposite side.
Nothing farther could be extracted from the witness. The
pawnbroker was re-summoned; he appeared somewhat
disconcerted by an appeal to his memory so far back as
twenty-three years. but after taking some time to consider,
during which the agitation of the usually cold and possessed
Brandon was remarkable to all the court, he declared that he
recollected no transaction whatsoever with the witness at that
time. In vain were all Brandon's efforts to procure a more
elucidatory answer. The pawnbroker was impenetrable, and
the lawyer was compelled reluctantly to dismiss him. The
moment the witness left the box, Brandon sunk into a
gloomy abstraction, he seemed quite to forget the busi-
ness and the duties of the court; and so negligently did he
continue to conclude the case, so purposeless was the rest
of his examination and cross-examination, that the cause
was entirely marred, and a verdict “Not Guilty” returned
by the jury.
The moment he left the court, Brandon repaired to the
pawnbroker's; and after a conversation with Mr. Swop-
pem, in which he satisfied that honest tradesman that his
object was rather to reward than intimidate, Swoppem
confessed that twenty-three years ago the witness had met
him at a public house in Devereux Court, in company with
PAUL CLIFFORD
441
-
two other men, and sold him several articles in plate, orna- |
bulk of these articles had, of course,
ments, &c The great
long left the pawnbroker's abode, but he still thought a
stray trinket or two, - not of sufficient worth to be re-set
or re-modelled, nor of sufficient fashion to find a ready
sale, lingered in his drawers. Eagerly and with trembling
cands did Brandon toss over the motley contents of the
mahogany reservoirs which the pawnbroker now submitted
to his scrutiny. - Nothing on earth is so melancholy a
prospect as a pawnbroker's drawer! - those little, quaint,
valueless ornaments, those true-lovers' knots, those oval
lockets, those battered rings, girdled by initials, or some
brief inscription of regard or of grief, what tales of past
affections, hopes, and sorrows do they not tell! But no
sentiment of so general a sort ever saddened the hard mind
of William Brandon, and now less than at any time could
such reflections have occurred to him. Impatiently he threw
on the table, one after another, the baubles once hoarded,
perchance, with the tenderest respect, till at length his eyes
sparkled, and with a nervous gripe, he seized upon an old
ring, which was inscribed with letters, and circled a heart
containing hair. The inscription was simply, "W. B. to
Julia." Strange and dark was the expression that settled
on Brandon's face as he regarded this seemingly worthless
trinket. After a moment's gaze, he uttered an inarticulate
exclamation, and thrusting it into his pocket, renewed his
search. He found one or two trifles of a similar nature;
one was an ill-done miniature set in silver, and bearing at
the back sundry half-effaced letters, which Brandon con-
strued at once (though no other eye could) into "Sir John
de Brandon, 1635, Etat. 28; " the other was a seal
stamped with the noble crest of the house of Brandon, A
bull's head ducally crowned and armed Or.' As soon as
Brandon had possessed himself of these treasures, and ar-
rived at the conviction that the place held no more, he as-
sured the conscientious Swoppem of his regard for that
person's safety, rewarded him munificently, and went his
way to Bow-street for a warrant against the witness who
had commended him to the pawnbroker. On his road
thither, a new resolution occurred to him, "Why make all
public, he muttered to himself, "if it can be avoided?
He paused a moment,
and it may be avoided!"
retraced his way to the pawnbroker's, and after a brief
mandate to Mr. Swoppem, returned home. In the course
of the same evening, the witness we refer to was brought
to the lawyer's house by Mr. Swoppem, and there held a
long and private conversation with Brandon; the result of
this seemed a compact to their mutual satisfaction, for the
man went away safe, with a heavy purse and a light heart,
although sundry shades and misgivings did certainly ever
and anon cross the latter; while Brandon flung himself
back in his seat with the triumphant air of one who has
accomplished some great measure, and his dark face be-
trayed in every feature a joyousness and hope, which were
unfrequent guests, it must be owned, either to his counte
nance or his heart.
J
then
you
So good a man of business, however, was William Bran-
don, that he allowed not the event of that day to defer be
yond the night his attention to his designs for the aggrand-
izement of his niece and house. By daybreak the next
morning, he had written to Lord Mauleverer, to his brother,
and to Lucy. To the last, his letter, couched in all the
anxiety of fondness, and the caution of affectionate experi-
ence, was well calculated to occasion that mingled shame
and soreness which the wary lawyer rightly judged would
be the most effectual enemy to an incipient passion. "I have
accidentally heard," he wrote, " from a friend of mine,
just arrived from Bath, of the glaring attentions paid to
by a Captain Clifford; I will not, my dearest niece, wound
you, by repeating what also I heard of your manner of re-
ceiving them. I know the ill-nature and the envy of the
world, and I do not for a moment imagine, that my Lucy,
of whom I am so justly proud, would countenance, from a
petty coquetry, the advances of one whom she could never
marry, or evince to any suitor partiality unknown to her rela-
tions, and certainly placed in a quarter which could never
receive their approbation. I do not credit the reports of
the idle, my dear niece; but if I discredit, you must not
slight them. I call upon your prudence, your delicacy,
your discretion, your sense of right, at once, and effectu-
ally, to put a stop to all impertinent rumors: dance with
young man no more; do not let him be of your party
any place of amusement, public or private; avoid even
VOL. I
56
this
in
seeing him if you are able, and show in your manner to-
ward him that decided coldness which the world cannot
Much more did the skilful uncle write, but all
mistake!"
to the same purpose; and for the furtherance of the same
design. His letter to his brother was no less artful. He
told him at once that Lucy's preference of the suit of a
handsome fortune-hunter was the public talk, and besought
"You
him to lose not a moment in quelling the rumor.
may do so easily," he wrote, "by avoiding the young man;
and should he be very importunate, return at once to War-
lock, your daughter's welfare must be dearer to you than
any thing.
To Mauleverer, Brandon replied by a letter which turned
first on public matters, and then slid carelessly into the sub-
ject of the earl's information.
>
Among the admonitions which he ventured to give Mau-
leverer, he dwelt, not without reason, on the want of tact
displayed by the earl, in not manifesting that pomp and
"Re-
show which his station in life enabled him to do.
member," he urged, "you are not among your equals, by
whom unnecessary parade begins to be considered an os-
tentatious vulgarity. The surest method of dazzling our
inferiors is by splendor, not taste. All young persons,
all women in particular, are caught by show, and enamoured
of magnificence. Assume a greater state, and you will be
more talked of; and notoriety wins a woman's heart more
than beauty or youth. You have, forgive me, played the
boy too long; a certain dignity becomes your manhood;
women will not respect you if you suffer yourself to become
'stale and cheap to vulgar company.' You are like a man
who has fifty advantages and uses only one of them to gain
his point, when you rely on your conversation and your
manner, and throw away the resources of your wealth and
your station. Any private gentleman may be amiable and
witty; but any private gentleman cannot call to his aid the
Aladdin's lamp possessed in England by a wealthy peer.
Look to this, my dear lord. Lucy at heart is vain, or she
is not a woman. Dazzle her then, dazzle! Love may be
blind, but it must be made so by excess of light. You have
a country-house within a few miles of Bath, why not
take up your abode there instead of in a paltry lodging in
the town? Give sumptuous entertainments, make it neces-
sary for all the world to attend them, exclude, of course,
this Captain Clifford, you will then meet Lucy without a
rival. At present, excepting only your title, you fight on a
level ground with this adventurer, instead of an eminence
from which you could in an instant sweep him away. Nay,
he is stronger than you; he has the opportunities afford-
ed by a partnership in balls where you cannot appear to
advantage; he is, you say, in the first bloom of youth,-
he is handsome. Reflect! your destiny, so far as Lucy
is concerned, is in your hands. I turn to other sub-
jects, &c."
As Brandon re-read ere he signed this last letter, a bitter
smile sat on his harsh, yet handsome features. "If," said
he mentally," I can effect this object; if Mauleverer does
marry this girl, why, so much the better that she has an-
other, a fairer, and a more welcome lover. By the great
principle of scorn within me, which has enabled me to
sneer at what weaker minds adore, and make a footstool
of that worldly honor which fools set up as a throne, it
would be to me more sweet than fame,ay, or even than
power, to see this fine-spun lord a gibe in the mouths
of men, -a cuckold,- -a cuckold!" and as he said the
last word, Brandon laughed outright.
"And he thinks, too,
added he, "that he is sure of my fortune; otherwise, per-
haps, he, the silversmith's descendant, would not dignify
our house with his proposals; but he may err there
and finishing his soliloquy, Brandon finished also his let-
ter by, "Adieu, my dear lord, your most affectionate
friend!
It is not difficult to conjecture the effect produced upon
Lucy by Brandon's letter: it made her wretched; she re-
fused for days to go out; she shut herself up in her apart
ment, and consumed the time in tears and struggles with
her own heart. Sometimes, what she conceived to be her
duty, conquered, and she resolved to forswear her lover;
but the night undid the labor of the day; for at night, every
night, the sound of her lover's voice, accompanied by music,
melted away her resolution, and made her once more all
tenderness and trust. The words, too, sung under her
window, were especially suited to affect her; they breathed
a melancholy which touched her the more from its harmony
442
BULWER'S NOVELS.
with her own thoughts. One while they complained of
absence; at another they hinted at neglect; but there was
always in them a tone of humiliation, not reproach they
bespoke a sense of unworthiness in the lover, and confessed
that even the love was a crime; and, in proportion as they
owned the want of desert, did Lucy more firmly cling to
the belief that her lover was deserving.
The old squire was greatly disconcerted by his brother's
letter. Though impressed with the idea of self-conse-
quence, and the love of tolerably pure blood, common to
most country squires, he was by no means ambitious for his
daughter. On the contrary, the same feeling which at
Warlock had made him choose his companions among the
inferior gentry, made him averse to the thought of a son-in-
law from the peerage. Despite of Mauleverer's good-na-
ture, the very ease of the earl annoyed him, and he never
felt at home in his society. To Clifford he had a great
liking, and having convinced himself that there was nothing
to suspect in the young gentleman, he saw no earthly reason
why so agreeable a companion should not be an agreeable
son-in-law. "If he be poor," thought the squire," though
be does not seem so, Lucy is rich!" And this truism ap-
peared to him to answer every objection. Nevertheless,
William Brandon possessed a remarkable influence over
the weaker mind of his brother; and the squire, though
with great reluctance, resolved to adopt his advice. He
shut his doors against Clifford, and when he met him in the
streets, instead of greeting him with his wonted cordiality,
he passed him with a hasty "Good day, captain!" which
after the first day or two, merged into a distant bow.
Whenever very good-hearted people are rude, and unjustly
90, the rudeness is in the extreme. The squire felt it so
irksome to be less familiar than heretofore with Clifford,
that his only remaining desire was now to drop him alto-
gether; and to this consummation of acquaintance the grad-
ually-cooling salute appeared rapidly approaching. Mean-
while, Clifford, unable to see Lucy, shunned by her father,
and obtaining in answer to all inquiry rude looks from the
footman, whom nothing but the most resolute command over
his muscles prevented him from knocking down, began to
feel, perhaps, for the first time in his life, that an equivo-
cal character is, at least, no equivocal misfortune. To add
to his distress, "the earnings of his previous industry,"
we use the expression cherished by the wise Tomlinson,
waxed gradually less and less, beneath the expenses of
Bath and the murmuring voices of his two comrades be-
gan already to reproach their chief for his inglorious idle-
ness, and to hint at the necessity of a speedy exertion.
;
CHAPTER XXII.
Whackum.-Look you there, now! Well, all Europe cannot
show a knot of finer wits and braver gentlemen.
Dingboy.-Faith, they are pretty smart men.
SHADWELL's Scourers.
THE world of Bath was of a sudden delighted by the
intelligence that Lord Mauleverer had gone to Beauville,
(the beautiful seat possessed by that nobleman in the
neighbourhood of Bath,) with the intention of there holding
& series of sumptuous entertainments.
The first persons to whom the gay earl announced his
were Mr. and Miss Brandon; he
hospitable purpose
called at their house, and declared his resolution of not
leaving it till Lucy (who was in her own room) consented
to gratify him with an interview, and a promise to be the
queen of his purposed festival. Lucy, teased by her fa-
ther, descended to the drawing-room spiritless and pale;
and the earl, struck by the alteration of her appearance,
took her hand, and made his inquiries with so interested
and feeling a semblance of kindness, as prepossessed the
father, for the first time, in his favor, and touched even the
daughter. So earnest, too, was his request that she would
honor his festivities with her presence, and with so skilful
a flattery was it conveyed, that the squire undertook to
promise the favor in her name; and when the earl, de-
claring he was not contented with that promise from
another, appealed to Lucy herself, her denial was soon
melted into a positive though a reluctant assent.
Delighted with his success, and more struck with Lucy's
loveliness, refined as it was by her paleness, than he had
ever been before, Mauleverer left the house, and calculated,
with greater accuracy than he had hitherto done, the proo
able fortune Lucy would derive from her uncle.
No sooner were the cards issued for Lord Mauleverer's
fête, than nothing else was talked of among the circles,
which at Bath, people were pleased to term "the World."
Sometime or other we intend more poetically than these
pages will suffer us, to take notice of the amusements and
pursuits of that said " World," in whatever corner of
England it may be found. Grant us patience, heaven,
power and patience to tell the people of what stuff" fash-
ion is made; while other novelists praise, imitate,
exalt the vicious inanities of a hoary aristocracy, grown to
that age when even the respectable crimes of its earlier
youth sink into drivelling,-grant us the ability to expose
and to deride them, and we will not ask the blessing to
bequeath any other moral to our sons!
>"
But, in the interim, caps are making, and talk flowing,
at Bath; and when it was found that Lord Mauleverer,
the good-natured Lord Mauleverer ! - the obliging Lord
Mauleverer ! -was really going to be exclusive, and out
of a thousand acquaintances to select only eight hundred,
it is amazing how his popularity deepened into respect.
Now, then, came anxiety and triumph,
she who was
asked turned her back upon her who was not, old friend-
ships dissolved, - Independence wrote letters for a ticket,
and as England is the freest country in the world, all
the Mistresses Hodges and Snodges begged to take the
liberty of bringing their youngest daughters.
Leaving the enviable Mauleverer, the godlike occasion
of so much happiness and woe, triumph and dejection,
ascend with us, O reader, into those elegant apartments
over the hair-dresser's shop, tenanted by Mr. Edward
the time was that
Pepper and Mr. Augustus Tomlinson:
of evening, Captain Clifford had been dining with his two
friends, the cloth was removed, and conversation was flow-
ing over a table graced by two bottles of port, a bowl of
punch for Mr. Pepper's especial discussion, two dishes of
filberts, another of devilled biscuits, and a fourth of three
Pomarian crudities, which nobody touched.
The hearth was swept clean, the fire burnt high and
clear, the curtains were let down, and the light excluded.
Our three adventurers and their room seemed the picture
of comfort. So thought Mr. Pepper, for, glancing round
the chamber, and putting his feet upon the fender, he said,
"Were my portrait to be taken, gentlemen, it is just
as I am now that I would be drawn!
t
Tom-
"And," said Tomlinson, cracking his filberts,
linson was fond of filberts, were I to choose a home,
it is in such a home as this that I would be always quar-
tered."
"Ah! gentlemen," said Clifford, who had been for
some time silent, "it is more than probable that both your
wishes may be heard, and that ye may be drawn, quartered,
and something else, too, in the very place of your desert!"
"Well!" said Tomlinson, smiling gently,
"I am hap-
py to hear you jest again, captain, though it be at our ex-
pense.
r
Expense!" echoed Ned, "Ah! there's the rub! Who
the deuse is to pay the expense of our dinner?"
CC
"And our dinners for the last week?" added Tomlin-
son; "this empty nut looks ominous; it certainly has
one grand feature, strikingly resembling my pockets.
Heigho!" sighed Long Ned, turning his waistcoat
commodities inside out with a significant gesture, while
the accomplished Tomlinson, who was fond of plain-
tive poetry, pointed to the disconsolate vacua, and ex-
claimed,—
"E'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart desponding asks if this be joy !"
"In truth, gentlemen," added he, solemnly depositing
his nut-crackers on the table, and laying, as was his wont,
when about to be luminous, his right finger on his sinister
palm, "in truth, gentlemen, affairs are growing serious
with us, and it becomes necessary forthwith to devise some
safe means of procuring a decent competence."
"I am dunned confoundedly," cried Ned.
And," continued Tomlinson, "no person of delicacy
likes to be subjected to the importunity of vulgar credi-
tors; we must therefore raise money for the liquidation of
our debts. Captain Lovett, or Clifford, whichever you be
styled, we call upon you to assist us in so praiseworthy a
purpose!"
PAUL CLIFFORD.
443
Clifford turned his eyes first on one, and then on the
other, but made no answer.
"Imprimis," said Tomlinson; "let us each produce our
stock in hand; for my part, I am free to confess, for
what shame is there in that poverty which our exertions
are about to relieve ?-that I have only two guineas, four
shillings, and three pence half-penny!
وو
"And I," said long Ned, taking a china ornament from
the chimney-piece, and emptying its contents in his hand,
am in a still more pitiful condition. See, I have only
three shillings and a bad guinea. I gave the guinea to the
waiter at the White Hart, yesterday; the dog brought it
back to me to-day, and I was forced to change it with my
last shiner. Plague take the thing! I bought it of a Jew
for four shillings, and have lost one pound five by the bar-
gain !"
'
"Fortune frustrates our wisest schemes!" rejoined the
moralizing Augustus. Captain, will you produce the
scanty wrecks of your wealth?"
Clifford, still silent, threw a purse on the table; Augus-
tus carefully emptied it, and counted out five guineas; an
expression of grave surprise settled on Tomlinson's con-
templative brow, and extending the coins toward Clifford,
he said, in a melancholy tone-
"All your pretty ones?
Did you say all?'"
A look from Clifford answered the interesting interrog-
atory.
"These, then," said Tomlinson, collecting in his hand
the common wealth -"these, then, are all our remaining
treasures!"— As he spoke, he jingled the coins mournfully
in his palm, and gazing upon them with a parental air, ex-
claimed,
"Alas! regardless of their doom, the little victims play!"
"Oh, damn it!" said Ned, "no sentiment ! Let us
come to business at once. To tell you the truth, I, for one,
am tired of this heiress-hunting, and a man may spend a
fortune in the chase before he can win one.'
"You despair then positively of the widow you have
courted so long?" asked Tomlinson.
Utterly!" rejoined Ned, whose addresses had been
limited solely to the dames of the middling class, and who
had imagined himself at one time, as he punningly express-
ed it, sure of a dear rib from Cheapside. "Utterly; she
was very civil to me at first, but when I proposed, asked
me, with a blush, for my ' references." 'References?'
C
said I; why, I want the place of your husband, my char-
mer, not your footman !' The dame was inexorable,
said she could not take me without a character, but hinted
that I might be the lover instead of the bridegroom; and
when I scorned the suggestion, and pressed for the parson,
she told me point blank, with her unlucky city pronuncia-
tion, "That she would never accompany mne to the Hal-
tar!"
Ha, ha, ha!" cried Tomlinson, laughing, "One can
scarcely blame the good lady for that. Love rarely brooks
such permanent ties. But have you no other lady in your
eye?
"Not for matrimony: all roads but those to the
church!"
r
<
While this dissolute pair were thus conversing, Clifford
leaning against the wainscot, listened to them with a sick
and bitter feeling of degradation, which, till of late days,
had been a stranger to his breast. He was at length
aroused from his silence by Ned, who bending forward,
and placing his hand upon Clifford's knee, said abruptly,
In short, captain, you must lead us once more to glo-
ry. We have still our horses, and I keep my mask in my
pocket-book, together with my comb. Let us take the
road to-morrow night, dash across the country toward Salis-
bury, and after a short visit in that neighbourhood to a
band of old friends of mine, bold fellows, who would
have stopped the devil himself, when he was at work upon
Stonehenge, make a tour by Reading and Henley, and
end by a plunge into London."
"You have spoken well, Ned!" said Tomlinson, ap-
provingly. "Now, noble captain, your opinion?”
"Messieurs," answered Clifford, "I highly approve of
your intended excursion, and I only regret that I cannot be
your companion.”
"Not! and why ? cried Mr. Pepper, amazed.
"Because I have business here that renders it impossi-
ble; perhaps, before long, I may join you in London."
Nay," said Tomlinson, "there is no necessity for our
going to London, if you wish to remain here; nor need we
at present recur to so desperate an expedient as the road,
—a little quiet business at Bath will answer our purpose:
and for my part, as you well know, I love exerting my
wits in some scheme more worthy of them than the high-
way, a profession meeter for a bully than a man of ge
nius.
nius. Let us then, captain, plan a project of enrichment
on the property of some credulous tradesmen! why have
recourse to rough measures, so long as we can find easy
fools?"
"
Clifford shook his head. "I will own to you fairly,'
said he, " that I cannot at present take a share in your ex-
ploits: nay, as your chief, I must lay my positive com-
mands on you to refrain from all exercise of your talents
at Bath. Rob, if you please; the world is before you; but
this city is sacred."
Body o' me! cried Ned, coloring,
"but this is too
good. I will not be dictated to in this manner.
"But, sir," answered Clifford, who had learnt in hi
oligarchical profession the way to command.
"But, sir,
you shall, or if you mutiny, you leave our body, and then
will the hangman have no petty chance of your own. Come!
come! ingrate as you are, what would you be without me?
How many times have I already saved that long carcase of
thine from the rope, and now would you have the baseness
to rebel? Out on you ! "
Though Mr. Pepper was still wroth, he bit his lip in
moody silence, and suffered not his passion to have its way;
while Clifford rising, after a short pause, continued:
"Look you, Mr. Pepper, you know my commands, con
sider them peremptory. I wish you success, and plenty
Farewell, gentlemen!"
"Do you leave us already?" cried Tomlinson; "you
are offended.”
Surely not!" answered Clifford, retreating to the
door: "But an engagement elsewhere, you know!"
"Ay, I take you!" said Tomlinson? following Clifford
out of the room, and shutting the door after him.
Ay, I take you!" added he, in a whisper, as he
arrested Clifford at the head of the stairs.
"But tell me,
how do you get on with the heiress?"
Smothering that sensation at his heart which made Clif-
ford, reckless as he was, enraged and ashamed, whenever,
through the lips of his comrades, there issued any allusion
to Lucy Brandon, the chief replied, "I fear, Tomlinson
that I am already suspected by the old squire ! all of a sud
den, he avoids me, shuts his door against me, Miss Bran-
don goes nowhere; and even if she did, what could I ex
pect from her after this sudden change in the father?"
Tomlinson looked blank and disconcerted: "But," said
he, after a moment's silence, "why not put a good face on
the matter? walk up to the squire, and ask him the reason
of his unkindness?
Why, look you, my friend; I am bold enough with all
others, but this girl has made me as bashful as a maid, in
all that relates to herself. Nay, there are moments when
I think I can conquer all selfish feeling, and rejoice for her
sake that she has escaped me. Could I but see her once
more, I could, yes! I feel, I feel I could — resign
her for ever!"
-
"Humph!" said Tomlinson; "and what is to become
of us? Really, my captain, your sense of duty should lead
you to exert yourself; your friends starve before your eyes,
while you are
you are shilly-shallying about your mistress. Have
you no bowels for friendship?"
-
re-
"A truce with this nonsense! said Clifford, angrily.
"It is sense,
sober sense, and sadness too;
joined Tomlinson. "Ned is discontented, our debts are
imperious. Suppose now, just suppose, that we take
a moonlight flitting from Bath, will that tell well for you
whom we leave behind? Yet this we must do, if you do not
devise some method of refilling our purses. Either, then,
consent to join us in a scheme meet for our wants, or pay
our debts in this city, or fly with us to London, and dismiss
all thoughts of that love which is so seldom friendly to the
projects of ambition."
Notwithstanding the manner in which Tomlinson made
this threefold proposition, Clifford could not but acknowl-
edge the sense and justice contained it; and a glance at
the matter sufficed to show how ruinous to his character,
144
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and therefore to his hopes, would be the flight of his com-
rades and the clamor of their creditors.
"You speak well, Tomlinson," said he, nesitating, " and
yet for the life of me I cannot aid you in any scheme which
may disgrace us by detection. Nothing can reconcile me
to the apprehension of Miss Brandon's discovering who and
what was her suitor."
"I feel for you," said Tomlinson; "but give me and
Pepper at least permission to shift for ourselves; trust to my
known prudence for finding some method to raise the wind
without creating a dust; in other words, (this d-
(this dd
Pepper makes one so vulgar !) of preying on the public
without being discovered."
"I see no alternative," answered Clifford reluctantly;
"but, if possible, be quiet for the present; bear with me
for a few days longer, give me only sufficient time once
more to see Miss Brandon, and I will engage to extricate
you from your difficulties !"
"Spoken like yourself, frankly and nobly!" replied
Tomlinson: "no one has a greater confidence in your
genius, once exerted, than I have!"
So saying, the pair shook hands and parted. Tomlinson
rejoined Mr. Pepper.
CC
"Well, have you settled any thing?" quoth the latter.
"Not exactly; and though Lovett has promised to exert
himself in a few days, yet as the poor man is in love, and
his genius under a cloud, I have little faith in his promises."
"And I have none!" said Pepper; "besides, time
presses! A few days! a few devils! We are certainly
scented here, and I walk about like a barrel of beer at
Christmas, under hourly apprehension of being tapped!"
"It is very strange," said the philosophic Augustus ;
"but I think there is an instinct in tradesmen by which
they can tell a rogue at first sight; and I can get (dress I
ever so well) no more credit with my laundress than my
friends the Whigs can with the people."
"In short, then," said Ned, "we must recur at once to
the road! and on the day after to-morrow there will be an
excellent opportunity: the old earl, with the hard name,
gives a breakfast, or feast, or some such mummery; I un-
derstand people will stay till after night-fall; let us watch
our opportunity, we are famously mounted, and some car-
riage later than the general string may furnish us with all
our hearts can desire!"
"Bravo!" cried Tomlinson, shaking Mr. Pepper heartily
by the hand, "I give you joy of your ingenuity, and you
may trust to me to make our peace afterward with Lovett;
any enterprise that seems to him gallant he is always will-
ing enough to forgive; and as he never practises any other
branch of the profession than that of the road,- (for which
I confess that I think him foolish,) - he will be more ready
to look over our exploits in that line than in any other more
subtle, but less heroic."
66
Well, I leave it to you to propitiate the cove or not, as
you please; and now that we have settled the main point,
let us finish the lush!"
"And," added Augustus, taking a pack of cards from
the chimney-piece, "we can in the mean while have a
uiet game at cribbage for shillings."
"Done!" cried Ned, clearing away the dessert.
If the redoubted hearts of Mr. Edward Pepper, and the
Ulysses of robbers, Augustus Tomlinson, beat high as the
hours brought on Lord Mauleverer's fête, their leader was
not without anxiety and expectation for the same event.
He was uninvited, it is true, to the gay scene; but he had
heard in public that Miss Brandon, recovered from her
late illness, was certainly to be there; and Clifford, torn
with suspense, and eager once more, even if for the last
time, to see the only person who had ever pierced his soul
with a keen sense of his errors, or crimes, resolved to risk
all obstacles, and meet her at Mauleverer's.
66
My life," said he, as he sat alone in his apartment,
eyeing the falling embers of his still and lethargic fire,
may soon approach its termination; it is, indeed, out of
the chances of things that I can long escape the doom of
my condition; and when, as a last hope to raise myself
from my desperate state into respectability and reforin, I
came hither, and meditated purchasing independence by
marriage, I was blind to the cursed rascality of the action!
Happy, after all, that my intentions were directed against
one whom I so soon and so adoringly learned to love! Had
I wooed one whom I loved less, I might not have scrupled
might not have scrupled
to deceive into her marriage. As it is! well ! — it is
idle in me to think thus of my resolution, when I have not
even the option to choose; when her father, perhaps, has
already lifted the veil from my assumed dignities, and the
daughter already shrinks in horror from my name.
Yet 1
will see her! I will look once more upon that angel face,
I will hear from her own lips, the confession of her
scorn, I will see that bright eye flash hatred upon me,
and I can then turn once more to my fatal career, and for
get that I have ever repented that it was begun. Yet,
what else could have been my alternative? Friendless,
homeless, nameless, an orphan, worse than an orphan,
the son of a harlot, my father even unknown! yet cursed
with early aspirings and restlessness, and a half-glimmer-
ing of knowledge, and an entire lust of whatever seemed
enterprise, what wonder that I chose any thing rather
than daily labor and perpetual contumely? After all, the
fault is in fortune, and the world, not me! Oh! Lucy
had I but been born in your sphere; had I but possessed
the claim to merit you, what would I not have done, and
dared, and conquered for your sake!"
Such, or similar to these, were the thoughts of Clifforu
during the interval between his resolution of seeing Lucy,
and the time of effecting it. The thoughts were of no
pleasing, though of an exciting, nature; nor were they
greatly soothed by the ingenious occupation of cheating
himself into the belief, that if he was a highwayman, it
was altogether the fault of the highways.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Dream. Let me but see her, dear Leontius.
Humorous Lieutenant.
Hempskirke. It was the fellow, sure.
Wotfort. What are you, sirrah?
Beggar's Bush.
O THOU divine spirit, that through England burnest in
every breast, inciting each with the sublime desire to be
fine that stirrest up the great to become little in order to
seem greater, and that makest a duchess woo insult for a
voucher! Thou that delightest in so many shapes, multi-
farious, yet the same; spirit that makest the high despica-
ble, and the lord meaner than his valet! equally great
whether thou cheatest a friend, or cuttest a father! lacker-
ing all thou touchest with a bright vulgarity, that thy vota-
ries imagine to be gold! thou that sendest the few to
fashionable balls and the many to fashionable novels;
that smitest even genius as well as folly, making the favor-
ites of the former boast an acquaintance they have not
with the graces of a mushroom peerage, rather than the
knowledge they have of the muses of an eternal Helicon '
thou that leavest in the great ocean of our manners no
dry spot for the foot of independence : that pallest on
the jaded eye with a moving and girdling panorama of
daubed vilenesses, and fritterest away the souls of free-born
Britons into a powder smaller than the angels which dance
in myriads on a pin's point. Spirit! divine spirit! car
riest thou not beneath the mantle of frivolity a mighty and
sharp sword, and by turning into contempt, while thou af-
fectest to display the solemn plausibilities of the world,' *
hastenest thou not to the great family of man the epoch of
redemption? Whether, O spirit! thou callest thyself
fashion, or ton, or ambition, or vanity, or cringing, or
cant, or any title equally lofty and sublime, would, that
from thy wings we could gain but a single plume! Fain
would we, in fitting strain, describe the festivities of that
memorable day, when the benevolent Lord Mauleverer re-
ceived and blessed the admiring universe of Bath.
But to be less poetical, — as certain writers
- say, when
they have been writing nonsense, but to be less poetical,
and more exact, the morning, though in the depth of winter,
was bright and clear, and Lord Mauleverer found himself in
particularly good health. Nothing could be better planned
than the whole of his arrangements: unlike those which
are ordinarily chosen for the express reason of being as
foreign as possible to the nature of our climate, all at Lord
Mauleverer's were made suitable to a Greenland atinos-
phere. The temples and summer-houses, interspersed
through the grounds, were fitted up, some as Esquimaux
huts, others as Russian pavilions; fires were carefully kep
* Burke.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
445
p; the musicians, Mauleverer took care, should have as
much wine as they pleased; they were set skilfully in
places where they were unseen, but where they could be
heard. One or two temporary buildings were erected for
those who loved dancing; and as Mauleverer, miscalculat-
ing on the principles of human nature, thought gentlemen
might be averse from ostentatious exhibition, he had hired
persons to skate minuets and figures of eight upon his
lakes, for the amusement of those who were fond of skat-
ing. All people who would be kind enough to dress in
strange costumes, and make odd noises, which they called
singing, the earl had carefully engaged, and planted in the
best places for making them look still stranger than they
were.
There was also plenty to eat, and more than plenty to
drink. Mauleverer knew well that our countrymen and
countrywomen, whatever be their rank, like to have their
spirits exalted. In short, the whole dejeune was so ad-
mirably contrived, that it was probable the guests would
not look much more melancholy during the amusements,
than they would have done had they been otherwise en-
gaged at a funeral.
Lucy and the squire were among the first arrivals.
Mauleverer, approaching the father and daughter with his
most Devonshire-house manner, insisted on taking the latter
under his own escort, and being her Cicerone through the
round of preparations.
As the crowd thickened, and it was observed how
gallant were the attentions testified toward Lucy by the
bost, many
and envious were the whispers of the guests!
Those good people, naturally angry at the thought that two
individuals should be married, divided themselves into two
parties; one abused Lucy, and the other Lord Mauleverer;
the former vituperated her art, the latter his folly. "I
thought she would play her cards well deceitful crea-
ture!" said the one. January and May," muttered the
other; "the man's sixty!" It was noticeable, that the
It was noticeable, that the
party against Lucy was chiefly composed of ladies, that
against Mauleverer of men; that conduct must indeed be
heinous, which draws down the indignation of one's own
sex!
Unconscious of her crimes, Lucy moved along, leaning
on the arm of the gallant earl, and languidly smiling, with
her heart far away, at his endeavours to amuse her. There
was something interesting in the mere contrast of the pair;
so touching seemed the beauty of the young girl, with her
delicate cheek, maiden form, drooping eyelid, and quiet
simplicity of air, in comparison to the worldly countenance
and artificial grace of her companion.
After some time, when they were in a sequestered part
of the grounds, Mauleverer, observing that none were near,
entered a rude hut, and so fascinated was he at that mo-
ment by the beauty of his guest, and so meet to him
seemned the opportunity of his confession, that he with
difficulty suppressed the avowal rising to his lips, and took
the more prudent plan of first sounding and preparing, as
it
were, the way.
of
"I cannot tell you, my dear Miss Brandon," said he,
slightly pressing the beautiful hand leaning on his arm,
"how happy I am to see you the guest, the queen, rather,
my house! Ah! could the bloom of youth return with
its feelings! Time is never so cruel as when, while steal-
ing from us the power to please, he leaves us in full vigor
the unhappy privilege to be charmed!"
Mauleverer expected at least a blushing contradiction to
the implied application of a sentiment so affectingly ex-
pressed; he was disappointed. Lucy, less alive than
usual to the sentimental, or its reverse, scarcely perceived
his meaning, and answered simply, "That it was very
true."
"'This comes of being, like my friend Burke, too
friend Burke, too
refined for one's audience," thought Mauleverer, wincing
a little from the unexpected reply. "And yet!" he re-
sumed, "I would not forego my power to admire, futile -
nay, painful as it is. Even now while I gaze on you, my
heart tells me that the pleasure I enjoy, it is at your com-
mand, at once, and for ever, to blight into misery; but
while it tells me, I gaze on!"
Lucy raised her eyes, and something of her natural
archness played in their expression.
"I believe, my lord," said she, moving from the hut,
"that it would be better to join your guests: walls have
ars; and what would be the gay Lord Mauleverer's self-
|
reproach, if he heard again of his fint compliments
to
"The most charming person in Europe!" cried Mau
leverer vehemently, and the hand which he before touched,
he now clasped; at that instant Lucy saw opposite to her,
half hid by a copse of evergreens, the figure of Clifford.
His face, which seemed pale and wan, was not directed
toward the place where she stood; and he evidently did
not perceive Mauleverer or herself, yet so great was the
effect that this glimpse of him produced on Lucy, that she
trembled violently, and unconsciously uttering a faint cry,
spatched her band from Mauleverer.
The earl started, and catching the expression of her
eyes, turned instantly toward the spot to which her gaze
seemed riveted. He had not heard the rustling of the
boughs, but he saw with his habitual quickness of remark,
that they still trembled, as if lately displaced, and he
caught through their interstices the glimpse of a receding
figure. He sprang forward with an agility very uncommon
to his usual movements; but before he gained the copse,
every vestige of the intruder had vanished.
What slaves we are to the moment! As Mauleverer
turned back to rejoin Lucy, who, agitated almost to faint-
ing, leaned against the rude wall of the hrt, he would as
soon have thought of flying as of making that generous
offer of self, &c. which the instant before he had been
burning to render Lucy. The vain are always confound-
edly jealous, and Mauleverer remembering Clifford, and
Lucy's blushes in dancing with him, instantly accounted
for her agitation and its cause. With a very grave air he
approached the object of his late adoration, and requested
to know if it were not some abrupt intruder that had oc-
casioned her alarm. Lucy, scarcely knowing what she
said, answered in a low voice, "That it was, indeed!"
and begged instantly to rejoin her father. Mauleverer
offered his arm with great dignity, and the pair passed
into the frequented part of the grounds, where Mauleverer
once more brightened into smiles and courtesy to all around
him.
"He is certainly accepted!” said Mr. Shrewd to Lady
Simper.
"What an immense match for the girl!" was Lady
Simper's reply.
Amidst the music, the dancing, the throng, the noise,
Lucy found it easy to recover herself; and disengaging her
arm from Lord Mauleverer, as she perceived her father,
she rejoined the squire, and remained a patient listener to
his remarks till, late in the noon, it became an understood
matter that people were expected to go into a long room
in order to eat and drink. Mauleverer, now alive to the
duties of his situation, and feeling exceedingly angry with
Lucy, was more reconciled than he otherwise might have
been to the etiquette which obliged him to select for the cb-
ject of his hospitable cares an old dowager duchess, in-
stead of the beauty of the fête; but he took care to point
out to the squire the places appointed for himself and
daughter, which were, though at some distance from the
earl, under the providence of his vigilant survey.
While Mauleverer was deifying the dowager duchess, and
refreshing his spirits with a chicken, and a medicinal glass
of Madeira, the conversation near Lucy turned, to her in-
finite dismay, upon Clifford. Some one had seen him in
the grounds, booted, and in a riding undress, (in that
day people seldom rode and danced in the same conferma-
tion of coat,)—and as Mauleverer was a precise person
about those little matters of etiquette, this negligence of
Clifford's made quite a subject of discussion. By degrees
the conversation changed into the old inquiry as to who
this Captain Clifford was; and just as it had reached that
point, it reached also the gently-deafened ears of Lord
Mauleverer.
is
Pray, my lord," said the old duchess, "since he
one of your guests, you, who know who and what every
one is, can possibly inform us of the real family of this
beautiful Mr. Clifford ?"
"One of my guests, did you say?" answered Mauleverer,
irritated greatly beyond his usual quietness of inanner :
"Really, your grace does me wrong. He may be a guest
of my valet, but he is assuredly not mine; and should I
encounter him, I shall leave it to my valet to give him his
congé as well as his invitation! "
Mauleverer, heightening his voice as he observed athwart
446
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the table an alternate paleness and flush upon Lucy's face,
which stung all the angrier passions, generally torpid in
him, into venom, looked round, on concluding, with a
haughty and sarcastic air: so loud had been his tone, so
pointed the insult, and sc dead the silence at the table
whale he spoke, that every one felt the affront must be
carried at once to Clifford's hearing, should he be in the
room. And after Mauleverer had ceased, there was a uni-
versal nervous and indistinct expectation of an answer and
scene; all was still, and it soon became certain that
Clifford was not in the apartment. When Mr. Shrewd
had fully convinced himself of this fact, (for there was a
daring spirit about Clifford which few wished to draw upon
themselves,)—that personage broke the pause by observing
that no man, who pretended to be a gentleman, would in-
trude himself unasked and unwelcome, into any society;
and Mauleverer, catching up the observation, said,
(drinking wine at the same time with Mr. Shrewd,) — that
undoubtedly such conduct fully justified the rumors respect-
ing Mr. Clifford, and utterly excluded him from that rank
to which it was before more than suspected he had no claim.
So luminous and satisfactory an opinion from such an
authority once broached was immediately and universally
echoed, and long before the repast was over, it seemed to
be tacitly agreed that Captain Clifford should be sent to
Coventry, and if he murmured at the exile, he would have
no right to insist upon being sent from thence to the devil!
The good old squire, mindful of his former friendship for
Clifford, and not apt to veer, was about to begin a speech
on the occasion, when Lucy, touching his arm, implored
him to be silent; and so ghastly was the paleness of her
cheek while she spoke, that the squire's eyes, obtuse as he
generally was, opened at once to the real secret of her heart.
As soon as the truth flashed upon him, he wondered, recall
ing Clifford's great personal beauty and attentions, that it
had not flashed upon him sooner, and leaning back on his
chair, he sunk into one of the most unpleasant reveries he
had ever conceived.
At a given signal the music for the dancers re-commenced,
and, at a hint to that effect from the bost, persons rose with-
out ceremony to repair to other amusements, and suffer such
guests as had hitherto been excluded from eating to occupy
the place of the relinquishers. Lucy, glad to escape, was
one of the first to resign her situation, and with the squire
she returned to the grounds. During the banquet evening
had closed in, and the scene now really became fairy-like
and picturesque; lamps hung from many a tree, reflecting
the light through the richest and softest hues, - the music
itself sounded more musically than during the day, —gipsy-
tents were pitched at wild corners and copses, and the
bright wood-fires burning in them blazed merrily upon the
cold yet cheerful air of the increasing night. The view was
really novel and inviting; and as it had been an understood
matter that ladies were to bring furs, cloaks, and boots, all
those who thought they looked well in such array, made
little groups, and scattered themselves about the grounds
and in the tents. They, on the contrary, in whom "the
purple light of love was apt by the frost to be propelled
from the cheeks to the central ornament of the face, or who
thought a fire in a room quite as agreeable as a fire in a
tent, remained within, and contemplated the scene through
the open windows.
""
Lucy longed to return home, nor was the squire reluctant,
but, unhappily, it wanted an hour to the time at which the
carriage had been ordered, and she mechanically joined a
group of guests, who had persuaded the good-natured squire
to forget his gout, and venture forth to look at the illumina-
tions. Her party was soon joined by others, and the group
gradually thickened into a crowd; the throng was stationary
for a few minutes before a little temple, in which fireworks
had just commenced an additional attraction to the scene.
Opposite to this temple, as well as in its rear, the walks
and trees had been purposely left in comparative darkness,
in order to heighten the effect of the fireworks.
"I declare," said Lady Simper, glancing down one of
the alleys which seemed to stretch away into blackness,
"I declare that seems quite a lover's walk! how kind in
Lord Mauleverer!- such a delicate attention
“To
your ladyship!" added Mr. Shrewd, with a bow.
While, one of this crowd, Lucy was vacantly eying the
ong trains of light which ever and anon shot against the
sky, she felt her hand suddenly seized, and at the same
instant a voice whispered, "For God's sake read this now
and grant my request!"
The voice, which seemed to rise from the very heart of
the speaker, Lucy knew at once; she trembled violently,
and remained for some minutes with eyes which did not
dare to look from the ground. A note, she felt, had been
left in her hand, and the agonized and earnest tone of that
voice, which was dearer to her ear than the fulness of all
music, made her impatient yet afraid to read it. As she
recovered courage she looked around, and seeing that the
attention of all was bent upon the fireworks, and that her
father, in particular, leaning on his cane, seemed to enjoy
the spectacle with a child's engrossed delight, she glided
softly away, and entering unperceived one of the alleys, she
read, by a solitary lamp that burnt at its entrance, the fol-
lowing lines written in pencil and in a hurried hand, ap-
parently upon a leaf torn from a pocket book.
"I implore, I entreat you, Miss Brandon, to see e if
but for a moment. I purpose to tear myself away from tɔe
place in which you reside -to go abroad; to leave even
the spot hallowed by your footstep. After this night, my
presence, my presumption, will degrade you no more. But
this night, for mercy's sake, see me, or I shall go mad! I
will but speak to you one instant, this is all I ask. If you
grant me this prayer, the walk to the left where you stand,
at the entrance to which there is one purple lamp, will
afford an opportunity to your mercy. A few yards down.
that walk I will meet you none can see or hear us.
Will you grant this? I know not- · I dare not think but
under any case, your name shall be the last upon my lips."
—
"P. C."
As Lucy read this hurried scrawl, she glanced toward
the lamp above her, and saw that she had accidentally
entered the very walk indicated in the note. She paused
she hesitated; the impropriety-the singularity of
the request darted upon her at once; on the other hand,
the anxious voice still ringing in her ear, the incoherent
vehemence of the note, the risk, the opprobrium Clifford
had incurred, solely her heart whispered to see her,
all aided her simple temper, her kind feelings, and her
love for the petitioner, in inducing her to consent. She
cast one glance behind, all seemed occupied with far other
thoughts than that of notice toward her; she looked anx-
iously before, all was gloomy and indistinct; but suddenly,
at some little distance, she descried a dark figure in
motion. She felt her knees shake under her, her heart
beat violently; she moved onward a few paces, again
paused, and looked back; the figure before her moved as
in approach, she resumed courage, and advanced — the
figure was by her side.
"How generous, how condescending, is this goodness
in Miss Brandon!" said the voice, which so struggled
with secret and strong emotion, that Lucy scarcely recog-
nised it as Clifford's.
nised it as Clifford's. "I did not dare to expect it; and
now now that I meet you
"Clifford paused, as
now
if seeking words, and Lucy, even through the dark, per-
ceived that her strange companion was powerfully excited;
she waited for him to continue, but observing that he
walked on in silence, she said, though with a trembling
voice,
voice, "Indeed, Mr. Clifford, I fear that it is very im-
proper in me to meet you thus; nothing but the strong
expressions in your letter — and — and — in short, my
fear that you meditated some desperate design, at which
I could not guess, caused me to yield to your wish for an
interview." She paused, and Clifford still preserving si
lence, she added, with some little coldness in her tone,
"If you have really ought to say to me, you must allow
me to request that you speak it quickly. This interview,
you must be sensible, ought to end almost as soon as it
begins."
"Hear me then!" said Clifford, mastering his embar-
rassment, and speaking in a firm and clear voice—“Is
that true, which I have just heard, is it true that I have
been spoken of in your presence in terms of insult and
affront ?"
-
It was now for Lucy to feel embarrassed; fearful to
give pain, and yet anxious that Clifford should know in
order that he might disprove, the slight and the suspicion
which the mystery around him drew upon his name, she
faltered between the two feelings, and without satisfying
the latter, succeeded in realizing the fear of the former.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
447
Enough!" said Clifford, in a tone of deep mortifica-
tion, as his quick ear caught and interpreted, yet more
humiliatingly than the truth, the meaning of her stammered
and confused reply. Enough! I see that it is true and
that the only human being in the world to whose good
opinion 1 am not indifferent, has been a witness of the
insulting manner in which others have dared to speak of
me!"
re
―
But," said Lucy, eagerly, "why give the envious or
idle any excuse? Why not suffer your parentage and
family to be publicly known? Why are you here (and
her voice sunk into a lower key) this very day, unasked,
and therefore subject to the cavils of all who think the
poor distinction of an invitation an honor? Forgive me,
Mr. Clifford, perhaps I offend, I hurt you by speaking thus
frankly; but your good name rests with yourself, and your
friends cannot but feel angry that you should trifle with it."
"Madam!" said Clifford, and Lucy's eyes now grow
ing accustomed to the darkness, perceived a bitter smile
upon his lips, “my name, good or ill, is an object of little
care to me. I have read of philosophers who pride them-
selves in placing no value in the opinions of the world.
Rank me among that sect- but I am, I own I am, anxious
you alone, of all the world, should not despise me;
and now that I feel you do that you must- every thing
worth living or hoping for is past!
that
"Despise you!" said Lucy, and her eyes filled with
tears "Indeed, you wrong me and yourself. But listen
to me, Mr. Clifford. I have seen, it is true, but little of the
world, yet I have seen enough to make me wish I could have
lived in retirement for ever; the rarest quality among either
sex, though it is the simplest, seems to me good-nature;
and the only occupation of what are termed fashionable
people appears to be speaking ill of one another; nothing
gives such a scope to scandal, as mystery; nothing dis-
arms it like openness. I know your friends know, Mr.
Clifford, that your character can bear inspection, and I
believe for my own part, the same of your family. Why
not then declare who, and what you are!"
"That candor would indeed be my best defender,"
said Clifford, in a tone which ran displeasingly
tone which ran displeasingly through
Lucy's ear; "but, in truth, madam, I repeat, I care not
one drop of this worthless blood, what men say of me; that
time has passed, and for ever; perhaps it never keenly ex-
isted for me no matter. I come hither, Miss Brandon,
not wasting a thought on these sickening fooleries or on
the hoary idler, by whom they are given! I came hither,
only once more to see you -to hear you speak - to watch
you move to tell you-(and the speaker's voice trem-
bled, so as to be scarcely audible) to tell you, if any
season for the disclosure offered itself, that I have had the
Doldness the crime, to love to love O God! to
adore you! and then to leave you for ever!"
Pale, trembling, scarcely preserved from falling by the
tree against which she leaned, Lucy listened to this abrupt
avowal.
"Dare I touch this hand," continued Clifford, as he
knelt and took it, timidly and reverently; "you know not,
you cannot dream, how unworthy is he who thus presumes,
yet, not all unworthy, while he is sensible of so deep, so
boly a feeling as that which he bears to you. God bless
you, Miss Brandon!- Lucy, God bless you! and if
hereafter you hear me subjected to still blacker suspicion,
or severer scrutiny than that which I now sustain, if even
your charity and goodness can find no defence for me, if
the suspicion become certainty, and the scrutiny end in con-
demnation, believe, at least, that circumstances have car-
ried me beyond my nature; and that under fairer auspices,
I might have been other than I am!" Lucy's tear dropped
upon Clifford's hand, as he spoke ; and while his heart
melted within him as he felt it, and knew his own desperate
and unredeemed condition, he added,
I
"Every one courts you, the proud, the rich, the young,
the high-born, all are at your feet! You will select one of
that number for your husband, may he watch over you as
would have done! love you as
you as I do, he cannot ! Yes, I
repeat it!" continued Clifford, vehemently," he cannot !
None amidst the gay, happy, silken crowd of your equals
and followers, can feel for you that single and overruling
passion, which makes you to me, what all combined,
country, power, wealth, reputation, an honest name, peace,
sominon safety, the quiet of the common air, alike the least
blessing and the greatest, are to all others! Once more,
may God in heaven watch over you, and preserve you! I
tear myself, on leaving you, from all that cheers, or blesses,
or raises, or might have saved me ! - Farewell!"
The hand which Lucy had relinquished to her strange
suitor was pressed ardently to his lips, dropped in the
same instant, and she knew that she was once more alone.
But Clifford, hurrying rapidly through the trees, madɛ
his way toward the nearest gate which led from Lord Mau-
leverer's domain; when he reached it, a crowd of the more
elderly guests occupied the entrance, and one of these was
a lady of such distinction that Mauleverer, despite of his
aversion from any superfluous exposure to the night air,
had obliged himself to conduct her to her carriage. He
was in a very ill humor with this constrained politeness,
especially as the carriage was very slow in relieving him of
his charge, when he saw, by the lamp-light, Clifford pass-
ing near him, and winning his way to the gate. Quite
forgetting his worldly prudence, which should have made
him averse to scenes with any one, especially with a flying
enemy, and a man with whom, if he believed aright, little
glory was to be gained in conquest, much less in contest;
and only remembering Clifford's rivalship and his own ha-
tred toward him for the presumption, Mauleverer, uttering
a hurried apology to the lady on his arm, stepped forward,
and opposing Clifford's progress, said, with a bow of tran
quil insult, Pardon me, sir; but is it at my invitation, or
that of one of my servants, that you have honored me with
your company this day?"
CC
Clifford's thoughts at the time of this interruption were
of that nature before which all petty misfortunes shrink in-
to nothing; if, therefore, he started for a moment at the
earl's address, he betrayed no embarrassment in reply, but
bowing with an air of respect, and taking no notice of the
affront implied in Mauleverer's speech, he answered, -
-
"Your lordship has only to deign a glance at my dress,
to see that I have not intruded myself on your grounds with
the intention of claiming your hospitality. The fact is,
and I trust to your lordship's courtesy to admit the excuse,
that I leave this neighbourhood to-morrow, and for some
length of time.
length of time. A person whom I was very anxious to see
before I left, was one of your lordship's guests; I heard
this, and knew that I should have no other opportunity of
meeting the person in question before my departure; and I
must now throw myself on the well-known politeness of
Lord Mauleverer, to pardon a freedom originating in a
business very much approaching to a necessity!
Lord Mauleverer's address te Clifford bad congregated
an immediate crowd of eager and expectant listeners, but
so quietly-respectful, and really gentleman-like, were Clif-
ford's air and tone in excusing himself, that the whole
throng were smitten with a sudden disappointment.
Lord Mauleverer himself, surprised by the temper and
deportment of the unbidden guest, was at a loss for one
moment, and Clifford was about to take advantage of that
moment and glide away, when Mauleverer, with a second
bow, more civil than the former one, said,
"I cannot but be happy, sir, that my poor place has af-
forded you any convenience; but, if I am not very imperti-
nent, will you allow me to inquire the name of my guest
with whom you required a meeting?"
My lord," said Clifford, drawing himself up, and
speaking gravely and sternly, though still with a certain
deference,-" "I need not, surely, point out to your lord
ship's good sense and good feeling, that your very question
implies a doubt, and, consequently, an affront, and that the
tone of it is not such as to justify that concession on my
part which the farther explanation you require would
imply!"
Few spoken sarcasms could be so bitter as that si ent one
which Mauleverer could command by a smile, and with this
complimentary expression on his thin lips and raised brow,
the earl answered, "Sir, I honor the skill testified by
your reply; it must be the result of a profound experience
in these affairs. I wish you, sir, a very good night, and
the next time you favor me with a visit, I am quite sure
that your motives for so indulging me will be no less cred-
itable to you than at present."
With these words Mauleverer turned to rejoin his fait
charge. But Clifford was a man who had seen in a short
time a great deal of the world, and knew tolerably well the
theories of society, if not the practice of its minutie
moreover, he was of an acute and resolute temper, and
these properties of mind, natural and acquired, told him
;
449
BULWER'S NOVELS.
that he was now in a situation in which it had become
more necessary to defy than to conciliate. Instead, there-
fore, of retiring, he walked deliberately up to Mauleverer
and said,
"My lord, I shall leave it to the judgment of your
guests to decide whether you have acted the part of a
nobleman and a gentleman in thus, in your domains, in-
sulting one who has given you such explanation of his
trespass as would fully excuse him in the eyes of all con- |
siderate or courteous persons. I shall also leave it to
them to decide whether the tone of your inquiry allowed
me to give you any farther apology. But I shall take it
upon myself, my lord, to demand from you an immediate
explanation of your last speech."
" that
"Do you mean, "answered Clifford, replying in the
same key, which we take the liberty to paraphrase,
they are out on an actual expedition?"
"To be sure," rejoined the dame. They who lag
late on the road, may want money for supper!
"Ha! which road?
CC
""
CC
"You are a pretty fellow for captain! rejoined the
dame, with a good-natured sarcasm in the tone. Why,
Captain Gloak, poor fellow, knew every turn of his men
to a hair, and never needed to ask what they were about.
Ah, he was a fellow; none of your girl-faced mudgers,
who make love to ladies, forsooth, -a pretty woman need
not look far for a kiss when he was in the room,
I warrant,
however coarse her duds might be; and lauk! but the
captain was a sensible man, and liked a cow as well as a
| calf."
"Insolent! cried Mauleverer, coloring with indigna-
tion, and almost for the first time in his life losing absolute
command over his temper; "do you bandy words with me. "So, so! on the road are they?" cried Clifford, mus
begone, or I shall order my servants to thrust you forth."|ingly, and without heeding the insinuated attack on his
Begone, sir, begone!" cried several voices in echo decorum. "But answer me, what is the plan ?- -Be
to Mauleverer, from those persons who deemed it now high quick."
time to take part with the powerful.
CC
Clifford stood his ground, gazing around with a look of
angry and defying contempt, which, joined to his athletic
frame, his dark and fierce eye, and a heavy riding-whip,
which, as if mechanically, he half raised, effectually kept
the murinurers from proceeding to violence.
"Poor pretender to breeding and to sense!" said he,
disdainfully turning to Mauleverer, " with one touch of this
whip I could shame you for ever, or compel you to descend
from the level of your rank to that of mine, and the action
would be but a mild return to your language. But I
love rather to teach you, than to correct. According to
my creed, my lord, he conquers most in good-breeding,
who forbears the most, scorn enables me to forbear!
Adieu!"
With this, Clifford turned on his heel and strode away.
A murmur, approaching to a groan, from the younger, or
sillier part of the parasites, (the mature and the sensible
have no extra emotion to throw away,) followed him as he
disappeared.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Outlaw. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you!
Val.-Ruffians, forego that rude, uncivil touch!
The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
ON leaving the scene in which he had been so unwel-
come a guest, Clifford hastened to the little inn where he
had left his horse. He mounted and returned to Bath.
His thoughts were absent, and he unconsciously suffered
the horse to direct its course whither it pleased. This
was naturally toward the nearest halting-place which the
animal remembered; and this halting-place was that illus-
trious tavern in the suburbs of the town, in which we have
before commemorated Clifford's reëlection to the dignity
of chief. It was a house of long-established reputation;
and here news of any of the absent confederates was always
to be obtained. This circumstance, added to the excel-
lence of its drink, its ease, and the electric chain of early
habits, rendered it a favorite haunt, even despite their
present gay and modish pursuits, with Tomlinson and
Pepper, and here, when Clifford sought the pair at unrea-
sonable hours, was he for the most part sure to find them.
As his meditations were interrupted by the sudden stop-
ping of his horse beneath the well-known sign, Clifford,
muttering an angry malediction on the animal, spurred it
onward in the direction of his own home. He had already
reached the end of the street, when his resolution seemed
to change, and muttering to himself, "Ay, I might as well
arrange this very night for our departure!" he turned his
horse's head backward, and was once more at the tavern
door. He threw the bridle over an iron railing, and
knocking with a peculiar sound at the door, was soon
admitted.
“Are
and
here?" asked he of the old
woman, as he entered, mentioning the cant words by which,
Among friends, Tomlinson and Pepper were usually known.
"They are both gone on the sharps to-night," replied the
old lady, lifting her unsnuffed candle to the face of the
speaker with an intelligent look; "Oliver* is sleepy, and
the lads will take advantage of his nap."
* The moon.
"Why," replied the dame, "there's some swell cove of
a lord gives a blow-out to-day, and the lads, dear souls!
think to play the queer on some straggler."
Without uttering a word, Clifford darted from the house,
and was remounted before the old lady had time to recover
her surprise.
"If you want to see them," cried she, as he put spurs
to his horse, "they ordered me to have supper ready at
The horse's hoofs drowned the last words of
the dame, and carefully rebolting the door, and muttering
an invidious comparison between Captain Clifford and
Captain Gloak, the good landlady returned to those culin-
ary operations destined to rejoice the hearts of Tomlinson
and Pepper.
Return we ourselves to Lucy. It so happened that the
squire's carriage was the last to arrive; for the coach-
man, long uninitiated among the shades of Warlock into the
dissipation of fashionable life, entered on his début at Bath
with all the vigorous heat of matured passions for the first
time released into the festivities of the ale-house, and hav-
ing a milder master than most of his comrades, the fear of
displeasure was less strong in his aurigal bosom than the
love of companionship; so that during the time this gen-
tleman was amusing himself, Lucy had ample leisure for
enjoying all the thousand and one reports of the scene be-
tween Mauleverer and Clifford, which regaled her ears.
Nevertheless, whatever might have been her feelings at
these pleasing recitals, a certain vague joy predominated
over all. A man feels but slight comparative happiness in
being loved, if he know that it is in vain. But to a wo-
man, that simple knowledge is suflicient to destroy the
memory of a thousand distresses, and it is not till she has
told her heart again and again that she is loved, that she
will even begin to ask if it be in vain.
It was a partially starlit, yet a dim and obscure night,
for the moon had for the last hour or two been surrounded
by mist and cloud, when at length the carriage arrived,
and Mauleverer, for the second time that evening, playing
the escort, conducted Lucy to the vehicle. Anxious to
learn if she had seen, or been addressed by, Clifford, the
subtle carl, as he led her to the gate, dwelt particularly on
the intrusion of that person, and by the trembling of the
hand which rested on his arm, he drew no delicious omen
for his own hopes. "However," thought he, "the man
goes to-morrow, and then the field will be clear; the girl's
a child yet, and I forgive her folly.' And with an air of
chivalric veneration, Mauleverer bowed the object of his
pardon into her carriage.
As soon as Lucy felt herself alone with her father, the
emotions so long pent within her forced themselves inte
vent, and leaning back against the carriage, she wept
though in silence, tears, burning tears, of sorrow, comfort,
agitation, anxiety.
The good old squire was slow in perceiving his daugh
ter's emotion; it would have escaped him altogether, if ac-
tuated by a kindly warming of the heart toward her, ori-
ginating in his new suspicion of her love for Clifford, he
had not put his arm round her neck, and this unexpected
caress so entirely unstrung her nerves, that Lucy at once
threw herself upon her father's breast, and her weeping,
hitherto so quiet, became distinct and audible.
"Be comforted, my dear, dear child!” said the squire,
almost affected to tears himself, and his emotion, arousing
PAUL CLIFFORD.
449
—
am from his usia. mental confusion, rendered his words
less involved and equivocal than they were wont to be.
"And now I do hope that you won't vex yourself; the
young man is indeed, and, I do assure you, I always
thought so a very charming gentleman, there's no deny-
ing it. But what can we do? you see what they all say
of him, and it really was, -we must allow that, - very
improper in him to come without being asked. Moreover,
my dearest child, it is very wrong, very wrong, indeed, to
love any one, and not know who he is; and,—and, but
do n't cry, my dear love, do n't cry so; all will be very
well, I ain sure, quite sure!"
As he said this, the kind old man drew his daughter
nearer to him, and feeling his hand hurt by something she
wore unseen which pressed against it, he inquired, with
some suspicion that the love might have proceeded to love-
gifts, what it was.
It is my mother's picture," said Lucy, simply, and
putting it aside.
The old squire had loved his wife tenderly, and when
Lucy made this reply, all the fond and warm recollections
of his youth rushed upon him; he thought, too, how earn-
estly on her death-bed that wife had recommended to his
vigilant care their only child now weeping on his bosom;
he remembered how, dwelling on that which to all women
seems the grand epoch of life, she had said, "Never let
her affections be trifled with, never be persuaded by
your ambitious brother to make her marry where she loves
not, or to oppose her, without strong reason, where she
does; though she be but a child now, I know enough of her
to feel convinced that if ever she love, she will love too
well for her own happiness even with all things in her fa-
vor."
These words, these recollections, joined to the
remembrance of the cold-hearted scheme of William Bran-
don, which he had allowed himself to favor, and of his
own supineness toward Lucy's growing love for Clifford,
till resistance became at once necessary and too late, all
smote him with a remorseful sorrow, and, fairly sobbing
himself, he said, "Thy mother, child! ah, would that she
were living, she would never have neglected thee as I have
done! "
The squire's self-reproach made Lucy's tears cease on
the instant, and, as she covered her father's hand with
kisses, she replied only by vehement accusations against
herself, and praises of his too great fatherly fondness and
affection. This little burst, on both sides, of honest and
simple-hearted love, ended in a silence full of tender and
mingled thoughts; and as Lucy still clung to the breast of
the old man, uncouth as he was in temper, below even
mediocrity in intellect, and altogether the last person in
age, or mind, or habit, that seemed fit for a confidant in
the love of a young and enthusiastic girl, she felt the old
homely truth, that under all disadvantages there are, in
this hollow world, few in whom trust can be so safely re-
posed, few who so delicately and subtilely respect the con-
fidence, as those from whom we spring.
The father and daughter had been silent for some min-
utes, and the former was about to speak, when the carriage
suddenly stopped. The squire heard a rough voice at the
horses' heads; he looked forth from the window to see,
through the mist of the night, what could possibly be the
matter, and he encountered in this action, just one inch
from his forehead, the protruded and shining barrel of a
horse-pistol. We may believe, without a reflection on his
courage, that Mr. Brandon threw himself back into his
carriage with all possible despatch, and at the same mo-
ment the door was opened, and a voice said, not in a
threatening but a smooth accent," Ladies and gentlemen, I
am sorry to disturb you, but want is imperious! oblige me
with your money, your watches, your rings, and any other
little commodities of a similar nature! "
So delicate a request the squire had not the heart to re-
sist, the more especially as he knew himself without any
weapons of defence; accordingly he drew out a purse, not
very full, it must be owned, together with an immense sil-
ver hunting-watch, with a piece of black-riband attached
to it: "There, sir," said he, with a groan, " do n't fright-
en the young lady.
cr
The gentle applicant, who, indeed, was no other than
the specious Augustus Tomlinson, slid the purse into his
waistcoat-pocket, after feeling its contents with a rapid
and scientific finger. "Your watch, sir," quoth he, and
VOL. I.
57
|
|
1
as he spoke he thrust it carelessly into his coat-pocket, as
a school-boy would thrust a peg-top, "is heavy; but trust-
ing to experience, since an accurate survey is denied me,
fear it is more valuable from its weight than its workman-
ship: however, I will not wound your vanity by affecting
to be fastidious. But surely the young lady, as you call
her, (for I pay you the compliment of believing you
word as to her age, inasmuch as the night is too dark to
allow me the happiness of a personal inspection,) - — the
young lady has surely some little trinket she can dispense
with; beauty when unadorned,' you know, &c."
Lucy, who, though greatly frightened, lost neither her
senses, nor her presence of mind, only answered by draw-
ing forth a little silk purse, that contained still less than
the leathern convenience of the squire; to this she added a
gold chain: and Tomlinson taking them with an affection-
ate squeeze of the hand, and a polite apology, was about to
withdraw, when his sagacious eyes were suddenly stricken
by the gleam of jewels. The fact was, that in altering the
position of her mother's picture, which had been set in the
few hereditary diamonds possessed by the Lord of War-
lock, Lucy had allowed it to hang on the outside of her
dress, and bending forward to give the robber her other
possessions, the diamonds at once came in full sight, and
gleamed the more invitingly from the darkness of the
night.
"Ah, madam!" said Tomlinson, stretching forth his
hand, "you would play me false, would you? Treachery
should never go unpunished. Favor me instantly with the
little ornament round your neck!"
"I cannot, - - I cannot," said Lucy, grasping her treas-
ure with both her hands, "it is my mother's picture,
and my mother is dead!"
"The wants of others, madam," returned Tomlinson,
who could not for the life of him rob immorally, "are ever
more worthy your attention than family prejudices. Seri-
ously, give it, and that instantly; we are in a hurry, and
your horses are plunging like devils, they will break your
carriage in an instant despatch!"
The squire was a brave man on the whole, though no
hero, and the nerves of an old fox-hunter soon recover from
a little alarm. The picture of his buried wife was yet
more inestimable to him than it was to Lucy, and at this
new demand, his spirit was roused within him.
He clenched his fists, and advancing himself, as it were,
on his seat, he cried in a loud voice:
for my own
part I think so too much already; and by G-d you shall
not have the picture!
Begone, fellow! I have given you
-
"Don't force me to use violence!" said Augustus, and
putting one foot on the carriage-step, he brought his pistol
within a few inches of Lucy's breast, rightly judging, per-
haps, that the show of danger to her would be the best
method to intimidate the squire. At that instant the val-
orous moralist found himself suddenly seized with a power-
ful gripe on the shoulder, and a low voice, trembling with
passion, hissed in his ear. Whatever might be the words
that startled his organs, they operated as an instantaneous
charm; and to their astonishment, the squire and Lucy
beheld their assailant abruptly withdraw. The door of the
carriage was clapped to, and scarcely two minutes had
elapsed before the robber having remounted, his comrade
(hitherto stationed at the horses' heads) set spurs to
his own steed, and the welcome sound of receding hoofs
smote upon the bewildered ears of the father and daughter.
The door of the carriage was again opened, and a
voice, which made Lucy paler than the preceding terror,
said,
"I fear, Mr. Brandon, the robbers have frightened your
daughter. There is now, however, nothing to fear, the
ruffians are gone."
"God bless me!" said the squire, "why, is that Captain
Clifford ?
"It is! and he conceives himself too fortunate to have
been of the smallest service to Mr. and Miss Brandon."
On having convinced himself that it was indeed to Mr.
Clifford that he owed his safety, as well as that of his
daughter, whom he believed to have been in a far more
imminent peril than she really was, (for to tell thee the
truth, reader, the pistol of Tomlinson was rather calculated
for show than use, having a peculiarly long bright barrel
with nothing in it,) the squire was utterly at a loss how
with nothing in it,)
450
BULWER'S NOVELS
to express his gratitude; and when he turned to Lucy to
beg she would herself thank their gallant deliverer, he
found that, overpowered with various emotions, she had,
for the first time in her life, fainted away.
"Good heavens!" cried the alarmed father, "she is
dead, my Lucy,—my Lucy, --they have killed her."
To open the door nearest to Lucy, to bear her from the
carriage in his arms, was to Clifford the work of an in-
stant; utterly unconscious of the presence of any one else,
unconscious even of what he said, he poured forth a
thousand wild, passionate, yet half-audible expressions;
and as he bore her to a bank by the roadside, and, seating
himself, supported her against his bosom, it would be diffi-
cult, perhaps, to say, whether something of delight, of
burning and thrilling delight, -was not mingled with his
anxiety and terror. He chafed her small hands in his own,
his breath all trembling and warm, glowed upon her
cheek, and once, and but once, his lip drew nearer, and
breathing aside the dishevelled richness of her tresses,
clung in a long and silent kiss to her own.
Meanwhile, by the help of his footman, who had now
somewhat recovered his astonished senses, the squire de-
scended from his carriage, and approached with faltering
steps the place where his daughter reclined. At the in-
stant that he took her hand, Lucy began to revive, and
the first action in the bewildered unconsciousness of awak-
ing, was to throw her arm around the neck of her sup-
porter.
Could all the hours and realities of hope, joy, pleasure,
m Clifford's previous life have been melted down and con-
centrated into a single emotion, that emotion would have
been but tame to the rapture of Lucy's momentary and
innocent caress! And at a later, yet no distant, period,
when in the felon's cell the grim visage of death scowled
upon him, it may be questioned whether his thoughts dwelt
not far more often on the remembrance of that delightful
moment, than on the bitterness and ignominy of an ap-
proaching doom.
"She breathes, she moves,
she wakes?" cried the
father, and Lucy, attempting to rise, and recognising the
squire's voice, said faintly, "Thank God, my dear father,
you are not hurt! And are they really gone? and
where,
where are we. ? ""
The squire, relieving Clifford of his charge, folded his
child in his arms, while in his own elucidatory manner he
informed her where she was and with whom. The lovers
stood face to face to each other; but what delicious blushes
did the night, which concealed all but the outline of their
forms, hide from the eyes of Clifford !
The honest and kind heart of Mr. Brandon was glad of
a release to the indulgent sentiments it had always cherished
toward the suspected and maligned Clifford; and turning
now from Lucy, it fairly poured itself forth upon her deliv-
erer. He grasped him warmly by the hand, and insisted
upon his accompanying them to Bath in the carriage, and
allowing the footman to ride his horse. This offer was
still pending, when the footman, who had been to see after
the health and comfort of his fellow-servant, came to inform
the party, in a dolorous accent, of something which, in the
confusion and darkness of the night, they had not yet learn-
ed, namely, that the horses and coachman were
gone!
――
" Gone! said the squire, "Gone! - why the vil
lains can't, - (for my part, I never believed, though I
have heard such wonders of those slights of hand) have
bagged them!"
Here a low groan was audible, and the footman, sympa-
thetically guided to the spot whence it emanated, found the
huge body of the coachman safely deposited, with its face
downward, in the middle of the kennel. After this worthy
had been lifted to his legs, and had shaken himself into in-
telligence, it was found, that when the robber had detained
the horses, the coachman, who required very little to con-
(he himself said, by a
quer his turbulent faculties, had
violent blow from the ruffian, though, perhaps, the cause lay
hearer home) quitted the coach-box for the kennel, the
horses grew frightened, and after plunging and rearing till
he cared no longer to occupy himself with their arrest, the
aighwayman had very quietly cut the traces, and by the
time present, it was not impossible that the horses were
almost at the door of their stables at Bath
J
The footman, who had apprised the squire of this misfor
tune was, unlike most news-tellers, the first to offer conso-
lation.
"There be an excellent public," quoth he, "about a
half a mile on, where your honor could get horses; or may
hap, if Miss Lucy, poor heart, be faint, you may like to
stop for the night."
Though a walk of half a mile in a dark night, and under
other circumstances, would not have seemed a gratefu
proposition, yet at present, when the squire's imagination.
had only pictured to him the alternatives of passing the
night in the carriage, or of crawling on foot to Bath, it
seemed but a very insignificant hardship. And tucking his
daughter's arm under his own, while in a kind voice he
told Clifford "to support her on the other side," the squire
ordered the footman to lead the way with Clifford's horse,
and the coachman to follow, or be d-d, which ever he
pleased.
In silence Clifford offered his arm to Lucy, and silently
she accepted the courtesy. The squire was the only talker,
and the theme he chose was not ungrateful to Lucy, for it
was the praise of her lover. But Clifford scarcely listened,
for a thousand thoughts and feelings contested within him;
and the light touch of Lucy's hand upon his arm would
alone have been sufficient to distract and confuse his atten
tion. The darkness of the night, the late excitement, the
stolen kiss that still glowed upon his lips, the remembrance
of Lucy's flattering agitation in the scene with her at Lord
Mauleverer's, the yet warmer one of that unconscious em-
brace, which still tingled through every nerve of his frame, all
conspired with the delicious emotion which he now experi-
enced at her presence and her contact, to intoxicate and
inflame him. Oh, those burning moments in love, when
romance has just mellowed into passion, and without losing
any thing of its luxurious vagueness, mingles the enthusi-
asm of its dreams with the ardent desires of reality and
earth! That is the exact time, when love has reached its
highest point, when all feelings, all thoughts, the whole
soul, and the whole mind are seized and engrossed,-when
every difficulty weighed in the opposite scale seems lighter
than dust, when to renounce the object beloved, is the
most deadly and lasting sacrifice, -and when in so many
breasts, where honor, conscience, virtue, are far stronger
than we can believe them ever to have been in a criminal
like Clifford, honor, conscience, virtue, have perished at
once and suddenly into ashes before that mighty and irre-
sistible fire.
All
The servant, who had had previous opportunities of as-
certaining the topography of the "public" of which he
spake, and who was perhaps tolerably reconciled to his
late terror in the anticipation of renewing his intimacy with
"the spirits of the past," now directed the attention of
our travellers to a small inn just before them. Mine host
had not yet retired to repose, and it was not necessary to
knock twice before the door was opened.
A bright fire, an officious landlady, a commiserate land-
lord, a warm potation, and the promise of excellent beds,
all appeared to our squire to make ample amends for the
intelligence that the inn was not licensed to let post-horses;
and mine host having promised forthwith to send two stout
fellows, a rope, and a cart-horse, to bring the carriage un-
der shelter, (for the squire valued the vehicle because it
was twenty years old) and moreover to have the harness
repaired, and the horses ready by an early hour the next
day, the good-humor of Mr. Brandon rose into positive
hilarity. Lucy retired under the auspices of the landlady
to bed, and the squire having drank a bowl of bishop, and
discovered a thousand new virtues in Clifford, especially
that of never interrupting a good story, clapped the captain
on the shoulder, and making him promise not to leave the
inn till he had seen him again, withdrew also to the repose
of his pillow.
of his pillow. Clifford remained below, gazing abstract-
edly on the fire for some time afterwards; nor was it till
the drowsy chambermaid had thrice informed him of the
prepared comforts of his bed, that he adjourned to his
chamber. Even then it seems that sleep did not visit bis
eyelids, for a wealthy grazier, who lay in the room below,
complained bitterly the next morning of some person walk-
ing overhead "in all manner of strides, just for all the
world like a happarition in boots."
PAUL CLIFFORD.
451
CHAPTER XXV.
*
**
Love thee, Viola?
Viola. And dost thou love me?
Lysander.
* *
-
Do I not fly thee when my being drinks
Light from thine eyes? - that flight is all my answer!
The Bride. Act 2, Scene 1.
THE curtain meditations of the squire had not been
without the produce of a resolve. His warm heart once
re-opened to the liking he had formerly conceived for Clif-
ford; he longed for an opportunity to atone for his past
unkindness, and to testify his present gratitude; moreover
he felt at once indignant at, and ashamed of, his late con-
duct in joining the popular, and, as he now fully believed,
the causeless prepossession against his young friend, and
before a more present and a stronger sentiment, his habitual
deference for his brother's counsels faded easily away.
Coupled with these favorable feelings toward Clifford, were
his sagacious suspicions, or rather certainty, of Lucy's
attachment to her handsome deliverer; and he had at least
sufficient penetration to perceive that she was not likely to
love him the less for the night's adventure. To all this,
was added the tender recollection of his wife's parting
words; and the tears and tell-tale agitation of Lucy in the
carriage was sufficient to his simple mind, which knew not
how lightly maiden's tears are shed and dried, to confirm
the prediction of the dear deceased. Nor were the squire's
more generous and kindly feelings utterly unmixed with
selfish considerations. Proud, but not the least ambitious,
he was always more ready to confer an honor than receive
one, and at heart he was secretly glad at the notion of ex-
changing, as a son-in-law, the polished and unfamiliar
Mauleverer for the agreeable and social Clifford. Such, in
"admired disorder," were the thoughts which rolled through
the teeming brain of Joseph Brandon, and before he had
turned on his left side, which he always did, preparatory
to surrendering himself to slumber, the squire had fully
come to a determination most fatal to the schemes of the
lawyer and the hopes of the earl.
The next morning, as Lucy was knitting
"The loose train of her amber-dropping hair"
before the little mirror of her chamber, which even through
its dimmed and darkened glass gave back a face which
might have shained a Grecian vision of Aurora, a gentle
tap at the door announced her father. There was in his
rosy and comely countenance, that expression generally
characteristic of a man pleased with himself, and persuaded
that he is about to give pleasure.
My dear child," said the squire, fondly stroking down
the luxuriance of his Lucy's hair, and kissing her damask
cheek, "I am come to have some little conversation with
you; sit down now, (for my part I love to talk at my
ease, and, by the by, shut the window, my love, it is an
easterly wind) - I wish that we may come to a clear and
distinct understanding. Hem! give me your hand, my
child, — I think on these matters one can scarcely speak
too precisely, and to the purpose; although I am well aware,
for, for my own part, I always wish to act to every one,
to you especially, my dearest child, with the greatest con-
sideration, that we must go to work with as much deli-
cacy as conciseness. You know this Captain Clifford,-
't is a brave youth, is it not?—well, - nay, never blush
so deeply, there is nothing, (for in these matters one can't
have all one's wishes, -one can't have every thing)
be ashamed of! Tell me now, child, dost think he is in
love with thee?
✔
to
If Lucy did not immediately answer by words, her pretty
lips moved as if she could readily reply, and finally they
settled into so sweet and so assured a smile, that the squire,
fond as he was of "precise" conversation, was in want of
nc fuller answer to his question.
"Ay, ay, young lady," said he, looking at her with all a
father's affection," I see how it is. And, come now,
what do you turn away for ? dost think, if, as I believe,
though there are envious persons in the world, as there
always are when a man's handsome, or clever, or brave;
though by the way, which is a very droll thing in my eyes,
they do n't envy, at least not ill-naturedly, a man for being
a lord, or rich; but quite on the contrary, rank and money
seem to make them think one has all the cardinal virtues.
- Humph! - If, I say, this Mr. Clifford should turn out
to be a gentleman of family, for you know that is essen-
tial. since the Brandons have, as my brother has probably
dost
told you, been a great race many centuries ago;
think, my child, that thou couldst give up-(the cat is
out of the bag) - this old lord, and marry a simple gentle-
man ?"
The hand which the squire had held was now with an
arch tenderness applied to his mouth, and when he again
seized it, Lucy hid her glowing face in his bosom;, and i
was only by a whisper, as if the very air was garrulous
that he could draw forth — (for now he insisted on a ver
bal reply) — her happy answer.
We are not afraid that our reader will blame us for not
detailing the rest of the interview between the father and
daughter, it did not last above an hour longer; for the
squire declared, that for his own part, he hated more words
than were necessary.
Mr. Brandon was the first to de-
scend to the breakfast, muttering as he descended the stairs,
"Well now, hang me if I am not glad that 's off - (for I
do not like to think much of so silly a matter)-my mind,
And as for my brother, I shan't tell him till it's al over,
and settled. And if he
and settled. And if he is angry, he and the old lord may,
though I don't mean to be unbrotherly, go to the
devil together!
When the three were assembled at the breakfast-table,
there could not perhaps have been found anywhere a
stronger contrast than that which the radiant face of Lucy
bore to the haggard and worn expression that disfigured the
handsome features of her lover. So marked was the change
that one night seemed to have wrought upon Clifford, that
even the squire was startled and alarmed at it. But Lucy,
whose innocent vanity pleased itself with accounting for
the alteration, consoled herself with the hope of soon wit-
nessing a very different expression on the countenance of
her lover; and though she was silent, and her happiness
lay quiet and deep within her, yet in her eyes and lip there
was that which seemed to Clifford an insult to his own mis-
ery, and stung him to the heart. However, he exerted
himself to meet the conversation of the squire, and to mask
as well as he was able the evidence of the conflict which
still raged within him.
The morning was wet and gloomy; it was that drizzling
and misty rain which is so especially nutritious to the
growth of blue devils, and the jolly squire failed not to
rally his young friend upon his feminine susceptibility to
the influences of the weather. Clifford replied jestingly,
and the jest, if bad, was good enough to content the railer.
In this facetious manner passed the time, till Lucy, at the
request of her father, left the room to prepare for their
return home.
Drawing his chair near to Clifford's, the squire then
commenced in real and affectionate earnest his operations
these he had already planned — in the following order:
they were first to inquire into, and to learn, Clifford's
rank, family, and prospects;-secondly, having ascertained
the proprieties of the outer man, they were to examine the
state of the inner one;-and thirdly, should our skilful
inquirer find his guesses at Clifford's affection for Lucy
confirmed, they were to expel the modest fear of a repulse,
which the squire allowed was natural enough, and to lead
the object of the inquiry to a knowledge of the happiness
that, Lucy consenting, might be in store for him. While
with his wonted ingenuity, the squire was pursuing his
benevolent desigus, Lucy remained in her own room, in
such meditation and such dreams as were natural to a
heart so sauguine and enthusiastic.
She had been more than half an hour alone, when the
chambermaid of the hostelry knocked at her door, and
delivered a message from the squire, begging her to come
down to him in the parlour. With a heart that beat so
violently it almost seemed to wear away its very life, Lucy
slowly, and with tremulous steps, descended to the parlour
On opening the door, she saw Clifford standing in the re
cess of the window, his face was partly turned from her
and his eyes downcast. The good old squire sat in an
elbow-chair, and a sort of puzzled and half-satisfied com-
placency gave expression to his features.
"Come hither, child," said he, clearing his throat,
Captain Clifford - a-hem! has done you the honor
and I dare say you will be very much surprised -
not that, for my own part, I think there is much to wonder
at in it—but such may be my partial opinion — (and it is
certainly very natural in me)
natural in me) — to make you a declaration of
love. He declares, moreover, that he is the most miserable
of men, and that he would die sooner than have the pre
+452
BULWER'S NOVELS.
sumption to hope. Therefore you see, my love, I have
sent for you, to give him permission to destroy himself, in
any way he pleases; and I leave him to show cause why
(it is a fate that sooner or later happens to all his fellow-
men) -sentence of death should not be passed against
him."
Having delivered this speech with more propriety
of word than usually fell to his share, the squire rose
hastily, and hobbled out of the room.
Lucy sank into the chair her father had quitted, and
Clifford approaching toward her, said, in a hoarse and low
voice,
"Your father, Miss Brandon, says rightly, that I would
die rather than lift my eyes in hope to you. I thought
yesterday hat I had seen you for the last time;-chance
not: my own folly or presumption, has brought me again
before you, and even the few hours I have passed under the
same roof with you, have made me feel as if my love-
my madness aad never reached its height till now. Oh,
Lucy!" continued Clifford, in a more impassioned tone,
and as if by a sudden and irresistible impulse, throwing
himself at her feet; "if I could hope to merit you if I
could hope to raise myself - if I could
no! I am cut off from all hope, and for ever!
There was so deep, so bitter, so heartfelt an anguish
and remorse in the voice with which these last words were
spoken, that Lucy, hurried off her guard, and forgetting
every thing in wondering sympathy and compassion,
answered, extending her hand toward Clifford, who still
kneeling, seized and covered it with kisses of fire,
but no-
>>
-
no
"Do not speak thus, Mr. Clifford; do not accuse your-
self of what I am sure, quite sure, you cannot deserve.
Perhaps, forgive me, your birth, your fortune, are beneath
your inerits; and you have penetrated into my father's
weakness on the former point; or, perhaps, you yourself
have not avoided all the errors into which men are hurried;
perhaps, you have been imprudent, or thoughtless; perhaps
you have (fashion is contagious) - played beyond your
means, or incurred debts;- these are faults, it is true, and
these are faults, it is true, and
to be regretted, yet not surely irreparable.”
For that instant can it be wondered that all Clifford's
resolution and self-denial deserted him, and lifting his
eyes, radiant with joy and gratitude, to the face which
bent in benevolent innocence toward him, he exclaimed,
"No, Miss Brandon ! —no, Lucy!—-dear, angel Lucy!
my faults are less venial than these, but perhaps they are
no less the consequence of circumstances and contagion;
perhaps it may not be too late to repair them. Would
-you indeed deign to be my guardian, I might not
despair of being saved!"
you
If," said Lucy, blushing deeply, and looking down
while she spoke quick and eagerly, as if to avoid humbling
him by her offer, "if, Mr. Clifford, the want of wealth
has in any way occasioned you uneasiness, or or error,
do believe me - -I mean us—so much your friends as not
for an instant to scruple in relieving us of some little
us of some little
portion of our last night's debt to you.
'Dear, noble girl!" said Clifford, while there writhed
upon his lips one of those smiles of powerful sarcasm that
sometimes distorted his features, and thrillingly impressed
upon Lucy a resemblance to one very different in reputa-
tion and character to her lover -"do not attribute my
misfortunes to so petty a source; it is not money that I
shall want while I live, though I shall to my last breath
remember this delicacy in you, and compare it with certain
base remembrances in my own mind. Yes! all past
thoughts and recollections will make me hereafter worship
you even more than I do now; while in your heart they
will unless heaven grant me one prayer - make you
scorn and detest me !"
"For mercy's sake do not speak thus!" said Lucy,
gazing in indistinct alarm upon the dark and working
features of her lover; "scorn, detest you! impossible!
how could I, after the remembrance of last night?
!
"Ay! of last night," said Clifford, speaking through his
ground teeth: "there is much in that remembrance to live
long in both of us but you
:
you — fair angel!"— (and
all harshness and irony, vanishing at once from his voice
and countenance, yielded to a tender and deep sadness,
mingled with a respect that bordered on reverence,)
you never could have dreamt of more than pity for one
like me,-
you never could have stooped from your high
and dazzling purity to know for me one such thought as
that which burns at my heart for you, you, yes, with
|
And
draw your hand, I am not worthy to touch it!"
clasping his own nands before his face, he became abruptly
silent; but his emotions were but ill-concealed, and Lucy
saw the muscular frame before her heaved and convulsed
by passions which were more intense and rending because
it was only for a few moments that they conquered his self-
will and struggled into vent.
If afterward, but long afterward, Lucy, recalling the
mystery of his words, confessed to herself that they be-
trayed guilt, she was then too much affected to think of
any thing but her love and his emotion. She bent down,
and with a girlish and fond self-abandonment, which none
could have resisted, placed both her hands on his. Clifford
started, looked up, and in the next moment he had clasped
her to his heart; and while the only tears he had shed
since his career of crime, fell fast and hot upon her coun-
tenance, he kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips in a
passionate and wild transport. His voice died within him,
he could not trust himself to speak; only one thought, even
in that seeming forgetfulness of her and of himself, stirred
and spoke at his breast-flight. The more ne felt he
loved, the more tender and the more confiding the
object of his love, the more urgent became the necessity to
leave her. All other duties had been neglected, but he
loved with a real love, and love which taught him one duty,
bore him triumphantly through its bitter ordeal.
"You will hear from me to-night," he muttered; “be-
lieve that I am mad, accursed, criminal, but not utterly a
monster! I ask no more merciful opinion! " He drew
himself from his perilous position, and abruptly departed.
When Clifford reached his home, he found his worthy
coadjutors waiting for him with alarm and terror on their
countenances. An old feat in which they had signalized
themselves, had long attracted the rigid attention of the
police, and certain officers had now been seen at Bath,
and certain inquiries had been set on foot, which portend-
ed no good to the safety of the sagacious Tomlinson and
the valorous Pepper. They came, humbly and peniten-
tially demanding pardon for their unconscious aggression
of the squire's carriage, and entreating their captain's in-
stant advice. If Clifford had before wavered in his disin-
terested determination; if visions of Lucy, of happiness
and reform had floated in his solitary ride, too frequently
and too glowingly before his eyes, the sight of these men,
their conversation, their danger, all sufficed to restore his
resolution. "Merciful God!" thought he, "and is it to
the comrade of such lawless villains, to a man, like them,
exposed hourly to the most ignominious of deaths, that I
have for one section of a moment dreamt of consigning the
innocent and generous girl, whose trust or love is the only
crime that could deprive her of the most brilliant des-
tiny?"
Short were Clifford's instructions to his followers, and
so much do we do mechanically, that they were delivered
with his usual forethought and precision, "You will
leave the town instantly; go not, for your lives, to London,
or to rejoin any of your comrades. Ride for the Red Cave;
there are provisions stored there, and, since our late alter-
ation of the interior, it will afford ample room to conceal
your horses.
horses. On the night of the second day from this I
will join you. But be sure that you enter the cave at
night, and quit it upon no account till I come!"
"Yes," said he, when he was alone, "I will join you
again, but only to quit you.
again, but only to quit you. One more offence against the
law, or at least one sum wrested from the swollen hands
of the rich sufficient to equip
of the rich sufficient to equip me for a foreign army,
and I
quit the country of my birth and my crimes. If I cannot
deserve Lucy Brandon, I will be somewhat less unworthy.
Perhaps, why not? I am young, my nerves are not
weak, my brain is not dull, perhaps I may in some field of
honorable adventure win a name, that before my death-bed
may not blush to acknowledge to her!"
I
While this resolve beat high within Clifford's breast,
Lucy sadly and in silence was continuing with the squire
her short journey to Bath. The latter was very inquisitive
to know why Clifford had gone, and what he had avowed;
and Lucy, scarcely able to answer, threw every thing on
the promised letter of the night.
"I am glad," muttered the squire to her, "that he is
going to write, "for somehow or other, though I ques-
tioned him very tightly, he slipped through my cross-
examination, and bursting out at once, as to his love for
you, left me as wise about himself as I was before, no
PAUL CLIFFORD
458
doubt, (for my own part I don't see what should pre-
vent his being a great man incog.) — this letter will ex-
plain all ! "
Late that night the letter came; Lucy, fortunately for
her, was alone in her own room; she opened it, and read
as follows:-
you,
—
CLIFFORD'S LETTER.
I
"I have promised to write to you, and I sit down to
perform that promise. At this moment the recollection of
your goodness, your generous consideration, is warm within
me; and while I must choose calm and common words to
express what I ought to say, my heart is alternately melted
and torn by thoughts which would ask words, oh how dif-
ferent! Your father has questioned me often of my parent-
age and birth, I have hitherto eluded his interrogatories.
Learn now who I am. In a wretched abode, surrounded
by the inhabitants of poverty and vice, I recall my earliest
recollections. My father is unknown to me as to every
one, my mother! to you I dare not mention who or what
she was;
she died in my infancy. Without a name, but
not without an inheritance, (my inheritance was large,
-it was infamy!) — I was thrown upon the world: I had
received by accident some education, and imbibed some
ideas, not natural to my situation; ince then, I have
played many parts in life: books and nien I have not so
neglected, but that I have gleaned at intervals some little
knowledge from both. Hence, if I have seemed to you
better than I am, you will perceive the cause: circum-
stances made me soon my own master, they made me also
one whom honest men do not love to look upon: my deeds
have been, and my character is, of a par with my birth
and my fortunes. I came, in the noble hope to raise and
redeem myself, by gilding my fate with a wealthy marriage,
to this city: I saw you, whom I had once before met.
heard you were rich.-Hate me, Miss Brandon, hate me!
- I resolved to make your ruin the cause of my redemp-
tion. Happily for you, I scarcely knew you before I loved
-that love deepened, it caught something pure
and elevated from yourself. My resolution forsook me;
even now I could throw myself on my knees and thank God
that you,
-you, dearest and noblest of numan beings,
are not any wife.
wife. Now is
Now is my conduct clear to you? If not,
imagine me all that is villanous, -save in one point, where
you are concerned, and not a shadow of mystery will
remain. Your kind father, overrating the paltry service I
rendered you, would have consented to submit my fate to
your decision. I blush indignantly for him, for
that any living man should have dreamt of such profanation
for Miss Brandon. Yet I myself was carried away and
intoxicated by so sudden and so soft a hope, even I
dared to lift my eyes to you, to press you to this guilty
heart, to forget myself, and to dream that you might be
mine! Can you forgive me for this madness? And here-
after, when in your lofty and glittering sphere of wedded
happiness, can you remember my presumption and check.
your scorn? Perhaps you think that by so late a confession
I have already deceived you. Alas! you know not what it
costs me now to confess! I had only one hope in life, it
was that you might still, long after you had ceased to see
me, fancy me not utterly beneath the herd with whom you
live. This burning, yet selfish vanity, I tear from me,
and now I go where no hope can pursue me. No hope for
myself, save one which can scarcely deserve the name, for
it is rather a rude and visionary wish, than an expecta-
tion: - It is, that under another name, and under different
auspices, you may hear of me at some distant time; and
when I apprize you that under that name you may recog-
nise one who loves you better than all created things, you
better than all created things, you
may feel then, at least, no cause for shame at your lover.
What will you be then? A happy wife, - a mother,
the centre of a thousand joys, beloved, admired,
blest when the eye sees you and the ear hears! And this
is what I ought to hope; this is the consolation that ought
to cheer me; —
- perhaps a little time hence it will. Not
that I shall love you less; but that I shall love you less
burningly, and therefore less selfishly. I have now written
to you all that it becomes you to receive from me. My
horse waits below to bear me from this city, and for ever
from your vicinity. For ever!-Ay, you are the only
blessing for ever forbidden me. Wealth I may gain.
M
you, -
a
| fair name, - even glory, I may, perhaps, aspire to! to
heaven itself, I may find a path; but of you my very
dreams cannot give me the shadow of a hope. I do not
say, if you could pierce my soul while I write, that yon
would pity me. You may think it strange, but I would not
have your pity for worlds; I think I would even rather have
your hate,-pity seems so much like contempt. But if
you knew what an effort has enabled me to tame down my
language, to curb my thoughts, to prevent me from em
bodying that which now makes my brain whirl, and my
hand feel as if the living fire consumed it; if you knew
what has enabled me to triumph over the madness at my
heart, and spare you what, if writ or spoken, would seem
like the ravings of insanity, you would not, and you could
not, despise me, though you might abhor.
"And now, Heaven guard and bless you! Nothing on
earth could injure you. And even the wicked who have
looked upon you, learn to pray. I have prayed for you!"
Thus (abrupt and signatureless) ended the expected let-
ter. Lucy came down the next morning at her usual hour,
and, except that she was very pale, nothing in her appear-
ance seemed to announce past grief or emotion. The
squire asked her if she had received the promised letter ;
she answered in a clear, though faint voice, that she had,
that Mr. Clifford had confessed himself of too low an ori-
gin to hope for marriage with Mr. Brandon's family; that
she trusted the squire would keep his secret, and that the
subject might never again be alluded to by either. If in
this speech there was something alien to Lucy's ingenuous
character, and painful to her mind, she felt it, as it were, a
duty to her former lover, not to betray the whole of that
confession so bitterly wrung from him. Perhaps, too,
there was in that letter a charm, which seemed to her too
sacred to be revealed to any one. And mysteries were
not excluded even from a love so ill placed, and seemingly
so transitory, as hers.
Lucy's answer touched the squire in his weak point.
"A man of decidedly low origin," he confessed, was utter-
ly out of the question; nevertheless, the young man showed
a great deal of candor in his disclosure. He readily
promised never to broach a subject necessarily so unpleas-
ant; and though he sighed as he finished his speech, yet
the extreme quiet of Lucy's manner re-assured him, and
when he perceived that she resumed, though languidly, her
wonted avocations, he felt but little doubt of her soon over-
coming the remembrance of what he hoped was but a girl-
ish and fleeting fancy. He yielded with avidity to her
proposal to return to Warlock; and in the same week as
that in which Lucy had received her lover's mysterious
letter, the father and daughter commenced their journey
home.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Butler.-What are these, sir?
Yeoman. And of what nature,
Latroch. Imagine?
– to what use ?
The Tragedy of Rollo.
Quickly. He's in Arthur's bosom. if ever man went o
Arthur's bosom.
Henry V.
THE stream of our narrative now conducts us back to
William Brandon. The law-promotions previously intend-
ed were completed; and to the surprise of the public, the
envied barrister, undergoing the degradation of knight-
hood, had, at the time we return to him, just changed his
toilsome occupations for the serene dignity of the bench.
Whatever regret this wily and aspiring schemer might
otherwise have felt at an elevation considerably less dis-
tinguished than he might reasonably have expected, was
entirely removed by the hopes afforded to him by the ad-
ministration of a speedy translation to a more brilliant
office; and it was whispered among those not unlikely to
foresee such events, that Sir William Brandon might even
look beyond the rank of a chief justice and a peer, and
that the woolsack itself was scarcely too high a station
for the hopes of one possessed of such interest, such abili-
ties; and the democrats added, such accommodating prin-
ciples. Just at this noment too, the fell disease, whose
ravages Brandon endeavoured, as jealously as possible, to
454
BULWER'S NOVELS
peculiar to low vice answered, though in a humbler
tone,-
"And vot good vill that do your onor? If so be as ow
you scrags I, vill that put your vorship in the vay of find-
ing he?
Never was there an obstacle in grammar through which
a sturdy truth could not break; and Brandon, after a moody
pause, said in a milder voice, "I did not mean to
frighten you! never mind what I said; but you can surely
guess
whereabouts he is, or what means of life he pursues,
perhaps?"— and a momentary paleness crossed Brau-
don's swarthy visage :-"perhaps he may have been driven
into dishonesty, in order to maintain himself!"
The informant replied with great naïveté, that “such a
thing was not umpossible!" and Brandon then entered into
a series of seemingly careless but artful cross-questionings,
which either the ignorance or the craft of the man enabled
him to baffle. After some time, Brandon, disappointed
and dissatisfied, gave up his professional task, and bestow-
well as a very liberal donation, he was forced to dismiss
his mysterious visiter, and to content himself with an as-
sured assertion, that, if the object of his inquiries should
not already be gone to the devil, the strange gentleman
employed to discover him, would certainly, sooner or later,
bring him to the judge.
hide from the public, had appeared suddenly to yield to the
skill of a new physician; and by the administration of
medicines, which a man less stern or resolute might have.
trembled to adopt, (so powerful and for the most part
deadly was their nature,) he passed from a state of almost
insufferable torture to an elysium of tranquillity and ease:
perhaps, however, the medicines which altered, also de-
cayed his constitution; and it was observable, that m two
cases where the physician had attained a like success by
the same means, the patients had died suddenly, exactly at
the time when their cure seemed to be finally completed.
However, Sir William Brandon appeared very little anti-
cipative of danger. His manner became more cheerful
and even than it had ever been before; there was a cer-
tain lightness in his gait, a certain exhilaration in his
voice and eye, which looked the tokens of one from whom
a heavy burden had been suddenly raised, and who was no
longer prevented from the eagerness of hope by the engross
ing claims of a bodily pain. He had always been bland in
society, but now his courtesy breathed less of artifice, -iting on the man many sagacious and minute instructions, as
took a more hearty tone. Another alteration was discern-
ible in him, and that was precisely the reverse of what
might have been expected. He became more thrifty, —
more attentive to the expenses of life, than he had been.
Though a despiser of show and ostentation, and far too
hard to be luxurious, he was too scientific an architect of
the weaknesses of others, not to have maintained during
his public career an opulent appearance and a hospitable
table. The profession he had adopted requires, perhaps,
less of externals to aid it than any other; still Brandon
had affected to preserve parliamentary as well as legal im-
portance; and, though his house was situated in a quarter
entirely professional, he had been accustomed to assemble
around his hospitable board whosoever were eminent, in
his political party, for rank or for talent. Now, however,
when hospitality, and a certain largeness of expenses, bet-
ter became his station, he grew closer and more exact in
his economy. Brandon never could have degenerated into
a miser; money to one so habitually wise as he was, could
never have passed from means into an object; but he had,
evidently for some cause or another, formed the resolution
to save. Some said it was the result of returning health,
and the hope of a prolonged life, to which many objects,
for which wealth is desirable, might occur. But when it
was accidentally ascertained that Brandon had been mak-
ing several inquiries respecting a large estate in the neigh-
bourhood of Warlock, formerly in the possession of his
family, the gossips, — (for Brandon was a man to be gos-
siped about,)- were no longer in want of a motive false or
real, for the judge's thrift.
It was shortly after his elevation to the bench, and before
these signs of change had become noticeable, that the same
strange ragamuffin whom we have mentioned before, as
introduced by Mr. Swoppem to a private conference with
Brandon, was admitted to the judge's presence.
"Well," said Brandon impatiently, the moment the
door was closed,
<< your news?"
Vy, your onor, "said the man, bashfully, twirling a
thing that stood proxy for a hat, "I think as ow I shall be
hable to satisfy your vorship's onor. Then approaching
the judge, and assuming an important air, he whisper-
ed,-
""T's as ow I thought!"
My God!" cried Brandon with vehemence.
he is alive? and where?
CC
And,
"I beheves," answered the seemingly confidant of Sir
William Brandon, "that he be's alive, and if he be's
alive, may I flash my ivories in a glass case, if I does not
ferret him out; bur is to saying vhere he be at this nick
o' the moment, smash me if I can!
"Is he in this country?" said Brandon; "or do you
believe that he has gone abroad?”
Vy, much of one and not a little of the other!" said
the euphonious confidant.
"How! speak plain, man,
what do you mean?
Vy I means, your onor, that I can't say vhere he is.”
"And this," said Brandon with a muttered oath,
"this is your boasted news, is it? Dog, damned, damned
dog, if you trifle with me, or play me false, I will hang
you, by the living God, I will! S
زو
The man shrank back involuntarily from Brandon's vin-
dictive forehead and kindled eye; but with the cunning
This assertion, and the interview preceding it, certainly
inspired Sir William Brandon with a feeling like com-
placency, although it was mingled with considerable alloy.
"I do not," thought he, i concluding his meditations
when he was left alone,- "I do not see what else I can
do! Since it appears that the boy had not even a name
when he set out alone from his wretched abode, I fear that
an advertisement would have but little chance of even de-
signating, much less of finding him, after so long an ab-
sence. Besides, it might make me the prey to impostors,
and in all probability he has either left the country, or
adopted some mode of living which would prevent his dar-
ing to disclose himself!" This thought plunged the solilo-
quist into a gloomy abstraction, which lasted several min-
utes, and from which he started, muttering aloud-
"Yes, yes!
! I dare to believe, to hope it. Now for the
minister, and the peerage
And from that time the root
of Sir William Brandon's ambition spread with a firmer
and more extended grasp over his mind.
!
We grieve very much that the course of our story should
now oblige us to record an event which we would willing-
ly have spared ourselves the pain of narrating. The good
old squire of Warlock Manor-house had scarcely reached
his home on his return from Bath, before William Brandon
received the following letter from his brother's gray-head-
ed butler.
"HONNURED SUR,
C
sur,
"I send this with all speede, thof with a hevy hart, to
axquainte you with the sudden and (as it is feered by his
loving friends and well wishers, which latter, to be is
all as knows him) dangeros ilness of the squire.* He
was seezed, poor deer gentleman, (for God never made a
better, no offence to your Honnur,) the moment he set foot-
ing in his Own hall, and what has hung rond me like a mill-
ston ever sin, is that instead of his saying How do you
do, Sampson?' as was his wont, whenever he returned
from forren parts, sich as Bath, Lunnun, and the like; he
said, God bless you, Sampson!' which makes me think
sumhow that it will be his last wurds; for he has never
spoke sin, for all Miss Lucy be by his bedside continual.
She, poor deer, do n't take on at all, in regard of crying
and such woman's wurk, but looks nevertheless, for all the
wurld, just like a copse. I sends Tom the postilion with
tnis hexpress, nowing he is a good hand at a gallop, hav-
ing, not sixteen year ago, beat some o' the best on un at a
raceng. Hopng as yer Honnur will lose no time in coming
to this hous of mourning,'
"I remane, with all respect,
Your Honnur's humble sarvant to command,
'JOHN SAMPSON."
*The reader, who has doubtless noticed how invariably ser-
vants of long standing acquire a certain tone from that of their
master, may observe, that honest John Sampson had caught
from the squire the habit of parenthetical composition.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
Sir Willian. Bra don did not give himself time to re-
read this letter, in order to make it more intelligible, be-
fore he wrote to one of his professional compeers, request-
ing him to fill his place during his unavoidable absence, on
the melancholy occasion of his brother's expected death;
and having so done he immediately set off for Warlock.
Inexplicable even to himself was that feeling, so nearly
approaching to real sorrow, which the worldly lawyer felt
at the prospect of losing his guileless and unspeculating
brother. Whether it be that turbulent and ambitious
minds, in choosing for their wavering affections the very
opposites of themselves, feel (on losing the fellowship of
those calm, fair characters, that have never crossed their
own rugged path) as if they lost, in losing them, a kind
of haven for their own restless thoughts and tempest-worn
designs! be this as it may, certain it is, that when Wil-
liam Brandon arrived at his brother's door, and was in-
formed by the old butler, who, for the first time, was slow
to greet him, that the squire had just breathed his last, his
austere nature forsook him at once, and he felt the shock
with the severity perhaps still keener than that which a
more gen and affectionate heart would have experi-
enced
As soon as he had recovered his self-possession, Sir Wil-
Kam made question of his niece, and finding that, after an
unrelaxing watch during the whole of the squire's brief ill-
ness, nature had failed her at his death, and she had been
borne senseless from his chamber to her own, Brandon
walked with a step far different from his usual stately gait,
to the room where his brother lay. It was one of the old-
est apartments in the house, and much of the ancient
splendor that belonged to the mansion ere its size had been
reduced, with the fortunes of its successive owners, still
distinguished the chamber. The huge mantel-piece ascend-
ing to the carved ceiling in grotesque pilasters, and scroll-
work of the blackest oak, with the quartered arms of
Brandon and Saville escutcheoned in the centre, the
panelled walls of the same dark wainscot, — the armoire of
ebony, the high-backed chairs, with their tapestried seats,
the lofty bed, with its hearse-like plumes and draperies
of a crimson damask that seemed, so massy was the sub-
stance, and so prominent the flowers, as if it were rather
a carving than a silk, all conspired, with the size of the
room, to give it a feudal solemnity, not perhaps suited to
the rest of the house, but well calculated to strike a gloomy
awe into the breast of the worldly and proud man who
Dow entered the death-chamber of his brother.
Silently, William Brandon motioned away the attend-
ants, and silently he seated himself by the bed, and look-
ed long and wistfully upon the calm and placid face of the
deceased. It is difficult to guess at what passed within
him during the space of time in which he remained alone
in that room. The apartment itself he could not, at an-
other period, have tenanted without secret emotion. It was
that in which, as a boy, he had himself been accustomed
to sleep; and, even then a schemer and an aspirant, the
very sight of the room sufficed to call back all the hopes
and visions, the restless projects, and the feverish desires.
which had now brought him to the envied state of an ac-
knowledged celebrity and a shattered frame. There must
have been something awful in the combination of those ac-
tive remembrances with the cause which had led him to
that apartment; and there was a homily in the serene
countenance of the dead, which preached more effectually to
the heart of the living, than William Brandon would ever
have cared to own. He had been more than an hour in
the room, and the evening had already begun to cast deep
shadows through the small panes of the half-closed win-
dow, when Brandon was startled by a slight noise. He
looked up, and beheld Lucy opposite to him. She did not
see him; but throwing herself upon the bed, she took the
cold hand of the deceased, and, after a long silence, burst
into a passion of tears.
"My father!" she sobbed, "my kind, good father,
who will love the now?"
"I!" said Brandon, deeply affected; and, passing
round the bed, he took his niece in his arms: "I will be
your father, Lucy, and you- the last of our race — - shall
be to me as a daughter !"
CHAPTER XXVII.
Falsehood in him was not the useless lie
Of boasted pride or laughing vanity,
It was the gainful, the persuading art, &
CRABUE
On with the horses, off to Canterbury,
Tramp-tramp o'er pebble and splash-splash thro' puddle –
Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!
*
*
*
T
*
*
Here laws are all inviolate!-none lay
Traps for the traveller, every highway's clear
Here i
- he was interrupted by a knife,
With "Damn your eyes, your money or your life!"
Don Juan
MISFORTUNES are like the creations of Cadinus, they
destroy one another! Roused from the torpor of mind oc-
casioned by the loss of her lover, at the sudden illness of the
squire, Lucy had no thought for herself no thought for
any one for any thing but her father, till long after the
earth had closed over his remains. The very activity of
the latter grief was less dangerous than the quiet of the
former; and when the first keenness of sorrow passed away,
and her mind gradually and mechanically returned to the
remembrance of Clifford, it was with an intensity less
strong, and less fatal to her health and happiness than be-
fore. She thought it unnatural and criminal to allow any
thing else to grieve her, while she had so sacred a grief as
that of her loss; and her mind, once aroused into resist-
ance to passion, betrayed a native strength little to have
been expected from her apparent character. Sir William
Brandon lost no time in returning to town after the burial
of his brother. He insisted upon taking his niece with
him; and, though with real reluctance, she yielded to his
wishes, and accompanied him. By the squire's will, in-
deed, Sir William was appointed guardian to Lucy, and
she yet wauted more than a year of her majority.
apart-
Brandon, with a delicacy very uncommon to him where
women (whom he hated) were concerned, provided every
thing that he thought could in any way conduce to her con-
fort. He ordered it to be understood in his establishment,
that she was its mistress. He arranged and furnished, ac-
cording to what he imagined her taste, a suite of
ments for her sole accommodation: a separate carriage and
servants were appropriated to her use; and he sought by
perpetual presents of books, or flowers, or music, to occupy
her thoughts, and atone for the solitude to which his pro-
fessional duties obliged him so constantly to consign her.
These attentions, which showed this strange man in a new
light, seemed to bring out many little latent amiabilities
which were usually embedded in the callosities of his rocky
nature; and, even despite her causes for grief, and the
deep melancholy which consumed her, Lucy was touched
with gratitude at kindness doubly soothing in one who,
however urbane and polished, was by no means addicted to
the little attentions that are considered so gratifying by
women; and yet for which they so often despise, while
they like him who affords them. There was much in
Brandon that wound itself insensibly around the heart. To
one more experienced than Lucy, this involuntary attrac-
tion might not have been incompatible with suspicion, and
could scarcely have been associated with esteem; and yet
for all who knew him intimately, even for the penetrating
and selfish Mauleverer, the attraction existed: unprinci-
pled, crafty, hypocritical, even base, when it suited his pur-
pose; secretly sneering at the dupes he made, and know-
ing n code save that of interest and ambition; viewing
mer only as machines, and opinions only as ladders
there was yet a tone of powerful feeling sometimes elicited
from a heart, that could at the same mozent have sacrificed
a whole people to the pettiest personal object and some-
times with Lucy the eloquence or irony of his conversation
deepened into a melancholy, a half-suppressed gentleness of
sentiment, that accorded with the state of her own mind and
interested her kind feelings powerfully in his. It was these
peculiarities in his converse, which made Lucy love to hear
him, and she gradually learnt to anticipate with a gloomy
pleasure, the hour in which, after the occupations of the
day, he was accustomed to join her.
:
"You look unwell, uncle, to-night," she said, when one
456
BULWER'S NOVELS.
evening he entered the room with looks more fatigued than
usual; and, rising, she leant tenderly over him, and kissed
his forehead.
r
Ay!" said Brandon, utterly unwon by, and even un-
needing, the caress," our way of life soon passes into the
sear and yellow leaf; and when Macbeth grieved that he
might not look to have that which should accompany old
age, he had grown doting, and grieved for what was
worthless."
rr
Nay, uncle, 'honor, faith, obedience, troops of friends,'
-these surely were worth the sighing for?"
"Pooh! not worth a single sigh! The foolish wishes we
form in youth have something noble, and something bodily |
in them; but those of age are utter shadows, and the shad-
ows of pigmies! Why, what is honor, after all? What is
this good name among men ? only a sort of heathenish idol,
set up to be adored by one set of fools, and scorned by
another. Do you not observe, Lucy, that the man you hear
most praised by the party you meet to-day, is most abused
by that which you meet to-morrow? Public men are only
raised by their party, and their party, sweet Lucy, are
such base minions, it moves one's spleen to think one is so
little as to be useful to them. Thus a good name is only
the good name of a sect, and the members of that sect are
only marvellous proper knaves."
"But posterity does justice to those who really deserve
fame."
Do
Posterity! Can you believe that a man who knows
what life is, cares for the penny whistles of grown children
after his death? Posterity, Lucy, -no! Posterity is but
the same perpetuity of fools and rascals; and even were
justice desirable at their hands, they could not deal it.
inen agree whether Charles Stuart was a liar or a martyr?
for how many ages have we believed Nero a monster? A
writer now asks, as if demonstrating a problem, what real
historian could doubt that Nero was a paragon? The pa-
triarchs of scripture have been declared by modern philos-
ophy to be a series of astronomical hieroglyphs; and with
greater show of truth it has been declared that the patriot
Tell never existed. Posterity! the word has gulled men
enough without my adding to the number. I, who loath
the living, can scarcely venerate the unborn. Lucy, believe
me, that no man can mix largely with men in political life,
and not despise every thing that in youth he adored! Age
leaves us only one feeling
contempt!"
S
CC
"Are you belied, then?" said Lucy, pointing to a news-
said Lucy, pointing to a news-
paper, the organ of the party opposed to Brandon, are
you belied when you are here called 'ambitious?'- When
they call you selfish,' and 'grasping,' — I know they
wrong you; but I confess that I have thought you ambitious;
yet can he who despises men, desire their good opinion?"
"Their good opinion!" repeated Brandon, mockingly.
"Do we want the bray of the asses we ride? No!" he
resumed after a pause. "It is power, not honor, it is the
hope of elevating one's self in every respect, in the world
without, as well as in the world of one's own mind: it is
this hope which makes me labor where I might rest, and
will continue the labor to my grave. Lucy," continued
Brandon, fixing his keen eyes on his niece, "have you no
ambition? -- have power, and pomp, and place, no charm
for your mind?"
w
"None!" said Lucy, quietly and simply.
"Indeed! yet there are times when I have thought I
recognised my blood in your veins. You are sprung from
a once noble, but a fallen race. Are you ever susceptible
to the weakness of ancestral pride?"
"You say," answered Lucy, " that we should care not
for those who live after us, much less, I imagine, should we
care for those who have lived ages before!
Prettily answered," said Brandon, smiling. "I will
tell you at one time or another what effect that weakness
you despise already, once had, long after your age, upon
You are early wise on some points, profit by iny
experience, and be so on all."
inc.
"That is to say, in despising all inen and all things?"
caid Lucy, also smiling.
66
Well, never mind my creed; you may be wise after
your own; but trust one, dearest Lucy, who loves you purely
and disinterestedly, and who has weighed with scales
balanced to a hair all the advantages to be gleaned from an
earth, in which I verily think the harvest was gathered be
fore we were put into it, trust me, Lucy, and never think
ve, that maiden's dream, so valuable as rank and power:
pause well before you yield to the former; accept the latter,
the moment they are offered you. Love puts you at the
feet of another, and that other a tyrant: rank puts others
at your feet, and all those thus subjected are your slaves!
Lucy moved her chair, (so that the new position concealed
her face,) and did not answer; and Brandon, in an altered
tone continued,
"Would you think, Lucy, that I once was fool enough
to imagine that love was a blessing, and to be eagerly sought
for? I gave up my hopes, my chances of wealth, of dis-
tinction, all that had burnt from the years of boyhood into
my very heart. I chose poverty, obscurity, humiliation;
but I chose also love. What was my reward? Lucy Bran
don, I was deceived, deceived!
Brandon paused, and Lucy took his hand affectionately,
but did not break the silence. Brandon resumed.
"Yes, I was deceived! but I in my turn had a revenge,
and a fitting revenge, for it was not the revenge of hatred,
but (and the speaker laughed sardonically) of contempt.
Enough of this, Lucy! What I wished to say to you is
this, -grown men and women know more of the trutn of
things than ye young persons think for. Love is a mere
bauble, and no human being ever exchanged for it one solid
advantage without repentance. Believe this; and if rank
ever puts itself under those pretty feet, be sure not to spurn
the footstool.'
So saying, with a slight laugh, Brat don lighted his
chamber-candie, and left the room for the right.
As soon as the lawyer reached his own apartment, he
indited to Lord Mauleverer the following epistle.
"WHY, dear Mauleverer, do you not come to town? I
want you, your party wants you; perhaps the k-g wants
you; and certainly, if you are serious about my niece, the
care of your own love-suit should induce you yourself to
want to come hither. I have paved the way for
I think, with a little management you may anticipate a
you, and,
speedy success: but Lucy is a strange girl,
and perhaps,
after all, though you ought to be on the spot, you had better
leave her as much as possible in my hands. I know human
nature, Mauleverer, and that knowledge is the engine by
which I will work your triumph. As for the young lover,
I am not quite sure whether it be not better for our sake,
that Lucy should have experienced a disappointment on that
score; for when a woman has once loved, and the love is
utterly hopeless, she puts all vague ideas of other lovers
altogether out of her head; she becomes contented with a
husband whom she can esteem! sweet canter !
But you,
Mauleverer, want Lucy to love you! And so she will,
after you have married her! She will love you partly from
the advantages she derives from you, partly from familiarity
(to say nothing of your good qualities.) For my part, I
think domesticity goes so far, that I believe a woman al-
ways inclined to be affectionate to a man whom she has
once seen in his nightcap. However, you should come to
town; my poor brother's recent death allows us to see no
the coast will be clear from rivals; grief has softened
my niece's heart; — in a word, you could not have a better
opportunity. Come!
one,
you
By the way, you say one of the reasons which made
think ill of this Captain Clifford was, your impression
that, in the figure of one of his comrades, you recognised
something that appeared to you to resemble one of the fel-
lows who robbed you a few months ago. I understand that,
at this moment, the police are in active pursuit of three most
accomplished robbers; nor should I be at all surprised, if
in this very Clifford were to be found the leader of the gang,
viz. the notorious Lovett. I hear that the said leader is a
clever and a handsome fellow of a gentlemanlike address,
and that his general associates are two men of the exact
stamp of the worthies you have so amusingly described to
me. I heard this yesterday from Nabbem, the police officer,
with whom I once scraped acquaintance on a trial: and in
my grudge against your rival, I hinted at my suspicion, that
he, Captain Clifford, might not impossibly prove this
Rinaldo Rinaldini of the roads. Nabbem caught at m
hint at once; so that, if it be founded on a true guess,
may flatter my conscience as well as my friendship, by the
hope that I have had some hand in hanging this Adoz of
my niece's. Whether my guess be true or not, Nabbem
says he is sure of this Lovett; for one of his gang has
promised to betray him. Hang these aspiring dogs' I
thought treachery was confined to politics; and that thought
K
PAUL CLIFFORD.
457
makes ine turn to public matters, in which all people | ly, you had better order the horses; one may as well
are turning with the most edifying celerity.”
**
Sir William Brandon's epistle found Mauleverer in a
fitting mood for Lucy and for London. Our worthy peer
had been not a little chagrined by Lucy's sudden departure
from Bath; and while in doubt whether or not to follow
her, the papers had informed him of the squire's death.
Mauleverer, being then fully aware of the impossibility of
immediately urging his suit, endeavoured, like the true phi-
losopher he was, to reconcile himself to his hope deferred.
Few people were more easily susceptible of consolation
than Lord Mauleverer He found an agreeable lady, of a
face more unfaded than her reputation, to whom he in-
trusted the care of relieving his leisure moments from ennui:
and being a lively woman, the confidante discharged the
trust with great satisfaction to Lord Mauleverer, for the
space of a fortnight, so that he naturally began to feel his
love for Lucy gradually wearing away, by absence and
other ties; but just as the triumph of time over passion
was growing decisive, the lady left Bath, in company
with a tall guardsman, and Mauleverer received Brandon's
letter. These two events recalled our excellent lover to a
sense of his allegiance; and there being now at Bath no
particular attraction to counterbalance the ardor of his
affection, Lord Mauleverer ordered the horses to his car-
riage, and, attended only by his valet, set out for Lon-
don.
Nothing, perhaps, could convey a better portrait of an
aristocrat than a sight of Lord Mauleverer's thin, fastidious
features peering forth through the closed window of his
luxurious travelling chariot! the rest of the outer man be-
ing carefully enveloped in furs, half a dozen novels strew-
ing the seat of the carriage, and a lean French dog,
exceedingly like its master, sniffing in vain for the fresh
air, which, to the imagination of Mauleverer, was peopled
with all sorts of asthmas and catarrhs! It was a fitting
picture of an aristocrat, for these reasons; because it
conveyed an impression of indolence of unwholesome-
ness of luxury-of pride and of ridicule! Mauleverer
got out of his carriage at Salisbury, to stretch his limbs,
and to amuse himself with a cutlet. Our nobleman was
well known on the roads, and as nobody could be more
affable, he was equally popular. The officious landlord
bustled into the room, to wait himself upon his lordship,
and to tell all the news of the place.
M
"Well, Mr. Cheerly!" said Mauleverer, bestowing a
penetrating glance on his cutlet, "the bad times, I see,
have not ruined your cook!"
"Indeed, my lord, your lordship is very good, and the
times, indeed are very bad- -very bad indeed. Is there
enough gravy? Perhaps your lordship will try the pickled
the pickled
onions?
escape the nightfall!"
Certainly, my lord, certairly.-Jem, the horses im-
mediately! Your lordship will have another cutlet?"
"Not a morsel!"
"A tart?"
"A dev-not for the world!"
Bring the cheese, John!"
"Much obliged to you, Mr. Cheerly, but I have dined;
and if I have not done justice to your good cheer, thank
yourself and the highwaymen. Where do these highway-
men attack one ?"
CC
Why, my lord, the neighbourhood of Reading is, I be
lieve, the worst part; but they are very troublesome all the
way to Salthill."
"Damnation !
-
the very neighbourhood in which the
knaves robbed me before! You may well call them
troublesome!
troublesome! Why the deuse don't the police clear the
county of such a movable species of trouble?"
"Indeed, my lord, I don't know; but they say as how
Captain Lovett, the famous robber, be one of the set; and
nobody can catch him, I fear ! "
"Because, I suppose, the dog has the sense to bribe as
well as bully.
What is the general number of these ruf-
fians?"
CC
Why, my lord, sometimes one, sometimes two, but
seldom more than three.”
Mauleverer drew himself up. "My dear diamonds,
and my pretty purse!" thought he, I may save you
yet
"Have you been long plagued with the fellows?" be
asked, after a pause, as he was paying his bill.
"Why, my lord, we have, and we have not: I fancy as
how they have a sort of haunt near Reading, for sometimes
they are intolerable just about there, and sometimes they
are quiet for months together! For instance, my lord, we
thought them all gone sometime ago; but lately they have
regularly stopped every one, though I hear as how they
have cleared no great booty as yet.
Here the waiter announced the horses, and Mauleverer
slowly reentered his carriage, among the bows ad smiles
of the charmed spirits of the hostelry.
During the daylight, Mauleverer, who was naturally of
a gallant and fearless temper, thought no more of the high-
waymen, - a species of danger so common at that time, that
it was almost considered disgraceful to suffer the dread of it
to be a cause of delay on the road. Travellers seldom deem-
ed it best to lose time in order to save money; and they car-
ried with them a stout heart and a brace of pistols, instead
of sleeping all night on the road. Mauleverer, rather a
preux chevalier, was precisely of this order of wayfarers ;
and a night at an inn, when it was possible to avoid it, was
to him, as to most rich Englishmen, a tedious torture, most
zealously to be shunned. It never, therefore, entered into
the head of our excellent nobleraa, despite his experience,
that his diamonds and his purse right be saved from all dan-
"The what? onions ! -oh!-ah! nothing can be
better, but I never touch them. So, are the roads good ?”
"Your lordship has, I hope, found them good to Salis-ger, if he would consent to deposit them, with his own per-
bury?"
"Ah! I believe so. Oh! to be sure, excellent to
Salisbury. But how are they to London? We have had
wet weather lately, I think !"
No, my lord. Here, the weather has been as dry as a
bone."
"Or a cutlet!" muttered Mauleverer; and the host
continued
"As for the roads themselves, my lord -so far as the
roads are concerned, they are pretty good, my lord; but I
can't say as how there is not something about them that
might be mended!"
By no means improbable!
you mean the ions and
no! I
the turnpikes?" rejoined Mauleverer.
"Your lordship is pleased to be facetious;
meant something worse than them."
"What! the cooks?
"No, my lord, the highwaymen.'
"The highwaymen ! indeed!" said Mauleverer anx-
iously; for he had with him a case of diamonds, which at
that time were, on grand occasions, often the ornaments of
a gentleman's dress, in the shape of buttons, buckles, &c.;
he had also a tolerably large sum of ready money about
him, a blessing he had lately begun to find very rare:-
"By the way, the rascals robbed me before on this very
1oad. My pistols shall be loaded this time. Mr. Cheer-
VOL. I
58
son, at some place of hospitable eception; nor, indeed, was
it till he was within a stage of Reading, and the twilight
had entirely closed in, that he troubled his head much on the
matter. But while the horses were putting to, he sum-
moned the postboys to him, and, after regarding their coun
tenances with the eye of a man accustomed to read physi-
ognomies, he thus eloquently addressed them: -
"Gentlemen, I am informed there is some danger of
being robbed between this town and Salthill. Now, I beg
to inform you, that I think it next to impossible for four
horses, properly directed, to be stopped by less than four
To that number I shall probably yield; to a less
number I shall most assuredly give nothing but bullets.
You understand me?"
men.
The postboys grinned, touched their hats, and Maule-
verer slowly continued,
..
If, therefore, -mark me, -one, two, or three men
stop your horses, and I find that the use of your whips and
spurs are ineffectual in releasing the animals from the hold
of the robbers, I intend with these pistols, you observe
them, -to shoot at the gentlemen who detain you; but as,
though I am generally a dead shot, my eyesight wavers a
little in the dark, I think it very possible that I may have
the misfortune to shoot you, gentlemen, instead of the rob
bers! You see the rascals will be close by you, sufficiently
so to put you in jeopardy, unless, indeed, you knock them
158
BULWER'S NOVELS.
down with the butt end of your whips. I merely mention "Drive on, and recollect what I told you !-Remember!
this, that you may be prepared. Should such a mistake he added to his servant. The postboys scarcely looked
occur, you need not be uneasy beforehand, for I will take round, but their spurs were buried in their horses, and the
every possible care of your widows; should it not, and animals flew on like lightning.
should we reach Salthill in safety, I intend to testify my The three strangers made a halt, as if in conference:
sense of the excellence of your driving, by a present of ten
their decision was prompt.
Two wheeled round from
guineas a-piece! Gentlemen, I have done with you. I give their comrade, and darted at full gallop by the carriage.
you my honor, as a British nobleman, that I am serious Mauleverer's pistol was already protruded from the front-
in what I have said to you. Do me the favor to mount." window, when to his astonishment, and to the utter baffl
Mauleverer then called his favorite servant, who sat in ing of his ingenious admonition to his drivers, he beheld
the dicky in front, (rumble-tumbles not being then in the two postboys knocked from their horses one after the
use,) –
other with a celerity that scarcely allowed him an exclama-
"Sinoothson," said he, "the last time we were attacked tion; and before he had recovered his self-possession, the
|
on this very road, you behaved damnably. See that you do
do horses taking fright, (and their fright being skilfully taken
better this time, or it may be the worse for you. You have advantage of by the highwaymen,) the carriage was fairly
pistols to-night about you, eh! Well! that's right! And
eh! Well! that's right! And whirled into a ditch on the right side of the road, and up-
you are sure they're loaded? Very well! Now, then, if set. Meanwhile, Smoothson had leapt from his station in
we are stopped, do n't lose a moment. Jump down and the front, and having fired, though without effect, at the
fire one of your pistols at the first robber. Keep the other third robber, who approached menacingly toward him, he
for a sure aim. One shot is to intimidate, the second to gained the time to open the carriage-door, and extricate
slay. You comprehend! My pistols are in excellent order, his master.
I suppose. Lend me the ramrod. So, so! No trick this
time!"
CC
They would kill a fly, my lord, provided your lordship
fired straight upon it."
"I do not doubt you!" said Mauleverer, "light the
lanterns, and tell the postboys to drive on!"
It was a frosty and tolerably clear night. The dusk of
the twilight had melted away beneath the moon, which had
which had
just risen, and the hoary rime glittered from the bushes
and the sward, oreaking into a thousand diamonds, as it
caught the rays of the stars. On went the horses briskly,
their breath steaming against the fresh air, and their hoofs
sounding cheerly on the hard ground. The rapid motion
of the carriage,
and
the bracing coolness of the night,
the excitement occasioned by anxiety and the forethought
of danger, all conspired to stir the languid blood of Lord
Mauleverer into a vigorous and exhilarating sensation,
natural in youth to his character, but utterly contrary to
the nature he had imbibed from the customs of his man-
hood.
Madag
He felt his pistols, and his hands trembled a little, as he
did so :-
not the least from fear, but from that restless-
ness and eagerness peculiar to nervous persons placed in a
new situation.
"In this country," said he to himself, "I have been only
once robbed in the course of my life. It was then a little
my fault; for before I took to my pistols, I should have
been certain they were loaded. To-night, I shall be sure
to avoid a similar blunder; and my pistols have an elo-
quence in their barrels which is exceedingly moving.
Humph, another milestone. These fellows drive well; but
we are entering a pretty looking spot for Messieurs the
disciples of Robin Hood!"
It was indeed a picturesque spot, by which the carriage
was now rapidly whirling. A few miles from Maiden-
nead, on the Henley road, our readers will probably re-
member a small tract of forest-like land, lying on either
side of the road. To the left, the green waste bears away
among the trees and bushes; and one skilled in the coun-
try may pass from that spot, through a landscape as little
tenanted as green Sherwood was formerly, into the chains
of wild common and deep beechwoods which border a
sertain portion of Oxfordshire, and contrast so beautifully
the general characteristics of that county.
At the time we speak of, the country was even far wild-
er than it is now, and just on that point where the Henley
and the Reading roads unite was a spot (communicating
then with the waste land we have described) than which
perhaps few places could be more adapted to the purposes
of such true men as have recourse to the primary law of
nature. Certain it was, that at this part of the road Mau-
leverer looked more anxiously from his window than he
had hitherto done, and apparently the increased earnest-
ness of his survey was not altogether without meeting its
reward.
About a hundred yards to the left, three dark objects
were just discernible in the shade; a moment more, and
the obiects emerging grew into the forms of three men,
well mounted, and riding at a brisk trot.
"Only three!" thought Mauleverer, "that is well; "
and leaning from the front-window with a pistol in either
hand, Mauleverer ied out to the postboys in a stern tone,
The
The moment Mauleverer found himself on terra firma, he
prepared his courage for offensive measures, and he and
Smoothson, standing side by side in front of the unfortunate
vehicle, presented no unformidable aspect to the enemy.
The two robbers, who had so decisively rid themselves of
the postboys, acted with no less determination toward the
horses. One of them dismounted, cut the traces, and suf-
fered the plunging
fered the plunging quadrupeds to go whither they listed.
This measure was not, however, allowed to be taken with
impunity; a ball from Mauleverer's pistol passed through
the hat of the highwayman with an aim so slightly erring,
that it whizzed among the locks of the astounded hero,
with a sound that sent a terror to his heart, no less from a
love of his head, than from anxiety for his hair.
shock staggered him for a moment: and a second shot
from the hand of Mauleverer would have probably finished
his earthly career, had not the third robber, who had hith-
erto remained almost inactive, thrown himself from his
horse, which tutored to such docility remained perfectly
still, and advancing with a bold step and a levelled pistol
toward Mauleverer and his servant, said in a resolute
voice, "Gentlemen, it is useless to struggle; we are well
armed, and resolved on effecting our purpose: your persons
shall be safe, if you lay down your arms, and also such
part of your property as you may particularly wish to re-
tain. But if you resist, I cannot answer for
your lives."
Mauleverer had listened patiently to this speech in order
that he might have more time for adjusting his aim his
reply was a bullet, which grazed the side of the head of the
speaker, and tore away the skin,without inflicting any more
dangerous wound. Muttering a curse upon the error of his
aim, and resolute to the last, when his blood was once up,
Mauleverer backed one pace, drew his sword, and threw
himself into the attitude of a champion well skilled in the
use of the instrument he wore.
But that incomparable personage was in a fair way of
ascertaining what happiness in the world to come is pre-
served for a man who has spared no pains to make himself
comfortable in this. For the two first and most active rob-
bers having finished the achievement of the horses, now
approached Mauleverer, and the taller of them, still indig-
nant at the late peril to his hair, cried out, in a Stentorian
voice,-
"By Gd! you old fool, if you do n't throw down
your toasting-for I'll be the death of you!
>>
The speaker suited the action to the word, by cocking
an immense pistol; Mauleverer stood his ground, but
Smoothson retreated,and stumbling against the wheel of the
carriage, fell backward; the next instant, the second high-
wayman had possessed himself of the valet's pistols, and,
quietly seated on the fallen man's stomach, amused himself
by inspecting the contents of the domestic's pockets. Mau-
leverer was now alone, and his stubbornness so enraged the
tall bully, that his hand was already on his trigger, when
the third robber, whose side Mauleverer's bullet had graz-
ed, thrust himself between the two. "Hold, Ned!
said he, pushing back his comrade's pistol. -
And you,
my lord, whose rashness ought to cost you your life, learn
that men can rob generously." So saying, with one dex-
terous stroke from the robber's riding-whip, Mauleverer's
sword flew upwards, and alighted at the distance of ten
yards from its owner
PAUL CLIFFORD.
459
"Approach now," said the victor to his comrades.
* Rifle the carriage, and with all despatch."
;
The tall highwayman hastened to execute this order
and the lesser one having satisfactorily finished the inqui-
sition into Mr. Smoothson's pockets, drew forth from his
own pouch a tolerably thick rope; with this he tied the
hands of the prostrate valet, moralizing as he wound the
rope round and round the wrists of the fallen man, in the
following edifying strain:
says,
"Lie still, sir, lie still, I beseech you; all wise men are
fatalists; and no proverb is more pithy than that which
What can't be cured must be endured.' Lie still, I
tell you; little, perhaps, do you think that you are perform-
ing one of the noblest functions of humanity: yes, sir, you
are filling the pockets of the destitute, and by my present
action, I am securing you from any weakness of the flesh
likely to impede so praiseworthy an end, and so hazard the
excellence of your action. There, sir, your hands are
tight,- lie still and reflect!"
As he said this, with three gentle applications of his
feet, the moralist rolled Mr. Smoothson into the ditch, and
hastened to join his lengthy comrade in his pleasing occu-
pation.
In the interim, Mauleverer and the third robber (who, in
the true spirit of government, remained dignified and inac-
tive while his followers plundered what he certainly de-
signed to share, if not to monopolize) stood within a few
feet of each other, face to face.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The rogues were very merry on the booty. They said a thou
sand things that showed the wickedness of their morals.
Gil Blas.
They fixed on a spot where they made a cave, which was
large enough to receive them and their horses, This cave wa
inclosed within a sort of thicket of bushes and brambles. From
this station they used to issue, &c.
Memoirs of Richard Turpin.
It was not for several minutes after their flight had
commenced, that any conversation passed between the
robbers. Their horses flew on like wind, and the country
through which they rode presented to their speed no other
obstacle than an occasional hedge, or a short cut through
the thicknesses of some leafless beechwood. The stars
lent them a merry light, and the spirits of two of them at
least were fully in sympathy with the exhilaration of the
pace and the air. Perhaps, in the third, a certain present-
iment that the present adventure would end less merrily
than it had begun, conspired, with other causes of gloom,
to check that exultation of the blood which generally fol
lows a successful exploit.
The path which the robbers took wound by the sides of
long woods, or across large tracts of uncultivated land.
Nor did they encounter any thing living by the road, save
now and then a solitary owl, wheeling its gray body around
the skirts of the bare woods, or occasionally troops of
Mauleverer had now convinced himself that all endeav-conies, pursuing their sports and enjoying their midnight
our to save his property was hopeless, and he had also the food in the fields.
consolation of thinking he had done his best to defend it.
He therefore bade all his thoughts return to the care of his
person. He adjusted his fur collar around his neck with
great sang froid, drew on his gloves, and, patting his terri-
fied poodle, who sat shivering on its haunches with one paw
raised, and nervously trembling, he said,-
"You, sir, seem to be a civil person, and I really should
have felt quite sorry if I had had the misfortune to wound
you. You are not hurt, I trust. Pray, if I may inquire,
how am I to proceed? My carriage is in the ditch, and my
horses by this time are probably at the end of the world."
"As for that matter," said the robber, whose face, like
those of his comrades, was closely masked in the approved
fashion of highwaymen of that day, "I believe you will
have to walk to Maidenhead, it is not far, and the night
is fine!
>>
"A very trifling hardship, indeed!" said Mauleverer,
ironically; but his new acquaintance made no reply, nor
did he appear at all desirous of entering into any farther
conversation with Mauleverer.
The earl, therefore, after watching the operations of the
other robbers for some moments, turned on his heel, and
remained humming an opera tune, with dignified indiffer-
ence, until the pair had finished rifling the carriage, and
seizing Mauleverer, proceeded to rifle him.
With a curled lip and a raised brow, that supreme per-
Bonage suffered himself to be, as the taller robber expressed
it, "cleaned out." His watch, his rings, his purse, and
his snuff-box, all went. It was long since the rascals had
captured such a booty.
They had scarcely finished, when the postboys, who had
now begun to look about them, uttered a simultaneous cry,
and at some distance a wagon was seen heavily approach-
ing. Mauleverer really wanted his money, to say nothing
of his diamonds; and so soon as he perceived assistance at
hand, a new hope darted within him. His sword still lay
on the ground; he sprang toward it, seized it, uttered a
shout for help, and threw himself fiercely on the highway-
man who had disarmed him; but the robber, warding off
the blade with his whip, retreated to his saddle, which he
managed, despite of Mauleverer's lunges, to regain with
impunity.
"This
The other two had already mounted, and within a min-
ute afterwards not a vestige of the trio was visible. "This
is what may fairly be called single blessedness!" said Mau-
leverer, as, dropping his useless sword, he thrust his hands
into his pockets.
Leaving our peerless peer to find his way to Maidenhead
on foot, accompanied (to say nothing of the poodle) by one
wagoner, two postboys, and the released Mr. Smoothson,
all four charming him with their condolences, we follow
with our story the steps of the three alieni appetentes.
"Heavens!" cried the tall robber, whose incognito we
need no longer preserve, and who, as our readers are doubt-
less aware, answered to the name of Pepper," heavens !"
cried he, looking upward at the starry skies in a sort of
ecstasy, "what a jolly life this is! Some fellows like
hunting; damn it, what hunting is like the road? If there
be sport in hunting down a nasty fox, how much more is
there in hunting down a nice clean nobleman's carriage!
If there be joy in getting a brush, how much more is there
in getting a purse! If it be pleasant to fly over a hedge in
the broad daylight, hang me if it be not ten times finer
sport to skim it by night, here goes! Look how the
hedges run away from us, and the silly old moon dances
about as if the sight of us put the good lady in spirits! Those
old maids are always glad to have an eye upon such fine
dashing young fellows."
CC
Ay," cried the more erudite and sententious Augustus
Tomlinson, roused by success from his usual philosophical
sobriety. "No work is so pleasant as night work, and
the witches our ancestors burnt were in the right to ride
out on their broomsticks, with the owls and the stars. We
are their successors now, Ned. We are your true fly-by-
nights!"
"Only," quoth Ned, "we are a cursed deal more clever
than they were; for they played their game without being
a bit the richer for it, and we, I say, Tomlinson, where
the devil did you put that red morocco case?"
"Experience never enlightens the foolish!" said Tom-
linson," or you would have known, without asking, that I
had put it in the very safest pocket in my coat. 'Gad, how
heavy it is!
"Well!" cried Pepper, "I can't say I wish it were
lighter! Only think of our robbing my lord twice, and on
the same road, too!
"I say, Lovett, "exclaimed Tomlinson, "was it not
odd that we should have stumbled upon our Bath friend so
unceremoniously? Lucky for us, that we are so strict in
robbing in masks! He would not have thought the better
of Bath company if he had seen our faces."
Lovett, or rather Clifford, had hitherto been silent. He
now turned slowly in his saddle, and said-
"As it was,
the poor devil was very nearly despatched. Long Ned
was making short work with him if I had not inter-
posed!"
Madde
"And why did you?" said Ned.
"Because I will have no killing: it is the curse of the
noble art of our profession to have passionate professors
like thee."
"Passionate!" repeated Ned; "well, I am a little
choleric, I own it, but that is not so great a fault on the
road as it would be in house-breaking. I don't know a
thing that requires so much coolness and self-possession as
460
BULWER'S NOVELS.
1
cleaning out a house from top to bottom, quietly and civilly,
mind you!
وو
"That is the reason, I suppose, then," said Augustus,
"that you altogether renounced that career. Your first
adventure was house-breaking, I think I have heard you
say. I confess, it was a vulgar debût- not worthy of
"No!
you!",
Harry Cook seduced me! but the speciinen I
saw that night disgusted me of picking locks; it brings
one in contact with such low companions: only think,
there was a merchant - a rag-merchant, one of the
party!"
Faugh!
" said Tomlinson, in solemn disgust.
Ay, you may well turn up your lip: I never broke into
a house again."
"Who were your other companions?" asked Au-
gustus.
Only Harry Cook,* and a very singular woman
Here Ned's narrative was interrupted by a dark defile
through a wood, allowing room for only one horseman at a
time. They continued this gloomy path for several
minutes, until at length it brought them to the brink of a
large dell, overgrown with bushes and spreading around,
somewhat in the form of a rude semicircle. Here the
robbers dismounted, and led their reeking horses down the
descent. Long Ned, who went first, paused at a cluster of
bushes, which seemed so thick as to defy intrusion, but
which yielding, on either side, to the experienced hand of
the robber, presented what appeared the mouth of a
cavern. A few steps along the passage of this gulf
brought them to a door, which, even seen by torchlight,
would have appeared so exactly similar in color and
material to the rude walls on either side, as to have de-
ceived any unsuspecting eye, and which, in the customary
darkness brooding over it, might have remained for cen-
turies undiscovered. Touching a secret latch, the door
opened, and the robbers were in the secure precincts of
the "Red Cave!" It may be remembered, that, among
the early studies of our exemplary hero, the memoirs of
Richard Turpin had formed a conspicuous portion; and it
may also be remembered, that, in the miscellaneous ad-
ventures of that gentleman, nothing had more delighted
the juvenile imagination of the student, than the descrip-
tion of the forest cave, in which the gallant Turpin had
been accustomed to conceal himself, his friend, his horse,
"And that sweet saint who lay by Turpin's side;"
or, to speak more domestically, the respectable Mrs. Tur-
pin. So strong a hold, indeed, had that early reminiscence
fixed upon our hero's mind, that, no sooner had he risen to
eminence among his friends, than he had put the project of
his childhood into execution. He had selected for the
scene of his ingenuity an admirable spot. In a thinly-
peopled country, surrounded by commons and woods, and
yet (as Mr. Robins would say, if he had to dispose of it
by auction,) "within an easy ride" of populous and well-
frequented roads, it possessed all the advantages of secrecy
for itself, and convenience for depredation. Very few of
the gang, and those only who had been employed in its
construction, were made acquainted with the secret of this
cavern; and as our adventurers rarely visited it, and only
on occasions of urgent want, or secure concealment, it had
continued for more than two years undiscovered and un-
suspected.
The cavern, originally hollowed by nature, owed but
little to the decorations of art; nevertheless, the roughness
of the walls was concealed by a rude but comfortable arras
of matting: four or five of such seats as the robbers them-
selves could construct, were drawn around a small but
bright wood-fire, which, as there was no chimney, spread
a thin volume of smoke over the apartment. The height
of the cave, added to the universal reconciler-custom,
prevented, however, this evil from being seriously un-
pleasant; and, indeed, like the tenants of an Irish cabin,
perhaps the inmates attached a degree of comfort to a cir-
cumstance which was coupled with their dearest household
associations. A table, formed of a board coarsely planed,
and supported by four legs of irregular size, made equal by
* A noted highwayman.
the introduction of blocks or wedges between the legs and
the floor, stood warning its uncouth self by the fire. At
one corner, a covered cart made a conspicuous article of
furniture, no doubt useful either in conveying plunder or
provisions; beside the wheels were carelessly thrown two
or three coarse carpenter's tools, and the more warlik.
utilities of a blunderbuss, a rifle, and two broadswords.
In the other corner was an open cupboard, containing
rows of pewter platters, mugs, &c. Opposite the fire-
place, which was to the left of the entrance, an excavation
had been turned into a dormitory, and fronting the entrance
was a pair of broad, strong, wooden steps, ascending to a
large hollow about eight feet from the ground. This was
the entrance to the stables; and as soon as their owners
released the reins of the horses, the docile animals pro-
ceeded one by one leisurely up the steps, in the manner of
quadrupeds educated at the public seminary of Astley i
and disappeared within the aperture.
These steps, when drawn up, which however, from their
extreme clumsiness, required the united strength of two
ordinary men, and was not that instantaneous work which
it should have been, made the place above a tolerably
strong hold, for the wall was perfectly perpendicular and
level, and it was only by placing his hands upon the ledge,
and so lifting himself gymnastically upward, that an active
assailant could have reached the eminence; a work which
defenders equally active, it may easily be supposed, wou d
not be likely to allow.
A
This upper cave- for our robbers paid more attention
to their horses than themselves, as the nobler animals of
the two species was evidently fitted up with some
labor. The stalls were rudely divided, the litter of dry
fern was clean, troughs were filled with oats, and a large
tub had been supplied from a pond at a little distance.
cart-harness, and some old wagoners' frocks, were fixed on
pegs to the wall.
While at the far end of these singular
stables was a door strongly barred, and only just large
enough to admit the body of a man. The confederates had
made it an express law never to enter their domain by this
door, or to use it, except for the purpose of escape, should
the cave ever be attacked; in which case, while one or
two defended the entrance from the inner cave, another
might unbar the door, and as it opened upon the thickest
part of the wood, through which with great ingenuity a
labyrinthine path had been cut, not easily tracked by igno-
rant pursuers, these precautions of the highwaymen had
provided a fair hope of at least a temporary escape from
any invading enemies.
Such were the domestic arrangements of the Red Cave;
and it will be conceded that, at least, some skill had been
shown in the choice of the spot, if there were a lack of taste
in its adornments.
While the horses were performing their nightly ascent,
our three heroes, after securing the door, made at once to
the fire. And there, O reader, they were greeted in wel-
come by one, - an old and reverend acquaintance of thine,
whom in such a scene it will equally astound, and wound
thee to re-behold.
Know then,
but first we will describe to thee the oc-
cupation and the garb of the august personage to whom we
allude. Bending over a large gridiron, daintily bespread
with steaks of the fatted rump, the INDIVIDUAL stood;
with his right arm bared above the elbow, and his right
hand grasping that mimic trident known unto gastronomers
by the monosyllable "fork." His wigless head was adorned
with a cotton nightcap. His upper vestment was discarded,
and a whitish apron flowed gracefully down his middle
man. His stockings were ungartered, and permitted, be-
tween the knee and the calf, interesting glances of the rude
carnal. One list shoe and one of leathern manufacture
cased his ample feet. Enterprise, or the noble glow of his
present culinary profession, spread a yet rosier blush over
a countenance early tinged by generous libations, and from
beneath the curtain of his pallid eyelashes, his large and
rotund orbs gleamed dazzlingly on the new-comers. Such,
O reader, was the aspect and the occupation of the vener-
able man whom we have long since taught thee to admire,
such, alas for the mutabilities of earth! was, a new
chapter only can contain the name.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Cakban. Hast thou not dropped from heaven?
PETER MAC GRAWLER
!
!
!
!
!
!
!
!
!
!
!
CHAPTER XXX.
Tempest
!
God bless our King and Parliament,
And send he may make such knaves repent!
Loyal Songs against the Rump Parliament.
BYRON.
!
Ho, treachery! my guards, my cimeter !
WHEN the irreverent Mr. Pepper had warmed his hands
sufficiently to be able to transfer them from the fire, he
lifted the right palm, and with an indecent jocularity of
spirits, accosted the ci-devant ornament of the Asinæum,
with a sounding slap on his back, -or some such part of
his conformation.
"Ah, old boy!" said he, "is this the way you keep
house for us? A fire not large enough to roast a nit, and
a supper too small to fatten him beforehand! But how
the deuse should you know how to provender for gentlemen?
You thought you were in Scotland, I'll be bound!"
Perhaps he did, when he looked upon you, Ned!"
said Tomlinson gravely; "tis but rarely out of Scotland
that a man can see so big a rogue in so little a compass!
Mr. Mac Grawler, into whose eyes the palmistry of Long
Ned had brought tears of sincere feeling, and who had
hitherto been rubbing the afflicted part, now grumbled
forth,
"You may say what you please, Mr. Pepper, but it is
not often in my country, that men of genius are seen per-
forming the part of cooks to robbers !
"No!" quoth Tomlinson, they are performing the
more profitable part of robbers to cooks, eh?"
::
Damme, you're out," cried Long Ned, " for, in that
for, in that
country, there are either no robbers, because there is noth-
ing to rob; or the inhabitants are all robbers, who have
plundered one another, and made away with the booty?"
"May the de'il catch thee," said Mac Grawler, stung to
the quick, for, like all Scots, he was a patriot; much
on the same principle as a woman who has the worst chil-
dren makes the best mother.
"The de'il!" said Ned, mimicking the "silver sound,"
as Sir W. Scott has been pleased facetiously to call the
' mountain tongue, the Scots in general seem to think
it is silver, they keep it so carefully. "The de'il, Mac
Deil, you mean, sure the gentleman must have been a
Scotchman!"
The sage grinned in spite; but remembering the patience
of Epictetus when a slave, and mindful also of the strong
arm of Long Ned, he curbed his temper, and turned the
beefsteaks with his fork.
"Well, Ned," said Augustus, throwing himself into a
chair, which he drew to the fire, while he gently patted the
huge limbs of Mr. Pepper, as if to admonish him that they
were not so transparent as glass, "let us look at the
fre; and by the by, it is your turn to see to the horses."
"Plague on it!" cried Ned, "it is always my turn, I
hink. Hollo, you Scot of the pot, can't you prove that
groomed the beasts last? I'll give you a crown to do it."
The wise Mac Grawler pricked up his ears.
"A crown!" said he, a crown! do you mean to
insult me, Mr. Pepper? but, to be sure, you did see to the
norses last, and this worthy gentleman, Mr. Tomlinson,
must remember it too.”
"How, I?" cried Augustus; "you are mistaken, and
I'll give you half a guinea to prove it."
Mac Grawler opened his eyes larger and larger, as you
may see a small circle in the water widen into enormity.
“Half a guinea!” said he; "nay, nay, you joke; I'm
not mercenary, you think I am! pooh, pooh! you 're mis-
1
1
taken; I'm a man who means weel, a man of veracity, and
will speak the truth in spite of all the half-guineas in the
world. But certainly, now I begin to think of it, Mr.
Tomlinson did see to the creatures last,—and, Mr. Pep-
per, it is
your turn."
"A very Daniel!" said Tomlinson, chuckling in b
usual dry manner." Ned, don't you hear the horses
neigh?
Oh, hang the horses!" said the volatile Pepper, for-
getting every thing else, as he thrust his hands in his pock-
ets, and felt the gains of the night; "let us first look to
our winnings!"'
So saying, he marched toward the table, and emptied bis
pockets thereon: Tomlinson, nothing loth, followed the
example. Heavens! what exclamations of delight issued
from the scoundrels' lips, as, one by one, they inspected
their new acquisitions.
Here's a magnificent creature!" cried Ned, handling
that superb watch studded with jewels, which the poor
earl had once before unavailingly redeemed: "repeater, by
Jove!"
"I hope not," said the phlegmatic Augustus ; repeat-
ers would not tell well for your conversation, Ned! But,
powers that be! look at this ring, a diamond of the first
water!
"Oh the sparkler ! it makes one's mouth water as much
as itself. 'Sdeath, here's a precious box for a sneezer! a
picture inside, and rubies outside! The old fellow had
excellent taste! it would charın him to see how pleased we
are with his choice of jewelry!
وو
Talking of jewelry," said Tomlinson, "I had almost
forgotten the morocco case; between you and me, I imag-
ine we have a prize there; it looks like a jewel casket!"
So saying, the robber opened that case which on many a
gala day had lent lustre to the polished person of Maulev-
erer. O reader, the burst of rapture that ensued! imagine
it! we cannot express it! Like the Grecian painter, we
drop a veil over emotions too deep for words.
"But here!" said Pepper, when they had almost ex-
hausted their transports at sight of the diamonds, "here 's
the purse fifty guineas! and what's this? notes, by Ju-
piter! we must change them to-morrow, before they are
stopped. Curse those fellows, they are always imitating
us; we stop their money, and they don't lose a moment in
stopping it too. Three hundred pounds! Captain, what
say you to our luck ?"
Clifford had sat gloomily looking on, during the opera-
tions of the robbers
tions of the robbers; he now, assuming a correspondent
cheerfulness of manner, made a suitable reply, and after
some general conversation, the work of division took place.
"We are the best arithmeticians in the world!" said
Augustus, as he pouched his share: " addition, subtraction,
division, reduction we have them all as pat as 'the Tu-
tor's Assistant;' and, what is better, we make them all
applicable to the Rule of Three.”
"You have left out multiplication!" said Clifford,
smiling.
"Ah! because that works differently; the other rules
apply to the specic-s of the kingdom; but as for multiplica-
tion, we multiply, I fear, no species but our own ! ”
Fie, gentlemen!" said Mac Grawler, austerely, for
there is a wonderful decorum in your true Scotsmen. Ac-
tions are trifles; nothing can be cleaner than their words !”
Oh, you thrust in your wisdom, do you?" said Ned. "I
suppose you want your part of the booty!"
CC
"Part," said the subtilizing Tomlinson. "He has nine
times as many parts as we have already. Is he not a crit
and has he not the parts of speech at his fingers' end?"
"Nonsense! " said Mac Grawler, instinctively holding
out his hands, with the fork dropping between the stretched
fingers of the right palm.
Nonsense yourself!" cried Ned, "you have a share
in what you never took! A pretty fellow, truly! Mind your
business, Mr. Scot, and fork nothing but the beefsteaks!"
With this Ned turned to the stables, and soon disappeared
among the horses; but Clifford, eyeing the disappointed
and eager face of the culinary sage, took ten guineas from
his own share, and pushed them toward his quondam tutor.
"There!" said he, emphatically.
Nay, nay," grunted Mac Grawler; "I don't want the
money, it is my way to scorn such dross!" So saying, he
pocketed the coins, and turned, muttering to himself, to the
renewal of his festive preparations.
Meanwhile a whispered conversation took place between
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Augustus and the captain, and continued till Ned returned
"And the night's viands smoked along the board!"
Souls of Don Raphael and Ambrose Lamela, what a
charming thing it is to be a rogue for a little time! How
merry men are when they have cheated their brethren!
Your innocent milksops never made so jolly a supper as did
our heroes of the way. Clifford, perhaps, acted a part, but
the hilarity of his comrades was unfeigned. It was a delicious
contrast, the boisterous "Ha, ha!" of Long Ned, and the
secret, dry, calculating chuckle of Augustus Tomlinson. It
was Rabelais against Voltaire. They united only in the
objects of their jests, and foremost of those objects (wis-
dom is ever the butt of the frivolous!) — was the great
Peter Mac Grawler.
The graceless dogs were especially merry upon the sub-
iect of the sage's former occupation.
"Come, Mac, you carve this ham," said Ned;
have had practice in cutting up.
you
The learned man whose name was thus disrespectfully
abbreviated proceeded to perform what he was bid. He
was about to sit down for that purpose, when Tomlinson
slyly subtracted his chair the sage fell.
No jests at Mac Grawler," said the malicious Augustus,
"whatever be his faults as a critic, you see that he is well
grounded, and he gets at once to the bottom of a subject.-
Mac, suppose your next work be entitled,' a tail of wo !' "
Men who have great minds are rarely flexible; they do
not take a jest readily; so it was with Mac Grawler. He
rose in a violent rage, and had the robbers been more pen-
etrating than they condescended to be, they might have
noticed something dangerous in his eye. As it was, Clif-
ford, who had often before been the protector of his tutor,
interposed in his behalf, drew the sage a seat near to him-
self, and filled his plate for him. It was interesting to see
this deference from power to learning! It was Alexander
doing homage to Aristotle !
"There is only one thing I regret," cried Ned, with his
mouth full, "about the old lord, it was a thousand pities
we did not make him dance! I remember the day, cap-
tain, when you would have insisted on it. What a merry
fellow you were once! Do you recollect, one bright moon-
light night, just like the present, for instance, when we
were doing duty near Staines, how you swore every person
we stopped, above fifty years old, should dance a minuet
with you?"
kr
Ay!" added Augustus, "and the first was a bishop in
a white wig. Faith, how stiffly his lordship jigged it!
And how gravely Lovett bowed to him, with his hat off,
when it was all over, and returned him his watch and ten
guineas, it was worth the sacrifice.
"And the next was an old maid of quality," said Ned,
as lean as a lawyer.- Don't you remember how she
curveted ?"
"To be sure," said Tomlinson," and you very wittily
called her a hop-pole!"
"How delighted she was with the captain's suavity!
When he gave her back her earrings, and aigrette, she bade
him with a tender sigh keep them for her sake, -ha! ha!"
"And the third was a beau!" cried Augustus, "and
Lovett surrendered his right of partnership to me.
Do
you recollect how I danced his beauship into the ditch?
Ah! we were mad fellows then; but we get sated, blasé, as
the French say, as we grow older!
"
"We look only to the inain chance now!" said Ned.
"Avarice supersedes enterprise," added the sententious
Augustus.
And our captain takes to wine with an h after the
w!" continued the metaphorical Ned.
"Come, we are melancholy," said Tomlinson, tossing
off a bumper. "Methinks we are really growing old:
we shall repent soon, and the next step will be hanging!
"Fore Gad!" said Ned, helping himself, "don't be
Do croaking. There are two classes of maligned gentry,
who should always be particular to avoid certain colors in
dressing I hate to see a true boy in black, or a devil in
blue. But here's my last glass to-night! I am confound-
edly sleepy, and we rise early to-morrow."
"Right, Ned," said Tomlinson; "give us a song before
you retire, and let it he that one which Lovett composed
be last time we were here."
Ned, always pleased with an opportunity of displaying
mself, cleared his voice and complied.
A DITTY FROM SHERWOOD
I.
Laugh with us at the prince and the palace,
In the wild wood life there is better cheer;
Would you hoard your mirth from your neighbour's malice
Gather it up in our garners here.
Some kings their wealth from their subjects wring,
While by their foes they the poorer wax;
Free go the men of the wise wood-king,
And it is only our foes we tax.
Leave the cheats of trade to the shrewd gude-wife
Let the old be knaves at ease;
Away with the tide of that dashing life
Which is stirred by a constant breeze!
11.
Laugh with us when you hear deceiving
And solemn rogues tell you what knaves we bo
Commerce and law have a method of thieving
Worse than a stand at the outlaw's tree.
Say, will the maiden we love despise
Gallants at least to each other true?
I grant that we trample on legal ties,
But I have heard that love scorns them too.
Courage then, courage, ye jolly boys,
Whom the fool with the knavish rates;
Oh! who that is loved by the world enjoys
Half as much as the man it hates !"
ble,
"Bravissimo! Ned," cried Tomlinson, rapping the ta
"bravissimo! your voice is superb to-night, and
your song admirable. Really, Lovett, it does your poeti-
cal genius great credit; quite philosophical, upon my honor.
"Bravissimo!" said Mac Grawler, nodding his head
awfully. "Mr. Pepper's voice is as sweet as a bagpipe!
|
Ah! such a song would have been invaluable to the
Asinæum, when I had the honor to "
"Be Vicar of Bray to that establishment," interrupted
Tomlinson. Pray, Mac Grawler, why do they call Edin-
burgh the modern Athens ?"
"Because of the learned and great men it produces,”
returned Mac Grawler, with conscious pride.
"Pooh! pooh! you are thinking of ancient Athens.
Your city is called the modern Athens, because you are all
so like the modern Athenians, - the damnedst scoundrels
imaginable, unless travellers belie them."
Nay," interrupted Ned, who was softened by the ap-
plause of the critic, "Mac is a good fellow, spare him.
Gentlemen, your health. I am going to bed, and I sup-
pose you will not tarry long behind me."
"the cap
"Trust us for that," answered Tomlinson;
tain and I will consult on the business of the morrow, and
join you in the twinkling of a bedpost, as it has been
shrewdly expressed."
Ned yawned his last " good night," and disappeared
within the dormitory. Mac Grawler yawning also, but
with a graver yawn, as became his wisdom, betook himself
to the duty of removing the supper paraphernalia after
bustling soberly about for some minutes, he let down a
press-bed in the corner of the cave, (for he did not sleep
in the robbers' apartment,) and undressing himself, soon
appeared buried in the bosom of Morpheus. But the chief
and Tomlinson, drawing their seats nearer to the dying em-
bers, defied the slothful god, and entered with low tones
into a close and anxious commune.
"So then," said Augustus, "now that you have realized
sufficient funds for your purpose, you will really desert us,—
have you well weighed the pros and cons ? Remember,
?"
that nothing is so dangerous to our state as reform; the
moment a man grows honest, the gang forsake him; the
magistrate misses his fee; the informer peaches; and the
recusant hangs.
""
"I have well weighed all this," answered Clifford," and
have decided on my course. I have only tarried till my
means could assist my will. With my share of our present
and late booty, I shall betake myself to the continent.
Prussia gives easy trust, and ready promotion, to all who
will enlist in her service. But this language, my dear
friend, seems strange from your lips. Surely you will join
me in my separation from the corps! What! you shake
your head!
head! Are
Are you not the same Tomlinson who at Bath
agreed with me, that we were in danger from the envy of
our comrades, and that retreat had become necessary to our
safety? Nay, was not this your main argument for our
matrimonial expedition ?"
we
"Why, look you, dear Lovett," said Augustus,
are all blocks of matter, formed from the atoms of custom;
in other words, we are a mechanism, to which habit is
PAUL CLIFFORD.
463
the spring. What could I do in an honest career? I am
many years older than you. I have lived as a rogue, till I
have no other nature than roguery. I doubt if I should not
be a coward were I to turn soldier. I am sure I should be
the most consummate of rascals were I to affect to be hon-
est. No: I mistook myself when I talked of separation
I must e'en jog on with my old comrades, and in my old
ways, till I jog into the noose hempen, or, melancholy
alternative, the noose matrimonial ! "
"This is mere folly," said Clifford, from whose nervous
and masculine mind habits were easily shaken. "We have
not for so many years discarded all the servile laws of
others, to be the abject slaves of our own weaknesses.
Come, my dear fellow, rouse yourself. God knows, were
I to succumb to the feebleness of my own heart, I should
he lost indeed. And perhaps, wrestle I ever so stoutly, I
do not wrestle away that which clings within me, and will
and will
kill me, though by inches. But let us not be cravens, and
suffer Fate to drown us rather than swim. In a word, fly
with me ere it be too late. A smuggler's vessel waits me
off the coast of Dorset: in three days from this, I sail.
Be my companion. We can both rein a fiery horse, and
wield a good sword. As long as men make war one against
another, those accomplishments will prevent their owner
from starving, or -
"If employed in the field, not the road," interrupted
Tomlinson, with a smile, - "from hanging. But it can-
not be ! I wish you all joy, — all success in your career:
you are young, bold, and able; and you always had a loftier
spirit than I have ! Knave I am, and knave I must be to
the end of the chapter!"
"As you will," said Clifford, who was not a man of
many words, but he spoke with reluctance: "if so, I must
seek my fortune alone."
When do you leave us?" asked Tomlinson.
"To-morrow, before noon. I shall visit London for a
few hours, and then start at once for the coast!
"London!" exclaimed Tomlinson; "what, the very
den of danger?- Pooh! you do not know what you say;
or, do you think it filial to caress Mother Lobkins before
you depart?"
"Not that," answered Clifford; "I have already ascer-
tained that she is above the reach of all want, and her days,
poor soul! cannot, I fear, be many. In all probability,
she would scarcely recognise me; for her habits cannot
much have improved her memory. Would I could say as
much for her neighbours! Were I to be seen in the pur-
lieus of low thievery, you know, as well as I do, that some
stealer of kerchiefs would turn informer against the noto-
rious Captain Lovett."
you turn
"What, then, takes you to town? Ah!
away your face; -I guess! Well, love has ruined many
a hero before; may you not be the worse for his godship!
Clifford did not answer, and the conversation made a
sudden and long pause; Tomlinson broke it:
"Do you know, Lovett," said he, "though I have as
though I have as
little heart as most men, yet I feel for you more than I
could have thought it possible; I would fain join you; there
is devilish good tobacco in Germany, I believe; and, after
all, there is not so much difference between the life of a
thief and of a soldier!"
دو
"Do profit by so sensible a remark," said Clifford;
"reflect, how certain of destruction is the path you now
tread: the gallows and the hulks are the only goals!
"The prospects are not pleasing, I allow," said Tom-
linson; "
nor is it desirable to be preserved for another
century in the immortality of a glass case, in Surgeons'
Hall, grinning from ear to ear, as if one had made the
merriest finale imaginable. Well! I will sleep on it,
and you shall have my answer to-morrow;
Ned?"
"Would he not join us?"
<<
but
poor
Certainly not: his neck is made for a rope, and his
mind for the Old Bailey. There is no hope for him; yet
he is an excellent fellow. We must not even tell him of our
meditated desertion."
By no means. I shall leave a letter to our London
chief it will explain all. And now to bed; - I look to
your companionship as settled."
"Humph!" said Augustus Tomlinson.
So ended the conference of the robbers. About an hour
after it had ceased, and when no sound save the heavy
breath of Long Ned broke the stillness of the night, the
intelligent countenance of Peter Mac Grawler slowly ele-
vated itself from the lonely pillow on which it had reclined.
By degrees, the back of the sage stiffened into perpendicu
larity, and he sat for a few moments erect on his seat of
honor, apparently in listening deliberation. Satisfied with
the deep silence that, save the solitary interruption we have
specified, reigned around, the learned disciple of Vattel
rose gently from the bed, hurried on his clothes, - stole
on tiptoe to the door, unbarred it with a noiseless hand,-
and vanished. Sweet reader, while thou art wondering at
his absence, suppose we account for his appearance.
One evening, Clifford and his companion Augustus had
been enjoying the rational amusement of Ranelagh, and
were just leaving that celebrated place, when they were
arrested by a crowd at the entrance. That crowd was as
sembled round a pickpocket; and that pickpocket, —C
Virtue ! — O Wisdom!-O Asinæum ! was Peter Ma
Grawler! We have before said, that Clifford was pos
sessed of a good mien and an imposing manner, and these
advantages were at that time especially effectual in preserv
ing our Orbilius from the pump. No sooner did Clifford
recognise the magisterial face of the sapient Scot, than be
boldly thrust himself into the middle of the crowd, and,
collaring the enterprising citizen who had collared Mac
Grawler, declared himself ready to vouch for the honesty of
the very respectable person whose identity had evidently been
so grossly mistaken. Augustus, probably foreseeing some
ingenious ruse of his companions, instantly seconded the de-
fence. The mob, who never descry any difference between
impudence and truth, gave way; a constable came up,
took part with the friend of two gentlemen so unexception-
ably drest, - our friends walked off, - the crowd repented
of their precipitation, and, by way of amends, ducked the
gentleman whose pockets had been picked. It was in vain
for him to defend himself, for he had an impediment in his
speech; and Messieurs the mob, having ducked him once
for his guilt, ducked him a second time for his embarrass-
ment.
J
In the interim, Clifford had withdrawn his quondam
Mentor to the asylum of a coffee-house; and while Mac
Grawler's soul expanded itself by wine, he narrated the
cause of his dilemma. It seems that that incomparable jour-
nal the Asinum, despite a series of most popular articles
upon the writings of "Aulus Prudentius," to which were
added an exquisite string of dialogues, written in a tone
of broad humor, viz. broad Scotch, (with Scotchmen it
is all the same thing,) called, perhaps in remembrance
of that illustrious knave, Ambrose Lamela, "Noctes Am-
brosianæ ; despite of these invaluable miscellanies, to say
nothing of some glorious political articles, in which it was
clearly proved to the satisfaction of the rich, that the less
poor devils eat, the better for their constitutions, despite,
we say, of these great acquisitions to British literature, the
Asinæum tottered, fell, buried its bookseller, and crushed
its author; Mac Grawler only, escaping, like Theodore,
from the enormous helmet of Otranto, Mac Grawler
only survived. "Love," says Sir Philip Sidney, "makes
a man see better than a pair of spectacles
Love of life
has a very different effect on the optics,
- it makes a man
wofully dim of inspection, and sometimes causes him to
see his own property in another man's purse! This deceptio
visus did it impose upon Peter Mac Grawler. He went to
Ranelagh. Reader, thou knowest the rest!
-
Wine and the ingenuity of the robbers having extorted
this narrative from Mac Grawler, the barriers of superflu-
ous delicacy were easily done away with.
Our heroes offered to the sage an introduction to their
club; the offer was accepted; and Mac Grawler, having
been first made drunk, was next made a robber. The gang
engaged him in various little matters, in which, we grieve
to relate, that though his intentions were excellent, his suc-
cess was so ill as thoroughly to enrage his employers; nay,
they were about at one time, when they wanted to propiti
ate justice, to hand him over to the secular power, when
Clifford interposed in his behalf. From a robber, the sage
dwindled into a drudge; menial offices, (the robbers, the
lying rascals, declared that such offices were best fitted to
the genius of his country!) succeeded to noble exploits,
and the worst of robbers became the best of cooks.
vain is all wisdom, but that of long experience! Though
Clifford was a sensible and keen man, though he knew
our sage to be a knave, he never dreamed he could be a
traitor. He thought him too indolent to be malicious, and,
short-sighted humanity! too silly to be dangerous. He
trusted the sage with the secret of the cavern; and Augus
How
464
BULWER'S NOVELS.
tus, who was a bit of an epicure, submitted, though fore-
bodingly, to the choice, because of the Scotchman's skill
in broiling.
But Mac Grawler, like Brutus, concealed a scheming
heart, under a stolid guise; the apprehension of the noted
Lovett had become a matter of serious desire; the police
was no longer to be bribed: nay, they were now eager to
bribe; Mac Grawler had watched his time, sold his
chief, and was now on the road to Reading, to meet and to
guide to the cavern Mr. Nabbem, of Bow-street, and four
of his attendants.
Having thus, as rapidly as we were able, traced the
causes which brought so startingly before your notice the
most incomparable of critics, we now, reader, return to
our robbers.
Hist, Lovett!" said Tomlinson, half asleep, "me-
thought I heard something in the outer cave.
"It is the Scot, I suppose," answered Clifford : "you
saw of course to the door? ?"
"To be sure!" muttered Tomlinson, and in two min-
utes more he was asleep.
it is worse
as he now, struggling into his inexpressibles, ft. mis way
into the outer cave.
CC
""
What, ho! Mac!" cried he, as he went, stir those
bobbins of thine, which thou art pleased to call legs;
strike a light, and be d▬▬▬d to you
"A light for you," said Tomlinson, profanely, as he re-
luctantly left his couch, "will indeed be a light to lighten
the Gentiles!"
Why, Mac-Mac!" shouted Ned, "why don't you
answer faith, I think the Scot's dead!'
"Seize your men ! - yield, sirs!" cried a stern, sudden
voice from the gloom; and at that instant two dark lanterns
were turned, and their light streamed full upon the as-
tounded forms of Tomlinson and his gaunt comrade! In the
dark shade of the back ground four or five forms were also
indistinctly visible; and the ray of the lanterns glimmered
on the blades of cutlasses and the barrels of weapons still
less easily resisted.
Tomlinson was the first to recover his self-possession.
The light just gleamed upon the first step of the stairs lead-
ing to the stables, leaving the rest in shadow. He made
one stride to the place beside the cart, where, we have
said, lay some of the robbers' weapons: he had been anti-
the weapons were gone. The next moment
Tomlinson had sprung up the steps.
T
"Lovett ! - Lovett! - Lovett!" shouted he.
The captain, who had followed his comrades into the
cavern, was already in the grasp of two men. From few
ordinary mortals, however, could any two be selected as
fearful odds against such a man as Clifford; a man in
whom a much larger share of sinews and muscle than is
usually the lot even of the strong, had been hardened, by
perpetual exercise, into a consistency and iron firmness
which linked power and activity into a union scarcely less
remarkable than that immortalized in the glorious beauty
of the sculptured gladiator. His right hand is upon the
throat of one assailant, his left locks, as in a vice, the
wrist of the other: you have scarcely time to breathe; the
former is on the ground, the pistol of the latter is
wrenched from his gripe, Clifford is on the step,
ball another whizzes by him! he is by the side of
the faithful Augustus !
a
Open the secret door!" whispered Clifford to his
friend; "I will draw up the steps alone!"
Not so Clifford many and anxious thoughts kept him.
waking. At one while, when he anticipated the opening
to a new career, somewhat of the stirring and high spirit|cipated,
which still moved amidst the guilty and confused habits of
his mind, made his pulse feverish, and his limbs restless:
at another time, an agonizing remembrance,
the remem-
brance of Lucy in all her charms, her beauty, her love, her
tender and innocent heart; Lucy, all perfect, and lost to
him for ever, banished every other reflection, and only left
him the sick sensation of despondency and despair.
"What avails my struggle for a better name?" he thought.
"She will never know it. Whatever my future lot, she
can never share it. My punishment is fixed,
than a death of shame; it is a life without hope! Every
moment I feel, and shall feel to the last, the pressure of a
chain that may never be broken or loosened! And yet, fool
th I am! I cannot leave this country without seeing her
agu, without telling her, that I have really looked my
last. But have I not twice told her that? Strange fatality!
but twice have I spoken to her of love, and each time it was
to tear myself from her at the moment of my confession.
And even now something that I have no power to resist,
compels me to the same idle and weak indulgence. Does
destiny urge me? Ay, perhaps to my destruction! Every
hour a thousand deaths encompass me. I have now ob-
tained all for which I seemed to linger. I have won, by a
new crime, enough to bear me to another land, and to pro-
vide me there a soldier's destiny. I should not lose an
hour in flight, yet I rush into the nest of my enemies, only
for one unavailing word with her; and this, too, after I
have already bade her farewell! Is this fate? If it be so,
what matters it? I no longer care for a life, which after all
I should reform in vain, if I could not reform it for her :
yet,
yet, selfish and lost that I am! will it be nothing to
think hereafter that I have redeemed her from the dis-
grace of having loved an outcast and a felon ?— If I can
obtain honor, will it not, in my own heart, at least,
will it not reflect, however dimly and distantly, upon her ?"
Such, bewildered, unsatisfactory, yet still steeped in the
colors of that true love which raises even the lowest, were
the midnight meditations of Clifford: they terminated, to-
ward the morning, in an uneasy and fitful slumber. From
this he was awakened by a loud yawn from the throat of
Long Ned, who was always the earliest riser of his set.
"Holk!" said he, "it is almost daybreak; and if we
want to cash our notes, and to move the old lord's jewels,
we should already be on the start.”
"A plague on you!" said Tomlinson, from under cover
of his woollen nightcap, "it was but this instant that I
was dreaming you were going to be hanged, and now you
wake me in the pleasantest part of the dream!
"You be shot!" said Ned, turning one leg out of bed;
"by the by, you took more than your share last night, for
owed me three guineas for our last game at cribbage!
You'll please to pay me before we part to-day: short ac-
counts make long friends!"
you
"However true that maxim be," returned Tomlinson,
"I know one much truer, namely, long friends will
make short accounts! You must ask Jack Ketch this day
month, if I'm wrong!"
“That's what you call wit, I suppose!" retorted Ned,
|
Scarcely had he spoken, before the steps were already,
but slowly, ascending beneath the desperate strength of the
robber. Meanwhile, Ned was struggling, as he best might,
with two sturdy officers, who appeared loath to use their
weapons without an absolute necessity, and who endeav
oured, by main strength, to capture and detain their antag-
onist.
“Look well to the door!" cried the voice of the prin-
cipal officer, "and hang out more light ! "
Two or three additional lanterns were speedily brought
forward; and over the whole interior of the cavern a dim
but sufficient light now rapidly circled, giving to the scene,
and to the combatants, a picturesque and wild appear-
ance !
But
The quick eye of the head-officer descried in an instant
the rise of the steps, and the advantage the robbers were
thereby acquiring.
thereby acquiring. He and two of his men threw them-
selves forward, seized the ladder, if so it may be called,
dragged it once more to the ground, and ascended.
Clifford, grasping with both hands the broken shaft of a
cart that lay in reaco, received the foremost invader with a
salute that sent him prostrate and senseless back among his
companions. The second shared the same fate; and the
stout leader of the enemy, who, like a true general, had
kept himself in the rear, paused now in the middle of the
steps, dismayed alike by the reception of his friends, and
the athletic form towering above, with raised weapon and
menacing attitude. Perhaps that moment seemed to the
judicious Mr. Nabbem more favorable to parley than to
conflict. He cleared his throat, and thus addressed the
foe:
"You, sir, Captain Lovett, alias Howard, alias Jackson,
alias Cavendish, alias Solomons, alias Devil, for I knows
you well, and could swear to you with half an eye, in your
clothes or without; you lay down your club there, and let
me come alongside of you, and you'll find me as gentle as a
lamb; for I 've been used to gemmen all my life, and I
knows how to treat 'em when I has 'em!
PAUL CLIFFORD
465
"But, if I will not let you come alongside of me,'
what then?
Why, I must send one of these 'ere pops through your
skull, that 's all!"
"Nay, Mr. Nabbem, that would be too cruel; you sure-
ly would not harm one who has such an esteem for you?
Do n you remember the manner in which I brought you
off from Justice Burnflat, when you were accused, you
know whether justly or
""
"You're a liar, captain!" cried Nabbem, furiously,
fearful that something not meet for the ears of his com-
paniors should transpire. "You knows you are! Come
down, or let me mount, otherwise I won't be 'sponsible for
the consequences !"
unacquainted with the world, there is so pure a credulity
in the existence of unmixed good, so firm a reluctance to
think that where we love, there can be that which we
would not esteem, or where we admire there can be that
which we ought to blame, that one may almost deem it an
argument in favor of our natural power to attain a greater
eminence in virtue, than the habits and arts of the existing
world will allow us to reach. Perhaps it is not paradox-
ical to say that we could scarcely believe perfection in oth-
ers, were not the germ of perfectibility in our own minds '
When a man has lived some years among the actual con
tests of faction, without imbibing the prejudice as well as
the experience, how wonderingly he smiles at his worship
of former idols!-how different a color does history wear
to him? how cautious is he now to praise ! — how slow
to admire!—how prone to cavil! Human nature has
become the human nature of art; and he estimates it not
from what it may be, but from what, in the corruptions of a
semi-civilization, it is! But in the same manner as the
young student clings to the belief, that the sage, or the
minstrel, who has enlightened his reason or chained his
"You speaks like a sinsible man, now," answered Nab-imagination, is in character as in genius elevated above
bem," and that 's after my own heart. Why, you sees,
captain, your time has come, and you can't shilly-shally
any longer. You have had your full swing; your years
are up, and you must die like a man! But I gives you
my honor, as a gemman, that if you surrenders, I'll take
you to the justice folks as tenderly as if you were made of
Clifford cast a look over his shoulder. A gleam of the
gray daylight already glimmered through a chink in the
secret door, which Tomlinson had now unbarred, and was
about to open.
"Listen to me, Mr. Nabbem," said he, “and perhaps I
may grant what you require!
What would you do with
me, if you had me?"
cotton."
"Give way one moment," said Clifford, "that I may
plant the steps firmer for you."
Nabbem retreated to the ground, and Clifford, who
had, good-naturedly enough, been unwilling unnecessarily to
damage so valuable a functionary, lost not the opportunity
Dow afforded him. Down thundered the steps, clattering
heavily among the other officers, and falling like an ava-
lanche on the shoulder of one of the arresters of Long Ned.
Meanwhile Clifford sprang after Tomlinson through the
aperture, and found himself in the presence of four
officers, conducted by the shrewd Mac Grawler. A blow
from a bludgeon on the right cheek and temple of Augustus
felled that kero. But Clifford bounded over his comrade's
body, dodged from the stroke aimed at himself, caught
the blow aimed by another assailant in his open hand,
wrested the bludgeon from the officer, struck him to the
ground with his own weapon, and darting onward through
the labyrinth of the wood, commenced his escape with a
step too fleet to allow the hope of a successful pursuit.
CHAPTER XXXI.
In short, Isabella, I offer you myself!"
"Heavens!" cried Isabella, "what do I hear? You, my lord?"
Castle of Otranto.
A NOVEL is like a weatherglass, where the man appears
out at one time, the woman at another. Variable as the
atmosphere, the changes of our story now re-present Lucy
to the reader.
-
That charming young person,
who, it may be remarked,
(her father excepted) the only unsophisticated and unsul-
ied character in the pages of a story in some measure
designed to show in the depravities of character, the
depravities of that social state wherein characters are
formed, was sitting alone in her apartment at the period |
in which we return to her. As time, and that innate and
insensible fund of healing, which nature has placed in the
bosoms of the young, in order that her great law, the
passing away of the old, may not leave too lasting and
keen a wound, had softened her first anguish at her fa-
ther's death, the remembrance of Clifford again resumed its
ancient sway in her heart. The loneliness of her life,
the absence of amusement,
-even the sensitiveness and
languor which succeed to grief, conspired to invest the
image of her lover in a tenderer and more impressive
guise. She recalled his words, his actions, his letters,
and employed herself whole hours, whole days and nights,
in endeavouring to decipher their mystery. Who that has
been loved will not acknowledge the singular and mighty
force with which a girl innocent herself, clings to the
belief of innocence in her lover? In breasts young and
VOL 1.
59
the ordinary herd, free from the passions, the frivolities,
the little meannesses, and the darkening vices which ordi-
nary flesh is heir to, does a woman, who loves for the first
time, cling to the imagined excellence of him she loves!
When Evelina is so shocked at the idea of an occasional
fit of intoxication in her "noble, her unrivalled " lover,
who does not acknowledge how natural were her feelings?
Had Evelina been married six years, and the same lover,
then her husband, been really guilty of what she suspected,
who does not then feel it would have been very unnatural
to have been shocked in the least at the occurrence? She
would not have loved him less, or admired him less, nor
would he have been the less "the noble and the unrival
led," - he would have taken his glass too much, have
joked the next morning on the event, and the gentle Eveli-
na would have made him a cup of tea! but that which
would have been a matter of pleasantry in the husband,
would have been matter of damnation in the lover ! — But
to return to Lucy.
If it be so hard, so repellant, to believe a lover gainy
even of a trivial error, we may readily suppose that Lucy
never for a moment admitted the supposition that Clifford
had been really guilty of gross error or wilful crime
True, that expressions in his letter were more than sus
picious; but there is always
always a charm in the candor of
self-condemnation. As it is difficult to believe the excel-
lence of those who praise themselves, so is it difficult to
fancy those criminal who condemn! What, too, is the
process of a woman's reasoning? Alas! she is too credu-
lous a physiognomist. The turn of a throat, with her, is
the unerring token of nobleness of mind; and no one can
be guilty of a sin who is blessed with a beautiful forehead!
How fondly, how fanatically Lucy loved! She had gath-
ered together a precious and secret hoard; a glove
શ
pen
- a book -a withered rose-leaf; treasures rendered
inestimable because he had touched them: but more than
all, had she the series of his letters, from the first formal
note written to her father, meant for her, in which he air-
swered an invitation, and requested Miss Brandon's accept-
ance of the music she had wished to have, to the last wild
and, to her, inexplicable letter in which he had resigned her
for ever. On these relies her eyes fed for hours; and as
she pored over them, and over thoughts too deep not only
for tears, but for all utterance or conveyance, you might
have almost literally watched the fading of her rich cheek,
and the pining away of her rounded and elastic form.
It was just in such a mood that she was buried, when
her uncle knocked at her door for admittance: she hurried
away her treasures, and hastened to admit and greet him.
"I have come," said he, smiling, "to beg the pleasure of
your company for an old friend who dines with us to-day.
But stay, Lucy, your hair is ill arranged. Do not let
me disturb so important an occupation as your toilet:
dress yourself, my love, and join us.
uncle lingered for a few moments, surveying her with
Lucy turned, with a suppressed sigh, to the glass. Tho
mingled pride and doubt: he then slowly left the chamber
Lucy soon afterward descended to the drawing-room,
and beheld, with a little surprise, (for she had not had
sufficient curiosity to inquire the name of the guest,) the
slender form and comely features of Lord Mauleverer Tha
466
BULWER'S NOVELS.
earl approached with the same grace which had, in his
earlier youth, rendered him almost irresistible, but which
now, from the contrast of years with manner, contained a
slight mixture of the comic. He paid his compliments, and
in paying them, declared that he must leave it to his friend
Sir William to explain all the danger he had dared, for the
sake of satisfying himself that Miss Brandon was no less.
lovely than when he had last beheld her.
"Yes, indeed," said Brandon, with a scarcely percepti-
ble sneer,
"Lord Mauleverer has literally endured the
moving accidents of flood and field, for he was nearly
exterminated by a highwayman, and all but drowned in a
ditch!"
and
"Commend me to a friend for setting one off to the best
advantage," said Mauleverer gayly: "instead of attracting
your sympathy, you see, Brandon would expose me to your
ridicule. Judge for yourself whether I deserve it;"
Mauleverer proceeded to give, with all the animation which
belonged to his character, the particulars of that adventure
with which the reader is so well acquainted. He did not,
we may be sure, feel any scruple in representing himself
and his prowess in the most favorable colors.
The story was scarcely ended when dinner was announced.
During that meal, Mauleverer exerted himself to be amiable
with infinite address. Suiting his conversation, more than
he had hitherto deigned to do, to the temper of Lucy, and
more anxious to soften than to dazzle, he certainly never
before appeared to her so attractive. We are bound to add,
that the point of attraction did not aspire beyond the con-
fession that he was a very agreeable old man.
Perhaps, if there had not been a certain half-melancholy
vein in his conversation, possibly less painful to his lord-
ship from the remembrance of his lost diamonds, and the
impression that Sir William Brandon's cook was consider-
ably worse than his own, he might not have been so suc-
cessful in pleasing Lucy. As for himself, all the previous
impressions she had made on him returned in colors yet
more vivid; even the delicate and subdued cast of beauty
which had succeeded to her earlier brilliancy, was far more
charming to his fastidious and courtly taste, than her former
glow of spirits and health. He felt himself very much in
love during dinner; and after it was over, and Lucy had
retired, he told Brandon with a passionate air, "that he
adored his niece to distraction ! "
The wily judge affected to receive the intimation with
indifference; but knowing that too long an absence is in-
jarious to a grande passion, he did not keep Mauleverer very
late over his wine.
The earl returned rapturously to the drawing-room, and
besought Lucy, in a voice in which affectation seemed
swooning with delight, to indulge him with a song. More
and more enchanted by her assent, he drew the music-stool
to the harpsichord, placed a chair beside her, and presently
appeared lost in transport. Meanwhile Brandon, with his
back to the pair, covered his face with his handkerchief,
and, to all appearance, yielded to the voluptuousness of an
after-dinner repose.
Lucy's song-book opened accidentally at a song which
had been praised by Clifford; and as she sung, her voice
took a richer and more tender tone than in Mauleverer's
presence it had ever before assumed.
THE COMPLAINT OF THE VIOLETS WHICH
LOSE THEIR SCENT IN MAY.*
I.
'In the shadow that falls from the silent hill
We slept, in our green retreats;
And the April showers were wont to fill
Our hearts with sweets.
11.
And though we may in a lowly bower,
Yet all things loved us well,
And the waking bee left her fairest flower
With us to dwell.
III.
But the warm May came in his pride to woo
The wealth of our honeyed store;
And our hearts just felt his breath, and knew
Their sweets no more!
The following stanzas have
ar poems, by divers hands, called
en printed in a collection.
The Casket."
|
IV.
And the summer reigns on the quiet spot
Where we dwell, and its suns and showers
Bring balm to our sisters' hearts, but not,
Ah! not to ours.
We live, we bloom, but for ever o'er
Is the charm of the earth and sky;
To our life, ye heavens, that balm restore,
Or bid us die!"
As with eyes suffused with many recollections, and a
voice which melted away in an indescribable and thrilling
pathos, Lucy ceased her song, Mauleverer, charmed out o
himself, gently took her hand, and holding the soft treasur
in his own, scarcely less soft, he murmured
Angel! sing on. Life would be like your own music,
if I could breathe it away at your feet!'
There had been a time when Lucy would have laughed
outright at this declaration; and even as it was, a sup
pressed and half-arch smile played in the dimples of her
beautiful mouth, and bewitchingly contrasted the swimming
softness of her eyes.
Drawing rather an erroneous omen from the smile, Mau-
leverer rapturously continued, still detaining the hand which
Lucy endeavoured to extricate.
"Yes, enchanting Miss Brandon, I who have for so many
years boasted of my invulnerable heart, am subdued at last.
I have long, very long, struggled against my attachment to
you. Alas! it is in vain; and you behold me now utterly
at your mercy. Make me the most miserable of men, or
the most enviable. Enchantress, speak !
"Really, my lord," said Lucy, hesitating, yet rising
and freeing herself from his hand, "I feel it difficult to
suppose you serious; and perhaps this is merely a gallantry
to me, by way of practice on others."
"Sweet Lucy, if I so may call you," answered Maule-
verer, with an ardent gaze; "do not, I implore you, even
for a moment, affect to mistake me! do not for a moment
jest at what, to me, is the bane or bliss of life! Dare I
hope that my hand and heart, which I now offer you, are
not deserving of your derision?"
Lucy gazed on her adorer with a look of serious inquiry;
Brandon still appeared to sleep.
"If you are in earnest, my lord," said Lucy, after a
pause, "I am truly and deeply sorry; for the friend of my
uncle I shall always have esteem: believe that I am truly
sensible of the honor you render me, when I add my regret,
that I can have no other sentiment than esteem.
A blank and puzzled bewilderment, for a moment, cloud-
ed the expressive features of Mauleverer, it passed
away.
"How sweet is your rebuke!" said he. "Yes! I do
not yet deserve any other sentiment than esteem: you are
not to be won precipitately; a long trial, -a long course
of attentions, -a long knowledge of my devoted and ardent
love, alone will entitle me to hope for a warmer feeling in
your breast. Fix then your own time of courtship, angelic
Lucy! —a week, — nay a month!-till then, I will no
even press you to appoint that day, which to me will be
the whitest of my life!"
CC
My lord!" said Lucy, smiling now no longer half
archly, "you must pardon me for believing your proposal
can be nothing but a jest; but here, I beseech you, let it
rest for ever: do not mention this subject to me again."
By heavens!" cried Mauleverer,
cried Mauleverer, "this is too cruel.
Brandon, intercede for me with your niece."
Sir William started, naturally enough, from his slumber,
and Mauleverer continued,
"Yes, intercede for me; you, my oldest friend, be my
greatest benefactor! I sue to your niece, she affects to
disbelieve, will you convince her of
will you convince her of my truth, my devo
tion, my worship?
3,
"Disbelieve you!" said the bland judge, with the same
secret sneer that usually lurked in the corners of his mouth;
"I do not wonder that she is slow to credit the honor you
have done her, and for which the noblest damsels in
England have sighed in vain. - Lucy, will you be cruel to
Lord Mauleverer? Believe me, he has often confided to me
his love for you; and if the experience of some years avails,
there is not a question of his hour and his truth; I leave
his fate in
your hands."
PAUL CLIFFORD.
467
ઃઃ
Brandon turned to the door.
66
Stay, dear sir," said Lucy, "and, instead of interceding
for Lord Maleverer, intercede for me." Her look now
settled into a calm and decided seriousness of expression.
"I feel highly flattered by his lordship's proposal, which,
as you say, I might well doubt to be gravely meant.
wish him all happiness with a lady of higher deserts; but
1 speak from an unalterable determination, when I
say, that
I can never accept the dignity with which he would invest
me."
So saying, Lucy walked quickly to the door and vanished,
leaving the two friends to comment as they would, upon
her conduct.
"You have spoilt all with your precipitation," said the
uncle.
CC
Precipitation! — damn it! what would you have? I
have been fifty years making up my mind to marry; and
now, when I have not a day to lose, you talk of precipita-
tion!" answered the lover, throwing himself into a fau-
teuil.
" But you have not been fifty years making up your mind
to marry my niece," said Brandon, dryly.
"To be refused,-positively refused by a country girl!"
continued Mauleverer, soliloquizing aloud, " and that too
at my age, and with all my experience! -a country girl
without rank, ton, accomplishments! — By God! I don't
care if all the world heard it, for not a soul in the world
would ever believe it."
I
But
the superficial, as of too yielding and soft a temper
circumstances gave the lie to manner, and proved that she
eminently possessed a quiet firmness and latent resolution,
which gave to her mind a nobleness and trustworthy power
that never would have been suspected by those who met her
among the ordinary paths of life.
Brandon had not been long gone, when Lucy's maid
came to inform her that a gentleman, who expressed him-
self very desirous of seeing her, waited below. The blood
rushed from Lucy's cheek at this announcement, simple as
it seemed. "What gentleman could be desirous of seeing
her? Was it, was it Clifford ?" She reinained for
some moments motionless, and literally unable to move; at
length she summoned courage, and smiling with self-con-
tempt at a notion which appeared to her after thoughts
utterly absurd, she descended to the drawing-room. The
first glance she directed toward the stranger, who stood by
the fireplace with folded arms, was sufficient, it was im-
possible to mistake, though the face was averted, the im-
equalled form of her lover. She advanced eagerly with a
faint cry, checked herself, and sank upon the sofa.
Clifford turned toward her, and fixed his eyes upon her
countenance with an intense and melancholy gaze, but he
did not utter a syllable; and Lucy, after pausing in expec-
tation of his voice, looked up, and caught, in alarm, the
strange and peculiar aspect of his features. He approached
her slowly, and still silent; but his gaze seemed to grow
more earnest and mournful as he advanced.
—
4
Brandon sat speechless, eyeing the mortified face of the "Yes," said he at last, in a broken and indistinct voice,
courtier, with a malicious complacency, and there was a "I see you once more, after all my promises to quit you for
pause of several minutes. Sir William then mastering the
ever, after my solemn farewell, after all that I have cost
strange feeling which made him always rejoice in whatever you; for, Lucy, you love me, you love ne, and I
threw ridicule on his friend, approached, laid his hand shudder while I feel it; after all, I myself have borne and
kindly on Mauleverer's shoulder, and talked to him of com-resisted, I once more come wilfully into your presence!
fort and of encouragement. The reader will believe, that How have I burnt and sickened for this moment! How
Mauleverer was not a man whom it was impossible to have I said, 'Let me behold her once more, only once
encourage.
more, and Fate may then do her worst!' Lucy! dear,
dear Lucy forgive me for my weakness. It is now in
bitter and stern reality, the very last I can be guilty of!"
CHAPTER XXXII.
Before he came, every thing loved me, and I had more things
o love than I could reckon by the hairs of my head. Now, I
feel I can love but one, and that one has deserted me.
*
x
*
*
*
*
Well- be it so,
*
*
*
*
let her perish, let her be any thing but mine.
MELMOTH.
EARLY the next morning, Sir William Brandon was
closeted for a long time with his niece, previous to his
departure to the duties of his office. Anxious, and alarmed
for the success of one of the darling projects of his ambition,
he spared no art in his conversation with Lucy, that his
great ingenuity of eloquence and wonderful insight into hu-
man nature could suggest, in order to gain at least a foun-
dation for the raising of his scheme. Among other resources
of his worldly tact, he hinted at Lucy's love for Clifford ;
and (though darkly and subtly, as befitting the purity of the
one he addressed) this abandoned and wily person did not
scruple to hint also at the possibility of indulging that love
after marriage; though he denounced, as the last of indeco-
rums, the crime of encouraging it before. This hint, how-
ever, fell harmless upon the innocent ear of Lucy. She
did not, in the remotest degree, comprehend its meaning;
she only, with a glowing cheek and a pouting lip, resented
the allusion to a love which she thought it insolent in
one even to suspect.
any
When Brandon left the apartment, his brow was clouded,
and his eye absent and thoughtful; it was evident that there
had been little in the conference with his niece to please
or content him. Miss Brandon herself was greatly agita-
ted, for there was in her uncle's nature that silent and im- |
pressive secret of influencing or commanding others, which
almost so invariably, and yet so quietly, attains the wishes.
of its owner, and Lucy, who loved and admired him
sincerely, not the less perhaps for a certain modicum of
fear, was greatly grieved at perceiving how rooted in him
was the desire of that marriage which she felt as a moral
impossibility. But if Brandon possessed the secret of
sway, Lucy was scarcely less singularly endowed with the
secret of resistance. It may be remembered, in describing
her character, that we spoke of her as one who seemed, to
As he spoke, Clifford sank beside her. He took both
her hands in his, and holding them, though without pres-
sure, again looked passionately upon her innocent yet elo-
quent face. It seemed as if he were moved beyond all the
ordinary feelings of re-union and of love. He did not
attempt to kiss the hands he held; and though the to ich
thrilled through every vein and fibre in his frame, his clasp
was as light as that in which the first timidity of a bʊy³½
love ventures to stamp itself!
"and your
"You are pale, Lucy," said he mournfully, “and
cheek is much thinner than it was when I first saw you,
when I first saw you! Ah! would for your sake that that
had never been ! Your spirits were light then, Lucy.
Your laugh came from the heart, -your step spurned the
earth. Joy broke from your eyes, every thing that breathed
around you seemed full of happiness and mirth! And now,
look upon me, Lucy; lift those soft eyes, and teach them to
flash upon me indignation and contempt! Oh, not thus,
not thus! I could leave you happy, yes literally bles*,
if I could fancy you less forgiving, less gentle, ler
angelic!"
What have I to forgive?" said Lucy, tenderly.
"What! every thing for which one human being cas
pardon another. Have not deceit and injury been my
crimes against you? Your peace of mind, your serenity
of heart, your buoyancy of temper, have I marred these or
not?"
“Oh Clifford !” said Lucy, rising from herself and from all
selfish thoughts, "why,why will you not trust me? You
do not know me, indeed you do not, you are ignorant evea
of the very nature of a woman, if you think me unworthy
of your confidence! Do you believe I could betray it? or,
do you think, that if you had done that for which all the
world forsook you, I could forsake ?”
Lucy's voice faltered at the last words; but it sank, as a
stone sinks into deep waters, to the very core of Clifford's
heart. Transported from all resolution and all forbear-
ance, he wound his arms around her in one long and im
passioned caress; and Lucy, as her breath mingled with
his, and her cheek drooped upon his bosom, did indeed feed
as if the past could contain no secret powerful enough eve´i
to weaken the affection with which her heart clung to hir
She was the first to extricate herself from their embrace.
She drew back her face from his, and smiling on him
468
BULWER'S NOVELS.
į
through her tears, with a brightness that the smiles of her
earliest youth had never surpassed, she said:
"Listen to me. Tell me your history, or not, as you will.
But, believe me, a woman's wit is often no despicable
counsellor. They who accuse themselves the most bitterly,
are not often those whom it is most difficult to forgive; and
you must pardon me, if I doubt the extent of the blame
you
would so lavishly impute to yourself. I am now alone in
the world, (here the smile withered from Lucy's lips.)—
My poor father is dead. I can injure no one by my con-
duct; there is no one on earth to whom I am bound by duty.
I am independent, I am rich. You profess to love me.
am foolish and vain, and I believe you. Perhaps, also, I
have the fond hope which so often makes dupes of women,
I
the hope, that, if you have erred, I may reclaim you ;
if
you have been unfortunate, I may console you! I know,
Mr. Clifford, that I am saying that for which many would
despise me, and for which perhaps I ought to despise my-
self; but there are times when we speak only as if some
power at our hearts constrained us, despite ourselves,
and it is thus that I have now spoken to you."
It was with an air very unwonted to herself that Lucy
had concluded her address, for her usual characteristic was
rather softness than dignity; but, as if to correct the mean-
ing of her words, which might otherwise appear unmaid-
enly, there was a chaste, a proud, yet not the less a tender
and sweet propriety, and dignified frankness in her look
and manner; so that it would have been utterly impossible
for one who heard her, not to have done justice to the no-
bleness of her motives, or not to have felt both touched and
penetrated as much by respect as by any warmer or more
familiar feeling.
Clifford, who had risen while she was speaking, listened
with a countenance that varied at every word she uttered:
-now all hope, now all despondency. As she ceased,
the expression hardened into a settled and compulsive reso-
lution.
not.
you
you
could
"It is well!" said he mutteringly, "I am worthy of
this,
very, - very worthy! Generous, noble girl!-
had I been an emperor, I would have bowed down to you
in worship; but to debase, to degrade you, no! no!"
"Is there debasement in love?" murmured Lucy.
Clifford gazed upon her with a sort of enthusiastic and
self-gratulatory pride; perhaps he felt, to be thus loved,
and by such a creature, was matter of pride, even in the
lowest circumstances to which he could ever be exposed.
He drew his breath hard, set his teeth, and answered,
"You could love, then, an outcast, without birth, fortune,
or character ?—No! you believe this now, but
Could you desert your country, your friends, and
your home,
all that you are born and fitted for ? — Could
you attend one over whom the sword hangs, through a life
subjected every hour to discovery and disgrace? Could
be subjected yourself to the moodiness of an evil mem-
ory, and the gloomy silence of remorse ?- Could
you be
the victim of one who has no merit but his love for you,
and who, if that love destroy you, becomes utterly redeem-
ed? Yes, Lucy, I was wrong, I will do you justice;
all this, nay, more, you could bear, and your generous na-
ture would disdain the sacrifice! But am I to be all selfish,
and you all devoted?
all devoted? Are you to yield every thing to me,
and I to accept every thing, and yield none? Alas! I
have but one good, one blessing to yield, and that is your-
self. Lucy, I deserve you; I outdo you in generosity: all
that you would desert for me is nothing, O God!
nothing to the sacrifice I make to you! And now, Lucy,
I have seen you, and I must once more bid you farewell:
I am on the eve of quitting this country for ever. I shall
enlist in a foreign service, perhaps, (and Clifford's dark
eyes flashed with fire): you will yet hear of me, and not
blush when you hear! But, (and his voice faltered, for
Lucy, hiding her face with both hands, gave way to her
tears and agitation) but, in one respect, you have con-
quered! I had believed that you could never be mine,
that my past life had for ever deprived me of that hope! I
now begin, with a rapture that can bear me through all
A soil may be
ordeals, to form a more daring vision.
effaced, - an evil name may be redeemed,
be redeemed,—the past is
not set and sealed, without the power of revoking what
has been written. If I can win the right of meriting your
mercy, I will throw myself on it without reserve; till then,
or till death, you will see me no more!"
He dropped on his knee, printed his kiss and his tears
upon Lucy's cold hand; the next moment ne heard on
step on the stairs, -the door closed heavily and jarringly
upon him, and Lucy felt one bitter pang, and, for some
time at least, she felt no more!
V
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Many things fall between the cup and the lip.
Your man doth please me
With his conceit.
*
*
Comes Chanon Hugh accoutred as you see, —
Disguised!
-And thus am I to gull the constable?
Now have among you for a man at arms
+
*
*
High constable was more, though
He laid Dick Tator by the heels.
k
BEN JONSON's Tale of a Tub,
MEANWHILE, Clifford strode rapidly through the streets
which surrounded the judge's house, and, turning to as
obscurer quartier of the town, entered a gloomy lane or
alley. Here he was abruptly accosted by a man wrappe
in a shaggy great coat, and of somewhat a suspicious ap
pearance,
Aba, captain!" said he, "you are beyond your time,
but all 's well!"
Attempting, with indifferent success, the easy self-pos-
session which generally marked his address to his compan
ions, Clifford, repeating the stranger's words, replied,
"All's well! what are the prisoners released?"
"No, faith!" answered the man, with a rough laugh,
"not yet; but all in good time; it is a little too much to
expect the justices to do our work, though, God knows
we often do theirs!"
"What then? asked Clifford, impatiently.
of
r
دو
Why, the poor fellows have been carried to the town.
and brought before the queer cuffin * before I
arrived, though I set off the moment you told me, and did
the journey in four hours. The examination lasted all yes-
terday, and they were remanded till to-day;
let's see,
is not yet noon; we may be there before it's over!"
"And this is what you call well!" said Clifford, an-
grily.
،،
it
No, captain, do n't be glimflashey! you have not heard
all yet! It seems, that the only thing buffed hard against
to,
them was by a stout grazier, who was cried 'Stand!
some fifty miles off the town; so the queer cuffin thinks of
sending the poor fellows to the gaol of the county where
they did the business."
Ah! that may leave some hopes for them; we must
look sharp to their journey; if they once get to prison,
their only chances are the file and the bribe. Unhappily,
neither of them is so lucky as myself at that trade.”
“No, indeed, there is not a stone wall in England that
the great Captain Lovett could not creep through, I'll
swear!" said the admiring satellite.
"Saddle the horses and load the pistols ! I will join
you in ten minutes. Have my farmer's dress ready, the
false hair, &c. Choose your own trim. Make haste;
the Three Feathers' is the house of meeting.”
"And in ten minutes only, captain?"
Punctually!"
The stranger turned a corner, and was out of sight.
Clifford, muttering - "Yes, I was the cause of their ap-
prehension; it was I who was sought; it is but fair that I
should strike a blow for their escape before I attempt my
- continued his course till he came to the door of a
own,
public house. The sign of a seaman swung aloft, portray-
ing the jolly tar with a fine pewter pot in his hand, consid-
erably huger than his own circumference. An immense
pug sat at the door, lolling its tongue out, as if, having
stuffed itself to the tongue, it was forced to turn that useful
member out of its proper place. The shutters were half
closed; but the sounds of coarse merriment issued jovially
forth.
ง
an-
Clifford disconcerted the pug; and, crossing the thresh-
old, cried, in a loud tone," Jansee -"Here!"
swered a gruff voice; and Clifford, passing on, came to a
small parlor adjoining the tap. There, seated by a round
oak-table, he found mine host a red, fierce, weather-beaten,
* Magistrate.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
469
but bloated looking personage, like Dirk Hatteraick in a
dropsy.
"How now, captain!” cried he, in a guttural accent,
and interlarding his discourse with certain Dutch graces,
which, with our reader's leave, we will omit, as being un-
able to spell them ; "how now! not gone yet! "
"No! I start for the coast to-morrow; business keeps
ne to-day. I came to ask if Mellon may be fully depended
יי ? ח
>n
Ay ! honest to the backbone ! "
"And you are sure that, in spite of my late delays, he
will not have left the village?"
-
"Sure? what else can I be? don't I know Jack
Mellon these twenty years? He would lie like a log in a
calm for ten months together, without moving a hair's-
breadth, if he was under orders.”
And his vessel is swift, and well manned, in case of an
officer's chase?
"The Black Molly Swift?-ask your grandmother.
The Black Molly would outstrip a shark, and be d―d to
ber!":
"Then good bye, Jarseen, there is something to keep
your pipe alight; we shall not meet within the three seas
again, I think. England is as much too hot for me, as
Holland for you .
"You are a capital fellow." cried mine host, shaking
Clifford by the hand, "and when the lads come to know
their loss, they will know they have lost the bravest and
truest gill that ever took to the toby; so good bye, and be
dd to you! "
With this valedictory benediction, mine host released
Clifford; and the robber hastened to his appointment at
the Three Feathers."
He found all prepared. He lastily put on bis disguise,
and his follower led out his horse, a noble animal of the
grand Irish breed, of remarkable strength and bone, and,
save only that it was somewhat sharp in the quarters, (a
fault which they who look for speed as well as grace will
easily forgive,) of almost unequalled beauty in its syminetry
and proportions. Well did the courser know, and proudly
did it render obeisance to, its master; snorting Impatiently,
and rearing from the hand of the attendant robber, the sa-
gacious animal freed itself of the rein, and, as it tossed its
long mane in the breeze of a fresh air, came trotting to the
place where Clifford stood.
"So ho, Robin! -so ho! what, thou clafest that I
have left thy fellow behind at the Red Cave.
Him we may
But, while I have life, I will not leave
never see more.
thee, Robin! "
With these words, the robber fondly stroked the shining
neck of his favorite steed; and as the animal returned the
caress, by rubbing its head against the hands and the ath-
letic breast of its master, Clifford felt at his heart somewhat
of that old racy stir of the blood which had been once to
him the chief charm of his criminal profession, and which,
in the late change of his feelings, he had almost forgot-
ten.
"Well, Robin, well," he renewed, as he kissed the face
of his steed; "well, we will have some days like our old
ones yet; thou shalt say, ha, ha! to the trumpet, and bear
thy master along on more glorious enterprises than he has
yet thanked thee for sharing. Thou wilt now be my only
amiliar, my only friend, Robin; we two shall be stran-
gers in a foreign land. But thou wilt make thyself welcome
easier than thy lord, Robin; and thou wilt forget the old
days, and thine old comrades, and thine old loves, when
ba!" and Clifford turned abruptly to his attendant, who ad-
cressed him, "It is late, you say; true! look you, it will
be unwise for us both to quit London together; you know
the sixth milestone, join me there, and we can proceed in
company!
Not unwilling to linger for a parting-cup, the comrade
assented to the prudence of the plan proposed; and, after
one or two additional words of caution and advice, Clifford
mounted, and rode from the yard of the inn. As he passed
through the tall wooden gates into the street, the imperfect
gleam of the wintry sun falling over himself and his steed,
it was scarcely possible, even in spite of his disguise and
rude garb to conceive a more gallant and striking specimen
of the lawless and daring tribe to which he belonged; the
height, strength, beauty, and exquisite grooming visible in
the stend; the sparkling eye, the bold profile, the sinewy
the bold profile, the sinewy
{
chest, the graceful limbs, and the careless and practised
horsemanship of the rider.
Looking after his chief with a ong and an admiring
gaze, the robber said to the ostler of the inn, an aged with-
ered inan,
who bad seen nine generations of highwaymen
rise and vanish ;
"There, Joe, when did you ever look on a hero like
that? The bravest heart, the frankest hand, the best judge
of a horse, and the handsomest man that ever did honor to
Hounslow!""
"For all that," returned the ostler, shaking his palsied
head, and turning back to the tap-room, --" for all that,
master, his time be up. Mark my whids, Captain Lovett
will not be over the year, -no! nor mayhap the month!"
Why, you old rascal, what makes you so wise? you
will not peach, I suppose!
rr
"I peach! devil a bit! But there never was the gemman
of the road, great or small, knowing or stupid, as outlived
his seventh year. And this will be the captain's seventh,
come the 21st of next month; but he be a fine chap, and
I'll go to his hanging!"
<C
"Pish!" said the robber, peevishly,
he himself was
verging toward the end of his sixth year, -"pish!"
Mind, I tells it you, master; and somehow or other I
thinks, and I has experience in these things, by the
fey* of his eye, and the drop of his lip, that the captain's
time will be up to-day!
>>
Here the robber lost all patience, and pushing the hoary
boder of evil against the wall, he turned on his heel, and
sought some more agreeable companion to share his stirrup-
cup.
It was in the morning of the day following that in which
the above conversations occurred, that the sagacious Au-
gustus Tomlinson and the valorous Edward Pepper, hand-
cuffed and fettered, were jogging along the road, in a post-
chaise, with Mr. Nabbem squeezed in by the side of the
former, and two other gentlemen in Mr. Nabbem's confi-
dence mounted on the box of the chaise, and interfering
sadly, as Long Ned growlingly remarked, with "the
beauty of the prospect.'
*
Ah, well!" quoth Nabbem, unavoidably thrusting his
elbow into Tomlinson's side, while he drew out his snuff-
box, and helped himself largely to the intoxicating dust
"You had best prepare yourself, Mr. Pepper, for a change
of prospects! I believes as how there is little to please
you in quod (prison)."
CC
Nothing makes men so facetious as misfortune to
others!" said Augustus, moralizing, and turning himself,
as well as he was able, in order to deliver his body from
the pointed elbow of Mr. Nabbem. "When a man is
down in the world, all the bystanders, very dull fellows
before, suddenly become wits !"
"You reflects on I," said Mr. Nabbem; "well, it does
not sinnify a pin, for directly we does our duty, you chaps
become howdaciously ungrateful!
"Ungrateful!" said Pepper: "what a plague have we
got to be grateful for? I suppose, you think we ought to
tell you, you are the best friend we have, because you have
scrouged us, neck and croup, into this horrible hole, like
turkeys fatted for Christmas. 'Sdeath! one's hair is
flatied down like a pancake; and as for one's legs, you
had better cut them off at once, than tuck them up
place a foot square, to say nothing of these blackguardly
irons ! "
in a
"The only irons pardonable in your eyes, Ned," said
Tomlinson, are the curling-irons, eh?
:
Now, if this is not too much," cried Nabbem, crossly
"You objects to go in a cart like the rest of your pro
fession; and when I puts myself out of the way to obleedge
you with a shay, you slangs I for it!"
"Peace, good Nabhem!" said Augustus with a sage's
dignity. "You must allow a little bad humor in men so
unhappily situated as we are.”
Tomlinson's
The soft answer turneth away wrath.
answer softened Nabbem; and, by way of conciliation, he
held his snuff-box to the nose of his unfortunate prisoner.
Shutting his eyes, Tomlinson long and earnestly sniffed up
the luxury, and as soon as, with his own kerchief of
spotted yellow, the officer had wiped from the proboscie
some lingering grains, Tomlinson thus spoke :-
A word dificult to translate; but the closest interĮ retatiog
of which is, perhaps, “ the ill omen.”
170
BULWER'S NOVELS
"You see us now, Mr. Nabbem, in a state of broken
down opposition; but our spirits are not broken too. In
eur time, we have had something to do with the adminis-
tration; and our comfort at present is the comfort of fallen
ministers!"
"Oho!
you were in the Methodist line, before you took
to the road?" said Nabbem.
"Not so!" answered Augustus gravely, "we were the
Methodists of politics, not of the church, viz. we lived
upon our flock without a legal authority to do so, and that
which the law withheld from us, our wits gave. But tell
me, Mr. Nabbem, are you addicted to politics?"
"Why, they says I be," said Mr. Nabbem with a grin,
"and for my part, I thinks all who sarves the king
should stand up for him, and take care of their little
families."
"You speak what others think!" answered Tomlinson,
smiling also, "and I will now, since you like politics,
point out to you what I dare say you have not observed
before."
"What be that?" said Nabbem.
“A wonderful likeness between the life of the gentlemen
adorning his majesty's senate, and the life of the gentlemen
whom you are conducting to his majesty's gaol."
THE LIBELLOUS PARALLEL OF AUGUSTUS
TOMLINSON.
C
<
|
"We enter our career, Mr. Nabbem, as your embryo
ministers enter parliament, by bribery and corruption.
There is this difference, indeed, between the two cases:-
we are enticed to enter by the bribery and corruptions of
others, -they enter spontaneously, by dint of their own.
At first, deluded by romantic visions, we like the glory of
our career better than the profit, and in our youthful generos-
ity, we profess to attack the rich solely from consideration
for the poor. By and by, as we grow more hardened, we
laugh at these boyish dreams, peasant or prince fares
equally at our impartial hands; we grasp at the bucket,
but we scorn not the thimble full; we use the word glory
only as a trap for proselytes and apprentices : our fingers,
like an office door, are open for all that can possibly come
into them: we consider the wealthy as our salary, the poor
as our perquisites. What is this, but a picture of your
member of parliament ripening into a minister, -your
patriot mellowing into your placeman? And mark me,
Mr. Nabbem is not the very language of both as similar
as the deeds? What is the phrase either of us loves to
what?
employ To deliver,'
The public.' And
do we not both invariably deliver it of the same thing ?—
viz.; its purse! Do we want an excuse for sharing the
gold of our neighbours, or abusing them if they resist?
is not our mutual- our pithiest plea -'Distress!' True,
your patriot calls it distress of the country;' but does he
ever a whit more than we do, mean any distress but his
own?
When we are brought low, and our coats are
shabby, do we not both shake our heads and talk of re-
form?' And when oh ! when we are up in the world,
do we not both kick reform' to the devil? How often
your parliament man vacates his seat,' only for the pur-
pose of resuming it with a weightier purse! How often,
dear Ned, have our seats been vacated for the same end!
Sometimes, indeed, he really finishes his career by accept-
ing the hundreds, it is by accepting the hundreds,' that
ours may be finished too! -(Ned drew a long sigh!) -
Note us now, Mr. Nabbem, in the zenith of our prosperity
- we have filled our pockets, we have become great in the
mouths of our party. Our pals admire us, and our
blowens adore! What do we in this short-lived summer?
Save, and be thrifty? Ah, no! we must give our dinners,
and make light of our lush. We sport horses on the race-
course, and look big at the multitude we have bubbled.
Is not this your minister come into office? Does not this
remind you of his equipage, his palace, his plate? In both
cases, lightly won, lavishly wasted, and the public, whose
cash we have fingered, may at least have the pleasure of
gaping at the figure we make with it! This, then, is our
harvest of happiness; our foes, our friends, are ready to
eat us with envy-yet what is so little enviable as our
station? Have we not both our common vexations and
our mutual disquietudes? Do we not both bribe (Nab-
bem shook his head and buttoned his waistcoat)
.
· our
Media and Mon
enemies, cajole our partizans, bully our dependents. and
quarrel with our only friends, viz. ourselves? Is no. the
secret question with each -It is all confoundedly ine;
but how long will it last? Now, Mr. Nabbem, note me,
reverse the portrait: we are fallen, our career is over-
the road is shut to us, and new plunderers are robbing the
carriages that once we robbed. - Is not this the lot of-
no, no! I deceive myself! Your ministers, your jobmen,
for the most part milk the popular cow while there's a drop
in the udder. Your chancellor declines on a pension,
your minister attenuates on a grant,
the feet of your
great rogues may be gone from the treasury benches, but
they have their little fingers in the treasury. Their past
services are remembered by his majesty, -ours only noted
by the recorder: they save themselves, for they hang by
one another; we go to the devil, for we hang by ourselves:
we have our little day of the public, and all is over; but it
is never over with them. We both hunt the same fox, but
we are your fair riders: they are your knowing ones—we
take the leap, and our necks are broken: they sneak
through the gates, and keep it up to the last!"
As he concluded, Tomlinson's head drooped on his
bosom, and it was easy to see that painful comparisons,
mingled perhaps with secret murmurs at the injustice of
fortune, were rankling in his breast. Long Ned sat in
gloomy silence; and even the hard heart of the severe
Mr. Nabbem was softened by the affecting parallel to
which he had listened. They had proceeded without
speaking for two or three miles, when Long Ned, fixing
his eyes on Tomlinson, exclaimed
"Do you know, Tomlinson, I think it was a burning
shame in Lovett to suffer us to be carried off like muttons,
without attempting to rescue us by the way! It is all his
fault that we are here! for it was he whom Nabbem
wanted, not us!"
"Very true, "said the cunning policeman; "and if I
were you, Mr. Pepper, hang me if I would not behave like
a man of spirit, and show as little consarn for him as he
shows for you! Why, Lord, now, I doesn't want to 'tice
you; but this I does know, the justices are very anxious to
catch Lovett; and one who gives him up, and says a word
or two about his cracter, so as to make conviction sartain,
may himself be sartain of a free pardon for all little sprees,
and so forth!"
"that is all very
"Ah!" said Long Ned, with a sigh,
well, Mr. Nabbem, but I'll
go to the crap like a gentleman,
and not peach of my comrades; and now I think of it,
Lovett could scarcely have assisted us. One man alone,
even Lovett, clever as he is, could not have forced us out
of the clutches of you and your myrmidons, Mr. Nabbem!
And when we were once at
, they took excellent
care of us. But tell me now, my dear Nabbem," and
Long Ned's voice wheedled into something like softness;
tell me, do you think the grazier will buff i
CC
home ?"
"No doubt of that," said the unmoved Nabbem. Long
Ned's face fell. "And what if he does?" said he;
"they can but transport us!"
"Don't desave yourself, Master Pepper!" said Nab-
bem: "you're too old a hand for the herring pond.
They're resolved to make gallows apples of all such Num-
prels (Nonpareils) as you !
Ned cast a sullen look at the officer.
cr
"I have
"A pretty comforter you are!" said he.
been in a postchaise with a pleasanter fellow, I'll swear!
You
may call me an apple if you will, but, I take it, I am
not an apple you'd like to see peeled."
With this pogilistic and menacing pun, the lengthy bero
relapsed into meditative silence.
Our travellers were now entering a road skirted on one
side by a common of some extent, and, on the other, by a
thick hedge-row, which through its breales gave occasional
glimpses of woodland and fallow, interspersed with cross
roads and tiny brooklets.
"There goes a jolly fellow!" said Nabbem, pointing
an athletic-looking man riding before the carriage,
dressed in a farmer's garb, and mounted on a large and
powerful horse of the Irish breed. "I dare say he is well
acquainted with your grazier, Mr. Tomlinson; he looks
mortal like one of the same kidney; and here comes
another chap, - (as the stranger was joined by a short
PAUL CLIFFORD.
471
none of
I
stout, ruddy man in a carter's frock, riding on a horse less
showy than his comrade's, but of the lengthy, reedy, lank,
yet muscular race, which a knowing jockey would like to
bet on;)
-"Now that's what I calls a comely lad!"
continued Nabbem, pointing to the latter horseman;
your thin-faced, dark, strapping fellows, like
that Captain Lovett, as the blowens raves about, but a
nice, tight little body, with a face like a carrot! That's a
beauty for my money! honesty's stamped on his face, Mr.
Tomlinson! I dare says, (and the policeman grinned,
for he had been a lad of the cross in his own day,) I
dare says, poor innocent booby, he knows none of the
ways of Lunnun town; and if he has not as merry a life
as some folks, mayhap he may have a longer. But a
merry one for ever, for such lads as us, Mr. Pepper ! -
say, has you heard as how Bill Fang went to Scratch land
(Scotland) and was stretched for smashing queer screens?
(i. e. hung for uttering forged notes?) He died nation
game; for when his father, who was a gray-headed parson,
came to see him after the sentence, he says to the governor,
says he, Give us a tip, old 'un, to pay the expenses, and
die dacently' The parson forks him out ten shiners,
preaching all the while like winkey. Bob drops one of
the guineas between his fingers, and says, 'Hollo, dad,
you have only tipped us nine of the yellow boys,-just
now said as how it was ten!' On this the parish-
On this the parish-
bull, who was as poor as if he'd been a mouse of the
church, instead of a curate, lugs out another; and Bob,
turning round to the gaoler, cries, Flung the governor
out of a guinea, by G-d!" Now, that's what I calls
keeping it up to the last!
you
Mr. Nabbem had scarcely finished this anecdote, when
the farmer-like stranger, who had kept up by the side of
the chaise, suddenly rode to the window, and, touching his
hat, said in a Norfolk accent, "Were the gentlemen we
met on the road belonging to your party? They were ask-
ing after a chaise and pair."
"No!" said Nabbem," there be no gentlemen as be-
longs to our party!" So saying, he tipped a knowing
wink at the farmer, and glanced over his shoulder at the
prisoners.
CC
"What! you are going all alone?" said the farmer.
Ay, to be sure, answered Nabbem; "not much
danger, I think, in the daytime, with the sun out as big
as a sixpence, which is as big as ever I see'd him in this
country!"
:
per-
With these broken words he assisted the robbers, as well
as he could, in spite of their manacles, through the same
part of the hedge from which the three allies had sprung.
They were already through the barrier, only the long legs
of Ned Pepper lingered behind; when at the far end of the
road, which was perfectly straight, a gentleman's carriage
became visible. A strong hand from the interior of the
hedge seizing Pepper dragged him through, and Clifford,
for the reader need not be told who was the farmer,
ceiving the approaching reinforcement, shouted at once for
flight. The robber who had guarded Nabbem, and who
indeed was no other than Old Bags, slow as he habitually
was, lost not an instant in providing for himself; before
you could say "Laudamus," he was on the other side of
the hedge; the two men, engaged with the police-officers,
were not capable of an equal celerity; but Clifford, throw-
ing himself into the contest and engaging the policemen,
gave the robbers the opportunity of escape. They scram
bled through the fence, the officers, tough fellows and keen,
clinging lustily to them, till oue was felled by Clifford, and
the other catching against a stump, was forced to relinquish
his hold; he then sprang back into the road and prepared
for Clifford, who now, however, occupied himself rather in
fugitive than warlike measures. Meanwhile, the moment
the other rescuers had passed the Rubicon of the hedge,
their flight, and that of the gentlemen who had passed before
them, commenced. On this mystic side of the hedge was a
cross road, striking at once through an intricate and wooded
part of the country, which allowed speedy and ample op-
portunities of dispersion. Here a light cart, drawn by two
swift horses in a tandem fashion, awaited the fugitives.
Long Ned and Augustus were stowed down at the bottom
of this vehicle; three fellows filed away at their irons, and
a fourth, who had hitherto remained inglorious with the
cart, gave the lash, and he gave it handsomely,
-to the
coursers. Away rattled the equipage; and thus was
achieved a flight, still memorable in the annals of the elect,
and long quoted as one of the boldest and most daring ex-
ploits that illicit enterprise ever accomplished.
—
·
Clifford and his equestrian comrade only remained in the
field, or rather the road; the former spraug at once on his
horse, the latter was not long in following the example.
But the policeman, who, it has been ɛaid, baffled in detain-
ing the fugitives of the hedge, had leaped back into the
road, was not idle in the meanwhile. When he saw Clif-
ford about to mount, instead of attempting to seize the
At that moment, the shorter stranger, whose appearance enemy, he recurred to his pistol, which in the late struggle
had attracted the praise of Mr. Nabbem, (that person-hand to hand, he had been unable to use, and taking sure
age was himself very short and ruddy,) and who had aim at Clifford, whom he judged at once to be the leader of
hitherto been riding close by the post-horses, and talking the rescue, he lodged a ball in the right side of the robber,
to the officers on the box, suddenly threw himself from his at the very moment he had set spurs in his horse and turned
steed, and in the same instant that he arrested the horses. to fly. Clifford's head drooped to the saddle-bow. Fiercely
of the chaise, struck the postilion to the ground, with a the horse sprang on; the robber endeavoured, despite his
short heavy bludgeon which he drew from his frock. A reeling senses, to retain his seat, -once he raised his head,
whistle was heard and answered, as if by a signal three once he nerved his slackened and listless limbs, and
fellows armed with bludgeons leapt from the hedge; and then, with a faint groan, he fell to the earth. The horse
in the interin, the pretended farmer, dismounting, flung bounded but one step more, and, true to the tutorship it
open the door of the chaise, and seizing Mr. Nabbem had received, stopped abruptly. Clifford raised himself
by the collar, swung him to the ground with a celerity with great difficulty on one arm; with the other hand he
that became the circular rotundity of the policeman's drew forth a pistol; he pointed it deliberately toward the
figure, rather than the deliberate gravity of his dignified officer who had wounded him; the man stood motionless,
office.
cowering and spell-bound, beneath the dilating eye of the
robber. It was but for a moment that the man had cause
for dread; for muttering between his ground teeth, "Why
waste it on an enemy?" Clifford turned the muzzle to
ward the head of the unconscious steed, which seemed sor
rowfully and wistfully to incline toward him, "Thou," he
said, "whom I have fed and loved, shalt never know hard-
ship from another!" and with a merciful cruelty, he dragged
himself one pace nearer to his beloved steed, uttered a well-
known word, which brought the docile creature to his side,
and placing the muzzle of the pistol close to its ear, he
fired, and fell back senseless at the exertion. The animal
staggered, and dropped down dead.
Rapid and instantaneous as had been this work, it was
not without a check. Although the policemen had not
dreamt of a rescue in the very face of the day, and on the
high-road, their profession was not that which suffered
them easily to be surprised. The two guardians of the
dicky leapt nimbly to the ground; but before they had time
to use their firearms, two of the new aggressors, who had
appeared from the hedge, closed upon them, and bore
them to the ground; while this scuffle took place, the
farmer had disarmed the prostrate Nabbem, and giving him
in charge to the remaining confederate, extricated Tom-
linson and his comrade from the chaise.
"Hist!" said he in a whisper, "beware my name; y
disguise hides me at present, - lean on me,
only through
the hedge, a cart waits there, and you are safe!"
Fact.
Meanwhile, Clifford's comrade, profiting by the surprise
and sudden panic of the officer, was already out of reach,
and darting across the common, he and his rugged courser
speedily vanished
172
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
-Lose I not
With him what fortune could in life allot?
Lose I not hope, life's cordial ?
*
然
​In fact, the lessons he from prudence took,
Were written in his mind as iu a book.
There what to do he read, and what to shun,
And all commanded was with promptness done.
He seemed without a passion to proceed,
*
*
*
Yet some believed those passions only slept !
*
Relics of love and life's enchanted spring!
CRABBE.
A. WATTS, on burning a Packet of Letters.
Many, and sad, and deep,
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, couldst watch and weep!
MRS. HEMANS.
WHILE Sir William Brandon was pursuing his ambi-
ious schemes, and, notwithstanding Lucy's firm and steady
refusal of Lord Mauleverer, was still determined on that
ill-sorted marriage; while Mauleverer himself, day after
day, attended at the judge's house, and though he spoke
not of love, looked it with all his might; it became obvious
to every one but the lover and the guardian, that Lucy her-
self was rapidly declining in appearance and health. Ever
since the day she had last seen Clifford, her spirit, before
greatly shattered, had refused to regain even a likeness to
its natural cheerful and happy tone. She became silent
and abstracted; even her gentleness of temper altered at
times into a moody and fretful humor. Neither to books
nor music, nor any art by which time is beguiled, she re-
curred for a momentary alleviation of the bitter feelings at
her heart, or for a transient forgetfulness of their sting.
The whole world of her mind had been shaken. Her pride
was wounded; her love galled; her faith in Clifford gave
way at length to gloomy and dark suspicion. Nothing, she
now felt, but a name as well as fortunes utterly abandoned,
could have justified him for the stubbornness of heart in
which he had fled and deserted her. Her own self-acquit-
tal no longer consoled her in affliction. She condemned
herself for her weakness, from the birth of her ill-starred
affection to the crisis it had now acquired. Why did I
not wrestle with it at first?" she said bitterly. Why
did I allow myself so easily to love one unknown to me,
and equivocal in station, despite the cautions of my uncle
and the whispers of the world ?” Alas! Lucy did not re-
member, that at the time she was guilty of this weakness,
she had not learned to reason as she since reasoned. Her
faculties were but imperfectly awakened; her experience of
the world was utter ignorance. She scarcely knew that
she loved, and she knew not at all that the delicious and
excited sentiment which filled her being could ever become
as productive of evil and peril as it had done now; and
even had her reason been more developed, and her resolu-
tions more strong, does the exertion of reason and resolu-
tion always avail against the master-passion? Love, it is
true, is not unconquerable; but how few have ever, mind
and soul, coveted the conquest! Disappointment makes a
vow, but the heart records it not. Or, in the noble image
of one who has so tenderly and so truly portrayed the feel-
ings of her own sex, —
"We make
66
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot!"*
The History of the Lyre," by L. E. L. We are informed
that this charming and amiable young lady, not content with
ter triumphs in poetry, is about to enter our own province in
prose, and that at this moment, she is engaged in the composi-
tion of a novel. Conld we, who have perhaps more than once
disappointed the public in ourself, venture to believe we had
the power to excite its expectations in another, we would fain
hazard the prediction of a great and a deserved popularity for
the said novel, whenever it appear. Every one knows that the
writer of the Improvisatrice can command, at will, the auxil-
iaries of sentiment, thought, imagination, and an exceeding
richness of imagery and glow of diction; but, perhaps, every
one does not yet know that she can also command what are
generally more calculated to give celebrity to a novel, viz. a
playful and lively wit, an acute and unerring observation, an
intuitive tact in the shades and varieties of manner, and, above
all the art to make trifles singularly entertaining.
Before Clifford had last seen her, we nave observed that
Lucy had (and it was a consolation) clung to the benef
that, despite of appearances and his own confession, his
past life had not been such as to place him without the pale
of her just affections; and there were frequent moments
when, remembering that the death of her father had re-
moved the only being who could assert an unanswerable
claim to the dictation of her actions, she thought that Clif-
ford, hearing her hand was utterly at her own disposal,
might again appear, and again urge a suit which she felt so
few circumstances could induce her to deny. All this half-
acknowledged yet earnest train of reasoning and hope van-
ished from the moment he had quitted her uncle's house.
His words bore no misinterpretation. He had not yielded
even to her own condescensions, and her cheek burnt as she
recalled it. Yet he loved her. She saw, she knew it in
his every word and look! Bitter, then, and dark must be
that remorse which could have conquered every argument
but that which urged him to leave her, when he might have
claimed her, ever. True, that when his letter formerly
bade her farewell, the same self-accusing language was re-
curred to, the same dark hints and allusions to infamy or
guilt; yet never till now had she interpreted them rigidly,
and never till now had she dreamed how far their meaning
could extend. Still, what crimes could he have commit-
ted? The true ones never occurred to Lucy. She shud-
dered to ask herself, and hushed her doubts in a gloomy
and torpid silence! But through all her accusations against
herself, and through all her awakened suspicions against
Clifford, she could not but acknowledge that something no-
ble and not unworthy of her, mingled in his conduct, and
occasioned his resistance to her and to himself; and this
belief, perhaps, irritated even while it touched her, and kept
her feelings in a perpetual struggle and conflict, which her
delicate frame and soft mind were little able to endure.
When the nerves once break, how breaks the character
with them! How many ascetics, withered and soured, do
we meet in the world, who but for one shock to the heart
and form might have erred on the side of meekness!
Whether it come from woe or disease, the stroke which
mars a single fibre plays strange havoc with the mind.
Slaves we are to our muscles, and puppets to the spring of
the capricious blood; and the great soul, with all its capaci
ties, its solemn attributes, and sounding claims, is, while
on earth, but a jest to this mountebank
the body
the dream which toys it for an hour, to the lunacy which
shivers it into a driveller, laughing as it plays with its own
fragments, and reeling benighted and blinded to the grave!
M
from
We have before said, that Lucy was foud both of her
uncle and his society; and still, whenever the subject of
Lord Mauleverer and his suit was left untouched, there
was that in the conversation of Sir William Brandon
which aroused an interest in her mind, engrossed and self
consuming as it had become. Sorrow, indeed, and sor-
row's companion, reflection, made her more and more
capable of comprehending a very subtle and intricate char-
acter. There is no secret for discovering the human heart
like affliction, especially the affliction which springs
from passion. Does a writer startle you with his insight
into your nature, be sure that he has mourned: such lore
is the alchymy of tears. Hence the insensible and almost
universal confusion of idea which confounds melancholy
with depth, and finds but hollow inanity in the symbol of a
laugh.
laugh. Pitiable error !
Pitiable error! Reflection first leads us to gloom,
but its next stage is to brightness. The laughing philo-
sopher bad reached the goal of wisdom: Heraclitus
whimpered at the starting-post. But enough for Lucy to
gain even the vestibule of philosophy.
Notwithstanding the soreness we naturally experience
toward all who pertinaciously arouse an unpleasing sub-
ject, and despite therefore of Brandon's furtherance of
Mauleverer's courtship, Lucy felt herself incline strangely,
and with something of a daughter's affection, toward this
enigmatical being: despite too of all the cold and measur
ed vice of his character, the hard and wintry grayness
of heart with which he regarded the welfare of others, or
the substances of truth, honor, and virtue, the callous-
ness of his fossilized affections, which no human being soft-
ened but for a moment, and no warm and healthful impulse
struck, save into an evanescent and idle flash;-despite
of this consummate obduracy and wordliness of tempera-
ment, it is not paradoxical to say that there was something
in the man which Lucy found at times analogous to her
PAUL CLIFFORD.
473
wn vivid and generous self. This was, however, only
noticeable when she led him to talk over earlier days, and
when by degrees the sarcastic lawyer forgot the present,
and grew eloquent, not over the actions but the feelings of
the past. He would speak to her for hours of his youthful
dreams, his occupations, or his projects, as a boy. Above
all, he loved to converse with her upon Warlock, its re-
mains of ancient magnificence, the green banks of the
placid river that enriched its domains, and the summer
pomp of wood and heath-land, amidst which his noon-day
visions had been nursed.
When he spoke of these scenes and days, his counte-
nance softened, and something in its expression, recalling
to Lucy the image of one still dearer, made her yearn to
him the more. An ice seemed broken from his mind, and
streams of released and gentle feelings, mingled with kind-
ly and generous sentiment, flowed forth. Suddenly, a
thought, a word, brought him back to the present, his
features withered abruptly into their cold placidity, or la-
tent sneer: the seal closed suddenly on the broken spell,
and, like the victim of a fairy tale, condemned, at a stated
hour, to assume another shape, the very being you had
listened to seemed vanished, and replaced by one whom
you startled to behold. But there was one epoch of his
life on which he was always silent, and that was, his first
onset into the actual world, the period of his early
struggle into wealth and fame. All that space of time
seemed as a dark guif, over which he had passed, and be-
come changed at once, as a traveller landing on a strange
climate may adopt, on the moment he touches its shore,
its costume and its language.
All men,
the most modest, have a common failing,
but it is one which often assumes the domino and mask,
Pride! Brandon was, however, proud to a degree very
rare in men who have risen and flourished in the world.
Out of the wrecks of all other feelings, this imperial sur-
vivor made one great palace for its residence, and called
the fabric Disdain.' Scorn was the real essence of Bran-
don's nature: even in the blandest disguises, the smooth-
ness of his voice, the insinuation of his smile, the popular
and supple graces of his manners, an oily derision floated,
rarely discernible, it is true, but proportioning its strength
and quantum to the calm it produced.
In the interim, while his character thus displayed and
contradicted itself in private life, his fame was rapidly ris-
ing in public estimation. Unlike many of his brethren,
the brilliant lawyer had exceeded expectation, and shone
even yet more conspicuously in the less adventitiously-aided
duties of the judge. Envy itself, and Brandon's political
virulence, had, despite of his personal affability, made
him many foes, - was driven into acknowledging the pro-
fundity of his legal knowledge, and in admiring the manner
in which the peculiar functions of his novel dignity were
discharged. No juvenile lawyer brow-beat, -no hack-
neyed casuist puzzled him; even his attention never wan-
dered from the dullest case subjected to his tribunal. A
painter, desirous of stamping on his canvass the portrait of
an upright judge, could scarcely have found a finer reali-
ation for his beau idéal than the austere, collected, keen,
yet majestic countenance of Sir William Brandon, such as
it seemed in the trappings of office, and from the seat of
justice.
The newspapers were not slow in recording the singular
capture of the notorious Lovett. The boldness with which
he had planned and executed the rescue of his comrades,
joined to the suspense in which his wound for some time
kept the public, as to his escape from one death by the
postern gate of another, caused a very considerable ferment
and excitation in the popular mind; and, to feed the im-
pulse, the journalists were little slothful in retailing every
anecdote, true or false, which they could collect, touching
the past adventures of the daring highwayman. Many a
good story inen came to light, which partook as much of
the comic as the tragic; for not a single one of the rob-
ber's adventures was noted for cruelty or bloodshed; many
of them betokened rather an hilarious and jovial spirit of
mirthful enterprise. It seemed as if he had thought the
highway a capital arena for jokes, and only robbed for the
sake of venting a redundant affection for jesting. Persons
felt it rather a sin to be severe with a man of so merry a
disposition; and it was especially observable, that not one
of the ladies who had been despoiled by the robber could
he prevailed on to prosecute; ou the contrary, they always
VOL. I.
60
CC
talked of the event as one of the most agreeable remem-
brances in their lives, and seemed to bear a provoking grati-
All
tude to the comely offender, rather than resentment.
the gentlemen were not, however, of so placable a temper;
and two sturdy farmers, with a grazier to boot, were ready
to swear through thick and thin" to the identity of the
prisoner with a horseman who had civilly borne each of
them company for an hour in their several homeward rides
from certain fairs, and had carried the pleasure of his
society, they very gravely asserted, considerably beyond a
joke; so that the state of the prisoner's affairs took a very
sombre aspect; and the counsel
intrust-
- an old hand
ed with his cause, declared confidentially that there was
not a chance. But a yet more weighty accusation, because
it came from a much nobler quarter, awaited Clifford. In
the robbers' cavern were found several articles answering
exactly to the description of those valuables feloniously ab-
stracted from the person of Lord Mauleverer. That noble-
man attended to inspect the articles, and to view the
prisoner. The former he found himself able to swear to,
with a very tranquillized conscience: the latter he beheld
feverish, attenuated, and, in a moment of delirium, on the
sick-bed to which his wound had brought him. He was at
no loss, however, to recognise in the imprisoned felon the
gay and conquering Clifford, whom he had once even hon-
ored with his envy. Although his former dim and vague
suspicions of Clifford were thus confirmed, the good-natur-
ed peer felt some slight compunction at appearing as his
prosecutor: this compunction, however, vanished the mo-
ment he left the sick man's apartment; and after a little
patriotic conversation with the magistrates about the ne-
cessity of public duty -a theme which brought virtuous
tears into the eyes of those respectable functionaries, - he
reentered his carriage, returned to town, and after a live-
ly dinner, tête-à-tête with an old chère amie, who, of all her
charms, bad preserved only the attraction of conversation
and the capacity of relishing a salmi, Mauleverer, the very
evening of his return, betook himself to the house of Sir
William Brandon,
İ
When he entered the hall, Barlow, the judge's favorite
servant, met him, with rather a confused and mysterious
air, and arresting him as he was sauntering into Brandon's
library, informed him that Sir William was particularly
engaged, but would join his lordship in the drawing-room.
While Barlow was yet speaking, and Mauleverer was
bending his right ear (with which he heard the best) to-
wards him, the library door opened, and a man in a very
coarse and ruffianly garb awkwardly bowed himself out.
"So, this is the particular engagement," thought Maulev-
erer; a strange Sir Pandarus; but those old fellows
have droll tastes."
"I may go in now, my good fellow, I suppose," said
his lordship to Barlow; and without waiting an answer,
he entered the library. He found Brandon alone, and
bending earnestly over some letters which strewed his ta-
ble. Mauleverer carelessly approached, and threw himself
into an opposite chair. Sir William lifted his head, as he
heard the movement, and Mauleverer (reckless as was
that personage) was chilled and almost awed by the ex-
pression of his friend's countenance. Brandon's face was
one which, however pliant, nearly always wore one per-
vading character, calmness: whether in the smoothness
of social courtesy, or the austerity of his official station, or
the bitter sarcasm which escaped him at no unfrequent
intervals; still a certain hard and inflexible dryness
stamped both his features and his air. But at this time a
variety of feelings not ordinarily eloquent in the outward
man, struggled in his dark face, expressive of all the en-
ergy and passion of his powerful and masculine nature;
there seemed to speak from his features and eyes some
thing of shame, and anger, and triumph, and regret, and
scorn. All these various emotions, which, it appears
almost a paradox to assert, met in the same expression,
nevertheless were so individually and almost fearfully
stamped, as to convey at once their signification to the
mind of Mauleverer. He glanced towards the letters, in
which the writing seemed faint and discolored by time or
damp; and then once more regarding the face of Brandon,
said, in rather an anxious and subdued tone,—
"Heavens, Brandon, are you ill? or has any thing hap
pened? you alarm me.
"Do you recognise these locks?" said Brandon, in
hollow voice; and from under the letters he drew some
474
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ringlets of an auburn hue, and pushed them with an avert-
ed face toward Mauleverer.
The earl took them up, regarded them for a few mo-
ments, changed color, but shook his head with a nega-
tive gesture, as he laid them once more on the table.
"This handwriting, then?" renewed the judge, in a
yet more impressive and painful voice; and he pointed to
the letters.
Mauleverer raised one of them, and held it between his
face and the lamp, so that whatever his features might
have betrayed was hidden from his companion. At length
He dropped the letter, with an affected nonchalance, and
said,
"Ah, I know the writing, even at this distance of time;
this letter is directed to you
"It is, so are all these," said Brandon, with the same
voice of preternatural and strained composure. "They
have come back to me after an absence of nearly twenty-
five years; they are the letters she wrote to me in the days
of our courtship (here Brandon laughed scornfully)
she carried them away with her, you know when; and (a
pretty clod of consistency is woman!) she kept them, it
seems, to her dying day!""
-
The subject in discussion, whatever it might be, ap-
peared a sore one to Mauleverer; he turned uneasily on
his chair, and said at length,
"Well, poor creature! these are painful remembrances,
since it turned out so unhappily; but it was not our fault,
dear Brandon; we were men of the world, we knew
we knew
the value of-of-women,
women, and treated them according
ly!"
Right! right! right!" cried Brandon, vehemently,
laughing in a wild and loud disdain; the intense force of
which it would be in vain to attempt expressing.
,
"Ahem!" said Maulevere you view the matter wita
more sense than sentiment; but look you, Brandon we
we must try, for both our sakes, if possible, to keep the
identity of Lovett with Clifford from being known. I do
not see why it should be. No doubt he was on his guard
while playing the gallant, and committed no atrocity at
Bath. The name of Clifford is hitherto perfectly unsullied.
No fraud, no violence, are attached to the appellation; and
if the rogue will but keep his own counsel, we may hang
him out of the way without the secret transpiring."
"But, if I remember right," said Brandon, "the news-
papers say that this Lovett will be tried ae seventy or
eighty miles only from Bath, and that give a chance of
recognition."
"Ay, but he will be devilishly altered, I imagine, for
his wound has already been but a bad beautifier to his face;
moreover, if the dog has any delicacy, he will naturally
dislike to be known as the gallant of that gay city, where
he shone so successfully, and will disguise himself as wel
as he is able.
I hear wonders of his powers of self-trans-
formation.”
"But he may commit himself on the point between this
and his trial," said Brandon.
"I think of ascertaining how far that is likely, by send-
ing my valet down to him, (you know one treats these gen-
tlemen highwaymen with a certain consideration, and hangs
them with all due respect to their feelings,) to hint that it
will be doubtless very unpleasant to him, under his 'pres-
ent unfortunate circumstances,' (is not that the phrase ?)
to be known as the gentleman who enjoyed so deserved a
popularity at Bath, and that, though the laws of my coun-
try compel me' to prosecute him, yet, should he desire it,
he may be certain that I will preserve his secret. Come,
Brandon, what say you to that manoeuvre? It will answer
my purpose, and make the gentleman, for doubtless he
is all sensibility, shed tears at my generous forbear-
"So, so, that's well!" said Mauleverer, still not at bis
ease, and hastening to change the conversation. "But, my "It is no bad idea,” said Brandon.
"I commend you
dear Brandon, I have strange news for you! You remem-
for it. At all events, it is necessary that my niece should
ber that damned fellow, Clifford, who had the insolence to not know the situation of her lover. She is a girl of a sin-
address himself to your adorable niece? I told you I sus-gular turn of mind, and fortune has made her independent.
pected that long friend of his of having made my acquaint-
ance somewhat unpleasantly, and I therefore doubted of
Clifford himself. Well, my dear friend, this Clifford is,
whom do you think? -no other than Mr. Lovett, of New-
gate celebrity."
"Right! and faith, my lord, I repine not at my balance,
nor repent my estimation.'
"You do not say so >>
! rejoined Brandon, apathetically,
as he slowly gathered his papers together, and deposited
them in a drawer
"Indeed it is true; and what is more, Brandon, this
fellow is one of the very identical highwaymen who robbed
me on my road from Bath. No doubt he did me the same
kind office on my road to Mauleverer Park.”
CC
Possibly," said Brandon, who appeared absorbed in
a reverie.
Ay !
answered Mauleverer, piqued at this indiffer-
"But do you not see the consequences to your
ence.
niece?"
"My niece!" repeated Brandon, rousing himself.
Certainly. I grieve to say it, my dear friend, — but
she was young, very young, when at Bath. She suffered
this fellow to address her too openly. Nay, for I will
be frank, she was suspected of being in love with
him !"
"She was in love with him," said Brandon dryly, and
fixing the malignant coldness of his eye upon the suitor.
"And, for aught I know," added he, "she is so at this
moment.
"You are cruel!" said Mauleverer, disconcerted. "I
trust not, for the sake of my continued addresses."
"My dear lord," said Brandon, urbanely taking the
courtier's hand, while the anguis in herba of his sneer
played around his compressed lips, —" my dear lord, we
are old friends, and need not deceive each other. You wish
to marry my niece, because she is an heiress of grea for
tune, and you suppose that my wealth will in all probability
swell her own. Moreover, she is more beautiful than any
other young lady of your acquaintance; and, polished by
your example, may do honor to your taste as well as your
prudence. Under these circumstances, you will, I am quite
look with lenity on her girlish errors, and not love
her the less because her foolish fancy persuades her that she
in love with another."
su™e,
ance !",
Who knows but what she might commit some folly or an-
other, write petitions to the king, and beg me to present
them, or go, for she has a world of romance in her, - to
prison, to console him; or, at all events, she would beg
my kind offices on his behalf, -a request peculiarly awk-
ward, as in all probability I shall have the honor of trying
him."
Ay, by the by, so you will. And I fancy the poor
rogue's audacity will not cause you to be less severe than
you usually are. They say you promise to make more hu-
man pendulums than any one of your brethren.”
(6
They do say that, do they?" said Brandon ; well,
I own I have a bile against my species; I loathe their folly
and their half-vices. Ridet et odit is my motto; and I
allow, that it is not the philosophy that makes men merci-
ful!
"Well, Juvenal's wisdom be yours! mine be Hor-
ace's!" rejoined Mauleverer, as he picked his teeth; "but I
am glad you see the absolute necessity of keeping this se-
cret from Lucy's
cret from Lucy's suspicion. She never reads the papers,
suppose, girls never do!"
I
"No! and I will take care not to have them thrown
in her way; and as, in consequence of my poor brother's
recent death, she sees nobody but us, there is little chance,
should Lovett's right to the name of Clifford be discovered,
that it should reach her ears!"
"But those confounded servants?"
"True enough! but consider, that before they know
it, the newspapers will; so that, should it be needful, we
shall have our own time to caution them. I need only say
to Lucy's woman, -'A poor gentleman, a friend of the
late squires's, whom your mistress used to dance with, and
you must have seen, Captain Clifford, is to be tried for
his life it will shock her, poor thing! in her present state
of health, to tell her of so sad an event to her father's
friend; therefore be silent, as you value your place and ten
guineas,' - and I may be tolerably sure of caution!"
"You ought to be chairman to the ways and means
committee!" cried Mauleverer; "
"my mind is now easy
and when once poor
and when once poor Clifford is gone, -fallen from a high
estate,' -we may break the matter gently to her, and, as I
intend thereon to he very respectful, very delicate, &
PAUL CLIFFORD.
475
tr
"And if a live dog he better than a dead lion," added
Brandon, surely an animate lord will be petter than a
hanged highwayman ! "
According to ordinary logic," rejoined Mauleverer,
"that syllogism is clear enough; and though I believe a
girl may cling, now and then, to the memory of a departed
lover, I do not think she will, when the memory is allied
with shame. Love is nothing more than vanity pleased;
wound the vanity, and you destroy the love! Lucy will be
forced, after having made so bad a choice of a lover, to
make a good one in a husband, -in order to recover her
self-esteem!"
—
never was it
she cannot bu be sensible of my kindness and real affec-peals so merry and so umerous. Laughter!-O Julia,
tion ! "
can you tell me that you love, and yet be happy, even to
mirth, when I am away? Love!-O God, how different
a sensation is mine! - Mine makes my whole principle of
life! yours! I tell you, that I think, at moments, I would
rather have your bate, than the lukewarm sentiment you
bear to me, and honor by the name of 'affection.' Pretty
phrase! I have no affection for you! Give me not that
sickly word; but try with me, Julia, to invent some ex-
pression that has never filtered a paltry meaning through
the lips of another! Affection! why, that is a sister's
word, -a girl's word to her pet squirrel!
made for that ruby and most ripe mouth! Shall I come to
your house this evening? your mother has asked me, and
you, you heard her, and said nothing.-Oh! but that
was maiden reserve, was it? and maiden reserve
caused you to take book the moment I left you, as it
my company made but an ordinary amusement, instantly to
be replaced by another! When I have seen you, society,
books, food, all are hateful to me; but you, sweet Julia,
you can read, can you? Why, when I left you, I lingered
by the parlour window for hours, till dusk, and you never
once lifted your eyes, nor saw me pass and repass. At
least, I thought you would have watched my steps, when I
left the house; but I err, charming moralist! according to
you, that vigilance would have been meanness.
"And therefore you are certain of her!" said Brandon,
ironically.
p
"Thanks to my star,my garter, my ancestor, the
first baron, and myself, the first earl, I hope I am!"
said Mauleverer, and the conversation turned. Mau-
leverer did not stay much longer with the judge; and
Brandon, left alone, recurred once more to the perusal of
bis letters.
We scarcely know what sensations it wou d have occa-
sioned in one who had known Brandon only in his later
years, could he have read these letters, referring to so
much earlier a date. There was in the keen, and, if we may
so say, the arid character of the man, so little that recalled
any idea of courtship or youthful gallantry, that a corre-
spondence of that nature would have appeared almost as un-
natural as the fictitious loves of plants, or the amatory
softenings of a mineral. The correspondence now before
Brandon was descriptive of various feelings, but all apper-
taining to the same class: most of them were apparent
answers to letters from him. One while, they replied ten-
derly to expressions of tenderness, but intimated a doubt
whether the writer would be able to constitute his future
happiness, and atoue for certain sacrifices of birth and for-
tune, and ambitious prospects, to which she alluded: at
other times, a vein of latent coquetry seemed to pervade the
style, - an indescribable air of coolness and reserve con-
trasted former passages in the correspondence, and was
calculated to convey to the reader an impression, that the
feelings of the lover were not altogether adequately returned.
Frequently, the writer, as if Brandon had expressed him-
self sensible of this conviction, reproached him for unjust
jealousy and unworthy suspicion. And the tone of the re-
proach varied in each letter; sometimes it was gay and
satirizing; at others, soft and expostulatory; at others,
gravely reasoning; and often haughtily indignant. Still,
throughout the whole correspondence, on the part of the
mistress, there was sufficient stamp of individuality to give
a shrewd examiner some probable guess at the writer's
character. He would have judged her, perhaps, capable
of strong and ardent feeling, but ordinarily of a light and
capricious turn, and seemingly prone to imagine and to
resent offence. With these letters were mingled others in
Brandon's writing, of how different, of how impassioned
a description! All that a deep, proud, meditative, exact-
ing character could dream of love given, or require of love
returned, was poured burningly over the pages; yet they
were full of reproach, of jealousy, of a nice and tor-
turing observation, as calculated to wound as the ardor
might be fitted to charm; and often the bitter tendency to
disdain, that distinguished his temperament, broke through
the fondest enthusiasm of courtship, or the softest outpour-
ings of love.
"You saw me not yesterday," he wrote, in
one letter, "but I saw you; all day I was by you; you gave
not a look which passed me unnoticed; you made not a
movement which I did not chronicle in my memory.
Julia, do you tremble when I tell you this? Yes, if you
have a heart, I know these words have stabbed it to the
core! You
You may affect to answer me indignantly! Wise
dissembler!-- it is very skilful, very, to assume anger,
very, to assume anger,
when you have no reply. I repeat, during the whole of that
party of pleasure, (pleasure! well, your tastes, it must
be acknowledged, are exquisite !) which you enjoyed
yesterday, and which you so faintly asked me to share, my
eye was on you. You did not know that I was in the wood
when you took the arm of the incomparable Digby, with so
pretty a semblance of alarm at the moment the suake, which
my foot disturbed, glided across your path. You did not
know I was within hearing of the tent where you made
so agreeable a repast, and from which your laughter sent
|
up
In another part of the correspondence, a more grave, if
not a deeper gush of feeling, struggled for expression.
"You say, Julia, that were you to marry one who thinks
so much of what he surrenders for you, and who requires
from yourself so vast a return of love, you should tremble
for the future happiness of both of us. Julia, the triteness
of that fear proves that you love not at all. I do not trem-
ble for our future happiness; on the contrary, the intensity
of my passion for you makes me know, that we never can
be happy! never beyond the first rapture of our union.
Happiness is a quiet and tranquil feeling. No feeling that
I can possibly bear to you will ever receive those epithets,
- I know that I shall be wretched and accursed, when I
am united to you. Start not; I will presently tell you why.
But I do not dream of happiness, neither (could you fathom
one drop of the dark and limitless ocean of my emotions)
would you name to me that word. It is not the mercantile
and callous calculation of chances for future felicity,' (what
homily supplied you with so choice a term ?) - that enters
into the heart that cherishes an all-pervading love. Passion
looks only to one object, to nothing beyond, — I thirst, I
consume, not for happiness, but you.
Wer
ere your posses-
sion inevitably to lead me to a gulf of anguish and shame,
think you I should covet it one jot the less? If you carry
one thought, one hope, one dim fancy, beyond the event
that makes you mine, you may be more worthy of the
esteem of others; but you are utterly undeserving of my love.
"I will tell you now why I know we cannot be happy.
In the first place, when you say, that I am proud of birth,
that I am morbidly ambitious, that I am anxious to shine
in the great world, and that after the first intoxication of
love has passed away, I shall feel bitterness against one
who has so humbled my pride and darkened my prospects,
I am not sure that you wholly err. But I am sure that the
instant remedy is in your power. Have you patience,
Julia, to listen to a kind of history of myself, or rather of
my feelings if so, perhaps it may be the best method of
explaining all that I would convey. You will see, then,
that my family pride and my worldly ambition are not
founded altogether on those basements which move my
laughter in another :- if my feelings thereon are really,
however, as you would insinuate, equal matter for derision,
behold, my Julia, I can laugh equally at them! So pleasant
a thing to me is scorn, that I would rather despise myself
than have no one to despise; but to my narrative! You
must know that there are but two of us, sons of a country
squire, of old family, which once possessed large posses-
sions and something of historical renown. We lived in an
old country
old country place; my father was a convivial dog, a fox-
hunter, a drunkard, yet in his way a fine gentleman, and
a very disreputable member of society. The first feelings
towards him that I can remember, were those of shame.
Not much matter of family pride here, you will say True,
and that is exactly the reason which made me cherish fam
ily pride elsewhere. My father's house was filled with
1
476
BULWER'S NOVELS.
K
C
J
guests, some high, and some low, - they all united in ridi- delighted in it; for it soothed my spirit of contempt, to
cule of the host. I soon detected the laughter, and you may put these fine fellows to my use! it soothed me to see how
imagine that it did not please me. Meanwhile, the old easily I could cajole them, and to what a variety of pur-
huntsman, whose family was about as ancient as ours, and poses I could apply even the wearisome disgust of their
whose ancestors had officiated in his capacity, for the an- acquaintance. Nothing is so foolish as to say the idle
cestors of his master, time out of mind, told me story after great are of no use; they can be put to any use whatso-
story about the Brandons of yore. I turned from the stories ever, that a wise man is inclined to make of them! Well,
to more legitimate history, and found the legends were toler- Julia, lo! my character already formed; family pride,
ably true. I learned to glow at this discovery: the pride disdain, and worldly ambition,
there it is for you :
humbled when I remembered my sire, revived when I re- after-circumstances only strengthened the impression al-
membered my ancestors, I became resolved to emulate ready modelled. I desired, on leaving college, to go
them, to restore a sunken name, and vowed a world of non- abroad; my father had no money to give me.
What sig-
sense on the subject. The habit of brooding over these nified that? I looked carelessly around for some wealth-
ideas grew on me; I never heard a jest broken on my ier convenience than the paternal hoard; I found it in a
paternal guardian; I never caught the maudlin look of his Lord Mauleverer; he had been at college with me, and I
reeling eyes, nor listened to some exquisite inanity from endured him easily as a companion,
for he had accom-
his besotted lips, but what my thoughts flew instantly back plishments, wit, and good-nature; I made him wish to go
to the Sir Charleses and the Sir Roberts of my race, and I abroad, and I made him think he should die of ennui if I
comforted myself with the hope that the present degeneracy did not accompany him. To his
To his request to that effect, I re-
should pass away. Hence, Julia, my family pride; hence luctantly agreed, and saw every thing in Europe, which he
too another feeling you dislike in me, disdain! I first neglected to see, at his expense. What amused me the
learned to despise my father, the host, and I then despised most, was the perception, that I, the parasite, was respect-
my acquaintance, his guests; for I saw, while they laughed ed by him, and he, the patron, was ridiculed by me! It
at him, that they flattered, and that their merriment was not would not have been so, if I had depended on niy virtue.'
the only thing suffered to feed at his expense. Thus, con- Well, sweetest Julia, the world, as I have said, gave to
tempt grew up with me, and I had nothing to check it; for
my college experience a sacred authority. I returned to
when I looked around, I saw not one living thing that I England, and my father died, leaving to me not a sixpence,
|
could respect. This father of mine had the sense to think and to my brother an estate so mortgaged, that he could
I was no idiot. He was proud (poor man !) of my talents,' not enjoy it, and so restricted, that he could not sell it. It
viz.; of prizes won at school, and congratulatory letters was now the time for me to profit by the experience I
from my masters. He sent me to college: my mind took a boasted of. I saw that it was necessary I should take
leap there I will tell you, prettiest, what it was! Before some profession. Professions are the masks to your
I went thither, I had some fine, vague visions about virtue. pauper-rogue; they give respectability to cheating, and
I thought to revive my ancestral honor by being good; in a diploma to feed upon others. I analyzed my talents, and
short, I was an embryo King Pepin. I awoke from this looked to the customs of my country; the result was, my
dream at the university. There, for the first time, I per- resolution to take to the bar. I had an inexhaustible pow
ceived the real consequence of rank.
er of application; I was keen, shrewd, and audacious.
All these qualities tell' at the courts of justice. I kept
my legitimate number of terms, I was called, I went
the circuit, I obtained not a brief,. not a brief, Julia
my health, never robust, gave way beneath study and irri
tation; I was ordered to betake myself to the country; I
came to this village, as one both salubrious and obscure
I lodged in the house of your aunt, you came thither daily,
-I saw you, you know the rest. But where, all this time,
were my noble friends? you will say. 'Sdeath, since we
had left college, they had learnt a little of the wisdom I had
then possessed; they were not disposed to give something
for nothing; they had younger brothers and cousins, and
mistresses, and, for aught I know, children, to provide for.
Besides, they had their own expenses; the richer a man is,
the less he has to give. One of them would have bestowed
on me a living, if I had gone in the church; another, a
commission, if I had joined his regiment. But I knew
the day was past both for priest and soldier; and it was
not merely to live, no, nor to live comfortably, but to enjoy
power, that I desired; so I declined these offers. Others
of my friends would have been delighted to have kept me
in their house, feasted me, joked with me, rode with
me, and nothing more! But I had already the sense to
see, that if a man dances himself into distinction, it is
never by the steps of attendance. One must receive favors
and court patronage, but it must be with the air of an in-
dependent man.
dependent man. My old friends thus rendered useless, my
legal studies forbade me to make new, nay, they even
estranged me from the old; for peop.e may say what they
please about a similarity of opinions being necessary to
friendship, a similarity of habits is much more so. It is
the man you dine, breakfast, and lodge with; walk, ride,
gamble, or thieve with, that is your friend, not the man
who likes Virgil as well you do, and agrees with you in an
admiration of Handel. Meanwhile, my chief prey, Lord
Mauleverer, was gone; he had taken another man's dul-
cinea, and sought out a bower in Italy; from that time to
this, I have never heard of him nor seen him; I know not
even his address. With the exception of a few stray
gleanings from my brother, who, good easy man! I could
plunder more, were I not resolved not to ruin the family
stock, I have been thrown on myself; the result is, that
though as clever as my fellows, I have narrowly shunned
starvation; had my wants been less simple, there would
But a man is not
have been no shunning in the case.
easily starved who drinks water, and eats by the ounce
"At school, you know, Julia, boys care nothing for a lord.
A good cricketer, an excellent fellow, is worth all the earls
in the peerage. But at college all that ceases: bats and balls
sink into the nothingness in which corals and bells had sunk
before. One grows manly, and worships coronets and car-
riages. I saw it was a fine thing to get a prize, but it was
ten times a finer thing to get drunk with a peer. So, when
I had done the first, ny resolve to be worthy of my sires.
made me do the second, -not indeed exactly; I never got
drunk; my father disgusted me with that vice betimes. To
his gluttony, I owe my vegetable diet, and to his inebriety
my addiction to water. No,
No, I did not get drunk with
peers; but I was just as agreeable to them as if I had been
equally imbruted. I knew intimately all the 'hate' in the
university, and I was henceforth looked up to by the caps,'
as if my head had gained the height of every hat that I
knew. But I did not do this immediately. I must tell
you two little anecdotes, that first initiated me into the
secret of real greatness. The first is this: I was sitting at
dinner with some fellows of a college, grave men and clever;
two of them, not knowing me, were conversing about me:
they heard, they said, that I should never be so good a fel-
low as my father, have such a cellar, or keep such a
house.
"I have met six earls there and a marquis,' quoth the
other senior.
“And his son,' returned the first don, only keeps com-
pany with sizars, I believe.'
C
"So then,' said I to myself, to deserve the praise even
of dever men, one must have good wines, know plenty of
earls, and forswear sizars."
Nothing could be truer than my conclusion.
"Anecdote the second is this: - On the day I gained a
high university prize, I invited my friends to dine with me:
four of them refused, because they were engaged, · (they
had been asked since I asked them,) to whom? the rich
est man at the university. These occurrences happening
at the same time, threw me into a profound reverie: I
awoke, and became a man of the world. I no longer re-
solved to be virtuous, and to hunt after the glory of your
Romans and your Athenians, I resolved to become rich,
powerful, and of worldly repute.
I abjured my honest sizars, and, as I said before, I
courted some rich hats.' Behold my first grand step in
the world! I became the parasite and the flatterer.
What! would my pride suffer this? verily, yes, my pride
wa
PAUL CLIFFORD.
477
A more effecti al fate might have befallen me, disappoint- star, was at length concluded. The letter which terminated
t was written on
ment, wrath, bafiled hope, mortified pride, all these which the correspondence was from Brandon :
gnawed at my heart, might have consumed it long ago, I the evening before the marriage, which it appeared by the
night have fretted away as a garment, which the moth eat- same letter, was to be private and concealed. After a
eth, had it not been for that fund of obstinate and iron hard-rapturous burst of hope and joy, it continued thus:
ness, which nature, I beg pardon, there is no nature,
circumstance hestowed upon me. This has borne me up,
and will bear me yet through time, and shame, and bodily
weakness, and mental fever, until my ambition has won
a certain height, and my disdain of human pettiness,
rioted in the external sources of fortune, as well as an in-
ward fountain of bitter and self-fed consolation. Yet, oh
Julia, I know not even if this would have supported me, if
at that epoch of life, when I was most wounded, most
stricken in body, most soured in mind, my heart had not
met, and fastened itself to yours; I saw you, loved you,
and life became to me a new object. Even now, as I
write to you, all my bitterness, my pride, vanish; every
thing I have longed for disappears; my very ambition is
gone; I have no hope but for you, Julia, beautiful,
adored Julia; when I love you, I love even my kind.
Do
Oh, you know not the power you possess over me.
not betray it; you can yet make me all that my boyhood
once dreamed; or you can harden every thought, feeling,
sensation, into stone.
-
But even then,
I was to tell you why I looked not for happiness in
our union. You have now seen my nature. You have
traced the history of my life, by tracing the history of my
character. You see what I surrender in gaining you. I
do not deny the sacrifice. I surrender the very essentials
of my present mind and soul. I cease to be worldly. I
cannot raise myself. I cannot revive my ancestral name;
nay, I shall relinquish it for ever. I shall adopt a dis-
guised appellation. I shall sink into another grade of life.
In some remote village, by means of some humbler pro-
fession than that I now follow, we must earn our subsist-
ence, and smile at ambition. I tell you frankly, Julia,
when I close the eyes of my heart, when I shut you
from my gaze, this sacrifice appals me.
you force yourself before me, and I feel that one glance
from your eye is more to me than all. If you could bear
with me,- if you could soothe me, if, when a cloud is
on me, you could suffer it to pass away unnoticed, and
smile on me the moment it is gone, O Julia, there would
then be no extreme of poverty, -no abasement of fortune,
-no abandonment of early dreams which would not seem
to me rapture if coupled with the bliss of knowing that
you are mine. Never should my lip, -never should my
eye tell you that there is that thing on earth for which I
repine, or which I could desire. No, Julia, could I flatter
my heart with this hope, you would not find me dream of
unhappiness and you united.
united. But I tremble, Julia, when I
think of your temper and my own you will conceive a
gloomy look, from one never mirthful, is an insult; and
you will feel every vent of passion on fortune or on others,
as a reproach to you. Then, too, you cannot enter into
my nature; you cannot descend into its caverns; you can-
not behold, much less can you deign to lull, the exacting
and lynx-eyed jealousy that dwells there. Sweetest Julia,
every breath of yours, every touch of yours, every look of
yours I yearn for, beyond all a mother's longing for the
child that has been torn from her for years. Your head
leant upon an old tree, (do you remember it near ***)
and I went every day after seeing you to kiss it. Do
you wonder that I am jealous? How can I love you as I
do, and be otherwise?— my whole being is intoxicated
with you!
* *
"This then, your pride and mine-your pleasure in
the admiration of others your lightness; Julia, make me
foresee an eternal and gushing source of torture to my
mind. I care not; I care for nothing, so that you are
mine, if but for one hour.'
—
per-
It seems that, despite the strange, sometimes the_un-
lover-like and fiercely selfish nature of these letters from
Brandon, something of a genuine tone of passion,
naps their originality,-aided, no doubt, by some uttered
aided, no doubt, by some uttered
eloquence of the writer, and some treacherous inclination on
the part of the mistress, ultimately conquered; and that an
won, so little likely to receive the smile of a prosperous
|
"Yes, Julia, I recant my words: I have no belief that
you or I shall ever have cause hereafter for unhappiness.
Those eyes that dwelt so tenderly on mine; that hand whose
pressure lingers yet in every nerve of my frame; those lips
turned so coyly, yet,
shall I
from me,
say reluctantly?—
all tell me that you love me, and my fears are banished.
Love, which conquered my nature, will conquer the only
thing I would desire to see altered in yours. Nothing
could ever make me adore you less, though you affect to
dread it; nothing but a knowledge that you are unworthy
of me,
then,
that you have a thought for another,
then I should not hate you. No: the privilege of my past
existence would revive; I should revel in a luxury of con
tempt, I should despise you, I should mock you, and
I should be once more what I was before I knew you. But
why do I talk thus ?
why do I talk thus ? My bride, my blessing, forgive
M
*
*
123
In concluding our extracts from this correspondence, we
wish the reader to note, first, that the love professed by
Brandon seems of that vehement and corporeal nature which,
while it is often the least durable, is also the most suscepti-
ble of the fiercest extremes of hatred, or even of disgust.
Secondly, that the character opened by his sarcastic candor
evidently required in a mistress either an utter devotion, or
a skilful address. And thirdly, that we have hinted at such
qualities in the fair correspondent as did not seem san-
guinely to promise either of those essentials.
While with a curled, yet often with a quivering lip, the
austere and sarcastic Brandon slowly compelled himself to
the task of proceeding through these monuments of former
folly and youthful emotion, the further elucidation of those
events, now rapidly urging on a fatal and dread catastrophe,
spreads before us a narrative occurring many years prior to
the time at which we are at present arrived
CHAPTER XXXV.
—
Clem. Lift the dark veil of years! - behind, what waits
A human heart. - Vast city, where reside
All glories and all vilenesses! — while foul,
Yet silent through the roar of passions, rolls
The river of the darling sin, -and bears
A life and yet a poison on its tide.
*
Clem. Thy wife?—
Vict.
*
Avaunt! I've chang'd that word to 'scorr
Clem. Thy child?—
Vict.
Ay,
that strikes home,- my child,
Love and Hatred, by
my child
To an obscure town in shire, there came to reside a
young couple, whose appearance and habits drew towards
them, from the neighbouring gossips, a more than ordinary
attention. They bore the name of Welford. The man
assumed the profession of a solicitor. He came without
introduction or recommendation; his manner of life be-
spoke poverty; his address was reserved, and even sour;
and despite the notice and scrutiny with which he was re-
garded, he gained no clients, and made no lawsuits. The
want of all those decent charlatanisms which men of every
profession are almost necessitated to employ, and the gud-
den and unushered nature of his coming, were, perhaps, the
cause of this ill-success. "His house was too small," people
said, "for respectability." And little good could be got
from a solicitor, the very rails round whose door were so
sadly in want of repainting! Then, too, Mrs. Welford
made a vast number of enemies. She was, beyond all ex-
pression, beautiful; and there was a certain coquetry in her
manner, which showed she was aware of her attractions
All the ladies of
hatea her. A few people called on
the young couple. Welford received them coldly; their in-
vitations were unaccepted, and, what was worse, they were
never returned. The devil himself could not have support
ed an attorney under such circumstances. Reserve!
shabby, — poor,―rude,— introductionless, -a bad house,
-an unpainted railing, -and a beautiful wife
theless, though Welford was not engaged, he was, as we
478
BULWER'S NOVELS.
nave said, watched. On their first arrival, which was in
summer, the young pair were often seen walking together
in the fields or groves which surrounded their home. Some-
times they walked affectionately together, and it was ob-
served with what care Welford adjusted his wife's cloak or
shawl around her slender shape, as the cool of the evening
increased. But often his arm was withdrawn, he lingered
behind, and they continued their walk, or returned home-
ward, in silence and apart. By degrees, whispers circu-
lated throughout the town, that the new-married couple
lived by no means happily. The men laid the fault on the
stern-looking husband; the women, on the minx of a wife.
However, the solitary servant whom they kept declared,
that though Mr. Welford did sometimes frown, and Mrs.
Welford did sometimes weep, they were extremely attached
to each other, and only quarrelled through love. The maid
had had four lovers herself, and was possibly experienced
in such matters. They received no visiters, near or from
a distance; and the postman declared he had never seen a
letter directed to either. Thus a kind of mystery hung over
the pair, and made them still more gazed on, and still more
disliked, which is saying a great deal, than they would
have otherwise been. Poor as Welford was, his air and
walk eminently bespoke what common persons term gentility.
And in this he had greatly the advantage of his beautiful
wife; who, though there was certainly nothing vulgar or
plebeian in her aspect, altogether wanted the refinement of
manner, look, and phrase, which characterized Welford.
For about two years they lived in this manner, and so fru-
gally and tranquilly, that though Welford had not any visi-
ble means of subsistence, no one could well wonder in what
manner they did subsist. About the end of that time, Wel-
ford suddenly embarked a small sum in a county speculation.
In the course of this adventure, to the great surprise of his
neighbours, he evinced an extraordinary turn for calculation,
and his habits plainly bespoke a man both of business and
ability. This disposal of capital brought a sufficient return
to support the Welfords, if they had been so disposed, in
rather a better style than heretofore. They remained, how-
ever, in much the same state; and the only difference that
the event produced, was the retirement of Mr. Welford
from the profession he had embraced. He was no longer
He was no longer
a solicitor! It must be allowed that he resigned no great
advantages in this retirement. About this time, some offi-
About this time, some offi-
cers were quartered at
; and one of thein, a hand-
some lieutenant, was so struck with the charms of Mrs.
Welford, whom he saw at church, that he lost no oppor-
tunity of testifying his admiration. It was maliciously, yet
not unfoundedly, remarked, that though no absolute impro-
priety could be detected in the manner of Mrs. Welford,
she certainly seemed far from displeased with the evident
homage of the young lieutenant. A blush tinged her cheek
when she saw him; and the gallant coxcomb asserted, that
the blush was not always without a smile. Emboldened by
the interpretations of his vanity, and contrasting, as every
one else did, his own animated face and glittering garb,
with the ascetic and gloomy countenance, the unstudied
dress, and austere gait, which destroyed in Welford the
effect of a really handsome person, our lieutenant thought
fit to express his passion by a letter, which he conveyed to
Mrs. Welford's . Mrs. Welford went not to church
that day; the letter was found by a good-natured neighbour,
and inclosed anonymously to the husband.
M
Whatever in the secrecy of domestic intercourse took
place on this event was necesssarily unknown; but the
next Sunday, the face of Mr. Welford, which had never
before appeared at church, was discerned by one vigilant
neighbour, probably the anonymous friend, not in the
same pew with his wife, but in a remote corner of the
sacred house. And once, when the lieutenant was watch
ing to read in Mrs. Welford's face some answer to his
epistle, the same obliging inspector declared that Wel-
ford's countenance assumed a sardonic and withering sneer
that made his very blood to creep. However this be, the
lieutenant left his quarters, and Mrs. Welford's reputation
remained dissatisfactorily untarnished. Shortly after this,
the county speculation failed, and it was understood that
the Welfords were about to leave the town, whither none
knew,
—some said to gaol; but then, unhappily, no debtor
could be discovered. Their bills had been "next to noth-
ing," but at least they had been regularly paid. However,
before the rumored emigration took place, a circumstance
equally wonderful to the good people of- occurred.
|
One bright spring morning, a party of pleasure from a
great house in the vicinity, passed through that town.
Most conspicuous of these, was a young horseman richly
dressed, and of a remarkably stowy and handsome appear.
ance. Not a little sensible of the sensation he created,
this cavalier lingered behind his group in order to eye more
deliberately certain damsels stationed in a window, and
who were quite ready to return his glances with interest.
At this moment, the horse, which was fretting itself fierce-
ly against the rein that restrained it from its fellows, took
fright at a knifegrinder, started violently to one side, and
the graceful cavalier, who had been thinking not of the
attitude best adapted to preserve his equilibrium, but to
display his figure, was thrown with some force upon a heap
of bricks and rubbish which had long, to the scandal of the
neighbourhood, stood before the paintless railings around
Mr. Welford's house.
Mr. Welford's house. Welford himself came out at the
time, and felt compelled, for he was by no means one
whose sympathetic emotions flowed easily, to give a glance
to the condition of a man who lay motionless before his
very door. The horseman quickly recovered his senses,
but found himself unable to rise; one of his legs was
broken. Supported in the arms of his groom, he looked
around, and his eye met Welford's. An instant recognition
gave life to the face of the former, and threw a dark blush
over the sullen features of the latter. "Heavens!" said
the cavalier, "is that—"
"Hist, my lord!" cried Welford, quickly interrupting
him, and glancing round. "But you are hurt, will you
enter my house?",
The horseman signified his assent, and between the
groom and Welford, was borne within the shabby door of
the ex-solicitor. The groom was then despatched with an
excuse to the party, many of whom were already hastening
around the house; and though one or two did force them-
selves across the inhospitable threshold, yet so soon as
they had uttered a few expletives, and felt their stare sink
beneath the sullen and chilling asperity of the host, they
satisfied themselves, that though it was damned unlucky
for their friend, yet they could do nothing for him at pres-
ent; and promising to send to inquire after him the next
day, they remounted and rode homeward, with an eye
more attentive than usual to the motion of their steeds.
They did not however depart till the surgeon of the town
had made his appearance, and declared that the patient
must not on any account be moved. A lord's leg was a
windfall that did not happen every day to the surgeon of
C
J
All this while we may imagine the state of anxi-
ety experienced in the town, and the agonized endurance
of those rural nerves which are produced in scanty popula
tions, and have so Talicotian a sympathy with the affairs
of other people. One day, two days, three days,
a week, a fortnight, nay, a month passed, and the lord
was still the inmate of Mr. Welford's abode. Leaving the
gossips to feed on their curiosity, "cannibals of their
own hearts," we must give a glance toward the interior
of the inhospitable mansion of the ex-solicitor.
It was toward evening, the sufferer was supported on a
sofa, and the beautiful Mrs. Welford, who had officiated
as his nurse, was placing the pillow under the shattered
limb. He himself was attempting to seize her hand, which
she coyly drew back, and uttering things sweeter and more
polished than she had ever listened to before. At this mo-
inent, Welford softly entered; he was unnoticed by either;
and he stood at the door contemplating them with a smile
of calm and self-hugging derision. The face of Mephis-
tophiles, regarding Margaret and Faust, might suggest some
idea of the picture we design to paint; but the counte-
nance of Welford was more lofty (as well as comelier) in
character, though not less malignant in expression than
that which the incomparable Retsch has given to the mock-
ing fiend. So utter, so congratulatory, so lordly was the
contempt on Welford's dark and striking features, that
though he was in that situation in which ridicule usually
attaches itself to the husband, it was the gallant and the
wife that would have appeared to the beholder in a humili-
ating and unenviable light.
After a momentary pause, Welford approached, with a
heavy step, the wife started; but with a bland and
smooth expression, which since his sojourn in the town of
had been rarely visible in bis aspect, the host join-
ed the pair,
ed the pair, — smiled on the nurse, and congratulated the
patient on his progress toward recovery. The nobleman.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
well learned in the usages of the world, replied easily and
gayly; and the conversation flowed on cheerfully enough,
till the wife, who had sat abstracted and apart, stealing
ever and anon timid glances toward her husband and looks
of a softer meaning toward the patient, retired from the
room. Welford then gave a turn to the conversation: he
reminded the nobleman of the pleasant days they had pass-
ed in Italy, of the adventures they had shared, and the
intrigues they had enjoyed; as the conversation warmed, it
assumed a more free and licentious turn; and not a little,
we ween, would the good folks of
have been amazed
could they have listened to the gay jests and the libertine
maxims which flowed from the thin lips of that cold and
severe Welford, whose countenance gave the lie to mirth.
Of women in general they spoke with that lively contempt
which is the customary tone with men of the world,- only
in Welford it assumed a bitterer, a deeper, and a more
philosophical cast than it did in his more animated yet less
energetic guest.
The nobleman 'seemed charined with his friend; the
conversation was just to his taste; and when Welford had
supported him up to bed, he shook that person cordially by
the hand, and hoped he should soon see him in very differ-
ent circumstances. When the peer's door was closed on
Welford, he stood motionless for some moments; he then,
with a soft step, ascended to his own chamber. His wife
slept soundly; beside the bed was his infant's cradle. As
his eyes
fell on the latter, the rigid irony, now habitual to
his features, relaxed; he bent over the cradle long, and in
deep silence. The mother's face, blended with the sire's,
was stamped on the sleeping and cherub countenance be-
fore him; and as at length, rousing himself from his reverie,
he kissed it gently, he murmured
"When I look on you, I will believe that she once loved
me,-Pah!" he said abruptly, and rising," this fath-
erly sentiment for a 's offering is exquisite in me!"
So saying, without glancing toward his wife, who, disturb-
ed by the loudness of his last words, stirred uneasily, he
left the room, and descended into that where he had con-
versed with his guest. He shut the door with caution, and
striding to and fro the humble apartment, gave vent to
thoughts marshalled somewhat in the broken array in
which they now appear to the reader.
"Ay, ay, she has been my ruin! and if I were one of
your weak fools who make a gospel of the silliest and most
mawkish follies of this damnable social state, she would
now be my disgrace; but, instead of my disgrace, I will
make her my footstool to honor and wealth. And, then, to
the devil with the footstool! Yes! two years I have borne
Yes! two years I have borne
what was enough to turn my whole blood into gall!
inactivity, hopelessness, a wasted heart and life in
myself, contumely from the world, coldness, bickering,
ingratitude, from the one for whom, oh, ass that I was!
I gave up the most cherished part of my nature, rather my
nature itself! Two years I have borne this, and now will
I have my revenge,
I will sell her, - sell her, God!
-
|
C
not a thought for such pitiful trials of affection; and all
this while, my curses, my buried hope, and disguised spirit
and sunken name not thought of; the magnitude of my sur-
render to her not even comprehended; nay, her incon-
veniences,'-a dim hearth, I suppose, or a daintyless table,
compared, ay, absolutely compared with all which I
abandoned for her sake! As if it were not enough, - had
I been a fool, an ambitionless, soulless fool,-
the mere
thought that I had linked my name to that of a tradesman,
I beg pardon, a retired tradesman ! as if that knowl-
edge, a knowledge I would strangle my whole race,
every one who has ever met, seen me, rather than they
should penetrate, were not enough, when she talks of
comparing, - to make me gnaw the very flesh from my
bones! No, no, no! Never was there so bright a turn
in my fate, as when this titled coxcomb with his smooth
voice and gaudy fripperies came hither! I will make her
the tool to carve me out of this cavern wherein she has
plunged me. I will foment my lord's' passion, till my
lord thinks the passion,' (a butterfly's passion!)-
worth any price. I will then make my own terms,- bind
my lord to secrecy, and get rid of my wife, my shame,
and the solicitorship of Mr. Welford, for ever. Bright,
bright prospects! let me shut my eyes to enjoy you. But
softly, my noble friend calis himself a man of the world,
skilled in human nature, and a derider of its prejudices;
true enough, in his own little way
thanks not to en-
larged views, but a vicious experience,- so he is! The
book of the world is a vast miscellany; he is perfectly
well acquainted, doubtless, with those pages that treat of
the fashions, profoundly versed, I warrant, in the Maga-
sin des Modes tacked to the end of the index. But shall I,
even with all the mastership which my mind must exercise
over his, shall I be able utterly to free myself in this
peer of the world's' mind from a degrading remem-
brance? Cuckold, cuckold, 'tis an ugly word; a conveni-
ent, willing cuckold, humph !— there is no grandeur, no
philosophical varnish in the phrase. Let me see,-yes!
I have a remedy for all that. I was married privately,
well! under disguised names, well! it was a stolen
marriage, far from her town, well! witnesses unknown
to her, well! proofs easily secured to my possession,
excellent! the fool shall believe it a forged marriage,
an ingenious gallantry of mine; I will wash out the stain
cuckold, with the water of another word; I will make
market of a mistress, not a wife. I will warn him not to
acquaint her with this secret: let me consider for what rea-
son, oh! my son's legitimacy may be convenient to me
hereafter. He will understand that reason, and I will have
his honor thereon. And by the way, I do care for that
legitimacy, and will guard the proofs; I love my child,-
ambitious men do love their children; I may become a lord
myself, and may wish for a lord to succeed me; and that
son is mine; thank heaven! I am sure on that point,
the only child too that ever shall arise to me. Never, I
swear, will I again put myself beyond my own power!
All my nature, save one passion I have hitherto master-
ed, that passion shall henceforth be my slave; my only
thought be ambition, my only desire the world!"
As thus terminated the reverie of a man whom the social
circumstances of the world were calculated, as if by sys-
tem, to render eminently and basely wicked, Welford slowly
ascended the stairs, and reentered his chamber, his wife
was still sleeping; her beauty was of the fair and girlish,
and harmonized order, which lovers and poets would ex-
press by the word "angelic," and as Welford looked upon
her face, hushed and almost hallowed by slumber, a certain
weakness and irresolution might have been discernible a
the strong lines of his haughty features. At that moment,
as if for ever to destroy the return of hope or virtue to
either, her lips moved, they uttered one word, it was the
name of Welford's courtly guest.
I will sell her like the commonest beast of a market! And
this paltry piece of false coin shall buy me, my world!
Other men's vengeance comes from hatred,- a base, rash,
unphilosophical sentiment! mine comes from scorn! the
only wise state for the reason to rest in. Other men's
vengeance ruins themselves, mine shall save me! Christ!
-how my soul chuckles when I look at this pitiful pair,
who think I see them not, and know that every movement
they make is on a mesh of my web! - Yet," and Wel-
ford paused slowly, "yet I cannot but mock myself
when I think of the arch gull that this boy's madness, love,
-love, indeed!-the very word turns me sick with loathing,
made of me.
Had that woman, silly, weak, automatal
as she is, really loved me,
had she been sensible of the
unspeakable sacrifice I had made to her,—(Anthony's was
(Anthony's was
nothing to it he lost a real world only; mine was the world
of imagination,)— had she but condescended to learn my na- About three weeks from that evening, Mrs. Welford
ture, to subdue the woman's devil at her own, I could have eloped with the young nobleman, and on the morning fol-
lived on in this babbling hermitage for ever, and fancied my-lowing that event, the distracted husband with his child
self happy and resigned, I could have become a different
being. I fancy I could have become what your moralists
(quacks!)-call 'good.' But this fretting frivolity of heart,
-this lust of fool's praise,- this peevishness of temper,-
this sullenness in answer to the moody thought, which in me
she neither fathomed nor forgave,- this vulgar, daily, hourly
pining at the paltry pinches of the body's poverty, the do-
mestic whine, the household complaint, when I-I have
·
disappeared for ever from the town of
From that
day, no tidings whatsoever respecting him ever reached the
titilated ears of his anxious neighbours; and doubt, curi-
osity, discussion, gradually settled into the belief that his
despair had hurried him into suicide.
Although the unfortunate Mrs. Welford was in reality o.
a light and frivolous turu, and, above all, susceptible to
personal vanity, she was not without ardent affections and
480
BULWER'S NOVELS.
T
leave your unfortunate, your despairing lover to his fate."
<< Do you taunt me, my lord?" cried the angry fair; "or
do you believe that money can replace the rights of which you
have robbed me ? - can you make me again a wife,
happy, a respected wife? Do this, my lord, and
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A
keen sensibilities. Her marriage had been one of love, that her paramour all for which she had sighed in her home.
is to say, on her part, the ordinary love of girls, who love The one for whom she had forsaken her legitimate ties, was
not through actual and natural feeling, so much as a forced a person so habitually cheerful, courteous, and what is or
predisposition. Her choice had fallen on one superior to dinarily termed good-natured, (though he had in him as
herself in birth, and far above all in person and address much of the essence of selfishness as any nobleman can de-
whom she had habitually met. Thus her vanity had assist- cently have,) that he continued gallant to her without an
ed her affection, and something strange and eccentric in effort, long after he had begun to think it possible to tire
the temper and mind of Welford had, though at times it even of so lovely a face. Yet there were inoments when
aroused her fear, greatly contributed to inflame her imagi- the fickle wife recalled her husband with regret; and,
nation. Then, too, though an uncourtly, he had been a contrasting him with her seducer, did not find all the color-
passionate and a romantic lover. She was sensible that he ings of the contrast flattering to the latter. There is some-
gave up for her much that he had previously conceived ne- thing in a powerful and marked character, which women,
cessary to his existence; and she stopped not to inquire how and all weak natures, feel themselves constrained to re-
far this devotion was likely to last, or what conduct on her spect; and Welford's character thus stood in bold, and
part might best perpetuate the feelings from which it therefore advantageous, though gloomy, relief, when
sprung. She had eloped with him. She had consented to opposed to the levities and foibles of this guilty woman's
a private marriage. She had passed one happy month, and present adorer. However this be, the die was cast; and
then delusion vanished! Mrs. Welford was not a woman it would have been policy for the lady to have made the
who could give to reality, or find in it, the charm equal to best of her present game. But she who had murmured as
delusion. She was perfectly unable to comprehend the in- a wife, was not complaisant as a mistress. Reproaches
tricate and dangerous character of her husband. She had made an interlude to caresses, which the noble lover by no
not the key to his virtues, or the spell for his vices. Nor means admired. He was not a man to retort, he was too
was the state to which poverty compelled them, one well indolent; but neither was he one to forbear. "My charm-
calculated for that tender meditation, heightened by absenceing friend," said he one day, after a scene,
you weary of
and cherished in indolence, which so often supplies one me, nothing more natural! Why torment each other?
who loves with the secret to the nature of the one beloved.
You say
I have ruined you; my sweet friend, let me make
Though not equal to her husband in birth or early prospects, you reparation,— become independent; I will settle an an-
Mrs. Welford had been accustomed to certain comforts,nuity upon you; fly me, seek happiness elsewhere, ana
often more felt by those who belong to the inferior classes
than by those appertaining to the more elevated, who, in
losing one luxury, will often cheerfully surrender all. A
fine lady can subunit to more hardships than her woman;
and every gentleman who travels, smiles at the privations
which agonize his valet. Poverty, and its grim comrades,
made way
for a whole host of petty irritations and peevish
complaints; and as no guest or visiter ever relieved the
domestic discontent, or broke on the domestic bickering,
they generally ended in that moody sullenness which so
often finds love a grave in repentance. Nothing makes
people tire of each other, like a familiarity that admits of
carelessness in quarrelling, and coarseness in complaining.
The biting sneer of Welford gave acrimony to the murmur
of his wife; and when once each conceived the other the
injurer, or him or herself the wronged, it was vain to hope
that one would be more wary, or the other more indulgent.
They both exacted too much, and the wife in especial con-
ceded too little. Mrs. Welford was altogether and em-
phatically what a libertine calls "a woman,
a frivolous education makes a woman, — generous in great
things, petty in small, vain, irritable, full of the littleness.
of herself and her complaints, ready to plunge into an abyss
with her lover, but equally ready to fret away all love with
reproaches when the plunge had been made. Of all men,
Welford could bear this the least. A woman of a larger
heart, a more settled experience, and an intellect capable
of appreciating his character, and sounding all his quali-
ties, might have made him perhaps an useful and a great
man; and at least her lover for life. Amidst a harvest of
evil feelings, the mere strength of his nature rendered him
especially capable of intense feeling and generous emotion.
One who relied on him was safe, one who rebelled
against him, trusted only to the caprice of his scorn. Still,
however, for two years, love, though weakening with each
hour, fought on in either breast, and could scarcely be said
to be entirely vanquished in the wife, even when she eloped
with her handsome seducer. A French writer has said
pithily enough, Compare for a moment the apathy of a
husband with the attention, the gallantry, the adoration of
a lover, and can you ask the result? He was a French
writer; but Mrs. Welford had in her temper much of the
French woman. A suffering patient, young, handsome,
well versed in the arts of intrigue, contrasted with a gloomy
husband whom she had never comprehended, long feared,
and had lately doubted if she disliked! ah! a much
weaker contrast has made many a much better woman food
for the lawyers! Mrs. Welford eloped; but she felt a re-
vived tenderness for her husband on the very morning that
she did so. She carried away with her his letters of love
as well as her own, which when they first married she had,
in an hour of fondness, collected together, then an ines-
timable hoard !—and never did her new lover receive from
her beautiful lips half so passionate a kiss as she left on the
cheek of her infant. For some months she enjoyed with
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such as
Such was
you atone
to nie!
The nobleman smiled and shrugged his shoulders. The
lady yet more angrily repeated her question. The lover
answered by an innuendo, which at once astonished and
doubly enraged her. She cagerly demanded explanation;
and his lordship, who had gone farther than he intended,
left the room. But his words had sunk deep into the breast
of this unhappy woman, and she resolved to procure an
elucidation. Agreeably to the policy which stripped the
fabled traveller of his cloak, she laid aside the storm and
preferred the sunshine: she watched a moment of ten-
derness, turned the opportunity to advantage, and, by little
and little, she possessed herself of a secret which sickened
her with shame, disgust, and dismay. Sold! bartered!
the object of a contemptuous huxtering to the purchased
and the seller; sold, too, with a lie that debased her at
once into an object for whom even pity was mixed with
scorn. Robbed already of the name and honor of a wife,
and transferred, as a harlot, from the wearied arms of one
leman, to the capricious caresses of another.
the image that rose before her; and while it roused at one
noment all her fiercer passions into madness, humbled,
with the next, her vanity into the dust. She, who knew
the ruling passion of Welford, saw, at a glance, the object
of scorn and derision which she had become to him.
While she imagined herself the betrayer, she had been the
betrayed; she saw vividly before her, (and shuddered as
she saw,) her husband's icy smile,
his serpent eye,
his features steeped in sarcasm, and all his mocking soul
stamped upon the countenance, whose lightest derision was
so galling. She turned from this picture, and saw the
courtly face of the purchaser, his subdued smile at her
reproaches, his latent sneer at her claims to a station
which he had been taught, by the arch plotter, to believe
she had never possessed. She saw his early weariness of
her attractions, expressed with respect indeed,― au insult-
ing respect, but felt without a scruple of remorse.
saw in either, as around, only a reciprocation of con-
tempt. She was in a web of profound abasement. Even
that haughty grief of conscience for crirae committed to
another, which if it stings, humbles not, vos swallowed up
in a far more agonizing sensation, to our 30 vain as the
so
adulteress, the burning sense of shame at having herself,
while sinning, been the duped and deceivel.
soul was appalled with her humiliation. The curse of
Welford's vengeance was on her, and it was wreaked to
the last! Whatever kindly sentiment she might have es-
perienced toward her protector, was swallowed at once by
this discovery. She could not endure the thought of meet-
ing the eye of one who had been the gainer by this igno
J
She
Her very
PAUL CLIFFORD.
481
mimous barter.
The foibles and weaknesses of the lover
assumed a despicable as well as hateful dye. And in feel-
ing herself degraded, she loathed him. The day after she
had made the discovery we have referred to, Mrs. Welford
left the house of her protector, none knew whither. For
two years from that date, all trace of her history was lost.
At the end of that time, what was Welford? A man rapidly
rising in the world, distinguished at the bar, where his
first brief had lifted him into notice, commencing a flatter-
ing career in the senate, holding lucrative and honorable
offices, esteemed for the austere rectitude of his moral
character, gathering the golden opinions of all men, as he
strode onward to public reputation. He had re-assumed
his hereditary name; his early history was unknown; and
no one in the obscure and distant town of
had ever
guessed that the humble Welford was the William Bran-
don whose praise was echoed in so many journals, and
whose rising genius was acknowledged by all. That as-
perity, roughness, and gloom which had noted him at-
and which being natural to him, he deigned not to disguise
in a station ungenial to his talents and below his hopes,
were now glitteringly varnished over by an hypocrisy well
calculated to aid his ambition. So learnedly could this
singular man fit himself to others, that few among the great
met him as a companion, nor left him without the temper
to become his friend. Through his noble rival, that is
(to make our reader's surety doubly sure')-through
Lord Mauleverer, he had acquired his first lucrative office,
a certain patronage from government, and his seat in par-
liament. If he had persevered at the bar, rather than
given himself entirely to state intrigues, it was only be-
cause his talents were eminently more calculated to
advance him in the former path to honor, than in the lat-
ter. So devoted was he become to public life, that he had
only permitted himself to cherish one private source of en-
joyment, his son.
As no one, not even his brother,
knew he had been married, — (during the two years of his
disguised name, he had been supposed abroad,) — the ap-
pearance of this son made the only piece of scandal whis-
pered against the rigid morality of his fair fame; but he
himself, waiting his own time for avowing a legitimate
heir, gave out that it was the orphan child of a dear friend
whom he had known abroad; and the Puritan demureness
not only of life, but manner, which he assumed, gained a
pretty large belief to the statement. This son Brandon
J
Sud-
was late, and his way lay through the longest and best-
lighted street of the metropolis. He was, as usual, buried
in thought, when he was suddenly aroused from his reverie
by a light touch laid on his arm. He turned, and saw one
of the unhappy persons who haunt the midnight streets of
cities, standing right before his path. The gaze of each
fell full upon the other; and it was thus, for the first time
since they laid their heads on the same pillow, that the
husband met the wife. The skies were intensely clear,
and the lamp-light was bright and calm upon the faces of
both. There was no doubt in the mind of either.
denly, and with a startled and ghastly consciousness, they
recognised each other. The wife staggered, and clung to
a post for support: Brandon's look was calm and unmoved.
The hour that his bitter and malignant spirit had yearned
for was come: his nerves expanded in a voluptuous calm-
ness, as if to give him a deliberate enjoyment of his hope
fulfilled. Whatever the words that, in that unwitnessed
and almost awful interview, passed between them, we may
be sure that Brandon spared not one atom of his power.
The lost and abandoned wife returned home, and all her
nature, imbruted as it had become by guilt and vile habits,
hardened into revenge, that preturnatural feeling which
may be termed the hope of despair.
Three nights from that meeting, Brandon's house was
broken into. Like the houses of many legal men, it lay
in a dangerous and thinly-populated out-skirt of the town,
and was easily accessible to robbery. He was awakened
by a noise; he started, and found himself in the grasp of
two men. At the foot of the bed stood a female, raising a
light, and her face, haggard with searing passions, and
ghastly with the leprous whiteness of disease and approach.
ing death, glared full upon him.
<
you
"It is now my turn," said the female, with a grin of
scorn which Brandon himself might have envied, ·
have cursed me, and I return the curse! You have told
ine that my child shall never name me but to blush. Fool!
I triumph over you; you he shall never know to his dying-
day. You have told me, that to my child and my child's
the
child, (a long transmission of execration,) my name,
name of the wife you basely sold to ruin and to hell, should
be left as a legacy of odium and shame! Man, you shall
teach that child no farther lesson whatever you shall
know not whether he live or die, or have children to carry
on your boasted race; or whether, if he have, those chil-
idolized. As we have represented himself to say, am- dren be not the outcasts of the earth, the accursed of
bitious men are commonly fond of their children, beyond man and God, the fit offspring of the thing you have
the fondness of other sires. The perpetual reference the made me. Wretch ! I hurl back on you the denunciation
ambitious make to posterity, is perhaps the main reason. with which, when we met three nights since, you would
Bat Brandon was also fond of children generally, philo- have crushed the victim of your own perfidy. You shall
progenitiveness was a marked trait in his character, and tread the path of your ambition childless, and objectless,
would seem to belie the hardness and artifice belonging to and hopeless. Disease shall set her stamp upon your
that character, were not the same love so frequently notice-frame. The worm shall batten upon your heart. You
able in the harsh and the artificial. It seems as if a half- shall have honors, and enjoy them not: you shall gain your
conscious but pleasing feeling, that they too were once ambition, and despair: you shall pine for your son, and
gentle and innocent, make them delight in reviving any find him not; or, if you find him, you shall curse the hour
sympathy with their early state.
in which he was born. Mark me, man, I am dying
while I speak, I know that I am a prophet in my curse
From this hour I am avenged, and you are my scorn!"
Often after the applause and labor of the day, Brandon
would repair to his son's chamber, and watch his slumber
for hours; often before his morning toil commenced, he
would nurse the infant in his arms with all a woman's nat-
ural tenderness and gushing joy. And often, as a graver
and more characteristic sentiment stole over him, he would
mentally say,
"You shall build up our broken name on
a better foundation than your sire. I begin too late in life,
and I labor up a painful and stony road; but I shall make
the journey to fame smooth and accessible for you. Never,
too, while you aspire to honor, shall you steel your heart to
tranquillity. For you, my child, shall be the joys of home
and love, and a mind that does not sicken at the past, and
strain, through mere fretfulness, toward a solitary and bar-
ren distinction for the future. Not only what your father
gains, you shall enjoy, but what has cursed him, his vigi-
lance shall lead you to shun!"
As the hardest natures sink appalled before the stony
eye of the maniac, so, in the dead of the night, pinioned
by ruffians, the wild and solemn voice (sharpened by pas
sion and partial madness) of the ghastly figure before him
curdling through his veins, even the haughty and daring
character of William Brandon quailed! He uttered not a
word. He was found next morning, bound by strong cords
to his bed. He spoke not when he was released, but went
in silence to his child's chamber:- the child was gone!
Several articles of property were also stolen: the desper-
ate tools the mother had employed worked not perhaps
without their own reward.
We need scarcely add, that Brandon set every engine
and channel of justice in motion for the discovery of his
son. All the especial shrewdness and keenness of his own
It was thus not only that his softer feelings, but all the character, aided by his professional experience, he em-
better and nobler ones which, even in the worst and hard-ployed for years in the same pursuit. Every research was
est bosom, find some root, turned themselves toward his
child; and that the hollow and vicious man promised to
become the affectionate and perhaps the wise parent.
One night, Brandon was returning home from a minis-
terial dinner. The night was frosty and clear, the bour
VOL. 1.
61
wholly in vain not the remotest vestige towards discovery
could be traced, until were found (we have recorded when)
some of the articles that had been stolen. Fate treasured in
her gloomy womb, altogether undescried by man, the hour
and the scene in which the most ardent wish of William
Drandon was to be realized
482
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
O Fortuna, viris invida fortibus
Quam non æqua bonis præmia dividis.
*
SENECA
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew.
*
*
*
Here, to the houseless child of want,
My door is open still.
*
GOLDSMITH.
SLOWLY, for Lucy, waned the weeks of a winter,
which, to her, was the most dreary portion of life she had
ever passed. It became the time for the judge to attend
one of those periodical visitations so fraught with dread
and dismay to the miserable inmates of the dark abodes
which the complex laws of this country so bounteously sup-
ply, those times of great hilarity and hating to the legal
gentry,
"Who feed on crime and fatten on distress,
And wring vile mirth from suffering's last excess."
Ah! excellent order of the world, which it is so wicked
to disturb ! How miraculously beautiful must be that sys-
tem which makes wine out of the scorching tears of guilt:
and from the suffocating suspense, the agonized fear, the
compelled and self-mocking bravery, the awful sentence,
the despairing death-pang of one man, furnishes the sinirk-
ing expectation of fees, the jovial meeting, and the mer-
cenary holiday to another!
"Of law, nothing less can be
said, than that her seat is the bosom of God.” * To be
sure not, Richard Hooker, you are perfectly right. The
divinity of a sessions, and the inspiration of the Old Bai-
ley, are undeniable!
The care of Sir William Brandon had effectually kept
from Lucy's ear the knowledge of her lover's ignominious
situation. Indeed, in her delicate health, even the hard
eye of Brandon, and the thoughtless glance of Mauleverer,
perceived the danger of such a discovery. The earl, now
waiting the main attack on Lucy, till the curtain had for
ever dropped on Clifford, proceeded with great caution and
delicacy in his suit to his purposed bride. He waited with
He waited with
the more patience, inasmuch as he had drawn in advance
on his friend Sir William for some portion of the heiress's
fortune; and he readily allowed that he could not, in the
meanwhile, have a better advocate than he found in Bran-
don. So persuasive, indeed, and so subtle was the elo-
quence of this able sophist, that often in his artful conversa-
tions with his niece, ne left even on the uninitiated, and
strong though simple mind of Lucy an uneasy and restless
impression, which time might have ripened into an inclina-
tion toward the worldly advantages of the marriage at her
command. Brandon was no bungling mediator or violent
persecutor. He seemed to acquiesce in her rejection of
Mauleverer. He scarcely recurred to the event. He
rarely praised the earl himself, save for the obvious quali-
ties of liveliness and good-nature. But he spoke with all
the vivid colors he could infuse at will into his words, of
the pleasures and the duties of rank and wealth. Well
could he appeal alike to all the prejudices and all the foi-
bles of the human breast, and govern virtue through its
weaknesses. Lucy had been brought up, like the daugh-
ters of most country gentlemen of ancient family, in an
undue and idle consciousness of superior birth, and she was
far from inaccessible to the warmth and even feeling (for
here Brandon was sincere) with which her uncle spoke of
the duty of raising a gallant name sunk into disrepute, and
sacrificing our own inclinations, for the re-decorating the
mouldered splendor of those who have gone before us. If
the confusion of idea occasioned by a vague pomposity of
phrase, and the infant inculcation of a sentiment that is
mistaken for a virtue, so often makes fools of the wise on
the subject of ancestry; if it clouded even the sarcastic
and keen sense of Brandon himself, we may forgive its in-
fluence over a girl so little versed in the arts of sound
reasoning as poor Lucy, who, it may be said, had never
learnt to think until she had learnt to love. However, the
umpression made by Brandon, in his happiest moments of
persuasion, was a yet only transient; it vanished before
The first thought Clifford, and never suggested to ner
even a doubt as to the suit of Mauleverer.
Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity
When the day arrived for Sir William Brandon to se
out on the circuit, he called Barlow, and enjoined that acute
and intelligent servant the strictest caution with respect to
Lucy. He bade him deny her to every one of whatever
rank, and carefully to look into every newspaper that was
brought to her, as well as to withhold every letter, save
such as were addressed to her in the judge's own handwrit-
ing. Lucy's maid Brandon had already won over to silence;
and the uncle now pleased himself with thinking that he
had put an effectual guard to every chance of discovery.
The identity of Lovett with Clifford had not yet even been
rumored, and Mauleverer had rightly judged of Clifford,
when he believed the prisoner would himself take every
precaution against the detection of that fact. Clifford
answered the earl's note and promise, in a letter couched
in so affecting yet so manly a tone of gratitude, that even
Brandon was touched when he read it. And since his con-
finement and partial recovery of health, the prisoner had
kept himself closely secluded, and refused all visitors.
Encouraged by this reflection, and the belief in the safety
of his precautions, Brandon took leave of Lucy.
well!" said he, as he embraced her affectionately.
"Bo
sure that you write to me, and forgive me if I do not answer
you punctually. Take care of yourself, my sweet niece,
and let me see a fresher color on that soft cheek when ▾
return!"
<<
"Fare
"Take care of yourself rather, my dear, dear uncle,'
said Lucy, clinging to him and weeping, as of late her
weakened nerves caused her to do at the least agitation.
Why may I not go
not go with you? You have seemed to me
paler than usual, the last three or four days, and you com
plained yesterday. Do let me go with you; I will be no
trouble, none at all; but I am sure you require a nurse.'
“You want to frighten me, my pretty Lucy," said Bran-
don, shaking his head with a smile. "I am well, very
well: I felt a strange rush of blood toward the head yester
day, it is true; but I feel to-day, stronger and lighter that
I have done for years.
Once more, God bless you, my
child!
And Brandon tore himself away, and commenced his
journey.
The wandering and dramatic course of our story now
conducts us to an obscure lane in the metropolis, leading
to the Thames, and makes us spectators of an affecting
farewell between two persons, whom the injustice of fate,
and the persecutions of men, were about perhaps for ever
to divide.
Adieu, my friend!" said Augustus Tomlinson, as he
stood looking full on that segment of the face of Edward
Pepper, which was left unconcealed by a huge hat and a
red belcher handkerchief. Tomlinson himself was attired
in the full costume of a dignified clergyman.
"Adieu, my
friend, since you will remain in England,
adieu! I am,
I exult to say, no less sincere a patriot than you. Hea-
ven be my witness, how long I looked repugnantly on poor
Lovett's proposal, to quit my beloved country. But all
hope of life, here, is now over; and really, during the last
ten days, I have been so hunted from corner to corner, so
plagued with polite invitations, similar to those given by a
farmer's wife to her ducks, Dilly, dilly, dilly, come and
be killed!' that my patriotism has been prodigiously cool-
ed, and I no longer recoil from the thoughts of self-banish-
ment. The earth,' my dear Ned, as a Greck sage has
very well observed, the earth is the same every where!'
and if I am asked for my home, I can point, like Anaxa-
goras, to heaven!"
"Pon my soul, you affect me!" said Ned, speaking
thick, either from grief or the pressure of the belcher hand-
kerchief on his mouth; "it is quite beautiful to hear you
talk!"
"Bear up, my dear friend, continued Tomlinson,
"bear up against your present afflictions. What, to a
man, who fortifies himself by reason and by reflection on the
shortness of life, are the little calamities of the body?
What is imprisonment, or persecution, or cold, or hunger?
By the by, you did not forget to put the sandwiches in-
to my coat-pocket?"
"Hush!" whispered Ned, and he moved on involunta
rily; "I see a man at the other end of the street."
"Let us quicken our pace," said Tomlinson; and the
pair proceeded toward the river.
"And now," began Ned, who thought he might as wel
say something about himself, for bitherto August s, in the
PAUL CLIFFORD.
489
M
ardor of his friendship, had been only discussing his own
plans; "and now,
that is to say, when I leave you,
I shall hasten to dive for shelter, until the storm blows over.
I don't much like living in a cellar and wearing a smock-
frock, but those concealments have something interesting
in them, after all! the safest and snuggest place I know of,
is the Pays Bas, about Thames Court; so I think of hiring
an apartment under ground, and taking my meals at poor
Lovett's old quarters, the Mug,' the police will never
dream of looking in those vulgar haunts, for a man of my
fashion."
"You cannot then tear yourself from England?" said
Tomlinson.
No, hang it the fellows are so cursed unmanly on the
other side of the water. I hate their wine and their
parley woo. Besides, there is no fun there!"
Tomlinson, who was absorbed in his own thoughts,
made no comment on his friend's excellent reasons against
travel, and the pair now approached the brink of the river.
A boat was in waiting to receive and conduct to the vessel
in which he had taken his place for Calais, the illustrious
emigrant. But as Tomlinson's eye fell suddenly on the
rude boatman and the little boat, which were to bear him
away from his native land; as he glanced too across the
blue waters, which a brisk wind wildly agitated, and
thought how much rougher it would be at sea, where "his
soul &
invariably sickened at the heaving wave,
a
whole tide of deep and sorrowful emotions rushed upon
him.
He turned away: the spot on which he stood was a
piece of ground to be let (as a board proclaimed) upon a
building lease; below, descended the steps which were to
conduct him to the boat; around, the desolate and house-
less space allowed him to see, in far and broad extent, the
spires, and domes, and chimneys of the great city whose
inhabitants he might never plunder more. As he looked
and looked, the tears started to his eyes, and with a gust
of enthusiasm little consonant with his temperate and
philosophical character, he lifted his right hand from his
black breeches-pocket, and barst into the following fare-
well to the metropolis of his native shores.
CC
Farewell, my beloved London, farewell! Where
shall I ever find a city like you? Never, till now, did I
feel how inexpressibly dear you were to me. You have
been my father, and my brother, and my mistress, and my
tailor, and my shoemaker, and my hatter, and my cook,
hatter, and my cook,
and my wine merchant! You and I never misunderstood
each other. I did not grumble when I saw what fine
houses and good strong boxes you gave to other men. No!
I rejoiced at their prosperity. I delighted to see a rich
I delighted to see a rich
man, --my only disappointment was in stumbling on a
poor one. You gave riches to my neighbours; but, O
generous London, you gave those neighbours to me! Mag-
nificent streets, all Christian virtues abide within you!
Charity is as common as smoke! Where, in what corner
of the habitable world shall I find human beings with so
many superfluities? where shall I so easily decoy from
their benevolent credulity, those superfluities to myself?
God only knows, my dear, dear, darling London, what I
lose in you! O public charities! O public institutions!
O banks that belie mathematical axioms, and make lots
ut of nothing!-O show-rooms where Frenchmen are
expected to drink prussic acid like water!— O merciful
O merciful
spectators, who pursue the said Frenchmen to coal-holes,
if they refuse to be poisoned!-O ancient constitution
always to be questioned! — O modern improvements that
never answer!-O speculations!
O speculations! -O companies ! — O
usury laws which guard against usurers, by making as
many as possible! O churches in which no one profits,
save the parson and the old women that let pews of an
evening superb theatres, too small for parks, too
enormous for houses, which exclude comedy and comfort,
and have a monopoly for performing nonsense gigantically!
O houses of plaster built in a day! O palaces four
yards high, with a dome in the middle, meant to be in-
visible ! *- O shops worth thousands, and O shopkeepers
*We must not suppose this apostrophe to be an anachro-
nism! Tomlinson, of course, refers to some palace of his day.
One of the boxes Christmas boxes-given to the king by his
economical nation of shopkeepers. We suppose it is either
pulled down or blown down long ago: it is doubtless forgotten
by this time, except by antiquaries. Nothing is so ephemeral
as great houses built by the people. Your kings play the
deuse with their play ings!
not worth a shilling! -O system of credit, by which
beggars are princes, and princes are beggars !-O im-
prisonment for debt, which lets the mare be stolen, and
then locks up the bridle ! O sharpers, bubbles, senators,
beaux, taverns, brothels, clubs, houses private and public
alter
O LONDON, in a word, receive my last adieu! Long
may you flourish in peace and plenteousness! May your
knaves be witty, and your fools be rich! May you
only two things, your damnable tricks of transportation
and hanging! Those are your sole faults; but for those,
would never desert you. Adieu ! "
I
Here Tomlinson averted his head, and then hastily
shaking the hand of Long Ned with a tremulous and warm
grasp, he hurried down the stairs and entered the boat.
Ned remained motionless for some moments, following him
with his eyes, as he sat at the end of the boat, waving a
white pocket handkerchief. At length a line of barges
snatched him from the sight of the lingerer, and Ned
slowly turning away, muttered "Yes, I have always
heard that Dame Lobkins's was the safest asylum for mis-
fortune like mine. I will go forthwith in search of a
lodging, and to-morrow I will make my breakfast at the
'Mug.
Be it our pleasing task, dear reader, to forestall the good
robber, and return, at the hour of sunrise on the day fol
lowing Tomlinson's departure, to the scene at which our
story commenced. We are now once more at the house
of Mrs. Margery Lobkins.
The room which served so many purposes was still the
same as when Paul turned it into the arena of his mis-
chievous pranks. The dresser, with its shelves of mingled
delf and pewter, occupied its ancient and important sta-
tion.
tion. Only it might be noticed that the pewter was more
dull than of yore, and that sundry cracks made their erratic
wanderings over the yellow surface of the delf. The eye
of the mistress had become less keen than heretofore, and
the care of the handmaid had, of necessity, relaxed. The
tall clock still ticked in monotonous warning; the blanket-
screen, haply innocent of soap since we last described it,
many-storied, and poly-balladed, still unfolded its ample
leaves, "rich with the spoils of time." The spit and the
musket yet hung from the wall in amicable proximation.
And the long smooth form, "with many a holy text
thereon bestrewn," still afforded rest to the weary traveller,
and an object to the vacant stare of Mrs. Margery Lob-
kins, as she lolled in her opposite seat and forgot the
world. But poor Piggy Lob! there was the alteration!
The soul of the woman was gone! The spirit had evap-
orated from the human bottle! She sat with open mouth
and glassy eye in her chair, sidling herself to and fro, with
the low, peevish sound of fretful age and bodily pain:
sometimes this querulous murmur sharpened into a shrill
but unmeaning scold. "There now, you gallows bird,
you has taken the swipes without chalking; you wants to
cheat the poor widow; but I sees you, I does! Provi-
dence protects the aged and the innocent, - oh, oh! these
twinges will be the death o' me! Where's Martha ?
You jade, you! you wiperous hussey, bring the tape here,
does n't you see how I suffers? Has you no bowels, to let
a poor Chistin cretur perish for want o' help! That's the
way with 'em, that 's the way! No one cares for 1 now —
no one has respect for the gray 'airs of the old!" And
then the voice dwindled into the whimpering " tenor of
its way." Martha, a strapping wench, with red hair
streaming over her "hills of snow, was not, however,
inattentive to the wants of her mistress. "Who knows,"
said she to a man who sat by the hearth, drinking tea out
of a blue mug, and toasting with great care two or three
huge rounds of bread, for his own private and especial
nutriment- "who knows," said she, "what we may
come to ourselves?" and, so saying, she placed a glowing
tumbler by her mistress's elbow. But in the sunken pros-
tration of her intellect, the old woman was insensible even
to her consolation: she sipped and drank, it is true; but,
as if the stream warmed not the benumbed region through
which it passed, she continued muttering in a crazed and
groaning key,
"Is
Is this your gratitude, you sarpent' why
does not you bring the tape I tells
? Am I of a age to
drink water like à oss, you nasty thing? Oh, to think as
ever I should live to be desarted!”
you
Inattentive to these murmurs, which she felt unreasona-
ble, the bouncing Martha now quitted the room, to repair
to her upper household" avocations. The man at the
"
481
BULWER'S NOVELS.
3
hearth was the only comp anion lef to the widow. Gazing
at her for a moment, as she sat whining, with a rude
compassion in his eye, and slowly munching his toast which
he had now buttered, and placed in a delf plate on the hob,
this person thus soothingly began,
Ah, Dame Lobkins, if so be as ow little Paul vas a vith
you, it would be a gallows comfort to you in your latter
hend !"
The name of Paul made the good woman incline her head
toward the speaker; a ray of consciousness shot through
her bedulled brain.
"Little Paul, eh sirs! where is Paul? Paul, I say, my
ben-cull. Alack! he's gone, left his poor old nurse to
die like a cat in a cellar. Oh Dummie! never live to be
old, man! They leaves us to oursels, and then takes away
all the lush with 'em! I has not a drop o' comfort in the
varsal world!"
CC
|
Thereon he opened the paper with a fillip, and gave him
self up to the lecture. But the tall stranger, half rising
with a start, exclaimed, Can't you have the manners to
be communicative ?-do you think nobody cares about
Captain Lovett but yourself?
On this, Dummie turned round on his chair, and, with a
"Blow me tight, you 're velcome, I'm sure!" began as
follows:-
-(we copy the paper, not the diction of the
reader.)
The trial of the notorious Lovett commences this day.
Great exertions have been made by people of all classes to
procure seats in the town-hall, which will be full to a degree
never before known in this peaceful province. No less
than seven indictments are said to await the prisoner; it
has been agreed that the robbery of Lord Mauleverer should
be the first to come on. The principal witness in this case,
against the prisoner, is understood to be the king's evidence,
Dummie, who at this moment had his own reasons for Mac Grawler. No news, as yet, have been circulated con-
soothing the dame, and was anxious to make the most of cerning the suspected accomplices, Augustus Tomlinson and
the opportunity of a conversation as unwitnessed as the Edward Pepper. It is believed that the former has left the
present, replied tenderly; and with a cunning likely to pro- country, and that the latter is lurking among the low refuges
mote his end, reproached Paul bitterly for never having of guilt with which the heart of the metropolis abounds.
informed the dame of his whereabout and his proceedings. Report speaks highly of the person and manners of Lovett.
"But coine, dame," he wound up, come, I knows as how He is also supposed to be a man of some talent, and was
he is better nor all that, and that you need not beat your formerly engaged in an obscure periodical, edited by Mac
hold brains to think where he lies, or vot he's a doing. Grawler, and termed the Altenæum, or Asinæum. Never-
Blow me tight, Mother Lob,- I ax pardon, Mrs. Margery,theless, we apprehend that his origin is remarkably low,
I should say, — if I vould not give five bob, ay, and five to and suitable to the nature of his pursuits. The prisoner
the tail o' that, to know vot the poor lad is about; I takes will be most fortunate in a judge. Never did any one,
a mortal hinterest in that 'ere chap!
holding the same high office as Sir William Brandon, earn
"Oh! oh!" groaned the old woman, on whose palsied an equal reputation in so short a time. The whigs are ac-
sense the astute inquiries of Dummie Dunnaker fell harm-
customed to sneer at us, when we insist on the private virtues
less; "
my poor sinful carcase! what a way it be in! of our ministers. Let them look to Sir William Brandon,
Artfully again did Dummie Dunnaker, nothing defeated, and confess that the austerest morals may be linked with
renew his attack; but fortune does not always favor the the soundest knowledge and the most brilliant genius. The
wise, and it failed Dummie now, for a twofold reason: opening address of the learned judge to the jury at, is
first, because it was not possible for the dame to compre- perhaps the most impressive and solemn piece of eloquence
hend him; secondly, because even if it had been, she had in the English language!" A cause for this eulogium
nothing to reveal. Some of Clifford's pecuniary gifts had might haply be found in another
might haply be found in another part of the paper, in which
been conveyed anonymously, all without direction or date; it was said, "Among the higher circles, we understand, the
and, for the most part, they had been appropriated by the rumor has gone forth, that Sir William Brandon is to be
sage Martha, into whose hands they fell, to her own private re-called to his old parliamentary career in a more elevated
uses. Nor did the dame require Clifford's grateful charity;
scene. So highly are this gentleman's talents respected by
for she was a woman tolerably well off in this world, con- his majesty and the ministers, that they are, it is reported,
sidering how near she was waxing to another. Longer,
Longer, anxious to secure his assistance in the cabinet, and of course,
however, might Dummie have tried his unavailing way, as his station precludes him from the Commons, in the
had not the door of the inn creaked on its hinges, and the House of Lords!"
bulky form of a tall man in a smock-frock, but with a re-
markably fine head of hair, darkened the threshold. He
honored the damne, who cast on him a lack-lustre eye, with
a sulky, yet ambrosial nod, seized a bottle of spirits and a
tumbler, lighted a candle, drew a small German pipe and
a tobacco-box from his pouch, placed these several luxuries
on a small table, wheeled it to a far corner of the room,
and throwing himself into one chair, and his legs into
another, he enjoyed the result of his pains in a moody and
supercilious silence. Long and earnestly did the meek
Long and earnestly did the meek
Dummie gaze on the face of the gentleman before him. It
had been some years since he had last beheld it; but it was
one which did not easily escape the memory; and although
its proprietor was a man who had risen in the world,
and gained the height of his profession, (a station far be-
yond the diurnal sphere of Dummie Dunnaker,) and the
humble purloiner was therefore astonished to encounter him
in these lower regions; yet Dummie's recollection carried
him back to a day when they had gone shares together
without respect of persons, and been right jolly partners
in the practical game of beggar my neighbour. While,
however, Dummie Dunnaker, who was a little inclined to
be shy, deliberated as to the propriety of claiming ac-
quaintanceship, a dirty boy, with a face which betokened
the frost, as Dummie himself said, like a plum dying of
the scarlet fever, entered the room, with a newspaper in
his dexter paw. "Great news,- great news!" cried
the urchin, imitating his vociferous originals in the street;
"all about the famous Captain Lovett, as large as life!"
"Old your blarney, you blattergowl!" said Dummie,
rebukingly, and seizing the journal.
"Master says as how he must have it to send to Clap-
ham, and can't spare it for more than a 'our!" said the
boy, as he withdrew.
"I'members the day," said Dummie, with the zeal of a
clansman, "when the Mug took a paper all to itsel', in-
stead of 'iring it by the job like!"
When Dummie had spelt his "toilsome march" through
the first of the above extracts, he turned round to the tall
stranger, and eyeing him with a sort of winking significance,
said,
So, Mac Grawler peaches, blows the gaff on his pals,
eh! Vel now, I always suspected that 'ere son of a gun!
Does you know, he used to be at the Mug many's a day, a
teaching our little Paul, and says I to Piggy Lob, says I,
Blow me tight, but that cove is a queer one! and if he
does not come to be scragged,' says I, 'it vill only be be-
cause he'll turn a rusty, and scrag one of his pals!' So
you sees, (here Dummie looked round and his voice sank
into a whisper,) - so you sees, Meester Pepper, I vas no
fool there!
Long Ned dropped his pipe, and said sourly, and with a
suspicious frown, "What you know me?"
"To be sure and sartin I does,” answered little Dum-
mie, walking to the table where the robber sat.
" Does
not
""
know I ?
you
Ned regarded the interrogator with a sullen glance, which
gradually brightened into knowledge. “Ah!” said he, with
the air of a Brummel, " Mr. Bummie, or Dummie, I think,
eh! Shake a paw, I'm glad to see you, recollect the
last time I saw you, you rather affronted me. Never mind.
I dare say you did not mean it."
Encouraged by this affable reception from the highway-
man, though a little embarrassed by Ned's allusion to former
conduct on his part, which he felt was just, Dummie grinned,
pushed a stool near Ned, sat himself down, and carefully
avoiding any immediate answer to Ned's complaint, he
rejoined:
bu
"Do you know, Meester Pepper, you struck I all of a
heap. I could not have sposed as how you'd condescend
now-a-days to come to the Mug, vhere I never seed you
vonce before. Lord love ye, they says as 'ow you go to al
the fine places in ruffles, with a pair of silver pops in your
vaistcoat pocket! Vy, the boys hereabouts say, unt you
PAUL CLIFFORD.
481
and Meester Tomlinson, and this 'ere poor devil in quod,
vere the finest gemmen in town; and Lord, for to think of
your civility to a pitiful rag-marchant, like I!"
"Ah!" said Ned gravely, "there are sad principles
afloat now. They want to do away with all distinctions in
ranks, to make a duke no better than his valet, and a
gentleman highwayman class with a filcher of fogles. But,
damme if I don't think misfortune levels us all quite enough:
and misfortune brings me here, little Dummie!"
"Ah!
<<
you vants to keep out of the vay of the bulkies!"
Right. Since poor Lovett was laid by the heels, which
I must say was the fault of his own deused gentlemanlike
behaviour to me and Augustus (you 've heard of Guz, you
say) the kno. of us seems quite broken. One's own friends
ook inclined to play one false; and really, the queer cuffins
over so sharply upon us, that I thought it safe to duck for
a time. So I have taken a lodging in a cellar, and I intend
for the next three months to board at the 'Mug.' I have
heard that I may be sure of lying snug here : Dummie,
your health! Give us the baccy!"
"I say, Meester Pepper," said Dummie, clearing his
throat, when he had obeyed the request, can you tell I, if
so be you as met in your travels our little Paul? Poor chap!
You knows as ow and vy he vas sent to quod by Justice
Burnflat. Vel, ven he got out, he vent to the devil, or
summut like it, and ve have not eard a vord of him since.
You members the lad, — a nation fine cull, tall and strait
as a harrow!"
"Why, you fool," said Ned, "do 'nt you know,"
then checking himself suddenly," ah! by the by, that
"ah! by the by, that
rigmarole oath! I was not to tell; though now it's past
caring for, I fear! It is no use looking after the seal when
the letter's burnt.”
"Blow me," cried Dunnaker, with unaffected vehemence,
I sees as ow you know vots come of he! Many's the
good turn I'll do you, if you vill but tell I.”
tt
Why, does he owe you a dozen bobs;† or what, Dum-
mnie?" said Ned.
J
"Not he,
not he," cried Dummie.
"What then, you want to do him a mischief of some
sort?"
t
pane in the kitchen-vindow. You vas the least of us, big
as you be now; and you vent round, and opened the door
for us; and ven you had opened the door, you saw a voman
had joined us, and you vere a funked then, and stayed vith-
out the crib; to keep vatch vhile ve vent in."
re
'Well, well," cried Ned, "what the devil has all this
rigmarole got to do with Paul?"
"Now don't be glimflashey, but let me go on smack
right about. Vel, ven ve came out, you minds as ow the
voman had a bundle in her arms, and you spake to her:
and she answered you roughly, and left us all, and venɩ
* that wery
straight home; and ve vent and fenced the swag
night, and afterwards napped the regulars. † And sure you
made us laugh artily, Meester Pepper, vhen you said, says
'That 'ere voman is a rum blowen!
So she was,
Meester Pepper!
you,
"Oh spare me," said Ned, affectedly, "and make haste;
you keep me all in the dark. By the way, I remember
that you joked me about the bundle; and when I asked
what the woman had wrapped in it, you swore it was a
child. Rather more likely that the girl, whoever she was,
would have left a child behind her, than carried one off!'
The face of Dummie waxed big with conscious impor-
tance.
"Vel now, you vould not believe us; but it vas all true;
that 'ere bundle vas the voman's child, I spose an unnatu-
ral von by the gemman: she let us into the ouse on condi-
tion ve helped her off vith it. And, blow me tight but ve
paid ourselves vel for our trouble. That 'ere voman vas a
strange cretur; they say she had been a lord's blowen; but
howsomever, she was as ot-eaded and hodd as if she ad
been. There vas hold Nick's hown row made on the mat-
ter, and the revard for our (de)tection vas so great, that
as you vas not much tried yet, Harry thought it best for to
take you with im down to the country, and told you as ow
it was all a flam about the child in the bundle !
"Faith," said Ned, "I believed him readily enough;
poor Harry was twisted shortly after, and I went into
Ireland for safety, where I stayed two years, and deused
good claret I got there!
and
"
"So, vhiles you vas there," continued Dummie, "poor
Judy, the voman died, she died in this wery ouse and
left the horphan to the (af)fection of Piggy Lob, who
was nation fond of it, surely! Oh! but I 'members vot a
“Do little Paul a mischief!" ejaculated Dummie; "vy
I've known the cull ever since he was that high! No,
but I vants to do him a great sarvice, Meester Pepper, and
myself too,- and you to boot, for aught that I know, Mees-night it vas vhen poor Judy died; the vind vhistled like
ter Pepper
CC
Humph!" said Ned; "humph! what do you mean?
I do, it is true, know where Paul is; but you must tell me
first, why you wish to know, otherwise you may ask your
grandfather for me.
A long, sharp, wistful survey did Mr. Dummie Dunnaker
cast around him before he rejoined. All seemed safe and
convenient for confidential communication The supine
features of Mrs. Lobkins were hushed in a drowsy stupor:
even the gray cat that lay by the fire, was curled in the
by the fire, was curled in the
embrace of Morpheus. Nevertheless, it was in a close
whisper that Duminie spoke.
"Í dares be bound, Meester Pepper, that you 'members
vell vhen Harry Cook, the great highwayman,-poor fellow!
he's gone vhere ve must all go, brought you, then quite
a gossoon, for the first time, to the little back parlour, at
the Cock and Hen, Devereux Court."
Ned nodded assent.
mad, and the rain tumbled about as if it ad got a holiday:
and there the poor cretur lay raving just over ed of this
room we sits in! Laus a me, vot a sight it vas !"'
Here Dummie paused, and seemed to recall in imagina-
tion the scene he had witnessed; but over the mind of Long
Ned a ray of light broke slowly.
"Whew!" said he, lifting up his fore-finger, "whew!
I smell a rat; this stolen child, then, was no other than
Paul; but, pray, to whom did the house belong? for that
fact Harry never communicated to me. I only heard the
owner was a lawyer, or parson, or some such thing!"
"Vy now, I'll tell you, but don't be glimflashey.. So,
you see, ven Judy died, and Harry vas scragged, I was the
only von living who vas up to the secret; and when Mother
Lob vas a taking a drop to comfort her vhen Judy vent off,
I hopens a great box in which poor Judy kept her duds
and rattletraps, and surely I finds at the bottom of the box
hever so many letters and sich like, for I knew as ow
"And you 'members as how I met Harry and you there, they vas there; so I vhips these off and carries 'em ome
and I was all afeared at you, -cause vy? I had never with me, and soon arter, Mother Lob sold me the box o'
seen you afore, and ve vas a going to crack a swell's crib.§| duds for two quids,
'cause vy? I vas a rag-marchant !
And Harry spoke up for you, and said as ow, though you So now, I 'solved, since the secret vas all in my hown
had just gone on the town, you as already prime up to gain-keeping, to keep it as tight as vinkey! for first, you sees
mon you 'members, eh?"
as ow I vas afeared I should be anged if I vent for to tell,
'cause vy ? I stole a vatch, and lots more, as well as
the hurchin and next, I vas afeared as ow the mother
might come back and haunt me the same as Sall haunted
Villy, for it vas a orrid night vhen her soul took ving. And
hover and above this, Meester Pepper, I thought summut
might turn hup by and by, in which it vould be best for I
to keep my hown counsel and nab the revard, if I hever
durst make myself known.”
Ah, I remember all," said Ned; "it was the first and
only house I ever had a hand in breaking into. Harry was
a fellow of low habits, so I dropped his acquaintance, and
took solely to the road, or a chance ingenuity now and then.
I have no idea of a gentleman turning cracksman."||
"Vel, so you vent with us, and we slipped you through a
* Pickpockets.
† Shillings.
The reader hus probably observed the use made by Dum-
mie and Mrs. Lobkins of Irish phraseology or pronunciation.
This is a remarkable trait in the dialect of the lowest orders
in London, owing, we suppose, to their constant association
with emigrants from "the first flower of the earth." Perhaps
It is a modish affectation among the gentry of St. Giles's, just
as we eke out our mother-tongue with French at Mayfair.
& Break into a gentleman's house.
Burglar.
Here Dummie proceeded to narrate how frightened ħ
had been lest Ned should discover all; when (as it
may be
remembered, Pepper informed Paul at the beginning of
this history) he encountered that worthy at Dame Lobkins'
Sold the booty
Took our shares.
486
BULWER'S NOVELS.
house, how this fear had induced him to testify to Pep-
per that coldness and rudeness which had so enraged the
haughty highwayman, and hov great had been his relief
and delight at finding that Ne returned to the Mug no
more. He next proceeded to inform his new confidant of
his meeting with the father, (the sagacious reader knows
where and when,) and of what took place at that event.
He said how, in his first negotiation with the father, pru-
dently resolving to communicate drop by drop such infor-
mation as he possessed, he merely, besides confessing to a
share in the robbery, stated that he thought he knew the
house, &c. to which the infant had been consigned, — and
that, if so, it was still alive; but that he would inquire.
He then related how the sanguine father, who saw that
hanging Dummie for the robbery of his house might not be
half so likely a method to recover his son as bribery and
conciliation, not only forgave him his former outrage, but
whetted his appetite to the search by rewarding him for
his disclosure. He then proceeded to state how, unable
anywhere to find Paul, or any trace of him, he amused the
sire from time to time with forged excuses; - -how, at first,
the sums he received made him by no means desirous to
expedite a discovery that would terminate such satisfactory
receipts; how at length the magnitude of the proffered
reward, joined to the threats of the sire, had made him
become seriously anxious to learn the real fate and present
"whereabout" of Paul; -how, the last time he had
seen the father, he had, by way of propitiation and first-
fruit, taken to him all the papers left by the unhappy moth-
er and secreted by himself; and how he was now delighted
to find that Ned was acquainted with Paul's address.
Since he despaired of finding Paul by his own exertions
alone, he became less tenacious of his secret, and he now
proffered Ned, on discovery of Paul, a third of that re-
ward the whole of which he had once hoped to engross.
Ned's eyes and mouth opened at this proposition.
the name,
the name of the father? you have not told me
that yet!" cried he impatiently.
tr
"But
Noa, noa!" said Dummie archly, "I doesn't tell
you all, till you tells I summut. Vhere's little Paul, 1 say;
and vhere be us to get at him?"
Ned heaved a sigh.
>>
As for the oath," said he, musingly, "it would be a
sin to keep it, now that to break it can do him no harm,
and may do him good! especially as, in case of imprison-
ment or death, the oath is not held to be binding; yet 1
fear it is too late for the reward. The father will scarcely
thank you for finding his son ! Know, Dummie, that
Paul is in
goal, and that he is one and the same
person as Captain Lovett ! "
Astonishment never wrote in more legible characters
than she now displayed on the rough features of Duininie
Dunnaker. So strong are the sympathies of a profession
compared with all others, that Duminie's first, confused
thought was that of pride. "The great Captain Lovett!"
he faltered. "Little Paul at the top of the profession!
Lord, Lord !—I always said as how he 'd the hambition to
he'd
rise! "
66
Well, well, but the father's name?
At this question, the expression of Dummie's face fell,
a sudden horror struggled to his eyes,
*
*
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Why is it, that at moments, there creeps over us an awe, a
terror, overpowering but undefined? Why is it that we shud-
Why is it that we shud-
der without a cause, and feel the warm life-blood stand still in
Its courses? Are the dead too near?
*
*
*
*
FALKLAND.
*
Ha! sayest thou? Hideous thought, I feel it twine
O'er my iced heart, as curls around his prey
The sure and deadly serpent!
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
What in the hush and in the solitude
Pass'd that dread soul away?
Love and Hatred.
THE evening prior to that morning in which the above
conversation occurred, Brandon passed alone in his lodg-
ing at
He had felt himself too unwell to attend the
customary wassail, and he sat indolently musing in the
solitude of the old-fashioned chamber to which he was con-
signed.
signed. There, two wax-candles on the smooth, quaint
table, dimly struggled against the gloom of heavy pannels,
which were relieved at unfrequent intervals by portraits in
oaken frames, dingy, harsh, and important with the pomp
of laced garments and flowing wigs. The predilection of
the landlady for modern tastes had, indeed, on each side ot
the huge fireplace suspended more novel masterpieces of
the fine arts. In emblematic gorgeousness hung the pic
tures of the Four Seasons, buxom wenches all, save Win
ter, who was deformingly bodied forth in the likeness of an
aged earl.
aged earl. These were interspersed by an engraving of
Lord Mauleverer, the lieutenant of the neighbouring coun-
ty, looking extremely majestical in his peer's robes; and
by three typifications of Faith, Hope, and Charity,- ladies
with whom it may be doubted if the gay earl ever before
cultivated so close an intimacy. Curtains, of that antique
chintz in which fasces of stripes are alternated by rows of
flowers, filled the interstices of three windows; a heavy
sideboard occupied the greater portion of one side of the
room; and on the opposite side, in the rear of Brandon, a
vast screen stretched its slow length along, and relieved
the unpopulated and, as it were, desolate confort of the
apartment.
Pale and imperfectly streamed the light upon Brandon's
face, as he sat in his large chair, leaning his cheek on one
hand, and gazing with the unconscious earnestness of ab-
straction on the clear fire. At that moment, a whole pha-
lanx of gloomy thought was sweeping in successive array
across his mind. His early ambition, his ill-omezed mar-
riage, the causes of his after-rise in the wrong-judging
world, the first dawn of his reputation, his rapid and flat-
tering successes, his present elevation, his aspiring hope of
far higher office, and more patrician honors, all these
phantoms passed before him in checkered shadow and
light but ever with each stalked one disquieting and dark
remembrance, the loss of his only son.
—
Weaving his ambition with the wish to revive the pride
of his hereditary name, every acquisition of fortune or of
fame rendered him yet more anxious to find the only one
who could perpetuate these hollow distinctions to his race.
"I shall recover him yet!" he broke out suddenly and
aloud. As he spoke, a quick,-darting, spasinodic
pain ran shivering through his whole frame, and then fixed
for one instant on his heart with a gripe like the talons of
a bird it passed away, and was followed by a deadly
sickness. Brandon rose, and filling himself a large tum-
bler of water, drank with avidity. The sickness passed off
like the preceding pain; but the sensation had, of late,
been often felt by Brandon, and disregarded, for few
persons were less afflicted with the self-torture of hypo-
chondria; but now, that night, whether it was more keen
than usual, or whether his thought had touched on the string
that jars naturally on the most startling of human anticipa-
tions, we know not, but, as he resumed his seat, the idea
of his approaching dissolution shot like an icebolt through
his breast.
awe.
So intent was this scheming man upon the living objects
of the world, and so little were his thoughts accustomed to
turn toward the ultimate goal of all things, that this idea
obtruding itself abruptly on him, startled him with a ghastly
He felt the color rush from his cheek, and a tingling
and involuntary pain ran wandering through the channels
of his blood, even from the roots of the hair to the soles of
his feet. But the stern soul of Brandon was not one which
shadows could long affright. He nerved himself to meet
the grim thought thus forced upon his mental eye, and he
gazed on it with a steady and enduring look.
Well," thought he," is my hour coming, or have I yet
the ordinary term of mortal nature to expect?
It is true,
I have lately suffered these strange revulsions of the frame
with somewhat of an alarming frequency: perhaps this
medicine, which healed the anguish of one infirmity, has
produced another more immediately deadly? Yet why
should I think this? My sleep is sound and calm, my
habits temperate, my mind active and clear as in its best
days. In my youth, I never played the traitor with my
constitution; why should it desert me at the very threshold
of my age
? Nay, nay, these are but passing twitches,
chills of the blood that begins to wax thin. Shall I learn
to be less rigorous in my diet? Perhaps wine may reward
PAUL CLIFFORD.
487
―
MY DEAR SIR,
my austinence, avoiding it for my luxuries, by beaming | earl's coronet, and decorated on either side with those
He then tore open
a cordial to my necessities! Ay, I will consult, I will supporters so dear to heraldic taste.
consult, I must not die yet. I have,
let me see, three, the letter, and read as follows:-
four grades to gain before the ladder is scaled. And,
above all, I must regain my child! Lucy married to Mau-
leverer, myself a peer, my son wedded to -- whom? Pray
God he be not married already! iny nephews and my chil-
dren nobles! the house of Brandon restored, my power
high in the upward gaze of men; my fame set on a more
lasting basis than a skill in the quirks of law, these are
yet to conne, these I will not die till I have enjoyed! Men
die not till their destinies are fulfilled. The spirit that
swells and soars within me, says that the destiny of Wil-
'am Brandon is but half begun!
>>
With this conclusion, Brandon sought his pillow. What
were the reflections of the prisoner whom he was to judge?
Need we ask? Let us picture to ourselves his shattered
health, the languor of sickness heightening the gloom which
makes the very air of a gaol,
air of a gaol, his certainty of the doom
to se passed against him, his knowledge that the uncle of
Lucy Brandon was to be his judge, that Mauleverer was
ɔ be his accuser; and that in all human probability the
only woman he had ever loved must sooner or later learn
the criminality of his life and the ignominy of his death ;
let us but glance at the above blackness of circumstances
that surrounded him, and it would seem that there is but
little doubt as to the complexion of his thoughts! Perhaps
indeed, even in that terrible and desolate hour, one sweet
face shone on him, "and dashed the darkness all away.
Perhaps too, whatever might be the stings of his con-
science, one thought, one remembrance of a temptation
mastered, and a heart not wronged, brought to his eyes
tears that were sweet and healing in their source. But the
heart of a man in Clifford's awful situation is dark and in-
scrutable, and often when the wildest and gloomiest exter-
nal circumstances surround us, their reflection sleeps like
a shadow, calm and still upon the mind.
The next morning the whole town of *** (a town in
which, we regret to say, an accident once detained our-
self for three wretched days, and which we can, speaking
therefore from profound experience, assert to be in ordi-
nary times the most melancholy and peopleless-looking
congregation of houses that a sober imagination can con-
ceive) exhibited a scene of such bustle, animation, and
jovial anxiety, as the trial for life or death to a fellow-
creature can alone excite in the phlegmatic breasts of the
English. Around the court the crowd thickened with
every moment, until the whole market-place, in which the
town-hall was situated, became one living mass. The win-
dows of the houses were filled with women, some of whom
had taken that opportunity to make parties to breakfast ;
and little round tables, with tea and toast on them, caught
the eyes
of the grinning mobbists as they gaped impatiently
upwards.
"Ben," said a stout yeoman, tossing up a half-penny,
and catching the said coin in his right hand, which he im-
mediately covered with the left, Ben, heads or tails
that Lovett is hanged; heads hanged, tails not, for a
crown."
"Petticoats, to be sure," quoth Ben, eating an apple;
and it was heads!
"Damme, you've lost!" cried the yeoman, rubbing
his rough hands with glee. So much for the good hearts |
of your lower classes! Out on the beastliness of the
pseudo-liberals, who cry up the virtues of the poor. If
they are virtuous, why would you reform them? 't is be-
cause they are not virtuous that you should look to the laws
that oppress them, and the ignorance that deludes!
It would have been a fine sight for Asmodeus, could he
have perched on one of the housetops of the market-place
of, and looked on the murmuring and heaving sea
of mortality below. Oh! the sight of a crowd round a
court of law, or a gibbet, ought to make the devil split
himself with laughter.
|
"You know that, in the last conversation I had the
honor to hold with you, I alluded, though perhaps some-
|
what distantly, to the esteem which his majesty had per-
sonally expressed for your principles and talents; and his
wish to testify it at the earliest opportunity. I am most
happy to think I have it in my power to offer you, by com-
mand of his majesty, such a situation in the cabinet, as
will be worthy of your reputation and genius. Mr.
has just tendered his resignation of the office of chancello
of the exchequer, and I lose not a moment in requesting you
to supply the place thus vacated. You will remember, my
dear Sir William, that it is an office that has before been
auspiciously, though too briefly, filled by an ornament of
your profession; your principles, your loyalty, and your
talents these are his majesty's own words, -'make
you a worthy successor of the great Lord Mansfield.'
There will be, as you are doubtless aware, an immediate
creation of four peerages. Your name stands second on
the list. The choice of title his majesty graciously leaves
to you but he has hinted, that the respectable antiquity
your family would make him best pleased, were you to
select the name of your own family-seat, which, if I mis
take not, is Warlock. You will instruct me at your leis-
ure as to the inanner in which the patent should be made
out, touching the succession, &c. Perhaps (excuse the
license of an old friend) this event may induce
you to for.
sake your long-cherished celibacy.
of
CC
>
"With great consideration,
"Believe me, my dear sir,
Very truly yours,
(Private and confidential.)"
ઝ
Brandon's dark eye glanced quickly from the signature
of the premier, affixed to this communication, toward
the mirror opposite him. He strode to it, and examined
his own countenance with a long and wistful gaze. Never,
we think, did youthful gallant about to repair to the tryst-
ing spot, in which fair looks make the greatest of earthly
advantages, gaze more anxiously on the impartial glass,
than now did the ascetic and scornful judge; and never,
we ween, did the eye of the said gallant retire with a more
satisfied and triumphant expression.
"Yes, yes!" muttered the judge, "no sign of infirmity is
yet written here; the blood flows clear and warm enough,the
cheek looks firm too, and passing full, for one who was
always of the lean kind. Aha! this letter is a cordial, an
elixir vite. I feel as if a new lease were granted to the
reluctant tenant. Lord Warlock, the first baron of
Warlock, chancellor of the exchequer. Why not the
woolsack?"
As he spoke, he strode unconsciously away: folding his
arms with that sort of joyous and complacent gesture,
which implies the idea of a man hugging himself in a silent
delight. Assuredly, had the most skilful physician then
looked upon the ardent and all-lighted face, the firm step,
the elastic and muscular frame, the vigorous air of Bran-
don, as he mentally continued his soliloquy, he would have
predicted for him as fair a grasp on longevity, as the
chances of mortal life will allow. He was interrupted by
the servant entering.
"It is twenty-five minutes after nine, sir," said ne, re-
spectfully.
Sir, sir!" repeated Brandon. "An, wul! so
late!
CC
Yes, sir, and the sheriff's carriage is almost at the
door."
CC
Humph,― minister,- peer,-
― peer,― Warlock, succession.
- My son, my son ! —- - would to God that I could find
thee!"
While the mob was fretting, and pushing, and swearing,
and grinning, and betting, and picking pockets, and tramp- Such were Brandon's last thoughts as he left the room.
ling feet, and tearing gowns, and scrambling nearer and It was with great difficulty, so dense was the crowd, that
nearer to the doors and windows of the court, Brandon the judge drove up to the court. As the carriage slowly
was slowly concluding his abstemious repast preparatory passed, the spectators pressed to the windows of the vehi-
to attendance on his judicial duties. His footman entered cle, and stood on tiptoe to catch a view of the celebrated
with a letter. Sir William glanced rapidly over the seal, lawyer. Brandon's face, never long indicative of his feat
(one of those immense sacrifices of wax used at that day,)ings, had now settled into its usual gravity, and the severe
adorned with a huge coat of arms, surmounted with an luftiness of his look chilled, while it satisfied the curiosity
488
BULWER'S NOVELS.
of the vulgar. It had been ordered that no person should
be admitted until the judge had taken his seat on the
bench; and this order occasioned so much delay, owing to
the accumulated pressure of the vast and miscellaneous
group, that it was more than half an hour before the
court was able to obtain that decent order suiting the so-
lemnity of the occasion. At five minutes before ten, a
universal and indescribable movement announced that the
prisoner was put to the bar. We read in one of the
journals of that day, that "on being put to the bar, the
prisoner looked round with a long and anxious gaze,
which at length settled on the judge, and then dropped,
while the prisoner was observed to change countenance
slightly. Lovett was dressed in a plain dark suit; he
seemed to be about six feet high; and, though thin and
worn, probably from the effect of his wound and imprison-
ment, he is remarkably well made, and exhibits the out-
ward appearance of that great personal strength which he
is said to possess, and which is not unfrequently the char-
acteristic of daring criminals. His face is handsome and
prepossessing, his eyes and hair dark, and his complexion
pale, possibly from the effects of his confinement there
was a certain sternness in his countenance during the
greater part of the trial. His behaviour was remarkably
collected and composed. The prisoner listened, with the
greatest attention, to the indictment, which the reader will
find in another part of our paper, charging him with the
highway robbery of Lord Mauleverer, on the night of the
last. He occasionally inclined his body
forward, and turned his ear toward the court; and he was
observed, as the jury were sworn, to look steadily in the
face of each. He breathed thick and hard when the vari-
ous aliases he had assumed, Howard, Cavendish, Jackson,
&c. were read; but smiled, with an unaccountable ex-
pression, when the list was completed, as if exulting at the
varieties of his ingenuity. At twenty-five minutes past
ten, Mr. Dyebright, the counsel for the crown, stated the
case to the jury.'
of
Mr. Dyebright was a lawyer of great eminence; he had
been a Whig all his life, but had latterly become remark-
able for his insincerity, and subservience to the wishes of
the higher powers. His talents were peculiar and effect-
ive. If he had little eloquence, he had much power; and
his legal knowledge was sound and extensive. Many of
his brethren excelled him in display; but no one, like him,
possessed the secret of addressing a jury. Winningly famil-
iar, seemingly candid to a degree that scarcely did justice
to his cause, as if he were in an agony lest he should per-
suade you to lean a hair-breadth more on his side of the
case than justice would allow; apparently all made up of
good, homely, virtuous feeling; a disinterested regard for
truth; a blunt yet tender honesty, seasoned with a few ami-
able fireside prejudices, which always come home to the
hearts of your fathers of families and thorough-bred Brit-
ons; versed in all the niceties of language, and the magic
of names; if he were defending crime, carefully calling it
misfortune; if attacking misfortune, constantly calling it
crime; Mr. Dyebright was exactly the man born to pervert
justice, to tickle jurors, to cozen truth with a friendly smile,
and to obtain a vast reputation as an excellent advocate.
He began by a long preliminary flourish on the importance
of the case. He said that he should, with the most scru-
pulous delicacy, avoid every remark calculated to raise un-
necessary prejudice against the prisoner. He should not
allude to his unhappy notoriety, his associations with the
lowest dregs. (Here up jumped the counsel for the pris-
oner, and Mr. Dyebright was called to order.) - "God
knows," resumed the learned gentleman, looking wistfully
at the jury," that my learned friend might have spared
himself this warning. God knows, that I would rather
fifty of the wretched inmates of this county gaol were to
escape unharmed, than that a hair of the prisoner you be-
hold at the bar should be unjustly touched. The life of a
numan being is at stake; we should be guilty ourselves of
a crime, which on our death beds we should tremble to re-
call, were we to suffer any consideration, whether of inter-
est or of prejudice, or of undue fear for our own properties
and lives, to bias us even to the turning of a straw against
the unfortunate prisoner. Gentlemen, if you find me
travelling a single inch from my case; if you find me say
ing a single word calculated to harm the prisoner in your
eyes, and unsupported by the evidence I shall call, then I
plore vou not to depend upon the vigilance of my learned
|
friend; but to treasure these my errors in your recollection,
and to consider them as so many arguments in favor of the
prisoner. If, gentlemen, I could, by any possibility, im-
agine that your verdict would be favorable to the prisoner,
I can, unaffectedly and from the bottom of my heart, de-
clare to you that I should rejoice; a case might be lost,
but a fellow-creature would be saved! Callous as we of
the legal profession are believed, we have feelings like
you; and I ask any one of you, gentlemen of the jury, any
one who has ever felt the pleasures of social intercourse,
the joy of charity, the heart's reward of benevolence,
I ask any one of you, whether, if he were placed in the
arduous situation I now hold, all the persuasions of vanity
would not vanish at once from his mind, and whether his
defeat as an advocate would not be rendered dear to him
by the common and fleshly sympathies of a man! But,
gentlemen, (Mr. Dyebright's voice at once deepened
and faltered,)—there is a duty, a painful duty, we owe to
our country; and never, in the long course of my profes
sional experience, do I remember an instance in which it
was more called forth than in the present. Mercy, gen-
tlemen, is dear, very dear to us all; but it is the deadliest
injury we can inflict on mankind, when it is bought at the
expense of justice."
4
Ma
P
The learned gentleman then, after a few further prefato-
ry observations, proceeded to state how, on the night of
last, Lord Mauleverer was stopped and robbed by
three men masked, of a sum of money amounting to
above three hundred and fifty pounds, a diamond snuff-box,
rings, watch, and a case of most valuable jewels, how
Lord Mauleverer, in endeavouring to defend himself, had
passed a bullet through the clothes of one of the robbers,-
how, it would be proved, that the garments of the pris-
oner, found in a cave in Oxfordshire, and positively sworn
to by a witness he should produce, exhibited a rent similar
to such a one as a bullet would produce, how, moreover,
it would be positively sworn to by the same witness, that
the prisoner Lovett had come to the cavern with two accom-
plices not yet taken up, since their rescue by the prisoner,
and boasted of the robbery he had just committed; that in
the clothes and sleeping apartment of the robber, the
articles stolen from Lord-Mauleverer were found, and that
the purse containing the notes for three hundred pounds,
the only thing the prisoner could probably have obtained
time to carry off with him on the morning in which the
cave was entered by the policemen, was found on his
person on the day in which he had attempted the rescue of
his comrades, and had been apprehended in that attempt.
He stated, moreover, that the dress found in the cavern, and
sworn to by one witness he should produce, as belonging
to the prisoner, answered exactly to the description of the
clothes worn by the principal robber, and sworn to by
Mauleverer, his servant, and the postilions. In like man
ner, the color of one of the horses found in the cavern,
corresponded with that rode by the highwayman. On
these circumstantial proofs, aided by the immediate test.-
mony of the king's evidence, (that witness whom ha
should produce,) he rested a case which could, he averred,
leave no doubt on the minds of any impartial jury. Sucb,
briefly and plainly alleged, made the substance of the de-
tails entered into by the learned counsel, who then proceed-
ed to call his witnesses. The evidence of Lord Maule-
verer (who was staying at Mauleverer Park, which was
within a few miles of
) was short and clear; (se
was noticed as a singular circumstance, that at the end of
the evidence, the prisoner bowed respectfully to his lora-
ship.) The witness of the postilions and of the valet was
no less concise; nor could all the ingenuity of Clifford's
counsel shake any part of their evidence in his cross-
examination. The main witness depended on by the crown
was now summoned, and the solemn countenance of Peter
Mac Grawler rose on the eyes of the jury. One look of
cold and blighting contempt fell on him from the eye of the
prisoner, who did not again deign to regard him, during
the whole of his examination.
The witness of Mac Grawler was delivered with a pom-
posity worthy of the ex-editor of the Asinæum. Never-
theless, by the skill of Mr. Dyebright, it was rendered
sufficiently clear a story to leave an impression on the jury
damnatory to the interests of the prisoner. The counsel
on the opposite side was not slow in perceiving the ground
acquired by the adverse party; so, clearing his throat, he
rose with a sneering air to the cross-examination
PAUL CLIFFORD.
489
"So, so!" began Mr. Botheram, putting on a pair of
remarkably large spectacles, wherewith he truculently re-
garded the witness "So, 80, Mr. Mac Grawler, is that
your name? eh!—Ah, it is is it? a very respectable
name it is too, I warrant. Well, sir, look at me.
Now,
on your oath, remember, were you ever the editor of a
certain thing published every Wednesday, and called the
Attenæum, or the Asinæum, or some such name?"
Commencing with this insidious and self-damnatory
question, the learned counsel then proceeded, as artfully as
he was able, through a series of interrogatories, calculated
to injure the character, the respectable character, of Mac
Grawler, and weaken his testimony in the eyes of the jury.
He succeeded in exciting in the audience that feeling mer-
riment wherewith the vulgar are always so delighted to
intersperse the dull seriousness of hanging a human being.
But though the jury themselves grinned, they were not
convinced the Scotsman retired from the witness-box,
"scotched" perhaps in reputation, but not "killed" as
to testimony. It was just before this witness concluded,
that Lord Mauleverer caused to be handed to the judge a
small slip of paper, containing merely these words in
pencil :
"DEAR BRANDON, A dinner waits you at Maulev-
erer Park, only three miles hence. Lord and the
bishop of
meet you. Plenty of news from London,
and a letter about you, which I will show to no one till we
Make haste and hang this poor fellow, that I may
see you
the sooner; and it is bad for both of us to wait
long for a regular meal like dinner. I can't stay longer,
it is so hot, and my nerves were always susceptible.
meet.
"Yours,
"MAULEVERER.
“If you will come, give me a nod. You know my
hour, it's always the same.”
The judge, glancing over the note, inclined his head
gravely to the earl, who withdrew; and in one minute
afterwards, a heavy and breathless silence fell over the
whole court. The prisoner was called upon for his de-
fence: it was singular what a different sensation to that
existing in their breasts the moment before, crept thrillingly
through the audience. Hushed was every whisper,— van-
ished was every smile that the late cross-examination had
excited: a sudden and chilling sense of the dread impor-
tance of the tribunal made itself abruptly felt in the minds
of every one present.
Perhaps, as in the gloomy satire of Hogarth, (the moral
Mephistophiles of painters,) the close neighbourhood of
Pain to Mirth made the former come with the homelier
shock to the heart: be that as it may, a freezing
anxiety numbing the pulse and stirring through the hair,
made every man in that various crowd feel a sympathy of
awe with his neighbour, excepting only the hardened judge
and the hackneyed lawyers, and one 'spectator, an idiot,
who had thrust himself in with the general press, and
stood within a few paces of the prisoner, grinning uncon-
sciously, and every now and then winking with a glassy
eye at some one at a distance, whose vigilance he had
probably eluded.
The face and aspect, even the attitude of the prisoner,
were well fitted to heighten the effect which would naturally
have been created by any man under the same fearful doom,
He stood at the very front of the bar, and his tall and
noble figure was drawn up to its full height; a glow of ex-
citement spread itself gradually over features at all times
striking, and lighted an eye naturally eloquent, and to
which various emotions, at that time, gave a more than
commonly deep and impressive expression. He began
thas:
J
"My lord, I have little to say, and I may at once re-
lieve the anxiety of my counsel, who now looks wistfully
up to me, and add, that that little will scarcely embrace
the object of defence. Why should I defend myself?
Why should I endeavour to protract a life that a few days,
more or less, will terminate, according to the ordinary
calculations of chance? Such as it is, and has been, my
life is vowed to the law, and the law will have the offering.
Could I escape from this indictment, I know that seven
others await me, and that by one or the other of these my
conviction and my sentence must come Life may be
sweet to all of us, my lord; and were it possible that
VOL 1.
62
|
mine could be spared yet awhile, that continued life might
make a better atonement for past actions than a death
which, abrupt and premature, calls for repentance while it
forbids redress.
"But, when the dark side of things is our only choice, it
is useless to regard the bright; idle to fix our eyes upon
life, when death is at hand; useless to speak of contrition,
when we are denied its proof. It is the usual policy of
prisoners in my situation, to address the feelings, and
flatter the prejudices of the jury; to descant on the ex-
cellence of our laws, while they endeavour to disarm them;
to praise justice, yet demand mercy; to talk of expecting
acquittal, yet boast of submitting without a murmur to
condemnation. For me, to whom all earthly interests are
dead, this policy is idle and superfluous. I hesitate not to
tell you, my lord judge, to proclaim to you, gentlemen
of the jury, that the laws which I have broken through my
life, I despise in death. Your laws are but of two classes:
the one makes criminals, the other punishes them. I have
suffered by the one, I am about to perish by the other.
My lord, it was the turn of a straw which made me
what I am. Four years ago, I was sent to the House of
Correction for an offence which I did not commit; I went
thither, a boy who had never infringed a single law,
came forth in a few weeks, a man who was prepared to
break all laws! Whence was this change? was it my
fault, or that of my condemners? You had first wronged
me by a punishment which I did not deserve,- you
wronged me yet more deeply, when (even had I been guilty
of the first offence) I was sentenced to herd with hardened
offenders, and graduates in vice and vice's methods of sup-
port. The laws themselves caused me to break the laws!
first, by implanting within me the goading sense of in-
justice; secondly, by submitting me to the corruption of
sink solemnly into the hearts of all present,
example. Thus, I repeat, and I trust my words will
CC
—
<
I
your legisla-
tion made me what I am! and it now destroys me, as d
has destroyed thousands, for being what it made me! But for
this the first aggression on me, I might have been what the
world terms honest,
world terms honest, I might have progressed to old age
and a peaceful grave, through the harmless cheateries of
trade, or the honored falsehoods of a profession. Nay, I
might have supported the laws which I have now braved;
like the counsel opposed to me, I might have grown sleek
on the vices of others, and advanced to honor by my in-
genuity in hanging my fellow-creatures! The canting and
prejudging part of the press has affected to set before you
the merits of honest ability,' or 'laborious trade,' in op
position to my offences. What, I beseech you, are the
props of your honest' exertion, the profits of trade?'
Are there no bribes to menials? Is there no adulteration
of goods? Are the rich never duped in the price they
pay, - are the poor never wronged in the quality they re-
ceive? Is there honesty in the bread you eat, in a single
necessity which clothes, or feeds, or warms you ? Let
those whom the law protects consider it a protector: when
did it ever protect me? When did it ever protect the
poor man? The government of a state, the institutions
of law, profess to provide for all those who obey.' Mark!
a man hungers! do feed him? He is naked! do
you clothe him? If not, you break your covenant, you
drive him back to the first law of nature, and you hang
him, not because he is guilty, but because you have left him
naked and starving! — (A murmur among the mob below,
with great difficulty silenced.) One thing only I will
add, and that not to move your mercy. No, nor to invest
my fate with an idle and momentary interest; but because
there are some persons in this world who have not known
me as the criminal who stands before you, and whom the
tidings of my fate may hereafter reach; and I would not
have those persons view me in blacker colors than I de-
serve. Among all the rumors, gentlemen, that have
reached you, through all the tales and fables kindled from
my unhappy notoriety, and my approaching doom, I put it
to you, if you have heard that I have committed one
sanguinary action, or one ruinous and deliberate ´fraud ?
You have heard that I have lived by the plunder of the
rich, I do not deny the charge. From the grinding of
the poor, the habitual overreaching, or the systematic pil-
fering of my neighbours, my conscience is as free as it is
from the charge of cruelty and bloodshed. Those errors I
leave to honest mediocity or virtuous exertion! You
may, perhaps, find too, that my life has not passed through
M
you
490
BULWER'S NOVELS.
The judge, who had been from the first attracted by the
air and aspect of the prisoner, had pernaps, notwithstand-
ing the hardness of his mind, more approvingly than any
one present, listened to the defence; for in the scorn of the
hollow institutions, and the mock honesty of social life, so
defyingly manifested by the prisoner, Brandon recognised
elements of mind remarkably congenial to his own, and
this sympathy was heightened by the hardihood of physical
nerve and moral intrepidity displayed by the prisoner;
qualities which, among men of a similar mould, often form
the strongest motive of esteem, and sometimes (as we read
of in the imperial Corsican and his chiefs) the only point
of attraction! Brandon was however soon recalled to his
cold self, by a murmur of vague applause circling through.
out the common crowd, among whom the general impulse
always manifests itself first, and to whom the opinions
of the prisoner, though but imperfectly understood, came
more immediately home, than they did to the better and
richer classes of the audience. Ever alive to the deco-
rums of form, Brandon instantly ordered silence in the
court; and when it was again restored, and it was fully un-
derstood that the prisoner's defence had closed, the judge
proceeded to sum up.
a career of outrage, without scattering some few benefits to speak first, m order that he might find, as it were, la
on the road. In destroying me, it is true that you will have another, a kind of clue to the distinct and excited feel.
the consolation to think, that among the benefits you deriveings which wanted utterance in himsef.
from my sentence, will be the salutary encouragement you
give to other offenders, to offend to the last degree, and to
divest outrage of no single aggravation ! But if this does
not seem to you any very powerful inducement, you may
pause before you cut off from all amendment a man who
seems neither wholly hardened nor utterly beyond atone-
ment. My lord, my counsel would have wished to summon
witnesses, some to bear testimony to redeeming points in
my own character, others to invalidate the oath of the wit-
ness against me; a man whom I saved from destruction,
in order that he might destroy me. I do not think either
necessary. The public press has already said of me what
little good does not shock the truth; and had I not pos-
sessed something of those qualities which society does not
disesteem, you would not have beheld me here at this hour!
If I had saved myself as well as my companions, I should
have left this country, perhaps for ever, and commenced a
very different career abroad. I committed offences; I
eluded you; I committed what, in my case, was an act of
duty; I am seized, and I perish. But the weakness of my
body destroys me, not the strength of your malice. Had I
(and as the prisoner spake, the haughty and rapid
motion, the enlarging of the form, produced by the passion
of the moment, made impressively conspicuous to all the
remarkable power of his frame) -had I but my wonted
health, my wonted command over these limbs, and these
veins, I would have asked no friend, no ally, to favor my
escape. I tell you, engines and guardians of the law, that
I would have mocked your chains, and defied your walls,
as ye
know that I have mocked and defied them before.
But my blood creeps now only in drops through its courses; Glancing over his notes, the judge inclined himself to
and the heart that I had of old stirs feebly and heavily the jury, and began with that silver and ringing voice
within me. (The prisoner paused a moment, and re- which particularly distinguished Brandon's eloquence, and
sumed in an altered tone.) Leaving, then, my own char- carries with it in high stations so majestic and candid a
acter to the ordeal of report, I cannot perhaps do better tone of persuasion. He pointed out, with a clear brevity,
than leave to the same criterion that of the witness against the various points of the evidence; he dwelt for a moment
ine. I will candidly own, that under other circumstances, on the attempt to cast disrepute on the testimony of Mac
it might have been otherwise. I will candidly avow, that
that Grawler,
Grawler, but called a proper attention to the fact, that
I might have then used such means as your law awards the attempt had been unsupported by witnesses or proof.
me, to procure an acquittal, and to prolong my existence As he proceeded, the impression made by the prisoner on
though in a new scene! as it is, what matters the cause in the minds of the jury slowly melted away; and perhaps,
which I receive my sentence? Nay, it is even better to so much do men soften when they behold clearly the face
suffer by the first, than to linger to the last. It is some of a fellow-man dependent on them for life, it acted disad-
consolation, not again to stand where I now stand; to go vantageously on the interests of Clifford, that, during the
through the humbling solemnities which I have this day summing up, he leant back in the dock, and prevented hig
endured; to see the smile of some, and retort the frown countenance from being seen. When the evidence hac
of others; to wrestle with the anxiety of the heart, and been gone through, the judge concluded thus: —
to depend on the caprice of the excited nerves. It is
something to feel one part of the drama of disgrace is
over, and that I may wait unmolested in my den, until, for
one time only, I am again the butt of the unthinking, and
the monster of the crowd. My lord, I have now done!
to you, whom the law deems the prisoner's counsel,
you, gentlemen of the jury, to whom it has delegated his
fate, I leave the chances of my life."
-
to
The prisoner ceased; but the same heavy silence which,
save when broken by one solitary murmur, had lain over
the court during his speech, still continued even for several
moments after that deep and firm voice had died on the
ear. So different had been the defence of the prisoner,
from that which had been expected; so assuredly did the
more hackneyed part of the audience, even as he had pro-
ceeded, imagine that, by some artful turn, he would at
length wind into the usual courses of defence, that when
his unfaltering and almost stern accents paused, men were
not prepared to feel that his speech was finished, and the
pause involuntarily jarred on them, as untimeous and ab-
rupt. At length, when each of the audience slowly awoke
to the conviction that the prisoner had indeed concluded
his harangue, a movement eloquent of feelings released
from a suspense which had been perhaps the more earnest
and the more blended with awe, from the boldness and
novelty of the words on which it hung, circled around the
court. The jurors looked confusedly at each other, but
not one of them spoke even by a whisper; their feelings,
which had been aroused by the speech of the prisoner, had
not, from its shortness, its singularity, and the haughty im-
policy of its tone, been so far guided by its course, as to
settle into any state of mind clearly favorable to him, or
he reverse so that each man waited for his neighbour
It is worthy of remark, that many of the qualities of
mind which seem most unamiable in private life, often con-
duce with a singular felicity to the ends of public. And
thus the stony firmness characteristic of Brandon was a
main cause which made him admirable as a judge. For
men in office err no less from their feelings than their in-
terests.
―
"The prisoner, who in his defence, (on the principles
and opinions of which I now forbear to comment,) cer
tainly exhibited the signs of a superior education, and a
high though perverted ability, has alluded to the reports
circulated by the public press, and leaned some little stress
on the various anecdotes tending to his advantage, which
he supposes have reached your ears. I am by no means
willing that the prisoner should be deprived of whatever
benefit may be derivable from such a source; but it is not
in this place, nor at this moment, that it can avail him.
All you have to consider is the evidence before you. All
on which you have to decide is, whether the prisoner be or
be not guilty of the robbery of which he is charged. You
must not waste a thought on what redeems or heightens a
supposed crime, you must only decide on the crime itself.
Put away from your minds, I beseech you, all that inter-
feres with the main case. Put away also from your mo-
tives of decision all forethought of other possible indict-
ments to which the prisoner has alluded, but with which
you are necessarily unacquainted. If you doubt the evi-
dence, whether of one witness or of all, the prisoner must
receive from you the benefit of that doubt. If not, you
are sworn to a solemn oath, which compels you to forego
all minor considerations, which compels you to watch
narrowly that you be not influenced by the infirmities natu-
ral to us all, but criminal in you, to lean toward the side
of a mercy that would be rendered by your oath a perjury
to God, and by your duty as impartial citizens, a treason
to your country. I dismiss you to the grave consideration
of the important case you have heard; and I trust that He
to whom all hearts are open and all secrets are known
will grant you the temper and the judginent to form a righ
decision ! "
PAUL CLIFFORD.
49
There was in the majestic aspect and thrilling voice of
Brandon, something which made the commonest form of
words solemn and impressive; and the hypocrite, aware
of this felicity of manner, generally, as now, added weight
to his concluding words, by a religious allusion, or a scrip-
tural phraseology He ceased; and the jury, recovering
the effect of his adjuration, consulted for a moinent among
themselves the foreman, then addressing the court on
behalf of his fellow-jurors, requested leave to retire for
deliberation. An attendant bailiff being sworn in, we
read in the journals of the day, which noted the divisions.
of time with that customary scrupulosity rendered terrible
by the reflection how soon all time and seasons may perish
for the hero of the scene, that it "was at twenty-five min-
utes to two that the jury withdrew."
Perhaps in the whole course of a criminal trial there is
no period more awful than that occupied by the delibera-
tion of the jury. In the present case, the prisoner, as if
acutely sensible of his situation, remained in the rear of the
dock, and buried his face in his hands. They who stood
near him observed, however, that his breast did not seem
to swell with the convulsive emotion customary to persons
in his state, and that not even a sigh, or agitated move-
ment, escaped him The jury had been absent about twen-
ty minutes, when a confused noise was heard in the court.
The face of the judge turned in commanding severity to-
ward the quarter whence it proceeded. He perceived a
man of a coarse garb and mean appearance endeavouring,
rudely and violently, to push his way through the crowd
toward the bench, and at the same instant he saw one of
the officers of the court approaching the disturber of its
tranquillity, with no friendly intent. The man, aware of
the purpose of the constable, exclaimed with great vehe-
mence," I vill give thees to my lord the judge, blow me if
I von't!" and as he spoke, he raised high above his head
a soiled scrap of paper folded awkwardly in the shape of a
letter. The instant Brandon's eye caught the rugged feat-
ures of the intrusive stranger, he motioned with rather less
than his usual slowness of gesture to one of his official
satellites. Bring me that paper instantly!" he whis-
pered.
The officer bowed and obeyed. The man, who seemed
a little intoxicated, gave it with a look of ludicrons tri-
umph and self-importance.
CC
Stand avay, man! he added to the constable, who
now laid hand on his collar, you'll see vot the judge
says to that 'ere bit of paper, and so vill the prisoner, poor
fellow !"
This scene, so unworthy the dignity of the court, attract-
ed the notice and (immediately around the intruder) the
merriment of the crowd, and many an eye was directed
toward Brandon, as with calm gravity he opened the note
and glanced over the contents. In a large schoolboy hand,
it was the hand of Long Ned, were written these few
words:
MY LORD JUDGE,
-
"I MAKE bold to beg you will do all you can for the
prisoner at the barre; as he is no other than the 'Paul' I
spoke to your worship about. You know what I mean.
"DUMMIE DUNNAKER."
As he read this note, the judge's head was observed to
droop suddenly, as if by a sickness or a spasm; but he re-
covered himself instantly, and whispering the officer who
orought him the note, said, "See that that madman be im-
mediately removed from the court, and lock him up alone.
He is so deranged as to be dangerous!"
The officer lost not a moment in seeing the order execu-
ted. Three stout constables dragged the astounded Dum-
mie from the court in an instant, yet the more ruthlessly
for his ejaculating,
"Eh, sirs, what's thees? I tells you I have saved the
judge's hown flesh and blood. Vy now, gently there,
you'll smart for this, my fine fellow! Never you mind,
Paul, my arty : I 'se done you a pure good
"Silence!" proclaimed the voice of the judge, and that
voice came forth with so commanding a tone of power that
it awed Dummie, despite his intoxication. In a moment
more, and, ere he had time to recover, he was without the
During this strange hubbub, which nevertheless
scarcely lasted above two or three minutes, the prisoner
had not once lifted his head nor appeared aroused in any
court.
manner from his reverie. And scarcely had the intruder
been withdrawn before the jury returned.
Guilty;
CC
"" but
The verdict was, as all had foreseen,
it was coupled with a strong recommendation to mercy.
The prisoner was then asked, in the usual form, whether
he had to say any thing why sentence of death should not
be passed against him.
As these dread words struck upon his ear, slowly the
prisoner rose. He directed first toward the jury a brief
and keen glance, and his eyes then rested full, and with a
stern significance, on the face of his judge.
My lord," he began, "I have but one reason to ad-
vance against the sentence of the law. If you have interest
to prevent or mitigate it, that reason will, I think, suffice
to enlist you on my behalf. I said that the first cause of
those offences against the law which bring me to this bar,
was the committing me to prison on a charge of which I
was wholly innocent! My lord judge, you were the man
who accused me of that charge, and subjected me to that
imprisonment! Look at me well, my lord, and you may
trace in the countenance of the hardened felon you are
about to adjudge to death, the features of a boy whom, some
seven years ago, you accused before a London magistrate
of the theft of your watch. On the oath of a man who has
one step on the threshold of death, the accusation was
unjust. And, fit minister of the laws you represent! you,
who will now pass my doom,YOU were the cause of my
crimes! My lord, I have done. I am ready to add
another to the long and dark list of victims who are first
polluted, and then sacrificed, by the blindness and the in-
justice of human codes! "
ness,
While Clifford spoke, every eye turned from him to the
judge, and every one was appalled by the ghastly and fear-
ful change which had fallen over Brandon's face. Men said
afterwards, that they saw written there, in terrible distinct-
the characters of death; and there certainly seemed
something awful and preternatural in the bloodless and
haggard calmness of his proud features. Yet his eye did
not quail, nor the muscles of his lip quiver. And with
even more than his wonted loftiness, he met the regard of
the prisoner. But, as alone conspicuous throughout the mo-
tionless and breathless crowd, the judge and criminal gazed
upon each other; and as the eyes of the spectators wan-
dered on each, a thrilling and electric impression of a pow-
erful likeness between the doomed and the doomer, for the
first time in the trial, struck upon the audience, and in-
creased, though they scarcely knew why, the sensation of
pain and dread which the prisoner's last words excited.
Perhaps it might have chiefly arisen from a common ex-
pression of fierce emotion conquered by an iron and stern
character of mind, or perhaps, now that the ashy paleness
of exhaustion had succeeded the excited flush on the pris-
oner's face, the similarity of complexion thus obtained,
made the likeness more obvious than before; or perhaps
the spectators had not hitherto fixed so searching, or, if we
may so speak, so alternating a gaze upon the two. How-
ever that be, the resemblance between the men, placed as
they were in such widely different circumstances, that
resemblance which, as we have hinted, had at certain mo-
ments occurred startingly to Lucy, was now plain and una-
voidably striking the same the dark hue of their com-
plexious, the same the haughty and Roman outline of their
faces, the same the height of the forehead, the same even a
displeasing and sarcastic rigidity of mouth, which made
the most conspicuous feature in Brandon, and which was
the only point that deteriorated from the singular beauty of
Clifford. But above all, the same inflexible, defying, stub-
born spirit, though in Brandon it assumed the stately cast
of majesty, and in Clifford it seemed the desperate stern-
ness of the bravo, stamped itself in both. Though Clifford
ceased, he did not resume his seat, but stood in the same
attitude as that in which he had reversed the order of
things, and merged the petitioner in the accuser.
Brandon himself, without speaking or moving, continued
still to survey him. So, with erect fronts, and marble
countenances, in which what was defying and resolute did
not altogether quell a mortal leaven of pain and dread, they
looked as might have looked the two men in the Eastern
story, who had the power of gazing each other unto death.
:
—
And
What, at that moment, was raging in Brandon's heart,
it is in vain to guess. He doubted not for a moment that
he beheld before him his long-lost, his anxiously-demanded
son! Every fibre, every corner of his complex and gloomy
BULWER'S NOVELS.
soul, that certainty reached, and blasted with a hideous |
and irresistible glare! The earliest, perhaps the strongest,
though often the least acknowledged principle of his mind,
was the desire to rebuild the fallen honors of his house; its
last scion he now beheld before him, covered with the
darkest ignominies of the law! He had coveted worldly
honors; he beheld their legitimate successor in a convicted
felon! He had garnered the few affections he had spared
from the objects of pride and ambition, in his son.
That
son he was about to adjudge to the gibbet and the hang-
Of late he had increased the hopes of regaining
his lost treasure, even to an exultant certainty. Lo! the
nopes were accomplished! How? With these thoughts
With these thoughts
warring, in what manner we dare not even by an epithet
express, within him, we may cast one hasty glance on the
horror of aggravation they endured, when he heard the
prisoner accuse HIM as the cause of his present doom,
and felt himself at once the murderer and the judge of his
man !
son !
Minutes had elapsed since the voice of the prisoner ceas-
ed; and Brandon now drew forth the black cap. As he
placed it slowly over his brows, the increasing and corpse-
like whiteness of his face became more glaringly visible,
by the contrast which this dread head-gear presented.
Twice, as he essayed to speak, his voice failed him, and an
indistinct murmur came forth from his hueless lips, and
died away like a fitful and feeble wind. But with the third
effort, the resolution and long self-tyranny of the man con-
quered, and his voice went clear and unfaltering through
the crowd, although the severe sweetness of its wonted
tones was gone, and it sounded strange and hollow on the
ears that drank it.
to mercy,
A
"Prisoner at the bar! It has become my duty to an-
nounce to you the close of your mortal career. You have
been accused of a daring robbery, and, after an impartial
trial, a jury of your countrymen, and the laws of your
country, have decided against you. The recommendation
(here, only, throughout his speech, Brandon
gasped convulsively for breath,) -so humanely added by
the jury, shall be forwarded to the supreme power, but I
cannot flatter you with much hope of its success (the
iawyers looked with some surprise at each other: they had
expected a far more unqualified mandate, to abjure all
hope from the jury's recommendation). Prisoner! for the
opinions you have expressed, you are now only answerable
to your God; I forbear to arraign them. For the charge
you have made against me, whether true or false, and for
the anguish it has given me, may you find pardon at an-
other tribunal! It remains for me only,- under a reserve
too slight, as I have said, to afford you a fair promise of
hope, only to to (all eyes were on Brandon: he felt
it, exerted himself for a last effort, and proceeded)
pronounce on you the sharp sentence of the law! It is,
that you
be taken back to the prison whence you came, and
thence (when the supreme authority shall appoint) to the
place of execution, to be there hanged by the neck till you
are dead; and the Lord God Almighty have mercy on your
goul !"
-to
With this address concluded that eventful trial; and
while the crowd, in rushing and noisy tumult, bore toward
the door, Brandon, concealing to the last, with a Spartan
bravery, the anguish which was gnawing at his entrails,
retired from the awful pageant. For the next half-hour he
was locked up with the strange intruder on the proceedings
of the court. At the end of that time the stranger was
dismissed; and in about double the same period Brandon's
servant re-admitted him, accompanied by another man,
with a slouched hat, and in a carman's frock. The reader
need not be told that the new-comer was the friendly Ned,
whose testimony was indeed a valuable corroborative to
Dummie's, and whose regard for Clifford, aided by an ap-
petite for rewards, had induced him to venture to the town
of —, although he tarried concealed in a safe suburb
until re-assured by a written promise from Brandon of
safety to his person, and a sum for which we might almost
doubt whether he would not have consented (so long had
he been mistaking means for an end) to be hanged himself.
Brandou listened to the details of these confederates, and
when they had finished, he addressed them thus:
"I have heard you, and am convinced you are liars and
mpostors there is the money I promised you,— (throw-
ing down a pocket-book) — take it-and, hark you, if
ever you dare whisper, — av, but a breath of the atrocious
lie you have now forged, be sure I will have you dragged
from the recess or nook of infamy in which you may hide
your heads, and hanged for the crimes you have already
committed. I am not the man to break my word, be
gone!-quit the town instantly: if, in two hours hence,
you are found here, your blood be on your own heads!
Begone, I say!"
—
These words, aided by a countenance well adapted at all
times to expressions of a menacing and ruthless character,
at once astounded and appalled our accomplices. They
left the room in hasty confusion; and Brandon, now alone,
walked with uneven steps (the alarming weakness and
vacillation of which he did not himself feel) to and fro the
apartment. The hell of his breast was stamped upon his
features, but he uttered only one thought aloud!
yes, yes, — Ĭ may yet conceal this disgrace
I
"I may,
to my name !
>>
His servant tapped at the door to say that the carriage
was ready, and that Lord Mauleverer had bid him remind
his master that they dined punctually at the hour ap-
pointed.
"I am coming!" said Brandon, with a slow and start-
ling emphasis on each word. But he first sat down and
wrote a letter to the official quarter, strongly aiding the
recommendation of the jury; and we may conceive how
pride clung to him to the last, when he urged the substitu-
tion for death, of transportation for life! As soon as he
had sealed this letter, be summoned an express, gave his
orders coolly and distinctly, and attempted, with his usual
stateliness of step, to walk through a long passage which
led to the outer door. He found himself fail.
hither," he said to his servant,-"give me your arm!"
All Brandon's domestics, save the one left with Lucy,
stood in awe of him, and it was with some hesitation that
his servant ventured to inquire
his servant ventured to inquire "if his master felt well.”
Brandon looked at him, but made no reply: he entered
his carriage with slight difficulty, and telling the coachman
to drive as fast as possible, pulled down (a general custom
with him) all the blinds of the windows.
"Come
"1
Meanwhile, Lord Mauleverer, with six friends, was im-
patiently awaiting the arrival of the seventh guest.
"Our august friend tarries!" quoth the bishop of
with his hands folded across his capacious stomach.
fear the turbot, your lordship spoke of, may not be the better
for the length of the trial."
"Poor fellow!" said the earl of
slightly yawn-
ing.
"Whom do you mean?" asked Mauleverer, with a
smile. "The bishop, the judge, or the turbot!"
"Not one of the three, Mauleverer, I spoke of the
prisoner."
"Ah, the fine dog! I forgot him," said Mauleverer.
"Really, now you mention him, I must confess that he
inspires me with great compassion; but, indeed, it is very
wrong in him to keep the judge so long!"
"Those hardened wretches have such a great deal to
say," mumbled the bishop, sourly.
True!" said Mauleverer; "a religious rogue would
have had some bowels for the state of the church esurient!"
"Is it really true, Mauleverer,” asked the earl of
"that Brandon is to be chancellor of the exchequer,
unusual in his station, is it not?"
"Mansfield's a precedent, I fancy" said Mauleverer.
"God! how hungry I am!
A groan from the bishop echoed the complaint.
rr
very
"I suppose it would be against all decorum to sit down
to dinner without him?" said Lord
"Why, really, I fear so," returned Mauleverer. "But
our health, our health is at stake; we will only wait five
minutes more. By Jove, there's the carriage! I beg your
pardon for my heathen oath, my lord bishop."
"I forgive you!" said the good bishop, smiling.
The party thus engaged in colloquy were stationed at
a window opening on the gravel road, along which the
judge's carriage was now seen rapidly approaching; this
window was but a few yards from the porch, and had been
partially opened for the better reconnoitring the approach
of the expected guest.
"He keeps the blinds down still! Absence of mind, or
shame at unpunctuality,—which is the cause, Mauleverer?”
said one of the party.
"Even
"Not shame, I fear!" answered Mauleverer.
the indecent immorality of delaying our dinner could scarce-
PAUL CLIFFORD.
493
yoring a blush to the parchment skin of my learned
friend."
Here the carriage stopped at the porch; the carriage-
door was opened.
"There seems a strange delay," said Mauleverer, peev-
ishly. "Why does not he get out?"
As he spoke, a murmur among the attendants, who ap-
peared somewhat strangely to crowd around the carriage,
smote the ears of the party.
"What do they say?
putting his hand to his ear.
What?" said Mauleverer,
The bishop answered hastily; and Mauleverer, as he
heard the reply, forgot for once his susceptibility to cold,
and hurried out to the carriage-door. His guests followed.
They found Brandon leaning against the farther corner
of the carriage, a corpse.
One hand held the check-
string, as if he had endeavoured involuntarily, but ineffectu-
ally, to pull it. The right side of his face was partially
distorted, as by convulsion or paralysis; but not sufficiently
so to destroy that remarkable expression of loftiness and
severity which had characterized the features in life. At
the same time, the distortion which had drawn up on one
side the muscles of the mouth, had deepened into a startling
broadness the half-sneer of derision that usually lurked
around the lower part of his face. Thus, unwitnessed and
abrupt, had been the disunion of the clay and spirit of a
man who, if he passed through life a bold, scheming, stub-
born, unwavering hypocrite, was not without something
high even amidst his baseness, his selfishness, and his vices;
who seems less by nature to have loved sin, than by soine
strange perversion of reason to have disdained virtue, and
who, by a solemn and awful suddenness of fate (for who
shall venture to indicate the judgment of the arch and un-
seen Providence, even when it appears to mortal eye the
least obscured) won the dreams, the objects, the triumphs
of hope, to be blasted by them at the moment of acquisi-
tion !
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
AND LAST.
Subtle, surly, -Mammon, Dol,
Hot Ananias, Dapper, Drugger, all
With whom I traded.
The Alchymist.
As when some rural citizen, retired for a fleeting holiday
far from the cares of the world, "strepitumque Roma," to
the sweet shades of Pentonville, or the remoter plains of
Clapham, conducts some delighted visiter over the intrica-
cies of that Dædalian masterpiece which he is pleased to
call his labyrinth or maze, now smiling furtively at his
guest's perplexity, - - now listening with calm superiority
to his futile and erring conjectures, -now maliciously ac-
companying him through a flattering path, in which the
baffled adventurer is suddenly checked by the blank features
of a thoroughfareless hedge, now trembling as he sees the
guest stumbling unawares into the right track, and now
relieved, as he beholds him, after a pause of deliberation,
wind into the wrong,
-even so, O pleasant reader, doth
the sage novelist conduct thee through the labyrinth of his
tale, amusing himself with thy self-deceits, and spinning
forth, in prolix pleasure, the quiet yarn of his entertainment
from the involutions which occasion thy fretting eagerness
and perplexity. But as when, thanks to the host's good-
nature or fatigue! the mystery is once unravelled, and the
guest permitted to penetrate even unto the coucealed end of
the leafy maze; the honest cit, satisfied with the pleasant
pains he has already bestowed upon his visiter, puts him
not to the labor of retracing the steps he hath so erratically
trod, but leads him in three strides, and through a simpler
path, at once to the mouth of the maze, and dismisseth him
e sewhere for entertainment; even so will the prudent nar-
rator, when the intricacies of his plot are once unfolded,
occasion no stale and profitless delays to his wearied
reader, but conduct him, with as much brevity as conve-
nient, without the labyrinth which has ceased to retain the
interest of a secret.
We shall therefore, in pursuance of the cit's policy, re-
late as rapidly as possible that part of our narrative which
yet remains untold. On Brandon's person was found the
:
paper which had contained so fatal an intelligence of his
son; and when brought to Lord Mauleverer, the words
struck that person, (who knew Brandon had been in search
of his lost son, whom we have seen that he had been taught
however to suppose illegitimate, though it is probable that
many doubts whether he had not been deceived, must have
occurred to his natural sagacity,) as sufficiently important
to be worth an inquiry after the writer. Dummie was easily
found, for he had not yet turned his back on the town when
the news of the judge's sudden death was brought back to
it, and taking advantage of that circumstance, the friendly
Dunnaker remained altogether in the town, (albeit his long
companion deserted it as hastily as might be,) and whiled
the time by presenting himself at the gaol, and after some
ineffectual efforts, winning his way to Clifford easily
tracked by the name he had given to the governor of the
gaol, he was conducted the next day to Lord Mauleverer,
and his narrative, confused as it was, and proceeding
even from so suspicious a quarter, thrilled those digestive
organs, which in Mauleverer stood proxy for a heart, with
feelings as much resembling awe and horror as our good
peer was capable of experiencing. Already shocked from
his worldly philosophy of indifference by the death of
Brandon, he was more susceptible to a remorseful and sal-
utary impression at this moment, than he might have been
at any
other ; and he could not, without some twinges of
conscience, think of the ruin he had brought on the mother
of the being he had but just prosecuted to the death. He
dismissed Dummie, and after a little consideration he or-
dered his carriage, and leaving the burial of his friend to
the care of his man of business, he set off for London, and
the house in particular of the Secretary of the Home De-
partment. We would not willingly wrong the noble pen-
itent; but we venture a suspicion that he might not have
preferred a personal application for mercy to the prisoner
to a written one, had he not felt certain unpleasant qualms
in remaining in a country house, overshadowed by ceremo-
nies so gloomy as those of death. The letter of Brandon,
and the application of Mauleverer, obtained for Clifford a
relaxation of his sentence. He was left for perpetual trans-
portation. A ship was already about to sail, and Mau-
leverer, content with having saved his life, was by no
means anxious that his departure from the country should
be saddled with any superfluous delay.
Meanwhile, the first rumor that reached London respect.
ing Brandon's fate was, that he had been found in a fit,
and was lying dangerously ill at Mauleverer's; and before
the second and more fatally sure report arrived, Lucy had
gathered from the visible dismay of Barlow, whom she
anxiously cross-questioned, and who really loving his mas-
ter was easily affected into communication, the first and
inore flattering intelligence. To Barlow's secret delight,
she insisted instantly on setting off to the supposed sick
man; and, accompanied by Barlow and her woman, the
affectionate girl hastened to Mauleverer 's house on the
evening of the very day the earl left it. Although the car-
riages did not meet, owing perhaps to the circumstance of
changing horses at different inns, Lucy had not proceeded
far before Barlow learnt, from the gossip of the road, the
real state of the case. Indeed, it was at the first stage
that, with a mournful countenance, he approached the door
of the carriage, and, announcing the inutility of proceeding
farther, begged of Lucy to turn back. So soon as Miss
Brandon had overcome the first shock which this intelli-
gence gave her, she said with calmness,
66
Well, Barlow, if it be so, we have still a duty to per
form. Tell the postboys to drive on."
Indeed, madam, I cannot see what use it can be fret-
ting yourself, and you so poorly. If you will let me go, I
will see every attention paid to the remains of my poor
master."
"When my father lay dead," said Lucy, with a grave
and sad sternness in her manner, "he who is now no more,
sent no proxy to perform the last duties of a brother, nei-
ther will I send one to discharge those of a niece, and prove
that I have forgotten the gratitude of a daughter
on ! "
Drive
On
We have said that there were times when a spirit was
stricken from Lucy little common to her in general, and
now, the command of her uncle sat upon her brow.
sped the horses, and for several minutes Lucy remained
silent. Her woman did not dare to speak. At length
Miss Brandon turned, and,
Miss Brandon turned, and, covering her face with her
€94
BULWER'S NOVELS.
hands, burst into tears so violent that they alarmed her at-
tendant even more than her previous stillness. "My poor,
poor uncle !" she sobbed, and those were all her words!
We must pass over Lucy's arrival at Lord Mauleverer's
nouse, we must pass over the weary days which elapsed
till that unconscious body was consigned to dust with
which, could it have yet retained one spark of its haughty
spirit, it would have refused to blend its atoms. She had
loved the deceased incomparably beyond his merits, and
resisting all remonstrance to the contrary, she witnessed,
herself, the dreary ceremony which bequeathed the human
remains of William Brandon to repose and to the worm.
On that same day Clifford received the mitigation of his
sentence, and on that day another trial awaited Lucy. We
think, briefly to convey to the reader what that scene was,
we need only observe, that Dummie Dunnaker, decoyed by
his great love for little Paul, whom he delightedly said he
found not the least stuck up by his great fame and hele-
wation," still lingered in the town, and was not only aware
of the relationship of the cousins, but had gleaned from
Long Ned, as they journeyed down to the affection
entertained by Clifford for Lucy. Of the manner in which
the communication reached Lucy, we need not speak: suf-
fice it to say, that on the day in which she had performed
the last duty to her uncle, she learned, for the first time,
ber lover's situation.
,
On that evening, in the convict's cell, the cousins met.
Their conference was low, for the gaoler stood within hear-
ing; and it was broken by Lucy's convulsive sobs. But
the voice of one whose iron nerves were not unworthy of
the offspring of William Brandon, was clear and audible
to her ear, even though uttered in a whisper that scarcely
stirred his lips. It seemed as if Lucy, smitten to the in-
most heart by the generosity with which her lover had torn
ninself from her at the time that her wealth might have
raised him, in any other country, far above the perils and
he crimes of his career in this, perceiving now for the
frst time, and in all their force, the causes of his mysteri-
ɔus conduct, melted by their relationship, and forgetting
herself utterly in the desolate and dark situation in which
she beheld one who, whatever his crimes, had not been
criminal towards her; it seemed as if, carried away by
these emotions, she had yielded altogether to the fondness
and devotion of her nature, that she had wished to leave
home, and friends, and fortune, and share with him his
punishment and his shame.
<<
"Why!" she faltered, why, why not! we are all
that is left to each other in the world! Your father and
mine were brothers, let me be to you as a sister. What is
there left for me here? Not one being whom I love, or
who cares for me, not one!"
It was then that Clifford summoned all his courage, as he
answered :—perhaps, now that he felt, (though here
his knowledge was necessarily confused and imperfect,)—
bis birth was not unequal to hers, now that he read, or
believed he read, in her wan cheek and attenuated frame,
that desertion to her was death, and that generosity and
self-sacrifice had become too late, perhaps, these thoughts
concurring with a love in himself beyond all words, and
a love in her which it was above humanity to resist, alto-
gether conquered and subdued him. Yet, as we have said,
his voice breathed calmly in her ear, and his eye only,
which brightened with a steady and resolute hope, betray-
ed his mind. Live then!" said he, as he concluded.
My sister, my mistress, my bride, live! in one year
from this day. ... I repea、. I promise it thee!"
The interview was over, and Lucy returned home with a
firm step. She was on foot: the rain fell in torrents; yet,
even in her precarious state, her health suffered not; and
when within a week from that time she read that Clifford
had departed to the bourne of his punishment, she read the
news with a steady eye and lip, that, if it grew paler, did
not quiver.
•
•
Shortly after that time, Miss Brandon departed to an
obscure town by the seaside; and there refusing all socie-
ty, she continued to reside. As the birth of Clifford was
known but to few, and his legitimacy was unsuspected by
all, except, perhaps by Mauleverer, Lucy succeeded to the
great wealth of her uncle, and this circumstance made her
more than ever an object of attraction in the eyes of her
noble adorer. Finding himself unable to see her, he wrote
her more than one moving epistle; but as Lucy continued
nflexible, he, at length disgusted by her want of taste,
reased his pursuit, and resigned himself to the continued
|
|
sterility of unwedded life. As the months waned, Miss
Brandon seemed to grow weary of her retreat, and imme
diately on attaining her majority which she did about eight
months after Brandon's death, she transferred the bulk of
her wealth to France, where it was understood (for it was
impossible that rumor should sleep upon an heiress and a
beauty) that she intended in future to reside. Even War-
lock (that spell to the proud heart of her uncle) she ceased
to retain. It was offered to the nearest relation of the
family, at a sum which he did not hesitate to close with.
And, by the common vicissitudes of fortune, the estate of
the ancient Brandons has now, we perceive by a weekly
journal, just passed into the hands of a wealthy alderman.
It was nearly a year since Brandon's death, when a let-
ter bearing a foreign post-mark came to Lucy. From that
time, her spirits, which before, though subjected to fits of
abstraction, had been even, and subdued, -not sad, rose
into all the cheerfulness and vivacity of her earliest youth;
she busied herself actively in preparations for her depart-
ure from this country, and at length the day was fixed, and
the vessel was engaged. Every day till that one, did Lucy
walk to the seaside, and, ascending the highest cliff, spend
hours, till the evening closed, in watching with seemingly
idle gaze the vessels that interspersed the sea and with
every day her health seemed to strengthen, and the soft and
lucid color she had once worn, to re-bloom upon her cheek.
Previous to her departure, Miss Brandon dismissed her
servants, and only engaged one female, a foreigner, to ac-
company her a certain tone of quiet command, formerly
unknown to her, characterized these measures, so daringly
independent for one of her sex and age. The day arrived,
it was the anniversary of her last interview with Clif-
ford. On entering the vessel, it was observed that she
trembled violently, and that her face was as pale as death.
A stranger, who had stood aloof wrapped in his cloak,
darted forward to assist her, that was the last which
her discarded and weeping servants beheld of her from the
pier where they stood to gaze.
Nothing more, in this country, was ever known of the
fate of Lucy Brandon, except that to the distant relation
who had purchased Warlock, an order for the sum he had
paid, was inclosed and signed by her. No farther tidings
by letter or by report transpired; and as her circle of ac-
quaintances was narrow, and interest in her fate existed
vividly in none, save a few humble breasts, conjecture was
never keenly awakened, and soon cooled into forgetfulness.
If it favored, after the lapse of years, any one notion more
than another, it was that she had perished among the vic-
tins of the French revolution.
Meanwhile, let us glance over the destinies of our more
subordinate acquaintances.
Augustus Tomlinson, on parting from Long Ned, had
succeeded in reaching Calais, and after a rapid tour
through the continent, he ultimately betook himself to a
certain literary city in Germany, where he became distin-
guished for his metaphysical acumen, and opened a school
of morals on the Grecian model, taught in the French
tongue. He managed, by the patronage he received, and
the pupils he enlightened, to obtain a very decent income;
and as he wrote a folio against Locke, proved men had
innate feelings, and affirmed that we should refer every
thing not to reason, but to the sentiments of the soul, he
became greatly respected for his extraordinary virtue.
Some little discoveries were made after his death, which
perhaps would have somewhat diminished the general odor
of his sanctity, had not the admirers of his school carefully
hushed up the matter, probably out of respect for "the
sentiments of the soul!"
Pepper, whom the police did not so anxiously desire to
destroy as they did his two companions, might have man-
aged, perhaps many years longer, to graze upon the public
commons, had not a letter, written somewhat imprudently,
fallen into wrong hands. This, though after creating a
certain stir it apparently died away, lived in the memory
of the police, and finally conspired, with various peccadil
loes, to produce his downfall. He was seized, tried, and
sentenced to seven years transportation. He so advanta-
geously employed his time at Botany Bay, and arranged
things there so comfortably to himself, that, at the expira-
tion of his sentence, he refused to return home. He made
an excellent match, built himself an excellent house, and
remained in "the land of the blest," to the end of his days,
noted to the last for the redundance of his hair, and a
certain ferocious coxcombry of aspect.
PAUL CLIFFORD.
495
As for Fighting Attie, and Gentleman George, for Scarlet |
Jem, and for Old Bags, we confess ourselves destitute of
any certain information of their latter ends. We can only
add, with regard to Fighting Attie,-" Good luck be with
"Good luck be with
him wherever he goes!" and for mine host of the Jolly
Angler, that though we have not the physical constitution to
quaff a bumper of blue ruin," we shall be very happy,
over any tolerable wine, and in company with any agree-
able convivialists, to bear our part in the polished chorus
of --
"Here's to Gentleman George, God bless him!"
Mrs. Lobkins departed this life like a lamb; and Dum-
mie Dunnaker obtained a license to carry on the business at
Thames Court. He boasted, to the last, of his acquaintance
with the great Captain Lovett, and of the affability with
which that distinguished personage treated him. Stories
he had too about Judge Brandon, but no one believed a syl-
lable of them; and Dummie, indignant at the disbelief, in-
creased, out of vehemence, the marvel of the stories: so
that, at length, what was added almost swallowed up what
was original, and Dummie himself might have been puz-
zled to satisfy his own conscience as to what was false and
what was true.
The erudite Peter Mac Grawler, returning to Scotland,
disappeared by the road: a person, singularly resembling
the sage, was afterwards seen at Carlisle, where he dis-
charged the useful and praiseworthy duties of Jack Ketch.
But whether or not this respectable functionary was our
identical Sinon Pure, our ex-editor of the Asinæum, we
will not take it upon ourselves to assert. For ourself, we
imagined lately that we discovered his fine Roman hand,
though a little palsied by age, in an excellent article in
Blackwood's Magazine, written to panegyrize that charm-
ing romance in every one's hands, called "The Five Nights
one's hands, called "The Five Nights
of St. Alban's."
Lord Mauleverer, finally resolving on a single life, pass-
ed the remainder of his years in indolent tranquillity.
When he died, the newspapers asserted that his majesty
was deeply affected by the loss of so old and valued a
friend. His furniture and wines sold remarkably high: and
a great man, his particular intimate, who purchased his
books, startled to find, by pencil marks, that the noble
deceased had read some of them, exclaimed, not altogether
without truth, "Ah! Mauleverer might have been a
deused clever fellow,- if he had liked it!
of
The earl was accustomed to show as a curiosity a ring
great value, which he had received in rather a singular
manner. One morning a packet was brought him which
he found to contain a sum of money, the ring mentioned,
and a letter from the notorious Lovett, in which that per-
son, in begging to return his lordship the sums of which
he had twice assisted to rob him, thanked him, with re-
spectful warmth, for the consideration testified toward him
in not revealing his identity with Captain Clifford, and
ventured, as a slight testimony of respect, to inclose the
aforesaid ring with the sum returned.
About the time Mauleverer received this curious packet,
several anecdotes of a similar nature appeared in the pub-
lic journals; and it seemed that Lovett had acted upon a
general principle of restitution, not always, it must be
allowed, the offspring of a robber's repentance. While the
idle were marvelling at these anecdotes, came the tardy
news, that Lovett, after a single month's sojourn at his
place of condemnation, had, in the most daring and sin-
gular manner, effected his escape. Whether, in his prog-
ress up the country, he had been starved, or slain by the
natives,
or whether, more fortunate, he had ultimately
found the means of crossing the seas, was as yet unknown.
There ended the adventures of the gallant robber; and
thus, by a strange coincidence, the same mystery which
wrapped the fate of Lucy, involved also that of her lover.
And here, kind reader, might we drop the curtain on our
closing scene, did we not think it might please thee to hold
it
up yet one moment, and give thee another view of the
world behind.
In a certain town of that great country, where shoes are
imperfectly polished, and opinions are not prosecuted,
there resided, twenty years after the date of Lucy Bran-
don's departure froin England, a man held in high and
*Bee Captain Hall's late work on America.
settlement at
universal respect, not only for the rectitude of his conduct,
but for the energies of his mind, and the purposes to which
they were directed. If you ask, Who cultivated that waste?
the answer was, "Clifford." Who procured the establish-
ment of that hospital?- "Clifford !" Who obtained
the redress of such a public grievance ?" Clifford !"
Who struggled for, and won such a popular benefit?
"Clifford !" In the gentler part of his projects and his
undertakings, in that part, above all, which concerned the
sick or the necessitous, this useful citizen was seconded, or
rather excelled, by a being over whose surpassing loveli-
ness time seemed to have flown with a gentle and charmed
wing. There was something remarkable and touching in
the love which this couple (for the woman we refer to was
Clifford's wife) bore to each other; like the plant on the
plains of Hebron, the time which brought to that love an
additional strength, brought to it also a softer and a tresher
verdure. Although their present neighbours were unac-
quainted with the events of their earlier life, previous to their
it was known that they had been
wealthy at the time they first came to reside there, and
that by a series of fatalities, they had lost all; but Clifford
had borne up manfully against fortune, and in a new coun-
try, where men who prefer labor to dependence cannot
easily starve, he had been enabled to toil upward through
the severe stages of poverty and hardship, with an honesty
and vigor of character, which won him perhaps a more
hearty esteem for every successive effort, than the display
of his lost riches might ever have acquired him. His la
bors and his abilities obtained gradual but sure success,
and he now enjoyed the blessings of a competence earned
with the most scrupulous integrity, and spent with the
most kindly benevolence. A trace of the trials they had
passed through, was discernible in each; those trials had
stolen the rose from the wife's cheek, and had sown un-
timely wrinkles in the broad brow of Clifford. There
were moments too, but they were only moments, when the
latter sunk from his wonted elastic and healthful cheerful-
ness of mind, into a gloomy and abstracted reverie; but
these moments the wife watched with a jealous and fond
anxiety, and one sound of her sweet voice had the power
to dispel their influence; and when Clifford raised his eyes,
and glanced from her tender smile around his happy home
and his growing children, or beheld, through the very win-
dows of his room, the public benefits he had created,
something of pride and gladness glowed on his counte-
nance, and he said, though with glistening eyes and subdued
voice, as his looks returned once more to his wife, "I
owe these to thee!
>>
>
One trait of mind especially characterized Clifford,
indulgence to the faults of others! Circumstances make
guilt, he was wont to say: "let us endeavour to correct
the circumstances, before we rail against the guilt!" His
children promised to tread in the same useful and honora-
ble path that he trod himself. Happy was considered that
family which had the hope to ally itself with his.
Such was the after-fate of Clifford and Lucy. Who
will condemn us for preferring the moral of that fate to
the moral which is extorted from the gibbet and the hulks ?
- which makes scarecrows, not beacons, terrifies our
weakness, not warns our reason? Who does not allow
that it is better to repair than to perish, better, too, to
atone as the citizen than to repent as the hermit? O
John Wilkes! alderman of London, and Drawcansir of
liberty, your life was not an iota too perfect,
otism might have been infinitely purer, your morals
your patri-
would have admitted indefinite amendment you are no
great favorite with us or with the rest of the world ; but
you said one excellent thing, for which we look on you
with benevolence, nay, almost with respect. We scarcely
know whether to smile at its wit, or to sigh at its wisdom.
Mark this truth, all ye gentlemen of England, who would
make laws as the Romans made fasces, -a bundle of
rods with an axe in the middle; mark it! and remem-
ber! Long may it live, allied with hope in ourselves, but
with gratitude in our children; long after the book which
it now adorns and points' has gone to its dusty slum-
ber; - long, long after the feverish hand which now writes
it down, can defend or enforce it no more '—"Tuk
VERY WORST USE TO WHICH YOU CAN PUT A MAN 18
TO HANG HIM!"
THE END OF PAUL CLIFFORD
1
VOL. I
EUGENE ARAM.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
All things that are
Made for our general uses, are at war,
E'en we among ourselves!"
JOHN FLETCHER, upon "An Honest Man's FortSES
68
TC
SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART,
&c. &c.
SIR,
It has long been the high and cherished hope of my
ambition to add my humble tribute to the rich and num-
berless offerings that have been laid upon the shrine of
your genius. At each succeeding book that I have given
to the world, I have paused to consider, if it were worth
nscribing with your great name, and at each I have played
the procrastinator, and hoped for that morrow of better
desert which never came. Having now arrived at a work
which closes the series I contemplated from the first, it is
possible that this may be the only opportunity afforded me
of expressing that high, that just, that affectionate admira-
tion with which you have inspired me in common with all
your cotemporaries, and which a French writer has not
ungracefully termed "the happiest prerogative of genius."
I seize this occasion, then, not as the best, but lest I should
lose the last. As a poet, and as a novelist, your fame has
attained to that height in which praise has become super-
fluous; but in the character of the writer, there seems to
me a yet higher claim to veneration than in that of the
writings. The example your genius sets us, who can
emulate?—the example your moderation bequeaths to us,
who shall forget? It is a great lesson to all cultivators of
letters, to behold one who, in winning renown, has at last
conquered envy, and who is at once without an equal and
without a detractor.
You have left us for a while; but what heart does not,
from that very absence, and from its reported cause, follow
you to a southern shore, with feelings that make remem-
brance a duty scarcely less than a delight? What Scotch-
man can ever forget that you have immortalized his country,
or what Englishman that you have bestowed an equal
gift upon his language? Whatever the honors that await
you abroad, you have left the gratitude, the homage, the
very hearts of two mighty nations to watch over your fame
at home.
You, I feel assured, will not deem it presumptuous in
one, who, to that bright and undying flame which now
streams from the gray hills of Scotland, -the last halo
with which you have crowned her literary glories, — has
turned from his first childhood with a deep and unrelaxing
devotion;- you,
I feel assured, will not deem it presump-
tuous in him to inscribe an idle work with your illustrious
name: a work which, however worthless in itself, as-
sumes something of value in his eyes when thus rendered
a tribute of respect to you.
-
THE AUTHOR of EUGEKK ARAM
LONDON, December 22, 1850
PREFACE.
NEARLY two years have elapsed, dear reader, since, in
Paul Clifford, I last and somewhat more than four since,
in Pelham, I first-addressed thee in my present capacity.
The tale which I now submit to thee, differs equally from
the last as from the first of those works; for, of the two
evils, perhaps it is even better to disappoint thee in a new
style, than to weary thee with an old. With the facts on
which the tale of EUGENE ARAM is founded, I have ex-
ercised the common and fair license of writers of fiction:
it is chiefly the more homely parts of the real story that
have been altered; and for what I have added, and what
omitted, I have the sanction of all established authorities,
who have taken greater liberties with characters yet more
recent, and far more protected by historical recollections.
The book was, for the most part, written in the early part
of the year, when the interest the task created in the au-
thor was undivided by other subjects of excitement, and
| he had leisure enough not only to be nescio quid meditans
nugarum,
nugarum, but also to be totus in illis !
I originally purposed to have adapted the story of Eugene
Aram to the stage. I abandoned that design when more
than half completed; but I have wished to impart to this
romance something of the nature of tragedy, something
of the more transferable of its qualities. Enough of this,
it is not the author's wishes, but the author's books,
that the world will judge him by. Perhaps, then, (with
this I conclude,) in the dull monotony of public affairs,
and in these long winter evenings, when we gather round
the fire, prepared for the gossip's tale, willing to indulge
the fear, and to believe the legend, perhaps, dear reader,
thou mayest turn, not reluctantly, even to these pages, for
at least a newer excitement than the Cholera ; or for a mo-
mentary relief from the everlasting discussions on the bill.
LONDON, December 22, 1831.
EUGENE ARAM.
BOOK THE FIRST.
Τει. Φεύ, φεῦ· φρονεῖν ὡς δεινὸν ἔνθα μὴ τέλη
Δύει φρονοῦντι.
Ol.
Τί δ' ἔστιν ; ὡς ἄθυμος εισελήλυθας.
Τει. Αφες μ' ἐς οἴκους· ῥᾶστα γὰρ τὸ σόν τε σὺ
Κἀγὼ διοίσω τουμὸν, ἣν ἐμοὶ πέθῃ.
ΟΙΔ : ΤΥΡ : - - 316-321,
CHAPTER I.
THE VILLAGE.- ITS INHABITANTS. AN OLD
- MA-
NOR-HOUSE, AND AN ENGLISH FAMILY. THEIR
HISTORY, INVOLVING A MYSTERIOUS EVENT.
"Protected by the divinity they adored, supported by the
earth which they cultivated, and at peace with themselves,
they enjoyed the sweets of life, without dreading or desiring
dissolution."
NUMA POMPILIUS,
In the county of there is a sequestered hamlet,
which I have often sought occasion to pass, and which I
have never left without a certain reluctance and regret. It
is not only (though this has a remarkable spell over my
imagination) that it is the sanctuary, as it were, of a story
which appears to me of a singular and fearful interest; but
the scene itself is one which requires no legend to arrest
the traveller's attention. I know not in any part of the
world which it has been my lot to visit, a landscape so
entirely lovely and picturesque, as that which on every side
of the village I speak of, you may survey. The hamlet, to
which I shall here give the name of Grassdale, is situated
in a valley, which for about the length of a mile winds
among gardens and orchards, laden with fruity between two
chains of gentle and fertile hills,
Here, singly or in pairs, are scattered cottages, which
bespeak a comfort and a rural luxury, less often than our
poets have described the characteristics of the English
peasantry. It has been observed, and there is a world of
homely, ay, and of legislative knowledge in the observa-
tion, that wherever you see a flower in a cottage garden,
or a bird-cage at the window, you may feel sure that the
cottagers are better and wiser than their neighbours; and
such humble tokens of attention to something beyond the
sterile labor of life, were (we must now revert to the past)
to be remarked in almost every one of the lowly abodes
at Grassdale. The jasmine here, there the vine clustered
over the threshold, not so wildly as to testify negligence;
but rather to sweeten the air than to exclude it from the
inmates. Each of the cottages possessed at its rear its
plot of ground, apportioned to the more useful and nutri-
tious product of nature; while the greater part of them
fenced also from the unfrequented road a little spot for the
lupin, the sweet pea, or the many tribes of the English
And it is not unworthy of remark, that the bees
came in greater clusters to Grassdale than to any other
part of that rich and cultivated district. A small piece of
waste land, which was intersected by a brook, fringed with
osier and dwarf and fantastic pollards, afforded pasture for
a few cows, and the only carrier's solitary horse. The
stream itself was of no ignoble repute among the gentle
craft of the angle, the brotherhood whom our associations
defend in the spite of our mercy; and this repute drew
welcome and periodical itinerants to the village, who fur-
nished it with its scanty news of the great world without,
and maintained in a decorous custom the little and single
hostelry of the place. Not that Peter Dealtry, the pro-
prietor of the "Spotted Dog," was altogether contented to
rose.
of
subsist upon the grains d his hospitable profession; ba
joined thereto the light cares of a small farm, held under a
wealthy and an easy landlord; and being moreover honored
with the dignity of clerk to the parish, he was deemed by
his neighbours a person of no sinall accomplishment, and
no insignificant distinction. He was a little, dry, thin
man, of a turn rather sentimental than jocose; a memory
well stored with fag-ends of psalms, and hymns, which,
being less familiar than the psalins to the ears of the vil-
lagers, were more than suspected to be his own composi-
tion; often gave a poetic and semi-religious coloring to his
conversation, which accorded rather with his dignity in
the church, than his post at the Spotted Dog. Yet he
disliked not his joke, though it was subtle and delicate of
nature; nor did he disdain to bear companionship over his
own liquor, with guests less gifted and refined.
In the centre of the village you chanced upon a cottage
which had been lately whitewashed, where a certain pre-
ciseness in the owner might be detected in the clipped
hedge, and the exact and newly-mended style by which you
approached the habitation; herein dwelt the beau and
bachelor of the village, somewhat antiquated, it is true, but
still an object of great attention and some hope to the elder
damsels in the vicinity, and of a respectful popularity that
did not, however, prohibit a joke to the younger part of the
sisterhood. Jacob Bunting, so was this gentleman called,
had been for many years in the king's service, in which he
had risen to the rank of corporal, and had saved and
pinched together a certain small independence upon which
he now rented his cottage and enjoyed his leisure. He had
seen a good deal of the world, and profited in shrewdness
by his experience; he had rubbed off, however, all super-
fluous devotion as he rubbed off his prejudices, and though
he drank more often than any one else with the landlord of
the Spotted Dog, he also quarrelled with him the oftenest,
and testified the least forbearance at the publican's seg
ments of psalmody. Jacob was a tall, comely, and perpen-
dicular personage; his threadbare coat was scrupulously
brushed, and his hair punctiliously plastered at the sides
into two stiff obstinate-looking curls, and at the top into
what he was pleased to call a feather, though it was much
more like a tile. His conversation had in it something
peculiar; generally it assumed a quick, short, abrupt turn,
that, retrenching all superfluities of pronoun and conjunc-
tion, and marching at once upon the meaning of the sen-
tence, had in it a military and Spartan significance, which
betrayed how difficult it often is for a man to forget that he
has been a corporal. Occasionally, indeed, (for where but
in farces is the phraseology of the humorist always the
same?) he escaped into a more enlarged and Christianlike
method of dealing with the king's English, but that was
chiefly noticeable, when from conversation he launched
himself into lecture, a luxury the worthy soldier loved
greatly to indulge, for much had he seen and somewhat had
he reflected; and valuing himself, which was odd in a
corporal, more on his knowledge of the world than his
knowledge even of war, he rarely missed any occasion of
edifying a patient listener with the result of his observa-
tions.
After you had sauntered by the veteran's door, beside
502
BULWER'S NOVELS.
which
-
ed luck of the scapegrace with the fact of his having been
seen in India, Rowland, in his heart, not only hoped, but
fully expected, that the lost one would, some day or other,
return home laden with the spoils of the East, and eager
to shower upon his relatives, in recompense of long deser-
tion,
barbaric pearl and gokl.”
"With richest hand
you generally, if the even ng were fine, or he was not learn that he had been seen once in India; and that pre
drinking with neighbour Dealtry, or taking his tea with viously he had been met in England by a relation, under the
gossip this or master that, or teaching some emulous ur- disguise of assumed names: a proof that, whatever his oc.
chins the broadsword exercise, -or snaring trout in the cupations, they could scarcely be very respectable. But,
stream, or, in short, otherwise engaged; beside which, I of late, nothing whatsoever relating to the wanderer had
say, you not unfrequently beheld him sitting on a rude bench, transpired. By some he was imagined dead; by most he
and enjoying, with half-shut eyes, crossed legs, but still unin- was forgotten. Those more immediately connected with
dulgently erect posture, the luxury of his pipe; you ventured him, his brother in especial, cherished a secret belief,
over a little wooden bridge; beneath which, clear and shal- that wherever Geoffrey Lester should chance to alight, the
low, ran the rivulet we have before honorably mentioned; manner of alighting would (to use the significant and home.
and a walk of a few minutes brought you to a moderately-ly metaphor) be always on his legs; and coupling the wont.
sized and old-fashioned mansion, the manor-house of the
parish. It stood at the very foot of the hill; behind, a rich,
ancient, and hanging wood, brought into relief, the ex-
ceeding freshness and verdure of the patch of green meadow
immediately in front. On one side, the garden was bounded
by the village churchyard, with its simple mounds, and its
few scattered and humble tombs. The church was of
great
antiquity; and it was only in one point of view that you
caught more than a glimpse of its gray tower and graceful
spire, so thickly and so darkly grouped the yew-tree and
the larch around the edifice. Opposite the gate by which
you gained the house, the view was not extended, but rich
with wood and pasture, backed by a hill, which, less ver-
dant than its fellows, was covered with sheep while you
saw, hard by, the rivulet darkening and stealing away, till
your sight, though not your ear, lost it among the wood-
land.
Trained up the imbrowned paling on either side of the
gate, were bushes of rustic fruit, and fruit and flowers
(through plots of which green and winding alleys had been
cut with no untasteful hand) testified by their thriving and
healthful looks, the care bestowed upon them. The main
boasts of the garden were, on one side, a huge horse-chest-
nut tree, the largest in the village; and on the other, an
arbour covered without with honeysuckles, and tapestried
within by moss. The house, a gray and quaint building of
the time of James I. with stone copings and gable roof,
could scarcely in these days have been deemed a fitting res-
idence for the lord of the manor. Nearly the whole of the
centre was occupied by the hall, in which the meals of the
family were commonly held, only two other sitting-rooms
of very moderate dimensions had been reserved by the ar-
chitect for the convenience or ostentation of the proprietor.
An ample porch jutted from the main building, and this
was covered with ivy, as the windows were with jasmine
and honeysuckle; while seats were ranged inside the porch,
covered with many a rude initial and long-past date.
-
The owner of this mansion bore the name of Rowland
Lester. His forefathers, without pretending to high anti-
quity of family, had held the dignity of squires of Grass-
dale for some two centuries; and Rowland Lester was per-
haps the first of the race who had stirred above fifty miles
from the house in which each successive lord had received
his birth, or the green churchyard in which was yet chron-
icled his death. The present proprietor was a man of cul-
tivated tastes; and abilities, naturally not much above
mediocrity, had been improved by travel as well as study.
Himself and one younger brother had been early left mas-
ters of their fate and their several portions. The younger,
Geoffrey, testified a roving and dissipated turn. Bold, li-
centious, extravagant, unprincipled, his career soon out-
stripped the slender fortunes of a cadet in the family of a
country squire. He was early thrown into difficulties, but,
by some means or other, they never seemed to overwhelm
him; an unexpected turn, a lucky adventure,
present-
ed itself at the very moment when fortune appeared the
most utterly to have deserted him.
Among these more propitious fluctuations in the tide of
affairs, was, at about the age of forty, a sudden marriage
with a young lady of what might be termed (for Geoffrey
Lester's rank of life, and the rational expenses of that day)
a very competent and respectable fortune. Unhappily,
however, the lady was neither handsome in feature nor
gentle in temper; and, after a few years of quarrel and
contest, the faithless husband, one bright morning, having
collected in his proper person whatever remained of their
fortune, absconded from the conjugal hearth without either
warning or farewell. He left nothing to his wife but his
house, his debts, and his only child, a son. From that
time to the present little had been known, though much had
been conjectured, concerning the deserter. For the first
few years they traced, however, so far of his fate as to
he freed
But we must return to the forsaken spouse. Left in
this abrupt destitution and distress, Mrs. Lester had only
the resource of applying to her brother-in-law, whom in-
deed the fugitive had before seized many opportunities of
not leaving wholly unprepared for such an application.
Rowland promptly and generously obeyed the summons:
he took the child and the wife to his own home,
the latter from the persecution of all legal claimants, and,
after selling such effects as remained, he devoted the whole
proceeds to the forsaken family, without regarding his own
expenses on their behalf, ill as he was able to afford the
luxury of that self-neglect. The wife did not long need
the asylum of his hearth, she, poor lady, died of a slow
fever produced by irritation and disappointment, a few
months after Geoffrey's desertion. She had no need to
recommend her child to his kind-hearted uncle's care.
And now we must glance over the elder brother's domestic
fortunes.
In Rowland, the wild dispositions of his brother were
so far tamed, that they assumed only the character of a
buoyant temper and a gay spirit. He had strong princi-
ples as well as warm feelings, and a fine and resolute sense
of honor utterly impervious to attack. It was impossible
to be in his company an hour, and not see that he was a
man to be respected. It was equally impossible to live
with him a week, and not see that he was a man to be be-
loved.
loved. He also had married, and about a year after that
era in the life of his brother, but not for the same advan-
tages of fortune. He had formed an attachment to the por-
tionless daughter of a man in his own neighbourhood and
of his own rank. He wooed and won her, and for a few
years he enjoyed that greatest happiness which the world
is capable of bestowing, the society and the love of one
in whom we could wish for no change, and beyond whom
we have no desire. But what evil cannot corrupt, fate
seldom spares.
He
A few months after the birth of a second
daughter, the young wife of Rowland Lester died. It was
to a widowed hearth that the wife and child of his brother
came for shelter. Rowland was a man of an affectionate
and warm heart: if the blow did not crush, at least it
changed him. Naturally of a cheerful and ardent disposi
tion, his mood now became soberized and sedate.
shrunk from the rural gayeties and companionship he had
before courted and enlivened, and, for the first time in his
life, the mourner felt the holiness of solitude. As his
nephew and his motherless daughters grew up, they gave
an object to his seclusion and a relief to his reflections.
He found a pure and unfailing delight in watching the
growth of their young minds, and guiding their differing
dispositions; and, as time at length enabled them to return
his affection, and appreciate his cares, he became once
more sensible that he had a HOME.
The elder of his daughters, Madeline, at the time ou
story opens, had attained the age of eighteen. She was
the beauty and the boast of the whole county. Above the
ordinary height, her figure was richly and exquisitely
formed. So translucently pure and soft was her complex
ion, that it might have seemed the token of delicate health,
but for the dewy and exceeding redness of her lips, and
the freshness of teeth whiter than pearls. Her eyes of a
deep blue, wore a thoughtful and serene expression, and
her forehead, higler and broader than 't usually is in wo-
men, gave promise of a certain nobleness of intellect, and
added dignity, but a feminine dignity, to the more tender
EUGENE ARAM.
503
characteristics of her beauty. And indeed the peculiar
tone of Madeline's mind fulfilled the indication of her fea-
tures, and was eminently thoughtful and high-wrought. She
had early testified a remarkable love for study, and not only
a desire for knowledge, but a veneration for those who
possessed it. The remote corner of the county in which
they lived, and the rarely-broken seclusion which Lester
habitually preserved from the intercourse of their few and
scattered neighbours, had naturally cast each member of
the little circle upon his or her own resources. An acci-
dent, some five years ago, had confined Madeline for sev-
eral weeks or rather months, to the house; and as the old
hall possessed a very respectable share of books, she had
then matured and confirmed that love to reading and reflec-
tion, which she had at a yet earlier period prematurely
evinced. The woman's tendency to romance naturally
tinctured her meditations, and thus, while they dignified,
they also softened her mind. Her sister Ellinor, younger
by two years, was of a character equally gentle, but less
elevated. She looked up to her sister as a superior being.
She felt pride without a shadow of envy at her superior
and surpassing beauty, and was unconsciously guided in
her pursuits and predilections, by a mind she cheerfully ac-
knowledged to be loftier than her own. And yet Ellinor
had also her pretensions to personal loveliness, and pre-
tensions perhaps that would be less reluctantly acknowl-
edged by her own sex then those of her sister. The sun-
light of a happy and innocent heart sparkled on her face,
and gave a beam it gladdened you to behold, to her quick
hazel eye, and a smile that broke out from a thousand dim-
ples. She did not possess the height of Madeline, and
though not so slender as to be curtailed of the roundness
and feminine luxuriance of beauty, her shape was slighter,
feebler, and less rich in its symmetry than her sister's. And
this the tendency of the physical frame to require else-
where support, nor to feel secure of strength, influenced
perhaps her mind, and made love, and the dependence of
love, more necessary to her than to the thoughtful and lofty
Madeline. The latter might pass through life, and never
see the one to whom her heart could give itself away. But
every village might possess a hero whom the imagination
of Ellinor could clothe with unreal graces, and to whom
the lovingness of her disposition might bias her affections.)
Both, however, eminently possessed that earnestness and
purity of heart, which would have made them, perhaps in
an equal degree, constant and devoted to the object of an
attachment, once formed, in defiance of change and to the
brink of death.
Their cousin Walter, Geoffrey Lester's son, was now in
his twenty-first year; tall and strong of person, and with a
face, if not regularly handsome, striking enough to be
generally deemed so. High-spirited, bold, fiery, impatient;
jealous of the affections of those he loved; cheerful to
outward seeming, but restless, fond of change, and subject
to the melancholy and pining mood common to young and
ardent minds: such was the character of Walter Lester.
The estates of Lester were settled in the male line, and
devolved therefore upon him. Yet there were moments
when he keenly felt his orphan and deserted situation; and
sighed to think, that while his father perhaps yet lived, he
was a dependent for affection, if not for maintenance, on
the kindness of others. This reflection sometimes gave
an air of sullenness or petulance to his character, that did
not really belong to it. For what in the world makes a
man of just pride appear so unamiable as the sense of
dependence?
CHAPTER II.
▲ PUBLICAN, A SINNER, AND A STRANGER.
"Ah, Don Alphonso, is it you? Agreeable accident!
Chance presents you to my eyes where you were least ex-
pected."
GIL BLAS.
Ir was an evening in the beginning of summer, and Peter
Dealtry and the ci-devant corporal sat beneath the sign of
the Spotted Dog (as it hung motionless from the bough of
a friendly elm) quafling a cup of boon companionship.
The reader will imagine the two men very different from
rach other in form an: aspect; the one short, dry, fragile,
|
and betraying a love of ease in his unbuttoned rest, and a
certain lolling, see-sawing method of balancing his body
upon his chair; the other, erect and solemn, and as steady
on his seat as if he were nailed to it. It was a fine, tran-
quil, balmy evening; the sun had just set, and the clouds
still retained the rosy tints which they had caught from his
parting ray.
parting ray. Here and there, at scattered intervals, you
might see the cottages peeping from the trees around them;
or mark the smoke that rose from their roofs,-roofs green
with mosses and house-leek, in graceful and spiral curls
against the clear soft air. It was an English scene, and
the two men, the dog at their feet, (for Peter Dealtry fa-
vored a wirey stone-colored cur, which he called a ter-
rier,) and just at the door of the little inn, two old gossips,
loitering on the threshold in familiar chat with the land-
lady, in cap and kerchief, - all together made a group
equally English, and somewhat picturesque, though homely
enough, in effect.
Well, now,
" said Peter Dealtry, as he pushed the
brown jug towards the corporal, "this is what I call pleas
ant; it puts me in mind
"Of what?" quoth the corporal.
"Of those nice lines in the hymn, Master Bunting,
'How fair ye are, ye little hills,
Ye little fields also;
Ye murmuring streams that sweetly run;
Ye willows in a row!'
There is something very comfortable in sacred verses,
Master Bunting; but you 're a scoffer."
"Psha, man!" said the corporal, throwing out his right
leg and leaning back, with his eyes half shut, and his chin
protruded, as he took an unusually long inhalation from his
pipe; " Psha, man!-send verses to the right-about,
fit for girls going to school of a Sunday; full-grown men
more up to snuff. I've seen the world, Master Dealtry;-
the world, and be damned to you!-augh! "
"Fie, neighbour, fie! What's the good of profaneness,
evil speaking and slandering?
'Oaths are the debts your spendthrift soul must pay;
All scores are chalked against the reckoning day.'
Just wait a bit, neighbour; wait till I light my pipe."
"Tell you what," said the corporal, after he had com-
municated from his own pipe the friendly flame to his com-
rade's; “tell you what, talk nonsense; the commander-
in-chief's no martinet,- if we 're all right in action, he'll
wink at a slip word or two. Come, no humbug, hold
jaw. D'ye think God would sooner have snivelling fellow
like you in his regiment, than a man like me, clean limb-
ed, straight as a dart, six feet one without his shoes!
baugh!
-
This notion of the corporal's, by which he would have
likened the dominion of heaven to the king of Prussia's
body-guard, and only admitted the elect on account of their
inches, so tickled mine host's fancy, that he leaned back
in his chair, and indulged in a long, dry, obstreperous
cachinnation. This irreverence mightily displeased the
corporal. He looked at the little man very sourly, and said
in his least smooth accentuation,
"What devil cackling at?
giggle, giggle, giggle,
grin,
self,
—
always grin, grin,
psha!"
Why really, neighbour," said Peter, composing him-
you must let a man laugh now and then."
“Man!” said the corporal, "man's a noble animal!
Man's a musket, primed, loaded, ready to supply a friend
or kill a foe, clrarge not to be wasted on every tom-tit.
But you! not a musket, but a cracker! noisy, harmless,
can't touch you, but off you go, whizz, pop, bang in
one's face! -baugh!"
M
Well!" said the good-humored landlord, "I should
think Master Aram, the great scholar who lives down the
vale yonder, a man quite after your own heart. He is
grave enough to suit you. He does not laugh very easily,
I fancy.'
"After my heart? Stoops like a bow!"
"Indeed he does look on the ground as he walks; when
I think, I do the same. But what a marvellous man it is !
I hear that he reads the Psalms in Hebrew. He's very
affable and meek-like for such a scholard."
"Tell you what. Seen the world, Master Dealtry, and
know a thing or two. Your shy dog is always a deep one.
Give me a man who looks me in the face as he would a
cannon!"
504
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Or a lass,” said Peter, knowingly.
The grim corporal smiled.
"Talking of lasses," said the soldier, re-filling his pipe,
"what creature Miss Lester is! Such eyes!- such nose!
Fit for a colonel, by God! ay, or a major-general!"
"For my part, I think Miss Ellinor almost as band-
some; not so grand-like, but more lovesome! "
"Nice little thing!
said the corporal, condescendingly.
"But, zooks! whom have we here?"
This last question was applied to a man who was slowly
turning from the road towards the inn. The stranger, for
such he was, was stout, thick-set, and of middle height.
His dress was not without pretension to a rank higher than
the lowest; but it was threadbare and worn, and soiled
with dust and travel. His appearance was by no means
prepossessing: small sunken eyes of a light hazel and a
restless and rather fierce expression, a thick, flat nose, high
cheekbones, a large, bony jaw, from which the flesh re-
ceded, and a bull-throat indicative of great strength, con-
stituted his claims to personal attraction. The stately
corporal, without moving, kept a vigilant and suspicious
eye upon the new comer, muttering to Peter, -"Customer
for you; rum customer too, by Gad!”
The stranger now reached the little table, and halting
short, took up the brown jug, without ceremony or preface,
and emptied it at a draught.
The corporal stared the corporal frowned; but before
for he was somewhat slow of speech - he had time to
vent his displeasure, the stranger, wiping his mouth across
his sleeve, said, in rather a civil and apologetic tone,
"I beg pardon, gentlemen. I have had a long march
of it, and very tired I am."
"Humph! march," said the corporal, a little appeased.
"Not in his majesty's service - eh?"
Not now,
-
answered the traveller; then, turning
round to Dealtry, he said: "Are you landlord here?"
"At your service," said Peter, with the indifference of
a man well to do, and not ambitious of half-pence.
-
Come, then, quick, budge," said the traveller, tap-
ping him on the back: "bring more glasses, another jug
of the October; and any thing or every thing your larder
is able to produce, d'ye hear?"
Peter, by no means pleased with the briskness of this
address, eyed the dusty and way-worn pedestrian from
head to foot; then, looking over his shoulder towards the
door, he said, as he ensconced himself yet more firmly on
his seat,
"There's my wife by the door, friend; go, tell her
what you want."
"Do you know," said the traveller, in a slow and
measured accent-"do you know, Master Shrivel-face,
that I have more than half a mind to break your head for
impertinence? You a landlord! you keep an inn, in-
deed! Come, sir, make off, or-"
r
r¢
Corporal corporal!" cried Peter, retreating hastily
from his seat as the brawny traveller approached men-
acingly towards him, you wont see the peace broken.
Have a care, friend-have a care. I'm clerk to the
parish clerk to the parish, sir - and I'll indict you for
sacrilege.'
The wooden features of Bunting relaxed into a sort of
grin at the alarm of his friend. He puffed away, without
making any reply; meanwhile the traveller, taking ad-
vantage of Peter's hasty abandonment of his cathedrarian
accommodation, seized the vacant chair, and drawing it
yet closer to the table, flung himself upon it, and placing
his hat on the table, wiped his brows with the air of a
man about to make himself thoroughly at home.
Peter Dealtry was assuredly a personage of peaceable
disposition; but then he had the proper pride of a host and
a clerk. His feelings were exceedingly wounded at this
cavalier treatment before the very eyes of his wife too,
what an example! He thrust his hands deep into his
breeches' pockets, and strutting with a ferocious swagger
towards the traveller, he said, -
"Hark ye, sirrah! This is not the way folks are treated
in this country: and I'd have you to know, that I'm a
man what has a brother a constable."
Well, sir!"
"Well, sir, indeed! Well! - Sir, it's not well, by
to manner of means; and if you do n't pay for the ale you
drank, and go quietly about your business, I'll have you
put in the stocks for a vagrant."
This, the most menacing speech Peer Tealtry was ever
known to deliver, was uttered with so much spirit, that
the corporal, who had hitherto preserved silence, for he
was too strict a disciplinarian to thrust himself unneces-
sarily into brawls,
ding, as well as his stock would suffer him, at the indignant
turned approvingly round, and nod-
Peter, he said: "Well done! 'fegs, you've a soul,
man!a soul fit for the forty-second! augh! -A soul
above the inches of five feet two!
There was something bitter and sneering in the trav
eller's aspect as he now, regarding Dealtry, repeated
Vagrant-humph! And pray what is a vagrant?"
"What is a vagrant?" echoed Peter, a little puzzled.
"Yes! answer me that.”
Why, a vagrant is a man what wanders, and what has
no money."
""
Truly," said the stranger, smiling, but the smile by no
means improved his physiognomy, an excellent defini-
tion, but one which, I will convince you, does not app to
me. So saying, he drew from his pocket a handful of
silver coins, and throwing them on the table, added:
Come, let's have no more of this. You see I can pay
for what I order; and now, do recollect that I am a weary
and hungry man.
No sooner did Peter behold the money, than a sudden
placidity stole over his ruffled spirit: nay, a certain
benevolent commiseration for the fatigue and wants of the
traveller replaced at once, and as by a spell, the angry
feelings that had previously roused him,
"Weary and hungry," said he; "why did not you say
that before? That would have been quite enough for
Peter Dealtry. Thank God! I am a man what can feel
for my neighbours. I have bowels- yes, I have bowels.
Weary and hungry! you shall be served in an instant.
I may be a little hasty or so, but I'm a good Christian at
bottom ask the corporal. And what says the Psalmist,
Psalm 147 ?
By Him the beasts that loosely range,
With timely food are fed :
He speaks the word, -and what He wills,
Is done as soon as said." "
Animating his kindly emotions by this apt quotation,
Peter turned to the house. The corporal now broke
silence: the sight of the money had not been without an
effect upon him as well as the landlord.
"Warm day, sir:-
your health.
Oh! forgot your
emptied jug — baugh! You said you were not now in h s
majesty's service: beg pardon were you ever ? »
Why, once I was; many years ago.
Ah!—and what regiment? I was in the forty-second.
Heard of the forty-second? Colonel's name, Dysart; cap-
tain's, Trotter; corporal's, Bunting, at your service."
CC
""
"I am much obliged by your confidence," said the trav
eller, dryly. "I dare say you have seen much service.”
"Service! Ah! may well say that; twenty-three
years' hard work and not the better for it! A man that
loves his country is 'titled to a pension,—that 's my mind!
but the world don 't smile upon corporals, - augh!"
Here Peter re-appeared with a fresh supply of the Octo-
ber, and an assurance that the cold meat would speedily
follow.
"I hope yourself and this gentleman will bear me com-
pany," said the traveller, passing the jug to the corporal;
and in a few moments, so well pleased grew the trio with
each other, that the sound of their laughter came loud and
frequent to the ears of the good housewife within.
The traveller now seemed to the corporal and mine host
a right jolly, good-humored fellow. Not, however, that he
bore a fair share in the conversation,
he rather promot
ed the hilarity of his new acquaintances than led it. He
laughed heartily at Peter's jests, and the corporal's repar-
tees; and the latter, by degrees, assuming the usual sway
he bore in the circles of the village, contrived, before the
viands were on the table, to monopolize the whole conver-
sation.
The traveller found in the repast a new excuse for silence.
He ate with a most prodigious and most contagious ap-
petite; and in a few seconds the knife and fork of the
corporal were as busily engaged as if he had only three
minutes to spare between a march and a dinner.
"This is a pretty, retired spot," quoth the traveller, as
at length he finished his repast, and threw himself back on
his chair,-
a very pretty spot. Whose neat old-fash-
EUGENE ARAM.
505
oned house was that I passed on the green, with the gable-
ends and the flowerpots in front?"
"Oh, the squire's," answered Peter; "Squire Lester's,
Squire Lester's,
an excellent gentleman.'
"A rich man, I should think, for these parts; the best
house I have seen for some miles,” said the stranger, care-
lessly.
Rich,
—
yes,
he's well to do; he does not live so as
not to have money to lay by."
"Any family?"
"Two daughters and a nephew.”
"And the nephew does not ruin him. Happy uncle!
Happy uncle!
Mine was not so lucky," said the traveller..
«Sad fellows we soldiers in our young days observed
he corporal, with a wink. No, Squire Walter's a good
voung man, a pride to his uncle ! "
"So," said the pedestrian, "they are not forced to keep
up a large establishment, and ruin themselves by a retinue
of servants - Corporal, the jug.”
Nay!" said Peter, Squire Lester's gate is always
open to the poor; but as for show, he leaves that to my
ord at the castle."
་་
The castle, where 's that?"
About six miles off. You've heard of my Lord *****
24 swear
-
>
An, to be sure, a courtier. But who else lives about
I mean, who are the principal persons, barring the
{
corporal and yourself, Eelpry, I think our friend here
Le
Galle you.
Dealtry, Peter Dealtry, sir, is my name. Why the
most noticeable man, you must know, is a great scholard,
wonderfully learned man; there yonder, you may just
cats! gimpse of the tall what-d'ye-call-it he has built
out So the top of his house, that he may get nearer to the
has got glasses by which I've heard that you
may see the people in the moon walking on their heads;
but i can say as I believe all I hear.”
Braw
You uit too sensible for that, I'm sure. But this
schola¯, A suppose, is not very rich; learning does not
clothe men now-a-days, eh, corporal?
~
"And why should it? Zounds! can it teach a man how
to defenu mis country? Old England wants soldiers, and
be d-d to them! But the man's well enough, I must own;
civil, modest--”
"And not by o means a beggar," added Peter; "he
gave as much to the poor last winter as the squire him-
self."
"Indeed ! " a) ne stranger, "this scholar is rich
"this scholar is rich
then ? "
"So, so; meer oue nor t'other. But if he were as
But if he were as
rich as my lord, he could not be more respected; the great-
ne
est folks in the couury me in their carriages-and-four to
see him. Lord bless you, there is not a name more talked
on in the whole county en Eugene Aram."
"What!" cried voe troveller, his countenance changing
as he sprung from his sea., what! Aram; did you
say Aram? Great God' now strange!"
Peter, not a little started by the abruptness and vele-
mence of his guest, stared at him with open mouth, and
even the corporal took his pipe involuntarily from his lips.
"What! >>
said the former; vou know him, do you?
you 're heard of him, eh?
The stranger did not reply, he seemed lost in a reverie;
he muttered inaudible words between his teeth; now he
strode two steps forward, clencing his hands; now smiled
grimly; and then returning to us seat, threw himself on it,
still in silence. The soldier ne the clerk exchanged
looks, and now outspake the corporal.
"Rum tantrums! What the devil did the man eat
your grandmother?"
Roused perhaps by so pertinen: a sensible a question,
the stranger lifted his head from his breast, and said, with
a forced smile, "You have done me, without knowing it,
a great kindness, my friend. Eugene Arain was an early
and intimate acquaintance of mine: we have not met for
many years. I never guessed that he lived in these parts:
indeed I did not know where he resided. I am truly glad
to think I have lighted upon him thus unexpectedly.
"What! you did not know where he lived? Well I
thought all the world knew that! Why, men from the
anivarsities have come all the way, merely to look at the
spot."
|
a learned man myself, and what is celebrity in one set is
obscurity in another. Besides, I have never been in this
part of the world before !”
Peter was about to reply, when he heard the shri
voice of his wife behind.
Why don't you rise, Mr. Lazyboots? Where are
your eyes? Dont' you see the young ladies?"
Dealtry's hat was off in an instant, -the stiff corporal
rose like a musket; the stranger would have kept his seat,
but Dealtry gave him an admonitory tug by the collar; ac-
cordingly he rose, muttering a hasty oath, which certainly
died on his lips when be saw the cause which had thus
constrained him into courtesy.
Through a little gate close by Peter's house, Madeline
and her sister had just passed on their evening walk, and
with the kind familiarity for which they were both noted,
they had stopped to salute the landlady of the Spotted Dog,
as she now, her labors done, sat by the threshold, within
The
hearing of the convivial group, and plaiting straw.
whole family of Lester were so beloved, that we question
whether my lord himself, as the great nobleman of the
place was always called, (as if there were only one lord
in the peerage,) would have obtained the same degree of
respect that was always lavished upon them.
"Don't let us disturb you, good people," said Ellinor,
as they now moved towards the boon companions, when
her eye suddenly falling on the stranger, she stopped short.
There was something in his appearance, and especially in
the expression of his countenance at that moment, which
no one could have marked for the first time without ap-
prehension and distrust: and it was so seldom that, in that
retired spot, the young ladies encountered even one unfa-
miliar face, that the effect the stranger's appearance might
have produced on any one, might well be increased for them
The traveller saw at
to a startling and painful degree.
once the sensation he had created. his brow lowered; and
the same unpleasing smile, or rather sneer, that we have
noted before, distorted his lip, as he made with affected
humility his obeisance.
"How!—a stranger!" said Madeline, sharing, though
in a less degree, the feelings of her sister; and then, after
a pause, she said, as she glanced over his garb, "not in
distress, I hope?
"No, madam!" said the stranger, if by distress is
meant beggary. I am in all respects perhaps better than
I seem.
There was a general titter from the corporal, my host,
and his wife, at the traveller's semi-jest at his own un-
prepossessing appearance: but Madeline, a little discon-
certed, bowed hastily, and drew her sister away.
"A proud quean!" said the stranger, as he re-seated
himself, and watched the sisters gliding across the green.
All mouths were opened against him, immediately. He
found it no easy matter to make his peace; and before he
had quite done it, he called for his bill, and rose to de-
part.
of
"Well!" said he, as he tendered his hand to the corpo-
ral, "we may meet again, and enjoy together some more
your good stories. Meanwhile, which
Meanwhile, which is my way to this
this this famous scholar's, ·ehem ?"
"Why," quoth Peter, "you saw the direction in which
the young ladies went; you must take the same Cross
the stile you will find at the right, wind along the foot of
the hill for about three parts of a mile, and you will then
see in the middle of a broad plain, a lonely gray house
with a thingumbob at the top, a 'servatory they call it.
That's Master Aram's.”
"Thank you."
"And a very pretty walk it is too," said the dame, "the
prettiest hereabouts to my liking, till you get to the house
at least; and so the young ladies think, for it 's their usual
walk every evening."
Humph, then I may meet them."
"Well, and if you do, make yourself look as christian
like as you can,
like as you can," retorted the hostess.
There was a second grin at the ill-favored traveller's
expense, amidst which he went his way.
"An odd chap!" said Peter, looking after he sturdy
form of the traveller.
!
"I wonder what he is; he seems
well edicated, makes use of good words.”
"What sinnifies?" said the corporal, who felt a sort of
fellow-feeling for his new acquaintance's brusquerie o.
manner;-"what sinnifies what he is? Served his coun
Very likely reu ned the stranger ; "but I am not
Vol. I
64
506
BULWER'S NOVELS.
try, that's enough;- never told me, by the by, his regi-
ment; set me a alking, and let out nothing himself;
-old soldier, every inch of him!"
"He can take care of number one, " said Peter.
"How he emptied the jug; and my stars! what an ap-
petite!"
"Tush," said the corporal, "hold jaw.
world, man of the world, that 's clear."
CHAPTER III.
Man of the
A DIALOGUE AND AN ALARM. A STUDENT'S HOUSE.
A fellow by the hand of nature marked,
Quoted, and signed, to do a deed of shame.”
SHAKSPEARE. - King John
"He is a scholar, if a man may trust
*
The liberal voice of fame in her report.
*
*
Myself was once a student, and indeed
Fed with the self-same humor he is now."
BEN JONSON.- Every Man in his Humor.
"And he always seems," observed Ellinor, "to take
pleasure in my father's conversation, as who would not?
how his countenance lights up when he converses! it is a
pleasure to watch it. I think him positively handsome
when he speaks.”
"Oh, more than handsome!" said Madeline, with en-
thusiasm, "with that high pale brow, and those deep,
unfathomable eyes!
Ellinor smiled, and it was now Madeline's turn to blush.
"Well," said the former, "there is something about
him that fills one with an indescribable interest; and his
manner, if cold at times, is yet always so gentle.
""
"And to hear him converse," said Madeline, "it is like
music. His thoughts, his very words, seem so different
from the language and ideas of others. What a pity that
he should ever be silent!
"There is one peculiarity about his gloom, it never in-
spires one with distrust," said Ellinor; if I had observed
him in the same circumstances as that ill-omened traveller,
I should have had no apprehension.'
"Ah! that traveller still runs in your head. If we were
to meet him in this spot."
"Heaven forbid !" cried Ellinor, turning hastily round
in alarm, and, lo! as if her sister had been a prophet,
she saw the very person in question at some little distance
behind them, and walking on with rapid strides.
THE two sisters pursued their walk along a scene which
might well be favored by their selection. No sooner had She uttered a faint shriek of surprise and terror, and
they crossed the stile, than the village seemed vanished into Madeline, looking back at the sound, immediately partici
earth; so quiet, so lonely, so far from the evidence of life pated in her alarm. The spot looked so desolate and lonely,
was the landscape through which they passed. On their and the imagination of both had been already so worked
right, sloped a green and silent hill, shutting out all view upon by Ellinor's fears, and their conjectures respecting
beyond itself, save the deepening and twilight sky; to the the ill-boding weapon she had witnessed, that a thousand
left,and immediately along their road, lay fragments of stone, apprehensions of outrage and murder crowded at once upon
covered with moss, or shadowed by wild shrubs, that here the minds of the two sisters. Without, however, giving
and there, gathered into copses, or breaking abruptly away vent in words to their alarm, they, as by an involuntary and
from the rich sod, left frequent spaces through which you simultaneous suggestion, quickened their pace, every mo-
caught long vistas of forest-land, or the brooklet gliding in ment stealing a glance behind, to watch the progress of the
a noisy and rocky course, and breaking into a thousand suspected robber. They thought that he also seemed to
tiny waterfalls, or mimic eddies. So secluded was the accelerate his movements; and this observation increased
scene, and so unwitnessing of cultivation, that you would their terror, and would appear indeed to give it some more
not have believed that a human habitation could be at hand, rational ground. At length, as by a sudden turn of the
and this air of perfect solitude and quiet gave an addi-road they lost sight of the dreaded stranger, their alarm
tional charm to the spot.
suggested to them but one resolution, and they fairly fled
on as fast as the fear which actuated, would allow them.
The nearest, and indeed the only house in that direction,
was Aram's; but they both imagined if they could come
within sight of that, they should be safe. They looked back
at every interval; now they did not see their fancied pur-
suer, now he emerged again into view, now, yes,
-he also was running. Faster, faster, Madeline, for
God's sake! he is gaining upon us!" cried Ellinor: the
"But I assure you," said Ellinor, earnestly continuing
a conversation they had begun, “I assure
"I assure you I was not
mistaken; I saw it as plainly as I see you.
"What, in the breast-pocket ?"
"Yes, as he drew out his handkerchief, I saw the bar-
rel of the pistol quite distinctly.'
|
"Indeed, I think we had better tell my father as soon
as we get home; it may be as well to be on our guard,
though robbery, I believe, has not been heard of in Grass-path grew more wild, and the trees more thick and fre-
dale for these twenty years."
"Yet for what purpose, save that of evil, could he, in
these peaceable times and this peaceable country, carry fire-
arms about him? And what a countenance ! Did you note
the shy, and yet ferocious eye, like that of some animal,
that longs, yet fears to spring upon you?"
Upon my word, Ellinor,' " said Madeline, smiling,
you are not very merciful to strangers. After all, the
man might have provided himself with the pistol which you
saw as a natural precaution; reflect that, as a stranger, he
may well not know how safe this district usually is, and
he may have come from London, in the neighbourhood of
which they say robberies have been frequent of late. As
to his looks, they are, I own, unpardonable; for so much
ugliness there can be no excuse. Had the man been as
handsome as our cousin Walter, you would not perhaps have
been so uncharitable in your fears at the pistol."
"Nonsense, Madeline, " said Ellinor, blushing, and
turning away her face; there was a moment's pause,
which the younger sister broke.
"We do not seem, "said she," to inake much progress
in the friendship of our singular neighbour. I never knew
my father court any one so much as he has courted Mr.
Aram, and yet, you see how seldom he calls upon us; nay,
I often think that he seeks to shun us; no great compliment
to our attractions, Madeline."
"I regret his want of sociability, for his own sake,"
said Madeline, "for he seems melancholy as well as
thoughtful, and he leads so secluded a life, that I cannot
but think my father's conversation and society, if he wool.
out encoura e it. right afford some relief to his solitur."
quent; at every cluster that marked their progress they saw
the stranger closer and closer; at length, a sudden break,
a sudden turn in the landscape ; — a broad plain burst
upon them, and in the midst of it the student's solitary
abode !
"Thank God, we are safe!" cried Madeline. She
turned once more to look for the stranger; in so doing, her
foot struck against a fragment of stone, and she fell with
great violence to the ground. She endeavoured to rise, but
found herself, at first, unable to stir from the spot. In this
state she looked, however, back, and saw the traveller at
some little distance. But he also halted, and after a
moment's seeming deliberation, turned aside, and was lost
among the bushes.
With great difficulty Ellinor now assisted Madeline to
rise; her ankle was violently sprained, and she could not
put her foot to the ground; but though she had evinced so
much dread at the apparition of the stranger, she now tes-
tified an almost equal degree of fortitude in bearing pain.
I am not much hurt, Ellinor," she said, faintly smiling,
to encourage her sister, who supported her in speechless
alarm:"but what is to be done? I cannot use this foot;
how shall we get home?"
"Thank God, if you are not much hurt!" said poor
Ellinor, almost crying, "lean on me,——
heavier, pray.
Only try and reach the house, and we can then stay there
till Mr. Aram sends home for the carriage."
"But what will he think? how strange it will seem!
said Madeline, the color once more visiting her cheek,
which a moment since had been blanched as pale as death.
"Is this a time for scruples and ceremony?" said Elli
EUGENE ARAM.
501
nor.
"Come! 1 entreat you, come; if you linger thus,
the man may take courage and attack us yet. There! that's
Is the pain very great
right!
?
"I do not mind the pain," murmured Madeline; "but
if he should think we intrude? His habits are so reserved,
so secluded; indeed I fear —”
"Intrude!" interrupted Ellinor. "Do you think so
ill of him? Do you suppose that, hermit as he is, he has
lost common humanity? But lean more on me, dearest ;
you do not know how strong I am.
Thus alternately chiding, caressing, and encouraging her
sister, Ellinor led on the sufferer, till they had crossed the
plain, though with slowness and labor, and stood before
the porch of the recluse's house. They had looked back
from time to time, but the cause of so much alarm appeared
no more. This they deemed a sufficient evidence of the
justice of their apprehensions.
Madeline would even now fain have detained her sister's
hand from the bell that hung without the porch half in-
bedded in ivy; but Ellinor, out of patience -as she well
might be with her sister's unseasonable prudence, re-
fused any longer delay. So singularly still and solitary
was the plain around the house, that the sound of the bell
breaking the silence, had in it something startling, and ap-
peared in its sudden and shrill voice, a profanation to the
deep tranquillity of the spot. They did not wait long-a
step was heard within the door was slowly unbarred,
and the student himself stood before them.
He was a man who might, perhaps, have numbered some
five-and-thirty years; but at a hasty glance, he would have
seemed considerably younger. He was above the ordinary
stature; though a gentle, and not ungraceful bend in the
neck, rather than the shoulders, somewhat curtailed his
proper advantages of height. His frame was thin and
slender, but well knit and fair proportioned. Nature had
originally cast his form in an athletic mould; but sedentary
habits, and the wear of mind, seemed somewhat to have
impaired her gifts. His cheek was pale and delicate; yet
it was rather the delicacy of thought than of weak health,
His hair, which was long, and of a rich and deep brown,
was worn back from his face and temples, and left a broad,
high majestic forehead utterly unrelieved and bare; and
on the brow there was not a single wrinkle, -— it was as
smooth as it might have been some fifteen years ago.
There was a singular calmness, and, so to speak, pro-
fundity of thought, eloquent upon its clear expanse, which
suggested the idea of one who had passed his life rather in
contemplation than emotion. It was a face that a physiog-
nomist would have loved to look upon, so much did it
speak both of the refinement and the dignity of intellect.
Such was the person- if pictures convey a faithful re-
semblance of a man, certainly the most eminent in his
day for various and profound learning, and a genius wholly
self-taught, yet never contented to repose upon the wonder-
ful stores it had laboriously accumulated.
He now stood before the two girls, silent, and evidently
surprised; and it would scarce have been an unworthy
subject for a picture that ivied porch that still spot
<
Madeline's reclining and subdued form and downcast eyes
the eager face of Ellinor, about to narrate the nature
and cause of their intrusion and the pale student him-
self, thus suddenly aroused from his solitary meditations,
and converted into the protector of beauty.
No sooner did Aram gather from Ellinor the outline of
their story, and of Madeline's accident, than his counte-
nance and manner testified the liveliest and most eager
sympathy. Madeline was inexpressibly touched and sur-
prised at the kindly and respectful earnestness with which
:s recluse scholar usually so cold and abstracted in
mood assisted and led her into the house the sympathy
he expressed for her pain the sincerity of his tone — the
compassion of his eyes-and as those dark and to use
and to use
her own thought unfathomable orbs bent admiringly and
yet so gently upon her, Madeline, even in spite of her pain,
felt an indescribable, a delicious thrill at her heart, which
in the presence of no one else had she ever experienced |
before.
Aram now summoned the only domestic his house pos-
sessed, who appeared in the form of an old woman, whom
he seemed to have selected from the whole neighbourhood
as the person most in keeping with the rigid seclusion he
preserved. She was exceedingly deaf, and was a proverb
in the village fr her extreme taciturnity. Poor old Mar-
garet! she was a widow, and had lost ten chiluren by
early deaths. There was a time when her gay ety had been
as noticeable as her reserve was now. In spite of her 13-
firmity, she was not slow in comprehending the accident
Madeline had met with; and she busied herself with a
promptness that showed her misfortunes had not deadened
her natural kindness of disposition, in preparing fomenta-
tions and bandages for the wounded foot.
Meanwhile Aram, having no person to send in his stead,
undertook to seek the manor-house, and bring back the old
family coach, which had dozed inactively in its shelter for
the last six months, to convey the sufferer home.
CC
'No, Mr. Aram," said Madeline, coloring;
pray do
not go yourself: consider, the man may still be loitering
on the road. He is armed, good heavens, if he should
meet you!"
-
"Fear not, madam," said Aram, with a faint smile.
"I also keep arms, even in this obscure and safe retreat;
and to satisfy you, I will not neglect to carry them with
me."
As he spoke, he took from the wainscoat, from which
they hung, a brace of large horse-pistols, slung them round
him by a leather belt, and flinging over his person, to con-
ceal weapons so alarming to any less dangerous passenger
he might encounter, the long cloak then usually worn in
inclement seasons, as an outer garment, he turned to
depart.
It was
"But are they loaded?" asked Ellinor.
Aram answered briefly, in the affirmative.
somewhat singular, but the sisters did not then remark it,
that a man, so peaceable in his pursuits, and seemingly
possessed of no valuables that could tempt cupidity, should
in that spot, where crime was never heard of, use such
habitual precaution.
When the door closed upon him, and while the old
woman relieved with a light hand and soothing lotions,
which she had shown some skill in preparing, the anguish
of the sprain, Madeline cast glances of interest and curi-
osity around the apartment into which she had had the
rare good fortune to obtain admittance.
The house had belonged to a family of some note, whose
heirs had outstripped their fortunes. It had been long de-
serted and uninhabited; and when Aram settled in those
parts, the proprietor was too glad to get rid of the incum-
brance of an empty house, at a nominal reut. The solitude
of the place had been the main attraction to Aram; and
as he possessed what would be considered a very extensive
assortiment of books, even for a library of these days, he
required a larger apartment than he would have been able
to obtain in an abode more compact and more suitable to
his fortunes and mode of living.
The room in which the sisters now found themselves
was the most spacious in the house, and was indeed of
considerable dimensions. It contained in front one largs
window, jutting from the wall. Opposite was an antique
and high mantlepiece of black oak. The rest of the room
was walled from the floor to the roof with books; volumes
of all languages, and it might even be said, without much
exaggeration, upon all sciences, were strewed around, on
the chairs, the tables, or the floor. By the window stood
the student's desk, and a large old-fashioned chair of oak.
A few papers, filled with astronomical calculations, lay on
the desk, and these were all the witnesses of the result of
study. Indeed Aram does not appear to have been a man
much inclined to re-produce the learning he acquired;
what he wrote was in very small proportion to what he
had read.
So high and grave was the reputation he had acquired,
that the retreat and sanctum of so many learned hours
would have been interesting, even to one who could not
appreciate learning; but to Madeline, with her peculiar
disposition and traits of mind, we may readily conceive
that the room presented a powerful and pleasing charm.
As the elder sister looked round in silence, Ellinor attempt-
ed to draw the old woman into conversation. She would
fain have elicited some particulars of the habits and daily
life of the recluse; but the deafness of their attendant was
so obstinate and hopeless, that she was forced to give up
the attempt in despair. "I fear," said she at last, her
good-nature so far overcome by impatience as not to forbid
a slight yawn; "I fear we shall have a dull time of it till
my father arrives. Just consider, the fat black mares, never
too fast, can only creep along that broken path, —for road
508
BULWER'S NOVELS.
there is none will be quite night before the coach ar-
rives."
"I am sorry, dear Ellinor, my awkwardness should
occasion you so stupid an evening," answered Madeline.
"Oh," cried Ellinor, throwing her arms around her
sister's neck, "it is not for myself I spoke; and indeed I
am delighted to think we have got into this wizard's den,
and seen the instruments of his art. But I do so trust Mr.
Aram will not meet that terrible man.”
"Nay," said the prouder Madeline, "he is armed, and
it is but one man. I feel too high a respect for him to
allow myself much fear."
"But these bookinen are not often heroes," remarked
Ellinor, laughing.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SOLILOQUY, AND THE
CHARACTER OF A FE
CLUSE. THE INTERRUPTION
"Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
Or thrice-great Hermes, and unsphere
The spirit of Plato." MILTON. Il Penseroso.
As Aram assisted the beautiful Madeline into the car
riage, as he listened to her sweet voice, -as he marked
the grateful expression of her soft eyes, - as he felt the
slight yet warm pressure of her fairy hand, that vague sen-
sation of delight which preludes love, for the first time,
in his sterile and solitary life, agitated his breast. Lester
held out his hand to him with a frank cordiality which the
scholar could not resist.
→
"Do not let us be strangers, Mr. Aram," said he,
warmly. "It is not often that I press for companionship
out of my own circle; but in your company I should find
pleasure as well as instruction. Let us break the ice boldly,
and at once. Come and dine with me to-morrow, and
Ellinor shall sing to us in the evening."
The excuse died upon Aram's lips. Another glance at
Madeline conquered the remains of his reserve he accept-
Pres-ed the invitation, and he could not but mark, with an un-
familiar emotion of the heart, that the eyes of Madeline
sparkled as he did so.
"For shame," said Madeline, the color mounting to her
forehead. "Do you not remember how, last summer,
Eugene Arain rescued Dame Greenfield's child from the
bull, though at the literal peril of his own life? And who
but Eugene Aram, when the floods in the year before swept
along the lowlands by Fairleigh, went day after day to
rescue the persons or even to save the goods of those poor
people; at a time too, when the boldest villagers would
not hazard themselves across the waters ?
But bless me,
Ellinor, what is the matter? you turn pale, you tremble."
"Hush!" said Ellinor under her breath, and, putting
ner finger to her mouth, she rose and stole lightly to the
window; she had observed the figure of a man pass by,
and now, as she gained the window, she saw him halt by
the porch, and recognised the formidable stranger. Pres-
ently the bell sounded, and the old woman, familiar with
its shrill sound, rose from her kneeling position beside the
sufferer to attend to the summons. Ellinor sprang forward
and detained her the poor old woman stared at her in
ama cement, wholly unable to comprehend her abrupt gest-
ures and her rapid language. It was with considerable
difficulty and after repeated efforts, that she at length
impressed the dulled sense of the crone with the nature of
their alarm, and the expediency of refusing admittance to
the stranger. Meanwhile, the bell had rung again,
again, and the third time with a prolonged violence which
testified the impatience of the applicant. As soon as the
As soon as the
good dame had satisfied herself as to Ellinor's meaning,
she could no longer be accused of unreasonable taciturnity;
she wrung her hands and poured forth a volley of lamenta-
tions and fears, which effectually relieved Ellinor from the
dread of her unheeding the admonition. Satisfied at hav-
ing done thus much, Ellinor now herself hastened to the
door and secured the ingress with an additional bolt, and
then, as the thought flashed upon her, returned to the old
woman and made her, with an easier effort than before, now
that her senses were sharpened by fear, comprehend the
necessity of securing the back entrance also; both hastened
away to effect this precaution, and Madeline, who herself
desired Ellinor to accompany the old woman, was left
alone. She kept her eyes fixed on the window with a
strange sentiment of dread at being thus left in so helpless
a situation; and though a door of no ordinary dimensions
and doubly locked interposed between herself and the in-
truder, she expected in breathless terror, every instant, to
see the form of the ruffian burst into the apartment.
As
e thus sat and looked, she shudderingly saw the man,
ired perhaps of repeating the summons so ineffectual,
come to the window and look pryingly within their eyes
met; Madeline had not the power to shriek. Would he
break through the window? that was her only idea, and
it deprived ber of words, almost of sense. He gazed upon
her evident terror for a moment with a grim smile of con-
tempt; he then knocked at the window, and his voice broke
harshly on a silence yet more dreadful than the interruption.
"Ho, ho! so there is some life stirring! I beg pardon,
madam, is Mr. Aram, Eugene Aram, within ?"
"Ne," said Madeline faintly, and then, sensible that
her voice had not reached him, she reiterated the answer
in a louder tone. The man, as if satisfied, made a rude
inclination of his head and withdrew from the window.
Ellinor now returned, and with difficulty Madeline found
words to explain to her what had passed. It will be con-
ceived that the two young ladies watched the arrival of
their father with no lukewarm expectation; the stranger
however appeared no more; and in about an hour, to their
nexpressible joy, they heard the rumbling sound of the old
coach as it rolled towards the house. This time there was
no delay in unbarring the door
With an abstracted air, and arms folded across his
breast, he gazed after the carriage till the winding of the
valley snatched it from his view. He then, waking from
his reverie with a start, turned into the house, and carefully
closing and barring the door, mounted with slow steps to
the lofty chamber with which, the better to indulge his
astronomical researches, he had crested his lonely abode.
It was now night. The heavens broadened round him
in all the loving yet august tranquillity of the season and
the hour; the stars bathed the living atmosphere with a
solemn light; and above, about, — around,
"The holy time was quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration."
He looked forth upon the deep and ineffable stillness of the
night, and indulged the reflections that it suggested.
"Ye mystic lights," said he, soliloquizing:-" worlds
upon worlds, infinite, incalculable.- Bright defiers of
rest and change, rolling for ever above our petty sea of
mortality, as, wave after wave, we fret forth our little life,
and sink into the black abyss ; can we look upon you,
note your appointed order, and your unvarying course, and
not feel that we are indeed the poorest puppets of an all-
pervading and resistless destiny? Shall we see through-
out creation each marvel fulfilling its preördered fate,
no wandering from its orbit,-no variation in its seasons,
and yet imagine that the arch-ordainer will hold back
the tides he has sent from their unseen source, at our mis-
erable bidding? Shall we think that our prayers can avert
a doom woven with the skein of events? To change a
particle of our fate, might change the destiny of millions!
Shall the link forsake the chain, and yet the chain be un-
broken? Away, then, with our vague repinings, and our
blind demands. All must walk onward to their goal, be
be the wisest who looks not one step behind. The colors
of our existence were doomed before our birth, our sor-
rows and our crimes; millions of ages back, when this
hoary earth was peopled by other kinds, yea
! ere ita
atoms had formed one layer of its present soil, the Eternal
and the all-seeing Ruler of the universe, Destiny, or God,
had here fixed the moment of our birth and the limits of
our career. What then is crime?- Fate! What life?
- Submission?"
Such were the strange and dark thoughts which, consti
tuting a part indeed of his established creed, broke over
Aram's mind. He sought for a fairer subject for medita
tion, and Madeline Lester rose before him.
Eugene Aram was a man whose whole life seemed to have
been one sacrifice to knowledge. What is termed pleasure
had no attraction for him.- From the mature manhood at
which he had arrived, he looked back along his youth, and
recognised no youthful folly. Love he had hitherto regard
EUGENE ARAM
509
ed with a cold though not an incurious eye intemperance | gentle learning of herbs and flowers, could scarcely hope
nad never lured him to a momentary self-abandonment.
Even the innocent relaxations with which the austerest
minds relieve their accustomed toils, had had no power to
draw nim from his beloved researches. The delight mon-
strari digito; the gratification of triumphant wisdom; the
whispers of an elevated vanity; existed not for his self-
dependent and solitary heart. He was one of those earnest
and high-wrought enthusiasts who now are almost extinct
upon earth, and whom romance has not hitherto attempted
to portray; men not uncommon in the last century, who
were devoted to knowledge, yet disdainful of its fame;
who lived for nothing else than to learn. From store to
store, from treasure to treasure, they proceeded in exulting
labor, and having accumulated all, they bestowed nought;
they were the arch-misers of the wealth of letters. Wrap-
ped in obscurity, in some sheltered nook, remote from the
great stir of men, they passed a life at once unprofitable
and glorious; the least part of what they ransacked would
appal the industry of a modern student, yet the most super-
ficial of modern students might effect more for mankind.
They lived among oracles, but they gave none forth. And
yet, even in this very barrenness, there seems something
high; it was a rare and great spectacle,― men, living aloof
from the roar and strife of the passions that raged below,
devoting themselves to the knowledge which is our purifi-
cation and our immortality on earth, and yet deaf and blind
to the allurements of the vanity which generally accompa-
nies research; refusing the ignorant homage of their kind,
making their sublime motive their only meed, adoring wis-
dom for her sole sake, and set apart in the populous uni-
verse, like stars, luminous with their own light, but too
remote from the earth on which they looked, to shed over
its inmates the lustre with which they glowed.
From his youth to the present period, Aram had dwelt
little in cities though he had visited many, yet he could
scarcely be called ignorant of mankind; there seems some
thing intuitive in the science which teaches us the knowl-
edge of our race. Some men emerge from their seclusion,
and find, all at once, a power to dart into the minds and
drag forth the motives of those they see; it is a sort of
second sight, born with them, not acquired. And Aram,
And Aram,
it may be, rendered yet more acute by his profound and
habitual investigations of our metaphysical frame, never
quitted his solitude to mix with others, without penetrating
into the broad traits or prevalent infirmities their charac-
ters possessed. In this, indeed, he differed from the scholar
tribe, and even in abstraction was mechanically vigilant and
observant. Much in his nature would, had early circum-
stances given it a different bias, have fitted him for worldly
superiority and command. A resistless energy, an un-
broken perseverance, a profound and scheming and subtle
thought, a genius fertile in resources, a tongue clothed with
eloquence, all, had his ambition so chosen, might have
given him the same empire over the physical, that he had
now attained over the intellectual world. It could not be
said that Aram wanted benevolence, but it was dashed and
mixed with a certain scorn: the benevolence was the off-
spring of his nature; the scorn seemed the result of his
pursuits. He would feed the birds from his window, he
would tread aside to avoid the worm on his path; were
one of his own tribe in danger, he would save him at the
hazard of his life : — yet in his heart he despised men, and
believed hem beyond amelioration. Unlike the present
race of schoolmen, who incline to the consoling hope of hu-
man perfectibility, he saw in the gloomy past but a dark
prophecy of the future. As Napoleon wept over one
wounded soldier in the field of battle, yet ordered, without
emotion, thousands to a certain death; so Aram would have
sacrificed himself for an individual, but would not have
sacrificed a momentary gratification for his race. And this
sentiment towards men, at once of high disdain and pro-
found despondency, was perhaps the cause why he rioted
in indolence upon his extraordinary mental wealth, and
could not be persuaded either to dazzle the world or to serve
But by little and little his fame had broken forth from
the limits with which he would have walled it: a man who
had taught himself, under singular difficulties, nearly all the
languages of the civilized earth; the profound mathemati-
cian, the elaborate antiquarian, the abstruse philologist, uni-
ting with his graver lore the more florid accomplishments
of science, from the scholastic trifling of heraldry to the
it.
for utter obscurity in that day when all intellectual acquire-
ment was held in high honor, and its possessors were
drawn together into a sort of brotherhood by the fellowship
of their pursuits. And though Aram gave little or nothing
to the world himself, he was ever willing to communicate
to others any benefit or honor derivable from his researches.
On the altar of science he kindled no light; but the fragrant
oil in the lamps of his more pious brethren was largely
borrowed from his stores. From almost every college in
Europe came to his obscure abode letters of acknowledg-
ment or inquiry; and few foreign cultivators of learning
visited this country without seeking an interview with
| Aram. He received them with all the modesty and the
courtesy that characterized his demeanour ; but it was no-
ticeable that he never allowed these interruptions to be
more than temporary. He proffered no hospitality, and
shrunk back from all offers of friendship; the interview
lasted its hour, and was seldom renewed. Patronage was
not less distasteful to him than sociality. Some occasiona
visits and condescensions of the great, he had received
with a stern haughtiness, rather than his wonted and sub-
dued urbanity.
dued urbanity. The precise amount of his fortune was not
known; his wants were so few, that what would have been
poverty to others,
poverty to others, might easily have been competence to
him; and the only evidence he manifested of the command
of money, was in his extended and various library.
He had now been about two years settled in his present
retreat. Unsocial as he was, every one in the neighbourhood
loved him; even the reserve of a man so eminent, arising
as it was supposed to do from a painful modesty, had in it
something winning; and he had been known to evince on
great occasions, a charity and a courage in the service of
others which removed from the seclusion of his habits the
semblance of misanthropy and of avarice. The peasant
drew aside with a kindness mingled with his respect, as in
his homewark walk he encountered the pale and thoughtful
student, with the folded arms and downcast eyes, which
characterized the abstraction of his mood; and the village
maiden, as she courtesied by him, stole a glance at his hand-
some but melancholy countenance; and told her sweetheart
she was certain the poor scholar had been crossed in love.
|
And thus passed the student's life; perhaps its monotony
and dulness required less compassion than they received;
no man can judge of the happiness of another. As the
moon plays upon the waves, and seems to our eyes to
favor with a peculiar beam one long track amidst the
waters, leaving the rest in comparative obscurity; yet all
the while, she is no niggard in her lustre, for though the
rays that meet not our eyes seem to us as though they were
not, yet she with an equal and unfavoring loveliness,
mirrors herself on every wave: even so, perhaps, happi-
ness falls with the same brightness and power over the
whole expanse of life, though to our limited eyes she seems
only to rest on those billows from which the ray is reflected
back upon our sight.
From his contemplations, of whatsoever nature, Arain
was now aroused by a loud summons at the door; the
clock had gone eleven. Who could at that late hour, when
the whole village was buried in sleep, demand admittance?
He recollected that Madeline had said the stranger who
had so alarmed them had inquired for him; at that recol-
lection his cheek suddenly blanched, but again, that stran-
ger was surely only some poor traveller who had heard of
his wonted charity, and had called to solicit relief, for he
had not met the stranger on the road to Lester's house;
and he had naturally set down the apprehensions of h's
fair visitants to a mere female timidity. Who could this be?
No humble wayfarer would at that hour crave assistance;
some disaster perhaps in the village. From his lofty cham-
ber he looked forth and saw the stars watch quietly over
the scattered cottages and the dark foliage that slept
breathlessly around. All was still as death, but it seemed
the stillness of innocence and security again! the bell
again! He thought he heard his name shouted without;
he strode once or twice irresolutely to and fro the chamber;
and then his step grew firm, and his native courage re-
turned. His pistols were still girded round him; he looked
to the priming, and muttered some incoherent words; he
then descended the stairs, and slowly unbarred the door
Without the porch, the moonlight full upon his harsh
features and sturdy frame, stood the ill-oraened traveller.
519
BULWER'S NOVELS
CHAPTER V.
A DINNER AT THE SQUIRE'S HALL.
A CONVERSA-
TION BETWEEN TWO RETIRED MEN WITH DIFFER-
ENT OBJECTS IN RETIREMENT. DISTURBANCE
FIRST INTRODUCED INTO A PEACEFUL FAMILY.
"Can he not be sociable?"— Troilus and Cressida.
Subit quippe etiam ipsius inertia dulcedo; et invisa primò
sidia postremò amatur."— TACITUS.
"How use doth breed a habit in a man !
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns."
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
ter alone seemed not carried away by the eloquence of theu
guest. He preserved an unadmiring and sullen demeanour,
and every now and then regarded Aram with looks of sus-
picion and dislike. This was more remarkable when the
men were left alone; and Lester, in surprise and anger,
darted significant and admonitory looks towards his nephew,
which at length seemed to arouse him into a more hospita-
ble bearing. As the cool of the evening now came on,
Lester proposed to Aram to enjoy it without, previous to
returning to the parlour, to which the ladies had retired.
Walter excused himself from joining them. The host and
the guest accordingly strolled forth alone.
"Your solitude," said Lester, smiling, "is far deeper
and less broken than mine: do you never find it irksome?"
"Can humanity be at all times contented?" said Aram.
"No stream, howsoever secret or subterranean, glides on
in eternal tranquillity."
"You allow, then, that you feel some occasional desire
for a more active and animated life?"
THE next day, faithful to his appointment, Aram arriv-
ed at Lester's. The good squire received him with a warm
cordiality, and Madeline with a blush and a smile that
ught to have been more grateful to him than acknowledg-
ments. She was still a prisoner to the sofa, but in compli-ry froin my remark. I may, at times, feel the weariness of
ment to Aram, the sofa was wheeled into the hall, where
they dined, so that she was not absent from the repast. It
was a pleasant room, that old hall! Though it was sum-
mer, more for cheerfulness than warmth, the log burnt.
on the spacious hearth: but at the same time the latticed
windows were thrown open, and the fresh yet sunny air
stole in, rich from the embrace of the woodbine and clema-
tis, which clung around the casement.
A few old pictures were panelled in the oaken wainscot;
and here and there the horns of the mighty stag adorned
the walls, and united with the cheeriness of comfort asso-
ciations of that of enterprise. The good old board was
crowded with the luxuries meet for a country squire. The
speckled trout, fresh from the stream, and the four-year-old
mutton modestly disclaiming its own excellent merits, by
affecting the shape and assuming the adjuncts of venison.
Then for the confectionary, it was worthy of Ellinor, to
whom that department generally fell; and we should scarce-
ly be surprised to find, though we venture not to affirm,
that its delicate fabrication owed more to her than superin-
tenderce. Then the ale, and the cider with rosemary in
the bowl, were incomparable potations; and to the goose-
berry wine, which would have filled Mrs. Primrose with
envy, was added the more generous warmth of port, which,
in the squire's younger days, had been the talk of the coun-
ty, and which had now lost none of its attributes, save
"the original brightness" of its color.
But (the wine excepted) these various dainties met with
slight honor from their abstemious guest; and, for though
habitually reserved he was rarely gloomy, they remarked
that he seemed unusually fitful and sombre in his mood.
Something appeared to rest upon his mind, from which, by
the excitement of wine and occasional bursts of eloquence
more animated than ordinary, he seemed striving to escape;
and at length, he apparently succeeded. Naturally enough,
the conversation turned upon the curiosities and scenery of
the country round; and here Aram shone with a peculiar
grace. Vividly alive to the influences of nature, and mi-
nutely acquainted with its varieties, he invested every hill
and glade to which remark recurred with the poetry of his
descriptions; and from his research he gave even scenes
the most familiar, a charin and interest which had been
strange to them till then. To this stream some romantic
legend had once attached itself, long forgotten and now re-
vived; that moor, so barren to an ordinary eye, was yet
productive of some rare and curious herb, whose properties
afforded scope for lively description; that old mound was
yet rife in attraction to one versed in antiquities, and able
to explain its origin, and from such explanation deduce a
thousand classic or celtic episodes.
"Nay," answered Aram; "that is scarcely a fair corolla-
existence, the tedium vita; but I know well that the cause
is not to be remedied by a change from tranquillity to agita-
tion. The objects of the great world are to be pursued
only by the excitement of the passions. The passions are
at once our masters and our deceivers; they urge us on-
ward, yet present no limit to our progress. The further
we proceed, the more dim and shadowy grows the goal. It
is impossible for a man who leads the life of the world, the
life of the passions, ever to experience content. For the
life of the passions is that of a perpetual desire; but a state
of content is the absence of all desire. Thus philosophy
has become another name for mental quietude; and all wis
dom points to a life of intellectual indifference, as the hap
piest which earth can bestow."
"This may be true enough," said Lester, reluctantly,
" but
"But what? "
"A something at our hearts, -a secret voice, - an in-
voluntary impulse, rebels against it, and points to action,
- action, as the true sphere of man.
A slight smile curled the lip of the student; he avoided,
however, the argument, and remarked,
Yet, if you think so, the world lies before you: why
not return to it ?"
"Because.constant habit is stronger than occasional im-
pulse; and my seclusion, after all, has its sphere of action,
has its object."
"All seclusion has.'
"All? Scarcely so; for me, I have my object of inte-
rest in my children."
"And mine is in my books."
"And engaged in your object, does not the whisper of
fame ever animate you with the desire to go forth into the
world, and receive the homage that would await you ?
"Listen to me," replied Aram. "When I was a boy,
I went once to a theatre. The tragedy of Hamlet was
performed: a play full of the roblest thoughts, the subtlest
morality, that exists upon the stage. The audience listen-
ed with attention, with admiration, with applause. I said
to myself, when the curtain fell, It must be a glorious
thing to obtain this empire over men's intellects and emo-
tions.' But now an Italian mountebank appeared on the
stage, -a man of extraordinary personal strength and
slight of hand. He performed a variety of juggling tricks,
and distorted his body into a thousand surprising and un-
natural postures. The audience were transported beyond
themselves: if they had felt delight in Hamlet, they glowed
with rapture at the mountebank: they had listened with
attention to the lofty thought, but they were snatched from
themselves by the marvel of the strange posture. 'Enough,'
said I; I correct my former notion. Where is the glory
of ruling men's minds, and commanding their admiration,
when a greater enthusiasm is excited by mere bodily agili-
ty, than was kindled by the most wonderful emanations of
a genius little less than divine?' I have never forgotten
the impression of that evening.'
No subject was so homely or so trite but the knowledge
that had neglected nothing, was able to render it luminous
and new. And as he spoke, the scholar's countenance
brightened, and his voice, at first hesitating and low, com-
pelled the attention to its earnest and winning music. Les-
ter himself, a man who, in his long retirement, had not
forgotten the attractions of intellectual society, nor even
neglected a certain cultivation of intellectual pursuits, en-
joyed a pleasure that he had not experienced for years.
The gay Ellinor was fascinated into admiration; and
Madeline, the most silent of the group, drank in every Beg pardon, squire," said he, with a military salute,
word, raconscious of the sweet poison she imbibed. Wal-"beg pardon, your honor," bowing to Aram; " but I
Lester attempted to combat the truth of the illustrativ 1,
and thus conversing, they passed on through the village
green, when the gaunt form of Corporal Bunting arrested
their progress.
EUGENE ARAM.
11
wanted to speak to you, squire, 'bout the rent of the bit cot
yonder; times very hard,-pay scarce,
Michaelmas
close at hand, — and -
"You desire a little delay, Bunting, eh ?- Well, well,
we'll see about it, look up at the hall to-morrow; Mr. Wal-
ter, I know, wants to consult you about letting the water
from the great pond, and you must give us your opinion of
the new brewing."
"Thank your honor, thank you; much obliged, I'm sure.
I hope your honor liked the trout I sent up. Beg pardon,
Master Aram, mayhap you would condescend to accept a
few fish now and then; they 're very fine in these streams,
as you probably know; if you please to let me, I'll send
some up by the old 'oman to-morrow, that is, if the day's
cloudy a bit."
The scholar thanked the good Bunting, and would
have proceeded onward, but the corporal was in a familiar
mocd.
Beg pardon, beg pardon, but strange-looking dog here
last evening,-asked after you,- said you were old friend
of his,― trotted off in your direction,-hope all was right,
master?augh!
!"
"All right!" repeated Aram, fixing his eyes on the
corporal, who had concluded his speech with a significant
wink, and pausing a full moment before he continued, then
as if satisfied with his survey, he added:
66
Ay, ay, I know whom you mean; he had known me
some years ago. So you saw him! What did he say to
you of me ?
?350.
Augh! little enough, Master Aram, he seemed to think
only of satisfying his own appetite; said he'd been a sol-
dier."
"A soldier, humph!"
"Never told me the regiment, though;-shy,
ever desert, pray, your honor?"
did he
"
I
"I don't know;" answered Aram, turning away,
know little, very little, about him!" He was going away,
but stopped to add: "The man called on me last night for
assistance; the lateness of the hour a little alarmed me.
I gave him what I could afford, and he has now proceeded
on his journey."
"Oh, then, he won't take up his quarters hereabouts,
your honor?" said the corporal, inquiringly.
"No, no; good evening,"
"What! this singular stranger, who so frightened my
poor girls, is really known to you?" said Lester, in sur-
prise: "pray, is he as formidable as he seemed to them?"
"Scarcely," said Aram, with great composure; "he has
been a wild roving fellow all his life, but, but there is
little real harm in him. He is certainly ill-favored enough
to" here, interrupting himself, and breaking into a new
sentence, Aram added: "but at all events he will frighten
your daughters no more; he has proceeded on his journey
northward. And now, yonder lies my way home. Good
evening. The abruptness of this farewell did indeed
take Lester by surprise.
Why, you will not leave me yet? The young ladies
expect your return to them for an hour or so! What will
they think of such desertion? No, no, come back, my
good friend, and suffer me by and by to walk some part of
the way home with you."
"Pardon me," said Aram, "I must leave you now.
As to the ladies," he added, with a faint smile, half in
melancholy, half in scorn, "I am not one whom they
could miss;-forgive me if I seem unceremonious. Adieu."
Lester at first felt a little offended, but when he recalled
the peculiar habits of the scholar, he saw that the only way
to hope for a continuance of that society which had so
pleased him, was to indulge Aram at first in his unsocial
inclinations, rather than annoy him by a troublesome hos-
pitality; he therefore, without further discourse, shook
hands with him, and they parted.
When Lester regained the little parlour, he found his
nephew sitting, silent and discontented, by the window.
Madeline had taken up a book, and Ellinor, in an opposite
corner, was plying her needle with an air of earnestness
and quiet, very unlike her usual playful and cheerful viva-
city. There was evidently a cloud over the group; the
good Lester regarded them with a searching, yet kindly
eye.
"And what has happened?" said he. " Something of
mighty import, I am sure, or I should have heard my pretty
Ellinor's merry laugh long before I crossed the threshold.
Ellinor colored and sighed, and worked faster than
ever. Walter threw open the window, and whistled a
favorite air quite out of tune. Lester smiled, and seated
himself by his nephew.
?
"Well, Waker," said he, "I feel, for the first time
these ten years, I have a right to old you. What on
earth could make you so inhospitable to your uncle's guest
You eyed the poor student, as if you wished him among
the books of Alexandria !
"
"I would he were burnt with them!" answered Walter,
sharply. "He seems to have added the black art to his
other accomplishments, and bewitched my fair cousins here
into a forgetfulness of all but himself."
"Not me!" said Ellinor, eagerly, and looking up.
"No, not you, that's true enough; you are too just, too
kind;-it is a pity that Madeline is not more like you
"My dear Walter," said Madeline, "what is the
matter? You accuse me of what? being attentive to a
man whom it is impossible to hear without attention ! "
"There!" cried Walter, passionately; "you confess it;
and so for a stranger, - a cold, vain, pedantic egotist, you
can shut your ears and heart to those who have known and
loved you all your life; and - and
"Vain!" interrupted Madeline, unheeding the latter
part of Walter's address.
"Pedantic!" repeated her father.
"Yes! I say vain, pedantic!" cried Walter, working
himself into a passion. "What on earth but the love of
display could make him monopolize the whole conversa-
tion? What but pedantry could make him bring out
those anecdotes and allusions, and descriptions, or what-
ever you call them, respecting every old wall or stupid
plant in the country?"
"I never thought you guilty of meanness before," said
Lester, gravely.
"Meanness!"
"Yes! for is it not mean to be jealous of superior ac-
quirements, instead of admiring them?"
"What has been the use of those acquirements? Has
he benefited mankind by them? Show me the poet - the
historian the orator, and I will yield to none of you;
no, not to Madeline herself in homage of their genius: but
the mere creature of books the dry and sterile collector
of other men's learning-no-no. What should I ad-
mire in such a machine of literature, except a waste of
perseverance? And Madeline calls him handsome too! "
At this sudden turn from declamation to reproach,
Lester laughed outright; and his nephew, in high anger,
rose and left the room.
"Who could have thought Walter so foolish?" said
Madeline.
Nay," observed Ellinor, gently, "it is the folly of
kind heart, after all. He feels sore at our seeeming to
prefer another I mean another's conversation — to his!"
Lester turned round his chair, and regarded with a
serious look, the faces of both sisters.
My dear Ellinor," said he, when he had finished his
survey, "you are a kind girl, - come and kiss me!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE BEHAVIOUR OF THE STUDENT.- A SUMME
SCENE. ARAM'S CONVERSATION WITH WALTER
AND SUBSEQUENT COLLOQUY WITH HIMSELF.
"The soft season, the firmament serene,
The loun illuminate air, and firth amene
The silver-scalit fishes on the grete
O'erthwart clear streams sprinkillond for the heat,” &c
GAWIN DOUGLAS.
"Ilia subter
Cæcum vulnus habes; sed lato balteus auro
Prætegit."PERSIUS.
SEVERAL days clapsed before the family of the manov
house encountered Aram again. The old woman came
once or twice to present the inquiries of her master as to
Miss Lester's accident; but Aram himself did not appear
This want of interest certainly offended Madeline, although,
she still drew upon herself Walter's displeasure, by dis
puting and resenting the unfavorable strictures on the
512
BULWER'S NOVELS.
scholar, in which that young gentleman delighted to in-
dulge. By degrees, however, as the days passed without
maturing the acquaintance which Walter had disapproved,
the youth relaxed in his attacks, and seemed to yield to
the remonstrances of his uncle. Lester had, indeed, con-
ceived an especial inclination towards the recluse. Any
man of reflection, who has lived for some time alone, and
who suddenly meets with one who calls forth in him, and
without labor or contradiction, the thoughts which have
sprung up in his solitude, scarcely felt in their growth, will
comprehend the new zest, the awakening, as it were, of
the mind, which Lester found in the conversation of Eugene
Aram. His solitary walk (for his nephew had the separate
pursuits of youth) appeared to him more dull than before;
and he longed to renew an intercourse which had given to
the monotony of his life both variety and relief. He called
twice upon Aram, but the student was, or affected to be,
from home; and an invitation he sent him, though couched
in friendly terms, was, but with great semblance of kind-
ness, refused.
"See, Walter," said Lester, disconcerted, as he finished
reading the refusal,-"see what your rudeness has effected.
I am quite convinced that Aram (evidently a man of sus-
ceptible as well as retired mind) observed the coldness of
your manner towards him, and that thus you have deprived
me of the only society which, in this county of boors and
savages, gave me any gratification."
Walter replied apologetically, but his uncle turned away
with a greater appearance of anger than his placid features
were wont to exhibit; and Walter, cursing the innocent
cause of his uncle's displeasure towards him, took up his
fishing-rod and went out alone, in no happy or exhilarated
mood.
It was waxing towards eve,— an hour especially lovely
in the month of June, and not without reason favored by
the angler. Walter sauntered across the rich and fragrant
fields, and came soon into a sheltered valley, through which
the brooklet wound its shadowy way. Along the margin
the grass sprung up long and matted, and profuse with a
thousand weeds and flowers the children of the teeming
June. Here the ivy-leaved bell-flower, and not far from it
the common enchanter's night-shade, the silver weed, and
the water-avens; and by the hedges that now and then
neared the water, the guelder rose, and the white briony,
overrunning the thicket with its emerald leaves and luxu-
riant flowers. And here and there, silvering the bushes,
the elder offered its snowy tribute to the summer. All the
insect youth were abroad, with their bright wings and
glancing motion; and from the lower depths of the bushes
the blackbird darted across, or higher and unseen the first
cuckoo of the eve began its continuous and mellow note.
All this cheeriness and gloss of life, which enamour us
with the few bright days of the English summer, make the
poetry in an angler's life, and convert every idler at heart
into a moralist, and not a gloomy one, for the time.
Softened by the quiet beauty and voluptuousness around
him, Walter's thoughts assumed a more gentle dye, and he
broke out into the old lines:
"Sweet day, so soft, so calm, so bright;
The bridal of the earth and sky," &c.
as he dipped his line into the current, and drew it across
the shadowy hollows beneath the bank. The river-gods
were not, however, in a favorable mood, and after waiting
in vain for some time, in a spot in which he was usually
successful, he proceeded slowly along the margin of the
brooklet, crushing the reeds at every step, into that fresh
and delicious odor, which furnished Bacon with one of his
most beautiful comparisons.
He thought, as he proceeded, that beneath a tree that
overhung the waters in the narrowest part of their channel,
he heard a voice, and as he approached he recognised it as
Aram's; a curve in the stream brought him close by the
spot, and he saw the student half reclined beneath the tree,
and muttering, but at broken intervals, to himself.
The words were so scattered, that Walter did not trace
their clue; but involuntarily he stopped short, within a few
feet of the soliloquist : and Aram, suddenly turning round,
beheld him. A fierce and abrupt change broke over the
scholar's countenance; his cheek grew now pale, now
flushed; and his brows knit over his flashing and dark eyes
with an intent anger, that was the more withering, from
its contrast to the usual calmness of his features. Walter
drew back, but Aram stalking directly up to nim, gazed
into his face, as if he would read his very soul.
What! eaves-dropping?" said he, with a ghastly
smile. "You overheard me, did you? Well, well, what
said I ? what said I? Then pausing, and noting that
Walter did not reply, he stamped his foot violently, and
grinding his teeth, repeated, in a smothered tone,
Boy!
what said I ?"
"Mr. Aram," said Walter, "you forget yourself; I am
not one to play the listener, more especially to the learned
ravings of a man who can conceal nothing I care to know.
Accident brought me hither."
"What! surely, surely I spoke aloud, did I not ? …….
did I not ? "
"You did, but so incoherently and indistinctly, that I
did not profit by your indiscretion. I cannot plagiarise, I
assure you, from any scholastic designs you might have
been giving vent to.
Aram looked on him for a moment, and then breathing
heavily, turned away.
"Pardon me," he said; "I am a poor half-crazed man;
much study has unnerved me; I should never live but with
my own thoughts; forgive me, sir, I pray you.
Touched by the sudden contrition of Aram's manner,
Walter forgot, not only his present displeasure, but his
general dislike; he stretched forth his hand to the student,
and hastened to assure him of his ready forgiveness.
Aram sighed deeply as he pressed the young man's hand,
and Walter saw, with surprise and emotion, that his eyes
were filled with tears.
"Ah!" said Aram, gently shaking his head, "it is a
hard life we bookmen lead. Not for us is the bright face
of noon-day or the smile of woman, the gay unbending of
the heart, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump; the
pride, pomp, and circumstance of life. Our enjoyments
are few and calm; our labor constant; but that is it not,
sir ! that is it not the body avenges its own neglect.
We grow old before our time; we wither up; the sap of
youth shrinks from our veins; there is no bound in our
step. We look about us with dimmed eyes, and our breath
grows short and thick, and pains and coughs, and shooting
aches come upon us at night; it is a bitter life,
- a bitter
life, -a joyless life. I would I had never commenced it.
And yet the harsh world scowls upon us our nerves are
broken, and they wonder that we are querulous; our blood
curdles, and they ask why we are not gay; our brain grows
dizzy and indistinct, (as with me just now,) and, shrugging
their shoulders, they whisper their neighbours that we are
mad. I wish I had worked at the plough, and known
sleep, and loved mirth,— and,—and not been what I am.”
As the student uttered the last sentence, he bowed down
his head, and a few tears stole silently down his cheek.
Walter was greatly affected, it took him by surprise;
nothing in Aram's ordinary demeanour betrayed any facility
to emotion; and he conveyed to all the idea of a man, if
not proud, at least cold.
"You do not suffer bodily pain, I trust?" asked Wal-
ter, soothingly.
"Pain does not conquer me," said Aram, slowly recov-
ering himself. "I am not melted by that which I would
fain despise. Young man, I wronged you,—
you have
forgiven me. Well, well, we will say no more on that
head; it is past and pardoned. Your uncle has been kind
to me, and I have not returned his advances; you shall
tell him why. I have lived thirteen years by myself, and
I have contracted strange ways and many humors not com-
mon to the world, you have seen an example of this.
Judge for yourself if I be fit for the smoothness, and confi-
dence, and ease of social intercourse; I am not fit, I feel
it! I am doomed to be alone, tell your uncle this,-
tell him to suffer me to live so! I am grateful for his
goodness, I know his motives, but I have a certain
pride of mind; I cannot bear sufferance, — I loath indul-
gence. Nay, interrupt me not, I beseech you. Look
round on nature,- -behold the only company that humbles
me not, except the dead whose souls speak to us from
the immortality of books. These herbs at your feet, I
know their secrets, I watch the mechanism of their life;
the winds, they have taught me their language; the
stars, I have unravelled their mysteries; and these, the
creatures and ministers of God, these I offend not by
my mood, to them I utter my thoughts, and break forth
into my dreams, without reserve and withou fear Bin
EUGENE ARAM.
512
I
men disturb me, — I have nothing to learn from them,
have no wish to confide in them; they cripple the wild lib-
erty which has become to me a second nature. What its
shell is to the tortoise, solitude has become to me, my
protection; nay, my life!
J
"But," said Walter, "with us, at least, you would not
have to dread restraint; you might come when
you would;
be silent or converse, according to your will."
Aram smiled faintly, but made no immediate reply.
"So, you have been angling!" he said, after a short
pause, and as if willing to change the thread of conversation.
Fie! It is a treacherous pursuit; it encourages man's
worst propensities, cruelty and deceit."
"I should have thought a lover of nature would have
been more indulgent to a pastime which introduces us to
ber most quiet retreats.
>>
"And cannot nature alone tempt you without need of
such allurements? What! that crisped and winding
stream, with flowers on its very tide, the water-violet
and the water-lily, these silent brakes, the cool of the
gathering evening, the still and luxuriance of the univer-
sal life around you; are not these enough of themselves
to tempt you forth? if not, go to, your excuse is by-
pocrisy."
"I am used to these scenes," replied Walter; "I am
weary of the thoughts they produce in me, and long for any
diversion or excitement.
>>
“Ay, ay, young man! The mind is restless at your
age, have a care. Perhaps you long to visit the world,
-to quit these obscure haunts which you are fatigued in
admiring?"
"It may be so," said Walter, with a slight sigh. "I
should at least like to visit our great capital, and note the
contrast; I should come back, I imagine, with a greater
test to these scenes.
>>
Aram laughed. "My friend," said he, "when men
have once plunged into the great sea of human toil and
pas-.
sion, they soon wash away all love and zest for innocent
enjoyments. What once was a soft retirement, will be-
come the most intolerable monotony; the gaming of social
existence, the feverish and desperate chances of honor
and wealth, upon which the men of cities set their hearts,
render all pursuits less exciting, utterly insipid and dull.
The brook and the angle, -ha-ha! - these are not oc-
cupations for men who have once battled with the world."
'I can forego them, then, without regret," said Walter,
with the sanguineness of his years. Aram looked upon
him wistfully; the bright eye, the healthy cheek, and vig-
orous frame of the youth, suited with his desire to seek the
conflict of his kind, gave a naturalness to his ambition,
which was not without interest, even to the recluse.
re
Poor boy!" said he, mournfully, "how gallantly the
ship leaves the port; how worn and battered it will
return!"
Yet
When they parted, Walter returned slowly homewards,
filled with pity towards the singular man whom he had seen
so strangely overpowered; and wondering how suddenly
his mind had lost its former rancor to the student.
there mingled even with these kindly feelings, a little dis-
pleasure at the superior tone which Aram had unconsciously
adopted towards him; and to which, from any one, the high
spirit of the young man was not readily willing to submit.
re
Meanwhile, the student continued his path along the
water side, and as, with his gliding step and musing air,
he roamed onward, it was impossible to imagine a form
more suited to the deep tranquillity of the scene. Even
the wild birds seemed to feel, by a sort of instinct, that in
him there was no cause for fear, and did not stir from the
turf that neighboured, or the spray that overhung his path.
So," said he, solilequizing, but not without casting
frequent and jealous glances round him, and in a murmur
so indistinct as would have been inaudible even to a lis-
tener,-"so, I was not overheard, well, I must cure my-
self of this habit; our thoughts, like nuns, ought not to go
abroad without a veil. Av, this tone will not betray me,
I will preserve its tenor, for I can scarcely altogether re-
nounce my sole confidant, -SELF; and thought seems
more clear when uttered even thus. 'T is a fine youth! full
of the impulse and daring of his years; I was never so
young at heart. was,-nay, what matters it? Who is
answerable for his nature? Who can say,
Who can say, 'I controlled
all the circumstances which made me what I am?' Made-
line, heavens! did I bring on myself this temptation?
VOL I
•
65
|
Have I not fenced it from me throughout all my youth,
when my brain did at moments forsake me, and the veins
did bound? And now, when the yellow hastens on the
green of life; now, for the first time, this emotion, this
weakness, and for whom? One I have lived with,-
known,-beneath whose eyes I have passed through all
the fine gradations, from liking to love, from love to pas-
sion ? No; one, whom I have seen but little; who, it
is true, arrested my eye at the first glance it caught of her
two years since, but with whom till within the last few
weeks I have scarcely spoken! Her voice rings on my
ear, her look dwells on my heart; when I sleep, she is
with me; when I wake, I am haunted by her image.
Strange, strange! Is love then, after all, the sudden pas-
sion which in every age poetry has termed it, though til
now my reason has disbelieved the notion ?—
And now, what is the question? To resist, or to yield.
Her father invites me, courts me; and I stand aloof! Will
this strength, this forbearance, last?-Shall I encourage my
mind to this decision?" Here Aram paused abruptly,
and then renewed: "It is true! I ought to weave my lot
with none. Memory sets me apart and alone in the world;
it seems unnatural to me, a thought of dread, - to bring
another being to my solitude, to set an everlasting watch
on my uprisings and my downsittings; to invite eyes to my
face when I sleep at nights, and ears to every word that
may start unbidden from my lips. But if the watch be the
watch of love, away does love endure for ever? He
who trusts to woman, trusts to the type of change. Af-
fection may turn to hatred, fondness to loathing, anxiety to
dread; and, at the best, woman is weak, she is the minion
to her impulses. Enough, I will steel my soul, shut
up the avenues of sense, brand with the scathing-iron
these yet green and soft emotions of lingering youth,— and
freeze, and chain, and curdle up feeling, and heart, and
manhood, into ice and age!'
CHAPTER VII.
-
THE POWER OF LOVE OVER THE RESOLUTION OF
THE STUDENT. ARAM BECOMES A FREQUENT
A WALK.- CON-
HER HIS-
M
GUEST AT THE MANOR-HOUSE.
VERSATION WITH DAME DARKMANS.
TORY. · POVERTY AND ITS EFFECTS.
..
"Mad. Then, as time won thee frequent to our hearth,
Didst thou not breathe, like dreams, into my soul
Nature's more gentle secrets, the sweet lore
Of the green herb and the bee-worshipp'd flower ?
And when deep night did o'er the nether earth
Diffuse meek quiet, and the heart of heaven
With love grew breathless, - didst thou not unroll
The volume of the weird Chaldean stars,
And of the winds, the clouds, the invisible air,
Make eloquent discourse, until, methought,
No human lip, but some diviner spirit
Alone, could preach such truths of things divine?
And so and so
"Aram.
From heaven we turned to earth,
And wisdom fathered passion."
Aram. Wise men have praised the peasant's thought
less lot,
And learned pride hath envied humble toil;
If they were right, why, let us burn our books,
And set us down, and play the fool with time,
Mocking the prophet Wisdom's high decrees,
And walling this trite Present with dark clouds,
Till might becomes our nature; and the ray
Even of the stars, but meteors that withdraw
The wandering spirit from the sluggish rest
Which makes its proper bliss. I will accost
This denizen of toil.”
From Eugene dram, a MS. Tragedy.
"A wicked hag, and envy's self excelling
In mischief, for herself she only vexed,
But this same, both herself and others eko perplexed."
st
*
"Who then can strive with strong necessity,
That holds the world in his still changing state, &c. &c.
Then do na further go, no further stray,
But here lie down, and to thy rest betake."-SPENSER.
FEW men perhaps could boast of so masculine and firm
a mind, as, despite his eccentricities,, Avam assuredly pos
514
BULWER'S NOVELS.
sessed. His habits of solitude had strengthened its natural
hardihood; for, accustomed to make all the sources of hap-
piness flow solely from himself, his thoughts the only com-
panion, his genius the only vivifier, of his retreat; the
tone and faculty of his spirit could not but assume that
austere and vigorous energy which the habit of self-depend-
ence almost invariably produces; and yet, the reader, if he
be young, will scarcely feel surprise that the resolution of
the student, to battle against incipient love, from whatever
reasons it might be formed, gradually and reluctantly melted
away. It may be noted, that the enthusiasts of learning
and reverie have, at one time or another in their lives,
been, of all the tribes of men, the most keenly susceptible
to love; their solitude feeds their passion; and deprived, as
they usually are, of the more hurried and vehement occu-
pations of life, when love is once admitted to their hearts,
there is no counter-check to its emotions, and no escape
from its excitation. Aram, too, had just arrived at that age
when a man usually feels a sort of revulsion in the current
of his desires. At that age, those who have hitherto pur-
sued love, begin to grow alive to ambition; those who have
been slaves to the pleasures of life, awaken from the dream,
and direct their desire to its interests. And in the same
proportion, they who till then have wasted the prodigal fer-
vors of youth upon a sterile soil; who have served ambi-
tion, or, like Aram, devoted their hearts to wisdom; relax
from their ardor, look back on the departed years with re-
gret, and coininence, in their manhood, the fiery pleasures
and delirious follies which are only pardonable in youth. In
short, as in every human pursuit there is a certain vanity,
and as every acquisition contains within itself the seed of
disappointinent, so there is a period of life when we pause
from the pursuit, and are discontented with the acquisition.
We then look around us for something new, —
-again fʊl-
low, and are again deceived. Few men throughout life
are the servants to one desire. When we gain the middle
of the bridge of our mortality, different objects from those
which attracted us upward almost invariably lure us to the
descent. Happy they who exhaust in the former part of
the journey all the foibles of existence! But how different
is the crude and evanescent love of that age when thought
has not given intensity and power to the passions, from the
love which is felt, for the first time, in maturer but still
youthful years! As the flame burns the brighter in propor-
tion to the resistance which it conquers, this later love is
the more glowing in proportion to the length of time in
which it has overcome temptation: all the solid and con-
centrated faculties ripened to their full height, are no lon-
ger capable of the infinite distractions, the numberless
caprices of youth; the rays of the heart, not rendered weak
by diversion, collect into one burning focus;* the same ear-
nestness and unity of purpose which render what we under-
take in manhood so far more successful than what we would
effect in youth, are equally visible and equally triumphant,
whether directed to interest or love. But then, as in Aram,
the feelings must be fresh as well as matured; they must
not have been frittered away by previous indulgence; the
love must be the first produce of the soil, not the languid
after-growth.
1.
The reader will remark, that the first time in which our
narrative has brought Madeline and Aram together, was
not the first time they had met; Aram had long noted with
admiration a beauty which he had never seen paralleled,
and certain vague and unsettled feelings had preluded the
deeper emotion that her image now excited within him.
But the main cause of his present and growing attachment,
had been in the evident sentiment of kindness which he
could not but feel Madeline bore towards him. So retiring
a nature as his, might never have harbored love, if the love
bore the character of presumption; but that one so beauti-
ful beyond his dreams as Madeline Lester, should deign to
exercise towards him a tenderness, that might suffer him
to hope, was a thought, that when he caught her eye uncon-
sciously fixed upon him, and noted that her voice grew
softer and more tremulous when she addressed him, forced
itself upon his heart, and woke there a strange and irresis-
tible emotion, which solitude and the brooding reflection
that solitude produces,— a reflection so much more intense
proportion to the paucity of living images it dwells
проп, soon ripened into love. Perhaps even, he would
Love is of the nature of a burning-glass, which, kept still in
..one place, fireth; changed often it doth nothing!"-Letters, by
27 John Suckling.
|
not have resisted the impulse as he now Jid, had not o
this time certain thoughts connected with past events, been
more forcibly than of late years obtruded upon him, and
thus in some measure divided his heart. By degrees, how-
ever, those thoughts receded from their vividness, into the
habitual deep, but not oblivious, shade beneath which his
commanding mind had formerly driven them to repose; and
as they thus receded Madeline's image grew more undis-
turbedly present, and is resolution to avoid its power more
fluctuating and feeble. Fate seemed bent upon bringing
together these two persons, already so attracted towards
each other. After the conversation recorded in our last
chapter, between Walter and the student, the former,
touched and softened as we have seen, in spite of himself,
had cheerfully forborne (what before he had done reluct-
antly) the expression of dislike which he had once lavished
so profusely upon Aram; and Lester, who, forward as he
had seemed, had nevertheless been hitherto a little checked
in his advances to his neighbour by the hostility of his neph-
ew, now felt no scruple to deter him from urging them
with a pertinacity that almost forbade refusal. It was
Aram's constant habit, in all seasons, to wander abroad at
certain times of the day, especially towards the evening:
and if Lester failed to win entrance to his house, he was
thus enabled to meet the student in his frequent rambles,
and with a seeming freedom from design. Actuated by his
great benevolence of character, Lester carnestly desired to
win his solitary and unfriendly neighbour from a mood and
habit which he naturally imagined must engender a grow-
ing melancholy of mind; and since Walter had detailed to
him the particulars of his meeting with Aram, this desire
had been considerably increased. There is not perhaps a
stronger feeling in the world than pity, when united with
admiration. When one man is resolved to know another,
it is almost impossible to prevent him: we see daily the
most remarkable instances of perseverance on one side
conquering distaste on the other. By degrees, then, Aram
refaxed from his insociability; he seemed to surrender him-
self to a kindness, the sincerity of which he was compelled
to acknowledge; if he for a long time refused to accept the
hospitality of his neighbour, he did not reject his society
when they met, and this intercourse by little and little pro-
gressed, until ultimately the recluse yielded to solicitation,
and became the guest as well as companion. This, at
first accident, grew, though not without many interruptions,
into habit; and at length few evenings were passed by
the inmates of the manor-house without the society of the
student.
As his reserve wore off, his conversation mingled with
its attractions a tender and affectionate tone. He seemed
grateful for the pains which had been taken to allure him
to a scene in which, at last, he acknowledged he found a
happiness that he never experienced before ; and those who
had hitherto admired him for his genius, admired him now
yet more for his susceptibility to the affections.
:
There was not in Aram any thing that savored of the
harshness of pedantry, or the petty vanities of dogmatism :
his voice was soft and low, and his manner always re-
markable for its singular gentleness, and a certain dignified
humility. His language did indeed, at times, assume a
toue of calm and patriarchal command; but it was only
the command arising from an intimate persuasion of the
truth of what he uttered. Moralizing upon our nature, or
mourning over the delusions of the world, a grave and
solemn strain breathed throughout his lofty words and the
profound melancholy of his wisdom; but it touched, not
the lesser intellect of
offended elevated, not humbled
his listeners; and even this air of unconscious superiority
vanished when he was invited to teach or explain.
That task which so few do gracefully, that an accurate
and shrewd thinker has said, It is always safe to learn,
even from our enemies; seldom safe to instruct even our
friends; "* Aram performed with a meekness and sim-
plicity that charmed the vanity, even while it corrected
the ignorance, of the applicant; and so various and minute
was the information of this accomplished man, that there
scarcely existed any branch even of that knowledge usually
called practical, to which he could not impart from his
The agriculturist was
stores something valuable and new.
astonished at the success of his suggestions; and the me-
chanic was indebted to him for the device which abridged
his labor in improving its result.
* Lacon.
EUGENE ARAM.
515
!
It happened that the study of botany was not, at that!
day, so favorite and common a diversion with young ladies
as it is now, and Ellinor, captivated by the notion of a
science that gave a life and a history to the loveliest of
earth's offspring, besought Aram to teach her its principles.
As Madeline, though she did not second the request,
could scarcely absent herself from sharing the lesson, this
oursuit brought the pair - already lovers closer and
closer together. It associated them not only at home, but
in their rambles throughout that enchanting country; and |
there is a mysterious influence in nature, which renders us,
in her loveliest scenes, the most susceptible to love! Then,
too, how often in their occupation their hands and eyes
met: how often, by the shady wood or the soft water-
side, they found themselves alone. In all times, how dan-
gerous the connexion, when of different sexes, between the
scholar and the teacher ! Under how many pretences, in
that connexion, the heart finds the opportunity to speak out!
Yet it was not with ease and complacency that Aram
delivered himself to the intoxication of his deepening at-
tachment. Sometimes he was studiously cold, or evidently
wrestling with the powerful passion that mastered his
reason. It was not without many throes, and desperate
resistance, that love at length overwhelmed and subdued
him; and these alternations of his mood, if they sometimes
offended Madeline and sometimes wounded, still rather in-
creased than lessened the spell which bound her to him.
The doubt and the fear, the caprice and the change
which agitate the surface swell also the tides of passion.
Woman, too, whose love is so much the creature of her
imagination, always asks something of mystery and con-
jecture in the object of her affection. It is a luxury to her
It is a luxury to her
to perplex herself with a thousand apprehensions; and the
more restlessly her lover occupies her mind, the more
deeply he enthrals it.
open avowal.
|
The old woman looked up askant, the music of the
voice that addressed her sounded harsh on her ear.
*
Ay, ay!" she answered. "You fine gentlefolks can
know what the poor suffer; ye talk and ye talk, but ye
never assist.”
'
Say not so, dame," said Lester; "did I not send you
but yesterday bread and money? and when do you ever
look up at the hall without obtaining relief?”
"But the bread was as dry as a stick," growled the
hag: "and the money, what was it? will it last a week?
Oh, yes! Ye think as much of your doits and mites, as if
ye stripped yourselves of a comfort to give it to us. Did
you have a dish less, -a 'tato less, the day ye sent me,-
your charity I 'spose ye calls it? Och! fie! But the
Bible's the poor cretur's comfort."
"I am glad to hear you say that, dame," said the good-
natured Lester; "and I forgive every thing else you have
said, on account of that one sentence.
>>
The old woman dropped the sticks she had just gathered,
and glowered at the speaker's benevolent countenance with
a malicious meaning in her dark eyes.
"An' ye do? Well, I'm glad I please ye there. Och!
yes! the Bible's a mighty comfort; for it says as much
that the rich man shall not inter the kingdon of heaven!
There's a truth for
There's a truth for you, that makes the poor folk's heart
chirp like a cricket, ho! ho! I sits by the imbers of a
night, and I thinks and thinks as how I shall see you all
burning; and ye 'll ask me for a drop o' water, and I shall
laugh thin from my pleasant seat with the angels. Och,-
it's a book for the poor, that!"
The sisters shuddered.
"And you think then that with
envy, malice, and all uncharitableness at your heart, you
are certain of heaven? For shame! Pluck the mote
from your own eye!"
"What sinnifies praching? Did not the blessed Saviour
come for the poor? Them as has rags and dry brea 1 here
will be ixalted in the mixt world; an' if we poor folk have
malice, as ye calls it, whose fault's that? What do ye
tache us? eh ? answer me that. Ye keeps all the larn-
ing an' all the other fine things to yoursel', and then ye
scould, and thritten, and hang us, 'cause we are not as
wise as you.
Och! there is no jistice in the Lamb, if
Mingling with her pure and tender attachment to Aram,
a high and unswerving veneration, she saw in his fitfulness,
and occasional abstraction and contradiction of manner, a
confirmation of the modest sentiment that most weighed
apon her fears; and imagined that at those times he thought
her, as she deemed herself, unworthy of his love. And
this was the only struggle which she conceived to pass
between the affection he evidently bore her, and the feel-heaven is not made for us; and the iverlasting hell, with
ings which had as yet restrained him from its
its brimstone and fire, and its gnawing an' gnashing of
One evening, Lester and the two sisters were walking teeth, an' its theirst, an' its torture, and its worm that
with the student along the valley that led to the house of never dies, for the like o' you."
the latter, when they saw an old woman engaged in collect-
ing firewood among the bushes, and a little girl holding out
her apron to receive the sticks with which the crone's
skinny arms unsparingly filled it. The child trembled,
and seemed half crying; while the old woman, in a harsh,
grating croak, was muttering forth mingled objurgation
and complaint.
There was something in the appearance of the latter at
once impressive and displeasing; a dark, withered, fur-
rowed skin was drawn like parchment over harsh and
aquiline features; the eyes, through the rheum of age, glit-
tered forth black and malignant; and even her stooping
posture did not conceal a height greatly above the com-
mon stature, though gaunt and shrivelled with years and
poverty. It was a form and face that might have recalled
at once the celebrated description of Otway, on a part of
which we have already unconsciously encroached, and the
remaining part of which we shall wholly borrow.
(C On her crooked shoulders had she wrapped
The tattered remnants of an old stript hanging,
That served to keep her carcass from the cold,
So there was nothing of a piece about her.
Her ower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched
With different colored rags; black, red, white, yellow;
And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness."
"See," said Lester, "one of the eyesores of our vil-
lage, (I might say,) the only discontented person."
"What! Dame Darkinans!" said Ellinor, quickly,
"Ah! let us turn back. I hate to encounter that old
woman; there is something so evil and savage in her man-
ner of talk, and look, how she rates that poor girl,
whom she has dragged or decoyed to assist her!"
Aram looked curiously on the old hag.
said he, “makes some humble, but more malignant; is it
Poverty,"
not want that grafts the devil on this poor woman's nature?
Come, let us accost her, I like conferring with distress."
"It is hard labor this?" said the student, gently.
•
"Come! come away," said Ellinor, pulling her father's
arm.
"And if," said Aram, pausing, "if I were to say to
you,― Name your want, and it shall be fulfilled, would you
have no charity for me also ?”
Umph," returned the hag, " ye are the great scholard;
and they say ye knows what no one else do. Till me
now," and she approached, and familiarly laid her bouy
finger on the student's arm; "till me,
have ye iver,
among other fine things, known poverty ?"
"I have, woman! said Aram, sternly.
Och, ye have thin !
CC
have thin! And did ye not sit and gloat, and
eat up your own heart, an' curse the sun that looked so gay,
an' the winged things that played so blithe-like, an' scowl
at the rich folk that niver wasted a thought on ye? Till me
now, your honor, till me!"
And the crone courtesied with a mock air of beseeching
humility.
"I never forgot, even in want, the love due to my fellow-
sufferers; for, woman, we all suffer, the rich and the
poor; there are worse pangs than those of want!
"Ye think there be, do ye? that's a comfort, umph!
Well, I'll till ye now, I feel a rispict for you, that I don't
for the rest on 'em; for your face does not insult me with
being cheary like theirs yonder; an' I have noted ye walk
in the dusk with your eyes down and your arms crossed;
an' I have said, that man I do not hate, somehow, for
he has something dark at his heart like me!"
money
"The lot of earth is woe," answered Aram, calmly, yet
shrinking back from the crone's touch; "judge we chari-
tably, and act we kindly to cach other. There, this
is not much, but it will fight your hearth and heap
your table without toil, for some days at least !"
"Thank your honor an' what think you I'll do with
the money
? 235
"What?"
"Drink, drink, drink!" cried the hag, fiercely; there's
516
BULWER'S NOVELS.
nothing like drink for the poor, for thin we fancy oursels
what we wish, and," sinking her voice into a whisper, "I
thinks thin that I have my foot on the billies of the rich
folks, and my hands twisted about their intrails, and I hear
them shriek, and thin I'm happy!"
"Go home!" said Aram, turning away, "and open the
book of life with other thoughts.'
""
The little party proceeded, and, looking back, Lester
saw the old woman gaze after them, till a turn in the wind-
ing valley hid her from his sight.
"That is a strange person, Aram; scarcely a favorable
specimen of the happy English peasant,'
," said Lester,
siniling.
"Yet they say," added Madeline, "that she was not
always the same perverse and hateful creature she is
now.
CE
,,
..
Ay," said Aram, "and what then is her history?"
Why," replied Madeline, slightly blushing to find her-
self made the narrator of a story, some forty years ago
this woman, so gaunt and hideous now, was the beauty of
the village. She married an Irish soldier whose regiment
passed through Grassdale, and was heard of no more till
about ten years back, when she returned to her native
place, the discontented, envious, altered being you now
see her."
"She is not reserved in regard to her past life," said
Lester. "She is too happy to seize the attention of
any
one to whom she can pour forth her dark and angry confi-
dence. She saw her husband, who was afterwards dis-
missed the service, a strong, powerful man, a giant of his
tribe, pine and waste, inch by inch, from mere physical want,
and at last literally die from hunger. It happened that they
had settled in the county in which her husband was born,
and in that county, those frequent famines, which are the
scourge of Ireland, were for two years especially severe.
You may note, that the old woman has a strong vein of
coarse eloquence at her command, perhaps acquired in (for
it partakes of the natural character of) the country in
which she lived so long; and it would literally thrill you
with horror to hear her descriptions of the misery and
destitution that she witnessed, and amidst which her hus-
band breathed his last. Out of four children, not one sur-
vives. One, an infant, died within a week of the father;
two sons were executed, one at the age of sixteen, one a
year older, for robbery committed under aggravated circum-
stances; and the fourth, a daughter, died in the hospitals of
London. The old woman became a wanderer and a va-
grant, and was at length passed to her native parish, where
the has since dwelt. These are the misfortunes which
have turned her blood to gall; and these are the causes
which fill her with so bitter a hatred against those whom
wealth has preserved from sharing or witnessing a fate
similar to hers."
"Oh!
"when,
said Aram, in a low, but deep tone,
when will these hideous disparities be banished from the
world? How many noble natures, how many glorious
hopes, how much of the seraph's intellect, have been
crushed into the mire, or blasted into guilt, by the mere
force of physical want? What are the temptations of the
rich to those of the poor? Yet see how lenient we are to
the crimes of the one,-how relentless to those of the
other! It is a bad world; it makes a man's heart sick to
look around him. The consciousness of how little indi-
vidual genius can do to relieve the mass, grinds out, as with
a stone, all that is generous in ambition; and to aspire from
the level of life is but to be more graspingly selfish."
"Can legislators, or the moralists that instruct legisla-
tors, do so te, then, towards universal good?" said
Lester, doubtingly.
"Why? what can they do but forward civilization?
And what is civilization, but an increase of human dispar-
ities? The more the luxury of the few, the more startling
the wants, and the more galling the sense, of poverty.
Even the dreams of the philanthropist only tend towards
equality; and where is equality to be found, but in the state
of the savage? No; I thought otherwise once; but I now
regard the vast lazar-house around us without hope of
relief: death is the sole physician!
Al, no!" said the high-souled Madeline, eagerly; "do
not take away from us the best feeling and the highest
лesire we can cherish How poor, even in this beautiful
world, with the warm sun and fresh air about us,
sun and fresh air about us, that
alone are sufficient to make us glad, would be life, if we
could not make the happiness of others!
Aram looked at the beautiful speaker with a soft and
half-mournful smile. There is one very peculiar pleasure
that we feel as we grow older, it is to see embodied in
another and a more lovely shape the thoughts and senti-
ments we once nursed ourselves; it is as if we viewed be-
fore us the incarnation of our own youth; and it is no
wonder that we are warmed towards the object that thus
seems the living apparition of all that was brightest within
ourselves! It was with this sentiment that Aram now
gazed on Madeline. She felt the gaze, and her heart beat
delightedly, but she sunk at once into a silence, which she
did not break during the rest of their walk.
"that we
"I do not say," said Aram, after a pause,
are not able to make the happiness of those immediately
around us. I speak only of what we can effect for the mass.
And it is a deadening thought to mental ambition, that the
circle of happiness we can create is formed more by our
moral than our mental qualities. A warm heart, though
accompanied but by a inediocre understanding, is even
more likely to promote the happiness of those around, than
are the absorbed and abstract, though kindly powers o a
more elevated genius; but (observing Lester about to inter-
rupt him) let us turn from this topic, let us turn from
man's weakness to the glories of the mother-nature, from
which he sprung."
And kindling, as he ever did, the moment he approach-
ed a subject so dear to his studies, Aram now spoke of the
stars, which began to sparkle forth, of the vast, illimit
able career which recent science had opened to the imagi-
nation, and of the old, bewildering, yet eloquent theo-
ries, which from age to age had at once misled and eleva-
ted the conjecture of past ages. All this was a theme
which his listeners loved to listen to, and Madeline not the
least. Youth, beauty, pomp, what are these, in point of
attraction, to a woman's heart, when compared to elo-
quence?
The magic of the tongue is the most dangerous
of all spells!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRIVILEGE OF GENIUS.LESTER'S SATISFAC-
TION AT THE ASPECT OF EVENTS. HIS CONVER-
SATION WITH WALTER. A DISCOVERY.
Alc. I am for Lidian.
This accident, no doubt, will draw him from his hermit's life'
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
"Lis.-Spare my grief, and apprehend
What I should speak."
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. The Lovers' Progress
IN the course of the various conversations our family of
Grassdale enjoyed with their singular neighbour, it ap-
peared that his knowledge had not been confined to the
closet; at times, he dropped remarks which showed that
he had been much among cities, and travelled with the
design, or at least with the vigilance, of the observer; but
he did not love to be drawn into any detailed accounts of
what he had seen, or whither he had been; an habitual
though a gentle reserve, kept watch over the past,
indeed that character of reserve which excites the doubt.
but which inspires the interest. His most gloomy moods
were rather abrupt and fitful than morose, and his usual
bearing was calm, soft, and even tender.
not
There is a certain charm about great superiority of in-
tellect, that winds into deep affections which a much more
constant and even amiability of manners in lesser meu,
often fails to reach. Genius makes many enemies, but it
makes sure friends, friends who forgive much, who
endure long, who exact little; they partake of the char-
acter of disciples as well as friends. There lingers about
the human heart a strong inclination to look upward,
revere in this inclination lies the source of religion,
loyalty, and also of the worship and immortality which are
rendered so cheerfully to the great of old. And, in truth, it
is a divine pleasure o admire! admiration seems in some
to
of
EUGENE ARAM.
517
measure to appropriate o ourselves the qualities it honors
in others. We wed, - we root ourselves to the natures
we so love to contemplate, and their life grows a part of
our own. Thus, when a great man, who has engrossed
Our thoughts, our conjectures, our homage, dies, a gap
seems suddenly left in the world; a wheel in the mechan-
ism of our own being appears abruptly stilled; a portion of
ourselves, and not our worst portion, for how many pure,
high, generous sentiments it contains, dies with him! Yes!
it is this love, so rare, so exalted, and so denied to all ordi-
nary men, which is the especial privilege of greatness,
whether that greatness be shown in wisdom, in enterprise,
in virtue, or even, till the world learns better, in the more
daring and lofty order of crime. A Socrates may claim it
to-day, - a Napoleon to-inorrow; nay, a brigand chief,
illustrious in the circle in which he lives, may call it forth
no less powerfully than the generous failings of a Byron,
or the sublime excellence of the greater Milton.
Lester saw with evident complacency the passion grow-
ing up between his friend and his daughter; he looked
upon it as a tie that would permanently reconcile Aram to
the hearth of social and domestic life; a tie that would
constitute the happiness of his daughter, and secure to him-
self a relation in the man he felt most inclined, of all he
knew, to honor and esteem. He remarked in the gentle-
ness and calm temper of Aram much that was calculated
to insure domestic peace, and knowing the peculiar dispo-
sition of Madeline, he felt that she was exactly the person,
not only to bear with the peculiarities of the student, but
to venerate their source. In short, the more he contein-
plated the idea of this alliance, the more he was charmed
with its probability.
Musing on this subject, the good squire was one day
walking in his garden, when he perceived his nephew at
some distance, and remarked that Walter, on seeing him,
was about, instead of coming forward to meet him, to turn
down an alley in an opposite direction.
A little pained at this, and remembering that Walter had
of late seeined estranged from himself, and greatly altered
from the high and cheerful spirits natural to his temper,
Lester called to his nephew; and Walter, reluctantly and
slowly changing his purpose of avoidance, advanced and
net him.
"Why, Walter !" said the uncle, taking his arm;
"this is somewhat unkind to shun me; are you engaged in
any pursuit that requires secrecy or haste?
"No, indeed, sir!" said Walter, with some embarrass-
ment; "but I thought you seemed wrapped in reflection,
and would naturally dislike being disturbed."
And indeed I think there is that in Ellinor which might be
yet more calculated to render you happy; that is, of the
bias of your mind should ever lean that way."
"You are very good," said Walter, bitterly. "I own
I am not flattered by your selection; nor do I see why the
plainest and least brilliant of the two sisters must necessa
rily be the fittest for me.”
"Nay," replied Lester, piqued, and justly angry, "I do
not think, even if Madeline have the advantage of her sis-
ter, that you can find any fault with the personal or mental
attractions of Ellinor. But indeed this is not a matter in
which relations should interfere. I am far from any wish
to prevent you from choosing throughout the world any one
whom you may prefer. All I hope is, that your future
wife will be like Ellinor in kindness of heart and sweet-
ness of temper."
ter;
"From choosing throughout the world!" repeated Wal-
"and how in this nook am I to see the world?
"Walter your voice is reproachful !-do I deserve it?"
Walter was silent.
I have of late observed," continued Lester, "and
with wounded feelings, that you do not give me the same
confidence, or meet ine with the same affection, that you
once delighted me by manifesting towards me. I know of
no cause for this change. Do not let us, my son, for I
may so call you - do not let us, as we grow older, grow
also more apart. Time divides with a sufficient demarka-
tion the young from the old; why deepen the necessary
line? You know well, that I have never from your child-
hood insisted heavily on a guardian's authority. I have
always loved to contribute to your enjoyments, and shown
you how devoted I am to your interests, by the very frank-
ness with which I have consulted you on my own.
there be now on your mind any secret grievance, or any
secret wish, speak it, Walter:- you are alone with the
friend on earth who loves
you best!"
Walter was wholly overcome by this address: he pressed
his good uncle's hand to his lips, and it was some moments
before he mustered self-composure sufficient to reply.
If.
"You have ever, ever been to me all that the kindest
parent, the tenderest friend, could have been :—
- believe
me, I am not ungrateful. If of late I have been altered,
the cause is not in you. Let me speak freely: you en-
courage ine to do so. I am young, my temper is restless;
I have a love of enterprise and adventure: is it not natural
that I should long to see the world? This is the cause of
my
late abstraction of mind. I have now told you all it
is for you to decide.”
:
Lester looked wistfully on his nephew's countenance
before he replied —
"It is as I gathered," said he, "from various remarks
which you have lately let fall. I cannot blame your wish
to leave us; it is certainly natural: nor can I oppose it.
Go, Walter, when you will! ”
The young man turned round with a lighted eye and
"Hem! as to that, I have no reflections I wish con-
cealed from you, Walter, or which might not be benefited
by your advice."
The youth pressed his uncle's hand, but
made no reply; and Lester, after a pause, continued :—
"You seen, Walter, I am most delighted to think,
entirely to have overcome the little unfavorable preposses-
sion which at first you testified towards our excellent neigh-flushed cheek.
bour. And for my part, I think he appears to be espe-
cially attracted towards yourself, he seeks your company;
and to me he always speaks of you in terms, which, com-
ing from such a quarter, give me the most lively gratifica-
tion.
Walter bowed his head, but not in the delighted vanity
with which a young man generally receives the assurance
of another's praise.
"I own," renewed Lester," that I consider our friend-
ship with Aram one of the most fortunate occurrences in
my life; at least," added he, with a sigh,
"of late years
I doubt not but you must have observed the partiality with
which our dear Madeline evidently regards him; and yet
more, the attachment to her, which breaks forth from
Arain, in spite of his habitual reserve and self-control.
You have surely noted this, Walter ?"
"I have," said Walter, in a low tone, and turning away
his head.
"And doubtless you share my satisfaction. It happens
fortunately now, that Madeline early contracted that studi-
ous and thoughtfu. turn, which I must own at one time
gave me some uneasiness and vexation. It has taught her
to appreciate the value of a mind like Aram's. Formerly,
my dear boy, I hoped that at one time or another, she and
yourself might form a dearer connexion than that of cous-
But I was disappointed, and I am now consoled.
as.
I
"And why, Walter ?" said Lester, interrupting his
thanks, "why this surprise! why this long doubt of my
affection? Could you believe I should refuse a wish that,
at your age, I should have expressed myself? You have
wronged me; you might have saved a world of pain to us
both by acquainting me with your desire when it was first
formed; but, enough. I see Madeline and Aram ap-
proach, let us join them now, and to-morrow we will
arrange the time and method of your departure.”
-
Forgive me, sir," said Walter, stopping abruptly as
the glow faded from his cheek, "I have not yet recovered
myself; I am not fit for other society than yours. Excuse
my joining my cousin, and
me!
"Walter!" said Lester, also stopping short and look-
ing full on his nephew, "a painful thought Bashes upon
Would to heaven I may be wrong!
- Have you
ever felt for Madeline more teuderly than for her sister?”
Walter literally trembled as he stood. The tears rushed
into Lester's eyes - he grasped his nephew's hand
warmly,
"God comfort thee, my poor boy!" said he, with great
emotion; "I never dreamed of this.”
Walter felt now that he was understood. He gratefully
returned the pressure of his uncle's hand, and then, with-
drawing his own, darted down one of the intersecting
walks, and was almost instantly out of sight.
518
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER IX.
THE STATE OF WALTER'S MIND. AN ANGLER AND
A MAN OF THE WORLD. A COMPANION FOUND
FOR WALTER.
"This great disease for love I dre,*
There is no tongue can tell the wo;
I love the love that loves not me,
I may not mend, but mourning mo."
The Mourning Maiden.
"I in these flowery meads would be,
These crystal streams should solace me,
To whose harmonious bubbling voice
I with my angle would rejoice." -IZAAC WALTON.
WHEN Walter left his uncle, he hurried, scarcely con-
scious of his steps, towards his favorite haunt by the
water side. From a child, he had singled out that scene
as the witness of his early sorrows or boyish schemes; and
still, the solitude of the place cherished the habit of his
boyhood.
dun upon the water, and swiftly did it glide before the
gazt
of the latent trout; and now the trout seemed aroused from
his apathy, behold he moved forward, balancing himself on
his fins; now he slowly ascended towards the surface; you
might see all the speckles of his coat; the corporal's
heart stood still, he is now at a convenient distance from
the yellow-dun; lo, he surveys it steadfastly; he ponders,
he see-saws himself to and fro. The yellow-dun sails
away in affected indifference, that indifference whets the
appetite of the hesitating gazer, he darts forward; he is
opposite the yellow-dun, he pushes his nose against it
with an eager rudeness, he,
he, no, he does not bite, he
recoils, he gazes again with surprise and suspicion on the
little charmer; he fades back slowly into the deeper water,
and then suddenly turning his tail towards the disappointed
bait, he makes off as fast as he can,-yonder, - yonder,
and disappears! No, that's he leaping yonder from the
wave; Jupiter! what a noble fellow! What leaps he at ?
- a real fly, "Damn his eyes!" growled the corporal.
"You might have caught him with a minnow," said
Walter, speaking for the first time.
"Minnow!" repeated the corporal, gruffly," ask your
honor's pardon. Minnow! I have fished with the yel-
low-dun these twenty years, and never knew it fail before.
Minnow!- baugh! But ask pardon; your honor is very
welcome to fish with a minnow if you please it."
"Thank you, Bunting. And pray what sport have you
had to-day?
CC
Oh, good, good," quoth the corporal, snatching up
his basket and closing the cover, lest the young squire
should pry into it. No man is more tenacious of his se-
crets than your true angler. "Sent the best home two
hours ago; one weighed three pounds, on the faith of a
man; indeed, I'm satisfied now; time to give it up;
" and
the corporal began to disjoint his rod.
CC
Long had he, unknown to himself nourished an attach-
ment to his beautiful cousin; nor did he awaken to the
secret of his heart, until, with an agonizing jealousy, he
penetrated the secret at her own. The reader has, doubt-
less, already perceived that it was this jealousy which at
the first occasioned Walter's dislike to Aram: the conso-
lation of that dislike was forbid him now. The gentleness |
and forbearance of the student's deportment had taken
away all ground of offence; and Walter had sufficient gen-
erosity to acknowledge his merits, while tortured by their
effect. Silently, till this day, he had gnawed his heart,
and found for its despair no confidant and no comfort.
The only wish that he cherished was a feverish and gloomy
desire to leave the scene which witnessed the triumph of
his rival. Every thing around had become hateful to his
eyes, and a curse had lighted upon the face of home. He
thought now, with a bitter satisfaction, that his escape
was at hand: in a few days he might be rid of the gal! and
the pang, which every moment of his stay at Grassdale in-bridge,caught such a trout there by the by-had
flicted upon him. The sweet voice of Madeline he should
hear no more, subduing its silver sound for his rival's ear:
no more he should watch apart, and himself unheeded,
how timidly her glance roved in search of another, or how
vividly her cheek flushed when the step of that happier one
approached Many miles would at least shut out this pic-
ture from his view; and in absence, was it not possible
that he might teach himself to forget? Thus meditating,
Thus meditating,
be arrived at the banks of the little brooklet, and was
awakened from his reverie by the sound of his own name.
He started, and saw the old corporal seated on the stump
of a tree, and busily employed in fixing to his line the
mimic likeness of what anglers, and, for we aught we
know, the rest of the world, call the "violet-fly."
fit for
"Ha! master, at my day's work, you see :—
nothing else now. When a musket's half worn out,
schoolboys buy it-pop it at sparrows. I be like the
musket: but never mind have not seen the world for
nothing. We get reconciled to all things: that's my way
augh! Now, sir, you shall watch me catch the finest
trout you have seen this summer: know where he lies
under the bush yonder. Whish! sir, whi—sh!"
The corporal now gave his warrior soul up to the due
guidance of the violet-fly: now he whipped it lightly on
the wave; now he slid it coquetishly along the surface; now
it floated, like an unconscious beauty, carelessly with the
tide; and now, like an artful prude, it affected to loiter by
the way, or to steal into designing obscurity under the
shade of some overhanging bank. But none of these ma-
noeuvres captivated the wary old trout on whose acquisition
the corporal had set his heart; and what was especially pro-
voking, the angler could see distinctly the dark outline of
the intended victim, as it lay at the bottom,
like some
well-regulated bachelor who eyes from afar the charms he
has discreetly resolved to neglect.
The corporal waited till he could no longer blind himself
to the displeasing fact, that the violet-fly was wholly ineffi-
cacious; he then drew up his line, and replaced the con-
temned beauty of the violet-fly, with the novel attractions
of the yellow-dun.
"Now, sir," whispered he, lifting up his finger, and
nodding sagaciously to Walter. Softly dropped the yellow-
* Bear.
Ah, sir!" said he, with a half-sigh, "a pretty river
this, don't mean to say it is not; but the river Lea for my
money. You know the Lea? not a morning's walk from
Lunnun. Mary Gibson, my first sweetheart, lived by the
beautiful eyes, black, round as a cherry, five feet eight
without shoes, might have listed in the forty-second.
"Who, Bunting!" said Walter, smiling,
"the lady or
the trout?"
CC
-
Augh! baugh!-what? Oh, laughing at me, your
honor, you're welcome, sir. Love's a silly thing,-know
the world now, have not fallen in love these ten years. I
doubt,-no offence, sir, no offence - I doubt whether your
honor and Miss Ellinor can say as much."
CC
G
lived
"I and Miss Ellinor! you forget yourself strangely,
Bunting," said Walter, coloring with anger.
Beg pardon, sir, beg pardon, rough soldier,
away
from the world so long, words slipped out of my
mouth, absent without leave.”
"
"But why," said Walter, smothering or conquering his
vexation, "why couple me with Miss Ellinor? Did you
imagine that we, we were in love with each other?
"Indeed, sir, and if I did, 'tis no more than my neigh-
bours imagine too.”
Humph! your neighbours are very silly, then, and very
wrong.
C
Beg pardon, sir, again, always getting askew. In-
deed some did say it was Miss Madeline, but I says,- saye
I, . 'No! I'm a man of the world,— see through a mill-
stone; Miss Madeline's too easy like; Miss Nelly blushes
when he speaks; scarlet is love's regimentals,
ours in the forty-second, edged with yellow,
pepper and
salt pantaloons! For my part I think,— but I've no busi
ness to think, howsomever, - baugh!
CC
it was
Pray what do you think, Mr. Bunting? Why do you
hesitate ?"
"'Fraid of offence, but I do think that Master Aram,
your honor understands, — howsomever, squire's daugh
ter too great a match for such as he !"
Walter did not answer; and the garrulous old soldier,
who had been the young man's playimate and companion
since Walter was a boy, and was therefore accustomed to
the familiarity with which he now spoke, continued, ming-
ling with his abrupt prolixity an occasional shrewdness of
observation, which showed that he was no inattentive coin-
mentator on the little and quiet world around him.
"Free to confess, Squire Walter, that I don't quite like
this larned man, as much of the rest of 'en, something
P
EUGENE ARAM.
519
queer about mm, can't see to the bottom of him,
do n't
think he's quite so meek and lamb-like as he seems : —
once saw a calm dead pool in foreign parts, peered down
into it, - by little and little, my eye got used to it, saw
something dark at the bottom,- stared and stared, by
Jupiter, a great big alligator ! walked off immediately,
never liked quiet pools since, — augh, no !”
"An argument against quiet pools, perhaps, Bunting ;
but scarcely against quict people."
Dess.
"Don't know as to that, your honor,- much of a much-
I have seen Master Aram, demure as he looks, start
aud bite his lip, and change color, and frown,
- he has an
ugly frown, I can tell ye, when he thought no one nigh.
A man who gets in a passion with himself may be soon out
of temper with others. Free to confess, I should not like
to see him married to that stately, beautiful young lady,-
but they do gossip about it in the village. If it is not true,
better put the squire on his guard, false rumors often
beget truths, beg pardon, your honor, o business of
mine, baugh! But I'm a lone man, who have seen the
world, and I thinks on the things around me, and I turns
aver the quid,— now on this side, now on the other, 't is
my way, sir, and - but I offend
your honor.'
Not at all; I know you are an honest man, Bunting,
and well affected to our family; at the same time it is
neither prudent nor charitable to speak harshly of our
neighbours without sufficient cause. And really you seem
to me to be a little hasty in your judgment of a man so in-
offensive in his itabits and so justly and generally esteemed
as Mr. Aram.
May be, sir, may be, very right what you say.
But I thinks what I thinks all the same; and indeed, it is
a thing that puzzles me, how that strange-looking vaga-
bon, as frighted the ladies so, and who, Miss Nelly
told me, for she saw them in his pocket, carried pistols
abont him, as if he had been among cannibals and Hotten-
tots, instead of the peaceablest county that man ever set
foot in, should boast of his friendship with this larned
scholard, and pass a whole night in his house. Birds of a
feather flock together,augh ! —
sir!"
"A man cannot surely be answerable for the respectabil-
ity of all his acquaintances, even though he feel obliged to
offer them the accommodation of a night's shelter."
<<
Baugh! grunted the corporal. "Seen the world, |
sir, -seen the world, young gentlemen are always so
good-natured; 't is a pity, that the more one sees the more
suspicions one grows. One does not have gumption till
one has been properly cheated, one must be made a fool
very often in order not to be fooled at last!"
"Well, corporal, I shall now have opportunities enough
of profiting by experience. I am going to leave Grassdale
in a few days, and learn suspicion and wisdom in the great
world."
CC
Augh! baugh! what?" cried the corporal, start-
ing from the contemplative air which he had hitherto
assumed. "The great world ?- how? when?-going
who goes with your honor?"
away!
G
My honor's self; I have no companion, unless you like
to attend me," said Walter, jestingly; but the corporai
affected, with his natural shrewdness, to take the proposi-
tion in earnest.
M
"I! your honor's too good; and indeed, though I say
it, sir, you might do worse; not but what I should be sor-
ry to leave nice snug home here, and this stream, though
the trout have been shy lately, ah! that was a mistake
of yours, sir, recommending the minnow; and neighbour
Dealtry, though his ale's not so good as 'twas last year;
and, and, but, in short I always loved your honor,
dandled you on my knees; you recollect the broadsword
exercise? one, two, three, ―augh! baugh !--and if
your honor really is going, why rather than you should
want a proper person who knows the world, to brush your
coat, polish your shoes, give you good advice, on the
faith of a man, I'll go with you myself!"
This alacrity on the part of the corporal was far from
displeasing to Walter. The proposal he had at first made
unthinkingly, he now seriously thought advisable; and at
length it was settled that the corporal should call the next
morning at the manor-house, and receive instructions as
to the time and method of their departure. Not forget
ting, as the sagacions Bunting delicately insinuated, "the
wee settlements as to wages, and board wages, more a
matte of form, like, than any thing else, augh!"
|
|
|
CHAPTER X.
THE LOVERS. -THE ENCOUNTER AND QUARK EI OF
THE RIVALS.
"Two such I saw, what time the labored ox
In his loose traces from the furrow came."
"Pedro. Now do me noble right.
"Rod. I'll satisfy you;
But not by the sword.”
<
Comus.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. The Pilgrim.
WHILE Walter and the corporal enjoyed the above con-
versation, Madeline and Aram, whom Lester soon left to
themselves, were pursuing their walk along the solitary
fields. Their love had passed from the eye to the lip, and
now found expression in words.
"Observe," said he, as the light touch of one who be
felt loved him entirely rested on his arm, "observe, as
the later summer now begins to breathe a more various
and mellow glory into the landscape, how singularly pure
and lucid the atmosphere becomes. When, two months
ago, in the full flush of June, I walked through these fields,
a grey mist hid yon distant hills and the far forest from my
view. Now, with what a transparent stillness the whole
expanse of scenery spreads itself before us. And such,
Madeline, is the change that has come over myself since
that time. Then, if I looked beyond the limited present,
all was dim and indistinct. Now, the mist has faded
away,
-the broad future extends before me, calm and
bright with the hope which is borrowed from your love!”
We will not tax the patience of the reader, who seldom
enters with keen interest into the mere dialogue of love,
with the blushing Madeline's reply, or with all the soft
vows and tender confessions which the rich poetry of
Aram's mind made yet more delicious to the ear of his
dreaming and devoted mistress.
a
"There is one circumstance," said Aram," which casts
momentary shade on the happiness I enjoy,—my Made-
line probably guesses its nature. I regret to see that the
blessing of your love must be purchased by the misery of
another, and that other, the nephew of my kind friend.
You have doubtless observed the melancholy of Walter
Lester, and have long since known its origin.
"Indeed, Eugene," answered Madeline, "it has given
me great pain to note what you refer to, for it would be a
false delicacy in me to deny that I have observed it. But
Walter is young and high-spirited; nor do I think he is of
a nature to love long where there is no return.
وو
"And what," said Aram, sorrowfully, "what de-
duction from reason can ever apply to love? Love is a
very contradiction of all the elements of our ordinary na-
ture, it makes the proud man meek, the cheerful, sad,
the high-spirited, tame; our strongest resolutions, our
hardiest energy fail before it. Believe me, you cannot
prophesy of its future effect in a man from any knowledge
of his past character. I grieve to think that the blow falls
upon one in carly youth, ere the world's disappointments
have blunted the heart, or the world's numerous interests
have multiplied its resources. Men's minds have been
turned when they have not well sifted the cause themselves,
and their fortunes marred, by one stroke on the affections of
their youth. So at least have I read, Madeline, and so
marked in others. For myself, I knew nothing of love in
its reality till I knew you. But who can know you, and
not sympathize with him who has lost
you ? ""
r
ay,
Ah, Eugene! you at least overrate the influence which
love produces on men. A little resentment and a little
absence will soon cure my cousin of an ill-placed and ill.
requited attachment. You do not think how easy it is to
forget.'
Forget!"
said Aram, stopping abruptly;
forget, it is a strange truth! we do forget! the summer
passes over the furrow, and the corn springs up; the sod
forgets the flower of the past year; the battle-field forgets
the blood that has been spilt upon its turf; the sky forgets
the storm; and the water the noon-day sun that slept upon
its bosom. All nature preaches forgetfulness.
order is the progress of oblivion. And I-I- give me
your hand, Madeline, I, ha ha! I forget too."
— !
Its very
As Aram spoke thus wildly, his countenance worked
but his voice was slow, and scarcely audible; he seemed:
rather conferring with himself, than addressing Madeline-
520
BULWER'S NOVELS.
But when his words ceased, and he felt the soft hand of his
betrothed, and turning, saw her anxious and wistful eyes
fixed in aların, yet in all unsuspecting confidence, on his
face; his features relaxed into their usual serenity, and
kissing the hand he clasped, he continued, in a collected.
and steady tone,
"Rather," sa'' Walter,
•
with the love for change
which exists ev ywhere in nature, it does not seek the
shade until it has passed by 'towered cities,' and 'the busy
hum of men.'"
"I admire the shrewdness of your reply," rejoined
Aram; “but note how far mor pure and lovely are its
"Forgive me, my sweetest Madeline. These fitful and
waters in these retreats, than when washing the walls of
strange moods sometimes come upon me yet. I have been the reeking town, receiving into its breast the taint of a
so long in the habit of pursuing any train of thought, how- thousand pollutions, vexed by the sound, and stench, and
ever wild, that presents itself to my mind, that I cannot unholy perturbation of men's dwelling-place. Now, it
easily break it, even in your presence. All studious men, glasses only what is high or beautiful in nature, the
the twilight eremites of books and closets, contract stars or the leafy b. 185 The wind that ruffles it, 18 cloth-
this ungraceful custom of soliloquy. You know our ab-ed with perfumes; the rivu. that swells it, descends from
straction is a common jest and proverb: you must laugh
me out of it. But stay, dearest ! there is a rare herb at
your feet, let me gather it. So, do you note its leaves,
this bending and silver flower? Let us rest on this bank,
and I will tell you of its qualities. Beautiful as it is, it
has a poison."
The place in which the lovers rested, is one which the
villagers to this day call "The Lady's seat;" for Madeline,
whose history is fondly preserved in that district, was after-
wards wont constantly to repair to that bank, (during a
short absence of her lover, hereafter to be noted,) and sub-
sequent events stamped with interest every spot she was
known to have favored with resort. And when the flower
had been duly conned, and the study dismissed, Aram, to
whom all the signs of the seasons were familiar, pointed to
her the thousand symptoms of the month which are unheed-
ed by less observant eyes; not forgetting, as they thus
reclined, their hands clasped together, to couple each re-
mark with some allusion to his love or some deduction
which heightened compliment into poetry. He bade her
mark the light gossamer as it floated on the air; now
soaring high, high into the translucent atmosphere;
now suddenly stooping, and sailing away beneath the
boughs, which ever and anon it hung with a silken web,
that by the next morn, would glitter with a thousand dew
drops. "And so," said he fancifully, "does Love lead
forth its numberless creations, making the air its path and
empire; ascending aloof at its wild will, hanging its meshes
on every bough, and bidding the common grass break into
a fairy lustre at the beam of the daily sun!"
He pointed to her the spot, where, in the silent brake,
the harebells, now waxing rare and few, yet lingered,- or
where the mystic ring on the soft turf conjured up the as-
sociations of Oberon and his train. That superstition gave
license and play to his full memory and glowing fancy; and
Shakspeare, Spenser, Ariosto, the magic of each
mighty master of fairy realm, he evoked, and poured
into her transported ear. It was precisely such arts, which
to a gayer
and more worldly nature than Madeline's might
have seemed but wearisoine, that arrested and won her im-
aginative and high-wrought mind. And thus he, who to
another might have proved but the retired and moody stu-
dent, became to her the very being of whom her "maiden
meditation" had dreamed, the master and magician of
her fate.
Aram did not return to the house with Madeline; he
accompanied her to the garden gate, and then taking leave
of her, bent his way homeward. He had gained the en-
trance of the little valley that led to his abode, when he saw
Walter cross his path at a short distance. His heart,
naturally susceptible to kindly emotion, smote him as he
remarked the moody listlessness of the young man's step,
and recalled the buoyant lightness it was once wont habit-
nally to wear. He quickened his pace, and joined Walter
before the latter was aware of his presence.
"Good evening," said he, mildly; "if you are going
my way, give me the benefit of your company.
د,
My path lies yonder," replied Walter, somewhat sul-
lenly; "I regret that it is different from yours."
"In that case," said Aram, "I can delay my return
home, and will, with your leave, intrude my society upon
you for some few minutes.'
Walter bowed his head in reluctant assent. They walk-
ed on for some moments without speaking, the one unwill-
ing, the other seeking an occasion, to break the silence.
"This, to my mind," said Aram at length, "is the most
pleasing landscape in the whole country; observe the bash-
Methinks
ul water stealing away among the woodlands.
the water is endowed with an instinctive wisdom, that it
..bus shuns the world "
the everlasting mountains, or is formed by the rains of
heaven. Believe me, it is the type of a life that glides into
solitude, from the weariness and fretful turmoil of the
world.
'No flattery, hate, or envy, lodgeth there,
There no suspicion walled in proved steel
Yet fearful of the arms herself doth wear,
Pride is not there; no tyrant there we feel!'"*
"I will not cope with you in simile, or in poetry,
Walter, as his lip curved; "it is enough for me to think
that life should be spent in action. I hasten to prove if
my judgment be erroneous.
"saio
"Are you, then, about to leave us?" inquired Aram.
"Yes, within a few days.
"Indeed, I regret to hear it."
The answer sounded jarringly on the irritated nerves of
the disappointed rival.
"You do me more honor than I desire," said he, "in
interesting yourself, however lightly, in my schemes or
fortune!"
Young man," replied Aram, coldly, "I never see the
impetuous and yearning spirit of youth without a certain,
and it may be, a painful interest. How feeble is the chance,
that its hopes will be fulfilled! Enough, if it lose not all
its loftier aspirings, as well as its brighter expectations.”
Nothing more aroused the proud and fiery temper of
Walter Lester than the tone of superior wisdom and supe-
rior age, which his rival assumed towards him. More and
more displeased with his present companion, he answered
in no conciliatory tone, "I cannot but consider the warning
and the fears of one, neither my relation nor my friend, in
the light of a gratuitous affront."
Aram smiled as he answered,
"There is no occasion for resentment. Preserve this
hot spirit, and high self-confidence, till you return again to
these scenes, and I shall be at once satisfied and corrected."
me.
. He
Sir," said Walter, coloring, and irritated more by
the smile than the words of his rival, "I am not aware by
what right or on what ground you assume towards me the
superiority, not only of admonition, but reproof. My
uncle's preference towards you gives you no authority over
That preference I do not pretend to share.”
paused for a moment, thinking Aram might hasten to re-
ply; but as the student walked on with his usual calmness
of demeanour, he added, stung by the indifference which
be attributed, not altogether without truth, to disdain,
"And since you have taken upon yourself to caution me,
and to forebode my inability to resist the contamination, as
you would term it, of the world, I tell you, that it may be
happy for you to hear so clear a conscience, so untouched
a spirit as that which I now boast, and with which I trust
in God and my own soul I shall return to my birthplace
It is not the holy only that love solitude; and men may
shun the world from another motive than that of phi-
losophy."
It was now Aram's turn to feel resentment, and this was
indeed an insinuation not only unwarrantable in itself, but
one which a man of so peaceable and guileless a life, af
fecting even an extreme and rigid austerity of morals,
might well be tempted to repel with scorn and indignation;
and Aram, however meek and forbearing in general, testi-
fied in this instance that his wonted gentleness arose from
no lack of man's natural spirit. He laid his hand com-
mandingly on young Lester's shoulder, and surveyed his
countenance with a dark and menacing frown.
"Boy!" said ne, were there meaning in your words,
I should (mark me !) avenge the insult; -as it is, I despise
it.
Go ""
So high and lofty was Aram's manner, so majestic was
Phineas Fletcher
EUGENE ARAM.
621
the sternness of his rebuke, and the dignity of his bearing,
as he now, waving his hand turned away, that Walter lost
his self-possession and stood fixed to the spot, absorbed,
and humbled from his late anger. It was not till Aram
had moved with a slow step several paces backward
towards his horce, that the bold and haughty temper of the
young man returnel to his aid. Ashamed of himself for
the momentary weakness he had betrayed, and burning to
redeem it, he hastened after the stately form of his rival,
and planting himself full in his path, said in a voice half
cooked with contending emotions,
"Hold! -
you have given me the opportunity I have
long desired; you yourself have now broken that peace
which existed between us, and which to me was more
bitter than wormwood. You have dared, yes, dared to
use threatening language towards me. I call on you to
fulfil your threat. I tell you that I meant, I designed, I
thirsted to affront you. Now resent my purposed-pre-
meditated affront as you will and can!
There was something remarkable in the contrasted
figures of the rivals, as they now stood fronting each other.
The elastic and vigorous form of Walter Lester, his
sparkling eyes, his sunburnt and glowing cheek, his
clenched hands, and his whole frame alive and eloquent
with the energy, the heat, the hasty courage, and fiery
spirit of youth; on the other hand, the bending frame
of the student, gradually rising into th dignity of its full
tl
height his pale cheek, in which the wan hues neither
deepened nor waned, his large eye raised to meet Walter's,
bright, steady, and yet how calm! Nothing weak, nothing
irresolute could be traced in that form or that lofty
-
countenance; yet all resentment had vanished from his
aspect. He seeined at once tranquil and prepared.
J
-
"You designed to affront me!" said he, "it is well
it is a noble confession; and wherefore? What do you
propose to gain by it? — a man whose whole life is peace,
you would provoke to outrage? Would there be triumph
Would there be triumph
in this, or disgrace? A man whom your uncle honors
and loves, you would insult without cause-you would
waylay you would, after watching and creating your
opportunity, entrap into defending himself? Is this worthy
of that high spirit of which you boasted? — is this worthy
a generous anger, or a noble hatred? Away! you malign
yourself. I shrink from no quarrel why should I? I
have nothing to fear: my nerves are firm-my heart is
faithful to my will; ny habits may have diminished my
strength, but it is yet equal to that of most men.
the weapons of the world-they fall not to my use.
might be excused by the most punctilious, for rejecting
what becomes neither my station nor my habits of life: but
habits of life: but
I learned this much, from books long since, Hold thyself
prepared for all things: I am so prepared. And as I
can command the spirit, I lack not the skill, to defend my-
self, or return the hostility of another." As Aram thus
said, he drew a pistol from his bosom, and pointed it
leisurely towards a tree, at the distance of some paces.
As to
I
"Look," said he, "you note that small discolored and
white stain in the bark, you can but just observe it;
he who can send a bullet through that spot, need not fear to
meet the quarrel which he seeks to avoid.”
Walter turned mechanically, and indignant, though
silent, towards the tree. Aram fired, and the ball penetra-
ted the centre of the stain. He then replaced the pistol in
his bosom, and said: -
But to
Early in life I had many enemies, and I taught myself
these arts. From habit, I still bear about me the weapons
I trust and pray I may never have occasion to use.
return. I have offended you, - I have incurred your ha-
why? What are my sins?"
tred,
"Do you ask the cause?" said Walter, speaking
Letween his ground teeth. "Have you not traversed my
views, blighted my hopes, - charmed away from me the
affections which were more to me than the world, and
driven me to wander from my home with a crushed spirit,
and 3 cheerless heart. Are these no cause for hate?"
"Have I done this?" said Aram, recoiling, and evi-
dently and powerfully affected. "Have I so injured you
It is true! I know it, I perceive it, I read
your
neart; and, bear witness heaven! I felt for the wound
that I, but with no guilty hand, inflict upon you. Yet be
just : ask yourself, have I done aught that you, in my
case, would have left undone ? Have I been insolent in
VOL. I.
66
M
?
triumph, or haughty in success? If so, hate me, nay, spurn
me now.
>>
Walter turned his head irresolutely away.
"If it please you, that I accuse myself, in that I, a man
seared and lone at heart, presumed to come within the pale
of human affections ; that I exposed myself to cross
another's better and brighter hopes, or dared to soften my
fate with the tender and endearing ties that are meet alone
for a more genial and youthful nature;
if it please you
that I accuse and curse myself for this, that I yielded to
it with pain and with self-reproach, that I shall think
hereafter of what I unconsciously cost you with remorse,
then be consoled!"
>
"It is enough," said Walter; " let us part. I leave you
with more soreness at my late haste than I will acknowl-
edge, let that content you; for myself, I ask for no apology
or
"But you shall have it amply," interrupted Aram, ad-
vancing with a cordial openness of mien not usual to him.
"I was all to blame; I should have remembered you were
an injured man, and suffered
and suffered you to have said all you would.
Words at best are but a poor vent for a wronged and burning
heart. It shall be so in future, speak your will, attack,
upbraid, taunt me, I will bear it all. And indeed, even to
myself there seems some_witchcraft, some glamoury in what
has chanced.
has chanced. What! I favored where you love? Is it
possible? It might teach the vainest to forswear vanity.
You, the young, the buoyant, the fresh, the beautiful?
And I, who have passed the glory and zest of life between
dusty walls; I who, well, well, fate laughs at probabil-
ities!"
Aram now seemed relapsing into one of his niore ab◄
stracted moods; he ceased to speak aloud, but his lips
moved, and his eyes grew fixed in reverie on the ground.
Walter gazed at him for some moments with mixed and
contending sensations. Once more, resentment and the
bitter wrath of jealousy had faded back into the remoter
depths of his mind, and a certain interest for his singular
rival, despite of himself, crept into his breast. But this
mysterious and fitful nature, was it one in which the devo-
ted Madeline would certainly find happiness and repose?
would she never regret her choice? This question ob-
truded itself upon him, and while he sought to answer it,
Aram, regaining his composure, turned abruptly and offered
him his hand. Walter did not accept it, he bowed with a
cold respect. "I cannot give my hand without my heart,'
said he "we were foes just now; we are not friends yet.
I am unreasonable in this, I know, but — "
;
**
"Be it so," interrupted Aram; "I understand you. I
press my good will on you no more.
When this pang is
forgotten, when this wound is healed, and when you wil
have learned more of him who is now your rival, we may
meet again with other feelings on your side."
Thus they parted, and the solitary lamp which for weeks
past had been quenched at the wholesome hour in the stu-
dent's home, streamed from the casement throughout the
whole of that night; was it a witness of the calm and
learned vigil, or of the unresting heart?
CHAPTER XI.
THE FAMILY SUPPER.- THE TWO SISTERS IN THEIR
CHAMBER.—A MISUNDERSTANDING, FOLLOWED BY
A CONFESSION. WALTER'S APPROACHING DEPAR-
TURE AND THE CORPORAL'S BEHAVIOUR THEREON.
-THE CORPORAL'S FAVORITE INTRODUCED TO
THE READER.- THE CORPORAL PROVES HIMSELF
A SUBTLE DIPLOMATIST.
"So we grew together
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet a union in partition."
Midsummer Night's Dream.
"The corporal had not taken his measures so bally in this
stroke of artilleryship."
Tristram Shandy
It was late that evening when Walter returned home,
the little family were assembled at the last and lightest
meal of the day; Ellinor silently made room for her cousin
beside herself, and that little kindness touched Walter
623
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Why did I not ove her "" thought be, and he spoke to
her in a tone so affectiona、e, that it made her heart thrill
with delight. Lester was, on the whole, the most pensive
of the group; but the old and young man exchanged looks
of restored confidence, which, on the part of the former,
were softened by a pitying tenderness.
:
—
a
When the cloth was removed, and the servants gone,
Lester took it on himself to break to the sisters the in-
tended departure of their cousin. Madeline received the
news with painful blushes, and a certain self-reproach; for
even where a woman has no cause to blame herself, she, in
these cases, feels a sort of remorse at the unhappiness she
occasions. But Ellinor rose suddenly and left the room.
"And now," said Lester, "London will, I suppose, be
your first destination. I can furnish you with letters to
some of my old friends there merry fellows they were
once you must take care of the prodigality of their wine.
There's John Courtland,- ah! a seductive dog to drink
with. Be sure and let me know how honest John looks,
and what he says of me.
I recollect him as if it were yes-
terday; a roguish eye, with a moisture in it; full cheeks;
a straight nose; black curled hair; and teeth as even as
dies honest John showed his teeth pretty often, too:
ha, ha! how the dog loved a laugh. Well, and Peter
Hales, Sir Peter now, has his uncle's baronetcy,
generous, open-hearted fellow as ever lived, will ask you
you
very often to dinner, nay, offer you money if you want
it but take care he does not lead you into extravagances:
out of debt, out of danger, Walter. It would have been
well for poor Peter Hales, had he remembered that maxim.
Often and often have I been to see him in the Marshalsea;
but he was the heir to good fortunes, though his relations
kept him close; so I suppose ne is well off now. His
estates lie in -shire, on your road to London; so, if he
is at his country-seat, you can beat up his quarters, and
spend a month or so with him: a most hospitable fellow."
With these little sketches of his cotemporaries, the good
squire endeavoured to while the time; taking, it is true,
some pleasure in the youthful reminiscences they excited,
but chiefly designing to enliven the melancholy of his
nephew. When, however, Madeline had retired, and they
were alone, he drew his chair closer to Walter's, and
changed the conversation into a more serious and anxious
strain. The guardian and the ward sat up late that
night; and when Walter retired to rest, it was with a heart
more touched by his uncle's kindness, than his own.
sorrows.
But we are not about to close the day without a glance
at the chamber which the two sisters held in common. The
night was serene and starlit, and Madeline sat by the open
window, leaning her face upon her hand, and gazing on the
lone house of her lover, which might be seen afar across
the landscape, the trees sleeping around it, and one pale
and steady light gleaming from its lofty casement like a
star.
"He has broken faith," said Madeline: "I shall chide
him for this to-morrow. He promised me the light should
be ever quenched before this hour.'
Nay," said Ellinor,in a tone somewhat sharpened from
its native sweetness, and who now sat up in the bed, the
curtain of which was half drawn aside, and the soft light
of the skies rested full upon her rounded neck and youth-
ful countenance, "Nay, Madeline, do not loiter there
any longer; the air grows sharp and cold, and the clock
struck one several minutes since. Come, sister, come !"
"I cannot sleep,” replied Madeline, sighing, "and think
that yon light streams upon those studies which steal the
healthful hues from his cheek, and the very life from his
heart."
"You are infatuated,-you are bewitched by that man,”
said Ellinor, peevishly.
|
feel assured that what the world calls love is not my love
Are there more Eugenes in the world than one? Who bu
Eugene could be loved as I love?
"What are there none as worthy?" said Ellinor, hal
smiling.
"Can you ask it?" answered Madeline, with a simple
wonder in her voice. "Whom would you compare,-com-
pare! nay, place within a hundred grades of the height
which Eugene Aram holds in this little world?"
"This is folly, — dotage;” said Ellinor, indignantly.
Surely there are others, as brave, as gentle, as kind, and
if not so wise, yet more fitted for the world."
"You mock me," replied Madeline, incredulously;
"whom could you select ?"
Ellinor blushed deeply, - blushed from her snowy temn-
ples to her yet whiter bosom, as she answered,
"If I said Walter Lester, could you deny it?"
Walter !" repeated Madeline, "the equal to Eugene
Aram !
"Ay, and more than equal," said Ellinor, with spannt,
and a warm and angry tone. "And indeed, Madelme,"
she continued, after a pause, "I lose something of that re-
spect, which, passing a sister's love, I have always borne
towards you, when
towards
see the unthinking and lavish idolatry
you manifest to one, who, but for a silver tongue and florid
words, would rather want attractions than be the wonder
you esteem him. Fie, Madeline! I blush for
you when
you
speak; it is unmaidenly so to love any one!"
Madeline rose from the window, but the angry word
died on her lips when she saw that Ellinor, who had work-
ed her mind beyond her self-control, had thrown herself
back on the pillow, and now sobbed aloud.
The natural temper of the elder sister had always been
much more calm and even than that of the younger, who
united with her vivacity something of the passionate ca-
price and fitfulness of her sex. And Madeline's affection
for her had been tinged by that character of forbearance
and soothing, which a superior nature often manifests to
one more imperfect, and which in this instance did not de-
sert her. She gently closed the window, and, gliding to the
bed, threw her arms round her sister's neck, and kissed
away her tears with a caressing fondness, that, if Ellinor
resisted for one moment, she returned with equal tenderness
the next.
"Indeed, dearest," said Madeline, gently, "I cannot
guess how I hurt you, and still less, how Eugene has of
fended you."
"He has offended me in nothing," replied Ellinor, still
weeping, "if he has not stolen away all your affection from
But I was a foolish girl, forgive me, as you always
do; and at this time I need your kindness, for I am very,
very unhappy."
me.
re
Unhappy, dearest Nell, and why ?"
Ellinor wept on without answering.
Madeline persisted in pressing for a reply; and at length
her sister sobbed out :
"I know that that - Walter only has eyes for you,
and a heart for you, who neglect, who despise his love; and
I-I,-but no matter, he is going to leave us, and of me,-
poor me, he will think no more!”
Ellinor's attachment to their cousin, Madeline had long
half suspected, and she had often rallied her sister upon it;
indeed it might have been this suspicion which made her
at the first steel her breast against Walter's evident prefer-
ence to herself. But Ellinor had never till now seriously
confessed how much her heart was affected; and Madeline,
in the natural engrossment of her own ardent and devoted
love, had not of late spared much observation to the tokens
of her sister's. She was therefore dismayed, if not sur
prised, as she now perceived the cause of the peevishness
Ellinor had just manifested, and by the nature of the lovs
she felt herself, she judged, and perhaps somewhat overrat
"And have I not cause, ample cause?" returned
Madeline, with all a girl's beautiful enthusiasm, as the colored, the anguish that Ellinor endured.
mantled her cheek, and gave it the only additional loveli- She strove to comfort her by all the arguments whic
ness it could receive. "When he speaks, is it not like the fertile ingenuity of kindness could invent; she prophe
music ? or rather, what music so arrests and touches thesied Walter's speedy return, with his boyish disappoint
heart? Methinks it is heaven only to gaze upon him,
to note the changes of that majestic countenance,― to
set down as food for memory every look and every move-
But when the look turns to me, when the voice
utters my name, ah! Ellinor, then it is not a wonder that I
ove him thus much: but that any others should think they
have known love, and yet not loved him ! And, indeed, I
ment.
C
ment forgotten, and with eyes no longer blinded to the
attractions of one sister, by a bootless fancy for another.
And though Ellinor interrupted her from time to time with
assertions, now of Walter's eternal constancy to his
present idol; now, with yet more vehement declarations
of the certainty of his finding new objects for his affections
in new schemes; she yet admitted, by little and little, the
EUGENE ARAM.
523
•
persuasive power of Madeline to creep into her heart, and
brighten away its griefs with hope, till at last, with the
tears yet wet on her cheek, she fell asleep in her sister's
arms.
And Madeline, though she would not stir from her post
lest the movement should awaken her sister, was yet pre-
vented from closing her eyes in a similar repose; ever and
anon she breathlessly and gently raised herself to steal a
glimpse of that solitary light afar; and ever, as she looked,
the ray greeted her eyes with an unswerving and melan-
choly stillness, till the dawn crept grayly over the heavens,
and that speck of light, holier to her than the stars, faded
also with them beneath the broader lustre of the day.
The next week was passed in preparations for Walter's
departure. At that time, and in that distant part of the
country, it was greatly the fashion among the younger
travellers to perform their excursions on horseback, and it
was this method of conveyance that Walter preferred.
The best steed in the squire's stables was therefore appro-
priated to his service, and a strong black horse with a
Roman nose and a long tail, was consigned to the mastery
of Corporal Bunting. The squire was delighted that his
nephew had secured such an attendant. For the soldier,
though odd and selfish, was a man of some sense and ex-
perience, and Lester thought such qualities might not be
without their use to a young master, new to the common
frauds and daily usages of the world he was about to enter.
As for Bunting himself, he covered his secret exultation
at the prospect of change, and board-wages, with the cool
semblance of a man sacrificing his wishes to his affections.
He made it his peculiar study to impress upon the squire's
mind the extent of the sacrifice he was about to make.
The bit cot had been just whitewashed, the pet cat just
lain in; then too, who would dig, and gather seeds in the
garden, defend the plants, (plants! the corporal could
scarcely count a dozen, and nine out of them were cab-
bages!) from the impending frosts? It was exactly, too,
the time of year when the rheumatism paid flying visits to
the bones and loins of the worthy corporal; and to think
of his CA
galavanting about the country," when he ought to
be guarding against that sly foe the lumbago, in the fortress
of his chinmey corner!
To all these murmurs and insinuations the good Lester
seriously inclined, not with the less sympathy, in that they
invariably ended in the corporal's slapping his manly
thigh, and swearing that he loved Master Walter like gun-
powder, and that were it twenty times as much, he would
cheerfully do it for the sake of his handsome young honor.
Ever at this peroration, the eyes of the squire began to
twinkle, and new thanks were given to the veteran for his
disinterested affection, and new promises pledged him in
inadequate return.
The pious Dealtry felt a little jealousy at the trust im-
parted to his friend. He halted, on his return from his
farm, by the spruce stile which led to the demesne of the
corporal, and eyed the warrior somewhat sourly, as he
now in the cool of the evening, sat without his door, ar-
ranging his fishing-tackle and flies, in various little papers,
which he carefully labelled by the help of a stunted pen
which had seen at least as much service as himself.
M
"Well, neighbour Bunting," said the little landlord,
leaning over the stile, but not passing its boundary, “and
"and
when do you go?- you will have wet weather of it (look-
ing up to the skies) you must take care of the rumatiz.
At
your age it's no trifle, eh hem."
"My age should like to know what mean by that! |
my age indeed!—augh! — bother!" grunted Bunting,
looking up from his occupation. Peter chuckled inly at
the corporal's displeasure, and continued, as in an apolo-
get tone,
Oh, I ax your pardon, neighbour. I don't mean to
say you are too old to travel. Why, there was Hal
Whittol, eighty-two come next Michaelmas, took a trip to
Lunnun last year-
"For young and old, the stout-the poorly-
The eye of God be on them surely."
"Bother!" said the corporal, turning round on his seat.
"And what do you intend doing with the brindled cat?
put 'um up
in the saddle-bags? You won't surely have the
beart to leav 'un."
"As to that," quoth the corporal, sighing, "the poor
dumb anima makes me sad to think on 't." And putting
down his fish-hooks, he stroked the sides of an enormous
cat, who now,
with tail on end, and back bowed up, and
uttering her lenes susurros - anglicè, purr;-rubbed her-
self to and fro, athwart the corporal's legs.
"What staring there for? won't ye step in, man? Can
climb the stile, I suppose ?-augh!"
"No thank ye, neighbour. I do very well here, that is,
you can hear me; your deafness is not so troublesome
as it was last win
if
"Bother!" interrupted the corporal, in a voice that
made the little landlord start bolt upright from the easy
confidence of his position. Nothing on earth so offended
the perpendicular Jacob Bunting, as any insinuation of in-
creasing years or growing infirmities; but at this moment,
as he meditated putting Dealtry to some use, he prudently
conquered the gathering anger, and added, like the man of
the world he justly plumed himself on being in a voice
gentle as a dying howl,
"What 'fraid on? Come in, there 's good fellow, want
to speak to ye. Come do-a-u-g-h!" the last sound
being prolonged into one of unutterable coaxingness, and
accompanied with a beck of the hand and a wheedling
wink.
These allurements the good Peter could not resist,-he
clambered the stile, and seated himself on the bench beside
the corporal.
t
""
"There now, fine fellow, fit for the forty-second said
Bunting, clapping him on the back. Well, and-a-n-d
-a beautiful cat, isn't her?"
"Ah!" said Peter, very shortly, for though a re-
markably mild man, Peter did not love cats: moreover, we
must now inform the reader, that the cat of Jacob Bunting
was one more feared than respected throughout the village.
The corporal was a cunning teacher of all animals: he
could learn goldfinches the use of the musket; dogs, the
art of the broadsword; horses, to dance hornpipes and pick
pockets; and he had relieved the ennui of his solitary mo-
ments by imparting sundry accomplishments to the ductile
genius of his cat. Under his tuition, puss had learned to
fetch and carry; to turn over head and tail, like a tumbler;
to run up your shoulder when you least expected it; to fly,
as if she were mad, at any one upon whom the corporal
thought fit to set her; and, above all, to rob larders, shelves
and tables, and bring the produce to the corporal, who
never failed to consider such stray waifs lawful manorial
acquisitions. These little feline cultivations of talent, how-
ever delightful to the corporal, and creditable to his powers
of teaching the young idea how to shoot, had nevertheless,
since the truth must be told, rendered the corporal's cat a
proverb and byword throughout the neighbourhood. Never
was cat in such bad odour: and the dislike in which it was
held was wonderfully increased by terror; for the creature
was singularly large and robust, and withal of so courage
ous a temper, that if you attempted to resist its invasion of
your property, it forthwith set up its back, put down its
ears, opened its mouth, and bade you fully comprehend that
what it feloniously seized it could gallantly defend.
than one gossip in the village had this notable cat hurried
into premature parturition, as, on descending at daybreak
into her kitchen, the dame would descry the animal perched
on the dresser, having entered, God knows how, an
gleaming upon her with its great green eyes, and a maing.
nant, brownie expression of countenance.
More
Various deputations had indeed, from time to time, ar-
rived at the corporal's cottage, requesting the death, ex-
pulsion, or perpetual imprisonment of the favorite. But
the stout corporal received them grimly, and dismissed
them gruffly; and the cat still went on waxing in size anu
wickedness, and baffling, as if inspired by the devil, the
various gins and traps set for its destruction.
But never,
perhaps, was there a greater disturbance and perturbation
in the little hamlet, than when, some three weeks since, the
corporal's cat was known to be brought to bed, and safely
delivered of a numerous offspring. The village saw itselt
overrun with a race and a perpetuity of corporal's cats!
Perhaps, too, their teacher growing more expert by prac-
tice, the descendants might attain to even greater accomì-
plishment than their nefarious progenitor. No longer did
the faint hope of being delivered from their tormentor by
an untimely or even natural death, occur to the harassed
Grassdalians. Death was an incident natural to one cat,
however vivacious, but here was a dynasty of cats! Prin
cipes mortales, respublico eterna !
324
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Now the corporal loved this creature better, yes, better
than
any thing in the world, except travelling and board-
wages and he was sorely perplexed in his mind how he
should be able to dispose of her safely, in his absence. He
was aware of the general enmity she had inspired, and
trembled to anticipate its probable result, when he was no
longer by to afford her shelter and protection. The squire
had, indeed, offered her an asylum at the manor-house; but
the squire's cook was the cat's most embittered enemy;
and who can answer for the peaceable behaviour of his
cook? The corporal, therefore, with a reluctant sigh, re-
nounced the friendly offer, and after lying awake three
nights, and turning over in his own mind the characters,
consciences, and capabilities of all his neighbours, he came
at last to the conviction that there was no one with whom
he could so safely intrust his cat as Peter Dealtry. It is
true, as we said before, that Peter was no lover of cats,
and the task of persuading him to afford board and lodging
to a cat, of all cats the most odious and malignant, was
therefore no easy matter. But to a man of the world, what
intrigue is impossible?
The finest diplomatist in Europe might have taken a
lesson from the corporal, as he now proceeded earnestly
towards the accomplishment of his project.
He took the cat, which by the by we forgot to say that
he had thought fit to christen after himself, and to honor
with a name, somewhat lengthy for a cat, (but indeed this
was no ordinary cat!) viz. Jacobina. He took Jacobina
then, we say, upon his lap, and stroking her brindled sides
with great tenderness, he bade Dealtry remark how singu-
larly quiet the animal was in its manners. Nay, he was
not contented until Peter himself had patted her with a
timorous hand, and had reluctantly submitted the said hand
to the honor of being licked by the cat in return. Jacobina,
who, to do her justice, was always meek enough in the
presence, and at the will of her master, was, fortunately
this day, on her very best behaviour.
"Them dumb animals be mighty grateful," quoth the
corporal.
"Ah!" rejoined Peter, wiping his hand with his pocket
handkerchief.
But, Lord! what scandal there be in the world!"
"Though slander's breath may raise a storm,
It quickly does decay."
muttered Peter.
"Very well, very true; sensible verses those," said the
corporal, approvingly; "and yet mischief's often done be-
fore the amends come. Body o' me, it makes a man sick
of his kind, ashamed to belong to the race of men, to see
the envy that abounds in this here sublunary wale of
tears!" said the corporal, lifting up his eyes.
Peter stared at him with open mouth; the hypocritical
rascal continued, after a pause,
"Now there's Jacobina, 'cause she's a good cat, a faith-
ful servant, the whole village is against her such lies as
they tell on her, such wappers, you'd think she was the
devil in garnet! I grant, I grant," added the corporal, in
a tone of apologetic candor, "that she 's wild, saucy, knows
her friends from her foes, steals Goody Solomon's butter ;
but what then? Goody Solomon's d—d b-h! Goody
Solomon sold beer in opposition to you, set up a public;
you do not like Goody Solomon, Peter Dealtry?"
"If that were all Jacobina had done?" said the land-
lord, grinning.
"All! what else did she do? Why, she eat up John
Tomkins's canary-bird; and did not John Tomkins, saucy
rascal, say you could not sing better nor a raven?
"I have nothing to say against the poor creature for
that," said Peter, stroking the cat of his own accord.
"Cats will eat birds, 't is the 'spensation of Providence.
But what! corporal!" and Peter hastily withdrawing his
hand, hurried it into his breeches pocket, -"but what!
did not she scratch. Joe Webster's little boy's hand into
ribands, because the boy tried to prevent her running off
with a ball of string?
"And, well," grunted the corporal, "that was not Ja-
cobina's doing, that was my doing. I wanted the string,
offered to pay a penny for it, think of that!"
"It was priced three pence ha'penny," said Peter.
Augh,baugh! you would not pay Joe Webster all be
asks! What's the use of being a man of the world, unless
one makes one's tradesmen bate a bit ? Bargaining is not
cheating, I hope?"
|
"God forbid!" said Peter..
"But as to the bit string, Jacobina took it solely for
your sake. Ah, she did not think you were to turn against
her!"
So saying, the corporal got up, walked into his house,
and presently came back with a little net in his hand.
"There, Peter, net for you to hold lemons. Thank Ja-
cobina for that; she got the string. Says I to her one day,
as I was sitting, as I might be now, without the door, 'Ja-
cobina, Peter Dealtry's a good fellow, and he keeps his
lemons in a bag: bad habit, get mouldy, we'll make
him a net: ' and Jacobina purred, (stroke the poor creature,
Peter!) so Jacobina and I took a walk, and when we
came to Joe Webster's, I pointed out the ball o' twine to
her. So, for your sake, Peter, she got into this here
scrape,augh.'
W
-
"Ah ! " quoth Peter, laughing,
laughing, " poor puss! poor pus-
sy! poor little pussy!
"And now, Peter," said the corporal, taking his friend's
hand, "I am going to prove friendship to you,
|
going to
do you great favor."
"Aha!" said Peter, " my good friend, I 'm very much
obliged to you. I know your kind heart, but I really don't
want any
"Bother!" cried the corporal, "I'm not the man as
makes much of doing a friend a kindness. Hold jaw! tell
you what, tell you what: am going away on Wednesday
at daybreak, and in my absence you shall"
"What, my good corporal?"
"Take charge of Jacobina !"
"Take charge of the devil!" cried Peter.
"Augh!-baugh!-what words are those ! Listen
to me.
"I won't!"
"You shall ! >>
"I'll be d-d if I do!" quoth Peter, sturdily. It was
the first time he had been known to swear since he was
parish clerk.
"Very well, very well!" said the corporal, chucking up
his chin, "Jacobina can take care of herself! Jacobina
knows her friends and her foes as well as her master!
Jacobina never injures her friends, never forgives foes.
Look to yourself! look to yourself! insult my cat, insult
Swear at Jacobina, indeed!”
me !
"If she steals my cream!" cried Peter,-
"Did she ever steal your cream ?"
"No! but, if—”
?",
"Did she ever steal your cream ?"
"I can't say she ever did."
"Or any thing else of yours
"Not that I know of; but
"Never too late to mend.'
"If —”
"Will you listen to me or not?"
"Well."
"You'll listen?'
"Yes."
"Know then, that I wanted to do you kindness.”
Humph!"
CC
"Hold jaw! I taught Jacobina all she knows."
"More 's the pity!
"Hold jaw! I taught her to respect her friends,
never to commit herself in doors, never to steal at home,
never to fly at home, never to scratch at home, to
kill mice and rats, -to bring all she catches to her mas-
to do what he tells her, and to defend his house as
well as a mastiff and this invaluable creature I was going
to lend you :- won't now, d-d if I do!
ter,
:
"Humph!
"Hold jaw! When I'm gone, Jacobina will have no
one to feed her. She'll feed herself, will go to every
larder, every house in the place, your's best larder, best
house; will come to you oftenest. If your wife attempts
to drive her away, scratch her eyes out; if you disturb her,
serve you worse than Joe Webster's little boy :- wanted
to prevent this, won't now, d-d if I do! 23
*But, corporal, how would it mend the matter to take
the devil in-doors?"
"Devil! Don't call names. Did not I tell you, only
one Jacobina does not hurt is her master ?-Make you her
master now d'ye see?"
:
"It is very hard," said Peter, grumblingly, "that the
only way I can defend myself from his villanous creature
is to take her into my house "
EUGENE ARAM.
525
M
Villanous! You ought to be proud of her affection. |
She returns good for evil, she always loved you; see how
she rubs herself against you, and that's the reason why
I selected you from the whole village, to take care of her:
but you at once injure yourself, and refuse to do your friend
a service. Howsomever, you know I shall be with young
squire, and he'll be master here one of these days, and Ï
shall have an influence over him, you'll see,
you'll
see Look that there's not another Spotted Dog' set up,-
augh! - bother!
"
T But what would my wife say, if I took the cat? She
can't abide its name.
""
"Let me alone to talk to your wife. What would she
say if I bring her from Lunnun town a fine silk gown, or a
neat shawl, with a blue border, blue becomes her; or a
tay-chest, that will do for you both, and would set off the
little back parlor. Mahogany tay-chest, inlaid at top,
initials in silver, J. B. to D. and P. D. — two boxes
for tay, and a bowl for sugar in the middle. - Ah! ah!
Love me, love my cat! When was Jacob Bunting ungrate-
ful?-augh!"
"Well, well! will you talk to Dorothy about it?"
"I shall have your consent, then? Thanks, my dear,
dear Peter; 'pon my soul you're a fine fellow! you see,
you 're great man of the parish. If you protect her, none
dare injure; if you scout her, all set upon her. For as
you said, or rather sung, t'other Sunday, capital voice
capital voice
you were in too,
"The mighty tyrants without cause
Conspire her blood to shed!"
"I did not think you had so good a memory, corporal,"
said Peter, smiling; the cat was now curling itself up in
his lap:
"after all, Jacobina, — what a deuse of a name!
what a deuse of a name!
-seems gentle enough.
"Gentle as a lamb, soft as butter, -kind as cream,
and such a mouser ! >
"But I don't think Dorothy
"I'll settle Dorothy."
up
?
"Well, when will you look
"Come and take a dish of tay with you in half an hour;
you want a new tay-chest; something new and gen-
teel.'
"
“I think we do," said Peter, rising, and gently deposit-
ing the cat on the ground.
CC
Good-by for
Aha! we 'I see to it ! - we'll see!
the present,
in half an hour be with you!"
The corporal, left alone with Jacobina, eyed her intently,
and burst into the following pathetic address:
CC
Well, Jacobina! you little know the pains I takes to
serve you, the lies I tells for you, endangered my pre-
You
cious soul for your sake, you jade! Ah! may well rub
your sides against me. Jacobina! Jacobina! you be the
only thing in the world that cares a button for me. I have
neither kith nor kin. You are daughter, friend,— wife
to me if any thing happened to you, I should not have the
heart to love any thing else. And body o' me, but you be
as kind as any mistress, and much more tractable than any
wife; but the world gives you a bad name, Jacobina.
Why? Is it that
Is it that you do worse than the world do?
has no morality in you, Jacobina; well, but has the world?
no! But it has humbug,-you have no humbug, Jacob-
ina. On the faith of a man, Jacobina, you be better than
the world! -
- baugh! You takes care of your own inter-
your own inter-
est, but you takes care of your master's too! You loves
me as well as yourself. Few cats can say the same, Jacob-
ina! and no gossip that flings a stone at your pretty brin-
dled skin, can say half as much. We must not forget your
kittens, Jacobina;-you have four left,- they must be
provided for. Why not a cat's children as well as a cour-
tier's? I have got you a comfortable home, Jacobina,-
take care of yourself, and don't fall in love with every
tom-cat in the place. Be sober, and lead a single life till
Come, Jacobina, we will lock up the house,
and go and see the quarters I have provided for you.
Heigho!"
iny return.
As he finished his harangue, the corporal locked the door
of his cottage, and Jacobina trotting by his side, he stalk-
ed with his usual stateliness to the Spotted Dog.
Dame Dorothy Dealtry received him with clouded
brow, but the man of the world knew whom he had to deal
with On Wednesday morning Jacobina was inducted into
the comforts of the hearth of mine host ; and her four
a
little kittens mewed hard by, from the sinecure of a bask-
et lined with flannel.
Reader! Here is wisdom in this chapter: it is not every
man who knows how to dispose of his cat!
CHAPTER XII.
A STRANGE HABIT. WALTER'S INTERVIEW WITH
MADELINE.
HER GENEROUS AND CONFIDING
WALTER'S ANGER. THE PART-
CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE
DISPOSITION.
ING MEAL.
UNCLE AND NEPHEW.- WALTER ALONE.-SLEEP
THE BLESSING OF THE YOUNG.
"Fall. Out, out, unworthy to speak where he breatheta "
* *
&C.
"Punt. Well now, my whole venture is forth, I will resolve
to depart."
BEN JONSON. Every Man out of his Humor.
It was now the eve before Walter's departure, and o
returning home from a farewell walk among his favorite
haunts, he found Aram, whose visit had been made during
Walter's absence, now standing on the threshold of the
door, and taking leave of Madeline and her father. Aram
and Walter had only met twice before since the interview
we recorded, and each time Walter had taken care that
the meeting should be but of short duration. In these
brief encounters, Aram's manner had been even more gentle
than heretofore; that of Walter's more cold and distant.
And now, as they thus unexpectedly met at the door, Aram,
looking at him earnestly, said:
"Farewell, sir! You are to leave us for some time, I
hear. Heaven speed you! Then he added, in a lower
tone,
>>
"Will you take my hand now, in parting?
As he said, he put forth his hand, — it was the left.
"Let it be the right hand," observed the elder Lester,
smiling: "it is a luckier omen.
ઃઃ
"I think not," said Aram, dryly. And Walter noted
that he had never remembered him to give his right hand
to any one, even to Madeline; the peculiarity of this habit
might, however, arise from an awkward early habit, it was
certainly scarce worth observing, and Walter had already
coldly touched the haud extended to him: when Lester
carelessly renewed the subject.
"Is there any superstition," said he, gayly, "that makes
you think, as some of the ancients did, the left hand luck-
ier than the right?
CC
"Yes," replied Aram; a superstition. Adieu."
The student departed; Madeline slowly walked up one
of the garden alleys, and thither Walter, after whispering
to his uncle, followed her.
There is something in those bitter feelings, which are
the offspring of disappointed love; something in the in-
tolerable anguish of well-founded jealousy, that when the
first shock is over, often hardens, and perhaps elevates the
character. The sterner powers that we arouse within us
to combat a passion that can no longer be worthily indul-
ged, are never afterwards wholly allayed. Like the allies
which a nation summons to its bosom to defend it from its
foes, they expel the enemy only to find a settlement for
themselves. The mind of
themselves. The mind of every man who conquers an un-
fortunate attachment, becomes stronger than before; it may
be for evil, it may be for good, but the capacities for either
are more vigorous and collected.
The last few weeks had done more for Walter's char.
acter than years of ordinary, even of happy emotion, might
have effected. He had passed from youth to manhood, and
with the sadness, had acquired also something of the dig
nity, of experience. Not that we would say that he had
subdued his love, but he had made the first step towards
it; he had resolved that at all hazards it should be sub
dued.
As he now joined Madeline, and she perceived him by
her side, her embarrassment was more evident than his
She feared some avowal, and from his temper, perhaps
some violence on his part. However, she was the first te
speak; women, in such cases, always are.
"It is a beautiful evening," said she, "and the sun se
in promise of a fine day for your journey to-morrcw.
Walter walked on, silently; his heart was full
26
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Madeline," he said at length, "dear Madeline, give
me your hand. Nay, do not fear me; I know what you
think, and you are right; I loved, I still love you! but
I still love you! but
I know well that I can have no hope in making this con-
fession; and when I ask you for your hand, Madeline, it is
only to convince you that I have no suit to press; had I, I
would not dare to touch that hand.”
Madeline, wondering and embarrassed, gave him her
hand; he held it for a moment with a trembling clasp,
pressed it to his lips, and then resigned it.
"Yes, Madeline, my cousin, my sweet cousin; I have
loved you deeply, but silently, long before my heart could
unravel the mystery of the feelings with which it glowed.
But this, — all this, — it were now idle to repeat. I know
that I have no hope of return; that the heart whose pos-
session would have made my whole life a dream, a trans-
port, is given to another. I have not sought you now,
Madeline, to repine at this, or to vex you by the tale of
any suffering I may endure : I am come only to give you
the parting wishes, the parting blessing, of one, who,
wherever he goes, or whatever befall him, will always
think of you as the brightest and loveliest of human beings.
May you be happy, yes, even with another! "
6 C
Ŏh, Walter!" said Madeline, affected to tears, "if I
ever encouraged, if I ever led you to hope for more than
the warm, the sisterly affection I bear you, how bitterly
I should reproach myself!"
"You never did, dear Madeline; I ask for no induce-
ment to love you,
I never dreamed of seeking a motive,
or inquiring if I had cause to hope. But as I am now
about to quit you, and as you confess you feel for me a sis-
ter's affection, will you give me leave to speak to you as a
brother might?"
Madeline held her hand to him in frank cordiality:
"Yes!" said she, "speak!"
"Then," said Walter, turning away his head in a spirit
of delicacy that did him honor, "is it yet all too late for
me to say one word of caution as relates to Eugene
Aram ?
·
"Of caution! you alarm me, Walter; speak, has aught
happened to him? I saw him as lately as yourself. Does
aught threaten him? Speak, I implore you,
quick!"
"I know of no danger to him!" replied Walter, stung
to perceive the breathless anxiety with which Madeline
spoke; "but pause, my cousin, may there be no danger to
you from this man?"
"Walter ! "
|
The generous blood crimsoned the cheek and brow ct
this high-spirited girl as she uttered her galling reproof;
her eyes sparkled, her lip quivered, her whole frame seemed
to have grown larger with the majesty of indignant love.
"Cruel, unjust, ungrateful!" ejaculated Walter, pale
with rage, and trembling under the conflict of his roused
and wounded feelings. Is it thus you answer the warn-
ing of too disinterested and self-forgetful a love?"
"Love!" exclaimed Madeline. "Grant me patience!
Love! It was but now I thought myself honored by the
affection you said you bore me. At this instant, I blush to
have called forth a single sentiment in one who knows so
little what love is! Love! — methought that word denot-
ed all that was high and noble in human nature, confi-
dence, hope, devotion, sacrifice of all thought of self! but
you would make it the type and concentration of all that
lowers and debases! - suspicion, cavil,-fear, selfish-
ness in all its shapes! Out on you, love!
"Enough, enough! Say no more, Madeline, say no
more. We part not as I had hoped; but be it so. You are
changed indeed, if your conscience smite you not hereafter
for this injustice. Farewell, and may you never regret,
not only the heart you have rejected, but the friendship you
have belied." With these words, and choked by his emo-
tions, Walter hastily strode away.
He hurried into the house and into a little room adjoin-
ing the chamber in which he slept, and which had been
also appropriated solely to his use. It was now spread
with boxes and trunks, some half packed, some corded,
and inscribed with the address to which they were to be
sent in London. All these mute tokens of his approaching
departure struck upon his excited feelings with a sudden-
ness that overpowered him.
"And it is thus, thus," said he aloud, "that I am to
leave, for the first time, my childhood's home."
He threw himself on his chair, and covering his face.
with his hands, burst, fairly subdued and unmanned, into a
paroxysm of tears.
When this emotion was over, he felt as if his fove for
Madeline had also disappeared; a sore and insulted feeling
was all that her image now recalled to him. This idea
gave him some consolation. "Thank God!" he muttered,
"thank God, I am cured at last! "
The thanksgiving was scarcely over, before the door
opened softly, and Ellinor, not perceiving him where he
sat, entered the room, and laid on the table a purse which
she had long promised to knit him, and which seemed now
designed as a parting gift.
She sighed heavily as she laid it down, and he observed
that her eyes seemed red as with weeping.
He did not move, and Ellinor left the room without dis-
covering him; but he remained there till dark, musing on
her apparition, and before he went down stairs, be took
up the little purse, kissed it, and put it carefully to his
bosom.
"I grant him wise, learned, gentle, nay, more than
all, bearing about him a spell, a fascination, by which he
softens or awes, at will, and which even I cannot resist.
But ye. his abstracted mood, his gloomy life, certain words
that have broken from him unawares, certain tell-tale
emotions, which words of mine, heedlessly said, have
fiercely aroused, all united, inspire me, — shall I say it,
with fear and distrust. I cannot think him altogether the
calm and pure being he appears. Madeline, I have asked He sat next to Ellinor at supper that evening, and
myself again and again, is this suspicion the effect of jeal-though he did not say much, his last words were more to
ousy do I scan his bearing with the jaundiced eye of dis- her than words had ever been before. When he took leave
appointed rivalship? And I have satisfied
And I have satisfied my conscience of her for the night he whispered, as he kissed her cheek;
hat my judgment is not thus biassed. Stay! listen yet a "God bless you, dearest Ellinor, and till I return, take
little while! You have a high, -a thoughtful mind. care of yourself, for the sake of one who loves you now,
Exert it now. Consider your whole happiness rests on one better than any thing on earth."
step! Pause, examine, compare! Remember, you have
not of Aram, as of those whom you have hitherto mixed
with, the eyewitness of a life! You can know but little
of ais real temper, his secret qualities; still less of the
tenor of his former life. I only ask of you, for
your own
sake, for my sake, your sister's sake, and your good fath-
er's, not to judge too rashly! Love him, if you will; but
observe him!
"Have you done?" said Madeline, who had hitherto
with difficulty contained herself; "then hear me. Was it I,
was it Madeline Lester, whom you asked to play the watch,
to enact the spy upon the man whom she exults in loving?
Was it not enough that you should descend to mark down
each incautious look, -to chronicle every heedless word,
-to draw dark deductions from the unsuspecting confi-
dence of my father's friend, -to lie in wait, to hang with
a foe's malignity upon the unbendings of familiar inter-
course, -to extort anger from gentleness itself, that you
might wrest the anger into crime! Shame, shame upon
you, for the meanness! And must you also suppose that I,
to whose trust he has given his noble heart, will receive it
only to play the eaves-dropper to its secrets? Away!"
Lester had just left the room to write some letters for
Walter; and Madeline, who had hitherto sat absorbed and
silent by the window, now approached Walter, and offered
him her hand.
"Forgive me, my dear cousin," she said, in her softest
voice. "I feel that I was hasty, and to blame. Believe
me, I am now at least grateful, warmly grateful, for the
kindness of your motives.”
"Not so," said Walter, bitterly, "the advice of a friend
is only meanness.
"Come, come, forgive me; pray, do not let us part un-
kindly. When did we ever quarrel before? I was wrong,
grievously wrong, I will perform any penance you may
enjoin."
CC
Agreed then; follow my admonitions."
"Ah! any thing else," said Madeline, gravely, and col-
oring deeply.
Walter said no more; he pressed her hand lightly, and
turned away.
"Is all forgiven?" said she, in so bewitching a tone,
and with so bright a smile, that Walter, against his con-
science, answered, "Yes"
EUGENE ARAM
527
The sisters left the room. I know not which of the two
received his last glance.
tery that for so many years had hung over the fate of his
parent, it might indeed be his lot to pierce; and with a
common waywardness in our nature, the restless son felt
his interest in that parent the livelier from the very circum-
stance of remembering nothing of his person. Affection
had been nursed by curiosity and imagination, and the bad
father was thus more fortunate in winning the heart of the
son, than had he perhaps, by the tenderness of
years, de-
served that affection.
Lester now returned with the letters. "There is one
charge, my dear boy," said he, in concluding the moral in-
junctions and experienced suggestions with which the young
generally leave the ancestral home (whether practically
benefited or not by the legacy, may be matter of question)
-"there is one charge which I need not intrust to your
ingenuity and zeal. You know my strong conviction, that
your father, my poor brother, still lives. Is it necessary for Oppressed and feverish, Walter opened the lattice of his
me to tell you to exert yourself by all ways and in all means room, and looked forth on the night. The broad harvest-
to discover some clue to his fate? Who knows,” added moon was in the heavens, and filled the air as with a softer
Lester, with a smile, "but that you may find him a rich and holier day. At a distance its light just gave the dark
nabob. I confess that I should feel but little surprise if it outline of Aram's house, and beneath the window it la,
were so; but at all events you will make every possible in- bright and steady on the green, still churchyard, that ad-
quiry. I have written down in this paper the few particu- joined the house. The air and the light allayed the fitful-
lars concerning him which I have been enabled to glean ness of the young man's heart, but served to solemnize the
since he left his home; the places where he was last seen, project and desire with which it beat. Still leaning from
the false names he assumed, &c. I shall watch with great the casement, with his
I shall watch with great the casement, with his eyes fixed upon the tranquil scene
anxiety for any fuller success to your researches."
below, he poured forth a prayer, that to his hands might
"You needed not, my dear uncle," said Walter, serious-
said Walter, serious- the discovery of his lost sire be granted. The prayer seem-
ly', "to have spoken to me on this subject. No one, not ed to lift the oppression from his breast; he felt cheerful
even yourself, can have felt what I have; can have cherished and relieved, and flinging himself on his bed, soon fell into
the same anxiety, nursed the same hope, indulged the same the sound and healthful sleep of youth. And oh! let
conjecture. I have not, it is true, often of late years spoken youth cherish that happiest of earthly boons while yet it
to you on a matter so near to us both, but I have spent is at its command;- for there cometh the day to all, when
whole hours in guesses at my father's fate, and in dreams "neither the voice of the lute or the birds "* shall bring
that for me was reserved the proud task to discover it. I back the sweet slumbers that fell on their young eyes, as
will not say indeed that it makes at this moment the chief unbidden as the dews. It is a dark epoch in a man's life
motive for my desire to travel, but in travel it will become when sleep forsakes him; when he tosses to and fro, and
my chief object. Perhaps I may find him not only rich, thought will not be silenced; when the drug and draught
that for my part is but a minor wish, but sobered and are the courters of stupefaction, not sleep; when the down
reformed from the errors and wildness of his earlier man- pillow is as a knotted log; when the eyelids close but with
hood. Oh, what should be his gratitude to you for all the an effort, and there is a drag and a weight, and a dizziness
care with which you have supplied to the forsaken child in the eyes at morn. Desire and grief, and love, these are
the father's place; and not the least, that you have, in sof- the young man's torments, but they are the creatures of
tening the colors of his conduct, taught me still to prize time; time removes them as it brings, and the vigils we
and seek for a father's love!
keep," while the evil days come not," if weary, are brief
and few. But memory, and care, and ambition, and ava-
rice, these are the demon-gods that defy the time that fath-
ered them. The worldlier passions are the growth of ma-
ture years, and their grave is dug but in our own. As the
dark spirits in the northern tale, that watch against the
coming of one of a brighter and holier race, lest if he seize
them unawares, he bind them prisoners in his chain, they
keep ward at night over the entrance of that deep cave,-
the human heart, and scare away the angel sleep!
"Non avium citharæque," &c. - Horat
"You have a kind heart, Walter," said the good old
man, pressing his nephew's hand," and that has more than
repaid me for the little I have done for you; it is better to
sow a good heart with kindness, than a field with corn, for
the heart's harvest is perpetual.'
Many, keen, and earnest were that night the meditations
of Walter Lester. He was about to quit the home in
which youth had been passed, in which first love had been
formed and blighted: the world was before him; but there
was something more grave than pleasure, more steady than
Enterprise, that beckoned him to its paths. The deep mys-
BOOK THE SECOND.
᾿Αμφὶ δ' ἀνθρώ
πων φρεσὶν ἀμπλακία:
Αναρίθμητοι κρέμανται.
Τοῦτο δ' ἀμάχανον εὑρεῖν,
Ο τι νῦν, καὶ ἐν τελευ
τα, φέρτατον ἀνδρὶ τυχεῖν.
PIND. O. vii. — 4+
THE
CHAPTER I.
MARRIAGE SETTLED. LESTER'S HOPES AND
V
SCHEMES. GAYETY OF TEMPER A GOOD SPECU-
THE TRUTH AND FERVOR OF ARAM'S
LATION
LOVE
question Aram as to his circumstances, the student frankly
confessed, that if not affording what the generality of per-
sons would consider even a competence, they enabled one
of his moderate wants and retired life to dispense, espe
cially in the remote and cheap district in which they lived,
with all fortune in a wife, who, like Madeline, was equally
with himself enamoured of obscurity. The good Lester,
however, proposed to bestow upon his daughter such a por-
Love is better than a pair of spectacles, to make every thing tion as might allow for the wants of an increased family, or
ceem greater which is seen through it."
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S Arcadia.
ARAM's affection to Madeline having now been formally
announced to Lester, and Madeline's consent having been
somewhat less formally obtained, it only remained to fix
the time for their wedding. Though Lester forbore to
the probable contingencies of fate. For though fortune
may often slacken her wheel, there is no spot in which she
suffers it to be wholly still.
It was now the middle of September, and by the end of
the ensuing month it was agreed that the spousals of the
lovers should be held. It's certain that Lester felt one
528
BULWER'S NOVELS.
pang
truth, and yet in language poetry, could fail wholly to sub.
due and enthral a girl so young, so romantic, so enthusi
astic, as Madeline Lester. How intense and delicious
must have been her sense of happiness! In the pure heart
of a girl loving for the first time-love is far more ecstatic
than in man, inasmuch as it is unfevered by desire - love
then and there makes the only state of human existence
which is at once capable of calmness and transport!
A FAVORABLE
CHAPTER IL
SPECIMEN OF A NOBLEMAN AND A
COURTIER. A MAN OF SOME FAULTS AND MANY
ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
for his nephew, as he subscribed to this proposal; but
he consoled himself with recurring to a hope he had long
cherished, viz. that Walter would return home not only
cured of his vain attachment to Madeline, but of the dispo-
sition to admit the attractions of her sister. A marriage
between these two cousins had for years been his favorite
project. The lively and ready temper of Ellinor, her
temper of Ellinor, her
household turn, her merry laugh, a winning playfulness that
characterized even her defects, were all more after Lester's
secret heart than the graver and higher nature of his elder
daughter. This might mainly be, that they were traits of
disposition that more reminded him of his lost wife, and
were therefore more accordant with his ideal standard of
perfection; but I incline also to believe that the more per-
sons advance in years, the more, even if of staid and sober
tempers themselves, they love gayety and elasticity in youth.
I have often pleased myself by observing in some happy
family circle embracing all ages, that it is the liveliest and
wildest child that charms the grandsire the most. And after
all, it is perhaps with characters as with books, the grave
and thoughtful may be more admired than the light and
cheerful, but they are less liked; it is not only that the for-
mer, being of a more abstruse and recondite nature, find
fewer persons capable of judging of their merits, but also
that the great object of the majority of human beings is to
be amused, and that they naturally incline to love those
the best who amuse them most. And to so great a practi-
cal extent is this preference pushed, that I think were a
nice observer to make a census of all those who have re-larged
ceived legacies, or dropped unexpectedly into fortunes, he
would find that where one grave disposition had so bene-
fited, there would be at least twenty gay.
Perhaps, how-
ever, it may be said that I am taking the cause for the
effect!
But to return from our speculative disquisitions; Lester
then, who, though he so slowly discovered his nephew's
passion for Madeline, had long since guessed the secret of
Ellinor's affection for him, looked forward with a hope
rather sanguine than anxious to the ultimate realization of
his cherished domestic scheme. And he pleased himself
with thinking that when all soreness would, by this double
wedding, be banished from Walter's mind, it would be im-
possible to conceive a family group more united or more
happy.
And Ellinor herself, ever since the parting words of her
cousin, had seemed, so far from being inconsolable for his
absence, more bright of cheek and elastic of step than she
had been for months before. What a world of all feelings,
which forbids despondence, lies hoarded in the hearts of the
young!
! As one fountain is filled by the channels that ex-
haust another, we cherish wisdom at the expense of hope.
It thus happened from one cause or another, that Waller's
absence created a less cheerless blank in the family circle
than might have been expected, and the approaching bridals
of Madeline and her lover, naturally diverted in a great
measure the thoughts of each, and engrossed their conver-
sation.
Whatever might be Madeline's infatuation as to the
merits of Aram, one merit the greatest of all in the eyes
of a woman who loves, he at least possessed. Never was
mistress more burningly and deeply loved than she, who,
for the first time, awoke the long-slumbering passions in
the heart of Eugene Aram. Every day the ardor of his
affections seemned to increase. With what anxiety he
watched her footsteps! with what idolatry he hung upou
her words! — with what unspeakable and yearning emo-
tion he gazed upon the changeful eloquence of her cheek.
Now that Walter was gone, he almost took up his abode
at the manor-house. He came thither in the early morn-
ing, and rarely returned home before the family retired for
the night; and even then, when all was hushed, and they
believed him in has solitary home, he lingered for hours
around the house, to look up to Madeline's window,
charmed to the spot which held the intoxication of her
presence. Madeline discovered this habit, and chid it;
but so tenderly that it was not cured. And still at times,
by the autumnal moon, she marked from her window hig
dark figure gliding among the shadows of the trees, or
pausing by the iowly tombs in the still churchyard, the
resting place of hearts that once, perhaps, beat as wildly
as his own.
It was impossible that a love of this order, and from one
richly gifted as Aram; a love, which in substance was
disposition, and to be numbered among the chief ornaments of
"Titinius Capito is to rehearse. He is a man of an excellent
He cultivates literature, he loves men of learn-
ing," &c. - LORD ORRERY'S Pliny.
his age.
ABOUT this time the Earl of *** *
the great noble-
man of the district, and whose residence was within four
miles of Grassdale, came down to pay his wonted yearly
visit to his country domains. He was a man well known
in the history of the times; though for various reasons, 1
conceal his name. He was a courtier;- deep-wily
accomplished; but capable of generous sentiments and en-
arged views. Though, from regard to his interests, he
seized and lived as it were upon the fleeting spirit of the
day the penetration of his intellect went far beyond its
reach. He claims the merit of having been the one of all
his cotemporaries (Lord Chesterfield alone excepted) who
most clearly saw, and most distinctly prophesied, the dark
and fearful storm that at the close of the century burst over
the vices, in order to sweep away the miseries, of France.
a terrible avenger, a salutary purifier.
dwellers of a court are condemned to live, and which he
From the small circle of sounding trifles, in which the
brightened by his abilities and graced by his accomplish-
ments, the sagacious and far-sighted mind of Lord **** *
comprehended the vast field without, usually invisible to
those of his habits and profession. Men who the best
know the little nucleus which is called the world, are often
the most ignorant of mankind; but it was the peculiar at
tribute of this nobleman, that he could not only analyze the
deeper and more hidden interests.
external customs of his species, but also penetrate their
The works and correspondence he has left behind him,
edge of the varieties of human nature.
though far from voluminous, testify a consummate knowl-
The refinement
understanding. It might be that he knew the vices of men
of his taste appears less remarkable than the vigor of his
better than their virtues; yet he was no shallow disbeliever
in the latter: he read the heart too accurately not to know
that it is guided as often by its affections as its interests.
In his early life he had incurred, not without truth, the
charge of licentiousness; but even in pursuit of pleasure,
he had been neither weak on the one hand, nor gross on
the other; neither the headlong dupe, nor the callous
sensualist: but his graces, his rank, his wealth, had made
like all voluptuaries, the part of his worldly knowledge,
his conquests a matter of too easy purchase; and hence,
which was the most fallible, was that which related to the
He judged of women by a standard too distinct
from that by which he judged of men, and considered those
foibles peculiar to the sex, which in reality are incident to
human nature.
sex.
His natural disposition was grave and reflective; and
though he was not without wit, it was rarely used. He
lived, necessarily, with the frivolous and the ostentatious,
yet ostentation and frivolity were charges never brought
against himself. As a diplomatist and a statesman, he
was of the old and erroneous school of intriguers; but his
favorite policy was the science of conciliation. He was
one who would so far have suited the present age, that no
man could better have steered a nation from the chances of
war; James the First could not have been inspired with a
greater affection for peace; but the peer's dexterity would
have made that peace as honorable as the king's weakness
could have made it degraded. Ambitious to a certain ex-
tent, but neither grasping nor mean, he never obtamed for
bis genius the full and extensive field it probably deserved
EUGENE ARAM.
529
He loved a happy life above all things; and he knew that
while activity is the spirit, fatigue is the bane, of hap-
piness.
In bis day he enjoyed a large share of that public atten-
tion which generally bequeaths fame; yet from several
causes (of which his own moderation is not the least) his
present reputation is infinitely less great than the opinions
of his most distinguished cotemporaries foreboded.
It is a more difficult matter for men of high rank to
become illustrious to posterity, than for persons in a
sterner and more wholesome walk of life. Even the
greatest among the distinguished men of the patrician
order, suffer in the eyes of the after-age for the very qual-
ities, mostly dazzling defects, or brilliant eccentricities,
which made them most popularly remarkable in their day,
Men forgive Burns his amours and his revellings with
greater ease than they will forgive Bolingbroke and Byron
for the same offences.
Our earl was fond of the society of literary men; he
himself was well, perhaps even deeply, read. Certainly
his intellectual acquisitions were more profound than they
have been generally esteemed, though with the common
subtlety of a ready genius, he could make the quick adap-
tation of a timely fact, acquired for the occasion, appear
the rich overflowing of a copious erudition.
He was a
man who instantly perceived, and liberally acknowledged,
the merits of others. No connoisseur had a more felici-
tous knowledge of the arts, or was more just in the gene-
ral objects of his patronage. In short, what with all his
advantages, he was one whom an aristocracy may boast of,
though a people may forget; and if not a great man, was
at least a most remarkable lord.
The Earl of *****, in his last visit to his estates,
in his last visit to his estates,
had not forgotten to seek out the eminent scholar who shed
an honor upon his neighbourhood; he had been greatly
struck with the bearing and conversation of Aram, and
with the usual felicity with which the accomplished earl
adapted his nature to those with whom he was thrown, he
had succeeded in ingratiating himself with Aram in return.
He could not indeed persuade the haughty and solitary stu-
dent to visit him at the castle; but the earl did not disdain
to seek any one from whom he could obtain instruction,
and he had twice or thrice voluntarily encountered Aram,
and effectually drawn him from his reserve. The earl now
heard with some pleasure, and more surprise, that the aus-
tere recluse was about to be married to the beauty of the
county, and he resolved to seize the first occasion to call
at the manor-house to offer his compliments and congratu-
lations to its inmates.
Sensible men of rank, who, having enjoyed their digni-
ty from their birth, may reasonably be expected to grow
occasionally tired of it; often like mixing with those the
most who are least dazzled by the condescension; I do not
mean to say with the vulgar parvenus who mistake rudeness
for independence; -no man forgets respect to another who
knows the value of respect to himself; but the respect
should be paid easily; it is not every grand seigneur, who
like Louis XIVth., is only pleased when he puts those he
addresses out of countenance.
There was, therefore, much in the simplicity of Lester's
manners, and those of his daughters, which rendered the
family at the manor-house especial favorites with Lord
*****; and the wealthier, but less honored squirearchs
of the county, stiff in awkward pride, and bustling with
yet more awkward veneration, heard with astonishment and
anger of the numerous visits which his lordship, in his
brief sojourn at the castle, always contrived to pay to the
Lesters, and the constant invitations which they received
to his most familiar festivities.
Lord ***** was no sportsman, and one morning,
when all his guests were engaged among the stubbles of
September, he mounted his quiet palfrey, and gladly took
his
way to the manor-house.
It was towards the latter end of the month, and one of
the earliest of the autumnal fogs hung thinly over the land-
scape. As the earl wound along the sides of the hill on
which his castle was built, the scene on which he gazed
below received from the gray mists capriciously hovering
over it, a dim and melancholy wildness. A broader and
whiter vapor, that streaked the lower part of the valley,
betrayed the course of the rivulet; and beyond, to the left,
rose wan and spectral, the spire of the little church adjoin-
ing Lester's abode. As the horseman's eye wandered to
VOL. I.
67
this spot, the sun suddenly broke forth, and lit up, as by
enchantment, the quiet and lovely hamlet embedded, as it
were, beneath; the cottages, with their gay gardens and
jasmined porches, the streamlet half in mist, half in light,
while here and there columns of vapor rose above its sur-
face like the chariots of the water genii, and broke into a
thousand hues beneath the smiles of the unexpected sun.
But far to the right, the mists around it yet unbroken, and
the outline of its form only visible, rose the lone house of
the student, as if there the sadder spirits of the air yet
rallied their broken armainent of mist and shadow.
The earl was not a man peculiarly alive to scenery, hat
he now involuntarily checked his horse, and get for a
few moments on the beautiful and singular aspect which
the landscape had so suddenly assumed. As lie so gazed,
he observed in a field at some little distance, three or four
persons gathered around a bank, and among them he
thought he recognised the comely form of Rowland Lester
A second inspection convinced him that he was right in his
conjecture, and, turning from the road through a gap in the
hedge, he made towards the group in question. He had
not proceeded far, before he saw that the remainder of the
party was coinposed of Lester's daughters, the lover of the
elder, and a fourth, whom he recognised as a celebrated
French botanist who had lately arrived in England, and
who was now making an amateur excursion throughout the
more attractive districts of the island.
The eari guessed rightly, that Monsieur de N had
not neglected to apply to Aram for assistance, in a pursuit
which the latter was known to have cultivated with such
success, and that he had been conducted hither, as a place
affording some specimen or another not unworthy of
research. He now, giving his horse to his groom, joined
the group.
CHAPTER III.
WHEREIN THE EARL AND THE STUDENT CONVERSE
ON GRAVE BUT DELIGHTFUL MATTERS.
THE
STUDENT'S NOTION OF THE ONLY EARTHLY HAP-
PINESS.
"Aram. If the witch Hope forbids us to be wise,
Yet when I turn to these-wo 's only friends,
(pointing to his books.)
And with their weird and eloquent voices calm
The stir and Babel of the world within,
I can but dream that my vexed years at last
Shall find the quiet of a hermit's cell; -
And, neighbouring not this hacked and jaded world
Beneath the lambent eyes of the loved stars,
And with the hollow rocks and sparry caves,
The tides, and all the many-music'd winds
My oracles and co-mates, watch my life
Glide down the stream of knowledge, and behold
Its waters with a musing stillness glass
The thousand hues of nature and of heaven."
From Eugene Aram, a MS. Tragedy
THE earl continued with the party he had joined; and
when their occupation was concluded and they turned
homeward, he accepted the squire's frank invitation to
partake of some refreshment at the manor-house. It so
chanced, or perhaps the earl so contrived it, that Aramn
and himself, in their way to the village lingered a little be-
hind the rest, and that their conversation was thus, for a
few minutes, not altogether general.
or is it
"Is it I, Mr. Aram?" said the earl smiling,
fate that has made you a convert? The last time we sagely
and quietly conferred together, you contended that the nee
the circle of existence was contracted, the more we clung
to a state of pure and all self-dependent intellect, the
greater our chance of happiness. Thus you denied that
we were rendered happier by our luxuries, by our ambition,
or by our affections. Love and its ties were banished from
your solitary Utopia. And you asserted that the true wis
dom of life lay solely in the cultivation, not of our feel.
ings, but our faculties. You know I held a different doc-
trine and it is with the natural triumph of a hostile
partisan, that I hear you are about to relinquish the prac-
tice of one of your dogmas; in consequence, may I hope,
of having forsworn the theory?"",
"Not so, my lord," answered Aram, coloring slightly;
.130
BULWER'S NOVELS.
my weakness only proves that my theory is difficult,
not that it is wrong. I still venture to think it true. More
pain than pleasure is occasioned us by others, banish
others, and you are necessarily the gainer. Mental activ-
ity and moral quietude are the two states which, were they
perfected and united, would constitute perfect happiness.
It is such a union which constitutes all we imagine of
heaven, or conceive of the majestic felicity of a God.”
Yet, while you are on earth, you will be (believe me)
happier in the state you are about to choose," said the
earl. "Who could look at that enchanting face (the
speaker directed his eyes towards Madeline) and not feel
that it gave a pledge of happiness that could not be
broken ?"
It was not in the nature of Aram to like any allusion to
himself, and still less to his affections: he turned aside his
head, and remained silent: the wary earl discovered his
indiscretion immediately.
ever thoroughly conso e him for the ingratitude of a friend,
the worthlessness of a child, the death of a nistress?
Hence, only when he stands alone, can a man's soul
fate, I defy thee.'"
say to
"You think, theo," said the earl, reluctantly diverting
the conversation into a new channel," that in the pursuit
of knowledge lies our only active road to real happiness
Yet here how eternal must be the disappointments even of
the most successful! Does not Boyle tell us of a man
who, after devoting his whole life to the study of one min-
eral, confessed himself, at last, ignorant of all its proper-
ties?"
Had the object of his study been himself, and not the
mineral, he would not have been so unsuccessful a student,"
said Aram, smiling. "Yet," added he, in a graver tone,
"But let us put aside individual cases," said he,
"the meum and the tuum forbid all general argument
and confess, that there is for the majority of human beings
a greater happiness in love than in the sublime state of pas-
sionless intellect to which you would so chillingly exalt us.
Has not Cicero said wisely, that we ought no more to sub-
ject too slavishly our affections, than to elevate them too
imperiously into our masters? Neque se nimium erigere, tion!
Neque se nimium erigere,
nec subjacere serviliter."
"Cicero loved philosophizing better than philosophy,"
said Aram, coldly; "but surely, my lord, the affections
give us pain as well as pleasure. The doubt, the dread,
the restlessness of love, surely these prevent the passion
from constituting a happy state of mind; to me one knowl-
edge alone seems sufficient to embitter all its enjoyment,
the knowledge that the object beloved must die. What a
perpetuity of fear that knowledge creates! The avalanche
that may crush us depends upon a single breath!
pro-
we do indeed cleave the vast heaven of truth with a weak
and crippled wing and often we are appalled in our way
by a dread sense of the immensity around us, and of the
inadequacy of our own strength. But there is a rapture
in the breath of the pure and difficult air, and in the
gress by which we compass earth, the while we draw
nearer to the stars,— that again exalts us beyond ourselves,
and reconciles the true student unto all things,- even to
the hardest of them all, the conviction how feebly our
performance can ever imitate the grandeur of our ambi-
tion! As you see the spark fly upward, — sometimes not
falling to earth till it be dark and quenched, thus soars,
whither, it recks not, so that the direction be above, the lu-
minous spirit of him who aspires to truth; nor will it
back to the vile and heavy clay from which it sprang, until
the light which bore it upward be no more!
"Is not that too refined a sentiment? Custom surely A,
blunts us to every chance, every danger, that may happen
to us hourly. Were the avalanche over you for a day, - I
grant your state of torture;-but had an avalanche rested
over you for years, and not yet fallen, you would forget that
it could ever fall; you would eat, sleep, and make love, as
if it were not ! "
"Ha! my lord, you say well, -
you say well,” said
Aram, with a marked change of countenance; and, quick-
ening his pace, he joined Lester's side, and the thread of
the previous conversation was broken off.
The earl afterwards, in walking through the gardens,
(an excursion which he proposed himself, for he was some-
what of an horticulturist,) took an opportunity to renew
the subject.
"You will pardon me," said he, "but I cannot convince
myself that man would be happier were he without emo-
tions; and that to enjoy life he should be solely dependent
on himself! "
DEEPER
HEART.
CHAPTER 1V.
M
EXAMINATION INTO THE STUDENT'S
THE VISIT TO THE CASTLE. PHILOS
OPHY PUT TO THE TRIAL.
I weigh not fortune's frown or smile,
I joy not much in earthly jovs,
I seek not state, I seek not style,
I am not fond of fancy's toys;
I rest so pleased with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave."
JOSHUA SYLVESTER.
THE reader must pardon me, if I somewhat clog his in
terest in my tale by the brief conversations I have given,
and must for a short while cast myself on his indulgence,
and renew. It is not only the history of his life, but the
character and tone of Aram's mind, that I wish to stamp
upon my page. Fortunately, however, the path my story
assumes is of such a nature, that in order to effect this ob
ject, I shall never have to desert, and scarcely again even.
"Yet it seems to me," said Aram, " a truth easy
of to linger by, the way.
proof; if we love, we place our happiness in others. The Every one knows the magnificent moral of Goethe's
moment we place our happiness in others, comes uncer- "Faust ! " Every one knows that sublime discontent,
tainty, but uncertainty is the bane of happiness. Children that chafing at the bounds of human knowledge, that
are the source of anxiety to their parents; his mistress yearning for the intellectual paradise beyond, which "the
to the lover. Change, accident, death, all menace us in sworded angel" forbids us to approach,
that daring,
each person whom we regard. Every new tie opens new yet sorrowful state of mind, that sense of defeat, even in
channels by which grief can invade us; but, you will say, conquest, which Goethe has embodied; - a picture of the
by which joy also can flow in; -granted! But in human loftiest grief of which the soul is capable, and which may
life is there not more grief than joy? What is it that ren- remind us of the profound and august melancholy which
ders the balance even? What makes the staple of our hap- the great sculptor breathed into the repose of the noblest of
piness, endearing to us the life at which we should oth-mythological heroes, when he represented the god resting
erwise repine? It is the mere passive, yet stirring, con-
sciousness of life itself! of the sun and the air of the
physical being; but this consciousness every emotion dis-
turbs. Yet could you add to its tranquillity an excitement
that never exhausts itself, that becomes refreshed, not
sated, with every new possession, then you would obtain
happiness. There is only one excitement of this divine
order, that of intellectual culture. Behold now niy the-
ory! Examine it, it contains no flaw. But if," re-
newed Aram, after a pause, "a man is subject to fate solely
in himself, not in others, he soon hardens his mind against
all fear, and prepares it for all events.
it for all events. A little philosophy
enables him to bear bodily pain, or the common infirmities
of flesh by a philosophy somewhat deeper, he can con-
quer the ordinary reverses of fortune, the dread of shame,
and the last calamity of death. But what philosophy could
after his labors, as if more convinced of their vanity than
elated with their extent!
In this portrait, the grandeur of which the wild scenes
that follow in the drama we refer to, do not (strangely
wonderful as they are) perhaps altogether sustain, Göethe
has bequeathed to the gaze of a calmer and more practical
posterity, the burning and restless spirit, the feverish
desire for knowledge more vague than useful, which char-
acterized the exact epoch in the intellectual history of
Germany in which the poem was inspired and produced
At these bitter waters, the Marah of the streams of Wis-
dom, the soul of the man whom we have made the hero of
these pages, had also, and not lightly, quaffed. The prop-
erties of a mind, more calm and stern than belonged to the
visionaries of the Hartz and the Danube, might indeed have
preserved him from that thirst after the impossibilities of
EUGENE ARAM
531
Knowledge, which gives so peculiar a romance, not only to
the poetry, but the philosophy of the German people. But
if he rejected the superstitions, he did not also reject the
bewilderments of the mind. He loved to plunge into the
dark and metaphysical subtleties which human genius has
called daringly forth from the realities of things:
"To spin
A shroud of thought, to hide him from the sun
Of this familiar life, which seems to be,
But is not, or is but quaint mockery
Of all we would believe; or sadly blame
The jarring and inexplicable frame
Of this wrong world: and then anatomize
The purposes and thoughts of man, whose eyes
Were closed in distant years; or widely guess
The issue of the earth's great business,
When we shall be, as we no longer are,
Like babbling gossips, safe, who hear the war
Of winds, and sigh!- but tremble not!"
Much in him was a type, or rather forerunner, of the in-
tellectual spirit that broke forth when we were children
among our countrymen, and is now slowly dying away
amidst the loud events and absorbing struggles of the awa-
kening world. But in one respect he stood aloof from all
his tribe, in his hard indifference to worldly ambition,
and his contempt of fame. As some sages have seemed to
think the universe a dream, and self the only reality, so in
bis austere and collected reliance upon his own mind,
the gathering in, as it were, of his resources, he appeared
to consider the pomps of the world as shadows, and the
life of his own spirit the only substance. He had built a
city and a tower within the Shinar of his own heart, whence
he night look forth, unscathed and uninoved, upon the del-
uge that broke over the rest of earth.
Only in one instance, and that, as we have seen, after
much struggle, he had given way to the emotions that agi-
tate his kind, and had surrendered himself to the dominion
of another. This was against his theories, but what
theories ever resist love? In yielding, however, thus far,
he seemed more on his guard than ever against a broader
encroachinent. He had admitted one 'fair spirit' for his
'minister,' but it was only with a deeper fervor to invoke
the desert' as his dwelling-place." Thus, when the
earl, who, like most practical judges of mankind, loved to
apply to each individual the motives that actuate the mass,
and who only unwillingly, and somewhat sceptically, assent-
ed to the exceptions, and was driven to search for
pecu-
liar clues to the eccentric instance, finding, to his secret
triumph, that Aram had admitted one intruding emotion
into his boasted circle of indifference, imagined that he
should easily induce him (the spell once broken) to receive
another, he was surprised and puzzled to discover himself
in the wrong.
Lord at that time had been lately called into the
administration, and he was especially anxious to secure the
support of all the talent that he could enlist in its behalf.
The times were those in which party ran high, and in
which individual political writings were honored with an
importance which the periodical press in general has now
almost wholly monopolized. On the side opposed to gov-
ernment, writers of great name and high attainments had
shone with peculiar effect, and the earl was naturally desi-
rous that they should be opposed by an equal array of intel-
lect on the side espoused by himself. The name alone of |
Eugene Aram, at a day when scholarship was renown, would
have been no ordinary acquisition to the cause of the earl's
party; but that judicious and penetrating nobleman perceiv-
ed that Aram's abilities, his various research, his extended
views, his facility of argument, and the heat and energy of
his eloquence, might be rendered of an importance which
could not have been anticipated from the name alone, how-
ever eminent, of a retired and sedentary scholar; he was
not therefore without an interested motive in the attentions
he now lavished upon the student, and in his curiosity to
put to the proof the disdain of all worldly enterprise and
worldly temptation, which Aram affected. He could not
but think, that to a man poor and lowly of circumstance,
conscious of superior acquirements, about to increase his
wants by admitting to them a partner, and arrived at that
age when the calculations of interest and the whispers of
ambition have usually most weight; he could not but
think that to such a man the dazzling prospects of social
advancement, the hope of the high fortunes, and the power-
ul and glittering influence which political life, in England,
—
|
offers to the aspirant, might be rendered altogether irresis-
tible.
He took several opportunities in the course of the next
week, of renewing his conversation with Aram, and of art-
fully turning it into the channels which he thought most
He
likely to produce the impression he desired to create.
was somewhat baffled, but by no means dispirited, in his
attempts; but he resolved to defer his ultimate proposition
until it could be made to the fullest advantage. He had
engaged the Lesters to promise to pass a day at the castle;
and with great difficulty, and at the earnest intercession of
Madeline, Aram was prevailed upon to accompany them
So extreme was his distaste to general society, and from
some motive or another more powerful than mere constitu-
tional reserve, so invariably had he for years refused all
temptations to enter it, that natural as this concession was
rendered by his approaching marriage to one of the party,
it filled him with a sort of terror and foreboding of evil. It
was as if he were passing beyond the boundary of sone law,
on which the very tenure of his existence depended After
he had consented, a trembling came over him; he astily
left the room, and till the day arrived, was observed by his
friends of the manor-house to be more gloomy and abstracted
than they ever had known him, even at the earliest period
of acquaintance.
On the day itself, as they proceeded to the castle, Made-
line perceived with a tearful repentance of her interference,
that he sat by her side cold and rapt; and that once or
twice when his
twice when his eyes dwelt upon her, it was with an expres-
sion of reproach and distrust.
It was not till they entered the lofty hall of the castle,
when a vulgar diffidence would have been most abashed,
that Aram recovered himself. The earl was standing,
the centre of a group in the recess of a window in the saloon,
opening upon an extensive and stately terrace.
He came
forward to receive them with the polished and warm kind-
ness which he bestowed upon all his inferiors in rank. He
complimented the sisters; he jested with Lester ; but
to Aram only, he manifested less the courtesy of kindness
than of respect. He took his arm, and leaning on it with
a light touch, led him to the group at the window. It was
composed of the most distinguished public men in the coun-
try, and among them (the earl himself was connected
through an illegitimate branch with the reigning monarch)
was a prince of the blood royal.
To these, whom he had prepared for the introduction, he
severally, and with an easy grace, presented Aram, and
then falling back a few steps, he watched with a keen but
seemingly careless eye, the effect which so sudden a contact
with royalty itself would produce on the mind of the shy
and secluded student, whom it was his object to dazzle and
overpower. It was at this moment that the native dignity
of Aram, which his studies, unworldly as they were, had
certainly tended to increase, displayed itself, in a trial
which, poor as it was in abstract theory, was far from des-
picable in the eyes of the sensible and practised courtier.
He received with his usual modesty, but not with his usual
shrinking and embarrassment on such occasions, the com
pliments he received; a certain and far from ungraceful
pride was mingled with his simplicity of demeanour; no
fluttering of manner, betrayed that he was either dazzled or
humbled by the presence in which he stood, and the earl
could not but confess that there was never a more favorable
opportunity for comparing the aristocracy of genius with
that of birth; it was one of those homely every-day triumphs
of intellect, which please us more than they ought to do, for,
after all, they are more common than the men of courts are
willing to believe.
Lord did not however long leave Aram to the sup-
port of his own unassisted presence of mind and calmnesı
of nerve; he advanced, and led the conversation, with his
usual tact, into a course which might at once please Aram,
and afford him the opportunity to shine. The earl had 17-
ported from Italy some of the most beautiful specimens of
classic sculpture which this country now possesses. These
were disposed in niches around the magnificent apartment
in which the guests were assembled, and as the earl pointed
them out, and illustrated each from the beautiful anecdotes
and golden allusions of antiquity, he felt that he was afford-
ing to Aram a gratification he could never have experienced
before; and in the expression of which, the grace anl
copiousness of his learning would find vent. Nor was he
disappointed. The cheek, which all then had retained it
532
BULWER'S NOVELS
steady paleness, now caught the glow of enthusiasm; and
in a few moments there was not a person in the group, who
did not feel, and cheerfully feel, the superiority of the one,
who in birth and fortune, was immeasurably the lowest
of all.
The English aristocracy, whatever be the faults of their
education, (and certainly the name of the faults is Legion !)
have at least the merit of being alive to the possession, and
easily warmed to the possessor, of classical attainment :
perhaps even from this very merit spring many of the faults
we allude to; they are too apt to judge all talent by a class-
ical standard, and all theory by classical experience. With-
ont, save in very rare instances, the right to boast of
any deep learning, they are far more susceptible than the
nobility of any other nation to the spiritum Camane. They
are easily and willingly charmed back to the studies which,
if not eagerly pursued in youth, are still entwined with all
their youth's brightest recollections; the schoolboy's prize,
and the master's praise, the first ambition and its first
-the first ambition and its first
reward. A felicitous quotation, a delicate allusion, is never
lost upon their ear; and the veneration which at Eton they
bore to the best verse-maker in the school, tinctures their
Judgment of others throughout life, mixing, I know not what,
both of liking and esteem, with their admiration of one who
uses his classical weapons with a scholar's dexterity, not a
pedant's inaptitude for such a one there is a sort of agree-
able confusion in their respect; they are inclined, uncon-
sciously, to believe that he must necessarily be a high
gentleman,ay, and something of a good fellow into the
bargain.
:
thy to fame melting away; you have shared the desire ta
live to the future age,— the longing after immortality?"
"Was it not that longing," replied Aram," which gave
to the character of Cicero its poorest and most frivolous
infirmity? Has it not made him, glorious as he is despite
of it, a byword in the mouth of every schoolboy? Wherev-
er you mention his genius, do you not hear an appendix on
his vanity?
"Yet without that vanity, that desire for a name with
posterity, would he have been equally great, would he
equally have cultivated his genius?"
Probably, my lord, he would not have equally culti
vated his genius, but in reality he might have been equally
great. A man often injures his mind by the means that
increase his genius. You think this, my lord, a paradox,
but examine it. How many men of genius have been but
ordinary men, take them from the particular objects in
which they shine. Why is this, but that in cultivating one
branch of intellect they neglect the rest? Nay, the very
torpor of the reasoning faculty has often kindled the imag-
inative. Lucretius composed his sublime poem under the
influence of a delirium. The susceptibilities that we
create or refine by the pursuit of one object, weaken our
general reason; and I may compare with some justice the
powers of the mind to the faculties of the body, in which
squinting is occasioned by an inequality of strength in the
eyes, and discordance of voice by the same inequality in
the ears."
"I believe you are right," said the earl; yet I own I
willingly forgive Cicero for his vanity, if it contributed to
the production of his orations and his essays; and he is a
greater man, even with his vanity unconquered, than if he
had conquered his foible, and in doing so taken away the
incitements to his genius."
It happened then that Aram could not have dwelt upon
a theme more likely to arrest the spontaneous interest of
those with whom he now conversed, men themselves of
more cultivated minds than usual, and more capable than
most (from that acute perception of real talent, which is
produced by habitual political warfare) of appreciatingly
not only his endowments, but his facility in applying them.
"You are right, my lord," said Sir the whipper-
'n of the ***** party, taking the earl aside; "he would
be an inestimable pamphleteer.'
"Could you get him to write us a sketch of the state of
parties; luminous, eloquent?" &c., whispered a lord of pause,
&c., whispered a lord of
the bed-chamber.
و,
The earl answered by a bon mot, and turned to a bust of
Caracalla.
The hours at that time were (in the country at least) not
late, and the earl was one of the first introducers of the
polished fashion of France, by which we testify a prefer-
ence of the society of the women to that of our own sex;
so that, in leaving the dining-room, it was not so late but
that the greater part of the guests walked out upon the ter-
race, and admired the expanse of country which it over-
looked, and along which the thin veil of the twilight began
now to hover.
Having safely deposited his royal guest at a whist table,
and thus left himself a free agent, the earl, inviting Aram
to join him, sauntered among the loiterers on the terrace
for a few moments, and then descended a broad flight of
steps, which brought them into a more shaded and retired
walk; on either side of which rows of orange-trees gave
forth their fragrance, while, to the right, sudden and nuner-
ous vistas were cut among the more irregular and dense
foliage, affording glimpses, -now of some rustic statue,—
now of some lone temple, now of some quaint fountain,
on the play of whose waters the first stars had begun to
tremble.
It was one of those magnificent gardens, modelled from
the stately glories of Versailles, which it is now the mode
to decry, but which breathe so unequivocally of the palace,
I grant that they deck nature with somewhat too prolix a
grace; but is beauty always best seen in deshabille? And
with what associations of the brightest traditions connect-
ed with nature they link her more luxuriant loveliness!
Must we breathe only the malaria of Rome to be capable
of fee ing the interest attached to the fountain or the
statue ?
"A greater man in the world's eye, my lord, but scarce-
in reality. Had Homer written his Iliad and then burnt
it, would his genius have been less? The world would
have known nothing of him; but would he have been a less
extraordinary man on that account? We are too apt, my
lord, to confound greatness and fame."
Er-
"There is one circumstance," added Aram, after a
pause, "that should diminish our respect for renown.
rors of life, as well as foibles of characters, are often the
real enhancers of celebrity. Without bis errors, I doubt
whether Henri Quatre would have become the idol of a
people. How many Whartons has the world known, who,
deprived of their frailties, had been inglorious? The light
that you so much admire, reaches you only through the
distance of time, on account of the angles and unevenness
of the body whence it emanates. Were the surface of the
moon smooth, it would be invisible.”
"I admire your illustrations," said the earl; "but I
reluctantly submit to your reasonings. You would then
neglect your powers lest they should lead you into er-
rors?"
"Pardon me, my lord; it is because I think all the pow-
ers should be cultivated, that I quarrel with the exclusive
cultivation of one. And it is only because I would strength-
en the whole mind, that I dissent from the reasonings of
those who tell you to consult your genius."
"But your genius may serve mankind more than this
general cultivation of intellect?
My lord," replied Aram, with a mournful cloud upon
his countenance;
his countenance; "that argument may have weight with
those who think mankind can be effectually served, though
they may be often dazzled, by the labors of an individual.
But, indeed, this perpetual talk of mankind' signifies
nothing each of us consults his proper happiness, and we
consider him a madman who ruins his own peace of mind
by an everlasting fretfulness of philanthropy.'
>>
This was a doctrine that half pleased, half displeased the
earl, it shadowed forth the most dangerous notions which
Aram entertained.
"Well, well," said the noble host, as, after a short con-
test on the ground of his guest's last remark, they left off
where they began, "let us drop these general discussions:
"I am glad,” said the earl," that you admired my bust I have a particular proposition to unfold. We have, I trust,
of Cicero, it is from an original very lately discovered. Mr. Aram, seen enough of each other, to feel that we can
What grandeur in the brow! what energy in the mouth,
in the mouth, lay a sure foundation for mutual esteem.
For my part, I
and downward bead of the head! It is pleasant even to own frankly, that I have never met with one who has in
'magine we gaze upon the likeness of so bright a spirit;-spired me with a sincerer admiration. I am desirous that
and confess, at least of Cicero, that in reading the aspira- your talents and great learning should be known in the
tions and outpourings of his mind, you have felt your apa-
widest sphere. You nay despise fame, but you must
EUGENE ARAM.
533
ermit your friends the weakness to wish you justice, and
themselves triumph. You know my post in the present
administration,—the place of my secretary is one of great
trust, some influence, and large emolument. I offer it to
you, — accept it, and you will confer upon me an honor and
an obligation. You will have your own separate house, or
apartments in mine, solely appropriated to your use. Your
privacy will never be disturbed. Every arrangement shall
be made for yourself and your bride, that either of you can
suggest. Leisure for your own pursuits you will have, too,
in abundance, there are others who will perform all that
is toilsome in your office. In London, you will see around
you the most eminent living men of all nations, and in all
pursuits. If you contract, (which believe me is possible,
it is a tempting game,) any inclination towards public
life, you will have the most brilliant opportunities afforded
you, and I foretell you the most signal success.
Stay yet
one moment for this you will owe me no thanks. Were
I not sensible that I consult my own interests in this pro-
posal, I should be courtier enough to suppress it."
·
:
"My lord," said Aram, in a voice which, in spite of its
calmness, betrayed that he was affected, "it seldom happens
to a man of my secluded habits, and lowly pursuits, to have
the philosophy he affects put to so severe a trial. I am
grateful to you,- deeply grateful for an offer so munificent,
so undeserved. I am yet more grateful that it allows
me to sound the strength of my own heart, and to find that
I did not too highly rate it. Look, my lord, from the spot
where we now stand :" (the moon had risen, and they had
now returned to the terrace:) "in the vale below, and far
among those trees, lies my home. More than two years
ago, I came thither, to fix the resting place of a sad and
troubled spirit. There have I centered all my wishes and
my hopes; and there may I breathe my last! My lord,
you will not think me ungrateful that my choice is made;
and you will not blame my motive, though you may despise
my wisdom."
and at all times, and on all occasions," he added, with a
smile, "when a friend becomes a necessary evil, call to
mind our starlit walk on the castle terrace.
Aram did not mention to Lester, or even Ma leline, the
above conversation. The whole of the next day he shut
himself up at home; and when he again appeared at the
manor-house, he heard with evident satisfaction that the
earl had been suddenly summoned on state affairs to
London.
There was an unaccountable screness in Aram's mind,
which made him feel a resentmenɩ, -a suspicion against
"Thank
all who sought to lure him from his retreat.
heaven!" thought he, when he heard of the earl's depart-
He was
ure; we shall not meet for another year!'
mistaken.
Another year!
ઃઃ
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE STORY RETURNS TO WALTER AND
THE CORPORAL. THE RENCONTRE WITH A
STRANGER, AND HOW THE
THE STRANGER PROVES
TO BE NOT ALTOGETHER A STRANGER.
*
*
*
"Being got out of town in the road to Penaflor, master of my
own action, and forty good ducats, the first thing I did was to
give my mule her head, and to go at what pace she pleased.
"I left them in the inn, and continued my journey; I was
hardly got half a mile farther, when I met a cavalier very gen-
GIL BLAS.
teel," &c.
IT was broad and sunny noon on the second day of their
journey, as Walter Lester, and the valorous attendant with
whom it had pleased fate to endow him, rode slowly into a
small town in which the corporal in his own heart, had re-
solved to bait his Roman-nosed horse and refresh himself.
Two comely inns had the younger traveler of the twain
already passed with an indifferent air, as if neither bait nor
refreshment made any part of the necessary concerns of this
habitable world. And in passing each of the said hostelries,
the Roman-nosed horse had uttered a snort of indignant sur-
prise, and the worthy corporal had responded to the quad-
rupedal remonstrance by a loud hem. It seemed, however,
that Walter heard neither of the above significant admoni-
tions; and now the town was nearly passed, and a steep
hill that seemed winding away into eternity, already pre-
sented itself to the rueful gaze of the corporal,
"But," said the earl, astonished, “you cannot foresee all
the advantages you would renounce.
At your age,
with
your intellect,
to choose the living sepulchre of a hermit-
age, it was wise to reconcile yourself to it, but not to pre-habitable world.
fer it! Nay, nay; consider, pause. I am in no haste
for your decision; and what advantages have you in your
retreat, that you will not possess in a greater degree with
me? Quiet? I pledge it to you under my roof. Soli-
tude? you shall have it at your will. Books? what
are those which you, which any individual possesses, to the
public institutions, the magnificent collections, of the ine-
tropolis? What else is it you enjoy yonder, and cannot
enjoy with me?"
-
-
M
"Liberty!" said Aram, energetically. "Liberty the
wild sense of independence. Could I exchange the lonely
stars and the free air, for the poor lights and feverish atmos-
phere of worldly life? Could I surrender my mood, with
its thousand eccentricities and humors, its cloud and
shadow, to the eyes of strangers, or veil it from their
gaze by the irksomeness of an eternal hypocrisy? No, my
ford! I am too old to turn disciple to the world! You
promise me solitude and quiet. What charm would they
have for me, if I felt they were held from the generosity of
another? The attraction of solitude is only in its independ-
ence. You offer me the circle, but not the magic which
made it holy. Books! They, years since, would have
tempted me; but those whose wisdom I have already
drained, have taught me now almost enough: and the two
books, whose interest can never be exhausted, nature
and my own heart, will suffice for the rest of life. My
bord, I require no time for consideration.'
"And you positively refuse me?"
Gratefully refuse you."
The earl walked peevishly away for one moment; but it
was not in his natu to lose himself for more.
"Mr. Aram," said he, frankly, and holding out his hand;
you have chosen nobly, if not wisely; and though I can-
not forgive you for depriving me of such a companion, 1
thank you for teaching me such a lesson. Henceforth, I
will believe, that philosophy may exist in practice; and
that a contempt for wealth and for honors is not the mere
profession of discontent. This is the first time, in a various
and experienced life, that I have found a man sincerely
deaf to the temptations of the world, and that man of
such endowments! If ever you see cause to alter a theory
that I still think erroneous, though lofty, remember me;
❘
"The boy 's clean mad," grunted Bunting to himself, —
"must do my duty to him, give him a hint."
Pursuant to this notable and conscientious determination,
Bunting jogged his horse into a trot, and coming alongside
of Walter, put his hand to his hat and said :
"Weather warm, your honor, horses knocked up,
next town far as hell!. -halt a bit here, — augh!
"Ha! that is very true, Bunting; I had quite forgotten
the length of our journey. But see, there is a sign-post
yonder, we will take advantage of it."
C
honor's right, fit for the forty-
Augh! and your honor's right,
second;" said the corporal, falling back; and in a few mo
ments he and his charger found themselves, to their mutual
delight, eutering the yard of a small, but comfortable-
looking inn.
The host, a man of a capacious stomach and a rosy
cheek, in short, a host whom your heart warms to see,
stepped forth immediately, held the stirrup for the young
squire, (for the corporal's movements were too stately to
be rapid,) and ushered him with a bow, a smile, and a
flourish of his napkin, into one of those little quaint rooms,
with cupboards bright with high glasses and old china, that
it pleases us still to find extant in the old-fashioned inns,
in our remoter roads and less Londonized districts.
Mine host was an honest fellow, and not above his pro
fession; he stirred the fire, dusted the table, brought the
bill of fare, and a newspaper seven days old, and then
bustled away to order the dinner and chat with the corpo-
ral. That accomplished hero had already thrown the sta-
bles into commotion, and frightening the two ostlers from
their attendance on the steeds of more peaceable men, had
set them both at leading his own horse and his master's to
and fro the yard, to be cooled into comfort and appetite.
He was now busy in the kitchen, where he had seized
the reins of government, sent the scullion to see if the hear
534
BULWER'S NOVELS.
had laid any fresh eggs, and drawn upon himself the objur- | aristocracy about him, which involuntarily begat you
gations of a very thin cook with a squint.
"Tell you, ma'am, you are wrong, quite wrong,
have seen the world, old soldier, and know how to fry
eggs better than any she in the three kingdoms, hold jaw,
mind your own business, where 's the frying-pan?
baugh!"
—
So completely did the corporal feel himself in his ele-
ment, while he was putting everybody else out of the way;
and so comfortable did he find his new quarters, that he
resolved that the "bai: " should be at all events prolonged
until his good cheer had been deliberately digested, and his
customary pipe duly enjoyed.
Accordingly, but not till Walter had dined, for our man
of the world knew that it is the tendency of that meal to
abate our activity, while it increases our good-humor, the
corporal presented himself to his master, with a grave
Countenance.
*
Greatly vexed, your honor, who 'd have thought it?
but those large animals are bad on long march.”
Why, what's the matter now, Bunting?"
Only, sir, that the brown horse is so done up, that I
think it would be as much as life 's worth to go any farther
for several hours."
ing?
Very well, and if I propose staying here till the even-
We have ridden far, and are in no great hurry."
To be sure not, sure and certain not," cried the
corporal. Ah, master, you know how to command, I see.
Nothing like discretion, discretion, sir, is a jewel. Sir,
it is more than a jewel, it's a pair of stirrups !"
'
"A what, Bunting?
"Pair of stirrups, your honor. Stirrups help us to get
on, so does discretion; to get off, ditto discretion. Men
without stirrups look fine, ride bold, tire soon: men with-
out discretion cut dash, but knock up all of a crack. Stir-
rups, but what sinnifies? Could say much more, your
honor, but don't love chatter."
"Your simile is ingenious enough, if not poetical," said
Walter; "but it does not hold good to the last. When a
man falls, his discretion should preserve him; but he is
often dragged in the mud by his stirrups.
CC
Beg pardon, you 're wrong," quoth the corporal,
nothing taken by surprise; "spoke of the new-fangled
stirrups that open, crank, when we fall, and let us out of
the scrape.
> *
Satisfied with this repartee, the corporal now (like an
experienced jester) withdrew to leave its full effect on the
admiration of his master. A little before sunset the two
travellers renewed their journey.
"I have loaded the pistols, sir," said the corporal,
pointing to the holsters on Walter's saddle, "it is eighteen
miles off to the next town, will be dark long before we
get there."
"You did very right, Bunting, though I suppose there
is not much danger to be apprehended from the gentlemen
of the highway.'
CC
33
Why, the landlord do say the revarse, your honor, -
been many robberies lately in these 'ere parts."
"Well, we are fairly mounted, and you are a formida-
ble-looking fellow, Bunting."
"Oh! your honor," quoth the corporal, turning his head
stiffly away, with a nodest simper, "you makes me blush;
though, indeed, bating that I have the military air, and am
more in the prime of life, your honor is well nigh as awk
ward a gentleman as myself to come across.
وو
"Much obliged for the compliment!" said Walter,
pushing his horse a little forward, the corporal took the
hint and fell back.
It was now that beautiful hour of twilight when lovers
grow especially tender. The young traveller every instant
threw his dark eyes upward, and thought, not of Made-
line, but her sister. The corporal himself grew pensive,
and in a few moments his whole soul was absorbed in con-
templating the forlorn state of the abandoned Jacobina.
In this melancholy and silent mood, they proceeded on-
ward till the shades began to deepen; and by the light of
the first stars Walter beheld a small, spare gentleman
riding before him on an ambling nag, with cropped ears
and mane.
The rider, as he now came up to him, seemed
to have passed the grand climacteric, but looked hale and
vigorous; and there was a certain air of staid and sober
* Of course the corporal does not speak of the patent stirrup
hat would be an anachronism
|
respect.
He looked hard at Walter as the latter approached, and
still more hard at the corporal. He seemed satisfied with
the survey.
ઃઃ
Sir," said he, slightly touching his hat to Walter, and
with an agreeable though rather sharp intonation of voice,
"I am very glad to see a gentleman of your appearance
travelling my road. Might I request the honor of being
allowed to join you so far as you go? To say the truth,
I am a little afraid of encountering those industrious gen-
tlemen who have been lately somewhat notorious in these
parts; and it may be better for all of us to ride in as
strong a party as possible."
"Sir," replied Walter, eyeing in his turn the speaker,
aud in his turn also feeling satisfied with the scrutiny, “I
am going to where I shall pass the night on my way
to town, and shall be very happy in your company."
The corporal uttered a loud hem; that penetrating man
of the world was not too well pleased with the advances
of a stranger.
"What fools them boys be !" thought he, very discon-
tentedly; "howsomever, the man does seem like a decent
country gentleman, and we are two to one: besides, he 's
old, and little, and augh, baugh,—I dare say, we are
safe enough, for all he can do.”
The stranger possessed a polished and well-bred de-
meanour; he talked freely and copiously, and his conver-
sation was that of a shrewd and cultivated man. He in-
formed Walter that, not only the roads had been infested
by those more daring riders common at that day, and to
whose merits we ourselves have endeavoured to do justice
in a former work of blessed memory, but that several
houses had been lately attempted, and two absolutely plun-
dered.
"For myself," he added, "I have no money, to signify,
about my person: my watch is only valuable to me for the
time it has been in my possession; and if the rogues
robbed one civilly, I should not so much mind encounter-
ing them; but they are a desperate set, and use violence
when there is nothing to be got by it. Have you travelied
far to-day, sir ?"
"Some six or seven-and-twenty miles,” replied Walter
I am proceeding to London, and not willing to distress
my horses by too rapid a journey.'
CC
Very right, very good; and horses, sir, are not now
what they used to be when I was a young man. Ah, what
wagers I used to win then! Horses galloped, sir, when I
was twenty; they trotted when I was thirty-five; but they
only able now. Sir, if it does not tax your patience too
severely, let us give our nags some hay and water at the
half-way house yonder."
Walter assented; they stopped at a little solitary inn by
the side of the road, and the host came out with great
obsequiousness when he heard the voice of Waiter's
companion.
"and how be 'st your
CC
Ah, Sir Peter!" said he,
honor, fine night, Sir Peter,
safe, Sir Peter.'
M
-
hope you'll get home
"Safe
-ay! indeed, Jock, I hope so too. Has all been
quiet here this last night or two?"
<<
Whish, sir!" whispered my host, jerking his thumb
back towards the house; "there be two ugly customers
within, I does not know: they have got famous good horses,
and are drinking hard. I can't say as I knows any thing
agen 'em, but I think your honors had better be jogging.
"Aha! thank ye, Jock, thank ye. Never mind the hay
now," said Sir Peter, pulling away the reluctant mouth
of his nag, and turning to Walter, "Come, sir, let us
move on. Why, zounds! where is that servant of yours?"
Walter now perceived, with great vexation, that the cor-
poral had disappeared within the alehouse; and looking
through the casement, on which the ruddy light of the fire
played cheerily, he saw the man of the world lifting a little
measure of “the pure creature to his lips; and close by
the hearth, at a small, round table, covered with glasses,
pipes, &c. he beheld two men eyeing the tall corporal very
wistfully, and of no prepossessing appearance themselves.
One, indeed, as the fire played full on his countenance,
was a person of singularly rugged and sinister features;
and this man, he now remarked, was addressing himself
with a grim smile to the corporal, who, setting down his
little "noggin." regarded Fim with a stare, which ap
EUGENE ARAM.
534
peared to Walter to denote recognition. This survey was
the operation of a moment; for Sir Peter took it upon
himself to despatch the landlord into the house, to order
forth the unseasonable carouser; and presently the cor-
poral stalked out, and having solemnly remounted, the
whole trio set onward in a brisk trot. As soon as they
were without sight of the alehouse, the corporal brought
the aquiline profile of his gaunt steed on a level with his
master's horse.
Augh, sir!" said he, with more than his usual energy
of utterance, "I see 'd him!
"Him! whom?"
"Man with ugly face, what drank at Peter Dealtry's,
and knew Master Aram, knew him in a crack,
he's a Tartar ! "
sure
"What does your servant recognise one of those sus-
picious fellows whom Jock warned us against ?" cried Sir
Peter, pricking up his ears.
"So it seems, sir," said Walter: "he saw him once
before, many miles hence; but I fancy he knows nothing
really to his prejudice."
Augh!" cried the corporal; "he 's d-d ugly, any
how!"
up
"That's a tall fellow of yours," said Sir Peter, jerking
his chin with that peculiar motion common to the brief
in stature, when they are covetous of elongation. "He
looks miltary;- has he been in the army? Ay, I thought
so; one of the king of Prussia's grenadiers, I suppose?
Faith, I hear hoofs behind! ”
"Ilem!" cried the corporal, again coming alongside
of his master. "Beg pardon, sir served in the 42d-
nothing like regular line stragglers always cut off
rather not straggle, just now- enemy behind!"
Walter looked back, and saw two men approaching
them at a hand-gallop. "We are a match at least for
them, sir," said he, to his new acquaintance.
had
"I am devilish glad I met you, was Sir Peter's rather
selfish reply.
"Tis he! 't is the devil!" grunted the corporal, as
the two men now gained their side and pulled up; and
Walter recognised the faces he had marked in the ale-
house.
"Your servant, gentlemen," quoth the uglier of the
two; you ride fast-
CC
"And ready;-bother, -baugh!" chimed in the cor-
poral, plucking a gigantic pistol from his holster, without
any further ceremony.
"Glad to hear it, sir!" said the hard-featured stranger,
Dothing dashed. "But I can tell you a secret!"
"What's that, -augh?" said the corporal, cocking
his pistol.
re-
"Whoever hurts you, friend, cheats the gallows!"
plied the stranger, laughing, and spurring on his horse, to
be out of reach of any practical answer with which the
corporal might favor him.
But Bunting was a prudent
man, and not apt to be choleric.
"Bother!" said he, and dropped his pistol, as the other
stranger followed his ill-favored comrade.
"You see we are too strong for them!" cried Sir Pe-
ter, gayly; "evidently highwaymen! How very fortunate
that I should have fallen in with you!"
A shower of rain now began to fall. Sir Peter looked
serious, he halted abruptly, unbuckled his cloak, which
had been strapped before his saddle, wrapped himself up
in it, buried his face in the collar, muffled his chin
with a red handkerchief, which he took out of his pocket,
and then turning to Walter, he said to him, "What!
cloak, sir? no wrapper even ? Upon my soul, I am very
Borry I have not another handkerchief to lend you!"
no
"Man of the world, — baugh ! grunted the corporal,
and his heart quite warmed to the stranger he had at first
taken for a robber.
"And now, sir," said Sir Peter, patting his nag, and
pulling up his cloak-collar still higher, "let us go gently;
there is no occasion for hurry. Why distress our hors-
es? -
Really, sir," said Walter, smiling, "though I have
a great regard for my horse, I have some for myself;
and I should rather like to be out of this rain as soon as
possible.'
Oh, ah! you have no cloak. I forgot that; to be sure
-to be sure, let us trot on, gently, though, gently.
Well, sir, as I was saying, horses are not so swift as they
|
were. The breed is bought up by the French! I remem-
ber once, Johnny Courtland and 1, after dining at my house,
till the champagne had played the dancing-master to our
brains, mounted our horses, and rode twenty miles for a
cool thousand the winner. I lost it, sir, by a hair's breadth;
but I lost it on purpose; it would have half ruined
Johnny Courtland to have paid me, and he had that deli-
cacy, sir, -he had that delicacy, that he would not have
suffered me to refuse taking his money, -so what could I
do, but lose on purpose? You see I had no alterna-
tive !"
<<
Pray, sir," said Walter, coarmed and astonished at so
rare an instance of the generosity of human friendship,-
Pray, sir, did I not hear you called Sir Peter, by the
landlord of the little inn? can it be, since you speak so
familiarly of Mr. Courtland, that I have the honor to ad-
dress Sir Peter Hales?"
"Indeed that is my name," replied the gentleman, with
some surprise in his voice. "But I have never had the
honor of seeing you before."
"Perhaps my name is not unfamiliar to you," said
Walter. "And among my papers I have a letter addressed
to you
from my uncle Rowland Lester."
"God bless me !" cried Sir Peter, "what Rowy!-
well, indeed I am overjoyed to hear of him. So
his nephew? Pray tell me all about him, a wild, gay,
rollicking fellow still, eh? Always fencing, sasa! or
playing at billiards, or hot in a steeple-chase; there was
not a jellier, better-humored fellow in the world than Rowy
Lester."
you are
"You forget, Sir Peter," said Walter, laughing at a
description so unlike his sober and steady uncle," that
some years have passed since the time you speak of.”
Ah, and so there have," replied Sir Peter; "and
what does your uncle say of me?"
CC
"That, when he knew you, you were generosity, frank-
ness, hospitality itself."
CC
Humph, humph!" said Sir Peter, looking extremely
disconcerted, a confusion which Walter imputed solely to
modesty. "I was a hairbrained, foolish fellow then, quite
a boy; but bless me, it rains sharply, and you have nc
cloak. But we are close on the town now. An excellen
inn is the Duke of Cumberland's Head;' you will have
charming accommodation there."
rr
What, Sir Peter, you know this part of the country
well! "'
66
Pretty well, pretty well; indeed I ave near, that is to
say, not very far from, the town. This turn, if you please.
We separate here. I have brought you a little out of your
way, not above a mile or two, for fear the robbers
should attack me if I was left alone, I had quite forgot
you had no cloak. That's your road,- this mine.
so Rowy Lester is still alive and hearty,the same excellent,
wild fellow, no doubt. Give my kindest remembrance tc
him when you write. Adien, sir."
Aha!
This latter speech having been delivered during a halt.
the corporal had heard it: he grinned delightedly as he
touched his hat to Sir Peter, who now trotted off, and mut-
tered to his young master: —
"Most sensible man, that, sir!"
CHAPTER VI.
SIR PETER DISPLAYED. ONE MAN OF THE WORLD
SUFFERS FROM ANOTHER. THE INCIDENT OF
THE BRIDLE BEGETS THE INCIDENT OF THE
SADDLE; THE INCIDENT OF THE SADDLE BEGETS
THE INCIDENT OF THE WHIP; THE INCIDENT
OF THE WHIP BEGETS WHAT THE READER
MUST READ TO SEE.
'Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta."
Vet. Auct.
"AND so," said Walter, the next morning to the head
waiter, who was busied about their preparations for break-
fast; "and so, Sir Peter Hales, you say, lives within a
mile of the town?"
“Sercely a mile, sir, - black or green ?
the turn to his house last night;
you passed
fresh this morning. This inn belongs to Sir Peter."
sir, the eggs are quite
636
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Oh !
Does Sir Peter see much company?"
The waiter smiled.
"Sir Peter gives very handsome dinners, sir; twice a
year! A most clever gentleman, Sir Peter! They say he
18 the best manager of property in the whole county. Do
you like Yorkshire cake ?- toast? yes, sir!"
"So so," said Walter to himself, "a pretty true descrip-
tion my uncle gave me of this gentleman. 'Ask me too
often to dinner, indeed!' 'offer me money if I want
it!' spend a month at his house!' -'most hospita-
ble fellow in the world!'- My uncle must have been
My uncle must have been
dreaming."
Walter had yet to learn, that the men most prodigal
when they have nothing but expectations, are often most
thrifty when they know the charms of absolute possession.
Besides, Sir Peter had married a Scotch lady, and was
blessed with eleven children! But was Sir Peter Hales
much altered? Sir Peter Hales was exactly the same
man in reality that he always had been. Once he was
selfish in extravagance; he was now selfish in thrift. He
had always pleased himself, and damned other people; that
was exactly what he valued himself on doing now. But
the most absurd thing about Sir Peter was, that while he
was for ever extracting use from every one else, he was
mightily afraid of being himself put o use. He was in
Parliament, and noted for never giving a frank out of his
own family. Yet withal, Sir Peter Hales was still an
greeable fellow; nay, he was more liked and much more.
esteemed than ever. There is something conciliatory in a
saving disposition; but people put themselves in a great
passion when a man is too liberal with his own. It is an
insult on their own prudence. "What right has he to be
so extravagant ? What an example to our servants!"
But your close neighbour does not humble you. You love
your close neighbour; you respect your close neighbour;
you have your harmless jest against him, but he is a
most respectable man.
"A letter, sir, and a parcel, from Sir Peter Hales,"
said the waiter, entering.
The parcel was a bulky, angular, awkward packet of
brown paper, sealed once, and tied with the smallest pos-
sible quantity of string; it was addressed to Mr. James
Holwell, Saddler,
street, **** The letter was to
Lester, Esq., and ran thus, written in a very neat,
stiff, Italian character.
Dr S,
I trust you had no difficulty in finde ye Duke of Cum-
berland's Head, it is an excellent I".
"I greatly regt yt you are unavoidy oblig'd to go on to
Lond"; for, otherwise I shd have had the sincerest please
in seeing you here at din', & introducing you to Ly Hales.
Anoth' time I trust we may be more fortunate.
"As you pass thro' ye litte town of
exactly
21 miles from hence, on the road to Lond", will you do
me the fax to allow your servt to put the little parcel I
send into his pock', & drop it as direct¹? It is a bridle I
am forc'd to return. Country work" are such bung's
.
>
I shd most certain have had ye hon" to wait on you
person", but the rain has given me a m' seve cold; hope
you have escap'd, a tho' by ye by, you had no cloak, nor
wrapp!
CC
I am
My kindest regards to your mº excellent unce.
quite sure he's the same fine merry fell he always was,—
tell him so!
"DS, Yours faith,
"PETER GRINDLESCREW HALES.
"P. S. You know perhs yt poor Jn Court, your
uncle's mº intime friend, lives in
the town in
wien your serv will drop ye bride. He is
poor Jno!
much alter'd,
"Altered! alteration then seems the fashion with my
uncle's friends! thought Walter, as he rang for the cor-
poral, and consigned to his charge the unsightly parcel.
"It is to be carried twenty-one miles at the request of
the gentleman we met last night, -a most sensible man,
Bunting.
66
Augh, whaugh, your honor!" grunted the corpo-
ral, thrusting the bridle very discontentedly into his pocket,
where it annoyed him the whole journey, by incessantly
getting between his seat of leather and his seat of honor.
It is a comfort to the inexperienced, when one man of the
|
world smarts from the sagacity of another; we resign ow
selves more willingly to our fate. Our travellers resumed
their journey, and in a few minutes, from the cause we
have before assigned, the corporal became thoroughly out of
kumor.
Pray, Bunting," said Walter, calling his attendant to
his side, "do you feel sure that the man we met yesterday
at the alehouse, is the same you saw at Grassdale soine
months ago?"
"Damn it!" cried the corporal, quickly, and clapping
his hands behind.
"How, sir!"
Beg pardon, your honor,- slip tongue, but this con-
founded parcel!-augh, bother!"
C6
Why don't you carry it in your hand?"
""Tis so ungainsome, and be d―d to it; and how
can I hold parcel and pull in this beast, which requires
two hands; his mouth 's as hard as a brickbat, -augh!"
"You have not answered my question yet!
"Beg pardon, your honor. Yes, certain sure the man's
the same; phiz not to be mistaken."
"It is strange," said Walter, musing, "that Aram
should know a man, who, if not a highwayman, as we sus-
pected, is at least of rugged manner and disreputable
appearance; it is strange, too, that Aram always avoided
recurring to the acquaintance, though he confessed it."
With this he broke into a trot, and the corporal into an oath.
They arrived by noon, at the little town specified by Sir
Peter, and in their way to the inn (for Walter resolved to
rest there) passed by the saddler's house. It so chanced
that Master Holwell was an adept in his craft, and that
a newly-invented hunting-saddle at the window caught
Walter's notice. The artful saddler persuaded the young
traveller to dismount and look at "the most convenientest
and handsomest saddle what ever was seed;" and the cor-
poral having lost no time in getting rid of his encumbrance,
Walter dismissed him to the inn with the horses, and after
purchasing the saddle, in exchange for his own, he saun-
tered into the shop to look at a new snaffle. A gentle-
man's servant was in the shop at the time, bargaining for a
riding-whip; and the shop-boy, among others, showed him
a large old-fashioned one, with a tarnished silver handle
Grooms have no taste for antiquity, and in spite of the sil-
ver handle, the servant pushed it aside with some con-
tempt. Some jest he uttered at the time, chanced to
attract Walter's notice to the whip; he took it up, care-
lessly, and perceived with great surprise that it bore his
own crest, a bittern, on the handle. He examined it now
with attention, and underneath the crest were the letters
G. L., his father's initials.
"How long have you had this whip?" said he to the
saddler, concealing the emotion which this token of his
lost parent naturally excited.
Oh, a nation long time, sir," replied Mr. Holwell; "it
is a queer old thing, but really is not amiss, if the silver
was scrubbed up a bit, and a new lash put on; you may
have it a bargain, sir, if so be you have taken a fancy to
it."
"Can you at all recollect how you came by it?" said
Walter, earnestly; "the fact is that I see by the crest and
initials, that it belonged to a person whom I have some in-
terest in discovering.'
"Why, let me see," said the saddler, scratching the tip
of his right ear, "'t is so long ago sin I had it, i quite
right_ear,
forgets how I came by it."
Oh, is it that whip, John?" said the wife, who had
been attracted from the back parlour by the sight of the
handsome young stranger. "Don't you remember, it's
a many year ago, a gentleman who passed a day with
Squire Courtland, when he first come to settle here, called
and left the whip to have a new thong put to it. But I
fancies he forgot it, sir, (turning to Walter,) for he never
called for it again; and the squire's people said as how he
was a gone into Yorkshire; so there the whip's been ever
sin. I remembers it, sir, 'cause I kept it in the little par-
our nearly a year, to be in the way like.'
"Ah! I thinks I do remember it now," said Master
Holwell. "I should think it's a matter of twelve yearn
ago. I suppose I may sell it without fear of the gentle-
man's claiming it again."
"Not more than twelve years!" said Walter, anxiously,
for it was some seventeen years since his father had been
last heard of by his family.
EUGENE ARAM.
"Why it may be thirteen, sir, or so, more or less, I out, that seemed as if the house had been built on the mid
can't say exactly."
dle of Salisbury Plain.
"More likely fourteen!" said the dame; "it can't be
much more, sir, we have only been a married fifteen year
come next Christmas! But my old man here, is ten years
older nor I."
"And. the gentleman, you say, was at Mr. Courtland's."
"Yes, sir, that I'm sure of," replied the intelligent
Mrs. Holwell; " they said he had come lately from In-
gee.
Walter now despairing of hearing more, purchased the
whip; and blessing the worldly wisdom of Sir Peter Hales,
that had thus thrown him on a clue, which, however faint
and distant, he resolved to follow up, he inquired the way
• Squire Courtland's, and proceeded thither at once.
CHAPTER VII.
WALTER VISIT. ANOTHER OF HIS UNCLE'S FRIENDS.
MR. COURTLAND'S STRANGE COMPLAINT.
WALTER LEARNS NEWS OF HIS FATHER, WHICH
SURPRISES HIM. THE CHANGE IN HIS DESTINA-
TION.
"God's my life! did you ever hear the like? what a strange
man is this!
"What you have possessed me withal, I'll discharge it am-
ply." -BEN JONSON's Every Man in his Humor.
Mr. COURTLAND's house was surrounded by a high
wall, and stood at the outskirts of the town. A little
wooden door, buried deep within the wall, seemed the only
entrance. At this, Walter paused, and after twice apply-
ing to the bell, a footman of a peculiarly grave and sancti-
Inonious appearance, opened the door.
In reply to Walter's inquiries, he informed him that Mr.
Courtland was very unwell, and never saw "
company."
Walter, however, producing from his pocket-book the in-
troductory letter given him by his uncle, slipped it into the
servant's hand, accompanied by half a crown, and begged
to be announced as a gentleman on very particular busi-
ness.
CC
“Well, sir, you can step in," said the servant, giving
way; "but my master is very poorly, very poorly indeed.'
Indeed, I am sorry to hear it has he been long so?
Going on for ten
years, sir!" replied the ser-
replied the ser-
vant, with great gravity; and opening the door of the house
which stood within a few paces of the wall, on a singularly
flat and bare grass-plot, he showed him into a room, and
left him alone.
The first thing that struck Walter in this apartment, was
ts remarkable lightness. Though not large, it had no less
than seven windows. Two sides of the wall seemed in-
deed all window! Nor were these admittants of the celes-
tial beam shaded by any blind or curtain:
"The gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day,"
made itself thoroughly at home in this airy chamber.
Nevertheless, though so light, it seemed to Walter any
thing but cheerful. The sun had blistered and discolored
the painting of the wainscot, originally of a pale sea-green;
there was little furniture in the apartment; one table in the
centre, some half a dozen chairs, and a very small Turkey-
carpet, which did not cover one tenth part of the clean, cold,
smooth, oak boards, constituted all the goods and chattels
visible in the room. But what particularly added effect to
the bareness of all within, was the singular and laborious
bareness of all without. From each of these seven win-
dows, nothing but a forlorn green plat of some extent was
to be seen; there was not a tree, or a shrub, or a flower in
the whole expanse, although by several stumps of trees
near the house, Walter perceived that the place had not
always been so destitute of vegetable life.
While he was yet looking upon this singular baldness of
the servant reëntered with his master's compliments,
and a message that he snould be happy to see any relation
scene,
of Mr. Lester.
Walter accordingly followed the footman into an apart-
ment possessing exactly the same peculiarities as the for-
mer one; viz. a most disproportionate plurality of windows,
a commodious scantiness of furniture, and a prospect with-
VOL I.
69
Mr. Courtland, himself a stout man, and still preserving
the rosy hues and comely features, though certainly not the
same hilarious expression, which Lester had attributed to
him, sat in a large chair, close by the centre window, which
was open. He rose and shook Walter by the hand with
great cordiality.
me,
no,
"Sir, I am delighted to see you! How is your worthy
uncle I only wish he were with you, you dine with
of course. Thomas, tell the cook to add a tongue and
chicken to the roast beef;
young gentleman, I wil
have no excuse; sit down, sit down; pray come near the
window; do you not find it dreadfully close? not a breath
of air? This house is so choked up; don't you find it so,
eh? Ah, I see, you can scarcely gasp.
cr
My dear sir, you are mistaken; I am rathe cold, on
the contrary nor did I ever in my life see a more airy
house than yours.
"I try to make it so, sir, but I can't succeed; if you
had seen what it was, when I first bought it! a garden
here, sir; a copse there; a wilderness, God wot! at tas
back and a row of chestnut trees in the front! You may
conceive the consequence, sir; I had not been long here,
not two years, before my health was gone, sir, gone,— the
d-d vegetable life sucked it out of me. The trees kept
away all the air, - I was nearly suffocated, without, at first
guessing the cause. But at length, though not till I had
been withering away for five years, I discovered the origin
of my malady. I went to work, sir; I plucked up the
cursed garden, I cut down the infernal chestnuts, I made
bowling green of the diabolical wilderness, but I fear it is
too late. I am dying by inches, have been dying ever
since. The malaria has effectually tainted my constitution."
Here Mr. Courtland heaved a deep sigh, and shook his
head with a most gloomy expression of countenance.
"Indeed, sir," said Walter, "I should not, to look at
you, imagine that you suffered under any complaint. You
seem still the same picture of health, that my uncle describes
you to have been when
you to have been when you knew him so many years ago.
Yes, sir, yes; the confounded malaria fixed the color
to my cheeks; the blood is stagnant, sir. Would to God
I could see myself a shade paler!— the blood does not flow;
I am like a pool in a citizen's garden, with a willow at
each corner; but a truce to my complaints. You see,
sir, I am no hypochondriac, as my fool of a doctor wants to
persuade me a hypochondriac shudders at every breath of
air, trembles when a door is
air, trembles when a door is open, and looks upon a window
as the entrance of death. But I, sir, never can have enough
air; thorough draught or east wind, it is all the same to
me, so that I do but breathe. Is that like hypochondria?
pshaw! But tell me, young gentleman, about your uncle;
is he quite well, stout, hearty, - does he breathe easily,
no oppression ?"
"Sir, he enjoys exceedingly good health: he did please
himself with the hope that I should give him good tidings
of yourself, and another of his old friends whom I accident.
ally saw yesterday,— Sir Peter Hales."
Hales, Peter Hales! ah! a clever little fellow, that:
how delighted Lester's good heart will be to hear that little
Peter is so improved; -no longer a dissolute, harum-
scarum fellow, throwing away his money, and always in
debt. No, no; a respectable steady character, an excellent
manager, an active member of Parliament, domestic in
private life,-Oh! a very worthy man, sir, a very worthy
man !"
"He seems altered indeed, sir," said Walter, who was
young enough in the world to be surprised at this eulogy;
but is still agreeable and fond of anecdote. He told me
of his race with you for a thousand guineas."
Ah, don't talk of those days," said Mr. Courtland,
shaking his head, pensively, "it makes me melancholy
Yes, Peter ought to recollect that, for he has never paid me
to this day; affected to treat it as a jest, and swore he could
have beat me if he would. But indeed it was my fault, sir;
Peter had not then a thousand farthings in the world, and
when he grew rich, he became a steady character, and I
did not like to remind him of our former follies. Aha! car
I offer you a pinch of snuff? You look feverish, sir;
surely this room must affect you, though you are too polite
to say so. Pray open that door, and then this window, and
put your chair right between the two. You have no notion
how refreshing the draught is "
838
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Walter politely declined the proffered ague, and thinking |
he had now made sufficient progress in the acquaintance of
this singular non-hypochondriac to introduce the subject he
nad most at heart, hastened to speak of his father.
"I have chanced, sir," said he, " very unexpectedly,
upon something that once belonged to my poor father;"
here he showed the whip. "I find from the saddler of
whom I bought it, that the owner was at your house some
twelve or fourteen years ago. I do not know whether you
are aware that our family have heard nothing respecting
my father's fate for a considerably longer time than that
which has elapsed since you appear to have seen him, if at
least I may hope that he was your guest, and the owner of
this whip; and any news you can give me of 1m, any clue
by which he can possibly be traced, would be to us all,-
to me in particular, - an inestimable obligation."
"Your father!" said Mr. Courtland.
"Oh, -ay,
your uncle's brother. What was his christian name?
Henry?"
"Geoffrey."
M
per-
Ay, exactly; Geoffrey! What! not been heard of?
his family not know where he is? A sad thing, sir;
but he was always a wild fellow; now here, now there,
like a flash of lightning. But it is true, it is true, he did
stay a day here, several years ago, when I first bought the
place. I can tell you all about it; but you seem agitated,
do come nearer the window: there, that's right.
Well, sir, it is, as I said, a great many years ago,
haps fourteen, and I was speaking to the landlord of the
Greyhound about some hay he wished to sell, when a gen-
tleman rode into the yard full tear, as your father always
did ride, and in getting out of his way I recognised Geoffrey
Lester. I did not know him well, -far from it; but I
had seen him once or twice with your uncle, and though he
was a strange pickle, he sang a good song, and was deused
amusing. Well, sir, I accosted him, and, for the sake of
your uncle, I asked him to dine with me, and take a bed at
my new house. Ah! I little thought what a dear bargain
it was to be. He accepted my invitation, for I fancy,
no, offence, sir, there were few invitations that Mr.
Geoffrey Lester ever refused to accept. We dined tête-à-
tête, I am an old bachelor, sir, and
and very entertaining
he was, though his sentiments seemed to me broader than
ever. He was capital, however, about the tricks he had
played his creditors, such manœuvres, such escapes!
After dinner he asked me if I ever corresponded with his
brother. I told him no; that we were very good friends,
but never heard from each other; and he then said, 'Well,
I shall surprise him with a visit, shortly; but in case you
should unexpectedly have any communication with him,
don't mention having seen me; for, to tell you the truth, I
am just returned from India, where I should have scraped
up a little money, but that ĺ I spent it as fast as I got it.
However, you know that I was always proverbially the
luckiest fellow in the world, (and so, sir, your father
was!) and while I was in India, I saved an old colonel's
life at a tiger-hunt; he went home shortly afterwards, and
settled in Yorkshire; and the other day, on my return to
England, to which my ill-health drove me, I learned that
my old colonel was really dead, and had left me a hand-
some legacy, with his house in Yorkshire. I am now go-
ing down to Yorkshire to convert the chattels into gold,-
to receive my money, and I shall then seek out my good
brother, my household gods, and, perhaps, though it's not
likely, settle into a sober fellow for the rest of my life.' I
don't tell you, young gentleman, that those were your
father's exact words, one can't remember verbatim so
many years ago;- but it was to that effect. He left me
the next day, and I never heard any thing more of him; to
say the truth, he was looking wonderfully yellow, and fear-
fully reduced. And I fancied at the time, he could not live
long; he was prematurely old, and decrepit in body, though
gay in spirit; so that I had tacitly imagined in never hear-
ing
that he had departed life. But, good
heavens! did you never hear of this legacy?"
"Never: not a word!" said Walter, who had listened
to these particulars in great surprise. "And to what part
of Yorkshire did he say he was going?"
"That he did not mention."
"Nor the colonel's name ?"
of him more,
"Not as I remember; he might, but I think not. But
I am certain that the county was Yorkshire, and the gen-
leman, whatever was his name, was a colonel. Stay!
I recollect one more particular, which it is lucky I do re
member. Your father in giving me, as I said before, in
his own humorous strain, the history of his adventures, his
hairbreadth escapes from his duns, the various disguises,
and the numerous aliases he had assumed, mentioned that
the name he had borne in India, and by which, he assured
me, he had made quite a good character- was Clarke: he
also said, by the way, that he still kept to that name, and
was very merry on the advantages of having so common a
one. By which,' he said wittily, he could father all his
own sins on some other Mr. Clarke, at the same time that
he could seize and appropriate all the merits of all his
other namesakes. Ah, no offence; but he was a sad dog,
that father of yours!
that father of yours! So you see that, in all probability,
if he ever reached Yorkshire, it was under the name of
Clarke that he claimed and received his legacy."
"You have told me more," said Walter, joyfully, "than
we have heard since his disappearance, and I shall turn
my horses' heads northward to-morrow, by break of day.
But you say, if he ever reached Yorkshire,' what should
prevent him?"
"His health!" said the non-hypochondriac, "I should
not be greatly surprised if— if—in short, you had better
look at the grave-stones by the way, for the name of
Clarke.”
"Perhaps you can give me the dates, sir," said Walter,
somewhat cast down from his elation.
'Ay! I'll see, I'll see, after dinner; the commonness
of the name has its disadvantages now. Poor Geoffrey !
I dare say there are fifty tombs, to the memory of fifty
Clarkes, between this and York. But come, sir, there 's
the dinner bell."
Whatever might have been the maladies entailed upon
the portly frame of Mr. Courtland by the vegetable life of
the departed trees, a want of appetite was not among the
number. Whenever a man is not abstinent from rule, or
from early habit, as in the case of Aram, solitude makes
its votaries particularly fond of their dinner. They have
no other event wherewith to mark their day they think
over it, they anticipate it, they nourish its soft idea with
their imagination; if they do look forward to any thing
else more than dinner, it is- supper !
Mr. Courtland deliberately pinned the napkin to his
waistcoat, ordered all the windows to be thrown open, and
set to work like the good canon in Gil Blas. He still re-
tained enough of his former self, to preserve an excellent
cook; so far at least as the excellence of a she-artist goes;
and though most of his viands were of the plainest, who
does not know what skill it requires to produce an unex-
ceptionable roast, or a blameless boil? Talk of good
professed cooks, indeed! they are plentiful as blackberries:
it is the good, plain cook, who is the rarity!
Half a tureen of strong soup; three pounds, at least, of
stewed carp; all the under part of a sirloin of beef; three
quarters of a tongue; the moiety of a chicken; six pan-
cakes and a tartlet, having severally disappeared down the
jaws of the invalid,
"Et cuncta terrarum subacta
Præter atrocem animum Catonis,"
he still called for two deviled biscuits and an anchovy !
When these were gone, he had the wine set on a little
table by the window, and declared that the air seemed
closer than ever. Walter was no longer surprised at the
singular nature of the non-hypochondriac's complaint.
upon
Walter declined the bed that Mr. Courtland offered him
though his host kindly assured him that it had no cur-
tains, and that there was not a shutter to the house
the plea of starting the next morning at daybreak, and his
consequent unwillingness to disturb the regular establish-
ment of the invalid: and Courtland, who was still an ex-
cellent, hospitable, friendly man, suffered his friend's
nephew to depart with regret. He supplied him, however,
by a reference to an old note-book, with the date of the
year, and even month, in which he had been favored by a
visit from Mr. Clarke, who, it seemed, had also changed
his Christian name from Geoffrey, to one beginning with
D—; but whether it was David or Daniel, the host re-
membered not. In parting with Walter, Courtland shook
his head, and observed:-
"Entre nous, sir, I fear this may be a wild-goose chase
Your father was too facetious to confine himself to fact
excuse me, sir—and perhaps the colonel and the legacy
EUGENE ARAM.
539
were merely inventions, pour passer le temps·
there was
only one reason, indeed, that made me fully believe the story.'
"What was that, sir?" asked Walter, blushing deeply
at the universality of that estimation his father had obtained.
"Excuse me, my young friend."
Nay, sir, let me press you."
Why, then, Mr Geoffrey Lester did not ask me to
lend him any money.
→
The next morning, instead of repairing to the gayeties
of the metropolis, Walter had, upon this slight and dubious
clue, altered his journey northward, and with an unquiet
yet sanguine spirit, the adventurous son commenced his
search after the fate of a father evidently so unworthy of
the anxiety he had excited.
CHAPTER VIII.
WALTER'S MEDITATIONS. THE CORPORAL'S GRIEF
DE-
AND ANGER. THE CORPORAL PERSONALLY
SCRIBED. AN EXPLANATION WITH HIS MASTER.
-THE CORPORAL OPENS HIMSELF TO THE YOUNG
TRAVELLER. HIS OPINIONS ON LOVE; ON THE
WORLD; ON THE PLEASURE AND RESPECTA-
· A
BILITY OF CHEATING; ON LADIES, AND
PARTICULAR CLASS OF LADIES; ON AUTHORS;
-ON THE VALUE OF WORDS; ON FIGHTING;
entered on some enterprise or occupation abroad. It was
also possible, to one so reckless and changeful, that even,
after receiving the legacy, a proposition from some wild
comrade might have hurried him away on any continental
project on the mere impulse of the moment, for the impulse
of the moment had always been the guide of his life; and
once abroad he might have returned to India, and in new
Letters from
connexions forgotten the old ties at home.
abroad, too, miscarry; and it was not improbable that the
wanderer might have written repeatedly, and receiving no
answer to his communications, imagined that the dissolute-
ness of his life had deprived him of the affections of his
family, and, deserving so well to have the proffer of re
newed intercourse rejected, believed that it actually was
so. These, and a hundred similar conjectures, found favor
in the eyes of the young traveller; but the chances of a fata.
accident, or sudden death, he pertinaciously refused at
present to include in the number of probabilities. Had his
father been seized with a mortal illness on the road, was it
not likely that he would, in the remorse occasioned in the
hardiest by approaching death, have written to his brother,
and recommending his child to his care, have apprized him
of the addition to his fortune? Walter then did not med-
itate embarrassing his present journey by those researches
among the dead, which the worthy Courtland had so con-
siderately recommended to his prudence: should his expe-
dition, contrary to his hopes, prove wholly unsuccessful, it
WITH SUNDRY
SUNDRY OTHER
OTHER MATTERS OF EQUAL DE- might then be well to retrace his steps and adopt the
LECTATION AND IMPROVEMENT.-AN UNEXPECTED
EVENT.
"Quale per incertam Lunam sub luce malignâ
Est iter."
VIRGIL.
THE road prescribed to our travellers by the change in
their destination led them back over a considerable portion
of the ground they had already traversed, and since the
corporal took care that they should remain some hours in
the place where they dined, night fell upon them as they
found themselves in the midst of the same long and dreary
stage in which they had encountered Sir Peter Hales and
the two suspected highwaymeu.
|
Walter's mind was full of the project on which he was
beut. The reader can fully comprehend how vivid must
have been his emotions at thus chancing on what might
prove a clue to the mystery that hung over his father's fate;
and sanguinely did he now indulge those intense medita-
tions with which the imaginative minds of the young always
brood over every more favorite idea, until they exalt the
hope into a passion. Every thing connected with this strange
and roving parent had possessed for the breast of his son not
only an anxious, but, so to speak, indulgent interest. The
judgment of a young man is always inclined to sympathize
with the wilder and more enterprising order of spirits; and
Walter had been at no loss for secret excuses wherewith to
defend the irregular life and reckless habits of his parent.
Amidst all his father's evident and utter want of principle,
Walter clung with a natural and self-deceptive partiality to
the few traits of courage or generosity which relieved, if they
did not redeem, his character; traits which, with a char-
acter of that stamp, are so often, though always so unprofita-
bly blended, and which generally cease with the commence-
ment of age. He now felt elated by the conviction, as he
had always been inspired by the hope, that it was to be his
lot to discover one whom he still believed living, and whom
he trusted to find amended. The same intimate persuasion
The same intimate persuasion
of the "good luck" of Geoffrey Lester, which rasion
all who
had known him appeared to entertain, was felt even in a
more credulous and earnest degree by his son. Walter
gave way now, indeed, to a variety of conjectures as to
the motives which could have induced his father to persist
in the concealment of his fate after his return to England;
but such of those conjectures, as, if the more rational,
were also the more despondent, he speedily and resolutely
dismissed. Sometimes he thought that his father, on learn-
ing the death of the wife he had abandoned, might have
been possessed with a remorse which rendered him unwill-
ing to disclose himself to the rest of the family, and a
feeling that the main tie of home was broken; sometimes
ne thought that the wanderer had been disappointed in his
expected legacy, and dreading the attacks of his creditors,
or unwilling to throw himself once more on the generosity
of his brother, had again suddenly quitted England and
sug-
gestion. But what man, at the age of twenty-one, ever
took much precaution on the darker side of a question on
which his heart was interested?
With what pleasure, escaping from conjecture to a more
ultimate conclusion, did he, in recalling those words, in
which his father had more than hinted to Courtland of his
future amendment, contemplate recovering a parent made
wise by years and sober by misfortunes, and restoring him
to a hearth of tranquil virtues and peaceful enjoyments!
He imagined to himself a scene of that domestic happi-
ness, which is so perfect in our dreams, because in our
dreams monotony is always excluded from the picture.
And, in this creation of fancy, the form of Ellinor,- his
bright-eyed and gentle cousin, was not the least conspicu-
ous. Since his altercation with Madeline, the love he had
once thought so ineffaceable, had faded into a dim and
sullen hue; and, in proportion as the image of Madeline
grew indistinct, that of her sister became more brilliant.
Often, now, as he rode slowly onward, in the quiet of the
deepening night, and the mellow stars softening all on
which they shone, he pressed the little token of Ellinor's
affection to his heart, and wondered that it was only within
the last few days he had discovered that her eyes were more
beautiful than Madeline's, and her smile more touching.
Meanwhile the redoubted corporal, who was by no means
pleased with the change in his master 's plans, lingered be-
hind, whistling the most melancholy tune in his collection.
No young lady, auticipative of balls or coronets, had ever
felt more complacent satisfaction in a journey to London,
than that which had cheered the athletic breast of the
veteran on finding himself, at last, within one day's gentle
march of the metropolis. And no young lady, suddenly
summoned back in the first flush of her debut, by an unsea-
sonable fit of gout or economy in papa, ever felt more irre-
parably aggrieved than now did the dejected corporal. His
master had not yet even acquainted him with the cause of
the countermarch; and, in his own heart, he believed it
nothing but the wanton levity and unpardorable fickleness
common to all them ere boys afore they have seen the
world." He certainly considered himself a singularly ill-
used and injured man, and drawing himself up to his full
height, as if it were a matter with which heaven should be
acquainted at the earliest possible opportunity, he indulged
as we before said, in the melancholy consolation of a whis-
tled death-dirge, occasionally interrupted by a long-drawn
interlude, half-sigh, half-snuffle, of his favorite augh,
baugh,
And here, we remember, that we have not as yet given
to our reader a fitting portrait of the corporal on horseback.
Perhaps no better opportunity than the present may occur;
and perhaps, also, Corporal Bunting, as well as Melrose
Abbey, may seem a yet more interesting picture when view-
ed by the pale moonlight.
The corporal, then, wore on his head a small cocked hat
which had formerly belonged to the colonel of the forty
540
BULWER'S NOVELS.
second, the prints of my Uncle Toby may serve to suggest
ts shape;-it had once boasted a feather, that was gone;
but the gold lace, though tarnished, and the cockade, though
battered, still remained. From under this shade the profile
of the corporal assumed a particular aspect of heroism:
though a good-looking man on the main, it was his air,
height, and complexion, which made him so; and a side
view, unlike Lucian's one-eyed prince, was not the most
favorable point in which his features could be regarded.
His eyes, which were small and shrewd, were half hid by
a pair of thick shaggy brows, which, while he whistled, he
moved to and fro, as a horse moves his ears when he gives
warning that he intends to shy his nose was straight, -
so far so good, but then it did not go far enough; for
though it seemed no despicable proboscis in front, somehow
or another it appeared exceedingly short in profile; to
make up for this, the upper lip was of a length the more
striking from being exceedingly straight; it had learned
to hold itself upright, and make the most of its length as
well as its master! His under lip, alone protruded in the
act of whistling, served yet more markedly to throw the
nose into the back-ground; and as for the chin,- talk of
the upper lip being long indeed! — the chin would have
made two of it; such a chin! so long, so broad, so massive,
had it been put on a dish, might have passed, without dis-
credit, for a round of beef! it looked yet larger than it was
from the exceeding tightness of the stiff black-leather stock
below, which forced forth all the flesh it encountered into
another chin,- -a remove to the round. The hat, being
somewhat too small for the corporal, and being cocked
knowingly in front, left the hinder half of the head exposed.
And the hair, carried into a club according to the fashion,
lay thick, and of a grizzled black, on the brawny shoulders
below. The veteran was dressed in a blue coat, originally
a frock; but the skirts, having once, to the imminent peril
of the place they guarded, caught fire, as the corporal stood
basking himself at Peter Dealtry's, had been so far ampu-
tated, as to leave only the stump of a tail, which just cover-
ed, and no more, that part which neither art in bipeds nor
nature in quadrupeds loves to leave wholly exposed. And
that part, ah, how ample! had Liston seen it, he would
have hid for ever his diminished, - opposite to head!
No wonder the corporal had been so annoyed by the parcel
of the previous day, a coat so short, and a
; but no
matter, pass we to the rest! It was not only in its skirts
It was not only in its skirts
that this wicked coat was deficient; the corporal, who had
within the last few years thriven lustily in the inactive
serenity of Grassdale, had outgrown it prodigiously across
the chest and girth; nevertheless he managed to button it
up. And thus the muscular proportions of the wearer burst-
ing forth in all quarters, gave him the ludicrous appearance
of a gigantic schoolboy. His wrists, and large sinewy
hands, both employed at the bridle of his hard-mouthed
charger, were markedly visible; for it was the corporal's
custom, whenever he came into an obscure part of the road,
carefully to take off, and prudently to pocket, a pair of scru-
pulously clean white leather gloves which smartened up his
appearance prodigiously in passing through the towns in
their route. His breeches were of yellow buckskin, and
ineffably tight; his stockings were of grey worsted, and a
pair of laced boots, that reached the ascent of a very moun-
tainous calf, but declined any further progress, completed
nis attire.
Fancy then this figure, seated with laborions and un-
swerving perpendicularity on a demi-pique saddle, orna-
mented with a huge pair of well-stuffed saddle-bags, and
holsters revealing the stocks of a brace of immense pistols,
the horse with its obstinate mouth thrust out, and the bridle
drawn as tight as a bowstring! its ears laid sullenly down,
as if, like the corporal, it complained of going to Yorkshire,
and its long thick tail, not set up in a comely and well-
educated arch, but hanging sheepishly down, as if resolved
that its buttocks should at least be better covered than its
master's!
And now, reader, it is not our fault if you cannot form
some conception of the physical perfections of the corporal
and his steed.
The reverie of the contemplative Bunting was interrupted
by the voice of his master, calling upon him to approach.
"Well, well!" muttered he, "the younker can't ex-
pect one as close at his heels as if we were trotting into
Lunnun, which we might be at this time, sure enough, if he
mad not been so damned flighty, — augh!
"Bunting, I say, do you hear?”
"Yes, your honor, yes; this ere horse is so nation
sluggish."
"Sluggish! why I thought he was too much the reverse,
Bunting. I thought he was one rather requiring the bridle
than the spur."
"Augh! your honor, he's slow when he should not, and
fast when he should not; changes his mind from pure whim,
or pure spite; new to the world, your honor, that's all; a
different thing if properly broke. There be many like
him!
"You mean to be personal, Mr. Bunting," said Walter
laughing at the evident ill-humor of his attendant.
CC
Augh? indeed and no ! — I daren't - a poor man like
me, go for to presume to be parsonal, unless I ge
hold of a
hold of a poorer!
"Why, Bunting, you do not mean to say that you would
be so ungenerous as to affront a man because he was poorer
than you? fie!"
66
Whaugh, your honor! and is not that the very reason
why I'd affront him? surely it is not my betters I should
affront; that would be ill-bred, your honor, quite want
of discipline."
—
"But we owe it to our great Commander," said Walter,
"to love all men."
CC
Augh! sir, that 's very good maxim, none better,-
but shows ignorance of the world, sir,
great!"
"Bunting, your way of thinking is quite disgraceful.
Do you know, sir, that it is the Bible you were speaking
of?"
"Augh, sir! but the Bible was addressed to them Jew
creturs! Howsomever, it's an excellent book for the
poor; keeps 'em in order, favors discipline,
so.
>>
none more
What
Could
"Hold your tongue. I called you, Bunting, because I
think I heard you say you had once been at York. Do
you know what towns we shall pass on our road thither?
"Not I, your honor; it's a mighty long way.
would the squire think?-just at Lunnun, too.
have learnt the whole road, sir, inns all, if you had but
gone on to Lunnun first. Howsomever, young gentlemen
will be hasty, -no confidence in those older, and who are
experienced in the world. I knows what I knows," and
the corporal recommenced his whistle.
"Why, Bunting, you seem quite discontented at my
change of journey. Are you tired of riding, or were you
very eager to get to town?
*
Augh! sir; I was only thinking of what best for your
honor, I!-'t is not for me to like or dislike. How-
somever, the horses, poor creturs, must want rest for some
days. Them dumb animals can't go on for ever, bumpety,
bumpety, as your honor and I do.
Whaugh!
"It is very true, Bunting, and I have had some thoughts
of sending you home again with the horses, and travelling
post."
"Eh!" grunted the corporal, opening his eyes; "hopes
your honor be n't serious."
"Why, if you continue to look so serious, I must be seri
ous too; you understand, Bunting?
CC
Augh, and that's all, your honor," cried the corpo-
ral, brightening up, "shall look merry enough to-morrow,
when one's in, as it were, like, to the change of road.
But you see, sir, it took me by surprise. Said I to myself,
says I, it is an odd thing for you, Jacob Bunting, on the
faith of a man, it is! to go trainp here, tramp there, with-
out knowing why or wherefore, as if you was still a private
in the forty-second, 'stead of a retired corporal. You see,
your honor, my pride was a hurt; but it's all over now;
only spites those beneath me, I knows the world at
ny time o' life."
"Well, Bunting, when you learn the reason of my
change of plan, you'll be perfectly satisfied that I do quite
right. In a word, you know that my father has been long
missing; I have found a clue by which I yet hope to ace
him. This is the reason of my journey to Yorkshire."
Augh!" said the corporal, “ and a very good reason:
you're a most excellent son, sir and Lunnun so
nigh!"
The thought of London seems to have bewitched you;
did you expect to find the streets of gold since you were
there last? "
"A
well sir; I hears they be greatly improved."
"Pshaw! you talk of knowing the world, Bunting, and
yet you pant to enter it with all the inexperience of a boy
Why, even I could set you an example."
EUGENE ARAM.
541
"'Tis 'cause I knows the world," said the corporal,
exceedingly netiled, "that I wants to get back to it. I
have heard of some spoonies as never kist a girl, but never
heard of any one who had kist a girl once, that did not
long to be at it again,
And I suppose, Mr. Profligate, it is that longing which
makes you so hot for London ?”
"There have been worse longings nor that," quoth the
corporal, gravely.
Perhaps you meditate marrying one of the London
belles; an heiress, eh?"
"Can't but say," said the corporal, very solemnly, "but
that might be 'ticed to marry a fortin, if so be she was
young, pretty, good-tempered, and fell desperately in love
with me, best quality of all."
-
"You're a modest fellow.”
Why, the longer a man lives, the more knows his
value; would not sell myself a bargain now, whatever
might at twenty-one !"
"At this rate you would be beyond all price at seventy,'
said Walter: "but now tell me, Bunting, were you ever
in love, really and honestly in love?
"Indeed, your honor," said the corporal, "I have been
over head and ears; but that was afore I learnt to swim.
Love's very like bathing. At first we go souse to the bottom,
but if we're not drowned, then we gather pluck, grow
calm, strike out gently, and make a deal pleasanter thing
of it afore we've done. I'll tell you, sir, what I thinks
of love 'twixt you and me, sir, 'tis not that great thing
in life, poys and girls want to make it out to be; if 'twere
one's dinner, that would be summut, for one can't do
without that; but lauk, sir, love 's all in the fancy. One
does not eat it, nor drink it; and as for the rest, why
it's bother!
"Bunting, you 're a beast," said Walter, in a rage, for
though the corporal had come off with a slight rebuke for
his sneer at religion, we grieve to say that an attack on
the sacredness of love seemed, a crime beyond all tolera-
tion to the theologian of twenty-one.
The corporal bowed, and thrust his tongue in his cheek.
There was a pause of some moments.
"And what," said Walter, for his spirits were raised,
and he liked recurring to the quaint shrewdness of the cor-
poral, "and what, after all, is the great charm of the
world, that you so much wish to return to it?"
CC
Augh!" replied the corporal, "'t
't is a pleasant thing
to look about 'un with all one's eyes open; rogue here,
rogue there, keeps one alive; life in Lunnun, life in a
village, all the difference 'twixt healthy walk, and a doze
in armchair; by the faith of a man, 't is !"
CC
"What is it pleasant to have rascals about one?"
Surely yes," returned the corporal, dryly;
"what so
delightful like as to feel one's cliverness and 'bility all set
an end, bristling up like a porkypine; nothing makes a
man tread so light, feel so proud, breathe so briskly, as
the knowledge that he's all his wits about him, that he's
a match for any one, that the divil himself could not take
him in. Augh! that's what I calls the use of an immor-
tal soul, bother!
Walter laughed.
test
ral; «‹ ›
<
"And to feel one is likely to be cheated is the pleasan-
way of passing one's time in town, Bunting, eh?
"Augh! and in cheating too!" answered the corpo-
'cause you sees, sir, there be two ways o' living;
one to cheat, one to be cheated. 'T is pleasant enough
'T is pleasant enough
to be cheated for a little while, as the younkers are, and
as you'll be, your honor; but that's a pleasure don't last
long, t'other lasts all your life; dare say your honor's
often heard rich gentlemen say to their sons, you ought,
for your own happiness' sake, like, my lad, to have sum-
mut to do, ought to have some profession, be you niver
so rich,'-
very true, your honor, and what does that mean?
why, it means that 'stead of being idle and cheated, the
Doy ought to be busy and cheat, augh!
Must a
man who follows a profession, necessarily
when he comes for to get for to be as high as a corp'ral
or a sargent, he comes for to get to bully others, and to
cheat. Augh! then 't is not for the privates to cheat,
that would be 'sumption indeed, save us!
I
"The general, then, cheats more than any, sup-
pose ?"
'Course, your honor; he talks to the world 'bout hon-
or an' glory, and love of his country, and sich like,
augh! that's proper cheating!"
You're a bitter fellow, Mr. Bunting; and pray, what
do you think of the ladies, are they as bad as the
iuen ?? ""
"Ladies,-augh! when they're married, yes! but of
all thein ere creturs, I respects the kept ladies, the most,-
on the faith of a man, I do! Gad! how well they knows
the world, -one quite invies the she rogues; they beats
the wives hollow! Augh! and your honor should see how
they fawns and flatters, and butters up a man, and makes
him think they loves him like winkey, all the time they
ruins him. They kisses money out of the miser, and site
in their satins, while the wife, 'drot her, sulks in a ging-
ham. Oh, they be cliver creturs, and they 'll do what they
likes with old Nick, when they gets there, for 't is the old
gentleman they cozens the best; and then," continued the
corporal, waxing more and more loquacious, for his appe-
tite in talking grew with that it fed on, "then there be
another set o' queer folks, you'll see in Lunnun, sir, that
is, if you falls in with 'em,
falls in with 'em, hang all together, quite in a
clink. I seed lots on 'em when lived with the colonel,-
Colonel Dysart, you knows,―augh?”
"And what are they?"
"Rum ones, your honor; what they calls authors."
"Authors! what the deuse had you or the colonel to
do with authors?
Augh then, the colonel was a very fine gentleman,
what the larned calls a my-seen-ass, wrote little songs him-
self, 'crossticks, you knows, your honor: once he made a
play, 'cause why, he lived with an actress !
"A very good reason, indeed, for emulating Shakspeare;
and did the play succeed?
35
Fancy it did, your honor; for the colonel was a dab
with the scissors."
"Scissors! the pen, you mean?"
"No! that's what the dirty authors make plays with;
a lord and a colonel, my-seen-asses, always takes the scis-
sors."
How?"
"Why, the colonel's lady had lots of plays, and she
marked a scene here,— a jest there, - a line in one place,
-a sentiment in t' other, and the colonel sat by with
a great paper book, cut 'em out, pasted them in book.
Augh! but the colonel pleased the town mightily."
Well, so he saw a great many authors; and did not
they please you?"
"Why, they be so damned quarrelsome," said the cor-
poral, "wringle, wrangle, wrongle, snap, growl, scratch ;
that's not what a man of the world does; man of the
world niver quarrels; then, too, these creturs always fancy
you forgets that their father was a clargyman; they always
thinks more of their family, like, than their writings; and
if they does not get money when they wants it, they bristies
up and cries, 'Not treated like a gentleman, by God!' Yet,
after all, they've a deal of kindness in 'em, if you knows
how to manage 'em, augh! but, cat-kindness, paw to-
day, claw to-morrow And then they always marries
young, the poor things, and have a power of children, and
live on the fame and forten they are to get one of these
days; for, my eye! they be the most sanguinest folks
alive!"
Why, Bunting, what an observer you have been ! whe
could ever have imagined that you had made yourself mas-
ter of so many varieties in men!"
CC
Augh your honor, I had nothing to do when I was
the colonel's vally, but to take notes to ladies and make
use of my eyes. Always a 'flective man.”
"It is odd that, with all your abilities, you did not pro-
cheat, then?" "
"Baugh! can your honor ask that? Does not the law-vide better for yourself."
yer cheat? and the doctor cheat? and the parson cheat,
more than any? and that's the reason they all takes so
much int'rest in their profession, bother!"
"But the soldier ? you say nothing of him."
CC
Why, the soldier," said the corporal, with dignity,
"the private soldier, poor fellow, is only cheated; but
""T was not my fault," said the corporal, quickly; “but
somehow, do what will, 't is not always the cliverest as
foresees the best. But I be young yet, your honor!"
Walter stared at the corporal, and laughed outright
the corporal was exceedingly piqued.
Augh! mayhap you thinks, sir, that 'cause not su
1
542
BULWER'S NOVELS.
young as you, not young at all; but what's forty, or fifty,
or fifty-five, in public life? never hear much of men afore
then. 'Tis the autumn that reaps, spring sows, augh!
bother!"
"Very true and very poetical. I see you did not live
among authors for nothing.
"I knows summut of language, your honor," quoth the
corporal, pedantically.
"It is evident.”
"For, to be a man of the world, sir, must know all the
ins and outs of speechifying; 't is words, sir, that makes
another man's mare go your road. Augh! that must have
been a cliver man as invented language; wonders who 't was
mayhap Moses, your honor ?"
"Never mind who it was," said Walter, gravely; "use
the gift discreetly.
ور
Umph!" said the corporal,-" yes, your honor," re-
newed he, after a pause. "It be a marvel to think on how
much a man does in the way of cheating, as has the gift of
the gab. Wants a missis, talks her over, wants your
purse, talks you out on it, wants a place, talks himself
into it. What makes the parson? words, the lawyer?
words, the parliament man? words! words can ruin a
country, in the big house, words save souls, in the pul-
pits, words make even them ere authors, poor creturs, in
every man's mouth.
Augh! sir, take note of the words,
and the things will take care of themselves, bother!
"Your reflections amaze me, Bunting," said Walter,
"said
smiling; "but the night begins to close in; I trust we
shall not meet with any misadventure."
<
-
""Tis an ugsome bit of road!" said the corporal, look-
ing round him.
"The pistols?"
"Primed and loaded, your honor."
A
"After all, Bunting, a little skirmish would be no bad
eh ?
sport,
especially to an old soldier like you."
"Augh, baugh ! 't is no pleasant work, fighting, without
pay,
at least; 'tis not like love and eating, your honor, the
better for being what they calls gratis!"
66
"Yet I have heard you talk of the pleasure of fighting;
not for pay, Bunting, but for your king and country!"
Augh! and that's when I wanted to cheat the poor
creturs at Grassdale, your honor; don't take the liberty to
talk stuff to my master!"
They continued thus to beguile the way, till Walter
again sank into a reverie, while the corporal, who begar.
more and more to dislike the aspect of the ground they
had entered on, still rode by his side.
The road was heavy, and wound down the long hill
which had stricken so much dismay into the corporal's
stout heart on the previous day, when he had beheld its
commencement at the extremity of the town, where but for
him they had not dined. They were now little more than
a mile from the said town, the whole of the way was taken
up by this hill, and the road, very different from the smooth-
ened declivities of the present day, seemed to have been
cut down the very steepest part of its centre; loose stones,
and deep ruts increased the difficulty of the descent, and it
was with a slow pace and a guarded rein that both our
travellers now continued their journey. On the left side of
the road was a thick and lofty hedge; to the right, a wild,
bare, savage heath, sloped downward, and just afforded a
glimpse of the spires and chimneys of the town, at which
the corporal was already supping in idea! That incom.
parable personage was, however, abruptly recalled to the
present instant, by a most violent stumble on the part of
his hard-mouthed, Roman-nosed horse. The horse was
all but down, and the corporal all but over.
"Damn it," said the corporal, slowly recovering his
perpendicularity, "and the way to Lunnun was as smooth
as a bowling-green!"
Ere this rueful exclamation was well out of the cor-
poral's mouth, a bullet whizzed past him from the hedge;
it went so close to his ear, that but for that lucky stumble,
Jacob Bunting had been as the grass of the field, which
flourisheth one moment and is cut down the next!
Startled by the sound, the corporal's horse made off full
tear down the hill, and carried him several paces beyond
his master, ere he had power to stop its career. But Wal-
ter reining up his better managed steed, looked round for
the enemy, nor looked in vain.
Three men started from the hedge with a simultaneous
shout. Walter fired, but without effect; ere he could lay
hand on the second pistol, his bridle was seized, and a
violent blow from a long double-handed bludgeon, brought
him to the ground.
BOOK THE THIRD.
O. Λύπη μάλιστα γ᾽ ἡ διαφθείρουσα με.
M. Δεινὴ γὰρ ἡ θεὸς, ἀλλ᾽ ὅμως ἰάσιμος.
0.
Μανίαι τε,
Μ. Φαντασμάτων δὲ τάδε νοσεῖς ποίων υπο ;
ΟΡΕΣΤ. 398 - 407.
CHAPTER I.
FRAUD AND ▼ OLENCE ENTER EVEN GRASSDALE. -
PETER'S NEWS. THE LOVERS' WALK. THE
REAPPEARANCE.
Auf.
"Whence comest thou,-what wouldst thou?"
Coriolanus.
ONE evening Aram and Madeline were passing through
the village in their accustomed walk, when Peter Dealtry
sallied forth from the Spotted Dog, and hurried up to the
lovers with a countenance full of importance, and a little
ruffled by fear.
N
"Oh, sir, sir, (miss, your servant!) have you
heard the news? Two houses at Checkington, (a small
town some miles distant from Grassdale,) were forcibly
entered last night, -robbed, your honor, robbed. Squire
Tibson was tied to his bed, his bureau rifled, himself
shockingly confused on the head; and the maidservant
Sally, her sister lived with me, a very good girl she was
-was locked up in the the-the-I beg pardon,
miss, -was locked up in the cupboard. As to the other
house, they carried off all the plate. There were no less
than four men, all masked, your honor, and armed with
pistols. What if they should come here? such a thing
was never heard of before in these parts. But, sir, but
miss, do not be afraid; do not ye now, for I may say
with the Psalmist,
'But wicked men shall drink the dregs
Which they in wrath shall wring,
For I will lift my voice, and make
Them flee while I do sing! ''
1
"You could not find a more effectual method of putting
them to flight, Peter," said Madeline, smiling; "but go
and talk to my uncle. I know we have a whole magazine
of blunderbusses and guns at home: they may be useful
now. But you are well provided in case of attack. Have
you not the corporal's famous cat Jacobina, -- surely a
match for fifty robbers ?
>>
"Av, miss on the principle of set a thief to catch a
EUGENE ARAM.
549
thief, perhaps she may; but really, it is no jesting matter.
Them ere robbers flourish like a green bay tree, for a
space at least, and it is 'nation baú sport for us poor lambs
till they be cut down and withered like grass. But your
house, Mr. Aram, is very lonesome like, it is out of reach
of all your neighbours. Had n't you better, sir, take up
your lodgings at the squire's for the present?'
Madeline pressed Aram's arm, and looked up fearfully
in his face. "Why, my good friend," said he to Dealtry,
"robbers will have little to gain in my house, unless they
are given to learned pursuits It would be something new,
Peter, to see a gang of housebreakers making off with &
telescope, or a pair of globes, or a great folio, covered
with dust.
""
"Ay, your honor, but they may be the more savage for
being disappointed."
1
CC
"Well, well. Peter, we will see," replied Aram, impa-
replied Aram, impa-
tiently; meanwhile we may meet you again at the hall.
Good evening for the present."
"Do, dearest Eugene, do, for heaven's sake," said
Madeline, with tears in her eyes, as they, now turning
from Dealtry, directed their steps towards the quiet valley,
at the end of which the student's house was situated, and
which was now more than ever Madeline's favorite walk;
"do, dearest Eugene, come up to the manor-house till
hese wretches are apprehended. Consider how open your
house is to attack; and surely there can be no necessity to
"emain in it now.
of
""
"What!
Aram's calm brow darkened for a moment.
dearest," said he, "can you be affected by the foolish fears
yon dotard? How do we know, as yet, whether this
improbable story have any foundation in truth? At all
events, it is evidently exaggerated. Perhaps an invasion
of the poultry-yard, in which some hungry fox was the real
offender, nay
be the true origin of this terrible tale. Nay,
love, nay, do not look thus reproachfully; it will be time
enough for us when we have sifted the grounds of alarm to
take our precautions; meanwhile, do not blame me if in
your presence I cannot admit fear. Oh Madeline, dear,
dear Madeline, could you know, could you dream, how dif
dream, how dif-
ferent life has become to me since I knew you! Formerly,
I will frankly own to you, that dark and boding appre-
hensions were wont to lie heavy at my heart; the cloud
was more familiar to me than the sunshine. But now I
have grown a child, and can see around me nothing but
hope; my life was winter, your love has breathed it into
your love has breathed it into
spring.
"And yet, Eugene - yet
"Yet what, my Madeline ?"
"There are still moments when I have no power over
your thoughts; moments when you break away from me;
when you mutter to yourself feelings in which I have no
share, and which seem to steal the consciousness from your
eye and the color from your lip.'
Ah, indeed!” said Aram, quickly; "what! you watch
me so closely ?
"Can you wonder that I do ?" said Madeline, with an
earnest tenderness in her voice.
“You must not then, you must not," returned her lover,
almost fiercely; "I cannot bear too nice and sudden a scru-
tiny; consider how long I have clung to a stern and solitary
independence of thought, which allows no watch, and for-
bids account of itself to any one. Leave it to time and your
love to win their inevitable way. Ask not too much from
me now. And mark, mark, I pray you, whenever, in spite
of myself, these moods you refer to darken over me, heed
not, listen not, Leave me! solitude is their only cure!
promise me this, love promise."
-
"It is a harsh request, Eugene, and I do not think I
will grant you so complete a monopoly of thought" an-
swered Madeline, playfully, yet half in earnest.
ner,
"Madeline," said Aram, with a deep solemnity of man-
"I ask a request on which my very love for you de-
“I
pends. From the depths of my soul, I implore you to grant
it; yea, to the very letter."
CC
""
Why, why, this is, began Madeline, when en-
Countering the full, the dark, the inscrutable gaze of her
strange lover, she broke off in a sudden fear, which she
could not analyze; and only added, in a low and subdued
voice, "I promise to obey you."
As if a weight were lifted from his heart, Aram now
brightened at once into himself in his happiest mood. He
poured forth a torrent of grateful confidence, of buoyant |
|
love, that soon swept from the remembrance of the blushing
and enchanted Madeline, the momentary fear, the sudden
chillness, which his look had involuntarily stricken into her
mind. And as they now wound along the most lonely part
of that wild valley, his arm twined round her waist, and
his low but silver voice pouring magic into the very air she
breathed, she felt perhaps a more entire and unruffled
sentiment of present, and a more credulous persuasion of
future, happiness, than she bad ever experienced before.
And Aram himself dwelt with a more lively and detailed
fulness, than he was wont, on the prospects they were to
share, and the security and peace which retirement would
instil into their mode of life.
་
L
Is it not," said he, ith a lofty mph that we shall
look om our retreat upo. the shifting passions, and the
hollow loves of the distant world? We can have no pretty
object, no vain allurement to distract the unity of our affec-
tion: we must be all in all to each other; for wh. else can
there be to engross our thoughts, and occupy our feelings
here?
If, my beautiful love, you have selected one whom the
world might deem a strange choice for youth and loveliness
like yours; you have, at least, selected one who can have
no idol but yourself. The poets tell you, and rightly, that
solitude is the fit sphere for love? but how few are the lo
ers whom solitude does not fatigue! They rusb into retire.
ment, with souls unprepared for its stern joys and its unva-
rying tranquillity: they weary of each other, because the
solitude itself to which they fled, palls upon and oppresses
them. But to me, the freedom which low minds call ob-
scurity, is the aliment of life; I do not enter the temples
of nature as the stranger, but the priest nothing can ever
tire me of the lone and august altars, on which I sacrificed
my youth and now, what nature, what wisdom once were
to me, no, no, more, immeasurably more than these, you
are! Oh, Madeline! methinks there is nothing under
heaven like the feeling which puts us apart from all that
agitates, and fevers, and degrades the herd of men; which
grants us to control the tenor of our future life, because it
annihilates our dependence upon others, and, while the rest
of earth are hurried on, blind and unconscious, by the hand
of fate, leaves us the sole lords of our destiny; and able,
from the past, which we have governed, to become the
prophets of our future!
At this moment Madeline uttered a faint shriek, and
clung trembling to Aram's arm. Amazed, and roused from
his enthusiasm, he looked up, and on seeing the cause of
her alarm, seemed himself transfixed, as by a sudden ter-
ror, to the earth.
But a few paces distant, standing amidst the long aud
rank fern that grew on either side of their path, quite mo-
tionless, and looking on the pair with a sarcastic smile,
stood the ominous stranger, whom the second chapter of
our first volume introduced to the reader.
For one instant Aram seemed utterly appalled and over-
come; his cheek grew the color of death; and Madeline
felt his heart beat with a loud, a fearful force beneath the
breast to which she clung. But his was not the nature any
earthly dread could long abash. He whispered to Made
line to come on, and slowly, and with his usual firm but
gliding step, continued his way.
"Good evening, Eugene Aram," said the stranger; and
as he spoke, he touched his hat slightly to Madeline.
"I thank you,” replied the student, in a calm voice;
"do you want aught with me?
CC
Humph! yes, if it so please you."
"Pardon me, dear Madeline," said Aram, softly, and
disengaging himself from her, "but for one moment."
He advanced to the stranger, and Madeline could not
but note that, as Aram accosted him, his brew fell, and his
manner seemed violent and agitated; but sr.e could not
hear the words of either; nor did the conference last above
a minute. The stranger bowed, and turning away, soon
vanished among the shrubs. Aram regained the side of
his mistress.
Who," cried she, eagerly, "is that fearful man?
What is his business? What his name?"
"He is a man whom I knew well some fourteen years
ago,” replied Aram, coldly, and with ease; "I did not then
lead quite so lonely a life, and we were thrown much to-
gether. Since that time, he has been in unfortunate cir-
cumstances, rejoined the army, he was in early life a
soldier, and had been disbanded, entered into business
544
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and failed; in short, he has par taken of those vicissitudes
inseparable from the life of one driven to seek the world.
When he travelled this road some months ago, he acciden-
tally heard of my residence in the neighbourhood, and nat-
urally sought me. Poor as I am, I was of some assistance
to him. His route brings him hither again, and he again
seeks me I suppose too that I must again aid him."
"And is that indeed all?" said Madeline, breathing more
freely; "well, poor man, if he be your friend, he must be
inoffensive I have done him wrong. And does he want
And does he want
money? I have some to give him here, Eugene!" And
the simple-hearted girl put her purse into Aram's hand.
"No, dearest," said he, shrinking back; "no, we shall
not require your contribution; I can easily spare him
enough for the present. But let us turn back, it grows
chill
وو
"But why did he leave us, Eugene ?
4
"Because I desired him to visit me at home an hour
hence.'
"An hour! then you will not sup with us to-night?"
"No, not this night, dearest."
The conversation now ceased; Madeline in vain en-
deavoured to renew it. Aram, though without relapsing
into any of his absorbed reveries, answered her only in
monosyllables. They arrived at the manor-house, and
Aram at the garden gate took leave of her for the night,
and hastened backward towards his home. Madeline,
after watching his form through the deepening shadows
until it disappeared, entered the house with a listless step;
a nameless and thrilling presentiment crept to her heart,
and she could have sat down and wept, though without a
cause.
CHAPTER II.
THE
INTERVIEW BETWEEN
STRANGER.
ARAM AND THE
"The spirits I have raised abandon me,
The spells which I have studied baffle me."
Manfred.
MEANWHILE Aram strode rapidly through the village,
and not until he had regained the solitary valley did he re-
lax his step.
The evening had already deepened into night. Along
the sere and melancholy wood, the autumnal winds crept,
with a lowly, but gathering moan. Where the water held
its course, a damp and ghostly mist clogged the air, but
the skies were calm, and checkered only by a few clouds,
that swept in long, white, spectral streaks, over the solemn
stars. Now and then, the bat wheeled swiftly round,
almost touching the figure of the student, as he walked
musingly onward. And the owl that before the month
waned
many days, would be seen no more in that region,
came heavily from the trees, like a guilty thought that de-
serts its shade. It was one of those nights, half dim, half
glorious, which mark the early decline of the year. Na-
ture seemed restless and instinct with change; there were
those signs in the atmosphere which leave the most ex-
perienced in doubt, whether the morning may rise in storm
or sunshine. And in this particular period, the skiey in-
fluences seem to tincture the animal life with their own
The birds
mysterious and wayward spirit of change.
desert their summer haunts; an unaccountable inquietude
pervades the brute creation; even men in this unsettled
season have considered themselves, more (than at others)
stirred by the motion and whisperings of their genius.
And every creature that flows upon the tide of the universal
life of things, feels upon the ruffled surface, the mighty and
solemn change which is at work within its depths.
you
And now Aram had nearly threaded the valley, and his
own abode became visible on the opening plain, when the
stranger emerged from the trees to the right, and suddenly
stood before the student. "I tarried for you here, Aram,"
said he, "instead of seeking you at home, at the time
fixed; for there are certain private reasons which make it
prudent I should keep as much as possible among the owls,
and it was therefore safer, if not more pleasant, to lie here
amidst the fern, than to make myself merry in the village
} onder."
That species called the short-eared owl.
"And what," said Aram, again brings you hither i
Did you not say, when you visited me some months since
that you were about to settle in a different part of the
country, with a relation?"
"And so I intended; but fate, as you would say, or the
devil, as I should, ordered it otherwise. I had not long
left you, when I fell in with some old friends, bold spirits
and true; the brave outlaws of the road and the field.
Shall I have any shame in confessing that I preferred their
society, a society not unfamiliar to me, to the dul and
solitary life that I might have led in tending my old bed-
ridden relation in Wales, who after all, may live these
twenty years, and at the end can scarce leave me enough
for a week's ill luck at the hazard-table? In a word, I
joined my gallant friends, and intrusted myself to their
guidance. Since then, we have cruised around the country,
regaled ourselves cheerily, frightened the timid, silenced
the fractious, and by the help of your fate, or any devil,
have found ourselves by accident, brought to exhibit our
valor in this very district, honored by the dwelling-place
of
my learned friend, Eugene Aram."
"Trifle not with me, Houseman," said Aram, sternly;
"I scarcely yet understand you. Do you mean to imply,
that yourself, and the lawless associates you say you have
joined, are lying out now for plunder in these parts?"
"You say it perhaps you heard of our exploits last
night, some four miles hence?"
Ha! was that villany yours?"
•
Villany!" repeated Houseman, in a tone of sulle
offence. Come, Master Aram, these words must not
pass between and me,
friends of such date, and on such
a footing."
you
"Talk not of the past," replied Aram, with a livid lip,
"and call not those whom destiny once, in despite of na-
ture, drove down her dark tide in a mon.entary compan-
ionship, by the name of friends. Friends we are not; but
while we live, there is a tie between us stronger than that
of friendship.
"You speak truth and wisdom," said Houseman, sneer-
ingly; "for my part, I care not what you call us, friends
or foes."
"Foes, foes!" exclaimed Aram, abruptly, "not that
Has life no medium in its ties ?— pooh-pooh! not foes:
we may not be foes to each other."
-
"It were foolish, at least at present," said Houseman,
carelessly.
"Look you, Houseman," continued Aram, drawing his
comrade from the path into a wilder part of the scene, and
as he spoke, his words were couched in a more low and in-
ward voice than heretofore; "look you, I cannot live and
have my life darkened thus by your presence. Is not the
world wide enough for us both? Why haunt each other?
what have you to gain from me? Can the thoughts that my
sight recalls to you be brighter, or more peaceful, than those
which start upon me, when I gaze on you ? Does not a
ghastly air, a charnel breath, hover about us both? Why
perversely incur a torture it is so easy to avoid? Leave
leave these scenes.
me,
All earth spreads before you,
choose your pursuits, and your resting place elsewhere, but
grudge me not this little spot."
"I have no wish to disturb you, Eugene Aram, but I
must live; and in order to live, I must obey my companions;
if I deserted them, it would be to starve. They will not
linger long in this district; a week, it may be; a fortnight,
at most; then, like the Indian animal, they will strip the
leaves and desert the tree. In a word, after we have swept
the country, we are gone.
"Houseman, Houseman!" said Aram, passionately, and
frowning till his brows almost hid his eyes, but that part of
the orb which they did not hide, seemed as living fire; "1
now implore, but I can threaten, beware! silence, I
say;" (and he stamped his foot violently on the ground, as
he saw Houseman about to interrupt him;) "listen to me
throughout, speak no to me of tarrying here, speak
every hour of which would sound
not of days, of weeks,
upon my ear like a death-knell. Dream not of a sojourn in
these tranquil shades, upon an errand of dread and violence,
the minions of the law aroused against you, girt with the
chances of apprehension and a shameful death
"And a full confession of my past sius," interrupted
Houseman, laughing wildly.
"Fiend! devil!" cried Aram, grasping his comrade
by the throat, and shaking him with a vehemence that House
EUGENE ARAM.
546
man, though a man of great strength and sinew, impotently
attempted to resist.
"Breathe but another word of such import; dare to
menace me with the vengeance of such a thing as thou,
and, by the God above us, I will lay thee dead at my
feet!"
"Release my throat, or you will commit murder," gasped
Houseman, with difficulty, and growing already black in
the face.
Aram suddenly relinquished his gripe, and walked away
with a hurried step, muttering to hunself. He then re-
turned to the side of Houseman, whose flesh still quivered
either with rage or fear, and, his own self-possession com-
pletely restored, stood gazing upon him with folded arms,
and his usual deep and passionless composure of counte-
nance; and Houseman, if he could not boldly confront, did
not altogether shrink from, his eye. So there and thus
they stood, at a little distance from each other, both
silent, and yet with something unutterably fearful in their
silence.
"Houseman," said Aram, at length, in a calm, yet a hol-
low voice," it may be that I was wrong; but there lives
no man on earth, save yon, who could thus stir my blood,
nor you with ease. And know, when you menace me,
that it is not your menace that subdues or shakes my spirit;
but that which robs my veins of their even tenor is that you
should deem your menace could have such power, or that
you, that any man,
should arrogate to himself the
thought that he could, by the prospect of whatsoever
danger, humble the soul and curb the will of Eugene Aram.
And now I am calm say what you will, I cannot be vexed
again."
:
"I have done," replied Houseman, coldly; "I have
nothing to say; farewell!" and he moved away among
the trees.
CC
CC
Stay," cried Aram, in some agitation; stay; we
must not part thus. Look you, Housemaa, you say you
would starve should you leave your present associates.
That may not be; quit them this night, this moment:
leave the neighbourhood, and the little in my power is at
your will."
"As to that," said Houseman, dryly, "what is in your
power is, I fear me, so little as not to counterbalance the
advantages I should lose in quitting my companions. I
expect to net some three hundreds before I leave these
parts.
"Some three hundreds!" repeated Aram, recoiling;
"that were indeed beyond me. I told you when we last
met that it is only by an annual payment 1 draw the little
wealth I have.”
"I I remember it. I do not ask you for money, Eugene
Aram; these hands can maintain me," replied Houseman,
smiling grimly. "I told you at once the sum I expected
to receive somewhere, in order to prove that you need not
vex your benevolent heart to afford me relief. I knew well
the sum I named was out of your power, unless indeed it be
part of the marriage portion you are about to receive with
your bride. Fie, Aram! what, secrets from your old
friend! You see I pick up the news of the place without
your confidence."
Again Aram's face worked, and his lip quivered; but he
conquered his passion with a surprising self-command, and
answered mildly,
"I do not know, Houseman, whether I shall receive any
marriage portion whatsoever if I do, I am willing to make
some arrangement by which I could engage you to molest
me no more. But it yet wants several days to my marriage;
quit the neighbourhood now, and a month hence let us meet
again. Whatever at that time may be my resources, you
shall frankly know them."
"It cannot be," said Houseman; "I quit not these dis-
tricts without a certain sum, not in hope, but possession.
But why interfere with me? I seek not my hoards in your
coffer. Why so anxious that I should not breathe the same
air as yourself? "
•
"It matters not,” replied Aram, with a deep and ghastly
voice, but when you are near me, I feel as if I were with
the dead; it is a spectre that I would exorcise in ridding
me of your presence. Yet this is not what I now speak of.
You are engaged, according to your own lips, in lawless
and midnight schemes, in which you may, (and the tide of
chances runs towards that bourne,) be seized by the hand
of justice."
VOL. I.
69
life!
be
Ho," said Houseman, sullenly, "and as it not for
saying that you feared this, and its probable consequences,
that you well-nigh stifled nie, but now? so truth may
said one moment with impunity, and the next at peril of
These are the subtleties of you wise schoolmen, I
suppose. Your Aristotles, and your Zenos, your Flatos,
and your Epicuruses, teach you notable distinctions, truly!”
"Peace! said Aram; are we at all times ourselves?
You maddened me
Are the passions never our masters?
into anger; behold, I am now calm: the subjects discussed
between myself and you, are of Le and death; let us ap-
proach them with our senses collected and prepared.
What, Houseman, are you bent upon your own destruction,
as well as mine, that you persevere in courses which must
end in a death of shame ?
"What else can I do? I will not work, and I cannot
live like you in a lone wilderness on a crust of bread. Nor
is my name like yours, mouthed by the praise of honest
men: my character is marked; those who once knew me
shun now. I have no resource for society, (for I cannot
face myself alone,) but in the fellowship of men like my-
self, whom the world has thrust from its pale. I have no
resource for bread, save in the pursuits that are branded by
What
justice, and accompanied with snares and danger.
would you have me do?"
"Is it not better," said Aram, "to enjoy peace and safe
ty upon a small but certain pittance, than to live thus from
hand to mouth? vibrating from wealth to famine, and the
rope around your neck, sleeping and awake? Seek your
relation; in that quarter, you yourself said your character
was not branded: live with him, and know the quiet of
easy days, and I promise you, that if aught be in my power
to make your lot more suitable to your wants, so long as you
lead the life of honest men, it shall be freely yours.
this better, Houseman, than a short and sleepless career of
dread?"
Is not
"Aram," answered Houseman, are you, in truth,
calm enough to hear me speak? I warn you, that if again
you forget yourself, and lay hands on me
"Threaten not, threaten not," interrupted Aram, "but
proceed; all within me is now still and cold as ice. Pro-
ceed without fear or scruple.
"Be it so; we do not love one another you have affect-
ed contempt for me, and I
and I— I
·I- -no matter,-I am not a
stone or stick, that I should not feel. You have scorned
me, you have outraged me, you have not assumed to-
wards me even the decent hypocrisies of prudence, yet now
you would ask of me, the conduct, the sympathy, the for-
bearance, the concession of friendship. You wish that I
should quit these scenes, where, to my judgment, a certain
advantage waits me, solely that I may lighten your breast
of its selfish fears. You dread the dangers that await me
on your own account. And in my apprehension, you fore
bode your own doom. You ask me, nay, not ask, you would
command, you would awe me to sacrifice my will and
wishes, in order to soothe your anxieties, and strengthen
your own safety. Mark me! Eugene Aram, I have been
treated as a tool, and I will not be governed as a friend. I
will not stir from the vicinity of your home, till my designs
be fulfilled, I enjoy, I hug myself in your torments.
exult in the terror with which you will hear of each new
enterprise, each new daring, each new triumph of myselt
and my gallant comrades. And now I am avenged for the
affront you put upon me."
Though Aram trembled with suppressed passions, from
limb to limb, his voice was still calm, and his lip even
wore a smile as he answered,
"I was prepared for this, Houseman; you utter nothing
that surprises or appals me. You hate me; it is natural;
men united as we are, rarely look on each other with a
friendly or a pitying eye. But Houseman; I KNOW YOU!
-you are a man of vehement passions, but interest with
you is yet stronger than passion. If not, our conference is
over. Go, and do your worst."
—
C
You are right, most learned scholar; I can fetter the
tiger within, in his deadliest rage, by a golden chain,***
Well, then, Houseman, it is not your interest to be
tray me, my destruction is your own."
I grant it; but if I am apprehended, and to be hung
for robbery?"
"It will be no langer an object to you, to care for my
safety. Assuredly,
Assuredly, I comprehend this. But my interest
induces me to wish that you be removed from de· peril a
546
BULWER'S NOVELS.
engaged
apprehension, and your interest replies, that if you can ob- Atain was alone in his large and gloomy chamber, sur
tain equal advantages in security, you would forego advan-rounded, as usual, by his books, but not as usual
tages accompanied by peril. Say what we will, wander
as we will, it is to this point that we must return at
last."
Nothing can be clearer; and were you a rich man,
Eugene Aram, or could you obtain your bride's dowry (no
doubt a respectable sum) in advance, the arrangement
might at once be settled."
Aram gasped for breath, and as usual with him in emo-
tion, made several strides forward, muttering rapidly, and
indistinctly to himself, and then returned.
"Even were this possible, it would be but a short re-
prieve; I could not trust you; the sum would be spent, and I
again in the state to which you have compelled me now;
but without the means again to relieve myself. No, no! if
the blow must fall, be it so one day as another."
"As you will," said Houseman; "but
Just at
that moment, a long shrill whistle sounded below, as from
the water. Houseman paused abruptly, -
-"That signal is
from my comrades; I must away. Hark, again! Fare-
well, Arain."
"Farewell, if it must be so," said Aram, in a tone of
dogged sullenness; "but to-morrow, should you know of
any means by which I could feel secure, beyond the securi-
ty of your own word, from your future molestation, I might
future molestation, I might
yet how?"
To-morrow," said Houseman, "I cannot answer for
myself; it is not always that I can leave my comrades; a
natural jealousy makes them suspicious of the absence of
their friends. Yet hold; the night after to-morrow, the
Sabbath night, most virtuous Aram, I can meet you, but
not here, -some miles hence. You know the foot of the
Devil's Crag, by the waterfall; it is a spot quiet and shad-
ed enough in all conscience for our interview; and I will
tell you a secret I would trust to no other man, — (bark
(hark
again!)—it is close by our present lurking-place. Meet
me there! it would, indeed, be pleasanter to hold our
conference under shelter, but just at present, I would ra-
ther not trust myself beneath any honest man's roof in this
neighbourhood. Adieu! on Sunday night, one hour before
midnight."
The robber, for such then he was, waved his hand, and
hurried away in the direction from which the signal seemed
o come.
Aram gazed after him, but with vacant eyes; and re-
mained several minutes rooted to the spot, as if the very life
had left him.
"The Sabbath night!" said he, at length, moving slow
ly on; and I must spin forth my existence in trouble and
fear till then, till then! what remedy can I then invent?
It is clear that I can have no dependence on his word, if
won: and I have not even aught wherewith to buy it. But
courage, courage, my heart; and work thou, my busy
brain! Ye have never failed me yet!"
CHAPTER III.
FRESH LARM IN THE VILLAGE.LESTER'S VISIT
TO ARAM. A TRAIT OF DELICATE KINDNESS IN
THE STUDENT. MADELINE. HER PRONENESS
ΤΟ CONFIDE. THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN
LESTER AND ARAM.- THE PERSONS BY WHOM IT
IS INTERRUPTED.
"Not my own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control.”
SHAKSPEARE's Sonnets.
"Commend me to their ove, and I am proud, say,
That my occasions have found time to use them
Toward a supply of money; let the request
Be fifty talents."- Timon of Athens.
in their contents. With his face leaning on his hand, and
his eyes gazing on a dull fire, that crept heavily upward
through the damp fuel, he sat by his hearth, listless, but
wrapt in thought.
"Well, my friend," said Lester, displacing the books from
one of the chairs, and drawing the seat near the student's,
you have ere this heard the news, and indeed in a county
so quiet as ours, these outrages appear the more fearful,
from their being so unlooked for. We must set a guard in
the village, Aram, and you must leave this defenceless her-
mitage and come down to us; not for your own sake,
but
consider you will be an additional safeguard to Madeline.
You will lock up the house, dismiss your poor old gov
ernante to her friends in the village, and walk back with
me at once to the hall."
"but 1
Aram turned uneasily in his chair.
"I feel your kindness," said he, after a pause,
cannot accept it. Madeline," he stopped short at that
name, and added, in an altered voice; no, I wil be one
of the watch, Lester; I will look to her,
to your
safety; but I cannot sleep under another roof. I am super-
stitious, Lester,- superstitious. I have made a vow, a
foolish one perhaps, but I dare not break it. And my vow
binds me, save on indispensable and urgent necessity, not
to pass a night anywhere but in my own home.”
"But there is necessity.'
CC
CC
My conscience says not," said Aram, smiling
peace, my good friend, we cannot conquer men's foibles
or wrestle with men's scruples."
Lester in vain attempted to shake Aram's resolution on
this head; he found him immovable, and gave up the effort
in despair.
Well," said he, "at all events we have set up a watch,
and can spare you a couple of defenders. They shall re-
connoitre in the neighbourhood of your house, if you per-
severe in your determination, and this will serve in some
slight measure to satisfy poor Madeline.”
"Be it so," replied Aram; "and dear Madeline her-
self, is she so alarmed ?”
And now, in spite of all the more wearing and haggard
thoughts that preyed upon his breast, and the dangers by
which he conceived himself beset, tne student's face, as he
listened with eager attention to every word that Lester ut-
tered concerning his daughter, testified how alive he yet
was to the least incident that related to Madeline, and how
easily her innocent and peaceful remembrance could allure
him from himself.
"This room," said Lester, looking round, "will be, I
conclude, after Madeline's own heart; but will
you always
suffer her here? Students do not sometimes like even the
gentlest interruption."
"I have not forgotten that Madeline's comfort requires
some more cheerful retreat than this," said Aram, with a
melancholy expression of countenance.
Follow me,
Lester; I meant this for a little surprise to her. But heaven
only knows if I shall ever show it to herself!
C4
Why? what doubt of that can even your boding tem-
per discover?”
"We are as the wanderers in the desert," answered
Aram, "who are taught wisely to distrust their own senses:
that which they gaze upon as the waters of existence, is
often but a faithless vapor that would lure them to destruc-
tion."
In thus speaking, he had traversed the room, and, open-
ing a door, showed a small chamber with which it commu
nicated, and which Aram had fitted up with evident, and
not ungraceful care. Every article of furniture that Mad-
eline might most fancy, he had sent for from the neighbour-
ing town. And some of the lighter and more attractive
books that he possessed, were ranged around on shelves,
above which were vases intended for flowers; the window
opened upon a little plot that had been lately broken up
into a small garden, and was already intersected with
walks, and rich with shrubs.
There was something in this chamber that so entirely
THE next morning the whole village was alive and
bustling with terror and consternation. Another and yet
more daring robbery had been committed in the neighbour-contrasted the one it adjoined, something so light, and
nood, and the police of the county town had been summoned,
and were now busy in search of the offenders. Aram had
been early disturbed by the officious anxiety of some of his
eighbours; and it wanted yet some hours of noon, when
Jester himself came to seek and consult with the student.
cheerful, and even gay in its decoration and its tout ensem-
ble, that Lester uttered an exclamation of delight and sur-
prise. And indeed it did appear to him touching, that this
austere scholar, so wrapt in thought, and so inattentive to
the common forms of life, shou ll have manifested this teu-
EUGENE ARAM.
647
der and delicate consideration. In another it would have
been nothing; but in Aram, it was a trait that brought in-
voluntary tears to the eyes of the good Lester. Aram ob-
served them he walked hastily away to the window, and
sighed heavily; this did not escape his friend 's notice, and
after commenting on the attractions of the little room,
Lester said :
"You seem oppressed in spirits, Eugene can any thing
have chanced to disturb you, beyond, at least, these alarms
which are enough to agitate the nerves of the hardiest
of us?"
"No," " said Aram: "I had no sleep last night, and my
health is easily affected, and with my health my mind; but
let us go to Madeline; the sight of her will revive me.”
They then strolled down to the manor-house, and met
by the way a band of the younger heroes of the village,
who had volunteered to act as a patrol, and who were
now marshalled by Peter Dealtry, in a fit of heroic enthu-
siasm.
Akhough it was broad daylight, and, consequently, there
was little cause of immediate alarm, the worthy publican
carried on his shoulder a musket on full cock; and each
moment he kept peeping about, as if not only every bush,
but every blade of grass contained an ambuscade, ready to
spring up the instant he was off his guard. By his side the
redoubted Jacobina, who had transferred to her new mas-
ter the attachment she had originally possessed for the
corporal, trotted peeringly along, her tail perpendicularly
cocked, and her ears moving to and fro, with a most in-
comparable air of vigilant sagacity. The cautious Peter
every now and then checked her ardor, as she was about to
quicken her step, and enliven the march by the gambols
better adapted to serener times.
"Soho, Jacobina, soho! gently, girl, gently; thou lit-
tle knowest the dangers that may beset thee.
Come up,
my good fellows, come to the Spotted Dog; I will tap a
barrel on purpose for you; and we will settle the plan of
defence for the night. Jacobina, come in, I say, come in,
1
'Lest, like a lion, they thee tear,
And rend in pieces small;
While there is none to succor thee,
And rid thee out of thrall.'
What ho, there! Oh! I beg your honor's pardon! Your
servant, Mr. Aram.'
r
our
"What, patrolling already?" said the squire;
nien will be tired before they are wanted; reserve their
ardor for the night.'
Oh, your honor, I have only been beating up for re-
cruits; and we are going to consult a bit at home. Ah!
what a pity the corporal is n't here: he would have been a
tower of strength unto the righteous. But howsomever, I
do my best to supply his place, Jacobina, child, be still:
I can't say as I knows the musket-sarvice, your honor;
but I fancy's as how, like Joe Roarjug, the Methodist, we
can do it extemporaneous-like at a pinch."
"A bold heart, Peter, is the best preparation," said the
squire.
CC
which made one of her most beautiful traits of character;
there is something so unselfish in tempers reluctant to
despond. You see that such persons are not occupied
with their own existence; they are not fretting the calm
of the present life, with the egotisms of care and conjec-
ture, and calculation if they learn anxiety, it is for anoth
er; but in the heart of that other, how entire is their trust .
It was this disposition in Madeline which perpetually
charmed, and yet perpetually wrung, the soul of her wi.d
lover; and, as she now delightedly hung upon his arm,
uttering her joy at seeing him safe, and presently forgetting
that there ever had been cause for alarm, his heart was
filled with the most gloomy sense of horror and desolation.
"What," thought he, "if this poor unconscious girl could
dream that at this moment I am girded with peril, from
which I see no ultimate escape? Delay it as I will, it
seems as if the blow must come at last. What, if she
could think how fearful is my interest in these outrages,
that in all probability, if their authors are detected, there
is one who will drag me into their ruin; that I am given
over, bound and blinded, into the hands of another; and
that other, a man steeled to mercy, and withheld from my
- a thread that a blow on him-
destruction by a thread,
self would snap. Great God! wherever I turn, I see
despair! And she, she clings to me; and, beholding
thinks the whole earth is filled with hope!
me,
->
While these thoughts darkened his mind, Madeline drew
him onward into the more sequestered walks of the garden,
to show him some flowers she had transplanted. And
when an hour afterwards he returned to the hall, so sooth-
ing had been the influence of her looks and words upon
Aram, that if he had not forgotten the situation in which
he stood, he had at least calmed himself to regard with a
steady eye the chances of escape.
The meal of the day passed as cheerfully as usual, and
when Aram and his host were left over their abstemious
potations, the former proposed a walk before the evening
deepened. Lester readily consented, and they sauntered
into the fields. The squire soon perceived that something
was on Aram's mind, of which he felt evident embarrass
ment in ridding himself: at length the student said, rather
abruptly:
My dear friend, I am but a bad beggar, and therefore
let me get over my request as expeditiously as possible.
You said to me once, that you intended bestowing some
dowry upon Madeline; a dowry I would and could will-
ingly dispense with; but should you of that sum be now
able to spare me some portion as a loan, should you have
some three hundred pounds with which you could accom-
modate me,
CC
CC
Say no more, Eugene, say no more," interrupted the
squire, you can have double that amount.
Your prep-
arations for your approaching marriage, I ought to have
foreseen, must have occasioned you some inconvenience;
you can have six hundred pounds from me to-morrow.
Aram's eyes brightened. "It is too much, too much,
my generous friend," said he; "the half suffices, but,
And," quoth Peter, quickly, "what saith the worship-but, a debt of old standing presses me urgently, and to-
ful Mister Sternhold, in the 45th Psalm, 5th verse?
'Go forth with godly speed, in meekness, truth and right,
And thy right hand shall thee instruct in works of dreadful
might.'"
Peter quoted these verses, especially the last, with a
truculent frown, and a brandishing of the musket, that
surprisingly encouraged the hearts of his little armament;
and, with a general murmur of enthusiasm, the warlike
band marched off to the S, .wwu Dog.
+
Lester and his companion found Madeline and Ellinor
standing at the window of the hall; and Madeline's light
step was the first that sprang forward to welcome their
return even the face of the student brightened, when he
saw the kindling eye, the parted lip, the buoyant form,
from which the pure and innocent gladness she felt on see-
ing him broke forth.
There was a remarkable trustingness, if I may so speak,
in Madeline's disposition. Thoughtful and grave as she
was, by nature, she was yet ever inclined to the more san-
guine colorings of life; she never turned to the future with
fear, -a placid sentiment of hope slept at her heart, ·
she was one who surrendered herself with a fond and im-
plicit faith to the guidance of all she loved; and to the
chances of life. It was a sweet indolence of the mind,
|
morrow, or rather Monday morning, is the time fixed for
payment."
Consider it arranged," said Lester, putting his hand
on Aram's arm, and then leaning on it gently, he added,
"And now that we are on this subject, let me tell you
what I intended as a gift to you, and my dear Madeline; it
is but small, but my estates are rigidly entailed on Walter,
and of poor value in themselves, and it is half the savings
of many years."
The squire then named a sum, which, however small it
may seem to our reader, was not considered a despicable
portion for the daughter of a small country squire at that
day, and was in reality, a generous sacrifice for one whose
whole income was scarcely, at the most, seven hundred a
year. The sun mentioned doubled that now to be lent, and
which was of course a part of it; an equal portion was
reserved for Ellinor.
"And to tell you the truth," said the squire," you must
give me some little time for the remainder, for not think-
ing some months ago it would be so soon wanted, I laid out
eighteen hundred pounds, in the purchase of Winclose Farm,
six of which, (the remainder of your share,) I can vay
at the end of the year; the other twelve, Ellinor's portion,
will remain a mortgage on the farm itself. And between
us," added the squire, "I do hope that I need be in no
off
012
BULWER'S NOVELS.
nurry respecting her, dear girl. When Walter returns, I
trust matters may be arranged, in a manner, and through a
channel that would gratify the most cherished wish of my
heart. I am convinced that Ellinor is exactly suited to
nim; and, unless he should lose his senses for some one
else in the course of his travels, I trust that he will not be
long returned before he will make the same discovery. I
think of writing to him very shortly after your marriage,
and making him promise, at all events, to revisit us at
Christmas. Ah! Eugene, we shall be a happy party, then,
I trust And be assured, that we shall beat up your quar-
ters, and put your hospitality and Madeline's housewifery
to the test.'
دو
Therewith the good squire ran on for some minutes in
the warmth of his heart, dilating on the fireside prospects
before them, and rallying the student on those secluded
habits, which he promised him he should no longer indulge
with impunity.
"But it is growing dark," said he, awakening from the
theme which had carried him away, "and by this time
Peter and our patrol will be at the hall. I told them to
book up in the evening, in order to appoint their several
duties and stations, let us turn back.
let us turn back. Indeed, Aram, I
can assure you, that I, for my own part, have some strong
reasons to take precautions against any attack; for besides
the old family plate, (though that's not much,) I have,
vou know the bureau in the parlour to the left of the hall,
well, I have in that bureau three hundred guineas, which
I have not as yet been able to take to safe hands at
and which, by the way, will be your's to-morrow. So, you
see, it would be no light misfortune to me to be robbed.”
"Hist!" said Aram, stopping short, "I think I heard
steps on the other side of the hedge."
The squire listened, but heard nothing; the senses of his
companion were, however, remarkably acute, more especi-
ally that of hearing.
There is certainly some one; nay, I catch the steps of
two persons," whispered he to Lester. "Let us come
round the hedge by the gap below."
They both quickened their pace, and gaining the other
side of the hedge, did indeed perceive two men in carters'
frocks, strolling on towards the village.
molest the poor wretches any more.
Lester, humbling to hunan pride in a rustic's life.
grates against the heart to think of the tone in which we
unconsciously permit ourselves to address him. We see
in him humanity in its simple state; it is a sad thought to
feel that we despise it; that all we respect in our species
is what has been created by art; the gaudy dress, the glit
tering equipage, even the cultivated intellect; the mere and
naked material of nature, we eye with indifference or tram-
ple on with disdain.
ple on with disdain. Poor child of toil, from the gray
dawn to the setting sun, one long task !—no idea elicited,
-no thought awakened beyond those that suffice to make
him the machine of others, the serf of the hard soil!
And then too, mark how we scowl upon his scanty holidays,
how we hedge in his mirth with laws, and turn his hilarity
into crime! We make the whole of the gay world, wherein we
walk and take our pleasure, to him a place of snares and
perils. If he leave his labor for an instant, in that instant
how many temptations spring up to him! And yet we have
no mercy for his errors; the gaol, the transport-ship,
the gallows; those are our sole lecture-books, and our only
methods of expostulation, ah, fie on the disparities of the
world! They cripple the heart, they blind the sense, they
concentrate the thousand links between man and man into
the two basest of earthly ties, servility, and pride.
thinks the devils laugh out when they hear us tell the boor
that his soul is as glorious and eternal as our own; and yet,
when in the grinding drudgery of his life, not a spark of
that soul can be called forth; when it sleeps, walled around
in its lumpish clay, from the cradle to the grave, without a
dream to stir the deadness of its torpor.
Me-
"And yet, Aram," said Lester," the lords of science
have their ills. Exalt the soul as you will, you cannot
raise it above pain. Better, perhaps, to let it sleep, when
in waking it looks only upon a world of trial."
"You say well, you say well," said Aram, smiting bis
heart," and I suffered a foolish sentiment to carry me be-
yond the sober boundaries of our daily sense.
CHAPTER IV.
"They are strangers too," said the squire, suspiciously,
"not Grassdale men. Humph! could they have overheard MILITARY PREPARATIONS.
us, think you?"
"If men whose business it is to overhear their neigh-
bours, yes; but not if they be honest men," answered
Aram, in one of those shrewd remarks which he often
uttered, and which seemed almost incompatible with the
tenor of the quiet and abstruse pursuits that he had adopted,
and that generally deaden the mind to worldly wisdom.
They had now approached the strangers, who, however,
appeared mere rustic clowns, and who pulled off their hats
with the wonted obeisance of their tribe.
"Hollo, my men," said the squire, assuming his magis-
terial air,- for the mildest squire in Christendom can play
the bashaw, when he remembers he is a justice of the peace,
-"hollo! what are you doing here this time of day you
are not after any good, I fear."
"We ax pardon, your honor," said the elder clown, in
the peculiar accent of the country, "but we be come from
Gladsmuir, and be going to work at Squire Nixon's at
Mowhall, on Monday; so as I has a brother living on the
green afore the squire's, we be a-going to sleep there to-
night and spend the Sunday, your honor."
Humph! humph! What's
What's your name?"
"Joe Wood, your honor, and this here chap is Will
Hutchings."
"Well, well, go along with you," said the squire; "and
mind what you are about. I should not be surprised if you
snare one of Squire Nixon's hares by the way."
CC
Oh, well and indeed, your honor”.
"Go along, go along," said the squire, and away went
the men.
CC
They seem honest bumpkins enough," observed Lester.
"It would have pleased me better, said Aram, "had
the speaker of the two particularized less; and you observed
that he seemed eager not to let his companion speak; that
is a little suspicious."
CC
“Shall I call them back ?” asked the squire.
"Why, it is scarcely worth while," said Aram; per-
naps I over-refine. And now I look again at them, they
seem really what they affect to be. No, it is useless to
THE COMMANDER AND
HIS MAN.
ARAM IS PERSUADED TO PASS THE
NIGHT AT THE MANOR-HOUSE.
Falstaff. "Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at the town's
end. *
* * * I pressed me none but such toasts and
butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads."
Henry IV.
THEY had scarcely reached the manor-house, before the
rain, which the clouds had portended throughout the whole
day, began to descend in torrents, and to use the strong ex-
pression of the Roman poet,—the night rushed down, black
and sudden, over the face of the earth.
The new watch were not by any means the hardy and
experienced soldiery, by whom rain and darkness are un-
heeded. They looked with great dismay upon the charac-
ter of the night in which their campaign was to commence
The valorous Peter, who had sustained his own courage by
repeated applications to a little bottle, which he never fail
ed to carry about him in all the more bustling and enter-
prising occasions of life, endeavoured, but with partial suc-
cess, to maintain the ardor of his band. Seated in the
servants' hall of the manor house, in a large armchair,
Jacobina on his knee, and his trusty musket, which, to the
great terror of the womankind, had never been uncocked
throughout the day, still grasped in his right hand, while
the stock was grounded on the floor; he indulged in martial
harangues, plentifully interlarded with plagiarisms from the
worshipful translations of Messrs. Sternhold and Hopkins,
and psalmodic versions of a more doubtful authorship. And
when at the hour of ten, which was the appointed time, he
led his warlike force, which consisted of six rustics, armed
with sticks of incredible thickness, three guns, one pistol,
a broadsword, and a pitchfork, (a weapon likely to be more
effectively used than all the rest put together;) when at the
hour of ten he led them up the room above, where they
were to be passed in review before the critical eye of the
squire, with Jacobina leading the on-guard, you could no
fancy a prettier picture for a herc in a little way, than mire
host of the Spotted Dog.
EUGENE ARAM
643
His hat was fastened tight on his brows by a blue pock-
et-handkerchief; he wore a spencer of a light brown drug-
get, a world too loose, above a leather jerkin; his breeches
of corduroy were met all of a sudden, half way up the thigh,
by a detachment of Hessians, formerly in the service of the
corporal, and bought some time since by Peter Dealtry to
wear when employed in shooting snipes for the squire, to
whom he occasionally performed the office of game-keeper;
suspended round his wrist by a bit of black riband, was his
constable's baton; he shouldered his musket gallantly, and
he carried his person as erect as if the least deflexion from
its perpendicularity were to cost him his life. One may
judge of the revolution that had taken place in the village,
when so peaceable a man as Peter Dealtry was thus met-
amorphosed into a commander-in-chief. The rest of the
regiment hung sheepishly back; each trying to get as near
to the door, and as far from the ladies, as possible. But
Peter, having made up his mind, that a hero should only
look straight forward, did not condescend to turn round, to
perceive the irregularity of his line. Secure in his own ex-
istence, he stood truculently forth, facing the squire, and
prepared to receive his plaudits.
Madeline and Aram sat apart at one corner of the hearth,
and Ellinor leaned over the chair of the former; the mirth
that she struggled to suppress from being audible, mantling
over her arch face and laughing eyes; while the squire,
taking the pipe from his mouth, turned round on his easy
chair, and nodded complacently to the little corps and the
great commander.
"We are all ready now, your honor," said Peter, in a
voice that did not seem to belong to his body, so big did it
sound, "all hot, all eager."
Why, you yourself are a host, Peter," said Ellinor, with
affected gravity; "your sight alone would frighten an ariny
of robbers: who could have thought you could assume so
military an air? The corporal himself was never so up-
right!
"I I have practised my present nattitude all the day,
miss," said Peter, proudly, "and I believe I may now say
as Mr. Sternhold says or sings, in the twenty-sixth Psalm,
verse twelfth,
'My foot is stayed for all assays,
It standeth well and right;
Wherefore to God will I give praise,
In all the people's sight !'
Jacobina, behave yourself, child. I don't think, your hon-
or, that we miss the corporal so much as I fancied at first,
for we all does very well without him.”
Indeed, you are a most worthy substitute, Peter; and
now, Nell, just reach me my hat and cloak; I will set you
at your posts you will have an ugly night of it.”
"Very, indeed, your honor," cried all the army, speak-
ing for the first time.
"Silence,
"march!"
order, discipline," said Peter, gruffly;
But instead of marching across the hall, the recruits
huddled up one after the other, like a flock of geese, whom
Jacobina might be supposed to have set in motion, and
each scraping to the ladies, as they shuffled, sneaked,
bundled, and bustled out at the door.
་་
"We are well guarded now, Madeline," said Ellinor;
"I fancy we may go to sleep as safely as if there were
not a housebreaker in the world."
CC
Why," said Madeline, "let us trust they will be more
efficient than they seem, though I cannot persuade myself
that we shall really need them. One might almost as well
conceive a tiger in our arbor, as a robber in Grassdale.
But dear, dear Eugene, do not do not leave us this
night; Walter's room is ready for you, and if it were only
to walk across that valley in such weather, it would be
cruel to leave us. Let me beseech you; come, you cannot,
dare not refuse me such a favor.”
you
|
wishes;- if he remained at the house this night, how
could he well avoid a similar compliance the next? And
on the next was his interview with Houseman. This
reason was not, however, strong enough to enable him to
resist Madeline's soft entreaties; he trusted to the time to
furnish him with excuses, and when Lester returned, Mad-
eline, with a triumpbant air, informed him that Aram had
consented to be their guest for the night.
"Your influence is indeed greater than mine," said
Lester, wringing his hat as the delicate fingers of Ellinor
loosened his cloak; " yet one can scarcely think our friend
sacrifices much in concession, after proving the weather
without. I should pity our poor patrol most exceedingly,
if I were not thoroughly assured that within two hours
every one of them will have quietly slunk home; and even
Peter himself, when he has exhausted his bottle, will be
the first to set the example. However, I have stationed
two of the men near our house, and the rest at equal dis-
tances along the village."
"Do you really think they will go home, sır ?" said
Ellinor, in a little alarm; "why, they would be worse than
I thought them, if they were driven to bed by the rain I
knew they could not stand a pistol, but a shower, however
hard, I did imagine would scarcely quench their valor."
"Never mind, girl," said Lester, gayly chucking her
under the chin, "we are quite strong enough now to resist
them. You see Madeline has grown as brave as a lioness,
come, girls, come, let's have supper, and stir up the
fire. And, Nell, where are my slippers?"
And thus on the little family scene, the cheerful wood
fire flickering against the polished wainscot; the supper
table arranged, the squire drawing his oak chair towards
it, Ellinor mixing his negus; and Aram and Madeline,
though three times summoned to the table, and having three
times answered to the summons, still lingering apart by
the hearth, let us drop the curtain.
We have only, ere we close our chapter, to observe, that
when Lester conducted Aram to his chamber, he placed in
his hands an order payable at the county town, for three
hundred pounds. "The rest," he said in a whisper, "is
below, where I mentioned; and there in my secret drawer
it had better rest till the morning."
The good squire then, putting his finger to his lip,
hurried away, to avoid the thanks which, indeed, however
he might feel them, Aram was no dexterous adept in ex-
pressing.
CHAPTER V.
THE SISTERS ALONE. THE GOSSIP OF LOVE.—AN
ALARM.-AND AN EVENT.
"Juliet. My true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth. "
Romeo and Juliet.
"Eros. Oh, a man in arms;
His weapon, drawn, too !"-The False One.
Ir was a custom with the two sisters, when they re
paired to their chamber for the night, to sit conversing
sometimes even for hours, before they finally retired to bed.
This indeed was the usual time for their little confidences,
and their mutual dilations over those hopes and plans for
the future, which always occupy the larger share of the
thoughts and conversation of the young. I do not krow
any thing in the world more lovely than such conferences
between two beings who have no secrets to relate but what
arise, all fresh, from the springs of a guiltless heart,
pure and beautiful mysteries of an unsullied nature which
warm us to hear; and we think with a sort of wonder
when we feel how arid experience has made ourselves, that
so much of the dew and sparkle of existence still linger in
the nooks and valleys, which are as yet virgin of the sun
and of mankind.
- those
Aram pleaded his vow, but it was overruled; Madeline
proved herself a most exquisite casuist in setting it aside.
One by one his objections were broken down; and how, as
he gazed into those eyes, could he keep any resolution, that
Madeline wished him to break! The power she possessed The sisters this night were more than commonly indif
over him seemed exactly in proportion to his impregna-ferent to sleep. Madeline sat by the small but bright
bility to every oue else. The surface on which the diamond |
Guts its easy way, will yield to no more ignoble instrument;
it is easy to shatter it, but by only one substance can it be
impressed. And in this instance Aram had but one secret
and strong cause to prevent his yielding to Madeline's
own,
hearth of the chamber, in her night dress, and Ellinor,
who was much prouder of her sister's beauty than her
was employed in knotting up the long and lustrous hair
which fell in rich luxuriance over Madeline's throat and
shoulders.
160
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"There certainly never was such beautiful hair!" said
Ellinor, admiringly; and let me see,—yes, -on Thurs-
day fortnight I may be dressing it, perhaps, for the last
tine-heigho!"-
"Don't flatter yourself that you are so near the end of
your troublesome duties," said Madeline, with her pretty
sinile, which had been much brighter and more frequent of
late than it was formerly wont to be, so that Lester had
remarked "that Madeline really appeared to have become
the lighter and gayer of the two.”
"You will often come to stay with us for weeks together,
at least, till till you have a double right to be mistress
here. Ah! my poor hair, you need not pull it so hard."
"Be quiet, then," said Ellinor, half laughing, and
wholly blushing
"Trust ine, I have not been in love myself without
earning its signs; and I venture to prophesy that within
six months, you will come to consult me whether or not,-
for there is a great deal to be said on both sides of the
question, you can make up your mind to sacrifice your
own wishes, and marry Walter Lester. Ah!
Ah! - gently,
gently. Nell ”
"Promise to be quiet.
“ I will, — I will; but you began it."
As Ellinor now finished her task, and kissed her sister's
forehead, she sighed deeply.
CC
Happy Walter !" said Madeline.
"I was not sighing for Walter, but for you.'
"For me? impossible! I cannot imagine any part
of my future life that can cost you a sigh. Ah! that I
were more worthy of my happiness.
I
"Well, then," said Ellinor, "I sighed for myself,
sighed to think we should so soon be parted, and that the
continuance of your society would then depend not on our
mutual love, but the will of another."
of the clock told the first nour of morning.
"Heaven.
how much louder the winds rave. And how the heavy
sleet drives against the window! Our poor watch with
out! but you may be sure my father was right, and they are
safe at home by this time; nor is it likely, I should think,
that even robbers would be abroad in such weather!"
“I have heard," said Madeline, "that robbers gener-
ally choose these dark, stormy nights for their designs, but
I confess I don't feel much alarm, and he is in the house.
Draw nearer to the fire, Ellinor; is it not pleasant to see
how serenely it burns, while the storm howls without! It is
like my Eugene's soul, luminous, and lone, amidst the roar
and darkness of this unquiet world!"
"There spoke himself," said Ellinor, smiling to per-
ceive how invariably women, who love, imitate the tone of
the beloved one. And Madeline felt it, and smiled too.
"Hist!" said Ellinor, abruptly, "did you not hear a
low, grating noise below? Ah the winds now prevent
your catching the sound; but hush, hush! -now the wind
pauses, there it is again!"
Yes, I hear it," said Madeline, turning pale, "it seems
in the little parlour; a continued, harsh, but very low,
very low, noise.
Good heavens! it seems at the window below.”
"It is like a file," whispered Ellinor: "perhaps
"You are right," said Madeline, suddenly rising,
"it is
a file, and at the bars my father had fixed against the win-
dow yesterday. Let us go down, and alarm the house.'
"No, no; for God's sake, don't be so rash,” cried
Ellinor, losing all presence of mind : "hark! the sound
ceases, there is a louder noise below, and steps. Let us
lock the door.”
But Madeline was of that fine and high order of spirit
which rises in proportion to danger, and calming her sister
as well as she could, till she found her attempts wholly in-
effectual, she seized the light with a steady hand, opened
"What, Ellinor, and can you suppose that Eugene, - the door, and Ellinor still clinging to her, passed the land-
my Eugene, would not welcome you as warmly as my-ing-place, and hastened to her father's room; he slept at
self? Ah! you misjudge him; I know you have not yet
perceived how tender a heart lies beneath all that melan-
choly and reserve."
―
CC
“I feel, indeed," said Ellinor, warmly, as if it were
impossible that one whom you love should not be all that is
good and noble; yet if this reserve of his should increase,
as is at least possible, with increasing years; if our society
should become again, as it once was, distasteful to him,
should I not lose you, Madeline ?"
“But this reserve cannot increase: do you not perceive
how much it is softened already? Ah! be assured that I
will charm it away."
"But what is the cause of the melancholy that even now,
at times, evidently preys upon him?-has he never re-
vealed it to you ?
"It is merely the early and long habit of solitude and
study, Ellinor," replied Madeline; "and shall I own to
you I would scarcely wish that away, his tenderness inscr
you I would scarcely wish that away; his tenderness itself
seems linked with his melancholy. It is like a sad but
gentle music, that brings tears into our eyes, but which we
would not change for gayer airs for the world."
CC
Well, I must own," said Ellinor,
said Ellinor, reluctantly, "that I
no longer wonder at your infatuation; I can no longer chide
you as I once did; there is, assuredly, something in his
voice, his look, which irresistibly sinks into the heart. And
there are moments when, what with his eyes and forehead,
his countenance seems more beautiful, more impressive,
than I ever beheld. Perhaps, too, for you it is better,
that your lover should be no longer in the first flush of
youth. Your nature seems to require something to ven-
erate, as well as to love. And I have ever observed at
prayers, that you seem more especially rapt and carried
beyond yourself, in those passages which call peculiarly for
worship and adoration.”
any
"Yes, dearest," said Madeline, fervently, "I own that
Eugene is of all beings, not only of all whom I ever knew,
but of whom I ever dreamed, or imagined, the one that I
am most fitted to love and to appreciate. His wisdom, but
more than that, the lofty tenor of his mind, cails forth all
1 feel exalted
that is highest and best in my own nature.
the opposite corner of the staircase. Aram's chamber was
at the extreme end of the house. Before she reached the
door of Lester's apartment, the noise below grew loud and
distinct, -a scuffle, voices, curses,
and now,
the sound of a pistol! — in a moment more the whole house
was stirring. Lester in his night robe, his broadsword in
his band, and his long gray hair floating behind, was the
first to appear: the servants, old and young, male and fe-
male, now came thronging simultaneously round; and in a
general body, Lester several paces at their head, his daugh-
ters following next to him, they rushed to the apartment
whence the noise, now suddenly stilled, had proceeded.
The window was opened evidently by force; an instru
ment like a wedge was fixed in the bureau containing Les-
ter's money, and seemed to have been left there, as if the
person using it had been disturbed before the design for
which it was introduced had been accomplished, and, (the
only evidence of life,) Aram stood, dressed, in the centre
of the room, a pistol in his left hand, a sword in his right;
a bludgeon, severed in two, lay at his feet, and on the floor
within two yards of him, towards the window, drops of
blood yet warm, showed that the pistol had not been dis-
charged in vain.
"And is it you, my brave friend, that I have to thank
for our safety?" cried Lester, in great emotion.
"You, Eugene ! " repeated Madeline, sinking on his
breast.
"But thanks hereafter," continued Lester; "let us now
to the pursuit, perhaps the villain may have perished
beneath your bullet ?”
?
"Ha!" muttered, Aram, who had hitherto seemned un
conscious of all around him; &o fixed had been his eye, es
colorless his cheek, so motionless his posture.
Ha!
say you so think you I have slain him? - No, it can
not be, the ball did not slay, I saw him stagger; but he
rallied, -not so one who receives a mortal wound! -ha!
ha! there is blood, you say, that is true; but what then?
it is not the first wound that kills, you must strike again,
pooh, pooh, what is a little blood!”
While he was thus muttering, Lester and the more active
when I listen to him; and yet, how gentle, with all that of the servants had already sallied through the window, but
nobleness! And to think that he should descend to love
the night was so intensely dark that they could not pene.
me, and so to love me. It is as if a star were to leave its trate a step beyond them. Lester returned, therefore, in a
sphere!"
few moments, and met Aram's dark eye fixed upon him
"Hark! one o'clock," said Ellinor, as the deep voice with an unutterable expression of anxiety.
EUGENE ARAM.
551
"You have found no one," said he, no dying man?
. Ha! well, — well,
well, well! they must both have es-
taped; the night must favor them.”
"Do you fancy the villain was severely wounded?"
"Not so,
I trust not so; he seemned able to But
stop,
oh God!
-stop!
your foot is dabbling in blood,
-blood shed by me, off! off!
Lester moved aside with a quick abhorrence, as he saw
that his feet were indeed smearing the blood over the pol-
ished and slippery surface of the oak boards, and in moving
he stumbled against a dark lantern in which the light still
burnt, and which the robbers in their flight had left.
"Yes," said Aram, observing it. "It was by that,
their own light that I saw them, saw their faces, - and,
-and, (bursting into a loud, wild laugh) they were both
strangers!"
"Ah, I thought so, I knew so," said Lester, plucking
the instrument from the bureau. "I knew they could be no
Grassdale men. What, did you fancy, they could be? But,
bless ine, Madeliue, what ho help!-Aram, she has
fainted at your feet."
And it was indeed true and remarkable, that so utter had
been the absorption of Aram's mind, that he had been in-
sensible not only to the entrance of Madeline, but even that
she had thrown herself on his breast. And she, overcome
by her feelings, had slid to the ground from that momentary
resting-place, in a swoon which Lester, in the general
tumult and confusion, was now the first to perceive.
At this exclamation, at the sound of Madeline's name,
the blood rushed back from Aram's heart, where it had
gathered, icy and curdling; and, awakened thoroughly and
at once to himself, he knelt down, and weaving his arms
around her, supported her head on his breast, and called
upon her with the most passionate and moving exclamations.
But when the faint bloom re-tinged her cheek, and her
lips stirred, he printed a long kiss on that cheek,
those lips, and surrendered his post to Ellinor; who, blush-
ingly gathering the robe over the beautiful breast from which
it had been slightly drawn, now entreated all, save the
women of the house, to withdraw till her sister was restored.
Lester, eager to hear what his guest could relate, there-
fore took Aram to his own apartment, where the particulars
were briefly told.
on
Suspecting, which indeed was the chief reason that ex-
cused him to himself in yielding to Madeline's request, that
the men Lester and himself had encountered in their even-
ing walk, might be other than they seemed, and that they
might have well overheard Lester's communication, as to
the sum in his house, and the place where it was stored; he
had not undressed himself, but kept the door of his room
open to listen if any thing stirred. The keen sense of hear-
ing, which we have before remarked him to possess, enabled
him to catch the sound of the file at the bars, even before
Ellinor, notwithstanding the distance of his own chamber
from the place, and seizing the sword which had been left
in his room, (the pistol was his own,) he had descended to
the room below.
"What!" said Lester, "and without a light?"
"The darkness is familiar to me," said Aram. "I could
walk by the edge of a precipice in the darkest night without
one false step, if I had but once passed it before. I did not
gain the room, however, till the window had been forced;
and by the light of a dark lantern which one of them held,
I perceived two men standing by the bureau, the rest you
can imagine; my victory was easy, for the bludgeon, with
which one of them aimed at me, gave way at once to the
edge of your good sword, and my pistol delivered me of the
other. There ends the history,"
Lester overwhelmed him with thanks and praises, but
Arain, glad to escape them, burried away to see after Made-
line, whom he now met on the landing-place, leaning on
Ellinor's arm and still pale.
She gave him her hand, which he for one moment pressed
passionately to his lips, but dropped, the next, with an
altered and chilled air; and hastily observing he would
not now detain her from a rest which she must so much
require, he turned away and descended the stairs. Some of
the servants were grouped around the place of encounter; he
entered the room, and again started at the sight of the blood.
"Bring water, said he, fiercely: "will you let the
stagnant gore ooze and rot into the boards, to startle the
eye, and still the heart with its filthy 4 ad unutterable stain?
water, I say! water!"
و
They hurried to obey him, and Lester, coming into the
room to see the window re-closed by the help of boards, &c.,
found the student bending over the servants as they per-
formed their reluctant task, and rating them with a raised
and harsh voice for the hastiness with which he accused
them of seeking to slur it over.
CHAPTER VI.
ARAM ALONE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. HIS SOLILO-
QUY AND PROJECT. SCENE BETWEEN HIMSELF
AND MADELINE.
"}
CC Luce non gratâ fruor
Trepidante semper corde, non mortis metu
Sed
SENEC. Octavia, Act I.
THE two men-servants of the house remained up the rest
of the night; but it was not till the morning had progressed
far beyond the usual time of rising in the fresh shades of
Grassdale, that Madeline and Ellinor became visible; even
Lester left his bed an hour later than his wont; and knocking
at Aram's door, found the student was already abroad, while
it was evident that his bed bad not been pressed during the
whole of the night. Lester descended into the garden, and
was there met by Peter Dealtry, and a detachment of the
band; who, as common sense and Lester bad predicted,
were indeed, at a very early period of the watch, driven to
their respective homes. They were now seriously concern-
ed for their unmanliness, which they passed off as well as
they could upon their conviction "that nobody at Glass
dale could ever really be robbed ;" and promised with
sincere contrition, that they would be most excellent guardə
for the future. Peter was, in sooth, singularly chop-fallen;
and could only defend himself by an incoherent mutter, from
which the squire turned somewhat impatiently, when he
" seventy-sevent..
heard, louder than the rest, the words
Psalm, seventeenth verse,
"The clouds, that were both thick and black,
Did rain full plenteously."
Leaving the squire to the edification of the pious host.
let us follow the steps of Aram, who at the early dawn had
quitted his sleepless chamber, and, though the clouds at
that time still poured down in a dull and heavy sleet, wan-
dered away, whither he neither knew nor heeded. He was
now hurrying, with unabated speed, though with no pur-
posed bourn or object, over the chain of mountains that
backed the green and lovely valleys, among which his home
was cast.
"Yes!" said he at last, halting abruptly, with a despe-
rate resolution stamped on his countenance, "yes! I wil'
so determine. If, after this interview, I feel that I cannot
command and bind Houseman's perpetual secrecy, I wil.
surrender Madeline at once. She has loved me generous
ly and trustingly. I will not link her life with one that may
be called hence in any hour, and to so dread an account
Neither shall the gray hairs of Lester be brought, with the
sorrow of my shame, to a dishonored and untimely grave.
And after the outrage of last night, the daring outrage, how
can I calculate on the safety of a day? Though Houseman
was not present, though I can scarce believe that he knew
or at least abetted the attack, yet they were assuredly of
his gang: had one been seized, the clue might have tracer
to his detection, — and he detected, what should I have to
dread! No, Madeline! no; not while this sword hangs
over me, will I subject thee to share the horror of my fate!"
This resolution, which was certainly generous, and yet
no more than honest, Aram had no sooner arrived at, than
he dismissed, at once, by one of those efforts which pow-
erful minds can command, all the weak and vacillating
thoughts that might interfere with the sternness of his de-
termination. He seemed to breathe more freely, and the
haggard wanness of his brow, relaxed at least from the
workings that, but the moment before, distorted its wonted
serenity, with a maniac wildness.
He pursued his desultory way now with a calmer step.
"What a night!" said be, again breaking into the low
murmur in which he was accustomed to hold commune with
himself. "Had Houseman been one of the ruffians! a
shot might have freed me, and without a crime, for ever'
And till the light flashed on their brows, I thought the
552
BULWER'S NOVELS.
smaller man bore his aspect. Ha, out, tempting thought! out
on thee!" he cried aloud, and stamping with his foot, then
recalled by his own vehemence, he cast a hurried and jeal-
ous glance round him, though at that moment his step was
on the very height of the incuntains, where not even the
solitary shepherd, save in search of some more daring
straggler of the flock, ever brushed the dew from the crag-
ged, yet fragrant soil. "Yet," he said, in a lower voice,
and again sinking into the sombre depths of his reverie,
"it is a tempting, a wondrously tempting thought. And
it struck athwart me, like a flash of lightning when this
hand was at his throat, -a tighter strain, another moment,
and Eugene Aram had not had an enemy, a witness against
nim left in the world. Ha! are the dead no foes then?
Are the dead no witnesses?" Here he relapsed into utter
silence, but his gestures continued wild, and his eyes wan-
dered round, with a bloodshot and unquiet glare. "Enough,"
at length he said, calmly; and with the manner of one who
has rolled a stone from his heart;'*" enough!
enough! I will not so
sully myself; unless all other hope of self-preservation be
extinct. And why despond? the plan I have thought of
seems well-laid, wise, consummate, at all points. Let me
consider, forfeited the moment he enters England,
given till he has left it, paid periodically, and of such
extent as to supply his wants, preserve him from crime,
and forbid the possibility of extorting more: all this sounds
well; and if not feasible at last, why farewell, Madeline,
and I myself leave this land for ever. Come what will to
me, death in its vilest shape, let not the stroke fall on
that breast. And if it be," he continued, his face lighting
up, "if it be, as it may yet, that I can chain this hell-
hound, why, even then, the instant that Madeline is mine,
I will fly these scenes; I will seek a yet obscurer and re-
moter corner of the earth: I will choose another name,
Fool! why did I not so before? But what matters it? What
is writ is writ Who can struggle with the invisible and
giant band that launched the world itself into motion;
and at whose pre-decree we hold the dark boon of life and
death?"
not
It was not till evening that Aram, utterly worn out and
exhausted, found himself in the neighbourhood of Lester's
nouse. The sun had only broken forth at its setting; and
it now glittered from its western pyre over the dripping
hedges, and spread a brief, but magic glow along the rich
landscape around; the changing woods clad in the thou-
sand dies of autumn; the scattered and peaceful cottages,
with their long wreaths of smoke curling upward, and the
gray and venerable walls of the manor-house, with the
church hard by, and the delicate spire, which, mixing it-
self with heaven, is at once the most touching and solemn
emblem of the faith to which it is devoted. It was a Sab-
bath eve; and from the spot on which Aram stood, he might
discern many a rustic train trooping slowly up the green
village lane towards the church; and the deep bell, which
summoned to the last service of the day, now swung its
voice far over the sunlit and tranquil scene.
"I am better here, my Madeline, the air and the sun
revive me let us rest by the stile yonder. But you were
going to church? and the bell has ceased."
"I could attend, I fear, little to the prayers now," said
Madeline, "unless you feel well enough and will come to
church with me.
"To church!" said Aram, with a half-shudder, "no;
my thoughts are in no mood for prayer."
"Then you shall give your thoughts to me; and I, in res
turn, wili pray for you before I rest.”
And so saying, Madeline, with her usual innocent frank-
ness of manner, wound her arm in his, and they walked
onward towards the stile Aram had pointed out. It was a
little rustic stile, with chestnut-trees hanging over it on eith-
er side. It stands to this day, and I have pleased myself
with finding Walter Lester's initials, and Madeline's also,
with the date of the year, carved in half-worn letters on the
wood, probably by the hand of the former.
They now rested at this spot. All around them was
still and solitary; the groups of peasants had entered the
church, and nothing of life, save the cattle grazing in the
distant fields, or the thrush starting from the wet bushes,
was visible. The winds were lulled to rest, and, though
somewhat of the chill of autumn floated on the air, it only
bore a balm to the harassed brow and fevered veins of the
student; and Madeline !—she felt nothing but his
presence.
It was exactly what we picture to ourselves of a Sabbath
eve, unutterably serene and soft, and borrowing from the
very melancholy of the declining year an impressive, yet a
mild solemnity.
There are seasons, often in the most dark or turbulent
periods of our life, when, why, we know not, we are sud-
denly called from ourselves, by the remembrances of early
childhood: something touches the electric chain, and, lo!
a host of shadowy and sweet recollections steal upon us.
The wheel rests, the oar is suspended, we are snatched
from the labor and travail of present life; we are born
again, and live anew. As the secret page in which the
characters once written seem for ever effaced, but which, if
breathed upon, gives them again into view; so the memory
can revive the images invisible for years: but while we
gaze, the breath recedes from the surface, and all one mo-
ment so vivid, with the next moment has become once
more a blank !
"It is singular," said Aram, " but often as I have paused
at this spot, and gazed upon this landscape, a likeness
to the scenes of my childish life, which it now seems to me
to present, never occurred to me before. Yes, yonder, in
that cottage, with the sycamores in front, and the orchard
extending behind, till its boundary, as we now stand, seems
lest among the woodland, I could fancy that I looked upon
my father's home. The clump of trees that lies yonder to
the right, could cheat me readily to the belief that I saw the
little grove in which, enamoured with the first passion of
study, I was wout to pore over the thrice-read book through
the long summer days; - a boy, -a thoughtful boy; yet,
But it was not the setting sun, nor the autumnal land- oh! how happy! What worlds appeared then to me, to
ecape, nor the voice of the holy bell that now arrested the
open in every page! how exhaustless I thought the treas-
#tep of Aram,
of Aram. At a little
At a little distance before him, leaning ures and the hopes of life! and beautiful on the mountain
over a gate, and seemingly waiting till the ceasing of the tops seemed to me the steps of knowledge! I did not dream
bell should announce the time to enter the sacred mansion, of all that the musing and lonely passion that I nursed was
he beheld the figure of Madeline Lester. Her head, at the to entail upon me. There, in the clefts of the valley, or the
moment, was averted from him, as if she were looking ridges of the hill, or the fragrant course of the stream, I
after Ellinor and her uncle, who were in the churchyard began already to win its history from the herb or flower;
among a little group of their homely neighbours; and he was I saw nothing, that I did not long to unravel its secrets:
half in doubt whether to shun her presence, when she sud- all that the earth nourished ministered to one desire : --
denly turned round, and seeing him, uttered an exclama- and what of low or sordid did there mingle with tha: de-
tion of joy. It was now too late for avoidance; and call-sire? The petty avarice, the mean ambition, the debasing
ing to his aid that mastery over his features, which, in love, even the heat, the anger, the fickleness, the caprice of
ordinary times, few inore eminently possessed, he ap- other men, did they allure or bow down my nature from its
proached his beautiful mistress with a smile as serene, if steep and solitary eyry? I lived but to feed my mind;
not as glowing, as her own. But she had already opened wisdom was my thirst, my dream, my aliment, my sole
the gate, and bounding forward, met him half way.
fount and sustenance of life. And have I not sown the
whirlwind and reaped the wind? The glory of my youth
is gone, my veins are chilled, my frame is bowed, my heart
is gnawed with cares, my nerves are unstrung as a loosened
bow and what, after all, is my gain? Oh, God! what is
my gain?"
"Ah, truant, truant," said she, "the whole day absent,
without inquiry or farewell! After this, when shall I be-
lieve that thou really lovest me?"
"But," continued Madeline, gazing on his countenance,
which bore witness, in its present languor, to the fierce
emotions which had lately raged within, "but, heavens !
dearest, how pale you look; you are fatigued; give me your
hand, Eugene, it is parched and dry. Come into the
- you must need rest and refreshment."
house;
* Eastern saying.
i
:
Eugene, dear, dear Eugene!" murmured Madeline,
soothingly, and wrestling with her tears," is not your gain
great? is it no triumph that you stand, while yet young,
almost alone in the world, for success in all that you bare
attempted ?"
EUGENE ARAM.
>
And what," exclaimed Arain, breaking in upon her,
what is this world which we ransack, but a stupendous
charne -house? Every thing that we deem most lovely,
ask its origin? — Decay ! When we rifle nature, and
collect wisdom, are we not like the hags of old, culling sim-
ples from the rank grave, and extracting sorceries from the
rotting bones of the dead? Every thing around us is fath-
ered by corruption, battened by corruption, and into cor-
ruption returns at last. Corruption is at once the womb
and grave of nature, and the very beauty on which we gaze
and hang,
the cloud, and the tree, and the swarming
waters, all are one vast panorama of death! But it did
not always seem to me thus; and even now I speak with a
heated pulse and a dizzy brain. Come, Madeline, let us
change the theme.”
S
And dismissing at once from his language, and perhaps,
as he proceeded, also from his mind, all of its former gloom,
except such as might shade, but not embitter, the natural
tenderness of remembrance, Aram now related, with that
vividness of diction, which, though we feel we can very in-
adequately convey its effect, characterized his conversation,
and gave something of poetic interest to all he uttered,
those reminiscences which belong to childhood, and which
all of us take delight to hear from the lips of any one we
love.
It was while on this theme that the lights which the
deepening twilight had now made necessary, became visible
in the church, streaming afar through its large oriel win-
dow, and brightening the dark firs that overshadowed the
graves around and just at that moment the organ, (a gift
from a rich rector, and the boast of the neighbouring coun-
try,) stole upon the silence with its swelling and solemn
note. There was something in the strain of this sudden
music that was so kindred with the holy repose of the
scene and which chimed so exactly to the chord that now
vibrated in Aram's mind, that it struck upon him at once,
with an irresistible power. He paused, abruptly, "as if an
angel spoke!" that sound so peculiarly adapted to express
sacred and unearthly emotion, none who have ever mourned
or sinned can hear, at an unlooked-for moment, without a
certain sentiment, that either subdues, or elevates, or awes.
But he, he was a boy once more! he was again in the
village church of his native place: his father, with his
silver hair, stood again beside him! there was his mother,
pointing to him the holy verse; there the half-arch, half-rev-
erent face of his little sister; (she died young !)-- there the
upward eye and hushed countenance of the preacher who
had first raised his mind to knowledge, and supplied its
food, all, all lived, moved, breathed, again before him,
all, as when he was young and guiltless, and at peace;
hope and the future one word!
He bowed his head lower and lower; the hardness and
hypocrisies of pride, the sense of danger and of horror,
that, in agitating, still supported, the mind of this resolute
and scheming man, at once forsook him. Madeline felt
bis tears drop fast and burning on her hand, and the next
roment, overcome by the relief it afforded to a heart
preyed upon by fiery and dread secrets, which it could not
reveal, and a fiame exhausted by the long and extreme
tension of all its powers, he laid his head upon that faith
!! bosom, and wept aloud.
CHAPTER VII.
RAM'S SECRET EXPEDITION. A SCENE WORTHY
for such matters; but as you pay him by an order, it does
not much signify; and I can well understand your impa
tience to feel discharged of the debt. But it is already
late; and if it must be so, you had better start.
وو
"True," said Aram to the above remark of Lester's,
as the two stood together without the door; "but do you
feel quite secure and guarded against any renewed at-
tack ?
CC
""
Why, unless they bring a regiment, yes! I have put
a body of our patrol on a service where they can scarce
be inefficient, viz. I have stationed them in the house,
instead of without; and I shall myself bear them company
through the greater part of the night: to-morrow I shall
remove all that I possess of value to **** (the county
town) including those unlucky guineas, which you will not
ease me of."
"The order you have kindly given me will amply sat-
isfy my purpose, "answered Aram: "And so, there bas
been no clue to these robberies discovered throughout the
day?"
"None to-morrow, the magistrates are to meet at
****, and concert measures it is absolutely impossible,
but that we should detect the villains in a few days, viz. if
they remain in these parts. I hope to heaven you will not
meet them this evening."
"I shall go well armed," answered Aram, "and the
horse you lend me is fleet and strong. And now, farewell
for the present; I shall probably not return to Grassdale
this night, or if I do, it will be at so late an hour, that I
shall seek my own domicile without disturbing you.
No, no; you had better remain in the town, and not
return till morning," said the squire; "and now let us come
to the stables.”
To obviate all chance of suspicion as to the real place of
his destination, Aram deliberately rode to the town he had
mentioned, as the one in which his pretended creditor
expected him. He put up at an inn, walked forth, as if to
visit some one in the town, returned, remounted, and by a
circuitous route, came into the neighbourhood of the place
in which he was to meet Houseman: then turning into a
long and dense chain of wood, he fastened his horse to a
tree, and looking to the priming of his pistols, which he
carried under his riding-cloak, proceeded to the spot on
foot.
The night was still, and not wholly dark; for the clouds
lay scattered, though dense, and suffered many stars to
gleam through the heavy air; the moon herself was abroad,
but on her decline, and looked forth with a wan and sad-
dened aspect, as she travelled from cloud to cloud. It has
been the necessary course of our narrative, to portray
Aram, more often than to give an exact notion of his
character we could have altogether wished, in his weaker
moments; but whenever he stood in the actual presence
of danger, his whole soul was in arms to cope with it
worthily courage, sagacity, even cunning, all awakened
to the encounter; and the mind which his life had so aus-
terely cultivated repaid him in the urgent season, with its
acute address, and unswerving hardihood. The Devil's
Crag, as it was popularly called, was a spot consecrated
by many a wild tradition, which would not, perhaps, be
wholly out of character with the dark thread of this tale,
were we, in accordance with certain of our brethren who
seem to think a novel like a bundle of wood, the more fag-
gots it contains the greater its value, allowed by the rapid-
ity of our narrative to relate them.
The same stream which lent so soft an attraction to the
valleys of Grassdale, here assumed a different character
THE ACTORS. —ARAM'S ADDRESS AND POWERS broad, black, and rushing, it whirled along a course, over-
OF PERSUASION OR HYPOCRISY. THEIR RESULT.
- A FEARFUL NIGHT. — ARAM'S SOLITARY RIDE
hung by shagged and abrupt banks. On the opposite side
to that by which Aram now pursued his path, an almost
HOMEWARD. WHOM HE MEETS BY THE WAY, perpendicular mountain was covered with gigantic pine and
AND WHAT HE SEES.
"Macbeth. Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead.
*
*
Donalbain. Our separate fortune
Shall keep us both the safer.
Old Man.
*
*
*
*
Hours dreadful and things strange."
Macbeth.
"AND you must really go to *****, to pay your im-
portunate creditor this very evening? Sunday is a bad day
VOL I.
70
fir, that might have reminded a German wanderer of the
darkest recesses of the Hartz, and seemed, indeed, no un-
worthy haunt for the weird huntsman, or the forest fiend.
Over this wood the moon now shimmered, with the pale
and feeble light we have already described; and only threw
into a more sombre shade the motionless and gloomy foliage.
Of all the offspring of the forest, the fir bears, perhaps, the
most saddening and desolate aspect. Its long branches,
without absolute leaf or blossom; its dead, dark, eternal
hue, which the winter seems to wither not, nor the spring
to revive, have, I know not what of a mystic and unnatu
ral life. Around all woodland, there is that horror umbra-
BULWER'S NOVELS
rum which becomes more remarkably solemn and awing
amidst the silence and depth of night but this is yet more
especially the characteristic of that sullen evergreen. Per-
naps, too, this effect is increased by the sterile and dreary
soil, on which, when in groves, it is generally found; and
its very hardiness, the very pertinacity with which it draws
its strange and unfluctuating life, from the sternest wastes
and most reluctant strata, cnbance, unconsciously, the un-
welcome effect it is calculated to create upon the mind. At
this place, too, the waters that dashed beneath gave yet
additional wildness to the rank verdure of the wood, and
contributed, by their rushing darkness, partially broken by
the stars, and the hoarse roar of their chafed course, a yet
more grim and savage sublimity to the scene.
the grin of his teeth was visible through the dulness of the
shade. "But come, give me your hand, and I will ven-
ture to conduct you through the thicket :- that is your left
hand," observed Houseman, with a sharp and angry suspi-
cion in his tone; give me the right.”
"As you will," said Aram, in a subdued, yet meaning
voice, that seemed to come from his heart; and thrilled, for
an instant, to the bones of him who heard it ;
"as you
will; but for fourteen years I have not given this right
hand, in pledge of fellowship, to living man; you alone
deserve the courtesy, there!"
Houseman hesitated, before he took the hand now ex
tended to him.
"Pshaw!" said he, as if indignant at himself, “what!
Winding a narrow path (for the whole country was as scruples at a shadow! Come," (grasping the hand,)
familiar as a garden to his footstep) that led through the
"that's well,
so, so; now we are in the thicket,- tread
tall wet herbage, almost along the perilous brink of the firm, this way, hold," continued Houseman, under his
stream, Aram was now aware, by the increased and deaf-breath, as suspicion anew seemed to cross him ; "hold!
ening sound of the waters, that the appointed spot was we can see each other's face not even dimly now but in
nearly gained; and presently the glimmering and imperfect this hand, my right is free, I have a knife that has done
light of the skies revealed the dim shape of a gigantic good service ere this; and if I feel cause to suspect that
rock, that rose abruptly from the middle of the stream; and you meditate to play me false, I bury it in your heart; do
which, rude, barren, vast, as it really was, seemed now, by you heed me?”
the uncertainty of night, like some monstrous and deformed
creature of the waters, suddenly emerging from their vexed
and dreary depths. This was the far-famed Crag, which
had borrowed from tradition its evil and ominous name.
And now, the stream, bending round with a broad and sud-
den swoop, showed at a little distance, ghostly and indis-
tinct through the darkness, the mighty waterfall, whose roar |
had been his guide. Only in one streak a-down the giant
cataract, the stars were reflected; and this long train of
broken light glittered preternaturally forth through the rug-
ged crags and the sombre verdure, that wrapped either side
of the waterfall in utter and rayless gloom.
Nothing could exceed the forlorn and terrific grandeur of
the spot; the roar of the waters supplied to the ear what
the night forbade to the eye. Incessant and eternal they
thundered down into the gulf; and then shooting over that
fearful basin, and forming another, but a mimic fall, dashed
on, till they were opposed by the sullen and abrupt crag
below and besieging its base with a renewed roar, sent
their foamy and angry spray half way up the hoar ascent.
At this stern and dreary spot, well suited for such con-
erences as Aram and Houseman alone could hold ; and
which, whatever was the original secret that linked the two
nen thus strangely, seemed of necessity to partake of a
lesperate and lawless character, with danger for its main
opic, and death itself for its coloring, Aram now paused,
and with an eye accustomed to the darkness, looked around
for his companion.
He did not wait long: from. the profound shadow that
girded the space immediately around the fall, Houseman
now emerged and joined the student. The stunning noise
of the cataract in the place where they met forbade any
attempt to converse; and they walked on by the course of
the stream, to gain a spot less in reach of the deafening
shout of the mountain giant as he rushed, with his banded
waters, upon the valley like a foe.
It was noticeable that as they proceeded, Aram walked
on with an unsuspicious and careless demeanour; but House-
man, pointing out the way with his hand, not leading it,
kept a little behind Aram, and watched his motions with
a vigilant and wary eye. The student, who had diverged
from the path at Houseman's direction, now paused at a
place where the matted bushes seemed to forbid any further
progress, and said, for the first time breaking the silence,
"We cannot proceed; shall this be the place of our con-
ference ?"
No," said Houseman, "we had better pierce the
bushes. I know the way, but will not lead it."
"And wherefore?"
"The mark of your gripe is still on my throat," replied
Houseman, significantly; "you know as well as I, that it is
not always safe to have a friend lagging behind.'
"Let us rest here, then," said Aram, calmly, the dark-
ness veiling any alteration of his countenance, which his
comrade's suspicion might have created.
"Yet it were much better," said Houseman, doubtingly,
❝ could we gain the cave below.”
"The cave!" said Aram, starting, as if the word had
a sound of fear.
Ay, ay but not St Robert's," said Houseman; and
|
"Fool!" said Aram, scornfully, "I should dread you
dead yet more than living."
Houseman made no answer; but continued to grope on
through the path in the thicket, which he evidently knew
well; though even in daylight, so thick were the trees, and
so artfully had their boughs been left to cover the track, no
path could have been discovered by one unacquainted with
the clue.
They had now walked on for some minutes, and of late
their steps had been threading a rugged, and somewhat
precipitous descent: all this while, the pulse of the hand
Houseman held, beat with as steadfast and calm a throb,
as in the most quiet mood of learned meditation; although
Aram could not but be conscious that a mere accident, a
slip of the foot, an entanglement in the briers, might awak-
en the irritable fears of his ruffian comrade, and bring the
knife to his breast. But this was not that form of death
that could shake the nerves of Aram; nor, though arming
his whole soul to ward off one danger, was he well sensi
ble of another, that might have seemed equally near and
probable, to a less collected and energetic nature. House-
man now halted, again put aside the boughs, proceeded a
few steps, and by a certain dampness and oppression in the
air, Aram rightly conjectured himself in the cavern House-
man had spoken of.
"We are landed now," said Houseman; "but wait, I
will strike a light; I do not love darkness, even with an
other sort of companion than the one I have now the honor
to entertain!"
In a few moments a light was produced, and placed aloft
on a crag in the cavern; but the ray it gave was feeble and
dull, and left all beyond the immediate spot in which they
stood, in a darkness little less Cimmerian than before.
"'Fore Gad, it is cold," said Houseman, shivering; “but
I have taken care, you see, to provide for a friend's com-
fort;" so saying, he approached a bundle of dry sticks and
leaves, piled at one corner of the cave, applied the light to
the fuel, and presently, the fire rose crackling, breaking
into a thousand sparks, and freeing itself gradually from
the clouds of smoke in which it was enveloped. It now
mounted into a ruddy and cheering flame, and the warm
glow played picturesquely upon the gray sides of the
cavern, which was of a rugged shape, and small dimen-
sions, and cast its reddening light over the forms of the
two men.
Houseman stood close to the flame, spreading his hands
over it, and a sort of grim complacency stealing along feat-
ures singularly ill favored and sinister in their expression,
as he felt the animal luxury of the warmth.
Across his middle was a broad leathern belt, containing
a brace of large horse-pistols, and the knife, or rather dag-
ger, with which he had menaced Aram, an instrument
sharpened on both sides, and nearly a foot in length. Al-
together, what with his muscular breadth of figure, his
hard and rugged features, his weapons, and a certain reck-
less, bravo air which indescribably marked his attitude and
bearing, it was not well possible to imagine a fitter hab
itant for that grim cave, or one from whom men of peace,
like Eugene Aram, might have seemed to derive more
reasonable cause of alarm
EUGENE ARAM.
558
The scholar stood at a little distance, waiting till his
companion was entirely prepared for the conference, and
bis pale and lofty features hushed in their usual deep, but
at such a moment, almost preternatural repose. He stood
leaning with folded arms against the rude wall; the light |
reflected upon
his dark garments, with the graceful riding-
cloak of the day half falling from his shoulder, and reveal-
ing also the pistols in his belt, and the sword, which,
though cominonly worn at that time, by all pretending to
superiority above the lower and trading orders, Aram usu-
ally waived as a distinction, but now carried as a defence.
And nothing could be more striking, than the contrast be-
tween the ruffian form of his companion, and the delicate
and chiselled beauty of the student's features, with their
air of mournful intelligence and serene command, and the
slender, though nervous symmetry of his frame.
"Houseman," said Aram, now advancing, as his com-
rade turned his face from the flame, towards him; "before
we enter on the main subject of our proposed commune,
tell me, were you engaged on the attempt last night upon
Lester's house?"
"By the fiend, no!" answered Houseman, "nor did I
learn it till this morning; it was unpremeditated till within
a few hours of the time, by the two fools who alone plan-
ned it. The fact is, that myself and the greater part of
our little band were engaged some miles off, in the west-
ern part of the county. Two (our general) spies, had
been, of their own accord, into your neighbourhood, to re-
connoitre. They marked Lester's house during the day,
and gathered (as I can say by experience it was easy to
do) from unsuspected inquiry in the village, for they wore
a clown's dress, several particulars which induced them to
think it contained what might repay the trouble of break-
ing into it. And walking along the fields, they overheard
the good master of the house tell one of his neighbours of a
large sum at home; nay, even describe the place where it
was kept: that determined them; they feared, (as the
old man indeed observed,) that the sum might be removed
the next day; they had noted the house sufficiently to profit
by the description given: they resolved, then, of themselves,
for it was too late to reckon on our assistance, to break
into the room in which the money was kept, though from
the aroused vigilance of the frightened hamlet and the force
within the house, they resolved to attempt no further boo-
ty. They reckoned on the violence of the storm, and the
darkness of the night, to prevent their being heard or seen;
they were mistaken, — the house was alarmed, they were
no sooner in the luckless room, than
CC
Well, I know the rest; was the one wounded danger-
ously hurt?"
|
of denying my claims: the desire of compromise alone can
have brought you hither."
"You speak well," said Aram, preserving the admirable
coolness of his manner, and continuing the deep and ɛaga-
cious hypocrisy by which he sought to baffle the dogged
covetousness and keen sense of interest with which he had
to contend. "It is not easy for either of us to deceive the
other. We are men, whose perceptions a life of danger
has sharpened upon all points; I speak to you frankly, for
disguise is unavailing. Though I can fly from your reach,
though I can desert my present home and my intended
bride, I would fain think I have free and secure choice to
preserve that exact path and scene of life which I have
chalked out for myself: I would fain be rid of all appre-
hension from you. There are two ways only by which this
security can be won: the first is through your death;-
have
nay, start not, nor put your hand on your pistol; you
not now cause to fear me. Had I chosen that method of
escape, I could have effected it long since. When, months
ago, you slept under my roof,
what should
ay, slept,
have hindered me from stabbing you during the elumber?
Two nights since, when my blood was up, and the fury
upon me, what should have prevented me tightening the
grasp that you so resent, and laying you breathless at my
feet? Nay, now, though you keep your eye fixed on my
motions, and your hand upon your weapon, you would be no
match for a desperate and resolved man, who might as well
perish in conflict with you, as by the protracted accomplish-
ment of your threats. Your ball might fail,- (even now I
see your hand trembles) - mine, if I so will it, is certain
death. No, Houseman, it would be as vain for your eye to
scan the dark pool into whose breast yon cataract casts
its waters, as for your intellect to pierce the depths of my
mind and motives. Your murder, though in self-defence,
would lay a weight upon my soul, which would sink it fo
ever: I should see, in your death, new chances of detec-
tion spread themselves before me the terrors of the dead
are not to be bought or awed into silence; I should pass
from one peril into another; and the law's dread vengeance
might fall upon me, through the last peril, even yet more
surely than through the first. Be composed, then, on this
point! From my hand, unless you urge it madly upon your-
self, you are wholly safe. Let us turn to my second method
of attaining security. It lies, not in your momentary ces-
sation from persecutions; not in your absence from this
spot alone; you must quit the country, you must never
return to it, your home must be cast, and your very grave
dug in a foreign soil. Are you prepared for this? If not,
I can say no more; and I again cast myself passive into
the arms of fate."
"Oh, he will recover, he will recover; our men are no "You ask," said Houseman, whose fears were allayed
chickens. But I own I thought it natural that you might by Aram's address, though, at the same time, his dissolute
suspect me of sharing in the attack; and though, as I have and desperate nature was subdued and tamed in spite of
said before, I do not love you, I have no wish to embroil himself, by the very composure of the loftier mind with
matters so far as an cutrage on the house of your father-which it was brought in contact : you ask," said he, "no
in-law might be reasonably expected to do:- at all events,
while the gate to an amicable compromise between us is
still open.
"I am satisfied on this head,” said Aram, "and I can
now treat with you in a spirit of less distrustful precaution
than before. I tell you, Houseman, that the terms are no
longer at your control; you must leave this part of the
country, and that forthwith, or you inevitably perish. The
whole population is alarmed, and the most vigilant of the
London police have been already sent for. Life is sweet to
you, as to us all, and I cannot imagine you so mad, as to
incur not the risk, but the certainty, of losing it. You can
no longer therefore, hold the threat of your presence over
my head. Besides, were you able to do so, I at least have
the power, which you seem to have forgotten, of freeing
myself from it. Am I chained to yonder valleys have I
not the facility of quitting them at any moment I will? of
seeking a hiding-place, which might baffle, not only your
vigilance to discover me, but that of the law? True, my
approaching marriage puts some clog upon my wing; but
you know that I, of all men, am not likely to be the slave
of passion. And what ties are strong enough to arrest the
steps of him who flies from a fearful death? Am I using
sophistry here, Houseman? Have I not reason on my
side?"
"What you say is true enough," said Houseman, reluc-
tantly; "I do not gainsay it. But I know you have not
sought me, in this spot, and at this hour, for the purpose
trifling favor of a man, to desert his country for ever;
but I am no dreamer, to love one spot better than another
I should, perhaps, prefer a foreign clime, as the safer and
the freer from old recollections, if I could live in it as a
man who loves the relish of life should do. Show me the
advantages I am to gain by exile, and farewell to the pale
cliffs of England for ever!
وژ
I am
"Your demand is just," answered Aram; "listen, then.
I am willing to coin all my poor wealth, save alone the
barest pittance wherewith to sustain life; nay, more,
prepared also to melt down the whole of my possible ex-
pectations from others, into the form of an annuity to your-
self. But mark, it will be taken out of my hands, so that
you can have no power over me to alter the conditions with
which it will be saddled. It will be so vested that it shall
commence the moment you touch a foreign clime; and
wholly and for ever cease the moment you set foot on any
part of English ground; or, mark also, at the moment of
my
death. I shall then know that no farther hope from me
can induce you to risk this income; for, as I should have
spent my all in attaining it, you cannot even meditate the
design of extorting more. I shall know that you will not
menace my life; for my death would be the destruction of
your fortunes. We shall live thus separate and secure from
each other; you will have only cause to hope for my safety;
and I shall have no reason to shudder at yours. Through
one channel alone could I then fear; namely, that in dy mg,
you should enjoy the fruitless vengeance of criminating me.
556
BULWER'S NOVELS
But his chance I must patiently endure : you, if older, are
more robust and hardy than nyself, your life will prob-
ably be longer than mine; and, even were it otherwise,
why should we destroy one another? At my death-bed I
will solemnly swear to respect your secret; why not on
your part, I say not swear, but resolve, to respect mine?
We cannot ove one another; but why hate with a gratuit-
ous and demon vengeance? No, Houseman, however cir-
cumstances may have darkened or steeled your heart, it is
touched with humanity yet, you will have owed to me
the bread of a secure and easy existence, you will feel
that I have stripped myself, even to penury, to purchase the
comforts I cheerfully resign to you, -you will remember
that, instead of the sacrifices enjoined by this alternative, I
might have sought only to counteract your threats, by at-
tempting a life that you strove to make a snare and torture
o my own. You will remember this; and you will not
rudge me the austere and gloomy solitude in which I seek
o forget, or the one solace with which I, perhaps vainly,
endeavour to cheer my passage to a quiet grave. No,
Houseman, no; dislike, hate, menace me as you will, I still
feel I shall have no cause to dread the mere wantonness of
your revenge.
و
These words, aided by a tone of voice, and an expres-
sion of countenance that gave them perhaps their chief
effect, took even the hardened nature of Houseman by sur-
prise; he was affected by an emotion which he could not
have believed it possible the man who till then had galled
him by the humbling sense of inferiority, could have cre-
ated. He extended his hand to Aram.
"By
"he exclaimed, with an oath which we
spare the reader, you are right! you have made me as
helpless in your hands, as an infant. I accept your offer,
accept your offer,
if I were to refuse it, I should be driven to the samne
courses I now pursue. But look you; I know not what
may be the amount of the annuity you can raise. I shall
not, however, require more than will satisfy wants, which,
if not so scanty as your own, are not at least very extrava-
gant or very refined.
refined. As for the rest, if there be any sur-
plus, in God's name keep it for yourself, and rest assured
that, so far as I am concerned, you shall be molested no
more.
59
"No, Houseman," said Aram, with a half smile, "you
shall have all I first mentioned; that is, all beyond what
nature craves, honorably and fully. Man's best resolutions.
are weak if you knew I possessed, aught to spare, a
fancied want, a momentary extravagance might tempt you
to demand it. Let us put ourselves beyond the possible
reach of temptation. But do not flatter yourself by the
hope that the income will be magnificent. My own annui-
ty is but trifling, and half of the dowry I expect from my
future father-in-law, is all that I can at present obtain.
The whole of that dowry is insignificant as a sum. But if
this does not suffice for you, I must beg or borrow else-
where.
"This, after all, is a pleasanter way of settling busi-
ess," said Houseman, " than by threats and anger. And
ow I will tell you exactly the sum on which, if I could
eceive it yearly, I could live without looking beyond the
pale of the law for more, on which I could cheerfully
renounce England, and commence the honest man.' But
then, hark you, I must have half settled on my little daugh-
ter."
"What! have you a child?" said Aram, eagerly, and
well pleased to find an additional security for his own safety.
Ay, a little girl, my only one, in her eighth year; she
lives with her grandmother, for she is motherless, and that
gir must not be left quite penniless should I be summoned
hence before my time. Some twelve years hence,
poor Jane promises to be pretty, she may be married off
my hands; but her childhood must not be left to the chances
of beggary or shame.”
as
"Doubtless not, doubtless not. Who shall say now that
we ever outlive feeling?" said Aram. "Half the annuity
shall be settled upon her, should she survive you but on
the same conditions, ceasing when I die, or the instant of
your return to England. And now, name the sum that
deem sufficing."
you
Why," said Houseman, counting on his fingers, and
muttering" twenty,— fifty, — wine and the creature cheap
abroad, humph! a hundred for living, and half as much
br pleasure. Come, Aram, one hundred and fifty guineas
per annum, English money, will do for a foreign life,-
you see I am easily satisfied."
"Be it so," said Aram, "I will engage by one means
or another to procure it. For this purpose I shall set out
for London to-morrow; I will not lose a moment in seeing
the necessary settlement made as we have specified. But
meanwhile, you must engage to leave this neighbourhood,
and if possible, cause your comrades to do the same,
although you will not hesitate, for the sake of your own.
safety, immediately to separate from them."
Now that we are on good terms," replied Houseman,
"I will not scruple to oblige you in these particulars. My
comrades intend to quit the country before to-morrow; nay,
half are already gone; by daybreak I myself will be some
miles hence, and separated from each of them. Let us
meet in London after the business is completed, and there
conclude our last interview on earth."
"What will be your address?"
"In Lambeth there is a narrow alley that leads to the
water-side, called Peveril Lane. The last house to the
right, towards the river, is my usual lodging; a safe resting-
place at all times, and for all men.”
"There then will I seek you. And now, Houseman,
fare you well!
well! As
As you remember your word to me, may
life flow smooth for your child."
Eugene Aram," said Houseman, "there is about you
something against which the fiercer devil within me would
rise in vain. I have read that the tiger can be awed by
the human eye, and you compel me into submission by a
spell equally unaccountable. You are a singular man, and
it seems to me a riddle, how we could ever have been thus
connected; or how, but we will not rip up the past, it
is an ugly sight, and the fire is just out. Those stories do
not do for the dark. But to return; were it only for the
sake of my child, you might depend upon me now; better
100 an arrangement of this sort, than if I had a larger sum
in hand which I might be tempted to fling away, and in
looking for more, run my neck into a halter, and leave
poor Jane upon charity. But come, it is alınost dark
again, and no doubt you wish to be stirring
stay, I will
lead you back, and put you on the right track, lest you
stumble on my friends."
"Is this cavern one of their haunts?" said Aram.
"Sometimes but they sleep the other side of the
Devil's Crag to-night. Nothing like a change of quarters
for longevity, eh?
"And they easily spare you ?"
"Yes, if it be only on rare occasions, and on the plea
of family business. Now then, your hand, as before.
Jesu! how it rains, lightning too, I could look with
less fear on a naked sword, than those red, forked, blind-
ing flashes,- Hark! thunder."
-
The night had now, indeed, suddenly changed its as
pect; the rain descended in torrents, even more impetu-
ously than on the former night, while the thunder burst
over their very heads, as they wound upward through the
brake. With every instant, the lightning broke from the
riven chasm of the blackness that seemed suspended as in
a solid substance above, brightened the whole heaven into
one livid and terrific flame, and showed to the two men the
faces of each other, rendered deathlike and ghastly by the
glare. Houseman was evidently affected by the fear that
sometimes seizes even the sturdiest criminals, when ex-
posed to those more fearful phenomena of the heavens,
which seem to humble into nothing the power and the
wrath of man. His teeth chattered, and he muttered
broken words about the peril of wandering near trees
when the lightning was of that forked character, acceler-
ating his pace at every sentence, and sometimes interrupt
ing himself with an ejaculation, half oath, half prayer, or
a congratulation that the rain at least diminished the dan-
ger. They soon cleared the thicket, and a few minutes
brought them once more to the banks of the stream, and
the increased roar of the cataract. No earthly scene
could perhaps surpass the appalling sublimity of that which
they beheld; every instant the lightning, which became
more and more frequent, converting the black waters into
billows of living fire, or wreathing itself in hrid spires
around the huge crag that now rose in sight; and again, as
the thunder rolled onward, darting its vain fury upon the
rushing cataract, and the tortured breast of the gulf that
raved below.
raved below. And the sounds that filled the air were ever
EUGENE ARAM.
G
More fraught with terror and menace than the scene; the
waving, the groans, the crash of the pines on the hill, the
impetuous force of the rain upon the whirling river, and
the everlasting roar of the cataract, answered anon by the
ye? more awful voice that burst above it from the clouds.
They halted while yet sufficiently distant from the cata-
ract to be heard by each other. My path," said Aram,
as the lightning now paused upon the scene, and seemed
literally to wrap in a lurid shroud the dark figure of the
student, as he stood, with his hand calmly raised, and his
cheek pale, but dauntless and composed; my path now
lies yonder in a week we shall meet again."
"By the fiend," said Houseman, shuddering, "I would
not, for a full hundred, ride alone through the moor you
will pass. There stands a gibbet by the road, on which a
parricide was hanged in chains. Pray heaven this night
be no omen of the success of our present compact!
"A steady heart, Houseman," answered Aram, striking
into the separate path, "is its own omen."
'
The student soon gained the spot in which he had left
his horse; the animal had not attempted to break the bri-
dle, but stood trembling from limb to limb, and testified
by a quick short neigh the satisfaction with which it hailed
the approach of its master, and found itself no longer alone.
Aram remounted, and hastened once more into the main
road. He scarcely felt the rain, though the fierce wind
drove it right against his path; he scarcely inarked the
lightning, though at times it seemed to dart its arrows on
his very form; his heart was absorbed in the success of his
schemes.
at any cost. Courage, Eugene Aram! thy mind, for whier
thou hast lived, and for which thou hast hazarded thy soul,
if soul and mind be distinct from each other,
thy mind
can support thee yet through every peril: not till thou art
stricken into idiotcy, shalt thou behold thyself defenceless.
How cheerfully," muttered he, after a momentary pause,
"how cheerfully, for safety, and to breathe with a quiet
heart the air of Madeline's presence, shall I rid myself of
all save enough to defy want. And want can never now
come to me, as of old. He who knows the sources of every
science from which wealth is wrought, holds even wealth at
his will."
Breaking at every interval into these soliloquies, Aram
continued to breast the storm until he had won half his
journey, and had come upon a long and bleak moor, which
was the entrance to that beautiful line of country in which
the valleys around Grassdale are embosomed : faster and
faster came the rain; and though the thunder clouds were
now behind, they yet followed loweringly, in their black
array, the path of the lonely horseman.
But now he heard the sound of hoots making towards
him; he drew his horse on one side of the road, and at trat
instant a broad flash of lightning illumining the space
around, he beheld four horsemen speeding along at a rapic
gallop; they were armed, and conversing loudly, their
oaths were heard jarringly and distinctly amidst all the
more solemn and terrific sounds of the night. They came
on, sweeping by the student, whose hand was on his pistol,
for he recognised in one of the riders the man who had
escaped unwounded from Lester's house. He and his
comrades were evidently, then, Houseman's desperate asso-
ciates; and they too, though they were borne too rapidly
seen the solitary traveller, and already wheeled round, and
called upon him to halt.
"Let the storm without howl on," thought he; "that
within hath a respite at last Amidst the winds and rains
I can breathe more freely than I have done on the smooth-by Aram to be able to rein in their horses on the spot, had
est summer day. By the charm of a deeper mind and a
subtler tongue, I have then conquered this desperate foe;
I have silenced this inveterate spy: and, heaven be prais-
ed, he too has human ties; and by those ties I hold him!
Now, then, I hasten to London, I arrange this annuity,
-see that the law tightens every cord of the compact; and
when all is done, and this dangerous man fairly departed
on his exile, I return to Madeline, and devote to her a life
no longer the vassal of accident and the hour: but I have
been taught caution. Secure as my own prudence may
have made me from further apprehension of Houseman, I
will yet place myself wholly beyond his power: I will still
consummate my former purpose, adopt a new name, and
seek a new retreat; Madeline may not know the real cause;
but this brain is not barren of excuse. Ah! as drawing
his cloak closer round him, he felt the purse hid within his
breast which contained the order he had obtained from
Lester; "Ah!" this will now add its quota to purchase,
not a momentary relief, but the stipend of perpetual silence.
I have passed through the ordeal easier than I had hoped
for. Had the devil at his heart been more difficult to lay,
so necessarv is his absence, that I must have purchased it
دو
The lightning was again gone, and the darkness snatch-
ed the robbers and their intended victim from the sight of
each other. But Aram had not lost a moment; fast fled his
horse across the moor, and when, with the next flash, he
looked back, he saw the ruffians, unwilling even for booty
to encounter the horrors of the night, had followed him but
a few paces, and again turned round; still he dashed on
and had now nearly passed the moor; the thunder rolled
fainter and fainter from behind, and the lightning only broke
forth at prolonged intervals, when suddenly, after a pause
of unusual duration, it brought the whole scene into a light,
if less intolerable, even more livid than before. The horse,
that had hitherto sped on without start or stumble, now re-
coiled in abrupt affright; and the horseman, looking up at
the cause, beheld the gibbet of which Houseman had spo-
ken immediately fronting his path, with its ghastly tenan
waving to and fro, as the winds rattled through the parched
and arid bones; and the inexpressible grin of the skul
fixed, as in mockery, upon his countenance
髓
​BULWER'S NOVELS.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
Η Κύπρις οὐ πάνδημος· ἱλάσχει τὴν θεὸν εἰπὼν
Ουρανιάν.
ΠΡΑΞΙΝΟΉ. Θάρσει, Ζωπυρίων, γλυκερὸν τέκος οὐ λέγω ἀποῦν.
ΓΟΡΓΩ. Αἰσθάνεται τὸ βρέφος, ναὶ τὰν πότνιαν.
ӨЕОКР.
CHAPTER I.
I WHICH WE RETURN TO WALTER. HIS DEBT OF
GRATITUDE TO MR. PERTINAX FILLGRAVE. THE
The corporal was not long in reaching the town, and
alarming the loungers at the inn-docr. A posse comitatus
was soon formed; and, armed as if they were to have en-
countered all the robbers between Hounslow and the Apen-
CORPORAL'S ADVICE, AND THE CORPORAL'S VIC- nines, a band of heroes, with the corporal, who had first
TORY.
"Let a physician he ever so excellent, there will be those that
censure him."
Gil Blas.
any
WE left Walter in a situation of that critical nature,
that it would be inhuman to delay our return to him
longer. The blow by which he had been felled, stunned
him for an instant; but his frame was of no common
strength and hardihood, and the imminent peril in which
he was placed served to recall him from the momentary
insensibility. On recovering himself, he felt that the ruf-
fians were dragging him towards the hedge, and the thought
flashed upon him, that their object was murder. Nerved
by this idea, he collected his strength, and suddenly wrest-
ing himself from the grasp of one of the ruffians who had
seized him by the collar, he had already gained his knee,
now his feet, when a second blow once more deprived him
of sense.
When a dim and struggling consciousness recurred to
him, he found that the villains had dragged him to the
opposite side of the hedge, and were deliberately robbing
him. He was on the point of renewing a useless and
dangerous struggle, when one of the ruffians said,
"I think he stirs; I had better draw my knife across his
throat."
deliberately re-loaded his pistols, at their head, set off to
succor "the poor gentleman what was already murdered."
They had not got far before they found Walter's horse,
which had luckily broke from the robbers, and was now
quietly regaling himself on a patch of graes by the road-
side. "He can get his supper, the beast," grunted the
corporal, thinking of his own; and bade one of the party
try to catch the animal, which, however, would have de-
clined all such proffers, had not a long neigh of recogni-
tion from the Roman nose of the corporal's steed, striking
familiarly on the straggler's ear, called it forthwith to the
corporal's side; and (while the two chargers exchanged
greeting) the corporal seized its rein.
When they came to the spot from which the robbers had
made their sally, all was still and tranquil; no Walter wag
to be seen the corporal cautiously dismounted, and search.
ed about with as much minuteness as if he were looking for
a pin; but the host of the inn at which the travellers had
dined the day before stumbled at once on the right track.
Gouts of blood on the white chalky soil directed him to the
hedge, and, creeping through a small and recent gap, he
discovered the yet breathing body of the young traveller.
Walter was now conducted with much care to the inn;
a surgeon was already in attendance; for, having heard that
a gentleman had been murdered without his knowledge,
Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave had rushed from his house, and
"Pooh, no!" replied another voice, "never kill if it can
be helped trust me 't is an ugly thing to think of after-placed himself on the road, that the poor creature might
wards. Besides, what use is it? A robbery, in these
parts, is done and forgotten; but a murder rouses the
whole country.
"Damnation, man! why, the deed 's done already : he's
as dead as a door-nail."
"Dead!" said the other, in a startled voice; " no,
no!" and leaning down, the ruffian placed his hand on
Walter's heart. The unfortunate traveller felt his flesh
creep as the hand touched him, but prudently abstained
from motion or exclamation. He thought, however, as
with dizzy and half-shut eyes he caught the shadowy and
dusky outline of the face that bent over him, so closely that
he felt the breath of its lips, that it was one that he had seen
before; and as the man now rose, and the wan light of the
skies gave a somewhat clearer view of his features, the sup-
position was heightened, though not absolutely confirmed.
But Walter had no further power to observe his plunderers:
again his brain reeled; the dark trees, the grim shadows
of human forms, swam before his glazing eye; and he sunk
once more into a profound insensibility.
Meanwhile, the doughty corporal had at the first sight of
his master's fall, halted abruptly at the spot to which his
steed had carried him; and, coming rapidly to the con-
clusion that three men were best encountered at a distance,
he fired his two pistols, and without staying to see if they
took effect, which, indeed, they did not, galloped down the
precipitous hill with as much despatch as if it had been the
last stage to "Lunnun."
66
My poor young master!" muttered he: "But if the
worst comes to the worst, the chief part of the money 's
in the saddle-bags any how; and so, messieurs thieves,
you're bit, baugh!
J
"
not, at least, be buried without his assistance. So eager
was he to begin, that he scarce suffered the unfortunate
Walter to be taken within, before he whipped out his in-
struments, and set to work with the smack of an amateur.
Although the surgeon declared his patient to be in the
greatest possible danger, the sagacious corporal, who thought
himself more privileged to know about wounds than any
man of peace, by profession, however destructive by prac
tice, could possibly, be had himself examined those his
master had received, before he went down to taste his long-
delayed supper; and he now confidently assured the land.
lord, and the rest of the good company in the kitchen, that
the blows on the head had been mere fly-bites, and that his
master would be as well as ever in a week at the farthest.
And, indeed, when Walter the very next morning woke
from the stupor, rather than sleep, he had undergone, he
felt himself surprisingly better than the surgeon, producing
his probe, hastened to assure him he possibly could be.
By the help of Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave, Walter was de
tained several days in the town; nor is it wholly improba-
ble, but that for the dexterity of the corporal, he might be
in the town to this day; not, indeed, in the comfortable
shelter of the old-fashioned inn, but in the colder quarters
of a certain green spot, in which, despite of its rural at-
tractions, few persons are willing to fix a permanent hab-
itation.
Luckily, however, one evening, the corporal, who had
been, to say truth, very regular in his attendance on his
master; for, bating the selfishness, consequent, perhaps,
on bis knowledge of the world, Jacob Bunting was a good
natured man on the whole, and liked his master as well as
he did anything, always excepting Jacobina and board
EUGENE ARAM
559
wages; one evening, we say, the corporal coming into
Walter's apartment, found him sitting up in his bed, with
• very melancholy and dejected expression of countenance.
"And well, sir, what does the doctor say?" asked the
corporal, drawing aside the curtains.
CC
"Ah, Bunting, I faucy it's all over with me!
"The Lord forbid, sir! you 're a jesting, surely?"
Jesting! my good fellow, ah, just get me that phial."
"The filthy stuff!" said the corporal, with a wry face;
"Well, sir, if I had had the dressing of you, been half
way to Yorkshire by this. Man's a worm; and when a
doctor gets 'un on his hook, he is sure to angle for the devil
with the bait, augh!"
—
"What! you really think that damned fellow, Fillgrave,
is keeping me on in this way
?'
"Is he a fool, to give up three phials a-day, 4s. 6d.
iten, ditto, ditto?" cried the corporal, as if astonished at
the question. "But don't you feel yourself getting a deal
better every day? Don't you feel all this ere stuff revive
you?",
"No, indeed, I was amazingly better the first day than
I am now; I progress from worse to worse. Ah! Bunting,
if Peter Dealtry were here, he might help me to an appro-
priate epitaph as it is, I suppose I shall be very simply
labelled. Fillgrave will do the whole business, and put it
down in his bill, item, nine draughts, item, one epi-
taph."
Lord-a-mercy, your honor," said the corporal, draw-
ng out a little red-spotted pocket-handkerchief; "how
can-jest so it's quite moving.'
"I wish we were moving!" sighed the patient.
"And so we might be," cried the corporal; "so we
might, if you' pluck up a bit. Just let me look at your
4
honor's head; I know what a confusion is better nor any
of 'em.
The corporal having obtained permission, now removed
the bandages wherewith the doctor had bound his intended
sacrifice to Pluto, and after peering into the wounds for
about a minute, he thrust out his under lip, with a con-
temptuous,
"Pshaugh! augh! And how long," said he, "does
Master Fillgrave say you be to be under his hands,
augh!"
He gives me hopes that I may be taken out an airing
very gently, (yes, hearses always go very gently!) in about
three weeks!"
The corporal started, and broke into a long whistle.
He then grinned from car to ear, snapped his fingers, and
said,
"Man of the world, sir, -man of the world, every inch
of him!
"He seems resolved that I shall be a man of another
world," said Walter.
"Tell ye what, sir,- take my advice, -
your honor
knows I be no fool, throw off them ere wrappers; let
De put on scrap of plaster, — pitch phials to devil, — order
out horses to-morrow, and when you've been in the air
nalf an hour, won't know yourself again!
""
Bunting the horses out to-morrow?- Faith, I don't
think I could walk across the room.
"Just try, your honor.”
"Ah! I'm very weak, very weak, my dressing-gown
and slippers, your arm, Bunting, well, upon my honor,
I walk very stoutly, ch? I should not have thought this!
leave go why I really get on without your assistance."
"Walk as well as ever you did."
"Now I'm out of bed, I don't think I shall
don't think I shall go back
again to it."
"Would not, if I was your honor.”
"And after so much exercise, I really fancy I've a sort
of appetite."
"Like a beefsteak ?"
tr
Nothing better."
"Pint of wine?
"Why that would be too much,
"Not it."
eh ?"
"Go, then, my good Bunting; go and make haste,
stop, I say that d-d fellow,
"Good sign to swear
" interrupted the corporal;
swore twice within last five minutes,
famous symp-
tom ! "
"Do you choose to hear me? That d-d fellow, Fill-
grave, is coming back in an hour to bleed me do you
mount guard, refuse to let him in, - pay him his bill,
you have the money. And, hark ye, don't be rude to the
rascal.'
Kude, your honor! not I,- been in the forty-second,
- knows discipline, only rude to the privates!"
The corporal, having seen his master conduct himself
respectably toward the viands with which he supplied him,
having set his room to rights, brought him the candles,
borrowed him a book, and left him for the present in ex-
tremely good spirits, and prepared for the flight of the mor-
row; the corporal, I say, now lighting his pipe, stationed
himself at the door of the inn, and waited for Mr. Pertinax
Fillgrave. Presently the doctor, who was a little thin
man, came bustling across the street, and was about, with
a familiar "Good evening," to pass by the corporal, when
-"Beg
that worthy, dropping his pipe, said, respectfully,
a little favor. Will
pardon, sir,- want to speak to you,
your honor walk in the back parlour?"
"Oh! another patient," thought the doctor; "these
soldiers are careless fellows, often get into scrapes. Yes,
friend, I'm at your service."
The corporal showed the man of phials into the back
parlour, and, hemming thrice, looked sheepish, as in doubt
how to begin. It was the doctor's business to encourage
the bashful.
"Well, my good man," said he, brushing off, with the
arm of his coat, some dust that had settled on his inexpres-
sibles, "so you want to consult me?"
"Indeed, your honor, I do; but feel a little awkward in
doing so, — a stranger and all."
"Pooh ! medical men are never strangers. I am the
friend of every man who requires my assistance."
Augh !—and I do require your honor's assistance very
sadly.'
"Well, well, speak out. Any thing of long stand-
ing?"
CC
Why, only since we have been here, sir."
"Oh, that 's all! Well."
master at
"Your honor's so good,- that won't scruple in tell-
ing you all. You see as how we were robbed,
least was,— had some little in my pockets, but we poor
servants are never too rich. You seems such a kind gen-
tleman, -so attentive to master,- though you must have
felt how disinterested it was to 'tend to a man what had
been robbed, that I have no hesitation in making bold to
ask you to lend us a few guineas, just to help us out with
the bill here, bother!"
-
"Fellow!" said the doctor, rising, "I don't know
what you mean; but I'd have you to learn that I am not to
be cheated out of my time and property. I shall insist on
being paid my bill instantly, before I dress your master's
wound once more."
CC
Augh!" said the corporal, who was delighted to find
the doctor come so immediately into the snare;
"won't
be so cruel, surely, why, you'll leave us without a shiner
to pay my host here."
"Nonsense! - Your master, if he 's a gentleman, can
he's
write home for money."
"Ah, sir, all very well to say so; - but between you and
me and the bedpost, young master 's quarrelled with old
master,― old master won't give him a rap, - so I'm sure,
since your honor's a friend to every man who requires your
assistance,- noble saying, sir! -you won't refuse us a few
guineas;— and as for your bill, why,
Sir, you 're an impudent vagabond!" cried the doctor,
as red as a rose-draught, and flinging out of the room; “and
I warn you that I shall bring in my bill, and expect to be
paid within ten minutes."
he hurried home,
The doctor waited for no answer,
scratched off his account, and flew back with it in as much
haste as if his patient had been a month longer under his
care, and was consequently on the brink of that happier
world, where, since the inhabitants are immortal, it is
very evident that doctors, as being useless, are never ad-
mitted.
The corporal met him as before.
"There, sir," cried the doctor, breathlessly, and then
putting his arms akimbo, "take that to your master, and
desire him to pay me instantly.
Augh! and shall do no such thing."
"You won't ?"
"No, for shall pay you myself. Where's your wee stamp,
— eh ? "
560
BULWER'S NOVELS.
And with great composure the corporal drew out a well- |
filled purse, and discharged the bill. The doctor was so
thunderstricken, that he pocketed the money without utter-
ing a word. He consoled himself, however, with the belief
that Walter, whom he had tamed into a becoming hypochon-
dria, would be sure to send for him the next morning. Alas,
for mortal expectations! the next morning Walter was
once more on the road.
CHAPTER II.
__
NEW TRACES OF THE FATE OF GEOFFREY LESTER.
WALTER AND THE CORPORAL PROCEED ON A
FRESH EXPEDITION. THE CORPORAL IS ESPE-
CIALLY SAGACIO JS ON THE OLD TOPIC OF THE
WORLD. HIS OPINIONS ON THE MEN WHO CLAIM
KNOWLEDGE THEREOF. ON THE ADVANTAGES
ENJOYED BY A VALET. ON THE SCIENCE OF
SUCCESSFUL LOVE.
ON VIRTUE AND THE CON-
STITUTION. ON QUALITIES TO BE DESIRED IN A
MISTRESS, &c. A LANDSCAPE.
"This way of talking of his very much enlivens the conver-
sation among us of a more sedate turn.”—Spectator, No. 3.
WALTER found, while he made search himself, that it
was no easy matter, in so large a county as Yorkshire, to
obtain even the preliminary particulars, viz. the place of
residence, and the name of the colonel from India whose
dying gift his father had left the house of the worthy Court-
land, to claim and receive. But the moment he committed
the inquiry to the care of an active and intelligent lawyer,
the case seemed to brighten up prodigiously; and Walter
was shortly informed that a Colonel Elinore, who had been
in India, had died in the year 17-; that by a reference to
his will it appeared that he had left to Daniel Clarke the
sum of a thousand pounds, and the house in which he
resided before his death, the latter being merely leasehold
at a high rent, was specified in the will to be of small value:
it was situated in the outskirts of Knaresbro'. It was
also discovered that a Mr. Jonas Elmore, the only surviving
executor of the will, and a distant relation of the deceased
colonel's, lived about fifty miles from York, and could, in
all probability, better than any one, afford Walter those
further particulars of which he was so desirous to be in-
formed. Walter immediately proposed to his lawyer to
accompany him to this gentleman's house; but it so hap-
pened that the lawyer could not, for three or four days,
leave his business at York, and Walter, exceedingly impa-
tient to proceed on the intelligence thus granted him, and
disliking the meagre information obtained from letters,
when a personal interview could be obtained, resolved him-
self to repair to Mr. Jonas Elmore's without further delay;
and behold, therefore, our worthy corporal and his master
again mounted, and commencing a new journey.
The corporal, always fond of adventure, was in high
spirits.
"See, sir," said he to his master, patting with great
affection the neck of his steed, "see, sir, how brisk the
creturs are; what a deal of good their long rest at York
city's done 'em. Ah, your honor, what a fine town that ere
be! yet," added the corporal, with an air of great su-
periority, "it gives you no notion of Lunnun, like
the faith of a man, no!
ઃઃ
on
Well, Bunting, perhaps we may be in London within a
month hence.
“And afore we gets there, your honor, -no offence,
but should like to give you some advice; 't is ticklish place,
that Lunnun, and though you be by no manner of means
deficient in genus, yet, sir, you be young, and I be
وو
“Old,― true, Bunting," added Walter, very gravely.
Augh bother! old, sir, old, sir! - A man in the
prime of life, hair coal black, (bating a few gray ones
that have had, since twenty-care, and military service,
sir,)-carriage straight, teeth strong, not an ail in
the world, bating the rheumatics is not old, sir,
by no manner of means, — -baugh."
J
-
not
"You are very right, Bunting; when I said old, I meant
experienced. I assure you I shall be very grateful for your
advice: and suppose, while we walk our horses up this
(ianu
hill, you begin lecture the first. London is a fruitful su
ject. All you can say on it won't be soon exhausted"
"Ah, may well say that," replied the corporal, exceed
ingly flattered with the permission he had obtained, "
anything my poor wit can suggest, quite at your honor's
sarvice-ehem! hem! You must know by Lunnun, I
means the world, and by the world means Lunnun, - know
one know t'other. But 't is not them as affects to be
most knowing as be so at bottom. Begging your honor's
pardon, I tiks gentlefolks what lives only with gentle-
folks, and call themselves men of the world be often no
wiser nor pagan creturs, and live in a gentile darkness."
"The true knowledge of the world," said Walter, "is
only then for the corporals of the forty-second, — eh,
Bunting?"
:
M
"As to that, sir," quoth the corporal, "'t is not being
of this calling or of that calling, that helps one on; 't is an
inborn sort of genus, the talent of obsarving, and growing
wise by obsarving. One picks up crumb here, crumb
there but if one has not good digestion, Lord, what sin-
nifies a feast Healthy man thrives on a 'tatoe, sickly
looks pale on a haunch. You sees, your honor, as I said
afore, I was own sarvant to Colonel Dysart; he was a
lord's nephy, a very gay gentleman, and great hand with
the ladies, —not a man more in the world;- so I had the
opportunity of larning what 's what among the best set; at
his honor's expense, too,—augh! To my mind, sir, there
is not a place from which a man has a better view of things
than the bit carpet behind a gentleman's chair.
The gen-
tleman eats, and talks, and swears, and jests, and plays
cards, and makes love, and tries to cheat, and is cheated,
and his man stands behind with his eyes and ears open,
augh!'
"One should go to service to learn diplomacy, I see,"
said Walter, greatly amused.
"Does not know what 'plomacy be, sir, but knows it
would be better for many a young master nor all the col-
leges;- would not be so many bubbles if my lord could
take a turn now and then with Johm. A-well, sir, how I
used to laugh in my sleeve like, when I saw my master, who
was thought the knowingest gentleman about court, taken
in every day smack afore my face. There was one lady
whom he had tried hard, as he thought, to get away from
her husband; and he used to be so mighty pleased at every
glance from her brown eyes -and be d-d to them ! —
and so careful the husband should not see, so pluming
himself on his discretion here, and his conquest there,
when, Lord bless you, it was all settled 'twixt man and
wife aforehand! And while the colonel laughed at the
cuckold, the cuckold laughed at the dupe. For you sees,
sir, as how the colonel was a rich man, and the jewels as
he bought for the lady went half into the husband's pocket
he! he! That's the way of the world, sir, — that 's
the way of the world."
"Upon my word, you draw a very bad picture of the
world: you color highly; and, by the way, I observe that
whenever you find any man committing a roguish action,
instead of calling him a scoundrel, you show those great
teeth of yours, and chuckle out, A man of the word! a
man of the world!
C
'Tis
"To be sure, your honor; the proper name, too.
your green-horns who fly into a passion, and use hard words.
You see, sir, there's one thing we larn afore all other
things in the world, to butter bread. Knowledge of
others, means only the knowledge which side bread 's but-
tered. In short, sir, the wiser grow, the more take care
of oursels. Some persons make a mistake, and, in trying
to take care of themsels, run neck into halter, baugh.
they are not rascals-they are would-be men of the world.
Others be more prudent, (for, as I said afore, sir, discre-
tion is a pair of stirrups,) they be the true men of the
world."
"I should have thought," said Walter, "that the knowl
edge of the world might be that knowledge which preserves
us from being cheated, but not that which enables us to
cheat."
Augh!" quoth the corporal, with that sort of smile
with which you see an old philosopher put down a sounding
error from the lips of a young disciple who flatters himself
he has uttered something prodigiously fine," Augh ! and
did not I tell you, t' other day, to look at the professions,
your honor? What would a lawyer be if he did not know
how to cheat a witness and humbug a jury? — knows he
EUGENE ARAM.
561
e lying, why is he lying? for love of his fees, or his
fame, like, which gets fees,-Augh! is not that cheating
others? The doctor, too, Master Fillgrave, for in-
stance?-
?--
>>
"Say no more of doctors; I abandon them to your
satire, without a word."
one's
"The lying knaves! Don't they say one 's well when
one's ill, ill when one's well? profess to know what
don't know? thrust solemu phizzes into every abomina-
tion, as if larning lay hid in a ? and all for their neigh-
bour's money, or their own reputation, which makes money,
-augh! In short, sir, look where will, impossible to
see so much cheating allowed, praised, encouraged, and
feel very angry with a cheat who has only made a mistake.
But when I sees a man butter his bread carefully, - knife
knife
steady, butter thick, and hungry fellows looking on and
licking chops,―mothers stopping their brats "See, child,
respectable man, how thick his bread 's buttered!
pull off your hat to him :' when I sees that, my heart
warms: there's the true man of the world, — augh!
"Well, Bunting," said Walter, laughing, "though you
are thus lenient to those unfortunate gentlemen whom others
call rogues, and thus laudatory of gentlemen who are at
best discreetly selfish, I suppose you admit the possibility
of virtue, and your heart warms as much when you see a
man of worth as when you see a man of the world?"
CC
Why, you knows, your honor," answered the corporal,
so far as vartue's concerned, there's a deal in constitu-
tion; but as for knowledge of the world, one gets it one's
self!"
"I don't wonder, Bunting, as your opinion of women
is much the same as your opinion of men,- that you are
still unmarried."
"Augh! but your honor mistakes! I am no mice-and-
trope. Men are neither one thing nor t'other, neither
good nor bad. A prudent parson has nothing to fear from
'em,
-nor a foolish one any thing to gain, baugh ! As
to the women-creturs, your honor, as I said, vartue's a
deal in the constitution. Would not ask what a lassie's
mind be, nor what her eddycation; — but see what her
habits be, that's all, habits and constitution all one,
play into one another's hands."
-
And what sort of signs, Bunting, would you mostly
esteem in a lady?"
"First place, sir, -- woman I'd marry, must not mope
when alone! must be able to 'muse herself; must be
; must be
easily 'mused. That's a great sign, sir, of an innocent
mind, to be tickled with straws. Besides, employments
keeps 'em out of harm's way. Second place, should ob-
sarve, if she was very fond of places, your honor, sorry
to move, that's a sure sign she won't tire easily; but that
if she like you now from fancy, she'll like you by and by
from custom. Thirdly, your honor, she should not be
avarse to dress, - a leaning that way shows she has a
desire to please people who don't care about pleasing,
always sullen. Fourthly, she must bear to be crossed,
I'd be quite sure that she might be contradicted, without
mumping or storming; - 'cause then, you knows, your
honor, if she wanted any thing expensive, - need not give
it,augh! Fifthly, must not be over-religious, your honor;
they pie-house she-creturs always think themselves so much
better nor we men; - don't understand our language and
ways, your honor they wants us not only to belave, but to
tremble, bother!"
"
"I like your description well enough, on the whole,'
said Walter," and when I look out for a wife, I shall come
to you for advice."
Your honor may have it already, Miss Ellinor's jist
the thing."
Walter turned away his head, and told Bunting, with
great show of indignation, not to be a fool.
The corporal, who was not quite certain of his ground
here, but who knew that Madeline, at all events, was going
to be married to Aram, and deemed it, therefore, quite
uscless to waste any praise upon her, thought that a few
random shots of eulogium were worth throwing away on a
chance, and consequently continued.
..
Augh, your honor, 't is not 'cause I have eyes, that
1 be's a fool. Miss Ellinor and your honor be only cousins,
to be sure; but more like brother and sister, uor any thing
else. Howsomever, she's a rare cretur, whoever gets her
has a face that puts one in good-humor with the world, if
one sees it first thing in the morning, - 't is as good as the
VOL. I.
71
sun in July,―augh! But, as I was saying, your honor,
'bout the women-creturs in general
'
"
Enough of them, Bunting; let us suppose you have
been so fortunate as to find one to suit
- how would
you,
you woo her? Of course, there are certain secrets of
courtship, which you will not hesitate to impart to one,
much
who, like me, wants such assistance from art,
more than you can do, who are so bountifully favored by
nature."
—
"As to nature," replied the corporal, with considerable
modesty, for he never disputed the truth of the compliment,
"'t is not 'cause a man be six feet without 's shoes, that
he 's any nearer to lady's heart. Sir, I will own to you,
howsomever it makes 'gainst your honor and myself, for
that matter,— that don't think one is a bit more lucky with
the ladies for being so handsome! "Tis all very well with
them ere willing ones, your honor, caught at a glance:
but as for the better sort, one's beauty 's all bother! Why,
sir, when we see some of the most fortunatest men
|
among she-creturs, - what poor little minnikens they be!
One 's a dwarf, — another knock-kneed,-
another knock-kneed,- a third squints,
and a fourth might be shown for a hape. Neither, sir, is
it your soft, insinivating, die-away youths, as seem at first
so seductive; they do very well for lovers, your honor; but
then it's always rejected ones! Neither, your honor, does
the art of succeeding with the ladies 'quire all those fin-
nikin nimini-pinimi's flourishes, and maxims, and saws,
which the colonel, my old master, and the great gentlefolks,
as be knowing, call the art of love, — baugh !
baugh! The whole
science, sir, consists in these two rules,
Ask soon,
ask often.'",
·
and
"There seems no great difficulty in them, Bunting."
"Not to us who has gumption, sir; but then there is
summut in the manner of axing,— one can't be too hot,
can't flatter too much, and, above all, one must never
if
take a refusal. There, sir, now
you takes
takes my advice,
may break the peace of all the husbands in Luunun,
bother, whaugh!"
My uncle little knows what a praiseworthy tutor he
bas secured me in you, Bunting,
Bunting," said Walter, laughing.
"And now, while the road is so good, let us make the
most of it."
As they had set out late in the day, and the corporal was
fearful of another attack from a hedge, he resolved, that
about evening, one of the horses should be seized with a sud-
den lameness, (which he effected by slyly inserting a stone
between the shoe and the hoof,) that required immediate
attention and a night's rest; so that it was not till the
early noon of the next day that our travellers entered the
village in which Mr. Jonas Elmore resided.
It was a soft, tranquil day, though one of the very last
in October; for the reader will remember that time had not
stood still during Walter's submission to the care of Mr.
Pertinax Fillgrave, and his subsequent journey and re-
searches.
The sunlight rested on a broad patch of green heath,
covered with furze, and around it were scattered the cot-
tages and farm-houses of the little village. On the other
side, as Walter descended the gentle hill that led into this
remote hamlet, wide and flat meadows, interspersed with
several fresh and shaded ponds, stretched away towards a
belt of rich woodland, gorgeous with the melancholy pomp
by which the "regal year ❞ seeks to veil its decay. Among
these meadows you might now see groups of cattle quietly
grazing, or standing half hid in the still and sheltered
pools. Still further, crossing to the woods, a solitary
sportsman walked carelessly on, surrounded by some half
a dozen spaniels, and the shrill small tongue of one younger
straggler of the canine crew, who had broke indecorously
from the rest, and already entered the wood, might be just
heard, softened down by the distance, into a wild, cheery
sound, that animated, without disturbing, the serenity of
the scene.
"After all," said Walter, aloud, "the scholar was right,
there is nothing like the country!
"Oh, happiness of sweet retired content,
To be at once secure and innocent!"
"Be them verses in the Psalms, sir?" said the corpo
ral, who was close behind.
"No, Bunting; but they were written by one who, if I
recollect right, set the Psalms to verse:* I hope they meet
with your approbation?
* Denham.
362
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Indeed, sir, and no,
>>
•
since they ben't in the Psalms, sculptors, that they teach and recommend virtue in
one has no right to think about 'em at all."
more efficacious and powerful manner, than philosophers
"And why, Mr. Critic?
by their dry precepts, and are more capable of amending
"'Cause what's the use of security, if one 's innocent, the vicious, than the best moral lessons without such aid.'
and does not mean to take advantage of it, baugh? One But how much more, sir, can a good novelist do this, than
does not lock the door for nothing, your honor! "
the best sculptor or painter in the world! Every one can
"You shall enlarge on that honest doctrine of yours an- be charmed by a fine novel, few by a fine painting. In-
other time; meanwhile, call that shepherd, and ask the way docti rationem artis intelligunt, indocti voluptatem A
to Mr. Elmore's.
happy sentence that in Quinctilian, sir, is it not? But,
bless me, I am forgetting the letter of my good friend Dr.
Hebraist. The charms of your conversation carry me
away. And, indeed, I have seldom the happiness to meet
a gentleman so well informed as yourself. I confess, sir, I
confess that I still retain the tastes of my boyhood; the
Muses cradled my childhood, they now smooth the pillow
of my footstool, Quem tu Melpomene, &c. You are not
yet subject to gout, dira podagra: by the way, how is the
worthy doctor since his attack? Ah, see now, if you
have not still, by your delightful converse, kept me from his
letter, yet, positively I need no introduction to you,
Apollo has already presented you to me. And as for the
doctor's letter, I will read it after dinner; for, as Sen-
The corporal obeyed, and found that a clump of trees, at
the further corner of the waste land, was the grove that
surrounded Mr. Elmore's house; a short canter across the
heath brought them to a white gate, and having passed
this, a comfortable brick mansion of moderate size stood
before them.
CHAPTER III.
A SCHOLAR, BUT OF A
OF A DIFFERENT MOULD
THE STUDENT OF GRASSDALE.
LARS CONCERNING GEOFFREY
JOURNEY RE-COMMENCED.
FROM
NEW PARTICU-
LESTER.
"Ingenium, sibi quod vacuas desumpit Athenas,
Et studiis annos septem dedit, insenuitque
Libris
HORAT.
Volat, ambiguis
SENECA.
THE
Mobilis alis, Hora."
UPON inquiring for Mr. Elinore, Walter was shown
into a handsome library, that appeared well stocked with
books, of that good, old-fashioned size and solidity, which
are now fast passing from the world, or at least shrinking
into old shops and public collections. The time may come,
when the mouldering remains of a folio will attract as much
philosophical astonishment as the bones of the mammoth.
For behold, the deluge of writers hath produced a new
world of small octavo! and in the next generation, thanks
to the popular libraries, we shall only vibrate between the
duodecimo and the diamond edition. Nay, we foresee the
time when a very handsome collection may be carried about
in one's waistcoat-pocket, and a whole library of the
British classics be neatly arranged in a well-compacted
snuff-box.
eca
وو
"I beg your pardon a thousand times, sir," said Wal
ter, who began to despair of ever coming to the matter
which seemed lost sight of beneath this battery of erudition,
"but you will find by Dr. Hebraist's letter, that it is only
on business of the utmost importance that I have presumed
to break in upon the learned leisure of Mr. Jonas Elmore.'
"Business!" replied Mr. Elmore, producing his spec
tacles, and deliberately placing them athwart his nose,
"His mane edictum, post prandia Callirhoën, &c.
"Business in the morning, and the ladies after dinner
Well, sir, I will yield to you in the one, and you must
yield to me in the other: I will open the letter, and you
shall dine here, and be introduced to Mrs. Elmore;
what is your opinion of the modern method of folding let-
ters? I- but I see you are impatient." Here Mr. El-
more at length broke the seal; and, to Walter's great joy,
fairly read the contents within.
I gather, sir, from my friend's letter, that this is the sub-
stance of your business with me, caput negotii ; —although,
like Timanthes the painter, he leaves more to be understood
than is described, intelligitur plus quam pingitur,' as Pliny
has it."
"Oh! I sec, I see!" he said, re-folding the epistle, and
placing it in his pocket-boon: " my friend, Dr. Hebraist,
says you are anxious to be informed whether Mr. Clarke
ever received the legacy of my poor cousin, Colonel Elmore;
In a few minutes Mr. Elmore made his appearance; he and if so, any tidings I can give you of Mr. Clarke him-
was a short, well-built man, about the age of fifty. Contra-self, or any clue to discover him, will be highly acceptable.
ry to the established mode, he wore no wig, and was very
bald; except at the sides of the head, and a little circular
island of hair in the centre. But this defect was rendered
the less visible by a profusion of powder. He was dressed
with evident care and precision; a snuff-colored coat was
adorned with a respectable profusion of gold lace; his
breeches were of plum-colored satin; his salmon-colored
stockings, scrupulously drawn up, displayed a very hand-
some calf; and a pair of steel buckles in his high-heeled
and square-toed shoes, were polished into a lustre which
almost rivalled the splendor of diamonds. Mr. Jonas El-
more was a beau, a wit, and a scholar of the old school.
He abounded in jests, in quotations, in smart sayings, and
pertinent anecdotes: but, withal, his classical learning,
(out of the classics he knew little enough,) was at once
elegant, but wearisome; pedantic, but profound.
To this gentleman Walter presented a letter of introduc-
tion which he had obtained from a distinguished clergy-
man in York. Mr. Elmore received it with a profound
salutation
r
"Aha, from my friend, Dr. Hebraist," said he, glancing
at the seal, "a most worthy man, and a ripe scholar.
presume at once, sir, from his introduction, that you your-
self have cultivated the literas humaniores. Pray sit down,
ay I see, you take up a book, an excellent symptom;
it gives me an immediate insight into your character. But
you have chanced, sir, on light reading,- one of the Greek
novels, I think, you must not judge of my studies by such
a specimen."
G
"Nevertheless, sir, it does not seem to my unskilful eye
ery easy Greek."
Pretty well, sir; barbarous, but amusing, pray con-
tinue it. The triumphal entry of Paulus Emilius is not
Al told. I confess, that I think novels might be made
much higher works than they have been yet. Doubtless,
You remember what Aristotle says concerning painters and
|
"Sir," said Walter, drawing his chair close to Mr.
Elmore, and his anxiety forcing itself to his countenance,
"that is indeed the substance of my business with you; and
so important will be any information you can give me, that
I shall esteem it a -
"Not a very great favor, eh? not very great?"
"Yes, indeed, a very great obligation.'
'I hope not, sir; for what says Tacitus, that profound
reader of the human heart,
beneficia eo usque
eo usque læta sunt,'
&c.; favors easily repaid beget affection, favors beyond
return engender hatred. But, sir, a truce to trifling;
and here Mr. Elmore composed his countenance, and
changed,—which he could do at will, so that the change
was not expected to last long, — the pedant for the man of
business.
"Mr. Clarke did receive his legacy: the lease of the
house at Knaresbro' was also sold by his desire, and pro-
duced the sum of seven hundred and fifty pounds; which,
being added to the further sum of a thousand pounds, whic
was bequeathed to him, amounted to seventeen hundred ang
fifty pounds. It so happened, that my cousin had possessed
some very valuable jewels, which were bequeathed to my-
self. I, sir, studious, and a cultivator of the muse, had no
love and no use for these baubles; I preferred barbaric gold
to barbaric pearl; and knowing that Clarke had been in
India, from whence these jewels had been brought, I show-
ed them to him, and consulted his knowledge on these mat-
ters, as to the best method of obtaining a sale. He offered
to purchase them of me, under the impression that he could
turn them to a profitable speculation in London. Accord-
ingly we came to terms: I sold the greater part of them te
EUGENE ARAM.
563
the pleasing
him for a sum a little exceeding a thousand pounds. He At length the time touched upon dinner; Elmore, start-
was pleased with his bargain; and came to borrow the resting up, adjourned to the drawing-room, in order to present
of me, in order to look at them more considerately at home, the handsome stranger to the placens uxor,
and determine whether or not he should buy them also. wife, whom, in passing through the hall, he eulogized with
Well, sir, (but here comes the remarkable part of the sto- an amazing felicity of diction.
ry,) about three days after this last event, Mr. Clarke and
my jewels both disappeared in rather a strange and abrupt
manner. In the middle of the night he left his lodging at
Knaresh', and never returned; neither himself nor my
jewels were ever heard of more!"
"Good God!" exclaimed Walter, greatly agitated;
"what was supposed to be the cause of his disappearance?
"That," replied Elmore, " was never positively traced.
It excited great surprise and great conjecture at the time.
Advertisements and handbills were circulated throughout
the country, but in vain. Mr. Clarke was evidently a man
of eccentric habits, of a hasty temper, and a wandering
manner of life; yet it is scarcely probable that he took this
sudden manner of leaving the country either from whim or
some secret but honest motive never divulged. The fact is,
that he owed a few debts in the town, that he had my
jewels in his possession, and as (pardon me for saying this,
since you take an interest in him) his connexions were
entirely unknown in these parts, and his character not very
highly estimated, (whether from his manner, or his con-
versation, or some undefined and vague rumors, I cannot
say,)—it was considered by no means improbable, that he
had decamped with his property in this sudden manner in
order to save himself that trouble of settling accounts which
a more seemly and public method of departure might have
rendered necessary.
A man of the name of Houseman,
with whom he was acquainted, (a resident in Knares-
bro,') declared that Clarke had borrowed rather a consid-
rable sum from him, and did not scruple openly to accuse
him of the evident design to avoid re-payment. A few more
dark but utterly groundless conjectures were afloat; and
since the closest search, the minutest inquiry was em-
ployed without any result, the supposition that he might
have been robbed and murdered was strongly entertained
for some time; but as his body was never found, nor suspi-
cion directed against any particular person, these conjectures
insensibly died away; and, being so complete a stranger to
these parts, the very circumstance of his disappearance
was not likely to occupy for very long, the attention of that
old gossip the public, who, even in the remotest parts, has
a thousand topics to fill up her time and talk. And now,
sir, I think you know as much of the particulars of the case
as any one in these parts can inform you."
We may imagine the various sensations which this un-
satisfactory intelligence caused in the adventurous son of
the lost wanderer. He continued to throw out additional
guesses, and to make further inquiries concerning a tale
which seemed to him so mysterious, but without effect;
And he had the mortification to perceive, that the shrewd
Jonas was, in his own mind, fully convinced that the per-
manent disappearance of Clarke was accounted for only by
the most dishonest motives.
C
“And,” added Elmore, "I am confirmed in this belief
by discovering afterwards from a tradesman in York who
had seen my cousin's jewels that those I had trusted to
Mr. Clarke's hands were more valuable than I had im-
agined them, and therefore it was probably worth his while
o make off with them as quietly as possible. He went on
foot, leaving his horse, a sorry nag, to settle with me and
the other claimants.
"I, pedes quo te rapiunt et auræ!"
“Heavens!” thought Walter, sinking back in his chair
sickened and disheartened, "what a parent, if the opinions
of all men who knew him be true, do I thus zealously seek
to recover ! "
The good-natured Elmore, perceiving the unwelcome
and painful impression his account had produced on his
young guest, now exerted himself to remove, or at least to
lesser. it; and turning the conversation into a classical
channel, which with him was the Lethe to all cares, he soon
forgot that Clarke had ever existed, in expatiating on the
unappreciated excellences of Propertius, who, to his mind,
was the most tender of all elegiac poets, solely because he
was the most learned. Fortunately this conversation, how-
ever tedious to Walter, preserved him from the necessity
of rejoinder, and left him to the quiet enjoyment of his own
gloomy and restless reflections.
The object of these praises was a tall, meagre lady, in a
yellow dress carried up to the chin, and who added a slight
squint to the charms of red hair, ill concealed by powder,
and the dignity of a prodigiously high nose.
"There is
nothing, sir," said Elmore, "nothing, believe me, like
matrimonial felicity. Julia, my dear, I trust the chickens
will not be overdone.”
CC
Indeed, Mr, Elmore, I cannot tell; I did not boil
them.'
Co
Sir," said Elmore, turning to his guest, "I do not
know whether you will agree with me, but I think a slight
tendency to gourmandism is absolutely necessary to com-
plete the character of a truly classical mind. So many
beautiful touches are there in the ancient poets, - so many
delicate allusions in history and in anecdote relating to the
gratification of the palate, that if a man have no corre-
spondent sympathy with the illustrious epicures of old, he
is rendered incapable of enjoying the most beautiful pas-
sages, that
Come, sir, the dinner is served :
"Nutrimus lautis mollissima corpora mensis.""
As they crossed the hall to the dining-room, a young
lady, whom Elmore hastily announced as his only daughter,
appeared descending the stairs, having evidently retired
for the purpose of re-arranging her attire for the conquest
of the stranger. There was something in Miss Elmore
that reminded Walter of Ellinor, and, as the likeness
struck him, he felt, by the sudden and involuntary sigh it
occasioned, how much the image of his cousin had lately
gained ground upon his heart.
Nothing of any note occurred during dinner, until the
appearance of the second course, when Elmore, throwing
himself back with an air of content, that signified the first
edge of his appetite was blunted, observed,
Sir, the second course I always opine to be the more
dignified and rational part of a repast
"Quod nunc ratio est, impetus ante fuit.””
"Ah! Mr. Elmore," said the lady, glancing towards a
brace of very fine pigeons, "I cannot tell you how vexed
I am at a mistake of the gardener's: you remember my
would not
poor pet pigeons, so attached to each other,
mix with the, rest-quite an inseparable friendship, Mr.
Lester,—well, they were killed by mistake, for a couple
of vulgar pigeons. Ah! I could not touch a bit of them
for the world."
—
"My love," said Elmore, pausing, and with great
"hear how beautiful a consolation is afforded
solemnity,
to you in Valerius Maximus :—'Ubi idem et maximus et
honestissimus amor est, aliquando præstat morte jungi
quam vità distrahi;' which, being interpreted, means, that
wherever, as in the case of your pigeons, a thoroughly high
and sincere affection exists, it is sometimes better to be
joined in death than divided in life. Give me half the
fatter one, if you please, Julia."
"Sir," said Elmore, when the ladies withdrew, "I
cannot tell you how pleased I am to meet with a gentleman
so deeply imbued with classic lore. I remember, several
years ago, before my poor cousin died, it was my lot, when
I visited him at Knaresbro', to hold some delightful con-
versations on learned matters with a very rising young
scholar who then resided at Knaresbro',-Eugene Aram.
Conversations as difficult to obtain as delightful to remem-
ber, for he was exceedingly reserved."
"Aram!" repeated Walter.
"What, you know him then? and where does ne live
now ?
"In
,
very near my uncle's residence. He is
>>
certainly a remarkable mau.
"Yes, indeed, he promised to become so. At the time
I refer to, he was poor to penury, and haughty as poor;
but it was wonderful to note the iron energy with which he
pursued his progress to learning. Never did I see a youth,
at that time he was no more, so devoted to knowledge
for itself.
'Doctrinæ pretium triste magister habet.'
"Methinks," added Elmore, "I can see him now,
ing away from the haunts of men.
stea>
564
BULWER'S NOVELS.
With even step and musing gait,'
across the quiet fields, or in the woods, whence he was
certain not to re-appear till nightfall. Ah! he was a
strange and solitary being, but full of genius, and promise
of bright things hereafter. I have often heard since of his
fame as a scholar, but could never learn where he lived, or
what was now his mode of life. Is he yet married ?"
"Not yet, I believe; but he is not now so absolutely
poor as you describe him to have been then, though cer-
tainly far from rich.'
>>
"Yes, yes, I remember that he received a legacy from
a relation shortly before he left Knaresbro'. He had
:
very delicate health at that time has he grown stronger
with increasing years?"
"He does not complain of ill health. And pray, was he
then of the same austere and blameless habits of life that he
now professes?"
r
Nothing could be so faultless as his character appeared;
the passions of youth, (ah! I was a wild fellow at his age,)
.never seemed to venture near one
Quem casto erudiit docta Minerva sinu.'
Well, I am surprised he has not married. We scholars,
We scholars,
sir, fall in love with abstractions, and fancy the first wo-
man we see is
sir, let us drink the ladies."
The next day, Walter having resolved to set out for Knares-
bro', directed his course towards that town; he thought
it yet possible that he might, by strict personal inquiry, con-
tinue the clue that Elmore's account had, to present appear-
ance, broken. The pursuit in which he was engaged, com-
bined, perhaps, with the early disappointment to his affec-
tions, had given a grave and solemn tone to a mind naturally
ardent and elastic. His character acquired an earnestness
and a dignity from late events; and all that once had been
hope within him, deepened into thought. As now, on a
gloomy and clouded day, he pursued his course along a bleak
and melancholy road, his mind was filled with that dark
presentiment, that shadow from the coming event, which
superstition believes the herald of the more tragic discoveries,
or the more fearful incidents of life; he felt steeled, and pre-
pared for some dread dénouement, -to a journey to which
the hand of Providence seemed to conduct his steps; and
he looked on the shroud that time casts over all beyond the
present moment with the same intense and painful resolve
with which, in the tragic representations of life, we await
the drawing up of the curtain before the last act which con-
tains the catastrophe, that while we long, we half shudder
to benold
Meanwhile, in following the adventures of Walter Lester,
we have greatly outstripped the progress of events at Grass-
dale, and thither we now return.
CHAPTER IV.
ARA M'S DEPARTURE.
MADELINE.
EXAGGERA-
TION OF SENTIMENT NATURAL IN LOVE.
LINE'S LETTER. WALTER'S.
MADE-
THE WALK.
TWO VERY DIFFERENT PERSONS, YET BOTH IN-
MATES OF THE SAME COUNTRY VILLAGE. THE
HUMORS OF LIFE, AND ITS DARK PASSIONS, ARE
FOUND IN JUXTA-POSITION EVERYWHERE.
"Her thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were clothed in words."
Detraction Execrated, by SIR J. SUCKLING.
Urtica proxima sæpe rosa est."-OVID.
"You positively leave us then to-day, Eugene?" said
the squire.
"Indeed," answered Aram, "I hear from my creditor,
(now no longer so, thanks to you,) that my relation is so
dangerously ill, that if I have any wish to see her alive, I
have not an hour to lose. It is the last surviving relative I
have in the world.”
"I can say no more then," rejoined the squire, shrugging
nis shoulders: "When do you expect to return?"
“At least, ere the day fixed for the wedding," answered
Aram, with a grave and melancholy smile.
"Well, can you find time, think you, to call at the lolg-
:
ing in which my nephew proposed to take up his abode?—
my old lodging; I will give you the address, and in.
quire if Walter has been heard of there: I confess that 1
feel considerable alarm on his account. Since that short
and hurried letter which I read to you, I have heard noth-
ing of him."
"You may rely upon my seeing him if in London, and
faithfully reporting to you all that I can learn towards re-
moving your anxiety."
"I do not doubt it; no heart is so kind as yours, Eugene.
You will not depart without receiving the additional sum
you are entitled to claim from me, since you think it may
opportunity of increasing your annuity. And now I will no
be useful to you in London, should you find a favorable
longer detain you from taking your leave of Madeline."
The plausible story which Aram had invented of the ill-
ness and approaching death of his last living relation, was
readily believed by the simple family to whom it was told;
and Madeline herself checked her tears, that she might not,
for his sake, sadden a departure that seemed inevitabk.
Aram accordingly repaired to London that day,
the ons
that followed the night which witnessed his fearful visit t
the "Devil's Crag.
It is precisely at this part of my history that I hve to
pause for a moment; a sort of breathing interval between
the cloud that has been long gathering, and the storm that is
about to burst.
about to burst. And this interval is not without its fleeting
gleam of quiet and holy sunshine.
It was Madeline's first absence from her lover since their
vows had plighted them to each other; and that first
absence, when softened by so many hopes as smiled upon
her, is perhaps one of the most touching passages in the
history of a woman's love. It is marvellous how many
things, unheeded before, suddenly become dear. She then
feels what a power of concentration there was in the mere
presence of the one beloved; the spot he touched, the book
he read, have become a part of him, -are no longer inani-
— are inspired, and have a being and a voice. And
the heart, too,
the heart, too, soothed in discovering so many new treasures,
and opening so delightful a world of memory, is not yet
acquainted with that weariness, - that sense of exhaustion
and solitude which are the true pains of absence, and belong
to the absence, not of hope, but regret.
mate,
"You are cheerful, dear Madeline," said Ellinor, "though
you did not think it possible, and he not here! "
"I am occupied," replied Madeline, "in discovering
how much I loved him.”
We do wrong when we censure a certain exaggeration
in the sentiments of those who love. True passion is
necessarily heightened by its very ardor to an elevation
that seems extravagant only to those who cannot feel it.
The lofty language of a hero is a part of his character;
without that largeness of idea he had not been a hero. With
love, it is the same as with glory: what common minds
would call natural in sentiment, merely because it is homely,
is not natural, except to tamed affections. That is a very
poor, nay, a very coarse, love, in which the imagination
makes not the greater part. And the Frenchman, who
censured the love of his mistress because it was so mixed
with the imagination, quarrelled with the body for the soul
which inspired and preserved it.
Yet we do not say that Madeline was so possessed by
the confidence of her love, that she did not admit the intru-
sion of a single doubt or fear when she recalled the fre-
quent gloom and moody fitfulness of her lover,- his strange
and mysterious communings with self, the sorrow which,
at times, as on that Sabbath eve when he wept upon her
bosom, appeared suddenly to come upon a nature so calın
and stately, and without a visible cause; when she re-
called all these symptoms of a heart not now at rest, it was
not possible for her to reject altogether a certain vague and
dreary apprehension. Nor did she herself, although to
Ellinor she so affected, ascribe this cloudiness and caprice
of mood merely to the result of a solitary and meditative
life; she attributed them to the influence of an early grief,
perhaps linked with the affections, and did not doubt but
that one day or another she should learn its secret. As for
remorse, the memory of any former sin, a life so aus-
terely blameless, a disposition so prompt to the activity of
good, and so enamoured of its beauty, -a mind so culti-
vated, a temper so gentle, and a heart so easily moved,
all would have forbidden, to natures far more suspicious
than Madeline's, the conception of such a thought. And
EUGENE ARAM.
565
Do,
with a patient gladness, though not without some mix-it. Do you remember the evening in which I first entered
ture of anxiety, she suffered herself to glide onward to a
future, which, come cloud, come shine, was, she believed at
least, to be shared with him.
On looking over the various papers from which I have
woven this ta e, I find a letter from Madeline to Aram, dated
at this time. The characters, traced in the delicate and
fair Italian hand coveted at that period, are fading, and,
in one part, wholly obliterated by time; but there seems to
ine so much of what is genuine in the heart's beautiful ro-
mance in this effusion, that I will lay it before the reader
without adding or altering a word.
J
-
―
THANK You,
thank you, dearest Eugene !—I have
received, then, the first letter you ever wrote me. I cannot
tell you how strange it seemed to me, and how agitated I
felt on seeing it, more so, I think, than if it had been
yourself who had returned. However, when the first
delight of reading it faded away, I found that it had not
made me so happy as it ought to have done, as I thought
at first it had done. You seem sad and melancholy ;
a certain nameless gloom appears to me to hang over
your whole letter. It affects my spirits, why I know
not,
and my tears fall even while I read the assurances
of your unaltered, unalterable love, and yet this assur-
ance your Madeline,- vain girl! never for a moment
disbelieves. I have often read and often heard of the dis-
trust and jealousy that accompany love; but I think that
such a love must be a vulgar and low sentiment. To me
there seems a religion in love, and its very foundation is in
faith. You say, dearest, that the noise and stir of the
great city oppress and weary you even more than you had
expected. You say those harsh faces, in which business,
and care, and avarice, and ambition, write their lineaments,
are wholly unfamiliar to you; -you turn aside to avoid
them,― you wrap yourself up in your solitary feelings of
aversion to those you see, and call
you upon those not pres-
ent, upon your Madeline! And would that Mad-
your
eline were with you! It seems to me, perhaps you will
smile when I say this, that I alone can understand you,
I alone can read your heart and your emotions; and
oh dearest Eugene, that I could read also enough of your
past history to know all that has cast so habitual a shadow
over that lofty heart and that calm and profound nature!
You smile when I ask you,- but sometimes you sigh,-
and the sigh pleases and soothes me better than the smile.
*
most,
that house? Do you, or rather is there one hour in which
it is not present to you? For me, I live in the past,— it
is the present (which is without you) in which I have
no life.
I passed into the little garden, that with your own
hands you have planted for me, and filled with flowers.
Ellinor was with me, and she saw my lips move. She asked
ine what I was saying to myself. I would not tell her,
I was praying for you, my kind, my beloved Eugene. I was
praying for the happiness of your future years,-praying
that I might requite your love. Whenever I feel the
I am the most inclined to prayer. Sorrow, joy, tenderness,
all emotion, lift up my heart to God. And what a delicious
overflow of the heart is prayer! When I am with you,
and I feel that you love me, my happiness would be pain-
ful, if there were no God whom I night bless for its ex-
cess. Do those, who believe not, love?- have they deep
emotions? - can they feel truly?- devotedly? Why,
when I talk thus to you, do you always answer me with.
that chilling and mournful smile? You would make religion
only the creation of reason, as well might you make love
what is either, unless you let it spring also from
the same,-
The
the very
the feelings?
"When, when, when will you return? I think I
love
you now more than ever. I think I have more cour-
age to tell you so. So many things I have to say, so many
events to relate. For what is not an event to us?
least incident that has happened to either,
fading of a flower, if you have worn it, is a whole history
"Adieu, God bless you, God reward you, God keep
your heart with Him, dearest, dearest Eugene. And may
you every day know better and better how utterly you are
loved by your
"MADELINE. >>
to me.
The epistle to which Lester referred as received from
Walter, was one written on the day of his escape from Mr.
Pertinax Fillgrave:-a short note, rather than letter, which
ran as fellows.
"MY DEAR UNCLE,
"I have met with an accident which confined me:
road, nothing serious, (so do not be alarmed!) though
to my bed;-a rencontre, indeed, with the knights of the
the doctor would fain have made it so. I am just about to
re-commence my journey, but not towards London; on the
contrary, northward.
"We have heard nothing more of Walter, and my
father begins at times to be seriously alarmed about him.
Your account, too, corroborates that alarm.
It is strange
that he has not yet visited London, and that you can obtain
no clue of him. He is evidently still in search of his lost
parent, and following some obscure and uncertain track.
Poor Walter God speed him!
!
The singular fate of his
father, and the many conjectures respecting him, have, I
believe, preyed on Walter's mind more than he acknowl-
edged. Ellinor found a paper in his closet, where we had
occasion to search the other day for something belonging
to my father, which was scribbled with all the various frag-pleasure (may it be so !) of a full surprise!
ments of guess or information concerning my uncle, ob-
tained from time to time, and interspersed with some re-
marks by Walter himself, that affected me s rangely. It
seems to have been from early childhood the one desire of
my
cousin to discover his father's fate. Perhaps the dis-
covery may be already made; — perhaps my long-lost uncle
may yet be present at our wedding.
"I have, partly through the information of your old friend
Mr. Courtland, partly by accident, found what I hope
may prove a clue to the fate of my father. I am now
departing to put this hope to the issue. More I would
fain say; but lest the expectation should prove fallacious,
I will not dwell on circumstances which would in that case
only create in you a disappointment similar to my own.
Only this take with you, that my father's proverbial good
luck seems to have visited him since your latest news of his
fate; a legacy, though not a large one, awaited his return
to England from India; but see if I am not growing prolix
already, I must break off in order to reserve you the
→
You ask me, Eugene, if I still pursue my botanical re-
searches. Sometimes I do; but the flower now has no
fragrance, and the herb no secret, that I care for ; and
astronomy, which you had just begun to teach me, pleases
me more; the flowers charm me when you are present;
but the stars speak to me of you in absence. Perhaps it
would not be so, had I loved a being less exalted than you.
Every one, even my father, even Ellinor, smile when they
observe how incessantly I think of you, how utterly you
have become all in all to me. I could not tell this to you,
though I write it is it not strange that letters should be
more faithful than the tongue ? And even your letter,
mournful as it is, seems to me kinder, and dearer, and more
full of yourself, than, with all the magic of your language, and
the silver sweetness of your voice, your spoken words are.
I walked by your house yesterday; the windows were closed,
there was a strange air of lifelessness and dejection abor
"God bless you, my dear uncle! I write in spirits and
hope: kindest love to all at home.
"WALTER LESTER.
"P. S. Tell Ellinor that my bitterest misfortune in the
adventure I have referred to, was to be robbed of her
purse.
Will she knit me another? By the way,
I en-
countered Sir Peter Hales; such an open-hearted, generous
fellow as you said ! ' thereby hangs a tale.'
This letter, which provoked all the curiosity of our little
circle, made them anxiously look forward to e ery post for
additional explanation; but that explanation came not.
And they were forced to console themselves with the evi-
dent exhilaration under which Walter wrote, and the prob-
able supposition that he delayed further information until
it could be ample and satisfactory. Knights of the
road!" quoth Lester one day: "I wonder if they were any
of the gang that have just visited us. Well, but, poor boy!
he does not say whether he has any money left; yet if he
were short of the gold, he would be very unlike his father,
(or his uncle, for that matter,) had he forgotten to enlarge
on that subject, however brief upon others."
CC
Probably," said Ellinor, "the corporal carried the
$66
BULWER'S NOVELS.
main sum about him in those well-stuffed saddle-bags, and
it was only the purse that Walter had about his person that
was stolen; and it is probable that the corporal might have
escaped, as he mentions nothing about that excellent per-
sonage."
"A shrewd guess, Nell: but pray, why
carry the purse about him so carefully?
well, will you knit him another?
should Walter
Ah, you blush:
Ah, you blush:
"Pshaw, papa! Good-by, I am going to gather you
a nosegay."
But Ellinor was seized with a sudden fit of industry, and
somehow or other she grew fonder of knitting than ever.
The neighbourhood was now tranquil and at peace; the
nightly depredators that had infested the green valleys of
Grassdale were heard of no more; it seemed a sudden in-
cursion of fraud and crime, which was too unnatural to the
character of the spot invaded to do more than to terrify
and to disappear. The truditur dies die; the serene steps
of one calm day chasing another returned, and the past
alarm was only remembered as a tempting subject of gossip
to the villagers, and (at the hall) a theme of eulogium on
the courage of Eugene Aram.
"It is a lovely day," said Lester to his daughters, as
they sat at the window; "come, girls, get your bonnets,
and let us take a walk into the village.
""
"And meet the postman," said Ellinor, archly.
"Yes," rejoined Madeline, in the same vein, but in a
whisper that Lester might not hear, "for who knows but
that we may have a letter from Walter ?"
How prettily sounds such raillery on virgin lips! No, no;
nothing on earth is so lovely as the confidence between two
happy sisters, who have no secrets but those of a guileless
love to reveal !
As they strolled into the village, they were met by Peter
Dealtry, who was slowly riding home on a large ass which
carried himself and his panniers to the neighbouring
market in a more quiet and luxurious indolence of action
than would the harsher motions of the equine species.
"A fine day, Peter: and what news at market?" said
Lester.
"Corn high, hay dear, your honor,” replied the
clerk.
<<
Ah, I suppose so; a good time to sell ours, Peter;
we must see about it on Saturday. But pray, have you
heard any thing from the corporal since his departure ?"
"Not I, your honor, not I; though I think as he might
bave given us a line, if it was only to thank me for my
care of his cat, but
'Them as comes to go to roam,
Thinks slight of they as stays at home.'”
"A notable distich, Peter; your own composition, I
warrant.
"Mine! Lord love your honor, I has no genus, but I has
memory; and when them ere beautiful lines of poetry like,
comes into my head, they stays there, and stays till they
pops out at my tongue like a bottle of ginger-beer. I do
loves poetry, sir, 'specially the sacred.”
"We know it, - we know it."
For there be summut in it," continued the clerk,
"which soothes a man's heart like a clothes-brush, wipes
away the dust and dirt, and sets all the nap, right; and I
thinks as how 't is what a clerk of the parish ought to study,
your honor.”
CC
Nothing better; you speak like an oracle.”
Now, sir, there be the corporal, honest man, what
thinks himself mighty clever, but he has no soul for
varse. Lord love ye, to see the faces he makes when I
tells him a hymn or so; 't is quite wicked, your honor,-
for that's what the heathen did, as you well know, sir.
And when I does discourse of things.
CC
Most holy to their tribe;
What does they do?- they mocks at me,
And makes my harp a gibe.
'T is not what I calls pretty, Miss Ellinor."
Certainly not, Peter; I wonder, with your talents for
verse, you never indulge in a little satire against such per-
verse taste."
|
Peter altered his air to one of serious importance, as !
about to impart a most sagacious conjecture, "I thinks
there be one reason why the corporal has not written to
me."
“And what's that, Peter ?"
"Cause, your honor, he's ashamed of his writing: I
fancy as how his spelling is no better than it should be,
but mum's the word. You sees, your honor, the corporal's
got a tarn for conversation like, he be a mighty fine
talker surely! but he be shy of the pen,-
't is not every
man what talks biggest what's the best scholard at bottom.
Why, there's the newspaper I saw in the market, (for 1
always sees the newspaper once a week,) says as how some
of them great speakers in the Parliament House, are no
better than ninnies when they gets upon paper; and that's
the corporal's case, I sispect: I suppose as how they can't
spell all them ere long words they make use on.
For my
part, I thinks there be mortal desate, (deceit,) like, in that
ere public speaking; for I knows how far a loud voice and
a bold face goes, even in buying a cow, your honor; and
I'm afraid the country's greatly bubbled in that ere par-
tiklar; for if a man can't write down clearly what he
means for to say, I does not thinks as how he knows what
he means when he goes for to speak!"
This speech, - quite a moral exposition from Peter,
and, doubtless, inspired by his visit to market, for what
wisdom cannot come from intercourse?our good publi-
can delivered with especial solemnity, giving a huge thump
on the sides of his ass as he concluded.
CC
you
Upon my word, Peter," said Lester, laughing,
have grown quite a Solomon; and, instead of a clerk, you
ought to be a justice of peace, at the least and, indeed, I
must say that I think you shine more in the capacity of a
lecturer than in that of a soldier.”
"
" but
""Tis not for a clerk of the parish to have too great a
knack at the weapons of the flesh," said Peter, sanctimo-
niously, and turning aside to conceal a slight confusion at
the unlucky reminiscence of his warlike exploits;
lauk, sir, even as to that, why we has frightened all the
robbers away.
What would
>
have us do more ?
you
Upon my word, Peter, you say right; and now, good
day, your wife's well, I hope? and Jacobina, is not that
the cat's name ?-- in high health and favor.'
"Hem, hein! — why, to be sure, the cat's a good cat;
but she steals Goody Truman's cream as she sets for butter
reg'larly every night.'
"Oh! you must cure her of that," said Lester, smiling;
"I hope that 's the worst fault."
ly,
"Why, your gardiner do say," replied Peter, reluctant-
"as how she goes arter the pheasants in Copse-hole."
"The deuse ! cried the squire; "that will never do :
she must be shot, Peter, she must be shot. My pheasants !
my best preserves! and poor Goody Truman's cream, too!
a perfect devil. Look to it, Peter; if I hear any com-
What are you laugh-
plaints again, Jacobina is done for
ing at, Nell?”
66
Well, go thy ways, Peter, for a shrewd man and a
clever man; it is not every one who could so suddenly
have elicited my father's compassion for Goody Truman's
cream."
"Pooh!" said the squire, "a pheasant's a serious
thing, child; but you women don't understand matters.'
They had now crossed through the village into the fields,
and were slowly sauntering by
"Hedge-row elms on hillocks green,"
when, seated under a stunted pollard, they came suddenly
on the ill-favored person of Dame Darkmans; she sat
bent, (with her elbows on her knees, and her hands sup-
porting her chin,) looking up to the clear autumnal sky;
and as they approached, she did not stir, or testify by sign
or glance that she even perceived them.
There is a certain kind-hearted sociality of temper that
you see sometimes among country gentlemen, especially not
of the highest rank, who, knowing, and looked up to by
every one immediately around them, acquire the habit of
accosting all they meet, -a habit as painful for them to
break, as it was painful for poor Rousseau to be asked
how he did' by an applewoman. And the kind old squire
could not pass even Goody Dark nans (coming thus abrupt-
upon her) without a salutation.
that a
C
"Satire! what's that? Oh, I knows; what they writes
in elections. Why, miss, mayhap-"here Peter paused,
and winked significantly, - -"but the corporal's a passion-y
ate man, you knows: but I could so sting him, - Aha!
we'll see, we'll see. - Do you know, your honor," here
"All alone, dame, enjoying the fine weather,
right. And how fares it with you?"
EUGENE ARAM.
567
The old woman turned round her dark and bleared eyes,
but without noving limb or posture.
"Tis wellnigh winter now: 't is not easy for poor
folks to fare well at this time o' year. Where be we to
get the firewood, and the clothing, and the dry bread, carse
it! and the drop o' stuff that's to keep out the cold. Ah,
it's fine for you to ask how we does, and the days shorten-
ing, and the air sharpening."
66
Well, dame, shall I send to
for you? said Madeline.
for a warm cloak
"Ho thank ye, young leddy, thank ye kindly, and
I'll wear it at your widding, for they says you be going to
git married to the larned man yander. Wish ye well,
ma'am, wish ye well."
And the old bag grinned as she uttered this benediction,
that sounded on her lips like the Lord's prayer on a
witch's; which converts the devotion to a crime, and the
prayer to a curse.
you
"Ye're very winsome, young lady," she continued, eye-
ing Madeline's tall and rounded figure from head to foot.
"Yes, very,
but I was as bonny as you once, and if you
lives, mind that, fair and happy as you stand now,
'll be as withered, and foul-faced, and wretched as me,
ha! ba! I loves to look on young folk, and think o'
that. But mayhap you won't live to be old, more's the
pity, for ye might be a widow and childless, and a lone
oman, as I be; if you were to see sixty: an' would n't that
be nice?-ha! ha! much pleasure ye'd have in the fine
weather then, and in people's fine speeches, eh?
"Come, dame," said Lester, with a cloud on his benign
brow, "this talk is ungrateful to me, and disrespectful to
Miss Lester; it is not the way to -
"Hout!" interrupted the old woman; I begs pardon,
sir, if I offended, I begs pardon, young lady, 't is my way,
poor old soul that I be. And you meant me kindly, and I
would not be uncivil, now you are a-going to give me a
bonny cloak, and what cofor shall it be?",
CC
ye
Why, what color would you like best, dame, red?"
"Red! no!like a gipsy-quean, indeed! Besides,
they all has red cloaks in the village, yonder. No; a hand-
some dark gray, —or a gay, cheersome black, an' then I'll
dance in mourning at your widding, young lady; and that's
what 'I like. But what ha’ ye done with the merry bride-
groom, ma'am? Gone away, I hear. Ah, ye 'I have a
happy life on it, with a gentleman like him. I never seed
him laugh once. Why does not ye hire me as your sarvant,
would not I be a favorite thin! I'd stand on the thris-
hold, and give you good morrow every day. Oh! it does
mne a deal of good to say a blessing to them as be younger
and gayer than me. Madge Darkmans' blessing! Och!
what a thing to wish for!
:
p
"Well, good day, mother," said Lester, moving on.
Stay a bit, stay a bit, sir; has ye any commands,
miss, yonder, at Master Aram's? His old 'oman's a gos-
sip of mine, we were young togither, and the lads did
not know which to like the best. So we often meets, and
talks of the old times. I be going up there now. — Och !
I hope I shall be asked to the widding. And what a nice
month to wid in; Novimber, Novimber, that's the merry
month for me! But 't is cold,
But 't is cold, bitter cold, too. Well,
good day, - good day. Ay," continued the bag, as Lester
and the sisters moved on, ye all goes and throws niver a
look behind. Ye despises the poor in
But
your hearts.
the poor will have their day. Och! an' I wish ye were
dead, dead, dead, an' I dancing in my bonny black
c.oak about your graves; for an't all mine dead, cold,
cold, — rotting, and one kind and rich man might ha' saved
them all.'
Thus mumbling, the wretched creature looked after the
father and his daughters, as they wound onward, till her
dim eyes caught them no longer; and then, drawing her
round her, she rose, and struck into the opposite path
rags
that led to Aram's house.
• it
"I hope that hag will be no constant visiter at your
future residence, Madeline," said the younger sister;
would be like a blight on the air.”
"And if we could remove her from the parish," said
Lester, "it would be a happy day for the village. Yet,
strange as it may seem, so great is her power over them all,
that there is never a marriage nor a christening in the vil-
lage from which she is absent, they dread her spite and
foul tongue enough to make them even ask humbly for her
presence.
"And the hag seems to know that her bad qualities are
a good policy, and obtain more respect than amiability
would do," said Ellinor. "I think there is some design
in ail she utters."
“I don't know how it is, but the words and sight of that
woman have struck a damp into my heart," said Madeline,
musingly.
"It would be wonderful if they had not, child,” said
Lester, soothingly; and he changed the conversation to
other topics.
As, concluding the walk, they reentered the village
they encountered that most welcome of all visitants to a
country village, the postman, - a tall, thin pedestrian,
famous for swiftness of foot, with a cheerful face, a swing-
ing gait, and Lester's bag slung over his shoulder. Our
little party quickened their pace, one letter, for Made-
line, Aram's handwriting. Happy blush, — bright smile!
Ah! no meeting ever gives the delight that a letter can
inspire in the short absences of a first love.
"And none for me," said Lester, in a disappointed tone,
and Ellinor's hand bung more heavily on his arm, and her
step moved slower. "It is very strange in Walter; but 1
am more angry than alarmed.”
"Be sure," said Ellinor, after a pause, "that it is not
his fault. Something may have happened to him. Good
heavens! if he has been attacked again, — those fearful
highwaymen !"
Nay," said Lester, "the most probable supposition.
after all is, that he will not write until his expectations are
realized or destroyed. Natural enough, too; it is what I
should have done, if I had been in his place.
"Natural," said Ellinor, who now attacked where she
before defended, "natural, hot to give us one line, to
say he is well and safe, natural; I could not have been
so remiss!"
Ay, child, you women are so fond of writing, — 't is
not so with us, especially when we are moving about: it is
always, -'well, I must write to-morrow,— well, I must
write when this is settled, well, I must write when I
arrive at such a place; '— and, meanwhile, time slips on,
till perhaps we get ashamed of writing at all. I heard a
great man say once, that men must have something effem-
inate about them to be good correspondents;' and 'faith, I
think it's true enough on the whole.”
"I wonder if Madeline thinks so?" said Ellinor, en
viously glancing at her sister's absorption, as, lingering a
little behind, she devoured the contents of her letter.
"He is coming home immediately, dear father; perhaps
he may be here to-morrow,
he may be here to-morrow," cried Madeline, abruptly;
"think of that, Ellinor Ah! and he writes in spirits!
and the poor girl clapped her hands delightedly, as the
color danced joyously over her cheek and neck.
"I am glad to hear it," quoth Lester: "we shall have
him at last beat even Ellinor in gayety.
"That may easily be," sighed Ellinor to herself, as
she glided past them into the house, and sought her own
chamber.
CHAPTER V.
THE STREETS
LIBRARY. A
STUDENT AND
ITS
A REFLECTION NEW AND STRANGE.
OF LONDON. A GREAT MAN'S
CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE
AN ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER'S.
RESULT.
"Here's a statesman!
Rollo. Ask for thyself.
Lat. What more can concern me than this?
The Tragedy of Rolio
It was an evening in the declining autumn of 1758;
some public ceremony had occurred during the day, and
the crowd, which it had assembled was only now gradua.ly
lessening, as the shadows darkened along the streets.
Through this crowd, self-absorbed as usual—with them
not one of them Eugene Aram slowly wound his uncom-
panioned way. What an incalculable field of dread and
sombre contemplation is opened to every man who, with
his heart disengaged from himself, and his eyes accustomes
to the sharp observance of his tribe, walks through to
763
BULWER'S NOVELS.
treets of a great city! What a world of dark and troub-
ous secrets in the breast of every one who hurries by you!
Goethe has said, somewhere, that each of us, the best as
the worst, hides within him something, some feeling,
some remembrance that, if known, would make you hate
him. No doubt the saying is exaggerated; but still, what
a gloomy and profound sublimity in the idea!-what a new
insight it gives into the hearts of the common herd! -
with what a strange interest it may inspire us for the
humblest, the tritest passenger that shoulders us in the
great thoroughfare of life! One of the greatest pleasures
in the world is to walk alone, and at night, (while they are
yet crowded,) through the long lamplit streets of this huge
metropolis. There, even more than in the silence of woods
and fields, seems to me the source of endless, various
meditation.
Μᾶτερ ἐμὰ, τὸ τεὸν, χρύσασπι Θήβα
Πρᾶγμα καὶ ἀσχολίας ὑπέρτερον
Pind. Isth. I. 1.
Θήσομαι.
There was that in Aram's person which irresistibly com-
manded attention. The earnest composure of his counte-
nance, its thoughtful paleness, the long hair falling back,
he peculiar and estranged air of his whole figure, accom-
panied as it was, by a mildness of expression, and that
lofty abstraction which characterizes one who is a brooder
over his own heart-a ponderer and a soothsayer to his
own dreams ; all these arrested from time to time the
second gaze of the passenger, and forced on him the im-
pression, simple as was the dress, and unpretending as
was the gait of the stranger, that in indulging that second
gaze, he was in all probability satisfying the curiosity
which makes us love to fix our regard upon any remarkable
man.
At length Aram turned from the more crowded streets,
and in a short time paused before one of the most princely
houses in London. It was surrounded by a spacious court-
yard, and over the porch, the arms of the owner, with the
coronet and supporters, were raised in stone.
"Is Lord ***** within ?" asked Aram of the bluff
porter who appeared at the gate.
My lord is at dinner," replied the porter, thinking the
answer quite sufficient, and about to re-close the gate upon
the unseasonable visiter.
"I am glad to find he is at home," rejoined Aram,
gliding past the servant, with an air of quiet and uncon-
scious command, and passing the court-yard to the main
building.
At the door of the house, to which you ascended by a
flight of stone steps, the valet of the nobleman, the only
nobleman introduced in our tale, and consequently the
same whom we have presented to our reader in the earlier
part of this work, happened to be lounging and enjoying
the smoke of the evening air. High bred, prudent, and
sagacious, Lord ***** knew well how often great men,
especially in public life, obtain odium for the rudeness of
their domestics, and all those, especially about himself,
had been consequently tutored into the habits of universal
courtesy and deference, to the lowest stranger, as well as
to the highest guest. And, trifling as this may seem, it
was an act of morality as well as of prudence. Few can
guess what pain may be saved to poor and proud men of
merit by a similar precaution. The valet, therefore, re-
plied to Aram's inquiry with great politeness; he recol-
lected the name and repute of Aram, and as the earl,
taking delight in the company of men of letters, was gen-
erally easy of access to all such,
the great man's great
man instantly conducted the student to the earl's library,
and informning him that his lordship had not yet left the
dining-room, where he was entertaining a large party,
assured him that he should be informed of Aram's visit
the moment he did so.
-
Lord ***** was still in office: sundry boxes were
scattered on the floor; papers, tha, seemed countless, lay
strewed over the immense library table; but here and there
were books of a more seductive character than those of
business, in which the mark lately set, and the pencilled
note still fresh, showed the fonduess with which men of
cultivated minds, though engaged in official pursuits, will
turn, in the momentary intervals of more arid and toilsome
life, to those lighter studies which perhaps they in reality
the most enjoy.
One of these books, a volume of Shaftesbury, Aram
|
carefully took up; it opened of its own accord in that most
beautiful and profound passage which contains perhaps
the justest sarcasm to which that ingenious and graceful
reasoner has given vent.
"The very spirit of faction, for the greatest part, seems
to be no other than the abuse or irregularity of that social
love and common affection which is natural to mankind,
for the opposite of sociableness, is selfishness, and of all
characters, the thorough selfish one is the least forward in
taking party. The men of this sort are, in this respect,
true men of moderation. They are secure of their temper,
and possess themselves too well to be in danger of entering
warmly into any cause, or engaging deeply with any side
or faction."
On the margin of the page was the following note, in
the handwriting of Lord *****,
"Generosity hurries a man into party - philosophy
keeps him aloof from it; the Emperor Julian says, in his
epistle to Themistius, If you should form only three or
four philosophers, you would contribute more essentially to
the happiness of mankind than many kings united.' Yet,
if all men were philosophers, I doubt whether, though more
men would be virtuous, there would be so many insunces
of an extraordinary virtue. The violent passions pro luce
dazzling irregularities.”
"You will dis-
The student was still engaged with this note, when the
earl entered the room. As the door through which he passed
was behind Aram, and he trod with a soft step, he was not
perceived by the scholar till he had reached him, and, look.
ing over Aram's shoulder, the earl said:
pute the truth of my remark, will you not? Profound calm
is the element in which you would place all the virtues."
"Not all, my lord," answered Åram, rising, as the earl
now shook him by the hand, and expressed his delight at
seeing the student again. Though the sagacious nobleman
had no sooner heard the student's name, than, in his own
heart, he was convinced that Aram had sought him for the
purpose of soliciting a renewal of the offers he had formerly
refused; he resolved to leave his visiter to open the subject
himself, and appeared courteously to consider the visit as
a matter of course, made without any other object than the
renewal of the mutual pleasure of intercourse.
"I am afraid, my lord," said Aram, "that you are en-
gaged. My visit can be paid to-morrow if
be
"Indeed," said the earl, interrupting him, and drawing
a chair to the table, "I have no engagements which should
deprive me of the pleasure of your company. A few friends
have indeed dined with me, but as they are now with Lady
*****, I do not think they will greatly miss me;
sides, an occasional absence is readily forgiven in us happy
men of office, we, who have the honor of exciting the
envy of all England, for being made magnificently wretch
ed."
"I am glad you allow so much, my lord," said Aram,
smiling, "I could not have said inore. Ambition only
makes a favorite to make an ingrate; she has lavished
her honors on Lord *****, and see how he speaks of
her bounty !”
CC
Nay," said the earl, "I spoke wantonly, and stand cor-
rected. I have no reason to complain of the course I have
chosen. Ambition, like any other passion, gives us un-
happy moments; but it gives us also an animated life. In
its pursuit, the minor evils of the world are not felt; little
crosses, little vexations do not disturb us. Like men who
walk in sleep, we are absorbed in one powerful dream, and
do not even know the obstacles in our way, or the dangers
that surround us: in a word, we have no private life. All
that is merely domestic, the anxiety and the loss which fret
other men, which blight the happiness of other men, are
not felt by us: we are wholly public :- so that if we lose
much comfort, we escape much care."
The earl broke off for a moment; and then turning the
subject, inquired after the Lesters, and making some gen-
eral and vague observations about that family, came pur-
posely to a pause.
Aram broke it :-
My lord," said he, with a slight, but not ungraceful
embarrassment, "I fear that, in the course
"I fear that, in the course of your political
life, you must have made one observation, that he who
promises to-day, will be called upon to perform to-morrow.
No man who has anything to bestow, can ever promise with
impunity. Some time since, you tendered me offers that
would have dazzled more ardent natures than mine; and
EUGENE ARAM.
569
- I
which I might have advanced some claim to philosophy in
refusing. I do not now come to ask a renewal of those
offers. Public life, and the haunts of men, are as hateful
as ever to my pursuits: but I come, frankly and candidly,
to throw myself on that generosity, which proffered to me
then so large a bounty. Certain circumstances have taken
from me the small pittance which supplied my wants;
require only the power to pursue my quiet and obscure
career of study, your lordship can afford me that power:
it is not against custom for the government to grant some
Binall annuity to men of letters, your lordship's interest
could obtain for me this favor. Let me add, however, that
I can offer nothing in return! Party politics, sectarian
interests, are for ever dead to me: even my common
studies are of small general utility to mankind, — I am
conscious of this, would it were otherwise! Once I
hoped it would be, but - 99 Aram here turned deadly
pale, gasped for breath, mastered his emotion, and pro-
ceeded, "I have no great claim, then, to this bounty,
beyond that which all poor cultivators of the abstruse sci-
ences can advance. It is well for a country that those
sciences should be cultivated; they are not of a nature
which is ever lucrative to the possessor, not of a nature
that can often be left, like lighter literature, to the fair
favor of the public, they call, perhaps, more than any
species of intellectual culture, for the protection of a gov-
ernment; and though in me would be a poor selection, the
principle would still be served, and the example furnish
precedent for nobler instances hereafter. I have said all,
my lord!"
Nothing, perhaps, more affects a man of some sympathy
with those who cultivate letters, than the pecuniary claims
of one who can advance them with justice, and who advances
them also with dignity If the meanest, the most pitiable,
the most heart-sickening object in the world, is the man of
letters, sunk into the habitual beggar, practising the tricks,
incurring the rebuke, glorying in the shame, of the mingled
mendicant and swindler; — what, on the other hand, so
touches, so subdues us, as the first and only petition of one
whose intellect dignifies our whole kind; and who prefers
it with a certain haughtiness in his very modesty; because,
in asking a favor to himself, he may only be asking the
power to enlighten the world?
Say no more, sir," said the earl, affected deeply, and
giving gracefully way to the feeling; "the affair is settled.
Consider it utterly so. Name only the amount of the an-
nuity you desire."
accus-
With some hesitation Aram named a sum so moderate,
so trivial, that the minister, accustomed as he was to the
cla ms of younger sons and widowed dowagers,
tomed to the hungry cravings of petitioners without merit,
who considered birth the only just title to the right of exac-
tions from the public,- was literally startled by the contrast.
"More than this," added Aram, "I do not require, and
would decline to accept. We have some right to claim
existence from the administrators of the common stock,
none to claim affluence.”
"Would to heaven!" said the earl, smiling, "that all
claimants were like you: pension lists would not then call
for indignation; and ministers would not blush to support
the justice of the favors they conferred, But are you still
firm in rejecting a more public career, with all its deserved
emoluments and just honors? The offer I made you once,
I renew with increased avidity now.
vou,
Despiciam dites," answered Aram, " and, thanks to
I may add,
add, despiciamque famem.'
CHAPTER VI.
THE THAMES AT NIGHT. A THOUGHT. THE STU-
DENT RE-SEEKS THE RUFFIAN. A HUMAN FEEL-
ING EVEN IN THE WORST SOIL.
Clem. 'Tis our last interview!
Stat. Pray heaven it be. Clemanthes.
ON leaving Lord *****'s, Aram proceeded, with a
lighter and more rapid step, towards a less courtly quarter
of the metropolis.
He had found, on arriving in London, that in order to
secure the annual sum promised to Houseman, it had been
VOL. I.
72
I
|
necessary to strip himself even of the small stipend he had
hoped to retain. And hence his visit, and hence his peti-
tion to Lord *****. He now bent his way to the spot
in which Houseman had appointed their meeting. To the
fastidious reader these details of pecuniary matters, so
trivial in themselves, may be a little wearisome, and may
seem a little undignified; but we are writing a romance of
real life, and the reader must take what is homely with
what may be more epic, the pettiness and the wants of
the daily world, with its loftier sorrows and its grander
crimes. Besides, who knows how darkly just may be that
moral which shows us a nature originally high, a soul once
all athirst for truth, bowed (by what events!) to the
manoeuvres and the lies of the worldly hypocrite?
The night had now closed in, and its darkness was only
relieved by the wan lamps that vistaed the streets, and a
few dim stars that struggled through the reeking haze that
curtained the great city. Aram had now gained one of the
bridges "that arch the royal Thames,' and, in no time
dead to scenic attraction, he there paused for a moment,
and looked along the dark river that rushed below.
Oh, God! how many wild and stormy hearts have stilled
themselves on that spot, for one dread instant of thought,
of calculation, of resolve, one instant the last of
life! Look at night along the course of that stately river,
how gloriously it seems to mock the passions of them that
dwell beside it; — unchanged, unchanging, - all around
it quick death, and troubled life; itself smiling up to the
gray stars, and singing from its deep heart as it bounds
along. Beside it is the senate, proud of its solemu triflers,
and there the cloistered tomb, in which, as the loftiest honor,
some handful of the fiercest of the strugglers may gain for-
getfulness and a grave! There is no moral to a great city
like the river that washes its walls.
There was something in the view before him, that sug-
gested reflections similar to these, to the strange and mys-
terious breast of the lingering student. A solemn dejection
crept over him, a warning voice sounded on his ear, the
fearful genius within him was aroused, and even in the
moment when his triumph seemed complete and his safety
secured, he felt it only as
"The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below."
The mist obscured and saddened the few lights scattered
on either side the water. And a deep and gloomy quiet
brooded round;
"The very houses seemed asleep,
And all that mighty heart was lying still."
Arousing himself from his short and sombre reverie,
Aram resumed his way, and threading some of the smaller
streets on the opposite side of the water, arrived at last in
the street in which he was to seek Houseman.
It was a narrow and dark lane, and seemed altogether of
a suspicious and disreputable locality. One or two samples
of the lowest description of alehouses broke the dark silence
of the spot;
from them streamed the only lights which
assisted the single lamp that burned at the entrance of the
alley; and bursts of drunken laughter and obscene merri-
ment broke out every now and then from these wretched
theatres of pleasure. As Aram passed one of them, a crowd
of the lowest order of ruffian and harlot issued noisily from
the door, and suddenly obstructed his way; through this
vile press, reeking with the stamp and odor of the most
repellent character of vice, was the lofty and cold student to
force his path! The darkness, his quick step, his down-
cast head, favored his escape through the unhallowed
throng, and he now stood opposite the door of a small and
narrow house. A ponderous knocker adorned the door
which seemed of uncommon strength, being thickly studded
with large nails. He knocked twice before his summons was
answered, and then a voice from within, cried, "Who 's
there? What want you?"
"I seek one called Houseman.”
No answer was returned, -some moments elapsed.
Again the student knocked, and presently he heard the
voice of Houseman himself call out,
"Who's there, Joe the Cracksman ?
"Richard Houseman, it is I," answered Aram, in a deep
tone, and suppressing the natural feelings of loathing and
abhorrence.
Houseman uttered a quick exclamation; the door was
hastily unbarred All within was utterly dark; but Aram
570
BULWER'S NOVELS.
feit, with a thrill of repugnance, the gripe of his strange
acquaintance on his hand.
-
"Ha! it is you! Come in, come in! let me lead
you. Have a care, cling to the wall, the right hand,
- now then, stay. So, so, (opening the door of
a room, in which a single candie, wellnigh in its socket,
broke on the previous darkness,) "here we are! here we
are! And how goes it, -eh !
Houseman, now bustling about, did the honors of his
apartment with a sort of complacent hospitality. He drew
two rough wooden chairs, that in some late merriment
seemed to have been upset, and lay, cumbering the unwashed
and carpetless floor, in a position exactly contrary to that
destined them by their maker; - he drew these chairs near
a table strewed with drinking horns, half-emptied bottles,
and a pack of cards. Dingy caricatures, of the large coarse
fashion of the day, decorated the walls; and, carelessly
thrown on another table, lay a pair of huge horse-pistols,
an immense shovel hat, a false mustache, a rouge-pot,
and a riding-whip. All this the student comprehended
with a rapid glance, his lip quivered for a moment,
whether with shame or scorn of himself, and then throw-
ing himself on the chair Houseman had set for him, he
said,
"I have come to discharge my part of our agreement."
"You are most welcome," replied Houseman, with that
tone of coarse, yet flippant jocularity, which afforded to the
mein and manner of Aram a still stronger contrast than his
more unrelieved brutality.
There," said Aram, giving him a paper: "there you
will perceive that the sum mentioned is secured to you, the
moment you quit this country When shall that be? Let
me entreat haste."
"Come, Bess, come, you must corect that d-d habit
of yours; perhaps I may make a lady of you after all
What if I were to let you take a trip with me to France,
old girl, eh? and let you set off that handsome face, for
you are devilish handsome, and that 's the truth of it, with
some of the French gewgaws you women love. What if
I were? would you be a good girl, eh?"
"I think I would, Dick,-
the woman, showing a set of teeth as white as ivory, with
I think I would," replied
pleasure partly at the flattery, partly at the proposition :
you are a good fellow, Dick, that
CC
you are.
Humph!" said Houseman, whose hard, shrewd mind
was not easily cajoled, "but what 's that paper in your
bosoin, Bess? a love ter, I'll swear."
""T is to you then; came to you this morning, only some
how or other, I forgot to give it you till now !"
"Ha! a letter to me?" said Houseman, seizing the
epistle in question. "Hem! the Knaresbro' postmark,-
mother-in-law's crabbed hand, too! what can the old
crone want?
my
He opened the letter, and, hastily scanning its contents,
started up.
CC
tr
Mercy, mercy!" cried he, my child is ill, dying, I
may never see her again, my only child, the only thing
that loves me, that does not loath me as a villain !"
CC
—
Heyday, Dicky!" said the woman, clinging to him,
"don't take on so, who so fond of you as me what 's
a brat like that !"
her to the ground with a rude brutality,
"Curse on you, hag!" exclaimed Houseman, dashing
pah! My child,
you love me!
-my little Jane,
-my pretty Jane,
my merry Jane, - my innocent Jane, I will seek her
instantly, instantly; what's money? what 's ease,
if, -
"Your prayer shall be granted. Before daybreak to- if,
morrow, I will be on the road."
Aram's face brightened.
"There is my hand upon it," said Houseman, earnestly.
"You may now rest assured that you are free of me for
life. Go home, marry, enjoy your existence,
as I
have done. Within four days, if the wind set fair, I am
in France."
"My business is done; I will believe you," said Aram,
rankly, and rising.
"You may," answered Houseman.
Stay, I will
light you to the door. Devil and death, how the d-d
candle flickers!"
-
House-
Across the gloomy passage, as the candle now flared,
and now was dulled, by quick fits and starts,
man, after this brief conference, re-conducted the student.
And, as Aram turned from the door, he flung his arms
wildly aloft, and exclaimed, in the voice of one from whose
heart a load is lifted, "Now, now, for Madeline. I
breathe freely at last."
Meanwhile, Houseman turned musingly back, and re-
gained his room, muttering,
"Yes, yes. my business here is also done! Com-
petence and safety abroad, after all, what a bugbear is
this conscience! fourteen years have rolled away,
and lo! nothing discovered! nothing known! And easy
circumstances, the very consequence of the deed,— wait
the remainder of my days: my child, too-
my Jane,
shall not want, shall not be a beggar nor a harlot.”
So musing, Houseman threw himself contentedly on the
chair, and the last flicker of the expiring light, as it played
upward on his rugged countenance, rested on one of
those self-hugging smiles, with which a sanguine man con-
templates a satisfactory future.
He had not been long alone, before the door opened; and
a woman with a light in her hand appeared.
She was
evidently intoxicated, and approached Houseman with a
reeling and unsteady step.
"How now, Bess? drunk as usual. Get to bed, you
she-shark, go!
«
Tush, man, tush! don't talk to your betters," said the
woman, sinking into a chair; and her situation, disgusting
as it was, could not conceal the rare, though somewhat
coarse beauty of her face and person.
Even Houseman, (his heart being opened, as it were, by
the cheering prospects of which his soliloquy had indulged
the contemplation,) was sensible of the effect of the mere
physical attraction, and drawing his chair closer to her, he
said, in a tone less harsh than usual,
-
And the father, wretch, ruffian as he was, stung to the
core of that last redeeming feeling of his dissolute nature,
struck his breast with his clenched hand, and rushed from
the room, from the house.
J
CHAPTER VII.
MADELINE, HER HOPES. A MILD AUTUMN CHAR-
A LANDSCAPE. A RETURN
ACTERIZED.
"T is late, and cold, stir up the fire,
Sit close, and draw the table nigher;
Be merry and drink wine that 's old,
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold,
Welcome, welcome shall fly round!"
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. The Song in the
Lovers' Progress.
As when the great poet,
"Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained
In that obscure sojourn; while, in his flight,
Through utter and through middle darkness borne,
He sang of chaos, and eternal night;
""
as when, revisiting the "holy light, offspring of heaven
first-born," the sense of freshness and glory breaks
upon him, and kindles into the solemn joyfulness of adjur-
ing song; so rises the mind from the contemplation of the
gloom and guilt of life, "the utter and the middle dark
ness, to some pure and bright redemption of our nature,
—some creature of "the starry threshold," "the regions
mild of calm and serene air." Never was a nature more
beautiful and soft than that of Madeline Lester,
nature more inclined to live "above the smoke and stir of
this dim spot, which men call earth," to commune with
its own high and chaste creations of thought, -to make a
world out of the emotions which this world knows not,
a paradise, which sin, and suspicion, and fear, had never
yet invaded,-where God might recognise no evil, and
angels forebode no change.
never a
-
Aram's return was now daily, nay, even hourly expected.
Nothing disturbed the soft, though thoughtful serenity, with
which his betrothed relied upon the future. Aram's letters
had been more deeply impressed with the evidence of love,
than even his spoken vows: those letters had diffused not
so much an agitated joy, as a full and mellow light of hap-
EUGENE ARAM.
571
CHAPTER VIII.
AFFECTION: ITS GODLIKE NATURE - TEE CONVER.
SATION BETWEEN ARAM AND MADELINE. THE
FATALIST FORGETS FATE.
"Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that,
And manage it against despairing thoughts."
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
piness over her heart. Every thing, even nature, seemed
inclined to smile with approbation on her hopes. The
autumn had never, in the memory of man, worn so lovely a
garment: the balmy and freshening warmth, which some-
times characterizes that period of the year, was not bro-
ken, as yet, by the chilling winds, or the sullen mists which
speak to us so mournfully of the change that is creeping
over the beautiful world. The summer visitants among the
feathered tribe yet lingered in flocks, showing no intention
of departure; and their song, but above all, the song of
the sky-lark,which, to the old English poet, was what
the nightingale is to the eastern, seemed even to grow
more cheerful as the sun shortened his daily task; the very
mulberry-tree, and the rich boughs of the horse-chestnut,
retained something of their verdure; and the thousand glo-
ries of the woodland around Grassdale were still checkered
with the golden hues that herald, but beautify decay. Still,
If there be any thing thoroughly lovely in the human
no news had been received of Walter: and this was the heart, it is affection!
heart, it is affection! All that makes hope elevated, or
only source of anxiety that troubled the domestic hap-fear generous, belongs to the capacity of loving. For my
piness of the manor-house. But the squire continued to
own part, I do not wonder, in looking over the thousand
remember, that in youth, he himself had been but a neg-
creeds and sects of men, that so many religionists have
traced their theology
ligent correspondent; and the anxiety he felt, assumed
that so many moralists have wrought
their system
rather the character of anger at Walter's forgetfulness, than
from love. The errors thus originated have
of fear for his safety. There were moments when Ellinor something in them that charms us even while we smile at
silently mourned and pined; but she loved her sister not
the theology, or while we neglect the system. What a
what a divine
less even than her cousin; and in the prospect of Made- beautiful fabric would be human nature,
if love were indeed the
line's happiness, did not too often question the future guide would be human reason,
respecting her own.
stratum of the one, and the inspiration of the other! What
a world of reasonings, not immediately obvious, did the
sage of old open to our inquiry, when he said the pathetic
was the truest part of the sublime. Aristides, the painter,
created a picture in which an infant is represented sucking
a mother wounded to the death, who, even in that agony,
strives to prevent the child from injuring itself by imbibing
the blood mingled with the milk.* How many emotions,
that might have made us permanently wiser and better,
have we lost in losing that picture!
One evening, the sisters were sitting at their work by the
window of the little parlour, and talking over various mat-
ters of which the great world, strange as it may seem,
never made a part.
They conversed in a low tone, for Lester sat by the hearth
in which a wood fire had been just kindled, and appeared
10 have fallen into an afternoon slumber. The sun was
einking o repose, and the whole landscape lay before them
bathed in light, till a cloud passing over head, darkened the
heavens just immediately above them, and one of those
beautiful sun showers, that rather characterize the spring
than autumn, began to fall; the rain was rather sharp, and
descended with a pleasant and freshening noise through the
Doughs, all shining in the sunlight; it did not, however,
ast long, and presently there sprang up the glorious rain-
and the voices of the birds, which a minute before
were mute, burst into a general chorus, the last hymn of
the declining day. The sparkling drops fell fast and grate-
fully from the trees, and over the whole scene there breathed
an inexpressible sense of gladness, -
DOW,
"The odor and the harmony of eve."
"How beautiful!" said Ellinor, pausing from her work.
"Ah, see the squirrel, is that our pet one? He is coming
close to the window, poor fellow! Stay, I will get him
some bread.”
"Hush!" said Madeline, half rising, and turning quite
pale,"do you hear a step without ?"
Only the dripping of the boughs," answered Ellinor.
No, no,
it is he, it is he!" cried Madeline,
the blood rushing back vividly to her cheeks, "I know his
step!"
And, yes,winding round the house till he stood op-
posite the window, the sisters now beheld Eugene Aram;
the diamond rain glittered on the locks of his long hair;
his cheeks were flushed by exercise, or more probably the
joy of return; a smile, in which there was no shade or
sadness, played over his features, which caught also a ficti-
tious semblance of gladness from the rays of the setting sun
which fell full upon them.
rr
My Madeline, my love, my Madeline!" broke from
his lips.
"You are returned, thank God, thank God, -
safe,
well ?"
"And happy!" added Aram, with a deep meaning in
the tone of his voice.
-more wood on
"Heyday, heyday! cried the squire, starting up,
"what's this! bless me, Eugene !- wet through too,
seemingly! Nell, run and open the door,
the fire, the pheasants for supper, and stay, girl, stay
- there's the key of the cellar, the twenty-one port,
you know it. Ah! ah! God willing, Eugene Aram shall
not complain of his welcome back to Grassdale ! "
Certainly, love assumes a more touching and earnest
semblance, when we find it in some retired and sequestered
hollow of the world; when it is not mixed up with the dai-
ly frivolities and petty emotions of which a life passed in
cities is so necessarily composed: we cannot but believe it
a deeper and a more absorbing passion: perhaps we are
not always right in the belief.
Had one of that order of angels to whom a knowledge
of the future, or the seraphic penetration into the hidden
heart of man is forbidden, stayed his wings over the lovely
valley in which the main scene of our history has been cast,
no spectacle might have seemed to him more appropriate
to that lovely spot, or more elevated in the character of its
tenderness above the fierce and short-lived passions of the
ordinary world, than the love that existed between Made-
line and her betrothed. Their natures seemed so suited to
each other! the solemn and undiurnal mood of the one
was reflected back in hues so gentle, and yet so faithful,
from the purer, but scarce less thoughtful character of the
other! Their sympathies ran through the same channel
and mingled in a common fount; and whatever was dark
and troubled in the breast of Aram, was now suffered not
to appear. Since his return, his mood was brighter and
more tranquil; and he seemed better fitted to appreciate
and respond to the peculiar tenderness of Madeline's affec-
tion. There are some stars which, viewed by the naked
eye, seem one, but in reality are two separate orbs revolv-
ing round each other, and drinking, each from each, a
separate yet united existence such stars seemed a type
of them.
The
Had any thing been wanting to complete Madeline'e
happiness, the change in Aram supplied the want.
sudden starts, the abrupt changes of mood and countenance,
that had formerly characterized him, were now scarcely, if
ever, visible. He seemed to have resigned himself with
confidence to the prospects of the future, and to have for-
sworn the haggard recollections of the past; he moved,
and looked, and smiled, like other men; he was alive to
the little circumstances around him, and no longer absorbed
in the contemplation of a separate and strange existence
within himself. Some scattered fragments of his poetry
bear the date of this time: they are chiefly addressed to
Madeline, and, amidst the vows of love, a spirit, some
* Intelligitur sentire mater et timere, ne è n. rtuo lacte san
guinem lambat.
572
BULWER'S NOVELS.
tines of a wild and bursting, sometimes of a profound
and collected happiness, are visible. There is great beau-
ty in many of these fragments, and they bear a stronger
impress of heart, - they breathe more of nature and truth,
than the poetry that belongs of right to that time.
And thus day rolled on day, till it was now the eve
before their bridals. Aram had deemed it prudent to tell
Lester, that he had sold his annuity, and that he had ap-
plied to the carl for the pension which we have seen he had
been promised. As to his supposed relation, the illness
he had created he suffered now to cease; and indeed the
approaching ceremony gave him a graceful excuse for turn-
ing the conversation away from any topics that did not
relate to Madeline, or to that event.
It was the eve before their marriage; Aram and Made-
line were walking along the valley that led to the house of
he former.
"How fortunate it is!" said Madeline, " that our future
esidence will be so near my father's. I cannot tell you
with what delight he looks forward to the pleasant circle
we shall make. Indeed, I think he would scarce have con-
sented to our wedding, if it had separated us from him.”
Aram stopped, and plucked a flower.
"Ah! indeed, indeed, Madeline! Yet in the course of
the various changes of life, how more than probable it is
hat we shall be divided from him, that we shall leave
this spot."
"It is possible, certainly; but not probable, is it, Eu-
gene ?"
"Would it grieve thee irremediably, dearest, were it
so?" rejoined Aram, evasively.
"Irremediably! What could grieve me irremediably,
that did not happen to you?"
ce
Should, then, circumstances occur to induce us to leave
this part of the country, for one yet more remote, you could
submit cheerfully to the change?'
"I should weep for my father, I should weep for
Ellinor; but
"But what?
CHAPTER IX.
WALTER AND THE CORPORAL ON THE ROAD. --- THI
EVENING SETS IN. THE GIPSY TENTS. ADVEN.
TURE WITH THE HORSEMAN. THE CORPORAL
DISCOMFITED, AND THE ARRIVAL AT KNARES.
BRO'.
"Long had he wandered, when from far he sees
A ruddy flame that gleamed betwixt the trees. "
"Sir Gawaine prays him tell
Where lies the road to princely Corduel."
The Knight of the Sword.
'WELL, Bunting, we are not far from our night's rest
ing-place," said Walter, pointing to a milestone on the
road.
"The poor beast will be glad when we gets there, your
honor," answered the corporal, wiping his brows.
"Which beast, Bunting?"
Augh!now your honor's severe I am glad to see
you so merry.
Walter sighed heavily; there sat no mirth at his heart
at that moment.
"Pray, sir," said the corporal, after a pause,
"if not
too bold, has your honor heard how they be doing at Grass-
dale ?"
/
No, Bunting; I have not held any correspondence with
my uncle since our departure. Once I wrote to him on
setting off to Yorkshire, but I could give him no direction
to write to me again. The fact is, that I have been so
sanguine in this search, and from day to day I have been
so led on in tracing a clue, which I fear is now broken,
that I have constantly put off writing till I could commu-
nicate that certain intelligence which I flattered myself I
should be able ere this to procure. However, if we are
unsuccessful at Knaresbro', I shall write from that place a
detailed account of our proceedings.'
>>
"And I hopes you will say as how I have given your
"I should comfort myself in thinking that you would honor satisfaction."
then be yet more to me than ever !”
"Dearest !
"But why do you speak thus; only to try me?
that is needless."
Ah!
Depend upon that."
"Thank you, sir, thank you humbly; I would not like
the squire to think I'm ungrateful!-augh,--and mayhap
I
may have more cause to be grateful by and by, whenever
the squire, God bless him, in consideration of your honor's
good offices, should let me have the bit cottage rent free."
"No, my Madeline; I have no doubt of
I have no doubt of your affection.
When you loved such as me, I knew at once how blind,
how devoted must be that love. You were not won through "A man of the world, Bunting; a man of the world!"
the usual avenues to a woman's heart; neither wit nor "Your honor's mighty obleeging," said the corporal,
gayety, nor youth nor beauty, did you behold in me. What- putting his hand to his hat: "I wonders," renewed he,
ever attracted you towards me, that which must have after a short pause, "I wonders how poor neighbour Dealtry
been sufficiently powerful to make you overlook these ordi- is. He was a sufferer last year; I should like to know
nary allurements, will be also sufficiently enduring to re- how Peter be getting on,- 't is a good creature."
sist all ordinary changes. But listen, Madeline. Do not Somewhat surprised at this sudden sympathy on the part
yet ask me wherefore; but I fear that a certain fatality of the corporal, for it was seldom that Bunting expressed
will constrain us to leave this spot, very shortly after our kindness for any one, Walter replied,-
wedding."
"How disappointed my poor father will be!" said
Madeline, sighing.
"Do not, on any account, mention this 'conversation to
him, or to Ellinor; sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof.›››
<
Madeline wondered, but said no more. There was a
pause for some minutes.
"Do you remember," observed Madeline, "that it was
about here we met that strange man whom you had former-
ly known?"
"Ha! was it?
Here, was it?"
"What has become of him?
"He is abroad, I hope," said Aram, calmly. “Yes, let
me think; by this time he must be in France. Dearest,
let us rest here on this dry mossy bank for a little while;"
and Aram drew his arm round her waist, and his counte-
nance brightening as if with some thought of increasing joy,
he poured out anew those protestations of love, and those
anticipations of the future, which befitted the eve of a
morrow so full of auspicious promise.
The heaven of their fate seemed calm and glowing, and
Aram did not dream that the one small cloud of fear which
was set within it, and which he aloue beheld afar, and
unprophetic of the storm, was charged with the thunderbolt
of a door he had protracted, not escaped.
"When I write, Bunting, I will not fail to inquire how
Peter Dealtry is; - does your kind heart suggest any other
message to him?"
Only to ask arter Jacobina, poor thing; she might
get herself into trouble if little Peter fell sick and neglect-
ed her like,augh. And I hopes as how Peter airs the
bit cottage now and then; but the squire, God bless him,
will see to that, and the 'tato garden, I'm sure.
"You may rely on that, Bunting," said Walter, sinking
into a reverie, from which he was shortly roused by the
corporal.
"I'spose Miss Madeline be married afore now, your
honor: well, pray heaven she be happy with that ere larned
man!"
Walter's heart beat faster for a moment at this sudden
remark, but he was pleased to find that the time when the
thought of Madeline's marriage was accompanied with
painful emotion was entirely gone by; the reflection how-
ever induced a new train of idea, and without replying to
the corporal, he sank into a deeper meditation than before.
The shrewd Bunting saw that it was not a favorable mo-
ment for renewing the conversation; he therefore suffered
his horse to fall back, and taking a quid from his tobacco-
box, was soon as well entertained as his master. In this
manner they rode on for about a couple of miles, the even-
ing growing darker as they proceeded, when a green open-
ing in the road brought them within view of a gipsy'
EUGENE ARAM
573
corporal, who sat erect on his saddle with his hand on his
holster) "the color of the lady's hair-and
"Hold your tongue, you limb of Satan!" interrupted
the corporal, fiercely, as if his whole tide of thought, so
lately favorable to the soothsayer, had undergone a deadly
reversion. "Please your honor, it's getting late, we had
better be jogging!"
"You are right," said Walter, spurring his aded horse,
and nodding his adieu to the gipsy, he was soon out of
sight of the encampment.
C6
Sir," said the corporal, joining his master, "that is a
man as I have seed afore; I knowed his ugly face again in
a crack 'tis the man what came to Grassdale arter Mr.
Aram, and we saw arterwards the night we chanced on
Sir Peter Thingumybob.”
encampment; the scene was so sudden and so picturesque,
that it aroused the young traveller from his reverie, and as
his tired horse walked slowly on, the bridle about its neck,
he looked with an earnest eye on the vagrant settlement
beside his path. The moon had just risen above a dark
copse in the rear, and cast a broad, deep shadow along the
green, without lessening the vivid effect of the fires which
glowed and sparkled in the darker recess of the waste land,
as the gloomy forms of the Egyptians were seen dimly cow-
ering round the blaze. A scene of this sort is perhaps one
of the most striking that the green lanes of Old England
afford, -to me it has always an irresistible attraction,
partly from its own claims, partly from those of association.
When I was a mere boy, and bent on a solitary excursion
over parts of England and Scotland, I saw something of that
wild people, though not perhaps so much as the ingenious Bunting," said Walter, in a low voice, "I too have
George Hanger, to whose memoirs the reader may be re- been trying to recall the face of that man, and I too am
ferred, for some rather amusing pages on gipsy life. As persuaded I have seen it before. A fearful suspicion,
Walter was still eyeing the encampment, he in return had amounting almost to conviction, creeps over me, that the
not escaped the glance of an old crone, who came running hour in which I last saw it was one when my life was in
hastily up to him, and begged permission to tell his fortune peril. In a word, I do believe that I beheld that face
and to have her hand crossed with silver.
bending over me on the night when I lay under the hedge,
and so nearly escaped murder! If I am right, it was,
however, the mildest of the ruffians; the one who coun-
selled his comrades against dispatching me."
The corporal shuddered.
Very few men under thirty ever sincerely refuse an offer
of this sort. Nobody believes in these predictions, yet
every one likes hearing them: and Walter, after faintly
refusing the proposal twice, consented the third time; and
drawing up his horse submitted his hand to the old lady. In
tne mean while, one of the younger urchins who had accom-
panied her had run to the encampment for a light, and now
stood behind the old woman's shoulder, rearing on high a
pine brand, which cast over the little group a red and
weird-like glow.
The reader must not imagine we are now about to call
his credulity in aid to eke out any interest he may feel in
our story; the old crone was but a vulgar gipsy, and she
predicted to Walter the same fortune she always predicted
to those who paid a shilling for the prophecy, an heiress,
with blue eyes,
-seven children,- troubles about the epoch
of forty-three, happily soon over, and a healthy old age
with an easy death. Though Walter was not impressed
with any reverential awe for these vaticinations, he yet
could not refrain from inquiring whether the journey on
which he was at present bent was likely to prove successful
in its object.
"Tis an ill night," said the old woman, lifting up her
wild face and elfin locks with a mysterious air,
&&
'tis
an ill night for them as seeks, and for them as asks. He's
about
"He, who?"
“Nɔ matter ! you may be successful, young sir, yet
sir, yet
wish you had not been so. The moon thus, and the wind
there, promise that you will get your desires, and find
them crosses.
The corporal had listened very attentively to these pre-
dictions, and was now about to thrust forth his own hand
to the soothsayer, when from a cross road to the right came
the sound of hoofs, and presently a horseman at full trot
pulled up beside them.
"Hark ye, old she-devil, or you, sirs is this the road
to Knaresbro' ?"
The gipsy drew back, and gazed on the countenance of
the rider, on which the red glare of the pine brand shone
full.
"To Knaresbro', Richard, the dare-devil? Ay, and
what does the ramping bird want in the ould nest? Wel-
come back to Yorkshire, Richard, my ben cove!"
"Ha!" said the rider, shading his eyes with his hand,
as he returned the gaze of the gipsy- is it you, Bess
Airlie? Your welcome is like the owl's, and reads the
wrong way. But I must not stop. This takes to Knares-
bro', then ?"
"Straight as a dying man's curse to hell," replied the
crone, in that metaphorical style in which all her tribe love
to speak, and of which their proper language is indeed
almost wholly composed.
The horseman answered not, but spurred on.
"Who is that?" asked Walter, earnestly, as the old
womar stretched her tawny neck after the rider.
"An ould friend, sir," replied the Egyptian, dryly. "I
have not seen him these fourteen years; but it is not Bess
Airlie who is apt to forgit friend or foe. Well, sir, shall
I tell your honor's good luck ?" (Here she turned to the
-
|
CC
Pray, sir!" said he, after a moment's pause, " do see
if your pistols are primed so — so. 'Tis not out o
nature that the man may have some 'complices hereabout,
and may think to waylay us. The old gipsy, too, what a
face she had! Depend on it, they are two of a trade-
augh! — bother! - whaugh!
CC
""
And the corporal grunted his most significant grunt.
"It is not at all unlikely, Bunting; and as we are now
not far from Knaresbro', it will be prudent to ride on as
fast as our horses will allow us. Keep up alongside.
Certainly, I'll purtect your honor," said the cor
poral, getting on that side where the hedge being thinnest,
an ambush was less likely to be laid. "I care more for
your honor's safety than my own, or what a brute I should
be augh !”
C
The master and man had trotted on for some little dis-
tance, when they perceived a dark object moving along by
the grass on the side of the road. The corporal's hair
bristled, he uttered an oath, which by him was always
intended for a prayer. Walter felt his breath grow a little
thick as he watched the motions of the object so imper-
fectly beheld; presently, however, it grew into a man
on horseback, trotting very slowly along the grass; and
as they now neared him, they recognised the rider they
had just seen, whom they might have imagined, from the
pace at which he left them before, to have been considera-
bly ahead of them.
The horseman turned round as he saw them.
"Pray, gentlemen," said he, in a tone of great and evi
dent anxiety, "how far is it to Knaresbro'?
"Don't answer him, your honor!" whispered the
corporal.
"Probably," replied Walter, unheeding this advice.
you know this road better than we do. It cannot, how-
ever, be above three or four miles hence."
"Thank you, sir
sir-it is long since I have been in these
parts. I used to know the country, but they have made new
roads and strange inclosures, and I now scarcely recognise
any thing familiar. Curse on this brute! curse on it, I
say!
repeated the aorseman through his ground teeth in
a tone of angry vehemence, "I never wanted to ride so
quick before, and the beast has fallen as lame as a tree.
This comes of trying to go faster than other folks. — Sir,
are you a father?"
This abrupt question, which was uttered in a sharp,
strained voice, a little startled Walter. He replied shortly
in the negative, and was about to spur onward, when the
horseman continued, and there was something in his
voice and manner that compelled attention :
* And I am in doubt whether I have a child or not.
By G! it is a bitter, gnawing state of mind. - I may
reach Knaresbro' to find my only daughter dead, sir !--
dead!”
Despite of Walter's suspicions of the speaker, he could
not but feel a thrill of sympathy at the visible distress with
which these words were said.
574
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"I hope not," said he, involuntarily.
ure.
Walter, perceiving he demurred, was seized with se
"Thank you, sir," replied the horseman, trying ineffec- violent a resentment, that he dashed up to the corporal,
tually to spur on his steed, which almost came down at the and grasping him by the collar, swung him, heavy as he
effort to proceed. "I have ridden thirty miles across the was, being wholly unprepared for such force,
-to the
country at full speed, for they had no post-horses at the ground.
d-d place where I hired this brute. This was the only Without deigning to look at his condition, Walter mount-
creature I could get for love or money; and now the deviled the sound horse, and throwing the bridle of the lame
only knows how important every moment may be. While
I speak, my child may breathe her last!" and the man
brought his clenched fist on the shoulder of his horse in
mingled spite and rage.
"All sham, your honor," whispered the corporal.
"Sir," cried the horseman, now raising his voice, "I
need not have asked if you had been a father,- if you had,
you would have had compassion on me ere this,
this,-you
would have lent me your own horse."
A
"The impudent rogue!" muttered the corporal.
"Sir," replied Walter, "it is not to the tale of every
stranger that a man gives belief.”
"Belief! - ah, well, well, 'tis no matter," said the
horseman, sullenly. "There was a time, man, when I
would have forced what I now solicit; but my heart 's gone.
Ride on, sir, ride on, and the curse of
"If," interrupted Walter, irresolutely, "if I could
believe your statement :- but no.. Mark me, sir: I have
reasons, fearful reasons, for imagining you mean this but
as a snare!"
"Ha!" said the horseman, deliberately, "have we met
before?"
"I believe so."
be,
it
:
"And you have had cause to complain of me? It may
may be but were the grave before me, and if one
lie would smite me into it, I solemnly swear that I now
utter but the naked truth.”
"It would be folly to trust him, Bunting?" said Wal-
ter, turning round to his attendant.
Folly! sheer madness, bother!
If you are the man I take you for," said Walter," you
once lifted your voice against the murder, though you as-
sisted in the robbery, of a traveller : — - that traveller was
myself. I will remember the mercy, I will forget the
outrage and I will not believe that you have devised this
tale as a snare. Take my horse, sir; I will trust you."
Houseman, for it was he, flung himself instantly from his
saddle. "I don't ask God to bless you: a blessing in my
mouth would be worse than a curse. But you will not
repent this you will not repent it!'
:
Housman said these few words with a palpable emotion;
and it was more striking on account of the evident coarse-
ness and hardened vulgarity of his nature. In a moment
more he had mounted Walter's horse, and, turning ere he
sped on, inquired at what place at Knaresbro' the horse
should be sent. Walter directed him to the principal inn;
and Houseman, waving his hand, and striking his spurs
into the animal, wearied as it was, was out of sight in a
moment
"Well, if ever I seed the like!" quoth the corporal.
"Lira, lira, la, la, la! lira, lara, la, la, la !-augh!
whaugh bother!"
1
"So my good-nature does not please you, Bunting.'
"Oh, sir, it does not sinnify: we shall have our throats
eut,
that's all."
"What! don't believe the story."
you
I? Bless your honor, I am no fool.”
"Bunting!"
"Sir."
"You forget yourself."
« Augh!
"So you don't think I should have lent the horse?"
"Sartainly not.
"
“On occasions like these, every man ought to take care
of himself? Prudence before generosity?"
"Of a sartainty, sir.”
one over a bough, left the corporal to follow at his leisure.
There is not perhaps a more sore state of mind than that
which we experience when we have committed an act we
meant to be generous, and fear to be foolish.
Certainly," said Walter, soliloquizing, " certainly the
man is a rascal: yet he was evidently sincere in his emo-
tion. Certainly he was one of the men who robbed me;
yet, if so, he was also the one who interceded for my life.
If I should now have given strength to a villain; — if I
should have assisted him to an outrage against myself!
What more probable? Yet, on the other hand, if his story
be true; if his child be dying, and if, through my
means, he obtain a last interview with her! Well, well,
let me hope so!
>>
Here he was joined by the corporal, who, angry as he
was, judged it prudent to smother his rage for another op-
portunity; and, by favoring his master with his company,
to procure himself an ally immediately at hand, should his
suspicions prove true. But for once, his knowledge of the
world deceived him : no sign of living creature broke the
loneliness of the way. By and by the lights of the town
gleamed upon them; and, on reaching the inn, Walter found
his horse had been already sent there, and, covered with
dust and foam, was submitting itself to the tutelary hands
of the hostler.
CHAPTER X.
A
WALTER'S REFLECTIONS. MINE HOST. A GENTIE
CHARACTER AND A GREEN OLD AGE. THE GAR-
DEN, AND THAT WHICH IT TEACHETH. A DIA-
LOGUE, WHEREIN NEW HINTS TOWARDS THE
WISHED-FOR DISCOVERY ARE SUGGESTED. THE
CURATE. A VISIT TO A SPOT OF DEEP INTEREST
TO THE ADVENTURER.
"I made a posy while the day ran by,
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band."
"The time approaches
GEORGE HERBERT.
That will, with due precision, make us know
What
Macbeth.
THE next morning Walter rose early, and, descending
into the court-yard of the inn, he there met with the land-
lord, who, a hoe in his hand, was just about to enter
a little gate that led into the garden. He held the gate
open for Walter.
"It is a fine morning, sir; would you like to look into
the garden," said mine host, with an inviting smile.
Walter accepted the offer, and found himself in a large
and well-stocked garden, laid out with much neatness and
some taste; the landlord halted by a parterre which re-
quired his attention, and Walter walked on in solitary
reflection.
The morning was serene and clear; but the frost mingled
the freshness with an "eager and nipping air," and Wal-
ter unconsciously quickened his step as he paced to and
fro the straight walk that bisected the garden, with his eyes
on the ground, and his hat over his brows.
Now, then, he had reached the place where the last trace
of his father seemed to have vanished, in how wayward
and strange a manner! If no further clue could be here
discovered by the inquiry he purposed, at this spot would
"Dismount, then, I want my horse. You may shift terminate his researches and his hopes. But the young
with the lame one!"
re
Augh, sir, — baugh!"
"Rascal, dismount, I say!" said Walter, angrily for
the corporal was one of those men who aim at governing
their masters; and his selfishness now irritated Walter as
much as his impertinent tone of superior wisdom.
The corporal hesitated. He thought an ambuscade by
the road of certain occurrence; and he was weighing the
danger of riding a lame horse against his master's displeas-
heart of the traveller was buoyed up with expectation.
Looking back to the events of the last few weeks, he
thought he recognised the finger of Destiny guiding him
from step to step, and now resting on the scene to which it
had brought his feet. How singularly complete had been
the train of circumstance which, linking things seeming.
ly most trifling, most dissimilar, had lengthened into one
continuous chain of evidence! The trivial incident that
led him to the saddler's shop; the accident that brought
EUGENE ARAM.
576
the whip, that had been his father's, to his eye; the account
from Courtland, which had conducted him to this remote
part of the country; and now the narrative of Elmore
leading him to the spot, at which all inquiry seemed as
yet to pause! Had he been led hither only to hear re-
peated that strange tale of sudden and wanton disappear-
ance, to find an abrupt wall, a blank and impenetrable
barrier to a course, hitherto so continuously guided on? had
he been the sport of Fate, and not its instrument? No;
he was filled with a serious and profound conviction, that
a discovery that he of all men was best entitled, by the un-
alienable claims of blood and birth to achieve, was reserved
for him, and that this grand dream and nursed object of
his childhood was now about to be embodied and attained.
He could not but be sensible, too, that as he had proceeded
on his high enterprise, his character had acquired a weight
and a thoughtful seriousness, which was more fitted to the
nature of that enterprise than akin to his earlier temper.
This consciousness swelled his bosom with a profound and
steady hope. When Fate selects her human agents, her
dark and mysterious spirit is at work within them; she
moulds their hearts, she exalts their energies, she shapes
them to the part she has allotted them, and renders the
mortal instrument worthy of the solemn end.
Thus chewing the cud of his involved and deep reflec-
tion, the young adventurer paused at lastop posite his host,
who was still bending over his pleasant task; and every
now and then, excited by the exercise and the fresh morn-
ing air, breaking into snatches of some old rustic song.
The contrast in mood between himself and this
"Unvered loiterer by the world's green ways,”
struck forcibly upon him. Mine host, too, was one whose
appearance was better suited to his occupation than his
profession. He might have told some three-and-sixty
years, but it was a comely and green old age; his cheek
was firm and ruddy, not with nightly cups, but the fresh
witness of the morning breezes it was wont to court; his
frame was robust, not corpulent; and his long gray hair,
which fell almost to his shoulder, his clear blue eyes, and a
pleasant curve in a mouth characterized by habitual good-
humor, completed a portrait that even many a dull ob-
server would have paused to gaze upon.
And indeed the
good man enjoyed a certain kind of reputation for his come-
ly looks and cheerful manner. His picture had even been
taken by a young artist in the neighbourhood; nay, the
likeness had been multiplied into engravings, somewhat
rude and somewhat unfaithful, which might be seen occu-
pying no inconspicuous or dusty corner in the principal
printshop of the town: nor was mine host's character a
contradiction to his looks. He had seen enough of life
to be intelligent, and had judged it enough to be kind. He
had passed that line so nicely given to man's codes in
those admirable pages which first added delicacy of tact
to the strong sense of English composition.
"We have
Just religion enough," it is said somewhere in the Spec-
tator," to make us hate, but not enough to make us love
one another." Our good landlord, peace be with his
ashes! had never halted at this limit. The country inn-
keeper might have furnished Goldsmith with a counterpart
to his country curate; his house was equally hospitable to
the poor,
his heart equally tender, in a nature wiser
than experience, to error, and equally open, in its warm
simplicity, to distress Peace be with thee *****
Our grandsire was thy patron,
yet a patron thou didst
not want. Merit in thy capacity is seldom bare of reward.
The public want no indicators to a house like thine. And
who requires a third person to tell him how to appreciate
the value of good-nature and good cheer?
As Walter stood and contemplated the old man bending
over the sweet fresh earth, (and then glancing round, saw
the quiet garden stretching away on either side with its
boundaries lost among the thick evergreen,) something of
that grateful and moralizing stillness with which some
country scene (the rura et silentium) general. spires us,
when we awake to its consciousness ft the troubled
dream of dark and unquiet thought, stole over his mind,
and certain old lines which his uncle, who loved the soft
and rustic morality that pervades the ancient race of Eng-
lish minstrels, had taught him when a boy, came pleasantly
into his recollection,
"With all, as in some rare-limned book, we see
Here painted lectures of God's sacred will.
The daisy, teacheth lowliness of mind;
The chamomile, we should be patient still;
The rhue, our hate of Vice's poison ill;
The woodbine, that we should our friendship hold,
Our hope the savory in the bitterest cold.” *
The old man stopped from his work, as the musing figure
of his guest darkened the prospect before him, and said :
"A pleasant time, sir, for the gardener!"
Ay, is it so. . . you must miss the fruits and flowers
66
of summer.”
"Well, sir, but we are now paying back the garden
for the good things it has given us.-
us. It is like taking care
of a friend in old age, who has been kind to us when he
was young."
Walter smiled at the quaint amiability of the idea.
""T is a winning thing, sir, a garden!-It brings us an
object every day; and that 's what I think a man ought to
have if he wishes to lead a happy life."
"It is true," said Walter; and mine host was encour-
aged to continue by the attention and affable countenance
of the stranger, for he was a physiognomist in his way.
"And then, sir, we have no disappointment in these ob-
jects: the soil is not ungrateful, as, they say, men are, -
though I have not often found them so, by the by. What
we sow we reap. I have an old book, sir, lying in my little
parlour, all about fishing, and full of so many pretty sayings
about a country life, and meditation, and so forth, that it
does one as much good as a sermon to look into it. But to
my mind, all those sayings are more applicable to a gar-
dener's life than a fisherman's."
"It is a less cruel life, certainly," said Walter.
"Yes, sir; and then the scenes one makes one's self, the
flowers one plants with one's own hand, one enjoys more
than all the beauties which don't owe us anything; at least,
cident that made me take to gardening."
I have always been thankful to the ac-
so it seems to me.
"And what was that? ""
"Why, sir, you must know there was a great scholar,
though he was but a youth then, living in this town some
years ago, and he was very curious in plants and flowers,
and such like. I have heard the parson say, he knew more
of those innocent matters than any man in the county. At
that time I was not in so flourishing a way of business as I
am at present. I kept a little inn in the outskirts of the
town; and having formerly been a gamekeeper of
my Lord
-'s, I was in the habit of eking out my little profits
by accompanying gentlemen in fishing or snipe-shooting.
So, one day, sir, I went out fishing with a strange gentle-
miles off, he stopped and plucked some herbs that seemed
man from London, and, in a very quiet retired spot some
to me common enough, but which he declared were most
curious and rare things, and he carried them carefully away.
I heard afterwards he was a great herbalist, I think they
call it; but he was a very poor fisher. Well, sir, I thought
the next morning of Mr. Aram, our great scholar and bot-
bits of grass: so I went and called upon him, and begged
anist, and thought it would please him to know of these
leave to go and show the spot to him. So we walked
there, and certainly, sir, of all the men that ever I saw, I
Eugene Aram.
never met one that wound round your heart like this same
He was then exceedingly poor, but he
never complained; and was much too proud for any one to
dare to offer him relief. He lived quite alone, and usually
avoided every one in his walks but, sir, there was some-
thing so engaging and patient in his manner, and his voice,
and his pale, mild countenance, which, young as he was
then, for he was not a year or two above twenty, was
marked with sadness and melancholy, that it quite went to
your heart when you met him or spoke to him. -- Well,
seemed with the green things I showed him, and as I was
sir, we walked to the place, and very much delighted he
neighbours say, I made him smile now and then by my
always of a communicative temper, rather a gossip, sir, my
remarks. He seemed pleased with me, and talked to me
going home about flowers, and gardening, and such like;
and sure it was better than a book to hear him. And after
that, when we came across one another, he would not shun
me as he did others, but let me stop and talk to him ; and
taking, and he told me many curious things which, sure
then I asked his advice about a wee farm I thought of
enough, I found quite true, and brought me in afterwards a
deal of money. But we talked much about gardening, for
I loved to hear him talk on those matters and so, sir, I
* Henry Peacham.
576
BULWER'S NOVELS.
was struck by all he said, and could not rest till I took to
gardening myself, and ever since I have gone on, more
pleased with it every day of my life. Indeed, sir, I think
these harmless pursuits make a man's heart better and
kinder to his fellow-creatures; and I always take more
pleasure in reading the Bible, especially the New Testa-
ment, after having spent the day in the garden. Ah! well,
I should like to know what has become of that poor gen-
tleman."
,
"I can relieve your honest heart about him. Mr. Aram
is living in
well off in the world, and universally
liked; though he still keeps to his old habits of reserve.
Ay, indeed, sir! I have not heard anything that pleased
me more this many a day.'
Pray," said Walter, after a moment's pause, " do you
reraember the circumstance of a Mr. Clarke appearing in
this town, and leaving it in a very abrupt and mysterious
manner?"
"Do I mind it, sir? Yes, indeed. It made a great
noise in Knaresbro', — there were many suspicions of foul
play about it. For my part, I too had my thoughts, but
that's neither here nor there; " and the old man re-com-
menced weeding with great diligence.
you
My friend," said Walter, mastering his emotion; "you
would serve me more deeply than I can express, if
would give me any information, any conjecture, respecting
this this Mr. Clarke. I have come hither solely to
make inquiry after his fate in a word, he is, or was,—a
near relative of mine!
CC
""
"But was not Houseman examined ?"
CC
Slightly; and deposed that he had been spending the
night with Eugene Arain; that on leaving Aram's house,
|
he met Clarke, and wondering that the latter, an invalid,
should be out at so late an hour, he walked some way with
him, in order to learn the cause; but that Clarke seemed
confused, and was reserved, and on his guard, and at last
wished him good-by abruptly, and turned away. That
he, Houseman, had no doubt he left the town that night,
with the intention of defrauding his creditors, and making
off with some jewels he had borrowed from Mr. Elmore.'
"But Aram? was this suspicious, nay, abandoned char-
acter this Houseman, intimate with Aram ?"
"Not at all; but being distantly related, and Houseman
being a familiar, pushing sort of a fellow, Aram could not,
perhaps, always shake him off; and Aram allowed that
Houseman had spent the evening with him.”
"Heavens
"And no suspicion rested on Aram ?"
The host turned round in amazement.
above, no! One might as well suspect the lamb of ea.ing
the wolf!"
But not thus thought Walter Lester; the wild words oc-
casionally uttered by the student -his lone habits - his
frequent starts and colloquy with self, all of which had,
even from the first, it has been seen, excited Walter's
suspicion of former guilt that had murdered the mind's
wholesome sleep, now rushed with tenfold force upon his
memory.
The old man looked wistfully in Walter's face. "Indeed,"
said he, slowly, you are welcome, sir, to all I know; but
that is very little, or nothing, rather. But will
But will you turn up
this walk, sir? it's more retired. Did you ever hear of Houseman.
one Richard Houseman ?"
"Houseman! yes. He knew my poor
I mean he
knew Clarke; he said Clarke was in his debt when he left
the town so suddenly."
The old man shook his head, mysteriously, and looked
round. "I will all you," said he, laying his hand on
Walter's arm, and speaking in his ear,-"I would not
accuse any one wrongfully, but I have my doubts that
Houseman murdered him.'
"Great God!" murmured Walter, clinging to a post
for support.
"Go on,
heed me not, heed me not,
for mercy's sake go on."
"Nay, I know nothing certain, nothing certain, be-
lieve me," said the old man, shocked at the effect his words
had produced : "it may be better than I think for, and my
reasons are not very strong, but you shall hear them.
"Mr. Clarke, you know, came to this town to receive a
legacy, you know the particulars.”
Walter impatiently nodded assent.
"Well, though he seemed in poor health, he was a lively,
careless man, who liked any company who would sit and
tell stories, and drink o' nights; not a silly man exactly,
but a weak one. Now of all the idle persons of this town,
Richard Houseman was the most inclined to this way of
life. He had been a soldier, and wandered a good deal
about the world, was a bold, talking, reckless fellow,
of a character thoroughly profligate; and there were many
stories afloat about him, though none were clearly made
out. In short, he was suspected of having occasionally
taken to the high road; and a stranger who stopped once
at my little inn, assured me privately, that though he could
Lot positively swear to his person, he felt convinced that he
had been stopped a year before on the London road by
Houseman. Notwithstanding all this, as Houseman had
some respectable connexions in the town,-among his re-
lations by the by, was Mr. Aram,-as he was a thoroughly
boon companion, a good shot, a bold rider,— excellent
at a song, and very cheerful and merry, he was not without
as much company as he pleased; and the first night, he and
Mr. Clarke came together, they grew mighty intimate;
indeed, it seemed as if they had met before. On the night
Mr. Clarke disappeared, I had been on an excursion with
some gentlemen, and in consequence of the snow which had
been heavy during the latter part of the day, I did not re-
turn to Knaresbro' till past midnight. In walking through
the town, I perceived two men engaged in earnest conver-
sation; one of them, I am sure, was Clarke; the other was
wrapped up in a great coat, with the cape over his face,
but the watchman had met the same man alone at an earlier
hour, and putting aside the cape, perceived it was House-
man. No one else was seen with Clarke after that hour.”
"But no other circumstance transpired? Is this your
whole ground for suspicion, the mere circumstance of
Houseman's being last seen with Clarke ?"
"Consider also the dissolute and bold character of
Clarke evidently had his jewels and money
with him—they were not left in the house. What a temp
tation to one who was more than suspected of having in
the course of his life taken to plunder! Houseman shortly
afterwards left the country. He has never returned to the
town since, though his daughter lives here with his wife's
mother, and has occasionally gone up to town to see
him."
"And Aram he also left Knaresbro' soon after this
mysterious event?'
"Yes! an old aunt at York, who had never assisted
him during her life, died and bequeathed him a legacy
about a month afterwards. On receiving it, he naturally
went to London the best place for such clever scholars."
"Ha! but are you sure that the aunt died?
legacy was left? Might this be no tale to give an excuse
to the spending of money otherwise acquired?”
that the
Mine host looked almost with anger on Walter.
"It is clear," said he, " you know nothing of Eugene
Aram, or you would not speak thus. But I can satisfy
your doubts on this head. I knew the old lady well, and
my wife was at York when she died. Besides, every one
here knows something of the will, for it was rather an
eccentric one.
>>
Walter paused irresolutely. "Will you accompany
me," he asked, "to the house in which Mr. Clarke lodged,
and indeed to any other place where it may be prudent
to institute inquiry?
Certainly, sir, with the biggest pleasure," said mine
host: "but you must first try my dame's butter and eggs.
It is time to breakfast."
We may suppose that Walter's simple meal was coon
over; and growing impatient and restless to commence his
inquiries, he descended from his solitary apartment to the
little back room behind the bar, in which he had, on the
night before, seen mine host and his better half at supper.
It was a snug, small, wainscoted room; fishing-rods were
neatly arranged against the wall, which was also decorated
by a portrait of the landlord himself, two old Dutch pic-
tures of fruit and game, a long, quaint-fashioned fowling-
piece, and, opposite the fireplace, a noble stag's head and
antlers. On the window-seat lay the Izaak Walton to
which the old man had referred; the family Bible, with its
green baize cover, and the frequent marks peeping out from
its venerable pages; and, close nestling to it, recalling that
beautiful sentence, "Suffer the little children to come unto
me, and forbid them not," several of those little volumes
with gay bindings, and marvellous contents of fay and
giant, which delight the hearth-spelled urchin, and which
were "the source of golden hours" to the old man's grand-
children, in their respite from "learning's little tene
ments,
EUGENE ARAM.
577
'Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.” *
Mine host was still employed by a huge brown loaf and
some baked pike; and mine hostess, a quiet and serene
old lady, was alternately regaling herself and a large brin-
dled cat from a plate of " toasten cheer."
While the old man was hastily concluding his repast, a
little knock at the door was heard, and presently an elderly
gentleman in black put his head into the room, and, per-
ceiving the stranger, would have drawn back; but both
Candlady and landlord bustling up, entreated him to enter,
by the appellation of Mr. Summers. And then, as the
gentleman smilingly yielded to the invitation, the landlady,
turning to Walter, said, "Our clergyman, sir: and though
I say it afore his face, there is not a inan who, if Christian
vartues were considered, ought so soon to be a bishop."
"Hush! my good lady," said Mr. Summers, laughing,
as he bowed to Walter. "You see, sir, that it is no
trifling advantage to a Knaresbro' reputation to have our
hostess's good word. But, indeed," turning to the land-
lady, and assuming a grave and impressive air, "I have
little mind for jesting now. You know poor Jane House-
man, a mild, quiet, blue-eyed creature, she died at day-
break this morning! Her father had come from London
expressly to see her she died in his arms, and, I hear,
he is almost in a state of frenzy."
The host and hostess signified their commiseration.
"Poor little girl!" said the latter, wiping her eyes;
"her's was a bard fate, and she felt it, child as she was.
Without the care of a mother, and such a father! Yet
he was fond of her."
66
My reason for calling on you was this," renewed the
clergyman, addressing the host: "you knew Houseman
formerly; me he always shunned, and, I fancy, ridiculed.
He is in distress now, and all that is forgotten. Will you
Heek him, and inquire if any thing in my power can afford
him consolation? He may be poor: I can pay for the
poor child's burial.
I loved her; she was the best girl at
Mrs. Summers's school."
"C
Certainly, sir, I will seek him," said the landlord,
hesitating; and then, drawing the clergyman aside, he in-
formed him in a whisper of his engagement with Walter,
and with the present pursuit and meditated inquiry of his
guest; not forgetting to insinuate his suspicion of the guilt
of the man whom he was now called upon to compassionate.
The clergyman mused a little, and then, approaching
Walter, offered his services in the stead of the publican, in
so frank and cordial a manner, that Walter at once ac-
cepted them.
for
"Let us come now, then," said the good curate, -
he was but the curate, seeing Walter's impatience;
"and first we will go to the house in which Clarke lodged;
I know it well."
The two gentlemen now commenced their expedition.
Summers was no contemptible antiquary; and he sought to
beguile the nervous impatience of his companion by dilating
on the attractions of the ancient and memorable town to
which his purpose had brought him;
|
who might be similarly disposed to render assistar ce to
the garrison. Fortunately, however, this disgrace was
spared the memory of Lilburne and the republican armis.
With great difficulty, a certain lady obtained his respite;
and after the conquest of the place, and the departure of
the troops, the adventurous son was released."
"A fit subject for your local poets," said Walter, whom
stories of this sort, from the nature of his own enterprise,
especially affected.
"Yes: but we boast but few minstrels since the young
Aram left us. The castle then, once the residence of
Pierce Gaveston,- of Hubert III. and of John of
Gaunt, was dismantled and destroyed. Many of the houses
we shall pass have been built from its massive ruins. It is
singular, by the way, that it was twice captured by men o:
the name of Lilburn, or Lilleburn, once, in the reign of
Edward II, once as I have related. On looking over his-
torical records, we are surprised to find how often certait.
names have been fatal to certain spots; and this reminds
me, by the way, that we boast the origin of the English
sibyl, the venerable Mother Shipton. The wild rock, at
whose foot she is said to have been born, is worthy of the
tradition."
"You spoke just now," said Walter, who had not very
patiently suffered the curate thus to ride his hobby, "of
Eugene Aram: you knew him well ?
Nay he suffered not any to do that! He was a re-
markable youth. I have noted him from his childhood
upward, long before he came to Knaresbro', till on leaving
this place, fourteen years back, I lost sight of him.
Strange, musing, solitary from a boy! but what accomplish-
ment of learning he had reached! Never did I see one
whom nature so emphatically marked to be GREAT. I
often wonder that his name has not long ere this been more
universally noised abroad: whatever he attempted was
stamped with such signal success. I have by me some
scattered pieces of poetry when a boy; they were given nie
by his poor father, long since dead;" and are full of a dim,
shadowy anticipation of future fame. Perhaps, yet, before
he dies,
he is still young, the presentiment will be
You too know him, then?"
realized.
"Yes! I have known him. Stay, dare I ask you a
question, a fearful question? Did suspicion ever, in your
mind, in the mind of any one, rest on Aram, as concerned
in the mysterious disappearance of myof Clarke? His
acquaintance with Houseman who was suspected; House-
man's visit to Aram that night; his previous poverty,
so extreme, if I hear rightly; his after-riches, though
they perhaps may be satisfactorily accounted for; his leav-
ing this town so shortly after the disappearance I refer to;-
these alone might not create suspicion in me, but I have
seen the man in moments of reverie and abstraction, I have
listened to strange and broken words, I have noted a sud-
den, keen, and angry susceptibility to any unmeant excita-
tion of a less peaceful or less innocent remembrance. And
there seems to me inexplicably to hang over his heart some
gloomy recollection, which I cannot divest myself from
imagining to be that of guilt."
Walter spoke quickly, and in great though half-suppressed
excitement; the more kindled from observing that, as he
spoke, Summers changed countenance, and listened as
with painful and uneasy attention.
"Remarkable," said the curate, "alike in history and
tradition; look yonder" (pointing above, as an opening in
(pointing above, as an opening in
the road gave to view the frowning and beetled ruins of the
shattered castle); "you would be at some loss to recog-
nise now the truth of old Leland's description of that once "I will tell you," said the curate, after a short pause,
stout and gallant bulwark of the north, when he numbrid (lowering his voice) "I will tell you; Aram did undergo
11 or 12 towres in the walles of the castel, and one very examination, I was present at it; but, from his char
fayre beside in the second area.' In that castle, the four acter and the respect universally felt for him, the examina
knightly murderers of the haughty Becket (the Wolsey of tion was close and secret. He was not, mark me, suspect
his age) remained for a whole year, defying the weak jus-ed of the murder of the unfortunate Clarke, nor was any
tice of the times. There, too, the unfortunate Richard suspicion of murder generally entertained until all means
the Second, the Stuart of the Plantagenets, passed of discovering Clarke were found wholly unavailing; but
some portion of his bitter imprisonment. And there, after of sharing with Houseman some part of the jewels with
the battle of Marston Moor, waved the banners of the loy-which Clarke was known to have left the town.
alists against the soldiers of Lilburne. It was made yet
more touchingly memorable at that time, as you may have
heard, by an instance of filial piety. The town was greatly
straitened for want of provisions; a youth, whose father
was in the garrison, was accustomed nightly to get into the
deep dry moat, climb up the glacis, and put provisions
through a hole, where the father stood ready to receive
them. He was perceived at length; the soldiers fired on
him. He was taken prisoner, and sentenced to be hanged
in sight of the besieged, in order to strike terror into those
VOL. I.
* Shenstone's Schoo mistress.
73
This sus-
Th s,
picion of robbery could not, however, be brought home,
even to Houseman, and Aram was satisfactori y acquitted
from the imputation. But in the minds of some present at
that examination, a doubt lingered, and this doubt certain-
ly deeply wounded a man so proud and susceptible
I believe, was the real reason of his quitting Knaresb o'
almost immediately after that examination. And some of
us, who felt for him and were convinced of his innocence,
persuaded the others to hush up the circumstance of his
examination, nor has it generally transpired, even to this
day, when the whole business is well nigh forgot. But av
578
BULWER'S NOVELS.
to his subsequent improvement of circumstances, there is
no doubt of his aunt's having left him a legacy sufficient to
account for it."
Walter bowed his head, and felt his suspicions waver,
when the curate renewed.
"Yet it is but fair to tell you, who seem so deeply inter-
ested in the fate of Clarke, that since that period umors
have reached my ear that the woman at whose house Arain
jodged has from time to time dropped words that require
explanation, hints that she could tell a tale, that she
kuows more than men will readily believe, nay, once
she was even reported to have said that the life of Eugene
Aram was in her power."
"Father of mercy! and did inquiry sleep on words so
calling for its liveliest examination?
"Not wholly, -on their being brought to me, I went to
the house, but found the woman, whose habits and char-
acter are low and worthless, was abrupt and insolent in
her manner; and after in vain endeavouring to call forth
some explanation of the words she was reported to have
uttered, I left the house fully persuaded that she had only
given vent to a meaningless boast, and that the idle words
of a disorderly gossip could not be taken as evidence
against a man of the blameless character and austere habits
of Aram. Since, however, you have now re-awakened
investigation, we will visit her before you eave the town;
and it may be as well too, that Houseman should undergo
a further investigation before we suffer him to depart.
"I thank you! I thank you, I will not let slip one
thread of this dark clue."
"And now," said the curate, pointing to a decent
house, we have reached the lodging Clarke occupied in
the town."
An old man of respectable appearance opened the door,
and welcomed the curate and his companion with an air of
cordial respect which attested the well-deserved popularity
of the former.
"We have come," said the curate,
"said the curate, "to ask you some
questions respecting Daniel Clarke, whom you remember
as your lodger. This gentleman is a relation of his, and
interested deeply in his fate."
"What, sir!" quoth the old man, "and have you, his
relation, never heard of Mr. Clarke since he left the town?
Strange! this room, this very room was the one Mr.
Clarke occupied, and next to this, here, (opening a
door) was his bedchamber!"
It was not without powerful emotion that Walter found
himself thus in the apartment of his lost father. What a
painful, what a gloomy, yet sacred interest everything
around instantly assumed ! The old-fashioned and heavy
chairs, the brown wainscot walls, the little cupboard,
recessed as it were to the right of the fireplace, and piled
with morsels of Indian china and long taper wineglasses,
the small windowpanes set deep in the wall, giving a
dim view of a bleak and melancholy-looking garden in the
rear, yea, the very floor he trod, the very table on
which he leant, the very hearth, dull and fireless as it
was, opposite his gaze,- all took a familiar meaning in
his eye, and breathed a household voice into his ear. And
when he entered the inner room, how, even to suffocation,
were those strange, half sad, yet not all bitter emotions.
increased! There was the bed on which his father had
rested on the night before,- what? perhaps his murder!
The bed, probably a relic from the castle when its antique
furniture was set up to public sale, was hung with faded
tapestry, and above its dark and polished summit were
hearselike and heavy trappings. Old commodes of rudely
carved oak, a discolored glass in a japan frame, a pon-
derous armchair of Elizabethan fashion, and covered with
the same tapestry as the bed, altogether gave that uneasy
and sepulchral impression to the mind so commonly produ-
ced by the relics of a mouldering and forgotten antiquity.
"It looks cheerless, …," said the owner; "but then we
have not had any regular lodger for years; it is just the
same as when Mr. Clarke lived here. But bless you, sir,
he made the dull rooms look gay enough. He was a blithe-
some gentleman. He and his friends, Mr. Houseman
especially, used to make the walls ring again when they
were over their cups!"
"It might nave been better for Mr. Clarke," said the
curate, "bad he chosen his comrades with more discre-
tion. Houseman was not a creditable, perhaps not a safe
companion."
"That was no business of mine then," quoth the lodg
ing-letter;
ing-letter; "but it might be now, since I have been
married man ↑ "
""
The curate smiled. "
part in those revels ?
"Why, indeed, Mr. Clarke would occasionally make
me take a glass or so, sir."
Perhaps you, Mr. Moor, bore a
"And you must then have heard the conversations that
took place between Houseman and him? Did Mr. Clarke,
ever, in those conversations, intimate an intention of
leaving the town soon? and where, if so, did he talk of
going?"
"Oh! first to London. I have often heard him talk of
going to London, and then taking a trip to see some rela
tions of his in a distant part of the country. I remember
his caressing a little boy of my brother's; you know Jack,
sir, not a little boy now, almost as tall as this gentleman
"Ah," said he, with a sort of sigh, "ah. I have a bov at
home about this age, when shall I see him again?
"When indeed!" thought Walter,
thought Walter, turning away his
face at this anecdote, to him so naturally affecting.
"And the night tha: Clarke left you, were you aware of
his absence?"
He
"No! he went to his room at his usual hour, which was
late, and the next morning I found his bed had not been
slept in, and that he was gone gone with all his jewels,
money, and valuables; heavy luggage he had none.
was a cunning gentleman; he never loved paying a bill.
He was greatly in debt in different parts of the town,
though he had not been here long. He ordered everything
and paid for nothing.
Walter groaned.
It was his father's character ex-
actly; partly it might be from dishonest principles super
added to the earlier feelings of his nature; but partly also
from that temperament at once careless and procrastina.
ting, which, more often than vice, loses men the advantage
of reputation.
"Then in your own mind, and from your knowledge of
him," renewed the curate, “you
you would suppose that
Clarke's disappearance was intentional; that though noth
ing has since been heard of him, none of the blacker
rumors afloat were well founded ?”
"I confess, sir, begging this gentleman's pardon, who
you say is a relation, I confess, I see no reason to think
otherwise."
"Was Mr. Aram, Eugene Aram, ever a guest of
Clarke's? Did you ever see them together?"
"Never at this house. I fancy Houseman once pre-
sented Mr. Aram to Clarke; and that they may have met
and conversed some two or three times, not more, I be.
lieve; they were scarcely congenial spirits, sir."
Walter, having now recovered his self-possession, en-
tered into the conversation; and endeavoured by as minute
an examination as his ingenuity could suggest, to obtain
some additional light upon the mysterious subject so deeply
at his heart. Nothing, however, of any effectual import
was obtained from the good man of the house. He had
evidently persuaded himself that Clarke's disappearance
was easily accounted for, and would scarcely lend attention
to any other suggestion than that of Clarke's dishonesty.
Nor did his recollection of the meetings between Houseman
and Clarke furnish him with any thing worthy of narration.
With a spirit somewhat damped and disappointed, Walter,
accompanied by the curate, re-commenced his expedition.
CHAPTER XI.
GRIEF IN A RUFFIAN,-THE CHAMBER OF EARLI
HOMELY, YET MOMENTOUS CONFES-
EARTH'S SECRETS. THE CAVERN.
DEATH.
SION. THE
-
- THE ACCUSATION.
"All is not well:
I doubt some foul play."
"Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes."
Hamlet
As they passed through the street, they perceived three
or four persons standing round the open door of a house of
EUGENE ARAM
578
ordinary description, tne windows of which were partially
closed.
"It is the house," said the curate, "in which House-
man's daughter died poor poor child! Yet why
mourn for the young? Better that the light cloud should
fade away into heaven with the morning breath, thau
travail through the weary day to gather in darkness, and
end in storm.
"Ah, sir!" said an old man, leaning on his stick, and
lifting his hat in obeisance to the curate, "the father
is within, and takes on bitterly. He drives them all away
from the room, and sits moaning by the bedside, as if he
was a-going out of his mind. Won't your reverence go
into him a bit ?"
The curate looked at Walter, inquiringly. "Perhaps,"
said the latter, " you had better go in: I will wait
without.”
While the curate hesitated, they heard a voice in the
passage, and presently Houseman was seen at the far end,
driving some women before him with vehement gesticu-
lations.
C
"I will enter the house with you," said Walter : —ang
the two men walked in, and in a few moments ney stood
within the chamber of death.
The face of the deceased had not yet suffered the last
withering change. Her young countenance was hushed
and serene; and, but for the fixedness of the smile, you
might have thought the lips moved. So delicate, fair, and
gentle were the features, hat it was scarcely possible to
believe such a scion could spring from such a stock; and
it seemed no longer wonderful that a thing so young, so
innocent, so lovely, and so early blighted, should have
touched that reckless and dark nature which rejected all
other invasion of the softer emotions. The curate wiped
his eyes, and prepared to utter, with a quivering but ear-
nest voice, his prayer for the dead; and Walter, whose
heart was opened to the weaker and kinder feelings, knelt
by the bedside, and felt his own eyes moist, as he echoed
the Christian hope and the holy supplication. That scene
had in its pathos something more impressive and thrill-
ing than pathos alone. He, now kneeling beside the
corpse of Houseman's child, was son to the man of whose
murder Houseman had been suspected. The childles
and the fatherless! might there be no retribution here?
When this ceremony was over, and the curate and Wal ·
ter escaped from the incoherent blessings and complaints of
the women of the house, they, with difficulty resisting the
impression the scene had left upon their minds, once more
continued on their errand.
"I tell you, ye hell-hags," shrieked his harsh and now
straining voice, "that ye suffered her to die. Why did
ye not send to London for physicians? Am I not rich
enough to buy my child's life at any price? By the living
! I would have turned your very bodies into gold to
have saved her. But she's DEAD! and I -out of my
sight out of my way ! And, with his hands clenched,
his brows knit, and his head uncovered, Houseman sallied "This is no time," said Walter, musingly, "for an
forth from the door, and Walter recognised the traveller examination of Houseman; yet it must not be forgotten."
of the preceding night. He stopped abruptly as he saw The curate did not reply for some moments; and then,
the little knot without, and scowled round at each of them as an answer to the remark, observed that the conversa-
Very well it's tion they
with a malignant and ferocious aspect: "Very well it's tion they anticipated with Aram's former hostess might
very well, neighbours!" said he at length, with a fierce
said he at length, with a fierce throw some light on their researches. They now proceed.
laugh: "this is kind! You have come to welcome Rich-ed to another part of the town, and arrived at a lonely and
ard Houseman home, have ye? Good, good! Not to desolate-looking house, which seemed to wear in its very
gloat at his distress; Lord! no. Ye have no idle curiosity, appearance something strange, sad, and ominous. I know
no prying, searching, gossiping devil within ye, that not how it is, but some houses have an expression, as it
makes ye love to flock, and gape, and chatter, when poor were, on their outward aspect, that sinks unaccountably
men suffer this is all pure compassion; and Houseman, into the heart,-a dim, oppressive eloquence, which dispir-
the good, gentle, peaceful, honest Houseman, you feel for its and affects. You say, some story must be attached to
him, I know you do! Hark ye: begone away those walls; some legendary interest, of a darker nature,
march tramp- ог Ha, ha! there they go · there ought to be associated with the mutes stone and mortar: you
they go," laughing wildly again as the frightened neigh- feel a mingled awe and curiosity creep over you as you
bours shrank from the spot, leaving only Walter and the gaze.
gaze. Such was the description of house that the young
clergyman with the childless man.
adventurer now surveyed. It was of an antique architect-
ure, not uncommon in old towns: gable-ends rose from the
roof; dull, small, latticed panes were sunk deep in the
gray, discolored wall; the pale, in part, was broken and
jagged; and rank weeds sprang up in the neglected garden,
through which they walked towards the porch. The door
was open; they entered, and found an old woman of coarse
appearance sitting by the fireside, and gazing on space
with that vacant stare which so often characterizes the
repose and relaxation of the uneducated poor. Walter
felt an involuntary thrill of dislike come over him, as he
looked at the solitary inmate of the solitary house.
:
"Be comforted, Houseman!" said Summers, sooth-
ingly it is a dreadful affliction that you have sustained.
I knew your daughter well: you may have heard her speak
Let us in, and try what heavenly comfort there is
of me.
in prayer.”
،،
Prayer! Pooh! I am Richard Houseman!”
"Lives there one man for whom prayer is unavailing ?"
"Out, canter, out! my pretty Jane! - and she laid
ner head on my bosom, and looked up in my face,
and so - died!"
CC
Conie, "said the curate, placing his hand on House-
man's arm, come
tone:
<. I
Before he could proceed, Houseman, who was muttering
to himself, shook him off roughly, and hurried away up
the street; but after he had gone a few paces, he turned
back, and approaching the curate, said, in a more collected
pray you, sir, since you are a clergyman (I
recollect your face, and I recollect Jane said you had been
good to her)-I pray you go, and say a few words over
her: hat stay don't bring in my name you understand.
I don't wish God to recollect that there lives such a inan
is he who now addresses you. Holloa! (shouting to the
women) my hat, and stick too. Fal la la! fal la!
why should these things make us play the madman? It is
a fine day, sir: we shall have a late winter. Curse the
b! how long she is. Yet the hat was left below.
But when a death is in the house, sir, it throws things into
confusion: don't you find it so ?
Here, one of the women, pale and trembling, and tear-
Sul, brought the ruffian his hat; and placing it deliberately
on his head, and bowing with a dreadful and convulsive
attempt to smile, he walked slowly away, and disappeared.
What strange murmurs grief makes!" said the cu-
rate. "It is an appalling spectacle when it thus wrings
out feelings from a man of that mould! But, pardon me,
my young friend; et me tarry here for a moment.
Heyday, sir!" said she, in a grating voice, "“and
what now! Oh! Mr. Summers, is it you ? You're
welcome, sir. I wishes I could offer you a glass of sum-
mut, but the bottle's dry,―he, he; pointing with a
revolting grin to an empty bottle that stood on a niche
within the hearth. "I don't know how it is, sir, but I
never wants to eat; but ah! 't is the liquor that does un
good!"
"You have lived a long time in this house?" said the
curate.
"A long time, some thirty years an' more.'
You remember your lodger, Mr. Aram?”
"A,—well,
- yes!"
"An excellent man -"
CC
Humph."
"A most admirable man!'
CC
>>
A-humph! he!-humph! that 's neither here nor
there."
"Why, you don't seem to think as all the rest of the
world does with regard to him?"
"I knows what I knows."
"Ah! by the by, you have some cock-and-c. story
about him, I fancy, but you never could explain yourself
it is merely for the love of seeming wise that you invented
it; eh, Goode 292
580
BULWER'S NOVELS.
The old woman shook her head, and crossing her hands
on her knee, replied with peculiar emphasis, but in a very
ow and whispered voice, "I could hang him! "
"Pooh ! "
"Tell you I could!"
"Well, let's have the story then!"
"No, no! I have not told it to ne'er a one yet; and I
won't for nothing. What will you give me? make it
worth my while!
"Tell us all, honestly, fairly, and fully, and you shall
have five golden guineas. There, Goody.'
Roused by this promise, the dame looked up with more
of energy than she had yet shown, and muttered to herself,
rocking her chair to and fro, "Aha! why not? no fear
now, -both gone,
can't now murder the poor old cre-
tur, as the wretch once threatened. Five golden guineas,
- five, did you say, sir, five ?"
J
"Ay, and perhaps our bounty may not stop there," said
the curate.
Still the old woman hesitated, and still she muttered to
herself; but after some further prelude, and some further
enticement from the curate, the which we spare our reader,
she came at length to the following narration:
:
"It was on the 7th of February, in the year '44; yes, '44,
about six o'clock in the evening, for I was a-washing in
the kitchen, when Mr. Aram called to me, an' desired of
me to make a fire up stairs, which I did he then walked
out. Some hours afterwards, it might be two in the morn-
ing, I was lying awake, for I was mighty bad with the
tooth-ache, when I heard a noise below, and two or three
voices. On this I was greatly afeard, and got out o' bed,
and opening the door, I saw Mr. Houseman, and Mr.
Clarke, coming up stairs to Mr. Aram's room, and Mr.
Aram followed them. They shut the door, and staid
there, it might be an hour. Well, I could not a-think what
could make so shy an' resarved a gentleman as Mr. Aram
admit these 'ere wild mad-caps like, at that hour, an' I lay
awake a-thinking an' a-thinking till I heard the door open
agin, an' I went to listen at the key-hole, an' Mr. Clarke
said: It will soon be morning, and we must get off.'
They then all three left the house; but I could not sleep,
an' I got up afore five o'clock, and about that hour Mr.
Aram an' Mr. Houseman returned, and they both glowered
at me, as if they did not like to find me a-stirring; an' Mr.
Aram went into his room, and Houseman turned and frowned
at me as black as night. Lord have mercy on me! I see
Lord have mercy on me! I see
him now! an' I was sadly feared, an' listened at the key-
hole, an' I heard Houseman say: If the woman comes in,
she 'll tell.' 'What can she tell?' said Mr. Aram, 'poor
simple thing, she knows nothing.' With that, Houseman
said, says he; if she tells that I am here, it will be enough;
but however, - with a shocking oath, 'we'll take an
opportunity to shoot her.'
>
—
"On that, I was so frighted that I went away back to
my own room, and did not stir till they had a-gone out, and
then
"What time was that?"
"About seven o'clock. Well, you put me out where
was I? Well, I went into Mr. Aram's room, an' I seed
they had been burning a fire, an' that all the ashes were ta-
ken out o' the grate; so I went an' looked at the rubbish |
behind the house, and there sure enough I seed the ashes,
and among 'em several bits o' cloth and linen which seemed
to belong to wearing apparel; and there, too, was a hand-
Kerchief which I had obsarved Houseman wear (for it was
a very curious handkerchief, all spotted) many 's the time,
and there was blood on it, 'bout the size of a shilling. An'
afterwards I seed Houseman, an' I showed him the hand-
kerchief; and I said to him, What has come of Clarke ?'
an' he frowned, and looking at me, said, Hark ye, I know
not what ye mean, but as sure as the devil keeps watch for
souls, I will shoot you through the head, if you ever let that
d--d tongue of yours let slip a single word about Clarke
or me, or Mr. Aram; so look to yourself!'
•
"An' I was all scared, and trimbled from limb to limb ;
an' for two whole yearn arterwards (long arter Aram and
Houseman were both gone) I niver could so much as open
my lips on the matter; and afore he went, Mr. Aram would
sometimes look at me, not sternly-like as the villain House-
man, but as if he would read to the bottom of my heart.
Oh! I was as if you had taken a mountain off of me, when
he an' Houseman left the town, for sure as the sun shines,
I believes from what I have now said, that they two mur
dered Clarke on that same February night. An' now, Mr
Summers, I feels more easy than I has felt for many a long
day; an' if I have not told it afore, it is because I thought
of Houseman's frown, and his horrid words; but summnut
of it would ooze out of my tongue now an' then, for it 's a
hard thing, sir, to know a secret o' that sort and be quiet
and still about it; and indeed, I was not the same cretur
when I knew it as I was afore, for it made me take to any
thing rather than thinking; and that's the reason, sir, I
lost the good crakter I used to have."
Such, somewhat abridged from its says he and says I,
its involutions and its tautologies, was the story which
Walter held his breath to hear. But events thicken, and
the maze is nearly thridden.
"Not a moment now should be lost," said the curate,
as they left the house. "Let us at once proceed to a very
able magistrate, to whom I can introduce you, and who
lives a little way out of the town."
CC
As you will," said Walter, in an altered and hollow
voice;
"I am as a man standing on an eminence, who
views the whole scene he is to travel over, stretched before
him, but is dizzy and bewildered by the height which he
has reached. I know, -
I know, I feel, that I am on the brink
of fearful and dread discoveries; -pray God that,
But heed me not, sir, heed me not, let us on,
on !"
It was now approaching towards the evening; and as
they walked on, having left the town, the sun poured its
last beams on a group of persons that appeared hastily col-
lecting and gathering round a spot, well known in the
neighbourhood of Knaresbro', called Thistle Hill.
Yet what,
"Let us avoid the crowd," said the curate.
I wonder, can be its cause?" While he spoke, two peas-
ants hurried by towards the throng.
"What is the meaning of the crowd yonder?
the curate.
asked
"I don't know exactly, your honor; but I hears as how
Jem Ninnings, digging for stone for the lime-kiln, have
dug out a big wooden chest." A shout from the
group
broke in on the peasant's explanation; a sudden simul-
taneous shout, but not of joy, something of dismay and
horror seemed to breathe in the sound.
Walter looked at the curate; an impulse, -a sudden
instinct, seemed to attract them involuntarily to the spot
whence that sound arose; they quickened their pace,
they made their way through the throng, A deep chest,
that had been violently forced, stood before them; its con-
tents had been dragged to day, and now lay on the sward,
—
a bleached and inouldering skeleton! Several of the
bones were loose and detached from the body. A general
hubbub of voices from the spectators; inquiry, — guess,
- fear, — wonder,
rang confusedly round.
"Yes!" said one old man, with gray hair, leaning_on
a pick-axe; "it is now about fourteen years since the Jew
pedler disappeared ; these are probably his bones, he
was supposed to have been murdered!"
CC
Nay!" screeched a woman, drawing back a child who,
all unalarmed, was about to touch the ghastly relics,
nay, the pedler was heard of afterwards! I'll tell ye,
ye may be sure these are the bones of Clarke, Daniel
Clarke, whom the country was so stirred about, when
we were young!"
p
"Right, dame, right! It is Clarke's skeleton!" was
the simultaneous cry. And Walter, pressing forward,
stood over the bones, and waved his hand, as to guard them
from further insult. His sudden appearance, his tall
stature, his wild gesture, the horror, the paleness,
the grief of his countenance, struck and appalled all
present. He remained speechless, and a sudden silence
succeeded the late clamor.
"And what do you here, fools?" said a voice, abruptly
The spectators turned; a new comer had been added to the
throng; it was Richard Houseman. His dress, loose
and disarranged, his flushed cheeks and rolling eyes,
betrayed the source of consolation to which he had flown
from his domestic affliction. "What do ye here?" said
he, reeling forward. "Ha! human bones! and whose may
they be, think ye?"
<<
They are Clarke's!" said the woman, who had first
given rise to that supposition. Yes, we think they are
Daniel Clarke's, he who disappeared some years ago!"
cried two or three voices in concert.
EUGENE ARAM.
581
"Clarke's?" repeated Houseman, stooping down and
picking up a thigh-bone, which lay at a little distance
from the rest; "Clarke's? ha ha! they are no more
Clarke's than mine!
"Behold!" shouted Walter, in a voice that rang from
cliff to plain, and springing forward, he seized House-
man with a giant's grasp. "Behold the murderer !
As if the avenging voice of heaven had spoken, a thrill-
ing and electric conviction darted through the crowd.
Each of the elder spectators remembered at once the person
of Houseman, and the suspicion that had attached to his
name.
Seize him! seize him!" burst forth from twenty
tives; "Houseman is the murderer!"
"Murderer!" faltered Houseman, trembling in the iron
hands of Walter, —“murderer of whom? I tell ye these
are not Clarke's bones ! ! ""
these torches Walter himself seized, and his was the first
step that entered the gloomy passage. At this place and
time, Houseman, who till then, throughout their short jour
ney, had seemned to have recovered a sort of dogged self-
possession, recoiled, and the big drops of fear or agony
fell fast from his brow. He was dragged forward forcibly
into the cavern; and now, as the space filled, and the torches
flickered against the grim walls, glaring on faces which
caught, from the deep and thrilling contagion of a common
sentiment, one common expression; it was not well possi-
ble for the wildest imagination to conceive a scene better
fitted for the unhallowed burial-place of the nardered
dead.
The eves of all now turned upon Houseman, and he,
after twice vainly endeavouring to speak, for the words
died inarticulate and choked within him, advancing a few
steps, pointed towards a spot on which, the next moment,
"Where then do they lie?" cried his arrester.
fell the concentrated light of every torch Au indescrib
Pale, confused, conscience-stricken, the bewil-able and universal murmur, and then a breathless silence
derment of intoxication mingling with that of fear, House- ensued. On the spot which Houseman had indicated, -
man turned a ghastly look around him, and shrinking from with the head placed to the right, lay what once had been
the eyes of all, reading in the eyes of all his condemnation, a human body!
he gasped out,
"Search St. Robert's Cave, in the turn
at the entrance !
CC
"Away!
rang the deep voice of Walter, on the in-
stant, away! -to the Cave, -to the Cave!"
On the banks of the river Nid, whose waters keep an
everlasting murmur to the crags and trees that overhang
them, is a wild and dreary cavern, hollowed from a rock,
which, according to tradition, was formerly the hermitage
of one of those early enthusiasts who made their solitude
in the sternest recesses of earth, and from the austerest
thoughts, and the bitterest penance, wrought their joyless
offerings to the Great Spirit of the lovely world. To this
desolate spot, called from the name of its once celebrated
eremite, St. Robert's Cave, the crowd now swept, increas-
ing its numbers as it advanced.
"Can you swear," said the priest, solemnly, as he turned
to Houseman, "that these are the bones of Clarke ?"
"Before God, I can swear it!" replied Houseman, at
length finding voice.
cr
"MY FATHER!" broke from Walter's lips, as he sank
upon his knees; and that exclamation completed the awe and
horror which prevailed in the breasts of all present. Stung
by the sense of the danger he had drawn upon himself, and
despair and excitement restoring in some measure not only
his naturai hardihood, but his natural astuteness; House-
man, here, mastering his emotions, and making that effort
which he was afterwards enabled to follow up with an
advantage to himself of which he could not then have
dreamed; Houseman, I say, cried aloud,
CC
"But I did not do the deed; I am not the murderer."
Speak out, whom do you accuse?" said the curate
Drawing his breath hard, and setting his teeth, as with
some steeled determination, Houseman replied:
"The murderer is Eugene Aram!"
The old man who had discovered the unknown remains,
which were gathered up and made a part of the procession,
led the way. Houseman, placed between two strong and
active men, went next; and Walter followed behind, fixing
his eyes mutely upon the ruffian. The curate had had the "Aram!" shouted Walter, starting to his feet; "O
precaution to send on before for torches, for the wintry God, thy hand hath directed me hither!" and suddenly,
evening now darkened round them, and the light from the and at once, sense left him, and he fell, as if a shot had
torchbearers, who met them at the cavern, cast forth its pierced through his heart, beside the remains of that father
red and lurid flare at the mouth of the chasm. One of whom he had thus mysteriously discovered.
BOOK THE FIFTH.
Οἱ αὐτῷ κακὰ τεύχει ἀνὴρ ἄλλῳ κακὰ τεύχων
Ἡ δὲ κακὴ βουλὴ τῷ βουλεύσαντι κακίστη. 'HEIOA.
CHAPTER I.
GRASSDALE. THE MORNING OF THE
MARRIAGE.
THE CRONES' GOSSIP.- THE BRIDE AT HER
TOILET. THE ARRIVAL.
"Jam veniet virgo, jam dicetur Hymenæus,
Hymen, O Hymenæe, Hymen ades, O Hymnenæe.”
CATULLUS. Carmen Nuptiale.
It was now the morning in which Eugene Aram was to
be married to Madeline Lester. The student's house had
been set in order for the arrival of the bride, and though it
was yet early morn, two old women whom his domestic
(now not the only one, for a buxom lass of eighteen had
been transplanted from Lester's household, to meet the
additional cares that the change of circumstances brought
o Aram's) had invited to assist her in arranging what
was already arranged, were bustling about the lower apart-
ments, and making matters as they called it " tidy.'
"Them flowers look but poor things after all," muttered
|
an old crone, whom our readers will recognise as Dame
Darkmans, placing a bowl of exotics on the table. "They
does not look nigh so cheerful as them as grows in the open
air."
CC
"Tush! Goody Darkmans," said the second gossip.
They be much prettier and finer to my mind; and so said
Miss Nelly, when she plucked them last night and sent me
down with them. They says there is not a blade o' grass
that the master does not know. He must be a good man
to love the things of the field so.”
"Ho!" said Dame Darkmans," ho! when Joe Wrench
was hanged for shooting the lord's keeper, and he mounted
the scaffold wid' a nosegay in his hand, he said, in a peev-
ish voice, says he, Why does not they give me a tarna-
tion? I always loved them sort o' flowers, I wore them
when I went a courting Bess Lucas; an' I would like to
die with one in my hand! So a man may like flowers,
and be but a hempen dog after all.”
"Now, don't you, Goody! be still, can't you? What a
tale for a marriage-day
CC
66
Tally vally," returned the grim hag; many a blesa.
482
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ing carries a curse in its arms, as the new moon carries
the old. This won't be one of your happy weddings, I
tell ye."
"And why d'ye say that?"
"Did you ever see a man with a look like that, make a
happy husband?-No, no; can ye fancy the merry laugh
o'childer in this house, or a babe on the father's knee, or
the happy, still smile on the mother's winsome face, some
few
year hence? No, Madge! the de'il has set his black
claw on the man's brow.'
"Hush! hush, Goody Darkmans, he may hear o' ye,"
said the second gossip; who, having now done all that
remained to do, had seated herself down by the window;
while the more ominous crone, leaning over Aram's oak
chair, uttered from thence her sibyl bodings.
CC
No," replied Mother Darkmans, "I seed him go out
an hour agone, when the sun was just on the rise; an' I
said, when I seed him stroam into the wood yonder, and
the ould leaves splashed in the damp under his feet; and
his hat was aboon his brows, and his lips went so; I said,
says I, 't is not the man that will make a hearth bright,
that would walk thus on his marriage-day. But I knows
what I knows; and I minds what I seed last night."
er,
Why, what did you see last night?" asked the listen-
with a trembling voice, for Mother Darkmans was a
great teller of ghost and witch tales; and a certain ineffable
awe of her dark gipsy features and malignant words bad
circulated pretty largely throughout the village.
Why, I sat up here with the ould deaf
here with the ould deaf woman, and we
were a drinking the health of the man, and his wife that is
to be, and it was nigh twelve o' the clock ere I minded it
was time to go home. Well, so I puts on my cloak, and
the moon was up, an' I goes along by the wood, and up
by Fairleigh Field, an' I was singing the ballad on Joe
Wrench's hanging, for the spirats had made me gamesome,
when I sees summut dark creep, creep, but iver so fast,
arter me over the field, and making right ahead to the vil-
lage. And I stands still, an' I was not a bit afeard; but
sure I thought it was no living cretur, at the first sight.
And so it comes up faster and faster, and then I sees it was
not one thing, but a many, many things, and they darkened
the whole field afore me. And what d'ye think they was?
a whole body o' gray rats, thousands and thousands on
'em, and they were making away from the outbuildings
here. For sure they knew, the witch things, that an
ill luck sat on the spot. And so I stood aside by the tree,
an' I laughed as I looked on the ugsome creturs, as they
swept close by me, tramp, tramp, an' they never heeded
zne a jot; but some on 'em looked aslant at me with their
glittering eyes, and showed their white teeth, as if they
grinned, and were saying to me, Ha! ha, Goody Dark-
mans, the house that we leave is a falling house; for the
devil will have his own." "
In some parts of the country, and especially in that
where our scene is laid, no omen is more superstitiously
believed evil, than the departure of these loathsome animals
from their accustomed habitation: the instinct which is
supposed to make them desert an unsafe tenement, is sup-
posed also to make them predict, in desertion, ill fortune
to the possessor. But while the ears of the listening gos-
sip were still tingling with this narration, the dark figure
of the student passed the window, and the old woman
starting up, appeared in all the bustle of preparation, as
Aram now entered the apartment.
"A happy day, your honor, -a happy good morning,"
said both the crones in a breath; but the blessing of the
worse-natured was vented in so harsh a croak, that Aram
*prned round, as if struck by the sound, and still more dis-
liking the well-remembered aspect of the person from whom,
`t came, waved his hand impatiently, and bade them begone.
"A-whish, -a-whish!" muttered Dame Darkmans,
to spake so to the poor; but the rats never lie, the bonny
things!
Aram threw himself into his chair, and remained for some
moments absorbed in a reverie, which did not bear the
aspect of gloom. Then walking once or twice to and fro
the apartment, he stopped opposite the chimney-piece, over
which were slung the firearms, which he never omitted to
keep charged and primed.
"Humph!" he said, half aloud, "ye have been but idle
gervants; and now ye are but little likely ever to requite
he care I have bestowed upon you.
With that, a faint smile crossed his features, and turning
away, he ascended the stairs that led to the lofty chambei
in which he had been so often wont to outwatch the stars--
"The souls of systems, and the lords of afe,
Through their wide empires."
Before we follow him to his high and lone retreat, w
will bring the reader to the manor-house, where all was
already gladness, and quiet but deep joy.
It wanted about three hours to that fixed for the mar
riage; and, as it was yet so early, Aram was not expected
at the manor-house till an hour before the celebration of the
event. Nevertheless, the bells were already ringing loud
and blithely; and the near vicinity of the church to the
house brought that sound, so inexpressibly buoyant and
cheering, to the ears of the bride, with a noisy merriment,
that seemed like the hearty voice of an old-fashioned friend
who seeks, in his greeting, rather cordiality than discretion.
Before her glass stood the beautiful, the virgin, the glori
ous form of Madeline Lester; and Ellinor, with trembling
hands (and a voice between a laugh and a cry) was braid-
ing up her sister's rich hair, and uttering her hopes, her
wishes, her congratulations. The small lattice was
open, and the air came rather chillingly to the bride's
bosom.
"It is a gloomy morning, dearest Nell," said she, shiv-
ering; "the winter seems about to begin at last.”
Stay, I will shut the window; the sun is struggling
with the clouds at present, but I am sure it will clear up
by and by. You don't, you don't leave us, the word
must out, till evening."
"Don't cry!" said Madeline, half weeping herself;
and sitting down, she drew Ellinor to her, and the two
sisters who had never been parted since birth, exchanged
tears that were natural, though scarcely the unmixed tears
of grief.
"And what pleasant evenings we shall have!" said
Madeline, holding her sister's hands, "in the Christmas
time. You will be staying with us, you know; and that
pretty old room in the north of the house, Eugene has
already ordered to be fitted up for you. Well, and then my
dear father, and dear Walter, who will be returned long ere
then, will walk over to see us, and praise my housekeeping,
and so forth. And then, after dinner, we will draw near
the fire! I next to Eugene, and my father, our guest, on
the other side of me, with his long gray hair, and his good
fine face, with a tear of kind feeling in his eye you know
that look he has whenever he is affected. And at a little
distance on the other side of the hearth, will be you, and --
and Walter,- I suppose we must make room for him. And
Eugene, who will be then the liveliest of you all, shall read
to us with his soft clear voice, or tell us all about the birds
and flowers, and strange things in other countries. And
then after supper we will walk half-way home across that
beautiful valley, beautiful even in winter, with my father
and Walter, and count the stars, and take new lessons in
astronomy, and hear tales about the astrologers and the
alchymists, with their fine old dreams. Ah! it will be
such a happy Christmas, Ellinor ! And then when spring
comes, some fine morning, finer than this, when the birds
are about, and the leaves getting green, and the flowers
springing up every day, I shall be called in to help your
toilet as you have helped mine, and to go with you to
church, though not, alas! as your bridesmaid! Ah! whom
shall we have for that duty ?"
"Pshaw!" said Ellinor, smiling through her tears.
DOW
While the sisters were thus engaged, and Madeline was
trying with her innocent kindness of heart to exhilarate the
spirits, so naturally depressed, of her doting sister, the sound
of carriage-wheels was heard in the distance; nearer,
nearer, now the sound stopped, as at the gate;
fast, faster, fast as the postillions could ply whip and the
horses tear along, while the groups in the churchyard ran
forth to gaze, and the bells rang merrily all the while, two
chaises whirled by Madeline's window, and stopped at the
porch of the house: the sisters had flown in surprise to the
casement.
"It is it is- good God! it as Walter," cried Ellinor;
"but how pale he looks!
"And who are those s.range men with him?" faltered
Madeline, alarmed, thor gh she knew not why.
EUGENE ARAM.
586
CHAPTER II
CHE
STUDENT
ALONE IN HIS CHAMBER.
INTERRUPTION. FAITHFUL LOVE.
"Nequicquam thalamo graves
Hastas
Vitabis, strepitumque, et celerem sequi
Ajacem."
HORAT. Od. xv. lib. 1.
THE
ALONE in his favorite chamber, the instruments of
science around him, and books, some of astronomical re-
search, some of less lofty yet abtruser lore, scattered on
the tables as wont, Eugene Aram indulged the last medi-
tation he believed likely to absorb his thoughts before that
great change of life which was to bless solitude with a
companion.
"Yes," said he, pacing the apartment with folded arms,
yes, all is safe! He will not again return; the dead
sleeps now without a witness. I may lay this working
brain upon the bosom that loves me, and not start at night
and think that the soft hand around my neck is the hang-
man's gripe. Back to thyself, henceforth and for ever, my
busy heart! Let not thy secret stir from its gloomy depth!
the seal is on the tomb, henceforth be the spectre laid.
Yes, I must smooth my brow, and teach my lip restraint,
and smile and talk like other men. I have taken to my
hearth a watch, tender, faithful, anxious, -but a watch.
Farewell the unguarded hour! the soul's relief in speech,
the dark and broken, yet how grateful! confidence with
self, farewell! And come, thou vci!! subtle, close, un-
varying, the everlasting curse of entire hypocrisy, that
under thee, as night, the vexed world within may sleep,
and stir not! and all, in truth concealinent, may seem
repose !"
As he uttered these thoughts, the student paused and
looked on the extended landscape that lay below. A
heavy, chill, and comfortless mist sat saddening over the
arth. Not a leaf stirred on the autumnal trees, but the
moist damps fell slowly and with a mournful murmur upon
be unwaving grass. The outline of the morning sun was
visible, but it gave forth no lustre a ring of watery and
lark vapor girded the melancholy orb. Far at the en-
rance of the valley, the wild fern showed red and faded,
and the first march of the deadly winter was already her-
ulded by that drear and silent desolation which cradles the
winds and storins. But amidst this cheerless scene, the
distant note of the merry marriage-bell floated by, like the
good spirit of the wilderness, and the student rather
paused to hearken to the note than to survey the scene.
"My marriage-bell!" said he, "could I two short
years back have ever dreamed of this! my marriage-bell!
How fondly used my poor mother, when first she learned
pride for her young scholar, to predict this day, and blend
its festivities with the honor and the wealth her son was to
acquire. Alas! can we have no science to count the stars,
and forebode the black eclipse of the future? But peace!
peace! peace! I am, I will, I shall be, happy now!
Memory, I defy thee!
He uttered the last words in a deep and intense tone,
and turning away as the joyful peal again broke distinctly
on his ear,
My marriage-bell! oh, Madeline! how wondrously
beloved how unspeakably dear thou art to me! What
hast thou conquered? how many reasons for resolve; how
vast an army in the past has thy bright and tender purity
overthrown! But thou, no never shalt thou repent ! and
for several minutes the sole thought of the soliloquist was
love. But scarce consciously to himself, a spirit not, to
all seeming, befitted to that bridal day, vague, restless,
impressed with the dark and fluttering shadow of coming
change, had taken possession of his breast, and did not
long yield the mastery to any brighter and more serone
emotion.
"And why?" he said, as this spirit regained its empire
over him, and he paused before the starred tubes' of his
beloved science and why this chill, this shiver, in the
midst of hope? Can the mere breath of the seasons, the
weight or Eghtness of the atmosphere, the outward gloom
or smile of the brute mass called nature, affect us thus ?
Out on this empty science, this vain knowledge, this little
lore, if we are so fooled by the vile clay and the common
Lir, from our one great empire-self! Great God! hast
C
! thou made us in mercy or in die lain? Placed in this nar
row world, darkness and cloud around us, no fixed rule
for men, creeds, morals, changing in every clime, and
growing like herbs, upon the mere soil, - we struggle to
dispel the shadows; we grope around; from our own heart
and our sharp and hard endurance we strike our only light,
- for what? to show us what dupes we are! creatures of
accident, tools of circumstance, blind instruments of the
scorner, fate; the very mind, the very reason, a bound
slave to the desires, the weakness of the clay;-affected
by a cloud, dulled by the damps of the foul marsh;-
stricken from power to weakness, from sense to madness;
-to gaping idiocy, or delirious raving, by a putrid ex-
halation!
halation! a rheum, a chill, and Cæsar trenibles! The
world's gods, that slay or enlighten millions-poor puppets
to the same rank imp which calls up the fungus or breeds
the worm, pah! How little worth is it in this life to be
wise! Strange, strange, how my heart sinks, well, the
better sign, the better sign! in danger it never sank.
Absorbed in these reflections, Aram had not for some
minutes noticed the sudden ceasing of the bell; but now,
as he again paused from his irregular and abrupt pacings
along the chamber, the silence struck him, and looking
forth, and striving again to catch the note, he saw a little
group of men, among whom he marked the erect and
comely form of Rowland Lester, approaching towards the
house.
What!" he thought, "do they come for me? Is it
so late? Have I played the laggard? Nay, it yet wants
near an hour to the time they expected me. Well, some
kindness, some attention from my good father-in-law; I
must thank him for it. What! my hand trembles; how
weak are these poor nerves! I must rest and recall my mind
to itself!"
And, indeed, whether or not from the novelty and im-
portance of the event he was about to celebrate, or from
some less reasonable presentiment, occasioned, as he would
fain believe, by the mournful and sudden change in the at-
mosphere, an embarrassment, a wavering, a fear, very un-
wonted to the calm and stately self-possession of Eugene
Aram, made itself painfully felt throughout his frame. He
sank down in his chair and strove to re-collect himself; it
was an effort in which he had just succeeded, when a loud
knocking was heard at the outer door, it swung open,- -
several voices were heard.
several voices were heard. Aram sprang up, pale, breath-
less, his lips apart.
"Great God!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands.
"Murderer, was that the word I heard shouted forth?
The voice, too, is Walter Lester's. Has he returned ?
can he have learnt ?
J
To rush to the door, to throw across it a long, heav
iron bar, which would resist assaults of no common
strength, was his first impulse. Thus enabled to gain time
for reflection, his active and alarmed mind ran over the
whole field of expedient and conjecture. Again, “ Mur-
derer," 'Stay me not," cried Walter from below, "my
،،
hand shall seize the murderer!
gadg
-
Guess was now over; danger and death were marching
on him. Escape, — how ? whither? the height forbade
the thought of flight from the casement! the door? - he
heard loud steps already hurrying up the stairs; his
hands clutched convulsively at his breast, where his firearms,
were generally concealed, — they were left below; that to
his resolute and brave spirit was the bitterest thought of
all. He glanced one lightning glance round the room, no
weapon of any kind was at hand. His brain reeled for a
moment, his breath gasped, a mortal sickness passed over
his heart, and then the MIND triumphed over all. He
drew up to his full height, folded his arms doggedly on
his breast, and muttering,
"The accuser comes, I have it still to refute the
charge, he stood prepared to meet, nor despairing to
evade, the worst.
As waters close over the object which divided them, all
these thoughts, these fears, and this resolution had been
but the work, the agitation, and the succeeding calm of
the moment; that moment was past.
"Admit us,” cried the voice of Walter Lester, knock-
ng fiercely at the door.
"Not so fervently, boy," said Lester, 'aying his hand
on his nephew's shoulder; “ your tale is yet to be proved,
I believe it not; treat him as innocent, I pray, I com
urand, till you have shown him guilty."
534
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"It is a dreadful tale," he said, "if true; dreadful u
me, so nearly allied to that family. But, as yet, I grapph
with shadows."
"What does not your conscience now convict you ?'
cried Walter, staggered by the calmness of the prisoner
But here, Lester, who could no longer contain himself, in
terposed; he put by his nephew, and rushing to Aram, feH,
Away, uncle," said the fiery Walter; "he is my fath-
er's murderer. God hath given justice to my hands."
These words, uttered in a lower key than before, were but
indistinctly heard by Aram through the massy door.
"Open, or we force our entrance!" shouted Walter
again; and Aram, speaking for the first time, replied in a
clear and sonorous voice, so that an angel, had one spoken,
could not have more deeply impressed the heart of Row-weeping, upon his neck.
land Lester with a conviction of the student's innocence;
"Who knocks so rudely? what means this violence? |
I open my doors to my friends.
asks it?"
Is it a friend who
"I ask it," said Rowland Lester, in a trembling and
agitated voice; "there seems some dreadful mistake; come
forth, Eugene, and rectify it by a word."
"Is it you, Rowland Lester? It is enough. I was but
with my books, and had secured myself from intrusion.
Enter!"
The bar was withdrawn, the door was burst open, and
even Walter Lester, - even the officers of justice with
him, drew back for a moment, as they beheld the lofty
brow, the_majestic presence, the features so unutterably
calm, of Eugene Aram,
"What want you, sirs?" said he, unmoved, and un-
faltering, though in the officers of justice he recognised
faces he had known before, and in that distant town in
which all that he dreaded in the past lay treasured up. At
the sound of his voice the spell that for an instant had
arrested the step of the avenging son, melted away.
"Scize him!" he cried to the officers; "you see your
prisoner."
"Hold!" cried Aram, drawing back; "by what au-
thority is this outrage? for what am I arrested?
"Behold!" said Walter, speaking through his teeth,
"behold our warrant ! You are accused of murder !
Know you the name of Richard Houseman? Pause,
consider, -or that of Daniel Clarke ?"
Slowly Aram lifted his eyes from the warrant, and it
might be seen that his face was a shade more pale, though
his look did not quail, nor his nerves tremble. Slowly he
turned his gaze upon Walter, and then, after one moment's
survey, dropped it once more on the paper.
"The name of Houseman is not unfamiliar to me," said
he, calmly, but with effort.
"And knew you Daniel Clarke ?"
"What mean these questions?" said Aram, losing
losing
temper, and stamping violently on the ground; "is it thus
that a man, free and guiltless, is to be questioned at the
behest, or rather outrage of every lawless boy? Lead me
to some authority meet for me to answer; for you, boy,
my answer is contempt."
rr
Big words shall not save thee, murderer," cried Wal-
ter, breaking from his uncle, who in vain endeavoured to
hold him, and laying his powerful grasp upon Aram's
shoulder. Livid was the glare that shot from the student's
eye upon his assailer; and so fearfully did his features
work and change with the passions within him, that even
Walter felt a strange shudder thrill through his frame.
"Gentlemen," said Aram, at last mastering his emo-
tions, and assuming some portion of the remarkable dig-
nity that characterized his usual bearing, as he turned to-
wards the officers of justice, "I call upon you to dis-
charge your duty; if this be a rightful warrant, I am your
prisoner, but I am not this man's.
I command your pro-
tection from him!
Walter had already released his gripe, and said, in a
muttered voice:
My passion misled me; violence is unworthy my solemn
cause. God and justice, not these hands, are my aven-
gers.
"Your avengers!" said Aram; "what dark words are
these? This warrant accuses me; of the murder of one
Daniel Clarke; what is he to thee?"
"Mark me, man!" said Walter, fixing his eyes on
Aram's countenance. "The name of Daniel Clarke was
a feigned name; the real name was Geoffrey Lester; that
murdered Lester was my father, and the brother of him
whose daughter, had I not come to-day, you would have
called your wife!"
Aram felt, while these words were ittered, that the eyes
of all in the room were on him, and perhaps that knowl
edge enabled b'm not to reveal by outward sign what must
have passed w thin during the awful trial of that moment.
|
"I do not accuse thee, Eugene, my son,—my son,--
I feel,-I know thou art innocent of this monstrous crime;
some horrid delusion darkens that poor boy's sight. You,
you, who would walk aside to save a worm!" and
the poor old man, overcome with his emotions, could liter
ally say no more.
Aram looked down on Lester with a compassionate ex-
pression, and soothing him with kind words, and promises
that all would be explained, gently moved from his hold,
and, anxious to terminate the scene, silently motioned the
officers to proceed. Struck with the calmness and dignity
of his manner, and fully impressed by it with the notion
of his innocence, the officers treated him with a marked
respect; they did not even walk by his side, but suffered
him to follow their steps. As they descended the stairs,
Aram turned round to Walter, with a bitter and reproach-
ful countenance:
"And so, young man, your malice against me has
reached even to this; will nothing but my life content
you?"
"Is the desire of execution on my father's murderer
but the wish of malice?" retorted Walter; though his
heart yet wellnigh misgave him as to the grounds on which
his suspicion rested.
Aram smiled, as half in scorn, half through incredulity,
and shaking his head gently, moved on without further
words.
The three old women who had remained in listening
astonishinent at the foot of the stairs, gave way as the men
descended; but the one who so long had been Aram's soli.
tary domestic, and who from her deafness was still benight-
ed and uncomprehending as to the causes of his seizure,
though from that very reason her alarm was the greater
and more acute, -she, impatiently thrusting away the
officers, and mumbling some unintelligible anathema as sh
did so, flung herself at the feet of a master, whose quiet
habits and constant kindness had endeared him to her
humble and faithful heart, and exclaimed,
"What are they doing? Have they the heart to ill use
you? Oh master, God bless you! God shield you! I
shall never see you, who was my only friend, who was
every one's friend, any more!"
Aram drew himself from her, and said with a quivering
lip to Rowland Lester,
"If her fears are true, if if I never more return
hither, see that her old age does not starve,
does not
want.
Lester could not speak for sobbing, but the request was
remembered. And now Aram, turning aside his proud
head to conceal his emotion, bebeld open the door of the
room so trimly prepared for Madeline's reception; the
"Lead on,
flowers smiled upon him from their stands.
gentlemen," he said, quickly.
he said, quickly. And so Eugene Aranı
passed his threshold.
"Ho, ho!" muttered the old hag, whose predictions in
the morning had been so ominous; -"Ho, ho! you 'H
believe Goody Darkmans another time! Providence re-
spects the sayings of the ould. 'T was not for nothing the
rats grinned at me last night. But let's in, and have a
warm glass. He, he! there will be all the strong liquore
for us now; the Lord is merciful to the poor ! "
As the little group proceeded through the valley, the
officers first, Aram and Lester side by side, Walter, with
his hand on his pistol and his eye on the prisoner, a little
behind,-Lester endeavoured to cheer the prisoner's spirits
and his own, by insisting on the madness of the charge,
and the certainty of instant acquittal from the magistrate to
whom they were bound, and who was esteemed the one
both most acute and most just in the county; Aram
interrupted him somewhat abruptly, -
My friend, enough of this presently. But Madeline,
what knows she as yet ?
CC
CC
Nothing of course we kept-
:
Exactly, exactly you have done wisely. Why
need she learn any thing as yet? Say an arrest for debt,
EUGENE ARAM.
a mistake, —an absence but of a day or so, at most:—
you understand.”
"Yes. Will you not see her, Eugene, before you go,
und say this yourself?"
"I, - oh God!I! to whom this day was, No, no:
save me, I implore you, from the agony of such a contrast,
an interview so mournful and unavailing. No, we must
not meet! But whither go we now? Not, not surely
through all the idle gossips of the village, the crowd
already excited to gape, and stare, and speculate on the "
"No," interrupted Lester; "the carriages await us at
the farther end of the valley. I thought of that, for the
rash boy behind seems to have changed his nature. I loved,
God knows how I loved my brother! but before I would
et suspicion thus blind reason, I would suffer inquiry to
sleep for ever on his fate."
"Your nephew," said Aram,
"has ever wronged me;
but waste not words on him: let us think only of Madeline.
Will you go back at once to her, tell her a tale to lull her
apprehensions, and then follow us with haste? I am alone
among enemies till you come."
Lester was about to answer, when, at a turn in the road,
which brought the carriage within view, they perceived
perceived
two figures in white hastening towards them; and ere
Aram was prepared for the surprise, Madeline had sunk
pale, trembling, and all breathless on his breast.
"I could not keep her back," said Ellinor, apologeti-
cally to her father.
"Back! and why? Am I not in my proper place?
cried Madeline, lifting her face from Aram's breast, and
then, as her eye circled the group, and rested on Arain's
countenance, now no longer calm, but full of woe, of pas-
sion,
of disappointed love, of anticipated despair,
she rose,
and gradually recoiling with a fear which struck
dumb her voice, thrice attempted to speak, and thrice
failed.
Cat
"But what,
claimed Ellinor. CC
-
not.
what is, what means this?" ex-
Why do you weep, father? Why
You answer
does Eugene turn away his face?
Speak, for God's sake! These strangers, what are they?
what are they?
And you, Walter, you, why are you so pale? Why do
thus knit your brows and fold your arins?
you
you will tell me the meaning of this dreadful silence,
this scene! Speak, cousin, dear cousin, speak!
You,
Speak!" cried Madeline, finding voice at length,
but in the sharp and straining tone of wild terror, in which
they recognised no note of the natural music. That single
word sounded rather as a shriek than an adjuration; and
so piercingly it ran through the hearts of all present, that
the very officers, hardened as their trade had made them,
felt as
if they would rather have faced death than answer
that command.
A dead, long, dreary pause, and Aram broke it.
"Madeline Lester," said he, "prove yourself worthy of
the hour of trial. Exert yourself; arouse your heart; be
prepared! You are the betrothed of one whose soul
never quailed before man's angry word: remember that,
and fear not .
#peak 1 ",
"I will not. I will not, Eugene ! Speak, only
You have oved me in good report; trust me now in
ill. They accuse me of crime, - a heinous crime at first
I would not have told you the real charge; pardon me, I
wronged you; now, know all! They accuse me, I say, of
crime. Of what crime? you ask. Ay, I scarce know, so
vague is the charge, -so fierce the accuser: but, prepare,
Madeline, it is of — murder ! ”
Raised as her spirits had been by the haughty and ear-
nest tone of Aram's exhortation, Madeline now, though she
turned deadly pale, though the earth swam round and
round, yet repressed the shriek upou her lips, as those
horrid words shot into her soul.
"You! -murder! - you! And who dares accuse
you ? "
"Behold him,
- your cousin! "
Ellinor heard, turned, fixed her eyes on Walter's sullen
brow and motionless attitude, and fell senseless to the earth.
Not thus Madeline. As there is an exhaustion that forbids,
not invites, repose, so when the mind is thoroughly on the
rack, the common relief to anguish is not allowed; the
senses are too sharply strung, thus happily to collapse into
forgetfulness; the dreadful inspiration that agony kindles,
supports bat ire while it consumes it. Madeline passed,
VOL. I
74
|
without a downward glance, by the lifeless body of her sis
ter; and walking with a steady step to Walter, she laid het
hand upon his arm, and fixing on his countenance that soft
clear eye, which was now lit with a searching and pretur
natural glare, and seemed to pierce into his soul, she
said: -
Of what?
it
"Walter ! do I hear aright? Am I awake, - is it you
who accuse Eugene Aram? your Madeline's betrothed
husband, — Madeline, whom you once loved!
of crimes which death alone can punish. Away!
is not you, I know it is not. Say that I am mistaken,
that I am mad, if you will. Come, Walter, relieve me
let me not abhor the
let me not abhor the very air you breathe!"
"Will no one have mercy on me?" cried Walter, rent
to the heart, and covering his face with his hands In the
fire and heat of vengeance, he had not recked of this; but
he had only thought of justice to a father, punishment
to a villain, -rescue for a credulous girl. The woe,
the horror he was about to inflict on all he most loved,"
this had not struck upon him with a due force till now.
Mercy, -you talk of mercy! I knew it could not be
true!" said Madeline, trying to pluck her cousin's hand
from his face :
from his face: "you could not have dreamt of wrong to
Eugene, and and upon this day. Say we have erred,
or that you have erred, and we will forgive and bless you
—
even now! "
66
Aram had not interfered in this scene. He kept his eyes
fixed on the cousins, not uninterested to see what effect
Madeline's touching words might produce on his accuser;
meanwhile, she continued, Speak to me, Walter,
dear Walter, speak to me ! Are you, my cousin, my play-
fellow, - are you the one to blight our hopes,- to dash our
joys, to bring dread and terror into a house so lately all
peace and sunshine, your own home, your childhood's
home? What have you done, what have you dared to do?
-- accuse him, of what? Murder! speak, speak.-
Murder, ha ha!-murder! nay, not sɔ!
not venture to come here, you would not let me take your
band, you would not look us, your uncle, your more than
sisters, in the face, if
sisters, in the face, if you could nurse in your heart this lie,
this black, horrid lie! "
M
—
you would
Walter withdrew his hands, and, as he turned his
face said,-
"Let him prove his innocence, pray God he do ! — I am
not his accuser, Madeline. His accusers are the bones of
my dead father! Save these, heaven alone, and the re
vealing earth, are the witness against him!
CC
CC
"Your father! said Madeline, staggering back, –
my lost uncle! Nay, now I know, indeed, what a
shadow has appalled us all! Did you know my uncle,
Eugene? Did you ever even see Geoffrey Lester ?"
Never, as I believe, so help me God! " said Aram,
But this is idle now,
laying his hand on his heart.
as recollecting himself, he felt that the case had gone forth
from Walter's hands, and that appeal to him had become
vain.
-
"
"Leave us now, dearest Madeline; my beloved wife that
shall be, that is! I go to disprove these charges,
per-
haps I shall return to-night. Delay not my acquittal, even
from doubt, - a boy's doubt. Come, sirs."
-
"O Eugene! Eugene! cried Madeline, throwing_her-
self on her knees before him, -"do not order me to leave
you now, — -now, in the hour of dread, — I will not. Nay,
look not so! I swear I will not! Father, dear father
come and plead for me, say I shall go with you. I ask
nothing more. Do not fear for my nerves, — cowardice is
gone. I will not shame you, I will not play the woman.
I know what is due to one who loves him, try me, only
try me. You weep, father, you shake your head,
you, Eugene, you have not the heart to deny me? Think,
think if I staid here to count the moments till you re-
turn, my very sense would leave me, What do I ask?
but to go with you, to be the first to hail your triumph!
Had this happened two hours bence, you could not have
said me pay,
I should have claimed the right to be with
you, I now but implore the blessing. — You relent, — you
relent, I see it!"
but
"Oh God!" exclaimed Aram, rising, and clasping her
to his breast, and wildly kissing her face, but with cold and
trembling lips, "this is, indeed, a bitter hour, let me
not sink beneath it. Yes, Madeline, ask your father if he
consents; I hail your strengthening presence as that of
an angel. I will not be the one to sever you from my side.”
586
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"You are right, Eugene," said Lester, who was sup-
porting Ellinor, not yet recovered, "let her with us;
go
it is but common kindness, and common mercy.
Madeline uttered a cry of joy, (joy even at such a mo-
ment !) and clung fast to Eugene's arm, as if for assurance
that they were not indeed to be separated.
By this time, some of Lester's servants, who had from a
distance followed their young mistresses, reached the spot.
To their care Lester gave the still scarce reviving Ellinor,
and then turning round with a severe countenance to Wal-
ter, said," Come, sir, your rashness has done sufficient
wrong for the present; come now, and see how soon your
suspicions will end in shame.”
"Justice, and blood for blood!" said Walter, sternly,
but his heart felt as if it were broken. His venerable
uncle's tears,
Madeline's look of horror as she turned
from him,- Ellinor, all lifeless, and he not daring to ap-
proach her, this was his work? He pulled his hat over
his eyes, and hastened into the carriage alone. Lester,
Madeline, and Aram followed in the other vehicle, and the
two officers contented themselves with mounting the box,
certain that the prisoner would attempt no escape
CHAPTER III.
may be p
THE JUSTICE. THE DEPARTURE. THE EQUANIM-
ITY OF THE CORPORAL IN BEARING THE MISFOR.
TUNES OF OTHER PEOPLE. THE EXAMINATION;
ITS RESULT. ARAM'S CONDUCT IN PRISON. THE
ELASTICITY OF OUR HUMAN NATURE. A VISIT
FROM THE EARL.- WALTER'S DETERMINATION.—
MADELINE.
·
"Bear me to prison, where I am committed."
Measure for Measure.
On arriving at Sir's, a disappointment, for which,
had they previously conversed with the officers, they might
have been prepared, awaited them. The fact was, that the
justice had only endorsed the warrant sent from Yorkshire;
and after a very short colloquy, in which he expressed his
regret at the circumstance, his conviction that the charge
would be disproved, and a few other courteous common-
places, he gave Aram to understand that the matter now did
not rest with him, but that it was to Yorkshire that the offi-
cers were bound, and before Mr. Thornton, a magistrate
of that county, that the examination was to take place.
"All I can do," said the magistrate, "I have already
done; but I wished for an opportunity of informing you of
it. I have written to my brother justice at full length re-
specting your high character, and treating the habits and
rectitude of your life alone as a sufficient refutation of so
monstrous a charge.
For the first time a visible embarrassment came over the
firm nerves of the prisoner: he seemed to look with great
uneasiness at the prospect of this long and dreary journey,
and for such an end. Perhaps the very notion of returning
as a suspected criminal to that part of the country where a
portion of his youth had been passed, was sufficient to dis-
quiet and deject him. All this while his poor Madeline
seemed actuated by a spirit beyond herself; she would not
she held his hand in hers,
be separated from his side,
ance.
:
she whispered comfort and courage at the very moment
when her own heart most sank. The magistrate wiped
The magistrate wiped
his
eyes when he saw a creature so young, so beautiful, in
circumstances so fearful, and bearing up with an energy so
little to be expected from her years and delicate appear-
Aram said but little he covered his face with his
right hand for a few moments, as if to hide a passing emo-
tion, a sudden weakness. When he removed it, all vestige
of color had died away; his face was pale as that of one who
has risen from the grave; but it was settled and composed.
"It is a hard pang, sir," said he, with a faint smile;
"so many miles, -so many days, so long a deferment
of knowing the best, or preparing to meet the worst. But,
be it so! I thank you, sir, —I thank you all,- Lester,
Madeline, for your kindness; you two must now leave me;
the brand is on my name, the suspected man is no fit
object for love or friendship! Farewell!"
"We go with you," said Madeline, firmly, and in a very
low voice.
Aram's eye sparkled, but he waved his hand impatiently.
"We go with you, my friend!" repeated Lester
And so, indeed, not to dwell long on a painful scene,
was finally settled. Lester and his two daughters tha
evening followed Aram to the dark and fatal bourne to
which he was bound.
It was in vain that Walter, seizing his uncle's hands
whispered,
"For heaven's sake, do not be rash in your friendship
You have not yet learnt all. I tell you, that there can be
no doubt of his guilt! Remember, it is a brother for whom
you mourn! will you countenance his murderer?"
Lester, despite himself, was struck by the earnestness
with which his nephew spoke, but the impression died
away as the words ceased: so strong and deep had been
the fascination which Eugene Aram had exercised over the
hearts of all once drawn within the near circle of his attrac-
tion, that had the charge of murder been made against him-
self, Lester could not have repelled it with a more entire
conviction of the innocence of the accused. Still, however,
the deep sincerity of his nephew's manner in some measure
served to soften his resentment towards him.
"No, no, boy!" said he, drawing away his hand,
"Rowland Lester is not the one to desert a friend in the
day of darkness and the hour of need. Be silent, I say!
My brother, my poor brother, you tell me, has been mur-
dered. I will see justice done to him: but, Aram! fie!
fie! it is a name that would whisper falsehood to the loud-
est accusation. Go, Walter! go! I do not blame you !—
you may be right,— a murdered father is a dread and awful
memory to a son ! What wonder that the thought warps
your judgment? But go! Eugene was to me both a guide
and a blessing; a father in wisdom, a son in love. I cannot
look on his accuser's face without anguish. Go! we shall
meet again. How! Go!"
in sorrow,
way
"Enough, sir!" said Walter, partly in anger, partly
"time be the judge between us all!”
With these words he turned from the house, and pro-
half
ceeded on foot towards a cottage
between Grass-
dale and the magistrate's house, at which, previous to his
return to the former place, he had prudently left the cor-
poral, not willing to trust to that person's discretion, as
to the tales and scandal that he might propagate throughout
the village on a matter so painful and so dark.
Let the world wag as it will, there are some tempers
which its vicissitudes never reach. Nothing makes a pic-
ture of distress more sad than the portrait of some indi-
vidual sitting indifferently looking on in the back ground.
This was a secret Hogarth knew well. Mark his death-
bed scenes; -poverty and vice worked up into horror,
and the physicians in the corner wrangling for the fee!
or the child playing with the coffin, or the nurse filching
what fortune, harsh, yet less harsh than humanity, might
have left. In the melancholy depth of humor that steeps
both our fancy and our heart in the immortal romance of
Cervantes (for, how profoundly melancholy is it to be com-
pelled by one gallant folly to laugh at all that is gentle, and
brave, and wise, and generous!) nothing grates on us more
than when last scene of all, the poor knight lies dead,-
his exploits for ever over,- for ever dumb his eloquent dis-
courses; than when, I say, we are told that, despite of his
grief, even little Sancho did not eat or drink the less :-
these touches open to us the real world, it is true; but it
is not the best part of it. What a pensive thing is true
humor! Certain it was, that when Walter, full of con-
tending emotions at all he had witnessed,- harassed, tor-
tured, yet also elevated by his feelings, stopped opposite
the cottage door, and saw there the corporal sitting com
fortably in the porch,- his vile modicum Sabini before him,
his pipe in his mouth, and a complacent expression of
satisfaction diffusing itself over features which shrewdness
certain it was
and selfishness had marked for their own;
that, at this sight, Walter experienced a more displeasing
revulsion of feeling,-a more entire conviction of sadness,
-a more consummate disgust at this weary world and the
motley maskers that walk thereon, than all the tragic
scenes he had just witnessed had excited within him.
“And well, sir," said the corporal, slowly rising, "how
did it go off?. Wasn't the villain, 'bash'd to the dust ?-
You've nabbed him safe, I hope ?"
"Silence," said Walter, sternly; prepare for our de.
parture.
parture. The chaise will be here forthwith; we return to
Yorkshire this day. Ask me no more now.
"A well, baugh!" said the corporal
-
--
EUGENE ARAM.
58*
There was a long silence. Walter walked to and fro the
road before the cottage. The chaise arrived; the luggage
was put in. Walter's foot was on the step; but before
the corporal mounted the rumbling dickey, that invaluable
domestic hemmed thrice.
"And had you time, sir, to think of poor Jacob, and look
at the cottage, and slip in a word to your uncle about the bit
'tato ground?
We pass over the space of time, short in fact, long in suf-
fering, that elapsed, till the prisoner and his companions
reached Knaresbro'. Aram's conduct during this time was
not only calm but cheerful. The stoical doctrines he had
affected through life, he on this trying interval called into
remarkable exertion. He it was who now supported the
spirits of his mistress and his friend; and though he no
longer pretended to be sanguine of acquittal, — though again
and again he urged upon them the gloomy fact, first, how
improbable it was that this course had been entered into
against him without strong presumption of guilt; and second-
ly, how little less improbable it was, that at that distance of
time he should be able to procure evidence, or remember
circumstances, sufficient on the instant to set aside such
presumption, he yet dwelt partly on the hope of ultimate
proof of his innocence, and still more strongly on the firm
ness of his own mind to bear, without shrinking, even the
hardest fate.
-
"Do not," he said to Lester, "do not look on these trials
of life oly with the eyes of the world. Reflect how poor
and minute a segment in the vast circle of eternity existence
is at the best. Its sorrow and its shame are but moments.
Always in my brightest and youngest hours I have wrapt
my heart in the contemplation of an august futurity.
'The soul, secure in its existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.'
power
If I die even the death of the felon, it is beyond the
of fate to separate us for long. It is but a pang, and we
are united again for ever; for ever in that far and shadowy
lime, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the
veary are at rest.'
Were it not for Madeline's dear sake,
should long since have been over-weary of the world. As
it is, the sooner, even by a violent and unjust fate, we leave
a path begirt with snares below and tempests above, the
happier for that soul which looks to its lot in this earth as
the least part of its appointed doom.”
In discourses like this, which the nature of his eloquence
was peculiarly calculated to render solemn and impressive,
Aram strove to prepare his friends for the worst, and per-
haps to cheat, or to steel, himself. Ever as he spoke thus,
Lester or Ellinor broke on him with impatient remonstrance;
but Madeline, as if imbued with a deeper and more mourn-
ful penetration into the future, listened in tearless and
breathless attention. She gazed upon him with a look that
shared the thought he expressed, though it read not (yet she
dreamed so) the heart from which it came. In the words
of that beautiful poet, to whose true nature, so full of unut-
tered tenderness, -
--so fraught with the rich nobility of love,
we have begun slowly to awaken,
"Her lip was silent, scarcely beat her heart.
Her eye alone proclaimed, we will not part!'
Thy 'hope' may perish, or thy friends may flee,
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee! )) *
They arrived at noon at the house of Mr. Thornton, and
▲ am underwent his examination. Though he denied most
the particulars in Houseman's evidence, and expressly
the charge of murder, his commitment was made out; and
that day he was removed by the officers (Barker and Moor,
who had arrested him at Grassdale) to York Castle, to
await his trial at the assizes.
The sensation which this extraordinary event created
throughout the country was wholly unequalled. Not only
in Yorkshire, and the county in which he had of late resided,
where his personal habits were known, but even in the
metropolis, and amongst men of all classes in England, it
appears to have caused one mingled feeling of astonishment,
horror, and incredulity, which in our times has had no
parallel in any criminal prosecution. The peculiar turn of
the prisoner, his genius, his learning, - his moral life,
the interest that by students had been for years attached
to his name, his approaching marriage, the length of
time that had elapsed since the crime had been committed,
the singular and abrupt manner, the wild and legendary
* Lara.
spot, in which the skeleton of he lost man had been dis-
covered, the imperfect rumors, the dark and suspi-
cious evidence, all combined to make a tale of such
marvellous incident, and breeding such endless conjecture,
that we cannot wonder to find it afterwards received a place,
not only in the temporary chronicles, but even the most
important and permanent histories of the period.
Previous to Walter's departure from Knaresbro' to
Grassdale, and immediately subsequent to the discovery at
St. Robert's Cave, the coroner's inquest had been held
upon the bones so mysteriously and suddenly brought to
light. Upon the witness of the old woman at whose house
Aram had lodged, and upon that of Houseman, aided by
some circumstantial and less weighty evidence, had been
issued that warrant on which we have seen the prisoner
apprehended.
With most men there was an intimate and indignant
persuasion of Aram's innocence; and at this day, in the
county where he last resided, there still lingers the same
belief. Firm as his gospel faith, that conviction rested in
the mind of the worthy Lester; and he sought, by every
ineans he could devise, to soothe and cheer the confine-
ment of his friend. In prison, however, (indeed after his
examination, after Aram had made himself thoroughly
acquainted with all the circumstantial evidence which
identified Clarke with Geoffrey Lester, a story that till then
he had persuaded himself wholly to disbelieve,) a change
which, in the presence of Madeline or her father, he vainly
attempted wholly to conceal, and to which, when alone, he
surrendered himself with a gloomy abstraction,-
over his mood, and dashed him from the lofty height of
philosophy, from which he had before looked down on the
peril and the ills below.
came
Sometimes he would gaze on Lester with a strange and
glassy eye, and mutter inaudibly to himself, as if unawar
of the old man's presence; at others, he would shrink from
Lester's proffered hand, and start abruptly from his profes-
sions of unaltered, unalterable regard; sometimes he would
sit silently, and, with a changeless and stony countenance,
look upon Madeline, as she now spoke in that exalted tone
of consolation which had passed away from himself and
when she had done, instead of replying to her speech, he
would say abruptly, "Ay, at the worst you love me, then,
love me better than any one on earth,—say that, Made
line, again say that!"
And Madeline's trembling lips obeyed the demand.
"Yes," he would renew," this man, whom they accuse
me of murdering, this, - your uncle, him you never saw
since you were an infant, a mere infant; him you could not
love! What was he to you?-Yet it is dreadful to think
of,- dreadful, dreadful;" and then again his voice ceased,
but his lips moved convulsively, and his eyes seemed to
speak meanings that defied words. These alterations in
his bearing, which belied his steady and resolute character,
astonished and dejected both Madeline and her father.
Sometimes they thought that his situation had shaken his
reason, or that the horrible suspicion of having murdered
the uncle of his intended wife, made him look upon them-
selves with a secret shudder, and that they were mingled
up in his mind, by no unnatural, though unjust confusion,
with the causes of his present awful and uncertain state.
With the generality of the world, these two tender friends
believed Houseman the sole and real murderer, and fancied
his charge against Aram was but the last expedient of a
villain to ward punishment from himself, by imputing crime
to another. Naturally, then, they frequently sought to
turn the conversation upon Houseman, and on the different
circumstances that had brought him acquainted with Aram;
but on this ground the prisoner seemed morbidly sensitive,
and averse to detailed discussion. His narration, how..
ever, such as it was, threw much light upon certain mat
ters on which Madeline and Lester were before anxious
and inquisitive.
“Houseman is, in all ways," said he, with great and
bitter vehemence, "unredeemed, and beyond the calcula-
tions of an ordinary wickedness; we knew each other from
our relationship, but seldom met, and still more rarely held
long intercourse together. After we separated, when I left
Knaresbro', we did not meet for years. He sought me at
Grassdale; he was poor, and implored assistance;
him all within my power; he sought me again, nay more
I gave
than once again, and finding me justly averse to yield mg to
his extortionate demands, he then broached the purpcre he
388
BULWER'S NOVELS
Š
"Each little herb
the her.
That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest,
Had learned to name;
.
has now effected. He threatened, you hear me,--you not procure witnesses by the customary time, and the trial
understand, he threatened me with this charge, the
was postponed till the next assizes. As this man was
murder of Daniel Clarke, by that name alone I knew the however never brought up to trial, and appears no more,
deceased. The menace, and the known villany of the we have said nothing of him in our narrative, until he thus
man; agitated me beyond expression. What was I? a became the instrument of a delay in the fate of Eugene
being who lived without the world, who knew not its | Aram. Time passed on, winter, spring, were gone, and
ways,― who desired only rest! The menace haunted me, the glory and gioss of summer were now lavished over the
almost maddened! Your nephew has told you, you say, happy earth. In some measure the usual calmness of his
of broken words, of escaping emotions, which he has noted, demeanour had returned to Aram; he had mastered those
even to suspicion, in me; you now behold the cause! Was moody fits we have referred to, which had so afflicted his
it not sufficient? My life, nay, more, my fame, my mar- affectionate visiters; and he now seemed to prepare and
riage, Madeline's peace of mind, all depended on the uncer- buoy himself up against that awful ordeal of life and death,
tain fury or craft of a wretch like this! The idea was which he was about so soon to pass. Yet he,
with me night and day; to avoid it, I resolved on a sacri- mit of nature, who, -
fice; you may blame me; I was weak, yet, I thought then,
not unwise; to avoid it, I say, I offered to bribe this man
to leave the country. I sold my pittance to oblige him to
it. I bound him thereto by the strongest ties. Nay, so
disinterestedly, so truly did I love Madeline, that I would
not wed while I thought this danger could burst upon me.
I believed that, before my marriage-day, Houseman had
left the country. It was not so; fate ordered otherwise.
It seems that Houseman came to Knaresbro' to see his
daughter; that suspicion, by a sudden train of events, felling up beauty where it fell; or mark at night, through his
on him, perhaps justly; to screen himself he has sacrificed
me. The tale seems plausible; perhaps the accuser may
triumph. But, Madeline, you now may account for much
that may have perplexed you before.
before. Let me remember,-
ay, ay, I have dropped mysterious words, have I not?
have I not?-owning that danger was around me,
owning that a wild and terrific secret was heavy at my
breast; nay, once, walking with you the evening before the
fatal day, I said that we must prepare to seek some yet
more secluded spot, some deeper retirement; for, despite
my precautions, despite the supposed absence of House-
man from the country itself, a fevered and restless presen-
timent would at some times intrude itself on me. All this
is now accounted for, is it not, Madeline? Speak, speak!"
"All, love, all! Why do you look on me with that
searching eye, that frowning brow?"
"Did No, no, I have no frown for you; but peace, I
1
am not what I ought to be through this ordeal."
The above narration of Aram's did indeed account to
Madeline for much that had till then remained unexplained;
the appearance of Houseman at Grassdale, the meeting
between him and Aram on the evening she walked with
the latter, and questioned him of his ill-boding visiter; the
frequent abstraction and muttered hints of her lover; and,
as he had said, his last declaration of the possible necessi-
ty of leaving Grassdale. Nor was there any thing improb-
able, though it was rather in accordance with the un-
worldly habits than with the haughty character of Aram,
that he should seek, circumstanced as he was, to silence
even the false accuser of a plausible tale, that might well
strike horror and bewilderment into a man much more, to
all seeming, fitted to grapple with the hard and coarse
realities of life, than the moody and secluded scholar. Be
that as it may, though Lester deplored, he did not blame
this circumstance, which after all had not transpired, nor
seemed likely to transpire; and he attributed the prison-
er's aversion to enter further on the matter, to the natural
dislike of so proud a man to refer to his own weakness,
and to dwell upon the manner in which, despite of that
weakness, he had been duped. This story Lester retailed
to Walter, and it contributed to throw a damp and uncer-
tainty over those mixed and unquiet feelings with which
the latter waited for the coming trial. There were many
moments when the young man was tempted to regret that
Aram had not escaped a trial which, if he were proved
guilty, would for ever blast the happiness of his family; and
which might, notwithstanding such a verdict, leave on
Walter's own mind an impression of the prisoner's inno-
cence; and an uneasy consciousness that he, through his
investigations, had brought him to that doom.
Walter remained in Yorkshire, seeing little of his fami-
ly, of none indeed but Lester; it was not to be expected
that Madeline would see him, and once only he caught the
tearful eyes
of Ellinor as she retreated from the room he
entered, and those eyes beamed kindness and pity, but
something also of reproach.
Time passed slowly and witheringly on: a man of the
nanie of Terry har ng been included in the suspicion, and
indeed committed it appeared that the prosecutor could
>
he could not feel, even through the bars and checks of a
prison, the soft summer air, the witchery of the soft blue
sky; he could not see the leaves bud forth, and mellow
into their darker verdure; he could not hear the songs of
the many-voiced birds, or listen to the dancing rain, call-
high and narrow casement, the stars aloof, and the sweet
moou pouring in her light, like God's pardon, even through
the dungeon-gloom and the desolate scenes where mortality
struggles with despair; he could not catch, obstructed as
they were, these, the benigner influences of earth, and not
sicken and pant for his old and full communion with their
ministry and presence. Sometimes all around him was
forgotten, the harsh cell, the cheerless solitude, the ap-
proaching trial, the boding fear, the darkened hope, even
the spectre of a troubled and fierce remembrance, all
was forgotten, and his spirit was abroad, and his step upon
the mountain-top once more.
In our estimates of the ills of life, we never sufliciently
take into our consideration the wonderful elasticity of our
moral frame, the unlooked-for, the startling facility with
which the human mind accommodates itself to all change of
circunstance, making an object and even a joy from the
hardest and seemingly the least redeemed conditions of fate.
The man who watched the spider in his cell may have
taken, at least, as much interest in the watch, as when
engaged in the most ardent and ambitious objects of his
former life; and he was but a type of his brethren; all
in similar circumstances would have found some similar
occupation. Let any man look over his past life,― let him
recall, not moments, not hours of agony, for to them custom
lends not her blessed magic, but let him single out some
lengthened period of physical or moral endurance; in has-
tily reverting to it, it may seem at first, I grant, altogether
wretched; a series of days marked with the black stone,
the clouds without a star; - but let him look more
closely, it was not so during the time of suffering; a thou-
saud little things, in the bustle of life dormant and unheeded,
then started forth into notice, and became to him objects of
interest or diversion; the dreary present, once made famil-
iar, glided away from him, not less than if it had been all
happiness; his mind dwelt not on the dull intervals, but
the stepping-stone it had created and placed at each; and,
by that moral dreaming which for ever goes on within
man's secret heart, he lived as little in the immediate world
before him, as in the most sanguine period of his youth, or
the most scheming of his maturity.
So wonderful in equalizing all states and all times in the
varying tide of life are these two rulers yet levellers of
mankind, hope and custom, that the very idea of an eter-
nal punishment includes that of an utter alteration of che
whole mechanism of the soul in its human state, and no
effort of an imagination, assisted by past experience, can
conceive a state of torture which custom can never blunt,
and from which the chainless and immaterial spirit can
never be beguiled into even a momentary escape.
Among the very few personas admitted to Aram's 30li.
tude, was Lord ***** That noblerian was staying, on
a visit, with a relation of his in the neighbourhood, and
he seized with an excited and mournful avidity the oppor-
tunity thus afforded him of seeing, once more, a character
that had so often forced itself on his speculation and sur.
prise. He came to offer not condolence, but respect,
* Remorse, by S. T. Coleridge.
EUGENE ARAM.
588
;
serves, at such a moment, no individual could render,
be gave, however, what was within his power, advice,
and pointed out to Aram the best counsel to engage, and
the best method of previous inquiry into particulars yet
unexplored. He was astonished to find Aram indifferent
on these points, so important. The prisoner, it would
seem, had even then resolved on being his own counsel,
and conducting his own cause; the event proved that he
did not rely in vain on the power of his own eloquence and
As to the rest,
sagacity, though he might on their result.
he spoke with impatience, and the petulance of a wronged
man. "For the idle rumors of the world, I do not care,"
said he, "let them condemn or acquit me as they will
for my life, I might be willing indeed, that it were spared,
-I trust it may be; if not, I can stand face to face with
death. I have now looked on him within these walls long
But
enough to have grown familiar with his terrors.
enough of me; tell me, my lord, something of the world
without, I have grown eager about it at last. I have
at last. I have
been now so condemned to feed upon myself, that I bave
become surfeited with the diet; " and it was with great
difficulty that the earl drew Aram back to speak of him-
self: he did so, even when compelled to it, with so much
qualification and reserve, mixed with some evident anger
at the thought of being sifted and examined, that his visi-
ter was forced finally to drop the subject, and not liking, nor
indeed able, at such a time, to converse on more indifferent
themes, the last interview he ever had with Aram termin-
ated much more abruptly than he had meant it. His opin-
ion of the prisoner was not, however, shaken in the least.
I have seen a letter of his to a celebrated personage of the
day, in which, mentioning this interview, he concludes with
saying, "In short, there is so much real dignity about
the man, that adverse circumstances increase it tenfold.
Of his innocence I have not the remotest doubt; but if he
persist in being his own counsel, I tremble for the result;
-you know in such cases how much more valuable is prac-
tice than genius. But the judge, you will say, is, in crimi-
ual causes, the prisoner's counsel,- God grant he may
here prove a successful one! I repeat, were Aram con-
demned by five hundred juries, I could not believe him
guilty. No, the very essence of all human probabilities is
against it."
The earl afterwards saw and conversed with Walter.
He was much struck with the conduct of the young Lester,
and much impressed with a feeling for a situation, so har-
rassing and unhappy.
"Whatever be the result of the trial," said Walter, "I
shall leave the country the moment it is finally over. If
the prisoner be condeinned, there is no hearth for me in my
uncle's home; if not, my suspicions may still remain, and
the sight of each other be an equal bane to the accused and
to myself. A voluntary exile, and a life that may lead to
forgetfulness, are all that I covet. I now find in my own
I now find in my own
person," he added, with a faint smile, "how deeply
Shakspeare had read the mysteries of men's conduct.
Hamlet, we are told, was naturally full of fire and action.
One dark discovery quells his spirit, unstrings his heart,
and stales to him for ever the uses of the world. I now
comprehend the change. It is bodied forth even in the
numblest individual, who is met by a similar fate-
in myself."
'
-
even
Ay," said the earl, "I do indeed remember you a
wild, impetuous, headstrong youth. I scarcely recognise
your very appearance. The elastic spring has left your
step, there seems a fixed furrow in your brow. These
clouds of life are indeed no summer vapor, darkening one
the next.
gone
moment, and
But, my young friend, let us
hope the best. I firmly believe in Aram's innocence
firmly!
-more rootedly than I can express. The real
criminal will appear on the trial. All bitterness between
you and Aram must cease at his acquittal; you will be
anxious to repair to him the injustice of a natural suspi-
cion; and he seeins not one who could long retain malice.
All will be well, believe me.
"God send it!" said Walter, sighing deeply.
"But at the worst," continued the earl, pressing his
hand in parting, "if you should persist in your resolution
to leave the country, write to me, and I can furnish you
with an honorable and stirring occasion for doing so.-
Farewell."
While time was thus advancing towards the fatal day, it
was graving deep ravages within the pure breast of Made-
|
line Lester. She had borne up, as we have seen, for some
time, against the sudden blow that had shivered her young
hopes, and separated her by so awful a chasm froia the
side of Aram; but as week after week, month after month
rolled on, and he still lay in prison, and the horrible sus-
pense of ignominy and death still hung over her, then
gradually her courage began to fail, and her heart to sink.
Of all the conditions to which the heart is subject, suspense
is the one that most gnaws, and cankers into, the frame
One little month of that suspense, when it involves death,
we are told, in a very remarkable work lately published
by an eye-witness,* is sufficient to plough fixed lines and
Euffi.
furrows in the face of a convict of five-and-twenty
cient to dash the brown hair with gray, and to bleach the
gray to white. And this suspense, suspense of this
gray to white.
nature, for more than eight whole months had Madeline
to endure.
About the end of the second month the effect upon her
health grew visible. Her color, naturally delicate as the
hues of the pink shell or the youngest rose, faded into one
marble whiteness, which again, as time proceeded, flushed
into that red and preternatural hectic, which, once settled,
rarely yields its place but to the colors of the grave. Her
flesh shrank from its rounded and noble proportions. Deep
hollows traced themselves beneath eyes which yet grew
even more lovely as they grew less serenely bright. The
blessed sleep sunk not upon her brain with its wonted and
healing dews. Perturbed dreams, that towards dawn suc-
ceeded the long and weary vigil of the night, shook her
frame even more than the anguish of the day. In these
- and
a crowd a scaffold-
dreams one frightful vision-
the pale majestic face of her lover, darkened by unuttera.
ble pangs of pride and sorrow, were for ever present before
ber. Till now, she and Ellinor had always shared the
same bed this Madeline would not now suffer. In vain
Ellinor wept and pleaded. No," said Madeline, with a
hollow voice; "at night I see him. My soul is alone with
his; but but," and she burst into an agony of tears
"the most dreadful thought is this, I cannot master my
dreams. And sometimes I start and wake, and find that
in sleep I have believed him guilty. Nay, O God! that
his lips have proclaimed the guilt! And shall any living
being shall
any but God, who reads not words but hearts,
hear this hideous falsehood this ghastly mockery of the
lying sleep? No, I must be alone! The very stars should
not hear what is forced from me in the madness of my
dreams."
:
CC
But not in vain, or not excluded from her, was that
elastic and consoling spirit of which I have before spoken.
As Aram recovered the tenor of his self-possession, a more
quiet and peaceful calm diffused itself over the mind of
Madeline. Her high and starry nature could comprehend
those sublime inspirations of comfort, which lift us from
the lowest abyss of this world to the contemplation of all
that the yearning visions of mankind have painted in
another. She would sit, rapt and absorbed for hours
together, till these contemplations assumed the color of a
gentle and soft insanity. "Come, dearest Madeline,"
Ellinor would say,- come, you have thought enough ;
my poor father asks to see you.
ແ
and
Hush!" Madeline answered. "Hush, I have been
walking with Eugene in heaven; and oh! there are green
woods and lulling waters above, as there are on earth, and
we see the stars quite near, and I cannot tell you how
happy their smile makes those who look upon them. And
Eugene never starts there, nor frowns, nor walks aside, nor
looks on me with an estranged and chilling look; but his
face is as calm and bright as the face of an angel;
his voice it thrills amidst all the music which plays
And
there night and day,― softer than their softest note.
we are married, Ellinor, at last. We were married in
heaven, and all the angels came to the marriage! I am
ÏWhat are
now so happy that we were not wed before !
you weeping, Ellinor? Ah, we never weep in heaven!
but we will all go there again, all of us, hand in hand!”
These affecting hallucinations terrified them, lest they
should settle into a confirmed loss of reason; but perhaps
without cause. They never lasted long, and never occurred
but after moods of abstraction of unusual duration. To her
they probably supplied what sleep does to others,— a relax
ation and refreshment,- an escape from the consciousness
of life. And indeed it might always be noted, that after
* See Mr. Wakefield's work on 'The Punishment of Death.
}
590
BULWER'S NOVELS.
such harmless aberrations of the mind, Madeline seemed
mere collected and patient in thought, and, for the moment,
even stronger in frame than before. Yet the body evi-
dently pined and languished, and each week made palpable
decay in her vital powers.
Every time Arain saw her, he was startled at the alter-
ation; and, kissing her cheek, her lips, her temples,
in an agony of grief, wondered that to him alone it was
forbidden to weep.
Yet after all, when she was gone, and
he again alone, he could not but think death likely to prove
to her the most happy of earthly boons.
guine of acquittal, and even in acquittal, a voice at his
heart suggested insuperable barriers to their union, which
had not existed when it was first anticipated.
He was not san-
He now walked more quickly on, as if stung by his re
flections, and avoiding the path which led to the front
of the house, gained a little garden at the rear, and open-
ing a gate that admitted to a narrow and shaded walk, over
which the linden and nut trees made a sort of continuous
and natural arbor, the moon, piercing at broken intervals
through the boughs, rested on the forin of Ellinor Lester.
"This is most kind, most like my own sweet cousin,"
said Walter, approaching; "I cannot say how fearful I was,
lest you should not meet me after all."
Indeed, Walter," replied Ellinor,
replied Ellinor, "I found some dif-
ficulty in concealing your note, which was given me in
Madeline's presence; and still more, in stealing out unob-
served by her, for she has been, as you may well conceive,
unusually restless the whole of this agonizing day. Ah,
Walter, would to God you had never left us ! "
"Yes, let her die," he would say, "let her die; she at
least is certain of heaven!" But the human infirmity
clung around him, and notwithstanding this seeming reso- "Rather say," rejoined Walter, "that this unhappy
lution in her absence, he did not mourn the less, he was man, against whom my father's ashes still seem to me to
not stung the less, when he saw her again, and beheld a cry aloud, had never come into our peaceful and happy
new character from the hand of death graven upon her form. valley!
her form. valley! Then you would not have reproached me, that I
No; we may triumph over all weakness, but that of the
bave sought justice on a suspected murderer; nor I have
affections. Perhaps in this dreary and haggard interval longed for death rather than, in that justice, have inflicted
of time, these two persons loved each other more purely, such distress and horror on those whom I love the best!
more strongly, more enthusiastically, than they had ever "What! Walter, you yet believe, you are yet con-
done at any former period of their eventful history. Over vinced that Eugene Aram is the real criminal!"
the hardest stone, as over the softest turf, the green moss "Let to-morrow show," answered Walter. "But poor,
will force its verdure and sustain its life!
poor Madeline !
How does she bear up against this long
suspense? You know I have not seen her for months."
"Oh! Walter," said Ellinor,
" said Ellinor, weeping bitterly,
would not know her, so dreadfully is she altered. I
fear, (here sobs choaked the sister's voice, so as to
leave it scarcely audible) – "that she is not many weeks
for this world !'
CHAPTER IV.
THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL.-
THE
THE COUSINS.
THE FAMILY
CHANGE IN MADELINE.
GRASSDALE MEET ONCE MORE BENEATH
ROOF.
corn.
"Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows;
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects."
*
*
Hope is a flatterer,
*
A parasite, a keeper-back of death;
Who gently would dissolve the bands of death
Which false hope lingers in extremity?"
OF
ONE
Richard II.
The
Ir was the evening before the trial. Lester and his
daughters lodged at a retired and solitary house in the
suburbs of the town of York; and thither, from the village
some miles distant, in which he had chosen his own retreat,
Walter now proceeded across fields laden with the ripening
The last and the richest month of summer had com-
menced, but the harvest was not yet begun, and deep and
olden showed the vegetation of life, bedded among the
lark verdure of the hedge-rows, and "the merrie woods!"
The evening was serene and lulled ; at a distance arose the
spires and chimneys of the town, but no sound from the
busy hum of men reached the ear. Nothing perhaps gives
a more entire idea of stillness than the sight of those abodes
where "noise dwelleth," but where you cannot now hear
even its murmurs. The stillness of a city is far more im-
pressive than that of nature; for the mind instantly com-
pares the present silence with the wonted uproar.
harvest-moon rose slowly from a copse of gloomy firs, and
diffused its own unspeakable magic into the hush and trans-
parency of the night. As Walter walked slowly on, the
sound of voices from some rustic party going homeward,
broke jocundly on the silence, and when he paused for a
moment at the stile, from which he first caught a glimpse
of Lester's house, he saw, winding along the green hedge-
some village pair, the "lover and the maid," who
could meet only at such hours, and to whom such hours were
therefore especially dear. It was altogether a scene of true
pastoral character, and there was all around a semblance
of tranquillity, of happiness, which suits with the poetical
and the scriptural paintings of a pastoral life; and which,
perhaps, in a new and fertile country, may still find a real-
ization. From this scene, from these thoughts, the young
loiterer turned with a sigh wards the solitary house in
which this night could awaken none but the most anx-
ious feelings, and that moon could beam only on the most
troubled hearts.
row,
"Terra salutiferas herbas, eademque nocentes
Nutrit; et urticæ proxima sæpe rosa est. "
"
—
you
"Great God is it so?" exclaimed Walter, so shockea
that the tree against which he leaned scarcely preserved
him from failing to the ground, as the thousand remem-
brances of his first love rushed upon his heart.
“And
providence singled me out of the whole world, to strike
this blow !
Despite her own grief, Ellinor was touched and smitten
by the violent emotion of her cousin; and the two young
persons, lovers, though love was at this time the least
perceptible feeling of their breasts, mingled their emo-
tions, and sought, at least, to console and cheer each
other.
G
"It may yet be better than our fears," said Ellinor,
soothingly. "Eugene may be found guiltless, and in that
joy we may forget all the past."
"Your heart,
Walter shook his head despondingly.
Ellinor, was always kind to me. You now are the only
one to do me justice, and to see how utterly reproachless I
am for all the misery the crime of another occasions. But
my uncle, -
him, too, I have not seen for some time: is
he well?"
"Yes, Walter, yes," said Ellinor, kindly disguising the
real truth, how much her father's vigorous frame had been
bowed by his state of mind. "And I, you see," added
in health at
she, with a faint attempt to smile,
least, the same as when, this time last year, we were all
happy and full of hope.
""
"I am,
Walter looked hard upon that face, once so vivid with
the rich color and the buoyant and arch expression of
liveliness and youth, now pale, subdued, and worn by the
traces of constant tears; and pressing his hand convulsively
on his heart, turned away.
"But can I not see my uncle ?" said he, after a
pause.
"He is not at home: he has gone to the cas.le,” replied
Ellinor.
"I shall meet him, then, on his way home," returned
Walter. But, Ellinor, there is surely no truth in a
vague rumor which I heard in the town, that Madeline
intends to be present at the trial to-morrow?"
Indeed, I fear that she will. Both my father and my-
self have sought strongly and urgently to dissuade her; but
in vain. You know, with all that gentleness, how resolute
she is when her mind is once determined on any object."
"But if the verdict should be against the prisoner, in
her state of health consider how terrible would be the
shock! - Nay, even the joy of acquittal might be equally
dangerous, for heaven's sake! do not suffer her."
"What is to be done, Walter?" said Ellinor, wringing
her hands. "We cannot help it. My father has, at last,
EUGENE ARAM.
591
forbid me to contradict the wish. Contradiction, the phy-
sician himself says, might be as fatal as concession can be.
And my father adds, in a stern, calm voice, which it breaks
my heart to hear, Be still, Ellinor. If the innocent is to
perish, the sooner she joins him the better: I would then
have all my ties on the other side the grave !'"
"How that strange man seems to have fascinated you
all!" said Walter, bitterly.
J
Ellinor did not answer over her the fascination had
gever been to an equal degree with the rest of her family.
"Ellinor! said Walter, who had been walking for the
last few moments to and fro with the rapid strides of a man
debating with himself, and who now suddenly paused, and
laid his hand on his cousin's arm, "Ellinor! I am re-
solved. I must, for the quiet of my soul, I must see Made-
line this night, and win her forgiveness for all I have been
made the unintentional agent of providence to bring upon
her. The peace of my future life may depend on this single
interview. What if Aram be condemned, and,—and,
in short, it is no matter, I must see her."
"She would not hear of it, I fear," said Ellinor, in
alarm. Indeed, you cannot, you do not know her
state of mind.”
"Ellinor!" said Walter, doggedly, "I am resolved."
And so saying, he moved towards the house.
Well, then,' said Ellinor, whose nerves had been
greatly shattered by the scenes and sorrow of the last seve-
ral months, "if it must be so, wait at least till I have gone
in, and consulted or prepared her.”
"As you will, my gentlest, kindest cousin; I know your
prudence and affection. I leave you to obtain me this in-
terview; you can, and will, I am convinced.”
"Do not be sanguine, Walter. I can only promise to
use my best endeavours," answered Ellinor, blushing as he
kissed her hand; and, hurrying up the walk, she disap-
peared within the house.
!
say
dropping on his knee; "you. whom while I was yet a boy,
I so fondly, passionately loved; —you, who yet are,
who, while I live, ever will be, so inexpressibly dear to me
but one word to me on this uncertain and dreadful
epoch of our ſate, say but one word to me, say you
feel you are conscious that throughout these terrible events
I have not been to blame, I have not willingly brought
this affliction upon our house, least of all upon that heart
which my own would have forfeited its best blood to pre-
serve from the slightest evil ; - or, if you will not do me
this justice, say at least that you forgive me!"
arm.
-
"I forgive you, Walter! I do you justice, my cousin !"
replied Madeline, with energy; and raising herself on her
"It is long time since I have felt how unreasonable
it was to throw any blame upon you, the mere and pas-
sive instrument of fate. If I have forborne to see you, it
was not from an angry feeling, but from a reluctant weak
ness. God bless and preserve you, my dear cousin! I
know that your own heart has bled as profusely as ours;
and it was but this day that I told my father, if we never
met again, to express to you some kind message, as a last
memorial from me. Don't weep, Walter ! It is a fearful
thing to see men weep! It is only once that I have seen
him weep,
-that was long, long ago! He has no tears iu
the hour of dread and danger. But no matter, this is a bad
world, Walter, and I am tired of it. Are not you? Why
do
you look so at me, Ellinor? I am not mad! Has she
told you that I am, Walter? Don't believe her! Look
at me! I am calm and collected ! Yet to-morrow is
O God!
O God!— if, if !
Madeline covered her face with her hands, and becane
suddenly silent, though only for a short time; when she
again lifted up her eyes, they encountered those of Walter;
as through those blinding and agonized tears, which are
only wrung from the grief of manhood, he gazed upon that
face on which nothing of herself, save the divine and un-
earthly expression which had always characterized her
loveliness, was left.
the
C
"Yes, Walter, I am wearing fast away, fast beyond
power of chance! Thank God, who tempers the wind
to the shorn lamb, if the worst happen, we cannot be divided
long. Ere another sabbath has passed, I may be with him
in paradise! What cause shall we then have for regret ?"
Ellinor flung herself on her sister's neck, sobbing violent-
-"Yes, we shall regret you are not with us, Ellinor;
but you will also soon grow tired of the world; it is a sad
place, it is a wicked place, it is full of snares and pit.
falls. In our walk to-day lies our destruction for to-mor
row! You will find this soon, Ellinor!
Ellinor! And
And you, and
my father, and Walter, too, shall join us! Hark! the clock
strikes! By this time to-morrow night, what triumph!-
or to me at least (sinking her voice into a whisper, that
thrilled through the very bones of her listeners) what
peace!"
Walter walked for some moments about the alley in which
Ellinor had left him, but growing impatient, he at length
wound through the over-hanging trees, and the house stood
immediately before him, the moonlight shining full on the
windowpanes, and sleeping in quiet shadow over the green
turf in front. He approached yet nearer, and through one
of the windows, by a single light in the room, he saw Elli-
nor leaning over a couch, on which a form reclined, that
his heart, rather than his sight, told him was his once-ly.
adored Madeline. He stopped, and his breath heaved
thick;
he thought of their common home at Grassdale,
of the old manor-house, — of the little parlour with the
woodbine at its casement, of the group within, once so
happy and light-hearted, of which he had formerly made
the one most buoyant, and not least loved. And now this
strange, this desolate house, himself estranged from
all once regarding him, (and those broken-hearted,) —
this night ushering what a morrow! he groaned almost
aloud, and retreated once more into the shadow of the trees.
In a few minutes the door at the right of the building opened,
and Ellinor came forth with a quick step.
"Come in, dear Walter," said she; "Madeline has
consented to see you, nay, when I told her you were here,
and desired an interview, she paused but for one instant,
and then begged me to admit you."
"God bless her!" said poor Walter, drawing his hand
across his eyes, and following Ellinor to the door.
"You will find her greatly changed!" whispered Ellinor,
as they gained the outer hall; "be prepared!
Walter did not reply, save by an expressive gesture;
and Ellinor led him into a room, which communicated, by
one of those glass doors often to be seen in the old-fashioned
houses of country towns, with the one in which he had pre-
viously seen Madeline. With a noiseless step, and almost
holding his breath, he followed his fair guide through this
apartment, and he now stood by the couch on which Mad-
eline still reclined. She held out her hand to him,re
pressed it to his lips, without daring to look her in the
face; and after a moment's pause, she said,
So, you wish to see me, Walter! It is an anxious
night this for all of us!"
"For all!" repeated Walter, emphatically; "and for
me not the least!"
—
Happily for all parties, this distressing scene was here
interrupted. Lester entered the room with the heavy
step into which his once elastic and cheerful tread had
subsided.
"Ha, Walter !" said he, irresolutely glancing over the
group; but Madeline had already sprang from her seat.
"You have seen him! you have seen him! And how
does he, how does he inok? But that I know; I know
his brave heart does not sluk. And what message does
he send to me? And, — and, tell me all, my father;
quick, quick!
CC
M
Dear, miserable child! and miserable old man!"
muttered Lester, folding her in his arms;
"but we ought
to take courage and comfort from him, Madeline. A hero,
on the eve of battle, could not be more firm, even more
cheerful. He smiled often, his old smile; and he only
left tears and anxiety to us. But of you, Madeline, we
spoke mostly he would scarcely let me say a word on any
thing else. Oh, what a kind heart!
what a noble spirit !
And perhaps a chance to-morrow may quench both. But,
God! be just, and let the avenging lightning fall on the real
criminal, and not blast the innocent man!"
"Amen!" said Madeline, deeply.
"Amen!" repeated Walter, laying his hand on his
heart.
"We have known some sad days since we last met! "Let us pray!" exclaimed Lester, animated by a sud.
renewed Madeline; and there was another and an em- den impulse, and falling on his knees.
The whole group
barrassed pause.
followed his example; and Lester, in a trembling and
"Madeline,—dearest Madeline !" said Walter, at 'ength impassioned voice, poured forth an extempore prayer, tha
592
BULWER'S NOVELS
Justice might fall only where it was due. Never did that
majestic and pausing moon, which filled that lowly room
as with the presence of a spirit, witness a more impressive
adjuration, or an audience more absorbed and rapt. Full
streamed its holy rays upon the now suowy locks and up-
ward countenance of Lester, making his venerable person
more striking from the contrast it afforded to the dark and
sunburnt cheek,→ the energetic features, and chivalric and
earnest head of the young man beside him. Just in the
shadow, the raven locks of Ellinor were bowed over her
clasped hands,nothing of her face visible; the graceful
neck and heaving breast alone distinguished from the
shadow; — and, hushed in a death-like and solemn repose,
the parted lips moving inaudibly; the eye fixed on vacan-
cy; the wan transparent hands, crossed upon her bosom;
the light shone with a more softened and tender ray upon
the faded but all-angelic form and countenance of her, for
whom heaven was already preparing its eternal recompense
for the ills of earth !
CHAPTER V.
THE TRIAL.
"Equal to either fortune."
Speech of Eugene Aram.
A THOUGHT comes over us, sometimes, in our career of
pleasure, or the troublous exultation of our ambitious pur-
quits; a thought comes over us, like a cloud, that around
us and about us death, shame, crime, despair,
are busy at their work. I have read somewhere of an
enchanted land, where the inmates walked along voluptu-
ous gardens, and built palaces, and heard music, and made
merry; while around and within the land were deep cav-
erns, where the gnomes and fiends dwelt: and ever and
anon their groans and laughter, and the sounds of their
unutterable toils, or ghastly revels, travelled to the upper
air, mixing in an awful strangeness with the summer fes-
tivity and buoyant occupation of those above. And this is
the picture of human life! These reflections of the mad-
dening disparities of the world are dark, but salutary;
"They wrap our thoughts at banquets in the shroud; "*
but we are seldom sadder without being also wiser men!
The third of August, 1759, rose bright, calm, and clear:
it was the morning of the trial; and when Ellinor stole
into her sister's room, she found Madeline sitting before
the glass, and braiding her rich locks with an evident at-
teation and care.
"I wish," said she, "that you had pleased me by dress-
ing as for a holiday. See, I am going to wear the dress
I was to have been married in.
,
Ellinor shuddered; for what is more appalling than to
find the signs of gayety accompanying the reality of an-
guish !
"Yes," continued Madeline, with a smile of inexpres-
sible sweetness, a little reflection will convince you that
this day ought not to be one of mourning. It was the sus-
pense that has so worn out our hearts. If he is acquitted,
as we all believe and trust, think how appropriate will be
the outward seeming of our joy! If not, why, I shall
go
Defore him to our marriage home, and in marriage gar-
ments. Ay," she added, after a moment's pause, and with
a much more grave, settled, and intense expression of voice
and countenance, ay; do you remember how Eugene
once told us, that if we went at noonday to the bottom of
a deep pit,† we should be able to see the stars, which on
the level ground are invisible. Even so, from the depths
of grief, worn, wretched, seared, and dying,
blessed apparitions and tokens of heaven make themselves
visible to our eyes.
And I know, I have seen, I feel
here," pressing her hand on her heart," that my course is
run; a few sands only are left in the glass. Let us waste
them bravely. Stay, Ellinor! You see these poor with-
ered rose-leaves: Eugene gave them to me the day before
before that fixed for our marriage. I shall wear them
to-day, as I would have worn them on the wedding-day.
• Young.
the
↑ The remark is in Aristotle. Buffon quotes it, with his usu-
Androit felicity in, I think, the first volume of his great work.
When he gathered the poor flower, how fresh it was; and
I kissed off the dew: now see it. But, come, come; this
is trilling: we must not be late. Help me, Nell, help ine:
come, bustle, quick, quick! Nay, be not so slovenly I
told you I would be dressed with care to-day."
And when Madeline was dressed, though the robe sat
loose and in large folds over her shrunken form, yet, as she
stood erect, and looked with a smile that saddened Ellinor
more than tears, at her image in the glass, perhaps her
beauty never seemed of a more striking and lofty character,
she looked indeed, a bride, but the bride of no earthly
nuptials. Presently they heard an irresolute and trem-
bling step at the door, and Lester, knocking, asked if they
were prepared
"Come in, father," said Madeline, in a calm and even
cheerful voice; and the old inan entered.
He cast a silent glance over Madeline's white dress, and
then at his own, which was deep mourning: the glance
said volumes, and its meaning was not marred by words
from any one of the three.
"Yes, father," said Madeline, breaking the pause,
"we are all ready. Is the carriage here?'
"It is at the door, my child."
"Come then, Ellinor, come !"
and leaning on her
When she go.
arm, Madeline walked towards the door.
to the threshold, she paused, and looked round the room
"What is it you want?" asked Ellinor.
"I was but bidding all here farewell," replied Made
line, in a soft and touching voice. "And now before we
leave the house, father,
leave the house, father, sister, one word with you;
you have ever been very, very kind to me, and most of all
in this bitter trial, when I must have taxed your patience
sadly, for I know all is not right here," (touching her
forehead) "I cannot go forth this day without thanking
you, Ellinor, my dearest friend, my fondest sister, my
playmate in gladness, my comforter in grief, my nurse
in sickness; since we were little children, we have talk-
ed together, and laughed together, and wept together, and
though we knew all the thoughts of each other, we have
never known one thought that we would have concealed
from God; and now we are going to part? — do not
stop me, it must be so, I know it. But, after a little whilo
may you be happy again, not so buoyant as you have been,
that can never be, but still happy! -You are formed for
love and home, and for those ties you once thought would
be mine. God grant that I may have suffered for us both;
and that when we meet hereafter, you may tell me you have
been happy here.
"But you, father," added Madeline, tearing herself
from the neck of her weeping sister, and sinking on her
knees before Lester, who leaned against the wall convulsea
with his emotions, and covering his face with his hands,
but you,
what can I say to you? -You, who have
never,- no, not in my first childhood, said one harsn
word to me, who have sunk all a father's authority in a
father's love, how can I say all that I feel for you?
the grateful overflowing (paining, yet -oh, how sweet!)
remembrances which crowd around and suffocate me now ?
The time will come when Ellinor and Ellinor's childrer.
must be all in all to you, when of your poor Madeline
nothing will be left but a memory; but they, they will
watch on you and tend you, and protect your gray hairs
from sorrow, as I might once have hoped I also was fated
to do.'
"My child! my child! you break my heart!" faltered
forth at last the poor old man, who till now had in vain
endeavoured to speak.
"Give me your blessing, dear father," said Madeline,
herself overcome by her feelings; "Put your hand on
my head and bless me, and say, that if I have ever un-
consciously given you a moment's pain, I am forgiven!
"Forgiven! repeated Lester, raising his daughter
with weak and trembling arms as his tears fell fast upon
her cheek,-"Never did I feel what an angel had sat
beside my hearth till now! But be comforted, be
cheered, What, if heaven has reserved its crowning
mercy till this day, and Eugene be amongst us, free, ac-
quitted, triumphant before the night!
"Ha!" said Madeline, as if suddenly roused by the
thought into new life: Ha! let us hasten to find your
words true. Yes! ! if it should be so,
yes
if it
should. And," added she, in a hollow voice, (the enthusi-
asm checked,) “if it were not for my dreams, I might
دو
EUGENE ARAM
503
believe it would be so. But, come, I am ready
now!""
that he saw no instrument Aram had, and knew not
J
that he had any, that upon this, without any interposi
tion or alarm, he left them and returned home, that the
next morning he went to Aram's house, and asked what
business he had with Clarke last night, and what he had
done with him. Aram replied not to this question, but
threatened him, if he spoke of his being in Clarke's com-
pany that night;
pany that night; vowing revenge either by himself or some
other person if he mentioned any thing relating to the
affair. This was the sum of Houseman's evidence.
A Mr. Beckwith was next called, who deposed, that
Aram's garden had been searched, owing to a vague sus-
picion that he might have been au accomplice in the frauds
of Clarke, that some parts of clothing, and also soine
pieces of cambric which he had sold to Clarke a little
while before, were found there.
The third witness was the watchman, Thomas Barnet,
who deposed, that before midnight (it might be a little after
eleven) he saw a person come out from Aram's house, who
had a wide coat on, with the cape about his head, and
seemed to shun him; whereupon he went up to him, and
put by the cape of his great coat, and perceived it to be
Richard Houseman. He contented himself with wishing
him good night.
The carriage went slowly through the crowd that the
fame of the approaching trial had gathered along the
streets; but the blinds were drawn down, and the father
and daughters escaped that worst of tortures, the curious
gaze of strangers on distress. Places had been kept for
them in court, and as they left the carriage and entered
the fatal spot, the venerable figure of Lester, and the
trembling and veiled forms that clung to him, arrested all
eyes. They at length gained their seats, and it was not
long before a bustle in the court drew off attention from
them. A buzz, a murmur, a movement, a dread pause!
Houseman was first arraigned on his former indictment,
acquitted, and admitted evidence against Aram, who was
thereupon arraigned. The prisoner stood at the bar!
Madeline gasped for breath, and clung, with a convulsive
motion, to her sister's arm. But presently, with a long
sigh, she recovered her self-possession, and sat quiet and
silent, fixing her eyes upon Aram's countenance; and the
aspect of that countenance was well calculated to sustain
her courage, and to mingle a sort of exulting pride, with
all the strained and fearfu! acuteness of her sympathy.
Something, indeed, of what he had suffered, was visible
in the prisoner's features; the lines around the mouth, in
which mental anxiety generally the most deeply writes its
traces, were grown marked and furrowed; gray hairs were
here and there scattered among the rich and long luxuri-
ance of the dark brown locks, and as, before his imprison-
ment, he had seemed considerably younger than he was, so
now time had atoned for its past delay, and he might have
appeared to have told more years than bad really gone over
his head; but the remarkable light and beauty of his eye.
was uudimmed as ever, and still the broad expanse of his
forehead retained its unwrinkled surface and striking ex-
pression of calmness and majesty. High, self-collected,
serene, and undaunted, he looked upon the crowd, the The surgeon, Mr. Locock, who produced it, gave it as
scene, the judge, before and around him; and even among his opinion that no such breach could proceed from natural
those who believed him guilty, that involuntary and irresist-decay, that it was not a recent fracture by the instrument
ible respect which moral firniness always produces on the with which it was dug up, but seemed to be of many years'
mind, forced an unwilling interest in his fate, and even a standing.
reluctant hope of his acquittal.
Houseman was called upon. No one could regard his
face without a certain mistrust and inward shudder. In
men prone to cruelty, it has generally been remarked, that
there is an animal expression strongly prevalent in the
countenance. The murderer and the lustful man are often
alike in the physical structure. The bull-throat, -the
thick lips, the receding forehead,· the fierce, restless
eye,-which some one or other says, reminds you of the buf-
falo in the instant before he becomes dangerous, are the out-
ward tokens of the natural animal unsoftened, unenlight-
ened, unredeemed, consulting only the immediate
desires of his nature, whatever be the passion (lust or
revenge) to which they prompt. And this animal expres-
sion, the witness of his character, was especially wrought,
if we may use the word, in Houseman's rugged and harsh
features; rendered, if possible, still more remarkable at
that time by a mixture of sullenness and timidity. The
conviction that his own life was saved, could not prevent
remorse at his treachery in accusing his comrade, a sort
of confused principle of which villains are the most sus-
ceptible, when every other honest sentiment has deserted
thein.
-
With a low, choked, and sometimes a faltering tone,
Houseman deposed, that in the night between the 7th and
8th of January 1744-5, sometime before 11 o'clock, he
went to Aram's house, that they conversed on different
matters, that he staid there about an hour, that some
three hours afterwards he passed, in company with Clarke,
by Aram's house, aud Aram was outside the door, as if he
were about to return home, that Aram invited them both
to come in, that they did so, that Clarke, who intended to
leave the town before daybreak, in order, it was acknowl-
edged, to make secretly away with certain property in his
possession, was about to quit the house, when Arain pro-
posed to accompany him out of the town, that he (Aram)
and Houseman went forth with Clarke, that when they
came into the field where St. Robert's Cave is, Aram and
Clarke went into it, over the hedge, and when they came
within six or eight yards of the cave, he saw them quarrel-
ling, that he saw Aram strike Clarke several times,
upon which Clarke fell, and he never saw aim rise again,
VAR 1.
75
The officers who executed the warrant then gave their
evidence as to the arrest, and dwelt on some expressions
dropped by Aram before he arrived at Knaresbro', which,
however, were felt to be wholly unimportant.
After this evidence there was a short pause, and then
a shiver, that recoil and tremor which men feel at any ex-
position of the relics of the dead, ran through the court; for
the next witness was mute, - it was the skull of the de-
ceased! On the left side there was a fracture, that from
the nature of it seemed as if it could only have been made by
the stroke of some blunt instrument. The piece was broken,
and could not be replaced but from within.
;
This made the chief part of the evidence against Aram ;
the minor points we have omitted, and also such as, like
that of Aram's hostess, would merely have repeated what
the reader knew before.
Till
And now closed the criminatory evidence, and now the
prisoner was asked, in that peculiarly thrilling and awfu
question, —- what he had to say in his own behalf.
now, Aram had not changed his posture or his countenance,
-his dark and piercing eye had for one instant fixed on
each witness that appeared against him, and then dropped
its gaze upon the ground. But at this moment a faint hectic
flushed his cheek, and he seemed to gather and knit himself
up for defence. He glanced round the court, as if to see
what had been the impression created against him. His eye
rested on the gray locks of Rowland Lester, who, looking
|
down, had covered his face with his hands. But beside
that venerable form was the still and marble face of Mad-
eline; and even at that distance from him, Aram perceived
how intent was the hush and suspense of her emotions.
But when she caught his eye,
that eye which even at such
a moment beamed unutterable love, pity, regret for her,
a wild, a convulsive smile of encouragement, of anticipated
triumph, broke the repose of her colorless features, and
suddenly dying away, left her lips apart, in that expression
which the great masters of old, faithful to nature, give alike
to the struggle of hope and the pause of terror.
'
CC
My lord," began Aram, in that remarkable defence
still extant, and still considered as wholly unequalled from
the lips of one defending his own and such a cause ;
"my lord, I know not whether it is of right, or through
some indulgence of your lordship, that I am allowed the lib-
erty at this bar, and at this time, to attempt a defence,
incapable and uninstructed as I am to speak Since, while
I see so many eyes upon me, so numerous and awful a con-
course, fixed with attention, and filled with I know not
what expectancy, I labor, not with guilt, my lord, but with
perplexity. For, having never seen a court but this, being
wholly unacquainted with law, the customs of the bar, and
all judiciary proceedings, I fear I shall be so little capable
of speaking with propriety, that it might reasonably be
expected to exceed my hope, should I be able to speak.
at all.
504
BULWER'S NOVELS
"I have heard, my lord, the indictment read, wherein I
find myself charged with the highest of human crimes. You
will grant me then your patience, if I, single and unskilful,
destitute of friends, and unassisted by counsel, attempt
something perhaps like argument in my defence. What I
have to say will be but short, and that brevity may be the
Dest part of it.
6C
My lord, the tenor of my life contradicts this indict-
ment. Who can look back over what is known of my for-
mier years, and charge me with one vice, - one offence ?
No! I concerted not schemes of fraud, — projected no vio-
lence, injured no man's property or person. My days
were honestly laborious, my nights intensely studious.
This egotism is not presumptuous, is not unreasonable.
What man, after a temperate use of life, a series of think-
ing and acting regularly, without one single deviation from
a sober and even tenor of conduct, ever plunged into the
depth of crime precipitately, and at once? Mankind are
not instantaneously corrupted. Viilany is always progres-
sive. We decline from right, not suddenly, but step after
step.
"If my life in general contradicts the indictment, my
health at that time in particular contradicts it yet more. A
little time before, I had been confined to my bed, I had
suffered under a long and severe disorder. The distemper
left me but slowly, and in part. So far from being well at
the time I am charged with this fact, I never, to this day,
perfectly recovered. Could a person in this condition exe-
cute violence against another ?— I, feeble and valetudinary,
with no inducement to engage, -no ability to accomplish,
-no weapon wherewith to perpetrate such a fact;
without interest, without power, without motives, without
ineans!
"My lord, Clarke disappeared: true; but is that a
proof of his death? The fallibility of all conclusions of
such a sort, from such a circumstance, is too obvious to
require instances. One instance is before you this very
castle affords it.
:
|
fact have seemed suspicious and varom non. What! havo
we forgotten how difficult, as in the case of Perkin War-
beck and Lambert Symnell, it has been sometimes to iden-
tify the living; and shall we now assign personality to
bones, bones which may belong to either sex? How
know you that this is even the skeleton of a man? But
another skeleton was discovered by some laborer! Was
not that skeleton averred to be Clarke's full as confidently
as this?
CC
་
My lord, my lord, - must some of the living be made
answerable for all the bones that earth has concealed and
chance exposed? The skull that has been produced, has
been declared fractured. But who can surely tell whether
it was the cause or the consequence of death? In May
1732, the remains of William, lord archbishop of this
province, were taken up by permission in their cathedral;
the bones of the skull were found broken as these are. Yet
he died by no violence! by no blow that could have caused
that fracture. Let it be considered how easily the fracture
on the skull produced is accounted for. At the dissolution
of religious houses, the ravages of the times affected both
the living and the dead. In search after imaginary
treasures, coffins were broken, graves and vaults dug
open, monuments ransacked, shrines demolished. Parlia-
ment itself was called in to restrain these violations. And
now are the depredations, the iniquities of those times, to
be visited on this? But here, above all, was a castle vig
orously besieged; every spot around was the scene of a
sally, a conflict, a flight, a pursuit. Where the slaughtered
fell, there were they buried. What place is not burial
earth in war? How many bones must still remain in the
vicinity of that siege, for futurity to discover! Can you,
then, with so many probable circumstances, choose the one
least probable? Can you impute to the living what zeal
in its fury may have done; what nature may have taken
off and piety interred, or what war alone may have de-
stroyed, alone deposited?
"And now glance over the circumstantial evidence: how
"In June, 1757, William Thompson, amidst all the vig-weak, how frail! I almost scorn to allude to it. I will
lance of this place, in open daylight, and double-ironed,
nade his escape; notwithstanding an immediate inquiry was
set on foot, notwithstanding all advertisements, all search,
he was never seen or heard of since. If this man escaped
unseen through all these difficulties, how easy for Clarke,
whom no difficulties opposed! Yet what would be thought
of a prosecution commenced against any one seen last with
Thompson?
"These bones are discovered! Where? Of all places
in the world, can we think of any one, except indeed the
churchyard, where there is so great a certainty of finding
human bones, as a hermitage? In times past, the her-
mitage was a place, not only of religious retirement, but
of burial. And it has scarce, or never been heard of, but
that every cell now known, contains, or contained these
relics of humanity; some mutilated - some entire! Give
me leave to remind your lordship, that here sat SOLITARY
SANCTITY, and here the hermit and the anchorite hoped
that repose for their bones when dead, they here enjoyed
when living. I glance over a few of the many evidences
that these cells were used as repositories of the dead, and
enumerate a few of the many caves similar in origin to St.
Robert's, in which human bones have been found." Here
the prisoner instanced, with remarkable felicity, several
places, in which bones had been found, under circum-
and in spots analogous to those in point. And
the reader, who will remember that it is the great principle
of the law, that no man can be condemned for murder
unless the body of the deceased be found, will perceive at
once how important this point was to the prisoner's de-
fence. After concluding his instances with two facts of
skeletons found in fields in the vicinity of Knaresbro', he
burst forth
stances,
remains.
on
"Is then the invention of those bones forgotten, or indus-
triously concealed, that the discovery of these in question
may appear the more extraordinary? Extraordinary,
yet how common an event! Every place conceals such
In fields in hills-in highway sides,
wastes -on commons, lie frequent and unsuspected bones.
And mark, -no example perhaps occurs of more than one
skeleton being found in one cell. Here you find but one,
agreeable to the peculiarity of every known cell in Britain.
Had two skeletons been discovered, then alone might the
* See his published defence
He
not condescend to dwell upon it. The witness of one man,
arraigned himself! Is there no chance that, to save his
own life he might conspire against mine? no chance that
he might have committed this murder, if murder hath
indeed been done? that conscience betrayed to his first
exclamation? that craft suggested his throwing that guilt
on me, to the knowledge of which he had unwittingly con-
fessed? He declares that he saw me strike Clarke, that
he saw him fall; yet he utters no cry, no reproof
calls for no aid; he returns quietly home; he declares that
he knows not what became of the body, yet he tells where
the body is laid. He declares that he went straight home
and alone; yet the woman with whom I lodged declares
that Houseman and I returned to my house in company
together. What evidence is this? and from whom does it
come ? Ask yourselves. As for the rest of the evidence,
what does it amount to? The watchman sees Houseman
leave my house at night. What more probable, but what
less connected with the murder, real or supposed, of
Clarke? Some pieces of clothing are found buried in my
garden. But how can it be shown that they belonged to
Clarke Who can swear to, who can prove any thing so
vague? And if found there, even if belonging to Clarke,
what proof that they were there deposited by me? How
likely that the real criminal may in the dead of night have
preferred any spot, rather than that round his own home,
to conceal the evidence of his crime !
"How impotent such evidence as this! and how poor,
how precarious, even the strongest of mere circumstantial
evidence invariably is! Let it rise to probability, to the
strongest degree of probability; it is but probability still.
Recollect the case of the two Harrisons, recorded by Dr.
Howell; both suffered on circumstantial evidence on ac-
count of the disappearance of a man, who, like Clarke,
contracted debts, borrowed money, and went off unseen.
And this man returned several years after their execution.
Why remind you of Jaques du Moulin, in the reign o
Charles the Second ?- why of the unhappy Coleman, con-
victed, though afterwards found innocent, and whose chil
dren perished for want, because the world believed the
father guilty? Why should I mention the perjury d
Smith, who, admitted king's evidence, screened himse
by accusing Fainloth and Loveday of the murder of Dum ?
The first was executed, the second was abov to share the
K
EUGENE ARAM.
594
rame fate, when the perjury of Smith was incontrovertibly
proved.
"And now, my lord, having endeavoured to show that
the whole of this charge is altogether repugnant to every
part of my life; that it is inconsistent with my condition of
health about that time; that no rational inference of the
death of a person can be drawn from his disappearance;
that hermitages were the constant repositories of the bones
of the recluse; that the proofs of these are well authen-
ticated; that the revolutions in religion or the fortune of
war have mangled or buried the dead; that the strongest
circumstantial evidence is often lamentably fallacious; that
in my case, that evidence, so far from being strong, is
weak, disconnected, contradictory; what remains? A con-
clusion, perhaps no less reasonably than impatiently wished
for, I, at last, after nearly a year's confinement, equal to
either fortune, intrust myself to the candor, the justice,
the humanity of your lordship, and to yours, my country-
men, gentlemen of the jury."
The prisoner ceased; and the painful and choking sen-
sations of sympathy, compassion, regret, admiration, all
uniting, all mellowing into one fearful hope for his acquit-
tal, made themselves felt through the crowded court.
-a
In two persons only an uneasy sentiment remained,
sentiment that the prisoner had not completed that which
they would have asked from him. The one was Lester;—
he had expected a more warm, a more earnest, though,
perhaps, a less ingenious and artful defence. He had ex-
pected Aram to dwell far more on the improbable and con-
tradictory evidence of Houseman, and, above all, to have
explained away all that was still left unaccounted for in
his acquaintance with Clarke, (as we will still call the
deceased,) and the allegation that he had gone out with
him on the fatal night of the disappearance of the latter.
At every word of the prisoner's defence, he had waited al-
most breathlessly, in the hope that the next sentence would
begin an explanation or a denial on this point; and when
Aram ceased, a chill, a depression, a disappointment, re-
mained vaguely on his mind. Yet so lightly and so haugh-
tily had Aram approached and glanced over the immediate
evidence of the witnesses against him, that his silence here
might have been but the natural result of a disdain, that
belonged essentially to his calm and proud character. The
other person we referred to, and whom his defence had not
impressed with a belief in its truth equal to an admira-
tion for its skill, was one far more important in deciding
the prisoner's fate, it was the judge!
But Madeline, great God! how sanguine is a woman's
heart, when the innocence, the fate of the one she loves is
concerned !—a
a radiant flush broke over a face so color-
less before; and with a joyous look, a kindled eye, a lofty
brow, she turned to Ellinor, pressed her hand in silence,
and once more gave up her whole soul to the dread pro-
cedure of the court.
The judge now began. It is greatly to be regretted,
that we have no minute and detailed memorial of the trial,
except only the prisoner's defence. The summing up of
the judge was considered at that time scarce less remark-
able than the speech of the prisoner. He stated the evi-
dence with peculiar care and at great length to the jury.
He observed how the testimony of the other deponents cou-
firmed that of Houseman; and then, touching on the con-
tradictory parts of the latter, he made them understand,
how natural, how inevitable was some such contradiction
in a witness who had not only to give evidence against
another, but to refrain from criminating himself. There
cou d be no doubt but that Houseman was an accomplice in
the crime; and all, therefore, that seemed improbable in his
giving no alarmn when the deed was done, &c. &c. was
easily rendered natural and reconcilable with the other
parts of his evidence. Commenting then on the defence
of the prisoner, (who, as if disdaining to rely on aught save
his own genius or his own innocence, had called no wit-
nesses, as he had employed no counsel,) and eulogizing its
eloquence and art till he had destroyed their effect by
guarding the jury against that impression which eloquence
and art produce in deñance of simple fact, he contended
that Araro had yet alleged nothing to invalidate the posi-
tivo evidence against him.
A
I have often heard, from men accustomed to courts of
w, that nothing is more marvellous, than the sudden
auge in a jury's mind, which the summing up of the
judge can produce; and in the present instance it was like
|
|
magic. That fatal look of a common intelligence, of a
common assent, was exchanged among the doomers of the
prisoner's life and death as the judge concluded.
*
*
*
They found the prisoner guilty.
The judge drew on the black cap.
Aram received his sentence in profound composure. Be.
fore he left the bar, he drew himself up to his full height,
and looked slowly around the court with that thrilling and
almost sublime unmovedness of aspect, which belonged to
him alone of all men, and which was rendered yet more
impressive by a smile, slight but eloquent beyond all
words, of a soul collected in itself: -no forced and
convulsive effort, vainly masking the terror or the pang;
no mockery of self that would mimic contempt for others,
but more in majesty than bitterness; rather as daring fate
than defying the judgment of others; rather as if he
wrapped himself in the independence of a quiet than the
disdain of a despairing heart!
-
CHAPTER VI.
THE DEATH. - THE PRISON.
G
ITS RESULT.
AN INTERVIEW.
"Lay her i' the earth,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!"
*
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting
That would not let me sleep." - Hamlet.
"BEAR with me a little longer," said Madeline.
shall be well, quite well, presently.'
Ellinor let down the carriage window, to admit the air;
and she took the occasion to tell the coachman to drive
faster. There was that change in Madeline's voice which
alarmed her.
con-
"How noble was his look! you saw him smile !
tinued Madeline, talking to herself: " and they will mur-
der him after all. Let me see, this day week, ay, ere this
day week, we shall meet again."
"Faster; for God's sake, Ellinor, tell them to drive
faster!" cried Lester, as he felt the form that leaned on his
bosom wax heavier and heavier. They sped on; the house
was in sight; that lonely and cheerless house; not their
sweet home at Grassdale, with the ivy round its porch, and
the quiet church behind. The sun was setting slowly, and
Ellinor drew the blind to shade the glare from her sister's
eyes.
Madeline felt the kindness, and smiled. Ellinor wiped
her eyes, and tried to smile again. The carriage stopped,
and Madeline was lifted out; she stood, supported by her
father and Ellinor, for a moment on the threshold. She
looked on the golden sun, and the gentle earth, and the little
motes dancing in the western ray, all was steeped in
quiet, and full of the peace and tranquillity of the pastoral
life! "No, no," she muttered, grasping her father's hand
"How is this? this is not his hand! Ah, no, no; I am
not with him! Father," she added, in a louder and deeper
voice, rising from his breast, and standing alone and un-
aided. Father, bury this little packet with me, they are
his letters; do not break the seal, and — and tell him that
I never felt how deeply I-I loved him,- till all the
world had deserted him!"
She uttered a faint cry of pain, and fell at once to the
ground; she lived a few hours longer, but never made speech
or sign, or evinced token of life but its breath, which died
at last gradually, imperceptibly, away.
On the following evening, Walter obtained entrance to
Aram's cell that morning the prisoner had seen Lester;
that morning he had heard of Madeline's death. He had
shed no tear; he had, in the affecting language of Scripture,
"turned his face to the wall; ", none had seen his emotions;
yet Lester felt in that bitter interview that his daughter
was duly mourned.
He did not lift his eyes when Walter was adruitted and
596
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the young man stood alraost at his knee before he perceived
him. He then looked up, and they gazed on each other for
a moment, but without speaking, till Walter said, in a
hollow voice :
"Eugene Aram !”
Ay!"
"Madeline Lester is no more.
"I have heard it! I am reconciled. Better now than
later."
,
M
>>
Lester! I had thought to quit life with my tale untold : ou
you have not appealed to me in vain! I tear the self from
iny heart! I renounce the last haughty dream, in which
I wrapped myself from the ills around me. You shall learn
all, and judge accordingly. But to your ear the tale can
scarce be told: - the son cannot hear in silence that which,
unless I too unjustly, too wholly condemn myself, I must
say of the dead! But time," continued Aram, mutteringly
and with his eyes on vacancy, time does not press too fast
"Aram !" said Walter, in a tone trembling with emotion, Better let the hand speak than the tongue :
yes; the day
and passionately clasping his hands, "I entreat, I implore of execution is,
ay, ay, two days yet to it, to-mor
you, at this awful time, if it be within your power, to lift row? no! Young man, he said abruptly, turning to
from my heart a load that weighs it to the dust, that, if left Walter, "on the day after to-morrow, about seven in the
|
there, will make me through life a crushed and miserable evening, the eve before that morn fated to be my last, -
man; I implore you, in the name of common humanity, come to me. At that time I will place in your hands a pa-
by your hopes of heaven, to remove it! The time now per containing the whole history that connects myself with
has irrevocably passed when your denial or your confession your father. On the word of a man on the brink of another
could alter your doom; your days are numbered, there is world, no truth that imports your interest therein shall be
no hope of reprieve; I implore you, then, if you were led, omitted. But read it not till I am no more; and, when read,
I will not ask how or wherefore, to the execution of the confide the tale to none, till Lester's gray hairs have gone
crime for the charge of which you die, to say, to whisper to the grave. This swear! 't is an oath difficult perhaps
to me but one word of confession, and I, the sole child of to keep, but,
the murdered man, will forgive you from the bottom of my "As my Redeemer lives, I will swear to both condi-
soul."
tions!" cried Walter, with a solemn fervor. "But tell me
now at least —”
-
Walter paused, unable to proceed.
Aram's brow worked; he turned aside; he made no an-
swer; his head dropped on his bosom, and his eyes were
unmovedly fixed on the earth.
"Reflect," continued Walter, recovering himself, "re-
flect! I have been the mute instrument in bringing you
to this awful fate, in destroying the happiness of my
own house, in in- in breaking the heart of the
woman whom I adored even as a boy. If you be innocent,
what a dreadful memory is left to me! Be merciful, Aram!
be merciful. And if this deed was done by your hand, say
to me but one word to remove the terrible uncertainty that
now harrows up my being. What now is earth, is man,
is opinion, to you? God only now can judge you. The
eye of God reads your heart while I speak, and in the aw-
ful hour when eternity opens to you, if the guilt has been
indeed committed, think, oh think, how much lighter will
be your offence, if, by vanquishing the stubborn heart, you
can relieve a human being from a doubt that otherwise will
make the curse,
the horror of an existence. Aram, Aram,
if the father's death came from you, shall the life of the sou
be made a burden to him, through you also?"
"What would you have of me speak!" said Aram,
me?
but without lifting his face from his breast.
"Much of your nature belies this crime. You are wise,
calm, beneficent to the distressed. Revenge, passion,
nay, the sharp pangs of hunger, may have urged to one
deed; but your soul is not wholly hardened: nay, I think I
would so far trust you, that, if at this dread moment,
the clay of Madeline Lester scarce yet cold, woe busy and
softening at your breast, and the son of the murdered dead
before you;
if at this moment you can lay your hand on
your heart, and say: Before God, and at peril of my
soul, I am innocent of this deed,' I will depart, I will
believe you, and bear, as bear I may, the reflection, that,
in any way
I have been one of the unconscious agents of
condemning to a fearful death an innocent man! If inno-
cent in this, how good! how perfect in all else! But,
if you cannot, at so dark a crisis, take that oath, then
oh then! be just,- be generous, even in guilt, and let me
not be haunted throughout life by the spectre of a ghastly
and restless doubt! Speak! oh! speak!
་
―
!
Well, well may we judge how crushing must have been
that doubt in the breast of one naturally bold and fiery, when
it thus humbled the very son of the murdered man to forget
wrath and vengeance, and descend to prayer! But Wal-
ter had heard the defence of Aram; he had marked his
mien not once in that trial had he taken his eyes from the
prisoner, and he had felt, like a bolt of ice through his
heart, that the sentence passed on the accused, his judgment
could not have passed! How dreadful then must have been
the state of his mind when, repairing to Lester's house, he
found it the house of death, the pure, the beautiful spirit.
gone, the father mourning for his child, and not to be
comforted, and Ellinor!-No! scenes like these, thoughts
like these, pluck the pride from a man's heart.
"Walter Lester!" said Aram, after a pause; but rais-
ing his head with dignity, though on the features there was
ut one expression,· woe, unutterable woe
دو
Tarry that
"Ask me no more! interrupted Aram, in his turn
"The time is near, when you will know all!
time, and leave me! Yes, leave me now,
leave me !"
at once,
To dwell lingeringly over those passages which excite
pain without satisfying curiosity, is scarcely the duty of the
drama, or of that province even nobler than the drama;
for it requires minuter care, - indulges in more complete
description, - yields to more elaborate investigation of
motives, commands a greater variety of chords in the
human heart, -to which, with poor and feeble power for
so high, yet so ill appreciated a task we now, not irrever-
ently if rashly, aspire !
We pass at once, - we glance not around us at the
chamber of death, at the broken heart of Lester, at
the twofold agony of his surviving child, the agony
which mourns and yet seeks to console another, the
mixed emotions of Walter, in which, an unsleeping eager-
ness to learn the fearful all, formed the main part, the
solitary cell and solitary heart of the convicted, we
glance not at these; we pass at once to the evening
in which Aram again saw Walter Lester, and for the last
time.
Magda
"You are come, punctual to the hour," said he, in a
low, clear voice: "I have not forgotten my word; the ful
filment of that promise has been a victory over myself
which no man can appreciate but I owed it to you.
have discharged the debt. Enough! I have done more
than I at first purposed. I have extended my narration,
but, superficially in some parts, over my life that prolix-
ity, perhaps, I owed to myself. Remember your promise:
this seal is not broken till the pulse is stilled in the hand
which now gives you these papers!"
Walter renewed his oath, and Aram, pausing for a mo-
ment, continued in an altered and softened voice:
"Be kind to Lester soothe, console him, - never by a
hint let him think otherwise of me than he does. For his
sake, more than mine, I ask this. Venerable, kind old
man! the warmth of human affection has rarely glowed
for me. To the few who loved me, how deeply I have
repaid the love! But these are not words to pass between
you and me. Farewell! yet, before we part, say this
much whatever I have revealed in this confession,
whatever has been my wrong to you, or whatever (a less
offence) the language I have now, justifying myself, used
to
to your father, say, that you grant me that pardon
which one man may grant another."
"Fully, cordially," said Walter.
"In the day that for you brings the death to-morrow
awaits me," said Aram, in a deep tone, "be that forgive
ness accorded to yourself! Farewell. In that untried va
riety of being which spreads beyond us, who knows, but
progressing from grade to grade, and world to world, our
souls, though in far distant ages, may meet again!- one
dim and shadowy memory of this hour the link between
us. Farewell, farewell!"
For the reader's interest we think it better (and certain
"Walterly it is more immediately in the due course of narrative, il
EUGENE ARAM.
697
—
CHAPTER VII.
THE CONFESSION.
g
AND THE FATE.
-
not of actual events) to lay at once before him the confes- | friendless; I was strange to my kind; I was shut out fron
sion that Aram placed in Walter's hands, without waiting all uses by the wall of my own poverty. I saw my desires
till that time when Walter himself broke the seal of a checked when their aim was at the highest: all that was
confession, not of deeds alone, but of thoughts, how wild proud, and aspiring, and ardent in my nature, was cramped
and entangled, of feelings how strange and dark, of a and chilled. I exhausted the learning within my reach,
starred soul that had wandered from, how proud an orbit, Where, with my appetite excited not slacked, was I, des
to what perturbed and unholy regions of night and chaos! titute and penniless, to search for more?
My
abilities
For me, I have not sought to derive the reader's interest by bowing them to the lowliest tasks, but kept me from
from the vulgar sources that such a tale might have afford- famine: was this to be my lot for ever? And all the
ed; I have suffered him, almost from the beginning, to while, I was thus grinding down my soul in order to sat-
pierce into Aram's secret; and I have prepared him for isfy the vile physical wants, what golden hours, what glo-
that guilt, with which other narrators of this story might rious advantages, what openings into new heavens of sci-
have only sought to surprise.
ence, what chances of illuminating mankind were for ever
lost to me! Sometimes when the young, whom I taught
some elementary, all-unheeded, initiations into knowledge,
came around me; when they looked me in the face with
their laughing eyes; when, for they all loved me, they told
me their little pleasures and their petty sorrows, I have
wished that I could have gone back again into childhood,
and becoming as one of them, enter into that heaven of
quiet which was denied me now. Yet more often it was
with an indignant and chafed rather than a sorrowful spirit
that I looked upon my lot; and if I looked beyond it
what could I see of hope? Dig I could; but was all that
thirsted and swelled within to be dried up and stifled, in
order that I might gain the sustenance of life? Was I to
turn menial to the soil, and forget that knowledge was
abroad? Was I to starve my mind, that I might keep
alive my body? Beg I could not. Where ever lived the
real student, the true minister and priest of knowledge,
who was not filled with the lofty sense of the dignity of his
calling? Was I to show the sores of my pride, and strip
my heart from its clothing, and ask the dull fools of wealth
not to let a scholar starve! Pah!
Pah! He whom the vilest
poverty ever stooped to this, may be the quack, but never
the true disciple, of learning. Steal, rob, worse, ay,
all those I or any of my brethren might do, — beg? never!
What did I then? I devoted the lowliest
knowledge to the procuring the bare means of life, and
part of mv
the grandest, the knowledge that pierced to the depths
of earth, and numbered the stars of heaven, — why, that
was valueless, save to the possessor.
'In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages long ago betid:
And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell them the lamentable fall of me."- Richard II.
said he. <
៩
I was born at Ramsgill, a little village in Nether-
dale. My family had originally been of some rank; they
were formerly lords of the town of Aram, on the southern
banks of the Tees. But time had humbled these preten-
sions to consideration; though they were still fondly cher-
ished by the heritors of an ancient name, and idle but
haughty recollections. My father resided on a small farm,
and was especially skilful in horticulture, a taste I derived
from him. When I was about thirteen, the deep and in-
tense passion that has made the demon of my life, first
stirred palpably within me. I had always been, from my
I had always been, from my
cradle, of a solitary disposition, and inclined to reverie
and musing; these traits of character heralded the love
that now seized me, the love of knowledge. Opportu-
nity or accident first directed my attention to the abstruser
sciences. I poured my soul over that noble study which is
the best foundation of all true discovery; and the success "In Knaresbro', at this time, I met a distant relation,
I met with soon turned my pursuits into more alluring chan- Richard Houseman. Sometimes in our walks we encoun
nels. History, poetry, the mastery of the past, the spell tered each other; for he sought me, and I could not always
that admits us into the visionary world, took the place avoid him. He was a man, like myself, born to poverty,
which lines and numbers had done before. I became grad-yet he had always enjoyed what to him was wealth. This
ually more and inore wrapped and solitary in my habits;
seemed a mystery to me; and when we met, we sometimes
knowledge assumed a yet more lovely and bewitching char- conversed upon it. You are poor, with all
acter, and every day the passion to attain it increased upon
your wisdom,'
I know nothing; but I am never poor. Why is
me; Í do not, I have not now the heart to do it,— enlarge this? The world is my treasury.
The world is my treasury. I live upon my kind.—
upon what I acquired without assistance, and with labor Society is my foe.- Laws order me to starve; but self-
sweet in proportion to its intensity. * The world, the preservation is an instinct more sacred than society, and
creation, all things that lived, moved, and were, became
more imperious than laws.'
to me objects contributing to one passionate, and, I
fancied, one exalted end. I suffered the lowlier pleasures
of life, and the charms of its more common ties, to glide
away
from me untasted and unfelt. As you read, in the
east, of men remaining motionless for days together, with
their eyes fixed upon the heavens, my mind, absorbed in
the contemplation of the things above its reach, had no
sight of what passed around. My parents died, and I was
an orphan. I had no home, and no wealth; but wherever
the field contained a flower, or the heavens a star, there
was matter of thought and food for delight to me.
I wan-
dered alone for months together, seldom sleeping but in the
open air, and shunning the human form as that part of
God's works from which I could learn the least. I came
to Knaresbro': the beauty of the country, a facility in
acquiring books from a neighbouring library that was open
made me resolve to settle there. And now, new
desires opened upon me with new stores: I became seized,
possessed, haunted with the ambition of enlightening my
At first, I had loved knowledge solely for itself: I
now saw afar an object grander than knowledge. To what
end, said I, are these labors? Why do I feed a lamp
which consumes itself in a desert place? Why do I heap
up riches, without asking who shall gather them? I was
restless and discontented. What could I do? I was
to me,
race.
* We learn from a letter of Eugene Aram's, now extant, that
nis method of acquiring the learned languages was, to linger
over five lines at a time, and never to quit a passage till he
hought he had comprehended its meaning
-
"The undisguised and bold manner of his discourse im-
pressed while it revolted me. I looked upon him as a
study, and I combated, in order to learn, him. He had
been a soldier, he had seen the greatest part of Europe,
he possessed a strong shrewd sense, he was a villain,
but a villain bold, adroit, and not then thoroughly
unredeemed. His conversation created dark and perturbed
reflections. What was that state of society,- was it not
at war with its own elements, in which vice prospered
more than virtue? Knowledge was my dream, that dream
I might realize, not by patient suffering, but by active
daring. I might wrest from society, to which I owed
nothing, the means to be wise and great. Was it not bet-
ter and nobler to do this, even at my life's bazard, than lie
down in a ditch and die the dog's death? Was it not better
than such a doom,-ay, better for mankind,- that I should
commit one bold wrong, and by that wrong purchase the
power of good? I asked myself that question. It is a fear-
ful question; it opens a labyrinth of reasonings, in which
the soul may walk and lose itself for ever.
"One day Houseman met me, accompanied by a stranger
who had just visited our town, for what purpose you know
already. His name - supposed name was Clarke. Man,
I am about to speak plainly of that stranger, his char-
acter, and his fate. And yet, yet you are his son ! I
would fain soften the coloring; but I speak truth of myself,
and I must not, unless I would 1 Jacken my name yet deeper
than it deserves, varnish truth when I speak of others
Houseman joined, and presented to me this person. From
698
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the first I felt a dislike creep through me at the stranger,
which indeed was easy to account for. He was of a care-
less and somewhat insolent manner. His countenance was
impressed with the lines and character of a thousand vices;
you read in the brow and eye the history of a sordid
yet reckless life. His conversation was repellent to me
beyond expression. He uttered the meanest sentiments,
and he chuckled over them as the maxims of a superior
sagacity; he avowed himself a knave upon system, and upon
the lowest scale. To overreach, to deceive, to elude, to
shuffle, to fawn, and to lie, were the arts that he confessed
to with so naked and cold a grossness, that one perceived
that in the long habits of debasement he was unconscious
of what was not debased. Houseman seemed to draw him
out he told us anecdotes of his rascality, and the dis-
treases to which it had brought him; and he finished by
saying, Yet you see me now almost rich, and wholly
contented. I have always been the luckiest of human
beings; no matter what ill chances to-day, good turns up
to-morrow. I confess that I bring on myself the ill, and
providence sends me the good.' We met accidentally more
than once, and his conversation was always of the same
strain, his luck and his rascality: he had no other
theme, and no other boast. And did not this stir into gloomy
speculation the depths of my mind? Was it not an ordi-
nation that called upon men to take fortune in their own
hands, when fate lavished her rewards on this low and
creeping thing, that could only enter even vice by its sewers
und alleys? Was it worth while to be virtuous, and look
on, while the bad seized upon the feast of life? This man
was instinct with the basest passions, the pettiest desires ;
he gratified them, and fate smiled upon his daring. I, who
had shut out from my heart the poor temptations of sense,
-I, who fed only the most glorious visions, the most august
desires, -I denied myself their fruition, trembling and
spell-bound in the cerements of human laws, without hope,
without reward, losing the very powers of virtue because
I would not stray into crime.
"These thoughts fell on me darkly and rapidly; but they
led to no result. I saw nothing beyond thein. I suffered
my indignation to gnaw my heart, and preserved the same
calm and serene demeanour which had grown with my
growth of mind. Nay, while I upbraided fate, I did not
cease to love mankind. I envied,-what? the power to
serve them! I had been kind and loving to all things from
a boy; there was not a dumb animal that would not single
me from a crowd as its protector,* and yet I was doomed,
but I must not premeditate my tale. In returning at
night to my own home, from my long and solitary walks, I
often passed the house in which Clarke lodged; and some-
times I met him reeling by the door, insulting all who
passed; and yet their resentment was absorbed in their dis-
gust.
And this loathsome and grovelling thing,' said I,
inly, squanders on low excesses, wastes upon outrages to
society, that with which I could make my soul as a burning
lamp, that should shed a light over the world !
,
"There was that in this man's vices which revolted me
far more than the villany of Houseman. The latter had
possessed no advantages of education; he descended to no
minutiæ of sin, he was a plain, blunt, coarse wretch, and
his sense threw something respectable around his vices.
But in Clarke you saw the traces of happier opportunities
of better education; it was in him not the coarseness of
manner so much as the sickening, universal canker of vul-
garity of mind. Had Houseman money in his purse,
he
would have paid a debt and relieved a friend from mere
indifference; not so the other. Had he been overflowing
with wealth, he would have slipped from a creditor, and
duped a friend; there was a pitiful and debasing weakness
in his nature, which made him regard the lowest meanness
as the subtlest wit. His mind, too, was not only degraded
but broken by his habits of life; a strange, idiotic folly, that
made him love laughing at his own littleness, ran through
his character. Houseman was young; he might amend ;
*All the authentic anecdotes of Aram corroborate the fact of
his natural gentleness to all things. A clergyman (the Rev. Mr.
Hinton) said, that he used frequently to observe Aram, when
walking in the garden, stoop down to remove a snail or worm
from the path, to prevent its being destroyed. Mr. Hinton
ingeniously conjectured that Aram wished to atone for his crime
by showing mercy to every animal and insect; but the fact is,
hat there are several anecdotes to show that he was equally
aumane before the crime was committed. Such are the strange
ontradictions of the human heart!
but Clarke had gray hairs and dim eyes; was old in conatu
tution, if not years; and every thing in him was hopeles
and confirmed; the leprosy was in the system. Time, is
this, has made Houseman what Clarke was then.
"One day, in passing through the street, though it was
broad noon, I encountered Clarke in a state of intoxication,
and talking to a crowd he had collected around him.
sought to pass in an opposite direction; he would not suf
fer ine he, whom I sickened to touch, to see, threw him.
self in my way, and affected gibe and insult, nay, even
threat. But when he came near, he shrank before the mere
glance of my eye, and I passed on unheeding him. The
insult galled me; he had taunted iny poverty; poverty was
a favorite jest with him it galled me; anger, revenge,
no! those passions I had never felt for any man. I could
not rouse them for the first time for such a cause; yel 1
was lowered in my own eyes, I was stung. Poverty! he
taunt me! He dream himself, on account of a little yellow
dust, my superior! I wandered from the town, and paused
by the winding and shagged banks of the river.
It was a
gloomy winter's day, the waters rolled on black and sullen,
and the dry leaves rustled desolately beneath my feet Who
shall tell us that outw. d nature has no effect upon our mood?
All around seemed to fwn upon my lot. I read in the face
of heaven and earth ae ufirmation of the curse which man
hath set upon poverty. 1 eaned against a tree that overhung
the waters, and suffered my thoughts to glide on in the bitter
silence of their course. I heard my name uttered, I felt
a hand on my arm, I turned, and Houseman was by my
side.
C
What, moralizing?' said he, with his rude smile.
"I did not answer him.
"Look,' said he, pointing to the waters, where yon
der fish lies waiting his
prey, that prey his kind. Come,
you have read nature, is it not so universally?'
"I did not answer him.
"They who do not as the rest,' he renewed, fulfil not
the object of their existence; they seek to be wiser thar
their tribe, and are fools for their pains.
Is it not so?
am a plain man, and would learn.
"Still I did not answer.
•
"You are silent,' said he; 'do I offend you ?'
"No!
"Now, then,' he continued, 'strange as it may seem,
we, so different in mind, are at this moment alike in for-
tunes. I have not a guinea in the wide world: you, per-
haps, are equally destitute. But mark the difference. I,
the ignorant man, ere three days have passed, will have
filled my purse; you, the wise man, will be still as poor
Come, cast away your wisdom, and do as I do.'
"" How?'
"Take from the superfluities of others what your
necessities crave. My horse, my pistol, a ready hand, a
stout heart, these are to me what coffers are to others.
There is the chance of detection and of death; I allow it.
But is not this chance better than some certainties?
"I turned away my face. In the silence of my cham-
ber, and in the solitude of my heart, I had thought as the
robber spoke, there was a strife within me.
"Will you share the danger and the booty?' renewed
Houseman, in a low voice.
*
"I turned my eyes upon him. Speak out,' said I;
explain your purpose !
"Houseman's looks brightened.
<
"Listen!' said he; Clarke, despite his present wealth
lawfully gained, is about to purloin more; he has convert-
ed his legacy into jewels; he has borrowed other jewels on
false pretences; he
to make these also his own,
purposes
and to leave the town in the dead of night; he has confided
to me his intention, and asked my aid. He and I, be it
known to you, were friends of old; we have shared to-
gether other dangers, and other spoils; he has asked
my as-
sistance in his flight. Now do you learn my purpose?
Let us ease him of his burden! I offer to you the half;
share the enterprise and its fruits.'
"I rose, I walked away, I pressed my hands on my
heart; I wished to silence the voice that whispered me
within. Houseman saw the conflict; he followed me; he
named the value of the prize he proposed to gain; that
which he called my share placed all my wishes within my
reach! — the means of gratifying the one passion of my
soul, the food for knowledge, the power of a lone blessed
independence upon myself, and all were in my grasp; w
EUGENE ARAM.
50$
ted acts of frauu; no continuation of sin, one single
act sufficed! I breathed heavily, but I threw not off the
emotion that seized my soul; I shut my eyes and shudder-
ed, but the vision still rose before me.
"Give me your hand,' said Houseman.*
No, no,' I said, breaking away from him. I must
pause, I must consider, — I do not yet refuse, but I will
not now decide.'
-
તે
"Houseman pressed, but I persevered in my determina-
tion; he would have threatened me, but ny nature was
haughtier than his, and I subdued him. It was agreed that
he should seek me that night and learn my choice, the
next night was the one on which the deed was to be done.
We parted, I returned an altered man to my home. Fate
had woven her mesh around me, - a new incident had oc-
curred 'ch strengthened the web: there was a poor girl
whom I been accustomed to see in my walks. She
supported her family by her dexterity in making lace,
quiet, patient-looking, gentle creature. Clarke had, a few
days since, under pretence of purchasing lace, decoyed her
to his house, (when all but himself were from home,) where
he used the most brutal violence towards her.
The ex-
treme poverty of the parents had enabled him easily to
persuade them to hush up the matter, but something of the
story got abroad; the poor girl was marked out for that
gossip and scandal, which among the very lowest classes
are as coarse in the expression as malignant in the senti-
ment; and in the paroxysm of shame and despair, the un-
fortunate girl had that day destroyed herself. This melan-
choly event wrung forth from the parents the real story:
the event and the story reached my ears in the very hour
hour
in which my mind was wavering to and fro. Can you won-
der that they fixed it at once, and to a dread end? — What
was this wretch? aged with vice, forestalling time,
tottering on to a dishonored grave, soiling all that he
touched on his way, with gray hairs and filthy lewd-
ness, the rottenness of the heart, not its passion, a nuisance
and a curse to the world. What was the deed, that I
should rid the earth of a thing at once base and venomous?
Was it crime? Was it justice? Within myself I felt the
Within myself I felt the
will, the spirit that might bless mankind. I lacked the
means to accomplish the will and wing the spirit. One
deed supplied me with the means. Had the victim of that
deed been a man moderately good, pursuing with even
steps the narrow line between vice and virtue,-blessing
none, but offending none, it might have been yet a ques-
tion whether mankind would not gain more by the deed
than lose. But here was one whose steps stumbled on no
good act, whose heart beat to no generous emotion;
there was a blot, - a fonlness on creation,-nothing but
nothing but
death could wash it out and leave the world fair. The sol-
dier receives his pay, and murders, and sleeps sound, and
men applaud. But you say he smites not for pay, but glo-
ry. Granted, though a sophism. But was there no
glory to be gained in fields more magnificent than those
of war, no glory to be gained in the knowledge which
saves and not destroys? Was I not about to strike for
that glory, for the means of earning it? Nay, suppose the
soldier struck for patriotism, a better feeling than glory,
would not my motive be yet larger than patriotism? Did
it not body forth a broader circle? Could the world stop
the bound of its utilities? Was there a corner of the
earth, was there a period in time, which an ardent soul,
freed from, not chained as now by the cares of the body,
and given wholly up to wisdom, might not pierce, vivify,
illumine? Sach were the questions which I asked:-time
only ans vered them.
Houseman came, punctual to our dark appointment.
I gave him my hand in silence. We understood each other.
We said no more of the deed itself, but of the manner in
which it should be done. The melancholy incident I have
described made Clarke yet more eager to leave the town.
He had settled with Houseman that he would abscond that
very night, not wait for the next, as at first he had intend-
ed. His jewels and property were put
in a
small compass.
He had arranged that he would, towards midnight or later,
quit his lodging; and about a mile from the town, House-
man had engaged to have a chaise in readiness. For this
service Clarke had promised Houseman a reward, with
Though in the above part of Aram's confession, it would
seem as if Houseman did not allude to more than the robbery
of Clarke, it is evident from what follows, that the more
heinous crime also was then at least hinted at by Houseman.
|
once
which the latter appeared contented. It was arranged
that I should meet Houseman and Clarke at a certain spot
in their way from the town, and there ! Houseman
appeared at first fearful, lest I should relent and waver in
my purpose. It is never so with men whose thoughts are
deep and strong. To resolve was the arduous step,-
resolved, and I cast not a look behind. Houseman left me
for the present.
I could not rest in my chamber. I went
forth, and walked about the town; the night deepened,— I
saw the lights in each house withdrawn, one by one, and
at length all was hushed. Silence and sleep kept court
over the abodes of men. That stillness, that quiet,
that sabbath from care and toil,— how deeply it sank into
my heart! Nature never seemed to me to make so dread
a pause. I felt as if I and my intended victim had been
left alone in the world. I had wrapped myself above fear
into a high and preternatural madness of mind. I looked
on the deed I was about to commit as a great and solemn sac-
rifice to knowledge, whose priest I was. The very silence
breathed to me of a stern and awful sanctity,
pose, not of the charnel-house, but the altar. I heard the
clock strike hour after hour, but I neither faltered nor grew
impatient. My mind lay hushed in its design.
the re
"The moon came out, but with a pale and sickly coun-
tenance. Winter was around the earth; the snow, which
had been falling towards eve, lay deep upon the ground;
and the frost seemed to lock the universal nature into the
same calm and deadness which had taken possession of my
soul.
"Houseman was to have come to me at midnight, just
before Clarke left his house; but it was nearly two hours
after that time ere he arrived. I was then walking to and
fro before my own door; I saw that he was not alone, but
with Clarke.-'Ha!' said he, this is fortunate, I sce
you are just going home. You were engaged, I recollect,
at some distance from the town, and have, I suppose, just
returned. Will you admit Mr. Clarke and myself for a
short time for to tell you the truth,' said he, in a lower
voice, the watchman is about, and we must not be seen
by him!
by him! I have told Clarke that he may trust you, we are
relatives!
"Clarke, who seemed strangely credulous and indiffer-
ent, considering the character of his associate, but those
whom fate destroys she first blinds,
made the same request
in a careless tone, assigning the same cause. Unwillingly,
I opened the door and admitted them. We went up to my
chamber. Clarke spoke with the utmost unconcern of the
fraud he purposed, and with a heartlessness that made my
veins boil, of the poor victim his brutality had destroyed.
All this was as iron bands round my purpose.
They staid
for nearly an hour, for the watchman remained some time
in that beat, -and then Houseman asked me to accompany
them a little way out of the town. Clarke seconded the
request. We walked forth; the rest, why need I repeat?
Houseman lied in the court: my hand struck, but not the
death-blow yet, from that hour, I have never given that
right hand in pledge of love or friendship,- the curse of
memory has clung to it.
"We shared our booty; mine I buried, for the present.
Houseman had dealings with a gipsy bag, and through her
aid removed his share, at once, to London. And now,
mark what poor strugglers we are in the eternal web of
destiny! Three days after that deed, a relation who neg-
lected me in life, died, and left me wealth! wealth
at least to me Wealth, greater than that for which I
had.
! The news fell on me as a thunderbolt.
Had I waited but three little days! Great God! whea
•
they told me,- I thought I heard the devils laugh out at
the fool who had boasted wisdom! Tell me not now of
our free will, we are but the things of a never-swerving,
an everlasting necessity!-pre-ordered to our doom,
bound to a wheel that whirls us on till it touches the point
at which we are crushed! Had I waited but three days,
three little days! Had but a dream been sent me, had but
my heart cried within me, Thou hast suffered long, tarry
yet!'* No, it was for this, for the guilt and its penance,
* Aram has hitherto been suffered to tell his own tale without
comment or interruption. The chain of reasonings, the meta-
physical labyrinth of defence and motive, which he wrong ht
around his act, it was, in justice to him, necessary to give st
length, in order to throw a clearer light on his character, - and
lighten, perhaps, in some measure, the heinousness of his crime.
No moral can be more impressive than that which teaches how
man can entangle himself in his own sophisms that moral is
600
BULWER'S NOVELS.
for the wasted life and the shameful death,
with all my
thirst for good, my dreams of glory, that I was born,
that I was marked from my first sleep in the cradle !
"The disappearance of Clarke, of course, created great
excitement; those whom he had overreached had natu-
rally an interest in discovering him. Some vague surmises
that he might have been made away with, were rumored
abroad. Houseman and I, owing to some concurrence of
circumstances, were examined, not that suspicion attached
to me, before or after the examination. That ceremony
ended in nothing. Houseman did not betray himself; and
I, who from a boy had mastered my passions, could master
also the nerves, which are the passions' puppets: but I
read in the face of the woman with whom I lodged, that I
was suspected. Houseman told me that she had openly
expressed her suspicion to him; nay, he entertained soine
design against her life, which he naturally abandoned on
quitting the town. This he did soon afterwards. I did
not linger long behind him. I dug up my jewels, I co-
cealed them about me, and departed on foot to Scotland.
There I converted my booty into money. And now I was
above want,― was I at rest? Not yet. I felt urged on to
wander, Cain's curse descends to Cain's children.
travelled for some considerable time, I saw men and
cities, and I opened a new volume in my kind. It was
strange; but before the deed, I was as a child in the ways
of the world, and a child, despite my knowledge, might
have duped me. The moment after it, a light broke upon
it seemed as if my eyes were touched with a charm,
and rendered capable of piercing the hearts of men!
Yes, it was a charm, -a new charm, it was SUSPICION.
I now practised myself in the use of arms,
they made
my sole companions. Peaceful as I seemed to the world, I
felt there was that eternally within me with which the
world was at war.
me,
M
I
"I do not deceive you. I did not feel what men call
remorse! Having once convinced myself that I had re-
moved from the earth a thing that injured and soiled its
tribes, that I had, in crushing one worthless life, but
without crushing one virtue, -one feeling, one thought
that could benefit others, strode to a glorious end ; —having
once convinced myself of this, I was not weak enough to
feel a vague remorse for a deed I would not allow, in my
I did not feel reinorse, but I felt re-
case, to be a crime.
gret. The thought that had I waited three days I might
have been saved, not from guilt, but from the chance of
shame, from the degradation of sinking to Houseman's
equal, — of feeling that man had the power to hurt me,
that I was no longer above the reach of human malice, or
human curiosity, that I was made a slave to my own
secret, that I was no longer lord of my heart, to show
or to conceal it, that at any hour, in the possession of
honors, by the hearth of love, I might be dragged forth and
proclaimed a murderer, that I held my life, my reputation,
at the breath of accident, that in the moment I least
dreamed of, the earth might yield its dead, and the gibbet
demand its victim; this could I feel, all this, - and
not make a spectre of the past: a spectre that walked
that slept at my bed,
by my side,
that rose from my
books, that glided between me and the stars of heaven,
that stole along the flowers, and withered their sweet
breath that whispered in my ear, Toil, fool, and be
wise; the gift of wisdom is to place us above the reach of
fortune, but thou art her veriest minion! Yes; I paused
at last from any wanderings, and surrounded myself with
books, and knowledge became to me once more what it had
been, a thirst; but not what it had been, a reward. I
occupied my thoughts, I laid up new hoards within my
mind, I looked around, and I saw few whose stores
were like my own, -but where, with the passion for wis-
dom still alive within me, where was that once more
ardent desire which had cheated me across so dark a chasm
better, viewed aright, thun volumes of homilies. But here I
must pause for one moment, to bid the reader mark, that that
event which confirmed Aram in the bewildering doctrines of his
fatalism, ought rather to inculcate the divine virtue,— the foun-
dation of all virtues, heathen or Christian,—that which Epictetus
made clear, and Christ sacred, — FORTITUDE. The reader will
note, that the answer to the reasonings that probably convinced
the mind of Aram, and blinded him to his crime, may be found
in the change of feelings by which the crime was followed. I
must apologize for this interruption,-it seemed advisable in
this place; though, in general, the moment we begin to incul-
cate morality as a science, we ought to discard moralizing as
method.
C
>
M
between youth and manhood, between past and presen
life, the desire of applying that wisdom to the service of
mankind? Gone, dead, buried for ever in my bosom,
with the thousand dreams that had perished before it!
When the deed was done, mankind seemed suddenly
have grown my foes. I looked upon them with other eyes.
I knew that I carried within, that secret which, if bared
to-day, would make them loath and hate me,
yea, though
I coined my future life into one series of benefits on them
and their posterity! Was not this thought enough to quell
my ardor,
to chill activity into rest? The more I might
toil, the brighter honors I might win, the greater services I
might bestow on the world, the more dread and fearful
might be my fall at last! I might be but piling up the
scaffold from which I was to be hurled! Possessed by
these thoughts, a new view of human affairs succeeded to
my old aspirings; the moment a man feels that an object
has ceased to charm, he reconciles himself by reasonings to
his loss. 'Why,' said I, 'why flatter myself that I can
serve, that I can enlighten mankind? Are we fully sure
that individual wisdom has ever, in reality, done so ! Are
we really better because Newton lived, and happier because
Bacon thought?' This dampening and frozen line of re-
flection pleased the present state of my mind more than
the warm and yearning enthusiasm it had formerly nour
ished. Mere worldly ambition from a boy I had disdained;
the true worth of sceptres and crowns, the inquietude
of power,
the humiliations of vanity, — had never been
disguised from my sight. Intellectual ambition had in-
spired me! I now regarded it equally as a delusion. I
coveted light solely for my own soul to bathe in. I would
have drawn down the Promethean fire; but I would no
longer have given to man what it was in the power of cir
cumstances alone (which I could control not) to make his
enlightener or his ruin, his blessing or his curse. Yes,
I loved, I love still; could I live for ever, I should for
ever love knowledge! It is a companion, -a solace,
pursuit, -a Lethe. But, no more!-oh! never more for
me was the bright ambition that makes knowledge a means,
not end. As, contrary to the vulgar notion, the bee is said
to gather her honey unprescient of the winter, laboring
without a motive, save the labor, I went on, year after year,
hiving all that the earth presented to my toils, and asking
not to what use. I had rushed into a dread world, that I
might indulge a dream. Lo the dream was fled: but I
a
could not retrace my steps.
"Rest now became to ine the sole rò xador, the solo
charm of existence. I grew enamoured of the doctrine of
those old mystics, who have placed happiness only in an
even and balanced quietude. And where but in utter lone-
liness was that quietude to be enjoyed? I no longer
wondered that men in former times, when consumed by the
recollection of some haunting guilt, fled to the desert and
became hermits. Tranquillity and solitude are the only
soothers of a memory deeply troubled, light griefs fly to
the crowd, fierce thoughts must battle themselves to rest.
Many years had flown, and I had made my home in many
places. All that was turbulent, if not all that was unquiet,
in my recollections, had died away. Time had lulled me
into a sense of security. I breathed more freely. I some-
times stole from the past. Since I had quitted Knaresbro'
chance had thrown it in my power frequently to serve my
brethren, not by wisdom, but by charity or courage,
by individual acts that it soothed me to remember. If the
- if to so
grand aim of enlightening the world was gone,
enlarged a benevolence had succeeded apathy or despair.
still the man, the human man, clung to my heart,
was I as prone to pity, as prompt to defend, as glad to
cheer, whenever the vicissitudes of life afforded me the
occasion; and to poverty, most of all, my hand never
closąd. For oh! what a terrible devil creeps into that
man's soul, who sees famine at his door! Ore tender act,
and how many black designs, struggling into life within,
you may crush for ever! He who deems the world his foe,
convince him that he has one friend, and it is like snatching
a dagger from his hand!
W
still
I came to a beautiful and remote part of the country.
Walter Lester, I came to Grassdale!—the enchanting
scenery around, the sequestered and deep retirement of
the place, arrested me at once. And among these val.
leys,' I said, will I linger out the rest of my life, and
among these quiet graves shall mine be dug, and my secret
shall die with me!"
EUGENE ARAM.
801
"I rented the lonely house in which I dwelt when you
Erst knew me, thither I transported my books and in-
struments of science. I formed new projects in the vast
empire of wisdom, and a deep quiet, almost amounting to
content, fell like a sweet sleep upon my soul !
―
"In this state of mind, the most free from memory and
from the desire to pierce the future that I had known for
twelve years, I first saw Madeline Lester. Even with
that first time a sudden and heavenly light seemed to
dawn upon me. Her face, its still, its serene, its touching
beauty, shone upon me like a vision. My heart warmed as
I saw it,
my pulse seemed to wake from its even slow-
ness. I was young once more. Young! the youth, the
freshness, the ardor, not of the frame only, but of the
soul. But I then only saw, or spoke to her, scarce knew
her, not loved her, - nor was it often that we met.
When we did so, I felt haunted, as by a holy spirit, for the
rest of the day,-
- an unquiet yet delicious emotion agitated
all within, the south wind stirred the dark waters of my
mind, but it passed, and all became hushed again. It was
not for two years from the time we first saw each other,
that accident brought us closely together. I pass over the
rest. We loved! Yet, oh, what struggles were mine dur-
ing the progress of that love! How unnatural did it seem
to me to yield to a passion that united ine with my kind;
and as I loved her niore, how far more urgent grew my fear
of the future! That which had almost slept before awoke
again to terrible life. The soil that covered the past might
be riven, the dead awake, and that ghastly chasm separate
me for ever from HER! What a doom, too, might I bring
What a doom, too, might I bring
upon that breast which had begun so confidingly to love
me! Often, - often I resolved to fly, -to forsake her,
to seek some desert spot in the distant parts of the world, and
never to be betrayed again into human emotions! But as
the bird flutters in the net, as the hare doubles from its pur-
suers, I did but wrestle, I did but trifle, with an irre-
sistible doom. Mark how strange are the coincidences of fate,
-fate that gives us warnings and takes away the power to
obey them, the idle prophetess, the juggling fiend! On
the same evening that brought me acquainted with Madeline
Lester, Houseman, led by schemes of fraud and violence into
that part of the country, discovered and sought me! Imagine
my feelings, when in the hush of night I opened the door
of my lonely home to his summons, and by the light of that
moon which had witnessed so never-to-be-forgotten a com-
panionship between us, beheld my accomplice in morder
after the lapse of so many years. Time and a course of
vice had changed and hardened, and lowered his nature;
and in the power, at the will of that nature, I beheld my-
self abruptly placed. He passed that night under my roof.
He was poor. I gave him what was in my hands. He
him what was in my hands. He
promised to leave that part of England, to seek me no
inore.
"The next day I could not bear my own thoughts, the
revulsion was too sudden, too full of turbulent, fierce, tor-
turing emotions; I fled for a short relief to the house to
which Madeline's father had invited me. But in vain I
sought, by wine, by converse, by human voices, human
kindness, to fly the ghost that had been raised from the
grave of time. I soon returned to my own thoughts. I
resolved to wrap myself once more in the solitude of my
heart. But let me not repeat what I have said before,
somewhat prematurely, in my narrative. I resolved, -I
struggled in vain: fate had ordained, that the sweet life of
Madeline Lester should wither beneath the poison-tree of
mine. Houseman sought me again, and now came on the
humbling part of crime, its low calculations, its poor defence,
its paltry trickery, its mean hypocrisy! THEY made my
chiefest penance! I was to evade, to beguile, to buy into
silence, this rude and despised ruffian. No matter now to
repeat how this task was fulfilled; I surrendered nearly my
all, on the condition of his leaving England for ever not
till I thought that condition already fulfilled, till the day
had passed on which he should have left England, did I
consent to allow Madeline's fate to be irrevocably woven
with mine. Fool that I was, as if laws could bind us
closer than love had done already.
"How often, when the soul sins, are her loftiest feelings
punished through her lowest! To me,-lone, rapt, for ever
on the wing to unearthly speculation,―galling and humbling
was it indeed, to be suddenly called from the eminence of
thought, to barter, in pounds and pence, for life, and with
one like Houseman. These are the curses that deepen the
VOL. I.
76
|
But I wan-
tragedy of life, by grinding down our pride.
der back to what I have before said. I was to marry
Madeline, - I was once poor, but want did not rise before
me; I had succeeded in obtaining the promise of a compe-
tence from one whom you know. For that I had once
forced from my kind, I asked now, but not with the spirit
of the beggar, but of the just claimant, and in that spirit it
was granted. And now I was really happy. Houseman I
believed removed for ever from iny path; Madeline was
about to be mine. I surrendered myself to love, and, blind
and deluded, I wandered on, and awoke on the brink of
that precipice into which I am about to plunge. You know
the rest. But oh ! what now was my horror! It had not
been a mere worthless, isolated unit in creation that I had
blotted out of the sum of life. I had shed the blood of his
brother whose child was my betrothed! Mysterious aven-
ger, weird and relentless fate! How, when I deemed
myself the farthest from her, had I been sinking into her
grasp! Mark, young man, there is a moral here that few
preachers can teach thee! Mark! Men rarely violate the
individual rule in comparison to their violation of general
rules. It is in the latter that we deceive by sophisms which
seem truths. In the individual instance it was easy for me
to deem that I had committed no crime. I had destroyed
a man, noxious to the world; with the wealth by which he
afflicted society I had been the means of blessing many in
the individual consequences mankind had really gained by
my deed; the general consequence I had overlooked till
now, and now it flashed upon me. The scales fell from my
eyes, and I knew myself for what I was! All my calcula
tions were dashed to the ground at once; for what had been
all the good I had proposed to do, the good I had done,
compared to the anguish I now inflicted on your house?
Was your father my only victim? Madeline, have I not
murdered her also? Lester, have I not shaken the sands
in his glass? You, too, have I not blasted the prime and
glory of your years? How incalculable, how measure-
less,how viewless the consequences of one crime, even
when we think we have weighed them all with scales that
would have turned with a hair's weight! Yes; before I
had felt no remorse. I felt it now. I had acknowledged
no crime, and now crime seemed the essence itself of
soul. The Theban's fate, which had seemed to the men
of old the most terrible of human destinies, was mine. The
crime, the discovery, the irremediable despair! — hear
me, as the voice of a man who is on the brink of a world,
the awful nature of which reason cannot pierce, hear
me! when your heart tempts to some wandering from the
line allotted to the rest of men, and whispers, This may
be crime in others, but is not so in thee,' tremble; cling
fast, fast to the path you are lured to leave. Remember
me!
—
C
-
my
In
"But in this state of mind I was yet forced to play the
hypocrite. Had I been alone in the world, had Madeline
and Lester not been to me what they were, I might have
arowed my
deed and my motives, I might have spoken
out to the hearts of men, I might have poured forth the
gloomy tale of reasonings and of temptings, in which we
lose sense,
and become the arch fiend's tools! But while
their eyes were on me; while their lives and hearts were
set on my acquittal; my struggle against truth was less for
myself than them. For them I girded up my soul: a villain
I was, and for them, a bold, a crafty, a dexterous villain
I became !
I became! My defence fulfilled its end: Madeline died
without distrusting the innocence of him she loved. Les-
ter, unless you betray me, will die in the same belief
truth, since the arts of hypocrisy have been commenced,
the pride of consistency would have made it sweet to me
to leave the world in a like error, or at least in doubt. For
you I conquer that desire, the proud man's last frailty
And now my tale is done. From what passes from this
instant within my heart, I lift not the veil ! Whether
beneath be despair, or hope, or fiery emotions, or one
settled and ominous calm, matters not. My last hours
shall not belie my life: on the verge of death I will not
play the dastard, and tremble at the dim unknown. The
thirst, the dream, the passion of my youth, yet lives, and
burns to learn the sublime and shaded mysteries that are
banned mortality. Perhaps I am not without hope that the
great and unseen Spirit, whose emanation within me I
have nursed and worshipped, though erringly and in vain,
may see in his fallen creature one bewildered by his reason
rather than yielding to his vices. The guide I received
002
BULWER'S NOVELS.
from heaven betrayed me, and I was lost; but I have not
plunged wittingly from crime to crime. Against one guilty
deed some good and much suffering may be set: and, dim
and afar off from my allotted bourne, I may behold in her
glorious home the starred face of her who taught me to
love, and who, even there, could scarce be blessed without
shedding the light of her divine forgiveness upon me.
Enough! ere you break this seal, my doom rests not with
doom rests not with
man nor earth. The burning desires I have known, the
resplendent visions I have nursed, the sublime aspirings
that have lifted me so often from sense and clay,- these
tell me that, whether for good or ill, I am the thing of
an immortality, and the creature of a God! As men of
the old wisdom drew their garments around their face, and
sat down collectedly to die, I wrap myself in the settled
resignation of a soul firm to the last, and taking not from
man's vengeance even the method of its dismissal. The
courses of my life I swayed with my own hand: from my
own hand shall come the manner and moment of my death.
"EUGENE ARAM."
"August, 1759.”
On the day after that evening in which Aram had given
the above confession to Walter Lester; -on the day of ex-
ecution, when they entered the condemned cell, they found
the prisoner lying on the bed; and when they approached
to take off the irons, they found that he neither stirred nor
answered to their call. They attempted to raise him, and
he then uttered some words in a faint voice. They per-
ceived that he was covered with blood. He had opened
his veins in two places in the arm with a sharp instrument
he bad some time since concealed. A surgeon was
stantly sent for, and by the customary applications the
prisoner in some measure was brought to himself. Re-
solved not to defraud the law of its victim, they bore him,
though he appeared unconscious of all around, to the fatal
spot. But when he arrived at that dread place, his sense
suddenly seemed to return. He looked hastily round the
throng that swayed and murmured below, and a faint flush
rose to his cheek: he cast his eyes impatiently above, and
breathed hard and convulsively. The dire preparations
were made, completed; but the prisoner drew back for an
instant, was it from mortal fear? He motioned to the
clergyman to approach, as if about to whisper some last re-
quest in his ear. The clergyman bowed his head, there
was a minute's awful pause, Aram seemed to struggle
as for words, when, suddenly throwing himself back, a
bright triumphant smile flashed over his whole face. With
that smile the haughty spirit passed away, and the law's
last indignity was wreaked upon a breathless corpse ! *
CHAPTER VIII. AND LAST.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. THE COUNTRY VIL-
LAGE ONCE MORE VISITED; ITS INHABITANTS.
THE REMEMBERED BROOK.
-
D
THE DESERT-
ED MANOR HOUSE. THE CHURCHYARD. THE
TRAVELLER RESUMES HIS JOURNEY.-THE COUN-
TRY TOWN.-A MEETING OF TWO LOVERS AFTER
LONG ABSENCE AND MUCH SORROW.
CLUSION.
"The lopped tree in time may grow again,
CON-
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release from pain,
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower:
Time goes by turns, and chances change by course
From foul to fair."
ROBERT SOUTHWELL, the Jesuit.
SOMETIMES towards the end of a gloomy day, the sun,
efore but dimly visible, breaks suddenly out, and clothes
* I cannot dismiss the principal character of this tale without
recommending the reader forthwith to procure (if, indeed, he
has not forestalled my recommendation) Mr. Hood's fine and
striking poem of "Eugene Aram."-Mr. Hood might perhaps
(at least such, I may be allowed to asy, is my own impression)
have formed a conception more true to nature, if he had de-
scribed the stoical and dark character of the man, as rather at-
tempting, now to refine away, now to bear up against, his guilt
- than as yielding so entirely to remorse:-but no conception
could have been more vigorously, more nobly executed; the
mens divinior breathes in every line.
-
the landscape with a smile; tnen beneath your eye, won,
during the clouds and sadness of day, had sought only the
chief features of the prospect around, (some gray hill, or
rising spire, or sweeping wood,) the less prominent, yel
not less lovely features of the scene, mellow forth into view;
over them, perhaps, the sun sets with a happier and richer
glow than over the rest of nature; and thus they leave
upon your mind its last grateful impression, and console
you for the gloom and sadness which the parting light they
catch and reflect, dispels.
Just so in our tale; it continues not in cloud and sorrow
to the last; some little ray breaks forth at the close; in
that ray, characters which before received but a slight por-
tion of the interest that prouder and darker ones engrossed,
are thrown into light, and cheer from the mind of him who
hath watched and tarried with us till now, - we will not
say all the sadness that may perhaps linger on his memory,
and yet something of the gloom.
It was soine years after the date of the last event we
have recorded, and it was a fine warm noon in the happy
month of May, when a horseman was slowly riding through
man, though in the prime of youth, (for he might yet want
the long, straggling village of Grassdale. He was a
some two years of thirty,) that bore the steady and earnest
eye keen but tranquil; his sunburnt though handsome fea-
air of one who has seen not sparingly of the world; his
spoiled of the roundness of their early contour, leaving the
tures, which either exertion or thought, or care, had de-
cheek somewhat sunken, and the lines somewhat marked,
melancholy and soft expression; and now, as his horse
were impressed with a grave, and at that moment with a
proceeded slowly through the green lane, which in every
river, or the orchard, ripe with the fragrant blossoms of
vista gave glimpses of rich verdant valleys, the sparkling
spring his gaze lost the calm expression it habitually
wore, and betrayed how busily remembrance was at work.
The dress of the horseman was of foreign fashion, and at
ly military to show the profession he had belonged to.
that day, when the garb still denoted the calling, sufficient-
the sinewy chest and length of limb of the young horse-
And well did the garb become the short dark mustache,
man recommendations, the two latter, not despised in
the court of the great Frederick of Prussia, in whose ser-
vice he had borne arms. He had commenced his career
in that battle terminating in the signal defeat of the bold
Daun, when the fortunes of that gallant general paled at
last before the star of the greatest of modern kings. The
peace of 1763 had left Prussia in the quiet enjoyment of
the glory she had obtained, and the young Englishman
took the advantage it afforded him of seeing as a traveller,
not despoiler, the rest of Europe.
The adventure and the excitement of travel pleased and
left him even now uncertain whether or not his present
return to England would be for long. He had not been a
week returned, and to this part of his native country he
had hastened at once.
He checked his horse as he now past the memorable
sign, that yet swung before the door of Peter Dealtry;
and there, under the shade of the broad tree, now budding
into all its tenderest verdure, a pedestrian wayfarer sat
enjoying the rest and coolness of his shelter. Our horse-
man cast a look at the open door, across which, in the
bustle of housewifery, female forms now and then glanced
and vanished, and presently he saw Peter himself saunter
forth to chat with the traveller beneath his tree. And
Peter Dealtry was the same as ever, only he seemed per-
haps shorter and thinner than of old, as if time did not so
much break as wear mine host's slender person gradually
away.
The horseman gazed for a moment, but observing Peter
return the gaze, he turned aside his head, and putting his
horse into a canter, soon passed out of cognizance of the
Spotted Dog.
He now came in sight of the neat white cottage of the
old corporal, and there, leaning over the pale, a crutch
under one arın, and his friendly pipe in one corner of his
shrewd mouth, was the corporai himself. Perched upon
the railing in a semi-doze, the ears down, the eyes closed,
sat a large brown cat: poor Jacobina, it was not thyself!
thy grandchild; and thy grandchild, (as age brings dotage,)
death spares neither cat nor king; but thy virtues lived in
was loved even more than thee by the worthy corporal.
Long may thy race flourish, for at this day it is not ex
EUGENE ARAM.
603
tinct Nature rarely inflicts barrenness on the feline tribe; | dews and seasons, and the short inscription traced upon t
they are essentially made for love; and love's soft cares was strikingly legible in comparison with those around.
and a cat's lineage outlives the lineage of kaisars.

At the sound of hoofs the corporal turned his head, and
he looked long and wistfully at the horseman, as, re-
laxing his horse's pace into a walk, our traveller rode
slowly on.
'
a fine man,
augh!",
"'Fore George," muttered the corporal,
a very fine man; 'bout my inches,
A smile, but a very faint smile, crossed the lip of the
horseman, as he gazed on the figure of the stalwart cor-
poral.
"He eyes me hard," thought he; "yet he does not seem
to remember me. I must be greatly changed. 'T is
fortunate, however, that I am not recognised: fain,
mdeed, at this time, would I come and go unnoticed and
alone."
The horseman fell into a reverie, which was broken by
the murmur of the sunny rivulet, fretting over each little
obstacle it met, the happy and spoiled child of nature!
That murmur rang on the horseman's ear like a voice from
his boyhood, how familiar was it, how dear! No tone of
music,—no haunting air, ever recalled so rushing a host
of meinories and associations, as that simple, restless, ever-
lasting sound! Everlasting! -all had changed, the trees
had sprung up or decayed, some cottages around were
ruins, some new and unfamiliar ones supplied their
place, and on the stranger himself, on all those whom the
sound recalled to his heart, time had been, indeed, at
work; but with the same exulting bound and happy voice
that little brook leaped along its way. Ages hence, may
the course be as glad, and the murmur as full of mirth!
They are blessed things, those remote and unchanging
streams! they
fill us with the same love as if they
were living creatures! and in a green corner of the
world there is one that, for my part, I never see without
forgetting myself to tears, tears that I would not lose
tears that I would not lose
for a king's ransom; tears that no other sight or sound
could call from their source; tears of what affection, what
soft regret; tears that leave me for days afterwards, a bet-
ter and a kinder man !
"ROWLAND LESTER, obiit. 1760, æt. 84.”
"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."
By that tomb the traveller remained in undisturbed con-
templation for some time, and when he turned, all the
swarthy color had died from his cheek, his eyes were dim,
and the wonted pride of a young man's step and a soldier's
bearing, was gone from his mien.
As he looked up, his eye caught afar, imbedded among
the soft verdure of the spring, one lone and gray house,
from whose chimney there rose no smoke,- sad, inhospit-
able, dismantled as that beside which he now stood; -as
if the curse which had fallen on the inmates of either man-
sion still clung to either roof. One hasty glance only the
traveller gave to the solitary and distant abode,
started and quickened his pace.
and then
On reentering the stables, the traveller found the cor
poral examining his horse from head to foot with great care
and scrupulosity.
r
"Good hoofs too, humph!" quoth the corporal, as he
released the front leg; and, turning round, saw, with some
little confusion, the owner of the steed he had been honor
ing with so minute a survey. Ob,-augh! looking at
the beastie, sir, lest it might have cast a shoe. Thought
your honor might want some intelligent person to show you
the premises, if so be you have come to buy ; nothing but
an old 'oman there; dare say your honor does not like old
'omen,-augh!"
<c
"The owner is not in these parts?" said the horseman
No, over seas, sir; a fine young gentleman, but hasty;
and-and
and- but Lord bless me! sure, - no, it can't be,
yes, now you turn, it is, it is my young master!"
So saying, the old corporal, roused into affection, hobbled
up to the wanderer, and seized and kissed his hand. "Ah,
sir, we shall be glad indeed to see you back after such
doings. But's all forgotten now, and gone by,-augh!
Poor Miss Ellinor, how happy she 'll be to see your honor
Ah! how she be changed, surely!
"How for the worse?"
What! does she
The traveller, after a brief pause, continued his road;
and now he came full upon the old manor-house. The "Changed? ay, I make no doubt!
weeds were grown up in the garden, the mossed paling was look in weak health?"
broken in many places, the house itself was shut up, and "No; as to that, your honor, she be winsome enough
the sun glanced on the deep-sunk casements without find- still," quoth the corporal, smacking his lips; "I seed her
ing its
into the desolate interior. High above the old the week afore last, when I went over to
way
for I sup-
hospitable gate hung a board, announcing that the house was pose you knows as she lives there, all alone like, in a smal!
for sale, and referring the curious, or the speculating, to house, with a green rail afore it, and a brass knocker or
the attorney of the neighbouring town. The horseman the door, at top of the town, with a fine view of the
sighed heavily, and muttered to himself; then turning up hills in front? Well, sir, I seed her, and mighty bandsome
the road that led to the back entrance, he came into the she looked, though a little thinner than she was; but, for
court-yard, and leading his horse into an empty stable, he all that she be greatly changed."
proceeded on foot through the dismantled premises, paus-
ing with every moment, and holding a sad and ever chang-
ing commune with himself. An old woman, a stranger to
him, was the sole inmate of the house, and imagining he
came to buy, or at least, examine, she conducted him
through the house, pointing out its advantages, and lament-
ing its dilapidated state. Our traveller scarcely heard her,
but when he came to one room which he would not
enter till the last, (it was the little parlour in which the
once happy family had been wont to sit,) he sank down in
the chair that had been Lester's honored seat, and cover-
ing his face with his hands, did not move or look up for
several moments. The old woman gazed at him with sur-
prise. — “Perhaps, sir, you knew the family, they were
greatly beloved."
-
The traveller did not answer; but when he rose, he mut-
tered to himself, "No, the experiment is made in
vain ! Never, never could I live here again, it must
be so, my forefathers' house must pass into a stranger's
hands." With this reflesion he hurried from the house,
and reentering the garden, turned through a little gate that
swung half open on its shattered hinges, and led into the
green and quiet sanctuaries of the dead. The same touch-
ing character of deep and undisturbed repose that hallows
the country churchyard,—and that more than most, yet
brooded there as when, years ago, it woke his young mind
to reflection then unmingled with regret.
He passed over the rude mounds of earth that covered
the deceased poor, and paused at a tomb of higher, though
but of simple pretensions; it was yet discolored by the
-}
1'
"For the worse, indeed," answered the corporal, assum-
ing an air of melancholy and grave significance;
"she be
grown religious, sir, think of that, -augh, bother,
whaugh!'
"Is that all?" said Walter, relieved, and with a slight
smile. "And she lives alone!
CC
Quite, poor young lady, as if she had made up her
mind to be an old maid; though I know as how she refused
Squire Knyvett of the Grange, waiting for your honor's
return, mayhap!
CC
"Lead out the horse, Bunting; but stay, I am sorry to see
you with a crutch; what's the cause? no accident, I trust ? "
Merely rheumatics, will attack the youngest of us;
never been quite myself since I went a travelling with your
honor,augh! without going to Lunnun arter all. But
I shall be stronger next year, I dare to say -
"I hope you will, Bunting.
alone, you say?"
ני !
And Miss Lester lives
"Ay; and for all she be so religious, the poor about de
bless her very footsteps. She does a power of good; she
gave me half-a-guinea, your honor; an excellent young
lady, so sensible like !""
Thank you; I can tighten the girths!
so! There,
Bunting, there's something for old companion's sake."
"Thank your honor; you be too good, always was,
baugh! But I hopes your honor be a coming to live here
now; 't will make things smile agin! "
No, Bunting, I fear not," said Walter, spurring through
the gates of the yard; “good day.”
504
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"C
Augh, ten, cried the corporal, hobbling breathlessly
after him, "if so be as I shan't see your honor agin, at
which I am extramely consarned, will your honor recollect
your promise, touching the 'tato ground? The steward,
Master Bailey, 'od rot him, has clean forgot it, augh!"
"The same old man, Bunting, eh? Well, make your
mind easy, it shall be done."
—
"Lord bless your honor's good heart; thank ye; and,
and "-laying his hand on the bridle, your honor did
say, the bit cot should be rent-free. You see, your honor,
quoth the corporal, drawing up with a grave smile, "I
may marry some day or other, and have a large family;
and the rent won't sit so easy then, — augh!"
"Let go the rein, Bunting,
rent-free."
—
and consider your house
"And, your honor, and,
But Walter was already in a brisk trot; and the remain-
ing petitions of the corporal died in empty air.
"A good day's work, too," muttered Jacob, hobbling
homeward. "What a green un 't is still! Never be a
man of the world, — augh!"
ers.
For two hours Walter did not relax the rapidity of his
pace; and when he did so at the descent of a steep hill, a
small country town lay before him, the sun glittering on its
single spire, and lighting up the long, clean, centre street,
with the good old-fashioned garden stretching behind each
house, and detached cottages around, peeping forth here
and there from the blossoms and verdure of the young
May. He rode into the yard of the principal inn, and
putting up
his horse, inquired, in a tone that he persuaded
himself was the tone of indifference, for Miss Lester's house.
"John," said the landlady, (landlord there was none,)
summoning a little boy of about ten years old,
r run on,
and show this gentleman the good lady's house and,
stay, his honor will excuse you a moment, just take up
the nosegay you cut for her this morning she loves flow-
Ah! sir, an excellent young lady is Miss Lester,"
continued the hostess, as the boy ran back for the nosegay;
so charitable, so kind, so meek to all. Adversity, they
say, softens some characters; but she must always have
been good. And so religious, sir, though so young! Well,
God bless her! and that every one must say. My boy
John, sir, he is not eleven yet, come next August,
'cute boy, calls her the good lady: we now always call her
so here. Come, John, that's right. You stay to dine
here, sir? Shall I put down a chicken?"
At the farther extremity of the town stood Miss Lester's
dwelling. It was the house in which her father had spent
his last days; and there she had continued to reside, when
left by his death to a small competence, which Walter,
then abroad, had persuaded her (for her pride was of the
right kind) to suffer him, though but slightly, to increase.
It was a detached and small building, standing a little from
the road; and Walter paused for some moments at the
garden-gate, and gazed round him before he followed his
young guide, who, tripping lightly up the gravel-walk to
the door, rang the bell, and inquired if Miss Lester was
within.
a
Walter was left for some moments alone in a little
parlour he required those moments to recover himself
from the past that rushed sweepingly over him. And was
it, yes, it was Ellinor that now stood before him!
Changed she was, indeed; the slight girl had budded into
woman; changed she was, indeed; the bound had for ever
left that step, once so elastic with hope; the vivacity of the
quick, dark eye was soft and quiet, the rich color had
given place to a hue fainter, though not less lovely. But to
repeat in verse what is poorly bodied forth in prose,
"And years had past, and thus they met again;
The wind had swept along the flower since then,
O'er her fair cheek a paler lustre spread,
As if the white rose triumphed o'er the red.
No more she walk'd exulting on the air;
Light though her step, there was a languor there;
No more, her spirit bursting from its bound,
She stood, like Ilebe, scattering smiles around."*
"Ellinor! said Walter, mournfully, "thank God! we
meet at last.”
"That voice,
that face,
my cousin, my dear, dear
Walter !"
All reserve,
all consciousness fled in the delight of
* From "A Portrait," by the author-"O virgo, quam te
memorem!
that moment; and Ellinor leant her head upon his shoul
der, and scarcely felt the kiss that he pressed upon her lips.
"And so long absent!" said Ellinor, reproachfully.
"But did you not tell me that the blow that had fallen on
our house had stricken from you all thoughts of love,
had divided us or ever? And what, Ellinor, was England
or home without you?"
"Ah!" said Ellinor, recovering herself, and a deep
paleness succeeding to the warm and delighted flush that
had been conjured to her cheek, "do not revive the past
- I have sought for years, long, solitary, desolate years
to escape from its dark recollections!"
"You speak wisely, dearest Ellinor; let us assist each
other in doing so. We are alone in the world, let us
unite our lot. Never, through all I have seen and felt,
in the starry night-watch of camps, in the blaze of
courts, by the sunny groves of Italy, in the deep for-
ests of Hartz, never have I forgotten you, my sweet and
dear cousin. Your image has linked itself indissolubly
with all I conceived of home and happiness, and a tranquil
and peaceful future; and now I return, and see you, and find
you changed, but oh, how lovely! Ah, let us not part again!
A consoler, a guide, a soother, father, brother, husband,
all this my heart whispers I could be to you!"
Ellinor turned away her face, but her heart was very full.
The solitary years that had passed over her since they last
met, rose up before her. The only living image that had
mingled through those years with the dreams of the depart
ed, was his who now knelt at her feet; her sole friend,
her sole relative, her first, her last love! Of all
the world, he was the only one with whom she could recur
to the past; on whom she might repose her bruised, but
still unconquered affections. And Walter knew by that
blush, that sigh, that tear, that he was remembered,
that he was beloved, that his cousin was his own at last!
r
"But before you end," said my friend, to whom I show-
ed the above pages, originally concluding my tale with the
last sentence, you must, (it is a comfortable and orthodox
old fashion,) tell us a little about the fate of the other
persons, to whom you have introduced us; the wretch
Houseman?—
"True; in the mysterious course of mortal affairs, the
greater villain had escaped, the more generous and redeem-
ed one fallen. But though Houseman died without vio
lence, died in his bed, as honest men die, we can scarcely
believe that his life was not punishment enough. He lived
in strict seclusion, the seclusion of poverty, and ma'n-
tained himself by dressing flax. His life was several
times attempted by the mob, for he was an object of uni-
versal execration and horror; and even ten years after-
wards, when he died, his body was buried in secret at the
dead of night, for the hatred of the world survived him!
And the corporal, did he marry in his old
age?"
CC
History telleth of one Jacob Bunting, whose wife, sev-
eral years younger than himself, played him certain sorry
pranks with the young curate of the parish: the said Jacob,
knowing nothing thereof, but furnishing great oblectation
unto his neighbours, by boasting that he turned an excellent
penny by selling poultry to his reverence above market
prices,For, Bessy, my girl, I'm a man of the world,
augh !'"
"Contented! a suitable fate for the old dog,- But
Peter Dealtry?"
"Of Peter Dealtry know we nothing more, save that
we have seen at Grassdale churchyard a sinall tombstone
inscribed to his memory, with the following sacred poesy
thereto appended, –
“We flourish, saith the holy text,
One hour, and are cut down the next :
I was like grass but yesterday,
But Death has mowed me into hay. "*
"And his namesake, Sir Peter Grindlescrew Hales?"
"Went through a long life, honored and respected,
but met with domestic misfortunes in old age. His eldest
son married a maid-servant, and his youngest daugh-
ter
Eloped with the groom?
>
the very
By no means, with a young spendthrift;
picture of what Sir Peter was in his youth: they were
both disinherited, and Sir Peter died in the arms of his
* Verbatim.
EUGENE ARAM.
605
eignt remaining children, seven of whom never forgave his
memory for not being the eighth, viz. chief heir.”
"And his contemporary, John Courtland, the non-hypo-
chondriac?"
"Died of sudden suffocation, as he was crossing Houn-
slow Heath.'
"But Lord ***** ?"
"Lived to a great age; his last days, owing to growing
infirmities, were spent out of the world; every one pitied
him, it was the happiest time of his life!"
"Dame Darxmans ?"
www.
"Was found dead in her bed, from over fatigue, it was
supposed, in making merry at the funeral of a young girl
on the previous day."
"Well! - hem,
and so Walter and his cousin were
really married; and did they never return to the old manor-
house ?"
"No; the memory that is allied only to melancholy,
grows sweet with years, and hallows the spot which it
haunts; not so the memory allied to dread, terror, and
something too of shame. Walter sold the property with
some pangs of natural regret; after his marriage with Elli-
nor he returned abroad for some time, but finally settling
in England, engaged in active life, and left to his posterity
a name they still honor, and to his country, the memory of
some services that will not lightly pass away.
>>
But one dread and gloomy remembrance never forsook
his mind, and exercised the most powerful influence over
the actions and motives of his life. In every emergency,
in every temptation, there rose to his eyes the fate of him
so gifted, so noble in much, so formed for greatness in all
things, blasted by one crime,- self-sought, but self-denied;
a crime, the offspring of bewildered reasonings, - all the
while speculating upon virtue. And that fate revealing
the darker secrets of our kind, in which the true science
of morals is chiefly found, taught him the twofold lesson,
caution for himself, and charity for others. He knew hence-
forth that even the criminal is not all evil; the angel
within us is not easily expelled; it survives sin, ay, and
many sins, and leaves us sometimes in amaze and marvel,
at the good that lingers round the heart even of the hardi-
est offender.
And Ellinor clung with more than revived affection to
one with whose lot she was now allied. Walter was her
last tie upon earth, and in him she learned, day by day, more
lavishly to treasure up her heart. Adversity and trial had
ennobled the character of both; and she who had so long
reen in her cousin all she could love, beheld now in her
husband that greater and more enduring spell, all that
she could venerate and admire. A certain religious fer
vor, in which, after the calamities of her family, she had
indulged, continued with her to the last; but (softened by
human ties, and the reciprocation of earthly duties and af
fections) it was fortunately preserved either from the un-
due enthusiasm or the undue austerity into which it would
otherwise, in all likelihood, have merged. What remain-
ed, however, uniting her most cheerful thoughts with some-
thing serious, and the happiest moments of the present
with the dim and solemn forecast of the future, elevated
her nature, not depressed, and made itself visible rather in
tender than in sombre, hues. And it was sweet when the
thought of Madeline and her father came across her, to
recur at once for consolation to that heaven in which she
believed their tears were dried, and their past sorrows
but
a forgotten dream! There is, indeed, a time of life when
these reflections make our chief, though a melancholy,
pleasure. As we grow older, and sometimes a hope, some-
pleasure.
times a friend, is shivered from our path, the thought of
an immortality will press itself forcibly upon us! and there,
by little and little, as the ant piles grain after grain, the
garners of a future sustenance, we learn to carry our hopes,
and harvest, as it were, our wishes.
Our cousins then were happy. Happy, for they loved
one another entirely; and on those who do so love, some-
times think, that, barring physical pain and extreme pov-
erty, the ills of life fali with but idle malice. Yes, they
were happy in spite of the past, and in defiance of the
future.
"I am satisfied then," said my friend,—" and your tale
is fairly done!"
And now, reader, farewell! If, sometimes, as thou hast
gone with me to this our parting spot, thou hast suffered
thy companion to win the mastery over thine interest, to
flash now on thy convictions, to touch now thy heart, to
guide thy hope, to excite thy anxiety, to gain even almost
to the sources of thy tears, then is there a tie between
thee and me which cannot readily be broken! And when
thou hearest the malice that wrongs affect the candor
which should judge, thou wilt be surprised to feel how un-
consciously HE who has, even in a tale, once wound him.
seif around those feelings not daily excited, can find in thy
sympathies the defence, or, in thy clay the indulgence,
of a friend!
THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
1
•
!
PELHAM NOVELS:
CONTAINING
PELHAM; THE DISOWNED; DEVEREUX ;
PAUL CLIFFORD; EUGENE ARAM; LAST DAYS OF POMPEII;
THE STUDENT; RIENZI; FALKLAND:
AND
PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
BY EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, ESQ., M. P
IN TWO VOLUMES.-VOL. II.
NEW YORK:
LEAVITT AND ALLEN,
21 & 23 MERCER STREET.
1862.
!
}
!
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
"Such is Vesuvius! and these things take place in it every year. But all eruptions which have happersa
since would be trifling, even if all summed into one, compared to what occurred at the period we refer to.
66
Day was turned into night, and night into darkness, — an inexpressible quantity of dust and asnes was
poured out, deluging land, sea, and air, and burying two entire cities, Herculaneum and Pompeii, while the
people were sitting in the theatre.” DION. CASSIUS, lib. lxvi.
VOL. II
PREFACE
то
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
On visiting those disinterred remains of an ancient city,
which, more perhaps than either the delicious breeze or
the cloudless sun, the violet valleys, and orange groves of
the south, attract the traveller to the neighbourhood of
Naples; on viewing, still fresh and vivid, the houses, the
streets, the temples, the theatres of a place existing in the
haughtiest age of the Roman empire, — it was not unnatu-
it was not unnatu-
ral, perhaps, that a writer, who had before labored, how-
ever unworthily, in the art to revive and to create, should
feel a keen desire to people once more those deserted
streets, to repair those graceful ruins, to re-animate the
bones which were yet spared to his survey; to traverse the
gulf of eighteen centuries, and to wake to a second exist-
ence the city of the dead!
And the reader will easily imagine how sensibly this de-
sire grew upon one, who felt he could perform his under-
taking, with Pompeii itself at the distance of a few miles,
the sea that once bore her commerce, and received her
fugitives, at his feet, and the fatal mountain of Vesuvius,
still breathing forth smoke and fire, constantly before his
eyes! *
I was aware, however, from the first, of the great diffi-
culties with which I had to contend. To paint the man-
ners and exhibit the life of the middle ages, required the
hand of a master genius; yet, perhaps, the task is slight
and easy, in comparison with that which aspires to portray
a far earlier and more unfamiliar period. With the men
and customs of the feudal time, we have a natural sympa-
thy and bond of alliance; those men were our own ances-
tors, from those customs we received our own, the
creed of our chivalric fathers is still ours, their tombs
yet consecrate our churches,― the ruins of their castles yet
frown over our valleys. We trace in their struggles for
liberty and for justice our present institutions; and in the
elements of their social state, we behold the origin of our
own.
But, with the classical age, we have no household and
familiar associations. The creed of that departed religion,
* Nearly the whole of this work was written the winter be-
fore last at Naples. On my return to England I was, indeed,
too much occupied with political matters to have a great deal of
superfluous leisure for works, purely literary, except in those
not unwelcome intervals when the Parliament, going to sleep,
allows the objects of life to awake: - dismissing its wearied
legislators, some to hunt, some to shoot, -some to fatten oxen,
and some to cultivate literature
|
|
the customs of that past civilization, present little that s
sacred or attractive to our northern imagination; they are
rendered yet more trite to us by the scholastic pedantries
which first acquainted us with their nature, and are linked
with their recollection of studies, which, imposed as a
labor, were not cultivated as a delight. Yet the task,
though arduous, seemed to me worth attempting; and in
the time and the scene I have chosen, much may be found
to arouse the curiosity of the reader, and enlist his interest
in the descriptions of the author. It was the first century
of our religion, it was the most civilized period of
Rome; - the conduct of the story lies amid places whose
relics we yet trace, the catastrophe is among the most
awful which the tragedies of ancient history present to our
survey.
From the ample materials before me, my endeavour has
been to select those which would be most attractive to a
modern reader the customs and superstitions least
unfamiliar to him, the shadows that, when re-animated,
would present to him such images as, while they represent-
ed the past, might be least uninteresting to the speculations
of the present. It did, indeed, require a greater self-
control than the reader may at first imagine, to reject much
that was most inviting in itself; but which, while it might
have added attraction to parts of the work, would have
been injurious to the symmetry of the whole. Thus, for
instance, the date of my story is that of the short reign
of Titus, when Rome was at its proudest and most gigan-
tic eminence of unbridled luxury and unrivalled power.
It was, therefore, a most inviting temptation to the author
to conduct the characters of his tale, during the progres
of its incidents, from Pompeii to Rome. What could
afford such materials for description, or such field for the
vanity of display, as that gorgeous city of the world, whose
grandeur could lend so bright an inspiration to fancy,
so favorable and so solemn a dignity to research? But in
choosing for my subject, my catastrophe, the destruc-
tion of Pompeii, it required but little insight into the
higher principles of art to perceive that to Pompeii the
story should be rigidly confined.
Placed in contrast with the mighty pomp of Rome, the
luxuries and gaad of the vivid Campanian city would have
sunk into insignificance. Her awful fate would have
seemed but a petty and isolated wreck in the vast seas of
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the imperial sway; and the auxiliary I should have sum-
moned to the interest of my story, would only have
destroyed and overpowered the cause it was invoked to
support. I was therefore compelled to relinquish an epi-
sodical excursion so alluring in itself, and, confining my
story strictly to Pompeii, to leave to others the honor of
delineating the hollow but majestic civilization of Rome.
The city, whose fate supplied me with so superb and
awful a catastrophe, supplied easily from the first survey of
its remains the characters most suited to the subject and
the scene; the half-Grecian colony of Hercules, ming-
ling with the manners of Italy so much of the costumes of
Hellas, suggested of itself the characters of Glaucus and
Ione. The worship of Isis, its existent fane, with its false
oracles unveiled; the trade of Pompeii with Alexandria;
the associations of the Sarnus, with the Nile, called forth
Egyptian Arbaces, the base Calenus, — and the fervent
Apæcides. The early struggles of Christianity with the
heathen superstition suggested the creation of Olinthus;
and the burnt fields of Campania, long celebrated for the
spells of the sorceress, naturally produced the Saga of
Vesuvius. For the existence of the blind girl I am in-
debted to a casual conversation with a gentleman, well
known among the English at Naples for bis general knowl-
edge of the many paths of life. Speaking of the utter
darkness which accompanied the first recorded eruption
of Vesuvius, and the additional obstacle it presented to
the
escape of the inhabitants, he observed, that the blind
would be the most favored in such a moment, and find the
easiest deliverance. This remark originated the creation
of Nydia.
The characters, therefore, are the natural offspring of
the scene and time, — the incidents of the tale are equally
consonant, perhaps, to the then existent society; for it is
not only the ordinary habits of life, the feasts and the
forum, the baths and the amphitheatre; the commonplace
routine of the classic luxury, which we recall the past to
behold; equally important and more deeply interesting are
the passions, the crimes, the misfortunes, and reverses that
might have chanced to the shades we thus summon to life.
We understand any epoch of the world but ill, if we do
not examine its romance; there is as much truth in the
its power in teaching as well as amusing,
can so far for
get its connexion with history, with philosophy, with
politics, its utter harmony with poetry, and obedience
to truth, as to debase its nature to the level of scholastic
frivolities; he raises scholarship to the creative, and does
not bow the creative to the scholastic.
'
cram
-
With respect to the language used by the characters in-
troduced, I have studied carefully to avoid what has always
seemed to me a fatal error in those who have attempted, in
modern times, to introduce the beings of a classical age.*
Authors have mostly given to them the stilted sentences, —
the cold and didactic solemnities of language which they
find in the more admired of the classical writers; it is an
error as absurd to make Romans in common life talk in the
periods of Cicero, as it would be in a novelist to endow
his English personages with the long-drawn sentences of
Johnson or Burke. The fault is the greater, because,
while it pretends to learning, it betrays in reality the igno-
ra
rance of just criticism, it fatigues, it wearies, it
revolts, and we have not the satisfaction in yawning to
think that we yawn eruditely. To impart any thing like
fidelity to the dialogues of classic actors, we must beware
(to use a university phrase) how we
" for the occa-
sion! Nothing can give to a writer a more stiff and uneasy
gait than the sudden and hasty adoption of the toga. We
must bring to our task the familiarized knowledge of many
years; the allusions, the phraseology, the language
generally, must flow from a stream that has long been
full; the flowers must be transplanted from a living soil,
and not brought second-hand at the nearest market-place.
This advantage, which is in fact only that of familiarity
with our subject, is one derived rather from accident than
merit, and depends upon the degrees in which the classics
have entered into the education of our youth and the studies
of our maturity. Yet even did a writer possess the utmost
advantage of this nature, which education and study can
bestow, it might be scarcely possible so entirely to trans-
port himself to an age so different from that in which we
live, but what some errors of inadvertence or forgetfulness
would be incurred in his delineations; and, when in
works even of
works upon the manners of the ancients,
the gravest and most elaborate character, composed by the
profoundest scholars, a critic superficially read can often
M
| poetry of life as in its prose.
As the greatest difficulty in treating of an unfamiliar and
distant period, is to make the characters introduced, “live
and move
"before the eye of the reader, so such should
doubtless be the first object of a work of the present descrip- Let me avail myself of the words I refer to, and humbly and
:
tion and all attempts at the display of learning should be
considered but as means subservient to this, the main re-
quisite of fiction. The first art of the poet (the creator)
is to breathe the breath of life into his creatures; the next
is to make their words and actions appropriate to the era
in which they are to speak and act.
This last art is per-
haps the better effected by not bringing the art itself con-
stantly before the reader, - by not crowding the page with
quotations and the margin with notes. Perpetual refer-
ences to learned authorities have, in fiction, something at
once wearisome and arrogant. They appear like the au-
thor's eulogies on his own accuracy and bis own learning,
* What the strong common sense of Sir Walter Scott has ex-
pressed so well in his preface to Ivanhoe, (first edition,) appears
to me, at least, as applicable to one, a writer who draws from
classical, -as to one who borrows from feudal, — antiquity
reverently appropriate them for the moment. "It is true, that
I neither can, nor do pretend to the observation (observance ?)
of complete accuracy even in matters of outward costume, much
less in the more important points of language and manners. But
the same motive which prevents my writing the dialogue of the
piece in Anglo-Saxon or in Norman French, (in Latin or in
Greek,) and which prohibits my sending forth this essay printed.
with the types of Caxton or Wynken de Worde, (written with
a reed upon five rolls of parchment, - fastened to a cylinder,
and adorned with a boss,) prevents my attempting to confine
myself within the limits of the period in which my story is laid.
It is necessary for exciting interest of any kind, that the subject
assumed should be, as it were, translated into the manners as
well as the language of the age we live in.
"In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes who will, 1
trust, devour this book with avidity, (hem !) I have so far ex-
plained ancient manners in modern language, and so far detailed
the characters and sentiments of my persons, that the modern
reader will not find himself, I should hope, much trammelled by
the repulsive dryness of mere antiquity. In this, I respectfully
contend, I have in no respect exceeded the fair license due to the
author of a fictitious composition.
"It is true," proceeds my authority, "that this license is con
fined within legitimate bounds: the author must introduce noth
they do not serve to elucidate his meaning, but to parade
his erudition. The intuitive spirit which infuses antiquity
into ancient images is, perhaps, the true learning which a
work of this nature requires, without it, pedantry is
offensive; with it, useless. No man who is thoroughly
aware of what prose fiction has now become, of its dignity,
- of its influence, of the manner in which it has grad-marks; they form the true canons of criticism, by which all
I can add nothing to these judicious and discriminating re-
ually absorbed all similar departments of literature, of
ing inconsistent with the manners of the age."-Preface to
Ivanhoe.
fiction that portrays the past should be judged.
PREFACE.
detect such imperfections, it would be far too presump- | where all hitherto have failed : * a necessary corollary
tuous to hope that I have been more fortunate than men from this proposition, is one equally consolatory though
infinitely more learned in a work in which learning is infi- less triumphant, viz. if I have failed in the attempt, I fail
nitely less required. It is for this reason that I venture to where no one has succeeded. After this sentence, I can
believe that scholars themselves will be the most lenient of but conclude at once. Can I say any thing more effectually
my judges. It will be enough if this book, whatever be to prove that an author never shows half so much ingenuity
its imperfections, should be found a portrait unskilful in- as in making out the best possible case for his own per-
deed in coloring, faulty, perhaps, in drawing, but not formance ?
altogether an unfaithful likeness of the features and the
costumes of the age which I have attempted to paint :-
may it be (what is far more important) a just representa-
on of the human passions and the human heart, whose
elements in all ages are the same. And lastly, let me be
permitted to remind the reader, that if I have succeeded
in giving some interest and vitality to a description of clas-
# manners and to a tale of a classic age, I have succeeded
Hi
* I must be pardoned for not excepting Barthelemy.
Anacharsis is a work of wonderful ability, labor, elegance, and
research. But there is no life in it! It does not, to be sure,
profess to be actually a romance, but even as a book of travels
it is formal and tedious. The external erudition is abundant,
but the inward spirit is wanting. He has not been exhilarated
by the wine of antiquity, but he has accumulated a prodigious
tily, "views things in his travels, not as a young Scythian, but
quantity of labels. “Anacharsis,” says Schlegel, well and wit-
as an old Parisian!" Yes, and as a Parisian, who never give
you the notion that he has travelled at all, except in an arm
chair.
!
!
2
THE
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER I.
BOOK I.
* Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quærere;
Quem sors dierum cunque dabit, lucro
Appone; nec dulces amores
Sperne puer, neque tu choreas."
Hon. lib. I. Od. ix.
The two Gentlemen of Pompeii.
"Ho, Diomed, well met,- do you sup with Glaucus to-
night ? said a young man of small stature, who wore his
tunic in those loose and effeminate folds which proved him
to be a gentleman and a coxcomb.
"Alas, no! dear Clodius; he has not invited me," re-
plied Diomed, a man of a portly frame and of middle age:
"by Pollux, a scurvy trick! for they say his suppers are
the best in Pompeii."
"Pretty well, though there is never enough of wine
for me.
It is not the old Greek blood that flows in his
veins, for he pretends that wine makes him dull the next
morning."
"There may be another reason for that thrift," said
Diome, raising his brows; "with all his conceit and ex-
travagance, he is not so rich, I fancy, as he affects to be,
and perhaps loves to save his amphoræ better than his wit."
"An additional reason for supping with him while the
sesterces last. Next year, Diomed, we must find another
Glaucus.'
rarest breed of Parthia; their slender limbs seemed to dia
dain the ground and court the air, and yet at the sightest
touch of the charioteer, who stood behind the young owner
of the equipage, they paused motionless, as if suddenly
lifeless, but life-like, as one of
transformed into stone,
per-
the breathing wonders of Praxiteles. The owner himself
was of that slender and beautiful symmetry from which the
sculptors of Athens drew their models: his Grecian origin
betrayed itself in his light but clustering locks, and the
fect harmony of his features. He wore no toga, which in
the time of the emperors had indeed ceased to be the gen-
eral distinction of the Romans, and was especially ridiculed
by the pretenders to fashion; but his tunic glowed in the
richest hues of the Tyrian die, and the fibulæ, or buckles,
by which it was fastened, sparkled with emeralds: around
his neck he wore a chain of gold, which in the middle of
his breast twisted itself into the form of a serpent's head,
from the mouth of which hung pendant a large signet ring
of elaborate and most exquisite workmanship; the sleeves
of the tunic were loose, and fringed at the hand with gold;
and across the waist a girdle wrought in arabesque designs,
and of the same material as the fringe, served in lieu of
pockets for the receptacle of the handkerchief and the
"He is fond of the dice too, I hear."
"He is fond of every pleasure, and while he likes the purse, the stylus and the tablets.
pleasure of giving suppers, we are all fond of him.”
"My dear Glaucus !" said Clodius, "I rejoice to see
Ha, ha, Clodius, that is well said. Have you ever
that your losses have so little affected your mien. Why,
seen my wine cellars, by the by?"
you seem as if you had been inspired by Apollo, and
your
"I think not, my good Diomed.'
face shines with happiness like a glory; any one might
"Well, you must sup with me some evening; I have tol-
with me some evening; I have tol-ake you for the winner, and me for the loser."
erable murænæ
* in
in my reservoir, and I will ask Pansa the
edile to meet you.
"O, no state with me! Persicos odi apparatus, I am
easily contented. Well, the day wanes; I am for the
baths, and you?"
-
M M
business of state,
"To the questor,
the temple of Isis. Vale!"
afterward to
"An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow," muttered
Clodius to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. "He
thinks, with his feasts and his wine cellars, to make us for-
get that he is the son of a freedman; and so we will when
we do him the honor of winning his money; these rich ple-
beians are a harvest for us spendthrift nobles."
—
Thus soliloquizing, Clodius arrived in the Via Domitiana,
which was crowded with passengers and chariots, and ex-
hibited all that gay and animated exuberance of life and
motion which we find at this day in the streets of Naples.
The bells of the cars, as they rapidly glided by each oth-
er, jingled merrily on the ear, and Clodius with smiles or
nods claimed familiar acquaintance with whatever equipage
was most elegant or fantastic; in fact, no young man
was better known about Pompeii.
“What, Clodins! and how have you slept on your good
fortune?" cried, in a pleasant and musical voice, a young
man in a chariot of the most fastidious and graceful fashion.
Upon its surface of bronze were elaborately wrought, in the
still exquisite workmanship of Greece, reliefs of the Olym
pian games; the two horses that drew the car were of the
* Murænæ, - lampreys.
J
"And what is there in the loss or gain of those dull
pieces of metal that should change our spirit, my Clodius ?
Per Jove! while yet young, we can cover our full locks
with chaplets, while yet the cithara sounds on unsated
ears, while yet the smile of Lydia or of Chloe flashes
over our veins in which the blood runs so swiftly, so long
shall we find delight in the sunny air, and make bald time
itself but the treasurer of our joys. You sup with me to-
night, you know.”
"Who ever forgets the invitation of Glaucus !
"But which way go you now?"
<<
Why, I thought of visiting the baths, but it wants yet
an hour of the usual time.”
"Well, I will dismiss my chariot, and go with you. So,
so, my Phylias," stroking the horse nearest to him, which
by a low neigh and with backward ears playfully acknowl-
edged the courtesy, "a holyday for you to day. Is he not
handsome, Clodius?
Worthy of Phoebus," returned the noble parasite, —
or of Glaucus.”
CHAPTER II.
The blind Flower-Girl, and the beauty of fashion. The Ath
nian's confession. The reader's introduction to Arbacas
of Egypt.
TALKING lightly on a thousand matters, the two young
men sauntered through the streets; they were now in thai
ว
BULWER'S NOVELS.
૪
quarter which was filled with the gayest shops, their open partly because it was the fashion among the dissolute young
interiors all and each radiant with the gaudy yet harmoni-Romans to affect a little contempt for the very birth which,
ous colors of frescoes, inconceivably varied in fancy and in reality, made them so arrogant; it was the mode to
design. The sparkling fountains, that at every vista threw imitate the Greeks, and yet to laugh at their own clumsy
upward their grateful spray in the summer air, the crowd of imitation.
passengers, or rather loiterers, mostly clad in robes of the
Tyrian die; the gay groups collected round each more at-
tractive shop; the slaves passing to and fro with buckets of
bronze, cast in the most graceful shapes, and borne upon
their heads; the country girls stationed at frequent inter-
vals with baskets of blushing fruit, and flowers inore allur-
ing to the ancient Italians than to their descendants; (with
whom indeed, "latet anguis in herba," a disease seems
lurking in every violet and rose;)-(a) the numerous
haun's which fulfilled with that idle people the office of
cafés and clubs at this day; the shops, where on shelves of
marlde were ranged the vases of wine and oil, and before
whose thresholds, seats protected from the sun by a purple
awning, inviting the weary to rest and the indolent to
lounge, made a scene of such glowing and vivacious ex-
citement as might well give the Athenian spirit of Glaucus
an excuse for its susceptibility to joy.
"Talk to me no more of Rome," said he to Clodius.
"Pleasure is too stately and ponderous in those mighty
walls; even in the precincts of the court, even in the
golden house of Nero, and the incipient glories of the pal-
ace of Titus, there is a certain dulness of magnificence,-
the eye aches, the spirit is wearied; besides, my Clodi-
us, we are discontented, when we see the enormous luxury
and wealth of others, with the mediocrity of our own state.
But here we surrender ourselves easily to pleasure, and
we have the brilliancy of luxury without the lassitude of its
pomp.
"It was from that feeling that you chose your summer
retreat at Pompeii ?"
It was.
I prefer it to Baia: I grant the charms of
the latter, but I love not the pedants who resort there, and
who seem to weigh out their pleasures by the drachm."
"Yet you are fond of the learned too; and as for
poetry, why, your house is literally eloquent with Æschylus
and Homer, the epic and the drama."
"Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian
ancestors do every thing so heavily. Even in the chase
they make their slaves carry Plato with them; and when-
ever the boar is lost, out they take their books and their
papyrus, in order not to lose their time too. When the
dancing girls swim before them in all the blandishment of
Persian manners, some drone of a freedman, with a face
of stone, reads them a section of Cicero de Officiis. Un-
skilful pharmacists! pleasure and study are not elements to
be thus mixed together, they must be enjoyed separate-
ly; the Romans lose both by this pragmatical affectation
of refinement, and prove that they have no souls for either.
O my Clodius, how little your countrymen know of the
true versatility of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of an
Aspasia! It was but the other day that I paid a visit to
Pliny. He was sitting in his summer-house writing, while
an unfortunate slave played on the tibia. His nephew (oh!
whip me such philosophical coxcombs!) was reading Thucy-
dides's description of the plague, and nodding his conceited
little head in time to the music, while his lips were repeat-
ing all the loathsome details of that terrible delineation.
The puppy saw nothing incongruous in learning at the
same time a ditty of love and a description of the plague."
Why, they are much the same thing," said Clodius.
"So I told him in excuse for his coxcombry; but my
youth stared me rebukingly in the face, without taking the
'est, and answered that it was only the insensate ear that
the music pleased, whereas the book (the description of the
plague, mind you !) elevated the heart. Ah! quoth the
fat uncle, wheezing, my boy is quite an Athenian, al-
ways mixing the utile with the dulci.' O Minerva, how I
Laughed in my sleeve! While I was there, they came to
tell the boy-sophist that his favorite freedman was just
dead of a fever. - Inexorable death!' cried he; get me
my Horace. How beautifully the sweet poet consoles us for
these misfortunes!' O! can these men love, my Clodius?
Scarcely even with the senses. How rarely a Roman has
a heart! He is but the mechanism of genius, he wants
CC
Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd
gathered round an open space where three streets met,
and just where the porticoes of a light and graceful temple
threw their shade there stood a young girl, with a flower-
basket on her right arm, and a small tarce-stringed instru-
ment of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones
she was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At
every pause in the music she gracefully waved her flower
basket round, inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a
sesterce was showered into the basket, either in compli
ment to the music, or in compassion to the songstress
for she was blind.
"It is my poor Thessalian," said Glaucus, stopping,
"I have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush!
her voice is sweet; let us listen.
THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG
Buy my flowers,
M
I.
O buy, I pray,
The blind girl comes from afar :
If the earth be as fair as I hear them say,
These flowers her children are!
Do they her beauty keep?
They are fresh from her lap, I know;
For I caught them fast asleep
In her arms an hour ago,
With the air which is her breath,
Her soft and delicate breath,
Over them murmuring low! -
On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet,
And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet.
For she weeps, that gentle mother weeps
(As morn and night her watch she keeps,
With a yearning heart and a passionate care)
To see the young things grow so fair; -
She weeps, for love she weeps,—
And the dews are the tears she weeps
From the well of a mother's love.
11.
Ye have a world of light,
Where love in the loved rejoices;
But the blind girl's home is the house of night,
And its beings are empty voices.
As one in the realm below,
I stand by the streams of woe
I hear the vain shadows glide,
I feel their soft breath at my side,
And I thirst the loved forms to see,
And I stretch my fond arms around,
And I catch but a shapeless sound,
For the living are ghosts to me.
Come buy, - come buy! ·
Iark how the sweet things sigh
(For they have a voice like ours,)
"The breath of the blind girl closes
The leaves of the saddening roses, -
We are tender, we are sons of light,
We shrink from this child of night;
From the grasp of the blind girl free us ;
We yearn for the eyes that see us, -
We are for night too gay,
In your eyes we behold the day,
O buy,-O buy the flowers!"
"I must have you bunch of violets, sweet Nydia, said
Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a hand-
your voice is more
ful of small coins into the basket;
charming than ever."
The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athe-
nian's voice, then as suddenly paused, while the blood
rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples.
―
"So you are returned!" said she, in a low voice; and
then repeated, half to herself, "Glaucus is returned !
"Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few
you will
days. My garden wants your care as before,
And mind, no garlands at my
its bones and flesh.
visit it, I trust, to-morrow.
Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these invec-house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty
tives on his countrymen, he affected to sympathize with his Nydia."
friead, partly because he was by nature a parasite, and
,
Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glau
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
9
cus, placing the violets he had selected in his breast, turned
gayly and carelessly from the crowd.
So, she is a sort of client of yours, this child," said
Clodius.
Ay,-does she not sing prettily? She interests me,
the poor slave ! Besides, she is from the land of the
god's hill, Olympus frowned upon her cradle, she is
of Thessaly.
"The witches' country."
"True; but for my part I find every woman a witch;
and at Pompeii, by Venus! the very air seems to have
taken a love-filter, so handsome does every face without a
beard seem in my eyes."
"And lo! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old Dio-
med's daughter, the rich Julia," said Clodius, as a young
lady, her face covered by her veil, and attended by two
female slaves, approached them in her way to the baths.
"Fair Julia, we salute thee," said Clodius.
Julia partially raised her veil, so as with some coquetry
to display a bold Roman profile, a full, dark bright eye,
and a cheek over whose natural olive art shed a fairer and
softer rose.
"And Glaucus, too, is returned!" said she, glancing
meaningly at the Athenian. "Has he forgotten," she
added in a half-whisper," his friends of the last year?"
"Beautiful Julia even Lethe itself, if it disappear in
one part of the earth, rises again in another. Jupiter does
not allow us ever to forget for more than a moment; but
Venus, more harsh still, vouchsafes not even a moment's
oblivion.”
"Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words.
"Who is, when the object of them is so fair?"
"We shall see you both at my father's villa soon?"
said Julia, turning to Clodius.
"We will mark the day in which we visit you with a
white stone," answered the gamester.
Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance
rested on the Athenian with affected timidity and real bold-
the glance bespoke tenderness and reproach.
The friends passed on.
ness;
"Julia is certainly handsome," said Glaucus.
"And last year you would have made that confession in
a warmer tone.”
"True I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook
for a gem that which was but an artful imitation."
Nay," returned Clodius, "all women are the same at
heart. Happy he who weds a handsome face and a large
dower. What more can he desire ?'
Glancus sighed.
They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at
the end of which they beheld that broad and most lovely
sea, which upon those delicious coasts seems to have re-
nounced its prerogative of terror, so soft are the crisp-
ing winds that hover around its bosom, so glowing and so
various are the hues which it takes from the rosy clouds, so
fragrant are the perfumes which the breezes from the land
scatter over its depths. From such a sea might you well
believe that Anadyomene rose to take the empire of the
earth.
"It is still early for the bath," said the Greek, who was
the creature of every poetical impulse; "let us wander
from the crowded city, and look upon the sea while the
noon yet laughs along its billows."
"With all my heart," said Clodius; and the bay too is
always the most animated part of the city."
Pompeii was the miniature of the civilization of that
ags. Within the narrow compass of its walls was con-
tained, as it were, a specimen of every gift which luxury
offered to power. In its minute but glittering shops, its
tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its theatre, its circus,
in the energy yet corruption, in the refinement yet the vice,
of its people, you beheld a model of the whole empire. It
was a toy, a plaything, a showbox, in which the gods seem-
ed pleased to keep the representation of the great monarchy
of earth, and which they afterward hid from time to give to
the wonder of posterity; the moral of the maxim, that
under the sun there is nothing new.
Crowded in the glassy bay were the vessels of commerce
and the gilded galleys for the pleasures of the rich citizens.
The boats of the fishermen glided rapidly to and fro; and
afar off you saw the tall masts of the fleet under the com-
mand of Pliny. Upon the shore sat a Sicilian, who, with
vehement gestures and flexile features, was narrating to a
VOL. II.
2
|
group of fishermen and peasants a strange tale of ship-
wrecked mariners and friendly dolphins; —just as at this
day, in the modern neighbourhood, you may hear upon the
Mole of Naples.
Drawing his comrade from the crowd, the Greek bent
his steps toward a solitary part of the beach, and the two
friends, seated on a small crag which rose amid the smooth
pebbles, inhaled the voluptuous and cooling breeze, which,
dancing over the waters, kept music with its invisible feet.
There was, perhaps, something in the scene that invited
them to silence and reverie. Clodius, shading his eye from
the burning sky, was calculating the gains of the last week;
and the Greek, leaning upon his hand, and shrinking not
from that sun, his nation's tutelary deity,—with whose
fluent light of puesy, and joy, and love, bis own veins
were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, and envied, per-
haps, every wind that bent its pinions toward the shores of
Greece.
"Tell me, Clodius," said the Greek, at last, "hast thou
ever been in love?"
"Yes, very often."
. has
"He who has loved often," answered Glaucus,
loved never. There is but one Eros, though there are many
counterfeits of him.”
"The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the
whole," answered Clodius.
"I agree with you," returned the Greek. "I adore even
the shadow of love; but I adore himself yet more.
"Art thou then in sober and earnest love? Hast thou
that feeling the poets describe, a feeling that makes us
neglect our suppers, forswear the theatre, and write ele
gies?
I should never have thought it. You dissemble
well."
"I am not far gone enough for that," returned Glaucus.
smiling; or rather I say with Tibullus,
"Whom soft love rules, where'er his path,
Walks safe and sacred.'
In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there were but
occasion to see the object. Eros would light his torch, but
the priests have given him no oil.”
"Shall I guess the object? Is it not Diomed's daughter?
She adores you, and does not affect to conceal it; and, by
Hercules! I say again and again, she is both handsome
and rich. She will bind the doorposts of her husband with
golden fillets."
"No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed's daughter
is handsome, I grant; and at one time, had she not been
the grandchild of a freedman, I might have, yet no,
she carries all her beauty on her face; her manners are not
maidenlike, and her mind knows no culture save that of
pleasure."
"You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate
virgin?"
Several months ago, I
"You shall hear, my Clodius.
was sojourning at Neapolis, a city utterly to my own hear
for it still retains the manners and stamp of its Grecian
origin, and it yet merits the name of Parthenope, from
its delicious air and its beautiful shores. One day I entered
the temple of Minerva to offer up my prayers, not for myself
more than for the city on which Pallas smiles no longer.
The temple was empty and deserted. The recollections of
Athens crowded fast and meltingly upon me: imagining
myself still alone in the temple, and absorbed in the earnest-
ness of my devotion, my prayer gushed from my heart to
my lips, and I wept as I prayed. I was startled in the
midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh; I turned
suddenly round, and just behind me was a female. She had
raised her veil also in prayer; and when our eyes met,
methought a celestial ray shot from those dark and shining
orbs at once into my soul. Never, my Clodius, have 1 seen
mortal face more exquisitely moulded: a certain melancholy
softened, and yet elevated its expression; that unutterable
something which
something which springs from the soul, and which our
sculptors have imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave her
beauty I know not what of divine and noble; tears were
rolling down her eyes. I guessed at once that she was also
of Athenian lineage; and that in my prayer for Athens her
heart had responded to mine. I spoke to her, though with
a faltering voice, -Art thou not too Athenian,' said I,
"O beautiful virgin?' At the sound of my voice she
blushed, and half drew her veil across her face, My
forefather's ashes,' said she, 'repose by the waters of llys-
10
BULWER'S NOVELS.
sus; my birth is of Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage,
is Athenian. Let us, then,' said I, 'make our offerings
together; and as the priest now appeared, we stood side
by side, while we followed the priest in his ceremonial
prayer; together we touched the knees of the goddess,
together we laid our olive garlands on the altar. I felt a
strange emotion of almost sacred tenderness at this com-
panionship. We, strangers from a far and fallen land,
stood together and alone in that temple of our country's
deity was it not natural that my heart should yearn to my
countrywoman, for so I might surely call her? I felt as if
I had known her for years, and that simple rite seemed, as
by a miracle, to operate on the sympathies and ties of time.
Silently we left the temple, and I was about to ask her
where she dwelt, and if I might be permitted to visit her,
when a youth, in whose features there was some kindred
resemblance to her own, and who stood upon the steps of
the fane, took her by the hand. She turned round and bade
me farewell. The crowd separated us; I saw her no more.
On reaching my home, I found letters which obliged me to
set out for Athens, for my relations threatened we with liti-
gation concerning my inheritance. When that suit was
happily over, I repaired once more to Neapolis; I instituted
nquiries throughout the whole city, I could discover no
clew of my lost country woman, and hoping to lose in gayety
all remembrance of that beautiful apparition, I hastened to
plunge myself amid the luxuries of Pompeii. This is al
my history. I do not love; but I remember and regret.'
As Clodius was about to reply, a slow and stately step
approached the a at the sound it made among the
pebbles, each turned, .
gnised the new comer.
·
It was a man who had scarcely reaed his fortieth year,
of tall stature, and of a thin but nervous and sinewy
frame. His skin, dark and bronzed, betrayed his eastern
origin; and his features had something Greek in their out-
line, (especially in the chin, the lip, the brow, and the
throat,) save that the nose was somewhat raised and aqui-
line; and the bones, hard and visible, forbade that fleshy
and waving contour which on the Grecian physiognomy
preserved even in manhood the round and beautiful curves
of youth. His eyes, large and black as the deepest night,
shone with no varying and uncertain lustre. A deep,
thoughtful, and half-melancholy calm seemed unalterably
fixed in their majestic and commanding gaze. His step
and mein were peculiarly sedate and lofty, and something
foreign in the fashion and the sober hues of his sweeping
garments added to the impressive effect of his quiet coun-
tenance and stately form. Each of the young men, in sa-
luting the new comer, made mechanically, and with care to
conceal it from him, a slight gesture or sign with their fin-
gers for Arbaces the Egyptian was supposed to possess
the fatal gift of the evil eye.
"The scene must indeed be beautiful," said Arbaces,
with a cold though courteous smile," which draws the gay
Clodius, and Glaucus the all-admired, from the crowded
thoroughfares of the city."
“After all, you dʊ right to enjoy the hour while it smule
for you; the rose soon withers, the perfume soon exhales,
and we, O Glaucus! strangers in the land, and far from
our fathers' ashes, what is there left for us, but pleasure or
regret?for you the first, perhaps for me the last."
The bright eyes of the Greek were suddenly suffused
with tears. Ah, speak not, Arbaces," he cried,-
"speak not of our ancestors. Let us forget that there
were ever other liberties than those of Rome!
and glo-
ry,
oh vainly would we call her ghost from the fields of
Marathon and Thermopylæ !
<<
Thy heart rebukes thee while thou speakest," said the
Egyptian; "and in thy gayeties this night thou wilt be
more mindful of Leæna * than of Lais.
Vale!"
Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and slow-
ly swept away.
"I breathe more freely," said Clodius. "Imitating
the Egyptians, we sometimes introduce a skeleton at our
feasts. In truth the presence of such an Egyptian as you
gliding shadow were spectre enough to sour the richest
grape of the Falernian."
cr
*
Strange man!" said Glaucus, musingly; “
yet, dead
though he seem to pleasure, and cold to the objects of the
world, scandal belies him, or his house and his heart could
tell a different tale."
"Ah! there are whispers of other orgies than those of
Osiris in his gloomy mansion. He is rich, too, they say.
Can we not get him among us, and teach him the charms
of dice? Pleasure of pleasures! hot fever of hope and
fear inexpressible, unjaded passion! how fiercely beauti
ful thou art, O gaming!"
"the
―
Inspired, inspired," cried Glaucus, laughing;
oracle speaks poetry in Clodius. What miracle next?"
CHAPTER III.
Parentage of Glaucus. - Description of the houses of Pom
peii. A classic revel.
HEAVEN had given to Glaucus every blessing but one
it had given him beauty, health, fortune, genius, illustrious
descent, a heart of fire, a mind of poetry; but it had de-
nied him the heritage of freedom. He was born in Athens,
the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an ample in-
heritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel so
natural to the young, and had drunk deep of the intoxicat-
ing draught of pleasure, amid the gorgeous luxuries of the
imperial court.
He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what
a man of imagination, youth, fortune, and talents readily
becomes when you deprive him of the inspiration of glory
His house at Rome was the theme of the debauchees, but
also of the lovers of art; and the sculptors of Greece de-
lighted to task their skill in adorning the porticoes and
exedra of an Athenian. His retreat in Pompeii, alas!
the colors are faded now, the walls stripped of their paint-
ings!
its main beauty, its elaborate finish of grace and
ornament, is gone; yet when first given once more to the
"An austere reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure day, what eulogies, what wonder did its minute and glow-
delights in contrasts; it is from dissipation that we learning decorations create, its paintings, its mosaics
to enjoy solitude, and from solitude dissipation."
"Is nature ordinarily so unattractive?" asked the
Greek.
"To the dissipated, — yes."
re
"So think the young philosophers of the garden,” re-
plied the Egyptian; they mistake lassitude for medita-
tion, and imagine that, because they are sated with others,
they know the delight of loneliness. But not in such jaded
bosoms can nature awaken that enthusiasm which alone
draws from her chaste reserve all her unspeakable beauty;
she demands from you, not the exhaustion of passion, but
all that fervor from which you only seek, in adoring her, a
release. When, young Athenian, the moon revealed her-
self in visions of light to Endymion, it was after a day
passed, not among the feverish haunts of men, but on the
still mountains and in the solitary valleys of the hunter."
"Beautiful simile!" cried Glaucus; "most unjust ap-
plication! Exhausted! ah! youth is never exhausted;
and by me, at least, one moment of satiety has never been
known! "
Again the Egyptian smiled, but his smile was cold and
blighting, and even the unimaginative Clodius froze beneath
its light. He did not, however, reply to the passionate
exclamation of Glaucus; but, after a pause, he said, in a
oft and melancholy voice,
Passionately enamoured of poetry and the drama, which
recalled to Glaucus the wit and the heroism of his race,
that fairy mansion was adorned with representations of
Eschylus and Homer. And antiquaries, who resolve taste
to a trade, have turned the patron to the professor, and
still (though the error is now acknowledged) they style in
custom, as they first named in mistake, the disburied house
of the Athenian Glaucus,
of the Athenian Glaucus, "THE HOUSE OF THE DRA-
MATIC POET.
Previous to our description of this house, it may be well
to convey to the reader a general notion of the houses of
Pompeii, which he will find to resemble strongly the plans
of Vitruvius; but with all those differences, in detail, of
caprice and taste which, being natural to mankind, have
always puzzled antiquaries. We shall endeavour to make
this description as clear and unpedantic as possible.
You enter then, usually, by a small entrance passage
*Leana, the heroic mistress of Brislogeiton;-when put to
the torture she bit out her tongue, that the pain might not in-
duce her to betray the conspiracy against the Pisistratide. The
statue of a tongueless lioness, erected in her honor, was to be
seen at Athens in the time of Pausanias.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
n

called vestibulum) inte a hall, sometimes with (but more
frequently without) the ornament of columns: around three
sides of this hall are doors communicating with several
bedchambers, (among which is the porter's,) the best of
these being usually appropriated to country visiters. At
the extremity of the hall, on either side to the right and
left, if the house is large, there are two small recesses,
rather than chambers, generally devoted to the ladies of the
mansion; and in the centre of the tesselated pavement of
the hall is invariably a square shallow reservoir for rain
water, (classically termed impluvium,) which was admitted
by a hole in the roof above; the said aperture being cov-
ered at will by an awning. Near this impluvium, which
had a peculiar sanctity in the eyes of the ancients, were
sometimes (but at Pompeit more rarely than at Rome)
placed images of the household gods; the hospitable hearth
often mentioned by the Roman poets, and consecrated to
the Lares, was, at Pompeii, almost invariably formed by
a movable brasier; while in some corner, often the most
ostentatious place, was deposited a huge wooden chest, or-
namented and strengthened by bands of bronze or iron, and
secured by strong hooks upon a stone pedestal so firmly as
to defy the atteinpts of any robber to detach it from its po-
sition. This chest was supposed to be the money-box or
coffer of the master of the house; though, as no money has
been found in any of the chests discovered at Pompeii, it is
probable that it was sometimes rather designed for orna-
ment than use.
pas-
In this hall (or atrium, to speak classically) the clients
and visiters of inferior rank were usually received. In the
houses of the more "respectable," an atriensis, or slave
peculiarly devoted to the service of the hall, was invariably
retained, and his rank among his fellow slaves was high
and important. The reservoir in the centre must have been
rather a dangerous ornament, but the centre of the hall was
like the grass-plat of a college, and interdicted to the
sers to and fro, who found ample space in the margin.
Right opposite the entrance, at the other end of the hall,
was an apartment (tablinum) in which the pavement was
usually adorned with rich mosaics, and the walls covered
with elaborate paintings. Here were usually kept the rec-
ords of the family, or those of any public office that had
been filled by the owner: on one side of this saloon, if we
may so call it, was often a dining-room, or triclinium; on
the other side, perhaps, what we should call a cabinet of
gens, containing whatever curiosities were deemed most
rare and costly; and invariably a small passage for the
slaves to cross to the farther parts of the house without
passing the apartments thus mentioned. These rooms all
opened on a square or oblong colonnade, technically termed
peristyle. If the house was small, its boundary ceased
with this colonnade, and in that case its centre, however
diminutive, was ordinarily appropriated to the purpose of a
garden, and adorned with vases of flowers placed upon
pedestals, while under the colonnade, to the right and left,
were doors, admitting to bedrooms,* to a second triclinium,
or eating-room; (for the ancients generally appropriated
two rooms at least to that purpose, one for summer and one
for winter, or perhaps one for ordinary, the other for festive
occasions;) and if the owner affected letters, a cabinet,
dignified by the name of library, for a very small room
was sufficient to contain the few rolls of papyrus which the
ancients deemed a notable collection of books.
At the end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen.
Supposing the house was large, it did not end with the per-
istyle, and the centre thereof was not in that case a garden,
but might be perhaps adorned with a fountain, or basin for
fish, and at its end, exactly opposite to the tablinum, was
generally another eating-room, on either side of which were
bedrooms, and perhaps a picture-saloon, or pinacotheca.†
These apartments communicated again with a square or
oblong space, usually adorned on three sides with a colon-
nade like the peristyle, and very much resembling the per-
istyle, only longer. This was the proper viridarium or gar-
den, being usually adorned with a fountain or statues, and
a profusion of gay flowers: at its extreme end was the gar-
dener's house; on either side beneath the colonnade were
sometimes, if the size of the family required it, additional
rooms.
The Romans had bedrooms appropriated not only to the
sleep of night, but also to the day siesta, (cubicula diurna.)
In the stately palaces of Rome, the pinacotheca usually com-
municated with the atrium.
At Pompeii a second or third story was rarely of impɔr-
ance, being built above only a small part of the house, and
containing rooms for the slaves; differing in this respect
from the more magnificent edifices of Rome, which gener-
ally contained the principal eating-room or (cœnaculum) on
the second floor. The apartments themselves were ordi
narily of small size; for in those delightful climes they
received any extraordinary number of visiters in the peri-
style, (or portico,) the hall, or the garden; and even their
banquet-rooms, however elaborately adorned and carefully
selected in point of aspect, were of diminutive proportions;
for the intellectual ancients being fond of society, not of
crowds, rarely feasted more than nine at a time, so that
large dinner-rooms were not so necessary with them as
with us.* But the suite of rooms seen at once from the
entrance must have had a very imposing effect; you beheld
at once the hall richly paved and painted, the tablinum,-
the graceful peristyle, and (if the house extended farther)
the opposite banquet-room and the garden, which closed
the view with some gushing fount or marble statue.
The reader will now have a tolerable notion of the Pom-
peian houses, which resembled in some respects the Grecian,
but mostly the Roman, fashion of domestic architecture.
In almost every house there is some difference in detail from
the rest; but the principal outline is the same in all. In all
you find the hall, the tablinum, and the peristyle communi-
cating with each other; in all you find the walls richly
painted, and in all the evidence of a people fond of the
refining elegances of life. The purity of the taste of the
Pompeians in decoration is however questionable they
were fond of the gaudiest colors, of fantastic designs; they
often painted the lower half of their columns a bright red,
leaving the rest uncolored; and where the garden was small,
its wall was frequently tinted to deceive the eye as to its
extent, imitating trees, birds, temples, &c. in perspective,
-a meretricious delusion which the graceful pedantry of
Pliny himself adopted, with a complacent pride in its in-
genuity.
But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest,
and yet of the most adorned and finished, of all the private
mansions of Pompeii; it would be a model at this day for
the house of "a single man in May-fair,' the envy and
despair of the cœlibian purchasers of buhl and marquetrie
You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the floor
of which is the image of a dog in mosaic, with the well-
known "Cave canem," or "Beware the dog. On either
side is a chamber of some size; for the interior house not
being large enough to contain the two great divisions of
private and public apartments, these two rooms were set
apart for the reception of visiters who neither by rank nor
familiarity were entitled to admission in the penetralia of
the mansion.
Advancing up the vestibule, you enter an atrium, that
when first discovered was rich in paintings, which in point
of expression would scarcely disgrace a Raphael. You may
see them now transplanted to the Neapolitan Museum; they
are still the admiration of connoisseurs, they depict the
parting of Achilles and Briseis. Who does not acknowl-
edge the force, the vigor, the beauty! employed in delin-
eating the forms and faces of Achilles and the immortal
slave!
On one side the atrium, a small staircase admitted to
the apartments for the slaves on the second floor; there,
too, were two or three small bedrooms, the walls of
which portrayed the rape of Europa, the battle of the Am-
azons, &c.
You now enter the tablinum, across which at either end
bung rich draperies of Tyrian purple, half withdrawn.†
On the walls were depicted a poet reading his verses to
his friends, and in the pavement was inserted a small and
most exquisite mosaic, typical of the instructions given by
the director of the stage to his comedians.
You passed through this saloon and entered the peristy.e;
and here (as I have said before was usually the case with
the smaller houses of Pompeii) the mansion ended. From
each of the seven columns that adorned this court, hung
festoons of garlands; the centre, supplying the place of a
garden, bloomed with the rarest flowers, placed in vases of
white marble, that were supported on pedestals. At the
left end of this small garden was a diminutive fane, resen
* When they entertained very large parties, the feast was us
ually served in the hall.
The tablinum was also secured at pleasure by sliding-doors
12
BULWER'S NOVELS.
bling one of those small chapels placed at the side of roads |
in Catholic countries, and dedicated to the Penates; before
it stood a bronze tripod; to the left of the colonnade were
two small cubiculi or bedrooms; to the right was the tri-
clinium, in which the guests were now assembled.
This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of Naples,
"the Chamber of Leda; " and in the beautiful work of
Sir William Gell, the reader will find an engraving from
that most delicate and graceful painting of Leda presenting
her new-born to her husband, from which the room derives
its name. This beautiful apartment opened upon the fra-
grant garden. Round the table of citrean* wood, highly
polished and delicately wrought with silver arabesques,
were placed the three couches, which were yet more com-
mon at Pompeii than the semicircular seat that had grown
lately into fashion at Rome; and on these couches of bronze,
studded with richer metals, were laid thick quiltings coyer-
ed with elaborate broidery, and yielding luxuriously to the
pressure.
"Well, I must own," said the edile Pansa, "that your
house, though scarcely larger than a case for one's fibula,
is a gem of its kind. How beautifully painted is that part-
ing of Achilles and Briseis ! -what a style ! - what heads!
what a hem!"
19
<<
"Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects,'
Raid Clodius, gravely. Why, the paintings on his walls,
-ah! there is, indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis!"
"You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do," quoth the
edile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having the
worst paintings in the world; for he was patriotic, and pat-
onized none but Pompeians, you flatter me:, but there
is something pretty, depol, yes, in the colors, to say
nothing of the design; -and then for the kitchen, my
friends, -ah! that was all my fancy."
CC
"What is the design?" said Glaucus. "I have not
yet seen your kitchen, though I have often witnessed the
excellence of its cheer.'
د,
"A cook, my Athenian, -a cook sacrificing the tro-
phies of his skill on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful
muræna (taken from the life) on a spit at a distance there
is some invention there!"
:
At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray cov-
ered with the first preparative initia of the feast. Amid
delicious figs, fresh herbs strewed with snow, anchovies,
and eggs, were ranged small cups of diluted wine sparing-
ly mixed with honey. As these were placed on the table,
young slaves bore round to each of the five guests (for there
were no more) the silver basin of perfumed water and
napkins edged with a purple fringe. But the edile osten-
tatiously drew forth his own napkin, which was not, indeed,
of so fine a linen, but in which the fringe was twice as
broad, and wiped his hands with the parade of a man who
felt he was calling for admiration.
"A splendid mappa that of yours," said Clodius; "why,
the fringe is as broad as a girdle."
"A trifle, my Clodius, a trifle! They tell me this stripe
is the latest fashion at Rome; but Glaucus attends to these
things more than I.”
"Be propitious, O Bacchus!" said Glaucus, inclining
reverentially to a beautiful image of the god placed in the
centre of the table, at the corners of which stood the Lares
and the saltholders. The guests followed the prayer, and
then, sprinkling the wine on the table, they performed the
wonted libation.
This over, the convivialists reclined themselves on the
couches, and the business of the hour commenced.
"May this cup be my last!" said the young Sallust, as
the table, cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded
with the substantial part of the entertainment, and the
ministering slave poured forth to him a brimming cyathus,
may this cup
be my last, but it is the best wine I have
drunk at Pompeii !"
Bring hither the amphora," said Glaucus; "and read
its date and its character.
r
""
The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll
fastened to the cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its
age a ripe fifty years.
"How deliciously the snow has cooled it!" said Pansa;
"at is just enough."
"It is like the experience of a man who has cooled his
* The most valued wood,· -not the modern citron-tree. Some,
among whom is my learned friend Mr. W. S. Landor, conjec-
sure it, with much plausibility, to have been mahogany
pleasures sufficiently to give them a double zest," exclaim!
Sallust.
"It is like a woman's No," added Glaucus; “it cools
but to inflame the more.
"When is our next wild-beast fight?" said Clodius to
Pansa.
"It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August," answered
Pansa, "on the day after the Vulcanalia; we have a most
lovely young lion for the occasion."
"
"Whom shall we get for him to eat asked Clodius.
"Alas! there is a great scarcity of criminals. You must
positively find some innocent or other to condemn to the
lion, Pansa!"
"Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of late,"
replied the edile, gravely. "It was a most infamous law,
that which forbade us to send our own slaves to the wild
beasts. Not to let us do what we like with our own, that 's
what I call an infringement on property itself."
Not so in the good old days of the republic," sighed
Sallust.
"And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such a
disappointment to the poor people. How they do love to
see a good tough battle between a man and a lion! and all
this innocent pleasure they may lose (if the gods don't send
us a good criminal soon) from this cursed law.”
"What can be worse policy," said Clodius, sententious-
ly," than to interfere with the manly amusements of the
people?
""
Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates! we have no Nero
at present," said Sallust.
"He was, indeed, a tyrant; he shut up our amphitheatre
for ten years."
"I wonder it did not create a rebellion," said Sallust.
"It very nearly did," returned Pansa, with his mouth
full of wild boar.
Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment by
a flourish of flutes, and two slaves entered with a single
dish.
"Ah! what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my
Glaucus ?" cried the young Sallust, with sparkling eyes.
Sallust was only twenty-four, but he had no pleasure in
life like eating, perhaps he had exhausted all the others;
yet he had some talent, and an excellent heart,
it went.
as far as
"it is an
"I know its face, by Pollux!" cried Pansa;
Ambracian kid. Ho!" snapping his finger, a usual signal
to the slaves, "we must prepare a new libation in honor
to the new comer.
"I had hoped," said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone,
"to have procured you some oysters from Britain; but
the winds that were so cruel to Cæsar have forbid us the
oysters."
"Are they in truth so delicious?" asked Lepidus,
loosening to a yet more luxurious ease his ungirdled tunic.
Why, in truth, I suspect it is the distance that gives
the flavor; they want the richness of the Brundusium
oyster. But at Rome no supper is complete without
them."
tr
"The poor Britons! There is some good in them,
after all," said Sallust; "they produce an oyster!"
"I wish they would produce us a gladiator," said the
edile, whose provident mind was still musing over the
wants of the amphitheatre.
"By Pallas!" cried Glaucus, as his favorite slave
crowned his streaming locks with a new chaplet, "I love
these wild spectacles well enough when beast fights beast;
but when a man, one with bones and blood like ours, is
coldly put on the arena, and torn limb from limb, the inter-
est is too horrid I sicken, I gasp for breath, I long
to rush and defend him.
to rush and defend him. The yells of the populace seem
to me more dire than the voices of the Furies chasing
Orestes. I rejoice that there is so little chance of that
bloody exhibition for our next show!"
The edile shrugged his shoulders; the young Sallust,
who was thought the best-natured man in Pompeii, stared
in surprise. The graceful Lepidus, who rarely spoke, for
fear of disturbing his features, cried, "Per Hercle!" The
parasite Clodius muttered, "depol; " and the sixth ban-
queter, who was the umbra of Clodius, (b) and whose duty
it was to echo his richer friend when he could not praise
him, the parasite of a parasite,- muttered also, "Ede.
Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we
pol.
DAN S
r
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
18
Greeks are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar!- the
rapture of a true Grecian game, the emulation of man
against man, the generous strife, the half-mournful
triumph, so proud to contend with a noble foe! so sad
to see him overcome! But ye understand me not.”
"The kid is excellent," said Sallust.
The slave whose duty it was to carve, and who valued
himself on his science, had just performed that office on
the kid to the sound of music, his knife keeping time, be-
ginning with a low tenor, and accomplishing the arduous
feat amid a magnificent diapason.
"Your cook is of course from Sicily?" said Pansa.
"Yes, of Syracuse.'
"I will play you for him," said Clodius; "we will have
a game between the courses.
"Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast fight;
but I cannot stake my Sicilian, you have nothing so
precious to stake me in return.
My Phillida, my beautiful dancing girl!"
"I never buy women," said the Greek, carelessly re-
arranging his chap.et.
The musicians, who were stationed in the portico with-
out, had commenced their office with the kid; they now
directed the melody into a more soft, a more gay, yet it
may be a more intellectual, strain; and they chanted that
song of Horace, beginning" Persicos odi," &c. so impos-
sible to translate, and which they imagined applicable to a
feast that, effeminate as it seems to us, was simple enough
for the gorgeous revelry of the time. We are witnessing
the domestic and not the princely feast, the entertain-
ment of a gentleman, not of an emperor or a senator.
rk
Ah, good eld Horace!" said Sallust, compassionately;
"be sang well of feasts and girls, but not like our modern
poets.'
"The immortal Fulvius, for instance," said Clodius.
Ah, Fulvius the immortal!" said the umbra.
"And Spuræna, and Caius Mutius, who wrote three
epics in a year,
could Horace do that, or Virgil either?'
said Lepidus. "Those old poets all fell into the mistake
of copying sculpture instead of painting. Simplicity and
repose, that was their notion: but we moderns have fire,
and passions, and energy, -we never sleep, we imitate
the colors of painting, its life and its action. Immortal
Fulvius!
By the way," said Sallust, "have you seen the new
ode by Spurena, in honor of our Egyptian Isis?—It is
magnificent the true religious fervor."
Isis seems a favorite divinity at Pompeii," said
Glaucus.
"Yes!" said Pansa, "she is exceedingly in repute
just at this moment; her statue has been uttering the most
remarkable oracles. I am not superstitious, but I must
confess that she has more than once assisted me materially
in my magistracy with her advice. Her priests are so
pious too! none of your gay, none of your proud ministers
of Jupiter and Fortune; they walk barefoot, eat no meat,
and pass
the greater part of the night in solitary de-
votion ! "
"An example to our other priesthoods indeed! —Ju-
piter's temple wants reforming sadly," said Lepidus, who
was a great reformer for all but himself.
CC
They say that Arbaces, the Egyptian, has imparted
some most solemn mysteries to the priests of Isis," ob-
served Sallust; "he boasts his descent from the race of
Rameses, and declares that in his family the secrets of re-
motest antiquity are treasured.”
"He certainly possesses the gift of the evil eye," said
Clodius; "if I ever come upon that Medusa front without
the previous charm, I am sure to lose a favorite horse, or
throw the canes * nine times running."
"The last would be indeed a miracle!" said Sallust,
gravely.
"How mean you, Sallust?" returned the gamester,
with a flushed brow.
"I mean what you would leave me if I played often with
you; and that is—nothing.”
Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain.
"If Arbaces were not so rich," said Pansa, with a
stately air, "I should stretch my authority a little, and
inquire into the truth of the report which calls him an
astrologer and a Borcerer. Agrippa, when edile of Rome,
* Canes or caniculæ, the lowest throw at dice.
|
it is
banished all such terrible citizens. But a rich man,
the duty of an edile to protect the rich!
"What think you of this new sect, which I am told has
even a few proselytes in Pompeii, these followers of the
Hebrew God, — Christus?
"O, mere speculative visionaries," said Clodius; "they
have not a single gentleman among them; their proselytes
are poor, insignificant, ignorant people!
"Who ought, however, to be crucified for their blas-
phemy," said Pansa, with vehemence; "they deny Venus
and Jove! Nazarene is but another name for atheist.
Let me catch them, that's all!
►
The second course was gone, the feasters fell back on
their couches, there was a pause while they listened to
the soft voices of the south, and the music of the Arcadian
reed. Glaucus was the most rapt, and the least inclined
to break the silence, but Clodius began already to think
that they wasted time.
"Bene vobis, (your health,) my Glaucus," said he,
quaffing a cup to each letter of the Greek's name, with the
ease of the practised drinker. "Will you not be avenged
on your ill-fortune of yesterday? See, the dice court us.
"As you will!" said Glaucus.
"The dice in August, and I an edile," (c) said Pansa,
magisterially;
magisterially; it is against all law."
"Not in your presence, grave Pansa," returned Clodius,
rattling the dice in a long box; "
your presence restrains
all license; it is not the thing, but the excess of the thing,
that hurts.
"What wisdom!" murmured the umbra.
"Well, I will look another way," said the edile.
"Not yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have supped,"
said Glaucus.
Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation with
a yawn.
"He gapes to devour the gold," whispered Lepidus to
Sallust, in a quotation from the Aulularia of Plautus.
"Ah! how well I know these polypi, who hold all they
touch," answered Sallust, in the same tone, and out of the
same play.
The second course, consisting of a variety of fruits,
pistachio nuts, sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionary tor-
tured into a thousand fantastic and airy shapes, was now
placed upon the table, and the ministri, or attendants, also
set there the wine (which had hitherto been handed round
to the guests) in large jugs of glass, each bearing upon it
the schedule of its age and quality.
"Taste this Lesbian, my Pansa," said Sallust; "it is
excellent."
"It is not very old," said Glaucus, "but it has been
made precocious, like ourselves, by being put to the fire;
the wine to the flames of Vulcan, we to those of his wife,
to whose honor I pour this cup.
"It is delicate," said Pansa, "but there is perhaps the
least particle too much of rosin in its flavor."
"What a beautiful cup!" cried Clodius, taking up one
of transparent crystal, the handles of which were wrought
with gems, and twisted in the shape of serpents, the fa-
vorite fashion at Pompeii.
"This ring," said Glaucus, taking a costly jewel from
the first joint of his finger and hanging it on the handle,
gives it a richer show, and renders it less unworthy of
thy acceptance, my Clodius, whom may the gods give
health and fortune long and oft to crown it to the
brim !'
>>
"You are too generous, Glaucus," said the gamester,
handing the cup to his slave; "but your love gives it a
double value."
"This cup to the Graces!" said Pansa, and he thrice
emptied his calix. The guests followed his example.
"We have appointed no director to the feast," cried
Sallust.
"Let us throw for him, then," said Clodius, rattling the
dice-box.
"Nav," cried Glaucus; "no cold and trite director for
us; no dictator of the banquet; no rex connivii. Have not
the Romans sworn never to obey a king? shall we be less
free than your ancestors? Ho! musicians, let us have the
song I composed the other night; it has a verse on this
subject, The Bacchic Hymn of the Hours.'"
C
The musicians struck their instruments to a wild Ionic
air, while the youngest voices in the band chanted forth in
Greek words, as numbers, the following strain:
24
BULWER'S NOVELS.
THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS.
I.
Through the summer day, through the weary day,
We have glided long;
Ere we speed to the night through her portals gray,
Hail us with song!-
With song, with song,
With a bright and joyous song,
Such as the Cretan maid,
While the twilight made her bolder,
Woke, high through the ivy shade,
When the wine-god first consoled her.
From the hush'd low-breathing skies,
Half-shut, look'd their starry eyes,
And all around,
With a loving sound,
;
The Egean waves were creeping
On her lap lay the lynx's head
Wild thyme was her bridal bed;
And aye through each tiny space,
In the green vine's green embrace,
The fauns were slyly peeping;
The fauns, the prying fauns,
The arch, the laughing fauns,
The fauns were slyly peeping
II.
Flagging and faint are we
With our ceaseless flight,
And dull shall our journey be
Through the realm of night.
Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings,
In the purple wave, as it freshly springs
To your cup from the fount of light,
From the fount of light, from the fount of light:
For there, when the sun has gone down in night,
There in the bowl we find him.
The grape is the well of that summer sun,
Or rather the stream that he gazed upon,
Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth,*
His soul, as he gazed, behind him.
III.
A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love,
And a cup to the son of Maia,
And honor with three, the band zone-free,
The band of the bright Aglaia.
But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure
Ye owe to the sister Hours,
No stinted cups, in a formal measure,
The Bromian law make ours.
He honors us most who gives us most,
And boasts with a bacchanal's honest boast
He never will count the treasure.
Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings,
And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs;
And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume,
We'll scatter the spray round the garland's bloom.
We glow, we glow.
――
Behold, as the girls of the eastern wave
Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave
The prize of the Mysian Hylas,
Even so, even so,
We have caught the young god in our warm embrace.
We hurry him on in our laughing race;
We hurry him on, with a whoop and song,
The cloudy rivers of night along,
Ho, ho! we have caught thee, Psilas!
The guests applauded loudly: when the poet is your host,
his verses are sure to charm.
Thoroughly Greek," said Lepidus: "the wildness,
torce, and energy of that tongue it is impossible to imitate
in the Roman poetry."
It is indeed a great contrast," said Clodius, ironically
at neart, though not in appearance, “ to the old fashioned
and tame simplicity of that ode of Horace which we heard
before. The air is beautifully Ionic: the word puts me in
mind of a toast, companions, I give you the beautiful
lone."
"
Ione, the name is Greek, said Glaucus, in a soft
voice, “I drink the health with delight. But who is Ione?”
"Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would
deserve ostracism for your ignorance," said Lepidus, con-
ceitedly; "not to know Ione is not to know the chief charm
of our city."
"She is of most rare beauty," said Pansa; "and what
A voice!"
"She can feed only on nightingales' tongues," said
Clodius.
"Nightingales' tongues!
the umbra.
beautiful thought," sighed
* Narcissus.
CC
Enlighten me, I beseech you," said Glaucus
"Know then," began Lepidus,
"Let me speak," cried Clodius ; you drawl out your
words as if you spoke tortoises."
"And you speak stones," muttered the coxcomb to him.
self, as he fell back disdainfully on his couch.
"Know then, my Glaucus," said Clodius, "that Ione is
a stranger who has but lately come to Pompeii.
She sing
like Sappho, and her songs are her own composing; and
as for the tibia, and the cithara, and the lyre, I know not
in which she most outdoes the muses. Her beauty is most
dazzling. Her house is perfect; such taste, such ger is,
such bronzes ! She is rich, and generous as she is
rich."
"Her lovers, of course," said Glaucus, " take care ti at
she does not starve; and money lightly won is always lav
ishly spent."
"Her lovers, ah, there is the enigma! Ione has but
one vice, she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at her
feet, and she has no lovers: she will not even narry.'
"No lovers!" echoed Glaucus.
"No; she has the soul of Vesta, with the girdle of
Venus."
"What refined expressions!" said the umbra.
"A miracle," cried Glaucus. "Can we not see her 1"
"I will take you there this evening," said Clodius
"meanwhile," added he, once more rattling the dice, -
"I am yours!" said the complaisant Glaucus.
CC Pansa,
turn your face ! "
Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the
umbra looked on, while Glaucus and Clodius became grad-
ually absorbed in the chances of the dice.
"Per Jove!" cried Glaucus, "this is the second time
I have thrown the caniculæ," (the lowest throw.)
"Now Venus befriend me!" said Clodius, rattling the
box for several moments. "O Alma Venus, it is Venus
herself! as he threw the highest cast named from that
goddess, whom he who wins money indeed usually
propitiates !
Mag
"Venus is ungrateful to me," said Glaucus, gayly; "I
have always sacrificed on her altar.”
"He who plays with Clodius," whispered Lepidus,
"will soon, like Plautus's Curculio, put his pallium for the
stakes."
"Poor Glaucus, he is as blind as fortune herself,"
replied Sallust, in the same tone.
"I will play no more," said Glaucus.
thirty sestertia.
66
I am sorry," began Clodius.
"I have lost
"Amiable man!" groaned the umbra.
"Not at all," exclaimed Glaucus; "the pleasure of
your gain compensates the pain of my loss."
The conversation now became general and animated;
the wine circulated more freely; and Ione once more be-
came the subject of eulogy to the guests of Glaucus.
"Instead of outwatching the star, let us visit one a
whose beauty the stars grow pale," said Lepidus.
Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice,
seconded the proposal; and Glaucus, though he civilly
pressed his guests to continue the banquet, could not but
let them see that his curiosity had been excited by the
praises of Ione; they therefore resolved to adjourn (all at
least but Pansa and the umbra) to the house of the fair
Greek. They drank, therefore, to the health of Glaucus
and of Titus, they performed their last libation, — they
resumed their slippers, they descended the stairs,
passed the illumined atrium, and walking unbitten over
the fierce dog painted on the threshold, found themselves
beneath the light of the moon just risen, in the lively and
still crowded streets of Pompeii. They passed the jewel-
lers' quarter, sparkling with lights, caught and reflected by
the gems displayed in the shops, and arrived at last at the
door of Ione. The vestibule blazed with rows of lamps;
curtains of embroidered purple hung on either aperture of
the tablinum, whose walls and mosaic pavement glowed
with the richest colors of the artist; and under the portico
which surrounded the odorous viridarium they found Ione,
already surrounded by adoring and applauding guests.
"Did you say she was Athenian ?" whispered Glaucus,
ere he passed into the peristyle.
"No, she is from Neapolis."
ઃઃ
>
Neapolis!" echoed Glaucus; and at that moment,
the group dividing on either side of Ione gave to his view
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
15
that bright, that nymphlike beauty, which for months had a hundred meretricious and frivolous admixtures from the
shone down upon the waters of his memory.
J
CHAPTER IV.
The temple of Isis. Its priests. The character of Aroaces
developes itself.
THE story returns to the Egyptian. We left Arbaces
upon the shores of the noonday sea, after he had parted
from Glaucus and his companion. As he approached to
the more crowded part of the bay, he paused and gazed
upon that animated scene with folded arms, and a bitter
smile upon his dark features.
-
J
creeds of Cephisus and of Tibur. The temple of Isis in
Pompeii was served by Roman and Greek priests, igno-
rant alike of the language and the customs of her ancient
votaries; and the descendant of the dread Egyptian kings,
beneath the appearance of reverential awe, now secretly
laughed to scorn the puny mummeries which imitated the
solemn and typical worship of his burning clime.
Ranged now on either side the steps was the sacrificial
crowd, arrayed in white garments, while at the summit
stood two of the inferior priests, the one holding a palın
branch, the other a slender sheaf of corn. In the narrow
passage in front thronged the bystanders.
"And what," whispered Arbaces to one of the by
standers, who was a merchant engaged in the Alexandrian
trade, which trade had probably first introduced in Pom.
peii the worship of the Egyptian goddess, -
"what occa.
sion now assembles you before the altars of the venerable
Isis? It seems, by the white robes of the group before
me, that a sacrifice is to be rendered, and by the assembly
of the priests, that ye are prepared for some oracle. To
what question is it to vouchsafe a reply!"
who have petitioned the priests to sacrifice, as you may
see by my dress, but I have some interest in the success of
the fleet;-per Jove! yes. I have a pretty trade, else how
could I live in these hard times?"
"Gulls, dupes, fools that ye are !" muttered he to him-
self; "whether business or pleasure, trade or religion, be
your pursuit, you are equally cheated by the passions that
ye should rule! How I could loathe you, if I did not
hate, yes, hate! Greek or Roman, it is from us, from
the dark lore of Egypt, that ye have stolen the fire that
gives you souls;— your knowledge, -your poesy, your
laws,
your arts, your barbarous mastery of war,- "We are merchants," replied the bystander, (who was
(all how tame and mutilated, when compared with the vast no other than Diomed,) in the same voice, "who seek to
original !) ye have filched, as a slave filches the frag-know the fate of our vessels, which sail for Alexandria to-
ments of the feast, from us! And now, ye mimics of a morrow. We are about to offer up a sacrifice, and im-
mimic, Romans, forsooth! the mushroom herd of rob-plore an answer from the goddess. I am not one of those
bers! ye are our masters! the pyramids look down no
more on the race of Rameses, the eagle cowers over the
serpent of the Nile. Our masters, no, not mine!
My
sonl, by the power of its wisdom, controls and chains you,
though the fetters are unseen. So long as craft can master
force, so long as religion has a cave from which oracles
can dupe mankind, the wise hold an empire over earth.
Even from your vices Arbaces distils his pleasures; pleas-
ures unprofaned by vulgar eyes, pleasures vast, wealthy,
inexhaustible, of which your enervate minds, in their un-
imaginative sensuality, cannot conceive or dream. Plod
on, plod on, fools of ambition and of avarice! your petty
thirst for fasces and questorships, and all the mummery of
servile power, provokes my laughter and my scorn. My
power can extend wherever man believes. I ride over the
souls that the purple veils. Thebes may fall, Egypt be a
name; the world itself furnishes the subjects of Arbaces."
Thus saying, the Egyptian moved slowly on; and, enter-
ing the town, his tall figure towered above the crowded
throng of the forum, and swept toward the small, but
graceful temple, consecrated to Isis. (d)
י
That edifice was then but of recent erection, the ancient
temple had been thrown down in the earthquake sixteen
years before, and the new building had become as much in
vogue with the versatile Pompeians as a new church or a
new preacher may be with us. The oracles of the goddess
at Pompeii were indeed remarkable not more for the mys-
terious language in which they were clothed, than for the
credit which was attached to their mandates and predic-
tions. If they were not dictated by a divinity, they were
framed at least by a profound knowledge of mankind; they
applied themselves exactly to the circumstances of individ-
uals, and inade a notable contrast to the vague and loose
generalities of their rival temples. As Arbaces now ar-
rived at the rails which separated the profane from the
sacred place, a crowd, composed of all classes, but espe-
cially of the commercial, collected, breathless and reveren-
tial, before the many altars which rose in the open court.
In the walls of the cella, elevated on seven steps of Parian
marble, various statues stood in niches, and those walls
were ornamented with the pomegranate consecrated to
Isis. An oblong pedestal occupied the interior building,
on which stood two statues, one of Isis; and its compan-
ion represented the silent and mystic Orus. But the build-
ing ontained many other deities to grace the court of the
Egypt an deity her kindred and many-titled Bacchus,
and the Cyprian Venus, a Grecian disguise for herself,
rising from her bath, and the dog-headed Anubis, and the
ox Apis, and various Egyptian idols of uncouth form and
unknown appellation.
But we must not suppose that among the cities of Magna
Grecia, Isis was worshipped with those forms and cere-
monies which were of right her own. The mongrel and
modern nations of the south, with a mingled arrogance and
ignorance, confounded the worships of all climes and ages;
and the profound mysteries of the Nile were degraded by
The Egyptian replied gravely, "that though Isis was
properly the goddess of agriculture, she was no less the
patron of commerce." Then turning his head toward the
east, Arbaces seemed absorbed in silent prayer.
And now in the centre of the steps appeared a priest
robed in white from head to foot, the veil parting over the
crown; two new priests relieved those hitherto stationed
at either corner, being naked halfway down the breast,
and covered, for the rest, in white and loose robes. Ai
the same time, seated at the bottom of the steps, a priest
commenced a solemn air upon a long wind instrument of
music. Halfway down the steps stood another flamen,
holding in one hand the votive wreath, in the other a white
wand; while, adding to the picturesque scene of that
eastern ceremony, the stately Ibis (bird sacred to the
Egyptian worship) looked mutely down from the wall
upon the rite, or stalked beside the altar at the base of the
steps.
At that altar now stood the sacrificial flamen.*
The countenance of Arbaces seemed to lose all its rigid
calm while the aruspices inspected the entrails, and to be
intent in pious anxiety. -to rejoice and brighten as the
signs were declared favorable, and the fire began bright
and clearly to consume the sacred portion of the victim
amid odors of myrrh and frankincense. It was then that
a dead silence fell over the whispering crowd, and the
priests gathering round the cella, another priest, naked
save by a cincture round the middle, rushed forward, and
dancing with wild gestures, implored an answer from the
goddess. He ceased at last in exhaustion, and a low mur-
muring noise was heard within the body of the statue :
thrice the head moved, and the lips parted, and then a hol.
low voice uttered these mystic words-
"There are waves like chargers that meet and glow,
There are graves ready wrought in the rocks below;
On the brow of the future the dangers lower,
But blessed are your barks in the fearful nour."
The voice ceased, the crowd breathed more treely,
the merchants looked at each other." Nothing can be
more plain," murmured Diomed; "there is to be a storm
at sea, as there very often is at the beginning of autumn,
O beneficent Isis!"
but our vessels are to be saved.
"Lauded eternally be the goddess!" said the merchant;
"what can be less equivocal than her prediction?
Raising one hand in sign of silence to the people, for the
rites of Isis enjoined what to the lively Pompeians was an
impossible suspense from the use of the vocal organs, the
chief priest poured his libation on the alrar, and after a
short concluding prayer, the ceremony was over and the
* See a singular picture, in the museum of Naples, of an
Egyptian sacrifice.
3
16
BULWER'S NOVELS
congregation dismissed. Still, however, as the crowd dis-
persed themselves here and there, the Egyptian lingered by
the railing, and when the space became tolerably cleared,
one of the priests, approaching it, saluted him with great
appearance of friendly familiarity.
The countenance of the priest was remarkably unpre-
possessing, his shaven skull was so low and narrow in
the front as nearly to approach to the conformation of an
African savage, save only toward the temples, where, in
that organ styled acquisitiveness by the pupils of a science
modern in name, but best practically known (as their
sculpture teaches us) among the ancients, two huge and
almost preternatural protuberances yet more distorted the
unshapely head;-around the brows the skin was puckered
into a web of deep and intricate wrinkles, the eyes, dark
and small, rolled in a muddy and yellow orbit, the nose,
short yet coarse, was distended at the nostrils like a satyr's;
and the thick but pallid lips, the high cheek bones, the
livid and motley hues that struggled through the parchment
skin, completed a countenance which none could behold
without repugnance, and few without terror and distrust.
and few without terror and distrust.
Whatever the wishes of the mind, the animal frame was
well fitted to execute them; the wiry muscles of the throat,
the broad chest, the nervous hands and lean gaunt arms,
which were bared above the elbow, betokeued a form
capable alike of great active exertion and passive en-
durance.
CC
"Calenus," said the Egyptiau to this fascinating fla-
men, you have improved the voice of the statue much by
attending to my suggestion; and your verses are excellent
Always prophesy good fortune, unless there is an abso-
lute impossibility of its fulfilment.”
"Besides," added Calenus, "if the storm does come,
and if it does overwhelm the accursed ships, have we not
prophesied it? and are the barks not blessed to be at rest?
for rest prays the mariner in the Egean sea, or at least
so says Horace; can the mariner be more at rest in the
sea than when he is at the bottom of it?
Right, my Calenus; I wish Apæcides would take a les-
son from your wisdom.
wisdom. But I desire to confer with you
relative to him and to other matters; you can admit me
into one of your less sacred apartments?"
cr
Assuredly," replied the priest, leading the way to one
of the small chambers which surrounded the open gate.
Here they seated themselves before a small table spread
with dishes containing fruit and eggs, and various cold
meats, with vases of excellent wine, of which, while the
companions partook, a curtain drawn across the entrance.
opening to the court concealed them from view, but adinon-
ished them by the thinness of the partition to speak low or
to speak no secrets; they chose the former alternative.
"Thou knowest," said Arbaces, in a voice that scarcely
stirred the air, so soft and inward was its sound, "that it
has ever been my maxim to attach myself to the young.
From their flexile and unformed minds I can carve out my
fittest tools. I weave,-I warp, I mould them at my
will. Of the men I make merely followers or servants; of
the women
دو
"Mistresses," said Calenus, as a livid grin distorted his
againly features.
to delude mankind, while I tnus serve the deities. 1
Apæcides I taught the solemn faith of Isis. I unfoldea te
him something of those sublime allegories which are couch
ed beneath her worship. I excited in a soul peculiarly
alive to religious fervor that enthusiam which imagination
begets on faith. I have placed him among you: he is one
of you."
"He is so," said Calenus; "but in thus stimulating his
faith you have robbed him of wisdom. He is horror-struck
that he is no longer duped our sage delusions, —- our
speaking statues and secret staircases dismay and revo
him; he pines; he wastes away; he mutters to himself;
he refuses to share our ceremonies. He has been known
to frequent the company of men suspected of adherence to
that new and atheistical creed which denies all our gods,
and terms our oracles the inspirations of that malevolent
spirit of which eastern tradition speaks. Our oracles,
alas! we know well whose inspirations they are!
"This is what I feared," said Arbaces, musingly, " from
various reproaches he made me when I last saw him. Of
late he hath shunned my steps: I must find him: I must
continue my lessons; I must lead him into the adytus of
wisdom. I must teach him that there are two stages of
sanctity,
sanctity, the first FAITH; the next DELUSION; the one
for the vulgar, the second for the sage.
pada
>>
"I never passed through the first," said Calenus;
you either, I think, my Arbaces."
nor
"You err," replied the Egyptian, gravely. "I believe,
at this day, (not indeed that which I teach, but that which
I teach not,) nature has a sanctity against which I cannot
(nor would I) steel conviction. I believe in mine own
knowledge, and that has revealed to me, but no matter!
Now to earthlier and more inviting themes. If I thus ful-
filled my object with Apæcides, what was my design for
Ione? Thou knowest already I intend her for my queen,
my bride, my
heart's Isis. Never till I saw her knew
I all the love of which my nature was capable."
"I hear from a thousand lips that she is a second Hel-
," said Calenus, and he sinacked his own lips; but
whether at the wine or at the notion it is not easy to de-
cide.
en,
-
"Yes, she has a beauty that Greece itself never ex-
celled," resumed Arbaces. "But that is not all; she has
a soul worthy to match with mine. She has a genius beyond
that of woman, keen, dazzling, bold. Poetry flows
-
spontaneously to her lips: utter but a truth, and, however
intricate and profound, her mind seizes and commands it.
Her imagination and her rease. are not at war with each
other; they harmonize and direct her course, as the winds
and the waves direct some lofty bark. With this she unites.
a daring independence of thought: she can stand alone in
the world; she can be brave as she is gentle: this is the
nature I have sought all my life in woman, and never found
till now.
Ione must be mine! In her I have a double
passion; I wish to enjoy a beauty of spirit as of form.”
"She is not yours yet, then," said the priest.
"No she loves me,-
:
but as a friend: she loves me
with her mind only. She fancies in me the paltry virtues
which I have only the profounder virtue to disdain. But
you must pursue with me her history. The brother and
sister were young and rich: Ione is proud and ambitious,-
proud of her genius, the magic of her poetry,
charm of her conversation. When her brother left me,
and entered your temple, in order to be near him she re-
moved also to Pompeii. She has suffered her talents to
be known. She summons crowds to her feasts; her voice.
enchants them; her poetry subdues. She delights in being
thought the successor of Erinna."
"Or of Sappho ?"
the
Yes, I do not disguise it, woman is the main object,
the great appetite of my soul. As you feed the victim for
the slaughter, I love to rear the votaries of my pleasure.
I love to train, to ripen their minds, -to unfold the sweet
blossom of their hidden passions, in order to prepare the
fruit to my tastes. I loathe your ready made and ripened
courtesans; it is in the soft and unconscious progress of in-
nocence to desire that I find the true charm of love: it is
thus that I defy satiety, and by contemplating the freshness
of others, I sustain the freshness of my own sensations. "But Sappho without love! I encouraged her in this
From the young hearts of my victims I draw the ingredi-
boldness of career, in this indulgence of vanity and of
ents of the caldron in which I re-youth myself. But enough pleasure, I loved to steep her amid the dissipations and
of this: to the subject before us. You know, then, that in luxury of this abandoned city. Mark me, Calenus! I de-
Neapolis some time since I encountered Ione and Apæcides, sired to enervate her mind!
sired to enervate her mind it has been too pure to
brother and sister, the children of Athenians who had set- receive yet the breath which I wish not to pass, but burn-
tled at Neapolis. The death of their parents, who knew ingly to eat into, the crystal mirror. I wished her to be
and esteemed me, constituted me their guardian. I was surrounded by lovers, hollow, vain, and frivolous, (lovers
not unmindful of the trust. The youth, docile and mild, that her nature must despise,) in order to feel the want of
yielded readily to the impression I sought to stamp upon love. Then, in those soft intervals of lassitude that suc-
him. Next to woman I love the old recollections of my ceed to excitement, I can weave my spells, -excite her
ancestral land; I love to keep alive, -to propagate on interest, - attract her passions, possess myself of her
distant shores (which her colonies perchance yet people) | heart. For it is not the young, nor the beautiful, nor the
|
ber dark and mystic creeds. It may be that it please me gay that alone can fascinate Ione; her imagination must be
J
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
17
won; and the life of Arbaces has been one scene of triumph
over the imaginations of his kind.”
"And hast thou no fear, then, of thy rivals? The gal-
lants of Italy are skilled in the art to please."
"None!
her Greek soul despises the barbarian
Romans, and would scorn itself if it admitted a thought
of love for one of that upstart race.
-
"But thou art an Egyptian, not a Greek !"
**
Egypt," replied Arbaces, is the mother of Athens.
Her tutelury Minerva is our deity; and her founder, Ce-
crops, was the fugitive of Egyptian Sais. This have I al-
ready taught to her; and in my blood she venerates the
eldest dynasties of earth. But yet I will own that of late
some uneasy suspicions have crossed my mind. She is
more silent than she used to be; she loves melancholy and
subduing music; she sighs without an outward cause. This
may be the beginning of love, it may be the want of love.
In either case it is time for me to begin my operations on
her fancies and her heart: in the one case, to divert the
source of love to me; in the other, in me to awaken it. It
is for this that I have sought you.'
"And how can I assist you?"
>>
I
"I am about to invite her to a feast in my house.
wish to dazzle, to bewilder,- to inflame her senses.
Our arts, the arts by which Egypt trained her young novi-
tiates, must be employed; and under veil of the mysteries
of religion, I will open to her the secrets of love."
"Ah! now I understand: one of those voluptuous ban-
quets that, despite our dull vows of mortified coldness, we,
thy priests of Isis, have shared at thy house."
"No, no! Thinkest thou her chaste eyes are ripe for
such scenes? No: but first we must ensnare the brother,
- an easier task. Listen to me, while I give you my in-
structions "
CHAPTER V.
More of the Flower-Girl.- The progress of love.
THE sun shone gayly into that beautiful chamber in the
house of Glaucus, which I have before said is now called
"the room of Leda." The morning rays entered through
rows of small casements at the higher part of the room,
and through the door which opened on the garden, that
answered to the inhabitants of the southern cities the same
purpose that a greenhouse or conservatory does to us. The
size of the garden did not adapt it for exercise, but the
various and fragrant plants with which it was filled
gave a
luxury to that indolence so dear to the dwellers in a sunny
clime. And now the odors, fanned by a gentle wind
creeping from the adjacent sea, scattered themselves over
that chamber whose walls vied with the richest colors of
the most glowing flowers. Besides the gem of the room,
the painting of Leda and Tyndareus, in the centre of |
each compartment of the walls were set other pictures of
exquisite beauty. In one you saw Cupid leaning on the
knees of Venus; in another, Ariadne sleeping on the beach,
unconscious of the perfidy of Theseus. Merrily the sun-
beams played to and fro on the tesselated floor and the bril-
liant walls, far more happily came the rays of joy to the
heart of the young Glaucus.
"I
I have seen her, then," said he, as he paced that nar-
row chamber; "I have heard her, nay, I have spoken to
her again, I have listened to the music of her song, and
she sung of glory and of Greece. I have discovered the
long-sought idol of my dreams; and, like the Cyprian
sculptor, I have breathed life into my own imaginings."
!
tious in her step, something wandering in her eyes, led
you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered from
her birth, she was blind; but in the orbs themselves
there was no visible defect, their melacholy and subdued
light was clear, cloudless, and serene. They tell me
that Glaucus is here," said she;" may I come in?
"Ah, my Nydia," said the Greek," is that you? I
knew you would not neglect my invitation."
"Glaucus did but justice to himself," answered Nydia.
with a blush, for he has always been kind to the poor
blind girl."
"Who could be otherwise?" said Glaucus, tenderly,
and in the voice of a compassionate brother.
Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without
replying to his remark. "You have but lately returned?
This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii.
for who that
And you are well? Ah, I need not ask,
sees the earth, which they tell me is so beautiful, can be
ill?
"
"I ain well, and you, Nydia? how you have
grown! Next year you will be thinking of what answer we
shall make your lovers.”
A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this
time she frowned as she blushed. "I have brought you
some flowers," said she, without replying to a remark she
seemed to resent, and feeling about the room till she found
the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket upon
it: “ they are poor, but they are fresh gathered."
They might come from Flora herself," said he, kind-
ly; and I renew again my vow to the Graces that I wil
wear no other garlands while thy hands can weave me such
as these."
"And how find you the flowers in your viridarium? are
they thriving?"
Wonderfully so, the Lares themseives must have
tended them.'
"Ah, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often
as I could steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your
absence."
"How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia ?" said the Greek.
"Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watch-
ful over his fayorites at Pompeii.
وو
The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved
beneath her tunic. She turned round in embarrassment.
The sun is hot for the poor flowers," said she, "to-day,
and they will miss me, for I have been ill lately, and it is
nine days since I visited them.”
"Ill, Nydia! yet your check has more color than it had
last year."
"I am often ailing," said the blind girl, touchingly,
"and as I grow up I grieve more that I am blind, But
now to the flowers!" So saying, she made a slight rever-
ence with her head, and passing into the viridarium, busied
herself with watering the flowers.
"Poor Nydia," thought Glaucus, gazing on her, "thine
is a hard doom. Thou seest not the earth,
nor the sun,
nor the ocean, -nor the stars, above all, thou canst
not behold Ione.”
At that last thought his mind flew back to the past even
ing, and was a second time disturbed in its reveries by the
entrance of Clodius. It was a remarkable thing, and a
proof how much a single evening had sufficed to increase
and to refine the love of the Athenian for Ione, that where-
as he had coufided to Clodius the secret of his first inter-
view with her, and the effect it had produced on him, he
now felt an invincible aversion even to mention to him her
name. He had seen Ione bright, pure, unsullied in the
midst of the gayest and most profligate gallants of Pompeii,
charming, rather than awing the boldest into respect, and
changing the very nature of the most sensual and the least
ideal as by her intellectual and refining spells;
versed the fable of Circe, and converted the animals into
men. They who could not understand her soul were ethe
-she re-
Longer, perhaps, had been the enamoured soliloquy of
Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the thresh-
old of the chamber, and a young female, still half a child
in years, broke upon his solitude. She was dressed simply
in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to the ank-realized, as it were, by the magic of her beauty, they who
les; under her arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the had no heart for poetry had ears at least for the melody of her
other hand she held a bronze water-vase; her features were voice. Seeing her thus surrounded, purifying and bright-
more formed than exactly became her years, yet they were ening all things with her presence, Glaucus almost for the
soft and femmine in their outline, and without being beau-first time felt that of which his own nature was capable,
tiful in themselves they were almost made so by their beau- he felt how unworthy of the goddess of his dreams had been
ty of expression; there was something ineffably gentle, and his companions and his pursuits. A veil seemed lifted
you would say patient, in her aspect, --a look of resigned from his eyes, he saw that immeasurable distance between
sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had banished the smile, but himself and his associates which the deceiving mists o
not the sweetness, from her Tips; something timid and cau- pleasure had hitherto concealed; he was refined by a sens
VOL II.
8
14
BULWER'S NOVELS.
-
of his courage in aspiring to Ione. He felt that hence- of the flush and spring of life. And Ione listened to him
forth it was his destiny to look upward and to soar. He absorbed and mute; dearer were those accents, and those
could no longer breathe that naine, which sounded to the descriptions, than all the prodigal adulation of her number-
sense of his ardent fancy as something sacred and divine, less adorers. Was it a sin to love her countryman? she
to lewd and vulgar ears. She was no longer the beautiful loved Athens, in him, the gods of her race, the land of
girl once seen and passionately remembered, she was
her dreams, spoke to her in his voice! From that time
already the mistress, the divinity of his soul. This feeling they daily saw each other. At the cool of the evening
who has not experienced? if thou hast not, then thou they made excursions on the placid sea. By night they
hast never loved!
met again in Ione's porticoes and halls. Their love was
sudden, but it was strong; it filled all the sources of their
life. Heart, brain, sense, imagination, all were its
ministers and priests. As you take some obstacle from
two objects that have a mutual attraction they met, and
united at once; their wonder was that they had lived sep-
arate so long; and it was natural that they should so love.
Young, beautiful, and gifted, of the same birth, and the
same souls; there was poetry in their very union. They
imagined the heavens smiled
imagined the heavens smiled upon their affection. As the
persecuted seck refuge at the shrine, so they recognised in
the altar of their love an asylum from the sorrows of earth;
they covered it with flowers, they knew not of the ser-
pents that lay coiled behind.
When Clodius therefore spoke to him in affected trans-
ports of the beauty of Ione, Glaucus felt only resentment
and disgust that such lips should dare to praise her; he an-
swered coldly, and the Roman imagined that his passion
was cured instead of heightened. Clodius scarcely regret-
ted it, for he was anxious that Glaucus should marry an
heiress yet more richly endowed, -- Julia, the daughter of
the wealthy Diomed, whose gold the gamester imagined he
could readily divert into his own coffers. Their conversa.
tion did not flow with its usual ease, and no sooner had
Clodius left him than Glaucus bent his way to the house of
Ione. In passing by the threshold he again encountered
Nydia, who had finished her graceful task. She knew his
She knew his
step on the instant.
"You are early abroad," said she.
"Yes; for the skies of Campania rebuke the sluggard
who neglects them."
"Ah, would I could see them!" murmured the blind
girl, but so low that Glaucus did not overhear the com-
plaint.
The Thessalian lingered on the threshold a few moments,
and then guiding her steps by a long staff, which she used
with great dexterity, she took her way homeward. She
soon turned from the more gaudy streets, and entered a
quarter of the town but little loved by the decorous and the
sober. But from the low and rude evidences of vice around
her she was saved by her misfortune. And at that hour
the streets were quiet and silent, nor was her youthful ear
shocked by the sounds which too often broke along the
obscene and obscure haunts she patiently and sadly trav-
ersed.
She knocked at the back door of a sort of tavern; it
opened, and a rude voice bade her give an account of the
sesterces. Ere she could reply, another voice, less vulgarly
accented, said,
"Never mind those petty profits, my Burbo. The girl's
voice will be wanted again soon at our rich friend's revels;
and he pays, as thou knowest, pretty high for his nightin-
gales' tongues."
"Oh, I hope not, I trust not," cried Nydia, tremb-
ling; "I will beg from sunrise to sunset, but send me not
there."
"And why? asked the same voice.
"Because, because I am young, and delicately born,
and the female companions I meet there are not fit associ-
ates for one who-who- who "
"Is a slave in the house of Burbo," returned the voice,
ironically, and with a coarse laugh.
The Thessalian put down the flowers, and leaning her
face on her hands, wept silently.
Meanwhile, Glaucus sought the house of the beautiful Nea-
politan. He found Ione sitting amid her attendants, who|
were at work around her. Her harp stood at her side, for
Ione herself was unusually idle, perhaps unusually thought-
ful, that day. He thought her even more beautiful by the
morning light, and in her simple robe, than amid the blaz-
ing lamps, and decorated with the costly jewels of the pre-
ious night; not the less so from a certain paleness that
overspread her transparent hues, not the less so from the
blush that mounted over them when he approached. Ac-
customed to flatter, flattery died upon his lips when he
addressed Ione. He felt it beneath her to utter the homage
which every look conveyed. They spoke of Greece; this
was a theme on which Ione loved rather to listen than to
converse; it was a theme on which the Greek could have
been eloquent for ever. He described to her the silver
proves that yet clad the banks of Ilyssus, and the temples,
Iready despoiled of half their glories, but how beauti-
ful in decay. He looked back on the melancholy city of
Harmodius the free and Pericles the magnificent, from the
eht of that distant memory in which all the ruder and
darker shades were mellowed into light. He had seen the
land of poetry chiefly in the poetical age of early youth;
and the associations of patriotism were blended with those
|
One evening, the fifth after their first meeting at Pom
peii, Glaucus and Ione, with a small party of chosen friends,
were returning from an excursion round the bay; their
vessel skimmed lightly over the twilight waters, whose lucid
mirror was only broken by the dripping oars. As the rest
of the party conversed gayly with each other, Glaucus lay
at the feet of Ione, and he would have looked up in her face,
but he did not dare. Ione broke the pause between them.
My poor brother!" said she, sighing, "how once he
would have enjoyed this hour!"
CC
"Your brother!" said Glaucus; "I have not seen him.
Occupied with you, I have thought of nothing else, or I
should have asked if that was not your brother for whose
companionship you left me at the temple of Minerva, in
Neapolis."
"It was."
"And is he here?
"He is -"
"At Pompeii, and not constantly with you! impossible!"
"He has other duties," answered Ione, sadly:
"he is a
priest of Isis."
"So young, too, and that priesthood, in its laws at least,
so severe !" said the warm and bright-hearted Greek, in
surprise and pity. "What could have been his induce-
ment?"
"He was always enthusiastic and fervent in religious
devotion; and the eloquence of an Egyptian,
-our friend
and guardian, kindled in him the pious desire to conse-
crate his life to the most mystic of our deities. Perhaps,
in the intenseness of his zeal, he found in the severity of
that peculiar priesthood its peculiar attraction."
"And he does not repent his choice?—I trust he is
happy."
Ione sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her eyes.
"I wish," said she, after a pause, "that he had not been
so hasty. Perhaps, like all who expect too much, he is
revolted too easily!
>>
"Then he is not happy in his new condition, and this
Egyptian, was he a priest himself? was he interested in
recruits to the sacred band?"
"No. His main interest was in our happiness. He
thought he promoted that of my brother. We were left
orphans."
"Like myself," said Glaucus, with a deep meaning in
his voice.
Ione cast down her eyes as she resumed,
"And Arbaces sought to supply the place of our parent.
You must know him. He loves genius.
"Arbaces! I know him already; at least we speak when
we meet, but for your praise, I would not seek to know
more of him. My heart inclines readily to most of my
kind; but that dark Egyptian, with his gloomy brow and
icy smile, seems to me to sadden the very sun. One would
think that, like Epimenides, the Cretan, he had spent forty
years in a cave, and had found something unnatural in the
daylight ever afterward."
"Yet, like Epimenides, he is kind, and wise, and gen
tle," answered Ione.
"O, happy that he has thy praise! He needs no other
virtues to make him dear to me."
"His calm, his coldness," said Tone, evasively pursuing
<
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
19
the subject," are perhaps but the exhaustion of past suffer-
ings, as yonder mountain," (and she pointed to Vesuvius,)
(and she pointed to Vesuvius,)
"which we see, dark and tranquil in the distance, once
nourished the fires for ever quenched."
They both gazed on the mountain as Ione said these
words; the rest of the sky was bathed in rosy and tender
hues, but over that gray summit, rising amid the woods
and vineyards that then clomb halfway up the ascent, there
hung a black and ominous cloud, the single frown of the
landscape. A sudden and unaccountable gloon came over
each as they thus gazed, and in that sympathy which love
had already taught them, and which bade them in the
slightest shadows of emotion, the faintest presentiment of
evil, turn for refuge to each other, their gaze at the same
moment left the mountain, and full of unimaginable tender-
cess met. What need had they of words to say they loved'
CHAPTER VI.
The fowler snares again the bird that had just escaped, and sets
his uet for a new victim.
In the history I relate, the events are crowded and rapid
as those of the drama. I write of an epoch in which days
I write of an epoch in which days
sufficed to ripen the ordinary fruits of
years.
Meanwhile, Arbaces had not of late much frequented the
house of lone, and when he had visited her, he had not en-
countered Glaucus, nor knew he as yet of that love which
had so suddenly sprung up between himself and his designs.
In his interest for the brother of Ione, he had been forced
too, a little while, to suspend his interest in Ione herself.
His pride and his selfishness were aroused and alarmed at
the sudden change which had come over the spirit of the
youth. He trembled lest himself should lose a docile pupil,
and Isis an enthusiastic servant. Apæecides had ceased to
seek or to consult him. He was rarely to be found; he
turned sullenly from the Egyptian, nay, he fled when he
perceived him in the distance. Arbaces was one of those
haughty and powerful spirits accustomed to master others;
he chafed at the notion that one once his own should ever
elude his grasp.
He swore inly that Apæcides should not
escape him.
M
betokened the fervor and passion of his temperament, and
the intellectual portion of his nature seemed, by the wild
fire of the eyes,
the great breadth of the temples, when
compared with the height of the brow, the trembling
restlessness of the lips, to be swayed and tyrannized over
by the imaginative and ideal. Fancy, with the sister, had
stopped short at the golden goal of poetry; with the
brother, less happy and less restrained, it had wandered
into visions more intangible and unimbodied; and the
faculties which gave genius to the one threatened madness
to the other.
CC
>>
I
"You say I have been your enemy," said Arbaces;
know the cause of that unjust accusation. I have placed
you amid the priests of Isis, you are revolted at their
trickeries and imposture, you think that I too have de-
ceived you,-
the purity of your mind is offended, — you
imagine that I am one of the deceitful
"You knew the jugglings of that impious craft," an
swered Apæcides; why did you disguise them from me?
When you excited my desire to devote myself to the office
whose garb I bear, you spoke to me of the holy life of men
resigning themselves to knowledge, you have given me
for companions an ignorant and sensual herd, who have no
knowledge but that of the grossest frauds; you spoke to
me of men sacrificing the earthlier pleasures to the sublime
cultivation of virtue,- you place me among men reeking
with all the filthiness of vice; you spoke to me of the
friends, the enlighteners of our common kind, I see but
their cheats and deluders! Oh, it was basely done! you
have robbed me of the glory of youth, of the convictions
of virtue, of the sanctifying thirst after wisdom, young
as I was, rich, fervent, the sunny pleasures of earth before
me, I resigned all without a sigh, nay, with happiness and
exultation in the thought that I resigned them for the ab
struse mysteries of diviner wisdom, for the companionship
of gods,
for the revelations of heaven, and now-
DOW
Convulsive sobs checked the priest's voice; he covered
his face with his hands, and large tears forced themselves
through the wasted fingers and ran profusely down his
vest.
"What I promised to thee, that will I give, my friend,
my pupil; these have been but trials to thy virtue,―it
comes forth the brighter for thy novitiate: think no more
of those dull cheats,- -assort no more with those menials
of the goddess, the atrienses * of her hall,
worthy to enter into the penetralia; I henceforth will be
your priest, your guide, and you who now curse my friend-
Apæcides," said he, and he laid his hand affection-ship shall live to bless it!
ately on the young man's shoulder.
It was with this resolution that he passed through a
thick grove in the city which lay between his house and
that of Ione, in his way to the latter; and there, leaning
against a tree and gazing on the ground, he came unawares
ou the young priest of Isis.
tr
The priest started, and his first instinct seemed to be
that of light. "My son, "said the Egyptian, "what has
chanced that you desire to shun me?"
Apecides remained silent and sullen, looking down on
the earth, as his lips quivered, and his breast heaved with
emotion.
"Speak to me, my friend," continued the Egyptian,
"speak. Something burdens thy spirit. What hast thou
16 reveal?
">
"To thee, nothing."
"And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential ?"
"Because thou hast been my enemy."
"Let us confer," said Arbaces, in a low voice; and
drawing the reluctant arm of the priest in his own, he led
him to one of the seats which were scattered within the
grove. They sat down, and in those gloomy forms there
was something congenial to the shade and solitude of the
place.
Apæcides was in the spring of his years, yet he seemed
to have exhausted even more of life than the Egyptian,
his delicate and regular features were worn and celorless,
his eyes were hollow, and shone with a brilliant and
feverish glare, his frame bowed prematurely, and in his
hands, which were small to effeminacy, the blue and
swollen veins indicated the lassitude and weakness of the
relaxed fibres, you saw in his face a strong resemblance
to Ione, but the expression was altogether different from
that majestic and spiritual calm which breathed so divine
ard classical a repose over his sister's heauty. In her,
enthusiasm was visible, but it seemed always suppressed
and restrained; this made the charm and sentiment of her
countenance; you longed to awaken a spirit which reposed,
but evidently did not sleep. In Apeecides the whole aspect
M
you are
The young man lifted up his head, and gazed with a
vacant and wondering stare upon the Egyptian.
"Listen to me," continued Arbaces, in an earnest and
solemn voice, casting first his searching eyes around to see
that they were still alone. "From Egypt came all the
knowledge of the world; from Egypt came the lore of
Athens, and the profound policy of Crete; from Egypt
came those early and mysterious tribes which (long before
the hordes of Romulus swept over the plains of Italy, and
in the eternal cycle of events drove back civilization into
barbarism and darkness) possessed all the arts of wisde
and the graces of intellectual life. From Egypt came the
rites and the grandeur of that solemn Care, whose inhabi-
tants taught their iron vanquishers of Rome all that they
yet know of elevated in religion and sublime in worship.
And how deemest thou, young man, that that dread Egypt,
the mother of countless nations, achieved her greatness,
and soared to her cloud-capped eminence of wisdom ?--It
was the result of a profound and holy policy. Your modern
nations owe their greatness to Egypt, Egypt her great-
ness to her priests. Rapt in themselves, coveting a sway
over the nobler part of man, his soul and his belief, these
ancient ministers of God were inspired with the grandest
thought that ever occurred to mortals. From the revolu
tions of the stars, from the seasons of the earth, from the
round and unvarying circle of human destinies, they dev
vised an august allegory; they made it gross and palpable
to the vulgar by the signs of gods and goddesses, and that
which in reality was government they named religion. Isis
is a fable, start not, that for which Isis is a 'vpe is a
reality, an immortal being: Isis is nothing; nature, which
she represents, is the mother of all things; dark, ancient,
inscrutable, save to the gifted few. None among mortal
* The slaves who had the care of the atrium.
BULWER'S NOVELS.
bath ever taken off my veil,' so saith the Isis that you,
adore; but to the wise that veil hath been removed, and
we have stood face to face with the solemn loveliness of
nature. The priests then were the benefactors, the civili-
zers of mankind; true, they were also cheats, impostors
if you will. But think you, young man, that, if they had
not deceived their kind, they could have served them?
The ignorant and servile vulgar must be blinded to attain.
to their proper good; they would not believe a maxim,
they revere an oracle. The emperor of Rome sways the
vast and various tribes of earth, and harmonizes the con-
flicting and disunited elements; thence come peace, order,
law, the blessings of life. Think you it is the man, the
emperor, that thus sways? No, it is the pomp, the awe,
the majesty that surround him, these are his impostures,
his delusions; our oracles and our divinations, our rites
and our ceremonies, are the means of our sovereignty and
the engines of our power. They are the same means to
the same end, the welfare and harmony of mankind;—you
listen to me rapt and intent, the light begins to dawn
upon you.
Apaæcides remained silent; but the changes rapidly pass-
ing over his speaking countenance betrayed the effect pro-
duced upon him by the words of the Egyptian, words
made tenfold more eloquent by the voice, the aspect, and
the manner of the man.
CC
While, then," resumed Arbaces, "our fathers of the
Nile thus achieved the first elements by whose life chaos is
destroyed, namely, the obedience and reverence of the
multitude for the few, they drew from their majestic and
starred meditations that wisdom which was no delusion :
they invented the codes and regularities of law, the arts
and glories of existence They asked belief; they re-
turned the gift by civilization. Were not their very cheats
a virtue? Trust me, whosoever in yon fair heavens of a
diviner and more beneficent nature look down upon our
world, smile approvingly upon the wisdom which has work-
ed such ends. But you wish me to apply these generalities
to yourself; I hasten to obey the wish. The altars of the
goddess of our ancient faith must be served, and served
not only by the stolid and soulless things that are but as
pegs and hooks whereon to hang the fillet and the robe.
Remember two sayings of Sextus the Pythagorean, sayings
borrowed from the lore of Egypt. The first is, Speak
not of God to the multitude;' the second is, 'The man
worthy of God is a god among men.' As genius gave to
the ministers of Egypt worship that empire in late ages so
fearfully decayed, thus by genius only can the dominion be
restored. I saw in you, Apæcides, a pupil worthy of my
lessons, a minister worthy of the great ends which may
yet be wrought your energy, your talents, your purity of
faith, your earnestness of enthusiasm, all fitted you for that
calling which demands so imperiously high and ardent qual-
ities I fanned therefore your sacred desires; I stimulated
you to the step you have taken. But you blame me that I
did not reveal to you the little souls and the juggling tricks
of your companions. Had I done so, Apæcides, I had
defeated my own object: your noble nature would have at
once revolted, and Isis would have lost her priest.'
Apæcides groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued with-
out heeding the interruption.
"I placed you, therefore, without preparation, in the
temple; I left you suddenly to discover and to be sickened!
by all those mummeries which dazzled the herd. I desired
that you should perceive how those engines are moved by
which the fountain that refreshes the world casts its waters
in the air. It was the trial ordained of old to all our
priests. Those who accustom themselves to the impostures
of the vulgar are left to practise them; for those like you,
whose higher natures demand higher pursuit, religion opens
more godlike secrets. I am pleased to find in you the
character I had expected. You have taken the vows; you
cannot recede. Advance, I will be your guide.'
"And what wilt thou teach me, oh singular and fearful
man? New cheats, new
“No, — I have thrown thee into the abyss of disbelief;
I will lead thee now to the eminence of faith. Thou hast
seen the false types; thou shalt learn now the realities they
represent. There is no shadow, Apæcides, without its
substance. Come to me this night. Your hand."
Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of the
Egyptian, Apræcides gave him his band, and master and
pupil parted
It was true that for Aprecides there was no retreat. Ile
had taken the vows of celibacy; he had devoted himself
to a life that at present seemed to possess all the austerities
of fanaticism, without the consolations of belief. It was
natural that he should yet cling to a yearning desire to
reconcile himself to an irrevocable career. The powerful and
profound mind of the Egyptian yet claimed an empire over
his young imagination; excited him with vague conjecture,
and kept him alternately vibrating between hope and fear.
Meanwhile Arbaces pursued his slow and state y way to
the house of Ione. As he entered the tablinum, he heard
a voice from the porticoes of the peristyle beyond, which,
musical as it was, sounded displeasingly on his ear, it
was the voice of the young and beautiful Glaucus, and for
the first time an involuntary thrill of jealousy crossed the
breast of the Egyptian. On entering the peristyle, he found
Glaucus seated by the side of Ione. The fountain in the
odorous garden cast up its silver spray in the air, and kept
a delicious coolness in the midst of the sultry noon. The
handmaids almost invariably attendant on Tone, who with
her freedom of life preserved the most delicate modesty,
sat at a little distance; by the feet of Glaucus lay the lyre
on which he had been playing to Ione one of the Lesbian
airs. The scene, the group before Arbaces, was stamped
by that peculiar and refined ideality of poesy which we yet
not erroneously imagine to be the distinction of the ancients;
the marble columns, the vases of flowers, the statue,
white and tranquil, closing every vista, and above all the
two living forms from which a sculptor might have caught
either inspiration or despair!
Arbaces, pausing for a moment, gazed on the pair with
a brow from which all the usual stern serenity had fled ;
he recovered himself by an effort, and slowly approached
them, but with a step so soft and echoless that even the
attendants heard him not; much less lone and her lover.
"And yet," said Glaucus, "it is only before we love
that we imagine that our poets have truly described the
passion, the instant the sun rises, all the stars that had
shone in his absence vanish into air. The poets exist only
in the night of the heart; they are nothing to us when we
feel the full glory of the god.
"A gentle and most glowing image, noble Glaucus."
Both started, and recognised behind the seat of Ione the
cold and sarcastic face of the Egyptian.
"You are a sudden guest," said Glaucus, rising, and
with a forced smile.
"So ought all to be who know they are welcome," re-
turned Arbaces, seating himself, and motioning to Glaucus
to do the same.
"I am glad," said Ione, "to see you at length together;
for you are suited to each other, and you are formed to be
friends."
"Give me back some fifteen years of life," replied the
Egyptian, "before you can place ine on an equality with
Glaucus. Happy should I be to receive his friendship: but
what can I give him in return? Can I make to him the
same confidences that he would repose in me? - of ban-
quets and garlands, of Parthian steeds and the chances
of the dice? These pleasures suit his age, his nature, hist
career; they are not for mine."
So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and sighed;
but from the corner of his eye he stole a glance towards
Ione, to see how she received these insinuations of the
pursuits of her visiter. Her countenance did not satisfy
him. Glaucus, slightly coloring, hastened gayly to reply.
Nor was he, perhaps, without the same wish to disconcert
and abash the Egyptian.
You are right, wise Arbaces," said he; we can
esteem each other, but we cannot be friends. My ban-
quets lack the secret salt which, according to rumor, gives
such zest to your own. And, per Hercle! when I have
reached your age, if 1, like you, may think it wise to pur-
sue the pleasures of manhood, like you I shall be doubtless
sarcastic on the gallantries of youth."
The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a sudden
and piercing glance.
"I
I do not understand you," said he, coldly, "but it is
the custom to consider wit lies in obscurity." He turned
as he spake from Glaucus, with a scarcely perceptible
sneer of contempt, and after a moment's pause addressed
himself to Ione, "I have not, beautiful Ione," said he,
"been fortunate enough to find you within doors the last
two or three times that I have visited your vestibule.”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
21
"The snoothness of the sea has tempted me much from
home," replied Ione, with a little embarrassment.
The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces; but without
seeming to heed it, he replied, with a smile, "You know
the old poet says, that Women should keep within doors,
and there converse.'"*
C
"The poet was a cynic," said Glaucus, "and hated
women.
""
spoke, he fixed his gaze steadfastly upon Ione, as if he
sought to penetrate into her soul. Recoiling before that
gaze, with a strange fear which she could not explain, the
Greek answered with confusion and hesitation,
"He was brought to my house as a countryman of tny
father's, and I may say of mine. I have known him only
within this last week or so: but why these questions?
"Forgive me," said Arbaces, "I thought you might
have known him longer.
and have known him longer. Base insinuator that he is!"
"How! what mean you? Why that term?"
"It matters not let me not rouse your indignation
against one who does not deserve so grave an honor.”
"I implore you, speak. What has Glaucus insinuate??
or rather, in what do you suppose he has offended?"
"He spake according to the customs of his country, and
that country is your boasted Greece.”
"To different periods different customs. Had our fore-
fathers known Ione, they had made a different law.”
"Did you learn these pretty gallantries at Rome ?" said
Arbaces, with ill-suppressed emotion.
lieve me,
"One certainly would not go for gallantries to Egypt,"
retorted Glaucus, playing carelessly with his chaio.
"Come, come," said Ione, hastening to interrupt a con-
versation which she saw, to her great distress, was so lit-
tle likely to cement the intimacy she had desired to effect
between Glaucus and her friend; "Arbaces must not be
so hard upon his poor pupil. An orphan, and without a
mother's care,-I may be to blame for the independent
and almost masculine liberty of life that I have chosen, yet
it is not greater than the Roman women are accustomed to,
- it is not greater than the Grecian ought to be. Alas! is
it only to be among men that freedom and virtue are to be
deemed united? Why should the slavery that destroys you
be considered the only method to preserve us? Ah! be-
it has been the great error of men, and one that
has worked bitterly on their destinies, to imagine that the
nature of women is (I will not say inferior, that inay
be so,
but) so different from their own, in making laws unfavor-
able to the intellectual advancement of women. Have they
not in so doing made laws against their children whom
women are to rear, against the husbands of whom
women are to be the friends, nay, sometimes the advisers?"
Ione stopped short suddenly, and her face was suffused
with the most enchanting blushes. She feared least her
enthusiasm had led her too far; yet she feared the austere
Arbaces less than the courteous Glaucus, for she loved the
last; and it was not the custom of the Greeks to allow
their women (at least such of their women as they most
honored) the same liberty and the same station as those of
Italy enjoyed. She felt, therefore, a thrill of delight as
Glaucus earnestly replied,—
"Ever mayst thou think thus, Ione,-ever be your pure
heart your unerring guide! Happy had it been for Greece
if she had given to the chaste the same intellectual charms
that are so celebrated among the less worthy of her women.
No state falls from freedom, from knowledge while
your sex smile only on the free, and, by appreciating, en-
courage the wise."
Arbaces was silent, for it was neither his part to sanc-
tion the sentiment of Glaucus, ner to condemn that of
Ione; and after a short and embarrassed conversation,
Glaucus took his leave of Ione.
When he was gone, Arbaces, drawing his seat nearer to
the fair Neapolitan's, said, in those bland and subdued
tones in which he knew so well how to veil the mingled
art and fierceness of his character,
"Think not, my sweet pupil, if so I may call you, that
I wish to shackle that liberty you adorn while you assume,
but which, if not greater, as you rightly observe, than that
possessed by the Roman women, must at least be accom-
panied by great circumspection, when arrogated by one
unmarried. Continue to draw crowds of the gay, the bril-
liant, the wise themselves, to your feet, continue to
charin them with the conversation of an Aspasia, the inusic
of an Erinna, but reflect, at least, on those censorious
tongues which can so easily blight the tender reputation of
a maiden, and while you provoke admiration, give, I be-
seech you, no victory to envy.
C
"What mean you, Arbaces?" said Ione, in an alarmed
and trembling voice: "I know you are my friend, that
you desire my honor and my welfare. What is it you would
Bay?",
"Your friend, -ah, how sincerely! May I speak
then as a friend, without reserve and without offence ?"
"I beseech
do so.
you,
"This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou
know him? Hast thou seen him often?" and as Arbaces
* Euripides.
Smothering his resentment at the last part of Ione's
question, Arbaces continued, "You know his pursuits, his
companions, his habits; the comissatio and the alea (the
revel and the dice) make his occupation; and among the
associates of vice, how can he dream of virtue ?"
"Still you speak riddles. By the gods, I entreat you,
say the worst at once."
"Well, then, it must be so: know, my Ione, that it was
but yesterday that Glaucus boasted openly, yes, in the
public baths, of your love to him. He said it amused him
to take advantage of it. Nay, I will do him justice, he
praised your beauty. Who could deny it? But he laughed
scornfully, when his Clodius or his Lepidus asked him if
he loved you enough for marriage, and when he purposed
to adorn his doorposts with flowers."
rr
Impossible! How beard you this base slander?
Nay, would you have me relate to you all the com-
ments of the insolent coxcombs with which the story has
circled through the town? Be assured that I myself dis-
believed at first, and that I have now painfully been con
vinced by several ear-witnesses of the truth of what I have
reluctantly told thee.”
Ione sank back, and her face was whiter than the pillar
against which she leaned for support.
–
"I own it vexed, it irritated me, to hear your name
thus lightly pitched from lip to lip, like some mere dancing
girl's fame. I hastened this morning to seek and to warn
I found Glaucus here. I was stung from my self-
possession. I could not conceal my feelings: nay, I was
uncourteous in thy presence. Caust thou forgive thy friend,
Ione ? "
you.
Ione placed her hand in his, but replied not.
"Think no more of this," said he, "but let it be a
warning voice, to tell thee how much prudence thy lot re-
quires. It cannot hurt thee, Ione, for a moment; for a
gay thing like this could never have been honored by even
a serious thought from Ione. These insults only wound
when they come from one we love; far different indeed is
he whom the lofty Ione shall stoop to love."
"Love!" muttered Ione, with an hysterical laugh.
"Ay, indeed."
It is not without interest to observe in those remote
times, and under a social system so widely different from
the modern, the same small causes that ruffle and interrupt
the "course of life” which operate so commonly at this
day the same inventive jealousy, the same cunning
slander, the same crafty and fabricated retailings of petty
gossip which so often how suffice to break the ties of the
truest love, and counteract the tenor of circumstances most
apparently propitious. When the bark sails on over the
smoothest wave, the fable tells us of the diminutive fish
that can cling to the keel and arrest its progress :
so is it
ever with the great passion of mankind, and we should
paint life but ill if, even in times the most prodigal of
romance, and of the romance of which we most largely
avail ourselves, we did not also delineate the mechanism of
those trivial and household springs of mischief which we
see every day at work in our chambers and at our hearins.
It is in these, the lesser intrigues of life, that we mostly
find ourselves at home with the past; if you scoru them,
you are only a romance writer,—and you do not interest
the heart, because you do not portray it.
Most cunningly had the Egyptian appealed to Ione's rul-
ing foible, most dexterously had he applied the poisoned
dart to her pride. He fancied he had arrested what at
most, he hoped, from the shortness of the time she had
known Glaucus, was but an incipient fancy, and hastening
to change the subject, he now led her to talk of her brother.
Their conversation did not last long He left her, resolved
BULWER'S NOVELS
not again to trust so much to absence; but to visit, to
watch her,
every day.
―
No sooner had his shadow glided from her presence,
than woman's pride, her sex's dissimulation, deserted
deserted
his intended victim, and the haughty Ione burst into pas-
sionate tears.
CHAPTER VII.
The gay life of the Pompeian lounger.
of the Roman baths.
A miniature likeness
he
"He is a good creature," quoth Lepidus; "they say
never sends a man away without granting his request.
Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir,"
returned Sallust, eagerly.
"Not unlikely," said Glaucus, for he who grants a
favor to one Roman must always do it at the pense of
another. Be sure that for every smile Titus has caused, a
hundred eves have wept."
Long live Titus !" cried Pansa, overhearing the empe-
ror's name, as he swept patronizingly through the crowd;
"he has promised my brother a questorship, because he
had run through his fortune.'
"And wishes to enrich himself among the people, my
Pansa," said Glaucus.
Exactly so," said Pansa.
>>
"That is putting the people to some use," said Glaucus.
"To be sure,
returned Pansa. "Well, I must go and
look after the rarium, it is a little out of repair; "
and followed by a long train of clients, distinguished from
the rest of the throng by the togas they wore, (for togas,
once the sign of freedom in a citizen, were now the badge
of servility to a patron,) the edile fidgeted fussily away.
"Poor Pansa!" said Lepidus, "he never has time for
pleasure. Thank heaven,
pleasure. Thank heaven, I am not an edile!
"Ah! Glaucus! care caput, how are you? Gay as
ever!
ever!" said Clodius, joining the group.
"I
>>
"Are you come to sacrifice to Fortune?" said Sallust.
"I sacrifice to her every night," returned the gamester
I do not doubt it. No man has made more victims !"
"Per Hercle, a biting speech!" cried Glaucus, laughing
"The dog's letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust,'
said Clodius, angrily; you are always snarling."
"I may well have the dog's letter in my mouth, since,
whenever I play with you, I have the dog's throw in
hand," returned Sallust.
CC
my
"Hist!" said Glancus, taking a rose from a flower-girl,
who stood beside.
WHEN Glaucus left Ione, he felt as if he trod upon air.
In the interview with which he had just been blessed, he
had for the first time gathered from her distinctly that his
ove was not unwelcome to, and would not be unrewarded
by her This hope filled him with a rapture for which earth
and heaven seemed too narrow to afford a vent. Uncon-
scious of the sudden enemy he had left behind, and forget-
ting not only his taunts, but his very existence, Glaucus
passed through the gay streets, repeating to himself, in the
wantonness of joy, the music of the soft air to which Ione
had listened with such intentness; and now he entered the
street of Fortune, with its raised footpath, its houses
painted without, and the open doors admitting the view of
the glowing frescoes within. Each end of the street was
adorned with a triumphal arch; and as Glaucus now came
before the temple of Fortune, the jutting portico of that
beautiful fane, which is supposed to have been built by one
of the family of Cicero, perhaps by the orator himself, im-
parted a dignified and venerable feature to a scene other
wise more brilliant than lofty in its character. That tem-
ple was one of the most graceful specimens of Roman
architecture. It was raised on a somewhat lofty podium,
and between two flights of steps ascending to a platform
stood the altar of the goddess. From this platform anoth-
er flight of broad stairs led to the portico, from the height
of whose fluted columns hung festoons of the richest flow-
ers. On either side the extremities of the temple were
placed statues of Grecian workmanship; and at a little
distance from the temple rose the triumphal arch crowned
with an equestrian statue of Caligula, which was flanked
by trophies of bronze. In the space before the temple a
lively throng were assembled, some seated on benches,
and discussing the politics of the empire, some conversing
on the approaching spectacle of the amphitheatre. One
lot of young men were lauding a new beauty, another dis-
cussing the merits of the last play; a third group, more
stricken in age, were speculating on the chance of the
trade with Alexandria, and amid these were many mer-
chants in the eastern costume, whose loose and peculiar
robes, painted and gemmed slippers, and composed and
serious countenances, formed a striking contrast to the
tunicked forms and animated gestures of the Italians. For
that impatient and lively people had, as now, a language
distinct from speech, - a language of signs and motions
inexpressibly significant and vivacious: their descendants
retain it, and the learned Iorio hath written a most enter-
taining work upon that species of hieroglyphical gesticula-cated therma of Rome; and, indeed, it seems that in cach
tion.
―
Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found himself
amid a group of his merry and dissipated friends.
ki
"Ah," said Sallust, "it is a lustrum since I saw you.'
"And how have you spent the lustrum? What new
dishes have you discovered?"
"I have been scientific," returned Sallust, "and have
made some experiments in the feeding of lampreys; I con-
fess I despair of bringing them to the perfection which our
Roman ancestors attained.”
J
"The rose is the token of silence," replied Sallust;
"but I love only to see it at the supper table."
CC
Talking of that, Diomed gives a grand feast this
week," said Sallust; “are you invited, Glaucus ?"
Yes; I received an invitation this morning.”
CC
"And I too," said Sallust, drawing a square piece of
papyrus from his girdle; "I see that he asks us an hour
earlier than usual; an earnest of something sumptuous."*
"O! he is rich as Croesus," said Clodius; and his bill
of fare is as long as an epic.
"
"Well, let us to the baths," said Glaucus: "this is the
time when all the world is there; and Fulvius, whom you
admire so much, is going to read us his last ode."
The young men assented readily to the proposal, and they
strolled to the baths.
Although the public therma or baths were instituted
rather for the poorer citizens than the wealthy, for the last
had baths in their own houses; yet, to the crowds of all
ranks who resorted to them, it was a favorite place for con-
versation, and for that indolent lounging so dear to a gay
and thoughtless people. The baths at Pompeii differed, of
course, in plan and construction from the vast and compli-
city of the empire there was always some slight modifica-
tion of arrangement in the general architecture of the pub.
lic baths. This mightily puzzles the learned,-
as .if
architects and fashion were not capricious before the nine-
teenth century! Our party entered by the principal porch
in the street of Fortune. At the wing of the portico sat
the keeper of the baths, with his two boxes before him, one
for the money he received, one for the tickets he dispensed.
Round the walls of the portico were seats crowded with
persons of all ranks; while others, as the regimen of the
physicians prescribed, were walking briskly to and fro the
"Miserable man! and why?
"Because," returned Sallust, with a sigh, "it is no lon-portico, stopping every now and then to gaze on the innu-
ger lawful to give them a slave to eat. I am very often
tempted to make away with a very fat carptor (butler) that
I possess, and pop him slyly into the reservoir. He would
give the fish a inost oleaginous flavor! But slaves are not
slaves now-a-days, and have no sympathy with their mas-
'ers' interest, -or Davus would destroy himself to oblige
ine !
"What news from Rome?" said Lepidus, as he lan-
gundly joined the group.
The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the
Bonators," answered Sallust.
merable notices of shows, games, sales, exhibitions, which
were painted or inscribed upon the walls. The general
subject of conversation was, however, the spectacle an-
nounced in the amphitheatre; and each new comer was
fastened upon by a group, eager to know if Pompeii had
been so fortunate as to produce some monstrous criminal,
some happy case of sacrilege or of murder, which would
allow the ediles to provide a man for the jaws of the lion;
* The Romans, like the moderns, sent tickets of invitation,
specifying the hour and the repast; which, if the intended feast
was to be sumptuous, was earlier than usual.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
ali other more common exhibitions seemed dull and tame
when compared with the possibility of this fortunate occur-
rence.
"For my part," said one jolly-looking man, who was a
golasudth, "I think the emperor, if he is as good as they
say, night have sent us a Jew."
Why not take one of the new sect of Nazarenes?"
said a philosopher: "I am not cruel, — but an atheist, one
who denies Jupiter himself, deserves no mercy."
"I care not how many gods a man likes to believe in,'
said the jeweller; "but to deny all gods is something mon-
atrous.
35
"Yet I fancy," said Glaucus,
” said Glaucus, "that these people are
not absolutely atheists. I am told that they believe in a
God, nay, in a future state."
Q
"Quite a mistake, my dear Glaucus," said the philoso-
pher; "Ihave conferred with them, they laughed in my
face when I talked of Pluto and Hades.”
"O
ye gods!" exclaimed the goldsmith in horror, "are
there any of these wretches in Pompeii ?"
'
"I know there are a few, but they meet so privately
that it is impossible to discover who they are.
As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great
enthusiast in his art, looked after him admiringly.
"Ah!" said he, "if we could get him on the arena,
there would be a model for you! What limbs! what a
head! he ought to have been a gladiator! A subject,
a subject, — worthy of our art! Why don't they give him
to the lion ?"
Meanwhile, Fulvius, the Roman poet, whom his cotem-
poraries declared immortal, and who, but for this history,
would never have been heard of in our neglectful age,
came eagerly up to Glaucus. "Oh, my Athenian, my Glau-
cus, you have come to hear my ode. That is indeed an
honor: you a Greek, -to whom the very language of
common life is poetry. How I thank you! It is but a
trifle ;
but if I secure your approbation,- perhaps I may
get an introduction to Titus. Oh, Glaucus! a poet with-
out a patron is an amphora without a label; the wine may
be good, but nobody will laud it! And what says Pythago-
ras? Frankincense to the gods, but praise to man.
A patron, then, is the poet's priest; he procures him the
incense, and obtains him his believers."
"But all Pompeii is your patron, and every portico an
altar in your praise.
Ah! the poor Pompeians are very civil,-they love to
honor merit. But they are only the inhabitants of a petty
town, Spero meliora! shall we within ?”
"Certainly; we lose time till we hear your poem.”
At this instant there was a rush of some twenty persons
from the baths into the portico; and a slave stationed at the
door of a small corridor now admitted the poet, Glaucus,
Clodius, and a troop of the bard's other friends into the
passage.
"A poor place this, compared with the Roman therma!"
said Lepidus, disdainfully.
"Yet there is some taste in the ceiling," said Glaucus,
who was in a mood to be pleased with every thing, point
ng to the stars which studded the roof.
Lepidus shrugged his shoulders, but was too languid to
reply
|
|
adorned with a large relief of the Destruc ion of the
Titans.
In this apartment Fulvius seated himself with a magis-
terial air, and his audience, gathering round him, en-
couraged him to commence his recital.
He drew
The poet did not require much pressing.
forth from his vest a roll of papyrus, and after hemming
three times, as much to command silence as to clear his
voice, he began that wonderful ode, of which, to the great
mortification of the author of this history, no single verse
can be discovered.
By the plaudits he received, it was doubess worthy of
his fame; and Glaucus was the only listener who did no
find it excel the best odes of Horace.
The poem concluded; those who took only the cold-bath
began to undress; they suspended their garinents on hooke
fastened in the wall, and receiving, according to their con-
dition, either from their own slaves or those of the thermæ,
a loose robe, withdrew into that graceful and circular
building which yet exists, to shame the unlaving posterity
of the south.
The more luxurious departed by another door to the
tepidarium, a place which was heated to a voluptuous
warmth, partly by a movable fireplace, principally by a
suspended pavement, beneath which was conducted the
caloric of the Laconicum.
Here this portion of the intended bathers, after unrobing
themselves, remained for some time enjoying the artificial
warmth of the luxurious air. And this room, as befitted
its important rank in the long process of ablution, was more
richly and elaborately decorated than the rest; the arched
roof was beautifully carved and painted; the windows above,
of ground glass, admitted but wandering and uncertain rays;
below the massive cornices were rows of figures in massive
and bold relief; the walls glowed with crimson, the pave
ment was skilfully tesselated in white mosaics. Here the
habituated bathers, men who bathed seven times a day,
would remain in a state of enervate and speechless lassitude,
either before or (mostly) after the water-bath, and many of
these victims of the pursuit of health turned their listless
eyes on the new comers, recognising their friends with a
nod, but dreading the fatigue of conversation.
From this place the party again diverged, according to
their several fancies, some to the sudatorium, which an-
swered the purpose of our vapor-baths, and from thence to
the warm-bath itself; those more accustomed to exercise,
and capable of dispensing with so cheap a purchase of fa-
tigue, resorted at once to the calidarium or water-bath.
In order to complete this sketch, and give to the reader
an adequate notion of this, the main luxury of the ancients,
we will accompany Lepidus, who regularly underwent the
whole process, save only the cold-bath, which bad gone late-
ly out of fashion. Being then gradually warmed in the
tepidarium, which has just been described, the delicate
steps of the Pompeian elegant were conducted to the suda-
torium. Here let the reader depict to himself the gradual
process of the vapor-bath, accompanied by an exhalation
of spicy perfumes. After our bather had undergone this
operation, he was seized by his slaves, who always awaited
Lim at the baths, and the dews of heat were removed by a
kind of scraper, which, by the way, a moderu traveller has
They now entered a somewhat spacious chamber, which gravely declared to be used only to remove the dirt, not one
served for the purposes of the apoditerium, (that is, a place particle of which could ever settle on the polished skin of
where the bathers prepared themselves for their luxurious the practised bather. Thence, somewhat cooled, he passed
ablutions.) The vaulted ceiling was raised from a cornice into the water-bath, over which fresh perfumes were pro-
glowingly colored with motley and grotesque paintings; fusely scattered, and ou emerging from the opposite part of
the ceiling itself was panelled in white compartments the room, a cooling shower played over his head and form
bordered with rich crimson; the unsullied and shining floor Then wrapping himself in a light robe, he returned once
was paved with white mosaics, and along the walls were more to the tepidarium, where he found Glaucus, v.ho had
ranged benches for the accommodation of the loiterers. not encountered the sudatorium; and now the main delight
This chamber did not possess the numerous and spacious and extravagance of the bath commenced. Their laves
windows which Vitruvius attributes to his more magnifi- anointed the bathers from viols of gold, of alabaster, or of
cent Frigidarium. The Pompeians, as all the southern crysta!, studded with profusest gems, and containing the
|
Italians, were fond of banishing the light of their sultry rarest unguents gathered from all quarters of the world.
skies, and combined in their voluptuous associations the The number of these smegmata used by the wealthy would
idea of luxury with darkness. Two windows of glass * till a modern volume, especially if the volume wete
alone admitted the soft and shaded ray; and the compart-printed by a fashionable publisher. Amoracinum, megali-
ment in which one of these casements was placed was
{
um, Nardum, omne quod exit in um ; while soft music
*The discoveries at Pompeii have controverted the long-played in an adjacent chamber, and such as used the bath
established error of the antiquaries, that glass windows were
unknown to the Romans; the use of them was not however
common among the middle and inferior classes in their private
dwellings.
in moderation, refreshed and restored by the grateful cere
mony, conversed with all the zest and freshness of rejuvi-
nated life.
"Blest be he who invented baths," said Glaucus, stretcir
LA
BULWER'S NOVELS
ing himself alorg one of those bronze seats (then covered
with soft cushions) which the visiter to Pompeii sees at
this day in that same tepidarium. "Whether he were
Hercules or Bacchus, he deserved deification."
"But tell me," said a corpulent citizen, who was groan-
ing and wheezing under the operation of being rubbed down,
"tell me, O Glaucus, evil chance to thy hands, O slave,
why so rough? tell me, ugh, ugh! are the baths
at Rome really so magnificent?" Glaucus turned, and
recognised Diomed, though not without some difficulty, so
red and so inflamed were the good man's cheeks, by the
sudatory and the scraping he had so lately undergone. "I
fancy they must be a great deal finer than these. Eh?"
Suppressing a smile, Glaucus replied,
-
you
Imagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and
would then form a notion of the size of the imperial thermæ
of Rome. But a notion of the size only, -imagine every
entertainment for mind and body,- enuinerate all the gym-
nastic games our fathers invented,
repeat all the books
Italy and Greece have produced, suppose places for all
these games, admirers for all these works, -add to this,
baths of the vastest size, the most complicated construction,
-intersperse the whole with gardens, with theatres, with
porticoes, with schools,
the gods, composed but of palaces and public edifices, and
you may conceive some faint idea of the glories of the
great baths of Rome.”
CHAPTER VIII.
Arbaces cogs his dice with pleasure, and wins the game
THE evening darkened over the restless city as Ape.
cides took his way to the house of the Egypt an. He
avoided the more lighted and populous streets, and as he
strode onward with his head buried in his bosom, and his
arms folded within his robe, there was something startling
in the contrast which his solemn mien and wasted form
presented to the thoughtless brows and animated air of
those who occasionally crossed his path.
At length, however, a man of a sober and staid demean
our, and who had twice passed him with a curious lut
doubting look, touched him on the shoulder.
Apæcides," said he, and he made a rapid sign with
his hands: it was the sign of the cross.
'
Well, Nazarene," replied the priest, and his pale face
grew paler, what wouldst thou?
Nay," returned the stranger, "I would not interrupt
thy meditations; but the last time we met, I seemed not to
be so unwelcome.”
vor;
>>
>>
"You are not unwelcome, Olinthus, but I am sad and
weary, nor am I able this evening to discuss with you those
themes which are most acceptable to you.
suppose, in one word, a city of
“O backward of heart," said Olinthus, with bitter fer-
“and art thou sad and weary, and wilt thou turn
from the very springs that refresh and heal!
"O earth," cried the young priest, striking bis breast
passionately, "from what regions shall my eyes open to
the true Olympus, where thy gods really dwell? Am I to
believe this man, that none whom for so many centuries my
fathers worshipped have a being or a naine? Am I to
break down, as something blasphemous and profane, the
very altars which I have deemed most sacred, or am I to
think with Arbaces, what?"
"Per Hercle !" said Diomed, opening his
rr
eyes. "Why
it would take a man's whole life to bathe."
"At Rome, it often does so," replied Glaucus, gravely.
replied Glaucus, gravely.
"There are many who live only at the baths. They repair
there the Grst hour in which they are opened, and remain
till that in which they are closed. They seem as if they
knew nothing of the rest of Rome, as if they despised all
other existence.' >>
"Per Hercle !"
He paused, and strode rapidly away with the impatience
of a man who strives to get rid of himself.
"Even those who bathe only thrice a day contrive to
consume their lives in the occupation. They take their But the Nazarene was one of those hardy, vigorous, and
exercise in the tennis-court or the porticoes, to prepare them enthusiastic men among whom God in all times has work-
for the first bath; they lounge into the theatre to refreshed the revolutions of earth, and above all, whether in the
themselves after it. They take their prandium under the establishment, whether in the reformation, of Lis own
trees, and think over their second bath. By the time it is religion, who were formed to convert, because formed to
prepared, the prandium is digested. From the second endure,
| --men whom nothing discourages, nothing dis-
bath they stroll into one of the peristyles to hear some new mays; in the fervor of belief they are inspired, and they
poet recite; or into the library to sleep over an old one. inspire. Their reason first kindles their passion, but the
Then comes the supper, which they still consider but a part passion is the instrument they use; they force themselves
of the bath; and then a third time they bathe again, as the into men's hearts, while they appear only to appeal to
best place to converse with their friends.”
their judgment. Nothing is so contagious as enthusiasm;
it is the real allegory of the tale of Orpheus, it moves
stones; it charms brutes. Enthusiasm is the genius of
sincerity, and truth accomplishes no victories without it.
Olinthus did not then suffer Apæcides thus easily to
escape him. He overtook, and addressed him thus:
"Per Hercle! but we have their imitators at Pompeii!"
"Yes, and without their excuse. The magnificent vo-
luptuaries of the Roman baths are happy; they see nothing
but gorgeousness and splendor, they visit not the squalid
parts of the city, they know not that there is poverty in the
world. All nature smiles for them, and her only frown is
he last one which sends them to bathe in Cocytus. Believe
me, they are your only true philosophers."
While Glaucus was thus conversing, Lepidus, with closed
eyes and scarce perceptible breath, was undergoing all the
mystic operations, not one of which he ever suffered his
attendants to omit. After the perfumes and the unguents,
they scattered over him the luxurious powder which pre-
vented any further accession of heat, and this being rubbed
away by the smooth surface of the pumice, he began to in-
due, not the garments he had put off, but those more festive
ones termed "the synthesis," with which the Romans
marked their respect for the coming ceremony of supper,
if rather, from its hour (three o'clock in our measurement
of time) it might not be more fitly denominated dinner.
This done, he at length opened his eyes and gave signs of
returning life.
At the same time, too, Sallust betokened by a long yawn
te evidence of existence.
دو
"It is supper tine," said the epicure. "You, Glaucus
and Lepidus, come and sup with me.
"Recollect you are all three engaged to my house this
week,” cried Diomed, who was mighty proud of the ac-
quaintance of men of fashion.
Ab, ah! we recollect," said Sallust, "the seat of
newzory, my Diomed, is certainly in the stomach,”
Passing now once again into the cooler air, and so into
the street, our gallants of that day concluded the ceremony
of a Pompeian bath.
"I do not wonder, Apæcides, that I distress you; that I
shake all the elements of your mind, that you are lost in
doubt, that you drift here and there in the vast ocean of un-
certain and benighted thought. I wonder not at this, but
bear with me a little; watch and pray, the darkness shal
vanish, the storm sleep, and God himself, as He came of
yore on the seas of Samaria, shall walk over the lulled bil-
lows to the delivery of your soul. Ours is a religion jeal
ous in its demands, but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts!
It troubles you for an hour, it repays you by immor
tality."
"Such promises," said Apæcides, sullenly, "are the
tricks by which man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious were
the promises which led me to the shrine of Isis!"
You
But," answered the Nazarene, " "ask thy reason, can
that religion be sound which outrages all morality?
are told to worship your gods. What are those gods, even
according to yourselves? What their actions, what the
attributes of their divinity? Are they not all represented
to you as the blackest of criminals? yet you are asked to
serve them as the holiest of divinities. Jupiter himself is
a parricide and an adulterer. What are the meaner di
vinities, but imitators of his vices? You are told not to
murder, but you worship murderers; you are told not to
commit adultery, and yon make your prayers to an adul-
terer. Oh! what is this but a mockery of the holiest part
of man's nature, which is faith! Turn how to the God, the
one, the true God, to whose shrine I would lead you.
He seem to you too sublime, too shadowy for those human
associations, those touching connexions between create
If
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
25
contem-
and creature, to which the weak heart clings, -
plate him in his Son, who put on mortality like ourselves.
His mortality is not indeed declared, like that of your
fabled gods, by the vices of our nature, but by the practice
of all its virtues. In him are united the austerest morals
with the tenderest affections. If He were but a mere man,
Le had been worthy to become a God. You honor Socra-
tes; he has his sect, his disciples, his schools. But what
are the doubtful virtues of the Athenian, to the bright, the
undisputed, the active, the unceasing, the devoted holiness
of Christ! I speak to you now only of his human char-
acter. He came in that as the pattern of future ages, to
show us the form of virtue which Plato thirsted to see
imbodied. This was the true sacrifice that He made for
man; but the halo that encircled his dying hour not only
brightened earth, but opened to us the sight of heaven!
You are touched, you are moved. God works in your
bert His Spirit is with you. Come, resist not the holy
impulse, come at once, unhesitatingly. A few of us are
now assembled to expound the word of God. Come, let
me guide you to them. You are sad, you are weary.
Listen then to the words of God. 'Come to me,' saith
Ile, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you
rest.
<
> >>
I cannot now,
" said Apæcides; "another time."
"Now, now, ,"exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and
clasping him by the arm.
But Apæcides, yet unprepared for the renunciation of
that faith, that life for which he had sacrificed so much,
and still haunted by the promises of the Egyptian, extri-
cated himself forcibly from the grasp, and feeling an effort
necessary to conquer the irresolution which the eloquence
of the Christian had begun to effect in his heated and fever-
ish mind, he gathered up his robes and fled away with a
speed that defied pursuit.
Breathless and exhausted, he arrived at last in a remote
and sequestered part of the city, and the lone house of the
Egyptian stood before him. As he paused to recover him-
self, the moon emerged from a silver cloud, and shone full
upon the walls of that mysterious habitation.
No other house was near; the darksome vines clustered
far and wide, in front of the building, and behind it rose a
copse of lofty forest trees sleeping in the melancholy moon-
light; beyond stretched the dim outline of the distant hills,
and among them the quiet crest of Vesuvius, not then so
lofty as the traveller beholds it now.
Apæecides passed through the arching vines, and arrived
at the broad and spacious portico. Before it, on either
side of the steps, reposed an image of the Egyptian sphinx,
and the moonlight gave an additional and yet more solemn
calm to those large, and harmonious, and passionless fea-
tures, in which the sculptors of that type of wisdom united
so much of loveliness with awe; halfway up the extremi-
ties of the steps, darkened the green and massive foliage
of the aloe, and the shadow of the eastern palm cast its
long and unwaving boughs partially over the marble sur-
face of the stairs.
Something there was in the stillness of the place, and
the strange aspect of the sculptured sphinxes, which thrilled
the blood of the priest with a nameless and ghostly fear,
and he longed even for an echo to his noiseless steps as he
ascended to the threshold.
He knocked at the door, over which was wrought an in-
scription, in characters unfamiliar to his eyes; it opened
without a sound, and a tall Ethiopian slave, without ques-
tion or salutation, motioned him to proceed.
The wide hall was lighted by lofty candelabra of elabo-
rate bronze, and round the walls were wrought vast hie-
roglyphics, in dark and solemn colors, which contrasted
strangely with the bright hues and graceful shapes with
which the inhabitants of Italy decorated their abodes. At
the extremity of the hall, a slave whose countenance,
though not African, was darker by many shades than the
usual color of the south, advanced to meet him.
"I seek Arbaces," said the priest; but his voice trem-
bled even in his own ear. The slave bowed his head in
silence, and leading Apæcides to a wing without the hall,
conducted him up a narrow staircase, and then traversing |
several rooms in which the stern and thoughtful beauty of
the sphinx still made the chief and most impressive object
of the priest's notice, - Aprcides found himself in a dim
and half-lighted chamber in the presence of the Egyptian.
Arbaces was seated before a small table, on which lay
VOL. II.
4
|
|
|
unfolded several scrolls of papyrus, impressed with the
same character as that on the threshold of the mansion.
A small tripod stood at a little distance, from the incense
Near this was a vast
in which the smoke slowly rose.
globe, depicting the signs of heaven, and upon another
table lay several instruments, of curious and quaint shape,
whose uses were unknown to Apæcides. The farther ex-
tremity of the room was concealed by a curtain, and the
oblong window in the roof admitted the rays of the moon,
mingling sadly with the single lamp which burned in the
apartment.
"Seat yourself, Apæcides," said the Egyptian, without
rising.
The young man obeyed.
rr
"You ask me," resumed Arbaces, after a short pause,
in which he seemed absorbed in thought, you ask me,
-or would do so, the mightiest secrets which the soul of
man is fitted to receive; it is the enigma of life itself that
you desire me to solve. Placed like children in the dark,
and but for a little while, in this dim and confined exis-
tence, we shape out spectres in the obscurity; our thoughts
now sink back into ourselves in terror, now wildly plunge
themselves into the guideless gloom, guessing what it may
contain; stretching our helpless hands here and there, lest,
blindly, we stumble upon some hidden danger not know.
ing the limits that confine, thinking now they suffocate us
with confusion, thinking now that they extend far away
into eternity. In this state all wisdom consists necessarily
in the solution of two questions, What are we to be
lieve, and what are we to reject?' These questions you
desire me to decide.”
C
Apæcides bowed his head in assent.
"Man must have some belief," continued the Egyptian,
in a tone of sadness. "He must fasten his hope to some-
thing it is our common nature that you inherit. When,
aghast and terrified to see that in which you have been
taught to place your faith swept away, you float over a
dreary and shoreless sea of incertitude, you cry for help,
you ask for some plank to cling to, some land, however dim
and distant, to attain. Well, then, listen. You have not
forgotten our conversation of to-day?"
"Forgotten!"
"I confessed to you that those deities, for whom smoke
so many altars, were but inventions. I confessed to you
that our rights and ceremonies were but mummeries, to
cheat the herd to their proper good. I explained to you
that from those cheats came the bonds of society, the har-
mony of the world, the power of the wise; that power is
in the obedience of the vulgar. Continue we then these
salutary delusions, if man must have some belief, con-
tinue to him that which his fathers have made dear to him,
and which custom sanctifies and strengthens. In seeking
a subtler faith for us, whose senses are too spiritual for the
gross one, let us leave others that support which crumbles
from ourselves. This is wise, it is benevolent."
"Proceed."
M
"This being settled," resumed the Egyptian, "the old
landmarks being left uninjured for those whom we are
about to desert, we gird up our loins and depart to new
climes of faith. Dismiss at once from your recollection,
from your thought, all that you have believed before. Sup-
pose the mind a blank, an unwritten scroll, fit to receive
impressions for the first time. Look round the world,
observe its order, its regularity, its design. Some-
thing must have created it, the design speaks a designer,
in that certainty we first touch land. But what is that
something? -a God, you cry Stay, no confused and
confusing names. Of that which created the world we
know, we can know nothing, save these attributes,-power
and unvarying regularity, stern crushing - relentless
regularity-heeding no individual cases,― rolling sweep-
ing-burning on, -no matter what scattered hearts, sev
ered from the general mass, fall ground and scorched
beneath its wheels. The mixture of evil with good, — the
existence of suffering and of crime,
in all times have per-
plexed the wise. They created a God, they supposed
him benevolent. How then came this evil ?— why did he
permit, nay, why invent, why perpetuate it? To ac-
count for this, the Persian creates a second spirit, whose
nature is evil, and supposes a continual war between that
and the god of good. In our own shadowy and tremen-
dous Typhon, the Egyptians image a similar demon. Per-
plexing blunder, that yet more bewilders us ! -folly that
-
26
BULWER'S NOVELS.
M
a
arose from the vain delusion that makes a palpable
corporeal a human being. of this unknown power,
that clothes the invisible with attributes and a nature
similar to the seen. No,-
No, to this designer let us give a
name that does not command our bewildering associations,
-and the mystery becomes more clear, that name is
NECESSITY. Necessity, say the Greeks, compel the gods;
then why the gods? their agency becomes unneces-
sary, dismiss them at once. Necessity is the ruler of all
Necessity is the ruler of all
we see;-power, regularity, - these two qualities make
its nature. Would you ask more?-you can learn noth-
ing, whether it be eternal, whether it compels us, its
creatures, to new careers after that darkness which we call
death, we cannot tell. There leave we this ancient,
unseen, unfathomable power,-
and come to that which,
to our eyes, is the great minister of its functions. This
we can task more, from this we can learn more, - its evi-
dence is around us, its name is NATURE. The error of
the sages has been to direct their researches to the attri-
butes of necessity, where all is gloom and blindness.
Had they confined their researches to nature, what of
knowledge might we not already have achieved! Here
patience, examination, are never directed in vain. We
see what we explore; our minds ascend a palpable ladder
of causes and effects. Nature is the great spirit of the ex-
ternal universe, and necessity imposes upon it the laws
by which it acts, and imparts to us the powers by which
we examine, those powers are curiosity and memory,
their union is reason,
their perfection is wisdom. Well,
then, I examine, by the help of these powers, this inex-
haustible nature. I examine the earth, the air,
the
ocean,- the heaven, I find that all have a mystic sym-
pathy with each other, that the moon sways the tides,
that the air maintains the earth, and is the medium of the
life and sense of things, that by the knowledge of the
stars we measure the limits of the earth, that we portion
out the epochs of time, that by their pale light we are
guided into the abyss of the past, that in their solemn
lore we discern the destinies of the future. And thus,
while we know not that which necessity is, we learn at
least her decrees. And now, what morality do we glean
from this religion? for religion it is. I believe in two
deities, nature and necessity; I worship the last by rev-
erence, the first by investigation. What is the morality it
teaches? This, all things are subject but to general
rules; the sun shines for the joy of the many, - it may
bring sorrow to the few; the night sheds sleep on the mul-
titude, but it harbours murder as well as rest; the forests
adorn the earth, but shelter the serpent and the lion; the
but it engulfs the one.
ocean supports a thousand barks,
It is only thus for the general, and not for the universal,
benefit that nature acts, and necessity speeds on her awful
course. This is the morality of the dread agents of the
world, it is mine, who am their creature.
I would pre-
serve the delusions of priestcraft, for they are serviceable
to the multitude; I would impart to man the arts I dis-
cover, the sciences I perfect; I would speed the vast
career of civilizing lore: - in this I serve the mass, · I
fulfil the general law, I execute the great moral that na-
ture preaches. For myself I claim the individual excep-
tion; I claim it for the wise, satisfied that my individual
actions are nothing in the great balance of good and evil;
satisfied that the product of my knowledge can give greater
blessings to the mass, than my desires can operate evil on
the few, (for the first can extend to remotest regions and
humanize nations yet unborn,) I give to the world wisdom,
to myself freedom. I enlighten the lives of others, and I
enjoy my own Yes; our wisdom is eternal, but our life
is short; make the most of it while it lasts. Surrender
Soon
thy youth to pleasure, and thy senses to delight.
comes the hour when the wine-cup is shattered, and the
Be
garlands shall cease to bloom. Enjoy while you may.
still, O Apæcides, my pupil and my follower! I will teach
thee the mechanism of nature, her darkest and her wildest
secrets, the lore which fools call magic, and the
By this shalt thou dis-
mighty mysteries of the stars.
charge thy duty to the mass; by this shalt thou enlighten
thy race. But I will lead thee also to pleasures of which
the vulgar do not dream; and the day which thou givest to
men shall be followed by the sweet light which thou sur-
renderest to thyself."
As the Egyptian ceased, there rose about, around, be-
neath, the softest music that Lydia ever taught, or Ionią
V
ever perfected. It came like a stream of sound, bathug
the senses unawares; enervating, subduing with de-
light. It seemed the melodies of invisible spirits, such as
the shepherd might have heard in the golden age, float-
ing through the vales of Thessaly, or in the noontide glades
of Paphos. The words which had rushed to the lip of
Apæcides, in answer to the sophistries of the Egyptian,
died tremblingly away. He felt it as a profanation to
break upon that enchanted strain;
break upon that enchanted strain;- the susceptibility of
his excited nature, the Greek softness and ardor of his
secret soul were swayed and captured by surprise. He
sank on the seat with parted lips and thirsting ear,-
while in a chorus of voices bland and melting as those
which waked Pysche in the halls of love, rose the following
song:-
THE HYMN OF EROS.
*
By the cool banks where soft Cephisus flows,
A voice sailed trembling down the waves of air;
The leaves blushed brighter in the Teian's rose,
The doves couched breathless in their summer air ;
While from their hands the purple flowerets fell,
The laughing hours stood listening in the sky;
From Pan's green cave to Egle's haunted cell,
Heaved the charmed earth in one delicious sigh.
"Love, sons of earth! I am the power of Love,
Eldest of all the gods with Chaos † born;
My smile sheds light along the courts above,
My kisses wake the eyelids of the morn.
"Mine are the stars,- there, ever as ye gaze,
Ye meet the deep spell of my haunting eyes:
Mine is the moon, and mournful, if her rays,
'T is that she lingers where her Carian lies.
"The flowers are mine, -the blushes of the rose,
The violet charming zephyr to the shade;
Mine the quick light that in the Maybeam glows,
Mine every dream that leafs † the lonely glade.
"Love, sons of earth, for love is earth's soft lore,
Look where ye will, -earth overflows with ME,
Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore,
And the wind's nestling on the heaving sea.
-
"All teaches love!" The sweet voice, like a dream,
Melted in light, yet still the airs above,
The waving sedges, and the whispering stream,
And the green forest, rustling, -murmured "LOVE."
As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand
of Apæcides, and led him wandering, intoxicated, yet half
reluctant, across the chamber towards the curtain at the far
end; and now, from behind that curtain, there seemed to
burst a thousand sparkling stars; the veil itself, hitherto
dark, was now lighted by these fires behind into the ten-
derest blue of heaven. It represented heaven itself, — such
a heaven as in the nights of June might have shone down
over the streams of Castaly. Here and there were painted
rosy and aerial clouds, from which smiled by the limner's
art faces of divinest beauty;-on which reposed the shapes
of which Phidias and Apelles dreamed. And the stars
which studded the transparent azure rolled rapidly as they
shone, while the music that again woke with a livelier and
lighter sound seemed to imitate the melody of the joyous
spheres.
"Oh! what miracle is this, Arbaces?" said Apæcides,
in faltering accents. "After having denied the gods, art
thou about to reveal to me
•
"Their pleasures!" interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so
different from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that Ape-
cides started, and thought the Egyptian himself transform-
ed: and now, as they neared the curtain, a wild, ― a loud,
an exulting melody burst from behind its concealment.
With that sound the veil was, as it were, rent in twain,
it parted, it seemed to vanish into air; and a scene,
which no Sybarite ever more than rivalled, broke the
upon
dazzled gaze of the youthful priest. A vast banquet-room
stretched beyond, blazing with countless lights, which filled
the warm air with the scents of frankincense, of jasmine,
of violets, of myrrh; all that the most odorous flowers, ai
that the most costly spices could distil, scemed gathered
into one ineffable and ambrosial essence: from the light
* The fairest of the Naiads.
† Hesiod.
The learned reader will recognise this image more than onos
among the ancient poets.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
21
*
columns that sprang upward to the airy roof hung drape-
ies of white, studded with golden stars. At the extremi-
ties of the room, two fountains cast up a spray, which,
catching the rays of the roseate light, glittered like count-
less diamonds. In the centre of the room, as they entered,
there rose slowly from the floor, to the sound of unseen
minstrelsy, a table spread with all the viands which sense
ever devoted to fancy, and vases of that lost Myrrhine fab-
ric, so glowing in its colors, so transparent in its material,
were crowned with the exotics of the east. The couches,
to which this table was the centre, were covered with ta-
pestries of azure and gold; and from invisible tubes in the
vaulted roof descended showers of fragrant waters, that
cooled the delicious air, and contended with the lamps, as
if the spirits of wave and fire disputed which element could
furnish forth the most delicious odors. And now, from be-
hind the snowy draperies, trooped such forms as Adonis
beheld when he lay on the lap of Venus. They came, some
with garlands, others with lyres; they surrounded the youth,
they led his steps to the banquet. They flung the chaplets
round him in rosy chains. The earth, the thought of
earth vanished from his soul. He imagined himself in a
dream, and suppressed his breath lest he should wake too
so; the senses to which he had never yielded as yet beat
in his burning pulse, and confused his dizzy and reeling
sight. And while thus amazed and lost, once again, but in
brisk and Bacchic measures, rose the magic strain.
ANACREONTIC.
In the veins of the calix foams and glows
The blood of the mantling vine,
But, oh in the bowl of youth there glows
A Lesbium more divine!
Bright, bright,
As the liquid light,
Its waves through thine eyelids shine!
Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim,
The juice of the young Lyæus; }
The grape is the key that we owe to him,
From the jail of the world to free us.
Drink, drink,
What need to shrink,
When the lamps alone can see us?
Drink, drink, as I quaff from thine eyes
The wine of a softer tree,
Give thy smiles to the god of the grape,
Beloved one, give to me,
Turn, turn,
My glances burn,
And thirst for a look from thee!
thy sighs,
As the song ended, a group of three maidens, entwined
with a chain of starred flowers, and who, while they imi-
tated, might have shamed the Graces, advanced towards him
in the gliding measures of the Ionian dance; such as the
Nereids wreathed in moonlight on the yellow sands of the
Ægean wave; such as Cytherea taught her handmaids in
the marriage-feast of Psyché and her son.
Now approaching, they wreathed their chaplet round his
head; now kneeling, the youngest of the three proffered
him the bowl, from which the wine of Lesbos foamed and
sparkled. The youth resisted no more, he grasped the in-
toxicating cup, the blood mantled fiercely through his veins.
He sank upon the breast of the nymph who sat beside him,
and turning with swimming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom
he had lost in the whirt of his emotions, he beheld him
seated beneath a canopy at the upper end of the table, and
gazing upon him with a smile that encouraged him to pleas-
He beheld him, but not as he had hitherto seen, with
dark and sable garments, with a brooding and solemn brow;
a robe that dazzled the sight, so studded was its whitest
surface with gold and gems, blazed upon his majestic form,
white roses,
alternated with the emerald and the ruby, and
shaped tiara-like, crowned his raven locks. He appeared,
like Ulysses, to have gained the glory of a second youth,—
his features seemed to have exchanged thought for beauty,
and he towered amid the loveliness that surrounded him,
in all the beaming and relaxing benignity of an Olympian
god.
ure.
Drink, feast, love, my pupil!" said he; "blush not
that thou art passionate and young. That which thou art
*
Which, however, was probably the porcelain of China ;
though this is a matter which admits of considerable dispute.
t Name of Bacchus, from Avw, to unbind, to release
thou feelest in thy veins,
survey!"
that which thou shalt be,
With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of Apæci-
des, following the gesture, beheld on a pedestal, placed
between the statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the form of a
skeleton.
"Start not," resumed the Egyptian, "that friendly
guest admonishes us but of the shortness of life. From
its jaws I hear a voice that summons us to ENJOY."
As he spoke a group of nymphs surrounded the statue;
they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and while the cups were
emptied and re-filled at that glowing board, they sang the
following strain :-
BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH.
I
Thou art in the land of the shadowy host,
Thou that didst drink and love;
By the solemn river, a gliding ghost,
But thy thought is ours above!
If memory yet can fly
Back to the golden sky,
And mourn the pleasures lost!
By the ruined ball these flowers we lay,
Where thy soul once held its palace;
When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay,
And the smile was in the chalice,
Here a
And the cithara's silver voice
Could bid thy heart rejoice
When night eclipsed the day.
new group, advancing, turned the tide of the
music into a quicker and more joyous strain :
II.
Death, death is the gloomy shore
Where we all sail:
Soft, soft, thou gliding oar-
Blow soft, sweet gale.
Chain with bright wreaths the hours,
Victims if all;
Ever, mid song and flowers,
Victims should fall!
Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker dancea
the silver-footed music :
Since life's so short, we'll live to laugh;
Ah! wherefore waste a minute?
If youth's the cup we yet can quaff,
Be love the pearl within it!
A third band now approached with brimming cups,
which they poured in libation upon that strange altar, and
once more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful melody:
Thou art welcome, guest of gloom,
From the far and fearful sea!
When the first rose sheds its bloom,
Our board shall be spread with thee!
All hail, dark guest!
Who hath so fair a plea
Our welcome guest to be
As thou, whose solemn hall
At last did feast us all,
In the dim and dismal coast?
Long yet be we the host!
And thou, dead shadow, thou,
All joyless though thy brow,
Thou, but our passing guest
At this moment she who sat beside Apaecides suddeng
took up the song :-
Happy is yet our doom,
The earth and the sun are ours,
And far from the dreary tomb
Speed the wings of the rosy hours.
Sweet is for thee the bowl,
Sweet are thy looks, my love;
I fly to thy tender soul,
As the bird to its mated dove '
Take me, ah, take!
Clasped to thy guardian breast.
Soft let me sink to rest;
But wake me, ah, wake,
And tell me with words and sighs,
But more with thy melting eyes,
That my sun is not set,-
That the torch is not quenched at the urn
That we love, and we breathe and burn,
Tell me,- thou lovest me yet '
28
BULWER'S NOVELS.
NOTES TO BOOK 1.
(a) p. 8" Flowers more alluring to the ancient Italians
dian to their descendants," &c.
The modern Italians, especially those of the more southern
parts of Italy, have a peculiar horror of perfumes; they con-
sider them remarkably unwholesome, and the Roman or Nea-
politan lady requests her visiters not to use them. What is
very strange, the nostril so susceptible of a perfume is wonder-
fully obtuse to its reverse. You may literally call Rome
"Sentina Gentium."
(b) p. 12.-"The sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of
Clodius."
+
A very curious and interesting treatise might be written on
the parasites of Greece and Rome. In the former they were
nore degraded than in the latter country. The Epistles of
Alciphron express in a lively manner the insults which they
nderwent for the sake of a dinner: one man complains that
sh-sauce was thrown into his eyes, that he was beat on the
that he was beat on the
head, and given to eat stones covered with honey, while a cour-
tesan threw at him a bladder filled with blood, which burst on
his face and covered him with the stream, The manner in
which these parasites repaid the hospitality of their hosts was
like that of modern diners-out, by witty jokes and amusing
stories; sometimes they indulged practical jokes on each other,
"boxing one another's ears." The magistrates of Athens
appear to have looked very sternly upon these hungry buffoons,
and they complain of stripes and a prison with no philosophi-
cal resignation. In fact, the parasite seems at Athens to have
answered the purpose of the fool of the middle ages; but he
was far more worthless and perhaps more witty, the associate
of courtesans, uniting the pimp with the buffoon. This is a
character peculiar to Greece. The Latin comic writers make,
indeed, prodigal use of the parasite; yet he appears at Rome to
have held a somewhat higher rank, and to have met with a
somewhat milder treatment, than at Athens. Nor do the deli-
Nor do the deli-
neations of Terence, which, in portraying Athenian manners,
probably soften down whatever would have been exaggerated
to a Roman audience, present so degraded or so abandoned a
character as the parasite of Alciphron and Athenæus. The
more haughty and fastidious Romans often disdained, indeed,
to admit such buffoons as companions, and hired, (as we may
note in Pliny's Epistles) fools or mountebanks to entertain
their guests and supply the place of the Grecian parasite.
When (be it observed) Clodius is styled parasite in the text, the
reader must take the modern, not the ancient, interpretation of
the word.
A very feeble but very flattering reflex of the parasite was
the umbra or shadow, who accompanied any invited guest, and
who was sometimes a man of equal consequence, though usu-
ally a poor relative or an humble friend, in modern cant "a
toady "
Such is the umbra of our friend Clodius.
(c) p. 13" The dice in August, and I an edile."
All games of chance were forbidden by law, ("Vetita legibus
alea." Horat. Od. 24, 1, 3,) except "in Saturnalibus," during
the month of December; the ediles were charged with enforc
ing this law, which, like all laws against gaming, in all times,
was wholly ineffectual.
(d) p. 15. —“The small but graceful temple consecrated to
Isis."
*
Sylla is said to have transported to Italy the worship of the
Egyptian Isis. It soon became "the rage," and was peculiarly
in vogue with the Roman ladies. Its priesthood were sworn to
chastity, and, like all such brotherhoods, were noted for their
licentiousness. Juvenal styles the priestesses by a name (Isia-
ca len) that denotes how convenient they were to lovers;
and under the mantle of night many an amorous intrigue was
carried on in the purlieus of the sacred temples. A lady vowed
for so many nights to watch by the shrine of Isis; it was a
sacrifice of continence towards her husband, to be bestowed on
her lover! While one passion of human nature was thus ap-
pealed to, another scarcely less strong was also pressed into the
service of the goddess, namely, credulity. The priests of Isis
arrogated a knowledge of magic and of the future. Among wo
men of all classes, and among many of the harder sex, the Egyp
tian sorceries were consulted and revered as oracles. Voltaire,
with much plausible ingenuity, endeavours to prove that the
gipsies are a remnant of the ancient priests and priestesses of
Isis, intermixed with those of the goddess of Syria. In the
time of Apuleius these holy impostors had lost their dignity
and importance; despised and poor, they wandered from place
to place, selling prophecies and curing disorders; and Voltaire
shrewdly bids us remark, that Apuleius has not forgot their
peculiar skill in filching from out-houses and court-yards; after-
wards they practised palmistry and singular dances, (query,
the Bohemian dances ?)—"such," says the too conclusive
Frenchman, "has been the end of the ancient religion of Isis
and Osiris, whose very names still impress us with awe!" At
the time in which my story is cast, the worship of Isis was,
however, in the highest repute; and the wealthy devotees sent
even to the Nile, that they might sprinkle its mysterious waters
over the altars of the goddess. I have introduced the ibis in
the sketch of the temple of Isis, although it has been supposed
that that bird languished and died when taken from Egypt. But
from various reasons, too long now to enumerate, I believe
that the ibis was by no means unfrequent in the Italian temples
of Isis, though it rarely lived long, and refused to breed in a
foreign climate.
k
In the Campanian cities, the trade with Alexandria was probably more
efficacious than the piety of Sylla (no very popular example perbaps) in
establishing the worship of the favorite deity of Egypt.
BOOK II.
"Lucus tremescit, tota succusso solo
Nutavit aula, dubia quo pondus daret
Ac fluctuanti similis."
SENEC. Thyestis, v 693
CHAPTER I.
"A flash house" in Pompeii. And the gentlemen of the
classic ring.
-
- C
its
of
To one of those parts of Pompeii which were tenanted,
not by the lords of pleasure, but by its minions and
victims, the haunt of gladiators and prize-fighters,
the vicious and the penniless, of the savage and the ob-
the Alsatia of an ancient city,-
transported.
scene,
M
we are now
|
several knots of men, some drinking, some playing at dice,
some at that more skilful game called "duodecim scriptæ,
which certain of the blundering learned have mistaken for
chess, though it rather, perhaps, resembled backgammon of
the two, and was usually, though not always, played with
the assistance of dice. The hour was in the early fore-
noon, and nothing better, perhaps, than that unseasonable
time itself denoted the habitual indolence of these tavern-
loungers. Yet, despite the situation of the house, and the
character of its inmates, it indicated none of that sordid
squalor which would have characterized a similar haunt
in a modern city. The gay disposition of all the Pompei-
ans, who sought, at least, to gratify the sense even where
they neglected the mind, was typified by the gaudy colors
which decorated the walls, and the shapes, fantastic, but
not inelegant, in which the lamps, the drinking-cups, the
commonest household utensils were wrought.
It was a large room, that opened at once on the confined
and crowded lane. Before the threshold were a group of
men, whose iron and well-strung muscles, whose short and
Herculean necks, whose hardy and reckless countenances
indicated the champions of the arena. On a shelf, without
the shop, were arranged jars of wine and oil, and right
over this was inserted, in the wall, a coarse painting, By Pollux," said one of the gladiators, as he leaned
which exhibited gladiators drinking, so ancient and so against the wall of the threshold, the wine thou sellest
venerable is the custom of signs! Within the room were us, old Silenus," and as he spoke he slapped a portly per-
placed several small tables, arranged somewhat in the mod-sonage on the back, "is enough to thin the best blood in
ern fashion of "boxes; " and round these were seated one's veins.'
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
29
•
incumbent gladiator, and clasping him round the waist
with her long and snake-like arms, lifted him with a sudden
wrench from the body of her husband, leaving only his
hands still clinging to the throat of his foe. So have we
seen a dog snatched by the hind-legs from the strife with
a fallen rival, in the arms of some envious groom; so have
we seen one half of him high in air,—passive and offence-
less,- while the other half, head, teeth, eyes, claws, seem-
ed buried and ingulfed in the mangled and prostrate enemy.
Meanwhile the gladiators, lapped and pampered and glut-
ted upon blood, crowded delightedly round the combatants,
their nostrils distended, their lips grinning, their eyes
gloatingly fixed on the bloody throat of the one, and the
-
The man thus caressingly saluted, and whose bared arms,
white apron, and keys and napkin tucked carelessly within
his girdle, indicated him to be the host of the tavern, was
already passed into the autumn of his years, but his form
was still so robust and athletic that he might have shamed
even the sinewy shapes beside him, save that the muscle
had seeded, as it were, into flesh, that the cheeks were
swelled and bloated, and the increasing stomach threw into
shade the vast and massive chest which rose above it.
"None of thy scurrilous blusterings with me," growled
the gigantic landlord, in the gentle seini-roar of an insulted
tiger; my wine is good enough for a carcass which shall
so soon soak the dust of the Spoliarium."*
"Croakest thou thus, old raven!" returned the gladia-indented talons of the other.
tor, laughing scornfully; "thou shalt live to hang thyself
with despite when thou seest me win the palm crown :
and when I get the purse at the amphitheatre, as I certain-
ly shall, my first vow to Hercules shall be to forswear thee
and thy vile potations evermore."
<<
"Habet! (he has got it!) habet!" cried they, with a
sort of yell, rubbing their nervous hands.
"Non habeo, ye liars! I have not got it!" shouted the
host, as with a mighty effort he wrenched himself from
those deadly hands, and rose to his feet breathless, panting,
"Hear to him, hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices! lacerated, bloody; and fronting with reeling eyes, the glar-
He has certainly served under Bombochides Cluninstaridy-ing look and grinning teeth of his baffled foe, now strug-
sarchides," cried the host.f "Sporus, Niger, Tetraides, gling (but struggling with disdain) in the gripe of the stur-
he declares he shall win the purse from you. Why, by the dy Amazon.
gods, each of your muscles is strong enough to stifle all his "Fair play," cried the gladiators,
re one to one;" and
body, or I know nothing of the arena!"
crowding round Lydon and the woman, they separated our
pleasing host from his courteous guest.
CC
"Ha!" said the gladiator, coloring with rising fury,
our lanista would tell a different story."
"What story could he tell against me, vain Lydon ?"
said Tetraides, frowning.
"Or me, who have conquered in fifteen fights?" said
the gigantic Niger, stalking up to the gladiator.
Or me?" grunted Sporus, with eyes of fire.
"Tush!" said Lydon, folding his arms, and regarding
his rivals with a reckless air of defiance. "The time of
trial will soon come; keep your valor till then.”
"Ay, do," said the surly host; "and if I press down
my thumb to save you, may the fates cut my thread.”
Your rope, you mean," said Lydon, sneeringly; "here
is a sesterce to buy one.
>>
The Titan wine-vender seized the hand extended to him,
and griped it in so stern a vice that the blood spirted from
the fingers' ends over the garments of the bystanders.
They set up a savage laugh.
"I will teach thee, young braggart, to play the Mace-
donian with me. I am no puny Persian, I warrant thee!
What, man! have I not fought twenty years in the ring,
and never lowered my arms once? and have I not received
the rod from the editor's own hand as a sign of victory,
and as a grace to retirement on my laurels ? And am I
now to be lectured by a boy?" So saying, he flung the
hand from him in scorn.
Without changing a muscle, but with the same smiling
face with which he had previously taunted mine host, did
the gladiator brave the painful grasp he had undergone.
But no sooner was his hand released than, crouching for
one moment as a wild cat crouches, you might see his hair
bristle on his head and beard, and with a fierce and shrill
yell, he sprang on the throat of the giant with an impetus
that threw him, vast and sturdy as he was, from his balance;
and down, with the crash of a falling rock, he fell, while
over him fell also his ferocious foe.
Our host, perhaps, had had no need of the rope so kind-
ly recommended to him by Lydon, had he remained three
minutes longer in that position; but summoned to his as-
sistance by the noise of his fall, a woman, who had hitherto
kept in an inner apartment, rushed to the scene of battle.
This new ally was in herself a match for the gladiator ;
she was tall, lean, and with arms that could give other than
soft embraces. In fact, the gentle helpmate of Burbo the
wine-seller had, like himself, fought in the lists, nay,
under the emperor's eye. And Burbo himself, Burbo,
the unconquered in the field, according to report, now
and then yielded the palm to his soft Stratonice. This
sweet creature no sooner saw the imminent peril that await-
ed her worse half, than, without other weapons than those
with which nature had provided her, she darted upon the
* The place to which the killed or mortally wounded were
dragged from the arena.
Miles Gloriosus, Act I. As much as to say in modern phrase,
"He has served under Bombastes Furioso.
†
>>
Not only did women sometimes fight in the amphitheatres,
but even those of noble birth participated in that meek ambi-
rion.
But Lydon, feeling ashamed at his present position, and
endeavouring in vain to shake off the grasp of the virago,
slipped his hand into his girdle, and drew forth a short
knife. So menacing was his look, so brightly gleamed the
blade, that Stratonice, who was used only to the fistic
methods of battle, started back in alarm.
"O gods!" cried she, "the ruffian! he has concealed
weapons! Is that fair? Is that like a gentleman and a
gladiator? No, indeed, I scorn such fellows! " With
that she contemptuously turned her back on the gladiator,
and hastened to examine the condition of her husband.
But he, as much inured to these constitutional exercises
as an English bull-dog is to a contest with a more gentle
antagonist, had already recovered himself.
The purple
hues receded from the crimson surface of his cheek, the
veins of the forehead retired into their wonted size.
shook himself with a complacent grunt, satisfied that he
was still alive, and then looking at his foe from head
to foot with an air of more approbation than he had ever
bestowed upon him before,-
He
By Castor," said he, "thou art a stronger fellow than
I took thee for! I see thou art a man of merit and virtue;
give me thy hand, my hero.”
CC
""
Jolly old Burbo į cried the gladiators, applauding,
"stanch to the backbone, — give him thy hand, Lydon."
"Oh to be sure, "said the gladiator; "but now I have
tasted his blood, I long to lap the whole
"Per Hercle!" returned mine host, quite unmoved,
"that is the true gladiator feeling. Pollux! to think what
good training may make a man; why a beast could not be
fiercer!"
"A beast, O dullard! We beat the beasts hollow!
cried Tetraides.
r
Well, well," said Stratonice, who was now employed
in smoothing her hair and adjusting her locks; if ye are
all good friends again, I recommend you to be quiet and
orderly; for some young noblemen, your patrons and back-
ers, have sent to say they will come here to pay you a visit,
་
they wish to see you more at their ease than at the
schools, before they make up their bets on the great fight
at the amphitheatre. So they always come to my house for
that purpose; they know we only receive the best gladiators
in Pompeii, our society is very select, praised be the
gods!"
"Yes," continued Burbo, drinking off a bowl, or rather
a pail, of wine, "a man who has won my laurels can only
encourage the brave. Lydon, drink, my boy; may you have
an honorable old age like mine!
"Come here," said Stratonice, drawing her husband to
her affectionately by the ears, in that caress which Tibullus
has so prettily described, "come here ! "
"Calenus has
"Not so hard, she-wolf, thou art worse than the gladia-
tor," murmured the huge jaws of Burbo.
"Hist!" said she, whispering him :
just stolen in, disguised, by the back way; I hope he has
brought the sesterces."
"Ho! ho! I will join him," said Burbo; "meanwhile,
20
BULWER'S NOVELS.
I say, keep a sharp eye on the cups, attend to the score.
Let them not cheat thee, wife; they are heroes, to be sure,
but then they are arrant rogues; Cacus was nothing to
them."
Never fear me, fool," was the conjugal reply; and
Burbo, satisfied with the dear assurance, strode through
the apartment, and sought the penetralia of his house.
"So those soft patrons are coming to look at our mus-
cles," said Niger; "who sent to previse thee of it, my
mistress?"
"Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest bet-
ter in Pompeii, and the young Greek Glaucus."
!
"A wager on a wager," cried Tetraides; "Clodius
bets on me, for twe sesterces! what say you, Lydon?
"He bets on me . aid Lydon.
"No, on me!" grusted Sporus.
"Dolts, do you think he would prefer any of you to
Niger?" said the athletic, thus modestly naming himself.
"Well, well," said Stratonice, as she pierced a huge
amphora for her guests, who had now seated themselves
Defore one of the tables, "great men and brave, as ye all
think yourselves, which of you will fight the Numidian lion,
in case no malefactor should be found to deprive you of the
option?"
ck
"I, who have escaped your arms, stout Stratonice,"
said Lydon, " might safely, I think, encounter the lion."
"But tell me, " said Tetraides, "where is that pretty
young slave of yours, the blind girl, with bright eyes?
have not seen her in a long time."
I
"O! she is too delicate for you, my son of Neptune,”*
said the hostess, "and too nice even for us, I think. We
send her into the town to sell flowers and sing to the la-
dies; she makes us more money so than she would by wait-
ing on you. Besides, she has often other employments
which lie under the rose.
"Other employments!" said Niger; "why, she is too
young for them.
“
Silence, beast!" said Stratonice;
you think there
is no play but the Corinthian. If Nydia were twice the
age she is at present, she would be equally fit for Vesta,
poor girl.'
"But hark ye, Stratonice," said Lydon, "how didst
thou come by so gentle and delicate a slave? She were
more nect for the handmaid of some rich matron of Rome
than for thee.”
"That is true," returned Stratonice, "and some day or
other I shall make my fortune by selling her. How came
I by Nydia, thou askest ?"
Ay.'
"Why, thou seest, my slave Staphyla,
berest Staphyla, Niger?"
thou remem-
"Ay, a large-handed wench, with a face like a comic.
mask. How should I forget her, by Pluto! whose hand-
maid she doubtless is at this moment."
P
Tush, brute ! — Well, Staphyla died one day, and a
great loss she was to me, and I went into the market to
buy me another slave. But, by the gods, they were all
grown so dear since I had bought poor Staphyla, and money
was so scarce, that I was about to leave the place in de-
spair, when a merchant plucked me by the robe: Mistress,'
said he, dost thou want a slave cheap? I have a child to
sell, a bargain. She is but little, and almost an infant, it
bargain. She is but little, and almost an infant, it
is true; but she is quick and quiet, docile and clever, sings
well, and broiders, and is of good blood, I assure you.'
'Of what country?' said I. - Thessalian.' Now I knew
the Thessalians were acute and gentle; so I said I would
see the girl. I found her just as you see her now, scarcely
smaller and scarcely younger in appearance. She looked
patient and resigned enough, with her hands crossed on her
bosom and her eyes downcast. I asked the merchant his
price;
The
it was moderate, and I bought her at once.
merchant brought her to my house, and disappeared in an
instant. Well, my friends, guess my astonishment when
I found she was blind. Ha ha! a clever fellow that
merchant! I ran at once to the magistrate's, but the rogue
was already gone from Pompeii. So I was forced to go
home in a very ill humor, I assure you; and the poor girl
felt the effects of it too. But it was not her fault that she
was blind, for she had been so from her birth. By degrees
we got reconciled to our purchase. True, she had not the
strength of Staphyla, and was of very little use in the house,
* Son of Neptune, a Latin phrase for a boisterous, ferocious
Ellow
but she could soon find her way about the town as well as
if she had the eyes of Argus; and when one morning she
brought us home a handful of sesterces, which she said she
had got from selling some flowers she had gathered in our
poor little garden, we thought the gods had sent her to us.
So from that time we let her go out as she likes, filling her
basket with flowers which she wreathes into garlands after
the Thessalian fashion, which pleases the galiants; and the
great people seem to take a fancy to her, for they always
pay her more than they do any other flower-girl, and she
brings all of it home to us, which is more than any other
slave would do. So I work for myself, but I shall soon
afford from her earnings to buy me a second Staphyla;
doubtless the Thessalian kidnapper had stolen the blind
girl from gentle parents:* besides her skill in the gar.
lands, she sings and plays on the cithara, which also brings
money; and lately, but that is a secret.
"That is a secret, what!" cried Lydon, "art thou
turned sphinx?”
"Sphinx, no, why sphinx?"
"Cease thy gabble, good mistress, and bring us our
meat, I am hungry," said Sporus, impatiently.
"And I too," echoed the grim Niger, whetting his
knife on the palm of his hand.
The Amazon stalked away to the kitchen, and soon re-
turned with a tray laden with large pieces of meat, half
raw; for so, as now, did the heroes of the prize-fight imag-
ine they best sustained their hardihood and ferocity: they
drew round the table with the eyes of famished wolves,
the meat vanished, the wine flowed. So leave we those
important personages of classic life, to follow the steps of
Burbo.
CHAPTER II.
Two worthies.
In the earlier times of Rome, the priesthood was a pro
fession, not of lucre, but of honor; it was embraced by
the noblest citizens, it was forbidden to the plebeians.
Afterward, and long previous to the present date, it was
equally open to all ranks; at least that part of the pro-
fession which embraced the flamines, or priests, not of
religion generally, but of peculiar gods. Even the priest
of Jupiter, (the Flamen Dialis,) preceded by a lictor, and
entitled by his office to the entrance of the senate, at first
the especial dignitary of the patricians, was subsequently
the choice of the people. The less national and less hon-
ored deities were usually served by plebeian ministers, and
many embraced the profession, as now the Catholic Chris-
tians enter the monastic fraternity, less from the impulse of
devotion than the suggestions of a calculating poverty.
Thus Calenus, the priest of Isis, was of the lowest origin.
His relations, though not his parents, were freedmen. He
had received from them a liberal education, and from his
father a small patrimony, which he soon exhausted. He
embraced the priesthood as a last resource from distress.
Whatever the state emoluments of the sacred profession,
which at that time were probably small, the officers of a
calling. There is no profession so lucrative as that which
popular temple could never complain of the profits of their
practises on the superstition of the multitude.
Calenus had but one surviving relative at Pompeii, and
that was Burbo. Various dark and disreputable ties,
stronger than those of blood, united together their hearts
and interests; and often the minister of Isis stole disguised
and furtively from the supposed austerity of his devotions,
and gliding through the back door of the retired gladia-
tor, a man infamous alike by vices and by profession, re-
joiced to throw off the last rag of an hypocrisy which, but
for the dictates of avarice, his ruling passion, would at all
times have sat clumsily upon a nature too brutal for even
the mimicry of virtue.
Wrapped in one of those large mantles which came ir
use among the Romans in proportion as they dismissed the
toga, whose ample folds well concealed the form, and in
which a sort of hood (attached to it) afforded no less a se-
*The Thessalian slave-merchants were celebrated for purloin-
ing persons of birth and education; they did not always spare
those of their own country. Aristophanes sneers bitterly at
that people (proverbially treacherous) for their unquenchable
desire of gain by this barter of flesh,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
31
surity to the features, Calenus now sat in the small and pri-
vate chamber of the wine-seller, from which a small faux,
or passage, ran at once to that back entrance with which
nearly all the houses of Pompeii were furnished.
Opposite to him sat the sturdy Burbo, carefully counting,
on a table between then, a little pile of coins which the
priest had just poured from his purse, for purses were as
common then as now, with this difference, - they were
usually better furnished!
"You see," said Calenus, "that we pay you handsomely,
and you ought to thank me for recommending you to so ad-
vantageous a market."
"I do, my cousin, I do," replied Burbo, affectionately,
as he swept the coins into a leathern receptacle, which he
then deposited in his girdle, drawing the buckle around his
rapacious waist more closely than he was wont to do in the
tax hours of his domestic avocations; "and by Isis, Pisis,
and Nysis, or whatever other gods there may be in Egypt,
my little Nydia is a very Hesperides, a garden of gold
to ine."
"She sings well, and plays like a muse," returned Cale-
nus; "those are virtues that he who employs me always
pays liberally."
CC
every
"He is a god," cried Burbo, enthusiastically;
rich man who is generous deserves to be worshipped. But
come, a cup of wine, old friend, tell me more about it.
What does she do? She is frightened, talks of her oath,
and reveals nothing."
___
"Nor will I, by my right hand; I too have taken that
terrible oath of secrecy.
CC
" and
"Oath! what are oaths to men like us?"
'True, oaths of a common fashion; but this,
the stalwart priest shuddered as he spoke. "Yet," he
continued, in emptying a huge cup of unmixed wine, "I
will own to thee, that it is not so much the oath that I
dread as the vengeance of him who proposed it. By the
gods! he is a mighty sorcerer, and could draw my con-
fession from the moon did I dare to make it to her. Talk
no more of this. By Pollux, wild as those banquets are
which I enjoy with him, I am never quite at my ease there.
I love, my boy, one jolly hour with thee, and one of the
plain, unsophisticated, laughing girls that I meet in this
chamber, all smoke-dried though it be, better than whole
nights of those magnificent debauches."
"Ho! sayest thou so? To-morrow night, please the
gods, we will have, then, a snug carousal."
With all my heart," said the priest, rubbing his hands,
and drawing himself nearer to the table.
At this moment they heard a slight noise at the door, as
of one feeling the handle. The priest lowered the cowl
over his head.
•
Tush!" whispered the host," it is but the blind girl,"
as Nydia opened the door and entered the apartment.
"Ho! girl, and how dost thou? thou lookest pale,
thou hast kept late revels. No matter, the young must be
always the young," said Burbo, encouragingly.
Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement sor-
row which brought the gentle Stratonice to the spot, her
grisly form at this moment appeared in the chamber.
"How now, what hast thou been doing with my slave,
brute?" said she, angrily, to Burbo.
CC
"Be quiet, wife," said he, in a tone half sullen, half
timid; you want new girdles and fine clothes, do you
?
Well, then, take care of your slave, or you may want them
long. Væ capiti tus, vengeance on thy head, wretched
"What is this?" said the bag, looking from one to the
other.
one!
Nydia started, as by a sudden impulse, from the wall,
against which she had leaned; she threw herself at the feet
of Stratonice; she embraced her knees, and looking up at
her with those sightless but touching eyes,
r
"O, my mistress!" sobbed she, "you are a woman,
you have had sisters, you have been young like me; feel
for me, save me! I will go to those horrible feasts nɔ
more.
""
"Stuff!" said the hag, dragging her up rudely by one
of those delicate hands, fit for no harsher labor than that
of weaving the flowers which made her pleasure or her
trade; stuff, these fine scruples are not for slaves."
"Hark ye," said Burbo, drawing forth his purse, and
chinkling its contents; you hear this music, wife? By
Pollux, if you do not break in yon colt with a tight rein
you will hear it no more.
nus ;
<<
"The girl is tired," said Stratonice, nodding to Cale
"she will be more ducile when you next want her.'
"You! you! who is here?" cried Nydia, casting her
eyes
round the apartment with so fearful and straining a
survey that Calenus rose in alarm from his seat :—
"She must see with those eyes! muttered he.
"Who is here? Speak, in heaven's name!
Ah, if
you were blind like me, you would be less cruel," said she;
and she again burst into tears.
"Take her away," said Burbo, impatiently; "I hate
these whimperings.
Come," said Stratonice, pushing the poor child by the
shoulders.
M
وو
Nydia drew herself aside, with an air to which resolu
tion gave diguity.
"Hear me,
"she said; "I have served you-faithfully,-
I, who was brought up, ah! my mother, my poor moth-
er! didst thou dream I should come to this? She
dashed the tears from her eyes, and proceeded,
"Com-
mand me in aught else, and I will obey; but I tell you now,
hard, stern, and inexorable as you are, I tell you that Í I
will go there no more; or if I am forced there, that I will
implore the mercy of the prætor himself, I have said it;
hear me, ye gods, I swear!
—
The hag's eyes glowed with fire; she seized the child by
the hair with one hand, and raised on high the other,
that formidable right hand, the least blow of which seemed
capable to crush the frail and delicate form that trembled
The girl made no answer, but she dropped on one of the in her grasp. That thought itself appeared to strike her,
seats with an air of lassitude. Her color went and came for she suspended the blow, changed her purpose, and drag-
rapidly; she beat the floor impatiently with her small feet, ging Nydia to the wall, seized from a hook a rope, often,
then she suddenly raised her face, and said, with a deter-alas! applied to a similar purpose; and the next moment
mined voice,
the shrill, the agonized shrieks of the blind girl rang pierc
"Master, you may starve me if you will, you may beatingly through the house.
me, you may threaten me with death, but I will go no
more to that unholy place.'
"How, fool!" said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his
heavy brows met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes;
"how, rebellious! take care."
"I have said it," said the poor girl, crossing her hands
on her breast.
"What! my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no
more? Very well, thou shalt be carried.”
"I will raise the city with my cries," said she, passion-
ately, and the color mounted to her brow.
"We will take care of that, too, thou shalt go
gagged."
Then may the gods help me," said Nydia, rising; "I
will appeal to the magistrates."
"Thine oath, remember!" said a hollow voice, as for
Fe first time Calenus joined in the dialogue.
At those words, a trembling shook the frame of the
unfortunate girl; she clasped her hands imploringly.
Wretch that I anr!" cried she, and burst violently into
zobs.
Cc
CHAPTER III.
Glaucus makes a purchase that afterwards costs him dear.
"HOLLO, my brave fellows!" said Lepidus, stooping
his head as he entered the low doorway of the house o
Burbo; we have come to see which of you most honora
your lanista." The gladiators rose from the table, in re-
spect to three gallants, known to be among the gayest and
richest youths of Pompeii, and whose voices were therefore
the dispensers of amphitheatrical reputation.
“ What fine animals !” said Clodius to Glaucus ;
thy to be gladiators.”
وو
wor-
"It
It is a pity they are not warriors," returned Glaucus.
A singular thing it was to see the dainty and fastidious
Lepidus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight seemed to
blind, whom in the bath a breeze of air seemed to blast, in
whom nature seemed twisted and perverted from every
natural impulse, and curdled into one dubious thing of ef-
392
BULWER'S NOVELS.
feminacy and art; a singular thing was it to see this
Lepidus, now all eagerness, and energy, and life, patting
the vast shoulders of the gladiators with a blanched and
girlish hand, feeling with a mincing gripe their great brawn
and iron muscles, all lost in calculating admiration at that
manhood which he had spent his life in carefully banishing
from himself.
J
So have we seen, at this day, the beardless flutterers of
the saloons of London thronging round the heroes of Fives-
court, so have we seen them admire, and gaze, and cal-
culate a bet, so have we seen meet together in ludi-
crous yet in melancholy assemblage, the two extremes of
civilized society, the patrons of pleasure and its slaves,
vilest of all slaves, at once ferocious and mercenary;
male prostitutes, who sell their strength as wonen do their
beauty; beasts in act, but outdoing the beasts in motive,
for the last at least do not mangle themselves for money!
"Ha! Niger, how will you fight?" said Lepidus, "and
with whom?"
"Sporus challenges me," said the grim giant ; we
shall fight to the death, I hope.
دو
"Ah! to be sure," grunted Sporus, with a twinkle of
his small eye.
"He takes the sword, I the net and the trident: it will
be rare sport. I hope the survivor will have enough to
keep up the dignity of the crown.
>>
"Never fear, we'll fill the purse, my Hector," said Clo-
dius;
"let me see, you fight against Niger? Glaucus, a
bet; I back Niger.
"I told you so,
you so," cried Niger, exultingly. "The noble
Clodius knows me: count yourself dead already, my Sporus."
Clodius took out his tablet, "A bet, ten sestertia. *
What say you
?"
"So be it," said Glaucus; "but whom have we here?
I never saw his hero before; " and he glanced at Lydon,
whose limbs were slighter than those of his companions,
and who had something of grace, and something even of
noble, in his face, which his profession had not yet wholly
destroyed.
"It is Lydon, a youngster, practised only with the
wooden sword as yet," answered Niger, condescendingly;
"but he has the true blood in him, and has challenged
Tetraides."
"He challenged me," said Lydon ; "I
offer."
accept the
"And how do you fight?" asked Lepidus.
"Chut, my
boy, wait a while before you contend with Tetraides."
Lydon smiled disdainfully.
"Is he a citizen or a slave ?" said Clodius.
"A citizen; we are all citizens here," quoth Niger.
"Stretch out your arm, my Lydon," said Lepidus, with
the air of a connoisseur.
The gladiator, with a significant glance at his companions,
extended an arm which, if not eo huge in its girth as those
of his comrades, was so firm in its muscles, so beautifully
øyinmetrical in its proportions, that the three visiters ut-
tered simultaneously an admiring exclamation.
"Well, man, what is your weapon?" said Clodius,
tablet in hand.
"We are to fight first with the cestus; afterward, if both
survive, with swords," returned Tetraides, sharply, and
with an envious scowl.
"With the cestus?" cried Glaucus; "there you are
wrong, Lydon. The cestus is the Greek fashion; I know
it well. You should have encouraged flesh for that contest;
you are far too thin for it,
avoid the cestus."
"I cannot," said Lydon.
"And why?
"I have said, because he has challenged me.”
"But he will not hold you to the precise weapon."
My honor holds me !'"' returned Lydon, proudly.
"I bet on Tetraides two to one, at the cestus," said
Clodius; "shall it be? Lepidus, even betting, with
swords."
CC
"If you give me three to one, I will not take the odds,"
said Lepidus; Lydon will never come to the swords.
You are mighty courteous."
"What say you, Glaucus ?" said Clodius.
"I will take the odds three to one.'
"Ten sestertia to thirty?
"Yea t
A little more than eighty pounds.
› The reader will not confound the sesterfii with the sester-
Clodius wrote the bet in his book.
"Pardon me, noble sponsor, mine," said Lydon, i
low voice to Glaucus; "but how much think you the vic
tor will gain?"
>>
"How much ? why, perhaps seven sestertia."
"You are sure it will be as much?
"At least. But out on yon! are you thinking of the
money, and not the honor? Oh Romans everywhere ye
are Romans! "
A blush mantled over the bronzed cheek of the gladi-
ator.
"Do not wrong me, noble Glaucus; I think of both;
but I should never have been a gladiator but for the
money.
"Base! mayst the ■ fall! A miser never was a hero.”
"I am not a miser," said Lydon, haughtily; and he
withdrew to the other end of the rooin.
"But I don't see Burbo; where is Burbo?
talk with Burbo,” cried Clodius.
I net
"He is within," said Niger, pointing to the door at he
extremity of the room.
"And Stratonice, the brave old lass; where is she "
quoth Lepidus.
ઃઃ
Why, she was here just before you entered in, but she
heard something that displeased her yonder, and vanished.
Pollux! old Burbo had, perhaps, caught hold of some girl
in the back room. I heard a female's voice crying out;
the old dame is as jealous as Juno."
"Ho! excellent," cried Lepidus, laughing. "Come,
Clodius, let us go shares with Jupiter; perhaps he has
caught a Leda.”
At this moment a loud cry of pain and terror startled
the group.
66
Oh, spare me! spare me! I am but a child, I am
blind is not that punishment enough?"
:
"O Pallas! I know that voice; it is my poor flower-
girl!" exclaimed Glaucus; and he darted at once into the
quarter whence the cry rose.
He burst the door, and beheld Nydia writhing in the
grasp of the infuriate hag, the cord, already dabbled with
blood, was raised in the air; it was suddenly arrested.
CC
Fury!" said Glaucus, and with his left hand he
caught Nydia from her grasp. "How dare ye use thus
a girl, one of your own sex, a child? My Nydia, my
poor infant ! "
"Oh! is that you, is that Glaucus?" exclaimed the
flower-girl, in a tone almost of transport; the tears stood
arrested on her cheek, she smiled, she clung to his breast,
she kissed his robe as she clung.
"And how dare you, pert stranger, interfere between a
free woman and her slave? By the gods! despite your
fine tunic and your filthy perfumes, I doubt whether you
are even a Roman citizen, my manniken."
“Fair words, mistress, fair words," said Clodius, now
entering with Lepidus. "This is my friend and sworn
brother; he must be put under shelter of your tongue
sweet one: it rains stones.”
"Give me my slave!" shrieked the virago, placing her
mighty grasp on the breast of the Greck.
"Not if all your sister Furies could help you," answered
Glaucus. "Fear not, sweet Nydia; an Athenian never
forsook distress!"
"what tur-
"Hollo!" said Burbo, rising reluctantly,
moil is all this about a slave? Let go the young gentleman,
wife, let him go, for his sake the pert thing shall be
spared this once." So saying, he drew, or rather drag-
ged off his ferocious helpmate.
Methought, when we entered," said Clodius, "there
was another man present."
"He is gone.
"
""
For the priest of Isis had indeed thought it nigh time to
vanish.
46
Oh, a friend of mine! a brother cupman, a quiet dog,
who does not love these snarlings," said Burbo, carelessly.
"But go, child, you will tear the gentleman's tunic it
you cling to him so tight; go, you are pardoned."
Oh, do not, do not forsake me!" cried Nydia, cling-
ing yet closer to the Athenian.
Moved by her forlorn situation, her appeal to him, her
own innumerable and touching graces, the Greek seated
tia. A sestertium, which was a sum, not a coin, was a thou
sand times the value of a sestertius; the first was equivalen’
to 8. 1s. 5., the last to 1d. 33 farthings of our money.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
333
himself on one of the rude chairs. He held her on his
knees, he wiped the blood from her shoulders with his long
hair he kissed the tears froin her cheeks, he whispered to
her a thousand of those soothing words with which we
calm the grief of a child; and so beautiful did he seem in
nis gentle and consoling task, that even the fierce heart of
Stratonice was touched. His presence seemed to shed
light over that base and obscene haunt, young, beautiful,
glorious, he was the emblem of all that earth made most
happy, comforting one that earth had abandoned !
"Well, who could have thought our blind Nydia had
been so honored!" said the virago, wiping her heated
brow.
Glaucus looked up at Burbo.
66
My good man," said he, "this is your slave; she
sings well, she is accustomed to the care of flowers; I
wish to make a present of such a slave to a lady. Will
you sell her to me? As he spoke, he felt the whole
frame of the poor girl tremble with delight; she started
up, she put her dishevelled hair from her eyes, she looked
>>
around, as if, alas! she had the power to see !
"Sell our Nydia! no, indeed," said Stratonice, gruffly.
Nydia sank back with a long sigh, and again clasped the
robe of her protector.
CC
you must
"Nonsense," said Clodius, imperiously;
oblige ine. What, man! what, old dame! "offend me, and
your trade is ruined. Is not Burbo my kinsinan Pansa's
client? Am I not the oracle of the amphitheatre and its
heroes? If I say the word, break up your wine-jars, you
sell no more; Glaucus, the slave is yours."
Burbo scratched his huge head in evident embarrass-
ment.
"The girl is worth her weight in gold to me.”
"Name your price, I am rich," said Glaucus.
The ancient Italians were like the modern,
there was
nothing they would not sell, much less a poor blind girl.
"I paid six sestertia for her; she is worth twelve now,
muttered Stratonice
"You shall have twenty; come to the magistrates at
once, and then to my house for your money.”
"I would not have sold the dear girl for a hundred, but
to oblige noble Clodius," said Burbo, whiningly. And
you will speak to Pansa about the place of designator at
the amphitheatre, noble Clodius? It would just suit me."
"Thou shalt have it," said Clodius; adding, in a whis-
per to Burbo, "
yon Greek can make your fortune; money
runs through him like a sieve; mark to-day with white
chalk, iny Priam.”
An dabis?" said Glaucus, in the formal question of
sale and barter.
"Dabitur," answered Burbo.
"Then, then I am to go with you, with you,-O
happiness!" murmured Nydia.
Pretty one, yes; and thy hardest task henceforth shall
be to sing thy Grecian hymns to the loveliest lady in
Pompeii."
The girl sprang from his clasp, a change came over her
whole face, so bright the instant before; she sighed heavi-
ly, and then once more taking his hand, she said,
"I thought I was to go to your house.”
knows but too oppressively how immeasurably greater he
is than yon, and is only disconcerted because in the places
you encounter him he finds himself suddenly descended to
your level. He has not conversation, he has not thoughts,
-it is your little-
he has not intercourse with such as you,
ness that disconcerts him, not his own!
lone, then, knew her genius, but with that charming
versatility that belongs of right to women, she had the
faculty so few of a kindred genius in the less malleable sex
can claim; the faculty to bend and model her graceful in-
tellect to all whom it encountered. The sparkling fountain
threw its waters alike upon the strand, the cavern, and
the flowers; it refreshed, it smiled, it dazzled everywhere.
That pride which is the necessary result of superiority she
in her breast it concentred itself in inde-
wore easily,
pendence. She pursued thus her own bright and solitary
path. She asked no aged matron to direct and guide her,
she walked alone by the torch of her own unflickering
purity. She obeyed uo tyrannical and absolute custom,
she moulded custom to her own will, but this so delicately
and with so feminine a grace, so perfect an exemption from
error, that you could not say she outraged customn, but com-
manded it. It was possible not to love Ione, perhaps she
seemed too high for the love of vulgar natures; but if you
did once love her, it was to adoration. The wealth of her
she beautified the commonest
graces was inexhaustible,
action: a word, a look from her seemed magic. Love her,
and you entered into a new world,
and you entered into a new world, you passed from this
trite and commonplace earth; you were in a land in which
your eyes saw every thing through an enchanted medium.
In her presence you felt as if listening to exquisite music;
you were steeped in that sentiment which has so little of
earth in it, and which music so well inspires, that intox-
ication which refines and exalts, which seizes, it is true,
the senses, but gives them the character of the soul.
She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and fasci-
nate the less ordinary and the bolder natures of men; to
love her was to unite two passions, that of love and ci
ambition, you aspired when you adored her. It was no
wonder that she had completely chained and subdued the
mysterious but burning soul of the Egyptian, a man in
whom dwelt the fiercest passions. Her beauty and her
soul alike enthralled him.
Set apart himself from the common world, he loved that
daringness of character which also made itself among
common things aloof and alone. He did not or he would
not, see that that very isolation put her yet more from
him than from the vulgar. Far as the poles, - far as the
night from day, his solitude was divided from hers. He
was solitary from his dark and solemn vices, she from
her beautiful fancies, and her purity of virtue.
If it was not strange that Ione thus enthralled the
Egyptian, far less strange was it that she had captured,
as suddenly as irrevocably, the bright and sunny heart of
the Athenian. The gladness of a temperament which
seemed woven from the beams of light, had led Glaucus
into pleasure. He obeyed no more vicious dictates, when
he wandered into the dissipations of his time, than the
exhilarating voices of youth and health. He threw the
brightness of his nature over every abyss and cavern
"And so thou shalt for the present; come, we lose through which he strayed. His imagination dazzled him,
time."
CHAPTER IV.
The rival of Glaucus presses onward in the race.
IONE was one of those brilliant characters which but
once or twice flash across our career. She united in the
highest perfection the rarest of earthly gifts, — genius and
beauty. No one ever possessed superior intellectual quali-
ties without knowing them, the alliteration of modesty
and merit is pretty enough, but where merit is great, the
veil of that modesty you admire never disguises its extent
from its possessor. It is the proud consciousness of certain
qualities that it cannot reveal to the every-day world, that
gives to genius that shy, and reserved, and troubled air
which puzzles and flatters you when you encounter it. Do
not deceive yourself, vain wordling, by the thought that the
embarrassed manner of yon great man is a sign that he
does not know his superiority to you!
that which you
ake for modesty is but the struggle of self-esteem. He
VOL. II
5
<
but his heart never was corrupted. Far more penetrating
than his companions deemed, he saw that they sought to
prey upon his riches and his youth, but he despised wealth
save as the means of enjoyment, and youth was the great
sympathy that united him to them. He felt, it is true, the
impulse of nobler thoughts and higher aims than in pleas-
ure could be indulged; but the world was one vast prison,
to which the sovereign of Rome was the imperial jailer;
and the very virtues, which in the free days of Athens
would have made him ambitious, in the slavery of earth,
made him inactive and supine. For in that unnatura and
bloated civilization, all that was noble in emusation was
forbidden. Ambition in the regions of a despotic and
luxurious court was but the contest of flattery and craft.
Avarice had become the sole ambition, - men desired præ-
torships and provinces only as the license to pillage, and
government was but the excuse of rapine. It is in small
states that glory is most active and pure, the more con-
fined the limits of the circle, the more ardent the patriot--
ism. Opinion is concentrated and strong,-
every eye
reads your actions, your public motives are blended with.
your private ties, every spot in your narrow sphere is
S
Camping
34
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the
crowded with forms familia, since your childhood,
applause of your citizens is like the caresses of your friends.
But in large states, the city is but the court; the provinces,
unknown to you, unfamiliar in customs, perhaps in lan-
guage, have no claim on your patriotism, the ancestry
of their inhabitants is not yours. In the court you desire
favor instead of glory; at a distance from the court pub-
lic opinion has vanished from you, and self-interest has no
counterpoise.
Italy, Italy! while I write, your skies are over me,
your seas flow beneath my feet; listen not to the blind
policy which would unite all your crested cities, mourning
for their republic, iuto one empire: false, pernicious delu-
sion your only hope of regeneration is in division. Flo-
rence, Milan, Venice, Genoa, may be free once more, if
each is free. But dream not of freedom for the whole,
while you enslave the parts; the heart must be the centre
of the system, the blood must circulate freely everywhere;
and in vast communities, you behold but à bloated and
feeble giant, whose brain is imbecile, whose limbs are
dead, and who pays in disease and weakness the penalty
of transcending the natural proportions of health and vigor.
Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent
qualities of Glaucus found no vent, save in that overflow-
ing imagination which gave grace to pleasure and poetry
to thought. Ease was less despicable than contention with
parasites and slaves, and luxury could yet be refined, though
ambition could not be ennobled. But all that was best and
brightest in his soul awoke at once when he knew Ione.
Here was an empire worthy of demigods to attain; here
was a glory which the reeking smoke of a foul society
could not soil or dim. Love, in every time, in every state,
can thus find space for its golden altars. And tell me if
there ever, even in the ages most favorable to glory, could
be a triumph more exalted and elating than the conquest of
one noble heart?
་
And whether it was that this sentiment inspired him,
his ideas glowed more brightly, his soul seemed more
awake and more visible in Ione's presence. If natural to
If natural to
love her, it was natural that she should return the passion.
Young, brilliant, eloquent, enamoured, and Athenian, he
was to her as the incarnation of the poetry of her fathers'
land. They were not like creatures of a world in which
strife and sorrow are the elements; they were like things
to be seen only in the holyday of nature, so glorious and
so fresh was their youth, their beauty, and their love.
They seemed out of place in the harsh and every-day
earth; they belonged of right to the Saturnian age, and
the dreams of demigod and nymph. It was as if the poe-
try of life gathered and fed itself in them, and in their
hearts were concentrated the last rays of the sun of Delos
and of Greece.
But if lone was independent in her choice of life, so
was her modest pride proportionably vigilant and easily
alarmed. The falsehood of the Egyptian was invented by
a deep knowledge of her nature. The story of coarseness
of indelicacy in Glaucus stung her to the quick. She
felt it a reproach upon her character and her career, a
punishment above all to her love; she felt for the first time
how suddenly she had yielded to that love; she blushed
with shame at a weakness, the extent of which she was
startled to perceive; she imagined it was that weakness
which had incurred the contempt of Glaucus; she endured
the bitterest curse of noble natures humiliation! Yet
her love, perhaps, was no less alarmed than her pride. If
one moment she murmured reproaches upon Glaucus, if
one moment she renounced, she almost hated him, -at the
next she burst into passionate tears, her heart yielded to
its softness, and she said in the bitterest of anguish,
despises me, he does not love me!
"He
From the hour the Egyptian had left her, she had re-
tired to her most secluded chamber, she had shut out her
handmaids, she had denied herself to the crowds that
besieged her door. Glaucus was excluded with the rest;
he wondered, but he guessed not why! He never attribu-
ted to his Ione, his queen, his goddess, that woman-
like caprice of which the love-poets of Italy so unceasingly
complain. He imagined her, in the majesty of her candor,
above all the arts that torture. He was troubled, but his
hopes were not dimmed, for he knew already that he loved
and was beloved; what more could he desire, as an amulet
against fear?
At deepest night, then, when the streets were hushed,
and the high moon only beheld his devotions, he stole to
that temple of his heart, her home; * and wooed her
after the beautiful fashion of his country. He covered
her threshold with the richest garlands, in which every
flower was a volume of sweet passion, and be charmed
the long summer night with the sound of the Lycian lute,
and verses which the inspiration of the moment sufficed to
weave.
But the window above opened not; no simile made yet
more holy the shining air of night. All was still and dark.
He knew not if his verse was welcome, and his suit was
heard.
affront.
Yet Ione slept not, nor disdained to bear. Those soft
strains ascended to her chamber; they soothed, they sub-
dued her. While she listened, she believed nothing against
her lover; but when they were still at last, and his step
departed, the spell ceased; and, in the bitterness of her
soul, she almost conceived in that delicate flattery a new
I said she was denied to all; but there was one excep-
tion, there was one person who would not be denied,
assuming over her actions and her house something like
the authority of a parent. Arbaces, for himself, claimed
an exemption from all the ceremonies observed by others.
He entered the threshold with the license of one who
feels that he is privileged and at home. He made his way
to her solitude, and with that sort of quiet and unapolo-
getic air which seemed to consider the right as a thing of
course. With all the independence of Ione's character,
his art had enabled him to obtain a secret and powerful
control over her mind. She could not shake it off; some-
times she desired to do so, but she never actively struggled
against it. She was fascinated by his serpent eye.
arrested, he commanded her, by the magic of a mind long
accustomed to awe and to subdue. Utterly unaware of his
real character, or his hidden love, she felt for him the rev-
erence which genius feels for wisdom, and virtue for sanc-
tity. She regarded him as one of those mighty sages of
old, who attained to the mysteries of knowledge by an ex
emption from the passions of their kind. She scarcely
considered him as a being, like herself, of the earth, but
as an oracle at once dark and sacred. She did not love
him, but she feared. His presence was unwelcome to
her; it dimmed her spirit even in her brightest mood; he
seemed, with his chilling and lofty aspect, like some emi-
nence which casts a shadow over the sun. But she never
thought of forbidding his visits. She was passive under
the influence which created in her breast, not the repug
nance, but something of the stillness, of terror.
Ho
Arbaces himself now resolved to exert all his arts to
possess himself of that treasure he so burningly coveted.
He was cheered and elated by his conquest over her brother.
From the hour in which Apæcides fell beneath the voluptu
ous sorcery of that fête which we have described, he felt his
empire over the young priest triumphant and insured.
knew that there is no victim so thoroughly subdued as a
young and fervent man for the first time delivered to the
thraldom of the senses.
&
He
When Apecides recovered, with the morning list from
the profound sleep which succeeded to the delirium of won-
der and of pleasure, he was, it is true, ashamed, terrified,
appalled. His vows of austerity and celibacy echoed in
had it been quenched
his ear; his thirst after holiness,
at so unhallowed a stream? But Arbaces knew well the
means by which to confirm his couquest. From the arts of
pleasure, he led the young priest at once to those of his
mysterious wisdom. He bared to his amazed eyes the
initiatory secrets of the sombre philosophy of the Nile,--
those secrets plucked from the stars, and the wild chemis
try which, in those days, when reason herself was but the
creature of imagination, might well pass for the lore of a
diviner magic. He seemed to the young eyes of the priest
as a being above mortality, and endowed with supernatural
gifts. That yearning and intense desire for the knowledge
which is not of earth, which had burned from his boy-
hood in the heart of the priest, - was dazzled, until it con-
He gave himself to
fused and mastered his clearer sense.
the art which thus addressed at once the two strongest of
human passions, that of pleasure and that of knowledge.
He was loth to believe that one so wise could err,- that
one so lofty could stoop to deceive. Entangled in the dark
* Athenæus "The true ten ple of Cupid is the house of the
beloved one."
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
38
web of metaphysical moralities, he caught at the excuse by
which the Egyptian converted vice into a virtue. His pride
was insensibly flattered that Arbaces had deigned to rank
him with himself, to set him apart from the laws which
bound the vulgar, -to make him an august participator
both in the mystic studies and the magic fascinations of
his solitude. The pure and stern lessons of that creed to
which Olinthus had sought to make him convert were
swept away from his memory by the deluge of new pas-
sions; and the Egyptian, who was versed in the articles of
that true faith, and who soon learned from his pupil the
effect which had been produced upon him by its believers,
sought, not unskilfully, to undo that effect by a tone of
reasoning half sarcastic and half earnest.
CC
C
ing prepossessions that lead to love; and, secretly, he
ground his teeth in rage and jealousy, when he reflected
on the youth, the fascinations, and the brilliancy of that
formidable rival he pretended to undervalue.
It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of the
previous book that Arbaces and Ione sat together.
“You wear your veil at home," said the Egyptian;
"that is not fair to those whom you honor with your
friendship."
"But to Arbaces," answered Ione, who, indeed, had
cast the veil over her features to conceal eyes red with
weeping, "to Arbaces, who looks only to the mind,
what matters it that the face is concealed ?
ร
"I do look only to the mind," replied the Egyptan;
"show me then your face, for there I shall see it."
"You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii," said lone,
with a forced tone of gayety.
"This faith," said he, "is but a borrowed plagiarism,
from one of the many allegories invented by our priests of
old. Observe," he added, pointing to a hieroglyphical
scroll, observe, in these ancient figures, the origin of "Do you think, fair Ione, that it is only at Pompeii
the Christian's Trinity. Here are also three Gods, the that I have learned to value you?" The Egypti au's voice
Deity, -the Spirit, and the Son. Observe that the epi- trembled, he paused for a moment, and then resumed:
thet of the Son is Savior,' observe that the sign by "There is a love, beautiful Greek, which E not the
which his human qualities are denoted is the cross.* Note love only of the thoughtless and the young, there is a
here, too, the mystic history of Osiris, how he put on death | love which sees not with the eyes, which hears not with
how he lay in the grave, and how, thus fulfilling a sol- the ears; but in which soul is enamoured of soul. The
emn atonement, he rose again from the dead! In these countryman of thy ancestors, the cave-nursed Plato,
stories we but design to paint an allegory from the opera- dreamed of such a love, his followers have sought to
tions of nature, and the evolutions of the eternal heavens. imitate it; but it is a love that is not for the herd to echo,
But, the allegory unknown, the types themselves have fur-it is a love that only high and noble natures can con-
nished to credulous nations the materials of many creeds. ceive, it has nothing in common with the sympathies and
They have travelled to the vast plains of India; they have ties of coarse affection, wrinkles do not revolt it,
mixed themselves up in the visionary speculations of the homeliness of feature does not deter, it asks youth, it
Greek. Becoming more and more gross and imbodied as
is true,
but it asks it only in the freshness of the emo-
they emerge farther from the shadows of their antique ori- tions, it asks beauty, it is true, but it is the beauty of
gin, they have assumed a human and palpable form in this the thought, and of the spirit. Such is the love, O Ione,
novel faith; and the believers of Galilee are but the uncon- which is a worthy offering to thee, from the cold and the
scious repeaters of one of the superstitions of the Nile! austere. Austere and cold thou deemest me,
love that I venture to lay upon thy shrine,
receive it without a blush.”
This was the last argument which completely subdued
the priest. It was necessary to him, as to all, to believe
in something; and undivided, and at last unreluctant, he
surrendered himself to that belief which Arbaces inculcated,
and which all that was human in passion, all that was
flattering in vanity, all that was alluring in pleasure, -
served to invite to, and contributed to confirm.
This conquest thus easily made, the Egyptian could now
give himself wholly up to the pursuit of a far dearer and
mightier object; and he hailed in his success with the
brother an omen of his triumph over the sister.
—
the
such is the
thou canst
"And its name is friendship!" replied Ione; her an-
swer was innocent, yet it sounded like the reproof of one
conscious of the design of the speaker.
CC
"Friendship! " said Arbaces, vehemently; no, that
is a word too often profaned, to apply to a sentiment so
sacred. Friendship! it is a tie that binds fools and prof-
ligates! Friendship! it is the bond that unites the frivo-
lous hearts of a Glaucus and a Clodius! Friendship! no,
that is an affection of earth, of vulgar habits and sordid
sympathies: the feeling of which I speak is borrowed
from the stars;* it partakes of that mystic and ineffable
yearning which we feel when we gaze on them, it burns,
yet it purifies, it is the lamp of naptha in the alabaster
vase; glowing with fragrant odors, but shining only
through the purest vessels.
through the purest vessels. No, it is not love, and it is
not friendship, that Arbaces feels for Ione. Give it no
naine, earth has no name for it; it is not of earth,-
why debase it with earthly epithets and earthly associ
ations?"
He had seen Ione on the day following the revel we have
witnessed, and which was also the day after he had poison-
ed her mind against his rival. The next day and the next
he saw her also, and each time he laid himself out with
consummate art, partly to confirm her impression against
Glaucus, and principally to prepare her for the impressions
he desired her to receive. The proud Ione took care to
conceal the anguish she endured; and the pride of woman
has an hypocrisy which can deceive the most penetrating,
and shame the most astute. But Arbaces was no less cau-
tious not to recur to a subject which he felt it was the most Never before had Arbaces ventured so far, yet he felt his
politic to treat as of the lightest importance. He knew ground step by step; he knew that he uttered a language
tha by dwelling much upon the fault of a rival, you only which, if at this day of affected Platonism, would speak
give him dignity in the eyes of your mistress; the wisest unequivocally to the ears of beauty, was at that time strange
plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor bitterly to contemn: the and unfamiliar, to which no precise idea could be attached,
wisest plan is, to lower him by an indifference of tone, as from which he could imperceptibly advance or recede, as
if you could not dream that he could be loved. Your safe-occasion suited, -as hope encouraged, or fear deterred.
ty is a concealing the wound to your own pride, and im- Ione trembled, though she knew not why; her veil hid ber
perceptibly alarming that of the umpire, whose voice is features, and masked an expression which, if seen by he
tate! Such, in all times, will be the policy of one who Egyptian, would have at once damped and enraged him; in
nows the science of the sex, it was now the Egyp-fact, he never was more displeasing to her; the harmonious
tran's
modulation of the most suasive voice that ever disguised
unhallowed thought, fell discordantly on her ear. Fer
whole soul was still filled with the image of Glaucus; and
the accent of tenderness from another only revolted and
dismayed; yet she did not conceive that any passion more
ardent than that Platonism which Arbaces expressed, lorked
beneath his words. She thought that he in truth spoke only
of the affection and sympathy of the soul; but was it not
precisely that affection and that sympathy which had made
a part of those emotions she felt for Glaucus ? and could
any other footstep than his approach the haunted adytus of
her heart?
He recused no more then to the presumption of Glau-
cus: he mentioned his name, but not more often than that
of Clodius or of Lepidus. He affected to class them toge-
ther, as things of a low and ephemeral species; as things
wanting nothing of the butterfly save its innocence and its
grace. Sometimes he slightly alluded to some invented
debauch, in which he declared them companions: some-
times he reverted to them as the antipodes of those lofty
and spiritual natures to whose order that of Ione belonged.
Blinded alike by the pride of Ione, and perhaps by his
he dreamed not that she already loved; but he dread-
ed lest she might nave formed for Glaucus the first flutter-
The believer will draw from this vague coincidence a
very different corollary from that of the Egyptian.
own,
|
Anxious at once to change the conversation, she replied,
therefore, with a cold and indifferent voice, "Whomsoever
* Plato.
36
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Arbaces honors with the sentiments of esteem, it is natural
that his elevated wisdom should color that sentiment with
its own hues; it is natural that his friendship should be
purer than that of others, whose pursuits and errors he
does not deign to share. But tell me, Arbaces, hast thou
seen my brother of late? he has not visited me for several
days, and when I last saw him, his manner disturbed and
alarmed me much: I fear lest he was too precipitate in the
severe choice he has adopted, and that he repents an irre-
vocable step."
"Be cheered, Ione," replied the Egyptian; "it is true
that some little time since he was troubled and sad of spirit;
those doubts beset him which were likely to haunt one of
that fervent temperament which ever ebbs and flows, and
vibrates between excitement and exhaustion. But he, Ione,
he came to me in his anxieties and his distress; he sought
one who pitied and loved him. I have calmed his mind;
I have removed his doubts; I have taken him from the
threshold of wisdom into its temple; and before the majesty
of the goddess, his soul is hushed and soothed. Fear not,
he will repent no more; they who trust themselves to Ar-
baces never repent but for a moment.
"You rejoice me," answered Ione: "my dear brother!
in his contentment I am happy."
The conversation then turned upon lighter subjects; the
Egyptian exerted himself to please, he condescended even
to entertain; the vast variety of his knowledge enabled him
to adorn and light up every subject on which he touched;
and Ione, forgetting the displeasing effect of his former
words, was carried away, despite her sadness, by the magic
of his intellect. Her manner became unrestrained, and
her language fluent; and Arbaces, who had waited his op-
portunity, now hastened to seize it.
"You have never seen," said he, "the interior of my
home; it may amuse you to do so: it contains some rooms
that may explain to you what you have often asked me to
describe, the fashion of an Egyptian house; not, indeed,
that
you will perceive in the poor and minute proportions
of Roman architecture, the massive strength, the vast
space, the gigantic magnificence, or even the domestic con-
struction, of the palaces of Thebes and Memphis; but
something there is, here and there, that may serve to ex-
press to you some notion of that antique civilization which
has humanized the world. Devote, then, to the austere
friend of your youth, one of these bright summer evenings,
and let me boast that my gloomy mansion has been honored
with the presence of the admired Ione."
Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the
danger that awaited her, Ione readily assented to the pro-
posal: the next evening was fixed for the visit; and the
Egyptian, with a serene countenance and a heart beating
with fierce and unholy joy, departed. Scarce had be gone,
when another visiter claimed admission, -but now we
return to Glaucus.
CHAPTER V.
The poor tortoise. - New changes for Nydia.
THE morning sun shone over the small and odorous
garden inclosed within the peristyle of the house of the
Athenian. He lay reclined, sad and listlessly, on the
smooth grass which intersected the viridarium; and a
slight canopy stretched above broke the fierce rays of the
summer sun.
When that fairy mansion was first disinterred from the
earth, they found in the garden the shell of a tortoise that
had been its inmate.* That animal, so strange a link in
the creation, to whom Nature seems to have denied all the
pleasures of life, save life's passive and dreamlike percep-
tion, had been the guest of the place for years before
Glaucus purchased it; for years, indeed, which went be-
yond the memory of man, and to which tradition assigned
an almost incredible date. The house had been built and
rebuilt, its possessors had changed and fluctuated,
generations had flourished and decayed, and still the tor-
toise dragged on its slow and unsympathizing existence.
In the earthquake which, sixteen years before, had over-
*I do not know whether it be still preserved, (I hope so,) but
the shell of a tortoise was found in the house appropriated, in
in this work, to Glaucus.
thrown many of the public buildings of the city, ant
scared away the amazed inhabitants, the house now inimbe
ited by Glaucus had been terribly shattered. The posses-
sors deserted it for many days; on their return they cleared
away the ruins which encumbered the viridarium, and found
still the tortoise, unharmed and unconscious of the sur-
rounding destruction. It seemed to bear a charmed life in
its languid blood and imperceptible motions; yet was it
not so inactive as it seemed; it held a regular and monoto-
nous course: inch by inch it traversed the little orbit of its
domain, taking months to accomplish the whole gyration
It was a restless voyager, that tortoise ! patiently anc
with pain did it perform its self-appointed journeys,
evincing no interest in the things around it, -a philoso-
pher concentrated in itself! There was something grand
in its solitary selfishness! the sun in which it basked,
the waters poured daily over it,
the waters poured daily over it, the air which it insensi-
bly inhaled, --were its sole and unfailing luxuries. The
mild changes of the seasons in that lovely clime affected it
not. It covered itself with its shell, as the saint in his
piety,- -as the sage in his wisdom, -as the lover in his
hope.
It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time,
it was an emblem of time itself; slow, regular, ·
perpetual; unwitting of the passions that fret themselves
around, of the wear and tear of mortality. The poor
tortoise!-nothing less than the bursting of volcanoes, the
convulsions of the riven world, could have quenched its
sluggish spark! The inexorable death, that spared not
pomp or beauty, passed unheedingly by a thing to which
death could bring so insignificant a change.
For this animal the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all
the wonder and affection of contrast. He could spend
hours in surveying its creeping progress, in moralizing over
its mechanism. He despised it in joy, he envied it in
sorrow.
Regarding it now as he lay along the sward, its dull mass
moving while it seemed motionless, the Athenian murmured
to himself;
to
"The eagle dropped a stone from his talons, thinking to
break thy shell; the stone crushed the head of a poet.
This is the allegory of fate! dull thing! Thou hadst a
father and a mother; perhaps, ages ago, thou thyself hadst
a mate. Did thy parents love, or didst thou? Did thy
slow blood circulate more gladly when thou hast crept to
the side of thy wedded one? Wert thou capable of affec-
tion? Could it distress thee if she was away from thy
side? Couldst thou feel when she was present? What
would I not give to know the history of thy mailed breast,
to gaze upon the mechanism of thy faint desires,
mark what hair-breadth difference separates thy sorrow
from thy joy Yet, methinks, thou wouldst know if lone
were present! Thou wouldst feel her coming like a hap-
pier air, like a gladder sun. I envy thee now, for thou
knowest not that she is absent; and I, would I could be
like thee, between the intervals of seeing her! What
doubt, what presentiment haunts me. wny will she not
admit me? Days have passed since I heard her voice.
For the first time life grows flat to me. I am as one who
is left alone at a banquet, the lights dead and the flowers
faded. Ah! Ione, couldst thou dream how I adore thee !"
From these enamoured reveries Glaucus was interrupted
by the entrance of Nydia. She came with her light, though
cautious step, along the marble tablinum. She passed the
portico, and paused at the flowers which bordered the
garden. She had her water-vase in her hand, and she
sprinkled the thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at
her approach. She bent to inhale their odor. She touched
them timidly and caressingly. She felt along their stems,
any withered leaf or creeping insect marred their beauty
if
And as she hovered from flower to flower, with her earnest
and youthful countenance and graceful motions, you could
not have imagined a fitter handmaid for the goddess of the
garden.
Nydia, my child," said Glaucus.
M
At the sound of his voice she paused at once, listen-
ing, blushing, breathless; with her lips parted, her face
upturned to catch the direction of the sound, she laid
down the vase, she hastened to him, and wonderful it
was to see how unerringly she threaded her dark way
through the flowers, and came by the shortest path to the
side of her new lord.
Nydia," said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
37
and beautiful hair," it is now three days since thou hast
"it
been under the protection of my household gods. Have
they smiled on thee? Art thou happy?
"Ah! so happy!" sighed the slave.
"And now," continued Glaucus, "that thou hast re-
covered somewhat from the hateful recollections of thy for-
mer state; and now that they have fitted thee" (touching
her broidered tunic) "with garinents more meet for thy
delicate shape; and now, sweet child, that thou hast ac-
customed thyself to a happiness, which may the gods grant
thee ever, I am about to pray at thy hands a boon.”
"Oh! what can I do for thee ?" said Nydia, clasping
her hands.
"Listen," said Glaucus, "and young as thou art, thou
shalt be my confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of
Hast thou ever heard the name of
Lone?"
The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as
one of the statutes which shone upon them from the peri-
style, she answered, with an effort, and after a moment's
pause, -
"Yes, I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and
beautiful."
"Beautiful! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day!
Neapolis! nay, she is Greek by origin, Greece only
could furnish forth such shapes. Nydia,
Nydia, I love her!
"I thought so,” replied Nydia, calmly.
"I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send
thee to her. Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber,
thou wilt drink the music of her voice, thou wilt bask
in the sunny air of her presence !
"What! what! wilt thou then send me from thee?
"Thou wilt go to Ione," answered Glaucus, in a tone
that said, "What more canst thou desire ?"
Nydia burst into tears.
";
Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with
the soothing caresses of a brother.
"My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of the
happiness I bestow on thee. She is gentle, and kind, and
soft as the breeze of spring. She will be a sister to thy
youth; she will appreciate thy winning talents; she will
love thy simple graces as none other could, for they are
like her own. Weepest thou still? fond fool! I will
not force thee, sweet. Wilt thou not do for me this
kindness?"
"Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no
longer. I am calm.”
That is my own Nydia," continued Glaucus, kissing
her hand. "Go then to her if thou art disappointed in
her kindness, if I have deceived thee, return when thou
wilt! I do not give thee to another, I but lend. My home
ever be thy refuge, sweet oue. Ah! would it could shelter |
all the friendless and distressel; but, if my heart whispers
truly, I shall claim thee again soon, my child. My home
and Ione's will become the same, and thou shalt dwell
with both."
A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind
girl, but she wept no more, she was resigned.
"Go then, my Nydia, to Ione's house, they shall show
thee the way. Take her the fairest flowers thou canst
plack; the vase which contains them I will give thee; thou
must excuse its unworthiness. They shall take, too, with
thee the lute that I gave thee yesterday, and from which thou
knowest so well to awaken the charming spirit
Thou
shalt give her also this letter; in which, after a nandred
efforts, I have imbodied something of my thoughts. Let
thy ear catch every accent, every modulation of her voice,
modulation of her voice, |
and tell me, when we meet again, if its music should flatter
me or discourage It is now, Nydia, some days since I
have been admitted to Ione, there is something mysterious
in this exclusion. I am distracted with doubts and fears; |
learn, for thou art quick, and thy care for me will sharpen
tenfold thy acuteness: learn the cause of this unkindness;
speak of me as often as thou canst; let my name come
ever to thy lips; insinuate how I love rather than proclaim
it; watch if she sighs while thou speakest, if she answer
thee,
-or if she reprove, in what accents she reprove.
Be my friend, plead for me, and oh! how vastly wilt thou
overpay the little I have done for thee. Thou compre-
hendest, Nyaia, thou art yet a child: have I said more
than thou canst understand?”
"No."
* And thou wilt serve me? ?"
"Yes."
"Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and
I will give thee the vase I spake of; seek me in the cham-
ber of Leda pretty one, thou dost not grieve now.
"Glaucus, I am a slave; what business have I with
grief or joy?"
:
Sayest thou so! No, Nydia, be free. I give thee
freedom, enjoy it as thou wilt, and pardon me that
reckoned on thy desire to serve me.
"You are offended. Oh! I would not for that which
no freedom can give offend you, Glaucus; my guardian, my
saviour, my protector, forgive the poor blind girl! She
does not grieve even in leaving thee, if she can contribute
to thy happiness."
CL
May the gods bless this grateful heart," said Glaucus,
greatly moved; and unconscious of the fires be excited, he
repeatedly kissed her forehead.
Thou forgivest me, "said she, "and thou wilt talk no
more of freedom; my happiness is to be thy slave; thon
hast promised thou wilt not give me to another.”
"I have promised."
"And now, then, I will gather the flowers."
Silently Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus the costly
and jewelled vase, in which the flowers vied with each
other in hue and fragrance; tearlessly she received his
parting admonition. She paused for a moment when his
voice ceased,
she
she did not trust herself to reply,
sought his hand, she raised it to her lips, dropped her
veil over her face, and passed at once from his presence.
She paused again as she reached the threshold,
stretched her hands toward it and murmured,
she
“Three happy days,- days of unspeakable delight,
have I known since I passed thee, blessed threshold !
may peace dwell ever with thee when I am gone. And
now, my heart tears itself from thee, and the only sound it
utters bids me
die !"
CHAPTER VI.
The happy beauty and the blind slave.
A SLAVE entered the chamber of Ioue. A messenger
from Glaucus desired to be admitted.
Ione hesitated an instant.
She is blind, that messenger," said the slave; "she
will do her commission to none but thee.'
33
Base is that heart which does not respect affliction The
moment she heard the messenger was blind, Ione fe.t the
impossibility of returning a chilling reply. Glaucus had
chosen a herald that was indeed sacred, -a herald that
could not be denied.
"What can he want with me?—what message can be
send?" and the heart of Ione beat quick. The curtain
across the door was withdrawn, a soft and echoless step
fell upon the marble,and Nydia, led by one of the at-
tendants, entered with her precious gift.
She stood still a moment, as if listening for some sourd
that might direct her.
"Will the noble Ione," said she, in a soft and low
voice," deign to speak, that I may know whither to sleer
these benighted steps, and that I may lay my offerings at
her feet?"
“Fair child,” said Ione, touched, and soothingly, “give
not thyself the pain to cross these slippery floors, my at
tendant will bring to me what thou hast to present; aud
she motioned to the handmaid to take the vase.
"I may give them to none but thee," answered Nydia,
and guided by her ear, she walked slowly to the place
where Ione sat, and kneeling when she came before her,
proffered the vase.
Ione took it from her hand, and placed it on the table
at her side. She then raised her gently, and would have
seated her on the couch, but the girl modestly resisted.
"This with,
"I have not yet discharged my office," said she; and
she drew the letter of Glaucus from her vest.
perhaps, explain why he who sent me chose so unworthy a
messenger to Iane.”
The Greek took the letter with a hand, the trembling of
which Nydia at once felt and sighed to feel. With folded
arms and downeast looks, she stood before the proud and
stately form of Tone ;--no less proud, perhaps, in he atti-
tude of submission. Ione waved her hand, and the a.tend-
ants withdrew; she gazed again upon the form of the
38
BULWER'S NOVELS.
1
young slave in surprise and beautiful compassion; then her cheeks, she kissed the letter, she placed it n ker
retiring a little from her, she opened and read the follow-bosom; and turning to Nydia, who stood in the same
ing letter:
place, and in the same posture,
met,
A
:
"Glaucus to Ione sends more than he dares to utter. Is
Ione ill? thy slaves tell me 'No,' and that assurance com-
foris me.
Has Glaucus offended Ione?—ah! that ques-
tion I may not ask from them. For five days I have been
banished from thy presence. Has the sun shone? - I
know it not; has the sky smiled? it has had no smile
for me. My sun and my sky are Ione. Do I offend thee?
Am I too bold? Do I say that on the tablet which my
tongue has hesitated to breathe? Alas! it is in thine
absence that I feel most the spells by which thou hast sub-
dued me.
And absence, that deprives me of joy, brings
me courage. Thou wilt not see ine; thou hast banished
also the common flatterers that flock around thee. Canst
thou confound me with them? It is not possible! Thou
knowest too well that I am not of them, that their clay
is not mine. For even were I of the humblest mould, the
fragrance of the rose has penetrated me, and the spirit of
thy nature hath passed within me, to embalm, to sanctify,
to inspire. Have they slandered me to thee, Ione? Thou
wilt not believe them. Did the Delphic oracle itself tell
me thou wert unworthy, I would not believe it and am I
less incredulous than thou? I think of the last time we
of the song which I sang to thee, of the look that
thou gavest me in return. Disguise it as thou wilt, Ione,
there is something kindred between us, and our eyes ac-
knowledged it, though our lips were silent. Deign to see
me, to listen to me, and after that exclude me if thou wilt.
I meant not so soon to say I loved. But those words rush
to my heart, they will have way. Accept, then, my
homage and my vows. We met first at the shrine of Pallas;
shall we not meet before a softer and a more ancient altar?
"Beautiful! adored Ione! If my hot youth and my Athe-
nian blood have misguided and allured me, they have but
taught my wanderings to appreciate the rest, the haven
they have attained. I hang up my dripping robes on the
sea-god's shrine. I have escaped shipwreck. I have
Ione, deign to see me; thou art gentle to
strangers, wilt thou be less merciful to those of thine own
land? I await thy reply. Accept the flowers which I
send, their sweet breath has a language more eloquent
than words. They take from the sun the odors they re-
turn, they are the emblem of the love that receives and
repays tenfold,
the emblem of the heart that drank thy
rays, and owes to thee the germ of the treasures that it
proffers to thy smile. I send these by one that thou wilt
receive for her own sake, if not for mine. She, like us,
is a stranger; her father's ashes lie under brighter skies;
but less happy than we, she is blind and a slave. Foor
Nydia! I seek as much as possible to repair to her the
cruelties of Nature and of fate, in asking permission to
place her with thee. She is gentle, quick, and docile.
She is skilled in music and the song; and she is a very
Chloris to the flowers. She thinks, Ione, that thou wilt
love her; if thou dost not, send her back to me.
found THEE.
M
"Wilt thou sit, my child," said she, "while I write
an answer to this letter?"
CC
"You will answer it then?" said Nydia, coldly;
well, the slave that accompanied me will take back your
answer.
""
For you," said Ione, "stay with me, trust me,
your service shall be light."
Nydia bowed her head.
"What is your name, fair girl?"
They call me Nydia."
"Your country?"
"The land of Olympus, - Thessaly."
"Thou shalt be to me a friend," said Ione, caressingly
"as thou art already half a country-woman. Meanwhile,
I beseech thee, stand not on these cold and glassy marbles.
There! now thou art seated. I can leave thee for an
instant."
દઃ
"Ione to Glaucus greeting, - come to me, Glaucus,"
wrote Ione; come to me to-morrow, I may have been
unjust to thee; but I will tell thee, at least, the fault that
has been imputed to thy charge. Fear not, henceforth, the
Egyptian, fear none. Thou sayest thou hast expressed
too much, alas! in these hasty words I have already
done so, farewell!"
As Ione re-appeared with the letter, which she did not
dare to read after she had written,- (ah! common rash-
ness, common timidity of love!) Nydia started from
her seat.
"You have written to Glaucus ?"
"I have."
"And will he thank the messenger who gives to him thy
letter?"
Ione forgot that her companion was blind; she blushed
from the brow to the neck, and remained silent.
"the
"I mean this," added Nydia, in a calmer tone;
lightest word of coldness from thee will sadden him, the
lightest kindness will rejoice. If it be the first, let the
slave take back thine answer; if it be the last, let me,
I will return this evening.
"wouldst
"And why, Nydia, " asked Ione, evasively,
thou be the bearer of my letter?'
*
"It is so, then?" said Nydia. "Ah! how could it
be otherwise who could be unkind to Glaucus?"
My child," said Ione, a little more reservedly than
before, "thou speakest warınly,
"thou speakest warmly, Glaucus, then, is ami-
able in thine eyes ?"
"Noble Ione! Glaucus has been that to me which
neither fortune nor the gods have been, - a friend!"
-
The sadness mingled with dignity with which Nydia
uttered these simple words, affected the beautiful Ione;
she bent down and kissed her. "Thou art grateful, and
deservedly so; why should I blush to say that Glaucus is
worthy of thy gratitude? Go, my Nydia,—take to him
thyself this letter, but return again. If I am from
"One word more. Let me be bold, Ione. Why think-home when thou returnest, as this evening, perhaps, 1
est thou so highly of yon dark Egyptian? he hath not about
shall be, thy chamber shall be prepared next my own.
him the air of honest men. We Greeks learn mankind Nydia, I have no sister, wilt thou be one to me?"
from our cradle; we are not the less profound, in that we The Thessalian kissed the hand of lone, and then said,
affect no sombre mien; our lips smile, but our eyes are with some embarrassment,
grave, they observe, - they note, they study. Arba-
ces is not one to be credulously trusted: can it be that he
bath wronged me to thee? I think it, for I left him with
thee; thou sawest how my presence stung him; since then,
thou hast not admitted me. Believe nothing that he can
say to my disfavor; if thou dost, tell me so at once; for
this Ione owes to Glaucus. Farewell! This letter touches
thine hand; these characters meet thine eyes-shall they
be more blessed than he who is their author? Once more,
farewell!
It seemed to Ione, as she read this letter, as if a mist
had fallen from her eyes. What had been the supposed
offence of Glaucus? that he had not really loved! And
now, plainly, and in no dubious terms, he confessed that
love. From that moment his power was fully restored.
At every tender word in that letter, so full of romantic and
trustful passion, her heart smote her. And had she doubt-
ed his faith? and had she believed another? and bad she
not, at least, allowed to him the culprit's right to know his
crine,
to plead in his defence? — The tears rolled down
The Greek Florn.
55
"One favor, fair Ione, may I dare to ask it ?
"Thou canst not ask what I will not grant," replied
the Neapolitan.
They tell me," said Nydia, "that you are beautiful
beyond the loveliness of earth. Alas! I cannot see that
which gladdens the world! Wilt thou suffer me then to
pass my hand over thy face, that is my sole criterion of
beauty, and I usually guess aright?"
She did not wait for the answer of Ione, but as she
spoke, gently and slowly passed her hand over the bending
and hall-averted features of the Greek, features which but
one image in the world can yet depicture and recall, that
image is the mutilated but all wondrous statue in her native
city,
- her own Neapolis; that Parian face, before
which all the beauty of the Florentine Venus is poor and
earthly, that aspect so full of harmony, of youth,
of genius, of the soul, which modern speculators
have supposed the representation of Psyche. *
*The wonderful remains of the statue, called so in the Museo
Borbonico. The face, for sentiment and for feature, is the mos
beautiful of all which ancient sculpture has bequeathed to us.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
39
"Never till now?" repeated Nydia. "Art thou sure?'
"Sure, pretty one; but what is that to thee or to
us ?"
Nydia hesitated a moment, and then putting down the
flowers with which she had been charged, she called to th
slave who had accompanied her, and left the house withou
saying another word.
Not till she had got half way back to the house of Glau
cus did she break silence, and even then she only murmured
inly:
Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished perhaps, if she had not ventured there at present. But
brow, over the downy and damask cheek, over the she,
-over the she, poor mistress mine, hears nothing of that which
dimpled lip, the swanlike and whitest neck. "I know reaches us; the talk of the vestibulum reaches not to the
now that thou art beautiful," she said, "and I can picture | peristyle."
thee to my darkness, henceforth and for ever!"
When Nydia left her, Ione sank into a deep but delicious
reverie. Glaucus then loved her; he owned it,
yes, he
loved her. She drew forth again that dear confession;
she paused over every word; she kissed every line; she
did not ask why he had been maligned, she only felt as-
sured that he had been so. She wondered how she had
ever believed a syllable against him; she wondered how the
Egyptian had been enabled to exercise a power against
Glaucus; she felt a chill creep over her as she again
turned to his warning against Arbaces, and her secret fear
of that gloomy being darkened into awe. She was awa-
kened from these thoughts by her maidens, who came to
announce to her that the hour appointed to visit Arbaces
was arrived; she started, she had forgotten the promise.
Her first impression was to renounce it; her second was
to laugh at her own fears of her eldest surviving friend.
She hastened to add the usual ornaments to her dress, and The Thessalian groaned; she sank upon a seat in the
doubtful whether she should yet question the Egyptian more hall, and covered her face with her hands as if to collect
closely with respect to his accusation of Glaucus, or wheth-her thoughts. There is no time to be lost," thought she,
er she should wait till, without citing the authority, she starting up. She turned to the slave who had accompanied
should insinuate to Glaucus the accusation itself, she took
her way to the gloomy mansion of Arbaces.
CHAPTER VII.
Ione entrapped. The mouse tries to gnaw the net.
"O DEAREST Nydia!" exclaimed Glaucus, as he
read the letter of Ione, "whitest-robed messenger Liat
ever passed between earth and heaven! how, how shall I
thank thee?”
"I am rewarded," said the poor Thessalian.
To-morrow, to-morrow! how shall I while the hours
till then ?"
The enamoured Greek would not let Nydia escape him,
though she sought several times to leave the chamber; he
made her recite to him over and over again every syllable
of the brief conversation that had taken place between
her and Ione; a thousand times forgetting her misfortune,
e questioned her of the looks, of the countenance of his
beloved; and then quickly again excusing his fault, he
bade her re-commence the whole recital which had thus in-
terrupted. The hours thus painful to Nydia passed rapidly
and delightfully to him, and the twilight had already dark-
ened ere he once more dismissed her to Ione with a fresh
letter and with new flowers. Scarcely had she gone, than
Clodius and several of his gay companions broke in upon
him; they rallied him on his seclusion during the whole
day, and his absence from his customary haunts; they in-
vited him to accompany them to the various resorts in that
lively city, which night and day proffered diversity to
pleasure. Then, as now in the south, (for no land perhaps
losing more of greatness has retained more of custom,) it
was the delight of the Italians to assemble at the evening;
and under the porticoes of temples or the shade of the
groves that interspersed the streets, listening to music or
the recitals of some inventive tale-teller, they hailed the
rising moon with libations of wine and the melodies of
song. Glaucus was too happy to be unsocial; he longed
to cast off the exuberance of joy that oppressed him.
willingly accepted the proposal of his comrades, and laugh-
ingly they sallied out together down the populons and glit-
tering streets.
He
In the mean time Nydia once more gained the house of
Iene, who had long left it; she inquired indifferently whith-
er she had gone.
The answer arrested and appalled her.
"To the house of Arbaces, —of the Egyptian! Im-
possible!
35
"It is true, my little
replied to her question.
long.
>>
one," said the slave who had
"She has known the Egyptian
"Long! ye gods! yet Glaucus loves her!" murmured
Nydia to herself. "And has," asked she, aloud, "has she
often visited him before?
>>
"Never till now," answered the slave: "if all the ru-
mored scandal of Pompeii be true, it would be better,
"She does not dream, she cannot, of the dangers int
which she has plunged. Fool that I am! shall I save her
yes, for I love Glaucus better than myself."
When she arrived at the house of the Athenian, she
learned that he had gone out with a party of his friends, and
none knew whither. He probably would not be home be-
fore midnight.
her.
"Knowest thou," said she, "if Ioue has any relative,
any intimate friend at Pompeii ?
CC
Why, by Jupiter," answered the slave," art thou silly
enough to ask the question? Every one in Pompeii knows
that Ione has a brother who, young and rich, has been,
under the rose I speak, -so foolish as to become a priest
of Isis."
"A priest of Isis! O gods! His name ?"
Apæcides.
rr
"I know it all," muttered Nydia: "brother and sister
then are to be both victims! Apecides! yes, that was the
name I heard in
Ha! he well, then, knows the
peril that surrounds his sister. I will to him."
She sprang up at 'hat thought, and taking the staff which
always guided her steps, she hastened to the neighbouring
shrine of Isis. Till she had been under the guardianship
of the kindly Greek, that staff had sufficed to conduct the
poor blind girl from corner to corner of Pompeii. Every
street, every turning in the more frequented parts, was fa-
miliar to her; and as the inhabitants entertained a tender
and half-superstitious veneration for those subject to her
infirmity, the passengers had always given way to her timid
steps. Poor girl! she little dreamed that she should, ere
many days passed, find her blindness her protection, and a
guide far safer than the keenest eyes.
But since she had been under the roof of Glaucus he
had ordered a slave to accompany her always, and the
poor devil thus appointed, who was somewhat of the fat-
test, and who, after having twice performed the journey to
Ione's house, now saw himself condemned to a third excur-
sion (whither the gods only knew), hastened after her, de-
ploring his fate, and solemnly assuring Castor and Pollus
that he believed the blind girl had the talaria of Mercury
as well as the infirmity of Cupid.
Nydia, however, required but little of his assistance to
find her way to the popular temple of Isis; the space before
it was now deserted, and she won without obstacle to the
sacred rails.
"There is no one here," said the fat slave; "what dost
thou want, or whom? Knowest thou not that the priests do
not live in the temple ?"
“Call out,” said she impatiently: "night and day there
is always one flamen at least watching in the shrines of
Isis."
The slave called, no one appeared.
"Seest thou no one?
"No one."
"Thou mistakest; I hear a sigh: look again."
The slave, wondering and grumbling, cast round his
heavy eyes, and before one of the altars, whose remains
still crowd the narrow space, he beheld a form bending as
in meditation.
"I see a figure," said he, "and by the white garments
is a priest.'
i
"O flamen of Isis!" cried Nydia; "servant of the
most ancient, hear me !"
* Terence.
20
ང༔
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Who cat's?" said a low and melancholy voice.
"One who has no common tidings to impart to a mein-
ber of your body; I come to declare, and not to ask
oracles,"
"With whom wouldst thou confer? This is no hour for
thy conference; depart, disturb me not the night is sacred
so the gods, the day to men.
"Methinks I know thy voice; thou art he whom I seek;
yet I have heard thee speak but once before. Art thou not
the priest Apacides?"
"I am that man," replied the priest, emerging from the
altar and approaching the rail.
"Thou art? the gods be praised!" Waving her hand
to the slave, she bade him withdraw to a distance, and he,
who naturally imagined some superstition connected per-
haps with the safety of Ione, could alone lead her to the
temple, obeyed and seated himself on the ground at a little
distance. "Hush!" said she, speaking quick and low;
"art thou indeed Apæcides ?"
"If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my fea-
tures ?"
"I am blind," answered Nydia; "my eyes are in my
voice, and that recognises thee; yet swear that thou art he."
"By the gods I swear it, by my right hand, and by the
moon.
"Hush! speak low, bend near, —
bend near, give me thy hand;
- give me thy hand;
knowest thou Arbaces?-Hast thou laid flowers at the
feet of the dead? - Ah! thy hand is cold, hark yet!
hast thou taken the awful vow?"
"Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden ?"
said Apæcides, fearfully; "I know thee not; thine is
not the breast on which this head hath lain; I have never
seen thee before.”
"But thou hast heard my voice: no matter, those recol-
lections it should shame us both to recall. Listen, thou
hast a sister."
"Speak! speak! - what of her ?"
M
"Thou knowest the banquets of the dead, stranger; it
pleases thee, perhaps, to share them; would it please thee
to have thy sister a partaker, would it please thee that
Arbaces was her host ""
"O gods! he dare not! Girl, if thou mockest me,
tremble. I will tear thee limb from limb.'
"I speak the truth; and while I speak, Ione is in the
halls of Arbaces, for the first time his guest. Thou
knowest if there be peril in that first time! Farewell! I
have fulfilled my charge.
"Stay! stay!" cried the priest, passing his wan hand
over his brow; "if this be true, what, what can be done
to save her? They may not admit me. I know not all
the mazes of that intricate mansion. O Nemesis ! justly
O Nemesis justly
am I punished ! "
"I will dismiss yon slave; be thou my guide and com-
rade; I will lead thee to the private door of the house: I
will whisper to thee the word which admits. Take some
weapon, it may be needful.”
"Wait an instant," said Apæcides, retiring into one of
the cells that flank the temple, and re-appearing in a few
moments wrapped in a large cloak, which was then much
worn by all classes, and which concealed his sacred dress.
"Now," he said, grinding his teeth, "if Arbaces hath
dared to,
but he dare not! he dare not! Why should I
suspect him? Is he so base a villain?
Is he so base a villain? I will not think
I will not think
it; yet, sophist! dark bewilderer that he is. O gods, pro-
ect!-hush! are there gods? Yes, there is one goddess,
at least, whose voice I can command; and that is,
geance
Veo-
Muttering these disconnected thoughts, Apæcides, fol-
lowed by his silent and sightless companion, hastened
through the most solitary paths to the house of the Egyptian.
The slave, abruptly dismissed by Nydia, shrugged his
shoulders, muttered an adjuration, and, nothing loth, rolled
of to his cubiculum.
CHAPTER VIII.
The solitude and a loquy of the Egyptian.- His character
analyzed.
WE must go back a few hours in the progress of our
At the first gray dawn of the day, which Glaucus
story.
had already marked with white, the Egyptian was seated
sleepless and alone on the summit of the lofty and pyra
midal tower which flanked his house. A tall parapet
around it served as a wall, and conspired, with the height
of the edifice and the gloomy trees that girded the mansion,
to defy the prying eyes of curiosity or observation. A
table, on which lay a scroll filled with mystic figures, was
before him. On high the stars waxed dim and faint, and
the shades of night melted from the sterile mountain tops;
only above Vesuvius there rested a deep and massy cloud,
which for several days past had gathered darker and more
solid over its summit. The struggle of night and day was
more visible over the broad ocean, which stretched calm,
like a gigantic lake; and bounded by the circling shores
that, covered with vines and foliage, and gleaming here
and there with the white walls of sleeping cities, sloped to
the scarce rippling waves.
It was the hour, above all others, most sacred to the
daring and antique art of the Egyptian; the art which
would read our changeful destinies in the stars.
GC
J
per-
He had filled his scroll, he had noted the moment
and the sign; and leaning upon his hand, he had sur-
rendered himself to the thoughts which his calculation ex-
cited.
Again do the stars forewarn me! Some danger, then,
assuredly awaits me!" said he, slowly; some danger,
violent and sudden in its nature. The stars wear for me
the saine mocking menace which, if our chronicles do not
err, they once wore for Pyrrhus, for him, doomed to
strive for all things, to enjoy none;— restless, agitated,
fated, all attacking, nothing gaining; - battles without
fruit, laurels without triumph, fame without success; at
last made craven by his own superstitions, and slain like a
dog by a tile from the hand of an old woman! Verily,
the stars Aatter when they give me a type in this fool of
wȧr, when they promise to the ardor of my wisdom the
same results as to the madness of his ambition,
petual exercise,- -no certain goal, the Sisyphus task,
the mountain and the stone!--the stone, a gloomy image!
it reminds me that I am threatened with somewhat of the
same death as the Epirote. Let me look again.
• Be-
ware!' say the shining prophets, how thou passest under
ancient roofs, or besieged walls, or overhanging cliffs; a
stone, hurled from above, is charged by the curses of Des-
tiny against thee!'
tiny against thee!' And at no distant date from this
comes the peril; but I cannot of a certainty read the day
and hour. Well! if my glass runs low, the sands shall
sparkle to the last. Yet if I 'scape this peril, ay, if I
'scape, bright and clear as the moonlight track along
the waters glows the rest of my existence. I see honors,
happiness, success, shining upon every billow of the dark
gulf beneath which I must sink at last. What, then? with
such destinies beyond the peril, shall I succumb to the
peril? My soul whispers hope, it sweeps exultingly be-
yond the boding hour, it revels in the future, its own
courage is its fittest outen. If I were to perish so suddenly
and so soon, the shadow of death would darken over me,
and I should feel the icy presentiment of my doom. My
soul, that so smiles within me, would express in sadness
and in gloom, its forecast of the dreary Orcus It smiles,
it assures me of deliverance."
C
As he thus concluded his soliloquy, the Egyptian invol
untarily rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space of that
star-roofed floor, and, pausing at the parapet, looked
again upon the gray and melancholy heavens. The chills
of the faint dawn came refreshingly upon his brow, and
gradually his mind resumed its natural and collected calm.
He withdrew his gaze from the stars, as one after one they
receded into the depths of heaven, and his eyes fell over the
broad expanse below. Dim in the silenced port of the
city rose the masts of the galleys; along that mart of luxury
and of labor was stilled the mighty bum. No lights, save
here and there from before the columns of a temple or in
the porticoes of the voiceless forum, broke the wan and
fluctuating light of the struggling morn. From the heart
of the torpid city, so soon to vibrate with a thousand
passions, there caine no sound; the streams of life cir-
culated not; they lay locked and torpid under the ice of
sleep. From the huge space of the amphitheatre, with its
stony seats rising one above the other, coiled and round
as some slumbering monster, -rose a thin and ghastly
mist, which gathered darker and more dark over the scat
tered fage that gloomed in its vicinity. The city secmed
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
41
as, after the awful change of seventeen ages, it seems now
to the traveller, -a city of the dead.*
The ocean itself, that serene and tideless sca,lay
scarce less hushed, save that from its deep bosom came,
softened by the distance, a faint and regular murmur, like
the breathing of its sleep; and curving far, as with out-
stretched arins, into the green and beautiful land, it seemed
unconsciously to clasp to its breast the cities sloping to
its margin, Stabiae, and Herculaneum, and Pompeii,
those children and darlings of the deep.
'
"Ye slumber," said the Egyptian, as he scowled over
the cities, the boast and flower of Campania ; ye slum-
ber!- would it were the eternal repose of death! As ye
now, -jewels in the crown of empire, so once were the
cities of the Nile! Their greatness hath perished from
them, they sleep amid ruins, - their palaces and their
shrines are tombs, the serpent coils in the grass of their
streets, the lizard basks in their solitary halls. By that
mysterious law of nature which humbles one to exalt the
other, ye have thriven upon their ruins, thou, haughty
Rome, hast usurped the glories of Sesostris and Semira-
inis, thou art a robber, clothing thyself with their
spoils ! And these, slaves in thy triumph, that I
(the last son of forgotten monarchs) survey below, reser-
voirs of thine all-pervading power and luxury, I curse as I
behold! The time shall come when Egypt shall be aven-
ged when the barbarian's steed shall make his manger
in the golden house of Nero; and thou that hast sown the
wind with conquest, shalt reap the harvest in the whirl-
wind of desolation."
As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so fear-
fully fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen
never occurred to the dreams of painter or of poet.
The
morning light, which can pale so wanly even the young
cheek of beauty, gave his majestic and stately features
almost the colors of the grave, with the dark hair falling
massively around them, and the dark robes flowing long and
loose, and the arm outstretched from that lofty eminence,
and the glittering eyes, fierce with a savage gladness,
half prophet and half fiend!
before
of the
"Ho!" said he, aloud, "I have then another compan-
ion in these unworldly night-watches. The Witch of Vesu-
vius is abroad. What, doth she, too, as the credulous
imagine, - doth she, too, learn the lore of the great stars?
Hath she been uttering foul magic to the moon, or culling
(a's her pauses betoken) foul herbs from the venomous
marsh? Well, I must see this fellow-laborer. Whoever
strives to know, learns that no human lore is despicable.
Despicable only you,-ye sot and bloated things,―elaves
of luxury, sluggards in thought, who, cultivating noth-
ing but the barren sense, dream that its poor soil can pro-
duce alike the myrtle and the laurel. No, the wise only
can enjoy !to us only true luxury is given, when mind,
brain, invention, experience, thought, learning, imagina-
tion, all contribute like rivers to swell the seas of SENSE.
Ione ! "
nel.
As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his
thoughts sunk at once into a more deep and profound chan-
His steps paused, he took not his eyes from the
ground; once or twice he smiled joyously, and then as he
turned from his place of vigil, and sought his couch, he
muttered, "If death frowns so near, I will say at least
that I have lived, - Ione shall be mine.
-
The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate and
varied webs, in which even the mind that sat within it was
sometimes confused and perplexed. In him the son of a
fallen dynasty, the outcast of a sunken people, was that
spirit of discontented pride, which ever rankles in one of a
sterner mould, who feels himself inexorably shut from the
sphere in which his fathers shone, and to which nature as
well as birth no less entitled himself. This sentiment hath
no benevolence; it wars with society, it sees enemies in
mankind. But with this sentiment did not go its common
companion, poverty. Arbaces possessed wealth which
equalled that of most of the Roman nobles. And this ena.
bled him to gratify to the utmost the passions which had no
outlet in business or ambition. Travelling from clime to
clime, and beholding still Rome everywhere, he increased
both his hatred of society and his passion for pleasure. He
was in a vast prison, which, however, he could fill with the
ministers of luxury. He could not escape from the prison,
and his only object therefore was to give it the character of
the palace. The Egyptians, from the earliest time, were
devoted to the joys of sense; Arbaces inherited both their
appetite for sensuality and the glow of imagination which
struck light from its rottenness. But still, unsocial in his
He turned his gaze from the city and the ocean,
him lay the vineyards and meadows of the rich Campania.
The gate and walls, ancient, half Pelasgic,
city, seemed not to bound its extent. Villas and villages
stretched on every side up the ascent of Vesuvius, not
nearly then so steep or so lofty as at present. For as Rome
itself is built on an exhausted volcano, so in similar securi-pleasures as in his graver pursuits, and brooking neither
ty the inhabitants of the south tenanted the green and vine-
clad places around a volcano, whose fires they believed at
rest for ever. From the gate stretched the long Street of
Tombs, various in size and architecture, by which, on that
side, the city is yet approached. Above all rose the cloud-
capt summit of the dread mountain, with the shadows
now dark, now light, betraying the mossy caverns and ashy
rocks, which testified the past conflagrations, and might
have prophesied, but man is blind, that which was to
come !
Difficult was it then and there to guess the causes why
the tradition of the place wore so gloomy and stern a hue;
why, in those smiling plains, for miles around, -to Baie
and Misenum, the poets had imagined the entrance and
thresholds of their hell, their Acheron, and their fabled
Styx: why in those Phlegræ,† now laughing with the vine,
they placed the battles of the gods, and supposed the daring
Titans to have sought the victory of heaven, save indeed
that yet, in yon seared and blasted summit, fancy might
thian to read the characters of the Olympian thunderbolt.
But it was neither the rugged height of the still volcano,
nor the fertility of the sloping fields, nor the melancholy
avenue of tombs, nor the glittering villas of a polished and
luxurious people, that now arrested the eye of the Egyp-
tian. On one part of the landscape, the mountain of Vesu-
vius descended to the plain in a narrow and uncultivated
ridge, broken here and there by jagged crags and copses of
wild foliage. At the base of this lay a marshy and
unwholesome pool, long since dried, and the intent gaze of
Arbaces caught the outline of some living form moving by
the marshes, and stooping ever and anon as if to pluck its
rank produce.
* When Sir Walter Scott visited Pompeii with Sir William
Gell, almost his only remark was the exclamation, “The city
of the dead, the city of the dead!"
†Or Phlegræi campi; viz. scorched or burned fields.
VOL. II.
6
superior nor equal, he admitted few to his companionship
save the willing slaves of his profligacy. He was the sol-
itary lord of a crowded harem. But withal, he felt con-
demned to that satiety which is the constant curse of men
whose intellect is above their pursuits, and that which once
had been the impulse of passion froze down to the ordinance
of custom. From the disappointments of sense he sought
to raise himself by the cultivation of knowledge; but as it
was not his object to serve mankind, so he despised that
knowledge which is practical and useful.. His dark imagi-
nation loved to exercise itself in those more visionary and
obscure researches which are ever the most delightful to a
wayward and solitary mind, and to which he himself was
invited by the daring pride of bis disposition, and the mys-
terious traditions of his clime. Dismissing faith in the
confused creeds of the heathen world, he reposed the great-
est faith in the power of human wisdom. He did not know,
perhaps no one in that age distinctly did, the limits which
Nature imposes upon our discoveries. Seeing that the
higher we mount in knowledge the more wonders we be-
hold, he imagined that Nature not only worked miracles in
her ordinary course, but that she might, by the cabala of
some master-soul, be diverted from that course itself. Thus
he pursued science across her appointed boundaries, into
the land of perplexity and shadow. From the truths of
astronomy he wandered into astrologic fallacy. From the
secrets of chemistry he passed into the spectral labyrinth
of magic; and he who could be skeptical as to the power
of the gods, was credulously superstitious as to the power
of man.
The cultivation of magic, carried at that day to a singu
lar height among the would-be-wise, was especially eastern
in its origin; it was alien to the early philosophy of the
Greeks, nor had it been received by them with favor until
Ethanes, who accompanied the army of Xerxes, introduc-
ed among the simple credulities of Hellas the solemn super-
$2
BULWER'S NOVELS.
-
stitions of Zoroaster. Under the Roman emperors it had
Under the Roman emperors it had
become however naturalized at Rome, —a meet subject for
Juvenal's fiery wit. Intimately connected with magic was
the worship of Isis, and the Egyptian religion was the
means by which was extended the devotion to Egyptian
Sorcery. The theurgic or benevolent magic, the goetic, or
dark and evil necromancy, were alike in preeminent repute
during the first century of the Christian era; and the marvels
of Faustus are not comparable to those of Apollonius. (a)
Kings, courtiers, and sages, all trembled before the pro-
fessors of the dread science. And not the least remark
able of his tribe was the formidable and profound Arbaces.
His fame and his discoveries were known to all the cultiva-
tors of magic, they even survived himself; but it was not
by his real and worldly name that he was honored by the
sorcerer and the sage. He received from their homage a
more mystic appellation, and was long remembered in
Magna Grecia, and the eastern plains, by the name of
"Hermes, the lord of the Flaming Belt." His subtle
speculations and boasted attributes of wisdom, recorded in
various volumes, were among those tokens "of the curious
arts," which the Christian converts most joyfully yet most
fearfully burned at Ephesus, depriving posterity of the proofs
of the cunning of the fiend.
The conscience of Arbaces was solely of the intellect,
it was awed by no moral laws. If man imposed these
checks upon the herd, so he believed that man, by superior
wisdom, could raise himself above them. " If," he reason-
ed, "I have the genius to impose laws, have I not the
right to command my own creations? Still more, have I
not the right to control, to evade, to scorn, the fabrications
of yet meaner intellects than my own?" Thus, if he
were a villain, he justified his villany by what ought to
have made him virtuous, namely, the elevation of his ca-
pacities.
M
could not live in those burning climes, which he deemed of
right his own hereditary possession, and which now cower-
ed, supine and sunken, under the wings of the Roman
eagle. Rome herself was nateful to his indignant soul;
nor did he love to find his riches rivalled by the minions of
the court, and cast into comparative poverty by the mighty
magnificence of the court itself. The Campanian ci es
proffered to him all that his nature craved; the luxuries of
an unequalled clime. the imaginative refinements of a
voluptuous civilization. He was removed from the sight
of a superior wealth; he was without rivals to his riches;
he was free from the spies of a jealous court. As long as
he was rich, none pried into his conduct. He pursued the
dark tenor of his way undisturbed and secure.
M
1
It is the curse of sensualists never to love till the pleas-
ures of sense begin to pall, their ardent youth is frit-
tered away in countless desires; their hearts are exhausted.
So, ever chasing love, and taught by a restless imagination
to exaggerate, perhaps, its charms, the Egyptian had
spent all the glory of his years without attaining the object
of his desires. The beauty of to-morrow succeeded the
beauty of to-day, and the shadows bewildered him in his
pursuit of the substance. When, two years before the
present date, he beheld Ione, he saw, for the first time, one
whom he imagined he could love. He stood, then, upon
that bridge of life, from which man sees before him dis-
tinctly a wasted youth on the one side, and the darkness of
approaching age upon the other; a time in which we are
more than ever anxious, perhaps, to secure to us, ere it be
yet too late, whatever we have been taught to consider
necessary to the enjoyment of a life of which the brighter
half is gone.
With an earnestness and a patience which he had never
before commanded for his pleasures, Arbaces had devoted
himself to win the heart of Ione. It did not content him to
As all men have more or less the passion of power, in love, he desired to be loved. In this hope he had watched
Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his character. the expanding youth of the beautiful Neapolitan; and
It was not the passion of an external and brute authority. knowing the influence that the mind possesses over thos
He desired not the purple and the fasces, the insignia of who are taught to cultivate the mind, he had contributed
vulgar command. His pride, his contempt for Rome, willingly to form the genius and enlighten the intellect of
which made the world, (and whose haughty name he Ione, in the hope that she would be thus able to appreciate
regarded with the same disdain as that which Rome her- what he felt would be his best claim to her affections, viz.
self lavished upon the barbarian,) would never have per- a mind which, however criminal and perverted, was rich
mitted him to aspire to sway over others, for that would in its original elements of strength and grandeur. When
have rendered him at once the tool or creature of the em- he felt that mind to be acknowledged, he willingly allowed,
he
peror. He, the son of the great race of Rameses, nay, encouraged her, to mix among the idle votaries of
execute the orders of, and receive his power from, an- pleasure, in the belief that her soul, fitted for higher com-
other! The mere notion filled him with rage. But in re- mune, would miss the companionship of his own, and that
jecting an ambition that coveted nominal distinctions, he in comparison with others, she would learn to love himself.
but indulged the more in the ambition to rule the heart. He had forgot, that as the sunflower to the sun, so youth
Honoring mental power as the greatest of earthly gifts, turns to youth, until his jealousy of Glaucus suddenly ap-
he loved to feel that power palpably in himself, by extend-prized him of his error. From that moment, though, as
ing it over all whom he encountered. Thus had he ever
sought the young, thus had he ever fascinated and con-
trolled them. He loved to find subjects in men's souls,
to rule over an invisible and immaterial empire! — had he
been less sensual and less wealthy, he might have sought
to become the founder of a new religion: as it was, his
energies were checked by his pleasures. Besides, how-
ever, the vague love of this moral sway, (vanity so dear to
sages!) he was influenced by a singular and dreamlike
devotion to all that belonged to the mystic land his ances-
tors had swayed. Although he disbelieved in her deities,
he believed in the allegories they represented (or rather he
interpreted those allegories anew). He loved to keep
alive the worship of Egypt, because he thus maintained the
shadow and the recollection of her power. He therefore
loaded the altars of Osiris and of Isis with regal dona-
tions, and was ever anxious to dignify their priesthood by
new and wealthy converts. The vow taken, the priest
hood embraced,· be usually chose the comrades of his
pleasures from those whom he had made his victims, partly
because he thus secured to himself their secrecy, partly
because he thus yet more confirmed to himself his peculiar
power. Hence the motives of his conduct to Apæcides,
strengthened as these were, in that instance, by his pas-
sion for Ione.
$
He had seldom lived long in one place; but as he grew
older, he grew more wearied of the excitement of new
scenes, and he had sojourned among the delightful cities of
Campania for a period which surprised himself. In fact,
nis pride somewhat crippled his choice of residence. He
we have seen, he knew not the extent of his danger, a
fiercer and more tumultuous direction was given to a pas-
sion long controlled. Nothing kindles the fire of love like
a sprinkling of the anxieties of jealousy; it takes then a
wilder, a more resistless flame; it forgets its softness;
it ceases to be tender; it assumes something of the inten-
sity, of the ferocity of hate.
Arbaces resolved to lose upon cautious and perilous prep-
arations no longer time; he resolved to place an irrevoca
ble barrier between himself and his rivals; he resolved to
possess himself of the person of Ione: not that in his
present love, so long nursed and fed by hopes purer than
those of passion alone, he would have been contented with
that mere possession. He desired the heart, the soul, no
less than the beauty of Ione; but he imagined that once
separated by a daring crime from the rest of mankind,
once bound to Ione by a tie that slavery could not break,
she would be driven to concentre her thoughts in him,-
that his arts would complete his conquest, and that, accord.
ing to the true moral of the Roman and the Sabine, the
empire obtained by force would be cemented by gentier
means. This resolution was yet more confirmed in him by
his belief in the prophecies of the stars; they had long
foretold to him this year, and even the present month, as
the epoch of some dread disaster, menacing life itself. He
was driven to a certain and limited date. He resolved to
crowd, monarch-like, on his funeral pyre, all that his soul
held most dear. In his own words, if he were to die, ho
resolved to feel that he had lived, and that Ione should be
his own'
1
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER IX.
What becomes of Icne in the house of Arbaces.
signal of the wrath of the dread fọe.
The first
WHEN Ione entered the spacious hall of the Egyptian,
the same awe which had crept over her brother impressed
itself also upon her; there seemed to her, as to him,
something ominous and warning in the still and mournful
faces of those dread Theban monsters, whose majestic and
passionless features the marble so well portrayed:
"Their looks, with the reach of past ages, were wise,
And the soul of eternity thought in their eyes.”
The tall Ethiopian slave grinned as he admitted her, and
motioned her to proceed. Half way up the hall she was
met by Arbaces himself, in festive robes, which glittered
with jewels. Although it was broad day without, the man-
sion, according to the practice of the luxurious, was arti-
ficially darkened, and the lamps cast their still and odor-
giving light over the rich floors and ivory roofs.
"Beautiful Ione," said Arbaces, as he bent to touch her
hand; it is you that have eclipsed the day, it is your
eyes that light up the balls, it is your breath which fills
then with perfumes.
<
ed by draperies of silver and white, dhe Egyptian clapped
his hands, and as if by enchantment, a banquet rose from
a couch or throne, with a crimson canopy,
the floor;
ascended simultaneously at the feet of Ione; and at the
ble and soft inusic.
same instant, from behind the curtains, swelled the invisi-
Arbaces placed himself at the feet of Ione, and children,
young and beautiful as Loves, ministered to the feast.
The feast was done, the music sank into a low and
subdued strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beautiful
guest :-
>>
hast
its
"Hast thou never in this dark and uncertain world;
hast thou never aspired, my pupil, to look beyond,
thou never wished to put aside the veil of futurity, and
to behold on the shores of fate the shadowy images of
things to be? For it is not the past alone that has its
ghosts;
ghosts; each event to come has also its spectrum,
shade; when the hour arrives, life enters it, the shadow
becomes corporeal, and walks the world. Thus, in the
land beyond the grave, are ever two impalpable and spirit-
ual hosts, the things to come, the things that have been!
If by our wisdom we can penetrate that land, we see the
one as the other, and learn, as I have learned, not alone
the mysteries of the dead, but also the destiny of the liv-
"You must not talk to me thus," said Ione, smiling; ing.
you forget that your lore has sufficiently instructed my "As thou hast learned ! - can wisdom attain so far?"
mind, to render these graceful flatteries to my person un- "Wilt thou prove my knowledge, Ione, and behold the
welcome. It was you who taught me to disdain adulation: representation of thine own fate? It is a drama more
will you unteach your pupil?"
striking than those of Eschylus,
it is one I have pre-
There was something so frank and charming in the man-pared for thee, if thou wilt see the shadows perform their
ner of Ione, as she thus spoke, that the Egyptian was more
than ever enamoured, and more than ever disposed to
renew the offence he had committed; he however answered
quickly and gayly, and hastened to renew the conversation.
He led her through the various chambers of a house,
which seemed to contain to her eyes, unexperienced to
other splendor than the minute elegance of Campanian
cities, the treasures of the world.
In the walls were set pictures of inestimable art; the
lights shone over statues of the noblest age of Greece.
Cabinets of gems, each cabinet itself a gem, filled up the
interstices of the columns; the most precious woods lined
the thresholds and composed the doors; gold and jewels
seemed prodigalized all around. Sometimes they were
alone in these rooms, sometimes they passed through
silent rows of slaves, who, kneeling as she passed, proffered
to her offerings of bracelets, of chains, of gems, which the
Egyptian vainly entreated her to receive.
I have often heard," said she, wonderingly, " that you
were rich; but I never dreamed of the amount of your
wealth.”
"Would I could coin it all," replied the Egyptian,
"into one crown, which I might place upon that snowy
brow."
"Alas! the weight would crush me; I should be a sec-
ond Tarpeia," answered Ione, laughing.
"But thou dost not disdain riches, O Ione! They
know not what life is capable of, who are not wealthy.
Gold is the great magician of earth, it realizes our
dreams, it gives them the power of a god, there is a
grandeur, a sublimity in its possession: it is the mightiest,
yet the most obedient of our slaves."
part."
The Neapolitan trembled; she thought of Glaucus, and
sighed as well as trembled - were their destinies to be
united! Half incredulous, half believing, half awed, half
alarmed by the words of her strange host, she remained
for some moments silent, and then answered,
It may revolt, it may terrify, - the knowledge of the
future will, perhaps, only imbitter the present!
>>
"Not so, Jone; I have myself looked upon thy future
lot, and the ghosts of thy future bask in the gardens of
Elysium; amid the asphodel and the rose, they prepare
the garlands of thy sweet destiny; and the Fates, so harsh
to others, weave only for thee the web of happiness and
love. Wilt thou then come and behold thy doom, so that
thou mayst enjoy it beforehand?"
she
Again the heart of Ione murmured "Glaucus;
uttered a half audible assent; the Egyptian rose, and tak-
ing her by the hand, he led her across the banquet room,-
the curtains withdrew, as by magic hands, and the music
broke forth in a louder and gladder strain; they passed a
row of columns, on either side of which fountains cast
aloft their fragrant waters; they descended by broad and
easy steps into a garden. The eve had commenced; the
moon was already high in heaven; and those sweet flowers
that sleep by day, and fill, with ineffable odors, the airs of
night, were thickly scattered amid alleys cut through the
starlit foliage; or, gathered in baskets, lay like offerings
at the feet of the frequent statues that gleamed along their
path.
"Whither wouldst thou lead me, Arbaces ?" said Ione,
wonderingly.
"But yonder," said he, pointing to a small building
which stood at the end of the vista.
"It is a temple
consecrated to the Fates, - our rites require such holy
ground.”
They passed into a narrow hall, at the end of which
hung a sable curtain. Arbaces lifted it, Ione entered, and
found herself in total darkness.
The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Neapoli-
tan by his treasures and his eloquence; he sought to awa-
ken in her the desire to be mistress of what she surveyed;
he hoped that she would confuse the owner with the pos-
sessions, and that the charms of his wealth would be re-
flected on himself. Meanwhile Ione was secretly somewhat
uneasy at the gallantries which escaped from those lips, "Be not alarmed," said the Egyptian, "the light will
which, till lately, had seemed to disdain the common hom-rise instantly;" while he so spoke, a soft, and warm, and
age we pay to beauty. And with that delicate subtlety gradual light diffused itself around; as it spread over each
which woman alone possesses, she sought to ward off shafts object, Ione fancied that she was in an apartment of mod-
deliberately aimed, and to laugh or to talk away the mean- erate size, hung everywhere with black; a couch of the
ing from his warning language. Nothing in the world is same hue was beside her. In the centre of the room was
more pretty than that same species of defence; it is the a small altar, on which stood a tripod of bronze.
At one
charm of the African necromancer, who professed with a side, upon a lofty column of granite, was a colossal heat
feather to turn aside the winds.
of the blackest marble, which she perceived by the crown
of wheat-ears that encircled the brow, represented the great
Egyptian goddess. Arbaces stood before the altar; he had
laid his garland on the shrine, and seemed occupied with
pouring into the tripod the contents of a brazen vasc; sud-
denly from that tripod leaped into life a blue, quick, darte
Suddenly, as they stood in one hall which was surround-ing, irregular flame; the Egyptian drew back to the side
The Egyptian was intoxicated and subdued by her grace
even more than by her beauty; it was with difficulty that
he suppressed his emotions: alas! the feather was only
powerful against the summer breezes, it would be the
sport of the storm.
11
BULWER'S NOVELS.
—
me; it is impossible! Whom hast thou seen, whom
known? Oh, Jone! it is thy woman's invention, -- thy
woman's art that speaks; thou wouldst gain time: I have
surprised, I have terrified thee. Do with me as thou wilt,
say that thou lovest not me, but say not that thon
lovest another!"
of Ione, and muttered some words in a language unfamiliar, his fullest height; "dare not tell me that,- dare not mock
to her ear; the curtain at the back of the altar waved
tremulously to and fro; it parted slowly, and in the aper-
ture which was thus made, Ione beheld an indistinct and
pale landscape, which gradually grew brighter and clearer
as she gazed; at length, she discovered plainly trees, and
rivers, and meadows, and all the beautiful diversity of the
richest earth. At length, before the landscape a dim shad-
ow glided; it rested opposite to Ioue; slowly the same
charm seemed to operate upon it as over the rest of the
scene; it took form and shape, and, lo! in its feature and
in its form Ione beheld herself!
Then the scene behind the spectre faded away, and was
succeeded by the representation of a gorgeous palace; a
throne was raised in the centre of its hall, the dim
forms of slaves and guards were ranged around it, and
pale hand held over the throne the likeness of a diadem.
A new actor now appeared; he was clothed from head
o foot in a dark robe; you saw neither his face nor the
outline of his figure; he knelt at the feet of the shadowy
Ione, he clasped her hand, he pointed to the throne, as
If to invite her to ascend it.
"Shall the
The Neapolitan's heart beat violently.
shadow disclose itself?" whispered a voice beside her,
the voice of Arbaces. "Ah, yes!" answered Ione, softly.
Arbaces raised his hand, the spectre seemed to drop
the mantle that concealed its form, and Ione shricked;
it was Arbaces himself that thus knelt before her.
-
"This is indeed thy fate!" whispered again the Egyp-
tian's voice in her ear; "and thou art destined to be the
bride of Arbaces."
Ione started, the black curtain closed over the phan-
tasmagoria; and Arbaces himself, the real, the living
Arbaces, was at her feet
80
do
"Oh, Ione!" said he, passionately gazing upon her;
"listen to one who has long struggled vainly with his love.
I adore thee ! The Fates do not lie, thou art destined
to be mine; I have sought the world around, and found
none like thee. From my youth upward, I have sighed
for such as thou art. I have dreamed till I saw thee,
-I awake, and I behold thee. Turn not away from
me, Ione; think not of me as thou hast thought; I am not
that being, cold, insensate, and morose, — which I have
seemed to thee. Never woman had lover so devoted,
passionate as I will be to Ione. Do not struggle in my
clasp; see, I release thy hand. Take it from me, if thou
wilt; well, be it so! But do not reject me, Ione,
not rashly reject; judge of thy power over me, when thou
canst thus transform. I who never knelt to mortal being,
kneel to thee. I who have commanded fate, receive from
thee my own. Ione, tremble not; thou art my queen, my
goddess, be my bride! All the wishes thou canst form
shall be fulfilled. The ends of the earth shall minister to
thee, pomp, power, luxury, shall be thy slaves. Arba-
ces shall have no ambition, save the pride of obeying thee.
Ione, turn upon me those eyes, shed upon me thy smile.
Dark is my soul when thy face is hid from it; shine over
me, my sun, my heaven, my daylight! Ione, Ione, do not
reject my love! "
Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful
man, Ioue was not yet terrified; the respect of his lan-
guage, the softness of his voice, re-assured her; and in her
own purity she felt protection. But she was confused,
astonished; it was some moments before she could recover
the power of reply.
"Rise, Arbaces!" said she, at length; and she resigned
o him once more her hand, which she as quickly withdrew
again when she felt upon it the burning pressure of his lips:
"rise! and if thou art serious, if thy language be in earn-
28t,
"If!" said he, tenderly.
Well, then, listen to me: you have been my guardian,
my friend, my monitor; for this new character I was not
prepared. Think not," she added quickly, as she saw
his dark eyes glitter with the fierceness of his passion
"think not that I scorn, that I am not touched, that I am
not honored, by this homage; but say, canst thou hear me
calmly ?"
▸
Ay, though thy words were hightning, and could
blast me!"
"I love another!" said Ione, blushingly, but in a firm
*oice.
"By the gods, by hell!" shouted Arbaces, rising to
"Alas!" began Ione; and then, appalled before his
sudden and unlooked-for violence, she burst into tears.
she
Arbaces came nearer to her, his breath glowed fierce-
ly on her cheek; he wound his arms round her,
sprang from his embrace. In the struggle a tablet fell from
her bosom on the ground; Arbaces perceived and seized it,
it was the letter that morning received from Glaucus.
Ione sank upon the couch, half dead with terror.
Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing; the
Neapolitan did not dare to gaze upon him; she did not
see the deadly paleness that came over his countenance,
she marked not his writhing frown, nor the quivering of his
.lip, nor the convulsions that heaved his breast. He read
it to the end, and then, as the letter fell from his hand, he
said, in a voice of deceitful calmness,
"Is the writer of this the man thou lovest ?
Ione sobbed, but answered not.
66
Speak! he rather shrieked than said.
"It is, — it is."
"And his name, -
Glaucus ! "
it is written here, his name is
Ione, clasping her hands, looked round as for succor or
escape.
"Then hear me," said Arbaces, sinking his voice into
a whisper; "thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his
arms. What, thinkest thou Arbaces will brook a rival
such as this puny Greek! What, thinkest thou that he
bas watched the fruit ripen, to yield it to another! Pretty
fool, no! Thou art mine, all, only mine, and
thus, thus I seize and claim thee." As he spoke, he
caught Ione in his arms; and in that ferocious grasp was
all the energy, less of love than of revenge.
But to Ione despair gave supernatural strength; she
again tore herself from him, she rushed to that part of
the room by which she had entered, she half withdrew
the curtain, he seized her, again she broke away from
him, and fell exhausted, and with a loud shriek, at the
base of the column which supported the head of the Egyp
tian goddess. Arbaces paused for a moment, as to regain
his breath, and then once more darted upon his prey.
At that instant the curtain was rudely torn aside, the
Egyptian felt a fierce and strong grasp upon his shoulder.
He turned, he beheld before him the flashing eyes of
Glaucus, and the pale, worn, but menacing countenance
of Apæcides. "Ha!" he muttered, as he glared from
one to the other, "what fury hath sent ye hither?"
"Até," answered Glaucus; and he closed at once with
the Egyptian. Meanwhile Apæcides raised his sister,
now lifeless, from the ground; his strength, exhausted by
his long over-wrought mind, did not suffice to bear her
away, light and delicate though her shape he placed her,
therefore, on the couch, and stood over her with a bran-
dished knife, watching the contest between Glaucus and the
Egyptian, and ready to plunge his weapon in the bosom of
Arbaces, should he be victorious in the struggle. There
is, perhaps, nothing on earth so terrible as the naked and
unarmed contest of animal strength, no weapon but those
which nature supplies to rage. Both the antagonists were
now locked in each other's grasp, the hand of each seek-
ing the throat of the other, the face drawn back, the
fierce eyes flashing, the muscles strained, the veins
swelled, the lips apart, the teeth set; both were strang
beyond the ordinary power of men, both animated by re-
lentless wrath; they coiled, they wound around each other;
they rocked to and fro, they swayed from end to end of
their confined arena; they uttered cries of ire and re-
venge; they were now before the altar, now at the base
of the column where the struggle had commenced: they
drew back for breath, Arbaces leaning against the col-
umn, Glaucus a few paces apart.
"O, ancient goddess!" exclaimed Arbaces, clasping
the column, and raising his eyes towards the sacred image
it supported, "protect thy chosen, proclaim thy vengeance
against this thing of an upstart creed, who with sacrile.
gious violence profanes thy resting-place and assails thy
servant.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
•
As he spoke, the still and vast features of the goddess
seemed suddenly to glow with life; through the black mar-
ble, as through a transparent veil, flushed luminously a
crimson and burning hue, around the head played and
darted coruscations of livid lightning,
the eyes becaine
like bails of livid fire, and seemed fixed in withering and
intolerable wrath upon the countenance of the Greek.
Awed and appalled by this sudden and mystic answer to
the prayer of his foe, -and not free from the hereditary
superstitions of his race, the checks of Glaucus paled
before that strange and ghastly animation of the marble: his
knees knocked together, he stood, seized with a divine
panic, dismayed, aghast, half unmanned before his foe!
Arbaces gave hin not breathing time to recover his stupor:
"Die, wretch!" he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he
sprang upon the Greek; "the mighty mother claims thee as
a living sacrifice." Taken thus by surprise in the first
consternation of his superstitious fears, the Greek lost his
footing, the marble floor was as smooth as glass, he
slid,
he fell. Arbaces planted his foot on the breast of his
fallen foe. Apæcides, taught by his sacred profession, as
well as by his knowledge of Arbaces, to distrust all mirac-
ulous interpositions, had not shared the dismay of his com-
panion; he rushed forward, his knife gleamed in the air;
the watchful Egyptian caught his arm as it descended; one
wrench of his powerful hand tore the weapon from the
weak grasp of the priest; one sweeping blow stretched
him to the earth with a loud and exulting yell, Arbaces
brandished the knife on high. Glaucus gazed upon his
impending fate with unwinking eyes, and in the stern and
scornful resignation of a fallen gladiator; when, at that
awful instant, the floor shook under them with a rapid and
convulsive throe, -a mightier spirit than that of the Egyp-
tian was abroad!-a giant and crushing power, before
which sunk into sudden impotence his passion and his arts.
woke, it stirred, that dread demon of the earth-
quake, laughing to scoru alike the magic of human guile
and the malice of human wrath. As a Titan on whom the
mountains are piled, it roused itself from the sleep of
it moved on its dadal couch, the caverns be-
low groaned and trembled beneath the motion of its limbs.
years,
My C
-
In the moment of his vengeance and his power, the self
Far and
prized demigod was humbled to his real clay.
wide along the soil went a hoarse and rumbling sound, --
the curtains of the chamber shook as at the blast of a storm,
and high over
the altar rocked, the tripod reeled,
the place of contest the column trembled and waved from
side to side; the sable head of the goddess tottered and
fell from its pedestal; and as the Egyptian stooped above
his intended victim, right upon his bended form, right be
tween the shoulder and the neck, struck the marble mass!
The shock stretched him like the blow of death, at once
suddenly, without sound, or motion, or semblance of life,
upon the floor; apparently crushed by the very divinity he
had impiously animated and invoked!
"The earth has preserved her children," said Glaucus,
"Blessed be the dread convulsion!
staggering to his feet.
He assisted
Let us worship the providence of the gods!
Apecides to rise, and then turned upward the face of Ar-
baces; it seemed locked as in death, blood gushed from the
Egyptian's lips over his glittering robes; he fell heavily
from the arms of Glaucus, and the red stream trickled
slowly along the marble. Again the earth shook beneath
their feet, they were forced to cling to each other; the
convulsion ceased as suddenly as it came; they tarried no
longer; Glaucus bore Ione lightly in bis arms, and they
fled from the unhallowed spot. But scarce had they entered
the garden than they were met on all sides by flying and
disordered groups of women and slaves, whose festive and
glittering garments contrasted in mockery the solemn ter-
For of the hour; they did not appear to heed the strangers,
-they were occupied only with their own fears. After the
tranquillity of sixteen years, that burning and treacherous
soil again menaced destruction; they uttered but one cry,
"THE EARTHQUAKE! THE EARTHQUAKE!"
passing unmolested from the midst of them, Apæcides and
his companions, without entering the house, hastened down
one of the alleys, passed a small open gate, and there, sit-
ting on a little mound, over which gloomed the dark-green
aloes, the moonlight fell on the bended figure of the blind
girl, she was weeping bitterly
-
And,
NOTE TO BOOK II.
a) Page 42. "The marvels of Faustus are not comparable!
to those of Apollonius."
But the magicians of this sort were philosophers! excellent
men and pious; there were others of a far darker and deadlier
knowledge, the followers of the Goetic magic; in other words,
the black art. Both of these, the Goetic and the Theurgic, ap-
pear to be of Egyptian origin; and it is evident, at least, that
their practitioners appeared to pride themselves on drawing
their chief secrets from that ancient source; -and both are
intimately connected with astrology. In attributing to Arbaces
the knowledge and the repute of magic, as well as that of the
science of the stars, I am therefore perfectly in accordance with
the spirit of his time, and the circumstances of his birth. Ile
is a characteristic of that age. At one time, I purposed to have
developed and detailed, more than I have done, the pretensions
of Arbaces to the mastery of his art, and to have initiated the
render into the various sorceries of the period. But as the char-
acter of the Egyptian grew upon me, I felt that it was necessary
to be sparing of that machinery which, thanks to this five-shill-
During the earlier ages of the Christian epoch, the heathen
philosophy, especially of Pythagoras and of Plato, had become
debased and adulterated, not only by the wildest mysticism, but
the most chimerical dreams of magic. Pythagoras, indeed,
scarcely merited a nobler destiny, for though he was an exceed-
ingiy clever man, he was a most prodigious mountebank, and
was exactly formed to be the great father of a school of magi-
cians. Pythagoras himself either cultivated magic or arrogated
its attributes, and his followers told marvellous tales of his writ-
ing on the moon's disc, and appearing in several places at once.
His golden rules and his golden thigh were in especial veneration
in Magna Græcia, and out of his doctrines of occult numbers,
his followers extracted numbers of occult doctrines. The most
remarkable of the impostors who succeeded him, was Apol-
onius of Tyana, referred to in the text. All sorts of prodigies
accompanied the birth of this gentleman. Proteus, the Egyp-ings march of knowledge, every one now may fancy he can de-
tian god, foretold to his mother yet pregnant, that it was he him-
self (Protens) who was about to re-appear in the world through
her agency. After this, Proteus might well be considered to pós-
sess the power of transformation! Apollonius knew the lan-
guage of birds, read men's thoughts in their bosoms, and walk-
ed about with a familiar spirit. He was a devil of a fellow
with a devil, and induced a mob to stone a poor demon of ven-
erable and mendicant appearance, who, after the lapidary oper-
ation, changed into a huge dog. He raised the dead, passed a
night with Achilles, and when Domitian was murdered, he call-
ed ont aloud (though at Ephesus at the moment), "Strike the
tyrant!" The end of so honest and great a man was worthy
f his life. It would seem that he ascended into heaven.
What less could be expected of one who had stoned the devil!
ould any English writer meditate a new Faust, I recommend
him Avollonius.
tect. Such as he is, - Arbaces is become too much of an intel
lectual creation to demand a frequent repetition of the coarser
and more physical materia of terror. I suffered him, then,
merely to demonstrate his capacities in the elementary and ob-
vions secrets of his craft, and leave the subtler magic he pos
sesses to rest in mystery and shadow.
As to the Witch of Vesuvius (who will be introduced to the
reader hereafter) her spells and her filters, her cavern and its
appliances, however familiar to us of the North, are faithful
also to her time and nation. A witch of a lighter character,
and manners less ascetic, the learned reader will remember with
delight in the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius; and the reader who
is not learned is recommended to the spirited transiation of that
enchanting romance by Taylor.
BULWER'S NOVELS.
BOOK III.
Αλλά, Σελάνα,
Φαῖνε καλόν· τὶν γὰρ ποταείσομαι ἄσυχα, δαῖμον,
Τα χθονίᾳ θ' Εκάτα, τὰν καὶ σκύλακες τρομέοντι
Ερχομέναν νεκύων ανά τ' ηρία καὶ μέλαν αἷμα·
Χαίρ', Εκάτα δασπλῆτι, καὶ ἐς τελος ἄμμιν ὀπάδει,
Φάρμακα ταῦθ' ἔρδοισα χερείονα μήτε τι Κίρκης.
THEOCRITUS.
CHAPTER I.
S
e forum of the Pompeians; the first rude machinery by
which the new era of the world was wrought.
IT was early noon, and the forum was crowded, alike
with the busy and the idle. As at Paris at this day, so at
that time in the cities of Italy, men lived almost wholly
oat of doors, the public buildings, the forum, the
porticoes, - the baths, the temples themselves, might
be considered their real homes; it was no wonder that
they decorated so gorgeously these favorite places of resort,
they felt for them a sort of domestic affection as well as a
public pride. And animated was indeed the aspect of the
foruin of Pompeii at that time! Along its broad pavement,
composed of large flags of marble, were assembled various
groups conversing in that energetic fashion which appro-
priates a gesture to every word, and which is still the char-
acteristic of the people of the south. Here, in seven stalls
on one side the colonnade, sat the money-changers, with
their glittering heaps before them, and merchants and
seamen in various costumes crowding round their stalls.
On one side, several men in long togas * were seen bust-
Ling rapidly up to a stately edifice where the magistrates
administered justice, these were the lawyers, active,
chattering, joking, and punning, as you may find them at
this day in Westminster. In the centre of the space,
pedestals supported various statues, of which the most re-
markable was the stately form of Cicero. Around the
court ran a regular and symmetrical colonnade of Doric
architecture, and there several, whose business drew them
early to the place, were taking the slight morning repast
which made an Italian breakfast, talking vehemently on
the earthquake of the preceding night, as they dipped
pieces of bread in their cups of diluted wine. In the
open
space, too, you might perceive various petty traders exer-
cising the arts of their calling. Here one man was holding
out ribands to a fair dame from the country; another man
was vaunting to a stout farmer the excellence of his shoes;
a third, a kind of stall-restaurateur, still so common in the
Italian cities, was supplying many a hungry mouth with
hot messes from his small and itinerant stove. While,
contrast strongly typical of the mingled bustle and intellect
of the time, close by, a schoolmaster was expounding to
his puzzled pupils the elements of the Latin grammar.† A
gallery above the portico, which was ascended by sinall
wooden staircases, had also its throng, though, as here the
immediate business of the place was mainly carried on, its
groups wore a more quiet and serious air.
Every now and then the crowd below respectfully gave
way as some senator swept along to the temple of Jupiter,
(which filled up one side of the forum, and was the sena-
tors' hall of meeting,) nodding with ostentatious conde-
scension to such of his friends or clients as he distinguished
* For the lawyers and the clients, when attending on their
patrons, retained the toga, after it had fallen into disuse among
† In the museum at Naples is a picture little known, but
representing one side of the forum at Pompeii as then existing,
to which I am much indebted in the present description. It
may afford a learned consolation to my younger readers to
know that the ceremony of hoisting (more honored in the
breach than the observance) is of high antiquity, and seems to
have been performed with all legitimate and public vigor in the
forum of Pompeii.
the rest of the citizens.
among the throng. Mingling amid the gay dresses of the
better orders you saw the hardy forms of the neighbouring
farmers, as they made their way to the public granaries.
Hard by the temple you caught a view of the triumphal
arch and the lung street beyond swarming with inhabi-
tants; in one of the niches of the arch a fountain played,
cheerily sparkling in the sunbeams; and above its cor-
nice, strongly contrasting the gay summer skies, gloomed
the bronzed and equestrian statue of Caligula. Behind
the stalls of the money-changers was that building now
called the Pantheon, and a crowd of the poorer Pompeians
passed through the small vestibule which admitted to the
interior, with panniers under their arms, pressing on to-
wards a platform, placed between two columns, where such
provisions as the priests had rescued from sacrifice were
exposed for sale.
At one of the public edifices appropriated to the busi-
ness of the city, workmen were employed upon the columns,"
and you heard the noise of their labor every now and then
rising above the hum of the multitude:- -the columns are
unfinished to this day!
All, then, united, nothing could exceed in variety the
costumes, the ranks, the manners, the occupations of the
crowd; nothing could exceed the bustle, the gayety, the
animation, the flow and flush of life all around. You saw
there all the myriad signs of a heated and feverish civiliza-
tion; where pleasure and commerce, idleness and labor,
avarice and ambition, mingled in one gulf their motley,
rushing, yet harmonious streams.
Facing the steps of the temple of Jupiter, with folded
arms and a knit and contemptuous brow, stood a man of
about fifty years of age. His dress was remarkably plain,
not so much from its material as from the absence of all
those ornaments which were worn by the Pompeians of
every rank, partly from the love of show, partly also be-
cause they were chiefly wrought into those shapes deemed
most efficacious in resisting the assaults of magic, and the
influence of the evil eye. (a) His forehead was high and
bald, the few locks that remained at the back of the head
were concealed by a sort of cowl, which made a part of
his cloak, to be raised or lowered at pleasure, and was now
drawn halfway over the head as a protection from the rays
of the sun. The color of his garments was brown, no
popular hue with the Pompeians; all the usual admixtures
of scarlet or purple seemed carefully excluded. His belt,
or girdle, contained a small receptacle for ink, which
hooked on to the girdle, a stylus (or implement of writing)
and tablets of no ordinary size. What was rather remark-
able, the cincture held no purse, which was the almost
indispensable appurtenance of the girdle,- even when that
purse had the misfortune to be empty!
It was not often that the gay and egotistical Pompeians
busied themselves with observing the countenances and
actions of their neighbours; but there was that in the lip
and eye of this bystander so remarkably bitter and disdain-
ful, as he surveyed the religious procession sweeping up
the stairs of the temple, that it could not fail to arrest the
notice of many.
"Who is yon cynic?" asked a merchant of bis cum-
panion, a jeweller.
،،
"It is Olinthus," replied the jeweller, a repute
Nazarene."
The merchant shuddered. "A dread sect!" said he,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
47
in a whispered and fearful voice. "It is said that, when
they meet at nights, they always commence their ceremo-
nies by the murder of a new-born babe: they profess a
community of goods too, the wretches!-a community
a community
of goods! what would become of merchants or jewellers
either, if such notions were in fashion ?"
"That is very true," said the jeweller; "besides, they
besides, they
wear no jewels, they mutter imprecations when they see
a serpent, and at Pompeii all our ornaments are serpen-
tine.si
"Do bu observe," said a third, who was a fabricant of
brorze, yon Nazarene scowls at the piety of the
sacrificial gocession. He is murmuring curses on the
temple, be sure. Do you know, Celsinus, that this fellow,
passing by my shop the other day, and seeing me employed
on a statue of Minerva, told me with a frown, that, had it
been marble, he would have broken it; but the bronze was
too strong for him. 'Break a goddess!' said I. A
goddess! answered the atheist; it is a demon, an evil
spirit' Then he passed on his way, cursing. Are such
things be borne? What marvel that the earth heaved
so fearfully last night, anxious to reject the atheist from
her bosom. An atheist do I
An atheist do I say? Worse still,
Worse still, — a scorn-
er of the fine arts! Wo to us fabricants of bronze, if such
fellows as this give the law to society!
>
<
"These are the incendiaries that burnt Rome, under
Nero," groaned the jeweller.
While such were the friendly remarks provoked by the
air and faith of the Nazarene, Olinthus himself became
sensible of the effect he was producing; he turned his eyes
round, and observed the intent faces of the accumulating
throng, whispering as they gazed; and surveying them for
a moment with an expression, first of defiance and after-
ward of compassion, he gathered his cloak round him, and
passed on, muttering audibly, "Deluded idolaters! - did
not last night's convulsion warn ye? Alas! how will ye
meet the last day!"
The crowd that heard these boding words gave them
different interpretations, according to their different shades
of ignorance and of fear; all, however, concurred in imag-
ining them to convey some awful imprecation. They re-
garded the Christian as the enemy of mankind; the epi-
thets they lavished upon him, of which "atheist" was the
most favored and frequent, may serve, perhaps, to warn us,
believers of that same creed now triumphant, how we in-
dulge the persecution of opinion Olinthus then underwent,
and how we apply to those whose notions differ from our
own, the terms at that day prodigalized on the fathers of
our faith.
As Olinthus stalked through the crowd, and gained one
of the more private places of egress from the forum, he
perceived gazing upon him a pale and earnest countenance,
which he was not slow to recognise.
Wrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his sacred
robes, the young Apæcides surveyed the disciple of that new
and mysterious creed, to which at one time he had been
half a convert.
"Is he, too, an impostor? Does this man, so plain and
simple in life, in garb, in mien, does he too, like Arba-
ces, make austerity the robe of the sensualist? Does the
veil of Vesta hide the vices of the prostitute?
Olinthus, accustomed to men of all classes, and combin-
mg with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound experience
of his kind, guessed, perhaps by the index of the counte-
nance, something of what passed within the breast of the
priest. He met the survey of Apecides with a steady eye,
and a brow of serene and open candor.
"Peace be with thee!" said he, saluting Apæcides.
"Peace! "echoed the priest, in so hollow a tone that it
went at once to the heart of the Nazarene.
"In that wish," continued Olinthus, "all good things
are combined, without virtue thou canst not have peace.
Like the rainbow, peace rests upon the earth, but its arch
is lost in heaven! Heaven bathes it in hues of light, -
it springs up amid tears and clouds, it is a reflection of
the eternal sun, - it is an assurance of calm, it is the sign
of a great covenant between man and God. Such peace,
O young man! is the smile of the soul; it is an emanation
from the distant orb of immortal light. PEACE be with
you!"
"Alas!" began Apæcides, when he caught the gaze of
the curious loiterers, inquisitive to know what could pos-
sibly be the theme of conversation between a reputed Naz-
arene and a priest of Isis. He stopped short, and then
added in a low tone, "We cannot converse here; I will
follow thee to the banks of the river; there, is a walk which
at this time is usually deserted and solitary.
Olinthus bowed assent. He passed through the streets
with a hasty step, but a quick and observant eye. Every
now and then he exchanged a significant glance, a slight
sign, with some passenger, whose garb usually betokened
the wearer to belong to the humbler classes. For Christi-
anity was in this the type of all other and less mighty revo-
lutions, the grain of mustard-seed was in the hearts of
the lowly. Amid the huts of poverty and labor, the vast
stream which afterward poured its broad waters beside the
cities and palaces of earth, took its neglected source
CHAPTER II.
The noonday excu sion on the Campania seas.
"But tell me, Glaucus," said Ione, as they glided down
the rippling Sarnus in their boat of pleasure, "how
camest thou with Apæcides to my rescue from that bad
man ?"
"Ask Nydia yonder," answered the Athenian, point-
ing to the blind girl, who sat at a little distance from them,
leaning pensively over her lyre," she must have thy
thanks, not me. It seems that she came to my house, and
finding me from home, sought thy brother in his temple,
he accompanied her to Arbaces; on their way they encoun-
tered me, with a company of friends whom thy kind letter
gave me a spirit cheerful enough to join. Her quick ear
detected my voice, a few words sufficed to make me the
companion of Apæcides; I told not my associates why I
left them, could I trust thy name to their light_tongues
and gossiping opinions? Nydia led us to the garden gate,
by which, we afterward bore thee, - we entered, and were
about to plunge into the mysteries of that evil house, when
we heard thy cry in another direction. Thou knowest the
rest!"
Ione blushed deeply. She then raised her eyes to those
of Glaucus, and he felt all the thanks she could not utter.
“Come hither, my Nydia," said she, tenderly, to the Thes-
salian. "Did I not tell thee thou shouldst be my sister and
friend? Hast thou not already been more,
my guardian,
my preserver ! "
"It is nothing," answered Nydia, coldly, and without
stirring.
"Ah! I forgot," continued Ione, "I should come to
thee;" and she moved along the benches till she reached
the place where Nydia sat, and flinging her arms caress-
ingly round her, covered her cheeks with kisses.
Nydia was that morning paler than her wont, and her
countenance grew even more wan and colorless as she sub-
mitted to the embrace of the beautiful Neapolitan. "But
how camest thou, Nydia," whispered Ione," to surmise so
faithfully the danger I was exposed to? Didst thou know
aught of the Egyptian?"
CC
Yes, I knew of his vices."
"And how?”
"Noble Ione, I have been a slave to the vicious, those
whom I served were his minions."
"And thou hast entered his house, since thou knewest
so well that private entrance?"
"I have played on my lyre to Arbaces," answered the
Thessalian, with embarrassment.
"And thou hast escaped the contagion from which thou
hast saved Ione?" returned the Neapolitan, in a voice
too low for the ear of Glaucus.
"Noble Ione, I have neither beauty nor station; I am
a child, and a slave, and blind. The despicable are ever
safe."
It was with a pained, and proud, and indignant tone
that Nydia made this humble reply, and Ione felt that she
only wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She re-
mained silent, and the bark now floated into the sea.
Confess that I was right, Ione," said Glaucus, “*
pr railing on thee not to waste this beautiful noon in the
cl mber, confess that I was right."
Thou wert right, Glaucus," said Nydia, atruptly.
The dear child speaks for thee," returned the Athe
"But permit me to move opposite to thee, or ou
light boat will be overbalanced.'
nit a.
48
BULWER'S NOVELS.
So saying he took his seat exactly opposite to Ione, and
.eaning forward, he fancied that it was her breath, and
not the winds of suminer, that flung fragrance over the
sea.
"Thou wert to tell me," said Glaucus, " why, for so
many days, thy door was closed to me?"
૬
"Oh, think of it no more!" answered Ione, quickly;
gave my ear to what I now know was the malice of
slander."
"And my slanderer was the Egyptian?"
Ione's silence assented to the question.
"His motives are sufficiently obvious."
"Talk not of him," said Ione, covering her face with
her hands, as if to shut out his very thought.
"Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the slow
Styx," resumed Glaucus; "yet in that case we should
probably have heard of his death. Thy brother, methinks,
hath felt the dark influence of his gloomy soul. When we
arrived last night at my house, h left me abruptly. Will
he ever vouchsafe to be my frien !?"
"He is consumed with some secret care," answered
Ione, tearfully. "Would that we could lure him from
himself! Let us join in that tender office."
"He shall be my brother," returned the Greek.
"How calmly,'
"said Ione, rousing herself from the
gloom into which her thoughts of Apæcides had plunged
her,
"how calmly the clouds seem to repose in heaven;
and yet you tell me, for I knew it not myself, that the earth
shook beneath us last night."
"It did, and more violently, they say, than it has done
since the great convulsion sixteen years ago: the land we
live in yet nurses mysterious terror, and the reign of Pluto,
which spreads beneath our burning fields, seems rent with
Didst thou not feel the earthquake,
Nydia, where thou wert seated last night? and was it not
the fear it occasioned thee that made thee weep?"
unseen commotion.
"I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me like some
monstrous serpent," answered Nydia, "but as I saw noth-
ing I did not fear; I imagined the convulsion to be a speil
of the Egyptian's. They say he has power over the ele-
ments."
"Thou art a Thessalian. my Nydia," replied Glaucus,
"and hast a national right to believe in magic."
"Magic,
who doubts it?" answered Nydia, simply,
"dost thou ?
any
[1.
None knew whence the humbie wind store,
Poor sport or the skies, —
None dreamned that the wind had a soul.
In its mournful sighs !
III.
Oh! happy beam, how canst thou prove,
That bright love of thine?
In thy light is the proof of thy love,
Thou hast but to shine!
-
IV.
How its love can the wind reveal?
Unwelcome its sigh;
Mute, - mute; to its rose let it steal,
Its proof is,
to die!
"Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl," said Glaucus.
"thy youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of love; fat
other inspiration doth he wake, when he himself bursts
and brightens upon us.”
"I sing as I was taught," replied Nydia, sighing.
As
Thy master was love-crossed, then, try thy hand at
a gayer air. Nay, girl, give the instrument to me."
Nydia obeyed, her hand touched his, and, with that sligh
touch, her breast heaved, — her cheek flushed. Ione and
Glaucus, occupied with each other, perceived not those
signs of strange and premature emotions which preyed
upon a heart, that, nourished by imagination, dispensed
with hope.
―
And now, broad, blue, bright before them, spread that
halcyon sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen centuries
from that date, I behold it rippling on the same divinest
shores. Clime, that yet enervates with a soft and Cir-
cean spell, that moulds us insensibly, mysteriously into
harmony with thyself, banishing the thought of austerer
labor, the voices of wild ambition, the contests and the
roar of life; filling us with gentle and subduing dreams,
making necessary to our nature that which is its least
earthly portion, so that the very air inspires us with the
Whoever visits thee, seems
yearning and thirst of love!
to leave earth and its harsh cares behind,— to enter by the
The young and
ivory gate into the land of dreams.
laughing hours of the PRESENT, the hours, those chil-
dren of Saturn, which he hungers ever to devour, seem
snatched from his grasp. The past, the future, are
forgotten; we enjoy but the breathing time. Flower of
Italy of
the world's garden, fountain of delight,
other
Italy, beautiful, benign Campania !-vain were, indeed,
the Titans, if, on this spot, they yet struggled for another
heaven! Here, if God meant this working daylife for a
perpetual holyday, who would not sigh to dwell for ever,
"Until last night (when a necromantic prodigy did in-
deed appal ine) methinks I was not credulous in
magic save that of love!" said Glaucus, in a tremulous
voice, and fixing his eyes on Ione.
"Ah!" said Nydia, with a sort of shiver, and she
woke mechanically a few pleasing notes from her lyre; the
sound suited well the tranquillity of the waters, and the
sunny stillness of the noon.
Play to us, dear Nydia," said Glaucus, "play, and
give us one of thine old Thessalian songs; whether it be
of magic or not, as thou wilt, let it, at least, be of
love!
"Of love!" repeated Nydia, raising her large, wander-
ing eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them with a
mingled fear and pity; you could never familiarize yourself
to their aspect; so strange did it seem, that those dark,
wild orbs were ignorant of the day, and either so fixed
was their deep, mysterious gaze, or so restless and pertur-
bed their glance, that you felt, when you encountered them,
that same vague, and chilling, and half-preternatural im-
pression which comes over you in the presence of the in-
gane, of those who, having a life outwardly, like your
own, have a life within life, dissimilar,
dissimilar, unsearchable,
unguessed!
--
-
Will you that I should sing of love?" said she, fixing
those eyes upon Glaucus.
"Yes!" replied he, looking down.
She moved a little way from the arm of Ione, still cast
round her, as if that soft embrace embarrassed; and
placing her light and graceful instrument on her knee,
after a short prelude, she sang the following strain :-
NYDIA'S LOVE-SONG.
I.
The wind and the beam loved the rose,
And the rose loved one;
For who recks the wind where it blows?
Or loves not the sun?
asking nothing, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, while
thy skies shone over him, while thy seas sparkled at his
feet, while thine air brought him sweet messages from
the violet and the orange, and while the heart, resigned
to, beating with, but one emotion, could find the lips
and the eyes that flatter it (vanity of vanities !) that love
can defy custom, and be eternal ?
It was then in this clime, -on these seas, that the Athe
the spirit of the place; feeding his eyes on the changeful
nian gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph,
roses of that softest cheek, happy beyond the happiness of
common life, loving, and knowing himself beloved.
In the tale of human passion in past ages, there is some
thing of interest, even in the remoteness of the time. We
love to feel within us the bond which unites the most dis-
tant eras,
-men, nations, customs, perish; THE AFFEC-
TIONS ARE IMMORTAL! they are the sympathies which
unite the ceaseless generations. The past lives again, when
we look upon its emotions, it lives in our own! Tha
which was, ever is! The magician's gift, that revives the
dead, — that animates the dust of forgotten graves, is not
in the author's skill, it is in the heart of the reader!
-
Still vainly seeking the eyes of Ione, as half downcast,
half averted, they shunned his own, the Athenian, in a low
and soft voice, thus expressed the feelings inspired by hap-
pier thoughts than those which had colored the song o
Nydia.
THE SONG OF GLAUCUS
1.
As the bark floateth on o'er the summerlit sea,
Floats my heart o'er the deeps of its passions for thee,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
All lost in the space, without terror it glides,
For, bright with thy soul is the face of the tides.
Now heaving, now hushed, is that passionate ocean
As it catches thy smile or thy sighs;
And the twin-stars that shine on the wanderer's devotion,
Its guide and its god, are thine eyes!
II.
The bark inay go down, should the clond sweep above,
For its being is bound to the light of thy love.
As thy faith and thy smile are its life and its joy,
So thy frown or thy change are the storms that destroy.
Ah! sweeter to sink while the sky is serene,
If time hath a change for thy heart!
to live be to weep over what thou hast been,
Let me die while I know what thou art !
ly, "I have always imagined you under different forms,
and one likes to know one is right."
"And what hast thou imagined Glaucus to resembie?"
asked Jone, softly.
"Music!" replied Nydia, looking down.
Thou art right," thought Ione.
"I have
“And what likeness hast thou ascribed to Ione?"
"I cannot tell yet," answered the blind girl;
not yet known her long enough to find a shape and sign for
my guesses.
"I will tell thee, then," said Glaucus, passionately;
"she is like the sun that warms, like the wave that re-
freshes."
"The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave sometimes
drowns," answered Nydia.
"Take then these roses," said Glaucus, "let tir fra
"Alas, the roses will fade!" said the Neapolitan,
archly.
As the last words of the song trembled over the sea, Ione
raised her looks, they met those of her lover. Happy Ny-grance suggest to thee Ione.'
dia! — happy in thy affliction, that thou couldst not see that
fascinated and charmed gaze, that said so much, that
made the eye the voice of the soul, that promised the
impossibility of change!
But, though the Thessalian could not detect that gaze,
she divined its meaning by their silence, by their sighs.
She pressed her hands tightly across her breast, as if to
keep down its bitter and jealous thoughts; and then she
hastened to speak, for that silence was intolerable to
her.
–
"After all, O Glaucus!" said she, "there is nothing
very mirthful in your strain.'
Yet I meant it to be so, when I took up thy lyre,
pretty one. Perhaps happiness will not permit us to be
mirthful."
"How strange is it!" said Ione, changing a conversa-
tion that oppressed her while it charmed; that for the
last several days yonder cloud has hung motionless over
Vesuvins, yet not indeed motionless, for sometimes it
changes its form; and now methinks it looks like some
rast giant, with an arm outstretched over the city. Dost
thou see the likeness, or is it only to my fancy!"
"Fair Ione! I see it also. It is astonishingly distinct.
The giant seems seated on the brow of the mountain; the
different shades of the cloud body forth a white and
sweep-
ing robe over its vast breast and limbs; it seems to gaze
with a steady face upon the city below, to point with one
hand, as thou sayest, over its glittering streets, and to raise
the other (dost thou note it?) towards the higher heaven.
It is like the ghost of some huge Titan brooding over the
beautiful world he lost; sorrowful for the past,
yet with
something of menace for the future.”
"Could that mountain have any connexion with the
last night's earthquake? They say that ages ago, almost
in the earliest era of tradition, it gave forth fires as Ætna
still does. Perhaps the flames yet lurk and dart beneath."
"It is possible!" said Glaucus, musingly.
"Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic," said
Nydia, suddenly. "I have heard that a potent witch
dwells among the scorched caverns of the mountain, and
yon cloud may
be the dim shadow of the demon she con-
fers with."
"Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thessaly,"
said Glaucus, "and a strange mixture of sense and all-
conflicting superstitions."
"We are ever superstitious in the dark," replied Nydia.
"Tell me," she added, after a slight pause,
Glaucus ! do all that are beautiful resemble each other;
tell me,
they say you are beautiful, and Ione also. Are your faces
then the same? I fancy not, yet it ought to be so!
"Fancy no such grievous wrong to Ione," answered
But we do not, alas ! resemble each
Glaucus, laughing.
other as the homely and the beautiful sometimes do. Ione's
hair is dark, mine light; Ione's eyes are, what color,
Ione? I cannot see, turn them to me. Oh, are they black?
No, they are too soft. Are they blue? No, they are too
deep; they change with every ray of the sun, - I know
not their color; but mine, sweet Nydia, are gray, and
bright only when Ione shines on them. Ione's cheek is
>>
I do not understand one word of thy description,'
interrupted Nydia, peevishly. "I comprehend only that
you do not resemble each other, and I am glad of it."
"Why, Nydia?" said lone.
Nydia colored slightly. "Because," she replied, cold-
* In allusion to the Dioscuri, or twin-stars, the guardian deity
of the seaman,
VOL. 11
7
Thus conversing, they wore away the nours; the lovers
conscious only of the brightness and smiles of love, the
blind girl feeling only its darkness, its tortures; the
fierceness of jealousy and its wo!
-
And now, as they drifted on, Glaucus once more re-
sumed the lyre, and woke its strings with a careless hand
to a strain, so wildly and gladly beautiful, that even Nydia
was aroused from her reverie, and uttered a cry of admira-
tion.
"Thou seest, my child," cried Glaucus,
" cried Glaucus, "that I can
yet redeem the character of love's music, and that I was
wrong in saying happiness could not be gay. Listen,
Nydia! listen, dear Ione! and hear
THE BIRTH OF LOVE.*
I.
Like a star in the seas above,
M
Like a dream to the waves of sleep,
Up,- up, THE INCARNATE LOVE,
She rose from the charmed deep!
And over the Cyprian isle
The skies shed their silent smile;
And the forest's green heart was rife
With the stir of the gushing life,
The life that had leaped to birth,
In the veins of the happy earth !
Hail! oh, hail!
The dimmest sea-cave below thee,
The farthest sky-arch above,
In their innermost stillness know thec,
Hurrah for the birth of Love!
Gale soft gale!
Thou com'st on thy silver winglets,
From thy home in the tender west; †
Now fanning her golden ringlets,
Now hushed on her heaving breast.
And afar on the murmuring sand,
The seasons wait hand in hand
To welcome thee, birth divine,
To the earth, which is henceforth the
II.
Behold! how she kneels in the shell,
Bright pearl in its floating cell!
Behold! how the shell's rose-hues
The cheek and the breast of sno
And the delicate limbs suffuse
Like a blush, with a bashful glow.
Sailing on, slowly sailing
O'er the wild water;
All hail! us the fond light is hailing
Her daughter,
All hail !
We are thine, all thine evermore,
Not a leaf on the laughing shore,
Not a wave on the heaving sea,
Nor a single sigh
In the boundless sky,
But is vowed evermore to thee!
III.
And thou, my beloved one,
thou,
As I gaze on thy soft eyes now,
Methinks from their depths 1 view
The holy birth born anew j
* Suggested by a picture of Venus rising from the sa, taker
from Pompeii, and now in the museum at Naples.
According to the ancient mythologists, Venus rose from the
near Cyprus, to which island she was wafted by the
| Zephyrs. The Seasons waited to welcome her on the set-shore
sea
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Thy lids are the gentle cell
Where the young Love blushing lies,
See she breaks from the mystic shell,
She comes from thy tender eyes.
Hail! all hail!
She comes, as she came from the sea
To my soul as it looks on thee;
She comes, she comes!
She comes, as she came from the sea
To my soul as it looks on thee!
Hail! - all hail!
CHAPTER III.
The Congregation.
Olympus, is revealed to him who has eyes, heed then
and listen."
He
he
And with all the earnestness of a man believing ardently
himself, and zealous to convert, the Nazarene poured forth
to Apæcides the assurances of scriptural promise.
spoke first of the sufferings and miracles of Christ,
wept as he spoke; he turned next to the glories of the
Saviour's ascension, to the clear predictions of revela-
tion. He described that pure and unsensual heaven des-
tined to the virtuous, those fires and torments that were
the doom of guilt
The doubts which spring up to the mind of later reason-
ers, in the immensity of the sacrifice of God to man, were
not such as would occur to an early heathen. He had been
accustomed to believe that the gods had lived upon earth,
FOLLOWED by Apæcides, the Nazarene gained the side and taken upon themselves the forms of men; had shared
of the Sarnus;-that river, which now has shrunk into a
in human passions, in human labors, and in human mis-
petty stream, then rushed gayly into the sea, covered with fortunes. What was the travail of her own Alemæna's
countless vessels, and reflecting on its waves the gardens, son, whose altars now smoked with the incense of countless
the vines, the palaces, and the temples of Pompeii. From cities, but a toil for the human race? Had not the groat
its more noisy and frequented banks, Olinthus directed his Dorian Apollo expiated a mystic sin by descending to the
steps to a path which ran amid a shady vista of trees, at grave? Those who were the deities of heaven had been
the distance of a few paces from the river. This walk the lawgivers or benefactors on earth, and gratitude had
was in the evening a favorite resort of the Pompeians, but led to worship. It seemed, therefore, to the heathen, a
during the heat and business of the day was seldom visited, doctrine neither new nor strange, that Christ had been
save by some groups of playful children, some meditative sent from heaven, than an immortal had indued mortality,
poet, or some disputative philosophers. At the side far- and tasted the bitterness of death. And the end for which
thest from the river, frequent copses of box interspersed he thus toiled, and thus suffered, how far more glorious
the more delicate and evanescent foliage, and these were did it seem to Apæecides than that for which the deities of
cut into a thousand quaint shapes, sometimes into the forms old had visited the nether world, and passed through the
of fauns and satyrs, sometimes into the mimicry of Egyp-gates of death! Was it not worthy of a God to descend
tian pyramids, sometimes into the letters that composed to these dim valleys, in order to clear up the clouds gath-
the name of a popular or eminent citizen. Thus the false
Thus the false|ered over the dark mount beyond, to satisfy the doubts
Laste is equally ancient as the pure; and the retired traders of sages, to convert speculation into certainty, by ex-
of Hackney and Paddington, a century ago, were little ample, to point out the rules of life, by revelation, to solve
aware, perhaps, that in their tortured yews and sculptured the enigma of the grave, and to prove that the soul did
box, they found their models in the most polished period of not yearn in vain, when it dreamed of an immortality?
Roman antiquity, in the gardens of Pompeii and the villas In this last was the great argument of those lowly men
of the fastidious Pliny.
destined to convert the earth. As nothing is more flatter-
ing to the pride and hopes of man, than the belief in a
future state, so nothing could be more vague and confused
than the notions of the heathen sages upon that mystic
subject.
This walk now, as the noon-day sun shone perpendicu-
larly through the checkered leaves, was entirely deserted;
at least no other forms than those of Olinthus and the priest
infringed upon the solitude. They sat themselves on one
of the benches, placed at intervals between the trees, and
facing the faint breeze that came languidly from the river,
whose waves danced and sparkled before them; a sin-
gular and contrasted pair! the believer in the latest,
the priest of the most ancient, worship of the world!
"Since thou leftest me so abruptly," said Olinthus,
"hast thou been happy? Has thy heart found contentment
under these priestly robes? Hast thou, still yearning
for the voice of God, heard it whisper comfort to thee from
the oracles of Isis? That sigh, that averted countenance,
give me the answer my soul predicted.'
>>
"Alas!" answered Apæcides, sadly, "thou seest be-
fore thee a wretched and distracted man!
From my
J
—
Apæcides had already learned that the faith of the phi-
losophers was not that of the herd; that if they secretly
professed a creed in some diviner power, it was not the
creed which they thought it wise to impart to the com-
munity. He had already learned, that even the priest
ridiculed what he preached to the people, that the no-
tions of the few and the many were never united But, in
this new faith, it seemed to him that philosopher, priest,
and people, the expounders of the religion and its follow-
ers, were alike accordant: they did not speculate and de-
bate upon immortality, they spake of it as a thing certain
and assured; the magnificence of the promise dazzled him,
its consolations soothed. For the Christian faith made
its early converts among sinners! many of its fathers and
its martyrs were those who had felt the bitterness of vice,
and who were therefore no longer tempted by its false
aspect from the paths of an austere and uncompromising
virtue. All the assurances of this healing faith invited to
repentance, - they were peculiarly adapted to the bruised
and sore spirit; the very remorse which Apæcides felt for
his late excesses, made him incline to one who found hoЛi-
ness in that remorse, and who whispered of the joy in
childhood upward I have idolized the dreams of virtue; I
have envied the holiness of men who, in caves and lonely
temples, have been admitted to the companionship of
beings above the world; my days have been consumed
with feverish and vague desires; my nights with mocking
but solemn visions. Seduced by the mystic prophecies of
an impostor, I have indued these robes; - my nature,
(I confess it to thee frankly) — my nature has revolted at
what I have seen and been doomed to share in! Search-
ing after truth, I have become but the minister of false-heaven over one sinner that repenteth.
hoods. On the evening in which we last met, I was
buoyed by hopes, created by that same impostor whom I
ought already to have better known. I have, no mat-
ter, no matter ! suffice it, I have added perjury and
sin to rashness and to sorrow. The veil is now rent for
ever from my eyes, I behold a villain where I obeyed a
demi-god; the earth darkens in my sight, I am in the
deepest abyss of gloom; I know not if there be gods above,
if we are the things of chance, if beyond the bound-
ed and melancholy present, there is annihilation or a here-
after, tell inc, then, thy faith; solve me these doubts, if
thou hast indeed the power."
"I do not marvel," answered the Nazarene, "that thou
hast thus erred, or that thou art thus skeptic. Eighty
years ago, there was no assurance to man of God, or of a
certain and definite future beyond the grave. New laws
are declared to him who has ears, a heaven, a true
"Come," said the Nazarene, as he perceived the effect
he had produced, "come to the humble hall in which we
meet, a select and chosen few; listen there to our
prayers; note the sincerity of our repentant tears; mingle
in our simple sacrifice, not of victims, nor of garlands,
but offered by white-robed thoughts upon the altar of the
heart: the flowers that we lay there are imperishable,
they bloom over us when we are no more; nay, they ac-
company us beyond the grave, they spring up beneath our
feet in heaven, they delight us with an eternal odor, for
they are of the soul, they partake its nature; these ofer-
ings are temptations overcome, and sins repented. Come,
oh come! lose not another moment; prepare already for
the great, the awful journey, from darkness to light, from
sorrow to bliss, from corruption to immortality! This is
the day of the Lord the Son, a day that we have set apar.
for our devotions. Though we meet usually at night, yet
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
51
somne am.ng us are gathered together even now. What
joy, what triumph, will be with us all, if we can bring one
stray lamb into the sacred fold!"
There seemed to Apæcides, so naturally pure of heart,
something ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of
conversion which animated Olinthus, - a spirit that found
its own bliss in the happiness of others, that sought in
its wide sociality to make companions for eternity. He
was touched, softened, and subdued. He was not in that
mood which can bear to be left alone; curiosity, too,
mingled with his purer stimulants, he was anxious to
see those rites of which so many dark and contradictory
rumors were afloat. He paused a moment, looked over
his garl, thought of Arbaces, shuddered with horror, lifted
his eyes to the broad brow of the Nazarene, intent, anx-
ious, watchful, - but for his benefit, for his salvation! He
drew his cloak round him, so as wholly to conceal his
robes, and said, "Lead on, I follow thee."
Olinthus pressed his hand joyfully, and then descending
to the river-side, hailed one of the boats that plied there
constantly; they entered it; an awning overhead, while it
sheltered them from the sun, screened also their persons
from observation: they rapidly skimmed the wave. From
one of the boats that passed them, floated a soft music, and
its prow was decorated with flowers, it was gliding to-
ward the sea.
"So," said Olinthus, sadly, "unconscious and mirth-
ful in their delusions, sail the votaries of luxury into the
great ocean of storm and shipwreck; we pass them, silent
and unnoticed, to gain the land."
Apæcides, lifting his eyes, caught through the aperture
in the awning a glimpse of the face of one of the inmates
of that gay bark, it was the face of Ione. The lovers
were embarked on the excursion to which we have been
made present. The priest sighed, and once more sunk
back upon his seat. They reached the shore where, in
the suburbs, an alley of small and mean houses stretched
towards the bank; they dismissed the boat, landed, and
Olinthus, preceding the priest, thridded the labyrinth of
lanes, and arrived at last at the closed door of a habitation
somewhat larger than its neighbours. He knocked thrice,
the door was opened and closed again, as Apæcides fol-
lowed his guide across the threshold.
They passed a deserted atrium, and gained an inner
chamber of moderate size, which, when the door was
closed, received its only light from a small window cut
over the door itself. But, halting at the threshold of this
chamber, and knocking at the door, Olinthus said, "Peace
be with !
you a voice from within returned, "Peace
with whom?” “The faithful!" auswered Olinthus, and
the door opened; twelve or fourteen persons were sitting
in a semicircle, silent, and seemingly absorbed in thought,
and opposite to a crucifix rudely carved in wood.
55
They lifted up their eyes when Olinthus entered, with-
out speaking; the Nazarene himself, before he accosted
them, knelt suddenly down, and by his moving lips, and
his eyes fixed steadfastly on the crucifix, Apæcides saw
that he prayed inly. This rite performed, Olinthus turned
to the congregation, "Men and brethren," said he,
"start not to behokl among you a priest of Isis; he hath
sojourned with the blind, but the Spirit hath fallen on him,
he desires to see, to hear, and to understand.”
"Let him,” said one of the assembly, and Apæcides be-
held in the speaker a man still younger than himself, of a
countenance equally worn and pallid, of an eye which
equally spoke of the restless and fiery operations of a work-
ng mind.
""Let him," repeated a second voice, and he who thus
spoke was in the prime of manhood; his bronzed ekin and
Asiatic features bespoke him a son of Syria, -hehad been
a robber in his youth.
"Let him," said a third voice, and the priest, again
turning to regard the speaker, saw an old man with a long
gray beard, whom he recognised as a slave to the wealthy
Diomed.
“Let him,” repeated simultaneously the rest,-men who,
with two exceptions, were evidently of the inferior rank,
In these exceptions, Apæcides noted an officer of the guard,
and an Alexandrian merchant.
-
CC
"We do not," recommenced Olinthus, we do not
you to secrecy; we impose on you no oaths (as some
our weaker brethren would do) not to betrhy us. It is
fru indeed, that there is no absolute law against us; but
the multitude, more savage than their rulers, thirst for our
lives. So, my friends, when Pilate would have hesitated,
it was the people who shouted, Christ to the cross!' But
we bind you not to our safety, no! Betray us to the
crowd, impeach, calumniate, inalign us if you will:
we are above death, we should walk cheerfully to the den
of the lion, or the rack of the torturer, -we can trample
down the darkness of the grave, and what is death to a
criminal is eternity to the Christian.”
A low and applauding murmur ran through the assembly.
"Thou comest among us an examiner, mayst thou remain
a convert. Our religion? you behold it! Yon cross our
sole image, yon scroll the mysteries of our Care and Elea-
sis? Our morality it is in our lives! sinners we all
have been; who now can accuse us of a crime? We have
baptized ourselves from the past. Think not that this is of
us, it is of God. Approach, Medon," beckoning to the old
slave who had spoken third for the admission of Apæcides,
"thou art the sole inan among us who is not free. But in
Unfold your
heaven, the last shall be first; so with us.
scroll, read, and explain."
Useless would it be for us to accompany the lecture of
Medon, or the comments of the congregation. Familiar
now are those doctrines then strange and new. Eighteen
centuries have left us little to expound upon the lore of
Scripture or the life of Christ. To us, too, there would
seem little congenial in the doubts that occurred to a hea-
then priest, and little learned in the answers they received
from men, uneducated, rude, and simple, possessing only
the knowledge that they were greater than they seemed.
There was one thing that greatly touched the Neapoli-
tan; when the lecture was concluded, they heard a very
gentle knock at the door the pass-word was given, and
replied to; the door opened, and two young children, the
eldest of whom might have told its seventh year, entered
timidly; they were the children of the master of the house,
that dark and hardy Syrian, whose youth had been spent
in pillage and bloodshed. The eldest of the congregation
(it was that old slave) opened to them his arms; they fled
to the shelter, they crept to his breast, and his hard
features smiled as he caressed them. And then these bold
and fervent men, nursed in vicissitude, beaten by the rough
winds of life, men of mailed and impervious fortitude,
ready to affront a world, prepared for torment and armed
for death, men, who presented all imaginable contrast to
the weak nerves, the light hearts, the tender fragility of
childhood, crowded round the infants, smoothing their
rugged brows, and composing their bearded lips to kindly
and fostering smiles and then the old man opened the
scroll, and he taught the infants to repeat after him that
beautiful prayer which we still dedicate to the Lord, and
stil! teach to our children; and then he told them, in sim-
ple phrase, of God's love to the young, and how not a
sparrow falls but his eye sees it. This lovely custom of
infant initiation was long cherished by the early church, in
memory of the words which said, "Suffer the little ones
to come unto me, and forbid them not; " and was perhaps
the origin of the superstitious calumny which ascribed to
the Nazarenes the crime which the Nazarene when victor
ous attributed to the Jew, viz: the decoying children
hideous rites, to which they were secretly immolated.
M
M
And the stern paternal penitent seemed to feel in the in-
nocence of his children a return into early life, life ere
yet it sinned: he followed the motion of their young lips with
an earnest gaze; he smiled as they repeated, with hushed
and reverent looks, the holy words; and when the lesson
was done, and they ran, released, and gladly to his knen,
he clasped them to his breast, kissed them again and again,
and tears flowed fast down his cheek, tears of which it
would have been impossible to trace the source, so mingled
they were with joy and sorrow, penitence and hope, re-
morse for himself and love for them!
Something, I say, there was in this scene which pecu-
liarly affected Apicides; and, in truth, it is difficult to
conceive a ceremony more appropriate to the religion of
benevolence, more appealing to the household and every
day affections, striking a more sensitive chord in the
human breast.
It was at this time that an inner door opened gently.
and a very old man entered the chamber, leaning on a
staff. At
At his presence the whole congregation rose; there
was an expression of deep affectionate respect upon every
countenance; and Apæcides, gazing on his countenance
62
BULWER S NOVELS.
felt attracted towards him by an irresistible sympathy.
No man ever looked upon that face without love; for there
had dwelt the smile of the Deity, the incarnation of divinest
love; and the glory of the smile had never passed away!
My children, God be with you!" said the old man,
stretching out his arms; and as he spoke, the infants ran to
bis knee. He sat down, and they nestled fondly to his
bosom. It was beautiful to see! that mingling of the
extremes of life, the rivers gushing from their early
source, the majestic stream gliding to the ocean of eternity.
As the light of declining day seeins to mingle earth and
heaven, making the outline of each scarce visible, and
Lending the harsh mountain-tops with the sky; even so
gid the smile of that benign old age appear to hallow the
aspect of those around, to blend together the strong dis-
tinctions of varying years, and to diffuse over infancy and
manhood the light of that heaven into which it must so
soon vanish and be lost.
66
Father," said Clinthus, "thou on whose form the
miracle of the Redeemer worked; thou who wert snatched
from the grave to become the living witness of his mercy
and his power; behold! a stranger in our meeting, રી
new lamb gathered to the fold!"
-
"Let me bless him," said the old man; the throng gave
way. Apæcides approached him as by an instinet; he
fell on his knees before him, the old man laid his hand
-the old man laid his hand
on the priest's head, and blessed him, but not aloud.
As
his lips moved, his eyes were upturned, and tears, those
those
tears that good men only shed in the hope of happiness to
another, flowed fast down his checks.
The children were on either side of the convert; his
heart was as theirs, he had become as one of them,
to enter into the kingdom of heaven !
CHAPTER IV.
The stream of love runs on.
Whither?
DAYS are like years in the love of the young, when no
Dar, no obstacle is between their hearts, when the sun
shines, and the course runs smooth, when their love is
prosperous and confessed. Ione no longer concealed from
Glaucus the attachment she felt for him, and their talk was
now only of their love. Over the rapture of the present,
the hopes of the future glowed like the heaven above the
gardens of spring. They went in their trustful thoughts
far down the stream of time, they laid out the chart of their
destiny to come, they suffered the light of to-day to suf-
fuse the morrow. In the youth of their hearts, it seemed
as if care, and change, and death were as things unknown.
Perhaps they loved each other the more, because the con-
dition of the world left to Glaucus no aim and no wish but
love; because the distractions common in free states to
men's affection, existed not for the Athenian, because
hia country wooed him not to the bustle of civil life,
because ambition furnished no counterpoise to love and,
:
therefore, over their schemes and their projects, love only
reigned. In the iron age, they imagined themselves of the
golden, doomed only to live and to love.
To the superficial observer, who interests himself only
in characters strongly marked and broadly colored, both
the lovers may seem of too slight and commonplace a
mould: in the delineation of characters purposely subdued,
the reader sometimes imagines that there is a want of
character; perhaps, indeed, I wrong the real nature of
these two lovers, by not painting more impressively their
stronger individualities. But in dwelling so much on their
bright and bird-like existence, I am influenced almost in-
sensibly by the forethought of the changes that await them,
and for which they were so ill prepared. It was this very
softness and gayety of life that contrasted most strongly
the vicissitudes of the coming fate. For the oak, without
For the oak, without
fruit or blossom, whose hard and rugged heart is fitted for
the storm, there is less fear than for the delicate branches
of the myrtle, and the laughing clusters of the vine.
They had now entered far upon August, the next
month their marriage was fixed, and the threshold of
Glaucus was already wreathed with garlands; and nightly,
by the door of Ione, he poured forth the rich libations.
He existed no longer for his gay companions; he was ever
with Ione. In the mornings they beguiled the sun with
music; in the evenings they forsook the crowded haunts of
the gay for excursious on the water, or along the fertik
and Vine-clad plains that lay beneath the fatal mount o
Vesuvius. The earth shook no more; the lively Porn.
peians forgot even that there had gone forth so terrible a
warning of their approaching doon. Glaucus imaged
that convulsion, in the vanity of his heathen religion, an
especial interposition of the gods, less in behalf of his
own safety than that of Ione. He offered
He offered up the sacrifices
of gratitude at the temple of his faith; and even the altar
of Isis was covered with his votive garlands:
prodigy of the animated marble, he blushed at the effect it
had produced on him. He believed it, indeed, to have
been wrought by the magic of man; but the result con-
vinced him that it betokened not the anger of a goddess.
as to the
Of Arbaces, they heard only that he still lived; stretched
on the bed of suffering, he recovered slowly from the effect
of the shock he had sustained, he left the lovers unmo-
lested, but it was only to brood over the hour and the
method of revenge.
―
Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in
their evening excursions, Nylia was usually their constant,
and often their sole, companion. They did not guess the
secret fires which consumed her, the abrupt freedom
with which she mingled in their conversation;- her ca-
pricious, and often her peevish moods, found ready indul
gence in the recollection of the service they owed her, and
their compassion for her affliction. They felt, perhaps,
the greater and more affectionate interest for her, from the
very strangeness and waywardness of her nature, her sin-
gular alternations of passion and softness, the mixture
of ignorance and genius, of delicacy and rudeness,
of the quick humors of the child, and the proud calmness
of the woman. Although she refused to accept of freedom,
she was constantly suffered to be free; she went where she
listed; no curb was put either on her words or actions;
they felt for one so darkly fated, and so susceptible o.
every wound, the same pitying and compliant indulgence
the mother feels for a spoiled and sickly child;- dreading
to impose authority, even where they imagined it for her
benefit. She availed herself of this license, by refusing
the companionship of the slave whom they wished to at-
tend her. With the slender staff by which she guided her
steps, she went now, as in her former unprotected state,
along the populous streets; it was almost miraculous to
perceive how quickly and how dexterously she thridded
every crowd, avoided every danger, and could find her
benighted way through the most intricate windings of the
city. But her chief delight was still in visiting the few
feet of ground which made the garden of Glaucus,
tending the flowers that at least repaid her love.
times she entered the chamber where he sat, and sought a
conversation, which she nearly always broke off abruptly,
for conversation with Glaucus only tended to one sub-
ject, — Ione; and that name from his lips inflicted agony
upon her.
her. Often she bitterly repented the service she had
rendered to Ione; often she said inly, "If she had fallen,
Glaucus could have loved her no longer!" and then dark
and fearful thoughts crept into her breast.
in
Some-
She had not experienced fully the trials that were in
store for her when she had been thus generous. She had
never been present when Glaucus and lone were together;
she had never heard that voice, so kind to her, so much
softer to another. The shock that crushed her heart with
the tidings that Glaucus loved, had at first only saddened
and benumbed;-by degrees, jealousy took a wilder and
fiercer shape; it partook of hatred, it whispered re-
venge. As you see the wind only agitate the green leaf
upon the bough, while the leaf which has lain withered
and seared on the ground, bruised and trampled upon, til,
the sap and life are gone, is suddenly whirled aloft,
here, now there,
now
without stay, and without rest;
so the love which visits the happy and the hopeful, hath
but freshness on its wings; its violence is but sportive:
but the heart that hath fallen from the green things of life,
that is without hope, that hath no summer in its fibres, is
torn and whirled by the saune wind that but caresses 19
brethren; it hath no bough to cling to, it is dashrd
from path to path, till the winds fall, and it is crushed
into the mire for ever
The friendless childhood of Nydia had hardened prem
turely her character; perhaps the heated scenes of pre
gacy through which she had passed, seemingly unscard,
had ripened her passions, though they had not sulli her
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
53
curity. The orgies of Burbo might only have disgusted
the banquets of the Egyptian might only have terrified, at
the moment; but, perhaps, those winds of pollution left
seeds in the breast over which they passed so lightly. As
darkness too, favors the imagination, so perhaps her very
blindness contributed to feed with wild and delirious visions
the love of the unfortunate girl. The voice of Glaucus had
been the first that had sounded musically to her ear; his
kin.lness made a deep impression upon her mind: when
he had left Pompeii in the former year, she had treasured
up in her heart every word he had uttered; and when any
one told her, that this friend and patron of the poor flower
girl was the most brilliant and the most graceful of the
young revellers of Pompeii, she had felt a pleasing pride
in nursing his recollection. Even the task which she im-
posed upon herself, of tending his flowers, served to keep
him in her mind; she associated him with all that was
most charming to her impressions; and when she had
refused to express what image she fancied Ione to resemble,
it was partly, perhaps, that whatever was bright and soft
in nature, she had already combined with the thought of
Glaucus. If any of my readers ever loved at an age which
they would now smile to remember, -an age in which
fancy forestalled the reason, let then say whether that
love, among
all its strange and complicated delicacies, was
not above all other and later passions susceptible of jeal- |
ousy; I seek not here the cause; I know that it is com-
nonly the fact.
"Yes," replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with the
gems, "I am choosing a present for Ione; but there are
none worthy of her."
He was startled as he spoke by an abrupt gesture of
Nydia; she tore the chain violently from her neck, and
dashed it on the ground.
"How is this? What, Nydia, dost thou not like the
bauble ? Art thou offended?
"You treat me ever as a slave and as a child,” replied
the Thessalian, with a breast heaving with ill-suppressed
sobs, and she turned hastily away to the opposite corner of
the garden.
Glaucus did not attempt to follow or to soothe; he was
offended; he continued to examine the jewels and to com-
ment on their fashion, -to object to this and to praise that,
and finally to be talked by the merchant into buying al;
the safest plan for a lover, and one that any one will do
right to adopt, provided always that he can obtain an Ione!
When he had completed his purchase and dismissed the
jeweller, he retired into his chamber, dressed, mounted his
chariot, and went to loue. He thought no more of the
blind girl or her offence; he had forgotten both the one
and the other.
He spent the forenoon with his beautiful Neapolitan,
repaired thence to the baths, supped (if, as we have said
before, we can justly so translate the three o'clock cœna of
the Romans) alone, and abroad, for Pompeii had its restau-
rateurs: and returning home to change his dress ere he
again repaired to the house of Ione, he passed the peri-
style, but with the absorbed reverie and absent eyes of a
mau in love, and did not note the form of the poor blind
girl, bending exactly in the same place where he had left
her. But though he saw her not, her ear recognised at
once the sound of his step. She had been counting
the moments to his return. He had scarcely entered
his favorite chamber which opened on the peristyle, and
seated himself musingly on his couch, when he felt his
robe timorously touched, and turning, he beheld Nydia
kneeling before him, and holding up to him a handful of
flowers, a gentle and an appropriate peace-offering;·
her eyes, darkly upheld to his own, streamed with tears.
"I have offended thee," said she, sobbing, "and for the
first time. I would die rather than cause thee a moment's
pain, say that thou wilt forgive me. See! I have taken
the chain, I have put it on; I will never part with it, it
is thy gift."
When Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told
another year of life; that year, with its sorrows, its lone-
liness, its trials, had greatly developed her mind and heart;
and when the Athenian drew her unconsciously to his breast,
deeming her still in soul as in years, a child,-when he
kisse! her smooth cheek, and wound his arin round her
trembling frame, Nydia felt suddenly, and as by revelation,
that those feelings she had long and innocently cherished,
were of love. Doomed to be rescued from tyranny by
Glaacus,—doomed to take shelter under his roof,—doomed
to breathe, but for so brief a time, the same air, and doomed,
in the first rush of a thousand happy, grateful, delicious |
sentiments of an overflowing heart, to hear that he loved
another; to be commissioned to that other, the messenger,
the minister; to feel all at once that utter nothingness which
she was,
which she ever must be, but which, till then, |
her young mind had not taught her, that utter nothing-up
ness to him who was all to her; what wonder, that in ber
wild and passionate soul, all the elements jarred discordant ;
that if love reigned over the whole, it was not the love which
is born of the more sacred and soft emotions? Sometimes
she dreaded only lest Glaucus should discover her secret;
sometimes she felt indignant that it was not suspected; it “Do not ask!" said she, coloring violently; "I am a
was a sign of contempt, could he imagine that she pre-thing full of faults and humors; you know I am but a
sumed so far? Her feelings to Ione ebbed and flowed with
every hour; now she loved her because he did; now she
hated her for the same cause. There were moments when
she could have murdered her unconscious mistress; mo-
ments when she could have laid down life for her. These
fierce and tremulous alternations of passion were too severe
to be borne long. Her health gave way, though she felt it
not, her cheek paled, her step grew feebler,
came to her eyes more often, and relieved her less.
tears
One morning, when she repaired to her usual task in the
garden of the Athenian, she found Glaucus under the col-
umns of the peristyle, with a merchant of the town; he was
selecting jewels for his destined bride. He had already
fitted up her apartment; the jewels he bought that day
were placed also within it, they were never fated to grace
the fair form of Ione; they may be seen at this day among
the disinterred treasures of Pompeii, in the chambers of the
studio at Naples. *
Come hither, Nydia, put down thy vase, and come
hither. Thou must take this chain from me, stay,-
here, I have put it on. There, Servilius, does it not
become her?"
"Wonderfully! answered the jeweller, for jewellers
were well bred and flattering men, even at that day,
But when these ear-rings glitter in the ears of the noble
Jone, then, by Bacchus! you will see whether my art adds
any thing to beauty."
"Ione?" repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknowl-
edged by smiles and blushes the gift of Glaucus.
Several bracelets, chains, and jewels, were found in the
house.
|
CC
My dear Nydia," returned Glaucus, and raising her
he kissed her forehead, "think of it no more! But why,
my child, wert thou so suddenly angry? I could not
divine the cause!"
child, you say so often; is it from a child that you can
expect a reason for every folly ?"
if
But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more; and
you would have us treat you as a woman, you must learn
to govern these singular impulses and gales of passion.
Think not I chide; no, it is for your happiness only I
speak.”
"It is true," said Nydia, "I must learn to govern my-
self; I must hide, I must suppress my heart. This is a
woman's task and duty; methinks her virtue is hypocrisy
"Self-control is not deceit, my Nydia," returned the
Athenian," and that is the virtue necessary alike to man
and to womau; it is the true senatorial toga, the brage of
the dignity it covers.
Self-control, self-control! Well, well, what you say
is right! When I listen to you, Glaucus, my wildest
thoughts grow calm and sweet, and a delicious serenity
falls over me. Advise, ah! guide me ever, my preserver!"
"Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Nydia,
when thou hast learned to regulate its feelings."
"Ah! that will be never, sighed Nydia, wiping away
her tears.
،،
Say not so; the first effort is the only difficult one.
“I have made many first efforts," answered Nydia, in-
nocently. “But you, my mentor, do you find it so easy
to control yourself? Can you conceal,
regulate, your love for Ione ?”
can you even
Love, dear Nydia, ah that is quite another matter,”
answered the young preceptor.
"I thought so!" returned Nydia, with a melancholy
smile “Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers? Da
51
BULWER'S NOVELS
Mag
with them as thou wilt, thou canst give them to Ione if
thou wilt," added she, with a little hesitation.
Nay, Nydia," answered Glaucus, kindly, divining
something of jealousy in her language, though he imagined
it only the jealousy of a vain and susceptible child, "I
will not give thy pretty flowers to any one. Sit here and
weave them into a garland; I will wear it this night; it is
not the first those delicate fingers have woven for me."
The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She
drew from her girdle a ball of the many-colored threads,
pr rather slender ribands used in the weaving of garlands,
and which (for it was her professional occupation) she
carried constantly with her, and began quickly and grace-
fully to commence her task. Upon her young cheeks the
tears were already dried, a faint but happy smile played
round her lips; childlike indeed, she was sensible only
of the joy of the present hour: she was reconciled to Glau-
cus: he had forgiven her,- she was beside him, he
played caressingly with her silken hair, - his breath fan-
bed her cheek, Ione, the cruel Ione, was not by,
other demanded, divided, his care. Yes, she was happy
and forgetful; it was one of the few moments in her brief
and troubled life that it was sweet to treasure, to recall.
As the butterfly, allured by the winter sun, basks for a lit-
tle while in the sudden light, ere yet the wind awakes and
the frost comes on, which shall blast it before the eve,
none
she rested beneath a beam which, by contrast with the
wonted skies, was not chilling; and the instinct which
should have warned her of its briefness, bade her only
gladden in its smile.
"Thou hast beautiful locks," said Glaucus. "They
were once, I ween well, a mother's delight."
Nydia sighed; it would seem that she had not been
born a slave; but she ever shunned the mention of her
parentage, and whether obscure or noble, certain it is that
her birth was never known by her benefactors, or by any one
in those distant shores, even to the last. The child of sor-
row and of mystery, she came and went as some bird that
enters our chamber for a moment; we see it flutter while
before us, we know not whence it flew or to what region
it escapes.
Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answer-
ing the remark, said :
"But do I weave too many roses in thy wreath, Glau-
cus? they tell me it is thy favorite flower.'
,5
"And ever favored, my Nydia, be it by those who have
the soul of poetry,
it is the flower of love, of festivals
it is also the flower we dedicate to silence and to death;
it blooms on our brows in life, while life be worth the hav-
ing; it is scattered above our sepulchre when we are no
niore."
"Ah! would," said Nydia, “instead of this perisha-
ble wreath, that I could take thy web from the hand of the
Fates, and insert the roses there!
CC
!
Pretty one thy wish is worthy of a voice so attuned
to song; it is uttered in the spirit of song, and, whatever
my doom, I thank thee."
"Whatever thy doom! is it not already destined to all
things bright and fair? My wish was vain. The Fates
will be as tender to thee as I should."
"It might not be so, Nydia, were it not for love!
While youth lasts, I may forget my country for a while.
But what Athenian, in his graver. manhood, can think of
Athens as she was, and be contented that he is happy,while
she is fallen, fallen and for ever.
"And why for ever?"
"If such a day could come, " said Glaucus catching
the enthusiasm of the blind Thessalian, and half ising,
"but no! the sun has set, and the night only ids us be
forgetful; and in forgetfulness be gay;-weave stil
the roses!"
1
But it was with a melancholy tone of forced gayety that
the Athenian uttered the last words, and sinking into a
gloomy reverie, he was only wakened from it, a few min.
utes afterward, by the voice of Nydia, as she sang in a low
tone the following words, which he had once taught her.
THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE
.
Who will assume the bays
That the hero wore?
Wreaths on the tomb of days
Gone evermore !
Who shall disturb the brave,
Or one leaf on their holy grave?
The laurel is vowed to them,
Leave the bay on its sacred stem!
But this, the rose, the fading rose,
Alike for slave and freeman grows!
II.
If memory sits beside the dead,
With tombs her only treasure;
If hope is lost and freedom fled,
The more excuse for pleasure.
Come weave the wreath, the roses weave,
Thy rose at least is ours;
To feeble hearts our fathers leave,
In pitying scorn the flowers!
III.
On the summit worn and hoary,
Of Phyle's solemn hill,
The tramp of the brave is still!
And still in the saddening mart,
The pulse of that mighty heart.
Whose very blood was glory!
Glaucopis forsakes her own,
The angry gods forget us,
But yet the blue streams along,
Walk the feet of the silver song.
And the night-bird wakes the moon,
And the bees in the blushing noon
Haunt the heart of the old Hymettus'
We are fallen, but not forlorn,
If something is left to cherish;
As love was the earliest born,
So love is the last to perish.
IV.
Wreath then the roses, wreath !.
THE BEAUTIFUL still is ours,
While the stream shall flow, and the sky shall glow
THE BEAUTIFUL still is ours!
Whatever is fair, or soft, or bright,
of Greece,
In the lap of day or the arms of night,
Whispers our soul of Greece,
And hushes our care with a voice of peace.
Wreath then the roses, wreath!
They tell me of earlier hours,
And I hear the heart of my country breathe
From the lips of the stranger's flowers.
CHAPTER V.
Nydia encounters Julia. --Interview of the heathen sister and
converted brother. - An Athenian's notion of Christianity.
"WHAT happiness to Ione! what bliss, to be ever by
the side of Glaucus, to hear his voice, and she too can
see him!
"As ashes cannot be rekindled, as love once dead
never can revive, so freedom departed from a people is Such was the soliloquy of the blind girl, as she walked
never regained. But talk we not of these matters unsuit-alone and at twilight to the house of her new mistress,
ed to thee ?"
whither Glaucus had already preceded her. Suddenly
she was interrupted in her fond thoughts by a female
voice,
"To me? oh thou errest. I, too, have my sighs for
Greece; my cradle was rocked at the feet of Olympus: the
gods have left the mountain, but their traces may be seen, "Blind flower-girl, whither goest thou? There is no pan-
-seen in the hearts of their worshippers, seen in the beau-nier under thine arm; hast thou sold all thy flowers?
ty of their clime; they tell me it is beautiful, and I have felt
its airs, to which even these are harsh, its sun, to which
these skies are chill. Oh! talk to me of Greece! Poor
fool that I am, I can comprehend thee! and methinks, had
I yet lingered on those shores, had I been a Grecian maid,
whose happy fate it was to love and to be loved, I myself
could have armed my lover for another Marathon, a new
Plata. Yes, the hand that now weaves the roses should
have waven thee the olive crown!'
The person thus accosting Nydia was a lady of a hand
some, but a bold and unmaiden countenance; it was Julia,
the daughter of Diomed. Her veil was balf raised as she
spoke; she was accompanied by Diomed himself, and by
a slave carrying a lantern before them, the merchant and
his daughter were returning home from a supper at one of
their neighbours.
"Dost thou not remember my voice?" continued Julia
"I am the daughter of Diomed the wealthy. "
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
56
•
"Ah! forgive me ; yes, I recall the tones of
yes, I recall the tones of your voice.
No, noble Julia, I have no flowers to sell!
“I heard that thou wert purchased by the beautiful Greek,
Glaucus; is that true, pretty slave?" asked Julia.
"I serve the Neapolitan, Ione," replied Nydia eva
sively.
"Ha! and it is true then—”
"Come! coine!" interrupted Diomed, with his cloak
up to his mouth, "the night grows cold, I cannot stay here
while you prate with that blind girl; come, let her follow
you home if you wish to speak to her."
CC
""
Do, child," said Julia, with the air of one not accus-
tomed to be refused, "I have inuch to ask of thee; come.
"I cannot this night, it grows late," answered Nydia;
"I must be at home; I am not free, noble Julia.'
What, the meek Ione will chide thee? ay, I doubt not
she is a second Thalestris. But come then to-morrow :
remember, I have been thy friend of old.”
do,
"I will obey thy wishes," answered Nydia, and Dio-
med again impatiently summoning his daughter, she was
obliged to proceed, with the main question she had desired
to put to Nydia unasked.
Meanwhile, we return to Ione. The interval of time
that had elapsed that day between the first and second visit
of Glaucus, had not been too gayly spent; she had received
a visit from her brother. Since the night he had assisted
in saving her from the Egyptian, she had not before seen
him.
Occupied with his own thoughts, thoughts of so seri-
ous and intense a nature, the young priest had thought little
of his sister: in truth, men perhaps of that fervent order of
mind which is ever aspiring above earth, are but little prone
to the earthlier affections; and it had been long since Apæ-
cides had sought those soft and friendly interchanges of
thought, those sweet confidences, which in his earlier youth
had bound him to lone, and which are so natural to that
endearing counexion which existed between them.
Ione, however, had not ceased to regret his estrange-
ment; she attributed it, at present, to the engrossing duties
of his severe fraternity. And often, amid all her bright
hopes, and her new attachment to her betrothed, often,
when she thought of her brother's brow prematurely fur-
rowed, his unsmiling lip, and bended frame, she sighed to
think that the service of the gods could throw so deep a
shadow over that earth which the gods created.
But this day, when he visited her, there was a strange
calmness on his features, a more quiet and self-possessed
expression in his sunken eyes than she had marked for
years. This apparent improvement was but momentary,—
it was a false calm, which the least breeze could rule.
May the gods bless thee, my brother!" said she, em-
tracing him.
CC
"The gods! Speak not thus vaguely; perchance there
s but one God !”
"My brother !”
"What if the sublime faith of the Nazarene be true?
What if God be a monarch,— One,— Indivisible,— Alone ?
What if these numerous, countless deities, whose altars
fill the earth, be but evil demons, seeking to wean us from
the true creed? This may be the case, lone ! "
>>
P
it changes but its objects of worship; it appeals to in u
merable saints where once it resorted to divinities; and it
pours its crowds, in listening reverence, to oracles at the
shrines of St. Januarius or St. Dominic, instead of to the se
f Isis or Apollo.
But these superstitions were not to an early Christian
the object of contempt so much as of horror. They did
not believe, with the quiet skepticism of the heathen phi-
osopher, that the gods were inventions of the priests, nor
even with the vulgar, that according to the dim light of his-
tory, they had been mortals like themselves. They ima-
gined the heathen divinities to be evil spirits, they trans-
planted to Italy and to Greece the glooiny demons of India
and the East; and in Jupiter or in Mars they shuddered at
the representative of Moloch or of Satan. *
Apæcides had not yet adopted, formally, the Christiaa
faith, but he was already on the brink of it. He already
participated the doctrines of Olinthus,-be already ana-
gined that the lively imaginations of the heathen were the
suggestions of the arch enemy of mankind. The innocent
and natural answer of Ione made him shudder. He has-
tened to reply vehemently, and yet so confusedly, that lone
feared for his reason more than she dreaded his violence.
"Ah, my brother!" said she, "these hard duties of
thine have shattered thy very sense. Come to me, Apæ
cides, my brother, my own brother; give me thy han 1, let
me wipe the dew from thy brow; chide me not now, I un
derstand thee not, think only that Ione could not offend
thee."
"Ione," said Apcides, drawing her towards him, and
regarding her tenderly, "can I think that this beautiful
form, this kind heart, may be destined to an eternity of
torment ?"
“Dii meliora! the gods forbid!" said Ione, in the cus-
tomary form of words by which her cotemporaries thought
an omen might be averted.
The words, and still more the superstition they implied,
wounded the ear of Apæcides. He rose muttering to him-
self, turned from the chamber, then stopping halfway, gazed
wistfully on Ione, and extended his arms.
Ione flew to them in joy; he kissed her earnestly, and
then he said:
"Farewell, my sister; when we next meet, thou mayst
be to me as nothing; take thou, then, this embrace; full
yet of all the tender reminiscences of childhood, when faith
and hope, creeds, customs, interests, objects, were the same
Now, the tie is to be broken!"
to us.
With these strange words he left the house.
The great and severest trial of the primitive Christiane
was indeed this; their conversion separated them from their
dearest bonds. They could not associate with beings whose
commonest actions, whose commonest forms of speech,
were impregnated with idolatry. They shuddered at the
blessing of love; to their ears it was uttered in a demon's
namie. This, their misfortune, was their strength; if it
divided them from the rest of the world, it was to unite
them proportionally to each other. They were men of iron,
who wrought forth the Word of God, and verily the bonds
that bound them were of iron also!
Glaucus found Ione in tears; he had already assumed the
sweet privilege to console. He drew from her a recital of
her interview with her brother; but in her confused account
of languagė, itself so confused to one not prepared for it,
he was equally at a loss with Ione to conceive the intentions
or the meaning of Apæcides.
"Hast thou ever heard much," asked she, "of this new
sect of the Nazarenes, of which my brother spoke ?"
"Alas! can we believe it or if we believed, would it
not be a melancholy faith?” answered the Neapolitan.
"What! all this beautiful world made only human ! the
mountain disenchanted of its oread, the waters of their
nymphi, that beautiful prodigality of faith, which makes
every thing divine, consecrating the meanest flowers, bear-
ing celestial whispers in the faintest breeze,― wouldst thou
deny this, and make the earth mere dust and clay? No, "I have often heard enough of the votaries," returned
Apacides; all that is brightest in our hearts is that very Glaucus, "but of their exact tenets know I naught, save
credulity which peoples the universe with gods.'
that in their doctrine there seemeth something preternatu-
lone answered as a believer in the poesy of the old my-rally chilling and morose. They live apart from their
thology would answer. We may julge by that reply how | kind; they affect to be shocked even at our simple uses of
obstinate and hard the contest which Christianity had to garlands; they have no sympathies with the cheerful
endure among the heathens. The graceful superstition was amusements of life; they utter awful threats of the coming
never silent, every, the most household action of their lives destruction of the world: they appear, in one word, to
was intwined with it, it was a portion of life itself, as
× In Pompeii, a rough sketch of Pluto, delineates that fearfuıl
the flowers are a part of the thyrsus. At every incident deity in the shape we at present ascribe to the devil, and decor-
they recurred to a god, every cup of wine was prefaced by ates him with the paraphernalia of horns and a tail. But in all
a libation; the very garlands on their thresholds were ded- | probability it was from the mysterious Pan, — the haunter of
solitary places,
icated to some divinity; their ancestors themselves, made
the inspirer of vague and soul-shaking terrors.
So
holy, presided as lares over their hearth and hall.
that we took the vulgar notion of the outward likeness of the
flend; it correspouds exactly to the cloven-footed Satan. And
abundant was belief with them, that in their own climes,
in the lewd and profligate rites of Pan, Christians might well
at this hour, idolatry has never thoroughly been out-rooted; imagine they traced the deceptions of the devil,
―
56
BULWER'S NOVELS.
JL
CC
have brought their unsmiling and gloomy creed out of the
cave of Trophonius. Yet," continued Glaucus, after a
slight pause,
they have not wanted men of great power
and genius, nor converts even among the Areopagites of
Athens. Well do I remember to have heard my father
speak of one strange guest at Athens many years ago;
methinks his name was PAUL. My father was one among
a mighty crowd that gathered on one of our immemorial
hills to hear this sage of the East expound; through the
wide throng there rang not a single murmur ! -the jest
and the roar, with which our native orators are received,
were hushed for him; and when on the loftiest summit
of that hill, raised above the breathless crowd below, stood
this mysterious visiter, his mien and his countenance awed
every heart even before a sound left his lips. He was a
man, I have heard my father say, of no tall stature, but of
noble and impressive nien; his robes were dark and
ample; the declining sun, for it was evening, shone aslant
upon his form, as it rose aloft, motionless and com-
manding; his countenance was much worn and marked,
as of one who had braved alike misfortune and the sternest
vicissitude of many clines; but his eyes were bright with
an almost unearthly fire; and when he raised his arm to
speak, it was with the majesty of a man into whom the
spirit of a God hath rushed!
C
"Men of Athens !' he is reported to have said, I
find among ye an altar with this inscription, TO THE
UNKNOWN GOD. Ye worship in ignorance the same
deity I serve. To you unknown till now, to you be it now
revealed.'
C
roof of the ing stretched a terrace, on which some females,
wives of the farmers above mentioned, were, some seated
some leaning over the railing, and conversing with their
friends below. In a deep recess, at a little distance, was
a covered seat, in which some two or three poorer travel
lers were resting themselves, and shaking the dust from
their garments. On the other side stretched a wide
originally the burial-ground of a more ancient race than the
space,
present denizens of Pompeii, and now converted into the
Ustrinum, or place for the burning of the dead. Above this
rose the terraces of a gay villa, half hid by trees. The
tombs themselves, with their graceful and varied shapes,
the flowers and the foliage that surrounded them, made no
melancholy feature in the prospect. Hard by the gate of
the city, in a small niche, stood the still form of the well-
disciplined Roman sentry, the sun shining brightly on his
polished crest and the lance on which he leaned. The gate
itself was divided into three arches, the centre one for
vehicles, those at the side for the foot-passengers, and on
either side rose the massive walls which girt the city, com-
posed, patched, repaired at a thousand different epochs, ac-
cording as war, time, or the earthquake had shattered that
vain protection. At frequent intervals rose square towers,
whose summits broke in picturesque rudeness the regular
line of the wall, and contrasted well with the modern
buildings gleaming whitely by.
The curving road, which in that direction leads from
Pompeii to Herculaneum, wound out of sight amid hang
be it nowing vines, above which frowned the sullen majesty of Vesu
"Then declared that solemn man how this great Maker
of all things, who had appointed unto man his several
tribes and his various homes, the Lord of earth and the
universal heaven, dwelt not in temples made with hands;
that his presence, his spirit, was in the air we breathed;
our life and our being was with Him.
Think you,'
he cried, that the Invisible is like your statues of gold
and marble? Think you that He needeth sacrifice from
you: He who made heaven and earth?' Then spake he
of fearful and coming times, of the end of the world, of a
second rising of the dead, whereof an assurance had been
given to man in the resurrection of the mighty Being
whose religion he came to preach.
"When he thus spoke, the long-pent murmur went forth,
and the philosophers that were mingled with the people
muttered their sage contempt; there might you have seen
the chilling frown of the stoic, and the cynic's sneer;- and
the Epicurean, who believeth not even in our own Elysium,
muttered a pleasant jest, and swept laughing through the
crowd; but the deep heart of the people was touched and
thrilled; and they trembled, though they knew not why,
for verily the stranger had the voice and majesty of a man
to whom The Unknown God' had committed the preach-
ing of his faith
<
Ione listened with rapt attention, and the serious and
earnest manner of the narrator betrayed the impression
that he himself had received from one who had been among
the audience, that on the hill of the heathen Mars had
heard the first tidings of the word of Christ!
CHAPTER VI.
The Porter. — The Girl. -And the Gladiator.
THE door of Diomed's house stood open, and Medon,
the old slave, sat at the bottom of the steps by which you
ascended to the mansion. That luxurious mansion of the
rich merchant of Pompeii is still to be seen just without
the gates of the city, at the commencement of the Street
of Tombs; it was a gay neighbourhood, despite the dead.
On the opposite side, but at some yards nearer the gate,
was a spacious hostelry, at which those brought by business
or by pleasure to Pompeii often stopped to refresh them-
selves. In the space before the entrance of the inn now
stood wagons, and carts, and chariots, some just arrived,
some just quitting, in all the bustle of an animated and
popular resort of public entertainment. Before the door
some farmers, seated on a bench by a small circular table,
were talking over their morning cups on the affairs of their
calling. On the side of the door itself was painted gayly
and freshly, the eternal sign of the checkers. By the
There is another inn within the walls similarly adorned.
vius.
"Hast thou heard the news, old Medon?" said a young
women with a pitcher in her hand, as she paused by Dio-
med's door to gossip a moment with the slave, ere she re-
paired to the neighbouring inn to fill the vessel, and coquet
with the travellers.
"The news, what news?" said the slave, raising his
eyes moodily from the ground.
**
Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no
doubt ere thou wert well awake, such a visiter to Pompeii !"
"Per Hercle!" said the slave, indifferently.
Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus."
"A present! I thought thou saidst a visiter? »
"It is both visiter and present. Know, O dull and
stupid! that it is a most beautiful young tiger for our ap-
proaching games in the amphitheatre. Hear you that,
Medon. Oh, what pleasure! I declare I shall not sleep a
wink till I see it; they say it has such a roar !
eat.
"Poor fool!" said Medon, sadly and cynically.
"Fool me no fool, old churl! It is a pretty thing, a
tiger, especially if we could but find somebody for him to
We have now a lion and a tiger, only consider that,
Medon! and for want of two good criminals, perhaps we
shall be forced to see them eat each other. By the by,
your son is a gladiator, a handsome man and a strong; can
you not persuade him to fight the tiger? Do now, you
would oblige me mightily; nay, you would be a benefactor
to the whole town.
"Vah, vah!" said the slave, with great asperity;
"think of thine own danger, ere thou thus pratest of my
poor boy's death.”
My own danger!
ing hastily round,
on thine own head!"
" said the girl, frightened, and look
"Avert the omen! let thy words fall
And the girl as she spoke touched
a talisman suspended round her neck.
CC 4 Thine own
danger!' what danger threatens me?"
"Had the earthquake but a few nights since no war
ing? said Medon. "Has it not a voice? Did it not
say to us all, Prepare for death, the end of all things is at
hand ?'"
C
"Bah, stuff!" said the young woman, settling the folds
of her tunic. "Now thou talkest as they say the Naza-
renes talk, methinks thou art one of them. Well, I can
prate with thee, gray croaker, no more; thou growest
worse and worse, Vale! O Hercules, send us a man
for the lion, and another for the tiger!"
J
"Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show,
With a forest of faces in every row!
Lo the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alemana,
Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed arena;
Talk while you may, you will hold your breath
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death.
Trump, tramp, how gayly they goi
Ho ho! for the merry, merry show!"
Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine ditty
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
51
and holding up her tunic from the dusty road, the young
woman stepped lightly across to the crowded hostelry.
My poor sen!" said the slave, half aloud, "is it for
things like this thou art to be butchered? Oh! faith of
Christ, I could worship thee in all sincerity, were it but
for the horror which thou inspirest for these bloody lists."
The old man's head sunk dejectedly on his breast. He
remained silent and absorbed, but every now and then with
the corner of his sleeve he wiped his eyes. His heart was
with his son;
he did not see the figure that now approach-
ed from the gate with a quick step, and a somewhat fierce
and reckless gait and carriage. He did not lift his eyes
He did not lift his eyes
till the figure paused opposite the place where he sat, and
with a soft voice addressed him by the name of
"Father!"
"My boy, my Lydon, is it indeed thou?" said the old
man, joyfully. "Ah! thou wert present to my thoughts."
"I am glad to hear it, my father," said the gladiator,
respectfully touching the knees and beard of the slave;
"and soon may I be always present with thee, not in
thought only,"
"Yes, my son,
slave, mournfully.
"Talk not thus, O my sire! look cheerfully, for I feel
80, I am sure that I shall win the day, and then the gold
I gain buys thy freedom. Oh! my father, it was but a few
days since that I was taunted, by one, too, whom I would
gladly have undeceived, for he is more generous than the
rest of his equals. He is not Roman, he is of Athens,
- by him I was taunted with the lust of gain,- when I
demanded what sum was the prize of victory. Alas! he
little knew the soul of Lydou.”
but not in this world," replied the
>
"My boy my boy!" said the old slave, as slowly as-
cending the steps he conducted his son to his own little
chamber communicating with the entrance-hall; (which, in
this villa, was the peristyle, not the atrium;) - you may
see it now; it is the third door to the left on entering.
(The first door conducts to the staircase; the second is but
a false recess, in which there stood a statue of bronze.)
“Gener ›us, affectionate, pious as are thy motives," said
Medon, when they were thus secured from observation,
thy deed itself is guilt,-thou art to risk thy blood for
thy father's freedom, that might be forgiven: but the
prize of victory is the blood of another. Oh, that is a
deadly sin; no object can purify it. Forbear! forbear!
rather would I be a slave for ever, than purchase liberty
'
on such terms ! "
"Hush! my father!" replied Lydon, somewhat impa-
tiently; "thou hast picked up in this new creed of thine,
of which I pray thee not to speak to me, for the gods that
gave me strength denied me wisdom, and I understand not
one word of what thou often preachest to me, thou hast
picked up, I say, in this new creed, some singular phanta-
sies of right and wrong. Pardon me if I offend thee: but,
reflect ! Against whom shall I contend? Oh! couldst
thou know those wretches with whom, for thy sake, I as-
sort, thou wouldst think I purified earth by removing one
of them. Beasts, whose very lips drop blood; things all
savage, unprincipled in their very courage; ferocious,
heartless, senseless; no tie of life can bind them: they
know not fear, it is true, but neither know they grati-
tude, or charity, or love; they are made but for their own
career, to slaughter without pity, to die without dread! |
Can thy gods, whosoever they be, look with wrath on a
conflict with such as these, and in such a cause? Oh, my
father, wherever the powers above gaze down on earth,
they behold no duty so sacred, so sanctifying, as the sacri-
fice offered to an aged parent by the piety of a gratefu
con ! "
V
|
-
"Why, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as
a slave, was set free at Rome by the will of my master,
whom I had been fortunate enough to please. Ihastened
to Pompeii to see thee, I found thee already aged and
infirm, under the yoke of a capricious and pampered lord,
thou hadst lately adopted this new faith, and its adoption
made thy slavery doubly painful to thee; it took away all
the softening charm of custom, which reconciles us so often
to the worst. Didst thou not complain to me that thou
wert compelled to offices that were not odious to thee as a
slave, but guilty as a Nazarene ? Didst thou not tell me
that thy soul shook with remorse, when thou wert com-
pelled to place even a crumb of cake before the Lares that
watch over yon impluvium? that thy soul was torn by a
perpetual struggle? Didst thou not tell me, that even by
pouring wine before the threshold, and calling on the name
of some Grecian deity, thou didst fear thou wert incurring
penalties worse than those of Tantalus, an eternity of
torture more terrible than those of the Tartarian fields ?
Didst thou not tell me this? I wondered, I could not
comprehend! nor, by Hercules, -can I now; but I was
thy son, and my sole task was to compassionate and re-
lieve. Could I hear thy groans, could I witness thy mys
terious horrors, thy constant anguish, and remain inactive ?
No! by the immortal gods! the thought struck me like
light from Olympus; I had no money, but I had strength
and youth, these were thy gifts, I could sell these in
my turn for thee! I learned the amount of thy ransom,
I learned that the usual prize of a victorious gladiator
would doubly pay it. I became a gladiator, -I linked
myself with those accursed men, scorning, loathing, while
I joined, I acquired their skill, - blessed be the lesson!
it shall teach ine to free my father!"
"Oh, that thou couldst hear Olinthus!" sighed the old
man, more and more affected by the virtue of his son,
but not less strongly convinced of the criminality of his
purpose.
—
"I will hear the whole world talk, if thou wilt," an-
swered the gladiator, gayly; "but not till thou art slave
no more. Beneath thy own roof, my father, thou shalt
puzzle this dull brain all day long, ay, and all night too,
if it give thee pleasure. Oh, such a spot as I have chalked
out for thee! it is one of the nine hundred and ninety-
nine shops of old Julia Felix, in the sunny part of the
city, where thou mayst bask before the door in the day,
and I will sell the oil and the wine for thee, my father,
and then, please Venus; (or if it does not please her, since
thou lovest not her name, it is all one to Lydon;) then,
I say, perhaps thou mayst have a daughter too, to tend thy
gray hairs, and hear shrill voices at thy knee that shall
call thee Lydon's father!' Ah! we shall be so happy,
the prize can purchase all. Cheer thee! cheer up, my
sire! and now I must away, -- day wears, the lanista
waits me. Come! thy blessing.
C
As Lydon thus spoke, he had already quitted the dark.
chamber of his father, and speaking cagerly, though in a
whispered tone, they now stood at the same place in which
we introduced the porter at his post.
"O bless thee! bless thee! my brave boy," said Me-
don, fervently, "and may the great Power that reads ali
hearts see the nobleness of thine, and forgive its error ! ”
The tall shape of the gladiator passed swiftly down the
path; the eyes of the slave followed its light, but stately
steps, till the last glimpse was gone; and then sinking
once more on his seat, his eyes again fastened themselves
on the ground. His form, mute and unmoving, as a thing
of stone. His heart! who, in our happier age, can
even imagine its struggles, its commotion !
May I enter ?" said a sweet voice; "is thy mistress
enter?"
he slave mechanically motioned to the visiter to enter;
she who addressed him could not see the gesture,
she repeated her question timidly, but in a lcuder voice.
"Have I not told thee?" said the slave, peevishly;
"enter.
>>
The poor
old slave, himself deprived of the lights of………..a within ??
kaowledge, and only late a convert to the Christian faith,
knew not with what arguments to enlighten an ignorance
at once so dark, and yet so beautiful in its error. His first
impulse was to throw himself on his son's breast, - his
next to start away, to wring his hands, and in the at-
tempt to reprove, his boken voice lost itself in weeping.
"And if,
resumea Lydon, if thy Deity (methinks
thou wilt own but one ?) be indeed that benevolent and
pitying power which thou assertest him to be, He will know
also that thy very faith in him first confirmed me in that
determination thou blamest.'
"How ! what mean you?" said the slave.
VOL II.
8
|
CC
Thanks," said the speaker, plaintively; and the slave,
roused by the tone, looked up, and recognised the blind
flower-girl. Sorrow can sympathize with affliction, lie
raised himself, and guided her steps to the head of the
adjacent staircase (by which you descended to Julia's
apartment) where, summoning a female slave, he con-
signed to her the charge of the blind girl.
68
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER VII.
་
The dressing-room of a Pompeian beauty. Important con-
versation between Julia and Nydia.
:
eyebrows are? One would think you were dressing Corin-
na whose face is all of one side. Now put in the flowers,
what, fool! - not that dull pink, you are not suiting
colors to the dim cheek of Chloris, it must be the bright-
est flowers that can alone suit the cheek of the young
Julia.'
lently, "you pull my hair as if you were plucking up a
Gently! said the lady, stamping her small foot vio-
weed."
"Dull thing!" continued the directress of the cero-
mony, "do you not know how delicate is your mistress
Fulvia.
You are not dressing the coarse horse-hair of the widow
Now, then, the riband, that's right. Fair
Julia, look in the mirror,
lovely as yourself?"
-saw you ever any thing so
THE elegant Julia sat in her chamber with her slaves
around her — like the cubiculum which adjourned it, the
room was small, but much larger than the usual apartments
appropriated to sleep, which were generally so diminutive,
that few who have not seen the bedchambers, even in the
gayest mansions, can form any notion of the petty pigeon-
holes in which the citizens of Pompeii evidently thought it
desirable to pass the night. But, in fact, "bed" with the
ancients was not that grave, serious, and important part of
domestic mysteries which it is with us. The couch itself
was more like a very narrow and small sofa, light enough
to be transported easily, and by the occupant himself, * When, after innumerable comments, difficulties, and de-
from place to place; and it was, no doubt, constantly shift-lays, the intricate tower was at length completed, the next
ed from chamber to chamber, according to the caprices of preparation was that of giving to the eyes the soft languish
the inmate or the changes of the season. For that side of produced by a dark powder applied to the lids and brows,
the house which was crowded in one month, might, per-
a small patch, cut in the form of a crescent, skilfully
haps, be carefully avoided in the next; so susceptible were placed by the rosy lips, attracted attention to their dimples,
the inhabitants of the most beautiful climate in the world
and to the teeth, to which already every art had been
of those alternations of sun and breeze which, to our hard-applied in order to heighten the dazzle of their natural
ier frame, inured to the harsh skies of the north, would be
whiteness.
scarcely perceptible. There was also among the Italians
of that period a singular and fastidious apprehension of
100 much daylight; their darkened chambers, which at
first appear to us the result of a negligent architecture,
were the effect of the most elaborate study. In their por-
ticoes and gardens, they courted the sun whenever it so
pleased their luxurious tastes. In the interior of their
houses, they sought rather the coolness and the shade.
Julia's apartment at that season was in the lower part of
the house, immediately beneath the state rooms above, and
looking upon the garden, with which it was on a level.
The wide door, which was glazed, alone admitted the morn-
ing rays; yet her eye, accustomed to a certain darkness,
was sufficiently acute to perceive exactly what colors were
the most becoming,- what shade of the delicate rouge gave
the brightest beam to her dark glance, and the most youth-
ful freshness to her cheek.
On the table before which she sat was a small and cir-
cular mirror, of the most polished steel, round which,
in precise order, were ranged the cosmetics and the un-
guents, the perfumes and the paints, the jewels and the
combs, the ribands and the gold pins, which were destined
to add to the natural attractions of beauty the assistance
of art, and the capricious allurements of fashion. Through
the dimness of the room glowed brightly the vivid and
various colorings of the wall in all the dazzling frescoes of
Pompeian taste. Before the dressing-table, and under the
feet of Julia, was spread a carpet, woven from the looms
of the east. Near at hand, on another table, was a silver
basin and ewer, -an extinguished lamp, of most ex-
quisite workmanship, in which the artist had represented
a Cupid reposing under the spreading branches of a inyrtle-
tree; and a small roll of papyrus, containing the softest
elegies of Tibullus. Before the door, which communi-
cated with the cubiculum, hung a curtain, richly broidered
with gold flowers. Such was the dressing-room of a
beauty eighteen centuries ago.
The fair Julia leaned indolently back on her seat, while
the ornatrix (i. e. hair-dresser) slowly piled one above the
other a mass of small curls; dexterously weaving the false
with the true, and carrying the whole fabric to a height
that seemed to place the head rather at the centre than the
summit of the human forin.
Her tunic, of a deep amber, which well set off her dark
hair and somewhat imbrowned complexion, swept in ample.
folds to her feet, which were cased in slippers, fastened
round the slender ankle by white thongs; while a pro-
fusion of pearls were embroidered in the slipper itself,
which was of purple, and turned slightly upward, as do
the Turkish slippers at this day. An old slave, skilled by
long experience in all the arcana of the toilet, stood
beside the hair-dresser, with the broad and studded girdle
of her mistress over her arm, and giving from time to time
(mingled with judicious flattery to the lady herself) in-
structions to the mason of the ascending pile.
"Put that pin rather more to the right, lower, -
pid one! Do you not observe how even those beautiful
stu-
"Take up thy bed and walk” was (as Sir W. Gell some-
where observes) no metaphorical expression.
the
To another slave, hitherto idle, was now consigned the
charge of arranging the jewels, the ear-rings of pearl,
(two to each ear,) the massive bracelets of gold,
chain formed of rings of the same metal, to which a talis-
man, cut in crystals, was attached, the graceful buckle
on the left shoulder, in which was set an exquisite cameo
of Psyche, -the girdle of purple riband, richly wrought
with threads of gold, and clasped by interlacing serpents,
and lastly, the various rings fitted to every joint of
the white and slender fingers. The toilet was now
arranged, according to the last mode of Rome. The fair
Julia regarded herself with a last gaze of complaisant
vanity, and reclining again upon her seat, she bade the
youngest of her slaves, in a listless tone, read to her the
enamoured couplets of Tibullus. This lecture was still
proceeding, when a female slave admitted Nydia into the
presence of the lady of the place.
"Salve, Julia," said the flower-girl, arresting her steps
within a few paces from the spot where Julia sat, and
crossing her arms upon her breast, "I have obeyed your
commands."
"You have done well, flower-girl," answered the lady;
"approach, you may take a seat.
One of the slaves placed a stool by Julia, and Nydia
seated herself.
Julia looked hard at the Thessalian for some noments
in rather an embarrassed silence. She then motioned her
attendants to withdraw, and to close the door. When
they were alone, she said, looking mechanically from
Nydia, and forgetful that she was with one who could not
observe her countenance,
You serve the Neapolitan, Ione."
"I am with her at present," answered Nydia.
"Is she as handsome as they say
>>
?
"I know not,” replied Nydia, "how can I judge ?”
"Ah! I should have remembered, but thou hast ears if
not eyes.
Do thy fellow-slaves tell thee she is handsome?
Slaves, talking with one another, forget to flatter even their
mistress.
ck
">
They tell me that she is beautiful.”
"Hem ! say they that she is tall ?"
"Yes."
CC
Why, so am I. Dark haired ?
"I have heard so.
"
"So am I. And doth Glaucus visit her much?
?""
rr
Daily," returned Nydia, with a half-suppressed sigh.
Daily, indeed! Does he find her handsome ?"
"I should think so, since they are so soon to be wedded.”
"Wedded!" cried Julia, turning pale even through the
false roses on her cheek, and starting from her couch;
Nydia did not of course perceive the emotion she had caused.
Julia remained a long time silent; but her heaving breast
and flashing eyes would have betrayed to one who could have
seen the wound her vanity sustained.
CC
They tell me thou art a Thessalian," said she, at last
breaking silence.
"And truly!"
CC
Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of tali
mans and of love-filters" said Jalia.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
"It has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers," returned
Nydia, timidly.
"Knowest thou then, blind Thessalian, of any love-
charms?
""
"I!" said the flower-girl, coloring, "I! how should I?
No, assuredly not."
"The worse for thee; I could have given thee gold
enough to have purchased thy freedom hadst thou been more
wise."
"But what," asked Nydia, "can induce the beautiful
and wealthy Julia to ask that question of her servant? Has
one not money, and youth, and loveliness? Are they not
love-charms enough to dispense with magic?
"To all but one person in the world," answered Julia,
haughtily; "but methinks thy blindness is infectious, and,
but no matter."
""
"And that one person?" said Nydia, eagerly.
"Is not Glaucus," replied Julia, with the customary
deceit of her sex. "Glaucus,-
no ! "
Nydia drew her breath more freely, and after a short
pause Julia recommenced,
—
"But talking of Glaucus and his attachment to this Nea-
politan, reminded me of the influence of love-spells, which,
for aught I know or care, she may have exercised upon him.
Blind girl, I love, and, shall Julia live to say it ?- am
loved not in return! This humbles,
nay, not humbles,
but it stings my pride. I would see this ingrate at my feet,
not in order that I might raise, but that I might spurn
him. When they told me thou wert Thessalian, I imagined
thy young
mind might have learned the dark secrets of thy
clime."
"Alas! no," murmured Nydia, "would it had !"
"Thanks, at least, for that kindly wish," said Julia,
unconscious of what was passing in the breast of the flower-
giri.
"But tell me, thou hearest the gossip of slaves always
prone to these dim beliefs, always ready to apply to
sorcery for their own low loves, bast thou ever heard of
any eastern magician in this city who possesses the art of
which thou art ignorant? No vain chiromancer, no juggler
of the market-place, but some more potent and mighty
magician of India or of Egypt !
Of Egypt, yes," said Nydia, shuddering; "what
Pompeian has not heard of Arbaces!"
"Arbaces, true!" replied Julia, grasping at the recol-
lection. "They say he is a man above all the petty and
false impostures of dull pretenders, that he is versed in
the learning of the stars, and the secrets of the ancient Nox;
why not in the mysteries of love?'
If there be one magician living whose art is above that
of others, it is that dread man," answered Nydia, and she
felt her talisman while she spoke.
"He is too wealthy to divine for money!" continued
Julia, sneeringly; "can I not visit him?"
"It is an evil mansion for the young and the beautiful,"
replied Nydia. "I have heard, too, that he languishes
in
"An evil mansion!" said Julia, catching only the first
sentence. Why so?"
"The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and pol-
Juted, at least so says rumor.
By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele, thou dost but pro-
voke my curiosity instead of exciting my fears," returned
the wayward and pampered Pompeian." I will seek and
question him of his love. If to these orgies love be ad-
mitted, why the more likely that he knows its secrets.
Nydia did not answer.
"I will seek him this very day," resumed Julia; "nay,
why not this very hour?"
"At daylight, and in his present state, thou hast assur-
edly the less to fear," answered Nydia, yielding to her
own sudden and secret wish to learn if the dark Egyptian
were indeed possessed of those spells to rivet and attract
love, of which the Thessalian had so often heard.
“And who would dare insult the rich daughter of Dio-
med?" said Julia, haughtily. "I will go.
r
May I visit thee afterward to learn the result?" asked
Nydia, anxiously.
"Kiss me for thy interest in Julia's honor," answered
the lady. "Yes, assuredly. This eve we sup abroad,
come hither at the same hour to-morrow, and thou shalt
know all; I may have to cumploy thee too, but enough for
the present. Stay, take this bracelet for the new thought
thou hast inspired me with; remember, if thou servest
Julia, she is grateful and she is generous
"I cannot take thy present," said Nydia, putting aside
the bracelet; "but young as I am, I can sympathize un
bought with those who love,- and love in vain."
"Sayest thou so?" returned Julia; "thou speakest like
a free woman, and thou shalt yet be free, farewell!
-
CHAPTER VIII.
Julia seeks Arbaces. - The result of that interview.
ARBACES was seated in a chamber, which opened on a
kind of balcony or portico that fronted his garden. His
cheek was pale and worn with the sufferings he had endured,
but his iron frame had already recovered from the severest
effects of that accident which had frustrated his fell designs
in the moment of victory. The air that came fragrantly to
his brow revived his languid senses, and the blood circu-
lated more freely than it had done for days through his
shrunken veins.
So, then," thought he, "the storm of Fate has broken
and blown over, the evil which my love predicted, threat-
ening life itself, has chanced, and yet I live! It came as
the stars foretold, and now the long, bright, and prosper-
ous career which was to succeed that evil, if I survived it,
smiles beyond, I have passed,-I have subdued the latest
danger of my destiny. Now I have but to lay out the gar-
dens of my future fate, unterrified and secure. First,
then, of all my pleasures,-even before that of love, — shall
come revenge! This boy Greek, who has crossed my
passion, thwarted my designs, baffled me even when
the blade was about to drink his accursed blood, shall not
a second time escape me. But for the method of my ven-
geance? Of that let me ponder well! Oh Até, if thou art
indeed a goddess, fill me with thy fullest inspiration!" The
Egyptian sank into an intent reverie, which did not seem to
present to him any clear or satisfactory suggestions. He
changed his position restlessly as he revolved scheme after
scheme, which no sooner occurred than it was dismissed;
several times he struck his breast and groaned aloud with
the desire of vengeance, and a sense of his impotence to
accomplish it. While thus absorbed, a boy slave timidly
entered the chamber.
da
"A female, evidently of rank from her dress, and that
of the single slave who attended her, waited below and
sought an audience with Arbaces.”
A female!" His heart beat quick.
"Is she young?"
"Her face is concealed by her veil; but her form is
slight, yet round, as that of youth."
CC
Admit her," said the Egyptian: for a moment his vain
heart dreamed the stranger might be Ione.
The first glance of the visiter now entering the apart-
ment, sufficed to undeceive so erring a fancy. True, she
was about the same height as Ione, and perhaps the same
age; true, she was finely and richly formed,
but where
was that undulating and ineffable grace which accompanied
every motion of the peerless Neapolitan? the chaste and
decorous garb, so simple even in the care of its arrange-
ment the dignified, yet bashful step? the majesty of wo-
manhood and its modesty?
"Pardon me that I rise with pain," said Arbaces, gaz-
ing on the stranger; "I am still suffering from recent ill-
ness.'
"Do not disturb thyself, O great Egyptian," returned
Julia, seeking to disguise the fear she already experienced,
beneath the ready resort of flattery; "and forgive an un-
fortunate female who seeks consolation from thy wisdom"
"Draw near, fair stranger," said Arbaces, " and speak
without apprehension or reserve.
>>
Julia placed herself on a seat beside the Egyptian,
and wonderingly gazed round an apartment whose elab
orate and costly luxuries shamed even the ornate enrich
ment of her father's mansion; fearfully, too, she regarded
the hieroglyphical inscriptions on the walls, the faces of
the mysterious images, which at every corner gazed upon
her, the tripod at a little distance, and, above all, the
grave and remarkable countenance of Arbaces himself; a
long white robe, like a veil, half covered his raven locks,
and flowed to his feet; his face was made even more im
pressive by its present paleness, and his dark and penetrat-
ing eyes seemed to pierce the shelter of her veil, and explore
the secrets of her vain and unfeminine soul.
"And what," said his low deep voice, "brings thee
✪ miden, to the house of the eastern stranger?"
60
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"His fame," replied Julia.
"In what?" said he, with a strange and slight smile.
"Canst thou ask, O wise Arbaces? Is not thy knowl-
edge the very gossip theme of Pompeii?
"Some little lore have I, indeed, treasured up," re-
plied Arbaces; "but in what can such serious and sterile
secrets benefit the ear of beauty?"
"Alas!" said Julia, a little cheered by the accustomed
accents of adulation, "does not sorrow fly to wisdom for
relief, and they who love unrequitedly, are not they the
chosen victims of grief?
"Ah!" said Arbaces, "can unrequited love he the
ut of so fair a form, whose modelled proportions are visible
even beneath the folds of thy graceful robe? Deign, O
maiden, to lift thy veil, that I may see at least if the face
correspond in loveliness with the form."
Not unwilling, perhaps, to exhibit her charms, and
thinking they were likely to interest the magician in her
fate, Julia, after some slight hesitation, raised her veil,
and revealed a beauty which, but for art, had been indeed
attractive, to the fixed gaze of the Egyptian.
"Thou comest to me for advice in unhappy love?"
said be: "well, turn that face on the ungrateful one:
what other love-charın can I give thee?
"O, cease these courtesies!" said Julia; "it is a
bove-charm, indeed, that I would ask from thy skill."
"Fair stranger," replied Arbaces, somewhat scornfully,
"love-spells are not among a portion of the secrets I have
wasted the midnight oil to attain.”
"Is it indeed so? Then pardon me, great Arbaces, and
farewell."
Stay," said Arbaces, who, despite his passion for
Ione, was not unmoved by the beauty of his visiter; and
had he been in the flush of a more assured health, might
have attempted to console the fair Julia by other means
than those of supernatural wisdom.
Stay; although I confess that I have left the witchery
of filters and potions to those whose trade is in such knowl-
edge, yet am I myself not so dull to beauty but what in
earlier youth I may have employed them in my own behalf.
I may give thee advice, at least, if thou wilt be candid
with me tell me, then, first, art thou unmarried, as thy
dress betokens?
"Yes," said Julia.
"And being unblessed with fortune, wouldst thou allure
some wealthy suitor ?"
دو
"I am richer than he who disdains me.
"Strange, and more strange; and thou lovest him who
loves not thee?"
"I know not if I love him," answered Julia, haughtily,
"but I know that I would see myself triumph over a rival,
-I would see him who rejected me, my suitor, I would
see her whom he has preferred, in her turn despised.'
“A natural ambition and a womanly," said the Egyp-
tian, in a tone too grave for irony: yet more, fair
maiden; wilt thou confide to me the name of thy lover?
Can be be a Pompeian, and despise wealth, even if blind
to beauty?"
CC
"He is of Athens," answered Julia, looking down.
"Ha!" cried the Egyptian, impetuously, as the blood
rushed to his cheek; "there is but one Athenian, young
and noble, in Pompeii. Can it be Glaucus of whom thou
Can it be Glaucus of whom thou
speakest ?"
"Ah! betray me not, so indeed they call him."
The Egyptian sunk back, gazing vacantly on the averted
face of the merchant's daughter, and muttering inly to him-
self, this conference, with which he had hitherto only
trifled, amusing himself at the credulity and vanity of his
visiter, might it not minister to his revenge?
CC
"I see thou canst assist me not," said Julia, offended
by his continued silence; guard at least my secret,
once inore, farewell!"
S
"Maiden," said the Egyptian, in an earnest and seri-
ous tone, "thy suit hath touched me, I will minister to
thy will.
Listen to me; I have not myself dabbled in
At
these lesser mysteries, but I know one who hath.
the base of Vesuvius, less than a league from the city, there
dwells a powerful witch; beneath the rank dews of the new
moon, she has gathered the herbs which possess the virtue
to chain love in eternal fetters. Her art can bring thy
lover to thy feet. Seek her, and mention to her the name
of Arbaces; she fears that name, and will give thee her
most potent filters."
"Alas!" answers: Julia, "I know not the road to the
home of her thon speakest of the way, short though it be,
is long to traverse for a girl who leaves, unknown, the house
of her father. The country is entangled with wild vines,
and dangerous with precipitous caverns. I dare not trust
to mere strangers to guide me,— the reputation of women
of my rank is easily tarnished, and though I care not
who knows that I love Glaucus, I would not have it ima
gined that I obtained his love by a spell."
"Were I but three days advanced in health," said the
Egyptian, rising and walking (as if to try his strength)
across the chamber, but with irregular and feeble steps,
"I myself would accompany thee. Well, thou must
wait."
"But Glaucus is soon to wed that hated Neapolitan."
"Wed!"
"Yes, in the early part of next month."
"So soon? art thou well advised of this ?"
"From the lips of her own slave."
"It shall not be !" said the Egyptian, impetuously;
"fear nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when
thou obtainest it, canst thou administer to him this potion?
My father has invited him, and, I believe, the Neapol
itan also, to a banquet, on the day following to-morrow;
I shall then have the opportunity to administer r
t
"So be it!" said the Egyptian, with eyes flag such
erce joy, that Julia's gaze sunk tremblingly beneath them.
"To-morrow eve, then, order thy litter; thou hast one
at thy command ? ”
rr
Surely,- yes," returned the purse-proud Julia.
"Order thy litter, -at two miles distance from the city
is a house of entertainment, frequented by the wealthier
Pompeians, from the excellence of its baths and the beauty
of its gardens. There canst thou pretend only to shape thy
course, there, ill or dying, I will meet thee by the stat-
ue of Silenus, in the copse that skirts the garden; and I
myself will guide thee to the witch. Let us wait till, with
the evening star, the goats of the herdsman are goue to
when the dark twilight conceals us, and none shall
cross our steps. Go home, and fear not. By Hades
swears Arbaces, the sorcerer of Egypt, that Ione shall never
wed with Glaucus !"
rest,
up
"And that Glaucus shall be mine?" added Julia, filling
the incompleted sentence.
"Thou hast said it!
replied Arbaces, and Julia,
half frightened at this unhallowed appointment, but urged
on by jealousy and the pique of rivalship even more than
love, resolved to fulfil it.
Left alone, Arbaces burst forth,
CC
>>
Bright stars, that never lie, ye already begin the execu-
tion of your promises, success in love, and victory over
foes, for the rest of my smooth existence !
In the very
hour when my mind could devise no clew to the goal of
vengeance, hast thou sent this fair fool for my guide!
He paused in deep thought. "Yes," said he again, but
in a calmer voice; “I could not myself have given to her
the poison that shall be indeed a filter ! — his death might
be thus tracked to my door. But the witch,ay, there is
the fit, the natural agent of my designs!"
He summoned one of his slaves, bade him hasten to track
the steps of Julia, and acquaint himself with her name and
condition. This done, he stepped forth into the portico.
The skies were serene and clear, but he, deeply read in
the signs of their various change, beheld in one mass of
cloud far on the horizon, which the wind began slowly to
agitate, that a storm was brooding above.
"It is like my vengeance," said he, as he gazed;
sky is clear, but the cloud moves on.'
CHAPTER IX.
"the
A storm in the south. The witch's cavern
It was when the heats of noon died gradually away trom
the earth, that Glaucus and Ione went forth to enjoy the
cooled and grateful air. At that time various carriages
were in use among the Romans: the one most used by the
richer citizens, when they required no companion in their
excursions, was the biga, already described in the early
portion of this work; that appropriated to the matrons,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
61
was terined carpentum, which had commonly two wheels; | ing conflict of the elements; and then rapidly rushed above
the ancients used also a sort of litter, a vast sedan-chair, the dark ranks of the serried clouds. The suddenness a
more commodiously arranged than the modern, inasmuch, storms in that climate is something almost preternatural
as the occupant thereof could lie down at ease, instead of and might well suggest to early superstition the notion of a
being perpendicularly and stiffly jostled up and down. † divine agency, -a few large drops broke heavily among
There was another carriage used both for travelling and the boughs that half overhung their path, and then, swift
for excursions in the country; it was commodious, con- and intolerably bright, the forked lightning darted across
taining three or four persons with ease, having a covering their very eyes, and was swallowed up by the increasing
which could be raised at pleasure; and, in short, answer-
darkness.
ing very much the purpose of (though very different in
shape from) the modern britska. It was a vehicle of this
description that the lovers, accompanied by one female slave
of Ione, now used in their excursion. About ten miles
from the city there was at that day an old ruin, the remains
of a temple, evidently Grecian; and, as for Glaucus and
Ioue, every thing Grecian possessed an interest, they had
agreed to visit these ruins, — it was thither they were now
bound
Their road lay among vines and olive groves; till, wind-
ng more and more towards the higher ground of Vesuvius,
the path grew rugged, — the mules moved slowly, and with
abor, and at every opening in the wood, they beheld
those gray
and horrent caverns indenting the parched rock,
which Strabo has described; but which the various revo-
lutions of time and the volcano have removed from the
present aspect of the mountain. The sun, sloping towards
his descent, cast long and deep shadows over the moun-
tain; here and there they still heard the rustic reed of the
shepherd, among copses of the beechwood and wild oak.
Sometimes they marked the form of the silk-haired and
graceful capella, with its wreathing horn and bright gray
eve, which, still beneath Ausonian skies, recalls the ec-
logues of Maro, browsing half way up the hills; and the
grapes, already purple with the smiles of the deepening
summer, glowed out from the arched festoons, which hung
pen:lant from tree to tree. Above them, light clouds float-
ed in the screne heavens, sweeping so slowly athwart the
firmament, that they scarcely seemed to stir; while on
their right they caught, ever and anon, glimpses of the
waveless sea, with some light bark skimming its surface,
and the sunlight breaking over the deep in those countless
and softest hues so peculiar to that delicious sea.
"How beautiful!" said Glaucus, in a half-whispered
tone, is that epithet by which we call earth our mother.
With what a kindly and equal love she pours her blessings
upon her children; and even to those sterile spots to which
Nature has denied beauty, she yet contrives to dispense
her smiles; witness the arbutus and the vine, which she
wreaths over the arid and burning soil of you extinct vol-
cano. Ah! in such an hour and scene as this! well
might we imagine that the laughing face of the faun should
peep forth from those green festoons; or, that we might
trace the steps of the mountain nymph through the thickest
mazes of the glade. But the nymphs ceased, beautiful
Jone, when thou wast created!"
There is no tongue that flatters like a lover's, and yet in
the exaggeration of his feelings flattery seems to him com-
monplace. Strange and prodigal exuberance, which soon
exhausts itself by overflowing! They tell us, that the
esteem which follows passion is happier than passion itself:
-it may be true, the springs of fancy, of hope,—of
ambition, all urged into one channel, return to their natu-
ral streams. Love is a revolution: there is no harmony,-
no order, there is, therefore, no settled happiness while
it lasts; but when the revolution is over,
ished at our past frenzy: we may love still,
be beloved, but we are in love no more! For my part,
I think there are some kinds of imperfect happiness which
are better than the perfect. Take away desire from the
heart, and you take the air from the earth.
-
we are aston-
we may
They arrived at the ruins: they examined them with
that fondness with which we trace the hallowed and house-
hold vestiges of our own ancestry, they lingered there
till Hesperus appeared in the rosy heavens; and then re-
turning homeward in the twilight, they were more silent
than they had been,- for in the shadow and beneath the
stars, they felt more oppressively their mutual love.
It was at this time that the storm which the Egyptian
had predicted began to creep visibly over them. At first,
a low and distant thunder gave warning of the approach-
* For public festivals and games, they used one more luxurious
and costly, called pilentum, with four wheels.
+ But they had also the sella, or sedan, in which they sat as
we do.
|
|
"Swifter, good Carrucarius " cried Glaucus to the
driver," the tempest comes on apace.
A
The slave urged on the mules, they went swift over
the uneven and stony road, the clouds thickened, near
and more near broke the thunder, and fast rushed the
dashing rain.
"Dost thou fear?" whispered Glaucus, as he sought
excuse in the storm to come nearer to Ione.
"Not with thee," said she, softly.
At that instant the carriage, fragile and ill contrived
(as, despite their graceful shapes, were, for practical uses,
most of such inventions at that time) struck violently
into a deep rut, over which lay a log of fallen wood; the
driver with a curse stimulated his mules yet faster for the
obstacle, the wheel was torn from the socket, and the
carriage suddenly overset.
:
Glaucus, quickly extricating himself from the vehicle,
hastened to assist Ione, who was fortunately unhurt with
some difficulty they raised the carruca (or carriage) and
found that it ceased any longer even to afford them shelter;
the springs that fastened the covering were snapped asun-
der and the rain poured fast and fiercely into the interior.
In this dilemma, what was to be done? They were yet
some distance from the city, -no house, no aid seemed
near.
"There is," said the slave, "a smith about a mile off;
I could seek him, and he might fasten at least the wheel to
the carruca, -but, Jupiter! how the rain beats! my mis-
tress will be wet before I come back.”
"Run thither at least," said Glaucus; "we must find
the best shelter we can till you return.”
The lane was overshadowed with trees, beneath, the
amplest of which Glaucus drew Ione. He endeavoured, by
stripping his own cloak, to shield her yet more from the
rapid rain; but it descended with a fury that broke through
all puny obstacles, and suddenly, while Glaucus was yet
whispering courage to his beautiful charge, the lightning
struck one of the trees immediately before them, and split
with a mighty crash its huge trunk in twain. This awful
incident apprised them of the danger they braved in their
present shelter, and Glaucus looked anxiously round for
some less perilous place of refuge. "We are now," said
he, "half-way up the ascent of Vesuvius; there ought to
be some cavern or hollow in the vine-clad rocks, could we
but find it, in which the deserting nymphs have left a shel-
ter.' While thus saying he moved from the trees, and
looking wistfully towards the mountain, discovered through
the advancing gloom a red and tremulous light at no con-
siderable distance. "That must come, "said he, "from
the hearth of some
the hearth of some shepherd or vine-dresser, it will
guide us to some hospitable retreat. Wilt thou stay here
while I,—yet no,— that would be to leave thee to dan-
ger.
"I will go with you cheerfully," said Ione;"
the space seems, it is better than the treacherous shelter f
these boughs.'
>>
open as
Half leading, half carrying Ione, Glaucus, accompani≥1
by the trembling slave, advanced toward the light which
yet burned blue and steadfastly. At length, the space was
no longer open, wild vines entangled their steps, and hid
from them, save by imperfect intervals, the guiding beam.
But faster and fiercer came the rain, and the lightning
assumed its most deadly and blasting form; they were
still, therefore, impelled onward, hoping at last, if the light
eluded them, to arrive at some cottage, or some friendly
cavern. The vines grew more and more intricate,— the
light was entirely snatched from them; but a narrow path,
which they trod with labor and pain, guided only by the
constant and long-lingering flashes of the storm, continued
to lead them towards its direction. The rain ceased sudden-
ly; precipitous and rough crags of scorched lava frowned
before them, rendered more fearful by the lightning that
illumined the dark and dangerous soil. Sometimes the
blaze lingered over the iron-gray heaps of scoria, covered
62
BULWER'S NOVELS.
In part with ancient mosses or stunted trees, as if seeking
in vain for some gentler product of earth more worthy
of its ire; and sometimes leaving the whole of that part of
the scene in darkness, the lightning, broad and sheeted,
hung redly over the ocean, tossing far below until its waves
seemed glowing into fire; and so intense was the blaze
that it brought vividly into view even the sharp outline of
the more distant windings of the bay, from the eternal
Misenum, with its lofty brow, to the beautiful Sorrentum
and the giant hills behind.
Our lovers stopped in perplexity and doubt, when sud-
denly, as the darkness that gloomed between the fierce
flashes of lightning once more wrapped them round, they
saw near, but high before them, the mysterious light.
Another blaze, in which heaven and earth were reddened,
made visible to them the whole expanse; no house was
near, but just where they had beheld the light, they thought
they saw in the recess of a cavern the outline of a human
form. The darkness once more returned; the light, no
longer paled beneath the fires of heaven, burnt forth again:
they resolved to ascend towards it; they had to wind their
way among vast fragments of stone, here and there over-
hung with wild bushes; but they gained nearer and nearer
to the light, and at length they stood opposite the mouth of
a kind of cavern, apparently formed by hugh splinters of
rock that had fallen transversely athwart each other and
looking into the gloom, each drew back involuntarily with
a superstitious fear and chill.
A fire burned in the far recess of the cave, and over
it was a small caldron; on a tall and thin column of iron
stood a rude lamp; over that part of the wall at the base
of which burned the fire, hung, in many rows, as if to dry,
a profusion of herbs and weeds. A fox, couched before the
fire, gazed upon the strangers with its bright and red eye,
its hair bristling, and a low growl stealing from be-
tween its teeth; in the centre of the cave was an earthen
statue, which had three heads of a singular and fantastic
cast; they were formed by the real skulls of a dog, a horse,
and a boar; a low tripod stood before this wild represen-
tation of the popular Hecate.
But it was not these appendages and appliances of the
cave that thrilled the blood of those who gazed fearfully
therein, it was the face of its inmate. Before the fire,
with the light shining full upon her features, sat a woman
of considerable age. Perhaps in no country are there seen
so many hags as in Italy,—in no country does beauty so
awfully change, in age, to hideousness the most appalling
and revolting. But the old woman now before them was
not one of these specimens of the extreme of human ugli-
ness; on the contrary, her countenance betrayed the
remains of a regular but high and aquiline order of feature;
with stony eyes turned upon them, with a look that
met and fascinated theirs, - they beheld in that fearful
countenance the very image of a corpse! the same, the
glazed and lustreless regard, the blue and shrunken lips,
the drawn and hollow jaw, -- the dead, lank hair,
of a pale gray, the livid, green, ghastly skin,
which seemed all surely tinged and tainted by the grave!
"It is a dead thing!" said Glaucus.
A
Nay, it stirs, it is a ghost of larva," faltered Ione,
as she clung to the Athenian's breast.
"Oh, away, away!"-groaned the slave; "it is
the Witch of Vesuvius."
"Who are ye?" said a hollow and ghostly voice. "And
rybat do here?"
ye
the toad, and the viper,- so I cannot welcome ye; bus
come to the fire without welcoine, -why stand upon
form?”
The language in which the hag addressed them was a
strange and barbarous Latin, interlarded with many words
of some more rude and ancient dialect. She did not stir
from her seat, but gazed stonily upon them as Glaucus now
released Ione of her outer wrapping garments, and making
her place herself on a log of wood, which was the only other
seat he perceived at hand,-fanned with his breath the
embers into a more glowing flame. The slave, encouraged
by the boldness of her superiors, divested herself also of her
long palla, and crept timorously to the oppos'te corner of
the hearth.
"We disturb you, I fear," said the silver voice of Iore,
in conciliation.
The witch did not reply, she seemed like one who had
awakened for a moment from the dead, and then relapsed
once more into the eternal slumber.
"Tell me," said she, suddenly, and after a long pause
"are ye brother and sister?"
CC
No," said Ione, blushing.
"Are ye married?"
"Not so," replied Glaucus.
"Ho, lovers! - ha, ha, ha!" and the witch,aughed
so loud and so long that the caverns rang again.
The heart of Ione stood still at that strange mirth.
Glaucus muttered a rapid counterspell to the omen,
and the slave turned as pale as the cheek of the witch
herself.
"Why dost thou laugh, old crone ?" said Glaucus,
somewhat sternly, as he concluded his invocation.
"Did I laughi?" said the hag, absently.
"She is in her dotage," whispered Glaucus; as he said
thus, he caught the glance of the hag, who fixed upon him
a malignant and vivid glare.
"Thou liest!" said she, abruptly.
"Thou art an uncourteous welcomer," returned Glaucus.
"Hush! provoke her not, dear Glaucus!" whispered
lone.
"I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye
were lovers," said the old woman. "It was because it
is a pleasure to the old and withered to look upon young
hearts like yours,
and to know the time will come
when will loathe each other, loathe-loathe — ha
ye
ha ha!"
It was now Ione's turn to pray against the unpleasing
prophecy.
"Dii avertite omen,
the gods forbid !” said she.
said she. "Yet,
poor woman, thou knowest little of love, or thou wouldst
know that it never changes."
With these words
"Was I young once, think ye?" returned the hag,
quickly; "and am I old, and hideous, and deathly now?
Such as is the form, so is the heart."
she sunk again into a stillness profound and fearful, as if
the cessation of life itself.
after a
M
"Hast thou dwelt here long?" said Glaucus,
pause, feeling uncomfortably oppressed beneath a silence
so appalling.
"Ah, long!
- yes."
"It is but a drear abode.'
us!
hell is beneath
bony finger to the earth.
the dim things below are
the young, and the
you,
Ha! thou mayest well say that,
replied the hag, pointing her
"And I will tell thee a secret,
preparing wrath for ye above,
The sound, terrible and deathlike as it was, suiting thoughtless, and the beautiful.”
well the countenance of the speaker, -and seeming rather "Thou utterest but evil words, ill becoming the hospit-
the voice of some bodiless wanderer of the Styx, than liv-able," said Glaucus; "and in future I will brave the
ing mortal, would have made Ione shrink back into the
pitiless fury of the storm, but Glaucus, though not with-
But some misgiving, drew her into the cavern.
"We are storm-beaten wanderers from the neighbouring
city," said he, "and, decoyed hither by yon light, we crave
shelter and the comfort of your hearth.
As he spoke, the fox rose from the ground, and advanced
towards the strangers, showing from end to end its white
eeth, and deepening in its menacing growl.
"Down, slave!" said the witch; and at the sound of
her voice the beast dropped at once, covering its face with
its brush, and keeping only its quick, vigilant eye fixed
apon the invaders of its repose. Come to the fire, if ye
will!" said she, turning to Glaucus and his companions.
"I never welcome living thing, save the owl, the fox,
tempest rather than thy welcome.'
"Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me,-
save the wretched!"
"And why the wretched?" asked the Athenian.
"I am the witch of the mountain,” replied the sorceress,
with a ghastly grin; " my trade is to give hope to the hope-
less; for the crossed in love, I have filters, for the avari-
cious, promises of treasure; for the malicious, potions of
revenge; for the happy and the good, I have only what life
has, curses!-- Trouble me no more."
With this the grim tenant of the cave relapsed into a
silence so obstinate and sullen, that Glaucus in vain en-
deavoured to draw her into further conversation. She did
not evince by any alteration of her locked and rigid features
that she even heard him. Fortunately, however, the storm,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
er's art.
---
my f
which was brief as violent, began now to relax; the rain
grew less and less fierce, and at last, -as the clouds
parted, the moon burst forth in the purple opening of heaven,
and streamed clear and full into that desolate abode. Never
had she shone perhaps, on a group more worthy of the paint-
The young,
the all-beautiful lone, seated by
that rude fire, her lover, already forgetful of the presence
of the hag, at her feet, gazing upward to her face, and
whispering sweet words, the pale and affrighted slave at
a little distance, and the ghastly hag resting her deadly
eyes upon them yet seemingly serene and fearless, - (for
the companionship of love hath such power,)
were these
beautiful beings, things of another sphere, in that dark
in that dark
and unholy cavern with its gloomy quaintness of appurte-
The fox regarded them from his corner with his
keen and glowing eye, and as Glaucus now turned to-
words the witch, he perceived, for the first time, just under
her seat, the bright gaze and crested head of a large snake,
whether it was that the vivid coloring of the Athenian
cloak, thrown over the shoulders of Ione, attracted the
reptile's anger, its crest began to glow and rise, as if
menacing and preparing itself to spring upon the Neapoli-
tan; Glaucus caught quickly at one of the half-burned logs
upon the hearth,- and, as if enraged at the action, the
make came forth from its shelter, and with a loud hiss raised
itself on end till its height nearly approached that of the
Greek.
nance.
"Witch!" cried Glaucus, " command thy creature, or
'hou wilt see it dead.'
"It has been despoiled of its vemon!" said the witch,
aroused at his threat; but ere the words had left her lip
the snake bad sprung upon Glaucus: quick and watchful,
the agile Greek leaped fightly aside, and struck so fell and
dexterous a biow on the head of the snake, that it fell pros-
trate and writhing among the embers of the fire.
The hag sprung up, and stood confronting Glaucus
with a face which would have befitted the fiercest of the
Furies, so utterly dire and wrathful was its expression,-
yet even in horror and ghastliness preserving the outline
and trace of beauty, and utterly free from that coarse
grotesque at which the imaginations of the North have
sought the source of terror.
"Come, dearest !" said Glaucus, impatiently. "Think-
est thou that the gods above us or below hear the impotent
ravings of dotage?
- come
!
—
Long and loud rang the echoes of the cavern with the
dread laugh of the Saga, — she deigned no further reply.
The lovers breathed more freely when they gained the
the words
open air, yet the scene they had witnessed,
and the laughter of the witch,
and the laughter of the witch, - still fearfully dwelt with
Ione, and even Glaucus could not thoroughly shake off
the impression they bequeathed. The storm had subsided,
save now and then a low thunder muttered at the dis-
tance amid the darker clouds, or a momentary flash of
With
lightning affronted the sovereignty of the moon.
some difficulty they regained the road, where they found
the vehicle already sufficiently repaired for their departure,
and the Carrucarius, calling loudly upon Hercules, to
tell him where his charge had vanished.
Glaucus vainly endeavoured to cheer the exhausted spir-
its of Ione, and scarce less vainly to recover the elastic
tone of his own natural gayety. They soon arrived before
the gate of the city; as it opened to them, a litter borne by
slaves impeded the way.
"It is too late for egress," cried the sentinel to the n
mate of the litter.
Not so," said a voice, which the lovers started to hear;
it was a voice they well recognised. "I am bound to the
villa of Marcus Polybius. I shall return shortly. I am
Arbaces, the Egyptian."
The scruples of him of the gate were removed, and
the litter passed close beside the carriage that bore the
lovers.
"Arbaces, at this hour!- scarce recovered too, me-
thinks,
thinks,whither and for what can he leave the city?"
said Glaucus.
"Alas!" replied Ione, bursting into tears, "
my soul
Preserve us,
feels still more and more the omen of evil.
O ye gods! or at least" she inurmured inly," preserve my
Glaucus !"
CHAPTER X.
Thou hast," said she, in a slow and steady voice,
which belied the expression of her face, so much was it
The lord of the Burning Belt and his minion. - Fate writes kær
passionless and calm, "thou hast had shelter under my
prophecy in red letters; but who shall read them?
roof, and warmth at my hearth, thou hast returned evil ARBACES had tarried only till the cessation of the tema-
for good,
thou hast smitten and haply slain the thing pest allowed him, under cover of night, to seek the Saga
that loved me and was mine,nay more, the creature, of Vesuvius. Borne by those of his trustier slaves in whom
above all others, consecrated to gods and deemed venera- in all more secret expeditions he was accustomed to confide,
ble by man; * -now hear thy punishment. By the moon, he lay extended along his litter, and resigning his sanguine
who is the guardian of the sorceress, by Orcus, heart to the contemplation of vengeance gratified and love
who is the treasurer of wrath, I curse thee! and thou possessed. The slaves in so short a journey moved very
art cursed! May thy love be blasted, may thy name belittle slower than the ordinary pace of mules: and Arbaces
blackened, may the infernals mark thee, -may thy heart
soon arrived at the commencement of a narrow path, which
wither and scorch, may thy last hour recall to thee the
the lovers had not been fortunate enough to discover; but
prophet voice of the Saga of Vesuvius. And thou," she which, skirting the thick vines, led at once to the habitation
added, turning sharply towards Ione, and raising her of the witch. Here he arrested the litter; and bidding his
right arm,
when Glaucus burst impetuously on her slaves conceal themselves and the vehicle among the vines,
speech.
from the observation of any chance passenger, he mounted
alone, with steps still feeble, but supported by a long staff,
the drear and harp ascent.
Hag!
"cried he, "forbear! Me thou hast cursed,
and I commit myself to the gods, — I defy and scorn thee:
but breathe but one word against yon maiden, and I will
convert the oath on thy foul lips to thy dying groan, -be-
ware!
"I have done,” replied the hag, laughing wildly,
"for in thy doom is she who loves thee accursed. And
not the less, that I heard her lips breathe thy name, and
know by what word to commend thee to the demons. Glau-
CUS, thou art doomed!" So saying, the witch turned
from the Athenian, and kneeling down beside her wounded
favorite, which she dragged from the hearth, she turned to
them her face no more.
"O Glaucus!" said Ione, greatly terrified, - "what
have we done? let us hasten from this place! the
storm has ceased. Good mistress,
Good mistress, forgive him, recall
thy words, he meant but to defend himself, — accept
this peace-offering to unsay the said; " and Ione stooping,
placed her purse on the hag's lap.
"away! The oath
"Away!" said she, bitterly,
once woven the fates only can untie, away !
A peculiar sanctity was attached by the Romans (as indeed
by perhaps every ancient people) to serpents, which they kept
*ame in their houses, and often introduced at their meals.
Not a drop of rain fell from the tranquil heaven; but the
moisture dripped mournfully from the laden boughs of the
vine, and now and then collected in tiny pools in the crev-
ices and hollows of the rocky way.
**
Strange passions these for a philosopher," thought At-
baces," that lead one like me just new from the bed of
death, and lapped even in health amid the roses of luxury
across such nocturnal paths as this, but passion and ven-
geance, treading to their goal, can make an Elysium of a
Tartarus." High, clear, and melancholy shone the moon
above the road of that dark wayfarer, glassing herself in
every pool that lay before him, and sleeping in shadow
along the sloping mount. He saw before him the same
light that had guided the steps of his intended victims, but,
no longer contrasted by the blackened clouds, it shone less
redly clear.
He paused, as at length he approached the mouth of the
cavern, to recover breath, and then with his wonted collect-
ed and stately mien, he crossed the unhallowed threshold.
The fox sprang up at the ingress of this new comer, and
by a long howl announced another visiter to his mistress.
The witch had resumed her seat, and her aspect of grave
64
BULWER'S NOVELS.
like and grim repose. By her feet, upon a bed of dry
weeds which half covered it, lay the wounded snake; but
the quick eye of the Egyptian caught its scales glittering
in the reflected light of the opposite fire, as it writhed,
now contracting, now lengthening its folds, in pain and
unsated anger.
Down, slave!" said the witch as before, to the fox;
and, as before, the animal dropped to the ground,
but vigilant.
-mute
"Rise, servant of Nox and Erebus," said Arbaces,
commandingly, “"a superior in thine art salutes thee! rise
and welcome him.”
*
At these words the hag turned her gaze upon the Egyp-
tian's towering form and dark features. She looked long
and fixedly upon him, as he stood before her in his oriental
robe, and folded arms, and steadfast and haughty brow;
"Who art thou?" she said at last, " that calls himself
greater in art than the Saga of the Burning Fields, and
the daughter of the perished Etrurian race?"
"I am he," answered Arbaces, "from whom all culti-
vator of magic, from north to south, from east to west,
from the Ganges and the Nile to the vales of Thessaly
and the shores of the yellow Tiber, have stooped to
learn."
"There is but one such man in these places," answered
the witch, "whom the men of the outer world, unknowing
his higher attributes and more secret fame, call Arbaces
the Egyptian to us of a higher nature and deeper knowl-
edge, his rightful appellation is Hermes of the Burning
Girdle."
"Look again," returned Arbaces; "I am he."
As he spake he drew aside his robe and revealed a
cincture seemingly of fire, that burnt around his waist,
clasped in the centre by a plate wherein was engraven
some sign apparently vague and unintelligible, but which
was evidently not unknown to the Saga. She rose
hastily and threw herself at the feet of Arbaces. "I
have seen then," said she, in a voice of deep humility,
"the lord of the mighty girdle,
vouchsafe my homage.
Rise," said the Egyptian, - "I have need of thee.”
So saying he placed himself on that same log of wood
on which Ione had rested before, and motioned to the
witch to resume her seat.
""
"Thou sayest," said he, as she obeyed, "that thou art
a daughter of the ancient Etrurian tribes; the mighty
walls of those rock-built cities yet frown above the robber
race that hath seized upon their ancient reign. Partly
came those tribes from Greece, partly were they exiles
from a more burning and primeval soil. In either case
art thou of Egyptian lineage, for the Grecian masters of
the aboriginal helot were among the restless sons of the
Nile banished from her bosom. Equally then, oh Saga!
art thou of ancestors that swore allegiance to mine own.
By birth as by knowledge art thou the subject of Arbaces.
Hear me then, and obey !"
‡
The witch bowed her head.
"Whatever art we possess in sorcery," continued
Arbaces, we are sometimes driven to natural means to
attain our object. The ring † and the crystal, the ashes §
and the herbs, do not give unerring divinations; neither
do the higher mysteries of the moon yield even the pos-
sessor of the girdle a dispensation from the necessity of
employing ever and anon human measures for a human
object mark me, then; thou art deeply skilled, methinks,
in the secrets of the more deadly herbs; thou knowest
those which arrest life, which burn and scorch the soul
from out her citadel, or freeze the channels of young blood
into that ice which no sun can melt. Do I overrate thy
skill speak, and truly!"
rr
Mighty Hermes, such lore is indeed mine own. Deign
to look at these ghostly and corpse-like features; they
have waned from the bues of life, merely by watching over
the rack herbs which simmer night and day in
caldron.'
yon
The Egyptian moved his seat from so unblest or so
auhealthful a vicinity, as the witch spoke.
"It is well," said he, "thou hast learnt that maxim of
all the deeper knowledge which saith, Despise the body
to make wise the mind. But to thy task; there cometh
But to thy task; there cometh
6
* The Etrurians (it may be superfluous to mention) were
celebrated for their enchantment.
* Δακτυλομαντεία.
5 Τεφρομαντεία.
Η Κρυσταλλομαντεία,
|| Βοτανομαντεία.
to thee by to-morrow's starlight a vain maiden, seeking f
thine art a love-charm to fascinate from another the ey
that should utter but soft tales to her own; instead of thy
filters, give the maiden one of thy most powerful poisons.
Let the lover breathe his vows to the shades."
The witch trembled from head to foot.
..
"5
"Oh pardon! pardon! dread master," said she, falter-
ingly, but this I dare not. The law in these cities is
sharp and vigilant; they will seize, they will slay me.
"For what purpose, then, thy herbs and thy potions
vain Saga?" said Arbaces, sneeringly.
The witch hid her loathsome face with her bands.
"Oh, years ago!" said she, in a voice unlike her usua
tones, so plaintive was it, and so soft, "I was not the
thing that I am now, I loved, I fancied myself be
loved."
"And what connexion hath thy love, witch, with my
commands?" said Arbaces, impetuously.
Patience," resumed the witch, "patience, I implore.
I loved! Another and less fair than I, yes, by Nemesis !
less fair, allured from me my chosen. I was of that dark
Etruriau tribe to whom most of all were known the secrets
of the gloomier magic. My mother was herself a Saga;
she shared the resentment of her child; from her hands I
received the potion that was to restore me his love; and
from her also the poison that was to destroy my rival. Oh,
crush me, dread walls! my trembling hands mistook the
vials, my lover fell indeed at my feet; but, dead! dead!
Since then, what has been life to me? I became suddenly
old, I devoted myself to the sorceries of my race; still by
au irresistible impulse I curse nyself with an awful penance;
still I seek the most noxious herbs; still I concoct the poisons;
still I imagine that I am to give them to my hated rival: still
pour them into the vial; still I fancy that they shall blast
her beauty to the dust; still I wake and see the quivering
body, the foaming lips, the glazing eyes of my Aulus, -
murdered, and by me.'
I
""
The skeleton frame of the witch shook beneath strong
convulsions.
Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though contempt
uous eye.
"And this foul thing has yet human emotions," thought
he
; "she still covers over the ashes of the same fire that
consumes Arbaces, such are we all!
such are we all! Mystic is the tie
of those mortal passions that unite the greatest and the
least."
He did not reply till she had somewhat recovered herself,
- and now sat rocking herself to and fro in her seat, with
glassy eyes, fixed on the opposite flame, and large tears
rolling down her livid cheeks.
"A grievous tale is thine, in truth," said Arbaces; “but
these emotions are fit ouly for our youth,
age should
harden our hearts to all things but ourselves;-as every
year adds a scale to the shell-fish, so should each year wall
and incrust the heart. Think of those frenzies no more!
And now, listen to me again! By the revenge that was
dear to thee, I command thee to obey me! it is for vengeance
that I seek thee! This youth whom I would sweep from
my path has crossed me, despite my spells; this thing of
purple and broidery, of smiles and glances, soulless and
mindless, with no charm but that of beauty, --accursed
be it!- this insect! this Glaucus, — I tell thee, by Orcus
and by Nemesis, he must die!"
of
And working himself up at every word, the Egyptian,
forgetful of his debility, of his strange companion,
every thing but his own vindictive rage, strode, with large
and rapid steps, the gloomy cavern.
"Glaucus ! saidst thou, mighty master?" said the witch,
abruptly; and her dim eye glared at the name with all that
fierce resentment at the memory of small affronts so common
among the solitary and the shunned.
"Av, so he is called; but what matter the name? Let
it not be heard as that of a living man, three days from this
date!'
"Hear me !" said the witch, breaking from a short
reverie into which she was plunged after this last sentence
of the Egyptian; "hear me! I am thy thing and thy
slave; spare me! If I give to the maiden thou speakest
of that which would destroy the life of Glaucus, I shall be
surely detected, - the dead ever find avengers. Nay, dread
an if thy visit to me be tracked, --- if thy hatred to Glau-
cus be known, thou mayst have need of thy archest magic
to protect thyself!"
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
61
"Ha!” said Araces, stopping suddenly short, and
as a proof of that blindness with which passion darkens the
eyes even of the most acute, this was the first time,
when the risk that he himself run by this method of ven-
geance had occurred to a mind ordinarily wary and cir-
cumspect.
"But," continued the witch, "if instead of that which
shall arrest the heart, I give that which shail sear and blast
the brain, which shall make him who quaffs it unfit for the
uses and career of life, —an abject, raving, benighted thing,
- smiting sense to drivelling, youth to dotage, will not
thy vengeance be equally sated, thy object equally at-
tained?'
"Oh, witch! no longer the servant, but the sister, the
equal of Arbaces, how much brighter is woman's wit even
in vengeance than ours! how much more exquisite than
death is such a doom?
>>
"And," continued the hag, gloating over her fell scheme,
"in this is but little danger, for by ten thousand
methods, which men forbear to seek, can our victim become
mad. He may have been among the vines and seen a
nymph;* or the vine itself may have had the same effect;
ha, ha! they never inquire too scrupulously into these mat-
ters, in which the gods may be agents. And let the worst
arrive, let it be known that it is a love-charm, why,
madness is a common effect of filters, and even the fair
she that gave it finds indulgence in the excuse. Mighty
Hermes, have I ministered to thee cunningly?
"Thou shalt have twenty years longer date for this,"
returned Arbaces, · "I will write a new epoch of thy fate
on the face of the pale stars,
thou shalt not serve in vain
the master of the Flaming Belt. And here, Saga, carve
thee out, by these golden tools, a warmer cell in this dreary
cavern, one service to me shall countervail a thousand
divinations by sieve and shears in the gaping rustics." So
saying, he cast upon the floor a heavy purse, which clinked
not unmusically to the ear of the hag, who loved the con-
sciousness of possessing the means to purchase comforts she
disdained. "Farewell!" said Arbaces,
said Arbaces, "fail not, cut-
watch the stars in concocting thy beverage, thou shalt
lord it over thy sisters at the walnut-tree, when thou
tellest them that thy patron and thy friend is Hermes the
Egyptian. To-morrow night we meet again."
-
-
He staid not to hear the valediction or the thanks of the
witch; with a quick step he passed into the moonlit air,
and hastened down the mountain.
The witch, who followed his steps to the threshold, stood
long at the entrance of the cavern, gazing fixedly on his
receding form, and as the sad moonlight streamed upon her
shadowy form and deathlike face emerging from the dismal
rocks, it seemed as if one gifted indeed by supernatural
magic had escaped from the dreary Orcus; and the fore-
most of its ghostly throng stood at its black portals, vainly
summoning his return, or vainly sighing to rejoin him.
The hag, then slowly reentering the cave, picked groan-
ingly up the heavy purse, took the lamp from its stand, and
passing to the remotest depth of her cell, a black and
abrupt passage, which was not visible, save at a near ap-
proach, closed round as it was with jutting and sharp crags,
yawned before her; she went several yards along this
gloomy path, which sloped gradually downwards, as if
towards the bowels of the earth, and, lifting a stone, de-
posited her treasure in a hole beneath, which, as the lamp
pierced its secrets, seemed already to contain coins of
various value, wrung from the credulity or gratitude of her
visiters.
"I love to look at you," said she, apostrophizing the
moneys, "for when I see you I feel that I am indeed of
And I am to have twenty years longer life to in-
power
crease your store ! O thou great Hermes!"
She replaced the stone, and continued her path onward
for some paces, when she stopped before a deep irregular
fissure in the earth. Here as she bent, strange, rum-
bling, hoarse, and distant sounds might be heard, while
ever and anon, with a loud and grating noise which, to
use a homely but faithful simile, seemed to resemble the
grinding of steel upon wheels, volumes of steaming and
―
*To see a nymph, was to become mad, according to classic
and popular superstition.
↑ The celebrated and immemorial rendezvous of the witches,
at Benevento. The winged serpent attached to it, long an ob-
ject of idolatry in those parts, was probably consecrated by
Egypt'an superstition
I OL. II.
9
dark smoke issued forth, and rushed spirally along the
cavern,
"The Shades are noisier than their wont," said the hag,
shaking her gray locks; and looking into the cavity, she
beheld, far down, glimpses of a long streak of light, intense-
ly, but darkly red. Strange!" she said, shrinking
back;
"it is only within the last two days that dull, deep
what can it portend?"
light hath been visible,
The fox, who had attended the steps of his fell mistress,
uttered a dismal howl, and ran cowering back to the inner
cave, a cold shuddering seized the hag herself at the cry
of the animal, which, causeless as it seemed, the supersti-
tions of the time considered deeply ominous. She muttered
her placatory charm, and tottered back into her cavern,
where, amid her herbs and incantations, she prepared to
execute the orders of the Egyptian.
"He called me dotard," said she, as the sn oke curle
"when the jaws drop,
from the hissing caldron,
and
the grinders fall, and the heart scarce beats, — it is a
pitiable thing to dote; but when," she added, with a sav-
age and exulting grin, "the young, and the beautiful,
and the strong are suddenly smitten into idiocy, — ah, that
simmer, herb,
is terrible! Burn, flame,
- swelter, toad
I cursed him, and he shall be cursed!"
On that night, and at the same hour which witnessed the
dark and unholy interview between Arbaces and the Saga,
- Apæcides was baptized.
Events progress.
-
CHAPTER XI.
The plot thickens. The web is woven, out
the net changes hands.
"AND you have the courage then, Julia, to seek the
Witch of Vesuvius this evening, in company too with that
fearful man?"
CC
Why, Nydia," replied Julia, timidly," dost thou really
think there is any thing to dread? These old bags, with
their enchanted mirrors, their trembling sieves, a their
moon-gathered herbs, are, I imagine, but crafty impostors
who have learned, perhaps, nothing but the very charm
for which I apply to their skill; and which is drawn but
from the knowledge of the field's herbs and simples. Where-
fore should I dread ?"
"Dost thou not fear thy companion !"
"What, Arbaces? By Dian, I never saw over more
courteous than that same magician! And were he not so
dark, he would be even handsome."
Blind as she was, Nydia had the penetration to perceive
that Julia's mind was not one that the gallantries of Arba-
ces were likely to terrify. Sne therefore dissuaded her no
more; but nursed, in her excited heart, the wild and increas-
ing desire to know if sorcery had indeed a spell to fascinate
love to love.
"Let me go with thee, noble Julia," said she, at length;
my presence is no protection; but I should like to be
beside thee to the last."
CC
"Thine offer pleases me much," replied the daughter of
Diomed. "Yet how canst thou contrive it? - we may
not return until late, they will miss thee."
"Ione is indulgent,” replied Nydia.
"If thou wilt
permit me to sleep beneath thy roof, I will say that thou,
an early patroness and friend, hast invited me to pass the
day with thee, and sing thee my Thessalian songs; her
courtesy will readily grant to thee so light a boon."
Nay, ask for thyself!" said the naugnty Julia.
stoop to request no favor from the Neapolitan!
"Well, be it so; I will take my leave now; make
request, which I know will be readily granted, and return
shortly."
།་ ་་
"Do so; and thy bed shall be prepared in my owa
chamber."
Nydia left the fair Pompeian with that.
On her way back to Ione she was met by the chariot of
Glaucus, on whose fiery and curveting steeds was riveted
the gaze of the crowded street.
He kindly stopped for a moment to speak to the flower
girl.
"Blooming as thine own roses, my gentle Nydia, and
how is thy fair mistress?— recovered, I trust, from the
effects of the storm?
"I have not seen her this morning," answered Nydia
"but - "
£6
BULWE
BULWER'S NOVELS.
•
"But what? draw sack, the horses are too near thee." |
"But, think you lone will permit me to pass the day
with Julia, the daughter of Diomed,· she wishes it, and
was kind to me when I had few friends.”
"The gods bless thy grateful heart! I will answer for
Ione's permission.
>>
"Then I may stay over the night and return to-morrow?
said Nydia, shrinking from the praise she so little merited.
"As thou and fair Julia please. Commend me to her;
-and hark ye, Nydia, when thou hearest her speak, note
the contrast of her voice with that of the silver-toned Ione.
Vale."
His spirits entirely recovered from the effect of the past
night, his locks waving in the wind, his joyous and
elastic heart bounding with every spring of his Parthian
steeds, - a very prototype of his country's god, full of
youth and of love, Glaucus was borne rapidly to his
mistress.
Enjoy while ye may the present, who can read the
future?
As the evening darkened, Julia, reclined within her lit-
ter, which was capacious enough also to admit her blind
companion, took her way to the rural baths indicated by
Arbaces to her natural levity of disposition, her enterprise
brought less of terror than of pleasurable excitement; above
all, she glowed at the thought of her coming triumph over
the hated Neapolitan.
A small but gay group was collected round the door of
the villa, as her litter passed by it to the private entrance
of the baths apportioned to the women.
"Methinks, by this dim light," said one of the bystan-
ders, "I recognise the slaves of Diomed."
"True, Clodius," said Sallust, "it is probably the litter
of his daughter Julia. She is rich, my friend; why dost
thou not proffer thy suit to her?
ઃઃ
"
Why, I had once hoped that Glaucus would have mar-
ried her. She does not disguise her attachment; and then,
as he gambles freely and with ill success-
'
"The sesterces would have passed to thee, wise Clodius;
a wife is a good thing, when it belongs to another inan!'
But," continued Clodius, "as Glaucus is, I understand,
to wed the Neapolitan, I think I must even try my chance
with the rejected maid. After all, the lamp of Hymen will
be gilt, and the vessel will reconcile one to the odor of the
flame. I shall only protest, my Sallust, against Diomed's
making thee trustee to his daughter's fortune."*
"Ha! ha! let us within, my commissator; the wine and
the garlands wait us."
CC
approaching his voice to Nydia's ear; "thou knowest the
oath!-silence and secrecy, now as then, or beware!"
Yet," he added, musingly to himself, "why confide
more than is necessary, even in the blind?- Julia, canst
thou trust thyself asone with me? Believe me, the magi-
cian is less formidable than he seems."
As he spoke, he gently drew Julia aside.
"The witch loves not many visiters at once," said he,
"leave Nydia here till you return; she can be of no as-
sistance to us and, for protection, your own beauty suf
fices,-your own beauty and your own rank,- yes, Julia, I
know thy name and birth. Come! trust thyself with me,
fair rival of the youngest of the naiads ! "
The vain Julia was not, as we have seen, easily affright-
ed; she was moved by the flattery of Arbaces, and she
readily consented to suffer Nydia to await her return;
nor did Nydia press her presence. At the sound of the
Egyptian's voice, all her terror of him seemed to return;
she felt a sentiment of pleasure at learning she was not
to travel in his companionship.
She returned to the house, and in one of the private
chambers waited their return. Many and bitter were the
thoughts of this wild girl as she sat there in her eternal
darkness. She thought of her own desolate fate, far from
her native land, far from the bland cares that once as-
suaged the April sorrows of childhood; deprived of the
light of day, with none but strangers to guide her steps,
accursed by the one soft feeling of her heart, loving and
without hope, save the dim and unholy ray which shot
across her mind as her Thessalian fancies questioned of the
force of spells and the gifts of magic.
-
Nature had sown in the heart of this poor girl the seeds
of virtue never destined to ripen. The lessons of adver-
sity are not always salutary, sometimes they soften and
amend, but as often they indurate and pervert. If we con-
sider ourselves more harshly treated by fate than those
around us, and do not acknowledge in our own needs
the equity of the severity, we become too apt to deem the
world our enemy, to case ourselves in defiance, to wrestle
against our softer self, and to indulge the darker passions
which are so easily fermented by the sense of justice.
Sold early into slavery, sentenced to a
- so did task-
master, exchanging her situation, only yet more to im-
bitter her lot, the kindlier feelings, naturally profuse in the
breast of Nydia, were nipped and blighted. Her sense of
right and wrong was confused by a passion to which she
had so madly surrendered herself; and the same intense
and tragic emotions which we read of in the women of the
classic age, a Myrrha, a Medea, which hurried and
swept away the whole soul when once delivered to love,
Dismissing her slaves to that part of the house set apart
for their entertainment, Julia entered the baths with Nydia,
and declining the offers of the attendants, passed by a pri-ruled, and rioted in, her breast.
vate door into the garden behind.
"She comes by appointment, be sure," said one of the
slaves.
"What is that to thee?" said a superintendent, sourly;
"she pays for the baths and does not waste the saffron.
Such appointinents are the best part of the trade. Hark!
do you not hear the widow Fulvia clapping her hands?
run, fool, run ! "
Julia and Nydia, avoiding the more public part of the
garden, arrived at the place specified by the Egyptian. In
a small circular plot of grass, the stars gleamed upon the
statue of Silenus: - the merry god reclined upon a frag-
meut of rock, the lynx of Bacchus at his feet, and
over his mouth he held with extended arm a bunch of
grapes, which he seemingly laughed to welcome, ere he
devoured.
"I see not the magician," said Julia, looking round,
Ahen, as she spoke, the Egyptian slowly emerged from the
neighbouring foliage, and the light fell palely over his
sweeping robes.
"Salie, sweet maiden! but ha! whom hast thou here?
we must have no companions ! "
|
Time passed; a light step entered the chamber where
Nydia yet indulged her gloomy meditations.
"O thanked be the immortal gods!" said Julia, "I
have returned, I have left that terrible cavera: come,
Nydia! let us away forthwith !"
It was not till they were seated in the litter, that Julia
again spoke.
"Oh!" said she, tremblingly, "such a scene! such
fearful incantations! and the dead face of the bag! but,
let us talk not of it!
let us talk not of it! I have obtained the potion, she
pledges its effect. My rival shall be suddenly indifferent
to his eye; and, I, I alone, the idol of Glaucus ! ”
"Glancus !" exclaimed Nydia.
"C
Ay! I told thee, girl, at first, that it was not the
Athenian whom I loved, but I see now that I may trust
thee wholly, it is the beautiful Greek !”
What then were Nydia's emotions! She had connived,
she had assisted in tearing Glaucus from Tone; but or ly to
transfer, by all the power of magic, his affections yet more
hopelessly to another. Her heart swelled almost to suffo-
cation, she gasped for breath, — in the darkness of the
vehicle, Julia did not perceive the agitation of her compan
ion; she went on rapidly dilating on the promised effect of
her acquisition, and on her approaching triumph over Ione,
every now and then abruptly digressing to the horror of
the scene she had quitted, the unmoved mien of Arbaces,
and his authority over the dreadful Saga.
Meanwhile, Nydia recovered her self-possession ;
woman his heir. This law was evaded by the parent's assign-thought flashed across her; she slept in the chamber of
"It is but the blind flower-girl, wise magician," replied
Julia, "herself a Thessalian.
"Oh! Nydia!" said the Egyptian, "I know her well."
Nydia drew back and shuddered.
"Thou hast been at my house, methinks!" said he,
* It was an ancient Roman law, that no one should make a
mg his fortune to a friend in trust for his daughter, but the trus-
tee might keep it if he liked. The law had, however, fallen
Into insuse before the date of this story.
Julia,
she might possess herself of the potion.
They arrived at the house of Diomed, and descended to
Julia's apartment, where the night's repast awaited them.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
67
"Drink, Nydia, thou must be cold; the air was chilly
night; as for ine, my veins are yet ice."
And Julia unhesitatingly quaffed deep draughts of the
spiced wine.
"Thou hast the potion," said Nydia; "let me hold it
in my hands, how smali the vial is! of what color is the
draught?"
-
"Clear as crystal," replied Julia, as she retook the fil-
ter; "thou couldst not tell it from this water. The witch
assures me it is tasteless. Small though the vial, it suffices
for a life's fidelity: it is to be poured into any liquid: and
Glaucus will only know what he has quaffed by the effect.”
Exactly like this water in appearance ?"
Yes, sparkling and colorless as this. How bright it
How bright it
seems! it is as the very essence of moonlit dews. Bright
thing! how thou shinest on iny hopes through thy crystal
CC
vase ! "
"And how is it sealed?"
the
"But by one little stopper, withdraw it now,
draught gives no odor. Strange, that that which speaks
to neither sense should thus command all !"
"Is the effect instantaneous?"
"Usually, but sometimes it remains dormant for a few
hours."
"O how sweet this perfume !" said Nydia, suddenly, as
she took up a small bottle on the table, and bent over its
fragrant contents.
Thinkest thou so? the bottle is set with gems of some
value, thou wouldst not have the bracelet yester morn,
wilt thou take the bottle?"
"It ought to be such perfumes as these that should re-
mind one who cannot see of the generous Julia. -- If the
If the
bottle be not too costly
"
"O! I have a thousand costlier ones; take it, child !
Nydia bowed her gratitude, and placed the bottle in her
vest.
"And the draught would be equally efficacious, whoever
administers it?"
"If the most hideous hag beneath the sun bestowed it,
such is its asserted virtue that Glaucus would deem her
beautiful, and none but her."
*
Julia, warned by wine and the re-action of her spirits,
was now all animation and delight; she laughed loud, and
talked on a hundred matters, -- nor was it till the night had
advanced far toward morning that she summoned her slaves
and undressed.
When they were dismissed, she said to Nydia,
"I will not suffer this holy draught to quit my presence
Lie under my pillow,
till the hour comes for its uses.
bright spirit, and give me happy dreams!"
So saying, she placed the potion under her pillow. -
Nydia's heart beat violently.
*4t
Why dost thou drink that unmixed water, Nydia?
Take the wine by its side.'
M
"I am fevered," replied the blind girl," and the water
cools me, I will place this bottle by my bedside, it re-
freshes in these summer nights, when the dews of sleep fall
not on our lips. Fair Julia, I must leave thee very early, -
so Ione bids,-perhaps before thou art awake: accept,
therefore, now, my congratulations.
"Thanks; when next we meet, you may find Glaucus
at my feet."
They had retired to their couches, and Julia, worn out
by the excitement of the day, soon slept; but anxious and
burning thoughts rolled over the mind of the wakeful Thes-
salian. She listened to the calm breathing of Julia, and
her ear, accustomed to the finest shades of sound, speedily
assured ber of the deep slumber of her companion.
Now, befriend me, Venus!" said she, softly.
She rose gently, and poured the perfume from the gift of
Julia upon the marble floor she rinsed it several times
carefully with the water that was beside her, and then easily
finding the bed of Julia, (for night to her was as day,) she
pressed her trembling hand under the pillow and seized the
potion. Julia stirred not, her breath regularly fanned the
burning cheek of the blind girl. Nydia then, opening the
vial, poured its contents into the bottle, which easily con-
tained them; and then, re-filling the former reservoir of the
potion with that limpid water which Julia bad assured her
it so resembled, she once more placed the vial in its former
place. She then stole again to her couch, and waited, (with
what thoughts!) the dawning day.
The sun had risen, Julia slept still;-Nydia noiseless-
ly dressed herself, placed her treasure carefully in her vest,
took up her staff, and hastened to quit the house.
The porter, Medon, saluted her kindly as she descended
the steps that led to the street; she heard him pot, her
mind was confused and lost in the whirl of tumultuous
thought, each thought a passion. She felt the pure
morning air upon her cheek, but it cooled not her scorch-
ing veins.
"Glaucus," she murmured, "all the love-charms of the
wildest magic could not make thee love me as I love thee,
Ione! —ah, away, hesitation! away, remorse! Glau-
cus, my fate is in thy smile, and thine! O hope! O joy!
O transport! — thy fate is in these hands!”
-
NOTE TO BOOK III.
(a) p. 46. "The influence of the evil eye."
This superstition, to which I have more than once alluded
throughout this work, still flourishes in Magna Græcia, with
scarcely diminished vigor. I remember conversing at Naples
with a lady of the highest rank, and of intellect and information
very uncommon among the noble Italians of either sex, when I
guddenly observed her change color, and make a rapid and
singular motion with her finger. "My God, that man!" she
whispered, tremblingly.
"What man?"
"See! the Count! he has just entered."
"He ought to be much flattered to cause such emotion;
donbtless he has been one of the signora's admirers."
His look
" Admirer! heaven forbid! He has the evil eye.
fell upon me. Something dreadful will certainly happen."
"I see nothing remarkable in his eyes,"
So much the worse. The danger is greater for being dis-
guised. He is a terrible man. The last time he looked upon
my husband, it was at cards, and he lost half his income at a
sitting; his ill-luck was miraculous. The count met my little
boy in the gardens, and my poor child broke his arm that even-
ing. Oh what shall I do?" something dreadful will certainly
happen, and, heavens! he is admiring my cap!"
"Does every one find the eyes of the count equally fatal, and
bis admiration equally exciting ?”
>>
"
"Every one, he is universally dreaded; and, wha is very
strange, he is so angry if he sees you avoid him!
"That is very strange indeed! the wretch !
At Naples the superstition works well for the jewellers,
many charms and talismans as they sell for the ominous fasci-
nation of the mal-occhio! In Pompeii the talismans were
equally numerous, but not always of so elegant a shape, nor of
so decorous a character. But generally speaking, a coral orns-
ment was, as it now is, among the favorite averters of the evil.
influence. The Thebans about Pontus were supposed to have
an hereditary claim to this charming attribute, and could even
kill grown-up men with a glance. As for Africa, where the
belief also still exists, certain families could not only destroy
children, but wither up trees; they did this, not with curses,
but praises. In our time, politicians have often possessed this
latter faculty! and the moment they take to praising an institu-
tion, it is time to pray God for it. The malus oculus was not
always different from the eyes of other people. But persons,
especially of the fairer sex, with double pupils to the organ,
were above all to be shunned and dreaded. The Illyrians were
said to possess this fatal deformity. In all countries, even in
the north, the eye has ever been held the chief seat of fascina
tion; but now-a-days, ladies with a single pupil manage the
work of destruction pretty easily; so much do we improve
upon our forefathers!
BULWER'S NOVELS
BOOK IV.
"Philtra nocent animis, vimque furoris habent."- OVID.
CHAPTER I.
£ affections on the zeal of the early Christians. Two men
come to a perilous resolve. Walls have ears, particularly
sacred walls!
WHOEVER regards the early history of Christianity,
will perceive how necessary to its triumph was that fierce
spirit of zeal, which, fearing no danger, accepting no com-
promise, inspired its champions and sustained its martyrs.
In a dominant church the genius of intolerance betrays its
cause; in a weak and a persecuted church the same genius
mainly supports. It was necessary to scorn, -to loathe,
to abhor the cree is of other men, in order to conquer
the temptations which they presented; it was necessary
rigidly to believe not only that the gospel was the true
faith, but the sole true faith that saved, in order to nerve
the disciple to the austerity of its doctrine, and to encour-
age him to the sacred and perilous chivalry of converting
the polytheist and the heathen. The sectarian sternness
which confined virtue and heaven to a chosen few, which
saw demons in other gods, and the penalties of hell in an-
other religion, made the believer naturally anxious to con-
vert all to whom he felt the ties of human affection; and
the circle thus traced by benevolence to man, was yet more
widened by a desire for the glory of God. It was for the
honor of the Christian faith that the Christian boldly forced
his tenets upon the skepticism of some, the repugnance of
others, the sage contempt of the philosopher, the pious
shudder of the people; his very intolerance supplied him
with his fittest instruments of success; and the soft hea-
then began at last to imagine there must indeed be some-
thing holy in a zeal wholly foreign to his experience, which
stopped at no obstacle, dreaded no danger, and even at
the torture or on the scaffold, referred a dispute far other
than the calm differences of speculative philosophy, to the
tribunal of an eternal Judge. It was thus that the same
fervor which made the Christian of the middle age a bigot
without mercy, made the Christian of the early days a
ero without fear.
—
Of these more fiery, daring, and earnest natures, not the
least ardent was Olinthus. No sooner had Apæcides been
received by the rites of baptism into the bosom of the
church, than the Nazarene hastened to make him conscious
of the impossibility to retain the office and robes of priest-
hood. He could not, it was evident, profess to worship
God, and continue even outwardly to honor the idolatrous
altars of the fiend.
Nor was this all; the sanguine and impetuous mind of
Olinthus beheld in the power of Apæcides, the means of
divulging to the deluded people the juggling mysteries of
the oracular Isis. He thought heaven had sent this instru-
ment of its design in order to disabuse the eyes of the
crowd, and prepare the way, perchance, for the conversion
of a whole city. He did not hesitate then to appeal to all
the new-kindled enthusiasm of Apæcides, to arouse his
courage, and to stimulate his zeal. They met according
to previous agreement, the evening after the baptism of
Apæcides, in the grove of Cybele, which we have before
described.
"At the next solemn consultation of the oracle," said
Olinthus, as he proceeded in the warmth of his address,
"advance yourself to the railing, proclaim aloud to the
people the deception they endure,- invite them to enter, to
be themselves the witnesses of the gross but artful mecha-
nism of imposture thou hast described to me. Fear not,
the Lord who protected Daniel shall protect thee; we,
the community of Christians, will be among the crowd;
we will urge on the shrinking, and in the first flush of the
popular indignation and shame, I myself, upon those very
altars, will plant the palm branch typical of the gospel,
and to my tongue shall descend the rushing Spirit of the
living God."
Heated and excited as he was, this suggestion was tot
unpleasing to Apæcides. He was rejoiced at so early an
opportunity of distinguishing his faith in his new sect, and
to his holier feelings were added those of a vindictive loath
ing at the imposition he had himself suffered, and a desire
to avenge it. In that sanguine and elastic overbound of ob.
stacles, (a necessary blindness to all who undertake ven-
turous and lofty actions,) neither Olinthus nor the proselyte
perceived all the difficulties to the success of their scheme,
which might be found in the reverent superstition of the
people themselves, who would probably be loth, before the
sacred altars of the great Egyptian goddess, to believe even
the testimony of her priest against her power.
Apæcides then assented to this proposal with a readi-
ness which delighted Olinthus. They parted with the un-
derstanding, that Olinthus should confer with the more
important of his Christian brethren on this great enter-
prise, should receive their advice and the assurances of
their support on the eventful day. It so chanced that one
of the festivals of Isis was to be held on the second day
after this conference. The festival proffered a ready oc-
casion for the design. They appointed to meet once more
on the next evening at the same spot. And in that meet-
ing was finally to be settled the order and details of the
disclosure for the following day.
It happened that the latter part of this conference had
been held near the Sacellum, or small chapel, which I have
described in the earlier part of this work, and so soon as
the forms of the Christian and the priest had disappeared
from the grove, a dark and ungainly figure emerged from
behind the chapel.
you
"I have tracked you with some effect, my brother fla-
men," said the eavesdropper, you, the priest of Isis, have
not for mere idle discussion conferred with this gloomy
Christian. Alas! that I could not hear all your precious
plot Enough! I find, at least, that meditate revealing
the sacred mysteries, and that to-morrow you meet again
at this place, to plan the how and the when. May Osiris
sharpen my ears then, to detect the whole of your unheard
of audacity. When I have learned more, I must confer at
once with Arbaces. We will frustrate you, my friends,
deep as you think yourselves. At present, my breast is
a locked treasury of your secret."
So saying, Calenus, for it was he, wrapped his robe
round him, and strode thoughtfully homeward.
CHAPTER II.
A classic host, cook, and kitchen. Apæcides seeks Ione.--
Their conversation.
It was then the day for Diomed's banquet to the most
select of his friends. The graceful Glaucus, the beautiful
Ione, the official Pansa, the high-born Clodius, the immor-
tal Fulvius, the exquisite Lepidus, the epicure Sallust,
were not the only honorers of his festival. He expected
also an invalid senator from Rome, (a man of considerable
repute and favor at court,) and a great warrior from Her-
culaneum, who had fought with Titus against the Jews,
and having enriched himself prodigiously in the wars, was
always told by his friends that his country was eternally
indebted to his disinterested exertions! The party, how-
ever, extended to a yet greater number: for, although,
critically speaking, it was at one time thought inelegant
among the Romans to entertain less than three or more
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
69
ner,
"The more
na nine at their banquets, yet this rule was easily disre-
gai ded by the ostentatious. And we are toll, indeed, in his-
tory, that one of the most splendid of these entertainers
usually feasted a select party of three hundred. Diomed,
nowever, more modest, contented himself with doubling
the number of the Muses. His party consisted of eighteen,
no unfashionable number in the present day.
the merrier," says the proverb, for my part, at a din-
I have always found it exactly the reverse!
It was the morning of Diomed's banquet, and Diomed
imself, though he greatly affected the gentleman and the
echolar, retained enough of his mercantile experience to
know that a master's eyes make a ready servant.
ingly, with his tunic ungirdled on his portly stomach, his
easy slippers on his feet, and a small wand in his hand,
whereby he now directed the gaze, and now corrected the
back, of some duller menial, he went from chamber to
chamber of his costly villa.
!
"Thy sake! unhappy Congrio," interrupted Diomed,
"and by what purloined moneys of mine, by what re
served filchings from marketing, by what goodly meats
converted into grease, and sold in the suburbs,
by wha
false charges for bronzes marred, and earthenware broken.
-.hast thou been enabled to make them serve thee for thy
sake?"
Nay, master, do not impeach my honesty. May the
gods desert me if— "
"Swear not!" again interrupted the choleric Diomed,
"for then the gods will smite thee for a perjurer, and I shal
lose my cook on the eve of dinner. But enough of this at
Accord-present, - keep a sharp eye on thy ill-favored assistants,
and tell me no tales to-morrow of vases broken and cups
miraculously vanished, or thy whole back shall be one pain,
and hark thee! thou knowest thou hast made me pay for
those Phrygian altagens, enough, per Hercle, to have
feasted a sober man for a year together, see that they be
not one iota overroasted. The last time, O Congrio, that
I gave a banquet to my friends, when thy vanity didst so
boldly undertake the becoming appearance of a Melian crane,
thou knowest it came up like a stone from Etna,
all the fires of Phlegethon had been scorching out its juices.
Be modest this time, Congrio, wary and modest.- Modesty
is the nurse of great actions; and in all other things, as in
this, if thou wilt not spare thy master's purse, at least con-
sult thy master's glory.
as if
"There shall not be such a cena seen at Pompeii since
the days of Hercules."
He did not disdain even a visit to that sacred apartment
n which the priests of the festival prepare their offerings.
On entering the kitchen, his ears were agreeably stunned
by the noise of dishes and pans, of oaths and commands.
Sinall as this indispensable chamber seems to have been in
all the houses of Pompeii, it was nevertheless usually fitted
up with all that amazing variety of stoves and shapes,
stewpans and saucepans, cutters and moulds, without which
a cook of spirit, no matter whether he be an ancient or a
modern, declares it utterly impossible that he can give you
anything to eat. And as fuel was then, as now, dear and
scarce in those regions, great seems to have been the dex- Softly, softly, thy cursed boasting again. But, I
terity exercised in preparing as many things as possible say, Congrio, yon homununculus, -yon pigmy assailant of
with as little fire. An admirable contrivance of this
my cranes, — yon pert-tongued neophyte of the kitchen,
nature may still be seen in the Neapolitan Museum, viz. a was there aught but insolence on his tongue when he ma-
portable kitchen, about the size of a folio volume, contain-ligned the comeliness of my sweetmeat shapes? I would
ing stoves for four plats, and an apparatus for heating water
or other beverages. It would be an excellent appendage to
our modern cheap libraries, containing as much food for
the body as they do for the mind, with this difference,
you would satisfactorily recur to the first work much more
frequently than you would to the last.
Across the small kitchen flitted many forms which the
quick eye of the master did not recognise.
"Oh! oh!" grumbled he to himself, "that cursed
Congrio hath invited a whole legion of cooks to assist him.
They wont serve for nothing, and this is another item in the
total of my day's expenses. By Bacchus thrice lucky
shall I be if the slaves do not help themselves to some of
the drinking-vessels; — ready, alas! are their hands, ca-
pacious are their tunics, me miserum !
The cooks, however, worked on, seemingly heedless of
the apparition of Diomed.
Ho, Euclio, your egg-pan! What, is this the largest ?
it only holds thirty-three eggs in the houses I usually
serve, the smallest egg-pan holds fifty, if need be!"
"The unconscionable rogue," thought Diomed; "he
talks of eggs as if they were a sesterce a hundred !
'
By Mercury," cried a pert little culinary disciple,
scarce in his novitiate, "who ever saw such antique sweet-
meat shapes as these! -it is impossible to do credit to
one's art with such rude materials. Why Sallust's com-
monest sweetmeat shape represents the whole siege of
Troy; Hector, and Paris, and Helen, — with little Astya-
nax and the wooden horse into the bargain!
"Silence, fool!" said Congrio, the cook of the house,
who seemed to leave the chief part of the battle to his
allies; CC
my master Diomed is not one of those expensive
good-for-naughts, who must have the last fashion, cost
what it will.”
>"
"Thou liest, base slave!" cried Diomed, in a great
passion, and thou costest me already enough to have
ruined Lucullus himself; — come out of thy den, I want to
talk to thee.”
The slave, with a sly wink at his confederates, obeyed
the command.
"*
"Man of three letters," said Diomed, with a face of
solemn anger,
“how didst thou dare to invite all those
rascals into my house? I see thief written in every line
of their faces."
"Yet I assure you, master, that they are men of most
respectable character, the best cooks of the place, it is
a great favor to get them; but for my sake
slaggatan
—
* The common witty objurgation, from the triliteral word
re
not be out of the fashion, Congrio."
"It is but the custoin of us cooks," replied Congrio,
gravely, to undervalue our tools in order to increase the
effect of our art. The sweetmeat shape is a fair shape, and
a lovely; but I would recommend my master, at the first
occasion, to purchase some new ones of a—
>>
"That will suffice," exclaimed Diomed, who seemed
resolved never to allow his slave to finish his sentences,
"now resume thy charge, shine, echpse thyself,
let men envy Diomed his cook, let the slaves of Pompeii
style thee Congrio the Great! Go, yet stay, thou hast
not spent all the moneys I gave thee for the marketing?"
«All!". alas the nightingales' tongues, and the
Roman tomacula,† and the oysters from Britain, and sundry
other things, too numerous now to recite, are yet left unpaid
for; but what matter, every one trusts the archimagirus ‡
of Diomed the wealthy!"
what
Let the Roman
"Oh! unconscionable prodigal, what waste !
profusion ! — I am ruined, but go, hasten, - inspect! —
taste ! perform! surpass thyself!
senator not despise the poor Pompeian. Away, slave!
and remember the Phrygian attagens."
The chief disappeared within his natural domain, and
Diomed rolled back his portly presence to the more courtly
chambers. All was to his liking, the flowers were fresh,
the fountains played briskly the mosaic pavements
were smooth as mirrors.
"Where is my daughter Julia?" he asked.
"At the bath.'
"Ah! that reminds me ! -time wanes, and I must
bathe also.”
Our story returns to Apæcides. On awaking that day
from the broken and feverish sleep which had followed his
adoption of a faith so strikingly and sternly at variance with
that in which his youth had been nurtured, the young priest
could scarcely imagine that he was not yet in a dream; he
had crossed the fatal river, the past was henceforth to
have no sympathy with the future; the two worlds.wers
distinct and separate,
that which had been from that
which was to be. To what a bold and adventurous enter-
prise he had pledged his life, to unveil the mysteries in
which he had participated, to desecrate the altars he had
* The attagen of Phrygia or Ionia (the bird thus anglicised
in the plural was held in peculiar esteem by the Romans, -
"Attagen carnis suavissimæ."— Athen. lib. ix. cap. S and 9.)
It was a little bigger than a partridge.
i
candiduli divina tomacula Porci."― Juvenal, x 1. 955
A rich and delicate species of sausage.
翼
​* fur" (thief)
Archimagirus was the lotty title of the chief cook.
TU
BULWER'S NOVELS.
·
served, to denounce the goddess whose ministering robe
he wore! Slowly he became sensible of the hatred and
the horror he should provoke among the pious, even if suc-
cessful; f frustrated in his daring attempt, what penalties
might he not incur for an offence hitherto unheard of,- for
which no specific law, derived from experience, was pre-
pared, and which, for that very reason, precedents, dragged
from the sharpest armory of obsolete and inapplicable legis-
lation, would probably be distorted to meet! His friends,
the sister of his youth, could he expect justice, though
he might receive compassion from them?- this brave and
heroic act would by their heathen eyes be regarded, perhaps,
as a heinous apostasy, at the best, as a pitiable madness.
He dared, he renounced every thing in this world,
in the hope of securing that eternity in the next which had
go suddenly been revealed to him. While these thoughts
on the one hand invaded his breast, on the other hand his
pride, his courage, and his virtue, iningled with reminis-
cences of revenge for deceit, of indignant disgust at fraud,
conspired to raise and to support him.
The conflict was sharp and keen; but his new feelings
triumphed over his old and a mighty argument in favor
of wrestling with the sanctities of old opinions and bereditary.
forins, might be found in the conquest over both, achieved
by that humble priest. Had the early Christians been more
controlled by the solemn plausibilities of custom,' - less
of democrats in the pure and lofty acceptation of that per-
verted word, Christianity would have perished in its
cradle !
>>
As each priest in succession slept several nights together
in the chambers of the temple, the term imposed on Apa-
cides was not yet completed; and when he had risen from
his couch, attired himself as usual, in his robes, and left his
narrow chamber, he found himself before the altars of the
temple.
In the exhaustion of his late emotions, he had slept far
into the morning, and the vertical sun already poured its
fervid beams over the sacred place.
"Salve, Apæcides!" said a voice, whose natural asperity
was smoothed by long artifice into an almost displeasing soft-
ness of tone. Thou art late abroad; has the goddess
revealed herself to thee in visions?"
"Could she reveal her true self to the people, Calenus,
how incenseless would be these altars!
وو
"That!" replied Calenus, " may possibly be true, but
the deity is wise enough to hold commune with none but
priests."
"A time may come when she will be unveiled without
her own acquiescence."
"It is not likely; she has triumphed for countless ages.
And that which has so long stood the test of time rarely
succumbs to the lust of novelty. But hark ye, young
brother! these sayings are indiscreet.”
"It is not for thee to silence them," replied Apæcides,
haughtily.
"So hot! -yet I will not quarrel with thee. Why, my
Apæcides, has not the Egyptian "onvinced thee of the
necessity of our dwelling together in unity? Has he not
convinced thee of the wisdom of deluding the people and
enjoying ourselves? If not, O brother! he is not that great
magician he is esteemed."
Thou then hast shared his lessons," said Apræcides,
with a hollow smile.
Ay ! but I stood less in need of them than thou. Na-
ture had already gifted me with the love of pleasure, and
the desire of gain and power. Long is the way that leads
the voluptuary to the severities of life; but it is only one
step from pleasant sin to sheltering hypocrisy. Beware
he vengeance of the goddess, if the shortness of that step
be disclosed!
د,
"Beware thou the hour when the tomb shall be rent and
the rottenness exposed!" returned Apæcides, solemnly.
"Vale."
With these words he left the flamen to his meditations.
When he got a few paces from the temple, he turned to look
back. Calenus had already disappeared in the entry room
of the priests, for it now approached the hour of that re-
past which, called prandium by the ancients, answers in
point of date to the breakfast of the moderns. The white
and graceful fane gleamed brightly in the sun. Upon the
altars before it rose the incense and bloomed the garlands.
The priest gazed long and wistfully upon the scene, — it
as the last time that it was ever beheld by him!
-
He then turned and pursued his way slowly towards the
house of Ione,- for before, possibly, the last tie that united
them was cut in twain, before the uncertain peril of the
next day was incurred, he was anxious to see his last survi-
ving relative, his fondest, as his earliest friend.
He arrived at her house, and found her in the garden
with Nydia.
"This is kind, Apæcides," said Ione, joyfully; "and
how eagerly have I wished to see thee! - what thanks do I
not owe thee? How churlish hast thou been to answer
none of my letters, to abstain from coming hither to
receive the expressions of my gratitude! Oh, thou hast
assisted to preserve thy sister from dishonor. What! what
can she say to thank thee, now thou art come at last ?”
CC
-
My sweet Ione, thou owest me no gratitude, for thy
cause was mine; let us avoid that subject, let us recur not
to that impious man, how hateful to both of us! I may
have a speedy opportunity to teach the world the nature of
his pretended wisdom and hypocritical severity. But let
us sit down, my sister; I am wearied with the heat of the
sun; let us sit in yonder shade, and, for a little while
longer, be to each other what we have been."
*
Beneath a wide plane-tree, with the cistus and the arbu
tus clustering round them, the living fountain before, the
green sward beneath their feet, the gay cicada, once so dear
to Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amid the grass;
the butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul, dedicated to
Psyche, and which has continued to furnish illustrations to
the Christian bard, rich in the glowing colors caught from
Sicilian skies, hovering above the sunny flowers, itself
like a winged flower, in this spot, and this scene, the
brother and the sister sat together for the last time on earth.
You may tread now on the same place; but the garden is
no more, the columns are shattered, the fountain has
ceased to play. Let the traveller search among the ruins
of Pompeii for the house of Ione. Its remains are yet
visible; but I will not betray them to the gaze of common-
place tourists. He who is more sensitive than the herd
will discover them easily; when he has done so, let him
keep the secret.
They sat down, and Nydia, glad to be alone, retired to
the farther end of the garden.
"Ione, my sister," said the young convert, "place your
hand upon my brow; let me feel your cool touch. Speak
to me too, for your gentle voice is like a breeze that bath
freshness as well as music. Speak to me, but forbear to
bless me ! Utter not one word of those forms of speech
which our childhood was taught to consider sacred!"
"Alas! and what then shall I say? Our language of
affection is so woven with that of worship, that the words
grow chilled and trite if I banish from them allusions to
our gods."
"Our gods!" murmured Apcides, with a shudder:
"thou slightest my request already."
""
In
"Shall I speak then only to thee of Isis!
"The evil spirit! No; rather be dumb for ever, unless
at least thou canst, but away, away this talk! Not
now will we dispute and cavil: not now will we judge
harshly of each other. Thou regarding me as an apostate!
and I all sorrow and shame for thee, as an idolater. No,
my sister, let us avoid such topics and such thoughts
thy sweet presence a calm falls over my spirit. For a little
while I forget. As I thus lay my temples on thy bosom,
as I thus feel thy gentle arm embrace me, I think that we
are children once more, and that the heaven smiles equally
upon both.
For oh, if hereafter I escape, no matter what
ordeal! and it be permitted me to address thee on one sa-
cred and awful subject; should I find thine ear closed and
thy heart hardened, what hope for myself could countervail
the despair for thee? In thee, my sister, I behold a like.
Shall the
made beautiful, made noble, of myself,
mirror live for ever, and the form itself be broken as the
potter's clay! Ah, no, no, thou wilt listen to me yet!
Dost thou remember how we went into the fields by Baia,
hand in hand together, to pluck the flowers of spring
even so, haud in hand, shall we enter the eternal garden,
and crown ourselves with imperishable asphodel!"
ness,
Wondering and bewildered by words she could not com-
prehend, but excited even to tears by the plaintiveness of
their tone, Tone listened to these outpourings of a full and
oppressed heart, In truth, Apæcides himself was softened
* In Sicily are found, perhaps, the most beautiful varieties of
the butterfly.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
much beyond his ordinary mood, which to outward seeming
was usually either sullen or impetuous. For the noblest
desires are of a jealous nature, - they engross, they absorb
the soul, and often leave the splenetic humors stagnant and
unheeded at the surface. Unheeding the petty things
around us, we are deemed morose; impatient at earthly
interruption to the diviner dreams, we are thought irritable
and churlish. For as there is no chimera vainer than the
hope that one human heart shall find sympathy in another,
so none ever interpret us with justice, and none, no, not
our nearest and our dearest ties forbear with us
in mercy
When we are dead, and repentance comes too late, both
friend and foe mnay wonder to think how little there was in
us to forgive!
!
"I will talk to thee then of our early years," said Ione.
"Shall yon blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood?
her voice is sweet and musical, and she hath a song on that
theme which contains none of those allusions it pains thee
to hear."
"Dost thou remember the words, my sister?" asked
Apacides.
"Methinks yes; for the tune, which is simple, fixed
them cu my memory.'
CC
Sing to me then thyself. My ear is not in unison with
unfamiliar voices; and thine, Ione, full of household asso-
ciations, has ever been to me more sweet than all the hire-
ling melodies of Lycia or of Crete. Sing to me!
Ione beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and
sending for her lute, sang, when it arrived, to a tender and
simple air, the following verses: ——
A REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD.
I.
It is not that our earlier heaven
Escapes its April showers,
Or that to childhood's heart is given
No snake amid the flowers.
Ah! twined with grief
Each brightest leaf
That's wreathed us by the hours!
Young though we be, the past may sting,
The present feed its sorrow;
But hope shines bright on every thing,
That waits us with the morrow.
Like sunlit glades,
The dimmest shades.
Some rosy beam can borrow.
II.
It is not that our later years
Of cares are woven wholly,
But smiles less swiftly chase the tears,
And wounds are healed more slowly.
And memory's vow
To lost ones now,
Makes joys too bright, unholy.
And ever fled the Iris-bow
That smiled when clouds were o'er us;
If storms should burst, uncheered we go,
A dreary waste before us; —
And, with the toys
Of childish joys,
We've broke the staff that bore us!
Wisely and delicately had Ione chosen that song, sad
though its burden seemed, for when we are deeply mournful,
discordant above all others is the voice of mirth; the fittest
spell is that borrowed from melancholy itself, for dark
thoughts can be softened down, when they cannot be bright-
ened; and so they lose the precise and rigid outline of their
truth, and their colors melt into the ideal. As the leech
As the leech
applies as a remedy to the internal sore some outward irri-
tation, which, by a gentler wound, draws away the venom
of that which is more deadly, thus, in the rankling festers
of the mind, our art is to divert to a milder sadness on the
surface the pain that gnaweth at the core. And so with
Apæecides, yielding to the influence of the silver voice that
eminded him of the past, and told but of half the sorrow
born to the present, he forgot his more immediate and fiery
sources of anxious thought. He spent hours in making
Ione alternately sing to and converse with him. And when
he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and lulled
miad.
"Ione," said he, as he pressed her hand, "should you
hear my name blackened and maligned, will you credit the
aspersion?"
Never, my brother, never!"
"Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that
the evil-doer is punished hereafter anl the good re-
warded ?"
"Can you doubt it ?”
"Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should
sacrifice every selfish interest in his zeal for virtue ?"
"He who doth so is the equal of the gods.
“And thou believest, that according to the purity and
courage with which he thus acts, shall be his portion of
bliss beyond the grave ?"
"So are we taught to hope."
"Kiss me my sister. One question more.
Thou art
to be wed to Glaucus; perchance that marriage may
separate us .nore hopelessly, but not of this speak I now,
dost thou lote
thou art to be married to Glaucus,
him? Nay, my sister, answer me by words."
Yes," nurmured Ione, blushing.
"Dost thou feel that, for his sake, thou couldst renounce
pride, brave dishonor, and incur death I have heard
that when women really love, it is to that excess.”
66
My brother, all this could I do for Glaucus, and feel
that it were not a sacrifice. There is no sacrifice to those
who love, in what is borne for the one we love.”
ઃઃ
Enough! shall woman feel thus for man, and man feel
less devotion to his God ?"
He spoke no more, his whole countenance seemed in-
stinct and inspired with a divine life, his chest swelled
proudly;-his eyes glowed; -on his forehead was writ
the majesty of a man who can dare be noble! He turned
to meet the eyes of Ione, earnest, wistful, fearful;— he
kissed her fondly, strained her warmly to his breast, and
in a moment more he had left the house.
-
Long did Ione remain in the same place mute and
thoughtful. The maidens again and again came to warr.
her of the deepening noon, and her engagement to Di-
omed's banquet. At length, she woke from her reverie,
and prepared, not with the pride of beauty, but listless
and melancholy, for the festival: one thought alone
reconciled her to the promised visit, she should meet
Glaucus, she could confide to him her alarm and un-
easiness for her brother.
Love! there is one blessing that distinguishes above all
others thy chaste and sacred ties from thy guilty and illicit,
the Eros from the Anteros; to those alone whom we
love without a crime, we impart the confidence of all our
household and familiar cares. To the erring, love is only
passion; there are but the mistress and the lover! For the
sinless, the bond embraces the fondness, the sanctity, and
the faith of every other connexion ! It was not in the
mouth of Helen, but Andromache, that Homer put those
touching words, so true in sentiment, from the eldest to the
latest time;
"And while my Hector still survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee "
CHAPTER III.
-
A fashionable party and a dinner a la mode in Pompeii.
MEANWHILE, Sallust and Glaucus were slowly strolling
toward the house of Diomed. Despite the habits of his
life, Sallust was not devoid of many estimable qualities.
He would have been an active friend, a useful citizen, in
short, an excellent man, if he had not taken it into his
head to be a philosopher. Brought up in the schools in
which Roman plagiarism worshipped the echo of Grecian
wisdom, he had imbued himself with those doctrines by
which the later Epicureans corrupted the simple maxims of
their great master. He gave himself altogether up to
pleasure, and imagined there was no sage like a boon com-
panion. Still, however, he had a considerable degree of
learning, wit, and good-nature; and the hearty frankness
of his very vices seemed like virtue itself beside the utter
corruption of Clodius and the prostrate effeminacy of Lepi-
dus; and, therefore, Glancus liked him the best of his com-
panions; and he, in turn, appreciating the nobler qualities
of the Athenian, loved him almost as much as a cold
muræna or a bowl of the best Falernian.
"This is a vulgar old fellow, this Diomed," said Sallust;
"but he has some good qualities in his cellar!
“And some charming ones- in his daughter."
'True, Glaucus, but you are not much moved by them
-
72
BULWER'S NOVELS.
methinks. I fancy Clodius is desirous to be your succes
sor
* (
"He is welcome. At the banquet of her beauty, no
guest, be sure, is considered a musca.
"You are severe, - but she has, indeed, something of
Je Corinthian about her, they will be well-matched,
after all! - What good-natured fellows we are to associate
with that gambling good-for-naught !"
"Pleasure unites strange varieties," answered Glaucus.
"He ainuses ine ""
"And flatters, but then he pays himself well-he
powders his praise with gold dust."
"You often hint that he plays unfairly, - think you so
really?"
rr
My dear Glaucus, a Roman noble has his dignity to
keep up, dignity is very expensive, Clodius must cheat
like a scoundrel in order to live like a gentleman."
"Ha ha! - well, of late I have renounced the dice.
Ah! Sallust, when I am wedded to Ione, I trust I may
yet redeem a youth of follies. We are both boru for better
things than those in which we sympathize now, born to
render our worship in nobler temples than the stye of Epi-
curiis.
رو
M
"Alas!" returned Sallust, in rather a melancholy tone,
"what do we know more than this? life is short, be-
yond the grave all is dark. There is no wisdom like that
which says enjoy.'
"By Bacchus ! I doubt sometimes if we do enjoy the
utmost of which life is capable."
C
"""
"I am a moderate inan," returned Sallust," and do not
ask the utmost.' We are like malefactors, and intoxi-
cate ourselves with wine and myrrh, as we stand on the
brink of death; but if we did not do so, the abyss would
look very disagreeable. I own that I was inclined to be
gloomy, until I took so heartily to drinking, that is a
new life, my Glaucus."
"Yes!
CC
but it brings us next morning to a new death.”
Why, the next inorning is unpleasant, I own; but then,
if it were not so, one would never be inclined to read,
I study betimes, because, by the gods! I am generally
unfit for any thing else till noon.'
<<
Fie, Scythian!"
—
"Pshaw! the fate of Pentheus to him who denies Bac-
chus.'
Well, Sallust, with all your faults, you are the best
profligate I ever met; and verily, if I were in danger of
ife, you are the only man in all Italy who would stretch out
a finger to save me."
Perhaps I should not, if it were in the iniddle of sup-
per.But, in truth, we Italians are fearfully selfish."
"So are all men who are not free," said Glaucus, with
a sigh" Freedom alone makes men sacrifice to each
other."
"Freedom then must be a very fatiguing thing to an
Epicurean," answered Sallust. "But here we are, at our
host's "
As Diomed's villa is one of the most considerable in
point of size of any yet discovered at Pompeii, and is,
mereover, built much according to the specific instructions
for a suburban villa, laid down by the Roman architect, it
may not be uninteresting briefly to describe the plan of the
apartments through which our visiters passed.
They entered then by the same small vestibule at which
we have before been presented to the aged Medon, and
passed at once into a colonnade, technically termed the
peristyle; for the main difference between the suburban
villa and the town mansion consisted in placing in the first
the said colonnade in exactly the same place as that which
in the town mansion was occupied by the atrium. In the
centre of the peristyle was an open court which contained
the impluvium.
An-
From this peristyle descended a staircase to the offices;
another narrow passage on the opposite side communicated
with a garden; various small apartments surrounded the
colonnade, appropriated probably to country visiters.
other door to the left, on entering, communicated with a
small triangular portico, which belonged to the baths, and
oehind was the wardrobe, in which were kept the vests of
the holyday suits of the slaves, and perhaps of the master.
Seventeen centuries afterward were found those relics of
ancient finery, calcined and crumbling, kept longer, alas!
han their thrifty lord foresaw.
Unwelcome and uninvited guests were called n usca, or flies.
Return we to the peristyle, and endeavour now to pre-
sent to the reader a coup-d'oeil of the whole suite of apart-
ments, which immediately stretched before the steps of the
visiters.
Let him then first imagine the columns of the portico,
hung with festoons of flowers; the columns themselves in
the lower part painted red, and the walls around glowing
with various frescoes; then looking beyond a curtain,
three parts drawn aside, the eye caught the tablinum or
saloon, (which was closed at will by glazed doors, now slid
back into the walls.) On either side of this tablinum
were small rooms, one of which was a kind of cabinet of
gems; and these apartments, as well as the tablinum, com-
municated with a long gallery, which opened at either end
upon terraces; and between the terraces, and communi-
cating with the central part of the gallery, was a ball, in
which the banquet was that day prepared. All these
apartments, though almost on a level with the street, were
one story above the garden; and the terraces, communicat-
ing with the gallery, were continued into corridors, raised
above the pillars which, to the right and left, skirted the
garden below.
Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the apart
ments we have already described, as chiefly appropriated
to Julia.
In the gallery then just mentioned, Diomea received his
guests.
The merchant affected greatly the man letters, and,
therefore, he also affected a passion for every thing Greek;
he paid particular attention to Glaucus.
"You will see, my friend," said he, with a wave of his
hand, "that I am a little classical here, - a little Cecro-
pian, eh? The hall in which we shall sup is borrowed
from the Greeks. It is an Ecus Cyzicene. Noble Sal
lust! they have not, I am told, this sort of apartment in
Rome."
"Oh!"replied Sallust, with half a smile, you Pom-
peians combine all most eligible in Greece and in Rome;
may you, Diomed, combine the viands as well as the archi
tecture!"
tr
"You shall see, you shall see, my Sallust," replied the
merchant; we have a taste at Pompeii, and we have
also money."
"They are two excellent things," replied Sallust. "But
behold, the Lady Julia!"
A main difference, as I have before remarke:), in the
manner of life observed among the Athenians and Romans
was, that with the first, the modest women rarely og never
took part in entertainments; with the latter, they were the
common ornaments of the banquet; but when ey were
present at the feast, it usually terminated at an carly hour.
Magnificently robed in white, interwoven with pearls and
threads of gold, the handsome Julia entered the apartment.
Scarcely had she received the salutation of the two
guests, cre Pansa and his wife, Lepidus, Clodius, and the
Roman senator entered almost simultaneously; then came
the widow Fulvia; then the poet Fulvius, like to the
widow in name if in nothing else; the warrior from Her.
culaneum, accompanied by his umbra, next stalked iu;
afterward, the less eminent of the guests. Iene yet tar
ried.
It was the mode among the courteous ancients to flatter
whenever it was in their power; accordingly it was a sign
of ill-breeding to seat themselves immediately on entering
the house of their host. After performing the salutation,
which was usually accomplished by the same cordial shake
of the right hand which we ourselves retain, and some-
times by the yet more familiar embrace, they spent several
minutes in surveying the apartment, and admiring the
bronzes, the pictures, or the furniture, with which it was
adorned; a mode very impolite according to our refined
English notions, which place good breeding in indifference :
we would not for the world express much admiration at a
man's house, for fear it should be thought we had never
seen any thing so fine before !
"A beautiful statue this, of Bacchus !" said the Romas
senator.
"A mere trifle !" replied Diomed.
"What charming paintings?" said Fulvia.
"Mere trifles!" answered the owner.
CC
ઃઃ
Exquisite candelabra !" cried the warrior.
Exquisite !" echoed his umbra.
"Trifles trifles!" reiterated the merchant
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
78
Meanwhile Glaucus found himself by one of the win-
dows of the gallery which communicated with the terraces,
and the fair Julia by his side.
"Is it an Athenian virtue, Glaucus," said the merchant's
daughter, "to shun those whom we once sought?"
"Fair Julia, no!"
Yet, methinks, it is one of the qualities of Glaucus."
"Glaucus never shuns a friend," replied the Greek,
with some emphasis on the last word.
"May Julia rank among the number of his friends?"
"It would be an honor to the emperor to find a friend
in one so lovely.”
"You evade my question," returned the enamoured
Julia; "but tell me, is it true that you admire the Neapol-
itan Ione?
"Does not beauty constrain our admiration ?"
"Ah! subtle Greek, still do you fly the meaning of my
words. But say, shall Julia be indeed
shall Julia be indeed your friend?"
"If she will so favor me, blessed be the gods! The
day in which I am so honored shall be ever marked in
white."
"Yet even while you speak, your eye is restless, — your
color comes and goes, you move away involuntarily, -
you are impatient to join Ione.”
For at that moment Ione had entered, and Glaucus had
indeed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jealous beauty.
"Can admiration to one woman make me unworthy
the friendship of another? Sanction not sʊ, O Julia, the
libels of the poets on your sex.´
""
"Well, you are right, or I will learn to think so.
Glaucus yet one moment! you are to wed Ione, is it not
80 ? "
"If
If the fates permit, such is my blessed hope."
"Accept then from me, in token of our new friendship,
a present for your bride. Nay, it is the custom of friends,
you know, always to present to the bride and bridegroom
some such little marks of their esteem and favoring
wishes."
"Julia! I cannot refuse any token of friendship from
one like you. I will accept the gift as an omen from for-
tune herself."
"Then after the feast, when the guests retire, you will
descend with me to my apartment, and receive it from my
hands. Remember!" said Julia, as she joined the wife
of Pansa, and left, Glaucus to seek Ione.
The widow Fulvia and the spouse of the edile were
engaged in high and grave discussion.
"O Fulvia! I assure you that the last account from
Rome declares that the frizzling mode of dressing the hair
is growing antiquated; they only now wear it built up
in
a tower like Julia's, or arranged as a helmet, the Gale-
rian fashiou, like mine, you see; it has a fine effect, I
think. I assure you, Vespius (Vespins was the name of
the Herculaneum hero) admires it greatly.
w
"And nobody wears the hair like yon Neapolitan, in the
Greek way?"
r
What, parted in front with the knot behind! O, no!
how ridiculous it is! it reminds one of a statue of Diana!
Yet this one is handsome, eh?”
"So the men say, but then she is rich: she is to marry
the Athenian; I wish her joy. He will not be long faithful,
I suspect; those foreigners are very faithless."
CC
Ho, Julia!” said Fulvia, as the merchant's daughter
joined them; "have you seen the tiger yet?"
"No!"
(C
Why, all the ladies have been to see him.
handsome!"
He is so
"I hope we shall find some criminal or other for him
and the lion,” replied Julia; “ your husband ”
(turning
to Pansa's wife) "is not so active as he should be in this
matter."
"Why, really the aws are too mild," replied the dame
of the helmet; there are so few offences to which the
punishment of the arena can be awarded; and then, too,
the gladiators are growing effeminate. The stoutest bes-
tiarii declare they are willing enough to fight a boar or a
bull; but as for a lion or tiger, they think the game too
auch in earnest.”
They are worthy of a mitre," * replied Julia, in dis-
dain.
* Mitres were worn sometimes by men, and considered a
great mark of effeminacy, to be fit for a mitre was therefore
o be fit for very little else! It is astonishing how many
VOL. II.
J
10
|
"O! have you seen the new house of Fulvius, the dear
poet?" said Pansa's wife.
*
No, is it handsome ?"
Very, such good taste; but they say, my dear, that he
has such improper pictures. He won't show them to the
women; how ill-bred!"
"But
"Those poets are always odd," said the widow.
he is an interesting man; what pretty verses he writes:
we improve very much in poetry; it is impossible to read
the old stuff now.'
"I declare I am of your opinion," returned the lady of
in
the helmet," there is so much more force and energy
the modern school.”
The warrior sauntered up to the ladies.
"It reconciles me to peace," said he, "when I see
such faces."
"O! you heroes are ever flatterers," returned Fulvia,
hastening to appropriate the compliment specially to her.
self.
"By this chain, which I received from the emperor's
own hand," replied the warrior, playing with a short chain
which hung round the neck like a collar, instead of de-
scending to the breast, according to the fashion of the
peaceful, by this chain you wrong me; I am a blunt
- a soldier should be so.
"How do you find the ladies of Pompeii generally?"
said Julia.
man,
'By Venus, most beautiful; they favor me a little, it is
true, and that inclines my eyes to double their charms.
"We love a warrior," said the wife of Pansa.
"I see it; by Hercules, it is even disagreeable to be too
celebrated in these cities. At Herculaneum they climb the
roof of my atrium to catch a glimpse of me through the
compluviuin; the admiration of one's citizens is pleasant
at first, but burdensome afterward.”
"True, true, O Vespius!" cried the poet, joining the
group, "I find it so myself."
"You!" said the stately warrior, scanning the small
form of the poet with ineffable disdain. "In what legion
have you served ?”
"You may see my spoils, my exuviæ, in the forum it-
self," returned the poet, with a significant glance at the
women; "I have been among the tent companions, the
contubernales of the great Mantuan himself."
"I know no general from Mantua," said the warrior,
gravely; "what campaign have you served?"
That of Helicon."
CC
"I never heard of it.
CC
ing.
Nay, Vespius, he does but joke," said Julia, laugh-
Joke! By Mars, am I a man to be joked?”
"Yes! Mars himself was in love with the mother of
jokes," said the poet, a little alarmed. "Know then, O
Vespius! that I am the poet Fulvius. It is I who make
warriors immortal.'
""
"If
"The gods forbid!" whispered Sallust to Julia.
Vespius were made immortal, what a specimen of tiresome
braggadocio would be transmitted to posterity!"
The soldier looked puzzled, when, to the infinite relief
of himself and his companions, the signal for the feast was
given.
As we have already witnessed at the house of Glaucus
the ordinary routine of a Pompeian entertainment, the
reader is spared any second detail of the courses and the
manner in which they were introduced.
Diomed, who was rather ceremonious, had appointed a
nomenclator or appointer of places to each guest.
The reader understands that the festive board was com-
posed of three tables; one at the centre, and one at each
wing. It was only at the outer side of these tables that
the guests reclined: the inner space was left untenanted for
the greater convenience of the waiters or ministri. The
extreme corner of one of the wings was appropriated to
Julia as the lady of the feast, that next her to Diomed
At one corner of the centre table was placed the edile; a.
the opposite corner the Roman senator; these were the
posts of honor. The other guests were arranged so that
the
young (gentleman or lady) should sit next each other·
and the more advanced in years be similarly matched. An
modern opinions are derived from antiquity. Doubtless, it was
this classical notion of mitres that incited the ardor of Mr
Ripon to expel the bishops. There is a vast deal of wicked
ness in Latin !
74
BULWER'S NOVELS.
agreeable provision enough, but one which must often have
offended those who wished to be thought still young.
"Not I, by Vesta! I am an impartial monarch;
drink!"
The poor senator, compelled by the laws of the table,
was forced to comply. Alas! every cup was bringing him
nearer and nearer to the Stygian pool.
"Gently gently! my king," groaned Diomed,
already begin to
-
66 we
"Treason!" interrupted Sallust; "no stern Brutus
here! -no interference with royalty!"
"But our female guests
"Love a toper!
The chair of Ione was next to the couch of Glaucus. *
The seats were veneered with tortoise-shell, and covered
with quilts stuffed with feathers, and ornamented with the
costly embroideries of Babylon. The modern ornaments
of epergne or plateau were supplied by images of the
gods, wrought in bronze, ivory, and silver. The sacred
salt-cellar and the familiar lares were not forgotten. Over
the table and the seats, a rich canopy was suspended from
the ceiling. At each corner of the table were lofty cande-
labras, for, though it was early noon, the room was dark-chus!"
ened; while from tripods placed in different parts of the
room distilled the odor of myrrh and frankincense; and
upon the abacus, or sideboard, large vases and various or-
Laments of silver were ranged, much with the same osten-
tation, but with more than the same taste, that we find dis-
played at a modern feast.
The custom of grace was invariably supplied by that of
libations to the gods; and Vesta, as queen of the house-
hold gods, usually received first that graceful homage.
This ceremony being performed, the slaves showered
flowers upon the couches and the floor, and crowned each
guest with rosy garlands, intricately woven with ribands,
cied by the rind of the linden-tree, and each intermingled
with the ivy and the amethyst, supposed preventives against
the effect of wine: the wreaths of the women only were
exempted from these leaves, for it was not the fashion for
them to drink wine,in public. It was then that the
president Diomed thought it advisable to institute a basileus
or director of the feast, - an important office, sometimes
chosen by lot, sometimes, as now, by the master of the
entertainment.
Diomed was not a little puzzled as to his election. The
invalid senator was too grave and too infirm for the proper
fulfilment of his duty; the edile Pansa was adequate enough
to the task; but then to choose the next in official rank to
the senator, was an affront to the senator himself. While
deliberating oetween the merits of the others, he caught
the mirthful glance of Sallust, and by a sudden inspiration,
named the jovial epicure to the rank of director, or arbiter
bibendi.
Sallust received the appointment with becoming hu-
mility.
"I shall be a merciful king," said he, "to those who
drink deep; to a recusant, Midas himself shall be less
inexorable, beware!"
The slaves now handed round basins of perfumed water,
by which lavation the feast commenced: and now the table
groaned under the initiatory course.
The conversation, at first desultory and scattered, al-
lowed Ione and Glaucus to carry on those sweet whispers
which are worth all the eloquence in the world. Julia
watched them with flashing eyes.
"How soon shall her place be mine!" thought she.
But Clodius, who sat in the centre table, so as to observe
well the countenance of Julia, guessed her pique, and re-
solved to profit by it. He addressed her across the table
in set phrases of gallantry, and as he was of high birth,
and of a showy person, the vain Julia was not so much in
love as to be insensible to his attentions.
The slaves in the interim were constantly kept upon the
alert by the vigilant Sallust, who chased one cup by another
with a celerity which seemed as if he were resolved upon
exhausting those capacious cellars, which the reader may
yet see beneath the house of Diomed. The worthy mer-
chant began to repent his choice, as amphora after am-
phora was pierced and emptied. The slaves, all under the
age of manhood, (the youngest being about ten years old,
it was they who filled the wine; the eldest, some five
years older, mingled it with water,) seemed to share in the
zeal of Sallust; and the face of Diomed began to glow,
as he watched the provoking complacency with which they
seconded the exertions of the king of the feast.
"Pardon me, O senator,
" said Sallust, "I see you
flinch; your purple hem cannot save you,
drink!"
By the gods!" said the senator, coughing, "my lungs
are already on fire; you proceed with so miraculous a
swiftness, that Phaeton himself was nothing to you. I am
mfirm, O pleasant Sallust, -you must exonerate me.
* In formal parties, the women sat in chairs, the men re-
alined. It was only in the bosom of families, that the same
case was granted to both sexes, -the reason is obvious.
>>
Did not Ariadne dote upon Bac-
The feast proceeded, the guests grew more talkative
and noisy, the dessert, or last course, was already on the
table; and the slaves bore round water with myrrh and
hyssop for the finishing lavation. At the same time a small
circular table that had been placed in the space opposite
the guests, suddenly, and as by magic, seemed to open in
the centre, and cast up a fragrant shower, sprinkling the
table and the guests; while, as it ceased, the awning above
them was drawn aside, and the guests perceived that a
rope had been stretched across the ceiling, and that one of
those nimble dancers, for which Pompeii was so celebrated,
and whose descendants add so charming a grace to the
festivities of Astley's or Vauxhall, was now treading his
airy measures right over their heads.
This apparition, removed but by a cord from one's peri-
cranium, and indulging the most vehement leaps, apparently
with the intention of alighting upon that cerebral region,
would probably be regarded with some terror by a party in
May-fair; but our Pompeian revellers seemed to behold
the spectacle with delighted curiosity, and applauded in
proportion as the dancer appeared with the most difficulty
to miss falling upon the head of whatever guest he particu-
larly selected to dance above. He paid, indeed, the sen-
ator the peculiar compliment of literally falling from the
rope, and catching it again with his hand, just as the whole
party imagined the skull of the Roman was as much frac
tured as ever that of the poet whom the eagle took for a
tortoise.
At length, to the great relief of at least Ione, who had
not much accustomed herself to this entertainment, the
dancer suddenly paused, as a strain of music was heard
from without. He danced again still more wildly; the
air changed, the dancer paused again; no, it could not
dissolve the charm which was supposed to possess him.
He represented one who by a strange disorder is compelled
to dance, and whom only a certain air of music can cure.*
At length the musician seemed to hit on the right tune, the
dancer gave one leap, swung himself down from the rope,
alighted on the floor, and vanished.
One art now yielded to another, and the musicians, who
were stationed without on the terrace, struck up a soft and
mellow air, to which were sung the following words, made
almost indistinct by the barrier between and the exceeding
lowness of the minstrelsy:
FESTIVE MUSIC SHOULD BE LOW.
I.
Hark, through these flowers our music sends its greeting
To your loved hall, where Psilast shuns the day;
When the young god his Cretan nymph was meeting
He taught Pan's rustic pipe this gliding lay.
Soft as the dews of wine
Shed in this banquet-hour,
The bright libation of sound's stream divine.
O reverent harp, to Aphrodite pour !
II.
Wild rings the trump o'er ranks to glory marching,
Music's sublimer bursts for war are meet;
But sweet lips murmuring under wreaths o'erarching,
Find the low whispers, like their own, most sweet.
Steal my lulled music, steal,
Like woman's half-heard tone,
So that whoe'er shall hear, shall think to feel
In thee, the voice of lips that love his own.
How it was I know not; but at the end of that song
Ione's cheek blushed more deeply than before, and Glaucus
had contrived beneath the cover of the table to steal her
hand.
"It is a pretty song," said Fulvius, patronisingly.
"Ah! if you would oblige us," murmured the wife of
Pansa.
"A dance still retained in Campania.
† Bacchus
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
78
"Do you wish Fulvius to sing?" asked the king of the
feast, who had just called on the assembly to drink the
health of the Roman senator, a cup to each letter of his
name.
"Can you ask?" said the matron, with a compliment-
ary glance at the poet.
Sallust snapped his fingers, and, whispering the slave
who came to learn his orders, the latter disappeared, and
returned in a few moments with a small harp in one hand
and a branch of myrtle in the other.
The slave approached the oet, and with a low reverence
presented to him the harp.
ސ
"Alas! I cannot play," said the poet.
"Then you must sing to the myrtle. It is a Greek
fashion; Diomed loves the Greeks, I love the Greeks,
- you love the Greeks, we all love the Greeks, and
between you and me this is not the only thing we have
stolen from them. However, I introduce this custom,
the king, sing, subject, sing."
-
I,
The poet, with a bashful smile, took the myrtle in his
hands, and after a short prelude, sang as follows in a pleas-
ant and well-tuned voice :
#
THE CORONATION OF THE LOVES.*
I.
The merry Loves one holiday
Were all at gambols madly;
But Loves too long can seldom play
Without behaving sadly.
They laughed, they toyed, they romped about,
And then for change they all fell out.
Fie, fie! how can they quarrel so,
My Lesbia-ah, for shame, love!
Methinks 'tis scarce an hour ago,
When we did just the same, love.
11.
The Loves, 't is thought, were free till then,
They had no king nor laws, dear,
But gods, like men, should subject be,
Say all the ancient saws, dear.
And so our crew resolved for quiet,
To choose a king to curb their riot.
A kiss ah! what a grievous thing
www
For both, methinks 't would be, child,
If I should take some prudish king,
And cease to be so free, child!
111.
Among their toys a casque they found,
It was the helm of Ares;
With horrent plumes the crest was crowned,
It frightened all the Lares.
So fine a king was never known —
They placed the helmet on the throne.
My girl, since valor wins the world,
They chose a mighty master;
But thy sweet flag of smiles unfurled,
Would win the world much faster!
IV.
The casque soon found the Loves too wild
A troop for him to school them;
For warriors know how one such child
Has, ay, contrived to fool them.
They plagued him so, - that in despair
He took a wife the plague to share.
If kings themselves thus find the strife
Of earth unshared, severe, girl;
Why, just to halve the ills of life,
Come take your partner here, girl.
V.
Within that room the bird of Love
The whole affair had eyed then;
The monarch hailed the royal dove,
And placed her by his side then ;
What mirth amid the Loves was seen!
"Long live," they cried, "our king and queen."
Ah! Lesbia, would that thrones were mine,
And crowns to deck that brow, love,
And yet I know that heart of thine
For me is throne enow, love.
VI.
The urchins thought a milder mate
Their king could not have taken;
But when the queen in judgment sat,
They found themselves mistaken.
The art to reign she'd learned above,
And ne'er was despot like the dove.
Suggested by two Pompeian pictures in the Museum at
Naples, which represent a dove and a helmet enthroned by
Capids
In thee I find the same deceit,
Too late, alas! a learner !
For where a mien more gently sweet?
And where a tyrant sterner?
This song, which greatly suited the gay and lively fancy
of the Pompeians, was received with considerable applause,
and the widow insisted on crowning her namesake with the
very branch of inyrtle to which he had sung. It was easily
twisted into a garland, and the immortal Fulvius was
crowned amid clapping of hands and shouts of Io triumphe!
The song and the harp now circulated round the party; a
new myrtle branch being handed about, stopping at each
person who could be prevailed upon to sing.*
The sun began now to decline, though the revellers, who
had worn away several hours, perceived it not in their
darkened chamber; and the senator who was tired, and
the warrior who had to return to Herculaneum, rising to de-
part, gave the signal for the general dispersion.
"Tarry yet a moment, my friends," said Diomed; "if
you will go so soon, you must at least take a share in our
concluding game."
So saying, he motioned to one of the ministri, and whis-
pering him, the slave went out, and presently returned with
a small bowl containing various tablets carefully sealed and
apparently exactly similar. Each guest was to purchase
one of these at the nominal price of the lowest piece of sil-
ver and the sport of this lottery (which was the favorite
diversion of Augustus, who introduced it) consisted in the
inequality and sometimes the incongruity of the prizes, the
nature and amount of which were specified within the tab-
lets. For instance, the poet, with a wry face, drew one
of his own poems; (no physician ever less willingly swal
lowed his own draught;) the warrior drew a case of bod
kins, which gave rise to certain novel witticisms relative
to Hercules and the distaff; the widow Fulvia obtained a
large drinking-cup; Julia, a gentleman's buckle; and Le-
pidus, a lady's patch-box. The most appropriate lot was
drawn by the gambler Clodius, who reddened with anger
on being presented to a set of cogged dice. A certain
damp was thrown upon the gayety which these various lots
created, by an accident that was considered ominous;
Glaucus drew the most valuable of all the prizes, a small
marble statue of Fortune, of Grecian workmanship; on
handing it to him the slave suffered it to drop, and it broke
in pieces.
A shiver went round the assembly, and each voice cried
“ Dii avertite omen ! >
spontaneously,
Glaucus alone, though perhaps as superstitious as the
rest, affected to be unmoved.
"Sweet Neapolitan," whispered he tenderly to Ione,
who had turned pale as the broken marble itself, "I ac-
cept the omen. It signifies, that in obtaining thee, fortune
can give no more, she breaks her image when she blesses
me with thine.”
In order to divert the impression which this incident had
occasioned in an assembly, which, considering the civiliza-
tion of the guests, would seem miraculously superstitious,
if at the present day, in a country party, we did not often
see a lady grow hypochondriacal on leaving a room, last
of thirteen, Sallust now, crowning his cup with flowers,
gave the health of their host. This was followed by a sim-
ilar compliment to the emperor; and then, with a parting
cup to Mercury to send them pleasant slumbers, they con-
cluded the entertainment by a last libation, and broke up
the party.
Carriages were little used in the streets of Pompeii,
partly owing to their extreme narrowness, partly to the
convenient smallness of the city. Most of the guests re-
placing their sandals, which they put off in the banquet-
room, and induing their cloaks, left the house on foot at-
tended by their slaves.
Meanwhile, having seen Ione depart, Glaucus turning to
the staircase which led down to the rooms of Julia, was
conducted by a slave to an apartment in which he found the
merchant's daughter already seated.
"Glaneus!" said she, looking down, "I see that you
really love Ione, she is indeed beautiful.”
"Julia is charming enough to be generous," replied the
* According to Plutarch (Sympos. lib. i.) it seems that the
branch of myrtle or laurel was not carried round in order, but
passed from the first person on one couch to the first on another
and then from the second on the one to the second on the other
and so on.
76
BULWER'S NOVELS.
up
Greek "Yes, I love Ione; amid all the youth who court The reed on which she leaned was broken, the oil was dried
you, may you have one worshipper as sincere."
in the widow's cruse. They bore the dead upon his
"Pray the gods to grant it! See. Glaucus, these pearls bier, and near the gate of the city, when the crowd were
are the present I destine to your bride may Juno give her gathered, there came a silence over the sounds of
:
health to wear them!
woe, for
the Son of God was passing by. The inother, who followed
the bier, wept not noisily, but all who looked upon her saw
that her heart was crushed. And the Lord pitied her, and
he touched the bier, and said, 'I SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.
| And the dead man woke and looked upon the face of the
Lord. Oh! that calm and solemn brow! that unutterable
smile, that care-worn and sorrowful face lighted up with
a God's benignity! it chased away the shadows of the
grave! I rose, I spoke, I was living and in my mother's
arms, yes, I am the dead revived! The people shouted:
the funeral horns rang forth merrily, there was a cry,
"God has visited his people!' I heard them not. I fek, I
saw nothing but the face of the Redeemer."
So saying she placed a case in his hands, containing a
row of pearls of some size and price. It was so much the
custom for persons about to be married to receive these
gifts, that Glaucus could have little scruple in accepting the
necklace, though the gallant and proud Athenian inly re-
solved to requite the gift by one of thrice its value. Julia
then, stopping short his thanks, poured forth some wine
into a small bowl.
"You have drunk many toasts with my father," said
she, smiling,
t one now with me. Health and fortune
to your bride!
She touched the cup with her lips, and then presented it
to Glaucus. The customary etiquette required that Glau-
cus should drain the whole contents; he accordingly did
so. Julia, unknowing the deceit which Nydia had practised
upon her, watched him with sparkling eyes: although the
witch had told her that the effect might not be immediate,
yet she sanguinely trusted to an expeditious operation in
favor of her charms. She was disappointed when she
found Glaucus coldly replace the cup and converse with her
in the same unmoved but gentle tone as before. And though
she detained him as long as she decorously could do, no
change took place in his manner.
"But to-morrow, thought she, exultingly recovering
her disappointment,
'
to-morrow, alas, for Glaucus!"
Alas, for him, indeed!
CHAPTER IV.
The story halts for a moment at an episode.
RESTLESS and anxious, Apæcides consumed the day in
wandering through the most sequestered walks in the vicin-
ity of the city. The sun was slowly setting as he paused
beside a lonely part of the Sarnus, ere yet it wound amid
the evidences of luxury and power. Only through open-
ings in the woods and vines were caught glimpses of the
white and gleaming city, in which was heard in the distance
no din,- — no sound,- —nor "busiest hum of men.” Amid
the green banks crept the lizard and the grasshopper, and
here and there in the brake some solitary bird broke into
sudden song, as suddenly stilled. There was deep calm
around, but not the calm of night; the air still breathed
of the freshness and life of day; the grass still moved to
the stir of the insect horde; and on the opposite bank, the
graceful and white capella passed browsing through the
herbage, and paused at the wave to drink.
As Apæecides stood musingly gazing upon the waters, he
heard beside him the low bark of a dog.
"Be still, poor friend," said a voice at hand; "the
tranger's step harms not thy master. The convert rec-
gnised the voice, and turning, he beheld the mysterious
Id man whom he had seen in the congregation of the Naz-
arenes.
The old man was sitting upon a fragment of stone cov-
ered with ancient mosses; beside him were his staff and
scrip; at his feet lay a small shagged dog, the companion
in how many a pilgrimage perilous and strange?
The face of the old man was as balm to the excited spirit.
of the neophyte: he approached, and craving his blessing,
at down beside him.
"Thou art provided as for a journey, father," said he;
wilt thou leave us yet ?
My son," replied the old man, "the days left to me on
arth are few and scanty; I employ them as becomes me,
ravelling from place to place, comforting those whom God
as gathered together in his name, and proclaiming the
glory of his Son, as testified to his servant."
"Thou hast looked, they tell me, on the face of Christ ?"
“And the face revived me from the dead: know, young
Droselyte to the true faith, that I am he of whom thou
eadest in the scroll of the apostle. In the far Judea and
in the city of Nain, there dwelt a widow, humble of spirit
and sad of heart, for of all the ties of life one son alone
was spared to her. And she loved him with a melancholy
bove, for he was the likeness of the lost. And the son died.
I
The old man paused, deeply moved; and the youth feit
his blood creep and his hair stir. He was in the presence
of one who had known the mystery of deatn.
"Till that time," renewed the widow's son, "I had
been as other men, thoughtless, not abandoned; taking no
heed but of the things of love and life; nay, I had inclined
to the gloomy faith of the earthly Sadducee! But, raised
from the dead, from awful and desert dreams, that these
lips never dare reveal,- recalled upon earth to testify the
powers of heaven, -once more mortal, the witness of im-
mortality; I drew a new being from the grave. Oh, fated,
-oh, lost Jerusalem! Him from whom came my life, I
beheld adjudged to the agonized and parching death! Far
in the mighty crowd I saw the light rest and glimmer over
the cross; I heard the hooting mob, I cried aloud, — I
raved, I threatened, none heeded me: I was lost in the
whirl and the roar of thousands! But even then, in my
agony and his own, methought the glazing eye of the Son
of man sought me out, His lip smiled, as when it con-
quered death, it hushed me, and I became calm. He
who defied the grave for another, what was the grave to
Him? The sun shone aslant the pale and powerful features,
and then died away! Darkness fell over the earth; how
long it endured I know not. A loud cry came through the
gloom, a sharp and bitter cry, and all was silent!
Ma
"But who shall tell the terrors of the night? I walked
along the city,
along the city, the earth reeled to and fro, and the houses
trembled to their base: the living had deserted the streets,
but not the dead. Through the gloom I saw them glide,
the din and ghastly shapes, in the cerements of the grave,
and with horror, and woe, and warning on their unmoying
lips and lightless eyes! They swept by me as I passed,
they glared upon me; I had been their brother; and they
bowed their heads in recognition: they had risen to tell the
living that the dead can rise!"
Again the old man paused; and when he resumed it was
in a calmer tone.
"From that night I resigned all earthly thought but that
of serving Him. A preacher and a pilgrim, I have tray-
ersed the remotest corners of the earth, proclaiming his
divinity and bringing new converts to his fold. I come as
the wind, and as the wind depart; sowing, as the wind
sows, the seeds that enrich the world.
As
"Son, on earth we shall meet no more. Forget not this
hour: what are the pleasures and the pomps of life!
the lamp shines, life glitters for an hour; but the soul's light
is the star that burns for ever in the heart of illimitable
space."
It was then that their converse fell upon the general and
sublime doctrines of immortality; it soothed and elevated
the young mind of the convert, which yet clung to many of
the damps and shadows of that cell of faith which he had
so lately left, it was the air of heaven breathing on the
prisoner released at last. There was a strong and marked
distinction between the Christianity of the old man and that
of Olinthus; that of the first was more soft, more gentle,
more divine. The hard heroism of Olinthus had something
in it fierce and intolerant, -it was necessary to the part
he was doomed to play, it had in it more of the courage
of the martyr than the charity of the saint. It aroused,
it excited, it nerved, rather than subdued and softened.
Bat the whole heart of that divine old man was bathed in
love; the smile of the Deity had burned away from it the
leaven of earthlier and coarser passions, and left to the
energy of the hero all the meekness of the child
"And now," said he, rising a length, as the sun's last
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
77
tr
ray died in the west, now, in the cool of twilight, I pur-
Bue my way toward the imperial Rome. There yet dwell
some hoty men, who like me have beheld the face of Christ;
and them would I see before I die.'
"But the night is chill for thine age, my father, and the
way is long, and the robber haunts it: rest thee till to-
morrow.
"Kind son, what is there in this scrip to tempt the rob-
ber? and the night and the solitude, - these make the
ladder round which angels cluster, and beneath which my
spirit can dream of God. O! none can know what the
pilgrim feels as he walks on his holy course, nursing no fear,
and foreseeing no danger, for God is with him! He
hears the winds murmur glad tidings; the woods sleep in
the shadow of Almighty wings; the stars are the Scriptures
of Heaven, the token of love, and the witness of immor-
tality. Night is the pilgrim's day." With these words
the old man pressed Apæcides to his breast, and taking up
his staff and scrip, the dog bounded cheerily before him,
and with slow steps and downcast eyes he went his way.
The convert stood watching his bended form, till the
trees shut the last glimpse from his view: and then, as the
stars broke forth, he woke from his musing with a start,
reminded of his appointment with Olinthus.
CHAPTER V.
The filter. Its effect.
WHEN Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nydia
seated under the portico of his garden. In fact, she had
sought his house in the mere chance that he might return at
an early hour anxious, fearful, anticipative, she resolved
upon seizing the earliest opportunity of availing herself of
the love-charm, while at the same time she half hoped the
opportunity might be deferred. Strange mixture of bold-
ness and timidity, that, when young, we have all experi-
enced: how often in our morning walks, or in the nightly
crowd, in our first youth have all of us at once sought and
shunned the mistress of our heart, gone miles in the hope
of whispering one sweet word, and returned home, the
word unsaid! Heaven be praised that we husband our
time better after a little experience, and when we have less
of youth and of love to throw away! It was then, in that
fearful burning mood, her heart beating, her cheek flushing,
that Nydia awaited the possibility of Glaucus's return
before the night. He crossed the portico just as the first
stars began to rise, and the heaven above had assumed its
most purple robe.
"Ho, my child, wait you for me?"
<<
Nay; I have been tending the flowers, and did but
linger a little while to rest myself.
It has been warm," said Glaucus,
" said Glaucus, placing himself also
ou one of the seats beneath the colonnade.
"Very."
"Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I have drunk
heats me, and I long for some cooling drink."
Here, at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very op-
portunity that Nydia awaited presented itself; of himself,
at his own free choice, he afforded to her that occasion.
She breathed quick, "I will prepare for you myself,"
said she," the summer draught that Ione loves, of honey
and weak wine cooled in snow.”
Thanks," " said the unconscious Glaucus; "if Ione
loves it, enough: it would be grateful were it poison."
Nydia frowned, and then smiled; she withdrew for a
few moments, and returned with the bowl containing the
beverage. Glaucus took it from her hand. What would
not Nydia have given then for one hour's prerogative of
sight, to have watched her hopes ripening to effect; to
have seen the first dawn of the imagined love; to have
worshipped with more than Persian adoration the rising of
that sun which ber credulous soul believed was to break
upon her dreary night! Far different, as she stood then
and there, were the thoughts, the emotions of the blind
girl, from those of the vain Pompeian, under a similar sus-
pense. In the last, what poor and frivolous passions had
made up the daring whole! What petty pique, what small
revenge, what expectation of a paltry triumph, had swelled
the attributes of that sentiment she dignified with the name
of love! But in the wild heart of the Thessalian all was
|
|
pure, uncontrolled, unmodified passion,- erring, unwom-
auly, frenzied, but debased by no clements of a more
sordid feeling. Filled with love as with life itself, how
could she resist the occasion of winning love in return?
She leaned for support against the wall, and her face,
before so flushed, was now white as snow, and with her
delicate hands clasped convulsive, together, her lips apart,
ber eyes on the ground, she waited the next words
Glaucus should utter.
Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already
drained about a fourth of its contents, when his eye sud-
denly glancing upon the face of Nydia, he was so forci-
bly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and painful, and
strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still hold-
ing the cup near his lips, exclaimed,
it
"Why, Nydia, Nydia, I say, art thou ill, or in pain?
nay, thy face speaks for thee. What ails my poor child?"
As he spoke, he put down the cup and rose from his seat
to approach her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his
heart, and was followed by a wild, confused, dizzy sensa-
tion at the brain. The floor seemed to glide from under
him, his feet seemed to move on air, —a mighty and
unearthly gladness rushed upon his spirit, he felt too
buoyant for the earth, he longed for wings, nay,
seemed in the buoyancy of his new existence as if he
possessed them. He burst involuntarily into a loud and
thrilling laugh. He clapped his hands, he bounded
aloft, he was as a Pythoness inspired; suddenly as it
came, this preternatural transport passed, though only
partially, away. He now felt his blood rushing loudly
and rapidly through his veins; it seemed to swell,- to
exult,-to leap along, as a stream that has burst its bounds,
and hurries to the ocean. It throbbed in his ear with a
mighty sound, he felt it mount to his brow, be felt the
veins in the temples stretch and swell as if they could no
longer contain the violent and increasing tide, then
a kind of darkness fell over his eyes, - darkness, but not
entire for through the dim shade he saw the opposite
walls glow out, and the figures painted thereon seemed,
ghostlike, to creep and glide. What was most strange, he
did not feel himself ill, - he did not sink or quail beneath
the dread frenzy that was gathering over him. The novel-
ty of the feelings seemed bright and vivid, - he felt as if
a younger health had been infused into his frame.
gliding
gliding on to madness, and he knew it not!
He was
she had not
Nydia had not answered his first question,
been able to reply, his wild and fearful laugh had roused
her from her passionate suspense: she could not see his
fierce gesture, she could not mark his reeling and un
steady step as he paced unconsciously to and fro; bu
she heard the broken words, incoherent, insane, that
gushed from his lips. She became terrified and ap-
palled, she hastened to him, feeling with her arms unti!
she touched his knees, and then falling on the ground she
embraced them, weeping with terror and excitation.
Oh, speak to me! speak! you do not hate me?
speak, speak!"
"By the bright goddess, a beautiful land, this Cyprus !
Ho! how they fill us with wine instead of blood! now
they open the veins of the faun yonder, to show how it bub-
bles and sparkles. Come hither, jolly old god! thou ridest
on a goat, eh! what long silky hair he has! He is
worth all the coursers of Parthia. But a word with thee,
this wine of thine is too strong for us mortals. Oh,
beautiful! the boughs are at rest! the green waves of the
forest have caught the zephyr and drowned him! Not a
breath stirs the leaves, and I see the dreams sleeping with
folded wings upon the motionless cak; and I look beyond,
and I see a blue stream sparkle in the silent noon; a foun-
tain, a fountain springing aloft. Ah! my fount, thou
wilt not put out the rays of my Grecian sun, though thou
triest ever so hard with thy nimble and silver arms. And
now what form steals yonder through the boughs ? she
glides like a moonbeam ! she has a garland of oak leaves
on her head. In her hand is a vase upturned, from whicù
she pours pink and tiny shells and sparkling waters. Oh,
look on yon face! Man never before saw its like. See ·
we are alone; only I and she in the wide forest. There is
no smile upon her lips, she moves grave and sweetly sad.
Ha! fly, it is a nymph, it is one of the wild Napae. *
Whoever sees her becomes mad,-fly! see, she discovers
ine.'
M
* Presiding over hills and woods.
78
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Oh! Glaucus, Glaucus, do you not know me? Rave
not so wildly, or thou wilt kill me with a word.
,
|
My p
And beautiful is the moonlight of the south. In those
climes, the night so quickly glides into the day, that twi-
A new change seemned now to have operated upon the jar-light scarcely makes a bridge between them. One moment
ring and disordered mind of the unfortunate Athenian. He of darker purple in the sky, of a thousand rose hues in the
put his hands upon Nydia's silken hair; he smoothed the water, of shade half victorious over light, and then
locks, he looked wistfully upon her face, and then, as in burst forth at once the countless stars,
the moon is up,
the broken chain of thought one or two links were yet night has resumed her reign!
unsevered, it seemed that her countenance brought its asso- Brightly then, and softly bright, fell the moonbeams over
ciations of Ione; and with that remembrance his madness the antique grove consecrated to Cybele, the stately trees,
became yet more powerful, and it was swayed and tinged whose date went beyond tradition, cast their long shadows
by passion, as he burst forth,
over the soil, while through the openings in their boughs the
stars shone, still and frequent. The whiteness of the small
sacellum in the centre of the grove, amid the dark foliage,
had in it something abrupt and startling: it recalled at
once the purpose to which the wood was consecrated, — its
holiness and solemnity.
I swear by Venus, by Diana, and by Juno, that though
I have now the world on my shoulders, as my countryman
Hercules (ah, dull Rome! whoever was truly great was of
Greece; why, you would be godless if it were not for us!)
I say, as my countryman Hercules had before me, I would
let it fall into chaos for one smile from Ione. Ah, beauti-
ful, adored," he added, in a voice inexpressibly fond and
plaintive, "thou lovest me not. Thou art unkind to me.
The Egyptian hath belied me to thee, thou knowest not
what hours I have spent beneath thy casement, thou
knowest not how I have outwatched the stars, thinking
thou, my sun, wouldst rise at last, and thou lovest me not,
thou forsakest me! Oh! do not leave me now, I feel that
my life will not be long, let me gaze on thee at least unto
the last. I am of the bright land of thy fathers, - I have
trod the heights of Phyle, I have gathered the hyacinth
and rose amid the olive groves of Ilyssus. Thou shouldst
not desert me, for thy fathers were brothers to my own.
And they say this land is lovely, and these climes serene,
but I will bear thee with me. Ho! dark form, why risest
thou like a cloud between me and nine. Death sits calmly
dread upon thy brow, in thy lip is the smile that slays :
thy name is Orcus, but on earth men call thee Arbaces. See,
I know thee; fly, dim shadow ! thy spells avail not."
"Glaucus! Glaucus!" murmured Nydia, releasing her
hold, and falling, beneath the excitement of her dismay,
remorse, and anguish, insensible on the floor.
"Who calls?" said he, in a loud voice, “Ione, it is she!
they have borne her off, we will save her,- -where is my
stilus? Ha, I have it! I come, Ione, to thy rescue!
come! I come!"
I
So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the por-
tico, he traversed the house, and rushed with swift but
racillating steps, and muttering audibly to himself, down
the starlit streets. The direful potion burnt like fire in his
reins, for its effect was made, perhaps, still more sudden
from the wine he had drunk previously. Used to the ex-
cesses of nocturnal revellers, the citizens, with smiles and
winks, gave way to his reeling steps; they naturally ima-
gined him under the influence of the Bromian god, not vainly
worshipped at Pompeii; but they who looked twice upon
his face started in a nameless fear, and the smile withered
from their lips. He passed the more populous streets,
and, pursuing mechanically the way to Ione's house, he
raversed a more deserted quarter, and entered now the
onely grove of Cybele, in which Apæcides had held his
interview with Olinthus.
CHAPTER VI.
A re-union of different actors. — Streams, that flowed apparently
apart, rush into one gulf
IMPATIENT to learn whether the fell drug had yet been
administered by Julia to his hated rival, and with what
effect, Arbaces resolved, as the evening came on, to seek
her house and satisfy his suspense. It was customary as I
have before said, for men at that time to carry abroad with
them the tablets and the stilus attached to their girdle; and
with the girdle they were put off when at home. In fact,
under the appearance of a literary instrument, the Romans
carried about with them in that same stilus a very sharp and
formidable weapon.
It was with his stilus* that Cassius
stabbed Cesar in the senate-house. Induing then his girdle
and his cloak, Arbaces left his house, supporting his steps,
which were still somewhat feeble, (though hope and ven-
geance had conspired greatly with his own medical science,
which was profound, to restore his natural strength,) by his
long staff, Arbaces took his way to the villa of Diomed.
From this stilus may be derived the stiletto of the Italians.
With a swift and stealthy pace, Calenus, gliding under
the shade of the trees, reached the chapel, and gently put-
ting back the boughs that completely closed around its rear,
settled himself in his concealment; a concealment. so coin-
plete, what with the fane in front, and the trees behind, that
no unsuspicious passenger could possibly have detected him.
Again all was apparently solitary in the grove; afar off you
heard faintly the voices of some noisier revellers, or the
music that played cheerily to the groups that then, as now
in those climates, during the nights of summer, lingered in
the streets, and enjoyed, in the fresh air and the liquid
moonlight, a milder day.
From the height on which the grove was placed, you
saw, through the intervals of the trees, the broad and pur-
pie sea rippling in the distance, the white villas of Stabia
in the curving shore, and the dim Lactiarian hills mingling
with the delicious sky. Presently, the tall figure of Arba-
in his way to the house of Diomed, entered the ex-
treme end of the grove, and at the same instant Apæcides,
also bound to his appointment with Olinthus, crossed the
Egyptian's path.
ces,
"Hem! Apæcides," said Arbaces, recognising the
priest at a glance, "when last we met you were my foe
I have wished since then to see you, for I would have thee
still my pupil and my friend.”
4
Apæcides started at the voice of the Egyptian, a d
halting abruptly, gazed upon him with a countenance full
of contending, bitter, and scornful emotions.
"Villain and impostor!" said he, at length; "thou hast
recovered then from the jaws of the grave? But think
not again to weave around me thy guilty meshes.
rius, I am armed against thee!"
Retra-
but his
"Hush!" said Arbaces, in a very low voice,
pride, which in that descendant of great kings was great,
betrayed the wound it received from the insulting epithets
of the priest, in the quiver of his lip and the flush of his
tawny brow; "hush! more low! thou mayst be over-
heard, and if other ears than mine had drunk these sounds,
- why
>>
"Dost thou threaten? what if the whole city had
heard me ?—"
—
"The manes of my ancestors would not have suffered
me to forgive thee. But hold, and hear me.
Thou art
enraged that I would have offered violence to thy sister.
Nay, peace, peace, but one instant, I pray thee. Thou art
right, it was the frenzy of passion and of jealousy, — I
have repented bitterly of my madness. Forgive me; I,
who never implored pardon of living man, beseech thee
now to forgive me. Nay, I will atone the insult, — I ask
what is
thy sister in marriage; start not, consider,
the alliance of yon holyday Greek compared to mine?
Wealth unbounded, birth that in its far antiquity leaves
your Greek and Roman names the things of yesterday,
science, but that thou knowest. Give me thy sister,
and my whole life shall atone a moment's error.'
"Egyptian, were even I to consent, my sister loathes
the air thou breathest; but I have my own wrongs to
very
forgive,I may pardon thee that thou hast made me
tool to thy deceits, but never that thou hast seduced me to
-a polluted and a per-
become the abettor of thy vices,
jured man. Tremble! even now I prepare the hour in
which thou and thy false gods shall be unveiled. Thy lewd
and Circean life shall be dragged to day, — thy mumming
oracles disclosed, the fane of the idol Isis shall be a by-
word and a scorn, the royal name of Arbaces a mark
for the hooting hisses of execration. Tremble!
وو
The flush on the Egyptian's brow was succeeded hy a
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
livid paleness. He looked behind, before, around, to feel!
assured that none was by, and then he fixed his dark and
dilating eye on the priest with such a gaze of wrath and
menace, that none, perhaps, but one supported like Apæci-
des by the fervent daring of a divine zeal, could have faced
with unflinching look that lowering aspect.
As it was,
however, the young convert met it unmoved, and returned
it with an eye of proud defiance.
66
Apæcides," said the Egyptian, in a tremulous and
inward tone, "beware! What is it thou wouldst medi-
tate? Speakest thou, reflect, pause, before thou repliest,
-from the hasty influences of wrath, as yet divining no
settled purpose, or from some fixed desigu?"
M
"I speak from the inspiration of the true God, whose
cervant I now am," answered the Christian, boldly; "and
in the knowledge that by his grace human courage has
already fixed the date of thy hypocrisy and thy demon's
worship; ere thrice the sun bas dawned, thou wilt know
all! Dark sorcerer, tremble, and farewell"
All the fierce and lurid passions which he inherited from
his nation and his clime, at all times but ill concealed
beneath the blandness of craft and the coldness of philoso-
phy, were released in the breast of the Egyptian. Rapid-
ly one thought chased another; he saw before him an
obstinate barrier to even a lawful alliance with Ione,
the fellow-champion of Glavens in the struggle which had
baffled his designs, the reviler of his name, the threat-
ened desecrator of the goddess he served while he disbe-
lieved, the avowed and approaching revealer of his own
impostures and vices. His love, his repute, nay, his very
life might be in danger, the day and hour seemed even
to have been fixed for some design against him. He knew
by the words of the convert that Apæcides had adopted
the Christian faith; he knew the indomitable zeal which
lea on the proselytes of that creed. Such was his enemy;
he grasped his stilus, - that enemy was in his power!
They were now before the chapel; one hasty glance once
more he cast around: he saw none near, silence and soli-
tude alike tempted him.
"Die, then, in thy rashness," he muttered; "away,
obstacle to my rushing fates?"
And just as the young Christian had turned to depart,
Arbaces raised his hand high over the left shoulder of
Apæcides, and plunged his sharp weapon twice into his
breast.
Apæcides fell to the ground pierced to the heart, — he
fell mute, without even a groan, at the very base of the
sacred chapel.
Arbaces gazed upon him for a moment with the fierce
animal joy of conquest over a foe. But presently the full
sense of the danger to which he was exposed flashed upon
him; he wiped his weapon carefully in the long grass and
with the very garments of his victim, drew his cloak round
aim, and was about to depart, when he saw coming up the
path right before him the figure of a young man, whose
steps reeled and vacillated strangely as he advanced; the
quiet moonlight streamed full upon his face, which seemed
by the whitening ray colorless as marble. The Egyptian
recognised the form of Glaucus. The unfortunate and
benighted Greek was chanting a disconnected and mad
song, composed from snatches of hymns and sacred odes,
all jarringly woven together.
"Ha!" thought the Egyptian, instantaneously divining
his state and its terrible cause; so, then, the hell-draught
works, and destiny hath sent thee hither to crush two of
my foes at once!"
Quickly, even ere this thought occurred to him, he had
withdrawn on one side of the chapel, and concealed him-
self among the boughs; from that lurking place he watched,
as a tiger in its lair, the advance of his second victim. He
noted the wandering and restless fire in the bright and
beautiful eyes of the Athenian; the convulsions that dis-
torted his statue-like features and writhed his hueless lip.
He saw that the Greek was utterly deprived of reason.
Nevertheless, as Glaucus came up to the dead body of
Apæcides, from which the dark red stream flowed slowly
over the grass, so strange and ghastly a spectacle could not
tail to arrest him, benighted and erring as was his glim-
mering sense. He paused, placed his hand to his brow, as
if to collect himself, and then saying,
"What, ho! Endymion, sleepest thou so soundly? what
has the moon said to thee? thou makest me jealous; it is
time to wake." He stooped down with the intention of
'fting up the body.
¦
Forgetting, feeling not, his own debility, the Egyp
tian sprung from his hiding place, and as the Greek bent,
struck him forcibly to the ground, over the very body of the
Christian; then raising his powerful voice to its loudest
pitch, he shouted,
"Ho, citizens, ho!- help me! - run hither, hither
A murder,—a murder before your very fane! Help, or
the murderer escapes!" As he spoke, he placed his foot
on the breast of Glaucus; an idle and superfluous precau-
tion, for the potion operating with the fall, the Greek lay
there motionless and insensible, save that now and then his
lips gave vent to some vague and raving sounds.
As he there stood awaiting the coming of those his
voice still continued to summon, perhaps some remorse,
some compunctious visitings, for despite his crimes he
was human, haunted the breast of the Egyptian; the
defenceless state of Glaucus, - his wandering words,
his riven reason, smote him even more than the death of
Apæcides, and he said then half audibly to himself,
"Poor clay, poor human reason! where is the soul
now? I could spare thee, O my rival, - rival never more!
but destiny must be obeyed, iny safety demands thy sacri
fice;" with that, as if to drown compunction, he shouted
yet more loudly, and drawing from the girdle of Glaucus
the stilus it contained, he steeped it in the blood of the
murdered man, and laid it beside the corpse.
And now, fast and breathless, several of the citizens
came thronging to the place, some with torches, which the
moon rendered unnecessary, but which flared red and trem-
ulously against the darkness of the trees; they surrounded
the spot.
"Lift up yon corpse," said the Egyptian, "and guard
well the murderer."
They raised the body, and great was their horror and
sacred indignation to discover in that lifeless clay a priest
of the adored and venerable Isis; but still greater, perhaps,
was their surprise, when they found the accused in the
brilliant and admired Athenian.
"Glaucus!" cried the bystanders, with one accord.
"Is it even credible?
"I would sooner," whispered one man to his neighbour,
"believe it to be the Egyptian himself."
Here a centurion thrust himself into the increasing crowd
with an air of authority.
"How! blood spilt who the murderer ?
The bystanders pointed to Glaucus.
"He,-
by Mars, he has rather the air of being the
victim! Who accuses him?"
"I," said Arbaces, drawing himself up haughtily, and
the jewels which adorned his dress flashing in the eyes of
the soldier, instantly convinced that worthy warrior of the
witness's respectability.
"Pardon me, your name ?" said he.
"Arbaces; it is well known, methinks, in Pompeii.
Passing through the grove, I beheld before me the Greek
and the priest in earnest conversation. I was struck by
the reeling motions of the first, his violent gestures, and
the loudness of his voice, he seemed to me either drunk or
mad.
mad. Suddenly I saw him raise his stilus, — 1 darted
forward, too late to arrest the blow. He had stabbed
twice his victim, and was bending over him, when in my
horror and indignation I struck the murderer to the ground.
He fell without a struggle, which makes me yet more sus-
pect that he was not altogether in his senses when the crime
was perpetrated; for, recently recovered from a severe ill-
ness, my blow was comparatively feeble, and the frame of
Glaucus, as you see, is strong and youthful.
"His eyes are open now, his lips move," said the
soldier. Speak, prisoner, what sayest thou to the
charge?
The charge, ha,-ha! Why it was merrily done,
- when the old hag set her serpent at me, and Hecate
stood by laughing from ear to ear, what could I do?
But I am ill, — I faint, the serpent's fiery tongue hath
bitten me. Bear me to bed, and send for your physician,
old Esculapius himself will attend me if you let him know
that I am Greek. O, mercy,
mercy, I burn!
marrow and brain, I burn!”
J
And with a thrilling and fierce groan the Athenian fell
back in the arms of the bystanders.
"He raves," said the officer, compassionately, "and in
his delirium he has struck the priest. Hath any one seen
him to-day?"
80
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"I," said one of the spectators,
"beheld hin in the
morning. He passed my shop and accosted me. He
seemed well and sane as the stoutest of us.
"And I saw him half an hour ago," said another,
"passing up the streets, muttering to himself with strange
gestures, and just as the Egyptian has described.”
"A corroboration of the witness! it must be too true.
He must at all events to the prætor; a pity, so young and
so rich; but the crime is dreadful: a priest of Isis in his
very robes too, and at the base itself of our most ancient
chapel.
At these words the crowd were reminded more forcibly,
than in their excitement and curiosity they had yet been,
of the heinousness of the sacrilege. They shuddered in
pious horror.
"No wonder, the earth has quaked," said one, "" when
it held such a monster !
CC
Away with him to prison,-away!" cried they all.
And one solitary voice was heard shrilly and joyously
above the rest,
"The beasts will not want a gladiator now !
"Tramp, - tramp!-how gayly they go!
Ho, ho! for the merry, merry show!"
It was the voice of the young woman, whose conversa-
tion with Medon has been repeated.
"True,
true! it chances in season for the games!
cried several and at that thought all pity for the accused
seemed vanished. His youth, his beauty, but fitted
him better for the purpose of the arena.
:
"Bring hither some planks, or if at hand, a litter,
to bear the dead," said Arbaces; "a priest of Isis ought
scarcely to be carried to his temple by vulgar hands, like a
butchered gladiator."
At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of Apr-
cides on the ground, with the face upward, and some of
them went in search of some contrivance to bear the body
untouched by the profane.
It was just at that time that the crowd gave way to
right and left as a sturdy form forced itself through, and
Olinthus the Christian stood immediately confronting the
Egyptian. But his eyes, at first, only rested with
inexpressible grief and horror on that gory side and up-
turned face, on which the agony of violent death yet lin-
gered.
"Murdered!" be said. "Is it thy zeal that has
brought thee to this? Have they detected thy noble pur-
pose, and by death prevented their own shame?'
He turned his head abruptly, and his eyes fell full on the
solemn features of the Egyptian.
As he looked, you might see in his face, and even the
slight shiver of his frame, the repugnance and aversion
which the Christian felt for one whom he knew to be so
dangerous and so criminal. It was indeed the gaze of the
bird upon the basilisk,- so silent was it, and so prolonged.
But shaking off the sudden chill that had crept over him,
Olinthus extended his right arm toward Arbaces, and said
in a deep and loud voice,-
"Murder hath been done upon this corpse! Where is the
mun derer? Stand forth, Egyptian! For as the Lord
liveth, I believe thou art the man!"
Au anxious and perturbed change might for one moment
be detected on the dusky features of Arbaces, but it gave
way to the frowning expression of indignation and scorn,
as awed and arrested by the suddenness and vehemence of
the charge, the spectators pressed nearer and nearer upon
the two more prominent actors.
zens,
“I know," said Arbaces, proudly, "who is my accuser,
and I guess wherefore he thus arraigns me. Meu and citi-
know this man for the most bitter of the Nazarenes,
if that or Christians be their proper name! What marvel
that in his malignity he dares accuse even an Egyptian of
the murder of a priest of Egypt !
"I know him! I know the dog!" shouted several
voices. "It is Olinthus, the Christian, or rather the
atheist, he denies the gods !
"and
Peace, brethren," said Olinthus, with dignity,
bear me ! This murdered priest of Isis before his death
embraced the Christian faith, he revealed to me the dark
sins, the sorceries of yon Egyptian, the nummeries and
delusions of the fane of Isis. He was about to declare
them publicly. He, a stranger, unoffending, without ene-
mies! who should shed his blood, but one of those who
J
|
feared his witness? who might fear that testimony ine
most? Arbaces, the Egyptian!"
"You hear him!" said Arbaces, "you hear him! he
blasphemes! Ask him if he believes in Isis !"
"Do I believe in an evil demon?" returned Olinthus,
boldly.
A groan and shudder passed through the assembly.
Nothing daunted, for prepared at every time for perit,
and in the present excitement losing all prudence, the
Christian continued,
<<
-
Back, idolaters! this clay is not for your vain and
polluting rites, it is to us, to the followers of Christ,
that the last offices due to a Christian, belong. I claim this
dust in the name of the great Creator who has recalled the
spirit!
With so solemn and commanding a voice and aspect the
Christian spoke these words, that even the crowd forbore
to utter aloud the execration of fear and hatred, which in
their hearts they conceived. And never, perhaps, since
Lucifer and the archangel contended for the body of the
mighty lawgiver, was there a more striking subject for the
painter's genius than that scene exhibited. The dark
trees, the stately fane, the moon full on the corpse of
the deceased,- the torches tossing wildly to and fro in the
rear, the various faces of the motley audience,
insensible form of the Athenian, supported in the distance,
the
and in the foreground, and, above all, the forms of Ar-
baces and the Christian, the first drawn to his full
height, far taller than the herd around; his arms folded,
his brow knit, his eyes fixed, his lip slightly curled in defi-
ance and disdain: the last bearing on a brow worn and fur-
rowed the majesty of an equal command, -the features
stern, yet frank, the aspect bold, yet open, the quiet
dignity of the whole form impressed with an ineffable ear-
nestness, hushed, as it were, in a solemn sympathy with
the awe he himself had created, his left hand pointing
to the corpse, his right hand raised to heaven.
The centurion pressed forward again.
"In the first place, hast thou, Olinthus, or whatever be
thy name, any proof of the charge thou hast made against
Arbaces, beyond thy vague suspicion?"
Olinthus remained silent, the Egyptian laughed, con-
temptuously
"Dost thou claim the body of a priest of Isis as one of
the Nazarene or Christian sect?
"I do.'
"Swear, then, by you fane, yon statue of Cybele, by
yon most ancient sacellum in Pompeii, that the dead man
embraced your faith!"
« Vain man! I disown your idols! I abhor your tem
ples! How can I swear by Cybele, then ?
CC
Away, away with the atheist! Away! the earth will
swallow us if we suffer these blasphemers in a sacred
grove, away with him to death! "3
"To the beasts!" added a female voice, in the centre
of the crowd, “we shall have one aprece now for the lion and
tiger!"
"If, O Nazarene, thou disbelievest in Cybele, which of
our gods dost thou own?" resumed the soldier, unmoved
by the cries around.
"None!"
"Hark to him, hark!" cried the crowd.
"O vain and blind!" continued the Christian, raising
his voice, "can you believe in images of wood and stone?
Do you imagine that they have eyes to sec, or ears to hear,
or hands to help ye? Is yon mute thing, carved by man's
art, a goddess? hath it made mankind, alas! by
mankind was it made. —Lo! convince yourselves of its
nothingness, of your folly."
And as he spoke he strode across to the fane, and ere
any of the bystanders were aware of his purpose, he, in
his compassion or his zeal, struck the statue of wool from
its pedestal.
"See!" cried he, "your goddess cannot avenge her-
self. Is this a thing to worship?
Further words were denied to him; so gross and daring
a sacrilege, of one too of the most sacred of their places
of worship, filled even the most lukewarm with rage and
horror. With one accord the crowd rushed upon him,
seized, and but for the interference of the centurion, they
would have torn him to pieces.
"refer
"Peace!" said the soldier, authoritatively;-
we this insolent blasphemer to the proper tribunal, — time
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
81
nas been already wasted. Bear we both the culprits to
tae magistrates; place the body of the priest on the litter,
- carry it to his own home."
At this moment a priest of Isis stepped forward. "I
claim these remains, according to the custom of the priest-
hood."
"The flamen be obeyed," said the centurion. "How
is the accused murderer ? ""
<<
Insensible, or asleep.
"Were his crimes less, I could pity him,
|
""
On
Arbaces, as he turned, met the eye of that priest
of Isis, — it was Calenus; and something there was in
that glance so significant and sinister, that the Egyptian
muttered to himself,
"Could he have witnessed the deed! "
say,
A girl darted from the crowd, and gazed hard on the
ace of Olinthus. By Jupiter, a stout knave! - - I
we shall have a man for the tiger now, one for each
beast, huzza ! "
"Huzza!" shouted the mob, "a man for the lion, and
another for the tiger. What luck! huzza!
CHAPTER VII.
> }
"I which the reader learns the condition of Glaucus. - Friend-
ship tested. Enmity softened. Love the same; because
the one loving is blind!
THE night was somewhat advanced, and the gay loun-
ging-places of the Pompeians were still crowded.
You
might observe in the countenances of the various idlers a
more earnest expression than usual. They talked in large
knots and groups, as if they sought by numbers to divide
the half-painful, half-pleasurable anxiety which belonged
to the subject on which they conversed: - it was a subject
of life and death.
A young man passed briskly by the graceful portico of
the temple of Fortune, -so briskly, indeed, that he came
with no slight force full against the rotund and comely
form of that respectable citizen Diomed, who was retiring
homeward to his suburban villa.
Halioo!" groaned the merchant, recovering with
some difficulty his equilibrium; "have you no eyes? or
do you think I have no feeling? By Jupiter you have
!
wellnigh driven out the divine particles; such another
shock, and my soul will be in Hades !"
"Ah, Diomed! is it you? Forgive my inadvertence. I
was absorbed in thinking of the reverses of life. Our poor
friend Glaucus, eh? who could have guessed it?"
"Well, but tell me, Clodius, is he really to be tried by
the senate? "
"Yes; they say the crime is of so extraordinary a
nature, that the senate itself must adjudge it; and so the
lictors are to induct him* formally."
"He has been accused publicly, then?"
|
I suppose; but the tria! will decide. We talk while the
urn's still empty. And the Greek may yet escape the
deadly * of his own alphabet. But enough of this
gloomy subject. How is the fair Julia?"
Well, I fancy."
<:
"Commend me to her. But hark! the door yonder
creaks on its hinges; it is the house of the prætor. Who
comes forth? By Bacchus it is the Egyptian! What
can be want with our official friend?
"Some conference touching the murder, doubtless,"
replied Diomed; "but what was supposed to be the in-
ducement to the crime? Glaucus was to have married the
priest's sister."
Yes, some say Apæcides refused the alliance. It
might have been a sudden quarrel. Glaucus was evidently
inebriate, nay, so much so, as to have been quite geo-
sible when taken up, and I hear is still delirious, -whether
with wine, terror, remorse, the Furies, or the Bacchanals,
I cannot say.
>>
“Poor fellow, he has good counsel. ?
"The best, Caius Pollio, an eloquent fellow enough.
Pollio has been hiring all the poor gentlemen and well-born
spendthrifts of Pompeii to dress shabbily and sneak about,
swearing their friendship to Glaucus, (who would not have
spoken to them to be made emperor! I will do him jus-
tice, he was a gentleman in his choice of acquaintance,)
and trying to melt his stony citizens into pity. But it
won't do; Isis is mightily popular just at this moment."
dria. Yes, Isis ought to be protected.'
"And, by the by, I have some merchandise at Alexan-
True; so farewell, old gentleman; we shall meet soon
if not, we must have a friendly bet at the amphitheatre.
All my calculations are confounded by this cursed misfor-
tune of Glaucus. He had bet on Lydon, the gladiator; I
must make up my tablets elsewhere. Vale!"
Leaving the less active Diomed to regain his villa, Clo-
dius strode on, humming a Greek air, and perfuming the
night with the odors that steamed from his snowy garments
and flowing locks.
''
If," thought he, Glaucus feed the lion, Julia will no
longer have a person to love better than me: she will cer-
tainly dote on me; —
and so, I suppose, I must marry. By
the gods! the twelve lines begin to fail, men look sus-
piciously at my hand when it rattles the dice. That infer-
nal Sallust insinuates cheating; and if it be discovered that
the ivory is cogged, why farewell to the merry supper and
the perfumed billet; Clodius is undone ! Better marry,
then, while I may, renounce gaming, and push my fortune
(or rather the gentle Julia's) at the imperial court.”
high uame the projects of Clodius may be called, the game-
Thus muttering the schemes of his ambition, if by that
ster found himself suddenly accosted; he turned, and beheld
the dark brow of Arbaces.
Hail, noble Clodius! pardon my interruption, and in-
form me, I pray you, which is the house of Sallust."
"It is but a few yards hence, wise Arbaces. But does
Sallust entertain to-night?"
"To be sure; where have you been not to hear that ?”
"Why, I have only just returned from Neapolis, whither
"I know not," answered the Egyptian; "nor am I,
I went on business the very morning after his crime; SO
perhaps, one of those whom he would seek as a boon com-
shocking, and at my house the same night that it hap-panion. But thon knowest that his house holds the person
pened!
"There is no doubt of his guilt," said Clodius, shrug-
ging his shoulders; "and as these crimes take precedence
of all little undignified peccadilloes, they will hasten to
finish the sentence previous to the games.
"The games! Good gods!" replied Diomed, with a
slight shudder; "can they adjudge him to the beasts, SO
young, so rich ! "
"'Ï'rue; but then he is a Greek. Had he been a Roman,
it would have been a thousand pities. These foreigners
can be borne with in their prosperity; but in adversity we
must not forget that they are in reality slaves. However,
we of the upper classes are always tender-hearted; and
be would certainly get off tolerably well if he were left to
us; for between ourselves, what is a paltry priest of Isis?
what Isis herself? But the common people are supersti-
tious; they clamor for the blood of the sacrilegious one.
it is dangerous not to give way to public opinion."
"And the blasphemer, the Christian, or Nazarene, or
whatever else he be called ? >>
“O, poor dog! if he will sacrifice to Cybele or Isis, he
will be pardoned, if not, the tiger has him. At least so
VOL. IJ
* Plio Ep. ii. 11, 12, v. 4, 13.
11
of Glaucus the murderer.”
innocence! You remind me that he has become his surety;
"Ay! he, good-hearted epicure, believes in the Greek's
and, therefore, till the trial, is responsible for his appear-
ance. Well, Sallust's house is better than a prison, es-
pecially that wretched hole in the forum. But for w what
can you seek Glaucus ?
>>
cution, it would be well. The condemnation of the rich is
Why, noble Clodius, if we could save him from exe-
a blow upon society itself. I should like to confer with
him, for I hear he has recovered his senses and ascei-
tain the motives of his crime, they may be so extenuating
as to plead in his defence.”
"You are benevolent, Arbaces.”
replied the Egyptian, modestly.
"Benevolence is the duty of one who aspires to wisdom,"
"Which way lies. Sal
lust's mansion?
"I will show you," said Clodius, "if you will suffer me
* . the initial of Bávaros, (death,) the condemning letter of
the Greeks, as C was of the Romans,
If a criminal could obtain surety, (called vades, in capital
offences,) he was not compelled to lie in prison til after sen
tence.
32
BULWER'S NOVELS.
to accompany you a few steps. But pray, what has become
of the poor girl who was to have wed the Athenian, the
sister of the murdered priest?"
M
"Alas! wellnigh insane. Sometimes she utters impre-
cations on the murderer, then suddenly stops short,
then cries, "But why curse? Oh, my brother! Glaucus
was not thy murderer, - never will I believe it!' Then
she begins again, and again stops short, and mutters awful
ly to herself, Yet if it were indeed he !'"'
"Unfortunate Ione!"
"But it is well for her that those solemn cares to the
dead which religion enjoins have hitherto greatly absorbed
her attention from Glaucus and herself; and, in the dim-
ness of her senses, she scarcely seems aware that Glaucus
is apprehended and on the eve of trial. When the funeral
rites are performed, her apprehension will return; and
then I fear me much, that her friends will be revolted by
seeing her run to succor and aid the murderer of her
brother!"
"Such scandal should be prevented."
"I trust I have taken precautions to that effect. I am
her lawful guardian, and have just succeeded in obtaining
permission to escort her, after the funeral of Apæcides, to
my own house; there, please the gods she will be se-
cure."
"You have done well, sage Arbaces. And now, yonder
is the house of Sallust. The gods keep you! Yet hark
you, Arbaces, why so gloomy and unsocial? Men say
you can be gay, why not let me initiate you into the
pleasures of Pompeii, I flatter myself no one knows
them better."
"I thank you, noble Clodius; under your auspices I
might venture, I think, to wear the philyra; but, at my
age, I should be an awkward pupil.”
"Oh, never fear; I have made converts of fellows of
seventy. The rich, too, are never old."
"You flatter me. At some future time I will remind you
of your promise."
"You may command Marcus Clodius at all times;
and so vale!
"Now," said the Egyptian, soliloquizing, "I am not
wantonly a inan of blood; I would willingly save this
Greek, if he will, by confessing the crime, be lost for ever
to Ione, and for ever free me from the chance of discovery;
and I can save him by persuading Julia to own the filter,
which will be held his excuse. But if he do not confess the
crime, why Julia must be shamed from the confession, and
he must die! die, lest he prove my rival with the living,
-die, that he may be my proxy with the dead. Will he
confess? -can he not be persuaded that in his delirium he
struck the blow? To me it would give far greater safety
than even his death. Hem! we must hazard the experi-
ment.'
Sweeping along the narrow street, Arbaces now ap-
proached the house of Sallust, when he beheld a dark form
wrapped in a cloak, and stretched at length across the
threshold of the door.
So still lay the figure, and so dim was its outline, that
any other than Arbaces might have felt a superstitious fear
lest he beheld one of those grim lemures, who, above all
other spots, haunted the threshold of the home they formerly
possessed. But not for Arbaces were such dreams.
"Rise!" said he, touching the figure with his foot,
“thou obstructest the
way !
"Ha! who art thou?" cried the form, in a sharp tone;
and as she raised herself from the ground, the starlight fell
full on the pale face and fixed but sightless eyes of Nydia
the Thessalian.
"Who art thou? I know the burden of thy voice."
"Blind girl! what dost thou here at this late hour?
Fie is this seeming thy sex or years? Home, girl!"
"I know thee," said Nydia, in a low voice; thou art
Arbaces the Egyptian;" then, as if inspired by some sudden
impulse, she flung herself at his feet, and clasping his knees,
exclaimed, in a wild and passionate tone, "O, dread and
potent man! save him, -save him! he is not guilty, it
is I He lies within, ill, dying, and I,- I am the hateful
And they will not admit me to him; they spurn
the blind girl from the hall. O heal him! thou knowest
some herb, some spell, some counter-charm, for it is a
potion that hath wrought this frenzy!"
cause !
—
"Hush, child! I know all; thou forgettest that I ac-
companied Julia to the Saga's home. Doubtless her hand
administered the draught; "but her reputation demands thy
|
silence. Reproach not thyself, what must be, must
meanwhile, I seek the criminal
seek the criminal; he may yet be gaved.
Away!"
Thus saying, Arbaces extricated himself from the clasp
of the despairing Thessalian, and knocked loudly at the door.
In a few moments the heavy bars were heard sullenly to
yield, and the porter, half opening the door, demanded
who was there.
CC
Arbaces, important business to Sallust relative to
Glaucus. I come from the prætor."
The porter, half yawning, half groaning, admitted the
tall form of the Egyptian. Nydia sprang forward.
"How
is he?" she cried," tell me, tell me!"
"Ho! mad girl, is it thou still? for shame. Why,
they say he is sensible."
The gods be praised!
Ah! I beseech thee
and you will not admit me ?
"Admit thee! no. A pretty salute I should prepare for
these shoulders were I to admit such things as thou! Go
home!"
The door closed, and Nydia, with a deep sigh, laid her-
self down once more on the cold stones, and, wrapping her
cloak round her face, resumed her weary vigil.
Meanwhile Arbaces had already gained the triclinium
where Sallust, with his favorite freed-man, sat late at
supper.
say
What! Arbaces! and at this hour? Accept this cup
"Nay, gentle Sallust; it is on business, not pleasure, that
I venture to disturb thee. How doth thy charge? They
in the town that he has recovered sense."
"Alas! and truly," replied the good-natured but thought-
less Sallust, wiping the tear from his eyes; "but so shat-
tered are his nerves and frame, that I scarcely recognise the
brilliant and gay carouser I was wont to know. Yet, strange
to say, he cannot account for the cause of the sudden frenzy
that seized him; he retains but a dim consciousness of what
hath passed; and despite thy witness, wise Egyptian,
solemnly upholds his innocence of the death of Aprcides.'
Sallust," said Arbaces, gravely, "there is much in thy
friend's case that merits a peculiar indulgence; and could
we learn from his lips the confession and the cause of his
crime, much might be yet hoped from the mercy of the
senate; for the senate, thou knowest, hath the power either
to mitigate or to sharpen the law. Therefore it is that I
have conferred with the highest authority of the city, and
obtained his permission to hold a private conference this
night with the Athenian. To-morrow, thou knowest, the
trial comes on.
"Well," said Sallust, "thou wilt be worthy of thy
eastern name and fame, if thou canst learn aught from him;
but thou mayst try. Poor Glaucus ! and he had such an
excellent appetite! He eats nothing now!"
The benevolent epicure was moved sensibly at this
thought. He sighed, and ordered his slaves to refill his
cup.
"suffer me to see
Night wanes," said the Egyptian;
thy ward now."
Sallust nodded assent, and led the way to a small chamber
guarded without by two dozing slaves. The door opened;
at the request of Arbaces, Sallust withdrew, the Egyptian
was alone with Glaucus.
One of those tall and graceful candelabra common to that
day, supporting a single lamp, burned beside the narrow
bed. Its rays fell palely over the face of the Athenian, and
Arbaces was moved to see how sensibly that countenanc
had changed. The rich color was gone, the cheek was
sunk, the lips were convulsed and pallid; fierce had been
the struggle between reason and madness, life and death.
The youth, the strength of Glaucus had conquered; but the
freshness of blood and soul, the life of life, its glory, and
its zest, were gone for ever.
At
The Egyptian seated himself quietly beside the bed;
Glaucus still lay mute and unconscious of his presence.
length, after a considerable pause, Arbaces thus spoke :
CC
Glaucus, we have been enemies. I come to thee alone
and in the dead of night, — thy friend, perhaps thy sour.
As the steed starts from the path of the tiger, Glaucus
sprang up breathless, alarmed, panting at the abrupt
voice, the sudden apparition of his foe. Their eyes met,
and neither, for some moments, had power to withdraw his
gaze. The flush went and came over the face of the Athe-
nian, and the bronzed cheek of the Egyptian grew a shade
more pale. At length, with an
At length, with an inward groan, Glaucus
turned away, drew his hand across his brow, sunk back,
and muttered,-
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
83
"Am I still dreaming?"
"No, Glaucus, thou art awake. By this right hand, and
ny father's head, thou seest one who may save thy life.
Hark! I know what thou hast done, but I know also its
excuse, of which thou thyself art ignorant. Thou hast com-
nitted murder, it is true, a sacrilegious murder: frown
not,
start not, these eyes saw it. But I can save thee,
I can prove how thou wert bereaved of sense, and made
not a free-thinking and free-acting man. But in order to
save thee, thou must confess thy crime. Sign but this
paper, acknowledging thy hand in the death of Apæcides,
and thou shalt avoid the fatal urn.'
"What words are these? — murder and Apæcides !
Did I not see him stretched on the ground bleeding and a
corpse? and wouldst thou persuade me that I did the deed?
Man, thou liest ! away!
"Be not rash,-Glaucus, be not hasty; the deed is
proved; come, come, thou mayst well be excused for not
recalling the act of thy delirium, and which thy sober senses
uld have shunned even to contemplate. But let me try
to refresh thy exhausted and weary memory. Thou know-
est thou wert walking with the priest, disputing about his
sister; thou knowest he was intolerant, and half a Nazarene,
and he sought to convert thee, and ye had hot words; and
he calumniated thy mode of life, and swore he would not
marry Ione to thee, and then, in thy wrath and thy frenzy,
thou didst strike the sudden blow. Come, come! you can
recollect this! read this papyrus, it runs to that effect,-
sign it, and thou art saved."
"Barbarian, give me the written lie, that I may tear it!
I the murderer of Ione's brother! I confess to have in-
jured one hair of the head of him she loved! Let me
rather perish a thousand times?"
"Beware!" said Arbaces, in a low and hissing tone;
"there is but one choice: thy confession and thy signa-
-or the amphitheatre and the lion's maw ! "
ture,
As the Egyptian fixed his eyes upon the sufferer, he
hailed with joy the signs of evident emotion that seized the
latter at these words. A slight shudder passed over the
Athenian's frame, his lip fell, -an expression of sud-
den fear and wonder betrayed itself in his brow and eye.
"Great gods!" he said, in a low voice," what reverse
is this? It seems but a little day since life laughed out
from amid roses, Ione mine, youth, health, love, lav-
ishing on me their treasures, — and now; pain, maduess,
shame, death! And for what? what have I done? Oh, I
am mad still!"
Sign, and be saved!" said the soft, sweet voice of the
Egyptian.
Tempter, never!" cried Glaucus, in the re-action of
rage. Thou knowest me not; thou knowest not the
haughty soul of an Athenian! The sudden face of death
The sudden face of death
might appal me for a moment, but the fear is over. Dis-
honor appals for ever! Who will debase his name to save
his life? who exchange clear thoughts for sullied days?
who will belie himself to shame, and stand blackened in
the eyes of glory and of love? If to earn a few years of
polluted life there be so base a coward, dream not, dull
barbarian of the east! to find him in one who has trod the
same sod as Harmodius, and drank the same air as Socra-
tes. Go! leave me to live without self-reproach, or to
perish without fear !
د,
“Bethink thee well! the lion's fangs; the hoots of the
brutal mob; the vulgar gaze on thy dying agony and muti-
lated limbs; thy name degraded; thy corpse unburied; the
shame tnou wouldst avoid clinging to thee for aye and
ever!"
"Thou ravest! thou art the madman! Shame is not
in the loss of other men's esteem, it is in the loss of our
Wilt thou go?
my eyes loathe the sight of thee !
hating ever, I despise thee now!"
own.
—
I go ! said Arbaces, stung and exasperated, but not
without some pitying admiration of his victim, "I Ι go;
. we meet twice again, -once at the trial,- once at the
death! Farewell!
The Egyptian rose slowly, gathered his robes about him,
and left the chamber. He sought Sallust for a moment,
whose eyes began to reel with the vigils of the cup :
"He
still unconscious, or still obstinate; there is no hope for
him."
Say not so," replied Sallust, who felt but little resent-
ment against the Athenian's accuser, for he possessed no
great austerity of virtue, and was rather moved by his
friend's reverses than persuaded of his innocence.- Say
not so, my Egyptian! so good a drinker shall be saved, if
possible. Bacchus against Isis!"
the door
"We shall see,” said the Egyptian.
Sullenly the bolts were again withdrawn,
unclosed; Arbaces was in the open street; and poor
Nydia once more started from her long watch.
"Wilt thou save him?" she cried, clasping her hands.
"Child, follow me home; I would speak to thee,
is for his sake I ask it.”
"And thou wilt save him?"
- it
No answer came forth to the thirsting ear of the blind
girl; Arbaces had already proceeded far up the street:
she hesitated a moment, and then followed his steps in
silence.
"I must secure this girl," said he, musingly, "lest she
give evidence of the filter; as to the vain Julia, she will
not betray herself."
CHAPTER VIII.
A classic funeral.
WHILE Arbaces had been thus employed, sorrow and
death were in the house of Ione. It was the night pre-
ceding the morn in which the solemn funeral rites were to
be decreed to the remains of the murdered Apæcides. The
corpse had been removed from the temple of Scio to the
house of the nearest surviving relative, and Ione had heard,
at the same breath, the death of her brother and the accu-
sation against her betrothed. That first violent anguish
which blunts the sense to all but itself, and the forbearing
silence of her slaves, had prevented her learning minutely
the circumstances attendant on the fate of her lover. His
illness, his frenzy, and his approaching trial, were unknown
to her. She learned only the accusation against him, and
at once indignantly rejected it; nay, on hearing that Arba-
ces was the accuser, she required no more to induce her
firmly and solemnly to believe that the Egyptian himself
was the criminal. But the vast and absorbing importance
attached by the ancients to the performance of every cere-
monial connected with the death of a relation, had, as yet,
confined her wo and her convictions to the chamber of the
-
deceased. Alas! it was not for her to perform that tender
and touching office, which obliged the nearest relative to
endeavour to catch the last breath, the parting soul,
of the beloved one; but it was hers to close the strain-
ing eyes, the distorted lips; to watch by the consecrated
clay, as, fresh bathed and anointed, it lay in festive robes
upon the ivory bed; to strew the couch with leaves and
flowers, and to renew the solemn
flowers, and to renew the solemn cypress branch at the
threshold of the door. And in these sad offices, in lamen-
tation and in prayer, Ione forgot herself. It was ainong
the loveliest customs of the ancients to bury the young at
the morning twilight; for, as they strove to give the soft-
est interpretation to death, so they poetically imagined
that Aurora, who loved the young, had stolen them to he
embrace; and though in the instance of the murdered
priest this fable could not appropriately cheat the fancy,
the general custom was still preserved. *
The stars were fading one by one from the gray heavens,
and night slowly receding before the approach of morn,
when a dark group stood motionless before Ione's door.
High and slender torches, made paler by the unmellowed
dawn, cast their light over various countenances, hushed
for the moment in one solemn and intent expression. And
now there rose a slow and dismal music, which accorded
sadly with the rite, and floated far along the desolate and
breathless streets; while a chorus of female voices, (tne
præficæ so often cited by the Roman poets,) accompanying
the tibicin and the Mysian flute, woke the following
strain :-
THE FUNERAL DIRGE.
O'er the sad threshold, where the cypress bough
Supplants the rose that should adorn thy home.
On the last pilgrimage on earth that now
Awaits thee, wanderer to Cocytus, come !
*This was rather a Greek than a Roman custom; but the
reader will observe, that in the cities of Magna Græcia, the
Greek customs and superstitions were arach mingled with the
Roman.
84
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Darkly we woo, and weeping we invite,
Death is thy host, his banquet asks thy soul;
Thy garlands hang within the honse of night,
And the black stream alone shall fill thy bowl.
No more for thee the laughter and the song,
The jocund night, the glory of the day!
The Argive daughters at their labors long ;
The hell-bird swooping on his Titan prey, —
The false Æolides † upheaving slow,
+
O'er the eternal hill, the eternal stone;
The crowned Lydian, ‡ in his parching woe,
And green Calirrhoe's monster-headed son, § -
These shalt thou see, dim shadowed through the dark
Which makes the sky of Pluto's dreary shore;
L3 where thou stand'st, pale-gazing on the bark,
That waits our rite, to bear thee trembling o'er !
Come, then no more delay! the phantom pines
Amid the unburied for its latest home:
-
O'er the gray sky the torch impatient shines,
Come, mourner, forth! — the lost one bids thee come!
As the hymn died away, the group parted in twain; and
placed upon a couch, spread with a purple pall, the corpse
of Apæcides was carried forth with the feet foremost.
The designator, or marshal of the sombre ceremonial,
accompanied by his torch-bearers clad in black, gave the
signal, and the procession moved dreadly on.
the
First went the musicians, playing a slow march,·
solemnity of the lower instruments broken by many a
louder and wilder burst of the funeral trumpet; next fol-
lowed the hired mourners, chanting their dirges to the
dead; and the female voices were mingled with those of
boys, whose tender years made still more striking the con-
trast of life and death, the fresh leaf and the withered
one. But the players, the buffoons, the archimimus,
(whose duty it was to personate the dead,) — these, the
customary attendants at ordinary funerals, were banished
from a funeral attended with so many terrible associations.
-
The priests of Isis came next in their snowy garments,
barefooted, and supporting sheaves of corn; while before
the corpse were carried the images of the deceased, and
his many Athenian forefathers. And behind the bier fol-
lowed, amid her women, the sole surviving relative of the
dead, her head bare, her locks dishevelled, her face
paler than marble, but composed and still, save ever and
anon, as some tender thought, awakened by the music,
flashed upon the dark lethargy of woe, she covered that
countenance with her hands, and sobbed unseen for hers
was not the noisy sorrow, the shrill lament, the ungoverned
gesture, which characterized those who honored less faith-
fully. In that age, as in all, the channel of deep grief
flowed hushed and still.
And so the procession swept on, till it had traversed the
streets, passed the city gate, and gained the place of
tombs without the wall, which the traveller yet beholds.
Raised in the form of an altar, of unpolished pine,
amid whose interstices were placed preparations of com-
bustible matter, stood the funeral pyre; and around it
dropped the dark and gloomy cypresses so consecrated by
song to the tomb.
As soon as the bier was placed upon the pile, the atten-
dants parting on either side, Ione passed up to the couch,
and stood before the unconscious clay for some moments
motionless and silent. The features of the dead had been
composed from the first agonized expression of violent
death. Hushed for ever the terror and the doubt, the con-
test of passion, the awe of religion, the struggle of the past
and present, the hope and the horror of the future!
of all
hat racked and desolated the breast of that young aspi-
rant to the holy of life, what trace was visible in the awful
serenity of that impenetrable brow and unbreathing lip?
The sister gazed, and not a sound was heard amid the
crowd; there was something terrible, yet softening also, in
the silence; and when it broke, it broke sudden and abrupt,
it broke with a loud and passionate cry, the vent of
long-smothered despair.
My brother, my brother!" cried the poor orphan,
falling upon the couch; "thou whom the worm on thy path
feared not,
what enemy couldst thou provoke ? Oh, is
it in truth come to this? Awake! awake! we grew to-
gether! Are we thus torn asunder? Thou art not dead,
thou sleepest. Awake! awake!
The Danaides. † Sisyphus.
Tantalus. § Geryon.
The most idle novel-reader need scarcely be reminded, that
not till after the funeral rites were the dead carried over the
Atyx.
The sound of her piercing voice aroused the sympa
thy of the mourners, and they broke into loud and rude
lament. This startled, this recalled Ione; she looked
hastily and confusedly up, as if for the first time sensible of
the presence of those around.
"Ah!" she murmured, with a shiver, "we are not then
alone!"
With that, after a brief pause, she rose; and her pale
and beautiful countenance was again composed and rigid.
With fond and trembling hands she unclosed the lids of the
deceased ;* but when the dull, glazed eye, no longer beam-
ing with love and life, met hers, she shrieked aloud as ri
she had seen a spectre. But once more recovering herself,
she kissed again and again the lids, the lips, the brow;
and, with mechanic and unconscious hand, received from
the high-priest of her brother's temple the funeral torch.
The sudden burst of music, the sudden song of the mour
ners, announced the birth of the sanctifying flame :
HYMN TO THE WIND
I.
On thy couch of cloud reclined,
Wake, O soft and sacred wind !
Soft and sacred will we name thee,
Whosoe'er the sire that claim thee,
Whether old Auster's dusky child,
Or the loud son of Eurus wild;
Or his † who o'er the darkling deeps,
From the bleak north, in tempest sweeps ;
Still shalt thou seem as dear to us
As flowery-crowned Zephyrus,
When, through twilight's starry dew,
Trembling, he hastes his nymph ‡ to woo'
II.
Lo! our silver censers swinging,
Perfumes o'er thy path are flinging;
Ne'er o'er Tempe's breathless valleys,
Ne'er o'er Cyprin's cedarn alleys,
Or the rose-isle's § moonlit sea,
Floated sweets more worthy thee.
Lo! around our vases sending,
Myrrh and nard with cassia blending;
Paving air with odors meet
For thy silver-sandall'd feet.
III.
August and everlasting air!
The source of all that breathe and be,
From the mute clay before thee bear
The seeds it took from thee!
Aspire, bright flame! aspire!
Wild wind! - awake, awake '
Thine own, O solemn fire,
O air, thine own retake !
IV.
It comes, it comes! Lo! it sweeps,
The wind we invoke the while!
And crackles, and darts, and leaps
The light on the holy pile!
It rises its wings interweave
-
With the flames, how they howl and heave!
Tossed, whirled to and fro,
How the flame-serpents glow!
Rushing higher and higher,
On, on, fearful fire!
Thy giant limbs twined
With the arms of the wind,
Lo the elements meet on the throne
Of death, - to reclaim their own!
V.
Swing, swing the censer round,
Tune the strings to a softer sound!
From the chains of thy earthly toil,
From the clasp of thy mortal coil.
From the prison where clay confined thee,
The hands of the flame unbind thee!
O, soul ! thou art free, - all free!
As the winds in their ceaseless chase,
When they rush o'er their airy sea,
Thou mayst speed through the realms of space.
No fetter is forged for thee!
Rejoice! o'er the sluggard tide
Of the Styx thy bark can glide,
And thy steps evermore shall rove
Through the glades of the happy grove
Where, far from the loathed Cocytus,
The loved and the lost invite us.
Thou art slave to the earth no more!
!-
O soul, thou art freed !— and we? -
Ah! when shall our toil be o'er ?
Ah! when shall we rest with thee?
† Flora.
* Plin. ii. 27.
j Boreas.
§ Rhodes
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
And now high and far into the dawning skies broke the
fragrant fire; it flashed luminously across the gloomy cy-
it shot above the massy walls of the neighbour-
presses,
ing city; and the early fisherman started to behold the
blaze reddening on the waves of the creeping sea.
But Ione sat down apart and aloue; and leauing her
face upon her hands, saw not the flame, nor heard the
lainentation or the music, she felt only one sense of lone-
liness, she had not yet arrived to that allowing sense of
comfort when we know that we are not alone,
dead are with us!
that the
The breeze rapidly aided the effect of the combustibles
placed within the pile. By degrees the flame wavered,
lowered, dimmed, and slowly, by fits and unequal starts,
died away emblem of life itself; where, just before, all
was restlessness and flame, now lay the dull and smoulder-
ing ashes.
The last sparks were extinguished by the attendants,
the embers were collected. Steeped in the rarest wine and
the costliest odors, the remains were placed in a silver urn,
which was solemnly stored in one of the neighbouring sep-
ulchres beside the road; and they placed within it the vial
full of tears, and the small coin which poetry still conse-
crated to the grim boatman. And the sepulchre was cov-
ered with flowers and chaplets, and incense kindled on the
altar, and the tomb hung round with many lamps.
But the next day, when the priest returned with fresh
offerings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of heathen
superstition some unknown burls had added a green palm
branch. He suffered it to remain, unknowing that it was
the sepulchral emblem of Christianity.
When the above ceremonies were over, one of the pre-
ficæ three times sprinkled the mourners from the purifying
branch of luurel, uttering the last word, " Illicet !
Depart! and the rite was done.
And as lone
CHAPTER IX.
In which an adventure happens to Ione.
WHILE Some stayed behind to share with the priests
the funeral banquet, Ione and her handmaids took home-
ward their melancholy way. And now (the last duties to
her brother performed) her mind woke from its absorption,
and she thought of her affianced, and the dread charge
against him. Not, as we have before said, attaching a
momentary belief to the unnatural accusation, but nursing
the darkest suspiciou against Arbaces, she felt that justice
to her lover and to her murdered relative demanded her to
seek the prætor, and communicate her impression, unsup
ported as it might be. Questioning her maidens, who had
hitherto, kindly anxious, as I have said, to save her the
additional agony, -refrained from informing her of the
state of Glaucus, she learned that he had been dangerously
ill; that he was in custody under the roof of Sallust; that
the day of his trial was appointed.
CC
-
Averting gods!" she exclaimed; "and have I een
so long forgetful of him? Have I seemed to shun him?
O! let me hasten to do him justice, -to show that I, the
nearest relative of the dead, believe him innocent of the
charge. Quick! quick! -let us fly. Let me soothe,
tend, cheer him and if they will not believe me; if
they will not yield to my conviction; if they sentence him
to exile or to death, let me share the sentence with him!
Instinctively she hastened her pace, confused and bewil-
dered, scarce knowing whither she went; now designing
first to seek the prætor, and now to rush to the chamber of
Glaucus. She hurried on, she passed the gate of the
city, she was in the long street leading up the town. The
houses were opened, but none were yet astir in the streets;
the life of the city was scarce awake, when, lo! she
came suddenly upon a sinall knot of men standing beside a
A tall figure stepped from the midst of
them, and Ione shrieked aloud to behold Arbaces.
"Fair lone!" said he, gently, and appearing not to
heed her alarm; my ward, my pupil! forgive me if I
disturb thy pious sorrows; but the prætor, solicitous of
thy honor, and anxious that thou mayst not rashly be impli-
cated in the coming trial, knowing the strange embarrass-
ment of thy state, - (seeking justice for thy brother, but
dreading punishment to thy betrothed) — sympathizing, too,
with thy unprotected and friendless condition, and deeming
it harsh that thou shouldst be suffered to act unguided and
mourn alone, hath wisely and paternally confided thee to.
the care of thy lawful guardian. Behold the writing which
intrusts thee to my charge!
But first they paused to utter, weepingly and many times, covered litter. A tall
the affecting farewell, "Salve Eternum !
yeingered, they woke the parting strain.
SALVE ETERNUM.
འ.
Farewell, O soul departed!
Farewell, O sacred urn!
Bereaved and broken-hearted.
To earth and mourners turn!
To the dim and dreary shore,
Thou art gone our steps before!
But thither the swift hours lead us,
And thou dost but a while precede us!
Salve, --salve!
Loved urn, and thou solemn cell,
·
Mute ashes! — farewell, farewell!
Salve, salve
Illicet,ire licet,-
11.
Ah, vainly would we part !
Thy tomb is the faithful heart.
About evermore we bear thee;
For who from the heart can tear thee?
Vaiuly we sprinkle o'er us
The drops of the cleansing streain ;
And vainly bright before us
The lustral fire shall beam.
For where is the charm expelling
Thy thought from its sacred dwelling?
Our griets are thy funeral feast,
And memory thy mourning priest!
Salve,
-
Illicet, ire licet !
III.
salve!
The spark from the hearth is gone
Wherever the air shall bear it ;
The elements take their own, -
The shadows receive thy spirit.
It will soothe thee to feel our grief,
As thou glidest by the gloomy river;
If love may in life be brief,
In death it is fixed for ever.
Salve, salve!
In the hall which our feasts illume,
The rose for an hour may bloom;
But the cypress that decks the tomb,-
The cypress is green for ever!
Saive, -salve:
C
<<
Dark Egyptian!" cried Ione, drawing herself proudly
aside; begone! It is thou that hast slain my brother!
Is it to thy care, thy hands yet reeking with his blood, that
they will give the sister? Ha! thou turnest pale! thy
conscience smites thee! thon tremblest at the thunderbolt
of the avenging God! Pass on, and leave me to my woe!"
Thy sorrows unstring thy reason, Ione,” said Arbaces,
attempting in vain his usual calmness of tone.
"I forgive
thee. Thou wilt find me now, as ever, thy surest friend.
But the public streets are not the fitting place for us to con-
fer, for me to console thee. Approach, slaves! Come,
my sweet charge, the litter awaits thee."
The amazed and terrified attendants gathered round Ione,
and clung to her knees.
"Arbaces," said the eldest of the maidens, “this is
surely not the law! For nine days after the funeral, is it
not written that the relatives of the deceased shall not be
molested in their homes, or interrupted in their solitary
grief?"
"Woman!" returned Arbaces, imperiously waving his
hand, to place a ward under the roof of her guardian, is
not against the funeral laws. I tell thee, I have the fiat of
the prætor. This delay is indecorous. Place her in the
litter!
>
So saying, he threw his arm firmly round the shrinking
form of lone. She drew back, gazed earnestly in his face,
and then burst into hysterical laughter:
"Ha, ha! this is well, well! Excellent grardian, -
paternal law ! Ha, ha!" and. startled herself at the
dread echo of that shrill and maddened laughter, she sunk,
as it died away, lifeless upon the gremd
A minute
more and Arbaces had lifted her into the litter. The bear-
ers moved swiftly on, and the unfortunate Ione was soon
borne from the sight of her weeping handmaide.
·
96
BULWER'S NOVELS
CHAPTER X.
The Egyp-
- Compassion is often a
What becomes 1 Nydia in the house of Arbaces.
tian feels compassion for Glaucus.
very useless visiter to the guilty.
-
IT will be remembered that at the command of Arbaces,
Nydia followed the Egyptian to his home, and, conversing
there with her, he learned from the confession of her de-
epair and remorse, that her hand, and not Julia's, had
administered to Glaucus the fatal potion. At another time
the Egyptian might have conceived a philosophical interest
in sounding the depths and origin of the strange and absorb-
ing passion which, in blindness and in slavery, this singu-
lar girl bad dared to cherish; but at present he spared no
thought from himself. As, after her confession, the poor
Nydia threw herself on her kness before him, and besought
him to restore the health and save the life of Glaucus,
for in her youth and ignorance she imagined the dark ma-
gician all-powerful to effect both, Arbaces, with unheed-
ing ears, was noting only the new expediency of detaining
Nydia a prisoner until the trial and fate of Glaucus were
decided. For if, when he judged her merely the accom-
plice of Julia in obtaining the filter, he had felt it was dan-
gerous to the full success of his vengeance to allow her to
be at large, to appear, perhaps, as a witness, to avow
the manner in which the sense of Glaucus had been dark-
ened, and thus win indulgence to the crime of which he was
accused, how much more was she likely to volunteer her
testimony when she herself had administered the draught,
and inspired by love, would be only anxious, at any expense
of shame, to retrieve her error and preserve her beloved?
Besides, how unworthy of the rank and the repute of Ar-
baces to be implicated in the disgrace of pandering to the
passion of Julia, and assisting in the unholy rites of the
Saga of Vesuvius! Nothing less, indeed, than his desire
to induce Glaucus to own the murder of Apæcides, as a
policy evidently the best both for his own permanent safety
and his successful suit with Ione, could ever have led him
to contemplate the confession of Julia.
M
As for Nydia, who was necessarily cut off by her blind-
ness from much of the knowledge of active life, and who,
a slave and a stranger, was naturally ignorant of the perils
of the Roman law, she thought rather of the illness and
delirium of her Athenian, than the crime of which she had
vaguely heard him accused, or the chances of the impend-
ing trial. Poor wretch that she was, whom none addressed,
none cared for, what did she know of the senate or the
sentence, the hazard of the law, the ferocity of the
people, the arena and the lion's den? She was accus-
tomed only to associate with the thought of Glancus every
thing that was prosperous and lofty, she could not ima-
gine that any peril, save from the madness of her love, could
menace that sacred head. He seemed to her set apart
for the blessings of life. She only had disturbed the cur-
rent of his felicity; she knew not, she dreamed not, that
the stream, once so bright, was dashing on to darkness and
to death. It was therefore to restore the brain that she had
had marred, to save the life that she had endangered, that
she implored the assistance of the great Egyptian.
"Daughter," said Arbaces, waking from his reverie,
"thou must rest here; it is not meet for thee to wander
along the streets, and be spurned from the threshold by the
rude foot of slaves. I have compassion on thy soft crime,
- will do all to remedy it. Wait here patiently for
some days, and Glaurus shall be restored." So saying,
and without waiting for her reply, he hastened from the
room, drew the bolt across the door, and consigned the
care and wants of his prisoner to the slave who had the
charge of that part of the mansion.
Alone, then, and musingly, he waited the morning light,
and with it repaired, as we have seen, to possess himself
of the person of lone.
His primary object with respect to the unfortunate Nea-
politan was that which he had really stated to Clodius, viz.
to prevent her interesting herself actively in the trial of
Glaucus, and also to guard against her accusing him
(which she would doubtless have done) of his former act
of perfidy and violence toward her, his ward, denoun-
eing his causes for vengeance against Glaucus,— unveiling
the hypocrisy of his character, and casting any doubt upon
his veracity in the charge which he had made against the
Athenian. Not till he had encountered her that morning,
not till he had heard her loud denunciations, was he aware
|
|
|
that he had also another danger to apprehend in her susp
cion of his crime. He hugged himself now in the though
that these objects were effected; that one, at once the crea
ture of his passion and his fear, was in his power. He
believed more than ever the flattering promises of the
stars; and when he sought Ione in that chamber in the in-
most recesses of his mysterious mansion to which he had
consigued her, when be found her overpowered by blow
upon blow, and passing from fit to fit, from violence to
torpor, in all the alternations of hysterical disease, — he
thought more of the loveliness, which no frenzy could dis-
tort, than of the woe which he had brought upon her. In
that sanguine vanity common to men who through life have
been invariably successful, whether in fortune or love, he
flattered himself that when Glaucus had perished, when
his name was solemnly blackened by the award of a legal
judgment, his title to her love for ever forfeited by con-
demnation to death for the murder of her own brother,
her affection would be changed to horror; and that his
tenderness and his passion, assisted by all the arts with
which he well knew how to dazzle woman's imagination,
might elect him to that throne in her heart from which his
rival would be so awfully expelled. This was his hope;
but should it fail, his unholy and fervid passion whispered,
"At the worst, now she is in my power!"
Yet, withal, he felt that uneasiness and apprehension
which attend upon the chance of detection even when the
criminal is insensible to the voice of conscience, — that
vague terror of the consequences of crine, which is often
mistaken for remorse at the crime itself. The buoyant air
of Campania weighed heavily upon his breast; he longed
to hurry from a scene where danger might not sleep eter-
nally with the dead; and having lone now in his posses-
sion, he secretly resolved, as soon as he had witnessed the
last agony of his rival, to transport his wealth,-
and her,
the costliest treasure of all,- to some distant shore.
"Yes," said he, striding to and fro his solitary cham-
ber; "yes, the law that gave me the person of my ward
gives me the possession of my bride. Far across the broad
main will we sweep on our search after novel luxuries and
inexperienced pleasure. Cheered by my stars, supported
by the omens of my soul, we will penetrate to those vas.
and glorious worlds which my wisdom tells me lie yet un-
tracked in the recesses of the circling sea.
There may
this heart, possessed of love, grow at length alive to ambi-
tion, there, among nations uncrushed by the Roman
yoke, and to whose ear the name of Rome has not
yet been
wafted, I may found an empire, and transplant my ances
tral creed; renewing the ashes of the dead Theban rule,
continuing in yet grander shores the dynasty of my crown-
ed fathers, and waking in the noble heart of Ione the
grateful consciousness that she shares the lot of one who,
far from the aged rottenness of this slavish civilization,
restores the primal elements of greatness, and unites in
one mighty soul the attributes of the prophet and the
king.
From this exultant soliloquy, Arbaces was awakened to
attend the trial of the Athenian.
The worn and pallid cheek of his victim touched him
less than the firmness of his nerves and the dauntlessness
of his brow; for Arbaces was one who had little pity for
what was unfortunate, but a strong sympathy for what was
bold. The congenialities that bind us to others ever assim-
ilate to the qualities of our own nature.
The hero weeps
less at the reverses of his enemy than at the fortitude with
which he bears them. All of us are human, and Arbaces,
criminal as he was, had his share of our common feelings
and our mother clay.
and our mother clay. Had he but obtained from Glaucus
the written confession of his crime, which would, better
than even the judgment of others, have lost him with Ione,
and removed the chance of future detection from Arbaces,
he would have strained every nerve to save him. Even
now his hatred was over, his desire of revenge was
slaked; he crushed his prey, not in emnity, but as an ob-
stacle in his path. Yet was he not the less resolved, the
less crafty and persevering in the course he pursued for the
destruction of one whose doom was become necessary to
the attainment of his objects; and while, with apparent re-
luctance and compassion, he gave against Glaucus the evi-
dence which condeumed him, he secretly, and through the
medium of the priesthood, fomented that popular indigna-
tion which made an effectual obstacle to the pity of the
senate. He had sought Julia; he had detailed to her the
—
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
87
nay,
confession of Nydia; he had easily, therefore, lulled any
ecruple of conscience which might have led her to extenu-
ate the offence of Glaucus by avowing her share in his
frenzy, and the more readily, for her vain heart had loved
the fame and the prosperity of Glaucus, -not Glaucus
aimself; she felt no affection for a disgraced man,
she almost rejoiced in a disgrace that humbled the hated
Ione.
If Glaucus could not be hier slave, neither could he
be the adorer of her rival. This was sufficient consola-
tion for any regret at his fate. Volatile and fickle, she
began already to be moved by the sudden and earnest suit
of Clodius, and was not willing to hazard the loss of au
alliance with that base but high-born noble by any public
exposure of her past weakness and immodest passion for
another. All things then smiled upon Arbaces,
things frowned upon the Athenian.
CHAPTER XI.
Nydia affects the sorceress.
all
WHEN the Thessalian found that Arbaces returned to
her no more,
when she was left, hour after hour, to all
the torture of that miserable suspense which was rendered
by blindness doubly intolerable, she began, with outstretched
arms, to feel around her prison for some channel of escape;
and finding the only entrance secure, she called aloud, and
with the vehemence of a temper naturally violent, and now
sharpened by impatient agony.
"Ho, girl! said the slave in attendance, opening the
door, "art thou hit by a scorpion? or thinkest thou that
we are dying of silence here, and only to be preserved, like
the infant Jupiter, by a hullabaloo ?
"Where is thy master? and wherefore am I caged here?
I want air and liberty; let me go forth."
CC
Alas! little one, hast thou not seen enough of Arbaces
to know that his will is imperial? He hath ordered thee
to be caged; and caged thou art, and I am thy keeper.
Thou canst not have air and liberty; but thou mayst have
what are much better things, food and wine.”
Proh Jupiter!" cried the girl, wringing her hands;
"and why am I thus imprisoned? what can the great Ar-
baces want with so poor a thing as I am?
"That I know not, unless it be to attend on thy new
mistress, who has been brought hither this day.”
"What! Ione here?
Yes, poor lady; she liked it little, I fear. Yet, by the
temple of Castor! Arbaces is a gallant man to the women.
Thy lady is his ward, thou knowest."
Wilt thou take me to her?"
"She is ill; frantic with rage and spite. Besides, I
have no orders to do so; and I never think for myself.
When Arbaces made me slave of these chambers,* he said,
'I have but one lesson to give thee: while thou servest me,
thou must have neither cars, eyes, nor thought; thou must
be but one quality, — obedience.'"
"But what harm is there in seeing Ione?"
“That I know not; but if thou wantest a companion,
I am willing to talk to thee, little one, for I am solitary
enough in my dull cubiculum; and, by the way, thou art
Thessalian, knowest thou not some cunning amusement
of knife and shears, some pretty trick of telling fortunes, as
most of thy race do, in order to pass the time?"
Tush, slave! hold thy peace! or, if thon wilt speak,
what hast thou heard of the state of Glaucus ?”
Why, my master has gone to the Athenian's trial;
Glaucus will smart for it!
"For what?"
"The murder of the priest Apæcides.“
"Ha!" said Nydia, pressing her hands to her forehead,
acmething of this I have indeed heard, but understand not.
Yet who will dare to touch a hair of his head ?
"That will the lion, I fear.”
>>
Averting gods! what wickedness dost thou utter ?”
Why only that, if he be found guilty, the lion, or may
e the tiger, will be his executioner.”
Nydia leaped up, as if an arrow had entered her heart :
she uttered a piercing scream; then, falling before the
feet of the slave, she cried, in a tone that melted even his
rude heart,
* In the houses of the great, each suite of chambers had its
peculiar slave.
"Ah! tell me thou jestest, -
speak, speak!
ઃઃ
thou utterest not the truth,
Why, by my faith, blind girl, I know nothing of the
law; it may not be so bad as I say. But Arbaces is his
accuser, and the people desire a victim for the arena.
Cheer thee! But what hath the fate of the Athenian te
do with thine?
<p
"No matter, no matter, he has been kind to me;
thou knowest not, then, what they will do? Arbaces his
accuser! O fate! The people, the people! Ah! they
can look upon his face; who will be cruel to the Athenian?
- vet was not love itself cruel to him?
kad p
So saying, her head drooped upon her bosom; she sunk
into silence; scalding tears flowed down her cheeks; and
all the kindly efforts of the slave were unable either to con-
sole her or distract the absorption of ber reverie.
When his household cares obliged the mistrant to
leave her room, Nydia began to recollect her thoughts:
Arbaces was the accuser of Glaucus; Arbaces had impris
oned her here; was not that a proof that her liberty might
be serviceable to Glaucus ? Yes, she was evidently in-
veigled into some snare; she was contributing to the
destruction of her beloved! Oh, how she panted for re-
lease. Fortunately for her sufferings, all sense of pain
became merged in the desire of escape; and as she began
to revolve the possibility of deliverance, she grew calm and
thoughtful. She possessed much of the craft of her sex,
and it had been increased in her breast by her early servi-
tude. What slave was ever destitute of cunning? She
resolved to practise upon her keeper; and, calling sud-
denly to mind his superstitious query as to her Thessalian
art, she hoped by that handle to work out some method of
release. These doubts occupied her mind during the rest
of the day and the long hours of night; and accordingly,
when Sosia visited her the following morning, she hastened
to divert his garrulity into that channel in which it had be-
fore evinced a natural disposition to flow.
She was aware, however, that her only chance of escapc
bitter pang at the delay, to defer till then her purposed at-
was at night; and accordingly she was obliged, with a
tempt.
>>
"The night," said she, "is the sole time in which we
can well decipher the decrees of fate, then it is thou
must seek me. But what desirest thou to learn?
By Pollux, I should like to know as much as my mas-
ter; but that is not to be expected. Let me know, at
least, whether I shall save enough to purchase my freedom,
or whether this Egyptian will give it me for nothing. He
does such generous things sometimes. Next, supposing
that be true, shall I possess myseh of that
snug taberna
among the myropolia* which I have ug had in my eye
"T is a genteel trade that of a perfumer, and suits a retired
slave who has something of a gentleman about him!"
Then
Ay! so you would have precise answers to those ques
tious there are various ways of satisfying you. There is
the lithomanteia, or speaking-stone, which answers your
prayer with an infant's voice; but then we have not that
precious stone with us,-costly is it, and rare.
and ghastly images upon water, prophetic of the future.
there is the gastromanteia, whereby the demon casts pale
But this art requires also glasses of a peculiar fashion, to
contain the consecrated liquid, which we have not, I
think, therefore, that the simplest method of satisfying
your desire would be by the magic of air.”
nothing very frightful in the operation? I have no love
for apparitions.
I trust,
said Sosia, tremulously, "that there is
"Fear not; thou wilt see nothing; thou wilt only hear
by the bubbling of water whether or not thy suit prospers.
First, theu, be sure, from the rising of the evening star,
that thou leavest the garden gate somewhat open, so that
the demon may feel himself invited to enter therein; and
place fruits and water near the gate as a sign of hospi
tality; then, three hours after twilight, come here with a
bowl of the coldest and purest water, and thou shalt learn
all, according to the Thessalian lore my mother taught
me. But forget not the garden gate, all rests upon that;
it must be open when you come, and for three hours pre-
viously.'
what a gentleman's feelings are when a door is shut in his
"Trust me." replied the unsuspecting Susia, "I know
face, as the cook-shop's hath been in mine many a day,
* The shops of the perfumers.
88
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and I know also, that a person of respectability, as a
demon of course is, cannot but be pleased, on the other
hand, with any little mark of courteous hospitality. Mean-
while, pretty one, here is thy morning's meal.'
"And what of the trial?"
“O, the lawyers are still at it, talk, talk, it will
ast over till to-morrow."
"To-morrow, — you are sure of that?
"So I hear.”
"And Ione?
By Bacchus she must be tolerably well, for she was
strong enough to make my master stamp and bite his lip
this morning.
I saw him quit her apartment with a brow
like a thunder-storm.
"Lodges she near this?
"No, -
>>
in the upper apartments
prating here longer, -vale!"
CHAPTER XII.
But I must not stay
A wasp ventures into the spider's web.
THE second night of the trial had set in; and it was
nearly the time in which Sosia was to brave the dread un-
known, when there entered, at that very garden gate which
the slave had left ajar,— not, indeed, one of the mysterious
spirits of earth or air, but the heavy and most human form
of Calenus, the priest of Isis. He scarcely noted the
humble offerings of indifferent fruit, and still more indif-
ferent wine, which the pious Sosia had deemed good
enough for the invisible stranger they were intended to
allure. "Some tribute," thought he, "to the garden god.
By my father's head! if his deityship were never better
served, he would do well to give up the godly profession.
Ah! were it not for us priests, the gods would have a sad
time of it. And now for Arbaces; I am treading a quick-
sand, but it ought to cover a mine. I have the Egyptian's
life in my power:
what will he value it at ?"
The stars shone pale and steadily on the proud face of
their prophet, but they betrayed there no change; the eyes
of Calenus fell disappointed and abashed. He continued
rapidly, "Homicide! it is well to charge him with that
crime; but thou, of all men, knowest that he is inno
cent."
Explain thyself," said Arbaces, coldly, for he had
prepared himself for the hint his secret fears had foretold.
"Arbaces," answered Calenus, sinking his voice into a
whisper, "I was in the sacred grove, sheltered by the
chapel and the surrounding foliage. I overheard, — I
marked the whole. I saw thy weapon pierce the heart of
Apæcides. I blame not the deed, it destroyed a for and
an apostate."
"Thou sawest the whole!" said Arbaces, dryly; SO
I imagined, thou wert alone.”
"Alone!" returned Calenus, surprised at the Egyp-
tian's calmness.
"And wherefore wert thou hid behind the chape' at tat
hour?"
Alberta)
“Because I had learned the conversion of Apærides to
the Christian faith, because I knew that on that spot he
was to meet the fierce Olinthus, because they were to
meet there to discuss plans for unveiling the sacred myste-
ries of our goddess to the people, and I was there to
detect in order to defeat them.'
"Hast thou told living ear what thou didst witness."
"No, my master; the secret is locked in thy servant's
breast.”
وو
"What! even thy kinsman Burbo guesses it not? Come,
the truth!
By the gods-››
CC
"Hush! we know each other, what are the gods to
us ?"
By the fear of thy vengeance, then, no!"
stammered Calenus, coloring
"And why hast thou hitherto concealed from me this
secret? why hast thou waited till the eve of the Athenian's
condemnation before thon hast ventured to tell me that
Arbaces is a murderer? And having tarried so long, why
revealest thou now that knowledge?'
"Because, because,'
and in confusion.
"Because," interrupted Arbaces, with a gentle smile,
and tapping the priest on the shoulder with a kindly and
seekest thou me ?" said the Egyp-familiar gesture, "because, my Calenus,
(see now, I
tian; and there was a little embarrassment in his voice.
Yes, wise Arbaces, I trust my visit is not un-
seasonable?"
As he thus soliloquized he crossed through the open court
into the peristyle, where a few lamps here and there broke
upon the empire of the starlit night; and, issuing from one
of the chambers that bordered the colonnade, suddenly
encountered Arbaces.
"Ho! Calenus,
<<
Nay, it was but this instant that my freedman Cal-
lias sneezed thrice at my right hand; I knew, therefore,
some good fortune was in store for me, and, lo! the
gods have sent me Calenus."
I
"Shall we within to your chamber, Arbaces ?"
"As you will; but the night is clear and balmy,
bave some remains of languor yet lingering on me from my
recent illness, the air refreshes me,- let us walk in the
garden, we are equally alone there."
"With all my heart," answered the priest; and the two
friends passed slowly to one of the many terraces which,
bordered by marble vases and sleeping flowers, intersected
the garden.
"It is a lovely night," said Arbaces,
"blue and
beautiful as that on which, twenty years ago, the shores of
Italy first broke upon my view. My Calenus, age creeps
upon us, let us at least feel that we have lived."
.
-
"Thou, at least, mayst arrogate that boast," said Ca-
enus, beating about, as it were, for an opportunity to com-
municate the secret which weighed upon him, and feeling
his usual awe of Arbaces still more impressively that night,
from the quiet and friendly tone of dignified condescension
which the Egyptian assumed, -"thou, at least, mayst
arrogate that boast. Thou hast had countless wealth,
frame on whose close-woven fibres disease can
a
find no
space to enter,-prosperous love, inexhaustible pleasure,
and, even at this hour, triumphant revenge.”
"Thou alludest to the Athenian. Ay, to-morrow's sun
the fiat of his death will go forth. The senate does not
relent. But thou mistakest, his death gives me no other
gratification than that it releases me from a rival in the
affections of lone. I entertain no other sentiment of
animosity against that unfortunate homicide.”
"Homicide!" repeated Calenus, slowly, and meaning-
. and, halting as he spoke, he fixed his eyes on Arbaces.
will read thy heart and explain its motives) because
thou didst wish thoroughly to commit and entangle me in
the trial, so that I might have no loophole of escape,
that I might stand firmly pledged to perjury and to malice,
as well as to homicide, that, having myself whetted the
appetite of the populace to blood, no wealth, no power
could prevent my becoming their victim and thou tellest
me thy secret now, ere the trial be over and the innocent
condemned, to show what a dexterous web of villany thy
word to-morrow could destroy, to enhance, in this, the
ninth hour, the price of thy forbearance, -to show that
my own arts in arousing the popular wrath would, at thy
witness, recoil upon myself; and that, if not for Glaucus
for me would gape the jaws of the lion! Is it not so?"
"Arbaces," replied Calenus, losing all the vulgar au
dacity of his natural character, "verily thou art a magian;
thou readest the heart as it were a scroll.”
"It is my vocation," answered the Egyptian, laughing
gently. "Well, then, forbear; and when all is over, I will
make thee rich.”
If thou wouldst
"Pardon me," said the priest, as the quick suggestion
of that avarice which was his master-passion bade him
trust to no future chance of generosity; *pardon me;
thou saidst right, - we know each other.
have me silent, thou must pay something in advance, as an
offering to Harpocrates. * If the rose, sweet emblem of
discretion, is to take root firmly, water her this night with
a stream of gold."
CC
Witty and poetical!" answered Arbaces, still in that
bland voice which lulled and encouraged, when it ought to
have alarmed and checked his griping comrade :
wilt
thou not wait the morrow?"
**
Why this delay ? Perhaps when I can no longer give
my testimony without shame for not having given it era
the innocent man suffered, thou wilt forget my claim; and,
indeed, thy present hesitation is a bad omen of thy fiturs
gratitude.'
The god of silence
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Well, then, Calenus, what wouldst thou have me pay
thee?"
'
Thy life is very precious, and thy wealth is very
great, "returned the priest, grinning.
"Wittier and more witty. But speak out, what shall
be the sum ?"
"Arbaces, I have heard that in thy secret treasury
below, beneath those rude Oscan arches which prop thy
stately halls, thou hast piles of gold, of vases, and of jew-
els, which might rival the receptacles of the wealth of the
deified Nero. Thou mayst easily spare out of those piles
enough to make Calenus among the richest priests of Pom-
prii, and yet not miss the loss.""
"Come, Calenus," said Arbaces, winningly, and with
a frank and generous air, "thou art an old friend, and
hast been a faithful servant. Thou canst have no wish to
take away my life, nor I a desire to stint thy reward:
thou shalt descend with me to that treasury thou referrest
to; thou shalt feast thine eyes with the blaze of uncounted
gold, and the sparkle of priceless gems; and thou shalt,
for thine own reward, bear away with thee this night as
much as thou canst conceal beneath thy robes. Nay, when
thou hast once seen what thy friend possesses, thou wilt
learn how foolish it would be to injure one who has so
much to bestow. When Glaucus is no more, thou shalt
pay the treasury another visit. Speak I frankly, and as a
friend?
""
"O, greatest, best of men!" cried Calenus, almost
weeping with joy. "Canst thou thus forgive my injurious
doubts of thy justice, thy generosity?"
"Hush! one other turn, and we will descend to the
Oscan arches."
CHAPTER XIII.
The slave consults the oracle. They who blind themselves
the blind may fool. Two new prisoners made in one night.
IMPATIENTLY Nydia awaited the arrival of the no less
anxious Sosia. Fortifying his courage by plentiful pota-
tions of a better liquor than that provided for the demon,
the credulous ministrant stole into the blind girl's chamber.
“Well, Sosia, and art thou prepared? Hast thou the
Lowl of pure water?"
Verily, yes; but I tremble a little. You are sure I
shall not see the demon? I have heard that those gentle-
men are by no means of a handsome person or a civil de-
meanour.
"Be assured! And hast thou left the garden-gate gent-
ly open?"
"Yes; and placed some beautiful nuts and apples on a
little table close by.
>>
"That's well. And the gate is open now, so that the
demon may pass through it?
Surely it is."
By the Colchian's awful charms,
When fair-haired Jason left her arms,
Spectre of the airy halls,
One who owns thee duly calls!
Breathe along the brimning bowl,
And instruct the,fearful soul
In the shadowy things that lie
Dark in dim futurity.
Come, wild demon of the air,
Answer to thy votary's prayer!
Come oh, come!
And no god on heaven or earth,
Not the Paphian queen of mirth,
Nor the vivid lord of light,
Nor the triple maid of night,
Nor the thunderer's self, shall be
Blessed and honored more than thee!
Come! - oh, come!
"The spectre is certainly coming," said Sosia; "I feel
him running along my hair!"
19
"Place thy bowl of water on the ground. Now, then,
give me the napkin, and let me fold up thy face and eyes.
"Ay! that is always the custom with these charms Not
so tight, though; gently,-gently!"
"There, thou canst not see?"
See, per Jove! No! nothing but darkness."
"Address, then, to the spectre whatever question thou
wouldst ask him, in a low whispered voice, three times. If
thy question is answered in the affirmative, thou wilt hear
the water ferment and bubble before the demon breathes
upon it; if in the negative, the water will be quite silent."
"But you will not play any trick with the water, eh ?"
"Let me place the bowl under thy feet, -so. Now thou
wilt perceive that I cannot touch it without thy knowledge.'
Very fair. Now, then. O Bacchus ! befriend me.
Thou knowest that I have always loved thee better than all
the other gods, and I will dedicate to thee that silver cup
I stole last year from the burly carptor, (butler,) if thou
wilt but befriend me with this water-loving demon. And
thou, O spirit! listen and hear me. Shall I be enabled to
purchase my freedom next year? Thou knowest; for, as
thou livest in the air, the birds * have doubtless acquainted
have filched and pilfered all that I honestly, -
thee with every secret of this house, thou knowest that I
that is, safely,
in
could lay finger upon for the last three years, and I yet
want two thousand sesterces of the full sum. Shall I be
able, O good spirit! to make up the deficiency in the course
of this year? Speak! Ha! does the water bubble? No;
all is still as a tomb. Well, then, if not this year,
two years? Ah! I hear something; the demon is scratch-
ing at the door; he 'll be here presently. In two years,
able time. What! dumb still! Two years and a half,
my good fellow; come now, two; that's a very reason-
three,
four? Ill fortune to you, friend demon! You are
not a lady, that's clear, or you would not keep silence so
long. Five, six,-sixty years? and may Pluto seize
you! I'll ask no more. >>
And Sosia, in a rage, kicked
down the water over bis legs. He then, after much fum-
bling and more cursing, managed to extricate his head from
"Well, then, open this door; there,— leave it just ajar. the napkin in which it was completely folded,
And now, Sosia, give me the lamp."
"What! you will not extinguish it?
No; but I must breathe my spell over its ray. There
is a spirit in fire Seat thyself."
The slave obeyed; and Nydia, bending for some moments
silently over the lamp, now rose, and in a low voice chanted
the following rude and doggerel,
INVOCATION TO THE SPECTRE OF AIR.
Loved alike by air and water
Aye must be Thessalia's daughter;
To us, Olympian hearts, are given
Spells that draw the moon from heaven.
All that Egypt's learning wrought,
All that Persia's magian taught;
Won from song, or wrung from flowers,
Or whisper'd low by fiend,
Spectre of the viewless air,
Hear the blind Thessalian's prayer;
By Erictho's art, that shed
are ours.
Dews of life when life was fled;
By lone Ithaca's wise king,
Who could wake the crystal spring
To the voice of prophecy ;-
By the lost Eurydice,
Summoned from the shadowy throng
At the muse-son s magic song,-
VOL. II.
12
stared
round,
- and discovered that he was in the dark.
and thou art gone too; but I'll catch thee,
"What, ho! Nydia! the lamp is gone. Ah, traitress!
thou shalt
smart for this!"
- to call
The slave groped his way to the door; it was bolted
from without; he was a prisoner instead of Nydia. What
could he do? He did not dare to knock loud,
out, lest Arbaces should overhear him, and discover how
he had been duped; and Nydia, meanwhile, had probaory
already gained the garden gate, and was fast on her es-
cape.
CC
:
But," thought he, "she will go home, or at least be
somewhere in the city. To-morrow at dawn, when the
slaves are at work in the peristyle, I can make myself
heard then I can go forth and seek her. I shall be sure
to find and bring her back before Arbaces knows a word
of the matter. Ah! that's the best plan. Little traitress,
my fingers itch at thee; and to leave only a bowl of water
too! had it been wine, it would have been some comfort.
While Sosia, thus entrapped, was lamenting his fate,
and revolving his schemes to repossess himself of Nydia,
the blind girl, with that singular precision and dexterous
* Who were supposed to know all secrets. The same super
stition prevails in the east, and is not without example, also, in
our northern legends.
BULWER'S NOVELS.
rapidity of motion which, we have before observed, was
peculiar to her, had passed lightly along the peristyle,
thridded the opposite passage that led into the garden, and
with a beating heart, was about to proceed towards the
gate, when she suddenly heard the sound of approaching
steps, and distinguished the dreaded voice of Arbaces him-
self. She paused for a moment in doubt and terror; then
suddenly it flashed across her recollection that there was
another passage, which was little used except for the ad-
mission of the fair partakers of the Egyptian's secret rev-
els, and which wound along the basement of that massive
fabric toward a door, which also communicated with the
garden. By good fortune it might be open. At that
thought she hastily retraced her steps, descended the nar-
row stairs at the right, and was soon at the entrance of
the passage.
Alas! the door at the entrance was closed
and secured. While she was yet assuring herself that it
was indeed locked, she heard behind her the voice of Ca-
lenus, and a moment after that of Arbaces, in low reply.
She could not stay there; they were probably passing to
that very door. She sprang onward, and felt herself in
unknown ground. The air grew damp and chill; this
re-assured her. She thought she might be among the cel-
lars of the luxurious mansion, or at least in soure rude spot
not likely to be visited by its haughty lord, when again her
quick ear caught steps and the sound of voices. On, on
On, on
she hurried, extending her arms, which now frequently en-
countered pillars of thick and massive form. With a tact,
doubled in acuteness by her fear, she escaped these perils,
and continued her way, the air growing more and more
damp as she proceeded; yet still, as she ever and anon
paused for breath, she heard the advancing steps and the
indistinct murmur of voices. At length she was abruptly
stopped by a wall that seemed the limit of her path. Was
there no spot in which she could hide? No aperture? No
cavity? There was none! she stopped and wrung her
nands in despair; then again, nerved as the voices neared
upon her, she hurried on by the side of the wall; and
coming suddenly against one of the sharp buttresses that
here and there jutted boldly forth, she fell to the ground.
Though much bruised, her senses did not leave her. She
uttered no cry; nay, she hailed the accident that had led
her to something like a screen; and creeping close up to
the angle formed by the buttress, so that on one side at least
she was sheltered from view, she gathered her slight and
small form into its smallest compass, and breathlessly
awaited her fate.
Meanwhile, Arbaces and the priest were taking their
way to that secret chamber whose stores were so vaunted
by the Egyptian. They were in a vast subterranean atrium
or hall; the low roof was supported by short thick pillars
of an architecture far remote from the Grecian graces of
that luxuriant period. The single and pale lamp which
Arbaces bore shed but an imperfect ray over the bare and
rugged walls, in which the huge stones, without cement,
were fitted curiously and uncouthly into each other. The
disturbed reptiles glared dully on the intruders, and then
crept into the shadow of the walls.
Calenus shivered as he looked around and breathed the
damp, unwholesome air.
Yet," said Arbaces, with a smile, perceiving his shud-
der," it is these rude abodes that furnish the luxuries of the
balls above. They are like the laborers of the world, — we
despise their ruggedness, yet they feed the very pride that
disdains them."
"And whither goes yo. dim gallery to the left?" asked
Calenus; "in this depth of gloom it seems without limit,
as if winding into Hades.”
"On the contrary, it does but conduct to the upper day,"
answered Arbaces, carelessly; "it is to the right that we
steer to our bourn.”
The hall, like many in the more habitable regions of
Pompeii, branched off at the extremity into two wings or
passages; the length of which, not really great, was to the
eye considerably exaggerated by the sullen gloom against
which the lamp so faintly struggled. To the right of these
ale the two comrades now directed their steps.
"The gay Glaucus will be lodged to-morrow in apart-
ments not much drier and far less spacious than this," said
Calenus, as they passed by the very spot where, completely
wrapped in the shadow of the broad projecting buttress,
cowered the Thessalian.
Ay, but then he will have dry room, and ample enough,
|
in the arena on the following day. And to think, 'con-
tinued Arbaces, slowly, and very deliberately, "to think
that a word of thine could save him, and consign Arbacee
to his doom! "
"That word shall never be spoken," said Calenus.
"Right, my Calenus, it never shall!" returned Arbaces,
familiarly leaning his arm on the priest's shoulder;
"and
now, halt,
we are at the door."
The light trembled against a small door deep set in the
wall, and guarded strongly by many plates and bindings of
iron, that intersected the rough and dark wood. From his
girdle Arbaces now drew a small ting, holding three or four
short but strong keys. Oh, how beat the griping heart of
Calenus, as he heard the rusty wards growl, as if resenting
admission to the treasures they guarded!
"Enter, my friend," said Arbaces, while I had the
lamp on high that thou mayst glut thine eyes on the yellow
heaps.'
>
The impatient Calenus did not wait to be twise invited,
he hastened toward the aperture.
Scarce had he crossed the threshold, when the strong
hand of Arbaces plunged him forward.
"The word shall never be spoken!" said he, with a loud
exultant laugh, and closed the door upon the priest.
Calenus had been precipitated down several steps, but not
feeling at the moment the pain of his fall, he sprung up
again to the door, and beating at it fiercely with his clenched
fist, he cried aloud in what seemed more a beast's howl than
a human voice, so keen was his agony and despair, "Oh,
release me, release me, and I will ask no gold!
The words but imperfectly penetrated the massive door,
and Arbaces again laughed. Then, stamping his foot
violently, rejoiced, perhaps, to give vent to his long-stifled
passions,-
"All the gold of Dalmatia," cried he, "will not buy thee
a crust of bread! Starve, wretch! thy dying groans
will never wake even the echo of these vast halls ! Nor
will the air ever reveal, as thou gnawest, in thy desperate
famine, thy flesh from thy bones, that so perishes the man
who threatened and could have undone Arbaces! Fare-
well! "
Oh, pity!-mercy! Inhuman villain! was it for this-"
The rest of the sentence was lost to the ear of Arbaces,
as he passed backward along the dim hall. A toad, plump
and bloated, lay unmoving before his path; the rays of the
lamp fell upon its unshaped hideousness and red upward
eye. Arbaces turned aside that he might not harm it.
"Thou art loathsome and obscene," he muttered, "but
thou canst not injure me; therefore thou art safe in my
path."
The cries of Calenus, dulled and choked by the barrier
that confined him, yet faintly reached the ear of the Egyp-
tian. He paused and listened intently.
"This is unfortunate," thought he; for I cannot sail
till that voice is dumb for ever. My stores and my treas
ures lie not in yon dungeon, it is true, but in the opposite
wing. My slaves, as they move them, must not hear his
voice. But what fear of that? In three days, if he still
survive, his accents, by my father's beard! must be weak
enough then. No, they could not pierce even through his
tomb. By Isis, it is cold! I long for a deep draught of
the spiced Falernian !
With that the remorseless Egyptian drew his gown closer
round him, and resought the upper air.
CHAPTER XIV.
Nydia accosts Calenus.
WHAT words of terror, yet of hope, nad Nydia over-
beard! The next day Glaucus was to be condemned; yet
there lived one who could save him, and adjudge Arbaces
to his doom, and that one breathed within a few steps of
her hiding place! She caught his cries and shrieks,
his imprecations, his prayers, though they fell choked
and muffled on her ear. He was imprisoned, but she knew
the secret of his cell could she but escape, could she
but seek the prætor, he might yet in time be given to light,
and preserve the Athenian. Her emotions almost stifled
her; her brain reeled,—she felt her sense give way,
by a violent effort she mastered herself; and after listening
intently for several minutes, till she was convinced thai
but
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
heard a soft tone breathe his name.
Arbaces had left the space to solitude and herself, she
erept on till her ear guided her to the very door that had
closed upon Calenus. Here she more distinctly caught his
accents of terror and despair. Thrice she attempted to
speak, and thrice her voice failed to penetrate the folds of
the heavy door. At length, finding the lock, she applied
her lips to its small aperture, and the prisoner distinctly
blood curdled, his hair stood on end. That awful
solitude, what mysterious and preternatural being could
penetrate! "Who's there?" he cried, in new alarm;
what spectre,
what dread larma, calls upon the lost
Calenus?"
"Priest," replied the Thessalian, "unknown to Arbaces,
I have been, by the permission of the gods, a witness to his
perfidy. If I myself can escape from these walls, I may
Eave thee. But let thy voice reach my ear through this
Barrow passage, and answer what I ask."
"Ah, blessed spirit!" said the priest, exultingly, and
obeying the suggestion of Nydia; "save me, and I will
sell the very cups on the altar to pay thy kindness."
"I want not thy gold, I want thy secret. Did I hear
aright? canst thou save the Athenian Glaucus from the
charge against his life?"
"I can,
—
- I can;
therefore, (may the Furies blast
the foul Egyptian ! )— hath Arbaces snared me thus, and
left me to starve and rot! "
CC
They accuse the Athenian of murder; canst thou dis-
prove the accusation ?"
"Only free me, and the proudest head of Pompeii is not
more safe than his. I saw the deed done, I saw Arba
ces strike the blow; I can convict the true murderer, and
acquit the innocent man. But if I perish, he dies also.
Dost thou interest thyself for him? Oh, blessed stranger,
in my heart is the urn which condemns or frees him!
"And thou wilt give full evidence of what thou know-
In
est ?",
!
>>
"Will! - Oh! were hell at my feet, yes! Revenge
on the false Egyptian, revenge revenge! revenge!
As through his ground teeth Čalenus shrieked forth those
last words, Nydia felt that in his worst passions was her
certainty of his justice to the Athenian. Her heart beat:
was it, was it to be her proud destiny to preserve her
idolized, · her adored? Enough," said she; "the
powers that conducted me hither will carry me through all.
Yes, I feel that I shall deliver thee. Wait in patience and
in hope."
"But be cautious, be prudent, sweet stranger. Attempt
not to appeal to Arbaces, - he is marble. Seek the pre-
tor, say what thou knowest, - obtain his writ of search;
bring soldiers, and smiths of cunning, these locks are
wondrous strong! Time flies, I may starve,
if you are not quick! Go, go! Yet stay, it is hor-
rible to be alone, the air is like a charnel, and the
scorpions, ha! and the pale larvæ! Oh! stay! stay
CC
-starve!
Nay," said Nydia, terrified by the terror of the priest,
and anxious to confer with herself, - nay, for thy sake I
must depart. Take hope for thy companion, farewell!"
So saying, she glided away, and felt with extended arms
along the pillared space until she had gained the farther
end of the hall and the mouth of the passage that led to
the upper air. But there she paused; she felt that it
would be more safe to wait a while until the night was so
far blended with morning that the whole nouse would be
buried in sleep, and so that she might quit it unobserved.
She therefore once more laid herself down, and counted
the
weary moments. In her sanguine heart joy was the
predominant emotion. Glaucus was in deadly peril, but
she should save him!
CHAPTER XV.
But remorse was not a feeling which Arbaces was likely
ever to experience for the fate of the base Calenus. He
swept from his remembrance the thought of the priest's
agonies and lingering death. He felt only that a great dan-
ger was passed, and a possible foe silenced; all left to him
now would be to account to the priesthood for the disap-
pearance of Calenus; and this he imagined it would not
be difficult to do. Calenus had often been employed by
him in various religious missions to the neighbouring cities.
On some such errand he could now assert that he had been
sent, with offerings to the shrines of Isis at Stabiæ and
Neapolis, placatory of the goddess for the recent murder of
her priest, Apæcides. When Calenus had expired, his body
might be thrown, previous to the Egyptian's departure from
Pompeii, into the deep stream of the Sarnas; and when
discovered, suspicion would probably fall upon the Naza-
rene atheists, as an act of revenge for the death of Olin-
thus at the arena. After rapidly running over these plans
for screening himself, Arbaces dismissed at once from his
mind all recollection of the wretched priest; and, anima-
ted by the success which had lately crowned all his schemes,
he surrendered his thoughts to Ione. The last time he had
seen her, she had driven him from her presence by a re-
proachful and bitter scorn, which his arrogant nature was
unable to endure. He now felt emboldened once more to
renew that interview; for his passion for her was like
similar feelings in other men, it made him restless for
her presence, even though in that presence he was exaspe-
rated and humbled. From delicacy to her grief, he laid
not aside his dark and unfestive robes, but, renewing the
perfumes on his raven locks, and arranging his tunic in
its most becoming folds, he sought the chamber of the Nea-
politan. Accosting the slave in attendance without, he
inquired if Ione had yet retired to rest; and learning that
she was still up, and unusually quiet and composed, he ven-
tured into her presence. He found his beautiful ward sit-
ting before a small table, and leaning her face upon both
her hands in the attitude of thought. Yet the expression
of the face itself possessed not its wonted bright and
Psyche-like expression of sweet intelligence; the lips were
apart, the eye vacant and unheeding, and the long
dark hair, falling neglected and dishevelled upon her neck,
gave by the contrast additional paleness to a cheek which
had already lost the roundness of its contour.
Arbaces gazed upon her a moment ere he advanced.
She, too, lifted up her eyes; and when she saw who was
the intruder, shut them with an expression of pain, but did
not stir.
"Ah!" said Arbaces, in a low and earnest tone, as he
respectfully, nay, humbly, advanced and seated himself at
a little distance from the table,-"ah! that my death
could remove thy hatred, then would I gladly die! Thou
wrongest me, Ione; but I will bear the wrong without a
murmur, only let me see thee sometimes. Chide, reproach,
scorn me, if thou wilt, I will learn myself to bear it.
And is not even thy bitterest tone sweeter to me than the
music of the most artful lute? In thy silence the world
seems to stand still, -a stagnation curdles up the veins o.
the earth, - there is no earth, no life, without the light of
thy countenance and the melody of thy voice."
"Give me back my brother and my betrothed," said
Ione, with a calm and imploring tone, and a few large
tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks.
"Yes,
"Would that I could restore the one, and save the
other," returned Arbaces, with apparent emotion.
to make thee happy, I would renounce my ill-fated love,
and gladly join thy hand to the Athenian's. Perhaps he
will yet come unscathed from his trial, —(Arbaces had
prevented her learning that the trial had already com-
menced), if So, thou art free to judge or condemn him
thyself. And think not, oh Ione! that I would follow thee
longer with a prayer of love. I know it is in vain. Suf-
fer me only to weep, to mourn with thee. Forgive a
violence deeply repented, and that shall offend no more.
Will she Let me be to thee only what I once was, —a friend, a
father, a protector. Ah, Ione! spare me, and forgive.'
Arbaces and Ione. Nydia gains the garden.
escape and save the Athenian?
WHEN Arbaces had warmed his veins by large draughts
of that spiced and perfumed wine so valued by the luxuri-
he felt more than usually elated and exultant of heart.
There is a pride in triumphant ingenuity, not less felt per-
haps, though its object be guilty. Our vain human nature
nugs itself in the consciousness of superior craft and self-knees: -
obtained success, — afterward comes the horrible re-action “Oh ! if thou really lovest me, if thou art humar
ous,
of remorse.
"I forgive thee. Save but Glaucus, and I will renounce
him. Oh, mighty Arbaces! thou art powerful in evil o
in good: save the Athenian, and the poor Ione will never
see him more. As she spoke, she rose with weak and
trembling limbs, and falling at his feet, she clasped his
02
BULWER'S NOVELS.
remember my father's ashes, reinember my childhood, think |
of all the houre we passed happily together, and save my
Glaucus!"
Strange convulsions shook the frame of the Egyptian!
his features worked fearfully, he turned his face aside,
and said in a hollow voice, "If I could save him, even
"If I could save him, even
now, I would; but the Roman law is stern and sharp.
Yet if I could succeed, if I could rescue and set him
free, wouldst thou be mine,
- my bride ?"
"Thine?" repeated Ione, rising, "thine, thy bride!
My brother's blood is unavenged: who slew him? O
Nemesis! can I even sell, for the life of Glaucus, thy
solemn trust? Arbaces,-thine? Never!"
—
"Ione, Ione! cried Arbaces, passionately, "why
these mysterious words; why dost thou couple my name.
with the thought of thy brother's death?"
<<
My dreams couple it, and dreams are from the
ods."
"Vain fantasies all! Is it for a dream that thou
wouldst wrong the innocent, and hazard thy sole chance of
saving thy lover's life?"
"Hear me !" said Ione, speaking firmly, and with a
deliberate and solemn voice: "if Glaucus be saved by
thee, I will never be borne to his home a bride. But I
cannot master the horror of other rites: I cannot wed
with thee. Interrupt me not; but mark me, Arbaces!
if Glaucus die, on that same day I baffle thine arts, and
leave to thy love only my dust! Yes!
thou mayst put
the knife and the poison from my reach, thou mayst im-
prison,―thou mayst chain me; but the brave soul resolved
to escape is never without the means. These hands, naked
and unarmed though they be, shall tear away the bonds of
life. Fetter them, and these lips shall firmly refuse the
air. Thou art learned, thou hast read how women have
died rather than meet dishonor. If Glaucus perish, I will
not unworthily linger behind him. By all the gods of the
heaven, and the ocean, and the earth, I devote myself to
death I have said!"
High, proud, dilating in her stature like one inspired, the
air and voice of Ione struck an awe into the breast of her
listener.
"Brave heart!" said he, after a short pause,
"thou
art indeed worthy to be mine. Oh! that I should have
dreamed of such a sharer to my high doom, and never
found it but in thee. Ione," he continued, rapidly," dost
"dost
thou not see that we were born for each other? Canst
thou not recognise something kindred to thine own energy,
thine own courage, in this high and self-dependent
soul? We were formed to unite our sympathies, formed
to breathe a new spirit into this hackneyed and gross
world, formed for the mighty destinies which my soul,
sweeping down the gloom of time, foresees with a prophet's
vision. With a resolution equal to thine own, I defy thy
threats of an inglorious suicide. I hail thee as my own!
Queen of climes undarkened by the eagle's wing, unray-
aged by his beak, I bow before thee in homage and in awe,
— but I claim thee in worship and in love! Together will
we cross the ocean,-together will we found our realm;
nd far distant ages shall acknowledge the long_race of
Kings born from the marriage-bed of Arbaces and Ione! "
-
Thou ravest ! These mystic declamations are suited
rather to some palsied crone selling charms in the market-
place, than to the wise Arbaces. Thou hast heard my
resolution; it is fixed as the Fates themselves. Orcus has
heard ny vow, and it is written in the book of the unforget-
ful Hades. Atone, then, O Arbaces! atone the past:
convert hatred into regard, vengeance into gratitude;
preserve one who shall never be thy rival. These are acts
suited to thy original nature, which gives forth sparks of
something high and noble. They weigh in the scales of the
kings of death; they turn the balance on that day when the
disembodied soul stands shivering and dismayed between
Tartarus and Elysium; they glad the heart in life, better
and longer than the reward of amomentary passion. Oh,
Arbaces! hear me, and be swayed !"
CC
afraid,
afraid, perhaps, to trust himself further to the passionate
prayer of lone, which racked him with jealousy, even
while it touched him to compassion. But compassion t
self came too late. Had Ione even pledged him her hand
as his reward, he could not now, his evidence given, the
populace excited,
populace excited, have saved the Athenian. Still made
sanguine by his very energy of mind, he threw himself on
the chances of the future, and believed he should yet tri-
umph over the woman that had so entangled his passions.
As his attendants assisted to unrobe him for the night,
the thought of Nydia flashed across him. He felt it was
necessary that Ione should never learn of her lover's frenzy,
lest it might excuse his imputed crime; and it was possible.
that her attendants might inform her that Nydia was under
his roof, and she might desire to see her. As this idea
crossed him, he turned to one of his freedmen
"Go, Callias," said he, "forthwith to Sosia, and tell
him, that on no pretence is he to suffer the blind slave
Nydia out of her chamber. But stay; first seek those
on attendance upon my ward, and caution them not to
inform her that the blind girl is under my roof. Go
quick!"
The slave hastened to obey. After having discharged s
commission with respect to Ione's attendants, he sought
the worthy Sosia. He found him not in the little cell
which was apportioned for his cubiculum; he called his
name aloud, and from Nydia's chamber, close at hand, he
heard the voice of Sosia in reply,
"Oh, Callias, is it you that I hear? The gods be
praised!
praised! Open the door, I pray you!"
The slave withdrew the bolt, and the rueful face of Sosia
hastily obtruded itself.
"What! in the chamber with that young girl, Sosia!
Proh pudor! Are there not fruits ripe enough on the wall,
but what thou must tamper with such green-
"Name not the little witch!" interrupted Sosia, impa-
tiently; "she will be my ruin!" and he forthwith im-
parted to Callias the history of the air demon, and the
escape of the Thessalian.
CC
Hang thyself, then, unhappy Sosia! I am just
charged from Arbaces with a message to thee; on no
account art thou to suffer her, even for a moment, from that
chamber !”
"What can I
"Me miserum!" exclaimed the slave.
do?by this time she may have visited half Pompeii.
But to-morrow I will undertake to catch her in her old
haunts. Keep but my counsel, dear Callias."
"I will do all that friendship can, consistent with my
own safety. Bat are you sure she has left the house?
she may be hiding here yet.
"How is that possible? She could easily have gained
the garden, and the door, as I told thee, was open.
CC
Nay, not so; for at that very hour thou specifiest, Ar-
baces was in the garden with the priest Calenus.
I went
there in search of some herbs for my master's bath to-
morrow. I saw the table set out, but the gate I am sure
was shut; depend upon it, that Calenus entered by the
garden, and naturally closed the door after him."
"But it was not locked."
J
"Yes; for I myself, angry at a negligence which might
expose the bronzes in the peristyle to the mercy of any
robber, turned the key, took it away, and, as I did not
see the proper slave to whom to give it, or I should have
rated him finely, here it actually is, still in my girdle."
"O merciful Bacchus ! I did not pray to thee in vain,
after all. Let us not lose a moment! Let us to the garden
instantly, she may yet he there!"
The good-natured Callias consented to assist the sk ve;
and after vainly searching the chambers at hand, ang thể
recesses of the peristyle, they entered the garden.
It was about this time that Nydia had resolved to quit
her hiding-place, and venture forth on her way. Lightly,
tremulously, holding her breath, which ever and anon
broke forth in quick convulsive gasps, -now gliding by
the flower-wreathed columns that bordered the peristyle, —
now darkening the still moonshine that fell over its tes
selated centre, now ascending the terrace of the garden,
now gliding amid the gloomy and breathless trees, ska
gained the fatal door, -to find it locked! We have al
seen that expression of pain, of uncertainty, of fear, which
a sudden disappointment of touch, if I may use the expres.
sion, casts over the face of the blind. But what words can
Without waiting a reply, Arbaces hastily withdrew; paint the intolerable woe, the sinking of the whole heart,
Enough, Ione. All that I can do for Glaucus shall be
dore; but blame me not if I fail. Inquire of my foes,
even, if I have not sought, if I do not, seek, to turn aside
the sentence from his head, and judge me accordingly.
Sleep, then, Ione. Night wanes; I leave thee to its rest,
and mayst thou have kinder dreams of one who has no
existence but in thine."
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
which was now visible on the features of the Thessalian!
Again and again, ber small, quivering hands wandered to
and fro the inexorable door. Poor thing that thou wert!
in vain had been all thy noble courage, thy innocent craft,
thy doublings to escape the hound and huntsman! Within
but a few yards from thee, laughing at thy endeavours,
thy despair, knowing thou wert now their own, and
watching with cruel patience their own moment to seize
their prey,
thou art saved from seeing thy pursuers!
"Hush, Callias!-let her go on. Let us see what she
will do when she has convinced herself that the door is
honest."
"Look !-- she raises her face to the heavens, — she mut-
ters, -she sinks down despondent! No!-by Pollux,
she has some new scheme! She will not resign herself!
Per Jove, a tough spirit! See, she springs up, she re-
traces her steps, she thinks of some other chance! I
advise thee, Sosia, to delay no longer seize her ere she
quit the garden, now!
—
"Ah! runaway! I have thee, eh?" said Sosia,
seizing upon the unhappy Nydia.
as
As a hare's last human cry in the fangs of the dogs,
the sharp voice of terror uttered by a sleepwalker suddenly
awakened, broke the shriek of the blind girl, when she
felt the abrupt gripe of her jailer. It was a shriek of such
such entire despair, that it might have rung
hauntingly in your ears for ever. She felt as if the last
plank of the sinking Glaucus were torn from his clasp. It
had been a suspense of life and death; and death had now
won the game.
utter
agony,
"Gods! that cry will alarm the house! Arbaces sleeps
full lightly. Gag her!" cried Callias.
"Ah! here is the very napkin with which the young
witch conjured away my reason! Come, that's right;
now thou art dumb as well as blind."
And catching the light weight in his arms, Sosia soon
gained the house, and reached the chamber from which
Nydia had escaped. There, removing the gag, he left her
to a solitude so racked and terrible, that out of Hades its
anguish could scarcely be exceeded.
CHAPTER XVI.
The sorrow of boon companions for our afflictions. The
dungeon and its victims.
Ir was now late on the third and last day of the trial of
Glaucus and Olinthus. A few hours after the court had
A few hours after the court had
broke up and judgment been given, a small party of the
fashionable youth at Pompeii were assembled round the
fastidious board of Lepidus.
"So, Glaucus denies his crime to the last," said Clodius.
"Yes; but the testimony of Arbaces was convincing; he
saw the blow given," answered Lepidus.
"What could have been the cause?"
"Why, the priest was a gloomy and sullen fellow. He
probably rated Glaucus soundly about his gay life and gam-
ing habits, and ultimately swore he would not consent to his
marriage with Ione. High words arose; Glaucus seems to
have been full of the passionate god, and struck in sudden
exasperation. The excitement of wine, the desperation of
abrupt remorse, brought on the delirium under which he
suffered for some days; and I can readily imagine, poor
fellow! that, yet confused by that delirium, he is even now
unconscious of the crime he committed! Such, at least, is
the shrewd conjecture of Arbaces, who seems to have been
most kind and forbearing in his testimony."
"Yes; he has made himself generally popular by it.
But, in consideration of these extenuating circumstances,
the senate should have relaxed the sentence."
“And they would have done so but for the people; but
they were outrageous. The priests had spared no pains to
excite them; and they imagined, -the ferocious brutes!
because Glaucus was a rich man and a gentleman, that
he was likely to escape; and therefore they were inveterate
against him, and doubly resolved upon his sentence. The
senate did not dare refuse to strip him of the rights of citi-
zenship, and so pass judgment of death; though, after all,
there was but a majority of three against him. Ho! the
Chian ! "
"He looks sadly altered; but how composed and fear-
י ! less
'
Ay, we shall see if his firmness will last over to-morrow.
But what merit in courage, when that atheistical hound
Olinthus manifested the same?"
"The blasphemer! Yes," said Lepidus, with pious
wrath, "no wonder that one of the decurions was, but two
days ago, struck dead by lightning in a serene sky. The
gods feel vengeance against Pompeii while the vile dese-
crator is alive within its walls."
"Yet so lenient was the senate, that had he but expressed
his penitence, and scattered a few grains of inceuse on the
altar of Cybele, he would have been let off. I doubt whether
these Nazarenes, had they the state religion, would be as
tolerant to us, supposing we had kicked down the image of
their deity, blasphemed its rites, and denied its faith."
"They give Glaucus one chance, in consideration of the
circumstances; they allow him, against the lion, the use
of the same stilus wherewith he smote the priest."
·
"Hast thou seen the lion? Hast thou looked at his teeth
and fangs, and wilt thou call that a chance? Why, sword
and buckler would be mere reed and papyrus against the
rush of the mighty beast! No, I think the true mercy
has been, not to leave him long in suspense; and it was
therefore fortunate for him that our benign laws are slow to
pronounce, but swift to execute; and that the games of the
amphitheatre had been, by a sort of providence, so long
fixed for to-morrow. He who awaits death dies twice."
"As for the atheist," said Clodius, "he is to cope the
grim tiger naked-handed. Well, these combats are part
betting on. Who will take the odds?
A peal of laughter announced the ridicule of the question.
"Poor Clodius!" said the host; "to lose a friend is
something; but to find no one to bet on the chance of his
escape is a worse misfortune to thee.”
Why, it is provoking; it would have been some conso-
lation to him and to me to think he was useful to the last."
"The people," said the grave Pansa, "are all delighted
with the result. They were so much afraid the sports at
the amphitheatre would go off without a criminal for the
beasts; and now, to get two such criminals is indeed a joy
for the poor fellows! They work hard; they ought to have
some amusement.
"There speaks the popular Pansa, who never moves
without a string of clients as long as an Indian triumph.
He is always prating about the people. Gods he will end
!
by being a Gracchus !"
Certainly I am no insolent aristocrat," said Pansa,
with a generous air.
"Well," observed Lepidus, "it would have been assu-
redly dangerous to have been merciful at the eve of a beast
fight. If ever I come to be tried, pray Jupiter there may
be either no beasts in the vivaria, or plenty of criminals in
the jail."
"And pray," said one of the party," what has become
of the poor girl whom Glaucus was to have married? A
widow without being a bride, that is hard ! >>
"Oh," returned Clodius," she is safe under the protec-
tion of her guardian, Arbaces. It was natura. she should
go to him when she had lost both lover and brother.”
"By sweet Venus, Glaucus was fortunate among the
women! They say the rich Julia was in love witn lim.”
"A mere fable, my friend," said Clodius, coxcombically,
"I was with her to-day. If any feeling of the sort she
ever conceived, I flatter myself that I have consoled her.”
"Hush, gentlemen!" said Pansa; "do you not know
that Clodius is employed at the house of Diomed in blow-
ing hard at the torch?
ing hard at the torch? It begins to burn, and will soon
shine bright on the shrine of Hymen."
"Is it so?" said Lepidus; "what, Clodius become a
married man! Fie!"
"Never fear," answered Clodius; "old Diomed is de
lighted at the notion of marrying his daughter to a nobleman,
and will come down largely with the sesterces. You will
see that I shall not lock them up in the atrium. It will be
a white day for his jolly friends when Clodius marries an
heiress."
Say you so?" cried Lepidus; "come, then, a full cup
to the health of the fair Julia !”
While such was the conversation, -une not discordant
to the tone of mind common among the dissipated of that
day, and which might perhaps, a century ago, have found
Pliny says, that immediately before the irruption of Vesuvius,
one of the decuriones municipales was, though the heaved
was unclouded, — struck dead by lightning.
84
BULWER'S NOVELS.
an echo in the looser circles of Paris; while such, I say,
was the conversation in the gaudy triclinium of Lepidus,
far different the scene which scowled before the young
Athenian.
ter.
After his condemnation, Glaucus was admitted no more
to the gentle guardianship of Sallust, the only friend of his
distress. He was led along the forum, till the guards
stopped at a small door by the side of the temple of Jupi-
You may see the place still. The door opened in the
centre in a somewhat singular fashion, revolving round on
its hinges, as it were, like a modern turnstile, so as only
to leave half the threshold open at the same time. Through
this narrow aperture they thrust the prisoner, placed before
aim a loaf and a pitcher of water, and left him to darkness,
and, as he thought, to solitude. So sudden had been that
revolution of fortune which had prostrated him from the
palmy height of youthful pleasure and successful love, to the
lowest abyss of ignominy and the horror of a most bloody
death, that he could scarcely convince himself that he was
not held in the meshes of some fearful dream. His elastic.
and glorious frame had triumphed over a potion, the greater
part of which he had fortunately not drained. He had re-
covered sense and consciousness; but still a dim and misty
lepression clung to his nerves, and darkened his mind.
His natural courage, and the Greek nobility of pride, ena-
bled him to vanquish all 'unbecoming apprehension, and, in
the judgment court, to face his awful lot with a steady mien
and unquailing eye. But the consciousness of innocence
scarcely sufficed to support him when the gaze of men no
longer excited his haughty valor, and he was left to loneli-
ness and silence. He felt the damps of the dungeon sink
chillingly into his enfeebled frame. He, the fastidious,
the luxurious, the refined, — he who had hitherto braved no
hardship and known no sorrow! - Beautiful bird that he
was! why had he left his far and sunny clime, the olive
groves of his native hills, the music of immemorial
streams? Why had he wantoned on his glittering plu-
mage ainid these harsh and ungenial strangers, dazzling
the eye with his gorgeous hues, charming the ear with his
blithesome song,
thus suddenly to be arrested, caged in
darkness, a victim and a prey, his gay flights for ever
his hymus of gladness for ever stilled! The poor
Athenian! his very faults the exuberance of a gentle and
joyous nature, how little had his past career fitted him for
the trials he was destined to undergo ! The hoots of the
mob, amid whose plaudits he had so often guided his grace-
ful car and bounding steed, still rung gratingly in his ear.
The cold and stony faces of his former friends (the comates
of his merry revels) still rose before his eye. None now
were by to soothe, to sustain the admired, the adulated
stranger. These walls opened but on the dread arena of a
violent and shameful death. And Ione! of her, too, he had
heard naught; no encouraging werd, no pitying message;
she, too, had forsaken him; she believed him guilty,
and of what crime?—the murder of a brother! He
ground his teeth, - he groaned aloud, and ever and anon
a sharp fear shot across him. In that fell and fierce delir-
ium which had so unaccountably seized his soul, which had
20 ravaged the disordered brain, might he not, indeed, un-
Knowing to himself, have committed the crime of which he
was accused? Yet, as the thought flashed upon him, it
was as suddenly checked; for amid all the darkness of the
past, he thought distinctly to recall the dim grove of Cybe-
of Cybe-
le, the upward face of the pale dead, the pause that he had
made beside the corpse, and the sudden shock that felled
him to the earth. He felt convinced of his innocence;
and yet who to the latest time, long after his mangled re-
mains were mingled with the elements, would believe him
guiltless, or uphold his fame? As he recalled his inter-
view with Arbaces, and the causes of revenge which had
been excited in the heart of that dark and fearful man, he
could not but believe that he was the victim of some deep
laid and mysterious snare, the clew and train of which he
was lost in attempting to discover and Ione, Arbaces
loved her, --- might his rival's success be founded upon his
ruin? That thought cut him more deeply than all; and
his noble heart was more sturgy jealousy than appalled
by fear. Again he groaned aloud.
over,
-
A voice from the recess of the darkness answered that
burst of anguish. "Who," it said, " is my companion in
this awful hour? Athenian Glaucus, is it thou ?”
"So, indeed, they called me in mine hour of fortune;
they may have cther names for me now. And thy name,
tranger?"
"Is Olinthus, thy comate in the prison as the tria.."
"What! he whom they call the atheist? Is it the m
justice of men that hath taught thee to deny the providence
of the gods?
""
"Alas!" answered Olinthus; "thou, not I, art the
true atheist, for thou deniest the sole true God, the Un-
known One, to whom thy Athenian fathers erected an
altar. It is in this hour that I know my God. He is with
me in the dungeon; his smile penetrates the darkness; on
the eve of death my heart whispers immortality, and earth
recedes from me but to bring the weary soul nearer unto
heaven.”
"Tell me,
" said Glaucus abruptly, "did I not hear tny
name coupled with that of Apæcides in my trial? Dost
thou believe me guilty?"
"God alone reads the heart; but my suspicion rested
not upon thee."
"On whom, then?"
Thy accuser, Arbaces!"
"Ha! thou cheerest me; and wherefore?
"Because I know the man's evil breast, and he had
cause to fear him who is now dead."
With that, Olinthus proceeded to inform Glaucus of those
details which the reader already knows;- the conversion
of Apæcides, the plan they had proposed for the detection
of the impostures of the Egyptian priestcraft, and of the
seductions practised by Arbaces upon the youthful weak
ness of the proselyte. "Had, therefore," concluded Olin-
thus, -"had the deceased encountered Arbaces, reviled
his treasons, and threatened detection, the place, the hour,
might have favored the wrath of the Egyptian, and passion
and craft alike dictated the fatal blow.
"It must have been so !" cried Glaucus, joyfully; "I
am happy."
"Yet what, O unfortunate, avails to thee now the dis-
covery? Thou art condemned and fated, and in thine
innocence thou wilt perish."
"But I shall know myself guiltless; and in my mysteri-
ous madness I had fearful, though momentary, doubts; yet
tell me, man of a strange creed, thinkest thou that for
small errors, or for ancestral faults, we are ever abandoned
and accursed by the powers above, whatever name thou
allottest to them?"
"God is just, and abandons not his creatures for their
mere human frailty. God is merciful, and curses none but
the wicked who repent not."
"Yet it seemeth to me as if, in the divine anger, I had
been smitten by a sudden madness, -a supernatural and
solemn frenzy, wrought not by human means.
>>
"There are demons on earth," answered the Nazarene,
fearfully,
fearfully, "as well as there are God and his Son in
heaven; and since thou acknowledgest not the last, the
first may have had power over thee."
Glaucus did not reply, and there was a silence for some
minutes. At length the Athenian said, in a changed, and
soft, and half-hesitating voice, "Christian, believest thou,
among the doctrines of thy creed, that the dead live again,
that they who have loved here are united hereafter,
that beyond the grave our good name shines pure from the
mortal mists that unjustly dim it in the gross-eyed world,
and that the streams which are divided by the desert
and the rock meet in the solemn Hades, and flow once
more into one ?"
"Believe I that, O Athenian? No; I do not beneve
I know! and it is that beautiful and blessed assurance
which supports me now. O Cyllene!" continued Olin-
thus, passionately, "bride of my heart! torn from me in
the first month of our nuptials, shall I not see thee yet, and
ere many days be past? Welcome, welcome death, that
will bring me to heaven and thee! "
There was something in this sudden burst of human
affection which struck a kindred chord on the soul of the
Greek. He felt, for the first time, a sympathy greater
than mere affliction between him and his companion. He
crept nearer toward Olinthus; for the Italians, fierce in
some points, were not unnecessarily cruel in others: they
spared the separate cell and the superfluous chain, and
allowed the victims of the arena the sad comfort of
such freedom and such companionship as the prison would
afford.
"Yes," continued the Christian, with holy fervor, “the
immortality of the soul, the resurrection, the re-union
of the dead,—is the great principle of our creed, — the
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII
96
great truth a God suffered death itself to attest and pro-
claim. No fabled Elysium, -no poetical Orcus; but a
pure and radiant heritage of heaven itself, is the portion of
the good."
"Tell me, then, thy doctrines, and expound to me thy
nopes," said Glaucus, earnestly.
Oliuthus was not slow to obey that prayer; and there,
-as oftentimes in the early ages of the Christian creed,
it was in the darkness of the dungeon, and over the
approach of death, that the dawning gospel shed its soft
and consecrating rays.
CHAPTER XVII.
A chance for Glaucus.
THE hours passed in lingering torture over the head of
Nydia fr the time in which she had been replaced in
aer cell.
Sosia, as if afraid he should be again outwitted, had re-
frained from visiting her until late in the morning of the
following day, and then he but thrust in the periodical
basket of food and wine, and hastily reclosed the door.
That day rolled on, and Nydia felt herself pent,
barred,
inexorably confined, when that day was the judgment
day of Glaucus, and when her release would have saved
him! Yet knowing that, almost impossible as seemed her
escape, the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested o
her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely suscept-
ble as she was, resolved not to give way to a despair that
would disable her from seizing whatever opportunity might
occur. She kept her senses whenever beneath th. whirl
of intolerable thought they reeled and tottered; nay, she
took food and wine that she might sustain her strength,
that she might be prepared!
She revolved scheme after scheme of escape, and was
forced to dismiss all. Yet Sosia was her only hope, the
Yet Sosia was her only hope, the
only instrument with which she could tamper. He had
been superstitious in the hope of ascertaining whether he
could eventually purchase his freedom. Blessed gods!
might he not be won by the bribe of freedom itself? — was
she not nearly rich enough to purchase it? Her slender
arms were covered with bracelets, the presents of Ione;
and on her neck she yet wore that very chain which, it may
be remembered, had occasioned her jealous quarrel with
Glaucus, and which she had afterwards promised vainly to
wear for ever. She waited burningly till Sosia should
again appear; but as hour after hour passed, and he came
not, she grew impatient. Every nerve beat with fever;
she could endure the solitude no longer, she groaned, she
shrieked aloud, she beat herself against the door. Her
cries echoed along the hall, and Sosia, in peevish anger,
hastened to see what was the matter, and silence his pris-
oner if possible.
cr
"Ho! ho! what is this?" said he, surlily. Young
slave, if thou screamest out thus, we must gag thee. My
shoulders will smart for it if thou art heard by my master.
“Kind Sosia, chide me not, I cannot endure to be so
long alone," answered Nydia; "the solitude appals me.
Sit with me, I pray, a little while. Nay, fear not that I
Nay, fear not that I
should attempt to escape; place thy seat before the door,
keep thine eye on me, I will not stir from this spot.
Sosia, who was a considerable gossip himself, was
moved by this address. He pitied one who had nobody to
talk with, it was his case too; he pitied, and resolved
tɔ relieve himself! He took the hint of Nydia, placed a
stool before the door, leaned his back against it, and
replied, -
—
"I am sure I do not wish to be churlish; and so far as
a little innocent chat goes, I have no objection to indulge
you But mind, no tricks,- —no more conjuring.”
C
No, no; tell me, dear Sosia, what is the hōur ?
"It is already evening, the goats are going home."
"O gods! How went the trial?
"Both condemned !"
AN
Nydia repressed the shriek. "Well, — well, I thought
well, I thought
I would be so. "When do they suffer?"
"To-morrow, in the amphitheatre: if it were not for
thee, little wretch! I should be allowed to go with the
rest and see it.”
not perceive it, for it was the dusk of eve and he was full
of his own privations; he went on lament ng the loss of so
delightful a show, and accusing the injustice of Arbaces for
singling him out from all his fellows to be converted into a
jailer; and ere he had half finished, Nydia, with a deep
sigh, recovered the sense of life.
"Thou sighest, blind one, at my loss! Well, that is some
comfort; so long as you acknowledge how much you cost
me, I will endeavour not to grumblr,-it 's hard to be ill-
treated and yet not pitied."
"Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up the
purchase of thy freedom?"
"How much? why about two thousand sesterces."
"The gods be praised! not more! Seest thou these
bracelets and this chain, they are well worth double that
sum. I will give them thee if"
"Tempt me not; I cannot release thee: Arbaces is a
severe and awful raaster. Who knows but I might feed
the fishes of the Sarnus? Alas! all the sesterces in the
world would not buy me back into life. Better a live dog
than a deai lion.”
"Sosia, thy freedom! Think well; if thou wilt let me
out, only for one little hour! let me out at midnight
I wi" return ere to-morrow's dawn; nay, thou canst go
wit、 me.”
No," said Sosia, sturdily; "a slave once disobeyed
arbaces, and he was never more heard of."
"But the law gives the master no power over the life of
his slave."
"The law is very obliging, but more polite than efficient
I know that Arbaces always gets the law on his side. Be
sides, if I am once dead, what law can bring me to life
again?"
Nydia wrung her hands : "Is there no hope, then ?"
said she, convulsively.
"None of escape, till Arbaces give the word."
"Well, then," said Nydia, quickly, " thou wilt not at
least refuse to take a letter for me; thy master cannot kil
thee for that.”
"To whom?"
"The prætor."
"To a magistrate ?-no! Not I, I should be made
a witness in court for what I know; and the way they
cross-examine a slave is by the torture."
"Pardon; I meant not the prætor, it was a word that
escaped me unawares; I meant quite another person,
the gay Sallust."
"Oh! and what want you with him?"
"Glaucus was my master; he purchased me from a cruel
lord; he alone has been kind to me; he is to die. I shall
never live happily if I cannot, in his hour of trial and
doom, let him know that one heart is grateful to him.
Sallust is his friend, he will convey my message."
"I am sure he will do no such thing. Glaucus will have
enough to think of between this and to-morrow, without
troubling his head about a blind girl.”
Man," said Nydia, rising, "wilt thou become free?
thou hast the offer in thy power; to-morrow will be too
late. Never was freedom more cheaply purchased: thou
canst easily and unmissed leave home; less than half an
hour will suffice for thine absence. And for such a trifle
wilt thou refuse liberty?
Sosia was greatly moved. It was true, the request was
remarkably silly, but what was that to him? So much
the better; he could lock the door on Nydia; and, if Ar-
baces should learn his absence, the offence was venial, and
would merit but a reprimand. Yet, should Nydia's letter
contain something more than what she had said, should
it speak of her imprisonment, as he shrewdly conjectured
it would do, what then? It need never be known to
Arbaces that he had carried the letter. At the worst, the
bribe was enormous; the risk light; the temptation irre-
sistible. He hesitated no longer, he assented to the
proposal.
V
Give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter; yet
stay, thou art a slave, thou hast no right to these orna-
ments, they are thy master's."
They were the gifts of Glaucus; he is my master;
what chance hath he to claim them? who else will know
they are in my possession?
Enough, I will bring thee the papyrus."
Nydia leaned back for some moments, nature could In a few minutes Nydia had concluded her letter, which
endure no more, - she had fainted away. But Sosia did she took the precaution to write in Greek, the language of
96
BULWER'S NOVELS.
her childhood, and which almost every Italian of the higher
ranks was then supposed to know. She carefully wound
round the epistle the protecting thread, and covered its knot
with wax; and ere she placed it in the hands of Sosia, she
thus addressed him:
"Sosia, I am blind and in prison; thou mayst think to
deceive me; thoa mayst pretend only to take this letter to
Sallust; thou mayst not fulfil thy charge. But here I
solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul to the
infernal powers,
if thou wrongest thy trust; and I call
upon thee to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and re-
peat after me these words,— By the ground on which we
stand! by the elements which contain life and can curse
life! by Orcus, the all-avenging! by the Olympian Jupiter,
the all-seeing! I swear that I will honestly discharge
my trust, and faithfully deliver into the hands of Sallust
this letter. And if I perjure myself in this oath, may
full curses of heaven and hell be wreaked upon me!'-
Enough, I trust thee take thy reward. It is already
dark, depart at once.
the
"Thou art a strange girl, and thou hast frightened me
terribly; but it is all very natural; and if Sallust is to be
found, I will give him this letter as I have sworn. By my
faith, I may have my little peccadilloes; but perjury, --
no! I leave that to my betters.”
"Letter! - which letter ! said the epicure, reeling, for
he began to see double. "A curse on these wenches, say
I! Am I a man to think of- (hiccup) — pleasure, when
when -my friend is going to be eat up!"
“Eat another tartlet !"
"No, no! My grief chokes me !"
"Take him to bed," said the freedman: and, Sallust's
head now declining fairly on his breast, they bore him off
to his cubiculum, still muttering lamentations for Glaucus,
and imprecations on the unfeeling invitations of ladies of
pleasure.
Meanwhile Sosia strode indignantly homeward. "Pimp,
indeed!" quoth he to himself: "pimp! a scurvy-tongued
fellow that Sallust! Had I been called a knave or thief, 1
could have forgiven it; but pimp! Faugh! there is some-
thing in the word which the toughest stomach in the world
would rise against. A knave is a knave for his own pleas-
ure, and a thief is a thief for his own profit; and there is
something honorable and philosophical in being a rascal for
one's own sake that is doing things upon principle. -
upon a grand scale. But a pimp is a thing that defiles
itself for another! a pipkin, that is put on the fire for
another man's pottage! a napkin, that every guest wipes
his hands upon and the scullion says, 'By your leave'
to! A pimp! I would rather he had called ine parricide!
With this Sosia withdrew carefully, passing athwart But the man was drunk, and did not know what he said;
Nydia's door the heavy bolt, carefully locking its wards; and, besides, I disguised myself. Had he seen it had
and hanging the key to his girdle, he retired to his own been Sosia who addressed him, it would have been
den, enveloped himself from head to foot in a huge disguis-Honest Sosia!' and Worthy man!' I warrant. Nev-
ing cloak, and slipped out by the back way undisturbed and ertheless, the trinkets have been won easily, that's some
comfort; and, O goddess Feronia! I shall be a freeman
soon! and then I should like to see who 'll call ine pimp!
unless, indeed, he pay me pretty handsomely for it ! "
While Sosia was soliloquizing in this high-minded and
generous vein, his path lay along a narrow lane, that led
toward the amphitheatre and its adjacent palaces. Sud-
denly, as he turned a sharp corner, he found himself in the
midst of a considerable crowd. Men, women, and chil-
dren, all were hurrying on, laughing, talking, gesticulating;
and ere he was aware of it, the worthy Sosia was borne
away with the noisy stream.
unseen.
The streets were thin and empty, - he soon gained the
house of Sallust. The porter bade him leave his letter and
begone; for Sallust was so grieved at the condemnation
of Glaucus, that he could not on any account be disturbed.
"Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into his
own hands, do so I must;" and Sosia, well knowing by
experience that Cerberus loves a sop, thrust some half a
dozen sesterces into the hand of the porter.
66
Well, well," said the last, relenting,
you may enter
if you will; but to tell you the truth, Sallust is drinking
himself out of his grief. It is his way when any thing dis-
turbs him. He orders a capital supper, the best wine, and
does not give over till every thing is out of his head, but
the liquor."
"An excellent plan, excellent! Ah, what it is to be
rich! If I were Sallust, I would have some grief or another
every day. But just say a kind word for me with the atri-
ensis, — I see him coming.
1
Sallust was too sad to receive company. He was too
sad also to drink alone; so, as was his wont, he admitted
his favorite freedman to his entertainment, and a stranger
banquet never was held. For ever and anon the kind-
hearted epicure sighed, whimpered, wept outright, and
then turned with double zest to some new dish, or his re-
filled goblet.
CC
My good fellow," said he to his companion, "it was a
most awful judgment, heighho, it is not bad that kid,
eh? Poor, dear Glaucus ! what a jaw the lion has, too!
Ah, ah, ah!"
And Sallust sobbed loudly, the fit was stopped by a
counteraction of hiccups.
"Take a cup of wine," said the freedman.
"A thought too cold; but then how cold Glaucus must
be! Shut up the house to-morrow, - not a slave shall stir
forth,
none of my people shall honor that cursed arena,
—No, no!"
*
"A cup of wine, your grief distracts you By the
gods it does!-- a piece of that cheesecake."
ور
It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admit-
ted to the presence of the disconsolate carouser.
"Ho! who art thou?
"Merely a messenger to Sallust. I give him this billet
from a young lady. There is no answer that I know of.
May I withdraw?"
Thus said the discreet Sosia, keeping his face muffled in
his cloak, and speaking with a feigned voice, so that he
might not hereafter be recognised.
CC
By the gods, a pimp! Unfeeling wretch,
do you
not see my sorrows Go!and the curses of Pandarus
with you
!
Sosia lost not a montent in retiring.
C
"What now?" he asked of his nearest neighbour, a
young artificer; "what now? Where are all these good
folks thronging Does any rich patron give away als
or viands to-night ?
"Not so, man,
better still," said the artificer; "the
noble Pansa, the people's friend, has granted the
public leave to see the beasts in their vivaria. By Hercu-
les! they will not be seen so safely by some persons to
morrow!
"T is a pretty sight," said the slave, yielding to the
throng that impelled him onward; "and since I may not
go to the sports to-morrow, I may as well take a peep at
the beasts to-night."
CC
"You will do well," returned his new acquaintance;
a lion and a tiger are not to be seen at Pompeii every
day.'
space of
The crowd had now entered a broken and wide
ground, on which, as it was only lighted scantily, and from
a distance, the press became dangerous to those whose
limbs and shoulders were not fitted for a mob. Neverthe-
less, the women especially, many of them with children
in their arms, or even at the breast, were the most reso-
lute in forcing their way; and their shrill exclamations of
complaint or objurgation were heard loud above the more
jovial and masculine voices. Yet amid them was a young
and girlish voice, that appeared to come from one too
happy in her excitement to be alive to the inconvenience of
the crowd.
"Ah!" cried the young woman, to some of her com-
panions, "I
I always told you so; I always said we should
have a man for the lion; and now we have one for the
tiger, too! I wish to-morrow were come!
(C
Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show,
With a forest of faces in every row ;
Lo! the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alemæna,
Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed arena.
Talk while you may, you will hold your breath
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death!
Tramp ! tramp! how gayly they go !
Io ho for the merry, merry show! "
"A jolly girl!" said Sosia.
"Yes," replied the young artificer, a curly-headed,
"Will you read the letter, Sallust?" said the freedman. handsome youth; "yes!" replied he, enviously; "the
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
B7
unan love a gladiator. If I had been a slave, I would
juve soon found my schoolmaster in the lanista!”
“Would you,
indeed!" said Sosia, with a sneer.
People's notions differ!"
P
The crowd had now arrived at the place of destination;
but as the cell in which the wild beasts were confined was
extremely small and narrow, tenfold more vehement than it
hitherto had been was the rush and press of the aspirants
to obtain admittance. Two of the officers of the amphi-
theatre, placed at the entrance, very wisely mitigated the
evil by dispensing to the foremost only a liniited number of
tickets at a time, and adinitting po new visiters till their
predecessors hal sated their curiosity. Sosia, who was a
tolerably stout fellow, and not troubled with any remarka-
ble scruples of diffidence or good breeding, contrived to be
among the first of the initiated.
Separated from his companion, the artificer, Sosia found
himself in a narrow cell of oppressive heat and atmosphere,
and lighted by several rank and flaring torches.
The animals, usually kept in different vivaria, or dens,
were now, for the greater entertainment of the visiters,
placed in one, but equally indeed divided from each other
by strong cages, protected by iron bars.
There they were, the fell and grin: wonders of the
desert; who have now become almost the principal heroes
or agents of this story! The lion, who, as being the more
gentle by nature than his fellow-beast, had been more in-
cited to ferocity by hunger, stalked restlessly and fiercely
to and fro his narrow confines: his eyes were lurid with
rage and famine; and as every now and then he paused,
and glared around, the spectators fearfully pressed back-
ward, and drew their breath more quickly. But the tiger
lay quiet, and extended at full length in his cage, and only
by an occasional play of his tail, or a long impatient yawn,
testified any emotion at his confinement, or at the crowd
which honored him with their presence.
“I have seen no fiercer beast than yon lion, even in the
amphitheatre of Rome," said a gigantic and sinewy fel-
low, who stood at the right hand of Sosia.
"I feel humbled when I look at his limbs," replied, at
the left of Sosiu, a slighter and younger figure, with his
arms folded on his breast.
The slave looked first at one, and then at the other.
"Virtus in medio! Virtue is ever in the middle," mut-
tered he to himself; "a goodly neighbourhood for thee,
Sosia, a gladiator on each side!
"That is well said, Lydon," returned the huger gladia-
tor; "I feel the same.
"And to think," observed Lydon, in a tone of deep
feeling," to think that the noble Greek, he whom we saw
but a day or two since before us, so full of youth, and
health, and joyousness, is to feast yon monster !
"Why not?" growled Niger, savagely:
many an
honest gladiator has been compelled to a like combat by
the emperor; why not a wealthy murderer by the law?
Lydon sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and remained
silent. Meanwhile, the common gazers listened with star-
ing eyes and lips apart; the gladiators were objects of in-
terest as well as the beasts, they were animals of the
same species; so the crowd glanced from one to the other,
the men and the brutes; whispering their comments
and anticipating the morrow.
M
"Well!" said Lydon, turning away, "I thank the
gods that it is not the lion or the tiger I am to contend
with; even you, Niger, are a gentler combatant than
they."
But equally dangerous," said the gladiator, with a
fierce laugh; and the bystanders, admiring his vast limbs
and ferocious countenance, grinned too.
"That as it may be," answered Lydon, carelessly, as
he pressed through the throng and quitted the den.
I may as well take advantage of his shoulders,”
thought the prudent Sosia, hastening to follow him; "the
crowd always give way to a gladiator, so 1 will keep close
behind, and come in for a share of his consequence."
The son of Medon strode quickly through the mob, many
of whom recognised his features and profession.
"That is young Lydon, a brave fellow; he fights to-
morrow,' said one.
"Ah! I have a bet on him," said another; "see how
Srmly he walks!
"Good luck to thee, Lydon!" said a third.
Lydon, you have my wishes!" half whispered a
VOL. II.
13
¦
fourth, smiling, (a comely woman of the midille casses)
-"and if you win, why, you may hear more of the
"A handsome man, by Venus!" cried a fifth, who was
a girl scarce in her teens. "Thank you," returned Sosia,
gravely taking the coinpliment to himself.
However strong the purer motives of Lydon, and cer-
tain though it be that he would never have entered so
bloody a calling but from the hope of obtaining his father's
freedom, he was not altogether unmoved by the notice he
excited. He forgot that the voices now raised in com-
mendation might, on the morrow, be shouting over his
death-pangs. Fierce and reckless, as well as generous and
warm-hearted by nature, he was already imbued with the
pride of a profession that he fancied he disdained, and
affected by the influence of a companionship that in reality
he loathed. He saw himself now a man of importance;
his
step grew yet lighter, and his mien more elate.
r
Niger," said he, turning suddenly as he had now thrid-
ded the crowd, "we have often quarrelled; we are not
matched against each other, but one of us, at least, may
reasonably expect to fall; give us thy band."
"Most readily," said Sosia, extending his palm.
"Ha! what fool is this? why, I thought Niger was af
my heels!"
"I forgive the mistake,” replied Sosia, condescendingly;
"don't mention it; the error was easy, I and Niger are
somewhat of the same build!"
―
"Ha ha! that is excellent! Niger would have slit
thy throat had he heard thee!"
"You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable
mode of talking," said Sosia;
mode of talking," said Sosia; "let us change the conver-
sation."
"Vah! vah!" said Lydon, impatiently; "I am in na
humor to converse with thee!"
CC
Why, truly," returned the slave," you must have seri-
ous thoughts enough to occupy your mind; to-morrow is,
I think, your first essay in the arena? Well, I am sure
you will die bravely !"
"May thy words fali on thine own head!" said Lydon,
superstitiously, for he by no means liked the blessing of
Sosia. "Die! No, -I trust my hour is not yet come! "
"He who plays at dice with death must expect the dog's
throw," replied Sosia, maliciously; but you are a strong
fellow, and I wish you all imaginable luck, and so vale!”
With that the slave turned on his heel, and took his
homeward.
way
"I trust the rogue's words were not ominous," said
Lydon, musingly. "In my zeal for my father's liberty,
and my confidence in my own thews and sinews, I have
not contemplated the possibility of death. My poor father'
I am thy only son!
am thy only son! If I were to fall—”
-
As the thought crossed him, the gladiator strode on with
a more rapid and restless pace, when suddenly, in an oppo-
site street, he beheld the very object of his thoughts.
Leaning on his stick, his form bent by care and age, his
eyes downcast, and his steps trembling, the
gray-haired
Medon slowly approached toward the gladiator. Lydon
paused a moment; he divined at once the cause that
brought forth the old man at that late hour.
"he is
he more
"Be sure, it is I whom he seeks," thought he ;
horror-struck at the condemnation of Olinthus,
than ever esteenis the arena criminal and hateful, he
comes again to dissuade me from the contest. I must
shun him, - I cannot brook his prayers, his tears!"
These thoughts, so long to recite, flashed across the
young man like lightning. He turned abruptly, and fled
swiftly in an opposite direction. He paused not till, almost
spent and breathless, he found himself on the summit of a
small acclivity which overlooked the most gay and splendid
part of that miniature city; and as he there paused, and
gazed along the tranquil streets, glittering in the rays of
the moon, (which had just arisen, and brought partially
and picturesquely into light the crowd around the amphi
theatre, at a distance, murmuring, and swaying to and
fro,) the influence of the scene affected him, rude and
unimaginative though his nature. He sat himself down to
rest upon the steps of a deserted portico, and felt the calm
of the hour quiet and restore him. Opposite, and near at
hand, the lights gleaned from a palace, in which the maɛ-
ter now held his revels. The doors were open for coolness,
and the gladiator beheld the numerous and festive group
gathered round the tables in the atrium;* while behind
* In the atrium, as I have elsewhere observed, a larger party
of guests than ordinary was frequently entertained.
96
BULWER'S NOVELS.
then, closing the long vista of the illumined rooms beyond. | den indignation, caught up the echo, and, in the words of
the spray of the distant fountain sparkled in the moon- one of their favorite hymns, shouted aloud : —
beams. There were the garlands wreathed round the
columns of the hall, there gleamed still and frequent the
marble statue,
there, amid peals of jocund laughter, rose
J
-
the music and the lay.
EPICUREAN SONG.
Away with your stories of Hades,
Which the flamen has forged to affright us;
We laugh at your three maiden ladies,
Your Fates and your sullen Cocytus.
Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir,
Could we credit your tales of his portals,
In shutting his ears on his wife, sir,
And opening his eyes upon mortals.
Oh, blessed be thy name, Epicurus!
Who taught us to laugh at such fables;
When on Hades they wanted to moor us,
Thy hand cut the terrible cables.
If there be then a Jove or a Juro,
They vex not their heads about us, man;
Leave the gods to themselves, I and you know
'Tis the life of a god to live thus, man!
What, think you the gods place their bliss,
In playing the spy on a sinner?
In counting the girls that we kiss,
eh?
Or the cups that we empty at dinner?
Rest content with the soft lips that love us,
This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys!
Let the gods go to sleep up above us, —
eh? -
Around, about, for ever near thee,
M
-
God, OUR GOD, shall mark and hear thee!
On his car of storm He sweeps!
Bow, ye heavens, and shrink, ye deeps!
Woe to the proud ones who defy him !
Woe to the dreamers who deny him!
Woe to the wicked, woe
The proud stars shall fail,
The sun shall grow pale,
The heaven shrivel up like a scroll
Hell's ocean shall bare
Its depths of despair ;
Each wave an eternal soul!
For the only thing then,
That shall not live again,
Is the corpse of the giant TIME!
Hark, the trumpet of thunder!
Lo! earth rent asunder.
And forth on his angel throne,
He comes through the gloom,
The Judge of the tomb,
To summon and save his own
Oh, joy to care, and woe to crime
He comes to save his own.
Woe ye from whom the flaming swo d
Shall part the chosen of the Lord:
Woe to the proud ones who defy him!
Woe to the dreamers who deny him!
Woe to the wicked, woe!
{
A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeeded
these ominous words; the Christians swept on, and were
soon hidden from the sight of the gladiator. Awed, he
scarce knew why, by the mystic denunciations of the Chris
tians, Lydon, after a short pause, now rose to pursue his
way homeward.
We know there's no god for this earth, boys!
While Lydon's piety (which, accommodating as it might
be, was in no slight degree disturbed by these verses,
which mbodied the fashionable philosophy of the day) Before him, how serenely slept the starlight on that lovely
slowly recovered itself from the shock it had received, a city! how breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their
small party of men, in plain garments and of the middle security! how softly rippled the dark-green waves beyond!
class, passed by his resting-place. They were in earnest how cloudless, spread aloft and blue, the dreaming Cam-
conversation, and did not seem to notice or heed the gladi-panian skies! Yet this was the last night for the gay
ator as they moved on.
"Oh, horror on horrors!" said one; "Olinthus is
snatched from us! our right arm is lopped away! When
will Christ descend to protect his own?"
"Can human atrocity go further?" said another, "to
sentence an innocent man to the same arena as a murderer!
But let us not despair: the thunder of Sinai may yet be
heard, and the Lord preserve his saint. The fool has
said in his heart, There is no God.""
}
At that moment out broke again, from the illumined
palace, the burden of the revellers' song.
"Let the gods go to sleep up above us,
We know there's no god for this earth, boys!" (a)
Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sud-
Pompeii! the colony of the hoar Chaldean! the fabled city
of Hercules! the delight of the voluptuous Roman! Age
after age had rolled, indestructive, unheeded, over its head;
and now the last ray quivered on the dial-plate of its doom
The gladiator heard some light steps behind, -a group of
females were wending homeward from their visit to the
amphitheatre. As he turned, his eye was arrested by a
strange and sudden apparition. From the summit of Vesu-
vius, darkly visible at the distance, there shot a pale, ine-
teoric, livid light, it trembled an instant, and was gone.
And at the same instant that his eye caught it, the voice of
one of the youngest of the women broke out hilariously and
shrill :-
"TRAMP, TRAMP! HOW GAYLY THEY GO!
Ho, HO! FOR THE MORROW'S MERRY SHOW
"
jay
NOTE TO BOOK IV.
Let the gods go to sleep up above us,-
We know there's no god for this earth, boys!
ine doctrines of Epicurus himself are pure and simple. Far
tom denying the existence of divine powers, Velleius (the de-
fender and explainer of his philosophy in Cicero's dialogue on
the nature of the gods) asserts, "that Epicurus was the first who
saw that there were gods, from the impression which nature
herself makes on the minds of all men." He imagined the belief
of the Deity to be an innate or antecedent notion (ockadis) of
the mind, - a doctrine of which modern metaphysicians (cer-
He
tainly not Epicureans) have largely availed themselves!
believed that worship was due to the divine powers from the
veneration which felicity and excellence command, and not
from any dread of their vengeance, or awe of their power: a
sublime and fearless philosophy, suitable perhaps to half a dozen
great and refined spirits, but which would present no check to
the passions of the mass of mankind. According to him, the
gods were far too agreeably employed in conteniplating their
own happiness, to trouble their heads about the sorrows and
the joys, the quarrels and the cares, the petty and transitory
affairs of man. For this earth they were unsympathizing ab-
|
แ
of Epicurus with great pleasantry, and considerable, tnough nơ
uniform success, draws the evident and practical corollary from
the theory that asserts the non-interference of the gods. “How,"
says he, can there be sanctity, if the gods regard not human
affairs? if the Deity show no benevolence to man, let us dis
miss him at once. Why should I entreat him to be propiticus?
He cannot be propitious, since, according to you, favor and
benevolence are only the effects of imbecility." Cotta, indeed,
quotes from Posidonius (De Naturà Deorum) to prove that
Epicurus did not really believe in the existence of a God; but
that his concession of a being wholly nugatory was merely a
precaution against accusations of atheism. "Epicurus could
not be such a fool," says Cotta, "as sincerely to believe that a
Deity has the members of a man without the power to use them;
a thin pellucidity, regarding no one, and doing nothing." And
whether this be true or false concerning Epicurus, it is certain
that, to all effects and purposes, his later disciples were but
refining atheists. The sentiments uttered in the song in the
text are precisely those professed in sober prose by the graceful
philosophers of the garden, who, as they had wholly perverted
the morals of Epicurus, which are at once pure and practical
found it a much easier task to corrupt his metaphysics, which
are equally dangerous and visionary. And indeed the last twe
verses of the song incorporate the very creed that Epicurus him
Cotta, who, in the dialogue referred to, attacks the philosophy self acknowledged. They are the marrow of his theology.
stractions • →→→
"Wrapt up in majesty divine,
Can they regard on what we dine?"
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII
BOOK V.
Stat ecce ad aras hostia, expectat manum
Cervice pronâ.
SENEC.
Mutatus ordo est, sede nil propriâ jacet,
Sed acta retro cuncta.
IBID.
Tempore quanquam illo tellus quoque, et æquora ponti,
Signa dabant
VIRGIL, Georgic. lib. i
CHAPTER I.
The dream of Arbaces. A visiter and a warning to the
Egyptian.
THE awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphi-
theatre rolled drearily away, and gayly broke forth the
dawn of THE LAST DAY OF POMPEII! The air was
uncommonly calm and sultry, a thin and dull mist gath-
ered over the valleys and hollows of the broad Campanian
fields. But yet it was remarked in surprise by the early
fishermen, that, despite the exceeding stillness of the at-
mosphere, the waves of the sea were agitated, and seemned,
as it were, to run disturbedly back from the shore; while
along the blue and stately Sarnus, whose ancient breadth
of channel the traveller now vainly seeks to discover, there
crept a hoarse and sullen murmur, as it glided by the
by the
laughing plains and gaudy villas of the wealthy citizens.
Clear above the low mist rose the time-worn towers of the
immemorial town, the red-tiled roofs of the bright streets,
the solemn columns of many temples, and the statue-crowned
portals of the forum and the arch of triumph. Far in the
distance, the outline of the circling hills soared above the
vapors, and mingled with the changeful hues of the morn-
ing sky. The cloud that had so long rested over the crest
of Vesuvius had suddenly vanished, and its rugged and
haughty brow looked without a frown over the beautiful
scenes below.
•
-
-
The black porter, like the rest of the world astir at an
unusual hour, started as he opened the door to her smD-
mons.
The sleep of the Egyptian had been unusually profound
during the night; but, as the dawn approached, it was dis-
turbed by strange and unquiet dreams, which impressed
him the more as they were colored by the peculiar philoso-
phy he embraced.
not
He thought that he was transported to the bowels of the
earth, and that he stood alone in a mighty cavern, sup-
ported by enormous columns of rough and primeval rock,
lost as they ascended in the vastness of a shadow, athwart
whose eternal darkness no beam of day had ever glanced.
And in the space between these columns were huge wheels,
that whirled round and round unceasingly, and with a rush-
ing and roaring noise. Only to the right and left extremities
of the cavern,
of the cavern, the space between the pillars was left bare,
and the apertures stretched away into galleries,
wholly dark, but dimly lighted by wandering and erratic
fires, "that, meteor-like, now crept (as the snake creeps)
along the rugged and dank soil, and now leaped fiercely to
and fro, darting across the vast gloom in wild gambols,
suddenly disappearing, and as suddenly bursting into ten-
fold brilliancy and power.
power. And while he gazed wondering-
ly upon the gallery to the left, thin, mist-like, aërial shapes
passed slowly up and when they had gained the hall, they
seemed to rise aloft, and to vanish, as the smoke vanishes,
in the measureless ascent.
Despite the earliness of the immature hour, the gates of He turned in fear towards the opposite extremity;
the city were opened. Horseman upon horseman, vehicle and behold! there came swiftly from the gloom above sim-
after vehicle, poured rapidly in; and the voices of numer- ilar shadows, and swept hurriedly along the gallery to the
ous pedestrian groups, clad in holiday attire, rose high in right, as if borne involuntarily adown the tides of some in-
joyous and excited inerriment; the streets were crowded visible stream; and the faces of these spectres were more
with citizens and strangers from the populous neighbour-distinct than those that emerged from the opposite passage;
hood of Pompeii; and noisily, fast, confusedly, swept and on some was joy, and on others sorrow, some were
the many streains of life toward the fatal circus.
vivid with expectation and hope, some unutterably dejected
Despite of the vast size of the amphitheatre, seemingly by awe and horror. And so they passed swift and con-
to disproportioned to the extent of the city, and formed to stantly on, till the eyes of the gazer grew dizzy and blinded
include nearly all the population of Pompeii itself, so great,
with the whirl of an ever-varying succession of things im-
on extraordinary occasions, was the concourse of strangerspelled by a power apparently not their own.
from all parts of Campania, that the space before it was
usually crowded for several hours previous to the commence-
ment of the sports, by such persons as were not entitled by
their rank to appointed and special seats. And the in-
tense curiosity which the trial and sentence of two crimi-
nals so remarkable had occasioned, increased the crowd
on this day to an extent wholly unprecedented.
While the common people, with the lively vehemence of
their Campanian blood, were thus pushing, scrambling,
- hurrying on, yet, amid all their eagerness, preserving,
as is now the vont with Italians in such meetings, a won-
derful order and unquarrelsome good-humor, a strange
visiter to Arbaces was thridding her way to his sequestered
mansion. At the sight of her quaint and primeval garb,
of her wild gait and gestures, the passengers she encoun-
tered touched each other and smiled; but, as they caught
a glimpse of her countenance, the mirth was hushed at
once, for the face was as the face of the dead; and, what
with the ghastly features and obsolete robes of the stranger,
it seemed as if one long entombed had risen once more
among the living. In silence and awe each group gave
way as she passed along, and she soon gained the broad
porch of the Egyptian's palace.
|
Arbaces turned away; and in the recess of the hall, he
saw the mighty form of a giantess seated upon a pile of
skulls, and her hands were busy upon a pale and shadowy
woof; and he saw that the woof communicated with the
numberless wheels, as if it guided the machinery of their
movements. He thought his feet, by some secret agency,
were impelled toward the female, and that he was borne
onward till he stood before her, face to face. The counte
nance of the giantess was solemn, and hushed, and beauti-
fully serene. It was as the face of some colossal sculpture
of his own ancestral sphynx. No passion, -no human
emotion disturbed its brooding and unwrinkled brow ;
there was neither sadness, nor joy, nor memory, nor nope,
it was free from all with which the wild human heart
can sympathize. The mystery of mysteries rested on its
beauty, it awed, but terrified not; it was the incarna-
tion of the sublime. And Arbaces felt the voice leave his
lips, without an impulse of his own; and the voice asked,
“Who art thou, and what is thy task?"
"I am that which thou hast acknowledged," answered,
without desisting from us work, the mighty phantom.
"My names NATURE! These are the wheels of the
world, and my hand guides them for the life of all things.”
100
BULWER'S NOVELS
•
"And what,
" said the voice of Arbaces, "are these
galleries, that, strangely and fitfully illumined, stretch on
either hand into the abyss of gloom?
"
ghastly features, the lifeless eye, the livid ip, of the hag
of Vesuvius !
Am 1
"Ha!" he cried, placing his hands before his eyes, as
to shut out the grisly vision, "do I dream still?
with the dead?"
"
"That," answered the giant-mother, which thou be-
holdest to the left, is the gallery of the unborn. The shad-
ows that fit onward and upward into the world are the Mighty Hermes, no! Thou art with one deathlike,
souls that come, — whither ye may not know, from the but not dead. Recognise thy friend and slave !
long eternity of being to their destined pilgrimage on earth. There was a long silence. Slowly the shudders that
That which thou beholdest to thy right, whence the shad-passed over the limbs of the Egyptian chased each other
ows descending from above sweep on, equally unknown and away, faintlier and faintlier dying, till he was himself
dim, is the gallery of the dead."
again.
"And wherefore," said the voice of Arbaces, " you
wandering lights, that so wildly break the darkness, but
enly break, not reveal!"
"Dark fool of the human sciences! dreamer of the
stars, and would-be decipherer of the heart and origin of
things! those lights are but the glimmerings of such
knowledge as is vouchsafed to Nature, to work her way, to
trace enough of the past and future to give providence to
her designs. Judge, then, puppet as thou art, what lights
are reserved for thee ! "
Arbaces felt himself tremble, as he asked again,
"Wherefore am I here?"
"It is the forecast of thy soul, the prescience of thy
rushing doom, the shadow of thy fate lengthening into
eternity as it declines from earth."
"It was a dream then!" said he. "Well, let me
dream no more, or the day cannot compensate for the
pangs of night. Woman, how camest thou here, and
wherefore ?"
"I came to warn thee," answered the sepulchral voice
of the Saga.
"Warn me! the dream lied not, then? Of what
peril ?"
"Listen to me. Some evil hangs over this fated city
Fly while it be time. Thou knowest that I hold my home
on that mountain, beueath which old tradition saith there
yet burn the fires of the river of Phlegethon; and in my
cavern is a vast abyss, and in that abyss I have of late
marked a red and dull stream creep slowly, slowly on and
heard many and mighty sounds hissing and roaring through
Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing wind sweep the gloom. But last night, as I looked thereon, behold the
down the cavern as the wings of a giant god. Borne aloft stream was no longer dull, but intensely and fiercely lumin-
from the ground, and whirled on high as a leaf in the ous; and while I gazed, the beast that lived with me, and
storms of autumn, he beheld himself in the midst of the
was cowering by my side, uttered a shrill howl, and fell
spectres of the dead, and hurrying with them along the down and died; and the slaver and froth were round his
length of gloom. As, in vain and impotent despair, he lips.* I crept back to my lair; but I distinctly heard, all
struggled against the impelling power, he thought the wind the night, the rock shake and tremble; and though the air
grew into something like a shape, - a spectral outline of was heavy and still, there were the hissing of pent winds,
the wings and talons of an eagle, with limbs floating far and the grinding as of wheels, beneath the ground. So,
and indistinctly along the air, and eyes that, alone clearly when I rose this morning at the very birth of dawn, I looked
and vividly seen, glared stonily and remorselessly on his again down the abyss, and I saw vast fragments of stone
borne black and floatingly over the lurid stream; and the
"What art thou?" again said the voice of the Egyp-stream itself was broader, fiercer, redder than the night be-
tian.
fore. Then I went forth, and ascended to the ammit of the
rock; and in that summit there appeared a sudden and vast
hollow, which I had never perceived before, from which
curled a dim, faint smoke; and the vapor was deathly, and
I gasped and sickened, and nearly died. I returned home. I
took my gold and my drugs, and left the habitation of many
years; for I remembered the dark Etruscan prophecy, which
saith, When the mountain opens, the city shall fall,
when the smoke crowns the hill of the parched fields, there
shall be woe and weeping in the hearths of the children of
the sea.' Dread master, ere I leave these walls for some
more distant dwelling, I come to thee. As thou livest,
know I in my heart that the earthquake that sixteen years
ago shook this city to its solid base, is but the forerunner
of more deadly doom. The walls of Pompeii are built above
the fields of the dead and the rivers of the sleepless hell.
Be warned and fly !"
own.
"I am that which thou hast acknowledged ; " and
the spectre laughed aloud," and my name is Neces-
sity."
ร
"To what dost thou bear me?"
"To the unknown.”
"To happiness or to woe?"
"As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap."
"Dread thing, not so! If thou art the ruler of life,
thine are my misdeeds, not mine.”
"I am but the breath of God!" answered the mighty
wind.
"Then is my wisdom vain
wisdom vain!" groaned the dreamer.
"The husbandman accuses not fate, when, having sown
thistles, he reaps not corn. Thou hast sown crime; accuse
not fate if thou reapest not the harvest of virtue.”
The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place
of human bones! and lo! in the midst of them was a skull,
and the skull, still retaining its fleshless hollows, assumed
slowly, and in the mysterious confusion of a dream, the face
of Apæcides; and forth from the grinning jaws there crept
a small worm, and it crawled to the feet of Arbaces. He
attempted to stamp on it, and crush it; but it became longer
and larger with that attempt. It swelled and bloated till it
grew into a vast serpent; it coiled itself round the limbs of
Arbaces; it craunched his bones; it raised its glaring
eyes and poisonous jaws to his face. He writhed in vain;
he withered, he gasped, beneath the influence of the
blighting breath, he felt himself blasted into death.
And then a voice came from the reptile, which still bore
the face of Apecides, and rang in his reeling ear,
"THY VICTIM IS THY JUDGE THE WORM THOU
WOULDST CRUSH BECOMES THE SERPENT THAT
DEVOURS THEE!"
agony
|
C
I
"Witch, I thank thee, for thy care of one not ungrateful.
On yon table stands a cup of gold; take it, it is thine.
dreamned not that there lived one, out of the priesthood of
Isis, who would have saved Arbaces from destruction. The
signs thou hast seen in the bed of the extinct volcano," con-
tinued the Egyptian, musingly, "surely tell of some coming
danger to the city; perhaps another earthquake fiercer than
the last. Be that as it may, there is a new reason for
hastening from these walls. After this day I will prepare
my departure. Daughter of Etruria, whither wendest
thou?"
my
"I shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and wan-
dering thence along the coast, shall seek out a new home.
I am friendless; my two companions, the fox and the snake,
are dead. Great Hermes, thou hast promised me twenty
additional years of life!"
"Ay," said the Egyptian, "I have promised thee. But,
With a shriek of wrath and woe, and despairing resist-
" he added, lifting himself
woman,
his
upon arms, anc gaz-
ance, Arbaces awoke, his hair on end, his browing curiously on her face," tell me, I pray thee, wherefore
bathed in dew, his eyes glazed and staring, his thou wishest to live? What sweets dost thou discover in
mighty frame quivering as an infant's beneath the
existence ?"
of that dream. He woke, he collected himself, he
blessed the gods whom he disbelieved, that he was in a
dream! he turned his eyes from side to side, he saw the
dawning light break through his small but lofty window,
he was in the precincts of day, he rejoiced, he
arailed; his eyes fell, and opposite to him he beheld the
"It is not life that is swect, but death that is awful,
replied the hag, in a sharp, impressive tone, that struck
forcibly upon the heart of the vain star-seer. He winced
at the truth of the reply; and, no longer anxious to retam
* We may suppose that the exlialations were similar in effect
to those in the Grotta del Cane.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
101
so un nviting a companion, he said, “Tine wanes;
I must
prepare for the solemn spectacle of this day. Sister, fare-
well! enjoy thyself as thou canst over the ashes of life.”
CHAPTER II.
The amphitheatre.
The hag, who had placed the costly gift of Arbaces in
NYDIA, assured by the account of Sosia, his return
the loose folds of her vest, now rose to depart. When she
had gained the door she paused, turned back, and said, home, and satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sal-
"This may be the last time we meet on earth; but where
lust, gave herself up once more to hope. Sallust would
flieth the flame when it leaves the ashes, wandering to and
surely lose no time in seeking the pretor, in coming to
the Egyptian,
fro, up and down, as an exhalation on the norass? The
in releasing her, in breaking the prison
of Calenus. That
flame may be seen in the marshes of the lake below; and
very night Glaucus would be free.
Alas! the night passed, the dawn broke; she heard no-
the witch and the magian, the pupil and the master, the
great one and the accursed one, may meet again. Fare-thing but the hurried footsteps of the slaves along the hall
and peristyle, and their voices, in preparation for the show.
By and by, the commanding voice of Arbaces broke on
-a flourish of music rung out cheerily the long
procession were sweeping to the amphitheatre to glat their
eyes on the death-pangs of the Athenian.
well! "
"Out, croaker," muttered. Arbaces, as the door closed
on the hag's tattered robes; and, impatient of his own
thoughts, not yet recovered from the past dream, he hastily
sunnoned his slaves.
It was the custom to attend the ceremonials of the amphi-
theatre in festive robes, and Arbaces arrayed himself that
day with more than usual care. His tunic was of the
most dazzling white; his many fibule were formed from
the most precious stones; over his tunic flowed a loose
eastern robe, half gown, half mantle, glowing in the richest
hues of the Tyrian die; and the sandals, that reached half-
way up the knee, were studded with gems, and inlaid with
gold. In the quackeries that belonged to his priestly
genius, Arbaces never neglected, on great occasions, the
arts which dazzle and impose upon the vulgar; and on this
day, that was for ever to release him, by the sacrifice of
Glaucus, from the fear of a rival and the chance of detection,
he felt that he was arraying himself as for a triumph or
a nuptial feast,
It was customary for inen of rank to be accompanied to
the shows of the amphitheatre by a procession of their slaves
and freedmen; and the long "family " of Arbaces were
already arranged in order, to attend the litter of their lord.
Only, to their great chagrin, the slaves in attendance on
Ione, and the worthy Sosia, as jailer to Nydia, were con-
demned to remain at home.
"Callias," said Arbaces, apart, to his freedman, who
was buckling on his girdle, “I am weary of Pompeii; I
propose to quit it in three days, should the wind favor.
Thou knowest the vessel that lies in the harbor, and be-
longs to Narses, of Alexandria; I have purchased it of
him. The day after to-morrow we shall begin to remove
my stores."
"So soon! T is well. Arbaces shall be obeyed;
and his ward, Ione?
66
,,
Accompanies me. Enough! — Is the morning fair?"
"Dim and oppressive; it will probably be intensely
not in the forenoon,'
"The poor gladiators, and more wretched criminals!
Descend, and see that the slaves are marshalled."
Left alone, Arbaces stepped into his chamber of study,
and thence upon the portico without. He saw the dense
masses of men pouring fast into the amphitheatre, and heard
the cry of the assistants, and the cracking of the cordage,
as they were straining aloft the huge awning under which
the citizens, molested by no discomforting ray, were to
behold, at luxurious case, the agonies of their fellow-crca-
tures. Suddenly, a wild, strange sound went forth, and
as suddenly died away, it was the roar of the lion. There
was a silence in the distant crowd; but the silence was
followed by joyous laughter — they were making merry at
the hungry impatience of the royal beast.
"Brutes!" muttered the disdainful Arbaces, "are ye
less homicides than I am? I slay but in self-defence,-
ye make murder pastime."
He turned, with a restless and curious eye, toward Ve-
suvius. Beautifully glowed the green vineyards round its
breast, and, tranquil as eternity, lay in the breathless skies
the form of the mighty hill.
"We have time yet, if the earthquake be nursing,"
thought Arbaces; and he turned from the spot. He passed
by the table which bore his mystic scrolls and Chaldean
calculations.
rr
August art!" he thought, "I have not consulted thy
decrees since I passed the danger and the crisis they fore-
told. What matter? I know that henceforth all in my
path is bright and smooth. Have not events already prov-
ed it? Away, doubt!-- away, pity!-- Mirror, O my
heart, mirror, for the future, but two images,-empire
and Tone!
her ear,
The procession of Arbaces moved along slowly, and
with much solemnity, till now, arriving at the place where
it was necessary for such as came in litters or chariots to
alight, Arbaces descended from his vehicle, and proceederi
to the entrance by which the more distinguished spectators
were admitted. His slaves, mingling with the humbler
crowd, were stationed by officers who received their tick-
ets (not much unlike our modern opera ones) in places in
And
the popularia, (the seats apportioned to the vulgar.)
now, from the spot where Arbaces sat, his eye scanned
the mighty and impatient crowd that filled the stupendous
theatre.
*
On the upper tier (but apart from the male spectators)
sat the women, their gay dresses resembling some gaudy
flower-bed; it is needless to add that they were the most
talkative part of the assembly, and many were the looks
directed up to them, especially from the benches appropri-
On the lower
ated to the young and the unmarried men.
seats round the arena sat the more high-born and wealthy
visiters, the magistrates, and those of senatorial or
equestrian dignity; the passages which by corridors at the
right and left gave access to these seats, at either end of
the oval arena, were also the entrances for the combatants.
Strong palings at these passages prevented any unwelcome
eccentricity in the movements of the beasts, and confined
them to their appointed prey. Around the parapet, which
was raised above the arena, and from which the seats grad-
ually rose, were gladiatorial inscriptions, and paintings
wrought in fresco, typical of the entertainments for which
the place was designed. Throughout the whole building
wound invisible pipes, from which, as the day advanced,
cooling and fragrant showers were to be scattered over the
employed in the task of fixing the vast awning (or velaria)
spectators. The officers of the amphitheatre were still
which covered the whole, and which luxurious invention
the Campanians arrogated to themselves: it was woven
stripes of crimson. Owing either to some inexperience on
of the whitest Apulian wool, and variegated with broad
the part of the workmen, or to some defect in the machin-
ery, the awning, however, was not arranged that day so
happily as usual; indeed, from the immense space of the
circumference, the task was always one of great difficulty
—so much so, that it could seldom be adventureù
remarkably still that there seemed to the spectators no
in rough or windy weather. But the present day was so
excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers; and when a
large gap in the back of the awning was still visible, from
the obstinate refusal of one part of the velaria to ally it-
self with the rest, the murmurs of discontent were loud
and general.
and art,
The edile Pausa, at whose expense the exhibition was
given, looked particularly annoyed at the defect, and
vowed bitter vengeance on the head of the villicus, or chief
oflicer, who, fretting, puffing, perspiring, busied himself in
idle orders and unavailing threats.
the arena.
The hubbub ceased suddenly, the operators desised,
the crowd were stilled-the gap was forgotten, -- for
now, with a loud and warlike flourish of trumpets, the
gladiators, marshalled in ceremonious procession, entered
and deliberately, in order to give the spectators full leisure
They swept round the oral space very slowly
to admire their stern serenity of feature,
their brawny
limbs and various arms, as well as to form such wagers as
the excitement of the moment might suggest.
"Oh!" cried the widow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa,
M
The equites sat immediately behind the senators
102
BULWER'S NOVELS
:
as they leaned dowa from their lofty oench, "do you see
that gigantic gladiator? how drolly he is dressed!"
"Yes," said the edile's wife, with complacent impor-
tance, for she knew all the names and qualities of each
combatant; he is a retiarius, or netter; he is armed on-
ly, you see, with a three-pronged spear like a trident, and a
act; he wears no armor, only the fillet and the tunic. He
is a mighty man, and is to fight with Sporus, you thickset
gladiator with the round shield and drawn sword, but
without body armor; he has not his helmet now, in order
that you may see his face: how fearless it is! by and by
by and by
he will fight with his visor down."
But surely a net and spear are poor arms against the
shield and sword!"
"That shows how innocent you are, my dear Fulvia;
the retiarius generally has the best of it.”
is
"But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked,
it not quite improper? By Venus, but his limbs are beau-
tifully shaped!
وو
"It is Lydon, a young untried man; he has the rashness
to fight you other gladiator similarly dressed, or rather
undressed, Tetraides. They fight first in the Greek
fashion, with the cestus; afterward they put on armor,
and try sword and shield.'
"He is a proper man, this Lydon; and the women, I
am sure, are on his side."
"So are not the experienced betters: Clodius offers
three to one against him."
"Oh Jove! how beautiful!" exclaimed the widow, as
two gladiators, armed cap-a-pie, rode round the arena on
light and prancing steeds. Resembling much the combat-
ants in the tilts of the middle ages, they bore lances and
round shields, beautifully inlaid; their armor was woven
intricately with bands of iron, but it covered only the thighs
and the right arms; short cloaks, extending to the seat,
gave a picturesque and graceful air to their costume; their
legs were naked, with the exception of sandals, which were
fastened a little above the ankle. "Oh beautiful! who are
these?" asked the widow.
"The one is named Berbix, he has conquered twelve
times; the other assumes the arrogant name of Nobilior.
They are both Gauls.”
While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show
were over. To these succeeded a feigned combat with
wooden swords between the various gladiators matched
against each other. Among these the skill of two Roman
gladiators, hired for the occasion, was the most admired;
and next to them the most graceful combatant was Lydon.
This sham contest did not last above an hour, nor did it
attract any very lively interest, except among those con-
noisseurs of the arena to whom art was preferable to more
coarse excitement: the body of the spectators were re-
joiced when it was over, and when the sympathy rose to
terror. The combatants were now arranged in pairs, as
agreed beforehand'; their weapons examined; and the
grave sports of the day commenced amid the deepest si-
lence, broken only by an exciting and preliminary blast of
warlike music.
not
It was often customary to commence the sports by the
most cruel of all. Some bestiarus, or gladiator appointed
to the beasts, was slain first, as an initiatory sacrifice.
But in the present instance, the experienced Pansa thought
it better that the sanguinary drama should progress,
decrease, in interest; and, accordingly, the execution
of Olinthus and Glaucus was reserved to the last. It was
arranged that the two horsemen should first occupy the
arena; that the foot gladiators, paired off, should then be
loosed indiscriminately on the stage; that Glaucus and the
lion should next perform their part in the bloody spectacle;
and the tiger and the Nazarene be the grand finale. And,
in the spectacles of Pompeii, the reader of Roman history
must limit his imagination, nor expect to find those vast
and wholesale exhibitions of magnificent slaughter with
which a Nero or a Caligula regaled the inhabitants of the
imperial city. The Roman shows, which absorbed the
more celebrate gladiators, and the chief proportion of
foreign beasts, were indeed the very reason why, in the
lesser towns of the empire, the sports of the amphitheatre
were comparatively humane and rare; and in this, as in
other respects, Pompeii was but the miniature, the micro-
cosm of Rome. Still it was an awful and imposing spec-
tacle, with which modern times have, happily, nothing to
compare; a vast theatre, rising row upon row, nearly
five hundred feet in height, and swarming with human
beings, from fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, — in-
tent upon no fictitious representation, -no tragedy of the
stage, -but the actual victory or defeat, the exultant
life or the bloody death of each and all who entered the
arena!
The two horsemen were now a. either extremity of the
lists; (if so they might be called;) and, at a given signal
from l'ansa, the combatants started simultaneously as in
full collision, each advancing his round buckler, each pois
ing on high his light
ing on high his light yet sturdy javelin; but, just when
within three paces of his opponent, the steed of Berbix
suddenly halted, wheeled around, and, as Nobilior was
borne rapidly by, his antagonist spurred upon him. The
buckler of Nobilior, quickly and skilfully extended, rec‹ ved
a blow which otherwise would have been fatal.
“Well done, Nobilior!" cried the prætor, giving the
first vent to the popular excitement.
Bravely struck, my Berbix!" answered Clodius from
his seat.
And the wild murmur, sweiled by many a shout, echoed
from side to side.
The visors of both the horsemen were comple ely closed,
(like those of the knights in after-times,) but the head was,
nevertheless, the great point of assault; and Nobilior, now
wheeling his charger with no less adroitness than his oppo-
nent, directed his spear full on the helmet of his foe. Ber-
bix raised his buckler to shield himself; and his quick-eyed
antagonist, suddenly lowering his weapon, pierced him
through the breast. Berbix reeled and fell.
"Nobilior! Nobilior!" shouted the populace.
"I have lost ten sestertia," said Clodius, between his
teeth.
"Habet! he has it," said Pansa, deliberately,
—
The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the
signal of mercy; but as the attendants of the arena ap-
the
proached, they found the kindness came too late,
heart of the Gaul had been pierced, and his eyes were set in
death. It was his life's-blood that flowed so darkly over
the sand and sawdust of the arena.
"It is a pity it was so soon over, there was little
enough for one's trouble," said the widow Fulvia.
Pausa
"Yes, I have no compassion for Berbix. Any one might
have seen that Nobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the
fatal hook to the body, they drag him away to the Spoli-
arium, they scatter new sand over the stage,
regrets nothing more than that he is not rich enough to
strew the arena with borax and cinnabar, as Nero used."
Well, if it has been a brief battle, it is quickly suc-
ceeded, -see my handsome Lydon on the arena,
and the net-bearer too, and the swordsmen ! Oh,
charming!"
CC
ay,
There were now on the arena six combatants, - Niger
and his net, matched against Sporus with his shield and
his short broadsword, Lydon and Tetraides, naked, save
—
by a cincture round the waist, each armed only with a
heavy Greek cestus, and two gladiators from Rome,
clad in complete steel, and evenly matched with immense
bucklers and pointed swords.
The initiatory contest between Lydon and Tetraides
being less deadly than that between the other combatants,
no sooner had they advanced to the middle of the arena
than, as by common consent, the rest held back, to see
how that coutest should be decided, and wait till fiercer
weapons might replace the cestus, ere they themselves com-
menced hostility. They stood leaning on their arms and
apart from each other, gazing on the show, which, if not
bloody enough thoroughly to please the populace, they were
still inclined to admire, because its origin was of their
ancestral Greece.
Tetraides,
No persons could, at first glance, have scened less
evenly matched than the two antagonists.
though not taller than Lydon, weighed considerably more;
the natural size of his muscles was increased, to the eyes
of the vulgar, by masses of solid flesh; for, as it was a
notion that the contest of the cestus fared casiest with him
who was plumpest, Tetraides bad encouraged to the utmost
his hereditary predisposition to the portly. His shoulders
were vast and his limbs thickset, double-jointed, and
slightly curved outward, in that formation which takes so
But
much from beauty to give so largely to strength.
Lydon, except that he was slender even almost to meagre
* A little more than £80.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
103
ness, was bea .tifully and delicately proportioned, and the
skilful might have perceived that, with much less compass
of muscle than his foe, that which he had was more sea-
soned, — iron and compact. In proportion, too, as he
wanted flesh, he was likely to possess activity; and a
haughty smile on his resolute face, which strongly contrasted
the stolid heaviness of his enemy's, gave assurance to those
who beheld it, and united their hope to their pity. So
that, despite the disparity of their seeming strength, the
cry of the multitude was nearly as loud for Lydon as for
Tetraides.
Whoever is acquainted with the modern prize-ring,
whoever has witnessed the heavy and disabling strokes
which the human fist, skilfully directed, hath the power to
bestow, may easily understand how much that happy
facility would be increased by a band carried by thongs of
leather round the arm, as high as the elbow, and terribly
strengthened about the knuckles by a plate of iron and
sometimes a plummet of lead. Yet this, which was meant
to increase, perhaps rather diminished,.the interest of the
fray, for it necessarily shortened its duration; -a very
few blows, successfully and scientifically planted, might
suffice to bring the contest to a close; and the battle did
not, therefore, often allow full scope for that energy, forti-
tude, and dogged perseverance which we technically style
pluck, which not unusually wins the day against superior
science, and which heightens to so painful a delight, the
interest in the battle, and the sympathy for the brave.
"Guard thyself!" growled Tetraides, moving nearer
and nearer to his foe, who rather shifted round him than
receded.
Lydon did not answer, save by a scornful glance of his
quick vigilant eye. Tetraides struck, it was as the
blow of a smith on a vice: Lydon sank suddenly on one
knee, the blow passed over his head. Not so harmless
was Lydon's retaliation. He quickly sprang to his feet,
and aimed his cestus full on the broad breast of his antag-
onist. Tetraides reeled, the populace shouted.
"You are unlucky to-day," said Lepidus to Clodius;
said Lepidus to Clodius;
have lost one bet,
-you will lose another.”
By the gods! my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that
is the case. I have no less than fifty sestertia *
traides. Ha, ha! See, see how he rallies!
a home stroke; he has cut open Lydon's shoulder.
Tetraides!-a Tetraides !"
you
C
-
Te-
upon
That was
A
"But Lydon is not disheartened. By Pollux! how well
he keeps his temper. See how dexterously he avoids those
hammerlike hands; dodging, now here, now there,
circling round and round, ah, poor Lydon! he has it
again.
"
"Three to one still on Tetraides!
Lepidus ?"
What say you,
What!
By the
Brave
"Well, — nine sestertia to three; be it so.
again, Lydon! He stops,- he gasps for breath.
gods, he is down! No;-is he again on his legs?
Lydon Tetraides is encouraged, he laughs loud,
rushes on him.”
he
"Fool! success blinds him, he should be cautious.
Lydon's eye is like a lynx's!" said Clodius, between his
teeth.
CC
Ha, Clodius! saw you that? your man totters!
another blow, he falls,
he falls !"
T
"Earth revives him, then. He is once more up; but
the blood rolls down his face.”
"By the thunderer! Lydon wins it. See how he
presses on him. That blow on the temple would have
crushed an ox; it has crushed Tetraides. He falls again,
he cannot move, -- habet, habet!"
"Habet!" repeated Pansa. “Take them out and give
them the armor and swords.'
"Noble editor," said the officers, "we fear that Tetra-
ides will not recover in time; howbeit, we will try."
“Do so.
In a few moments the officers, who had dragged off the
stunned and insensible gladiator, returned with rueful
countenances. They feared for his life; he was utterly
incapacitated from reëntering the arena.
"In that case," said Pansa, "hold Lydon a subditius;
and the first gladiator that is vanquished, let Lyden supply
his place with the victor.”
The people shouted their applause at this sentence; then
they again sunk into deep silence. The trumpets sounded
* Above £ 400.
|
|
|
loudly. The four combatants stood ich against each, in
prepared and stern array.
"Dost thou recognise the Romans, my Clodius? Are
they among the celebrated, or are they merely ordinarii ?"
Eumolpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my Lepi-
dus. Nepimus, the lesser man, I have never seen before;
but he is the son of one of the imperial fiscales,* and
brought up in a proper school; doubtless they will show
sport. But I have no heart for the game; I cannot win
back my money, I am undone. Curses on that Lydon !
who could have supposed he was so dexterous, or sc
lucky!"
CC
Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and
accept your own terms with these Romans?"
"An even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then?"
"What! when Nepimus is untried? Nay, nay; that
is too bad."
"Well,
cr
M
A greed."
ten to eight?
While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus con
menced, there was one in the loftier benches for whom it
had assumed, indeed, a poignant, a stifling interest. The
aged father of Lydon, despite his Christian horror of the
spectacle, in his agonized anxiety for his son, had not
been able to resist being a spectator of his fate. One
amid a fierce crowd of strangers, the lowest rabble of
the populace, the old man saw, felt nothing, but the
form, the presence of his brave son! Not a sound had
escaped his lips when twice he had seen him fall to the
earth;
earth; only he had turned paler, and his limbs trembled
But he had uttered one low cry when he saw him victori-
ous; unconscious, alas! of the more fearful battle to which
that victory was but a prelude.
CC
My gallant boy!" said he, and wiped his eyes.
"Is he thy son?" said a brawny fellow to the right of
the Nazarene;
the Nazarene; "he has fought well let us see how he
does by and by. Hark! he is to fight the first victor.
Now, old boy, pray the gods that the next victor be neither
of the Romans; nor, next to them, the giant Niger.'
The old man sat down again and covered his face. The
fray for the moment was indifferent to him, — Lydon was
not one of the combatants. Yet, yet, the thought
flashed across him, the fray was indeed of deadly inte-
rest, the first who fell was to make way for Lydon !
He started up, aud bent down with straining eyes and
clasped hands, to view the encounter.
<
The first interest was attracted towards the combat of
Niger with Sporus; for this species of contest, from the
fatal result which usually attended it, and from the great
science it required in either antagonist, was always pecu-
liarly inviting to the spectators.
They stood at a considerable distance from each other.
The singular helmet which Sporus wore (the visor of
which was down) concealed his face; but the features of
Niger attracted a fearful and universal interest froin their
compressed and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stood for
some moments, each eyeing each, until Sporus began slowly
and with great caution to advance, holding his sword
pointed, like a modern fencer's, at the breast of his foe.
Niger retreated as his antagonist advanced, gathering up
his net with his right hand, and never taking his small
glittering eye from the movements of the swordsman.
Suddenly, when Sporus had approached nearly at arm's
length, the retiarius threw himself forward, and cast his
net. A quick inflection of body saved the gladiator
from the deadly snare: he uttered a sharp cry of joy and
rage, and rushed upon Niger; but Niger had airea ly
drawn in his net, thrown it across his shoulders, and now
fled round the lists with a swiftness which the secutor † in
vain endeavoured to excel. The people laughed and
shouted aloud, to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-
shouldered gladiator to overtake the flying giant; when,
at that moment, their attention was turned from these to
the two Roman combatants.
They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at
the distance of modern fencers from each other; but the
extreme caution which both evinced at first had prevented
any warmth of engagement, and allowed the spectators
full leisure to interest themselves in the battle betweer
* Gladiators maintained by the emperor.
lowing the toe the moment the net was east, in order to smits
So called from the oflice of that tribe of gladiator, in fol
him ere he could have time to re-arrange it.
.04
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Sporus and his foe. But the Romans were now heated
into full and fierce encounter: they pushed, returned, ad-
vanced on, retreated from each other with all that careful
yet scarcely perceptible caution which characterizes men
well experienced and equally matched. But at this mo-
ment, Eumolpus, the elder gladiator, by that dexterous
back-stroke which was considered in the arena so difficult
to avoid, had wounded Nepimus in the side. The people
shouted; Lepidus turned pale.
If
"Ho!" said Clodius," the game is neuly over
Eumolpus fights now the quiet fight, the other will gradu-
ally bleed hisself away.
"But thank the gods! he does not fight the backward
fight. See, -he presses hard upon Nepimus! By Mars!
but Nepimus had him there! the helmet ring again! Clo-
dius, I shall win!"
n coo
cast over every row from the concealed conduits.
and luxurious pleasure they talked over the late spectacle
of blood. Eumolpus removed his helmet and wiped his
brows; his close-curled hair and short beard, his nobla
Roman features and bright dark eye attracted the general
admiration. He was fresh, unwounded, unfatigued.
The editor paused, and proclaimed aloud that Lydon
was to be the successor to the slaughtered Nepinus, and
the new combatant of Eumolpus.
C6
Yet, Lydon," added he," if thou wouldst decline the
combat with one so brave and tried, thou mayst have full
liberty to do so. Eumolpus is not the antagonist that was
originally decreed for thee. Thou knowest best how far
thou canst cope with him. If thou failest, thy doom is
honorable death; if thou conquerest, out of my own purse
I will double the stipulated prize."
The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists,
he gazed around; high above, he beheld the pale face, the
straining eyes of his father. He turned
He turned away irresolute
for a moment. No! the conquest of the costes was ..ct
sufficient, he had not yet won the price of victory
his father was still a slave !
"Noble edile!" he replied, in a firm and deep tone,
shrink not from this combat. For the honor of Pompeii,
I demand that one trained by its long-celebrated lanista
shall do battle with this Roman."
The people shouted louder than before.
"Why do I ever bet, but at the dice" groaned Clo-
dius to himself; "or why cannot one cog a gladiator!'
"A Sporus! a Sporus!" shouted the populace, as
Niger, having now suddenly paused, had again cast his net,
and again unsuccessfully. He had not retreated this time
with sufficient agility, the sword of Sporus had inflicted
a severe wound upon his right leg; and, incapacitated to
fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsman. His
great height and length of arm still continued, however,
to give him no despicable advantages; and steadily keeping
his trident at the front of his foe, he repelled him success-
fully for several minutes. Sporus now tried, by great ra-
pidity of evolution, to get round his antagonist, who neces-
sarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing, he lost
his caution, he advanced too near to the giant, raised
his arm to strike, and received the three points of the
fatal spear full in his breast! He sank on his knee. In
a moment more the deadly net was cast over him, he strug-sigh,
gled against its meshes in vain; again, again, again
he writhed mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident!
his blood flowed fast through the net and redly over the
sand! He lowered his arms in acknowledgment of de-
feat.
The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning
on his spear, looked to the audience for their judgment.
Slowly, too, at the same moment, the vanquished gladiator
rolled his dim and despairing eyes around the theatre.
From row to row, from bench to bench, there glared upon
him but merciless and unpitying eyes!
Hushed was the roar, the murmur!
the murmur! The silence was
dread, for in it was no sympathy; not a hand,
- no, not
even a woman's hand, gave the signal of charity and
life! Sporus had never been popular in the arena and,
lately, the interest of the combat had been excited on be-
half of the wounded Niger. The people were warmed
The people were warmed
into blood, the mimic fight had ceased to charm, the
interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice and the
thirst of death!
·
The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed: he uttered
no prayer, no groan. The people gave the signal of death!
In dogged but agonized submission, he bent his neck to re-
ceive the fatal stroke And now, as the spear of the reti-
arius was not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death,
there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form, bran-
dishing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly
concealed beneath its visor. With slow and measured
steps, this dismal neadsman approached the gladiator, still
laid his left hand on his humbled crest,
Kneeling,
drew
the edge of the blade across his neck, turned round to
the assembly, lest, in the last moment, remorse should come
pon them; the dread signal continued the same; the blade
glittered brightly in the air; fell; and the gladiator
and the gladiator
rolled upon the sand; his limbs quivered, were still, -
he was a corpse ! *
His body was dragged at once from the arena, through
the gate of death, and thrown into the gloomy den termed
technically the Spoliarium. And ere it had well reached
that destination, the strife between the remaining combat-
ants was decided. The sword of Eumolpus had inflicted
the death-wound upon the less experienced combatant.
new victim was added to the receptacle of the slain.
A
Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a uni-
versal movement, the people breathed more ficely, and re-
settled themselves in their seats. A grateful shower was
* See the engraving from the friezes at Pompeii, in the work
on that city published in the Library of Eutertalning Knowl-
udge, vol. ii. p. 311
"Four to one against Lydon!" said Clodius to Lepi.
dus.
"I would not take twenty to one! Why, Eumolpus is
a very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tiro.”
Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon; he smiled;
yet the sinile was followed by a slight and scarce audible
- a touch of compassionate emotion, which custom
conquered the moment the heart acknowledged it.
And new both, clad in complete armor, the sword drawn,
the visor closed, the last two combatants of the arena (ere
man, at least, was matched with beast) stood opposed to
each other.
his coun-
It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the
prætor by one of the attendants of the arena; he removed
the cincture,
the cincture, glanced over it for a moment,
tenance betrayed surprise and einbarrassment. He re-read
the letter, and then muttering, "Tush! it is impossible!
the man must be drunk, even in the morning, to dream
of such follies!"-threw it carelessly aside, and gravely
settled himself once more, in the attitude of attention to
the sports.
The interest of the public was wound up very high.
Eumolpus had at first won their favor; but the gallantry of
Lydon, and his well-timed allusion to the honor of the Pom-
peian lanista, had afterward given the latter the preference
in their eyes.
C
"Halloo, old fellow!" said Medon's neighbour to him;
your son is hardly matched; but, never fear, the editor
will not permit him to be slain, no, nor the people
neither; he has behaved too bravely for that. Ha! that
was a home thrust! - well averted, by Pollux ! At him
again, Lydon! they stop to breathe. What art thou
muttering, old boy?
Prayers!" answered Medon, with a more calm and
hopeful mien than he had yet maintained.
CC
J
Prayers !-trifles! The time for gods to carry a man
away in a cloud, is gone now. Ha, Jupiter! what a
blow! Thy side, thy side!—take care of thy side,
Lydon!"
There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly
A fierce blow from Eumoipus, full on the crest,lad bí
brought
Lydon to his knce.
"Habet he has it!" cried a shrill female voice; "he
!
has it!-buzza ! "
It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously antici
pated the sacrifice of some criminal to the beasts.
"Be silent, child!" said the wife of Pansa, haughtily
"Non habet !-- he is not wounded!"
"I wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon,"
muttered the girl.
Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself
with great skill and valor, began to give way before the
vigorous assaults of the practised Roman; his arm grew
tired, his eye dizzy, he breathed hard and painfully. The
combatants paused again for breath.
Young man," said Eumolpus, in a low voice, "desig
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
105
I will wound thee slightly, then lower thy arms; thou hast
propitiated the editor and the mob, thou wilt be honor-
ably saved!"
• C
self.
And my father still enslaved," groaned Lydon to him-
"No! death or his freedom.”
-
M
At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being
equal to the endurance of the Roman, every thing depended
on a sudden and desperate effort, he threw himself fiercely
on Eumolpus; the Roman warily retreated, Lydon thrust
again, Eumolpus drew himself aside, the sword grazed
his cuirass, Lydon's breast was exposed,
the Roman
plunged his sword through the joints of the armor, not
meaning, however, to inflict a deep wound; Lydon, weak
and exhausted, fell forward, — fell right on the point it
passed through and through, even to the back! Eumolpus
drew forth his blade; Lydon still made an effort to regain
his balance, his sword left his grasp, -he struck me-
chanically at the gladiator with his naked hand, and fell
prostrate on the arena. With one accord editor and as-
sembly made the signal of mercy, the officers of the
arena approached, they took off the helmet of the van-
quished. He still breathed; his eyes rolled fiercely on
his foe; the savageness he had acquired in his calling
glared from his gaze, and lowered upon the brow darken-
od already with the shades of death; then with a convul-
sive groan, with a half start, he lifted his eyes above.
They rested not on the face of the editor, nor on the pity-
ing brows of his relenting judges. He saw them not; they
were as if the vast space was desolate and bare: one pale
agonizing face alone was all he recognised; one cry of a
broken heart was all that, amid the murmurs and the shouts
of the populace, reached his ear. The ferocity vanished
from his brow; a soft, a tender expression of sanctifying
but despairing filial love played over his features, play-
ed, waned, — darkened ! His face suddenly became
locked and rigid, resuming its former fierceness. He fell
upon the earth.
"Look to him," said the edile, "he has done his duty !
The officers dragged him off to the Spoliarium.
"A true type of glory, and of its fate!" murmured Ar-
baces to himself; and his eye, glancing round the amphi-
theatre, betrayed so much of disdain and scorn, that who-
ever encountered it felt his breath suddenly arrested, and
his emotions frozen into one sensation of abasement and of
awe.
Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre;
the attendants sprinkled fresh sand over the arena.
Bring forth the lion, and Glaucus the Athenian," said
the editor.
And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest
and inteuse (yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror, lay
like a mighty and awful dream, over the assembly.
"That is well,
would the day were over! What is
that letter yonder on the table?
"That! Oh, the letter brought to you last night when
you were too-too-
""
“Drunk to read it, I suppose. No matter; it cannot be
of much importance.
" Shall I open it for you,
Sallust?"
"Do; any thing to divert my thoughts. Poor Glaucus !"
The freedman removed the fillet. "What! Greek ?"
دو
said he; "some learned lady, I suppose! He glanced
over the letter, and his countenance exhibited sudden emo-
tion and surprise. "Good gods! noble Sallust! what
have we done, not to attend to this before? Hear me read!
Nydia the slave, to Sallust the friend of Glaucus!
I am a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the
prætor, procure my release, and we shall yet save Glaucus
from the lion! There is another prisoner within these
walls whose witness can exonerate the Athenian from the
charge against him one who saw the crime, who can
prove the criminal in a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly!
hasten! quick! quick! Bring with you armed men, lest
resistance be made; and a cunning and dexterous smith;
for the dungeon door of my fellow-prisoner is thick and
strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father's ashes,
lose not a moment! ""
"Great gods!" exclaimed Sallust, starting, "and this
day, -nay, within this hour, perhaps, he dies. What is
to be done? I will instantly to the prætor."
CC
'Nay; not so. The prætor (as well as Pansa, the edi
tor himself) is the creature of the mob; and the mob will
not hear of delay; they will not be balked in the very mo-
ment of expectation. Besides, the publicity of the appeal
would forewarn the cunning Egyptian. It is evident that
he has some interest in these concealments. No; fortu-
nately, thy slaves are in thy house.'
"I seize thy meaning," interrupted Sallust;
arm the
slaves instantly. The streets are empty.
We will our-
selves hasten to the house of Arbaces, and release the pris-
oners. Quick! quick! What ho! Davas! there! My
gown and sandals, the papyrus and a reed.* I will write
to the prætor to beseech him to delay the sentence of Glau-
cus, for that, within an hour, we may yet prove him inno-
cent. So, so; that is well. — Hasten with this, Davus,
to the prætor at the amphitheatre. See it given to his
own hand. Now, then, O ye gods! whose providence
Epicurus denied, befriend me, and I will call Epicurus a
liar!"
pakan Maj
CHAPTER III.
Sallust, and Nydia's letter.
THRICE had Sallust wakened from his morning sleep,
and thrice recollecting that his friend was that day to per-
ish, he turned himself with a deep sigh once more to court
oblivion. His sole object in life was to avoid pain; and
where he could not avoid, at least to forget it.
CHAPTER IV.
The amphitheatre once more.
GLAUCUS and Olinthus had been placed together in that
gloomy and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena
awaited their last and fearful struggle. Their eyes, of late
accustomed to the darkness, scanned the faces of each oth-
er in this awful hour, and by that dim light, the paleness
sumed yet a more ashen and ghastly whiteness
which chased away the natural hues from either cheek as-
brows were erect and dauntless,
Yet their
their limbs did not
tremble, their lips were compressed and rigid. The
religion of the one, the pride of the other, the conscious
innocence of both, and, it may be, the support derived
from their mutual companionship, elevated the victim into
the hero.
V
At length, unable any longer to steep his consciousness
in slumber, be raised himself from his incumbent posture,
and discovered his favorite freedman sitting by his bedside
as usual: for Sallust, who, as I have said, had a gentle-over their human blood," said Olinthus.
manlike taste for the polite letters, was accustomed to be
read to for an hour or ro previous to his rising in the
morning.
"Hark! hearest thou that shout? They are growling
"No books to-day no more Tibullus! no more Pindar
for me! Pindar! alas! alas! the very name recalls those
games to which our arena is the savage successor. Has it
begun, the amphitheatre ? are its rites commenced!"
Long since, O Sallust! Did you not hear the trumpets
and the trampling feet?"
CC
CC
Ay, ay; but, the gods be thanked, I was drowsy, and
had only to turn round to fall sleep again."
"The gladiators must have been long in the ring."
"The wretches! none of my people have gone to the
spectacle?"
Assuredly not; your orders were too strict."
VOL II
14
"I hear; my heart grows sick; but the gods support
me.
>>
"The gods!
nise only the one God.
Orash young man in this hour recog
dungeon, wept for thee, prayed for thee,
Have I not taught thee in the
-in my zeal and
in my agony, have I not thought more of thy salvation
than my own?"
"Brave friend!" answered Glaucus, solemnly, "I have
listened to thee with awe, with wonder, and with a secret
tendency toward conviction. Had our lives been spared, I
might gradually have weaned myself from the tenets of my
* The reed (calamus) was used for writing on papyrus and
parchment, the stilus for writing on waxen tablets, brass plates,
&c. Letters are written sometimes on papyrus,
on tablets.
sometimes
106
BULWER'S NOVELS.
own faith, and inclined to thine; but in this last hour, it
were a craven thing and a oase, to yield to hasty terror
what should be only the result of lengthened meditation.
Were I to embrace thy creed, and cast down my fathers'
gods, should I not be bribed by thy promise of heaven, or
awed by thy threats of hell? Olinthus, no! Think we
of each other with equal charity, I honoring thy sinceri-
ty, thou pitying my blindness, or my obdurate courage.
As have been my deeds, such will be my reward; and the
Power or powers above will not judge harshly of human
error, when it is linked with honesty of purpose and truth
of heart. Speak we no more of this. Hush! Dost thou
hear them drag you heavy body through the passage? Such
as that clay will be ours soon!"
·
"O Heaven! O Christ! already I behold ye!" cried
the fervent Olinthus, lifting up his hands; "I tremble not,
I rejoice that the prison-house shall be soon broken!"
Glaucus bowed his head in silence. He felt the distinc-
tion between his fortitude and that of his fellow-sufferer.
The heathen did not tremble, but the Christian exulted.
The door swung gratingly back, the gleam of spears
shot along the walls.
"Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come," said a loud
and clear voice; "the lion awaits thee."
"I am ready," said the Athenian. "Brother and
comate, one last embrace! Bless me, and farewell! "
The Christian opened his arms,—— he clasped the young
heathen to his breast, he kissed his forehead and cheek,
―he sobbed aloud, his tears flowed fast and hot over
the features of his friend.
-
"O! could have converted thee, I had not wept. Oh,
that I might say to thee, We two shall
'We two shall sup this night in
paradise.
"It may be so yet," answered the Greek, with a tremu-
lous voice: "they, whom death parted not, may meet yet
beyond the grave. On the earth, on the beautiful, the be-
loved earth, farewell for ever. Worthy officer, I am ready."
Glaucus tore himself away; and when he came forth in-
to the air, its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and
arid, smote witheringly upon him. His frame, not yet re-
stored from the effects of the deathly draught, shrunk and
trembled. The officers supported him.
"Courage!" said one; "thou art young, active, well
knit. They give thee a weapon; despair not, and thou
mayst yet conquer."
Glaucus did not reply; but, ashamed of his infirmity, he
made a desperate and convulsive effort, and regained the
firmness of his nerves. They anointed his body, com-
pletely naked, save by a cincture round the loins, placed
the stilus (vain weapon!) in his hand, and led him into
the arena.
And now, when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands
and tens of thousands upon him, he no longer felt that he
was mortal. All evidence of fear, all fear itself, was
gone. A red and haughty flush spread over the paleness
of his features, he towered aloft to the full of his glori-
Dus stature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form,
in his intent but unfrowning brow, in the high dis-
dain, and in the indomitable soul, which breathed visibly,
which spake audibly, from his attitude, his lip, his
eye, he seemned the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal,
of the valor of his land,—of the divinity of its worship,
at once a hero and a god!
The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which
bad greeted his entrance, died into the silence of involun-
ary admiration and a half-compassionate respect; and
with a quick and convulsive sigh, that seemed to move the
whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze of the
spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth ob-
ject in the centre of the arena. It was the grated den of
the lion!
By Venus, how warm it is!" said Fulvia: "
yet there
is no sun. Would those stupid sailors could have fastened
up that gap in the awning.
"Oh! it is warm indeed. I turn sick,-I faint!" said
the wife of Pansa; even her experienced stoicism giving
way at the struggle about to take place.
The lion had been kept without food for twenty-four
hours, and the animal had during the whole morning testi-
fied a singular and restless uneasiness, which the keeper
had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing
seemed rather that of fear than-of rage; its roar was pain-
ful and distressed; it hung its head,snuffed the air,
|
}
through the bars, then lay down, started again, and
again uttered its wild and far-resounding cries. And now,
in its den, it lay utterly dumb and mute, with distending
nostrils, forced hard against the grating, and disturbing
with a heaving breath the sand below on the arena.
The editor's lip quivered and his cheek grew pale; he
looked anxiously around, hesitated, - delayed; the
crowd became impatient. Slowly he gave the sign; the
keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the
grating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad
roar of release. The keeper hastily retreated through the
grated passage leading from the arena, and left the lord of
the forest, and his prey.
Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to gwe himself the
firmest posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his
small shining weapon raised on high, in the faint hope that
one well directed thrust (for he knew that he should have
time but for one) might penetrate through the eye to the
brain of his grim foe.
But, to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast
seemed not even aware of the presence of the criminal.
At the first moment of its release, it halted abruptly in the
arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air
with impatient sighs; then suddenly it sprang forward,
but not on the Athenian. At half-speed it circled round
and round the space, turning its vast head from side to side
with an anxious and perturbed gaze, as if seeking only some
avenue of escape: once or twice it endeavoured to leap up
the parapet that divided it from the audience, and on fail-
ing, uttered rather a baffled howl than its deep-toned and
kingly roar. It evinced no sign either of wrath or hunger:
its tail drooped along the sand instead of lashing its gaum
sides; and its eye, though it wandered at times to Glaucus,
rolled again listlessly from him. At length, as if tired of
attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage,
and once more laid itself down to rest.
The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the
lion soon grew converted into resentment at its cowardice,
and the populace already merged their pity for the fate of
Glaucus into angry compassion for their own disappoint-
ment.
The editor called to the keeper :
"How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and
then close the door of the den."
As the keeper, with some fear but more astonishment,
was preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the
entrances of the arena; there was a confusion, a bustle,
voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking forth, and
suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in won-
der at the interruption, toward the quarter of the disturb-
ance; the crowd gave way, and suddenly Sallust appeared
on the senatorial benches, his hair dishevelled, — breath-
less, heated,― half exhausted. He cast his eyes hastily
around the ring. "Remove the Athenian!" he cried;
he is innocent ! Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian,
HE is the murderer of Apæcides!
"Art thou mad, O Sallust!" said the prætor, rising
from his seat. "What means this raving?"
"haste,
"Remove the Athenian! Quick, or his blood be on
your head. Prætor, delay, and you answer with your own
life to the emperor! I bring with me the eyewitness to
the death of the priest Apæcides. Room there! -stand
back!-give way! People of Pompeii, fix every eye
upon Arbaces, there he sits! Room there, for the
priest Calenus!”
-
Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of
death, his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture's, his
broad frame gaunt as a skeleton; Calenus was supported
into the very row in which Arbaces sat.
had given him sparingly of food; but the chief sustenance
that nerved his feeble limbs was revenge!
His releasers
"The priest Calenus ! — Calenus," cried the mob. " Is
it he? No, it is a dead man!”
"It is the priest Calenus," said the prætor, gravely.
"What hast thou to say ?
"Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apæcides, tre
priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is
from the dungeon in which he plunged me, it is from the
darkness and horror of a death by famine, that the gods
have raised me to proclaim his crime! Release the
Athenian, he is innocent!"
"It is for this, then, that the lion spared him, a mira-
cle! a miracle!" cried Pansa.
-
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
107
"A miracle! a iniracle!" shouted the people; "re-
Jove the Athenian, Arbaces to the lion!"
>>
And that shout echoed from hill to vale, from coast to
Beil, “Arbaces to the lion!
"Officers, remove the accused Glaucus, -remove, but
guard him yet," said the prætor. "The gods lavish their
wonders upon this day."
As the prætor gave the word of release there was a cry
of joy.a. female voice, a child's voice, and it was
of joy! It rang through the heart of the assembly with
electric force,—it was touching, it was holy, that child's
voice! And the populace echoed it back with a sympa-
thizing gratulation.
"Silence!" said the grave prætor, "who is there?"
"The blind girl, - Nydia," answered Sallust; "it is
"it is
her hand that has raised Calenus from the grave, and de-
livered Glaucus from the lion.”
“Of this hereafter," said the prætor. "Calenus, priest
of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apæci-
des?"
"I do!
"Thou didst behold the deed ?
"Prætor, with these eyes
CC
Enough at present; the details must be reserved for
more suiting time and place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou
hearest the charge against thee, thou hast not yet
spoken, what hast thou to say?"
The gaze of the crowd had been long riveted on Arba-
ces; but not until the confusion which he had betrayed
at the first charge of Sallust and the entrance of Calenus
had subsided. At the shout, "Arbaces to the lion!" he
had indeed trembled, and the dark bronze of his cheek
had taken a paler hue. But he had now recovered his
haughtiness and self-control. Proudly he returned the
angry glare of the countless eyes around him; and reply-
ing now to the question of the prætor, he said, in that
accent, so peculiarly tranquil and commanding, which
characterized his tones,
I
Prætor, this charge is so mad that it scarcely deserves
reply. My first accuser is the noble Sallust, the most
intimate friend of Glaucus! my second is a priest,
revere his garb and calling, but, people of Pompeii!
ye know somewhat of the character of Calenus, he is
griping and gold-thirsty to a proverb, the witness of
such men is to be bought! Prætor, I am innocent !
"Sallust," said the magistrate, "where found you Ca-
lenus?"
"In the dungeons of Arbaces."
CC
Egyptian," said the prætor, frowning, "thou didst,
then, dare to imprison a priest of the gods, and where-
fore?"
and ye,
"Hear me," answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with
agitation visible in his face: "This man came to threaten
that he would make against me the charge he has now
made, unless I would purchase his silence with half my
fortune,
I remonstrated, in vain. - Peace, there,
let not the priest interrupt me !- Noble prætor,
O people I was a stranger in the land, --I knew
myself innocent of crime, but the witness of a priest
against me might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I
decoyed him to the cell whence he has been released, on
pretence that it was the coffer-house of my gold. I re-
solved to detain him there until the fate of the true crimi-
nal was sealed, and his threats could avail no longer. But
I meant no worse, -I may have erred, but who among
ye will not acknowledge the equity of self-preservation?
Were I guilty, why was the witness of this priest silent
at the trial? then I had not detained nor concealed him.
Why did he not proclaim my guilt when I proclaimed
that of Glaucus? Prætor, this needs an answer.
For
the rest, I throw myself on your laws. I demand their
protection. Remove hence the accused and the accuser.
I will willingly meet, and cheerfully abide by, the decision
of the legitimate tribunal. This is no place for further
parley.
He says right," said the prætor. "Ho! guards,
remove Arbaces,-guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you
responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be re-
sumed "
"What!
cried Calenus, turning round to the people,
"shall Isis be thus contemned? Shall the blood of Ape-
cides yet cry for vengeance? Shall justice be delayed now,
My Ma
that it may be frustrated hereafter? Sha he lion be cheat-
ed of his lawful prey? A god,
a god!
I feel the god
rush to my lips! To the lion, -to the lion with Arbaces! "
His exhausted frame could support no longer the fero-
cious malice of the priest; he sank on the ground in strong
convulsions, the foam gathered to his mouth, he was
as a man, indeed, whom a supernatural power had entered!
The people saw and shuddered.
"It is a god that inspires the holy man, to the lion
with the Egyptian!"
With that cry up sprang,- on moved, thousands
upon thousands! They rushed from the heights, they
poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In vain
did the edile command, — in vain did the prætor lift his
voice and proclaim the law. The people had been already
rendered savage by the exhibition of blood, - they thirsted
for more,
their superstition was aided by their ferocity.
Aroused, inflamed by the spectacle of their victims,
they forgot the authority of their rulers. It was one of
those dread popular convulsions common to crowds wholly
ignorant, half free and half servile; and which the pecu-
liar constitution of the Roman provinces so frequently ex-
hibited. The power of the prætor was as a reed beneath
the whirlwind; still, at his word, the guards had drawn
themselves along the lower benches, on which the upper
classes sat separate from the vulgar. They made but a fec.
ble barrier,-
the waves of the human sea halted for a mo
ment, to enable Arbaces to count the exact moment of his
doom! In despair, and in a terror which beat down even
pride, he glanced his eyes over the rolling and rushing
crowd, when, right above them, through the wide chasm
which had been left in the velaria, he beheld a strange and
awful apparition, he beheld, and his craft restored
his
his courage!
He stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow
and royal features there came an expression of unuiterable
solemnity and command.
"Behold!" he shouted, with a voice of thunder, which
stilled the roar of the crowd; "behold how the gods
protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging Orcus
burst forth against the false witness of my accusers.
>>
The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyp
tian, and beheld with ineffable dismay a vast vapor shooting
from the summit of Vesuvius in the form of a gigantic pine
tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, fire; that
shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment, now
fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again
blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare!
—
There was a dead, heart-sunken silence, through
which there suddenly broke the roar of the lion, which,
from within the building, was echoed back by the sharper
and fiercer yells of its fellow beast. Dread seers were
they of the burden of the atmosphere, and wild prophets of
the wrath to come!
Then there rose on high the universal shrieks of wo-
men; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At
that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet;
the walls of the theatre trembled; and beyond, in the dis-
tance, they heard the crash of falling roofs; an instant
more, and the mountain cloud seemed to roll toward them,
dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time, it cast
forth from its bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with vast
fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing vines
over the desolate streets, - over the amphitheatre itself,-
far and wide, with many a mighty splash in the agitated
sea, fell that awful shower!
No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Aroaces;
safety for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned
to fly, each dashing, pressing, crushing against the
other. Trampling recklessly over the fallen, amid
groans, and oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the
enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numer-
ous passages. Whither should they fly? Some, anticipa-
ting a second earthquake, hastened to their homes to load
themselves with their more costly goods, and escape while
it was yet time; others, dreading the showers of ashes
that now fell fast, torrent upon torrent, over the streets,
rushed under the roofs of the nearest houses, or temples,
or sheds, -shelter of any kind, -for protection from the
terrors of the open air. But darker, and larger, and
mightier spread the cloud above them. It was a sudden
and more ghastly night rushing upon the realm of noon!
108
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CHAPTER V.
The cell of the prisoner and the den of the dead. Grief
unconscious of horror.
STUNNED by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake,
Glaucus had been led by the officers of the arena into a
small cell within the walls of the theatre. They threw a
loose robe over his forin, and crowded round in congratu-
lation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful
cry without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind
girl, led by some gentler hand, flung herself at the feet of
Glaucus.
"It is I who have saved thee," she sobbed; CC now let
me die ! "
Nydia, my child ! my preserver!"
"Oh, let me feel thy touch, - thy breath! Yes, yes,
thou livest! We are not too late! That dread door,
methought it would never yield' and Calenus, oh, his
voice was as the dying wind among tombs;
he had to
wait, gods it seemed hours, ere food and wine re-
stored to him something of strength; but thou livest! thou
livest yet and I-I have saved thee !"
This affecting scene was soon interrupted by the event
just described.
"The mountain the earthquake!" resounded from
side to side. The officers fled with the rest; they left
Glaucus and Nydia to save themselves as they might.
As the sense of the dangers around them flashed on the
Athenian, his generous heart recurred to Olinthus. He,
too, was reprieved from the tiger by the hand of the gods;
should he be left to a no less fatal death in the neighbouring
cell? Taking Nydia by the hand, Glaucus hurried across
the passages; he gained the den of the Christian. He
found Olinthus kneeling, and in prayer.
"Arise! arise! my friend," he cried. "Save thyself,
and fly! See! Nature is thy dread deliverer!" He led
forth the bewildered Christian, and pointed to the cloud
which advanced darker and darker, disgorging forth show-
ers of ashes and pumice stones; and bade him hearken to
the cries and trampling rush of the scattered crowd.
"This is the hand of God, God be praised!" said
Olinthus, devoutly.
"Fly seek thy brethren! Concert with them thy es-
Farewell!""
cape.
Olinthus did not answer, neither did he mark the re-
treating form of his friend. High thoughts and solemn ab-
sorbed his soul; and in the enthusiasm of his heart, he
exulted in the mercy of God rather than trembled at the
evidence of his power.
At length he roused himself, and hurried on, he scarce
knew whither.
The open doors of a dark desolate cell suddenly appeared
on his path; through the gloom within there flared and
flickered a single lamp; and by its light he saw three grim
and naked forms stretched on the earth in death. His feet
were suddenly arrested for amid the terrors of that drear
recess, the Spoliarium of the arena, he heard a low
voice calling on the name of Christ!
He could not resist lingering at that appeal; he entered
the den, and his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of
blood that gushed from the corpses over the sand.
Who," said the Nazarene, calls upon the Son of
God?"
No answer came forth; and, turning round, Olinthus
beheld, by the light of the lamp, an old gray-headed man
sitting on the floor, and supporting in his lap the head of
one lately dead. The features of the dead man were firmly
and rigidly locked in the last sleep; but over the lip there
played a fierce sinile, --not the Christian's smile of hope,
but the dark sneer of hatred and defiance. Yet on the
face still lingered the beautiful roundness of early youth.
The hair curled thick and glossy over the unwrinkled brow;
and the down of manhood but slightly shaded the marble of
the hueless, yet iron check. And over this face bent one
of such unutterable sadness, of such yearning tenderness,
of such fond and such deep despair! The tears of the
The tears of the
old man fell fast and hot, but he did not feel them; and
when his lips moved, and he mechanically uttered the
prayer of his benign and hopeful faith, neither his heart nor
his sense responded to the words: it was but the involun-
rary emotion that broke from the lethargy of his mind. His
Doy was dead, and had died for him! and the old man's
—
heart was broken!
--
“Medon!” said Olinthus, pityingly, "arise, and fly
God is forth upon the wings of the elements ! the new
Gomorrah is doomed! - fly, ere the fires consume thee!'
"He was ever so full of life! he cannot be dead!
Come hither!-place your hand on his heart!-sure it
beats yet!"
ઃઃ
Brother, the soul has fled! -we will remember it in
our prayers! Thou canst not restore the dumb clay
Come, come !-Hark! while I speak, yon crashing walls!
-hark! yon agonizing cries! Not a moment is to be
lost! - come!
"I hear nothing!" said Medon, shaking his gray hair.
"The poor boy, his love murdered him!
"Come, come !-forgive this friendly force."
"What! who would sever the father from the son "
?
and Medon clasped the body tightly in his embrace, and
covered it with passionate kisses. "Go!" said he, lift-
ing up his face for one moment. "Go! - we must be
alone!
دو
"Alas!" said the compassionate Nazarene,
hath severed ye already!
"death
The old man smiled very calmly. "No, no, no," he
muttered, his voice growing lower with each word,
"death has been more kind!
With that, his head drooped on his son's breast, his
arms relaxed their grasp. Olinthus caught him by the
hand, the pulse had ceased to beat! The last words of
the father were the words of truth, Death had been more
kind!
Meanwhile, Glaucus and Nydia were pacing swift up
the perilous and fearful streets. The Athenian bad learned
from his preserver that Ione was yet in the house of Arba-
ces. Thither he fled, to release, to save her! The few
slaves that the Egyptian had left at his mansion when he
repaired in long procession to the amphitheatre, had been
able to offer no resistance to the armed band of Sallust,
and when afterward the volcano broke forth, they had hud-
dled together, stunned and frightened, in the inmost re
cesses of the house. Even the tall Ethiopian had forsaken
his post at the door; and Glaucus (who left Nydia without,
the poor Nydia, jealous once more, even in such an
hour!) passed on through the vast hall without meeting
one from whom to learn the chamber of Ione. Even as he
passed, however, the darkness that covered the heavens in-
creased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he could guide
his steps. The flower-wreathed columns seemed to reel
and tremble; and with every instant he heard the ashes
fall cranchiugly into the roofless peristyle. Breathless he
paced along, shouting out aloud the name of Ione; and at
length he heard, at the end of a gallery, a voice, — her
voice, in wondering reply! To rush forward, -to shatter
the door, to seize Ione in his arms, to hurry from the
mansion, seemed to him the work of an instant! Scarce
had he gained the spot where Nydia was, than he heard
steps advancing towards the house, and recognised the
voice of Arbaces, who had returned to seek his wealth
and Ione, ere he fled from the doomed Pompeii. But so
dense was already the reeking atmosphere, that the foes
saw not each other, though so near, -save that, dimly in
the gloom, Glaucus caught the moving outline of the snowy
robes of the Egyptian.
M
whith-
They hastened onward, those three! Alas!
er? They now saw not a step before them, the black-
ness became utter. They were encompassed with doubt
and horror: — and the death he had escaped seemed to
Glaucus only to have changed its forms and augmented its
victims
CHAPTER VI.
Calenus and Burbo. - Diomed and Clodius. The girl of the
amphitheatre and Julia.
THE sudden catastrophe which had, as it were, riven
the very bonds of society, and left prisoner and jailer alike
free, had soon rid Calenus of the guards, to whose care
the prætor had consigned him.
the prætor had consigned him. And when the darkness
and the crowd separated the priest from his attendants, he
hastened, with trembling steps, toward the temple of his
goddess. As he crept along, and ere the darkness was
complete, he felt himself suddenly caught by the robe, and
a voice muttered in his ear;-
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
109
"Hist! Catenus! -an awful hour!
"Ay! by my father's head! Who art thou?-thy face
din, and thy voice is strange!"
"Not know thy Burbo?- -fie!"
•
Gode! how the darkness gathers! Ho, ho!-by
yon terrific mountain, what sudden blazes of lightning !*
How they dart and quiver! Hades is loosed on earth!"
“Tush! thou believest not these things, Calenus!
Now is the time to make our fortunes!
"Ha!"
>
"Listen! - thy temple is full of gold and precious mum-
meries! — let us load ourselves with them, and then hasten
to the sea and embark! None will ever ask an account
of the doings of this day!
"Burbo, thou art right! Hush!—and follow me into
and follow me into
the temple. Who cares now, who sees now whether
thou art priest or not? Follow, and we will share !”
In the precincts of the temple were many priests gath-
ered round the altars, praying, weeping, grovelling in the
dust. Impostors in safety, they were not the less supersti-
tious in danger! Calenus passed them, and entered the
chamber yet to be seen in the south side of the court.
Burbo followed him, the priest struck a light. Wine
and viands strewed the table, the remains of a sacri-
ficial feast.
"A man who has hungered forty-eight hours," muttered
Calenus, "has an appetite even in such a time." He
seized on the food, and devoured it greedily. Nothing
could, perhaps, be inore unnaturally horrid than the selfish
baseness of these villains; for there is nothing more loath-
some than the valor of avarice! Plunder and sacrilege
while the pillars of the world tottered to and fro! What
an increase to the terrors of Nature can be made by the
vices of man!
*
not climb to the open space, nay, were he able, he could
not brave its horrors. It were best to remain in the cell,
protected, at least, from the fatal air. He sat down, and
clenched his teeth. By degrees the atmosphere from with-
out, stifling and venomous, - crept into the chamber.
He could endure it no longer. His eyes, glaring round,
rested on a sacrificial axe which some priest had left in
the chamber: he seized it. With the desperate strength
of his gigantic arm, he attempted to hew his way through
the walls.
--
Meanwhile, the streets were already thinned; the crowd
the ashes
had hastened to disperse itself under shelter,
began to fill up the lower parts of the town; but, here and
there, you heard the steps of fugitives cranching them
warily, or saw their pale and haggard faces by the blue
glare of the lightning,
glare of the lightning, or the more unsteady glare of
torches, by which they endeavoured to steer their steps.
But ever and anon the boiling water, the straggling ashes,
or mysterious and gusty winds rising and dying in a breath,
extinguished these wandering
extinguished these wandering lights, and, with them, the
last living hope of those who bore them.
In the street that leads to the gate of Herculaneum, Clo
"If I can
dius now bent his perplexed and doubtful way.
gain the open country," thought he, "doubtless there will
be various vehicles beyond the gate, and Herculaneum is
not far distant. Thank Mercury, I have little to lose,
and that little is about me!
rr
"Hollo!--help there, help!" cried a querulous and
frightened voice.
frightened voice. "I have fallen down,
my torch is
gone out, my slaves have deserted me: I am Diomed,
the rich Diomed, ten thousand sesterces to him who
helps me !"
At the same moment Clodius felt himself caught by the
fest. "Ill fortune to thee, let me go, fool!" said the
give me thy hand."
"Oh, help me up,
"There, rise!"
"Is this Clodius ?
thou?"
"Wilt thou never have done?" said Burbo, impa-
impa-gambler.
tiently; thy face purples, and thine eyes start already.
"It is not every day one has such a right to be hungry.
O Jupiter! what sound is that?- the hissing of fiery
water! What does the cloud give rain as well as
fiame! Ha, what shrieks? And, Burbo, how silent
all is now! Look forth.'
Amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast
up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with
the half-burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud
over the streets in frequent intervals. And full, where the
priests of Isis had now cowered around the altars, on
which they had vainly sought to kindle fires and pour in-
cense, one of these deadly torrents, mingled with immense
fragments of scoria, had poured its rage. Over the bended
forms of the priests it dashed: that cry had been of death,
that silence had been of eternity! The ashes, the
pitchy stream, sprinkled the altars, covered the pave-
ment, and half concealed the quivering corpses of the
priests!
"They are dead," said Burbo, terrified for the first
time, and hurrying back into the cell; "I thought not the
danger was so near and fatal.
The two wretches stood staring at each other, you
might have heard their hearts beat! Calenus, the less bold
by nature, but the more griping, recovered first.
A
"We must do our task and away!" he said, in a low
whisper, frightened at his own voice. He stopped at the
threshold, paused, crossed over the heated floor and his
dead brethren to the sacred chapel, and called to Burbo to
follow. But the gladiator quaked and drew back.
"So much the better," thought Calenus;
"the more
will be my booty." Hastily he loaded himself with the
more portable treasures of the temple; and thinking no
more of his comrade, hurried from the sacred place.
sudden flash of ghtning from the mount showed Burbo,
who stood motionless at the threshold, the flying and laden
form of the priest. He took heart, he stepped forth to
Join him, when a tremendous shower of ashes fell right
before his feet. The gladiator shrank back once more.
Darkness closed him in. But the shower continued fast,
fast; its heaps rose high and suffocatingly, deathly
rapors steamed from them. The wretch gasped for breath,
he sought in despair again to fly, the ashes had
blocked up the threshold,—he shrieked as his feet shrank
from the boiling fluid. How could he escape?— he could
M
*Volcanic lightnings. These phenomena were especially the
characteristic of the long-subsequent eruption of 1779, and their
evidence is visible in the tokens of that now described.
I know thy voice.
"Towards Herculaneum.”
Whither fliest
"Blessed be the gods! our way is the same, then, as
far as the gate. Why not take refuge in my villa? Thou
knowest the long range of subterranean cellars beneath
the basement, that shelter, what shower can pene-
trate ?"
the lamp
"You speak well," said Clodius, musingly; "and by
storing the cellar with food, we can remain there even
some days, should these wondrous storms endure so long."
"Oh, blessed be he who invented gates to a city!
cried Diomed.
"See! they have placed a light within
you arch; by that let us guide our steps."
The air was now still for a few minutes,
from the gate streamed out far and clear; the fugitives
hurried on, they gained the gate, they passed by the
Roman sentry; the lightning flashed over his livid face
and polished helmet; but his stern features were composed
even in their awe! He remained erect and motionless at
his post. That hour itself had not animated the machine
of the ruthless majesty of Rome into the reasoning and
self-acting man! There he stood amid the crashing ele-
ments! He had not received the permission to desert his
station and escape! *
Diomed and his companion hurried on, when, sud-
denly, a female form rushed athwart their way. It was
the girl whose ominous voice had been raised so often and
so gladly in anticipation of "the merry show!"
"Oh, Diomed!" she cried, "shelter! shelter! See,
pointing to an infant clasped to her breast,
see this
little one! it is mine! the child of shame! I bave never
owned it till this hour. But now I remember I am a
mother! I have plucked it from the cradle of its nurse;
she had fled! Who could think of the babe in such a time
but she who bore it!
but she who bore it! Save it! save it!"
"Curses on thy shrill voice! Away, harlot ! mutter
ed Clodius, between his ground teeth.
Nay, girl," said the more humane Diomed; follow
if thou wilt. This way, —-
this way,
to the vaults!"
They hurried on, - they arrived at the house of Diomed,
they laughed aloud as they crossed the threshold, for
they deemed the danger over,
CC
Diomed ordered his slaves to carry down into the sub-
* The skeletons of more than one sentry were found at
their posts.
110
BULWER'S NOVELS.
terranean vaults a profusion of food, and oil for lights;
and thither Julia, Clodius, the mother and her babe, the
greater part of the slaves, and some frightened visiters
and clients in the neighbourhood, who had fled there for
refuge, sought their shelter.
mass
CHAPTER VII.
The progress of the destruction.
THE cloud which had scattered so deep a murkiness
over the day had now settled into a solid and impenetrable
It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a
aight in the open air than the close and blind darkness of
some narrow room. * But, in proportion as the blackness
gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in
their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible
beauty confined to the usual hues of fire; no rainbow ever
rivalled their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly
blue as the most azure depth of a southern sky, --now of
a livid and snakelike green, darting restlessly to and fro
as the folds of an enormous serpent,
-now of a lurid and
intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of
ɑmoke, far and wide, and lighting up the whole city from
arch to arch, then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness,
like the ghost of its own life!
and anon, by the flickering
and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw the thief nas
tening by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden
with, and fearfully chuckling over, the produce of his sud-
den gains. If, in the darkness, wife was separated from
husband, or parent froin child, vain was the hope of re-union.
Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all the
various and complicated machinery of social life was left,
save the primeval law of self-preservation.
name.
Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his way,
accompanied by Ione and the blind girl. Suddenly a rush
of hundreds, in their path to the sea, swept by them. Ny-
dia was torn from the side of Glaucus, who with Ione, was
borne rapidly onward; and when the crowd (whose forms
they saw not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia
was still separated from their side. Glaucus shouted her
No answer came. They retraced their steps,
in vain; they could not discover her, it was evident that
she had been swept along some opposite direction by the
human current. Their friend, their preserver was lost!
And hitherto Nydia had been their guide. Her blindness
rendered to her alone the scene familiar Accustomed through
a perpetual night to thread the windings of the city, she
led them unerringly toward the sea-shore, by which they had
resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could they
wend? all was rayless to them, - a maze without a clew.
Wearied, despondent, bewildered, they however passed
along, the ashes falling upon their heads, the fragmentary
stones dashing up in sparkles before their feet.
"Alas! alas!" murmured Ione, "I can go no farther;
my steps sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest!
beloved, fly! and leave me to my fate! "
"Hush, my betrothed! my bride!
sweeter than life without thee!
Death with thee is
Yet whither, oh! whi-
In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of
the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured
sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of in-
tensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escap-
ing gases through the chasms of the distant mountain.
Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass,
and, by the lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries ther can we direct ourselves through the gloom? Already
of human or of monster shapes, striding across the gloom, it seems that we have made but a circle, and are in the very
hustling one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into the spot which we quitted an hour ago.'
"O gods! yon rock, see it hath riven the roof before
turbulent abyss of shade; so that, to the eyes and fancies
of the affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapors were
It is death to move through the streets!"
as the bodily forms of gigantic foes; the agents of terror
"Blessed lightning! See, Ione, -sce the portico of
and of death.†
the temple of Fortune is before us. Let us creep beneath
it; it will protect us from the showers.”
us.
ور
He caught his beloved in his arms, and with difficulty
and labor gained the temple. He bore her to the remoter
that he might shield her with his own form from the light-
and more sheltered part of the portico, and leaned over her
The beauty and the unselfishness
The ashes in many places were already knee-deep; and
he boiling showers which came from the steaming breath
of the volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing
with them a strong and suffocating vapor. In some places
immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs,
bore down along the streets masses of confused rain, whichning and the showers.
yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way;
and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was
more sensibly felt, the footing seemed to slide and creep,
nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on the
most level ground.
Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other
as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks
of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within
their reach; and along the plains beyond the city the dark-
ness was now terribly relieved; for several houses, and
even vineyards, had been set on flames; and at various in-
tervals the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid
gloom. To add to this partial relief of the darkness, the
citizens had, here and there, in the more public places,
such as the porticoes of temples, and the entrances to the
forura, endeavoured to place rows of torches; but these
rarely continued long; the showers and the winds extin-
guished them, and the sudden darkness into which their
sudden birth was converted had something in it doubly
terrible, and doubly impressing on the impotence of human
hopes the lesson of despair.
Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches,
parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hurry-
ing toward the sea, others flying from the sea, back to the
land; for the occan had retreated rapidly from the shore,
--an utter darkness lay ever it, and upon its groaning and
tossing waves the storm of cinders and rock fell without
the protection which the streets and roofs afforded to the
land. Wild, haggard, ghastly with supernatural fears,
—
these groups encountered each other, but without leisure to
speak, to consult, to advise; for the showers fell now fre-
quently, though not continuously, extinguishing the lights
which showed to each band the deathlike faces of the other,
and hurrying all to seek refuge beneath the nearest shelter.
The whole elements of civilization were broken up. Ever
+ Dion Cassius.
* Pliny.
of love could hallow even that dismal time.
"Who is there?" said the trembling and hollow voice
of one who had preceded them in their place of refuge;
"yet what matters The crush of the ruined world forbids
to us friends or foes.'
""
Ione turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint
he, looking in the direction of the voice, beheld the cause
shriek, cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus; and
of her alarm. Through the darkness glared forth two
burning eyes, the lightning flashed and lingered athwart
the temple; and Glaucus, with a shudder, perceived the lion
to which he had been doomed couched beneath the pillars;
and, close beside him,-unwitting of the vicinity, lay
the giant form of the gladiator, Niger.
That lightning had revealed to each other the form of
beast and man; yet the instinct of both was quelled. Nay,
the lion crept near and nearer to the gladiator as for com-
panionship; and the gladiator did not recede or treable.
The revolution of nature had dissolved her lighter terrors
and her wonted ties.
While they were thus terribly protected, a group of men
and women bearing torches passed by the temple. They
were of the congregation of the Nazarenes; and a sublime
and unearthly emotion had not indeed quelled their awe,
but it bad robbed awe of fear. They had long believed,
according to the error of the early Christians, that the last
day was at hand; they imagined now that the day had
come.
"Woe ! woe!
cried, in a shrill and piercing voice, the
Behold the Lord descendeth to
elder at their head.
judgment! He maketh fire come down from heaven in the
Woc! woe! ye strong and mighty! Woe
sight of men!
and the worshipper of the beast! Woe to ye who pour
to ye of the fasces and the purple! Woe to the idolater
forth the blood of saints, and gloat over the death pangs of
the sons of God! Woe to the harlot of the sea
woe!"
J
We
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
13A
And with a loud and deep chorus, the troop chanted forth
along the wild horrors of the air, "Woe to the harlot
of the sea!
woe! woe!
The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still flick-
ering in the storm, their voices still raised in menace and
solemn warning, till, lost amid the windings in the streets,
the darkness of the atmosphere and the silence of death
again fell over the scene.
There was one of the frequent pauses in the showers, and
Glaucus encouraged Ione once more to proceed. Just as they
stood, hesitating, on the last step of the portico, an old
man, with a bag in his right hand and leaning upon a youth,
tottered by. The youth bore a torch. Glaucus recognised
the two as father and son, miser and prodigal.
"Father," said the youth, "if you cannot move more
swiftly, I must leave you, or we both perish!
Fly boy, then, and leave thy sire."
|
|
aspects of woe and death, bodes me happiness and love.
Away, Greek! I claim my ward Ione! "
“Traitor and murderer!" cried Glaucus, glaring upon
his foe, Nemesis hath guided thee to my revenge! —a
just sacrifice to the shades of Hades, that now seem looxa
touch but the hand of Ione, and
on earth. Approach,
thy weapon shall be as a reed, I will tear thee limb from
limb ?""
Suddenly, as he spoke, the place became lighted with an
intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the
darkness, which closed around it like the walls of bell, the
mountain shone, - a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven
in two; or rather above its surface there seemed to rise two
monster shapes, each confronting each, as demons contend-
ing for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of
fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide;
but below, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and
"But I cannot fly to starve; give me thy bag of gold!" shrouded, save in three places, adown which flowed,
And the youth snatched at it.
"Wretch ! wouldst thou rob thy father?
Ay ! who can tell the tale in this hour? Miser, perish!"
The boy struck the old man to the ground, plucked the
bag from his relaxing hand, and fled onward with a shrill
yell.
'
"Ye gods. cried Glaucus; "are ye blind, then; even
in the dark? Such crimes may well confound the guiltless
with the guilty in one common ruin. Ione, on! on!"
CHAPTER VIII.
Arbaces encounters Glaucus and Ione.
ADVANCING, as men grope for escape in a dungeon,
Ione and her lover continued their uncertain way. At the
moments when the volcanic lightnings lingered over the
streets, they were enabled by that awful light to steer and
guide their progress. Yet little did the view it presented
to them cheer or encourage their path. In parts where the
ashes lay dry and unconmixed with the boiling torrents
cast upward from the mountain, at capricious intervals,
the surface of the earth presented a leprous and ghastly
white. In other places, cinder and rock lay inatted in
heaps, from beneath which might be seen the half-hid limbs
of some crushed and mangled fugitive. The groans of the
dying were broken by wild shrieks of women's terror,
now near, now distant, which, when heard in the utter
darkness, were rendered doubly appalling by the crushing
sense of helplessness and the uncertainty of the perils around:
and clear and distinct through all were the mighty and
various noises from the fatal mountain; its rushing winds;
its whirling torrents; and, from time to time, the burst and
roar of some inore fiery and fierce explosion. And ever as
the winds swept howling along the street, they bore sharp
streams of burning dust, and such sickening and poisonous
vapors as took away, for the instant, breath and con-
sciousness, followed by a rapid revulsion of the arrested
blood, and a tingling sensation of agony trembling through
every nerve and fibre of the frame.
"Oh! Glaucus, my beloved, my own, take me to thy
arms! One embrace, let me feel thy arms around me,
-and in that embrace let me die, I can no more!"
"For my sake, for my life, courage, yet, sweet Ione,
my life is linked with thine; and see, torches, this
way! Lo! how they brave the wind! Ha! they live
through the storm, -doubtless, fugitives to the sea!
will join them.”
we
As if to inspire the lovers, the winds and showers came
to a sudden pause; the atmosphere was profoundly still,
the mountain seemed at rest, gathering, perhaps, fresh fury
for its next burst: the torch-bearers moved quickly on.
"We are nearing the sea," said, in a calm voice, the per-
son at their head; "liberty and wealth to each slave who
survives this day!- Courage! I tell you, that the gods
themselves have assured me of deliverance,
on ! ››
Redly and steadily the torches flashed full on the eyes of
Glaucus, and Ione, who lay trembling and exhausted on his
bosom. Several slaves were bearing, by the light, panniers
and coffers, heavily laden; in front of them, a drawn sword
In his hand, towered the lofty form of Arbaces.
"By my fathers!" cried the Egyptian, "fate smiles
non me even through these horrors, and, amid the dreadest
|
1
serpentine and irregular, (a) rivers of the molten lava.
Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they
flowed slowly on, as toward the devoted city. Over the
broadest there seemed to spring a cragged and stupendous
arch, from which, as from the jaws of hell, gushed tae
sources of the sudden Phlegethon. And through the stilled
air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hur ing
one upon another as they were borne down the fiery cata-
racts, darkening, for one instant, the spot where they
fell, and suffused, the next, in the burnisi ed hues of the
flood along which they floated!
The slaves shrieked aloud, and, cowering, vid their faces.
The Egyptian himself stood transfixed to the spot, the glow
lighting up his commanding features and jewelled robes
High behind him rose a tall column that supported the
bronze statue of Augustus; and the imperial image seemed
changed to a shape of fire!
with
With his left hand circled round the form of Ione,
his right arm raised in menace, and grasping the stilus which
was to have been his weapon in the arena, and which he
still fortunately bore about him, with his brow knit,
his lips apart, the wrath and menace of human passions
arrested, as by a charm, upon his features, Glaucus fronted
the Egyptian.
—
<<
He
Muttering to himself, Arbaces turned his eyes from the
mountain, they rested on the form of Glaucus.
paused a moment : Why," he muttered, "should I besi-
tate? Did not the stars foretell the only crisis of imminent
peril to which I was subjected? Is not that peril past?"
"The soul," cried he, aloud, "can brave the wreck of
worlds and the wrath of imaginary gods! By that soul will
I conquer to the last! Advance, slaves! Atheniau, re-
sist me, and thy blood be on thine own head! Thus, then,
I regain Ione!
ور
He advanced one step,- it was his last on earth! The
ground shook beneath him with a convulsion that cast all
around upon its surface. A simultaneous crash resounded
through the city, as down toppled many a roof and pillar!
the lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an in-
stant on the imperial statue, then shivered bronze and
column ! Down fell the ruin, echoing along the street, and
riving the solid pavement where it crashed!
- The proph
ecy of the stars was fulfilled !
The sound, the shock stunned the Athenian for seve
ral moments. When he recovered, the light still illumined
the scene,
the scene, the earth still slid and trembled beneath.
Ione lay senseless on the ground; but he saw her not yet
ny,
his eyes were fixed upon a ghastly face that seemed to
emerge, without limbs or trunk, from the huge fragments
of the shattered column,· -a face of unutterable pain, ago-
and despair! The eyes shut and opened rapidly, as if
sense were not yet fled; the lips quivered and grinned,
then sudden stillness and darkness fell over the features, yet.
retaining that aspect of horror never to be forgotten.
So perished the wise magian, the great Arbaces,
the Hermes of the Burning Belt, the last of the roya ty
of Egypt !
• C
CHAPTER IX.
The despair of the lovers. The condition of the multitude.
GLAUCUS turned in gratitude but in awe, caught Jone
once more in his arms, and fled along the street, that was
112
BULWER'S NOVELS.
yet intensely luminous. But suddenly a duller shade fell
over the air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and
behold! one of the two gigantic crests into which the sum
mit had been divided, rocked and wavered to and fro; and
then, with a sound the mightiness of which no language
can describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an
avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain! At the
came instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke, roll-
ing on, over air, sea, and earth.
Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far
more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along
the streets. Darkness once more wrapped them as a vel;
and Glaucus, his bold heart at last qelled and despairing,
sunk beneath the cover of an arch, and clasping Ione to
his heart, -a bride on that couch of ruin,-resigned lim-
self to die!
Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from
Glaucus and Ione, had in vain endeavoured to regain them.
In vain she raised that plaintive cry so peculiar to the
blind; it was lost amid a thousand shrieks of more selfish
terror. Again and again she returned to the spot where
they had been divided, -to find her companions gone, to
Beize every fugitive, -to inquire of Glaucus, to be
dashed aside in the impatience of distraction. Who in
that hour spared one thought to his neighbour? Perhaps
in scenes of universal horror nothing is more horrid than
the unnatural selfishness they engender. At length it oc-
curred to Nydia, that, as it had been resolved to seek the
sea-shore for escape, her most probable chance of rejoining
her companions would be to persevere in that direction. |
Guiding her steps, then, by the staff which she always
carried, she continued with incredible dexterity to avoid
the masses of ruin that encumbered the path, - to thread
the streets; and unerringly (so blessed now was that ac-
customed darkness so afflicting in ordinary life!) to take
the nearest direction to the sea-side.
Poor girl! her courage was beautiful to behold! and
fate seemed to favor one so helpless. The boiling torrents
touched her not, save by the general rain which accompa-
nied them; the huge fragments of scoria shivered the pave-
ment before and beside her, but spared that frail form; and
when the lesser ashes fell over her, she shook them away
with a slight tremor,* and dauntlessly resumed her course.
Weak, exposed, yet fearless, supported but by one wish,
she was a very emblem of Psyche in her wanderings,
Hope, walking through the valley of the shadow; - a very
emblem of the soul itself,-lone, but comforted, amid
the dangers and the snares of life!
-
of
Her path was, however, constantly impeded by the
crowds that, now groped amid the gloom, now fled in the
temporary glare of the lightnings across the scene; and,
at length, a group of torch-bearers rushing full against
ber, she was thrown down with some violence.
"What!" said the voice of one of the party, "is this
the brave blind girl? By Bacchus, she must not be left
here to die! Up! my Thessalian! So, Are you
hurt? That 's well! Come on with us! we are for the
shore !"
So.
"Oh, Sallust! it is thy voice! The gods be thanked!
Glaucus! Glaucus! have you seen him?"
"Not I! He is doubtless out of the city by this time.
The gods who saved him from the lion will save him from
the burning mountain."
As the kindly epicure thus encouraged Nydia, he drew
her along with him toward the sea, heeding not her pas-
sionate entreaties that he would linger yet awhile to search
for Glaucus; and still, in the accent of despair, she con-
tinued to shriek aloud that beloved name, which, amid all
the roar of the convulsed elements, kept alive a music at
her heart.
The sudden lumination, the burst of the floods of lava,
and the earthquake, which we have already described,
chanced when Sallust and his party had just gained the
direct path leading from the city to the port; and here they
were arrested by an immense crowd, more than half the
population of the city. They spread along the field with
out the walls, thensands upon thousands, uncertain whither
to fly. The sea had retired far from the shore; and they
who had fled to it had been so terrified by the agitation
and preternatural shrinking of the elements, the gasping
"A heavy shower of ashes rained upon us, which every
now and then we were obliged to shake off, otherwise we
hould have been crushed and buried in a heap." - Pliny
|
forms of the uncouth sea, th .gs which the waves had lef
upon the sand, and by the sound of the huge stones cast
from the mountain into the deep, that they had returned
again to the land, as presenting the less frightful aspect of
the two. Thus the two streams of human beings, the one
seaward and the other from the sea, had met together,
feeling a sad comfort in numbers, arrested in despair and
doubt.
"The world is to be destroyed by fire," said an old man
in long loose robes, a philosopher of the Stoic school.
"Stoic and Epicurean wisdom have alike agreed in this
prediction; and the hour is coine!
"Yea! the hour is come!" cried a loud voice, solera,
but not fearful.
Those around turned in dismay. The voice came froz
above them. It was the voice of Olinthus, who, surround-
ed by his Christian friends, stood upon an abrupt eminence
on which the old Greek colonists had raised a emplc ic
Apollo, now time-worn and half in ruin.
never
As he spake, there came that sudden illumination which
had heralded the death of Arbaces; and, glowing over that
mighty multitude, awed, crouching, breathless, never c
earth had the faces of men seemed so haggard!
had meeting of mortal beings been so stamped with the
horror and sublimity of dread! never, till the last trum-
pet sounds, shall such meeting be seen again! And above
rose the form of Olinthus, with outstretched arm and
prophet brow, girt with the living fires. And the crowd
knew the face of him they had doomed to the fangs of the
beast, then their victim, now their warner; and through
the stillness again came his ominous voice,
"The hour is come!"
The Christians repeated the cry. It was caught up,
it was echoed from side to side, woman and man,
childhood and old age, repeated, not aloud, but in a
smothered and dreary murmur, "THE HOUR IS
COME!
At that moment a wild yell burst through the air; anc
thinking only of escape, whither it knew not, the terrible
tiger of the African desert leaped among the throng, and
hurried through its parted streams. And so came the
earthquake, and so darkness once more fell over the earth!
And now new fugitives arrived. Grasping the treasures
no longer destined for their lord, the slaves of Arbaces
joined the throng. One only of their torches yet flickered
It was borne by Sosia, and its light falling on the
face of Nydia, be recognised the Thessalian.
"What avails thy liberty now, blind girl?" said the
on.
slave.
CC
"Who art thou? canst thou tell me of Glaucus ?"
Ay; I saw him but a few minutes since.”
"Blessed be thy head! where?"
"Couched beneath the arch of the foram, - dead, or
dying! gone to rejoin Arbaces, who is no more.
Nydia uttered not a word; she slid from the side of
Sallust; silently she glided through those behind her, and
retraced her steps to the city. She gained the forum,-
the arch; she stooped down; she felt around; she called
on the name of Glaucus.
A weak voice answered, "Who calls on me? Is it the
voice of the shades? Lo! I am prepared!"
"Arise! follow me! Take my hand. Glaucus, thou
shalt be saved!
CC
Nydia
In wonder and sudden hope Glaucus arose,
still! Ah! thou, then, art safe!
The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of the
poor Thessalian, and she blessed him for his thought
of her.
Half leading, half carrying Ione, Glaucus followed his
guide. With admirable discretion she avoided the path
which led to the crowd she had just quitted, and by an-
other route sought the shore.
After many pauses, and incredible perseverance, they
gained the sea and joined a group, who, bolder than the
rest, resolved to hazard any peril rather than continue in
such a scene. In darkness they put forth to sea; but, as
they cleared the land and caught new aspects of the moun-
tain, its channels of molten fire threw a partial redness
over the waves.
Utterly exhausted and worn out, Ione slept on the breast
of Glaucus, and Nydia lay at his feet. Meanwhile the
showers of dust and ashes, still borne aloft, fell into the
wave, and scattered their snows over the deck. Far and
THE LAST DAYS CF POMPEII.
118
wide borne by the winds, those showers descended upon
the remotest climes, startling even the swarthy Africa, and
whirled along the antique soil of Syria and of Egypt ! *
the vessel was searched, there was no trace of her.
Mysterious from first to last, the blind Thessalian had van-
ished for ever from the living world. They guessed her
fate in silence; and Glaucus and Ione, while they drew
nearer to each other, (feeling each other the world itself,)
forgot their deliverance, and wept as for a departed sister
CHAPTER X.
The next morning. The fate of Nydia.
AND meekly, softly, beautifully dawned at last the light
over the trembling deep! the winds were sinking into
rest,
the foam died from the glowing azure of that deli-
cious sea. Around the east, thin mists caught gradually
the rosy hues that heralded the morning; light was about
to resume her reign. Yet still, dark, and massive in the
distance lay the broken fragments of the destroying cloud,
from which red streaks, burning dimlier and more dim,
betrayed the yet rolling fires of the mountain of "Scorch-
ed Fields." The white walls and gleaming columns that
had adorned the lovely coast were no more. Sullen and
dull were the shores so lately crested by the cities of Her-
culaneum and Pompeii. The darlings of the deep were
snatched from her embrace. Century after century shall
the mighty mother stretch forth her azure arms, and know
them not,
moaning round the sepulchres of the lost!
There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning
light, it had come too gradually, and they were too wear-
ied for such sudden bursts of joy, but there was a low,
deep murmur of thankfulness amid these watchers of the
long night. They looked at each other, and smiled,
they took heart, they felt once more that there was a
world around, and a God above them! And in the feel
ing that the worst was past, the over-wearied ones turned
round, and fell placidly to sleep. In the growing light of
the skies there came the silence which night had wanted,
the sweetness of repose; and the bark drifted calmly
onward to its port.
A few other vessels, bearing similar
fugitives, might be seen in the expanse, apparently motion-
less, yet gliding also on. There was a sense of security,
of companionship, and of hope, in the sight of their slender
masts and white sails. What beloved friends, lost and
missed in the gloom, might they not bear to safety and to
shelter !
In the silence of the general sleep, Nydia rose gently,
She bent over the face of Glaucus, she inhaled the deep
breath of his heavy slumber, timidly and sadly she kiss-
timidly and sadly she kiss-
ed his brow, his lips; she felt for his hand, it was
locked in that of Ione; she sighed deeply, and her face
darkened. Again she kissed his brow, and with her hair
wiped from it the damps of night. May the gods bless
you, Athenian!" she murmured, may you be happy
with your beloved one! may you sometimes remember
Nydia! Alas! she is of no farther use on earth!"
-
With these words she turned away. Slowly she crept
along by the fori, or platforms, to the farther side of the
vessel, and, pausing, bent low over the deep; the cool
spray dashed upward on her feverish brow. "It is the
kiss of death," she said, "it is welcome." The balmy
air played through her waving tresses, she put them from
her face, and raised those eyes, - so tender, though so
lightless,- to the sky, whose soft face she had never seen.
"No, no!" she said, half aloud, and in a musing and
thoughtful tone; "I cannot endure it; this jealous, exact-
ing love, it shatters my whole soul in madness! I might
harm him again, wretch that I was! I have saved him,
twice saved him, happy, happy thought, why not
die happy?—it is the last glad thought I can ever know.
O sacred sea! I hear thy voice invitingly, it hath a
freshening and joyous call. They say that in thy embrace
is dishonor, that thy victims cross not the fatal Styx,
be it so I would not meet him in the Shades, for I
should meet him still with her! Rest,—rest, rest !
there is no other Elysium for a heart like mine!"
A sailor, half dozing on the deck, heard a slight splash
on the waters. Drowsily he looked up, and behind, as the
vessel merrily bounded on, he fancied he saw something
white above the waves; but it vanished in an instant. He
turned round again, and dreamed of his home and children.
When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each
their next of Nydia! She was not to be found,
none had seen her since the night. Every crevice of
other,
VOL II.
* Dion Cassius.
15
M
CHAPTER THE LAST,
WHEREIN ALL THINGS CEASE.
Letter from Glaucus to Sallust, - ten years after the destruc
tion of Pompeii.
Athens.
your
GLAUCUS to his beloved Sallust, greeting and health!
You request me to visit you at Rome, no, Salust!
come rather to me at Athens! I have forsworn the impe-
rial city, its mighty tumult, and hollow joys. In my own
land henceforth I dwell for ever. The ghost of our depart-
ed greatness is dearer to me than the gaudy life of
loud prosperity. There is a charm to me which no other
spot can supply, in the porticoes hallowed still by holy and
venerable shades: in the olive groves of Ilyssus I still hear
the voice of poetry,
- on the heights of Phyle the clouds
of twilight seem yet the shrouds of departed freedom,
the herald, — the herald,
the herald, — of the morrow that shall come!
You smile at my enthusiasm, Sallust! - better be hopeful
in chains than resigned to their glitter. You tell me you
are sure that I cannot enjoy life in these melancholy haunts
of a fallen majesty. You dwell with rapture on the Roman
splendors, and the luxuries of the imperial court. My
Sallust, non sum qualis eram, I am not what I was!
The events of my life have sobered the bounding blood af
my youth. My health has never quite recovered its wonted
elasticity ere it felt the pangs of disease, and languished
in the damps of a criminal's dungeon. My mind has never
shaken off the dark shadow of the Last Day of Pompeii,
the horror and the desolation of that awful ruin! Our
beloved, our remembered Nydia! I have reared a tomb
to her shade; and I see it every day from the window of
my study. It keeps alive in me a tender recollection,—a
not unpleasing sadness, which are but a fitting homage
to her fidelity, and the mysteriousness of her ear death.
Ione gathers the flowers, but my own hand wreathes them
daily around the tomb. She was worthy of a tomb in
Athens !
You speak of the growing sect of the Christians in Rome.
Sallust, to
Sallust, to you I may confide my secret: I have pondered
much over that faith, I have adopted it. After the de-
struction of Pompeii, I met once more with Olinthus, -
saved, alas! only for a day, and falling afterward a martyr
to the indomitable energy of his zeal.
of his zeal. In my preservation
from the lion and the earthquake, he taught me to behold
the hand of the unknown God. I listened, - believed,
adored. My own, my more than ever beloved Ione, has
also embraced the creed; a creed, Sallust, which, shed-
ding light over this world, gathers its concentrated glory,
like a sunset, over the next! We know that we are united
in the soul, as in the flesh, for ever and for ever! Ages
may roll on, our very dust be dissolved, the earth shrivelled
like a scroll; but round and round the circle of eternity
rolls the wheel of life, — imperishable, unceasing! And
as the earth from the sun, so immortality drinks happiness
from virtue, which is the smile upon the face of God. Visit
me, then, Sallust; bring with you the learned scrolls of
Epicurus, Pythagoras, Diogenes; arm yourself for defeat;
and let us, amid the groves of Academus, dispute under a
surer guide than any granted to our fathers, on the mighty
problem of the true ends of life and the nature of the soul.
Ione, at that name my heart yet beats! - Ione is by
my side as I write; I lift my eyes, and meet her smile.
The sunlight quivers over Hymettus, and along my garden
I hear the hum of the summer bees. Am I happy, ask
you? Oh, what can Rome give me equal to what I possess
at Athens? Here, every thing awakens the soul and in-
spires the affections; the trees, the waters, the hills, the
skies, are those of Athens! fair, though mourning; mother
of the poetry and the wisdom of the world. In my hall I
see the marble faces of
see the marble faces of my ancestors. In the Ceramicus I
survey their tombs. In the streets I behold the hand of Phid-
ias and the soul of Pericles. Harmodius, Aristogiton, they
114
BULWER'S NOVELS.
are everywhere; but in our hearts, in mine at least, they |
shall not perish! If any thing can inake me forget that I am
Athenian and not free, it is partly the soothing, the love,
watchful, vivid, sleepless, of Ione; a love that has taken a
new sentiment in our new creed; (b) a love which none of
our poets, beautiful though they be, had shadowed forth in
description; for mingled with religion, it partakes of reli.
gion; it is blended with pure and unworldly thoughts; it is
that which we may hope to carry through eternity, and keep,
therefore, white and unsullied, that we may not blush to con-
fess it to our God! This is the true type of the dark fable
of our Grecian Eros and Psyche; it is, in truth, the soul
sleeping in the arms of love. And if this our love support
me partly against the fever of the desire for freedom, my re-
ligion supports me more; for whenever I would grasp the
sword and sound the shell, and rush to a new Marathon, (but
Marathon without victory,) I feel my despair at the chilling
thought of my country's impotence, the crushing weight of the
Roman yoke, comforted, at least, by the thought, that earth
is but the beginning of life; that the glory of a few years
matters little in the vast space of eternity; that there is no
perfect freedom till the chains of clay fall from the soul, and
all space, all time, become its heritage and domain. Yet,
Sallust, some mixture of the soft Greek blood still mingles
with my faith. I can share not the zeal of those who see crime
and eternal wrath in men who cannot believe as they. I
shudder not at the creed of others. I dare not curse them; I
pray the Great Father to convert. This lukewarmness ex-
poses me to some suspicion among the Christians; but I
forgive it; and not offending openly the prejudices of the
crowd, I am thus enabled to protect my brethren from the
danger of the law, and the consequences of their own zeal.
If moderation seem to me the natural creature of benevo-
lence, it gives, also, the greatest scope to beneficence.
Such, then, O Sallust! is my life, such my opinions.
In this manner I greet existence, and await death. And
thou, glad-hearted and kindly pupil of Epicurus, thou
but, come hither, and see what enjoyments, what hopes
are ours; and not the splendor of imperial banquets,
-nor the shouts of the crowded circus, -- nor the noisy
forum, nor the glittering theatre, -nor the luxuriant
gardens, -nor the voluptuous baths of Rome,- shall seem
to thee to constitute a life of more vivid and uninterrupted
happiness than that which thou so unreasonably pitiest as
the career of Glaucus the Athenian. Farewell!
Nearly seventeen centuries had rolled away, when the
city of Pompeii was disinterred from its silent tomb, all
vivid with undimmed hues; its walls fresh as if painted
yesterday, -not a hue faded on the rich mosaic of its
doors,in its forum the half-finished columns as left by
the workman's hand, before the trees in its gardens the
* Destroyed, A. D. 79 - first discovered. A. D. 1750.
·
·
in
in its
sacrificial tripod, in its halls the chest of treasure,
its baths the strigil, in its theatres the counter of admis-
sion, in its saloons the furniture and the lamp,-
triclinia the fragments of the last feast, in its cubicula
the perfumes and the rouge of fated beauty, and every-
where the bones and skeletons of those (c) who once
moved the springs of that minute yet gorgeous machine of
luxury and of life!
-
In the house of Diomed, in the subterranean vaults,
twenty skeletons (one of a babe) were discovered in one
spot by the door, covered by a fine ashen dust that had
evidently been wafted slowly through the apertures until it
had filled the whole space. There were jewels and coins,
candelabra for unavailing light, and wine hardened in the
amphora, vain precautions for a prolongation of agon-
ized life! The sand, consolidated by damps, had taken
the forms of the skeletons as in a cast; and the traveller
may yet see the impression of a female neck and bosom of
young and round proportions, the trace of the fated
Julia! It seems to the inquirer as if the air had been
gradually changed into a sulphureous vapor, the inmates
of the vaults had rushed to the door to find it closed and
blocked by the scoria without, and in their attempts to
force it, had been suffocated with the atmosphere.
In the garden was found a skeleton, with a key by its
bony hand, and near it a bag of coins. This is believed to
have been the master of the house, the unfortunate Dio-
med, who had probably sought to escape by the_garden,
and been destroyed either by the vapors or some fragment
of stone. Beside some silver vases lay another skeleton,
probably of a slave.
The houses of Sallust and of Pansa, the temple of Isis,
with the juggling concealments behind the statues, the lurk-
ing-place of its holy oracles, are now bared to the gaze of
the curious. In one of the chambers of that temple was
found a huge skeleton, with an axe beside it: two walls
had been pierced by the axe,-the victim could penetrate no
farther. In the midst of the city was found another skele-
ton laden with coins, and many of the mystic ornaments of
the fane of Isis.
the fane of Isis. Death had fallen
Death had fallen upon him in his avarice,
and Calenus perished simultaneously with Burbo! As the
excavators cleared on through the mass of ruin, they found
the skeleton of a man literally severed in two by a pros-
trate column; the skull was of so remarkable a conforma-
tion, so boldly marked in its intellectual, as well as its
worse physical, developments, that it has excited the con-
stant speculation of every itinerant believer in the theories.
of Spurzheim who has gazed upon that ruined palace of
the mind. Still, after a lapse of eighteen centuries, the
traveller may survey
galleries and elaborate chambers once thought, reasoned,
that airy hall, within whose cunning
dreamed, and sinned the soul of Arbaces the Egyptian!
Viewing the various witnesses of a social system which
that remote and barbarian isle, which the imperial Roman
has passed from the world for ever, a stranger from
shivered when he named, paused amid the delights of the
soft Campania, and composed this history!
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
115
(a) P. 111 "Rivers of the molten lava."
NOTES TO BOOK V.
Various theories as to the exact mode by which Pompeii was
destroyed have been invented by the ingenious. I have adopted
that which is the most generally received, and which, upon in-
specting the strata, appears the only one admissible by common
sense; namely, a destruction by showers of ashes and boiling
water, mingled with frequent interruptions of large stones, and
aided by partial convulsions of the earth. Herculaneum, on the
contrary, appears to have received, not only the showers of
ashes, but also inundations from molten lava; and the streams
referred to in the text must be considered as destined for that
city rather than for Pompeii. The volcanic lightnings intro-
duced in my description were evidently among the engines of
ruin at Pompeii. Papyrus, and other of the more inflammable
materials, are found in a burnt state. Some substances in metal
are partially melted; and a bronze statue is completely shiver-
ed, as by lightning. Upon the whole, I believe my description
of the destruction is very little assisted by invention, and will
be found not the less accurate for its appearance in a romance.
(b) P. 114. "A love that has taken a new sentiment in our
new creed."
What we now term and feel to be sentiment in love, was very
little known among the ancients, and in this day is scarcely
acknowledged out of Christendom. It is a feeling intimately
connected with,
|
(c) P. 114. "And everywhere the bones and skeletons of
those who once moved the springs of that minute yet gorgeous
machine of luxury and of life!"
At present there have been about 350 or 400 skeletons discov-
ered in Pompeii; but as a great part of the city is yet to be dis
interred, we can scarcely calculate the number of those who
perished in the destruction. Still, however, we have every rea
son to conclude that they were very few in proportion to those
who escaped. The ashes had been evidently cleared away from
many of the houses, no doubt for the purpose of recovering
whatever treasures had been left behind. The mansion of our
friend Sallust is one of those thus revisited. The skeletons
which, re-animated for a while, the reader has seen play their
brief parts upon the stage under the names of Burbo, Caienus.
Diomed, Julia, and Arbaces, were found exactly as described in
the text; may they have been re-animated more successfully for
the pleasure of the reader than they have been for the solace of
the author, who has vainly endeavoured, in the work which he
now concludes, to beguile the most painful, gloomy, and de-
spondent period of a life, in the web of which has been woven
less of white than the world may deem. But, like most other
friends, the imagination is capricious, and forsakes us often al
the moment in which we most need its aid. As we grow older,
we begin to learn that of the two our truer and more unfailing
But I should apologize for this sudden
and unseasonable indulgence of a momentary weakness, — it is
but for a moment ! With returning health returns also the
energy without which the sal were given us in vain, and which
enables us calmly to face the evils of our being, and resolutely
to fulfil its objects. There is but one philosophy, though
there are a thousand schools and its name is Fortitude
comforter is custom.
- not a belief, but a conviction, that the pas-
sion is of the soul, and, like the soul, immortal. Chateaubriand,
in that work so full both of error and of truth, his essay on
"The Genius of Christianity," has referred to this sentiment
with his usual eloquence. It makes, indeed, the great distinc-
tion between the amatory poetry of the moderns and that of
the ancients. And I have thought that I might, with some
consonance to truth and nature, attribute the consciousness of
this sentiment to Glaucus after his conversion to Christianity,
though he is only able vaguely to guess at, rather than thorough
to explain, its cause.
TJ BBA TO **CONQUER OUR FATE!”
THE STUDENT.
A SERIES OF PAPERS.
"Te situation of the most enchanted enthusiast is preferable to that of a philosopher who, from con-
nual apprehensions of being mistaken. at length dares neither affirm nor deny any thing."-WIE! AND $
ASATRON.
i
!
PREFACE.
many, at
The Tales, in short, partake as much of the
nature of the essay as the Essays themselves, availing
themselves of a dramatic shape, the more earnestly and
the less tediously to inculcate truths.
I PRESENT these volumes to the reader with consider-Tales, in which latter the moral is often more home.y,
able diffidence, and with the full consciousness that they more addressed to the experience of the reason, and less
need an apology. A series of papers which I published constructed from the subtleties and refinements of the feel
some time since in the New Monthly Magazine, under the ings.
title of "Conversations with an Ambitious Student," at-
tracted much favorable attention; and I have been often
earnestly requested to collect and republish them. I post-
poned, however, doing so, from time to time, in the im-
pression that their grave and serious character was not
likely to command an attentive audience with the
all commensurate with the exaggerated and enthusiastic
estimate already conceived of their value by the few At
length, deciding to publish certain Essays and Tales, I
found that their general train of thought was so much in
harmony with the Conversations referred to, that I re-
solved to incorporate the latter, leaving them at the
end of the collection, to be read or avoided, as the
inclination of the reader may prompt him;- a sort of
supplementary walk in the inclosure, at which he may
stop short, or through whica ne may pursue his wander-
ings, in proportion as the preliminary excursion may
have allured or fatigued him
Of the general nature both of these Conversations and
the various papers which precede them, (some of which
have also appeared before,) I should observe that they
belong rather to the poetical than the logical philosophy,
that, for the most part, they address the sentiment
rather than the intellect, choosing for their materials
the metaphysics of the heart and the passions, which
are more often employed in the Fiction than the Essay.
If the title were not a little equivocal and somewhat
presumptuous, I should venture to entitle them "Minor
Prose Poems: " they utter in prose what are the ordi-
nary didactics of poetry. I allow that they must there-
fore be taken cum grano,
that they assert rather than
prove, and that they address themselves more to those
prepared to agree with the views they embrace, than to
those whom it would be necessary to convert. This is
* more the case, perhaps, with the Essays than the
|
Although some of the contents of these volumes have
appeared before, I yet trust that the component parts have
been so selected and arranged as to form a tolerably sym-
metrical whole, each tending to maintain a unity of
purpose, and to illustrate one general vein of ethical sen-
timent and belief. Nay, from my desire to effect this the
more completely, I fear that I may occasionally have in-
curred the charge of repetition and tautology, — although,
perhaps, the fault was unavoidable, and it was necessary
to repeat the deduction of one Essay in the problems
contended for in another.
-
Perhaps I may hereafter (when I nave completed an
historical work, in which I am now, and at different in-
tervals, have, for years, been engaged) add to these vol-
umes, by some papers of a more solid and demonstrative
character, divided into two additional series, the one
upon certain topics of the Ancient Learning, the other
upon Politics and Commerce. It was with this intention
that I adopted the present title, which, if my plan bə
completed, will be more elaborately borne out than it is
by these volumes, regarded as a single publication.
I
repeat that it is with the most unaffected diffidence,
that, after mature deliberation and long delay, I decide
upon committing these papers to the judgment of the pub-
lic. I am fully aware that they are trifles in themselves,
and that miscellanies of this nature are liable to be con-
sidered even more trifling than they are,
still they con-
vey some thoughts and some feelings which I wished not
to have experienced without result; and the experience
by which an individual believes he has profited is rarely
communicated without some benefit, however humble, to
the world.
}
+
1
ON THE
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN AUTHORS
AND
THE IMPRESSION CONVEYED OF THEM BY THEIR WORKS.
disappoint the vulgar, the latter do not; because the one
are bred up in the arts that hide defects and dazzle the herd,
and the other know nothing but knowledge, and are skilled
in no arts save those of composition. It follows, then, that
the feeling of disappointment is usually a sign of a weak
mind in him who experiences it, -a foolish, apprentice-
sort of disposition, that judges of every thing great by the
criterion of a puppet-show, and expects as much out of the
common way in a celebrated author as in the lord-mayor's
coach. I hear, therefore, the common cry, that a great
man does not answer expectation, with a certain distrust-
ful scorn of the persons who utter it. What right have
they to judge of the matter at all? Send them to see Gog
and Magog; they will not be disappointed with that sight.
Is it not, in fact, a great presumption in the petty herd of
idlers to express an opinion of a man, when they can
scarcely do so of his works, which are but a part of him?
Men who knew not, nor could have known, a line in the
Principia, thought themselves perfectly at liberty to say
that Sir Isaac Newton was quite a different man from what
might have been expected. There is scarcely a good critic
of books born in an age, and yet every fool thinks himself
justified in criticising persons. "There are some people,'
said Necker, in one of his fragments, "who talk of our
Pascal, -our Corneille. I am thunderstruck at their
familiarity!
THIS is one of those subtle and delicate subjects which | letters and the great men of court: the former generaly
literary philosophers have not taken the trouble to discuss;
it is one which is linked with two popular errors. The
first error is the assertion that authors are different from the
idea of them which their writings tend to convey; and the
second error is in the expectation that nevertheless authors
ought to be exactly what their readers choose to imagine
them. The world does thus, in regard to authors, as it
does in other matters, -expresses its opinion in order to
contrast its expectations But if an author disappoint the
herd of spectators, it does not follow that it is his fault.
The mass of men are disappointed with the Elgin marbles.
Why ? Because they are like life, because they are
natura. Their disappointment in being brought into con-
tact with a man of genius is of the same sort. He is too
natural for them, they expected to see his style in his
clothes. Mankind love to be cheated; thus the men of
genius who have not disappointed the world in their exter-
nals, and in what I shall term the management of self, have
always played a part, they have kept alive the vulgar
wonder by tricks suited to the vulgar understanding,
they have measu ed their conduct by device and artifice,
and have walked he paths of life in the garments of the
stage. Thus did Pythagoras and Diogenes, thus did
Napoleon and Louis XIV., (the last of whom was a man
of genius, if only from the delicate beauty of his compli
ments,) thus did Bolingbroke and Chatham, (who never
spoke except in his best wig, as being the more imposing,) In real truth, I believe that there is much less difference
and above all Englishmen, thus did Lord Byron. These between the author and his works than is currently sup-
last three are men eminently interesting to the vulgar, not posed; it is usually in the physical appearance of the writer,
so much from their genius as their charlatanism. It requires
his manners, his mien, his exterior, that he falls
a more muscular mind than ordinary to recover the shock short of the idea a reasonable man forms of him, rarely
of finding a great man simple. There are some wise lines
There are some wise lines in his mind. A man is, I suspect, but of a second-rate
in the Corsair, the peculiar merit of which I never recol-order whose genius is not immeasurably above his works,
lect that any of the million critics of that poem discov-
ered:
'He bounds, -he flies, until his footsteps reach
The spot where ends the cliff, begins the beach,
There checks his speed; but pauses less to breathe
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath,
Than there his wonted statelier step renew,
Nor rush, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view ;
For well had Conrad learned to curb the crowd
By arts that veil and oft preserve the proud :
His was the .ofty port, the distant mien
That seems to shun the sight, and awes if seen;
The solemn aspect and the high-born eye,
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy.”
In these lines, shrewd and worldly to the very mar-
row, are depicted the tricks which chiefs have ever been
taught to play, but which literary men (chiefs of a different
order) have not learned to perforin. Hence their simplici-
ty,
-hence the vulgar disappointment. No man was dis-
appointed with the late Lord Londonderry, but many were
with Walter Scott; none with Charles X.
many with
Paul Courier; none with the late Archbishop of ****,
many with Wordsworth. Massillon preserved in the court
the impression he had made in the pulpit: he dressed alike
his melodious style and his handsome person to the best ad-
vantage. Massillon was a good man, but he was a quack;
at was his vocation, for he was also a good courtier.
This, then, is the difference between the great men of
VOL. II.
16
-
--
who does not feel within him an inexhaustible affluence
—
of thoughts, feelings, inventions, which he will never
have leisure to embody in print. He will die, and leave
only a thousandth part of his wealth to posterity, which is
his heir. I believe this to be true even of persons, like La
Fontaine, who succeed only in a particular line; men seem-
ingly of one idea shining through an atmosphere of simpli-
city, the monomaniacs of genius. But it is doubly true
of the mass of great authors who are mostly various, accom-
plished, and all-attempting: such men never can perfect
their own numberless conceptions.
It is, then, in the physical or conventional, not the men-
tal qualities, that an author usually falls short of our ideal:
this is a point worthy to be fixed in the recollection. Any
of my readers who have studied the biography of men of
letters will allow my assertion is borne out by facts; and,
at this moment, I am quite sure that numbers, even of both
sexes, have lost a portion of interest for the genius of By-
ron on reading in Lady Blessington's Journal that he wore
a nankeen jacket and green spectacles. Of such a nature
are such disappointments. No! in the mind of a man there
is always a resemblance to his works. His heroes may
not be like himself, but they are like certain qualities which
belong to him. The sentiments he utters are his at the mo-
ment: if you find them predominate in all his works, they
predominate in his mind; if they are advanced in one, but
contradicted in another, they still resemble their author
122
BULWER'S NOVELS.
and betray the want of depth or of resolution in Lis mind.
His works alone make not up a man's character, but they
are the index of that living bʊok.
|
the senten-
But this view is the most partial of all, and I have
therefore considered it the first. How few instances there
are, after all, of even that seeming discrepitude, which I
Every one knows how well Voltaire refuted the assertion have just touched upon, between the author's conduct and
of J. Baptiste Rousseau, that goodness an I talent must exist | his books; in most they chime together, and all the notes
together. The learned Strabo, holding the same error as from the mighty instrument are in concord! Look at the
Baptiste Rousseau, says, (lib. i.) that there cannot be “ a ife of Schiller, how completely his works assimilate with
good poet who is not first a good man. This is a para-his restless, questioning, and daring genius: the animation
dox, and yet it is not far from the truth: a good poet may of Fiesco, the solemnity of Wallenstein, -are alike em-
not be a good man, but he must have certain good disposi- blematic of his character. His sentiments are the echo to
tions. Above all, that disposition which sympathizes with his life. Walter Scott and Cobbett, what a contrast !
noble sentiments, with lofty actions, with the beauty Could Cobbett's life have been that of Scott, - or Scott's
of the mind as of the earth. This may not suffice to make character that of Colbett? You may read the cnaracter of
aim a good man, its influence may be counteracted a the authors in their several works, as if the works were
hundred ways in life, but it is not counteracted in his com- meant to be autobiographies. Warburton !
what an
positions. There the better portion of his intellect awakes, illustration of the proud and bitter bishop, in his proud and
there he gives vent to enthusiasın, and enthusiasm to bitter books! Sir Philip Sidney is the Arcadia put into
generous and warm emotions. Sterne may have been harsh action; the wise and benevolent Fénelon ;
to his wife, but his heart was tender at the moment he tious and fiery Corneille; the dreaming and scarce intel-
wrote of Maria. Harshness of conduct is not a contradic-ligible Shelly; the pompous vigor of Johnson, with his
ion of extreme susceptibility to sentiment in writing. The prejudice and his sense, his jealousies and his charity,-
atter may be perfectly sincere, as the former may be per- his habitual magniloquence in nothings, and his gloomy
fectly indefensible; in fact, the one may be a consequence, independence of mind, yet low-born veneration for rank;
not a contradiction, of the other. The craving after the ideal, Johuson is no less visible in the Rambler, the Rasselas, the
which belongs to sentiment, makes its possessor discon- Lives of the Poets, the Taxation no Tyranny, than in his
tented with the mortals around him, and the very overfine- large chair at Mrs. Thrale's, his lonely chamber in the
ness of nerve that quickens his feelings sharpens also his dark court out of Fleet-street, - or his leonine unbendings
irritability. For my own part, so far from being surprised with the canicular soul of Boswell. How in the playfulness
to hear that Sterne was a peevish and angry man, I should and the depth, the eccentricity and the solid sense,
have presumed it at once from the overwrought fibre of his ubiquitous sympathy with the larger mass of men,
graver compositions. This contrast between softness in absence of almost all sympathy with their smaller knots and
emotion and callousness in conduct is not peculiar to poets.
closer ties, how in those features, which characterize the
Nero was womanishly affected by the harp; and we are pages of Bentham, you behold the wise, singular, benevolent,
told by Plutarch, that Alexander Pheraus, who was one and passionless old man! I might go on enumerating these
of the sternest of tyrants, shed a torrent of tears upon the
instances for ever:- Dante, Petrarch, Voltaire, rush on
acting of a play. So that he who had furnished the most
my memory as I write, but to name them is enough to
matter for tragedies was most affected by the pathos of a remind the reader that if he would learn their characters lie
tragedy!
has only to read their works. I have been much pleased
in tracing the life of Paul Louis Courier, the most brilliant
political writer France ever possessed, to see how singu
larly it is in keeping with the character of his writings.
Talking the other day at Paris with some of his friends,
they expressed themselves astonished at my accurate notions
of his character, -"You must have known him," they
said. "No;
—
But who shall say that the feelings which produced such
emotions even in such men were not laudable and good?
Who that has stood in the dark caverns of the human heart
shall dare to scoff at the contrast of act and sentiment,
instead of lamenting it? Such scoffers are the shallows
of wit, their very cleverness proves their superficiality.
There are various dark feelings within us which do not
destroy, but which, when roused, overwhelm for the time, the
feelings which are good, to which last, occupied in litera-
ture, or in purely mental emotions, we are sensible alone,
and unalloyed. Of our evil feelings, there is one in espe-
cial which is the usual characteristic of morbid literary
men, though hitherto it has escaped notice as such, and
which is the cause of many of the worst faults to be found
both in the author and the tyrant: this feeling is suspicion:
and I think I am justified in calling it the characteristic of
morbid literary men. Their quick susceptibilities make
them over-sensible of injury, they exaggerate the enmi-
ties they have awakened, the slanders they have incurred.
They are ever fearful of a trap: nor this in literature alone.
Knowing that they are not adepts in the world's common
business, they are perpetually afraid of being taken in; and,
feeling their various peculiarities, they are often equally
afraid of being ridiculed. Thus suspicion, in all ways and
all shapes, besets them; this makes them now afraid to be
generous, and now to be kind; and acting upon a soil that
easily receives, but rarely loses, an impression, that
melancholy vice soon obdurates and incrusts the whole con-
dact of the acting man. But in literary composition it
sleeps. The thinking man then hath no enemy at his desk,
-no hungry trader at his elbow, -no grinning spy on his
uncouth gestures. His soul is young again, he is what
he imbodies; and the feelings, checked in the real world,
obtain their vent in the imaginary. It was the good natural,
to borrow a phrase from the French, that spoke in the erring
Rousseau, when he dwelt on the loveliness of virtue. It
was the good natural that stirred in the mind of Alexander
Pheraus, when he wept at the minic sorrows subjected to
g
D
his gaze.
When the time for action and for the real world
arrived to either, it roused other passions, and suspicion
made the author no less a wretch than it made the tyrant.
Thus the tenderest sentiments may be accompanied with
cruel actions, and yet the solution of the enigma be easy
to the inquirer; and thus, though the life of an author does
not correspond with his works, his nature mav.
the
the
but I know his works." When he was
S
sympa.
in the army in Italy, he did not distinguish himself by
bravery in his profession of soldier, but by bravery in his
pursuits as an antiquarian! perfectly careless of danger, be
pursued his own independent line of occupation,
thizing with none of the objects of others,-untouched by
the vulgar ambition, — wandering alone over the remains
of old, falling a hundred times into the hands of the
brigands, and a hundred times extricating himself by his
address, and continuing the same pursuits with the same
nonchalance. In all this you see the identical character
which, in his writings, views with a gay contempt the am-
bition and schemes of others, which sneers alike at the
Bourbon and the Bonaparte, — which, careless of subordi
nation, rather than braving persecution, pursues with a
gallant indifference its own singular and independent career.
A critic, commenting on writings that have acquired
some popularity, observed, that they contained two views
of life contradictory of each other, the one inclining to
the ideal and lofty, the other to the worldly and cynical.
The critic remarked, that “this might arise from the author
having two separate characters, -a circumstance less un.
common than the world supposed." There is great depth
in the critic's observation. An author usually has twe
characters, the one belonging to imagination, he other
to his experience. From the one come all his higher im
bodyings: by the help of the one he elevates, - he refines;
from the other come his beings of the earth, earthy," and
his aphorisms of worldly caution. From the one broke,
i
bright, yet scarce distinct, the Rebecca of Ivanhoe;
from the other rose, shrewd and selfish, the Andrew Fair-
service of Rob Roy. The original of the first need never
to have existed, her elements belonged to the ideal; but
the latter was purely the creature of experience, and either
copied from one, or moulded unconsciously from severa., of
the actual denizens of the living world. In Shakspeare the
same doubleness of character is remarkably visible. The
* "Poetry put into action" is the fine saying of Campbell in
respect to Sidney's life; true, but the poetry of the Arcadia,
K
ON THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN AUTHORS, ETC.
123
loftiest idea. is perpetually linked with the most exact copy
of the commoners of life. Shakspeare had never seen Mi-
randa, but he had drunk his glass with honest Stephano.
Each character imbodies a separate view of life, the one
(to return to my proposition) the offspring of imagination,
the other of experience This complexity of character,
which has often puzzled the inquirer, may, I think, thus
be easily explained, and the seeining contradiction of the
tendency of the work traced home to the conflicting princi-
ples in the breast of the writer. The more an imaginative
man sees of the world, the more likely to be prominent is
the distinction I have noted.
I cannot leave this subject, though the following re-
mark is an episode from the inquiry indicated by my title,
without observing that the characters drawn by experi- |
ence, usually the worldly, the plain, and the humorous,
stand necessarily out from the canvass in broader and
more startling colors, than those created by the imagina-
tion. Hence superficial critics have often considered the
humorous and coarse characters of an author as his best,
forgetful that the very indistinctness of his ideal char-
acters is not only inseparable from the nature of purely
imaginary creations, but a proof of the exaltation and in-
tenseness of the imaginative power. The most shadowy
and mist-like of all Scott's heroes is the Master of
Kavenswood, and yet it is perhaps the highest of his char-
acters in execution as well as conception. Those strong
colors and massive outlines, which strike the vulgar gaze
as belonging to the best pictures, belong rather to the
lower schools of art. Let us take a work, the greatest
the world possesses in those schools, and in which the
flesh-and-blood vitality of the characters is especially
marked, I mean Tom Jones, and compare it with
Hamlet. The chief characters in Tom Jones are all plain,
visible, eating, drinking, and walking beings; those in
Hamlet are shadowy, solemn, and mysterious,
we do
not associate them with the ordinary wants and avocations
of earth, — they are
"Lifeless, but lifelike, and awful to sight,
""
Like the figures in arras that gloomily glare,
Stirred by the breath of the midnight air.'
But who shall say that the characters in Tom Jones are
better drawn than those in Hamlet, or that there is
greater skill necessary in the highest walk of the actual
school, than in that of the imaginative?— Yet there are
some persons who, secretly in their hearts, want Hamlet
to be as large in the calves as Tom Jones! These are
they who blame Lara for being indistinct, that very in-
distinctness shedding over the poem the sole interest it was
capable of receiving. With such critics, Maritornes is a
more masterly creation than Undine.
J
Cer-
We may observe in humorous authors that the faults they
chiefly ridicule have often a likeness in themselves.
vantes had much of the knight-errant in him;-Sir George
Etherege was unconsciously the Fopling Flutter of his
own satire; -- Goldsmith was the same hero to chamber-
maids, and coward to ladies, that he has inmortalized in
his charming comedy; and the antiquarian frivolities
of Jonathan Oldbuck had their resemblance in Jonathan
Oldbuck's creator. The pleasure or the pain we derive
from our own foibles makes enough of our nature to come
off somewhere or other in the impression we stamp of our-
æelves on books.
There is, - as I think it has been somewhere remarked
by a French writer, there is that in our character which
never can be seen except in our writings. Yes, all that
we have formed from the ideal,—all our noble aspirings,
-our haunting visions, - our dreams of virtue, all the
celata Venus which dwells in the lonely Ida of the heart,
who could pour forth these delicate mysteries to gross
and palpable hearers, who could utterly unveil to a
actual and indifferent spectator the cherished and revered
images of years, dim regrets and vague hopes?
ઃઃ
In fact, if you told your best friend half what you put
upon paper, he would yawn in your face, or he would
think you a fool. Would it have been possible for Rous-
seau to have gravely communicated to a living being the
tearful egotisms of his Reveries? could Shakspeare
have uttered the wild confessions of his sonnets to his
friends at the " Mermaid?"— should we have any notion of
the youthful character of Milton, — its lustrous but crystal-
lized purity, if the Comus had been unwritten? Authors
are the only men we ever really do know, -the rest of
mankind die with only the surface of their character understood.
True, as I have before said, even in an author, if of large
and fertile mind, much of his most sacred self is never to
be revealed, but still we know what species of ore the
mine would have produced, though we may not have ex-
hausted its treasure.
Thus, then, to sum up what I have said, so far from
there being truth in the vulgar notion that the character of
authors is belied in their works, their works are, to a
diligent inquirer, their clearest and fullest illustration,
an appendix to their biography far more valuable and
explanatory than the text itself. From this fact we may
judge of the beauty and grandeur of the materials of the
human mind, although those materials are so often pervert-
ed, and their harmony so fearfully marred. It also appears
that, despite the real likeness between the book and
the man, the vulgar will not fail to be disappointed, be-
cause they look to externals;
cause they look to externals; and the man composed not
the book with his face, nor his dress, nor his man-
ners, but with his mind. Hence, then, to proclaim
yourself disappointed with the author is usually to condemo
your own accuracy of judgment, and your own secret crav-
ing after pantomimic effect. Moreover, it would appear,
on looking over these remarks, that there are often two
characters to an author, the one essentially drawn from
the poetry of life, the other from its experience; and
that hence are to be explained many seeming contradic-
tions and inconsistencies in his works. Lastly, that so far
from the book belying the author, unless he had written
that book, you (no, even if you are his nearest relation,
his dearest connexion, his wife, his mother) would
never have known the character of his mind.
"Hæ pulcherrimæ effiiges et mansuræ."
All biography proves this remarkable fact! Who so aston-
ished as a man's relations when he has exhibited his
M
Would
genius, which is the soul and core of his character? Had
Alfieri or Rousseau died at thirty, what would all who had
personally known either have told us of them?
they have given us any, the faintest notion of their char-
acters? None. A man's mind is betrayed by his talents.
as much as his virtues. A counsellor of a provincial par-
liament had a brother a mathematician, - "How unwor-
thy in my brother," cried the counsellor,-
"the brother
of a counsellor of the parliament in Bretagne, to sink into
a mathematician ! That mathematician was Descartes!
What should we know of the character of Descartes,
supposing him to have renounced his science, and his
brother (who might fairly be supposed to know his ife and
character better than any one else) to have written his
biography? A reflection that may teach us how biogra
phy in general ought to be estimated.
124
BULWER'S NOVELS
THE WORLD AS IT IS.
A TALE.
"WHAT a delightful thing the world is! Lady Lennox's
ball, last night, how charming it was!-every one so
kind, and Charlotte looking so pretty, the nicest girl I
ever saw! But I must dress now. Balfour is to be here
at twelve with the horse he wants to sell me. How lucky
I am to have such a friend as Balfour ! - so entertaining,
so good-natured, -so devilish clever too, and such
an excellent heart! Ah! how unlucky! it rains a little;
but never mind, it will clear up; and if it don't why,
one can play at billiards. What a delightful thing the
world is!
So soliloquized Charles Nugent, a man of twenty-one,
-a philanthropist, -au optimist. Our young gentleman
was an orphan, of good family and large fortune; brave,
generous, confiding, and open-hearted. His ability was
above the ordinary standard, and he had a warm love, and
a pure taste for letters. He had even bent a knee to
philosophy, but the calm and cold graces with which the
goddess receives her servants had soon discontented the
young votary with the worship. Away!" cried he,
one morning, flinging aside the volume of La Rochefon-
cault, which he had fancied he understood; "
away with
this selfish and debasing code! -men are not the mean
things they are here described, be it mine to think exult-
ingly of my species!" My dear experience, with how
many fine sentiments do you intend to play the devil? It
is not without reason that Goethe tells us, that though Fate
is an excellent, she is also a very expensive, school-
mistress.
"Ha! my dear Nugent, how are you?" and Captain
Balfour enters the room; a fine, dark, handsome fellow,
with something of pretension in his air and a great deal of
frankness. "And here is the horse. Come to the win-
dow. Does not he step finely? What action!
remark his forehand? How he carries his tail!
don't think you shall have him, after all !"
"Nay, my dear fellow, you may well be sorry to part
with him. He is superb! Quite sound, eh?"
"Have him examined."
-
Mr. Gilpin made a most respectful bow, and leaved a
peculiarly profound sigh. Nugent was instantly seizea
with a lively interest in the stranger. "Sir, it is with
great regret," faltered forth Mr. Gilpin, "that I seek
you. I—I—I—” A low, consumptive cough checked
his speech. Nugent offered him a cup of tea. The civili-
ty was refused, and the story continued.
S
M
Mr. Gilpin's narration is soon told, when he himself is
not the narrator. An unfortunate literary man, -- once
in affluent circumstances, security for a treacherous
friend, friend absconded,
pressure of unforeseen cir
cumstances, angel wife and four cherub children,
book coming out next season, deep distress at present,
-horror at being forced to beg,- forcibly struck by senti-
ments generous, expressed in the tale written by Mr. Nu-
gent, a ray of hope broke on his mind, and voilà the
causes of Mr. Gilpin's distress and Mr. Gilpin's visit.
Never was there a more interesting personification of the
afflicted man of letters than Gregory Gilpin. He looked
pale, patient, and respectable; he coughed frequently, and
he was dressed in deep mourning. Nugent's heart swelled,
he placed a bank-note in Mr. Gilpin's hand,
promised more effectual relief, and Mr. Gilpin retired,
overpowered with his own gratitude and Mr. Nugent's
respectful compassion.
>>>
he
"How happy I am to be rich!" said the generous
young philanthropist, throwing open his chest.
Nugent went to a converzazione at Lady Lennox's. Her
ladyship was a widow, and a charming woman.
She was
a little of the blue, and a little of the fine lady, and a little
of the beauty, and a little of the coquette, and a great
deal of the sentimentalist. She had one daughter, without
a shilling; she had taken a warm interest in a young man
Do you
of the remarkable talents and singular amiability of Charles
Gad, I Nugent. He sat next her, they talked of the heartless-
ness of the world, it is a subject on which men of twenty-
one and ladies of forty-five are especially eloquent. Lady
Lennox complained, Mr. Nugent defended. "One does
not talk much of innocence." it is said, or something like
it is said, somewhere in Madame d'Epinay's Memoirs,
"without being sadly corrupted; " and nothing brings out
the goodness of our own hearts more than a charge against
the heartlessness of others.
" Do
price?"
"Fix it yourself. Prince Paul once offered me a hun-
dred and eighty; but to you-"
you think I would not take your word for it? The
"You shall have it."
"No, Nugent, say a hundred and fifty."
"I won't be outdone,
dred and eighty guineas.
there's a draft for the one hun-
"Upon my soul, I'm ashamed; but you are such a rich
fellow. John, take the horse to Mr. Nugent's stables.
Where will you dine to-day?— at the Cocoa-tree?"
"With all my heart."
The young men rode together. Nugent was delighted
with his new purchase. They dined at the Cocoa-tree.
Balfour ordered some early peaches. Nugent paid the bill.
They went to the opera.
"Do you see that figurante, Florine?" asked Balfour;
pretty ankle, eh?"
"Yes, comme ça, but dances awkwardly,
not hand-
"what
"An excellent woman!" thought Nugent;
warm feelings! how pretty her daughter is! Oh! a
charming family ! "
Charlotte Lennox played an affecting air; Nugent leaned
over the piano; they talked about music, poetry, and going
on the water, sentiment, and Richmond Hill. They made
up a party of pleasure. Nugent did not sleep well that
night, he was certainly in love.
—
When he rose the next morning, the day was bright and
fine; Balfour, the best of friends, was to be with him in
an hour; Balfour's horse, the best of horses, was to con-
vey
him to Richmond; and at Richmond he was to meet
Lady Lennox, the most agrecable of mothers, and Char-
lotte, the most enchanting of daughters. The figurante
had always been a bore, she was now forgotten. "It
certainly is a delightful world!" repeated Nugent, as he
Bome."
"What! not handsome! Come and talk to her. She's tied his neck-cloth.
more admired than any girl on the stage."
They went behind the scenes, and Balfour convinced his
friend that he ought to be enchanted with Florine. Before
the week was out the figurante kept her carriage, and in
return, Nugent supped with her twice a week.
Nugent had written a tale for "The Keepsake;" it
was his first literary effort; it was tolerably good, and
exceedingly popular. One day he was lounging over his
breakfast, and a tall, thin gentleman, in black, was an-
Rounced, by the name of Mr. Gilpin.
not
It was some time, I will not say how long, after the
date of this happy day, -Nugent was alone in his apart-
ment, and walking to and fro, his arms folded, and a
frown upon his brow. "What a rascal! what a mean
wretch and the horse was lame when he sold it,
worth ten pounds! and I so confiding, damn my folly!
That, however, I should not mind; but to have saddled me
with his cast-off mistress! to make me the 'laughing-stock
of the world! By heavens, he shall repent it! Borrowed
money of me, then made a jest of my good-nature! intro-
C
THE WORLD AS IT IS.
125
luced me to his club, in order to pillage me! But, thank
God, I can shoot him yet! Ha! colonel, this is kind!"
Colonel Nelmore, an elderly gentleman, well known in
society, with a fine forehead, a shrewd, contemplative eye,
and an agreeable address, entered the room. To him Nu-
gent poured forth the long list of his grievances, and con-
cluded by begging him to convey a challenge to the best of
friends, Captain Balfour. The colonel raised his eye-
brows.
“But, my dear sir, this gentleman has certainly behaved
ill to you, I allow it, but for what specific offence do you
1
mean to challenge him?
"For his conduct in general."
The colonel laughed.
"For saying yesterday, then, that I was grown a d-d
bore, and he should cut me in future. He told Selwyn so
in the bow-window at White's."
The colonel took snuff.
Mean-
"My good young friend," said he, "I see you don't
know the world. Come and dine with me to-day,
punctual seven. We'll talk over these matters.
while, you can't challenge a man for calling you a bore."
"Not challenge him! what should I do then?"
Laugh, shake your head at him, and say, 'Ah! Bal-
four, you 're a sad fellow!"
The colonel succeeded in preventing the challenge, but
Nugent's indignation at the best of friends remained as
warm as ever. He declined the colonel's invitation, — be
was to dine with the Lennoxes. Meanwhile, he went to
the shady part of Kensington Gardens, to indulge his re-
flections.
"Well, well!" said poor Nugent one morning, break.
ing from a reverie, "betrayed in my friendship, deceived
in my love, the pleasure of doing good is still left to me.
Friendship quits us at the first stage of life, love at the
second, benevolence lasts till death! Poor Gilpin ! how
grateful he is: I must see if I can get him that place
abroad." To amuse his thoughts, he took up a new mag-
azine. He opened the page at a violent attack on himself,
-on his beautiful tale in the " Keepsake." The satire
was not confined to the work; it extended to the author.
He was a fop, a coxcomb, a ninny, an intellectual dwarf,
a miserable creature, and an abortion! These are pleas-
ant studies for a man out of spirits, especially before he is
used to them. Nugent bad just flung the magazine to the
other end of the room, when his lawyer came to arrange
matters about a mortgage, which the generous Nugent had
already been forced to raise on his estates. The lawyer
was a pleasant, entertaining man of the world, accustomed
to the society, for he was accustomed to the wants, of
young men. He perceived that Nugent was a little out of
humor. He attributed the cause, naturally enough, to the
mortgage; and to divert his thoughts, he entered first on a
general conversation.
"What rogues there are in the world!" said be. Nu-
gent groaned. "This morning, for instance, before I came
to you, I was engaged in a curious piece of business enough.
A gentleman gave his son-in-law a qualification to stand for
a borough the son-in-law kept the deed, and so cheated
the good gentleman out of more than three hundred pounds
a year. Yesterday I was employed against a fraudulent
bankrupt, such an instance of long, premeditated, cold-
must see what is to be done with a literary swindler, who,
on the strength of a consumptive cough, and a suit of black,
has been respectably living on compassion for the last two
years."
"Ha!"
He sat himself down in an arbor, and looked moralizing-hearted, deliberate rascality! And when I leave you, I
ly over the initials, the dates, and the witticisms that hands
long since mouldering have consigned to the admiration of
posterity.
A gay party were strolling by this retreat, their laugh-
ter and their voices preceded them. "Yes," said a sharp,
dry voice, which Nugent recognised as belonging to one of
the wits of the day, "yes, I saw you, Lady Lennox,
talking sentiment to Nugent, fie! how could you waste
your time so unprofitably?"
"Ah! poor young man! he is certainly bien bete, with
his fine phrases, and so forth but 't is a good creature, on
the whole, and exceedingly useful.”
"Useful ! "
"Yes; fills up a vacant place at one's table, at a day's
warning; lends me his carriage-horses when mine have
caught cold; subscribes to my charities for me and sup-
plies the drawing-room with flowers. In a word, if he
were more sensible, he would be less agreeable his sole
charm is his foibles.
What a description by the most sentimental of mothers,
of the most talented, the most interesting of young men !
Nugent was thunderstruck; the party swept by; he was
undiscovered.
He raved, he swore, he was furious. He go to the dinner
to-day! No, he would write such a letter to the lady, it
—
should speak daggers! But the daughter: Charlotte was
not of the party. Charlotte, -oh! Charlotte was quite a
different creature from her mother, the most natural, |
the most simple of human beings, and evidently loved him.
He could not be mistaken there. Yes, for her sake he
would go to the dinner: he would smother his just resent-
ment.
He went to Lady Lennox's. It was a large party. The
young Marquis of Austerly had just returned from his trav
els.
He was sitting next to the most lovely of daughters.
Nugent was forgotten.
|
||
a
"He has just committed the most nefarious fraud,
forgery, in short, on his own uncle, who has twice seriously
distressed himself to save the rogue of a nephew, and who
must now submit to this loss, or proclaim, by a criminal
prosecution, the disgrace of his own family. The nephew
proceeded, of course, on his knowledge of my client's good-
ness of heart; and thus a man suffers in proportion to his
amiability."
"Is his name Gil Gil Gilpin ?" stanmered
Nugent.
The same! O-ho! have you been bit, too, Mr
Nugent ?
Before our hero could answer, a letter was brought to
him. Nugent tore the seal; it was from the editor of the
magazine in which he had just read his own condemnation.
It ran thus:
Sir, Having been absent from London on unavoida-
ble business for the last month, and the care of the
Magazine having thereby devolved on another, who has
very ill discharged its duties, I had the surprise and mor-
tification of perceiving, on my return this day, that a most
unwarrantable and personal attack upon you has been ad-
mitted in the number for this month. I cannot sufficiently
express my regret, the more especially on finding that
the article in question was written by a mere mercena-
ry in letters. To convince you of my concern, and my
resolution to guard against such unworthy proceedings ir
future, I inclose you another and yet severer attack, which
was sent to us for our next number, and for which, I grieve
to say, the unprincipled author has already succeeded in
obtaining from the proprietors -a remuneration. I havs
the honor to be, sir, &c. &c. &c."
Nugent's eyes fell on the mc.osed paper; it was in the
handwriting of Mr. Gregory Gilpin, the most grateful of
distressed literary men.
"You seem melancholy to-day, my dear Nugent," said
Colonel Nelmore, as he met his young friend walking with
downcast eyes in the old mall of St. James's Park.
After dinner, however, he found an opportunity to say a
few words in a whisper to Charlotte. He hinted a tender
reproach, and he begged her to sing "We met; 't was in a
crowd." Charlotte was hoarse, had caught cold. Char-
lotte could not sing. Nugent left the room and the house.
When he got to the end of the street, he discovered that he
had left his cane behind. He went back for it, glad (for
he was really in love) of an excuse for darting an angry
glance at the most simple, the most natural of human be-
ings, that should prevent her sleeping the whole night. He "I love meeting with a pensive man," said the colonel:
ascended to the drawing-room; and Charlotte was delight-"let me jain you, and let us dine together, tétc-d-téte, at
ing the Marquis of Austerly, who leaned over her chair,
with "We met; it was in a crowd.”
Charlotte Lennox was young, lovely, and artful. Lord.
Austerly was young, inexperienced, and vain. In less than
month, he proposed, and was accepted.
|
"I am unhappy, I am discontented; the gloss is faded
from life," answered Nugent, sighing.
my bachelor's table. You refused me some time ago;
may I be more fortunate now ???
I shall be but poor company," rejoined Nugent; "but
I am very much obliged to you, and I accept your invita-
tion with pleasure."
126
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Colonel Nelmore was a man who had told some fifty
years. He had known misfortune in his day, and he had
seen a great deal of the harsh realities of life. But he had
not suffered nor lived in vain. He was no theorist, and
did not affect the philosopher; but he was contented with
a small fortune, popular with retired habits, observant
with a love for study, and, above all, he did a great deal of
general good, exactly because he embraced no particular
system.
CC
"Yes," said Nugent, as they sat together after dinner,
and the younger man had unbosomed to the elder, who had
been his father's most intimate friend, all that had seemed
to him the most unexampled of misfortunes, after he had
repeated the perfidies of Balfour, the faithlessness of Char-
lotte, and the rascalities of Gilpin,
yes," said he, "I
now see my error; I no longer love my species; I no lon-
ger place reliance in the love, friendship, sincerity, or
virtue of the world; I will no longer trust myself open-
hearted in this vast community of knaves; I will not fly
mankind, but I will despise them."
nay, no
The colonel smiled. "You shall put on your hat, my
young friend, and pay a little visit with me : —
excuse it is only an old lady who has given me permis-
sion to drink tea with her." Nugent demurred, but con-
sented. The two gentlemen walked to a small house in
the Regent's Park. They were admitted to a drawing-
room, where they found a blind old lady, of a cheerful
countenance and prepossessing manners.
"And how does your son do?" asked the colonel, after
the first salutations were over; "have you seen him
lately?"
"Seen him lately! why, you know he rarely lets a day
pass without calling on, or writing to, me. Since the
affliction which visited me with blindness, though he has
nothing to hope from me, though from my jointure I must
necessarily be a burden to one of his limited income, and
mixing so much with the world as he does; yet had 1 been
the richest mother in England, and every thing at my own
disposal, he could not have been more attentive, more kind
to me. He will cheerfully give up the gayest party to
come and read to me, if I am the least unwell, or the
least out of spirits; and he sold his horses to pay Miss
Blandy, since I could not afford from my own income to
pay the salary so accomplished a musician asked to become
my companion. Music you know, is my chief luxury.
Oh, he is a paragon of sons,— the world think him dissi-
pated and heartless; but if they could see how tender he
is to me!" exclaimed the mother, clasping her hands, as
the tears gushed from her eyes. Nugent was charmed:
the colonel encouraged the lady to proceed; and Nugent
thought he had never passed a more agreeable hour than
listening to her maternal praises of her affectionate son.
CC
Ah, colonel!" said he, as they left the house, "how
much wiser have you been than myself; you have selected
your friends with discretion. What would I give to pos-
sess such a friend as that good son must be! But you
never told me the lady's name.
""
CC Patience,"
," said the colonel, taking snuff, "I have
"I have
another visit to pay."
Nelmore turned down a little alley, and knocked at a
small cottage. A woman with a child at her breast open-
ed the door; and Nugent stood in one of those scenes of
cheerful poverty which it so satisfies the complacency of
the rich to behold.
"Aha!" said Nelmore, looking round, "you seem com-
fortable enough now; your benefactor has not done his
work by halves."
<<
Blessings on his heart, no! Oh, sir, when I think
how distressed he is himself, how often he has been put to
for money,
how calumniated he is by the world, I cannot
express how grateful I am, how grateful I ought to be.
He has robbed himself to feed us, and merely because he
knew my husband in youth.
S
street; "this is lucky indeed, I see a good lady whom
I wish to accost. - Well, Mrs. Johnson," addressing a
stout, comely, middle-aged woman of respectable appear-
ance, who, with a basket on her arm, was coming out of
an oil-shop; so you have been laboring in your vocation,
I see, making household purchases.
And how is your
young lady?
σε
<<
Very well, sir, I am happy to say," replied the old
woman, courtesying. "And you are well too, I hope,
sir?”
CC
Yes, considering the dissipation of the long season,
pretty well, thank you. But I suppose your young mistress
is as gay and heartless as ever, a mere fashionable wife,
eh!
"Sir," said the woman, bridling up, "there is not a
better lady in the world than my young lady; I have
known her since she was that high!
"What, she's good-tempered, I suppose?" said the
colonel, sneering.
CC
Good-tempered, I believe it is impossible for her to
say a harsh word to any one. There never was so mild,
so even-like a temper.
دو
"What, and not heartless, eh! this is too good!"
"Heartless! she nursed me herself when I broke my
leg coming up stairs; and every night, before she went to
any party, she would come to my room with her sweet
smile, and see if I wanted any thing."
"And you fancy, Mrs. Johnson, that she 'll make a good
wife why, she was not much in love when she married."
"I don't know as to that, sir, whether she was or not;
but I'm sure she is always studying my lord's wishes, and
I heard him myself say this very morning to his brother,
Arthur, if you knew what a treasure I possess !'"'
You are very right," said the colonel, resuming his
natural manner : and I only spoke for the pleasure of
seeing how well and how justly you could defend
your mis-
tress; she is, truly, an excellent lady, good-evening to
you.
وو
"I have seen that woman before," said Nugent, "but
I can't think where; she has the appearance of being a
housekeeper in some family,”
"She is so.
"How pleasant it is to hear of female excellence in the
great world," continued Nugent, sighing; "it was evi-
dent to see the honest servant was sincere in her praise.
Happy husband, whoever he may
be ! "
"Just let me
They were now at the colonel's house.
read this passage," said Nelmore, opening the pages of a
French philosopher, "and as I do not pronounce French
like a native, I will translate as I proceed.
"In order to love mankind, expect but little from
them; in order to view their faults, without bitterness, we
must accustom ourselves to pardon them, and to perceive
that indulgence is a justice which frail humanity has a
right to demand from wisdom. Now, nothing tends more
to dispose us to indulgence, to close our hearts against ha-
tred, to open them to the principles of a humane and soft
morality, than a profound knowledge of the human heart.
Accordingly, the wisest men have always been the most
indulgent," &c.
D
"And now prepare to be surprised. That good son
whom you admired so much,-
whom you wished could
you
obtain as a friend, is Captain Balfour; that generous,
self-denying man, whom you desired yourself so nobly to
relieve, is Mr. Gilpin; that young lady, who, in the flush
of health, beauty, dissipation, and conquest, could attend
the sick-chamber of her servant, and whom her husband
discovers to be a treasure, is Charlotte Lennox!"
"Good heavens!" cried Nugent," what then an I to
believe? has some juggling been practised on my under-
standing, and are Balfour, Gilpin, and Miss Lennox, after
all, patterns of perfection?
"No, indeed, very far from it: Balfour is a dissipated,
The colonel permitted the woman to run on. Nugent reckless inan, of loose morality and a low standard of
wiped his eyes, and left his purse behind him. "Who is honor; he saw you were destined to purchase experience,
this admirable, this self-denying man?" cried he, when -he saw you were destined to be plundered by some one,
they were once more in the street. "He is in distress - he thought he might as well be a candidate for the
nimself, would I could relieve him. Ah, you already profit. He laughed afterward at your expense, not because
|
reconcile me to the world. I acknowledge your motive, he despised you, -on the contrary, I believe that he liked
in leading me hither; there are good men as well as bad. you very much in his way, but because in the world he
All are not Balfours and Gilpins! But the name,
lives in, every man enjoys a laugh at his acquaintance.
ame of these poor people's benefactor?”
Charlotte Lennox saw in you a desirable match; nay,
the
* Say," said the colonel, as they now entered Oxford- | believe she had a positive regard for you; but she had been
KNEBWORTH.
127
aught all her life to think equipage, wealth, and station
better than love. She could not resist the temptation of
being Marchioness of Austerly, not one girl in twenty
could; yet she is not on that account the less good-tem-
pered, good-natured, nor the less likely to be a good mis-
tress and a tolerable wife. Gilpin is the worst instance of
the three. Gilpin is an evident scoundrel; but Gilpin is
in evident distress. He was, in all probability, very sorry
to attack you, who had benefited him so largely; but per-
haps, as he is a dull dog, the only thing the magazines
would buy of him was abuse. You must not think he
maligned you out of malice, out of ingratitude, out of
wantonness; he maligned you for ten guineas. Yet Gilpin
is a man who, having swindled his father out of ten guineas,
would in the joy of the moment give five to a beggar. In
the present case he was actuated by a better feeling he
was serving the friend of his childhood, few men forget
those youthful ties, however they break through others.
Your mistake was not the single mistake of supposing the
worst people the best; it was the double mistake of sup-
posing commonplace people, now the best, now the
worst; in making what might have been a pleasant ac-
quaintance, an intimate friend; in believing a man in dis-
tress must necessarily be a man of merit; in thinking a
good-tempered, pretty girl was an exalted specimen of hu
man nature. You were then about to fall into the opposite
extreme, -and to be as indiscriminating in suspicion as
you were in credulity. Would that I could flatter myself
that I had saved you from that, the more dangerous error
of the two!"
“You have, my dear Nelmore; and now lend me your
Philosopher!
"With pleasure; but one short maxim is as good as al
philosophers can teach you, for philosophers can only en
large on it, it is simple, it is this, 'TAKE THI
WORLD AS IT IS!
-
KNEBWORTH.
THE English airogate to themselves the peculiar at-
tachment to home, the national conviction of the sacred-
ness of its serene asylum. But the ancients seem equally
to have regarded the "veneranda domus" with love and
worship. By then the hospitable hearth was equally
deemed the centre of unspeakable
of unspeakable enjoyments, their
gayest poets linger on its attractions, the house as well
as the temple had its secret penetralia, which no uninitia-
ted stranger might profane with unbidden presence; the
household gods were their especial deities, the most fa-
miliarly invoked, the most piously preserved. And a
beautiful superstition it was, that of the household gods !
a beautiful notion that our ancestors, for us at least, were
divine, and presided with unforgetful tenderness over the
scene (when living) of their happiest emotions, and their
most tranquil joys a similar worship is not only to be
traced to the eldest times, beyond the date of the civil-
ized races that we popularly call "the ancients," "-but is
yet to be found cherished among savage tribes.
It is one
of the universal proofs how little death can conquer the
affections.
―
-
-
sion. Suppose some oppressive benefactor had converted
its dingy rooms and dreary galleries into a modern, well-
proportioned, and ungenially cheerful residence, — would
she have been pleased? Would she not have missed the
nursery she had played in? the little parlour by whose
hearth she could yet recall to fancy the face of her mother
long gone? Would ottomans and mirrors supply the place
of the old worm-eaten chair from which her father, on
Sabbath nights, had given forth the holy lecture?—or the
little discolored glass in which, thirty years ago, she had
marked her own maiden blushes, when some dear name
was suddenly spoken? No, her old paternal house, rude
though it be,
though it be, is dearer to her than a new palace. Can she
not conceive that the same feelings may make “the hat to
which his soul conforms dearer to the peasant than the
new residence which is as a palace to him? Why should
that be a noble and tender sentiment in the rich, which is
scorned as a brutal apathy in the poor? The peasant was
right, "Great folks understand him not!"
+
Amid the active labors in which, from my earliest youth,
I have been plunged, one of the greatest luxuries I know
But with us are required no graven likeness, -no fond is to return, for short intervals, to the place in which the
idolatries of outward images. We bear our penates with happiest days of my childhood glided away. It is an old
us abroad as at home, their atrium is the heart. Our manorial seat that belongs to my mother, the heiress of its
household gods are the memories of our childhood, the former lords. The house, formerly of vast extent, built
recollections of the hearth around which we gathered, round a quadrangle, at different periods, from the date of
of the fostering hands which caressed us, of the scene the second crusade to that of the reign of Elizabeth, was
of all the cares and joys, the anxieties and the hopes, in so ruinous a condition when she came to its possession,
the ineffable yearnings of love which made us first ac- that three sides of it were obliged to be pulled down: the
quainted with the mystery and the sanctity of home. I was fourth, yet remaining, and much embellished in its archi
touched once in visiting an Irish cabin, which, in the spirit tecture, is in itself one of the largest houses in the county
of condescending kindness, the Lady Bountiful of the place and still contains the old oak hall, with its lofty ceiling and
had transformed into the graceful neatness of an English raised music gallery. The place has something of the
cottage, training roses up the wall, glazing the windows, character of Penburst; and its venerable avenues, which
and boarding the mud floor; I was touched by the home-slope from the house down the declivity of the park, giving
ly truth which the poor peasant uttered as he gazed, half wide views of the opposite hills crowded with cottages and
gratefully, half indignantly, on the change. It is all spires, impart to the scene that peculiarly English, halt
very kind," said he, in his dialect, which I am obliged to stately and wholly cultivated, character which the poets of
translate; "but the good lady does not know how Par to Elizabeth's day so much loved to linger upon. As is often
a poor man is every thing that reminds him of the time the case with similar residences, the church stands in the
when he played instead of working, these great folkspark, at a bow-shot from the house; and formerly the walls
do not understand us. It was quite true: on that mud
floor the child had played; round that hearth, with its
eternal smoke, which now admitted, through strange por-
tals, the uncomfortable daylight, he had sat jesting with
the kind hearts that now beat no more. These new com-
forts saddened and perplexed him, not because they
were comforts, but because they were new. They had not
the associations of his childhood; the great folks did not
understand him; they despised his indifference to greater
luxuries. Alas! they did not perceive that in that indif-
ference there was all the poetry of sentiment. The good
lady herself dwelt in an old-fashioned, inconvenient man-
of the outer court nearly reached the green sanctuary that
surrounds the sacred edifice. The church itself, dedicated
anciently to St. Mary, is worn and gray, in the simplest
architecture of the ecclesiastical Gothic, and, standing on
the brow of the hill, its single tower at a distance blends
with the turrets of the house, so that the two seem one
pile. Beyond, to the right, half-way down the hill, and
neighboured by a dell, girded with trees, is an octagon
building of the beautiful Grecian form, erected by the
present owner, it is the mausoleum of the family.
Fenced from the deer, is a small surrounding space sown
with flowers, those fairest children of the earth, which
125
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the custom of all ages has dedicated to the dead. The
modernness of this building, which contrasts those in its
vicinity, seems to me, from that contrast, to make its ob-
ject more impressive. It stands out alone in the venerable
landscape, with its immemorial hills and trees; the pro-
totype of the thought of death, a thing that, dating with
the living generation, admonishes them of their recent
lease and its hastening end. For with all our boasted
antiquity of race, we ourselves are the ephemera of the
soil, and bear the truest relation, so far as our mortality is
concerned, with that which is least old.
M
afterward, under another lord, perished in a memorable
fray with the implacable poachers; the simple, horn-eyed
idiot, basking before the gardener's door, where he lodged,
a privileged pensioner, sitting hour after hour, from
sunrise to sunset, what marvels did not that strange
passive existence create in us, the young, the buoyant,
the impetuous! how we used to gather round him, and
gaze and wonder how he could pass his time without
either work or play! the one patriarch beggar of the
place, who seemed to beg from vanity, not from want; for,
as he doffed his hat, his long snow-white locks fell, parted
The most regular and majestic of the avenues I have on either side, down features of apostolic beauty, — and
described conducts to a sheet of water, that lies towards many an artist had paused to sketch the venerable head;
the extremity of the park. It is but small in proportion the ..ngle Lais of the place, stout and sturdy, with high
to the domain, but is clear and deep, and, fed by some sub-cheekbones and tempting smile, ill-favored enough it is
terraneous stream, its tide is fresh and strong beyond its true, but boasting her admirers; the genius, too, of the
dimensions. On its opposite bank is a small fishing-cot- village,- a woman with but one hand, who could turn that
age, whitely peeping from a thick and gloomy copse of firs, hand to any thing; nominally presiding over the dairy, she
and larch, and oak, through which shine, here and there, was equally apt at all the other affairs of the public life of
the red berries of the mountain ash; and behind this, on a village. Dogs, cows, horses, -none might be ill or
the other side of the brown, moss-grown deer paling, is a well without her august permission; in every quarrel she
wood of considerable extent. This, the farther bank of was witness, juryman, and judge. Never had any one
the water, is my favorite spot. Here, when a boy, I used more entirely the genius of action she was always in
to while away whole holydays, basking indolently in the every thing, and at the head of every thing, mixing, it
noon of summer, and building castles in that cloudless air, is true, with all her energy and arts, a wonderful fidelity
until the setting of the sun.
and spirit of clanship towards her employer. Tall, dark,
and muscular was she; a kind of caught-and-tamed Meg
Merrilies!
The reeds then grew up, long and darkly green, along
the margin; and though they have since yielded to the
innovating scythe, and I hear the wind no longer glide and
sigh amid those earliest tubes of music, yet the whole sod
is still fragrant, from spring to autumn, with innumerable
heaths and wild-flowers, and the crushed odors of the
sweet thyme. And never have I seen a spot which the
butterfly more loves to haunt, particularly that small fairy
blue-winged species, which is tamer than the rest, and
seems almost to invite you to admire it, throwing itself
on the child's mercy as the robin upon man's. The varie-
ties of the dragon-fly, glittering in the sun, dart ever
through the boughs and along the water. It is a world
which the fairest of the insect race seem to have made
their own.
There is something in the hum and stir of a
summer noon which is inexpressibly attractive to the
dreams of the imagination. It fills us with a sense of life,
but a life not our own, it is the exuberance of creation
itself that overflows around us. Man is absent, but life is
present. Who has not spent hours in some such spot,
cherishing dreams that have no connexion with the earth,
and courting, with half-shut eyes, the images of the ideal ?
Stretched on the odorous grass, I see on the opposite
shore that quiet church where the rude forefathers of the
hamlet sleep, that mausoleum where my own dust shall
rest at last, and the turrets of my childhood's home. All
so solitary, and yet so eloquent! Now the fern waves on
Now the fern waves on
the slope, and the deer comes forth, marching with his
stately step to the water-side to pause and drink. O
nymphs! O fairies! - O poetry, I am yours again!
I do not know how it is, but every year that I visit these
scenes I have more need of their solace. My departed
youth rises before me in more wan and melancholy hues,
and the past saddens me more deeply with the present.
Yet every year, perhaps, has been a stepping-stone in the
ambition of my boyhood, and brought me nearer to the
objects of my early dreams. It is not the mind that has
been disappointed, it is the heart. What ties are broken,
what affections marred! The Egeria of my hopes;
no cell conceals, no spell can invoke her now! Every
pausing-place in the life of the ambitious is marked alike
by the trophy and the tomb. But little men have the tomb
without the trophy!
|
|
S
wisest,
But our two especial friends were an old couple, quar-
tered in a little angle of the village, who, hard on their
eightieth year, had jogged on for nearly sixty revolutions
of the sun hand in hand together, and never seemed to
have stumbled on an unkind thought towards each other.
The love of those two old persons was the most perfect,
the most beautiful I ever beheld. Their children had
grown up, and married, and left them, they were utterly
alone. Their simple affections were all in all to them.
They had never been to London, never above fifteen miles
from the humble spot where they had been born, and where
their bones were to repose. Them the march of knowl-
edge had never reached. They could neither read nor
write. Old age had frozen up the portals of intellect be-
fore the schoolmaster had gone his rounds. So ignorant
were they of the world, that they scarce knew the name of
the king. Changes of ministry, peace and war, the agita-
tions of life, were as utter nothings to them as to the
wildest savage of Caffraria. Few, as the arithmetic of
intellect can comprise, were their ideas; but they wanted
not to swell the sum, for the ideas were centred, with all
that the true sentiment of love ever taught the
within each other. If out of that circle extended their
radii of love, it was to the family under whom they had
vegetated, and to us who were its young hopes. Us indeed
they did love warmly, as something that belonged to them.
And scarcely a day ever passed but what, in all the riot
and glee of boyhood, with half a score of dogs at our
heels, we used to rush into the quiet of that lonely cottage,
- scrambling over the palings, bustling through the
threshold, sullying, with shoes that had made a day's
circuit through all the woods and plantings, the scrupulous
cleanliness of the hearth, and making their old hearts glad,
and proud, and merry by the very discomfort we occa-
sioned. Then were the rude chairs drawn into the jaws of
that wide ingle nook, then was the new log thrown on
the hearth, then would the old dame insist upon chafing
our hands numbed with the cold, as one of us, ah, hap-
piest he! drew forth the fragment of cake, or the hand-
ful of figs and raisins, brought to show that they had
not been forgotten. And, indeed, never were they forgot
ten by a more powerful hand and a more steady heart than
ours, for daily from the ball came the savory meal, which
the old woman carved tenderly for her husband, (for his
hands were palsied,) and, until his appetite was sated, sat
apart and refused to share. Old age, so seldom unselfish!
and the old age of the poor peasant woman, — how
mockeries of sentiment, would it have shamed!
—
It is a small, and sequestered, and primitive village,
that of Knebworth, though but thirty miles from London;
Consisting of scattered cottages, with here and there a
broad green patch of waste land before the doors; and one
side of the verdant lane, which makes the principal street,
is skirted by the palings of the lesser park, which is not
devoted to the deer. The steward's house and the clergy-many young hearts, full of the phrases of poetry and the
man's are the only ones, -save the manor-house itself,
aspiring to gentility. And here, nevertheless, did Dame
Nature find her varieties; many were they and duly con-
trasted, when first, in the boundless sociability of child- |
hood, we courted the friendship of every villager. The
sturdy keeper, a' stalwart man and a burly, whose name
was an heirloom on the estates; and who, many years
I see the old man now, in a great high-backed tapestry
chair, which had been a part of the furniture of the old
manor-house in his youth he had been on the sporting
establishment of a former squire, my grandfather's prede.
cessor and uncle, and he had contrived to retain still, fresh
and undimmed, through how many years time might forge
ON THE DEPARTURE OF YOUTH.
129
C
register, a habit of green velvet, whose antiquated cut
Buited well his long gray locks and venerable countenance.
Poor old Newman Hagar!—a blessing on that old head,
-surely you are living yet! while I live, you are not all
vanished, all swallowed up by the oblivious earth. And,
even after I have joined you, this page, surviving both,
shall preserve you among those whom the world does not
willingly let perish! And on the opposite side of the
hearth sat the partner of that obscure and harmless exist
ence, with a face which, when we were there, never was
without a smile at our presence, or a tear for our parting.
Plain though her features must ever have been, and worn
and wrinkled as they were then, I never saw a counte-
<
nance in which, not the intellect, but the feeling of our!
divine nature had left a more pleasant and touching trace.
Sometimes, as the winter day closed in, and dogs and
children crowded alike round the comfortable fire, we de-
lighted to make the old man tell us of his dim memories o.
the
former squires, the notes of bugles long silenced,
how the squire
glories of coaches-and-six long vanished,
was dressed in scarlet and gold, and how my lady swept
the avenues in brocade. But pleasanter to me, child as I
was, was it to question the good old folks of their own
past fortunes, of their first love, and how they came to
marry, and how, since, they had weathered the winds of
the changing world.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF YOUTH
"Fit, while they lived, for smell and ornament,
Serve, after death, for cures."
In the seven stages of man's life there are three epochs time could return! oh that this had been done, or that
more distinctly marked than the rest, viz. the departure could be undone ! " rather should we rejoice that so long
of boyhood, the departure of youth, the commencement a season of reparation yet remains to us, and that experi-
of old age. I consider the several dates of these epochs, in ence has taught us the lessons of suffering which make men
ordinary constitutions, cominence at fifteen, thirty, and wise. Wisdom is an acquisition purchased in proportion
fifty years of age. It is of the second that I am about to to the disappointments which our own frailties have entailed
treat. When I call it the epoch for the departure of youth, upon us. For no one is taught by the sufferings of another.
I do not of course intend to signify that this, the prime and We ourselves must have felt the burning in order to ɛbun
zenith of our years; is as yet susceptible of decay. Our
Our the fire. To refer again to the beautiful poem I have
frames are as young as they were five years before, — it is already quoted, the flowers that were
the mind that has become matured. By youth I mean the
growing and progressive season, -its departure is only
visible inasmuch as we have become, as it were, fixed and
stationary. The qualities that peculiarly belong to youth,
its "quick-thronging fancies," its exuberance of
energy and feeling, cease to be our distinctions at thirty.
We are young, but not youthful. It is not at thirty that
we know the wild fantasies of Romeo, - scarcely at thirty
that we could halt irresolute in the visionary weaknesses
of Hamlet. The passions of youth may be no less felt than
heretofore; it is youth's sentiment we have lost. The mus-
cles of the mind are firmer, but it is the nerve that is less
susceptible, and vibrates no more to the lightest touch of
pleasure or of pain. Yes, it is the prime of our manhood
which is the departure of our youth!
ac-
It seems to me, that to reflective and lofty minds,
customed to survey, and fitted to comprehend, the great
aims of life, this is a period peculiarly solemn and im-
portant. It is a spot on which we ought to rest for a while
from our journey. It is the summit of the hill from which
we look down on two even divisions of our journey. We
have left behind us a profusion of bright things never
again shall we traverse such fairy fields, with such
nopes; never again shall we find the same
"Glory in the grass or splendor in the flower."
eager
At the age of thirty most men's characters experience a
revulsion. The common pleasures of the world have been
We have reduced to
tasted to the full, and begin to pall.
we no
the sobering test of reality the visions of youth,
longer expect that perfection in our species which our in-
experience at first foretold; we no longer chase frivolities,
or hope chimeras. Perhaps one of the most useful lessons
that disappointment has taught us is a true estimate of love.
For at first we are too apt to imagine that woman (pocr
partner with ourselves in the frailties of humanity) must be
perfect, that the dreams of the poets have a corporeal
being, and that God has ordained to us that unclouded
nature, that unchanging devotion, that seraph heart,
which it has been the great vice of fiction to attribute to
the daughters of clay. And, in hoping perfection, with
how much excellence have we been discontented,
how many idols have we changed our worship! Thirsting
for the golden fountain of the fable, from how many streams
have we turned away, weary and in disgust! The experi-
has gone far to instruct us in the claims of men. Love,
ence which teaches us at last the due estimate of woman
once the monopolizer of our desires, gives way to more
manly and less selfish passions,-
-we wake from a false
The dews upon the herbage are dried up. The morning is paradise to the real earth.
ao more.
"We made a posy while the time ran by,
*
*
x
But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
*
*
*
*
*
And wither in the hand.
Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent!" ✯
We ought then to pause for a while, to review the
past,
-to gather around us the memories and the warnings
of experience, · to feel that the lighter part of our desti-
nies is completed, that the graver has begun,
follies and our errors have become to us the monitors of
wisdom: for since these are the tributes which fate exacts
that our
from mortality, they are not to be idly regretted, but to be
solemnly redeemed. And if we are penetrated with this
thought, our past becomes the mightiest preacher to our
future. Looking back over the tombs of departed errors,
we behold, by the side of each, the face of a warning
angel! It is the prayer of a foolish heart, "Oh that my
VOL. II.
* George Herbert.
17
to
-
Not less important is the lesson which teaches us not to
measure mankind by ideal standards of morality; for to
imagine too fondly that men are gods, is to end by believ
ing that they are demons: the young pass usually through a
period of misanthropy, and the misanthropy is acute in
proportion to their own generous confidence in human ex-
cellence. We the least forgive faults in those from whom
we the most expected excellence. But out of the ashes of
misanthropy benevolence rises again; we find many vi
tues where we had imagined all was vice,
disinterested friendship where we had fancied all was cal-
many acts of
culation and fraud; and so, gradually, from the two ex-
tremes we pass to the proper medium; and, feeling that
that true knowledge of mankind which induces us to expect
no human being is wholly good, or wholly base, we learn
little and forgive much. The world cures alike the opti
estimate of men, we have neither prudence in the affairs
mist and the misanthrope. Without this proper and sober
of life nor toleration for contrary opinions, we tempt the
cheater, and then condemn him, we believe so strongly
in one faith, that we would sentence dissentients as bere
130
BULWER'S NOVELS.
tics. It is experience alone that teaches us that he who is
discreet is seldom betrayed, and that out of the opinions we
condemn spring often the actions we admire.
cares,
-
At the departure of youth, then, in collecting and inves-
tigating our minds, we should feel ourselves imbued with
these results for our future guidance, viz. a knowledge
of the true proportion of the passions, so as not to give to
one the impetus which should be shared by all; a convic-
tion of the idleness of petty objects which demand large
and that true gauge and measurement of men which
shall neither magnify nor dwarf the attributes and materials
of human nature. From these results we draw conclusions
to make us, not only wiser, but better men. The years
through which we have passed have probably developed in
us whatever capacities we possess, they have taught us
in what we are most likely to excel, and for what we are
most fitted. We may come now with better success than
Rasselas to the choice of life. And in this I incline to
oelieve, that we ought to prefer that career from which we
are convinced our minds and tempers will derive the great
est snare of happiness, not disdaining the pursuit of
honors, or of wealth, or the allurements of a social career,
but calmly balancing the advantages and the evils of
each course, whether of private life or of public, — of re-
tirement or of crowds, and deciding on each according,
not to abstract rules, not to vague maxims on the nothing-
ness of fame, or the joys of solitude, but according to the
peculiar bias and temper of our own minds. For toil to
some is happiness, and rest to others. This man can only
breathe in crowds, and that man only in solitude. Fame is
necessary to the quiet of one nature, and is void of all at-
traction to another. Let each choose his career according
to the dictates of his own breast, and this, not from the
vulgar doctrine that our own happiness, as happiness only,
is to be our being's end and aim, (for in minds rightly and
nobly constituted there are aims out of ourselves stronger
than aught of self,) but because a mind not at ease is rarely
virtuous. Happiness and virtue react upon each other,
the best are not only the happiest, but the happiest are
usually the best. Drawn into pursuits, however estimable
in themselves, from which our tastes and dispositions re-
coil, we are too apt to grow irritable, morose, and discon-
cented with our kind; our talents do not spring forth natu-
rally; forced by the heat of circumstance, they produce
unseasonable and unwholesome fruit. The genius that is
roused by things at war with it too often becomes malig-
nant, and retaliates upon men the wounds it receives from
circumstance; but when we are engaged in that course of
life which most flatters our individual bias, whether it be
action or seclusion, literature or business, we enjoy within
us that calm which is the best atmosphere of the mind, and
in which all the mind's produce is robust and mellow. Our
sense of contentment makes us kindly and benevolent to
others; we are not chafed and galled by cares which are
tyrannical, because ungenial. We are fulfilling our
proper destiny, and those around us feel the sunshine of
our own hearts. It is for this reason that happiness should
be our main object in the choice of life, because out of hap-
piness springs that state of mind which becomes virtue :
and this should be remembered by those of generous and
ardent dispositions, who would immolate themselves for
the supposed utility of others, plunging into a war of things
for which their natures are unsuited. Among the few
truths which Rousseau has left us, none is more true than
this, "It is not permitted to a man to corrupt himself
for the sake of mankind." We must be useful according,
We must be useful according,
not to general theories, but to our individual capacities and
habits. To be practical, we must call forth the qualities we
are able to practise. Each star, shining in its appointed
sphere, each, no matter its magnitude or its gyration,
contributes to the general light.
To different ages there are different virtues, the reck-
less generosity of the boy is a wanton folly in the man. At
thirty there is no apology for the spendthrift. From that
period to the verge of age is the fitting season for a consid-
erate foresight and prudence in affairs. Approaching age
itself we have less need of economy; and nature recoils
from the miser, caressing mammon with one hand, while
death plucks him by the other We should provide for our
age, in order that our age ma have no urgent wants of this
world to absorb it from the meditations of the next. It is
awful to see the lean hands of lotage making a coffer of the
grave! But while, with the leparture of youth, we enter
leparture of youth, we enter
|
|
while our rea
steadfastly into the great business of life,
son constructs its palaces from the ruins of our passions,
while we settle into thoughtful, and resolute, and aspiring
men, - we should beware how, thus occupied by the world,
the world grows "too much with us. It is a perilous age
that of ambition and discretion, — a perilous age that when
youth recedes from us, if we forget that the soul should
cherish its own youth through eternity! It is precisely as
we feel how little laws can inake us good while they forbid
us to be evil,—it is precisely as our experience puts a
check upon our impulses, it is precisely as we sigh to
own how contaminating is example, that we should Ee on
our guard over our own hearts, not, now, lest they err,
but rather lest they harden. Now is the period when the
affections can be easiest seared, when we can dispense
the most with love, when, in the lustiness and hardihood
of our golden prime, we can best stand alone, remote
alike from the ideal yearnings of youth and the clinging
helplessness of age. Now is the time when neither the
voice of woman nor the smiles of children touch us as they
did once, and may again. We are occupied, absorbed,
wrapped in our schemes and our stern designs. The world
is our mistress, our projects are our children. A man is
startled when he is told this truth; let him consider, let
him pause, if he be actively engaged, (as few at that age
are not,) and ask himself if I wrong him, if, insensibly
and unconsciously, he has not retreated into the citadel of
self. Snail-like, he walks the world, bearing about him
his armor and retreat. Is not this to be guarded against?
Does it not require our caution, lest caution itself block up
the beautiful avenues of the heart? What can life give us
if we sacrifice what is fairest in ourselves? What does
experience profit, if it forbid us to be generous, to be noble,
if it counterwork and blight the graces and the charities,
and all that belong to the tender and the exalted,
without which wisdom is harsh, and virtue has no music in
her name? As Paley says, that we ought not to refuse
alms too sternly for fear we encourage the idle, lest, on the
other hand, we blunt the heart into a habit of deafness to
the distressed, so with the less vulgar sympathies, shall
we check the impulse, and the frankness, and the kindly
interpretation, and the human sensibility, (which are the
alms of the soul,) because they may expose us to occasional
deceit? Shall the error of softness justify the habits of
obduracy? And lest we should suffer by the faults of others,
shall we vitiate ourselves?
—
This, then, is the age in which, while experience becomes
our guide, we should follow its dictates with a certain
measured and jealous caution. We must remember how
apt man is to extremes, rushing from credulity and weak-
ness to suspicion and distrust. And still, if we are truly
prudent, we shall cherish,
prudent, we shall cherish, despite occasional de susions,
those noblest and happiest of our tendencies, to love and
to confide.
I know not indeed a more beautiful spectacle in the
world than an old man, who has gone with honor through
all its storms and contests, and who retains to the last the
freshness of feeling that adorned his youth. This is the
true green old age, this makes a southern winter of de-
clining years, in which the sunlight warms, though the
heats are gone;
such are ever welcome to the young,-
and sympathy unites, while wisdom guides. There is this
distinction between respect and veneration, the latter
has always in it something of love.
This, too, is the age in which we ought calmly to take
the fitting estimate of the opinions of the world. In youth
we are too apt to despise, in maturity too inclined to
overrate, the sentiments of others, and the silent influences
of the public. It is right to fix the medium Among the
happiest and proudest possessions of a man is his character;
it is a wealth, it is a rank of itself. It usually procures
him the honors and rarely the jealousies of fame. Like
most treasures that are attained less by circumstances than
ourselves, character is a more felicitous reputation than
glory.
glory. The wise man therefore despises not the opinion of
the world, he estimates it at its full value, be does not
wantonly jeopardize his treasure of a good name, - he does
not rush from vanity alone against the received sentiments
of others, he does not hazard his costly jewel with un-
worthy combatants and for a petty stake. He respects the
legislation of decorum. If he be benevolent, as well as wise,
he will remember that character affords him a thousand
utilities, that it enables him the better to forgive the
ON THE DEPARTURE OF YOUTH.
131
to cheer, to comfort, to counsel, to direct. It is a
time seriously to analyze the confused elements of belief,
-to apply ourselves to such solution of our doubts as rea-
son may afford us. Happy he who can shelter himself with
confidence under the assurance of immortality, and feel
"that the world is not an inn but a hospital, a place not
to live but to die in," acknowledging "that piece of divin-
ity that is in us, that something that was before the
elements, and owes no homage to the sun.” * For him
there is indeed the mastery and the conquest, not only over
death, but over life; and "he forgets that he can die if he
complain of misery !"†
erring,
and to shelter the assailed. But that character is | test,
onilt on a false and hollow basis, which is formed, not from
the dictates of our own breast, but solely from the fear of
censure. What is the essence and the life of character ?
Principle, integri.y, independence! or, as one of our
great old writers hath it, "that inbred loyalty unto virtue
which can serve her without a livery." These are quali-
These are quali-
ties that hang not upon any man's breath. They must be
formed within ourselves; they must make ourselves, - indis-
soluble and indestructible as the soul! If, conscious of
these possessions, we trust tranquilly to time and occasion
to render them known, we may rest assured that our char-
acter, sooner or later, will establish itself. We cannot
more defeat our own object than by a restless and fevered
anxiety as to what the world will say of us. Except, indeed,
of us. Except, indeed,
if we are tempted to unworthy compliances with what our
conscience disapproves, in order to please the fleeting and
capricious countenance of the time. There is a moral
honesty in a due regard for character which will not shape
itself to the humors of the crowd. And this, if honest, is
no less wise. For the crowd never long esteems those who
flatter it at their own expense. He who has the suppleness
He who has the suppleness
of the demagogue will live to complain of the fickleness of
the mob.
—
I reject all sectarian intolerance,-I affect no unchari-
table jargon, frankly I confess that I have known many
before whose virtues I bow down ashamed of my own er
rors, though they were not guided and supported by belief
But I never met with one such who did not own that while
he would not have been worse, he would have been happier,
could he have believed. I, indeed, least of all men, ught
harshly to search into that realm of opinion which no law
can reach; for I too have had my interval of doubt, of
despondency, of the philosophy of the garden. Perhaps
there are many with whom faith, the saviour, - must lie
awhile in darkness and the grave of unbelief, ere, immortal
and immortalizing, it ascend from its tomb, -a god!
€
If in early youth it is natural sometimes to brave and cause-
lessly to affront opinion, so also it is natural, on the other But humbly and reverently comparing each state with each,
hand, and not perhaps unamiable, for the milder order of I exclaim again, "Happy, thrice happy, he who relies on
spirits to incur the contrary extreme, and stand in too great the eternity of the soul, who believes, -as the loved fall
an awe of the voices of the world. They feel as if they
They feel as if they one after one from his side, that they have returned to
had no right to be confident of their own judgment, they their native country,'-that they await the divine re-
have not tested themselves by temptation and experience. union; who feels that each treasure of knowledge he attains
They are willing to give way on points on which they are he carries with him through illimitable being, who sees in
not assured. And it is a pleasant thing to prop their doubts virtue the essence and the element of the world he is to
on the stubborn asseverations of others. But in vigorous inherit, and to which he but accustoms himself betimes;
and tried manhood we should be all in all to ourselves. Our who comforts his weariness amid the storms of time, by
own past and our own future should be our main guides. seeing, far across the melancholy seas, the haven he will
"He who is not a physician at thirty is a fool," a phy-reach at last, who deems that every struggle has its as-
sician to his mind, as to his body, acquainted with his own sured reward, and every sorrow has its balm, who knows,
moral constitution, its diseases, its remedies, its diet, its however forsaken or bereaved below, that he never can be
conduct. We should learn so to regulate our own thoughts alone, and never be deserted, that above him is the pro-
and actions, that while comprising the world, the world tection of eternal power, and the mercy of eternal love!
should not bias them. Take away the world, and we Ah, well said the dreamer of philosophy, How much He
should think and act the same, a world to ourselves.
knew of the human heart who first called GOD our Fa-
Thus trained and thus accustomed, we can bear occasional ther!'"
reproach and momentary slander with little pain. The
rough contact of the herd presses upon no sore, the
wrongs of the hour do not incense or sadden us. We rely
upon ourselves and
upon time.
If I have rightly said that
principle is a main essence of character, principle is a thing
we cannot change or shift. As it has been finely ex-
pressed, "Principle is a passion for truth,” —
* and as an
earlier and homelier writer bath it, "The truths of God
"The truths of God
are the pillars of the world." The truths we believe in
are the pillars of our world. The man who at thirty can
be easily persuaded out of his own sense of right, is never
respected after he has served a purpose. I do not know
even if we do not think more highly of the intellectual uses
of one who sells himself well, than those of one who lends
himself for nothing.
Lastly, this seems to me, above all, an age which calls
upon us to ponder well and thoughtfully upon the articles of
our moral and our religious creed. Entering more than
ever into the mighty warfare of the world, we should sum-
mon to our side whatever auxiliaries can aid us in the con-
* Hazlitt.
† From a scarce and cur.ous little tract called "The Simple
Fobler of Aggavvam.” 1647
As, were our lives limited to a single year, and we had
never beheld the flower that perishes from the earth restored
by the dawning spring, we might doubt the philosophy that
told us it was not dead, but dormant only for a time; yet,
to continue existence to another season would be to know
that the seeming miracle was but the course of nature;
even so, this life is to eternity but as a single revolution of
the sun, in which we close our views with the winter of the
soul, when its leaves fade and vanish, and it see'ns out-
wardly to rot away; but the seasons roll on unceasingly
over the blank and barrenness of the grave, and those
who, above, have continued the lease of life, behold the
imperishable flower burst forth into the second spring!
This hope makes the dignity of man, nor can I conceive
how he who feels it breathing its exalted eloquence through
his heart can be guilty of one sordid action, or brood over
one low desire.To be immortal is to be the companion
of God!
* Religio Medici, Part II. Sect. 2.
+ Ib. Part I. Sect. 44.
Form of Chinese epitaphs.
132
BULWER'S NOVELS
ON INFIDELITY IN LOVE.
To the vulgar there is but one infidelity, that which, in
woman at least, can never be expiated or forgiven. They
know not the thousand shades in which change disguises
itself, they trace not the fearful progress of the aliena-
tion of the heart. But to those who truly and deeply love,
there is an infidelity with which the person has no share.
Like ingratitude, it is punished by no laws.
We are
powerless to avenge ourselves.
more !
to engage affection. Once we might have chosen out of
the world, now the time is past. Who shall love us in
our sear and yellow leaf, as in that time when we had
most the qualities that win love? It was a beautiful senti-
ment of one whom her lord proposed to put away,
"Give me, then, back," said she," that which I brought
to you.' And the man answered, in his vulgar coarse-
ness of soul, "Your fortune shal return to you."
thought not of fortune," said the lady; "give me back
my real wealth, give me back my beauty and my youth,
- give me back the virginity of soul, give me back the
cheerful mind, and the heart that had never been disap
pointed."
"" I
even
Yes it is of these that the unfaithful rob us when they
dismiss us back
dismiss us back upon the world, and tell us, with a bitter
mockery, to form new ties. In proportion to the time that
we have been faithful,— in proportion to the feelings we
have sacrificed, in proportion to the wealth of soul,
of affection, of devotion, that we have consumed, are we
shut out from the possibility of atonement elsewhere. But
this is not all, the other occupations of the world are
suddenly made stale and barren to us! the daily avocations
of life, the common pleasures, the social diversions,
so tame in themselves, had had their charm when we could
share, and talk over, them with another. It was sympa-
thy which made them sweet; the sympathy withdrawn,
they are nothing to us, worse than nothing. The talk
has become the tinkling cymbal, and society the gallery of
pictures.
pictures. Ambition, toil, the great aims of life,
these cease abruptly to excite. What, in the first place,
made labor grateful and ambition dear? Was it not the
hope that their rewards would be reflected upon another
self? And now there is no other self. And, in the second
place, (and this is a newer consideration,) does it not re-
quire a certain calmness and freedom of mind for great
efforts? Persuaded of the possession of what most we
value, we can look abroad with cheerfulness and hope; the
consciousness of a treasure inexhaustible by external fail-
ures makes us speculative and bold. Now, all things are
colored by our despondency; our self-esteem, that
necessary incentive to glory, is humbled and abased.
Our pride has received a jarring and bitter shock.
no longer feel that we are equal to stern exertion. We
wonder at what we have dared before. And therefore it
is, that when Othello believes himself betrayed, the occu-
pations of his whole life suddenly become burdensome and
When two persons are united by affection, and the love
of the one survives that of the other, who can measure the
anguish of the unfortunate who watches the extinction of
a light which nothing can re-illumine! It mostly happens,
too, that the first discovery is sudden. There is a deep
trustfulness in a loving heart; it is blind to the gradual
decrease of sympathy, its divine charity attributes the
absent eye, the chilling word, to a thousand causes, save
the true one; care, illness, -some worldly trouble,
some engrossing thought; and (poor fool that it is!) en-
deavours by additional tenderness to compensate for the pain
that is not of its own causing. Alas! the time has come
when it can no longer compensate. It hath ceased to be
the all-in-all to its cruel partner. Custom has brought its
invariable curse,
and indifference gathers round the
place in which we had garnered up our soul. At length
the appalling light breaks upon us, we discover we are
no longer loved. And what remedy have we? None!
Our first, our natural feeling is resentment. We are con-
scious of treachery; this ungrateful heart that has fallen
from us, now nave we prized and treasured it, how have
we sought to shield it from every arrow, how have we
pleased ourselves, in solitude and in absence, with yearn-
ing thoughts of its faith and beauty; now it is ours no
Then we break into wild reproaches, -we be-
come exacting, — we watch every look, - we gauge every
action, -we are unfortunate, · we weary,
-we offend.
These our agonies, - our impetuous bursts of passion,
our ironical and bitter taunts, to which we half expect, as
heretofore, to hear the soft word that turneth away wrath,
these only expedite the fatal hour; they are new crimes
in us;
the very proofs of our bitter love are treasured and
repeated as reasons why we should be loved no more:
as if without a throe, without a murmur, we could resign
ourselves to so great a loss. Alas!-it is with fierce
convulsions that the temple is rent in twain, and we hear
the divinity depart. Sometimes we stand in silence, and
with a full heart, gazing upon those hard cold eyes which
never again can melt in tenderness upon us. And our si- | abhorred.
lence is dumb, -its eloquence is gone. We are no longer
understood. We long to die in order to be avenged. We
half pray for some great misfortune, some agonizing ill-
ness, that it may bring to us our soother and our nurse.
We say,
"In affliction or in sickness it could not thus
desert us.
We are mistaken. We are shelterless,-
the roof has been taken from our heads, we are expos-
ed to any and every storm. Then comes a sharp and
dread eentiment of loneliness and insecurity.
We are
.eft,
in the dark.
woak children,
We are bereft
more irrevocably than by death; for will even the here-
after, that unites the happy dead who die lovingly, re-
store the love that has perished, ere life be dim?
What shall we do? We have accustomed ourselves to
love and to be loved. Can we turn to new ties, and seek
in another that which is extinct in one? How often is
such a resource in vain! Have we not given to this,
the treacherous and the false friend,
"Farewell," he saith,
We
"Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content."
And then, as the necessary but unconscious link in the
chain of thought, he continues at once, —
---
"Farewell the plumed troops and the big wars
That make ambition virtue, oh, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war, —
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone.”
I{
But there is another and a more permanent result from
this bitter treason. Our trustfulness in human nature is
diminished. We are no longer the credulous enthusiasts
of good. The pillars of the moral world seem shaken.
We believe, we hope, no more from the faith of others. If
the one whom we so worshipped, and so served, — who
knew us in our best years,
the best years of
to whom we have offered
our life, the youth of our hearts, -the flower of our countless daily offerings, whom we put in our heart of
affections? Did we not yield up the harvest? how little hearts, against whom if a world hinted, we had braved
is there left for another to glean! This makes the crime a world, — if this one has deserted us, who then shall be
of the moral infidelity. The one who takes away
from us
faithful?
his or her love takes from us also the love of all else.
We have no longer, perhaps, the youth and the attractions
At length we begin to reconcile ourselves to the worst;
gradually we gather the moss of our feelings from this
FI HO-TI.
133
heart which has become to us as stone. Our pride
hardens down into indifference. Ceasing to be loved, we
cease to love. Seasons may roll away, all other feelings
all other feelings
ebb and flow. Ambition may change into apathy,
generosity may sour into avarice; we may forget the en-
mities of years we may make.friends of foes. But the
love we have lost is never renewed. On that dread vacuum
of the breast the temple and the garden rise no more: —
that feeling, be it hatred, be it scorn, be it indifference,
which replaces love, endures to the last. And, altered for
ever to the one, how many of us are altered for ever to the
world? neither so cheerful, nor so kind, nor so active in
good, nor so incredulous of evil as we were before! The
the earth is green
deluge of passion has rolled back,
again. But we are in a new world. And the new world
is but the sepulchre of the old.
FI-HO-TI;
OR, THE PLEASURES OF REPUTATION
A CHINESE TALE.
FI-HO-TI was considered a young man of talents; he | Your country calls upon you for exertion, seek to dis-
led in Pekin a happy and comfortable life. In the prime tinguish your name, recollect the example of Confucius,
of youth, of a highly respectable family, and enjoying a give yourself up to study, - be wise and be great.'
most agreeable competence, he was exceedingly popular Much more to this effect spoke the mandarin, for he
among the gentlemen whom he entertained at his board, loved to hear himself talk; and, like all men privileged to
and the ladies who thought he might propose. Although give advice, he fancied that he was wonderfully eloquent.
the Chinese are not generally sociable, Fi-ho-ti had ven- In this instance his vanity did not deceive him; for it was
tured to set the fashion of giving entertainments, in which the vanity of another that he addressed.
Fi-ho-ti was
ceremony was banished for mirth. All the pleasures of moved; he felt he had been very foolish to be happy so
life were at his command; he drank, though without excess, long. Visions of disquietude and fame floated before him :
the cup of enjoyment; ate, laughed, and loved his fill.
ate, laughed, and loved his fill. he listened with attention to the exhortations of the philos-
No man in Pekin was more awake during the day, or en-opher; he resolved to distinguish himself, and to be wise.
joyed a serener slumber during the night.
The mandarin was charmed with the success of his vis-
it; it was a great triumph to disturb so much enjoyment
He went home and commenced a tract upon the advantages
of philosophy.
In an evil hour, it so happened that Fi-ho-ti discovered
that he possessed the talents we have referred to. A phi-
losopher, who, being also his uncle, had the double right,
both of philosophy and relationship, to say every thing un- Every one knows that in China learning alone is the
picasant to him, took it into his head to be very indig-passport to the offices of state. What rank and fortune
ant at the happy life which Fi-ho-ti so peacefully enjoyed. are in other countries, study is in the celestial empire.
Accordingly, one beautiful morning he visited our young Fi-ho-ti surrendered himself to knowledge. He retired to
Chin-Epicurean. He found him in his summer-house, a solitary cavern, near upon Kai-fon-gu; he filled his re-
stretched on luxurious cushions, quaffing the most delicious treat with books and instruments of science; he renounced
tea, in the finest little porcelain cups imaginable, reading all social intercourse; the herbs of the plain and the water
a Chinese novel, and enlivening the study, from time to of the spring sufficed the tastes hitherto accustomed to the
time, by a light conversation with a young lady who had most delicious viands of Pekin. Forgetful of love and of
come to visit him.
pleasure, he consigned three of the fairest years of his ex-
Our philosopher was amazingly shocked at the prospect istence to uninterrupted labor. He instructed himself,
of so much comfort. Nothing could be more unphilosophi-he imagined he was capable of instructing others.
cal; for the duty of philosophy being to charm us with life,
she is anxious, in the first place, to make it a burden to us.
The goddess is enamoured of patience, but indignant at
pleasure.
Our sage was a man very much disliked and very much
much
respectel. Fi-ho-ti rose from his cushions, a little ashamed
of being detected in so agreeable an indolence, and remind-
ed, for the first time, of the maxims of Chinese morality,
which hold it highly improper for a gentleman to be seen
with a lady. The novel fell from his hand; and the young
Lady, frightened at the long beard and the long nails of the
philosopher, would have run away, if her feet would have
allowed her; as it was, she summoned her attendants, and
hastened to complain to her friends of the manner in which
the pleasantest ttes-à-têtes could be spoiled, when young
men were so unfortunate as to have philosophers for un-
cles.
The mandarin, for Fi-ho-ti's visiter enjoyed no less a
dignity, and was entitled to wear a blue globe in his cap,
seeing the coast clear, henuned three times, and com-
menced his avuncular admonitions.
"Are you not ashamed, young man, said he," of the
life that you lead are you not ashamed to be so indo-
lent and so happy? You possess talents; you are in the
prime of youth, you have already attained the rank of keu-
jin; † are you deaf to the noble voice of ambition?
* The distinction of mandarins of the third and fourth order,
A collegiate grade, which renders those who attain it eligi-
|
Fired with increasing ambition, our student returned to
Pekin. He composed a work, which, though light and
witty enough to charm the gay, was the origin of a new
school of philosophy. It was at once bold and polished;
and the oldest mandarin or the youngest beauty of Pekin
could equally appreciate and enjoy it.
rage,
___
Fi-ho-
In one word, Fi-ho-ti's book became the
ti was the author of his day.
Delighted by the authority of literary applause, our
young student more than ever resigned himself to literary
pursuits. He wrote again, and again succeeded: all the
world declared that Fi-ho-ti had established his reputation,
and he obtained the dazzling distinction of Bin-sze.
Was Fi-ho-ti the happier for his reputation? You shall
judge.
He went to call upon his uncle the mandarin. He ima-
gined the mandarin would be delighted to find the success
of his admonitions.
The philosopher received him with a frigid embarrass-
ment. He talked of the weather and the emperor, the
last pagoda and the new fashion in tea-cups: he said not a
word about his nephew's books. Fi-ho-ti was piqued; he
introduced the subject of his own accord.
“Ah!” said the philosopher, dryly, "I understand you
have written something that pleases the women; no doubt
you will grow solid as your judgment increases
But, to
return to the tea-cups,—"
Fi-ho-ti was chagrined: he had lost the affections of
his learned uncle for ever; for he was now considered to
134
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CC
""
be more learned than his uncle himself. The common
mortification in success is, to find that your own family
usually hate you for it. My uncle no longer loves me,
thought he, as he reentered his palanquin "This is a
Alas! it was the effect of REPUTA-
misfortune."
TION!
The heart of Fi-ho-ti was naturally kind and genial;
though the thirst of pleasure was cooled in his veins, he
still cherished the social desires of friendship. He sum-
moned once more around him the comrades of his youth: |
he fancied they, at least, would be delighted to find their
friend not unworthy of their affection. He received them
with open arms; they returned his greeting with shyness,
and an awkward affectation of sympathy; their conversa-
tion no longer flowed freely, - they were afraid of commit-
ting themselves before so clever a man; they felt they
were no longer with an equal, and yet they refused to ac-
knowledge a superior. Fi-ho-ti perceived, with indescri-
bable grief, that a wall had grown up between himself and
the companions of past years; their pursuits, their feel-
ings, were no longer the same. They were not proud of
his success, they were jealous; the friends of his
youth were the critics of his manhood.
This, too, is a misfortune," thought Fi-ho-ti, as he
threw himself at night upon his couch. Very likely it
was the effect of REPUTATION!
"But if the old friends are no more, I will gain new,"
thought the student. "Men of the same pursuits will have
the same sympathics. I aspire to be a sage: I will court
the friendship of sages."
This was a notable idea of Fi-ho-ti's. He surrounded
himself with the authors, the wits, and the wise men of
Pekin. They ate his dinners, they made him read their
manuscripts (and a bad handwriting in Chinese is no
trifle!) they told him he was a wonderful genius,
and they abused him anonymously every week in the Pekin
journals; for China is perhaps the only despotism in the
world in which the press is entirely free. The heart of
Fi-ho-ti, yearning after friendship, found it impossible to
expect a single friend among the literati of China; they
were all too much engrossed with themselves to dream of
affection for another. They had no talk, -no thought, —
no feeling, except that which expressed love for their
own books, and hatred for the books of their cotemporaries.
One day, Fi-ho-ti had the misfortune to break his leg.
The most intimate of his acquaintance among the literati
found him stretched on his couch, having just undergone
the operation of setting, which a French surgeon had char-
itably performed on him.
"Ah!" said the author, "how very unlucky, — how
very unfortunate ! "
"You are extremely obliging," said Fi-ho-ti, touched
by his visiter's evident emotion.
"Yes, it is particularly unlucky that your accident should
occur just at this moment, for I wanted to consult you
about this passage in my new book before it is published
to-inorrow ! "
The broken leg of his friend seemed to the author only
as an interruption to the pleasure of reading his own
works.
But, above all, Fi-ho-ti found it impossible to trust men
who gave the worst possible character of each other. If
you believed the literati themselves, so envious, malignant,
worthless, unprincipled a set of men as the literati of
Pekin never were created! Every new acquaintance he
made told him an anecdote of an old acquaintance, which
made his hair stand on end. Fi-ho-ti began to be alarmed.
He contracted more and more the circle of his society,
and resolved to renounce the notion of friendship among
men of similar pursuits.
Confucius. In Pekin, any insinuation of originality is
considered as a suspicion of the most unpardonable guilt.
Other journals, indeed, did not so much abuse as misi ep-
resent him. He found his doctrines twisted into all manner
of shapes. He could not defend them, for it is not dig-
nified to reply to all the Pekin journals; but he was assured
by his flatterers that truth would ultimately prevail, and
posterity do him justice. "Alas!" thought Fi-ho-ti,
amn I to be deemed a culprit all my life, in order that I
may be acquitted after death? Is there no justice for me
until I am past the power of malice? Surely this is a
misfortune!" - Very likely; it was the necessary con-
sequence of REPUTATION!
66
Fi-ho-ti now began to perceive that the desire of fame
was a chimera. He was yet credulous enough to follow
another chimera, equally fallacious. He said to himself,
"It was poor and vain in me to desire to shine. Let me
raise my heart to a more noble ambition; let me desire
only to instruct others."
-
a
Fraught with this lofty notion, Fi-ho-ti now conceived a
more solid and a graver habit of mind: he became rigid.y
conscientious in the composition of his works. He no
longer desired to write what was brilliant, but to discover
what was true. He erased, without mercy, the most lively
images, the most sparkling aphorisms,
if even
doubt of their moral utility crossed his mind. He wasted
two additional years of the short summer of youth: he
gave the fruits of his labor to the world in a book of the
most elaborate research, the only object of which was to
enlighten his countrymen. This, at least, they cannot
abuse," thought he, when he finished the last line. Ah!
how much he was mistaken!
(C
Doubtless, in other countries, the public are remarkably
grateful to any author for correcting their prejudices and
combatting their foibles; but in China, attack one ortho
dox error, prove to the people that you wish to elevate
and improve them, and renounce all happiness, all tranquil
lity, for the rest of your life!
Fi-ho-ti's book was received with the most frigid neg-
lect by the philosophers : — first, because the Pekin
philosophers are visionaries, and it did not build a system
upon visions; — and, secondly, because of Fi-ho-ti himself
they were exceedingly jealous. But from his old friends,
the journalists of Pekin, -O Fo!-with what invec-
tive, what calumny, what abuse it was honored ! He had
sought to be the friend of his race; — he was stigmatized
as the direst of its enemies. He was accused of all maa-
ner of secret designs; the painted slippers of the mana-
rins were in danger and he had evidently intended to
muffle all the bells of the grand pagoda! Alas! let no
man wish to be a saint unless he is prepared to be a
martyr.
CC
66
Is this injustice?" cried Fi-ho-ti to his flatterers
No," said they, with one voice; "no, Fi-ho-ti; - it is
REPUTATION!"
Thoroughly disgusted with his ambition, Fi-ho-ti now
resolved to resign himself once more to pleasure. Again
he heard music, and again he feasted and made love. Iu
vain!the zest, the appetite was gone.
The sterner
pursuits he had cultivated of late years had rendered his
mind incapable of appreciating the luxuries of frivolity.
He had opened a gulf between himself and his youth;
his heart could be young no more.
"One faithful breast shall console me for all," thought
he. Yang-y-se is beautiful, and smiles upon me; I will
woo and win her.”
Man Medy
Fi-ho-ti surrendered his whole soul to the new passion
he had conceived. Yang-y-se listened to him favorably
He could not complain of cruelty be fancied himself be
loved. With the generous and unselfish ardor that be-
Even in the remotest provinces of the celestial empire, longed to his early character, and which in China is so
the writings of Fi-ho-ti were greatly approved. The especially uncommon, he devoted his future years to, he
gentlemen quoted him at their tea, and the ladies wondered lavished the treasure of his affection upon, the object of
whether he was good-looking; but this applause, this his love. For some weeks he enjoyed a dream of delight:
interest that he inspired, never reached the ears of Fi- | he woke from it too soon. A rival beauty was willing to
ho-ti. He beheld not the smiles he called forth by his wit, attach to herself the wealthy and generous Fi-ho-ti.
nor the tears he excited by his pathos :
:-all that he saw Why," said she, one day, "why do you throw yourself
of the effects of his reputation was in the abuse he received away upon Yang-y-se? Do you fancy she loves you?
in the Pekir journals; he there read, every week and You are mistaken, she has no heart; it is only her vani-
every month, that he was but a very poor sort of creature. ty that makes her willing to admit you as her slave.”
Fi-
One journal called him a fool, another a wretch; a third ho-ti was incredulous and indignant. "Read this
seriously deposed that he was hump-backed: a fourth, that said the rival beauty. "Yang-y-se wrote it to me but the
uone of his sentiments could be found in the works of other day'
:ter,"
THE TALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM, THE MAGICIAN.
134
Fi-ho-ti read as follows: —
"We had a charining supper with the gay author last
night, and wished much for you. You need not rally me
on my affection for him: I do not love him, but I am
pleased to command his attentions; in a word, my vanity
is flattered with the notion of chaining to myself one of
the most distinguished persons in Pekin. But, - love,
ah! that is quite another thing.'
""
Fi-ho-ti's eyes were now thoroughly opened. He re-
called a thousand little instances which had proved that
Yang-y-se had only been in love with his celebrity.
Be
He saw at once the great curse of distinction.
renowned, and you can never be loved for yourself! As
you are hated, not for your vices, but your success, so are
you loved, not for your talents, but their fame. A inan
who has reputation is like a tower whose height is estimat-
ed by the length of its shadow, The sensitive and high-
wrought mind of Fi-ho-ti now gave way to a gloomy de-
spendency. Being himself misinterpreted, calumniated,
and traduced; and feeling that none loved him but through
vanity; that he stood alone with his enemies in the world, he
became the prey to misanthropy, and gnawed by perpetual
suspicion. He distrusted the smiles of others. The faces
of men seemed to him as masks; he felt everywhere the
presence of deceit. Yet these feelings had made no part
of his early character, which was naturally frank, joyous,
and confiding. Was the change a misfortune? Possibly;
but it was the effect of REPUTATION!
About this time, too, Fi-ho-ti began to feel the effects.
of the severe study he had undergone. His health gave
way; his nerves were shattered; he was in that terrible
revolution in which the mind, that vindictive laborer,-
wreaks its ire upon the enfeebled taskmaster, the body.
He walked the ghost of his former self.
One day he was standing pensively beside one of the
streams that intersect the gardens of Pekin, and, gazing
upon the waters, he muttered his bitter reveries. "Ah!"
thought he, "why was I ever discontented with happiness?
I was young, rich, cheerful; and life to me was a perpet-
ual holyday; my friends caressed ine, my mistress loved
me for myself. No one hated, or maligned, or envied me.
Like you leaf upon the water, my soul danced merrily
over the billows of existence. But courage, my heart!
I have at least done some good; benevolence must expe-
rience gratitude, young Psi-ching, for instance. I have
the pleasure of thinking that he must love me; I have
made his fortune; I have brought him from obscurity into
repute; for it has been my character as yet never to be
jealous of others!"'
Psi-ching was a young poet, who had been secretary to
Fi-ho-ti. The student had discovered genius and insatia-
ble ambition in the young man; he had directed and
advised his pursuits: he had raised him into fortune and
notice; he had enabled him to marry the mistress he loved.
Psi-ching vowed to bim everlasting gratitude.
While Fi-ho-ti was thus consoling himself with the idea
of Psi-ching's affection, it so happened that Psi-ching
and one of the philosophers of the day whom the public
voice esteemed second to Fi-ho-ti, passed along the banks
of the river. A tree hid Fi-ho-ti from their sight; they
were earnestly conversing, and Fi-ho-ti heard his own
name more than once repeated.
Yes," said Psi-ching, " poor Fi-ho-ti cannot live
much longer; his health is broken: you will lose a formi
dable rival when he is dead."
"I am.
CC
The philosopher smiled. Why, it will certainly be a
stone out of my way. You are constantly with him, I
think."
He is a charming person; but the real fact is
that, seeing he cannot live much longer, I am keeping a
journal of his last days; in a word, I shall write the histo
ry of my distinguished friend. I think it will take much,
and have a prodigious sale."
The talkers passed on.
Fi-ho-ti did not die so soon as was expected, and Psi
ching never published the jourual from which he anticipat
ed so much profit. But Fi-ho-ti ceased to be remarkable
for the kindness of his heart and the philanthropy of his
views. He was rather known for the sourness of his tem
per and the bitterness of his satire.
vacant.
By degrees he rose into public eminence, and on the
accession of a new emperor, Fi-ho-ti was commanded to
ask any favor that he desired. The office of tsung-tuk
(or viceroy) of the rich province of Che-kiang was jus
The courtiers waited breathless to hear the va
cancy requested. The emperor smiled benignly, it wa
the post he secretly intended for Fi-ho-ti. "Son of heav
en, and lord of a myriad of years," said the favorite
"suffer then thy servant to retire into one of the monaste
ries of Kai-fon-gu, and -to change his name!"
The last hope of peace that was left to Fi-ho-ti was t
escape
from his REPUTATION!
THE TALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM, THE MAGICIAN.*
*
* * *
***
* * *
*
upon
the
It was deep night, and the magician suddenly stood
before me.
Arise," said he, "and let us go forth upon
the surface of the world." I rose and followed the sor-
cerer until we came to the entrance of a cavern. Pursu-
ing its subterranean course for some minutes, with the
rushing sound of prisoned waters loud and wild
ear, we came at length to a spot where the atmosphere
struck upon my breath with a chill and earthly freshness;
and presently, through a fissure in the rock, the sudden
whiteness of the moon broke in, and lit ap, partially, walls
radiant with spars, and washed by a deep stream, that
wound its mysterious way to the upper air. And now,
gliding through the chasm, we stood in a broad cell, with
*This tale, complete in itself, is extracted from a work at pres-
ent crude and unfinished, but which I may hereafter re-model
and complete,- a philosophical prose-poem, in which, through
the means, sometimes of humor, sometimes of terror, certain
social and metaphysical problems will be worked out. I need
scarcely say, that the chief task in such a composition would
be to avoid any imitation of the Faust.
The narrator is suposed to have been with the magician
amid the caverns of the interior of the earth.
its lofty arch open to the sea. Column and spire (brilliant
with various crystallizations, spars of all hues) sprang
lightly up on either side of this cavern; and with a leap,
and a mighty voice, the stream, whose course we had been
tracking, rushed into the arms of the great sea. Along that
sea, star after star mirrored its solemn lustre, and the
moon, clad in a fuller splendor than I had ever seen gath
ered round her melancholy orb, filled the cavera with a light,
that was to the light of day what the life of an angel is to
that of a mortal. Passionless, yet tender, steadfast,
mystic, unwavering,she shone upon the glittering spars,
and made a holiness of the very air; and in a long line, from
the cavern to the verge of heaven, her sweet face breathed
a measured and quiet joy into the rippling billows,
"smiles of the sea, >> *
A few thin and fleecy clouds alone
varied the clear expanse of the heavens, and they rested,
like the cars of spirits, far on the horizon. And,
your
"Beautiful," said I, "is this outward world,
dim realms beneath have nothing to compare with it.
There are no stars in the temples of the hidden earth,-
and one glimpse from the lovely moon is worth all the
witchfires and meteors of the giant palaces below."
"Thou lookest, young mortal," said the wizard, in his
*Eschylus's Prometheus.
136
BULWER'S NOVELS.
-
never
mournful voice, over my
native shore. Beside that sea
stood my ancestral halls, and beneath that moon first
swelled within my bosom the deep tides of human emotion,
and in this cavern, whence we now look forth on the seas
and heavens, my youth passed some of its earnest hours in
contemplations of that high and starred order which your
lessened race, clogged with the mire of ages,
know for that epoch was far remote in those ages which
even tradition scarcely pierces. Your first fathers,
what of their knowledge know ye? What of their secrets
have ye retained? Their vast and dark minds were never
fathomed by the plummet of your researches. The waves
The waves
of the black night have swept over the ancient world,
and all that you can guess of its buried glories are from
the shivered fragments that ever and anon chance casts
upon the shores of the modern race."
Do we sink, then," said I, "by comparison with the
men of those distant times? Is not our lore deeper and
more certain? Was not their knowledge the offspring of
a confused and laboring conjecture? Did they not live
among dreams and shadows, and make truth itself the
creature of a fertile imagination?"
me,
ish youth, had ransacked all that the gray priests cook
teach him.
But the passions are interwoven deeply with the ele.
ments of thought. And real wisdom is only gained by the
process of fierce emotion! Amid all the pursuits of his
aspiring mind, the heart of the young prince burned with
a thousand passions untold and unregulated. (The magi-
cian paused for a moment, and then, in a voice far differ-
ent from the cold and solemu tone in which his accents
were usually clothed, he broke forth): -
G
Oh, beautiful, beyond the beauty of these sicklied and
hoary times, was the beauty of woman in the young world!
The glory of Eden, had not yet departed from her face, and
the lustre of unwearied nature glowed alike upon earth, and
earth's majestic daughters. Beauty is youth's idol, and
in the breast of Gondorah, for so was the prince popularly
called, (his higher and mystic titles may not be revealed,)
the great passion, the great yearning, the great desire,
was for the lovely and the august, whatever their shape
or mould. Not in woman only, but in all things, the beau-
tiful made his worship, wherever he beheld it, the image
of the Deity was glassed on his adoring soul. But to him,
Nay," replied the shrouded and uncertain form beside - or rather to myself,- (if memory retain identity through
"their knowledge pierced into the heart of things. the shift and lapse of worlds; making me the same as one
They consulted the stars, but it was to measure the who, utterly dissimilar, lived a man among men, long ages
dooms of earth; and could we raise from the dust their | back,) to me, there was yet a fiercer and more absorbing
perished scrolls, you would behold the mirror of the living passion than love, or the idolatry of nature, THF DESIRE
times. Their prophecies (wrung from the toil and rapture TO KNOW! My mind launched itself into the depth of
of those powers which ye suffer to sleep, quenched within things, I loved, step after step, to trace effect to its first
the soul) traversed the wilds of ages, and pointed out cause. Reason was a chain from heaven to earth, and
among savage hordes the cities and laws of empires yet to every link led me to aspire to the stars themselves. And
be.
the wisdom of my wise fathers was mine; I knew the
secret of the elements, and could charm them into slumber,
or arouse them to war. The mysteries of that dread chemis-
try which is now among the sciences that sleep, by which
we can command the air, and walk on its viewless paths,
by which we can wake the thunder,- and sumraon the cloud,
and rive the earth; the exercise of that high faculty, the
imagining power, by which fancy itself creates what it
wills, and which, trained and exercised, can wake the spec-
tres of the dead, and bring visible to the carnal eye the
genii that walk the world; the watchful, straining, sleep-
less science, that can make a sage's volume of the stars;
these were mine, and yet I murmured, - I repined! what
higher mysteries were yet left to learn! The acquisition
of to-day was but the disappointment of the morrow, and
the dispensation of my ambition was to desire!
Ten thousand arts have mouldered from the earth,
and science is the shadow of what it was. Young mortal,
thou hast set thine heart upon wisdom, thou hast wasted
the fresh and radiant hours of opening life amid the weary-
ing thoughts of others: thou hast labored after knowledge,
and in that labor the healthful hues have for ever left thy
cheek, and age creeps upon the core while the dew is yet
upon the leaf: and for this labor, and in the transport
and the vision that the soul's labor nurtures, thy spirit
is now rapt from its fleshly career on earth, wandering
at will among the dread chasms and mines wombed within
the world, breathing a vital air among the dead, com-
raded by spirits, and the powers that are not of flesh,
and catching, by imperfect glimpse and shadowy type,
some knowledge of the arch mysteries of creation; and
thou beholdest in me and in my science that which thy
learning and thy fancy tracked not before. No legend
ever chanced upon iny strange and solemn being: nor does
aught of my nature resemble the tales of wizard or sorcer-
er, that the vulgar fantasies of superstition have imbodied.
Thou hast journeyed over a land without a chart, and in
which even fable has hackneyed not the truth. Thou
wouldst learn something of the being thus permitted to thy
wonder; be it so. Under these sparkling arches, - and
before my ancestral sea, -and beneath the listening ear of
the halting moon, thou shalt learn a history of the antique
world.”
THE TALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM.
|
It was evening, and I went from the groves of the sacred
temple, to visit one whom I loved. The way spread over
black and rugged masses of rock, amid which the wild
shrub and dark weed sprung rife and verdant; for the waste
as yet was eloquent of some great revulsion of the soil in
the earlier epochs of the world, when change often trod
the heels of change, and the earth was scarcely reconciled
to the sameness of her calm career. And I stood beneath
the dee where SHE was to meet me, and my heart leaped
within me as I saw her footsteps bounding along, and
she came with her sweet lips breathing the welcome of hu-
man love, and I laid my head on her bosom and was content.
M
And, "oh," said she, "art thou not proud of thy dawn-
ing fame? The seers speak of thee with wonder, and the
priests bow their heads before thy name."
Along the shores which for thirty centuries no human
foot has trod, and upon plains where now not one stone
stands upon another, telling even of decay, was once Then the passion of my soul broke forth, and I answered,
the city and the empire of the wise kings, for so termed "What is this petty power that I possess, and what this
by their neighbours were the monarchs that ruled this barren knowledge? The great arch secret of all I have
country. Generation after generation they had toiled to toiled night after night to conquer, and I cannot attain it.
earn and preserve that name. Amid the gloom of myste- What is it to command even the dark spirits at war with
rious temples, and the oracular learning of the star-read heaven, if we know not the nature of what we command?
priests, the youth of each succeeding king was reared into What I desire is not knowledge, but the source of knowledge.
a grave and brooding manhood. Their whole lives were 1 wish that my eye should penetrate at once into the germ
mystery. Wrapped in the sepulchral grandeur of the and cause of things: that, when I look upon the outward
imperial palace, seen rarely, - like gods, they sent beauty of the world, my sight should pierce within, and see
forth, as from a cloud, the light of their dread but benign the mechanism that causes and generates the beauty work-
laws the courses of their life were tracked not, but ing beneath. Enough of my art have I learned to know that
they were believed to possess the power over the seasons there is a film over human eyes which prevents their pene-
and elements, and to summon, at their will, the large- trating beyond the surface; it is to remove that film, and
winged spirits that walk to and fro across the earth, gov- dart into the essence, and survey the one great productive
erning, like dreams, with a vague and unpenetrated power, spirit of all things, that I labor and yearn in vain. All
the destinies of nations and the ambition of kings.
other knowledge is a cheat; this is the high prerogative
which mocks at conjecture and equals us with a god!
:
There was born to this imperial race a son, to whom
seer and king alike foretold a strange and preternatural
destiny. His childhood itself was of a silent, stern, and
contemplative nature. And his learning, even in his boy-
Then Lyciah saw that I was moved; and she kissed me,
and sung me the sweet songs, that steeped my heart, as it
were, in a bath of fragrant herbs.
THE TALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM, THE MAGICIAN.
137
—
Midnight had crept over the earth as I returned home-
ward across that savage scene. Rock heaped on rock
bordered and broke upon the lonely valley that I crossed,
and the moon was still, and shining, as at this hour, when
its life is four thousand years nearer to its doom. Then
suddenly I saw moving before me, with a tremulous motion,
a meteoric fire of an exceeding brightness. Ever as it
moved above the seared and sterile soil, it soared and darted
restlessly to and fro; and I thought, as it danced and
quivered, that I heard it laugh from its burning centre with
a wild and frantic joy. I fancied, as I gazed upon the fire,
that in that shape revelled one of the children of the elemen-
tary genii; and, addressing it in their language, I bade it
assume a palpable form. But the fire darted on unheedingly,
save that now the laugh from amid the flame came all dis-
unct and fearfully on my ear. Then my hair stood erect,
and my veins curdled, and my knees knocked together;
I was under the influence of an awe; for I felt that the
power was not of the world, nor of that which my ances-
tral knowledge of the powers of other worlds had yet pierced.
My voice faltered, and thrice I strove to speak to the light,
but in vain; and when at length I addressed it in the
solemn adjuration by which the sternest of the fiends are
bound, the fire sprang up from the soil, — towering aloof
and aloft, with a livid but glorious lustre, bathing the
whole atmosphere in its glare,-quenching, with an in-
tenser ray, the splendors of the moon, and losing its giant
crest in the far invisible of heaven!
M
And a voice came forth, saying, "Thou callest upon in-
ferior spirits; I am that which thou hast pined to behold, -
I am the living principle of the world!"
I bowed my face, and covered it with my hands, and my
voice left me; and when again I looked round, behold, the
fire had shrunk from its momentary height, and was (now
dwarfed and humble) creeping before me in its wavering
aud snake-like course. But fear was on me, and I fled,
and fast fled the fire by my side; and oft, but faint, from
its ghastly heart came the laugh that thrilled the marrow of
my bones.
And the waste was past, and the giant temple
of the one God rose before me; I rushed forward, and fell
breathless by its silent altar. And there sat the high
priest, for night and day some one of the sacred host watched
by the altar; and he was of great age, and all human emo-
tion had left his veins; but even he was struck with my
fear, and gazed upon me with his rayless eyes, and bade
me be of cheer, for the place was holy. I looked round,
and the fire was not visible, and I breathed freely; but I
answered not the priest, for years had dulled him into stone,
and when I rose his eye followed me not. I gained the
purple halls set apart for the king's son. And the pillars
were of ivory inlaid with gold, and the gems and per-
fumes of the east gave light and fragrance to those wondrous
courts; and the gorgeous banquet was spread, and music
from unseen hands swelled along arch and isle as I trod the
royal hall. But lo! by the throne, crouching beneath the
purple canopy, I saw the laughing fire, and it seemed,
lowly and paled, to implore protection. I paused, and
took the courtiers aside, and asked them to mark the flame;
but they saw it not, it burned to mine eye alone. Then
knew I that it was indeed a spirit of that high race, which,
even when they take visible form, are not visible save to
the students of the dread science! And I trembled, but
revered.
—
And the fire staid by me night and day, and I grew ac-
customed to its light. But never, by charm or spell, could
I draw further word from it; and it followed my steps with
a silent and patient homage. And by degrees a vain and
proud delight came over me, to think that I was so hon-
ored; and I looked upon the pale and changeful face of the
fire as the face of a friend.
— J
to
|
reverent mariner of many an awful legend of the cavern
home. And hither had often turned my young feet in my
first boyhood, and from the shrivelled lip of the old Egyp-
tian had much of my loftiest learning been gleaned; for he
loved me, and seeing with a prophet eye far down the
great depths of time, he knew that I was fated to wild
and fearful destinies, and a life surpassing the period of
his own.
It was on that night, when the new moon scatters its
rank and noxious influence over the foliage and life of earth
that I sought the Egyptian. The fire burned with a fiercer
and redder light than its wont, as it played and darted by
my side. And when, winding by the silver sands, I passed
into the entrance of the cave, I saw the old man sitting on
a stone. As I entered, the seer started from his seat in
fear and terror, his eyes rolled, his thin gray hairs
stood erect, a cold sweat broke from his brow and
the dread master stood before his pupil in agony and awe.
"Thou comest," muttered he, with white lips; "what
is by thy side? hast thou dared to seek knowledge with
the soul of all horror, with the ghastly leper of— avaunt!
bid the fiend begone!
His voice seemed to leave the old man, and with a shriek
he fell upon his face on the ground.
"Is it," said I, appalled by his terror, -"is it the fire
that haunts my steps at which thou tremblest? Behold, it is
harmless as a dog; it burns not while it shines; if a fiend,
it is a merry fiend, for I hear it laugh while I speak. But
it is for this, dread sire, that I have sought thee. Canst
thou tell me the nature of the spirit? for a spirit it surely
is. Canst thou tell me its end and aim?
">
دو
I lifted the old man from the earth, and his kingly
heart returned to him, and he took the wizard crown
from the wall, and he placed it on his brows, for he was
as a monarch among the things that are not of clay. And
he said to the fire, Approach! And the fire glided to
his knees. And he said, "Art thou the spirit of the ele
ment, and was thy cradle in the flint's heart?"
And a voice from the flame answered, “No.”
And again the Egyptian trembled.
"What art thou, then?" said he.
And the fire answered, "Thy lord.”
And the limbs of the Egyptian shook as with the grasp
of death.
And he said, "Art thou a demon of this world?"
And the fire answered, "I am the life of this world,—
and I am not of other worlds."
"I know thee, I fear thee,-I acknowledge thee ! "
said the Egyptian, "and in thy soft lap shall this crowned
head soon be laid."
And the fire laughed.
"But tell me," said I,
my soul was brave and stern,
hath this thing with me?"
"It is the great ancestor of us all!" said the Egyptian,
groaning.
for though my blood stood still,
"tell me, O sire, what
"And knows it the secrets of the past?"
"The secrets of the past are locked within it."
"Can it teach me that which I pine to know? Can it
teach me the essence of things, the nature of all I see?
Can it raise the film from my human eyes?"
"Rash prince, be bushed! cried the Egyptian, rising,
and glaring upon me with his stony eye,
"seek not to
know that which will curse thee with the knowledge. Ask
not a power that would turn life into a living grave. All
the lore that man ever knew is mine; but that secret have
I shunned, and that power have I cast from me, as the
shepherd casts the viper from his hand. Be still,-be
moderate, be wise. And bid me exorcise the spirit tha.
accosts thee from the fire!
'I can teach thee this," said the fire; and it rose
higher, and burned fiercer, as it spake, till the lamps of
naptha paled before it.
There was a man who had told years beyond the mem- "Can it teach me the arch mystery? When I gaze upon
ory of the living, a renowned and famous seer, the herb or flower, can it gift my gaze with the power to
whom, in times of dread nd omen, our priests and mon-pierce into the cause and workings of its life?
archs themselves repaired for warning and advice. I sought
his abode. The seer was not of our race, he came from
the distant waters of the Nile, and the dark mysteries of
Egypt had girded his youth. It was in the cavern itself in
which, young stranger of the north, this tale is now poured
into thy ear, that the seer held his glittering home, for
lamp upon lamp then lighted up, from an unfailing uaptha,
these dazzling spars,
-and the seamen of the vessels that
crowded yonder bay beheld, far down the blue waters, the
ightly blaze flickering along the wave, and reminding the
VOL. II.
18
"Then abide by me, O spirit!" said I; "and let us
not be severed."
"Miserable boy," cried the Egyptian; " was this, then,
the strange and preternatural doom which my art foresaw
was to be thine, though it deciphered not its nature!
Knowest thou that this fire, so clear, so pure, - - se
beautiful, — is —”
J
-
138
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Beware!" cried the voice from the fire; and the crest
of the flame rose, as the crest of a serpent about to spring
upon its prey.
"Thou awest me not," said the Egyptian, though the
blood fled from his shrivelled and tawny cheeks. Thou
art
"The living principle of the world," interrupted the
voice.
"And thine other name?" cried the Egyptian.
Thy conqueror!" answered the voice; and straight,
as the answer went forth, the Egyptian fell, blasted as by
lightning, a corpse at my feet. The light of the fire played
with a blue and tremulous lustre upon the carcass, and
presently I beheld by that light that the corpse was already
passed into the loathsomeness of decay, the flesh was
rotting from the bones, and the worm and the creeping
Jing, that the rottenness generates, twined in the very jaws
and temples of the sage.
I sickened and gasped for breath. "Is this thy work,
oh fearful fiend?" said I, shuddering. And the fire, pass-
ing from the corpse, crept humbly at my feet, and its voice
answered, “Whatever my power, it is thy slave !
"Was that death thy work?" repeated my quivering
lips.
"Thou knowest," answered the fire," that death is not
the will of any power, save Oue. The death came from
ais will, and I but exulted over the blow.'
M
eye.
sheen of the silent heavens, and chas.ng the swift-winged
creatures, that scarcely the glass of science can give to the
If all around was life, it was the life of enchant-
ment and harmony, a subtle pervading element of de-
light.
light. Speech left me for very joy, aud I gazed, thrilled
and breathless, around me, entered, as it were, into the
inner temples of the great system of the universe.
I looked round for the fire, it was gone. I was alone
amid this new and populous creation, and I stretched
myself voluptuously beneath a tree, to sate my soul with
wonder. As a poet in the height of his delirium was iny
rapture; my veins were filled with poesy, which is intox-
ication; and my eyes had been touched with poesy, which
is the creative power; and the miracles before me were
poesy, which is the enchanter's wand.
Days passed, and the bright demon which had so gifted
me appeared not, nor yet did the spell cease; but every
hour, every moment, new marvels rose. I could not walk,
I could not touch stone or herb, without coming into a
new realm utterly different from those I had yet seen,
but
equally filled with life, so that there was never a want
of novelty; and had I been doomed to pass my whole exis
tence upon three feet of earth, I might have spent that ex-
istence in perpetual variety, in unsatisfied and eternally
new research. But most of all, when I sought Lyciah I
felt the full gift I possessed; for in conversing with her my
sense penetrated to her heart; and I felt, as with a mag-
netic sympathy, moving through its transparent purity, the
thoughts and emotions that were all my own.
By degrees I longed indeed to make her a sharer in my
discovered realms; for I now slowly began to feel the
weariness of a conqueror who reigns alone,
share my power or partake the magnificence in which I
dwelt.
none to
came
I left the cavern; my art, subtle as it was, gave me no
glimpse into the causes of the Egyptian's death. I looked
upon the fire, as it crept along the herbage, with an inquis-
itive, yet dreading eye. I felt an awe of the demon's
power; and yet the proud transport I had known in the
subjection of that power was increased, and I walked with
a lofty step at the thought that I should have so magnificent
a slave. But the words of the mysterious Egyptian still One day, even in the midst of angelic things that floated
rang in my ear, - still I shuddered and recoiled before his blissfully round me, so that I heard the low melodies
denunciation of the power and the secret I desired.
and the secret I desired. And they hymned as they wheeled aloft, -one day this pining,
the voice of the fire now addressed me, as I passed along the this sense of solitude in life, of satiety in glory,
starry solitude, with a persuasive and sweet tone. "Shrink on me. And I said, "But this is the imperfect state;
not, young sage," it said, or rather sang, "from a power why not enjoy the whole? Could I ascend to that high
beyond that of which thy wisest ancestors ever dreamed, and empyreal knowledge, to which this is but a step,
lose not thy valor at the drivelling whispers of age, doubtless this dissatisfied sentiment would vanish; discon-
when did ever age approve what youth desires? Thou art tent arises because there is something still to attain; attain
formed for the destiny which belongs to royal hearts, the all, and discontent must cease. Bright spirit," cried I,
destiny courts thee. Why dost thou play the laggard ?” aloud," to whom I already owe so great a benefit, come
"Knowledge," said I, musingly, "can never be produc- to me now, why hast thou left me? Come and coin-
tive of woe. If it be knowledge thou canst give me, I will plete thy gifts. I see yet only the wonders of the secret
not shrink. Lo! I accept thy gift.
portions of the world, touch mine eyes that I may see
The fire burned cheerily to and fro. And from the midst the cause of the wonders.
And from the midst the cause of the wonders. I am surrounded with an air of
of it there stepped forth a pale and shadowy form, of female life; let me pierce into the principle of that life. Bright
shape and of exceeding beauty; her face was indeed of no spirit, minister to thy servant!" Then I heard the sweet
living wanness, and the limbs were indistinct, and no voice that had spoken in the fire, but I saw not the fire
roundness sweiled from their vapory robes; but the fea- itself. And the voice said unto me,
tures were lovely as a dream, and long yellow hair, — glow-
ing as sunlight,-fell adown her neck. "Thou wouldst
pierce," said she, "to the principle of the world. Thou
wouldst that thine eye should penetrate into iny fair and
most mystic domain. But not yet; there is an ordeal
to pass.
To the whole knowledge thou must glide through
the imperfect!" Then the female kissed my eyes, and
vanished, and with it vanished also the fire.
وو
Ng
Oh, beautiful!-oh, wondrous !—oh, divine! A scale
had fallen from my sight, and a marvellous glory was
called forth upon the face of earth. I saw millions and
millions of spirits shooting to and fro athwart the air,
- spirits that my magic had yet never descried, spirits
of rainbow hues, and quivering with the joy that made
their nature. Wherever I cast my gaze, life upon life was
visible. Every blade of grass swarmed with myriads
mvisible to the common eye, but performing with mimic
regularity all the courses of the human race; every grain
of dust, every drop of water, was a universe, mapped
in a thousand tribes, all fulfilling the great destinies
of mortality love, fear, hope, emulation,
avarice, jealousy, war, death. My eyes had been
touched with a glorious charm. And even in that, which
to the casual eye would have been a mute, and soli-
ary, and breathless hour, I was suddenly summoned into
a dazzling atmosphere of life, every atom a world.
And bending my eyes below, I saw emerging from the
tiny hollows of the earth those fantastic and elfin shapes
that have been chiefly consecrated by your northern bards;
forth they came merrily, merrily, dancing in the smooth
"Son of the wise kings, I am here!"
"I see thee not," said I. Why hidest trou thy lus-
tre?"
"Thou seest the half, and that very sight blinds thee to
the whole. This redundance and flow of life gushes from
me as from its source. When the mid-course of the river
is seen, who sees also its distant spring? In thee, not
myself, is the cause that thou beholdest me not. I am as
I was when I bowed my crest to thy feet; but thine eyes
are not what then they were."
"Thou tellest me strange things, O demon!" said 1;
"for why, when admitted to a clearer sight of things,
should my eyes be darkened alone when they turn to
thee?"
"Does not all knowledge, save the one night knowl-
edge, only lead men from the discovery of the primeval
causes? As imagination may soar aloft, and find new
worlds, yet lose the solid truth, so thou mayst rise into
the regions of a preternatural lore, yet recede darklier and
darklier, from the clew to nature herself."
I mused over the words of the spirit, but their sense
seemed dim.
"Canst thou not appear to me in thine old, wan, and
undulating brightness?" said I, after a pause.
"Not until thine eyes receive power to behold me.
"And when may I be worthy that power?"
"When thou art thoroughly dissatisfied with thy present
gifts."
"Dread demon, I am so now !
"Wilt thou pass from this pleasant state at a bazard
LAKE LEMAN.
139
>>
not knowing that which may ensue? Behold, all around
thee is full of glory, and musical with joy! Wilt thou
abandon that state for a dark and perilous unknown?
"The unknown is the passion of him who aspires to
know."
"Pause; for it is a dread alternative," said the in-
visible.
Coine,
"My heart beats steadily.
penalty of the desire!"
mine be the
A
Thy wish is granted," said the spirit.
Then straightway a pang, quick, sharp, agonizing, shot
through my heart. I felt the stream in my veins stand still,
hardening into a congealed substance, my throat rattled,
I struggled against the grasp of some iron power.
terrible sense of my own impotence seized ine, my mus-
cles refused my will, my voice fled, I was in the posses-
sion of some authority that had entered, and claimed, and
usurped the citadel of iny own self. Then came a creep-
ing of the flesh, a deadly sensation of ice and utter cold-
ness; and lastly, a blackness, deep and solid as a mass of
rock, fell over the whole earth, I had entered DEATH!
From this state I was roused by the voice of the demon.
“Awake, look forth! Thou hast thy desire! Abide the
penalty!"
The darkness broke from the earth; the ice
thawed from my veins; once more my senses were my
servants.
I looked, and behold, I stood in the same spot, but
how changed! The earth was one blue and crawling mass
of putridity; its rich verdure, its lofty trees, its sublime
mountains, its glaucing waters, had all been the deceit of
my previous blindness; the very green of the grass and
the trees was rottenness, and the leaves (not each leaf one
and inanimate as they seemed to the common eye) were
composed of myriads of insects and puny reptiles, battened
on the corruption from which they sprang. The waters
swarmed with a leprous life, - those beautiful shapes that
I had seen in my late delusion were corrupt in their seve-
ral parts, and from that corruption other creatures were
generated living upon them. Every breath of air was not
air, a thin and healthful fluid, but a wave of animalculæ,
poisonous and foetid; (for the air is the arch corruptor,
hence all who breathe it die; it is the slow, sure venom of
nature, pervading and rotting all things;) the light of the
heavens was the sickly, loathsome glare that steained from
the universal death in life. The tiniest thing that moved,
you beheld the decay moving through its veins, and its
corruption, unconscious to itself, engendered new tribes of
life! The world was one dead carcass, from which every
thing the world bore took its being. There was not such
a thing as beauty! there was not such a thing as life,
that did not generate from its own corruption a loathsome
ife for others! I looked down upon myself, and saw that
my very veins swarmed with a mote-like creation of
shapes, springing into hideous existence from mine own
disease, and mocking the human destiny with the same
career of love, life, and death. Methought it must be a
spell, that change of scene would change. I shut my eyes
with a frantic horror, and I fled, fast, fast, but blinded;
and ever as I fled a laugh rang in my ears, and I stopped
not till I was at the feet of Lyciah, for she was my first
involuntary thought. Whenever a care or fear possessed
me, I had been wont to fly to her bosom, and charm my
heart by the magic of her sweet voice. I was at the feet
of Lyciah, I clasped her knees, - I looked up implor
ingly in her face, God of my fathers! the same curse
attended me still! Her beauty was gone. There was no
whole, no one life in that being whom I had so adored.
Her life was composed of a million lives; her stately
shape, of atoms crumbling from each other, and so bringing
about ghastly state of corruption which reigned in all
else around.
else around. Her delicate hues, her raven hair, her fra-
I
grant lips,palı ! — What, what, was my agony !
turned from her again, I shrank in loathing from her
embrace,- I fled once more, on, on. I ascended
a mountain, and looked down on the various leprosies of
earth. Sternly I forced myself to the task; sternly I
inhaled the knowledge I had sought; sternly I drank in
the horrible penalty I had dared.
I
"Demon," I cried, "appear, and receive my curse!
"Lo, I am by thy side evermore," said the voice. Then
gazed, and, behold! the fire was by my side; and I saw
that it was the livid light that the jaws of rottenness emits,
and in the midst of the light, which was as its shroud aud
garment, stood a giant shape, that was the shape of a
corpse that had been for months buried. I gazed upon the
demon with an appalled yet unquailing eye, and, as
gazed, I recognised in those ghastly lineaments & resem
blance to the female spirit that had granted me .ae fits
fatal gift. But exaggerated, enlarged, dead, bad
―
rotted into horror.
"I am that which thou didst ask to see face to face
am the principle of life.
"Of life! Out, horrible mocker! hast thou no other
name?"
"I have! and the other name is CORRUPTION!"
Bright lamps of heaven," I cried, lifting my eyes in
anguish from the loathly charnel of the universal earth;
"and is this, which men call' Nature,' - is this the sole
principle of the world?"
As I spoke, the huge carcass beneath my feet trembled.
And over the face of the corpse beside me there fell a fear.
And lo! the heavens were lit up with a pure and glorious
light, and from the midst of them there came forth a voice,
which rolled slowly over the face of the charnel earth as
the voice of thunder above the valley of the shepherd.
"Such," said the voice, "is Nature, if thou acceptest Na-
ture as the First Cause, such is the universe without a
God!"
LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.
THERE are some places in the world which imaginative
persons, who contract a sympathy with genius, feel it almost
a duty to visit. Not to perform such pilgrimages seems a
neglect of one of the objects of life. The world has many
a Mecca and many a Medina for those who find a prophet
in genius, and a holiness in its sepulchre. Of these none
are more sacred than
"Leman with its crystal face."
The very name of that lovely lake is a poem in itself. It
conjures up the living and actual shapes of those who have
been greater than their kind. As the thought of Troy
brings before us at once the bright Scamander, the
heaven-defended towers, the hum of the wide Grecian
camp, with the lone tent of Achilles, sullen at his loss,
and the last interview of Hector and her to whom he was
"father, mother, brethren,”- -so with the very name of
Leman rise up the rocks of Meillerie, the white walls
of Chillon, we see the boat of Byron, with the storm
breaking over Jura,
breaking over Jura, the "covered acacia walk,”—in
which, at the dead of night, the historian of Rome gazed
upon the waters after he had finished the last page of his
deathless work: Voltaire, Rousseau, Calvin,-beings who
were revolutions in themselves, —are summoned before us.
Yes, Leman is an epic; poetical in itself, it associates its
name with the characters of poetry; and all that is most
beautiful in nature is linked with all that is most eloquent
in genius.
The morning after my arrival at the inn, which is placed
(a little distance from Geneva) on the margin of the lake,
I crossed to the house which Byron inhabited, and which is
almost exactly opposite. The day was calm but gloomy,
the waters almost without a ripple. Arrived at the oppo-
site shore, you ascend, by a somewhat rude and steep
ascent, to a small village, winding round which, you come
upon the gates of the house. On the right-hand side of the
40
BULWER'S NOVELS.
road, as you thus enter, is a vineyard, in which, at that
time, the grapes hung ripe and clustering. Within the
gates are some three or four trees, ranged in an avenue.
Descending a few steps, you see, in a small court before
the door, a rude fountain; it was then dried up, the
waters had ceased to play. On either side is a small gar-
den branching from the court, and by the door are rough
stone seats. You enter a small hali, and, thence, an apart-
ment containing three rooms. The principal one is charm-
ing, -long, and of an oval shape, with carved wainscot-
ing; the windows on three sides of the room command the
most beautiful views of Geneva, the lake, and its opposite
shores. They open upon a terrace paved with stone; on that
terrace how often he must have "watched with wistful eyes
the setting sun!" It was here that he was in the ripest
maturit of his genius, in the most interesting epoch of
his life. He had passed the bridge that severed him from
his country; but the bridge was not yet broken down. He
had not yet been enervated by the soft south. His luxuries
were still of the intellect, his sensualism was yet of
nature, his mind had not faded from its youthfulness and
vigor,his was yet the season of hope rather than of per-
formance, and the world dreamed more of what he would
be than what he had been.
His works (the Paris edition) were on the table. Him-
self was everywhere! Near to this room is a smaller
cabinet, very simply and rudely furnished. On one side,
On one side,
in a recess, is a bed; on the other, a door communicates
with a dressing-room. Here, I was told, he was chiefly
accustomed to write. And what works?
"Manfred,'
and the most beautiful stanzas of the third canto of
"Childe Harold," rush at once upon our memory. You
now ascend the stairs, and pass a passage, at the end of
which is a window, commanding a superb view of the
lake. The passage is hung with some curious but wretched
portraits. Francis I., Diana of Poitiers, and Julius Scal-
ger among the rest. You now enter his bedroom. Noth-
ing can be more homely than the furniture; the bed is in a
recess, and in one corner an old walnut-tree bureau, where
you may still see written over some of the compartments,
"Letters of Lady B- "His imaginary life vanishes
before this simple label, and all the weariness, and all
the disappointment of his real domestic life, come sadly
upon you. You recall the nine executions in one year,
the annoyance and the bickering, and the estrangement,
and the gossip scandal of the world, and the "broken
household gods."* Men may moralize as they will, but
misfortunes cause error, and atone for it.
I wished to see no other rooms but those occupied by
him. I did not stay to look at the rest. I passed into the
small garden that fronts the house,-here was another
fountain which the nymph had not deserted. Over it
drooped the boughs of a willow; beyond, undivided by
any barrier, spread a vineyard, whose verdant leaves and
laughing fruit contrasted somewhat painfully with the asso-
ciations of the spot. The great mother is easily consoled
for the loss of the brightest of her children. The sky was
more in harmony with the genius loci than the earth. Its
quiet and gloomy clouds were reflected upon the unwrinkled
stillness of the lake; and afar, its horizon rested, in a
thousand mists, upon the crests of the melancholy moun-
tains.
The next day I was impatient to divert the feelings
which the view of Byron's villa from the garden of my
lodgment occasioned, and I repaired on a less interesting
pilgrimage, though to a yet more popular, and perhaps im-
perishable shrine. What Byron was for a season Voltaire
was for half a century a power in himself,
sure of civilization, the dictator of the intellectual re-
public. He was one of the few in whom thought has pro-
duced the same results as action. Next to the
Next to the great re-
formers of religion, who has exercised a similar influence
the cyno-
•
The
"Les
over the minds of men and the destinies of nations? Not
indeed according to the vulgar sentiment that attributes to
him and to his colleagues the causes of revolution: the
causes existed if no philosopher had ever lived but he
ripened and concentrated the effects. Whether for good
or ill, time must yet show; this only can we say, that the
evil that has resulted was not of philosophy, but of passion.
They who prove a disease exists, are not to be blamed if,
after their decease, wrong remedies are applied.
misfortune of human affairs is, that sages point out the
rottenness of an old system, but it is quacks that build
up the new. We employ the most scientific surveyors to
estimate dilapidations, and the most ignorant masons to
repair them. This is not the fault of the surveyor.
partisans de la liberté sont ceux qui détestent le plus pro-
fondément les forfaits qui se sont commis en son nom **
The drive from Geneva to Ferney is picturesque and well
cultivated enough to make us doubt the accuracy of the
descriptions which proclaim the country round Ferney to
have been a desert prior to the settlement of Voltaire. You
approach the house by an avenue. To the left is the well-
known church which " Voltaire erected to God." ("Deo
erexit Voltaire.") It is the mode among tourists to won-
der at this piety, and to call it inconsistent with the
tenets of its founder. But tourists are seldom profound
inquirers. Any one, the least acquainted with Voltaire's
writings, would know how little he was of an atheist. He
was too clever for such a belief. He is one of the strongest
arguers philosophy possesses in favor of the existence of
the Supreme Being; and much as he ridicules fanatics,
they are well off from his satire, when compared with the
atheists. His zeal, indeed, for the divine existence sorne-
times carries him beyond his judgment, as in that ro-
mance, where Dr. Friend (doctor of divinity and member
of Parliament !) converts his son Jenni (what names these
Frenchmen do give us!) and Jenni's friend Birton, in a
dispute before a circle of savages. Dr. Friend over-
throws the sturdy atheist with too obvious an ease.
fact, Voltaire was impatient of an argument against which
he invariably declared the evidence of all our senses was
opposed. He was intolerance itself to a reasoner against
the evidence of reason. I must be pardoned for doing Vol-
taire this justice, I do not wish to leave atheism so
brilliant an authority.
*“I was disposed to be pleased. I am a lover of nature and
an admirer of beauty. I can bear fatigue, and welcome priva-
tion, and have seen some of the noblest views in the world.
But in all this, the recollection of bitterness, and more es-
pecially of recent and more home desolation which must ac-
company me through life, has preyed upon me here; and
neither the music of the shepherd, the crashing of the ava
lanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, the glacier, the forest,
nor the cloud, have for one moment lightened the weight upon
my heart, nor engled me to lose my own wretched identity in
the majesty, and the power, and the glory, around, above, and
beneath me."- Byron's Journal of his Swiss Tour.
In
is
Opposite to the church, and detached from the house,
was once the theatre, now pulled down; a thick copse
planted on the site. I should like, I own, to have seen,
even while I defend Voltaire's belief, whether “Mahomet "
or "Le Bon Dieu" were the better lodged!
J
S
The house is now before you, — long, regular, and tol-
erably handsome, when compared with the usual character
of French or of Swiss architecture. It has been described
so often, that I would not go over the same ground, if it
did not possess an interest which no repetition can wear
away. Besides, it helps to illustrate the character of the
owner. A man's house is often a witness of himself.
The salle de réception is a small room, the furniture un-
the same needle-work chairs in cabriole frames
altered,
of oak,
the same red-flowered velvet on the walls. The
utter apathy of the great author of the beautiful is manifest
in the wretched daubs on the walls, which would have put
an English poet into a nervous fever to have seen every
time he looked round, and a huge stove, inagnificently
trumpery, of barbarous shape, and profusely gilt, which was
"his own invention i " It supports his bust.
his bust. In this room
is the celebrated picture of which tradition says that he
gave the design. Herein Voltaire is depicted as presenting
the "Henriade" to Apollo, while his enemies are sinking
into the infernal regions, and Envy is expiring at his feet!
A singular proof of the modesty of merit, and of its
toleration! So there is a hell then for disbelievers
Voltaire! But we must not take such a design in a
literal spirit. Voltaire was a conceited man; but he was
also a consummate man of the world. We may depend
it that he laughed himself at the whole thing as much
as any one else. We may depend upon it that when the
old gentleman, tapping his snuff-box, showed it to his vis-
iters, with that visage of unutterable mockery, he said as
pleasant a witticism on the subject as the wittiest of us
could invent. How merry he must have been when he
pointed out the face of each particular foe! How gayly
he must have jested on their damnatory condition ! "li
upon
Influence des Passions.
in
LAKE LEMAN
141
fact, it was one of those boyish ebullitions of caricature
which are too extravagant for malice, and which, to the
last, were peculiar to the great animal vivacity of Voltaire.
It was a hearty joke into which he plunged biinself for the
sake of dragging his enemies. Voltaire knew the force of
ridicule too well to mean to make himself, as the stupid
starers suppose, gravely ridiculous.
The bedroom joins the salon; it contains portraits of
Frederic the Great, Mad. Du Chatelet, and himself. The
two last have appeared in the edition of his works by
Beaumarchais. You see here the vase in which his heart
was placed, with the sentiment of "Mon esprit est partout,
Mon cœur est ici.” “As I think," said my companion,
more wittily than justly (as I shall presently show)" that
his esprit was better than his cœur, I doubt whether the
preference given to Ferney was worth the having." Le
Kain's portrait hangs over his bed. Voltaire was the man
to appreciate an actor: he himself was the Shakspeare of
artifice. One circumstance proves his indifference to natu-
ral objects. The first thing a lover of nature would have
thought of in such a spot, would have been to open the
windows of his favorite rooms upon the most beautiful
parts of that enchanting scenery. But Voltaire's windows
are all carefully turned the other way! You do not behold
from them either the glorious lake, or the haughty Alps,
which (for they are visible immediately on entering the
garden) might so easily have been effected. But the lake
and the Alps were not things Voltaire ever thought it
necessary either to describe or study. Living in the coun-
try, he was essentially the poet of cities. And eveu his
profound investigation of men was of artificial men;
men's tastes, their errors, and their foibles, -not their
hearts and their passions. If men had neither profound
emotions, nor subtle and intense imaginations, Voltaire
would have been the greatest painter of mankind that
ever existed.
[itants of each in contrast and comparison. In the perse-
cution each had undergone, in the absorbing persona
power which each had obtained, there was something sim-
ilar. But Byron attached himself to the heart, and Vol-
taire to the intellect. Perhaps if Byron had lived to old
age, and followed out the impulses of Don Juan, he would
have gradually drawn the comparison closer. And, indeed,
he had more in common with Voltaire than with Rousseau,
to whom he has been likened. He was above the effemi-
nacy and the falseness of Rousseau; and he had the strong
sense, and the stern mockery, and the earnest bitterness of
Voltaire. Both Byron and Voltaire wanted a true mastery
over the passions; for Byron does not paint nor arouse
passion; he paints and he arouses sentiment. But in
Byron, sentiment itself had almost the strength and all the
intensity of passion. He kindled thoughts into feelings.
Voltaire had no sentiment in his writings, though not, per-
haps, devoid of it in himself. Indeed, he could not have
been generous with so much delicacy, if he had not pos-
sessed a finer and a softer spirit than his works display.
Still less could he have had that singular love for the un-
fortunate, that courageous compassion for the oppressed,
which so prominently illustrate his later life. No one
could with less justice be called "heartless" than Vol-
taire. He was remarkably tenacious of all early friend-
ships, and loved as strongly as he disdained deeply. Any
tale of distress imposed upon him easily; he was the crea
ture of impulse, and half a child to the last. He had a
stronger feeling for humanity than any of his cotempora-
ries he wept when he saw Turgot, and it was in sobs
that he stammered out, "Laissez-moi baiser cette main
qui a signé le salut du peuple." Had Voltaire never writ-
ten a line, he would have come down to posterity as a
practical philanthropist. A village of fifty peasant inhab-
itants was changed by him into the home of one thousand
two hundred manufacturers. His character at Ferney is
still that of the father of the poor. As a man, he was
vain, self-confident, wayward, irascible; kind-hearted, gen-
erous, and easily noved. He had nothing of the Mephis-
tophiles. His fault was, that he was too human,
is, too weak and too unsteady.
is, too weak and too unsteady. We must remember, that
in opposing religious opinion, he was opposing the opinion
of monks and Jesuits;
of monks and Jesuits; and fanaticism discontented him
with Christianity.
with Christianity. Observe the difference with which he
speaks of the Protestant faith, with what gravity and
respect. Had he been born in England, I doubt if Vol-
taire had ever attacked Christianity, had he been born
two centuries before, I doubt whether his spirit of research,
and his daring courage, would not have made him the
reformer of the church, and not its antagonist. It may be
the difference of time and place that makes all the differ-
ence between a Luther and a Voltaire.
You leave the house then, you descend a few steps:
opposite to you is a narrow road, with an avenue of poplars.
You enter into a green, over-arching alley, which would
be completely closed in by the thickset hedge on either
side, if here and there little mimic windows had not been
cut through the boughs; through these windows you may
take an occasional peep at the majestic scenery beyond.
That was the way Voltaire liked to look at Nature,
through little windows in an artificial hedge! And with-
out the hedge, the landscape would have been so glorious!
This was Voltaire's favorite morning walk. At the end -
is a bench, upon which the great man (and with all his
deficiencies, when will France produce his equal?) was
wont to sit and think. I see him now, in his crimson and
gold-laced coat, his stockings drawn half-way up the
thigh, his chin resting on his long cane,
light (he is misrepresented sometimes as having dark eyes)
and piercing, fixed, not on the ground, nor upward, but on
the space before him; thus does the old gardener, who
remembers, pretend to describe him: I see him meditat-
ing his last journey to Paris, that most glorious consum-
mation of a life of literary triumph which has ever been
afforded to a literary man, that death which came from
the poison of his own laurels. Never did faine illumine
Bo intensely the passage to the grave; but the same torch
that flashed upon the triumph lighted the pyre. It was
like the last scene of some gorgeous melo-drame, and
the very effect which most dazzled the audience was the
signal to drop the curtain!
that eye,
that
As an author, we are told that he has done many
things well, none preeminently well, - a most absurd and
groundless proposition. He has written preeminently well!
He is the greatest prose writer, beyond all comparison,
that his country has produced. You may as well say
Swift has done nothing preeminently well, because he is
neither so profound as Bacon, nor so poetical as Milton.
Voltaire is Swift en grand. Swift resembles him; but
ten thousand Swifts would not make a Voltaire. France
may affect to undervalue the most French of her writers,
France may fancy she is serving the true national genius
by plagiarizing from German horrors, neglecting the
profundity of German genius; but with only isolated ex-
ceptions, all that of later times she has produced truly
The old gardener, who is above a hundred, declares, that
he has the most perfect recollection of the person of Vol-
taire; I taxed it severely. I was surprised to hear that
I was surprised to hear that❘sion, but it is not true.
even in age, and despite the habit of stooping, he was
considerably above the middle height. But the gardener
But the gardener
dwelt with greater pleasure on his dress than on his person;
he was very proud of the full wig and the laced waistcoat,
still prouder of the gilt coach and the four long-tailed
horses. Voltaire loved parade, there was nothing sim-
ple about his tastes. It was not, indeed, the age of sim-
plicity.
Amid a gravel space, is a long slip of turf, untouched
since it was laid down by Voltaire himself, and not far
from hence is the tree planted, fair, tall, and flourishing;
at the time I saw it, the sun was playing cheerily through
its delicate leaves. From none of his works is the fresh-
ness so little faded. My visit to Byron's house of the day
before, my visit now to Ferney, naturally brought the hab-
* Byron has been called by superficial critics the poet of pas
sion, but it is not true. To paint passion, as I have elsewhere
said, you must paint the struggle of passion; and this Byron
(out of his plays at least) never does. There is no delineation
of passion in the love of Medora, nor even of Gulnare; but the
sentiment in each is made as powerful as passion itself. Every
Byron paints sentiments, not passions.
where, in Childe Harold, in Don Juan, in the Eastern Tales,
When Macbeth solilo
quizes on his "way of life," he utters a sentiment; when he
pauses before he murders his king, he bares to us his passions.
Othello, torn by that jealousy which is half love and half hatred,
is a portraiture of passion: Childe Harold,moralizing over Rome,
is one of sentiment. The poets of passion paint various and
contending emotions, each warring with the other. The poets
of sentiment paint the prevalence of one particular cast of
thought or affection of the mind. But the crowd are too apt
to confuse the two, and to call an author a passionate writer i
would allow that Clarissa and Clementina are finer deliner
his hero always says he is passionately in love. Few persons
tions of passion than Julia and Haidée
142
BULWER'S NOVELS.
national and promising duration, is reflected and furnished roses. Yet her heart was wonanly, while her intellec
forth from the peculiar qualities of Voltaire; the politi- was masculine, and the heart dictated while the intellect
cal writings of Paul Courier, the poetry of Beranger, the adorned. She could not have reasoned, if you had silen-
novels of Paul de Kock. Her romanticists are to her ced in her the affections.
ced in her the affections. The charm and the error of her
what the Della Cruscans were to us only they have this writings have the same cause.
:
She took for convictions
advautage, they would be immoral if they could. They
have all the viciousness of the eunuch, but happily they
have his impotence also.
W
But this digression leads me to one whom I must except
from so general a censure, From Ferney I went to Cop-
pet: from the least I diverted my thoughts to the most
se timental of writers. Voltaire is the moral antipodes
to De Staël. The road to Coppet from Ferney is pretty,
but monotonous. You approach the house by a field or
paddock, which reminds you of England. To the left,
in a thick copse, is the tomb of Madame de Staël. As
I saw it, how many of her eloquent thoughts ou the
weariness of life rushed to my memory! No one perhaps
ever felt more palpably the stirrings of the soul within
than her whose dust lay there. Few had ever longed more
intensely for the wings to flee away and be at rest. She
wanted precisely that which Voltaire had,
common
sense. She had precisely that which Voltaire wanted,
sentiment. Of the last it was well said, that he had the
talent which the greater number of persons possessed in
the greatest degree. Madame de Staël had the talent
which few possess, but not in the greatest degree. For
her thoughts are uncommon, but not profound; and her
imagination is destitute of invention. No work so imagi-
native as the "Corinne " was ever so little inventive.
And now the house is before you. Opposite the en-
trance, iron gates admit a glimpse of grounds laid out in
the English fashion. The library opens at once from the
hall; a long and handsome room, containing a statue of
Necker the forehead of the minister is low, and the face
has in it more of bonhommie than esprit. In fact, that very
respectable man was a little too dull for his position. The
windows look out on a gravel walk or terrace; the library
communicates with a bedroom hung with old tapestry.
In the salle à manger on the first floor is a bust of A, W.
Schlegel and a print of Lafayette. Out of the billiard-
room, the largest roon of the suite, is the room where
Madame de Staël usually slept, and frequently wrote,
though the good woman who did the honors declared,
"she wrote in all the rooms. Her writing indeed was
out an episode from her conversation. Least of all persons
was Madame de Staël one person as a writer, and another
as a woman. Her whole character was in harmony; her
thoughts always overflowed, and were always restless. She
assumed nothing factitious when she wrote. She wrote as
she would have spoken.* Such authors are rare. On the
other side of the billiard-room is a small salon, in which
there is a fine bust of Necker, a picture of Baron de Staël,
and one of herself in a turban. Every one knows that
countenance full of power, if not of beauty, with its deep,
dark eyes.
Here is still shown her writing-book and ink-
stand. Throughout the whole house is an air of English
comfort and quiet opulence. The furniture is plain and
simple, nothing overpowers the charm of the place;
and no undue magnificence diverts you from the main
thought of the genius to which it is consecrated. The
grounds are natural, but not remarkable. A very narrow
but fresh streamlet borders them to the right. I was much
pleased by the polished nature of a notice to the people not
to commit depredations. The proprietor put his "grounds
under the protection" of the visiters he admitted. This
is in the true spirit of aristocratic breeding.
It is impossible to quit this place without feeling that it
bequeaths a gentle and immortal recollection. Madame de
Staël was the male Rousseau! She had all his enthusiasm,
and none of his meanness. In the eloquence of diction
she would have surpassed him, if she had not been too
eloquent. But she perfumes her violets and rouges her
* Madame de Staël wrote "d la volée." "Even in her most
inspired compositions," says Madame Necker de Saussure, "she
nad pleasure to be interrupted by those she loved." There are
some persons whose whole life is inspiration. Madame de
Stal was one of these. She was not of that tribe who labor
to be inspired, who darken the room and lock the door, and
entreat you not to disturb them. It was a part of her char-
acter to care little about her works once printed. They had
done their office, they had relieved her mind, and the mind had
passed onward to new ideas. For my own part, I have no
patience with authors who are always invoking the ghosts of
eir past thoughts.
the
what were but feelings. She built up a philosophy in
emotion. Few persons felt more deeply the melancholy of
life. It was enough to sadden that yearning heart,
thought so often on her lips, "Jamais je n'ai été aimée
comme j'aime." But, on the other hand, her susceptibili-
ty consoled while it wounded her. Like all poets, she
had a profound sense of the common luxury of being. She
felt the truth that the pleasures are greater than the pains
of life, and was pleased with the sentiment of Horne
Tooke when he said to Erskine, "If you had but obtain
ed for me ten years of life in a dungeon with my books
and a pen and ink, I should have thanked you."
None
but the sensitive feel what a glorious possession existence
is. The religion which was a part of her very nature
contributed to render to this existence a diviner charm
How tender and how characteristic that thought of hers,
that if any happiness chanced to her after her father's
death, "it was to his meditation she owed it : as if he
were living! To her he was living
to her beautiful memory! Her genius is without a rival
in her own sex; and if it be ever exceeded, it must be by
one more or less than woman.
in heaven! Peace
As you
The drive homeward from Coppet to Geneva is far more
picturesque than that from Ferney to Coppet.
approach Geneva, villa upon villa rises cheerfully on the
landscape; and you feel a certain thrill as you pass the
house inhabited by Marie Louise after the fall of Napo-
leon. These excursions in the neighbourhood of Geneva
spread to a wider circle the associations of the lake;
they are of Leman. And if the exiles of the earth resort
to that serene vicinity, hers is the smile that wins them.
She received the persecuted and the weary,they repaid
the benefit in glory.
It was a warm, clear, and sunny day on which I com-
menced the voyage of the lake. Looking behind, I gazed
on the roofs and spires of Geneva, and forgot the present
in the past. What to me was its little community of watch-
makers, and its little colony of English? I saw Charles
of Savoy at its gates, - I heard the voice of Berthelier
invoking liberty, and summoning to arms.
The strug-
gle past, the scaffold rose,- and the patriot became
the martyr.
His blood was not spilt in vain. Re-
ligion became the resurrection of freedom. The town is
silent, it is under excommunication. Suddenly a mur
mur is heard, it rises, it gathers, the people are
awake, they sweep the streets, the images are broken:
Farel is preaching to the council! Yet a little while, and
the stern soul of Calvin is at work within those walls.
The loftiest of the reformers, and the one whose influence
has been the most wide and lasting, is the earliest also of
the great tribe of the persecuted the city of the lake re-
ceives within her arins. The benefits he repaid, behold
them around! Wherever property is secure, wherever
thought is free, wherever the ancient learning is revived,
wherever the ancient spirit has been caught, you trace the
work of the reformation, and the inflexible, inquis'tive,
unconquerable soul of Calvin ! He foresaw not, it is true,
nor designed, the effects he has produced. The same
sternness of purpose. the same rigidity of conscience that
led him to reform, urged him to persecute. The exile of
Bolsec, and the martyrdom of Servede, rest darkly upon
his name. But the blessings we owe to the first inquirers
compensate their errors. Had Calvin not lived, there
would have been not one, but a thousand, Servedes! The
spirit of inquiry redeems itself as it progresses; once
loosed, it will not stop at the limit to which its early dis-
ciples would restrain it. Born with them, it does not grow
with their growth; it survives their death, it but com-
mences where they conclude. In one century, the flames
are for the person, in another for the work; in the third,
work and person are alike sacred. The same town that
condemned Le Contrat social to the conflagration, makes
now its chief glory in the memory of Rousseau.
I turned from Geneva, and the villa of Byron, and the
scarce-seen cottage of Shelley glided by. Of all landscape
scenery, that of lakes pleases me the most. It has the
movement without the monotony of the ocean. But in
point of scenic attraction, I cannot compare Leman with
Como or the Lago Maggiore. If ever, as I hope my ag
LAKE LEMAN.
148
may, 19
it 18 mine to "find out the peaceful hermitage," it |
shall be amid the pines of Como, with its waves of liquid
sunshine, and its endless variety of shade and color, as near
to the scenes and waterfalls of Pliny's delicious fountain as
I can buy or build a tenement. There is not enough of
glory in the Swiss climate. It does not bring that sense
of existence, that passive luxury of enjoyment,— that
paradise of the air and sun, which belong to Italy.
the scene around. The sun was sowly sinking, the waters
majestically calm, a long row of walnut-trees fringed the
margin; above, the shore slopes upward, covered with ver-
dure. Proceeding onward, the ascent is yet more thickly.
wooded, until the steep and almost perpendicular heights
of Meillerie rise before you, here gray and barren, there
clothed with tangled and fantastic bushes. At a little dis-
tance you may see the village, with the sharp spiral steeple
rising sharp against the mountain; and winding farther
you may survey on the opposite the immortal Clarens : and,
As
whitely gleaming over the water, the walls of Chillon.
I paused, the waters languidly rippled at my feet, and one
long rose-cloud, the immortalized and consecrated hues of
Meillerie transferred from their proper home, faded linger-
ingly from the steeps of Jura. I confess myself, in some
respects, to be rather of Scott's than Byron's opinion on
the merits of the Héloise. Julie and St. Preux are to me,
as to Scott," two tiresome pedants." But they are elo-
quent pedants! The charm of Rousseau is not in the char-
acters he draws, but in the sentiments he attributes to them.
I lose the individuality of the characters, - I forget, I dis-
miss them. I take the sentiments, and find characters of
iny own more worthy of them. Meillerie is not to me con-
secrated by Julie, but by ideal love. It is the Julie of one's
own heart, the visions of one's own youth, that one invokes
and conjures up in scenes which no criticism, no reasoning
can divorce from the associations of love. We think not
of the idealist, but the ideal. Rousseau intoxicates us with
his own egotism. We are wrapped in ourselves,-
in our
own creations, and not his ; -so at least it was with me.
When shall I forget that twilight by the shores of Meillerie,
-or that starlit wave that bore me back to the opposite
shore? The wind breathing low from Clarens, Chillon
sleeping in the distance, and all the thoughts and dreams,
-and unuttered, unutterable memories of the youth and
passion for ever gone, busy in my soul. The place was
full, not of Rousseau, but that which had inspired him,
hallowed, not by the priest, but by the God.
I have not very distinctly marked the time in which the
voyage I describe was broken up; but when next I resumed
my excursion it was late at noon.
The banks of Leman, as seen from the middle of the
water, lese much of their effect from the exceeding breadth
of the lake; and the distance of the Alps beyond detracts
from their height. Nearness is necessary to the sublime.
A parrow stream, with Mont Blanc alone towering by its
side, would be the grandest spectacle in the world. But
the oppression, the awe, and the undefinable sense of dan-
ger which belong to the sublime in natural objects, are lost
when the objects are removed from our immediate vicinity.
The very influence of the landscape around Leman, renders
it rather magnificent than grand. There is something of
sameness, too, in the greater part of the voyage, unless you
wind near the coast. The banks themselves often vary, but
the eternal mountains in the background invest the whole
with one common character. But to see the lake to the
greatest advantage, avoid, oh, avoid the steam-vessel, and
creep close by either shore. Beyond Ouchy and Lausanne
the scenery improves in richness and effect. As the walls
of the latter slowly receded from me, the sky itself scarcely
equalled the stillness of the water. It lay deep and silent
as death, the dark rocks crested with cloud, flinging long
flinging long
and far shadows over the surface. Gazing on Lausanne,
recalled the words of Gibbon; I had not read the passage
for years; I could not have quoted a syllable of it the day
before, and now it rushed upon my mind so accurately, that
I found little but the dates to alter, when I compared my
recollection with the page. "It was," said he, " on the
day, or rather the night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between
the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last line
of the last page in a summer-house in my garden. After
After
laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or
covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of
the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was
temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon
was reflected from the waves, and all nature was silent."
What a picture! Who does not enter into what must have
been the feelings of a man who had just completed the work
that was to render him immortal? What calm fulness of
triumph, of a confidence too stately for vanity, does the
description breathe! I know not which has the more
poetry, the conception of the work, or the conclusion, — the
conception amid the "ruins of the capitol, while the bare-
headed fiiars were singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter,"
or the conclusion at the stillness and solitude of night, amid
the Helvetian Alps. With what tranquil collectedness of
thought he seems to bask and luxuriate as it were in the
sentiment of his own glory! At such a moment did Gibbon
feel that his soul which produced the glory was no less im-
perishable. For my own part, I should have felt that my
soul was diviner than my genius ; the genius is but an
effort of the soul, and the artificer is greater than the work.
The triumphs we achieve, our conquest of the domain of
time, can but feebly flatter our self-esteem, unless we regard
them as the proofs of what we are. For who would submit
to deem himself the blind nursery of thoughts, to be grafted
on other soils, when the clay which nurtured them has
crumbled to unproductive atoms?—To consider what
Shakspeare thought, while on earth, is a noble contempla-
tion; but it is nobler yet to conjecture what now may be the
musings, and what the aspirations, of that spirit exalted to
a sublimer carcer of being. It were the wildest madnessed and stern from its very shadow.
of human vanity to imagine that God created such spirits
only for the earth: like the stars, they shine upon us, but
their uses and their destinies are not limited to be the lamps
of this atom of creation. So vast a waste of spirit were,
indeed, a monstrous prodigality, wholly alien to the econ-
omy and system of the universe!
But new objects rise to demand the thought. Opposite
are the heights of Meillerie; seen from the water, they pre-
sent little to distinguish them from the neighboring rocks.
The village lies scattered at the base, with the single spire
rising above the roofs. I made the boatmen row towards
the shore, and landed somewhere about the old and rugged
town or village of Evian. Walking thence to Meillerie
along the banks of the lake, nothing could be richer than
A
I had seen at Veyay, Ludlow the regicide's tomb.
stern contrast to the Bosquets (now, alas! potato-grounds)
of Julie. And now from the water, the old town of Vevay
seemed to me to have something in its aspect grateful to the
grim shade of the king-slayer. Yet even that memory has
associations worthy of the tenderness of feeling which
invests the place; and one of the most beautiful instances
of woman's affection is the faithful valor with which his
wife shared the dangers and vicissitudes of the republican's
checkered life. His monument is built by her. And,
though in a time when all the nice distinctions of justice on
either side were swept away, the zeal of Ludlow wrote it-
self in blood that it had been more just to spare, the whole
annals of that mighty war cannot furnish a more self-con-
temning, unpurchaseable, and honest heart. His ashes are
not the least valuable relics of the shores of Leman.
Again, as you wind a jutting projection of the land,
Clarens rises upon you, chiefly noticeable from its look of
serene and entire repose. You see the house which By-
ron inhabited for some little time, and which has nothing
remarkable in its appearance. This, perhaps, is the most
striking part of the voyage. Dark shadows from the Alps
at the right fell over the wave, but to the left, towards
Clarens, all was bright and sunny, and beautifully still.
Looking back, the lake was one sheet of molten gold,
wide and vast it slept in its glory; the shore on the right
indistinct from its very brightness,
indistinct from its very brightness, that to the left, mark-
Chillon, which is long, white, and, till closely approach-
ed, more like a modern than an ancient building, is backed
by mountains covered with verdure. You survey now the
end of the lake; a long ridge of the greenest foliage, from
amid which the frequent poplar rises, tall and picturesque,
the spire of the grove. And, now, nearing Villeneuve, you
sail by the little isle hallowed by Byron,
"A little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view,
A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees," &c"
* Prisoner of Chillon, line 341
#44
BULWER'S NOVELS.
The trees were still there, young and flourishing; by their
side a solitary shed. Villeneuve itself, backed by moun-
tains, has a venerable air, as if vindicating the antiquity
it boasts.
I landed with regret, even though the pilgrimage to
Chillon was before me. And still I lingered by the wave,
and still gazed along its soft expanse. Perhaps, in the
14
vanity common to so many, who possess themselves
thought of a shadowy and unreal future, I may have dream.
ed, as 1 paused and gazed, that from among the lesser names
which Leman retains and blends with those more lofty and
august, she may not disdainfully reject that of one who felt
at least the devotion of the pilgrim, if he caught not an
inspiration from the shrine.
THE TRUE ORDEAL OF LOVE.
A MORAL TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE.
CHAPTER I.
J
—
At length, finding they could not live together, our lovers
formed the desperate design,. not to live divided, (it is a
favorite alternative in the country in which they were born,)
in short, they were resolved upon suicide. I wish I had
been able to obtain the letters which passed between them
on this melancholy subject. I never read any so simple
and so touching; if you had seen them, you would have
thought it the plainest
thought it the plainest proposition in the world,
persons, with any real affection for each other, ought never
to be unprovided with prussic acid. Who knows but
what an accident may separate them of a sudden? and to
be
be separate! how much pleasanter to be dead!
that
The lovers agreed, then, to poison themselves on the
same night. Their last letters were written, blistered
with each other's tears. It was eleven o'clock. Adolphe
had retired to his chamber; he took up the poison,- he
looked at it wistfully. "To-morrow," said he, musingly,
-" to-morrow," and he extracted the cork, 10-
morrow, it smells very disagreeably, to-morrow I
shall be at rest. This heart," he shook the phial,
"how it froths ! this heart will have ceased to beat; and
our cruel parents will not forbid us a common grave."
"So
saying, he sighed heavily, and muttering the name of
Celeste, gulped down the fatal draught.
G
-
NEVER were two persons more passionately attached to
each other than Adolphe and Celeste! Their love was a
proverb. Of course it was an unhappy attachment,-nobody
loves heartily, unless people take pains to prevent it. The
spirit of contradiction is prodigiously strong in its effects.
Adolphe was rich and noble, Celeste was noble and
poor. Their families were at variance; the family of
Adolphe was exceedingly ambitious, and that of Celeste
exceedingly proud. Had they been the best friends in the
world, their fathers would not have assented to the loves
of their children, — Adolphe's father, because he desired a
rich match for his son, Celeste's, because he was too
proud to be under an obligation, and he was sufficiently a
man of the world to know that you are to be considered
obliged when a rich nobleman marries your daughter with-
out a dowry. Celeste's father would have married her to
a wealthy parvenu that he might have borrowed his money,
in parading his condescension. For it is a maxim in good
society, that no favor can be conferred by a roturier.
Gratitude is for him to feel, if you accept his services. No
sooner, therefore, was the dawning attachment of the lov-
ers discovered, than their relations thought it necessary to
be amazingly angry. There cannot be a doubt that you
have an absolute right to the eyes, nerves, and hearts of
your children. They have no business to be happy, unless
it be exactly in the way most agreeable to yourself. These
self-evident truths were not, however, irresistible for Adol-
phe and Celeste. Although the latter was locked up, and
the former was watched, they continued often to correspond,
and sometimes to see each other. Their love was no pass-
ing caprice, despite all difficulties, all obstacles, all dan-
gers, it was more intense than ever at the end of a year.
Celeste had gallantly refused two young merchants, hand-
some and ardent, and a very old banker, who would have
left her a widow in a year. Adolphe, the gay and hand-
some Adolphe, had renounced every flirtation and con-
quest; all women had palled in his eyes since he had
seen Celeste. But though their passion was strengthened "Alas! sir, I fear he is not quite right. Did
by time, time had failed to increase their hopes of its suc- serve how he looked when he left the room?
cess, they began to doubt and to despair. The rose fled "Ma foi. I was engaged with the chicken.”
from Celeste's cheek, she pined away, her lip had lost "And you, madam, he kissed your hand very affec-
all its smile, her form shrunk from all its roundness, tears
stood constantly in her eyes, and she sighed so that it went "Ah, yes, (drowsily,) he has an excellent heart, le cher
to the hearts of all the servants in the house. In fine, she enfant !
fell ill,
poor girl, — she was dying for love. The more And, madam, I don't like to say any thing
violent passion of Adolphe produced also its disorder. His but-my young master has been muttering very odd things
pulse burned with fever, his language was often incoherent, to himself for the last two or three days, and all this morn
his great-grandfather had been inad, — Adolphe prom-ing he has been poisoning the dogs, by way, as he said, of
ised fairly to take after his ancestor.
M
-
Alarmed, but not softened, the father of our lover spoke
to him earnestly. "Renounce but this ill-placed love,
if only for a time. Idleness is the parent of this youthful
folly. I will devote half my fortune to purchase you that
situation at court you have so often thought the height of |
your ambition. My son, you are young, bold, and aspiring;
your fortunes, your fame will be secured. I willingly make
you this sacrifice, provided you abandon Celeste."
Adolphe wrung the hand of his father. "Impossible!"
he murmured;
one look from her is worth all the dreams
of ambition." So saying, he left the room.
Meanwhile, the father and mother of Adolphe were still
at supper. The old butler, who had wiped his eyes when
Adolphe had left the room, fidgetted to and fro, with the
air of a man who has something at his heart. As his mas-
ter was very hungry, and his mistress very sleepy, the good
old man was heeded by neither. At length, when the
other attendants had withdrawn, the old man lingered be-
hind; thrice he re-set the glasses, and thrice he re-arranged
the decanters.
that will do,
"That is quite right,
after you."
Sir, yes, sir.
"Did I what?
<
Did you, hem."
My young master, sir,
yes, sir."
"Your young master. Well,-
tionately.
experiment."
shut the door
you ob
but
"Poison!" said the mother, thoroughly awakened, -
"has he got any poison?"
rr
—
Ah, yes, madam, his pockets full.”
"Heavens!" cried the father, "this must not be, if
he should in despair, he is a very odd boy. His great-
grandfather died mad. I will instantly go to his room.
“And I too,” cried the mother.
The good couple hurried to Adolphe's chamber; they
heard a groan as they opened the door; they found their
son stretched on the bed, pale and haggard; on the table
was a phial, labelled "poison; "the phial was empty
THE TRUE ORDEAL OF LOVE.
114
My son, my son ! you have not been so wicked,
you have not, - speak, speak!
"Oh! I suffer tortures! Oh! oh! I am dying. Leave
me! Celeste also has taken poison, -we could not live
together. Cruel parents, we mock you, and die!"
Recover, -recover, my son, and Celeste shall be
yours," said the mother, half in hysterics.
The father was already gone for a surgeon. The sur-
geon lived near to Celeste, and while he was hastily pre-
paring his antidotes, his visiter had the charity to run to
the house of Celeste's father, and hastily apprize him of
the intelligence he had learned. The poor
old gentleman
hobbled off to his daughter's room. Luckily he found his
wife with her; she had been giving the petite good advice,
and that is a very prolix habit. Celeste was impatiently
awai ng her departure; she was dying to be dead! In
rushed her father, Child, child, here's news indeed!
Are you alive, Celeste, have you poisoned yourself?
That young reprobate is already
CC
5,
“al-
"Already!" cried Celeste, clasping her hands,
ready! he awaits me, then. Ah, this appointment at
least I will not break!" she sprang to her bedside, and
seized a phial from under the pillow but the father was
in time, he snatched it from her hand, and the daughter
fell into fits so violent that they threatened to be no less
fatal than the poison.
CHAPTER II.
WHATEVER the exaggerations of our lovers, they loved
really, fervently, disinterestedly, and with all their hearts.
Not one in ten thousand loves is so strong, or promises to
>e so lasting.
Adolphe did not die, the antidotes were given in time,
he recovered. The illness of Celeste was more danger-
ous; she suffered, poor child, a delirious fever, and was
several weeks before her life and reason were restored.
No parents could stand all this; ordinary caprices it is
very well to resist; but when young people take to poison
and delirious fevers, il faut céder. Besides, such events
derange one's establishment and interrupt one's comforts.
One is always glad to come to terms when one begins to be
annoyed one's self. The old people then made it up, and
the young people married. As the bridegroom and Celeste
were convinced that the sole object of life was each other's
company, they hastened at once to the sweet solitudes of the
country. They had a charming villa and beautiful gar-
dens, they were both accomplished, — clever, — amiable,
young, and in love. How was it possible they should
be susceptible to ennui? They could never bear to lose
sight of each other.
CC
Ah, Adolphe,traitor,
where hast thou been?"
Merely shooting in the woods, my angel."
"What, and without me! Fie! promise this shall not
happen again."
Ah, dearest! too gladly I promise.”
Another time,
"What, Celeste !-three hours have I been seeking for
you !
Where have you hid yourself?
<<
My dear Adolphe, I am so exceedingly sleepy."
One morning, as Adolphe woke and turned in his bed.
"Bier
his eyes rested on his wife, who was still asleep,
me," thought he, I never saw this before, - let me loo%
again, yes, certainly, she has -a wart on her chin!"
Adolphe rose and dressed himself, Adolphe was grave
and meditative. They met at breakfast, the bride and
bridegroom. Celeste was in high spirits; Adolphe wGE
sombre and dejected.
"Let us ride to-day," said Celeste.
"My dear, I have a headache."
"Poor child! Well, then, let us read the new poera
"My dear, you talk so loud.”
"I" and "Celeste gazing reproachfully on Adolphe,
perceived for the first time something in his eyes that sur-
prised her. She looked again. "Good heavens!" said
she to herself," Adolphe certainly squints.
On the other hand, Adolphe murmured, "The wart has
grown greatly since morning."
It is impossible to say what an effect this fatal discovery
had upon Adolphe. He thought of it incessantly. He had
nothing else to complain of, but then warts on the chin
are certainly not becoming. Celeste's beauty had improved
greatly since her marriage. Everybody else saw the im-
provement. Adolphe saw nothing but the wart on her
chin. Her complexion was more brilliant, her form more
rounded, her walk inore majestic; but what is all this,
when one has a wart on the chin? The wart seemed to
grow bigger and bigger every day, -to Adolphe's eyes it
threatened speedily to absorb the whole of the face. Nay,
he expected in due time to see his beautiful Celeste all
wart! He smothered his pain as well as he could, because
he was naturally well-bred and delicate; and no woman
likes to be told of the few little blemishes she is blind to
herself. He smothered his pain; but he began to think it
would be just as well to have separate apartments.
Meanwhile, strange to say, Adolphe's squint grew daily
more decided and pronounced. "He certainly did not
squint before we married," thought Celeste; "it is very
unpleasant, it makes one so fidgety to be stared at by
a person who sees two ways, and Adolphe has unfortu-
nately a habit of staring. I think I might venture to hint,
delicately and kindly, --the habit can't be incurable."
As wives are always the first in the emulation of conju-
gal fault-finding, Celeste resolved to hazard the hint,
the first favorable opportunity.
On
"Well, my Celeste, I have brought my dog to see you,"
said Adolphe, one morning.
>>
“Ah! down, down! Pray turn him out; see the
mark of his paws. I can't bear dogs, Adolphe.'
"Poor thing!" said Adolphe, caressing his insulted
favorite.
"Was that to me, or to the dog?" asked Celeste.
"Oh! to him, to be sure.
>>
"I beg your pardon, my dear, but I thought you looked
at me. Indeed, Adolphe, if the truth may be said, you
have lately contracted a bad habit, you are getting quite
a cast in your eye."
"Madam!" said Adolphe, prodigiously offended, hurry
ing to the glass.
"Don't be angry, my love; I would not have mentioned
it, if it did not get worse every day; it is yet to be cured,
I│I am sure; just put a wafer on the top of your nose, and
you will soon see straight.
"Don't look so angry, my Adolphe; I was only directing
the gardener to build a little arbor for you to read in.
meant it as a surprise.
CC
My own Celeste! but three hours, —it is an eternity
without you! Promise not to leave me again, without
telling me where to find you."
**
My own dearest, dearest Adolphe! how I love you,
may my company ever be as dear to you!"
This mode of life is very charming with many for a few
days. Adolphe and Celeste loved each other so entirely,
that it lasted several months. What at first was passion
had grown habit, and each blamed the other for want of
affection, if he or she ever indulged in the novelty of dif-
ferent pursuits.
As they had nothing to do but to look at those faces they
had thought so handsome, so it was now and then difficult
not to yawn; and of late there had been little speeches like
the following:-
Adolphe, my love, you never talk to me, put down
that odious book you are always reading.”
"Celeste, my angel, you don't hear me. I am telling
you about my travels, and you gape in my face."
OL. II.
19
"A wafer on the top of my nose! Much better put one
at the tip of your chin, Celeste."
CC
My chin!" cried Celeste, running in her turn to the
glass. "What do you mean, sir?"
CC
Only that you have a very large wart there, which it
would be more agreeable to conceal.”
“Sir ! "
"Madam! ""
"A wart on my chin, monster!"
"A
A cast in my eye, fool!"
"Yes! How could I ever love a man who squinted!**
"Or I a woman with a wart on her chin!
Sir, I shall not condescend to notice your insults. No
wonder, you can't see! I pity your infirmity."
Madam, I despise your insinuations; but since you
deny the evidence of your own glass, suffer me to send for
a physician, and if he can cure your deformity, so much
the better for you."
Yes, send for a physician; he will say whether you
146
BULWER'S NOVELS.
squint or not. Poor Adolphe! I am not angry; no, I
pity so melancholy a defect."
Celeste burst into tears. Adolphe, in a rage, seized his
hat, mounted his horse, and went himself for the doctor.
The doctor was a philosopher as well as a physician.
He took his pony and ambled back with Adolphe. By the
way he extracted from Adolphe his whole history, for men
in à passion are easily made garrulous. "The perfidious
woman!" said Adolphe; "would you believe it? - we
braved every thing for each other, never were two per-
sons so much in love, nay, we attempted suicide rather
than endure a longer separation. I renounced the most
brilliant marriages for her sake, too happy that she was
mine without a dowry, and now she declares I squint.
And, oh, she has such a wart on her chin! "
The doctor could not very well see whether Adolphe
quinted, for he had his hat over his eyes; besides, he
prudently thought it best to attend to one malady at a
time.
cure.
"As to the wart, sir," said he, "it is not difficult to
"it is not difficult to
"But if my wife won't confess that she has it, she will
never consent to be cured. I would not mind if she
would but own it. Oh the vanity of women !”
"It must have been after some absence that this little
defect was perceived by you
,,
"After absence! We have not been a day separated
since we married.”
I
"Oho," thought the doctor, sinking into a reverie,
have said he was a philosopher, but it did not require
much philosophy to know that persons who could have died
for each other a few inonths ago, were not alienated only
by a wart or a cast in the eye.
They arrived at Adolphe's villa, they entered the sa-
loon. Celeste no longer wept; she had put on her most
becoming cap, and had the air of an insulted but uncom
plaining wife!
"Confess to the wart, Celeste, and I'll forgive all,"
said Adolphe.
Nay, why so obstinate as to the cast of the ?
eye 1
shall not admire you less (though others may) if you will
not be so vain as to disown it."
"Enough, madam,- doctor, regard that lady,
the wart monstrous, -can it be cured ?"
ઃઃ
is not
Nay," cried Celeste, sobbing, "look rather at my
poor husband's squint. His eyes were so fine before we
married."
The doctor put on his spectacles,
one, and then the other.
he regarded first
"Sir," said he, deliberately, "this lady has certain.y a
pimple on the left of her chin considerably smaller than a
pin's head. And, madam, the pupil of your husband's
right eye is, like that of nine persons out of ten, the hun
dredth part of an inch nearer his nose than the pupil of
the left. This is the case, as it appears to me, seeing you
both for the first time. But I do not wonder that
think the pimple so enormous; and you, madam, the eye
you, sir,
so distorted, since you see each other
you see each other every day!
AL
The pair were struck by a secret and simultaneous con-
viction, when an express arrived breathless to summon
Adolphe to his father, who was taken suddenly ill.
the end of three months Adolphe returned. Celeste's wart
had entirely vanished, and Celeste found her husband s
eyes as beautiful as ever.
Taught by experience, they learned then, that warts
rapidly grow upon chins, and squints readily settle upon
eyes that are too constantly seen; and that it is easy
for two persons to die joyfully together when lovers, but
prodigiously difficult without economizing the presence, to
live comfortably together when married.
ON THE WANT OF SYMPATHY.
talents. In fact, there is no real sympathy between the
great man and another; but that which supplies its place is
the reverent affection of admiration. And I doubt whether
the propensity to venerate persons be a common faculty of
the highest order of the mind.
the highest order of the mind. Such men know indeed
veneration; their souls are imbued with it; but it is not
for mortals, over whom they feel their superiority; it is for
things abstract and incorporeal, for glory or for virtue,
I SMILE when I hear the young talk, in luxurious antici- morbid, susceptible, and exacting!- Mephistophiles him-
pation, of the delight of meeting with a wholly congenial self could not devise a union more unhappy and more ill-
spirit, - -an echo of the heart, -a counterpart of self. assorted! It is a strange thing that those who are most
Who ever lived that did not hope to find the phantom, and calculated to bear with genius, to be indulgent to its eccen-
who ever lived that found it? It is the most entire and the tricities and its infirmities, to foresee and forestall its
most eternal of all our delusions. That which makes up wishes, to honor it with the charity and the reverence of
the nature of one human being, — (its nerves, its senti- | love, are usually without genius themselves, and of an
ments, thoughts, objects, aspirations,) is infinitely nul-intellect comparatively mediocre and humble. It is the
tiplied and complex; formed from a variety of early cir- touching anecdote of the wife of a man of genius, that she
cumstances, of imperfect memories, of indistinct associa- exclaimed on her death-bed, "Ah, my poor friend, when I
tions, of constitutional peculiarities, of things and thoughts am no more, who will understand thee?"
Yet this woman,
appropriate only to itself, and which were never known but who felt she did comprehend the nature with which her life
partially to others. It is a truism which every one will had been linked, was of no corresponding genius. Biog-
acknowledge, that no two persons were every wholly alike;raphy, that immortalizes her tenderness, is silent upon her
and yet every one starts from the necessary but gloomy
corollary, that therefore you can never find a counterpart
of yourself. And so we go on, desiring, craving, seeking
sympathy to the last! It is a melancholy instance, too,
of the perversity of human wishes, that they who exact
sympathy the most, are of all the least likely to obtain it.
It is a necessary part of the yearning and wayward tem-
perament of the poet. Exactly as he finds his finer and
more subtle visions uncomprehended by the herd, he sighs
for the imagined one to whom he can pour them forth, or
who can rather understand them most in silence, by an
instinct, by a magnetism, by all that invisible and
electric harmony of two souls, which we understand by the
word "sympathy," in its fullest and divinest sense Yet
in proportion evidently to the rareness of this nature is the
improbability of finding a likeness to it. And if we suc-
ceed at last, if we do find another being equally sensitive,
--equally wayward, - equally acute and subtle, instead
of sympathizing with us, it demands only sympathy for
itself. The one most resembling a poet would be a poetess.
And a poetess is, of all, the last who could sympathize with
a poet. Two persons linked together, equally self-absorbed,
for wisdom,- for nature, or for God. Even in the
greatest men around them, their sight unhappily too acute,
penetrates to the foibles; they measure their fellow-mortals
by the standard of their ideal. They are not blinded by
the dazzle of genius, for genius is a thing to them household
and familiar. They may pity, but they cannot admire.
God and the angels compassionate our frailties; tuey do
not admire our powers. And they who approach the most
to the Divine Intelligence, or the angelic holiness, behold
their brethren from a height; they may stoop from their
empyreal air to cherish and to pity, but it is the mings
above them that they reverence and adore.
It is in a lower class of intellect, yet one not unelevated
as compared with the herd, that the principle of admiration
WANT OF SYMPATHY.
147
In
s most frequent and pervading; an intellect that seeks a
monitor, a protector, a standard, or a guide,
one that
can appreciate greatness, but has no measure within where-
by to gauge its proportions. Thus we observe in biogra-
phy, that the friendship between great men is rarely intimate
or permanent. It is a Boswell that most appreciates a
Johnson. Genius has no brother, no co-inate; the love it
inspires is that of a pupil or a son. Hence, unconscious
of the reasons, but by that fine intuition into nature which
surpasses all philosophy, the poets usually demand devotion,
's the most necessary attribute in their ideals of love; they
isk in their mistress a being, not of lofty intellect, nor of
williant genius, but engrossed, absorbed in them;
-a Me-
lora for the Conrade. It was well to paint that Medora
n a savage island, - to exclude her from the world.
civilized life, poor creature, caps and bonnets, an opera
box, and Madam Carson would soon have shared her heart
with her Corsair! Yet this species of love, tender and
unearthly though it be, is not sympathy. Conrade could not
have confided in Medora. She was the mistress of his
heart, not, in the beautiful Arabian phrase, "the keeper of
his soul." It is the inferior natures, then, that appreciate,
indulge, reverence, and even comprehend genius the most,
and yet how much is there that to inferior natures it can
never reveal! How can we pour forth all that burning
eloquence of passion and memory which often weighs upon
us like a burden to one who will listen to us indeed with
rapt ears, but who will long, as Boswell longed, for Mr.
Somebody to be present to hear how finely we can talk?
Yet we have brief passages in life when we fancy we
have attained our object; when we cry
"Eureka,"
when we believe our counterpart, the wraith of our spirit
is before us! Two persons in love with each other, how
congenial they appear! In that beautiful pliancy, that
unconscious system of self-sacrifice which are the character
of love in its earlier stages; each nature seems blended and
circumfused in each, they are not two natures, they are
one !
Seen by that enchanting moonlight of delicious pas-
sion, all that is harsh or dissonant is mellowed down;
the irregularities, the angles, sleep in shadow; all that we
behold is in harmony with ourselves. Then is our slightest
thought penetrated, our faintest desire forestalled, our suf-
ferings of mind, or of frame, how delicately are they con-
soled! Then even sorrow and sickness have their charm,
they bring us closer under the healing wings of our
guardian spirit. And, fools that we are, we imagine this
sympathy is to endure for ever. But TIME, there is the
divider! by little and little, we grow apart from each
other. The daylight of the world creeps in, the moon has
vanished, and we see clearly all the jarring lines and cor-
ners hidden at first from our survey. The lady has her
objects, and the gentleman his.
V
-
M
My lost, my buried, my unforgotten ! You whom I
knew in the first fresh years of life, -you, who are
snatched from me before one leaf of the summer of youth
and of love was withered, you, over whose grave, yet a
boy, I wept away half the softness of my soul; now that
I know the eternal workings of the world, and the destiny
of all human ties, I rejoice that you are no more! that
that
custom never dulled the music of your voice, the pathos
and the magic of your sweet eyes, that the halo of a
dream was round you to the last! Had you survived till
now, we should have survived, -not our love, indeed,
but all that renders love most divine, the rapt and wild
idolatry that scarce believed it adored a mortal thing of
frailty and of change, the exaggerated, the measureless
credulity in the faith, the virtues of each other, that almost
made us what it believed, in our desire not to fall short of
the godlike standard by which we were raised in our mu
tual eyes above the children of earth All this, how
long since would it have passed away!--
-- our love would
have fallen into "the portion of weels and worn-out faces,"
which is the lot of all who love. As it is, I can transport
myself from every earthly disappointment when I recur to
-ou! On your image there rests no shadow of a shade!
-
|
-
In my hours of sickness, n the darkness of despondency,
in the fever of petty cares, and all the terrors of the
future, you glide before me in your fresh youth, and with
your tender smile, -for from you never came the harsh
word or the wronging thought. In all that I recall of you
there is not one memory which I would forget. Death is
the great treasure-house of love. There lies buried the
real wealth of passion and of youth; there the heart, once
so prodigal, now grown the miser, turns to contemplate the
hoards it has hidden from the world. Henceforth, it is but
the common and petty coins of affection that it wastes on
the uses and things of life.
The coarser and blunter minds, intent upon common
things, obtain, perhaps, a sufficient sympathy to satisfy
them. The man who does nothing but hunt, will find con-
geniality enough wherever there are hounds and huntsmen.
The woman, whose soul is in a ball-room, has a host of
intimate associates and congenial spirits. It was the man
of the world who talked of his numerous friends,
the sage who replied, sadly, "Friends! happy art thou, I
have never found one! "
it was
There are two remedies for the craving after sympathy,
and the first I recommend to all literary men, as the great
means of preserving the moral health. It is this we
should cultivate, besides our more intellectual objects, some
pursuit which we can have in common with the herd:
some end, whether of pleasure, of business, of polities, that
brings us in contact with our kind. It is in this that we
can readily find a fellowship, in this we can form a vent
for our desire of sympathy from others. And thus we
<
-
learn to feel ourselves not alone. Solitude then becomes
to us a relief, and our finer thoughts are the seraphs that
watch and haunt it. Our imagination, kept rigidly from
the world, is the Eden in which we walk with God. For
having in the crowd embraced the crowd's objects, and
met with fellowship in return, we no longer desire so
keenly a sympathy with that which is not common
others, and belongs to the nobler part of us.
brings me to the second remedy. We learn thus to make
our own dreams and thoughts our companion, our beloved,
our Egeria. We acquire the doctrine of self-dependence,
10
And this
self suffices to self. In our sleep from the passions o
the world, God makes an Eve to us from our own breasts.
Yet sometimes it will grieve us to think we shall return to
clay, give up the heritage of life, our atoms dissolve and
crumble into the elements of new things, with all the
most lovely, the most spiritual part of us untold! - What
volumes can express one tithe that we have felt? How
many brilliant thoughts have broke upon us? how many
divinest visions have walked by our side, that would have
mocked
mocked all our efforts to transfer to this inanimate page?
To sit coldly down, to copy the fitful and sudden hues of
those rainbow and evanescent images varying with every
moment! — no! we are not all so cased in authorship, we
are greater than mere machines of terms and periods.
The author is inferior to the man! As the best part of
beauty is that which no picture can express, * so the best
part of the poet is that which no words have told. Had
Shakspeare lived for ever, could he have exhausted his
thoughts?
It is a yet harder thought, perhaps, than the reflection
which I have just referred to, and which has in it something
of vanity,- -to know how much, for want of sympathy in
those around us, our noblest motives, our purest qualities,
are misunderstood. We die, none have known us!
and yet all are to declaim on our character, measure at
a glance the dark abyss of our souls, prate of us as if
we were household and hackneyed to them from our cradle.
One among the number shall write our biography, the
rest shall read and conceive they know us ever afterward.
We go down to our son's sons, darkened and disguised;
so that, looking on men's colorings of mind and life, from
our repose on the bosom of God, we shall not recognise
one feature of the portrait we have left to earth !
* Bacon.
148
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ON THE PASSION FOR THE UNIVERSAL.
I was
WHEN I was a younger man than I am now,
nitten by that ambition for the universal, not uncommon,
perhaps, in versatile and lively imaginations, which easily
master whatever they attempt, and which find therefore
labor only a triumph to their self-esteem. I held it as a
doctrine, that the mind in its utmost perfection must not
be utterly ignorant of any species of human knowledge or
accomplishment within its reach, and that the body being a
part of us, and that part most prominent and visible, had
also a legitimate right to its careful education, for we are
not all soul. The frame should indeed be the servant of
the mind, but neglect or scorn the slave too much, and
he rebels, and may become the tyrant in his turn. The
notion of this all-accomplishment, mental and corporeal, is
an old one, it is one upon which the character of the
ancient nations, and of Athens especially, was formed.
Alcibiades and Pericles were but incarnations of the genius
of their country. But, in truth, the task of circling the
round of knowledge was more practicable two thousand
years ago, than it is now: books were few, speculations
contracted, learning flowed with a mighty stream, but
not from numerous sources. All the fruits of the divine
tree were near at hand to the wanderer, and not scattered,
as they are at present, in myriad grafts, over the surface
of the globe. If this was their advantage in the mental,
so in the corporeal education; the life which the ancients
led, — their habits and their customs so entirely dissimilar
from the indolent apathy of modern times, were well
suited to perfect all the faculties, and to gift with all the
graces.
S
ų
The bath and the gymnasium, which made a necessary
part of their existence, served, without an effort, to har-
monize, to strengthen, and to embellish. Their very habit
of existence brought thein beauty. Again; the laws which
at Athens were referred entirely to the people, who had to
decide not more upon their taxes and their ministers, than
upon refinements in music, or innovations at the theatre, -
to approve the new statute, and consider the ornaments of
the projected temple, served to diffuse the popular atten-
tion, not over all the vulgar necessaries, but all the sublimer
arts and elegances of life: it was necessary to have an eye
to grace, an ear to poetry, a nerve to beauty, in order to
discharge the daily duties of a citizen. In all things the
people were made critics and gentlemen by being in all
things legislators and umpires. Absolute liberty produced
universal genius. The stir and ferment, and astonishing
activity of those old republics, forced intellect almost be-
yond nature. Their very corruption fostered divine seeds,
and the creatures it generated were gods.
These causes combined, gave to our ancient models that
character of "the all-accomplished," which the moderns,
under different circumstances of society, can never but
imperfectly attain.
The division of labor has become necessary to a vast
and complex order of civilization, and, no longer living in
petty cities, but over-populated natis, one man cannot
hope successfully to unite the poet, the soldier, the philoso-
pher, the artist, the critic; the oracle of one sex, and
the idol of the other. * The true character of the univer-
sal has passed away for ever. It is fortunate for us that
the world, somewhat early and somewhat roughly, rouses
as from this ambition, too excursive for common purposes,
f pursued too long, and that, settled betimes to the pur-
suit of one career, or to the mastery of one art, we accus-
tom ourselves not to chase the golden apples which lure us
from our goal.
Yet for a short time, at least, this passion has its uses,
which last throughout our lives: without aiming in youth
Prior says elegantly enough to Lord Bolingbroke, who of all
mcdern public men approached the nearest to the character of
Alcibiades, "Men respect you, and women love you.'
at the acquisition of many things, we should scarcely in
manhood attain perfection in one. Insensibly, through a
wide and desultory range, we gather together the vast
hoard of thoughts and images, of practical illustrations
of life,
of comparisons of the multiform aspects of truth,
whether in nen or books, which are the aids, and corrobo-
rants, and embellishments of the single and sole pursuit to
which we finally attach ourselves.
We are thus in no danger of becoming the machines of
the closet, or the feasters upon one idea. Each individua.
research into which we have entered may not have been
carried to a sufficient depth to open a separate mine, but
the broad surface we have ploughed up yields us an abun-
dant harvest. To an active mind it is astonishing what
use may be made of every the pettiest acquisition. Gib
bon tells us with solemn complacency of the assistance he
derived to his immortal work, the sieges and the strat
egy it expounds, from having served in the militia! A
much wider use of accomplishment is to be found in the
instance of Milton :- what a wonderful copiousness of
all knowledge, seemingly the most motley, the most incon-
gruous, he has poured into his great poem! Perhaps
there is no mighty river of genius which is not fed by a
thousand tributary streams. Milton is indeed an august
example of the aspiration to the universal. This severe
republican, who has come down to the vulgar gaze in
colors so stern, though so sublime, had in his early ten-
dencies all that most distinguishes our ideal of the knight
and cavalier. No man in these later days was ever by
soul and nature so entirely the "all-accomplished
" and
consummate gentleman. Beautiful in person, courtly in
address, skilled in the gallant exercise of arms, -a
master of each manlier as each softer art, - versed in
music, -in song, in the languages of Europe, the
admired gallant of the dames and nobles of Italy,
cynosure of all eyes" that rained influence and adjudged
- he, the destined Dante of England, was the concentra-
tion of our dreams of the troubadour, and the reality of
the imaginary Crichton. In his later life, we find the
haughty patriot recurring, with a patrician pride, to all
the accomplishments he had mastered, the sword as well
as lute; and if we could furnish forth the outline of the
education he prescribes as necessary to others, we should
have no reason to complain that the versatility and the
range of Athenian genius had passed away.
the
* In his letter to Master Samuel Hartlib, Milton does indeed
startle even the most ambitious of modern scholars. After de-
claring, in his own stately manner, that he calls "a complete
and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly,
skilfully, and magnanimously, all (!) the oflices of peace and
studies for young gentlemen between twelve and twenty-one :
war (!)" he proceeds to chalk out a general outline of rational
-
Grammar, arithmetic, agriculture, natural history, geometry,
astronomy, geography, fortification, architecture, engineering,
navigation. history of meteors, minerals, plants and living crea-
tures, as far as anatomy and the art of medicine. All this to
be assisted by the "helpful experiences of hunters, fowlers,
fishermen, shepherds, gardeners, apothecaries, architects, engi-
neers, miners, anatomists." And the above, by the by, before
as
the tyro enters the "rural part of Virgil!" Then come eth-
ics, theology, politics, law, as delivered first by Moses, and,
far as human prudence can be trusted, Lycurgus, Solon, Zaleu-
cus, Charondas," and thence "to all the Roman edicts and
tables, with their Justinian, and so down to the Saxon and
common laws of England, and the statutes." Join to this
French, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew; "whereto it would be
no impossibility to add the Chaldee and the Syrian dialect."
Thus accomplished, the pupils are to be made poets, authors,
orators; and, instead of cricket, in playhours, they are "to
serve out the rudiments of soldiership, in all the skill of
tettling, marching, encamping, fortifying, besieging, and bat-
-
; " besides trips after the first two or three years, -
fafter which Milton gravely declares he would not be much
for their studying (!)] to our navy to learn the practical
knowledge of sailing and sea-fight. If all this would not make
universal scholars, it would certainly make the most universal
little dunces.
ON THE PASSION FOR THE UNIVERSAL
149
Yet this Greek yearning after all lore, not only that in-
stricts, but embellishes, invariably exposes us, with the
vulgar, to two charges, superficiality and frivolity,
the last accusations which we are likely to deserve. Per-
haps no men are more superficial in their views than those who
cultivate one branch of learning, and only one branch;
perhaps no men are less superficial than those who know
the outlines of many. A man, indeed, who, in letters or
statesmanship, cultivates only one pursuit, can rarely mas-
ter it thoroughly. It is by eternal comparisons of truth
with truth that we come to just and profound conclusions;
the wider the range of comparisons, the more accurate our
inferences. There is an experience of the intellect as well
as of the observation, which never can be well attained by
exclusive predilections and confined circles.
>"
|
affection for order or harmony which made him the greatest
literary artist that ever lived, displayed itself in the neut-
ness of his handwriting, in his care of the nice arrange-
ment of his furniture and papers, in his hatred to sɛe
even a blot of ink upon a manuscript. All this regard to
trifles was not frivolity, it was a trait of character,
it belonged to the artist: without it he would not have had
We
the habit of mind which made hin what he was.
may detect the same traits in a smaller degree in Pope.
With him it was less the love of order than of neatness
(a part of order). In most poets the strongest intellectual
passion is the love of beauty and this often displays itself
in the elegance of domestic detail. *****. fastidious
in the flow of a curtain, is not frivolous, he but mani-
fests the same taste which gives him his acumen in works
of art, and polishes to an excess of smoothness the ivory
But this love of beauty in all its aspects is strongest in
those whose early years have passed in the attempt to culti
vate every faculty and excel in every pursuit. The students
of the universal acquire an almost intuitive instinct into the
fluent harmony of things. Their early ambition opens to
them a thousand sources of enjoyment. Wherever there is
excellence they feel all the rapture of admiration. A land-
scape, a picture, a statue, a gem, a fine horse, a palace, the
possessions of others, if worthy to be admired, — their
sense of enjoyinent makes their own, while they regard;
sympathy, for the moment, appropriates them, and becomes
the substitute of envy.
—
We all flatter ourselves in our favorite tendencies, aud,
for my own part, I may deceive myself as to the nature of
mine, but I consider that to love the beautiful in all
things, to surround ourselves, as far as our means permit,
with all its evidences, not only elevates the thoughts and
harmonizes the mind, but is a sort of homage that we owe
to the gifts of God and the labors of man. The beautiful is
the priest of the benevolent.
We find, therefore, in all the deepest masters of the
human heart, or of the human mind, an amazingly search-mechanism of his verse.
ing and miscellaneous appetite for knowledge of all sorts,
small or great. The statesinan who wrote the "Prince,'
wrote also comedies and a novel, - a treatise on the mili-
tary art, and poetry without end. Goethe was a botan-
ist as well as a poet and a philosopher. Shakspeare
seems, by the profuse allusions, " enamelling with pied
flowers his thoughts of gold," to have diligently tearned
all that his age permitted to one self-educated, and not
versed betimes in the ancient languages or the physical
sciences, yet even of these latter he had taught himself
something. You find in him metaphors borrowed from
the mechanical arts of life. It was a universal smattering
which helped him to be profound. No less universal, no
less accomplished, was Bacon, who may be called the
Shakspeare of philosophy. With the same pen which
demolished the Aristotelisin of the schoolmen, he writes a
treatise on the laws, a cure for the gout, the translation of
a psalm, and an essay on plantations. The men who, on
the contrary, are so careful to avoid the superficial,- who
plummet only one source of learning, and think that, in
order to penetrate to its depths, no time can be spared to
sport over other fountains, are usually shallow and head-
strong theorists. They go round and round in a narrow
circle, and never discover the outlet. Such a man was
that pedant mentioned by Boyle, who had devoted his
whole life to the study of a single mineral, and who owned
he had not ascertained a hundredth part of its properties.
These men are not only superficial, they are the truly frivo-
lous, they grow so wedded to their one pursuit, that its
prettiest and most insignificant details have a grandeur in
their eyes.
eyes. They are for ever poring over the animalculæ
on the one leaf of the Eden tree: they cannot see things
that are large, they are spending their lives in the midst
of the prodigal world in considering the hundredth part of
the properties of a mineral!
Vulgar minds often mistake for frivolities what are but
the indications of a certain refinement which pervades the
whole character, and leaves its stamp upon small things as
on great. Most remarkable men have one predominant
passion of the intellect strongly developed, which pursues
its object into minutiæ. Thus with Goethe, that singular
* Sir P. Sidney.
Yet, the ambition of the universal is neither safe nor
prudent, unless we cultivate some one pursuit above all the
rest, making the others only its ministrants or its reliefs
If we know a little of every thing, it will not do to write
upon every thing, but choosing that career of imagination
or of thought for which we feel ourselves most fitted, and
making this our main object, all the rest that we know or
enjoy, illustrates and enlarges the scope of our chief design.
It was wise in Milton, or in Homer, to pour the choicest
of their multiform lore into their poems; but they might
have been justly termed superficial, had they written sep-
arate essays upon each division of knowledge which they
prove themselves to have cultivated. Far froni complaining
that life is too long, I honor the frankness of the old sage,
who, living to a hundred, said his only regret was to die so
soon. So vast is the mind of man, so various its faculties,
so measureless the range of observation to feed and to elicit
his powers, that if we had lived from the birth of the world
till now, we could not have compassed a millionth part of
that which our capacities, trained to the utmost, would
enable up to grasp. It requires an eternity to develope ad
the elements of the soul !
ON ILL HEALTH, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.
We do not enough consider our physical state as the
cause of much of our moral; we do not reflect enough upon
our outward selves. What changes have been produced in
Pur minds by some external cause, -an accident, all
illness! For instance, a general state of physical debility,
~ILL HEALTH, in the ordinary phrase, is perhaps
among the most interesting subjects whereon to moralize.
It is not, like most topics that are dedicated to philosophy,
refining and abstruse; it is not a closet thesis, it does not
touch one man, and avoid the circle which surrounds him ;
✦ relates to us all; for ill health is a part of death, it is
M
its grand commencement. Sooner or later, for a longe
period or a shorter, it is our common doom. Some, indeed,
are stricken suddenly, and disease does not herald the
comer; but such exceptions are not to be classed against
the rule; and in this artificial existence, afflicted by the
vices of custom, the unknown infirmities of our sires, -
the various ills that beset all men who think or toil,
straining nerve, the heated air, the overwrought or
the stagnant life, the cares of poverty, — the luxuries of
wealth,―the gnawings of our several passions, the string
cracks somewhere, and few of us pass even the first golden
MY G
the
180
BULWER'S NOVELS.
gates of life ere we receive the admonitions of decay. "Ev-
ery contingency to every man and every creature doth
preach our funeral sermon, and calls us to look and see how
the old sexton time throws up the earth and digs a grave
where we must lay our sins or our sorrows.
55
Life itself is but a long dying, and with every struggle
against disease “ we taste the grave and the solemnities of
our own funerals. Every day's necessity calls for a repar-
ation of that portion which death fed on all night when we
lay on his lap, and slept in his outer chambers."*
As the beautiful mind of Tully taught itself to regard the
evils of old age by fairly facing its approach, and weighing
its sufferings against its consolations, so, with respect to
habitual infirmities, we may the better bear them by recol-
lecting that they are not without their solace. Every one
of us must have observed that during a lengthened illness
the mind acquires the habit of making to itself a thousand
sources of interest, —“ a thousand images of one that was,
>>
out of that quiet monotony which seems so unvaried to
ordinary eyes. We grow usually far more susceptible to
commonplace impressions. As one whose eyes are touched
by a fairy spell, a new world opens to us out of the surface
of the tritest things. Every day we discover new objects,
Every day we discover new objects,
and grow delighted with our progress. I remember a
friend of mine, a man of lively and impetuous imagina-
tion, who, being afflicted with a disease which demanded
the most perfect composure; not being allowed to read,
not being allowed to read,
write, and very rarely to converse; - found an inexhausti-
ble mine of diversion in an old marble chimney-piece, in
which the veins, irregularly streaked, furnished forth quaint
and broken likenesses to men, animals, trees, &c. He de-
clared that by degrees he awoke every morning with an
object before him, and his imagination betook itself instantly
to its new realm of discovery. This instance of the strange
power of the mind to create to itself an interest in the nar-
rowest circles to which it may be confined, may be ludi-
crous, but is not exaggerated. How many of us have
of us have
watched for hours with half-shut eyes the embers of the
restless fire? nay, counted the flowers upon the curtains
of the sick-bed, and found an interest in the task! The
mind has no native soil; its affections are not confined to
one spot, its dispositions fasten themselves everywhere,
they live, they thrive, they produce in whatever region
chance may cast them, however remote from their accus-
tomed realm. God made the human heart weak, but elas-
tic it hath a strange power of turning poison into nutri-
;
ment. Banish us the air of heaven, cripple the step,
bind us to the sick couch,- cut us off from the cheerful
face of men,
make us keep house with danger and with
darkness,
we can yet play with our own fancies, and,
after the first bitterness of the physical thraldom, feel that
despite of it we are free!
It has been my lot to endure frequent visitations of ill
health, although iny muscular frame is strong, and I am
capable of bearing great privation, and almost any exer-
tion of mere bodily fatigue. The reason is, that I reside
principally in London, and it is only of late that I have
been able to inure myself to the close air and the want of
exercise that belong to the life of cities. However lan-
guishing in the confinement of a metropolis, the moment I
left the dull walls, and heard the fresh waving of the trees,
I revived; the nerves grew firm, pain fled me, — I
I
asked myself in wonder for my ailments! My bodily state
was, then, voluntary and self-incurred, for nothing bound
or binds me to cities: I follow no calling, I am indepen-
dent of men, sufficiently affluent in means, and, from my
youth upward, I have learned myself the power to live
alone. Why not then consult health as the greatest of
earthly goods? But is health the greatest of earthly goods?
Is the body to be our main care? Are we to be the min-
ions of self? Are we to make any corporeal advantage
the chief end,
"Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas,”
I confess that I see not how men can arrogate to them-
selves the catholic boast of immortal hopes, — how they
can utter the old truths of the nothingness of life, of the
superiority of mental over physical delights, — of the para-
of the para-
mount influence of the soul and the soul's objects, and
yet speak of health as our greatest blessing, and the work-
man's charge of filling up the crannies of this fast moulder-
ng clay as the most necessary of human objects. As-
redly, health is a great blessing, and its care is not to
Jeremy Taylor, on IIoly Dying.
be despised; but there are duties far more sacred, — obli
gations before which the body is as naught. For it is not
necessary to live, but it is necessary to live nobly! And
of this truth we are not without the support of high exam-
ples. Who can read the great poet "who sung of heaven,'
and forget that his acts walked level with the lofty emi-
nence of his genius; that he paid "no homage to the sun,'
that even the blessing of light itself was a luxury, willingly
to be abandoned; but the defence of the great rights of
earth, the fulfilment of the solemn trust of nations, the vin-
dication of ages yet to come, was a necessity, and not to
be avoided, and wherefore? because it was a duty
Are there not duties too to us, though upon a narrower
scale, which require no less generous a devotion? Are
there not objects which are more important than the ease
and welfare of the body? Is our first great charge that of
being a nurse to ourselves? No every one of us who
writes, toils, or actively serves the state, forms to himself,
if he knoweth any thing of public virtue, interests which
are not to be renounced for the purchase of a calmer
pulse, and a few years added to the feeble extreme of life.
Many of us have neither fortune, nor power, nor extrinsic
offerings to sacrifice to mankind; but all of us, the
proud, the humble, the rich, the poor, have one posser-
sion at our command : — we may sacrifice ourselves.
It is from these reasons that, at the time I refer to, I put
aside the hope of health; a good earnestly indeed to be
coveted, but which, if obtained only by a life remote from
man, inactive, useless, self-revolving, may be too dearly
bought: and gazing on the evil which I imagined (though
erroneously) I could not cure, I endeavoured to reconcile
myself to its necessity.
And first, it seems to me that when the nerves e cine-
what weakened, the senses of sympathy are more keen,
we are less negligent of our kind: that impetuous and
reckless buoyancy of spirit which mostly accompanies a
hardy and iron frame, is not made to enter into the infir-
mities of others. How can it sympathize with what it has
never known ? We seldom find men of great animal
health and power possessed of much delicacy of mind;
their humanity and kindness proceed from an overflow of
spirits, their more genial virtues are often but skin deep,
and the result of good-humor. The susceptible frame of
women causes each more kindly and generous feeling to
vibrate more powerfully on their hearts, and thus also that
which in our harsher sex sharpens the nerve, often softens
the affection. And this is really the cause of that increased
tendency to pity, to charity, to friendship, which comes on
with the decline of life, and which Bolingbroke has so
There is an excitement in the con-
touchingly alluded to.
sciousness of the glorious possession of unshaken health
and matured strength which hurries us on the road of that
selfish enjoyment, which we are proud of our privilege to
command. The passions of the soul are often winged by
our capacities, and are fed from the same sources that keep
the beating of the heart strong, and the step haughty upon
the earth. Thus when the frame grows slack, and the
race of the strong can be run no more, the mind fills
gently back upon itself, it releases its garments from the
grasp of the passions which have lost their charm, in-
tellectual objects become more precious, and no longer
sufficing to be a world to ourselves, we contract the soft
habit of leaning our affection upon others; the ties round
our heart are felt with a more close endearment, and every
little tenderness we receive from the love of those about
us, teaches us the value of love. And this is therefore
among the consolations of ill health, that we are more sus-
ceptible to all the kindlier emotions, and that we dri: k a
deeper and a sweeter pleasure from the attachment of our
friends. If, too, we become, as the body progressive!,
declines from the desire of external pursuits, more devoted
to intellectual objects, new sources of delight are thus
bestowed upon us.
Books become more eloquent of lan-
guage, and their aspect grows welcome as the face of some
dear consoler.
dear consoler. Perhaps no epicure of the world's coarse
allurement knows that degree of deep and serene enjoy-
ment with which, shut up in our tranquil chambers we
the
surround ourselves with the WISDOM, the POETRY,
ROMANCE of past ages, and are made free by the sybil
of the world's knowledge to the elysium of departed souls.
The pain, or the fever that from time to time reminds us of
our clay, brings not perhaps more frequent and embarrass-
ing interruptions, than the restlessness and eager passion
THE LAW OF ARREST.
181
which belong to the flush of health. Contented to repose,
the repose becomes more prodigal of dreams.
de
to
And there is another circumstance usually attendant on
ill health. We live less for the world, we do not ex-
tend the circle of friendship into the wide and distracting
orbit of common acquaintance, --we are thus less subject
to ungenial interruptions, to vulgar humiliations,
the wear and tear of mind, the harassment and the
vanity, that torture those who seek after the " gallery
of painted pictures," and "the talk where no love is."
The gaud and the ostentation shrink into their true colors
before the eye which has been taught to look within. And
the pulses that have been calmed by pain, keep, without
much effort, to the even tenor of philosophy.
health may save us from many disquietudes and errors,
from frequent mortification, and "the walking after the
vain shadow.” Plato retired to his cave to be wise; sick-
ness is often the moral cave, with its quiet, its darkness,
and its solitude to the soul.
Thus ill
1 may add also, that he who has been taught the preca-
riousness of life, acquires a knowledge of its value. He
teaches himself to regard death with a quiet eye, and
habit * gifts him with a fortitude mightier than the stoic-
ism of the porch. As the lamb is shorn so the wind is
tempered. Nor is the calm without moments of mere ani-
mal ecstasy unknown to the rude health, which, having
never waned from its vigor, is unconscious of the treasure
it inherits. What rapture in the first steps to recovery,
in the buoyant intervals of release! When the wise
simplicity of Hesiod would express the overpowering joy
of a bridegrooin in the flush of conquest hastening to the
first embraces of his bride, he can compare him only to
one escaped from some painful disease, or from the chains
of a dungeon.† The release of pain is the excess of trans-
* Exilia, tormenta, bella, morbos, naufragia, meditare, ut
nullo sis malo, Tyro. Senec. Epist.
+ Hes Scul. Here line 42.
port. With what gratitude we feel the first return of
health, the first budding forth of the new spring that has
dawned within us! Or, f our disease admit not that
blessed regeneration, still it has its intervals and reprieves.
moments when the mind springs up as the lark to heaven,
singing and rejoicing as it bathes its plumage in the intox-
icating air. So that our state may be of habitual tranquil-
lity, and yet not dumb to raptures which have no parallel
in the monotony of more envied lives. But I hold that the
great counterbalancing gift which the infirmity of the body,
if rightly moralized upon, hath the privilege to confer, is,
that the mind, left free to contemplation, naturally prefers
the high and the immortal to the sensual and the low. As
astronomy took its rise among the Chaldæan shepherds,
whose constant leisure upon their vast and level plains
enabled them to elevate their attention undivided to the
heavenly bodies, - so the time left to us for contemplation
in our hours of sickness, and our necessary disengagement
from the things of earth, tend to direct our thoughts to
the stars, and impregnate us half unconsciously with the
science of heaven.
more pure.
Thus while, as I have said, our affections become more
gentle, our souls also become more noble, and our desires
We learn to think, with one of the most august
of our moralists, that "earth is an hospital, not an inn, -
a place to die, not live in." Our existence becomes a great
preparation for death, and the monitor within us is con-
stant, but with a sweet and a cheering voice.
Such are the thoughts with which, in the hour of sick-
ness, I taught myself to regard what with the vulgar is the
greatest of human calamities!
greatest of human calamities! It may be some consolation.
to those who have suffered more bitterly than I have done,
to feel that, by calling in the powers of the mind, there may
be good ends and cheerful hopes wrought out from the wast-
ing of the body; and that it is only the darkness, uncon-
sidered and unexplored, which shapes the spectre and
appals us with the fear.
THE LAW OF ARREST.
A TALE FROM FACTS.
THE immediate interest which the proceedings of the |
egislature have attached to the existent law of arrest,
and its probable reform, induce me to relate the following
story: -
Once upon a time there lived at Hamburgh a certain
merchant of the name of Meyer: he was a good little man;
charitable to the poor, hospitable to his friends, and so rich
that he was extremely respected, in spite of his good-nature.
Among that part of his property which was vested in other
people's hands, and called “r debts," was the sum of five
hundred pounds, owed to him by the captain of an English
vessel. This debt had been so long contracted that the
worthy Meyer began to wish for a new investment of his
capital. He accordingly resolved to take a trip to Ports-
mouth, in which town Captain Jones was then residing,
and take that liberty which in my opinion should in a free
country never be permitted, ― viz., the liberty of applying
for his money.
Our worthy merchant one bright morning found himself
at Portsmouth; he was a stranger to that town, but not
altogether unacquainted with the English language. He
lost no time in calling on Captain Jones.
“And vat,” said he to a man whom he asked to conduct
him to the captain's house, "vat is dat fine veshell yon-
dare?"
"She be the Royal Sally," replied the man, “bound for
Calcutta, sails to-morrow; but here's Captain Jones's
house, sir, and he 'll tell you all about it.
The merchant bowed, and knocked at the door of a red
brick house, door green, — brass knocker Captain
Gregory Jones was a tall man; he wore a blue jacke,
without skirts; he had high cheek-bones, small eyes, and
his whole appearance was eloquent of what is generally
termed the bluff honesty of the seaman.
—
Captain Gregory Jones seemed somewhat disconcerted
at seeing his friend, he begged for a little further time.
The merchant looked grave, three years had already
elapsed. The captain demurred, the merchant pressed,
the captain blustered, and the merchant, growing
angry, began to threaten. All of a sudden Captain Jones's
manner changed, he seemed to recollect himself, begged
pardon, said he could easily procure the money, desired the
merchant to go back to his inn, and promised to call on him
in the course of the day. Mynheer Meyer went home, and
ordered an excellent dinner. Time passed, his friend
came not. Meyer grew impatient. He had just put on his
hat, and was walking out, when the waiter threw open the
door, and announced two gentlemen.
"Ah, dere comes de monish," thought Mynheer Meyer.
The gentlemen approached, the taller one whipped out
what seemed to Meyer a receipt. "Ah, ver veil; I vill
sign, ver vell."
Signing, sir, is useless; you will be kind enough to
accompany us. This is a warrant for debt, sir; my house
is extremely comfortable, — gentlemen of the first fashion.
go there,quite moderate, too, — only a guinea a day, -
find your own wine "
"I do — no understand, sare," said the merchant,
smiling amiably; “I
I am ver vell off here, thank you-
"Come, come," said the other gentleman, speaking fo
152
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the first time, "no parlavoo, monseer, you are our prisoner.
This is a warrant for the sun of £10,000, due to Captain
Gregory Jones."
but
The merchant stared, the merchant frowned,
so it was. Captain Gregory Jones, who owed Mynheer
Meyer £500, had arrested Mynheer Meyer for £10,000; for,
as every one knows, any man may arrest us who has con-
science enough to swear that we owe him money. Where
was Mynheer Meyer in a strange town to get bail? Myn-
heer Meyer went to prison.
"Dis be a strange vay of paying a man his monish!"
said Mynheer Meyer.
In order to while away time, our merchant, who was
wonderfully social, scraped acquaintance with some of his
fellow-prisoners. "Vat be you in prishon for?" said he
to a stout respectable-looking man, who seemed in a vio-
lent passion, -"for vat crime?"
—
"I, sir! crime!" quoth the prisoner; "sir, I was
going to Liverpool, to vote at the election, when a friend
of the opposite candidate's had me suddenly arrested for
£2,000. Before I get bail the election will be over! "
"Vat's that you tell me? arrest you to prevent you giv-
ing an honesht vote! Is that justice?"
"Justice! No," cried our friend ; "it's the law of
arrest."
"And vat be you in prishon for?" said the merchant,
pityingly, to a thin, cadaverous-looking object, who ever
and anon applied a handkerchief to eyes that were worn
with weeping.
"An attorney offered a friend of mine to discount a bill,
if he could obtain a few names to endorse it, --I, sir, en-
dorsed it. The bill became due; the next day the attor-
ney arrested all whose rames were on the bill. there were
eight of us; the law allows him to charge two guineas for
each; there are sixteen guineas, sir, for the lawyer,
but I, sir, alas! my family will starve before I shall be
released. Sir, there are a set of men called discounting
attorneys, who live upon the profits of entrapping and
arresting us poor folk."
"Mine Gott! but is dat justice?"
Alas! no, sir,—it is the law of arrest.”
"But," said the merchant, turning round to a lawyer
whom the devil had deserted, and who was now with the
victims of his profession,-" dey tell me dat in Englant
a man may be called innoshent till he be proved guilty; but
here am I, who, because von carrion of a shailor, who
owesh me five hundred pounts, takes an oath that I owe
him ten thousand, here am I, on that schoundrel's single
oath, clapped up in a prishon. Is this a man's being in-
noshent till he is proved guilty, sare?"
CC
Sir," said the lawyer, primly, you are thinking of
criminal cases; but if a man be unfortunate enough to get
into debt, that is quite a different thing,
we are harder
to poverty than we are to crime. "
"But, mine Gott! is that justice?"
"Justice! pooh! it's the law of arrest," said tne
lawyer, turning on his heel.
Our merchant was liberated; no one appeared to prove
the debt. He flew to a magistrate; he told his case; he
implored justice against Captain Jones.
CC
'
Captain Jones!" said the magistrate, taking snaff;
Captain Gregory Jones, you mean?"
<<
Ay, mine goot sare, yesh!
"He set sail for Calcutta yesterday. He commands
the Royal Sally. He must evidently have sworn this debt
against you for the purpose of getting rid of
of getting rid of your claim,
and silencing your mouth till you could catch him no lon
ger. He's a clever fellow is Gregory Jones!"
"De teufel! but, sare, ish dere no remedy for de poor
merchant ?"
Remedy! oh, yes, indictment for perjury.”
"But vat use is dat? You say
You say he be gone,
sand miles off, -to Calcutta!"
"That's certainly against your indictment."
"And cannot I get my monish?”
"Not as I see.”
CC
- ten thou-
" And I have been arreshted instead of him! !:
"You have."
"Sare, I have only von vord to say, is dat justice?"
"That I can't say, Mynheer Meyer; but it is certainly
the law of arrest, answered the magistrate, and he
bowed the merchant out of the room.
ON SATIETY.
MORALISTS are wrong when they preach indiscrimi-
nately against satiety and denounce the sated. There is a
species of satiety which is productive of wisdom. When
pleasure palls, philosophy begins. I doubt whether inen
ever thoroughly attain to knowledge of the world until they
have gone through its attractions and allurements. Ex-
perience is not acquired by the spectator of life, but by its
actor. It was not by contemplating the fortunes of others,
but by the remembrance of his own, that the wisest of
mortals felt that "all was vanity." A true and practical
philosophy, not of books alone, but of mankind, is ac-
quired by the passions as well as by the reason. The tem-
ple of the science is approached by the garden as well as
by the desert, and a healing spirit is distilled from the
rose-leaves which withered in our hand.
|
the men who have known most the fallacies of our humar
nature are perhaps those the most inclined to foster the as-
pirations of the spiritual. To the one Faust who found a
comrade in the fiend, there are a thousand who are visited
by the angel.
The more civilized, the more refined, becomes the
period in which we are cast, the more are we subject to
satiety, -
-
"That weariness of all
We meet, or feel, or hear, or see.”
The even road of existence, the routine of nothings, the
smooth and silken indolence which is destined to those
among us, who, wealthy and well-born, have no occupation
in life but the effort to live at ease, produce on the subject
the same royalty of discontent that was once the attribute
A certain sentiment of satiety, of the vanity of human of a king. In a free and a prosperous country all who are
pleasures, of the labor ineptiarum, of the nothingness of rich and idle are as kings. We have the same splendid
trite and vulgar occupations, is often the best preparation monotony and unvarying spectacle of repeated pageants of
to that sober yet elevated view of the ends of life which is which the victims of a court complain. All society has
philosophy. As many have blest the bed of sickness on become a court, and we pass our lives like Madame de
which they had leisure to contemplate their past existence, Maintenon, in seeking to amuse those who cannot be
and to form an improved chart of the future voyage, amused, or like Louis XIV., in seeking to be amused by
there is a sickness of the soul when exhaustion itself is those who cannot amuse us. Satiety is therefore the com-
salutary, and out of the languor and the tedium we extract mon and catholic curse of the idle portion of a highly
the seeds of the mora regeneration. Much of what is
Much of what is civilized country. And the inequalities of life are fittingly
most indulgent in morals, much of what is most tender and adjusted. For those who are excluded from pleasure in
profound in poetry, have come from a sated spirit. The the one extreme, there are those who are incapable' of
disappointments of an enthusiastic and fervent heart have pleasure in the other. The fogs gather dull and cheerless
great teaching in their pathos. As the first converts to the over the base of the mountain, but the air at the summi
Kospel were among the unfortunate and the erring, exhausts and withers.
so
•
ON SATIETY.
Yet the poor have their satiety no less than the wealthy,
the satiety of toil and the conviction of its hopelessness.
"Picture to yourself," wrote a mechanic once to me, a
man, sensible that he is made for something better than to
lalor and to die, cursed with a desire of knowledge, while
occupied only with the task to live drudging on from year
to year, to render himself above the necessity of drudgery;
to feel his soul out of the clutches of want, and enabled to
indulge at ease in the luxury of becoming better and wiser,
-picture to yourself such a man, with such an ambition,
finding every effort in vain, seeing that the utmost he can
do is to provide for the day, and so from day to day to live
battling against the morrow. With what heart can he
give himself up at night to unproductive tasks? Scarce
is he lost for a moment amid the wonders of knowledge for
the first time presented to him, ere the voice of his chil-
dren disturbs and brings him back to the world; the debt
unpaid, the bill discredited, the demands upon the
Saturday's wages. Oh sir, in such moments none can feel
how great is our disgust at life, how jaded and how weary
we feal; we recoil alike from amusement and knowledge,
we sicken at the doom to which we are compelled,
we are as weary of the sun as the idlest rich man in the
land, we share his prerogative of satiety, and loug for
the rest in the green bed where our forefathers sleep, re-
leased for ever from the tooth of unrelenting cares.
The writer of this was a poet, let me hope that there
are not many of his order condemned with him to a spirit
out of harmony with its lot. Yet as knowledge widens its
circle, the number will increase, and if our social system
is to remain always the same, I doubt whether the desire
of knowledge, which is the desire of leisure, will be a
blessing to those who are everlastingly condemned to toii.
But the satiety of the rich has its cure in what is the
very curse of the poor. Their satiety is from indolence,
and its cure is action. Satiety with them is chiefly the
offspring of a restless imagination and a stagnant intellect.
Their minds are employed on trifles, in which their feelings
cease to take an interest. It is not the frivolous who feel
satiety; it is a better order of spirits fated to have no other
occupation than frivolities. The French memoir writers,
who evince so much talent wasted away in a life of trifles,
present the most melancholy pictures we possess of satiety
and of the more gloomy wisdom of apathy in which it
sometimes ends. The flowers of the heart run to seed.
Madame D'Epinay has expressed this briefly and beauti-
fully, -"Le cœur se blase, les ressorts se brisent, et l'on
finit, je crois, par n'être plus sensible à rien."
>>
157
active, a puppet to a power that fools us with its objectless
fancies,-passive, but not at rest; the deep and crushing
melancholy of such a state, let no happier being venture to
despise.
So
It is usually after some sudden pause in the passions that
we are thus afflicted. The winds drop, and the leaf they
whirl aloft rots upon the ground. It is the dread close of
Who ever
disappointed love, or of baffled ambition.
painted love when it discovers the worthlessness of its ob-
ject and retreats gloomily into itself, that has not painted,
even to the hackneying of the picture, the weariness that
succeeds, — the stale and unprofitable uses to which all
the world seems abruptly and barrenly resolved?
the retirement of a statesman before his
with ambition,
time is perhaps the least enviable repose that his enemies
could inflict on him. "Damien's bed of steel" is a luxury
to the bed of withered laurels; the gloomy exile of Swift,
"the spectre of
fretting his heart out, "a rat in a cage;
Olivares, the petulance of Napoleon wrestling with his
what mournful paro-
jailer upon a fashion in tea-cups,
dies of the dignity of human honors! Between the past
glory and the posthumous renown, how awful an inter-
lude! The unwilling rest to a long-continued excitement,
is a solitude from which the fiends inight recoil!
But happy those on whom the curse of satiety falls early,
and before the heart has exhausted its resources; when we
can yet contend against the lethargy, ere it becomes a
habit, and allow satiety to extend only to the trifles of life,
and not to its great objects; when we are wearied only of
the lighter pleasures, and can turn to the more grave pur-
suits;
and the discontent of the imagination is the spur
to the intellect. Satiety is the heritage of the heart, not of
the reason. And the reason properly invoked possesses in
itself the genii to dissolve the charm, and awake the sleeper.
For he alone, who thoroughly convinces himself that he
has duties to perform, that his centre of being is in the
world and not in himself, can conquer the egotisms of
weariness. The objects confined to self becoming worn out
and wearisome, he may find new and inexhaustible objects in
the relations that he holds to others. Duty has pleasures
which know no satiety. The weariness then known and
thus removed, begets the philosophy I referred to in the
For wisdom is the true
commencement of these remarks.
phoenix, and never rises but from the ashes of a former
existence of the mind. Then perhaps, too, as we learn a
proper estimate of the pleasures of this life, we learn also
from those yearnings of our more subtile and tender soul,
never satisfied below, a fresh evidence of our ultimate des-
tinies. A consolation which preacher and poet have often
deduced from the weariness of our disappointments,
contending that our perpetual desire for something unat
tainable here betokens and prophesies a possession in the
objects of a hereafter, - so that life itself is but one ex-
pectation of eternity. As birds, born in a cage from
To rise and see through the long day no object that can which they had never known release, would still flutter
interest, no pleasure that can amuse, with a heart perpetu- against the bars, and, in the instinct of their unconquered
ally craving excitement to pass mechanically through the nature, long for the untried and pathless air which they be-
round of unexcitable occupations, to make an enemy of hold through their narrow grating; so, pent in our cage
time, to count the moments of his march, - -to be his of clay, the diviner instinct is not dead within us;
captive in the prison-house, to foresee no delivery but at times we sicken with indistinct and undefinable appre-
death,
to be a machine and not a man, having no self-hensions of a more noble birthright, and the soul feels
will and no emotion, wound up from day to day,—things stirringly that its wings, which it doth but bruise in its
in a dream, in which we act involuntarily, feeling the
feeling the dungeon-tenement, were designed by the Creator, who
best part of us locked up and lifeless, and that which is shapeth all things to their uses, for the enjoyment of the
VOL. II
20
royalties of heaven.
Oh, that fearful prostration of the mind, that torpor
of the affections, that utter hopeless indifference to all
things,-
"Full little can he tell who hath not tried
What hell it is!"
—
154
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CONVERSATIONS
WITH
AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT IN ILL HEALTH.
domestic service, and that has twice very nearly devourea
my nervous little hermit. In how large a proportion of
creatures is existence composed of one raling passion,-
the most agonizing of all sensations, fear! No; human
life is but a Rembrandt kind of picture at the best; yet we
have no cause to think there are brighter colors in the brute
world. Fish are devoured by intestinal worms; birds are
subject to continual sickness, some of a very torturing na-
ture. Look at this ant-hill, what a melancholy mockery of
our kind, what eternal wars between one hill and anoth-
er,
what wrong,
what violence ! You know the red
ants invade the camps of the black, and bear off the young
of these little negroes to be slaves to their victors. When
I see throughout all Nature the same miseries, the same
evil passions, whose effects are crime with us, but whose
cause is instinct with the brutes, I confess I feel a sort of
despondence of our ultimate doom in this world: I almost
feel inclined to surrender the noblest earthly hope that man
ever formed, and which is solely the offspring of modero
times, the hope of human perfectibility.
F
I HAVE always oved the old form of dialogue; not, in-
deed, so much for investigating truth, as for speaking of
truths, after an easy yet not uncritical or hasty fashion.
More familiar than the essay, more impressed with the at-
traction of individual character, the dialogue has also the
illustrious examples of old, -to associate the class to
which it belongs with no commonplace or ignoble recollec-
tions. It may perhaps be still possible to give to the
lighter and less severe philosophy a form of expression at
once dramatic and unpedantic. I have held of late some
conversations that do not seem to me altogether uninterest-
ing, with a man whom I have long considered of a singu-
lar and original character. I have obtained his permission
to make these conversations public: perhaps, of all modes
of affecting this object, a periodical work may afford the
best. The subjects treated on, the manner of treating
them, may not be deemed of sufficient importance for pub-
lication in a separate form. Besides, and to say the truth,
I have always set a high value on the dignity of a book.
It seems to me necessary that a book, be it only a novel,
(I say only, in compliance with the vulgar,) should illus- A. You have inclined, then, to the eloquent madness of
trate some great moral end: it should be a maxim bright- Condorcet and De Staël! You have believed, then, in
ened into a picture. The conversations I am about to re- spite of the countless ages before us, ages in which the great
cord are far too desultory to realize this character. They successions of human kind are recorded by the Persian
are scattered and broken in themselves, scattered and epitome of universal history," They were born, they were
broken be the method of their publication. Perhaps, in- wretched, they died !
Perhaps, in-wretched, they died!"-you have believed, despite of so
deed, they would remain altogether unretailed, were it not long, so uniform, so mournful an experience, despite, too,
for my friend's conviction that the seal is set upon the our physical conformation, which, even in the healthiest and
limit of his days, and did I not see sufficient evidence in the strongest, subjects the body to so many afflictions, and
appearance to forbid me to hope that he can linger therefore the temper to so many infirmities, -you have be-
many months beyond the present date. To his mind, what-lieved that we yet may belie the past, cast off the slough of
ever be its capacities, its cultivation, its aspirings, all ma- crimes, and, gliding into the full light of knowledge, bo
tured and solid offspring is forbidden. These fugitive to- come as angels in the sight of God, you believe, in a
kens of all he acquired, or thought, or felt, are, if we read word, that even on this earth, by progressing in wisdom
aright human probabilities, the sole testimony that he will we may progress to perfection.
leave behind him; not a monument, but at least a few
eaves, scarcely withered we will hope in one day, upon
his grave. I feel a pain in writing the above words, but
will he ? No!or he has wronged himself. He looks
from the little inu of his mortality, and anticipates the long
summer journey before him; he repines not to-day that he
must depart to-morrow.
his
's
On Saturday last, November 13th, I rode to L-
habitation, which is some miles from my own home. The
day was cold enough, but I found him in his room, with
the windows open, and feeding an old favorite in the
shape of a squirrel, that had formerly been a tame com-
panion. L on arriving at his present abode, had
released it; but it came from the little copse in front of
the windows every day to see its former master, and to re-
ceive some proof of remembrance from his good-natured
bospitality.
CONVERSATION THE FIRST.
"After all," said L-, " though the short and simple
annals of the poor are often miserable enough, no peas-
ant lives so wretched a life as the less noble animals,
whom we are sometimes tempted to believe more physical-
ly happy. Observe how uneasily this poor wretch looks
around him. He is subject to perpetual terror from a large
Angola cat, that my housekeeper chooses to retain in our
L. What else does the age we live in betoken? Look
around; not an inanimate object, not a block of wood, not
a bolt of iron,
"But doth suffer an earth-change
Into something rich and strange."
Wherever man applies his intellect, behold how he triumphs.
What marvellous improvements in every art, every orna-
ment, every luxury of life! Why not these improvements
(6 the very fiend's arch-
ultimately in life itself? Are we
mock," that we can reform every thing, save that which
will alone enable us to enjoy our victory, the human
heart? In vain we grasp all things without, if we have no
command within. No! Institutions are mellowing into a
brighter form; with institutions the character will expand:
vices; and if we are fated never to become perfect, we shall
it will swell from the weak bonds of our foibles and our
advance at least, and eternally, towards perfectibility.
The world hath had two saviours, -one divine, and one
human; the first was the founder of our religion, the second
the propagator of our knowledge. The second, and I utter
nothing profane, it ministers to the first, the second is
the might of the PRESS. By that, the father of all safe
revolutions, the author of all permanent reforms, by that,
man will effect what the first ordained, the reign of
peace, and the circulation of love among the great herd of
man.
—
A. Our conversation has fallen on a topic graver than
usual; but these times give, as it were, a solemn and pro-
phetic tone to all men who think, and are not yet summoned
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
155
to act. I feel as if I stood behind a veil stretched across
another and an unknown world, and waited in expectation
and yet
in awe the hand that was to tear it away
L. Ay, I envy you at times (but not always) the long
and bright career that, for the first time in the world, is
opened to a wise man's ambition; you may live to tread it;
you have activity and ardor; and, whether you fall or
rise, the step forward you will at least adventure. Bu: I
am the bird chained, and the moment my chain is broken
my course is heavenward, and not destined to the earth.
After all, what preacher of human vanities is like the flesh,
which is yet their author? Two years ago my limbs were
firm, my blood buoyant, how boundless was iny ambition!
Now my constitution is gone, and so perish my desires
of glory. Let me see, A- ; you and I entered the
world together.
A. Yes; yet with what different tempers!
L. True you were less versatile, more reserved, more
solidł; ambitious, than myself; your tone of mind was more
solemn, mine more eager; life has changed our dispositions,
because it has altered our frames. That was a merry year,
our first of liberty and pleasure, but when the sparkle
leaves the cup how flat is the draught! Society is but the
tinkling cymbal, and the gallery of pictures, the moment we
discover that there is no love there. What makes us so
wise as our follies the intrigues, the amours, that de-
grade us while enacted, enlighten us when they are passed
&way We have been led, as it were, by the pursuit of a
glittering insect to the summit of a mountain, and we see
the land of life stretched below.
A. Yet shall we not exclaim with Boileau,
"Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire?"
These delusions were pleasant
L. To remember. They were wearisome and unprofi-
table while we actually indulged in them; a man plays the
game of women with manifold disadvantages if he bring
any heart to the contest: if he discover, with Marmontel's
Alcibiades, that he has not been really loved, how deeply is
he wounded, if he has been really loved, how bitterly may
he repent. Society is at war with all love except the con-
nubial; and if that passion which is the adventurous,
the romant、., be not in itself a crime, our laws have
inade it so.
A. But the connubial love? How beautiful that is in
reality, though so uninteresting to behold !
L. It loses its charm with me the moment I remark,
what I always do remark, that though the good pair may
be very kind to each other on the whole, they have sacri-
ficed respect to that most cruel of undeceivers, custom.
They have some little gnawing jest at each other; they have
found out every weakness in each other; and, what is
worse, they have found out the sting to it. The only inter-
esting, and, if I may contradict Rochefoucault, the only
delicious marriages are those in which the husband is wise
enough to see very little of his wife; the absence of the
morning prevents ennui in the evening, and frequent sep-
arations conquer the evil charm of custom.
A. Thus it is that an ardent imagination so often unfits
us for the real enjoyments of domestic attachment, custom
blunts the imagination more than it wearies the temper.
But you had some bright moments in your first year of the
world, -- I remember you the admired of all, the admirer
cf how many!
L. I was young, rich, well born; I rode well, I wrote
verses, and I had an elastic and gay temper. See all my
claims to notice! But the instaut my high spirits forsook
me, society cooled. It is not quite true that adventitious
claims alone, unless of the highest order, give one a per-
manent place in the charmed circle of the Armidas of our
age. Society is a feast where every man must contribute
his quota, and when our seat at the table is noted as the
home of silence and gloom, we are soon left to enjoy our
meditations alone. Besides, the secret of fashion is to sur-
prise, and never to disappoint. If you have no reputation
for wit, you may succeed without it; if you have, people do
not forgive you for falling below their expectations; they
attribute your silence to your disdain; they see the lion,
and are contented to go away, to abuse him, and to see him
no more.
A. I have often been surprised to remark you so con-
tented with silence, whom I have known in some circles so,
shall I say?-brilliant.
L. There is no mystery in my content, t is in spite of
myself. I have always preached up the morality of being
gay; if I do not practise it, it is because I cannot. About
In vain I en-
two years ago my spirits suddenly fled me.
deavoured to rally them; in vain I forced myself into the
world; in vain "I heard music, and wooed the smile cf
women a sort of stupor seized and possessed me; I
have never in mixed society been able, since that time, 11
shake it off; since then, too, I have slowly wasted aw
without any visible disease, and I am now literally dyin
of no disorder but the inability to live. Speaking of wit
I met at dinner a few weeks ago M
I
•
>
and W
and two or three other persons, eminent, anı
One of them, I
deservedly, both for wit and for humor.
think M
said, somebody or other had wit, but c
humor; it was asserted, on the other hand, that the person
spoken of had humor, but no wit. I asked the disputants to
define the difference between wit and humor, and of course
they were struck dumb.
A. No rare instance of the essence of dispute, which
consists in making every one allow what nobody uuder-
stands.
L. Perhaps so; but really, to understand a thing thor-
Each of
oughly is less necessary than you or I think for.
the disputants knew very well what he meaut, but he could
not explain; the difference was clear enough to serve his
own mind as a guide, but, not being analyzed, it was not
clear enough to be of use to others. Wit is the philoso-
pher's quality, by the way, humor the poet's; the nature
of wit relates to things, humor to persons. Wit utters
brilliant truths, hunor delicate deductions from the knowl-
edge of individual character; Rochefoucault is witty, the
Vicar of Wakefield is the model of bumor.
A. While you define, I could dispute your definition,-
shall I ?
L. Not in conversation, we shall end in talking non-
sense; metaphysical disputes on paper are very well, but
spoken disputes are only good in special pleading.
A. When we were at Cambridge together, do you
remember how the young pedants of our time were wont
to consider that all intellect consisted in puzzling or sitting
down each other?
L. Ay, they thought us very poor souls, I fancy, for
being early wise, and ridiculing what they thought so fine;
but that love of conversational argument is less the mode
now than in our grandfathers' time; then it made a celeb-
rity. You see the intellectual Nestors of that time still
very anxious to engage you. G
-n is quite offended
with me for refusing to argue Helvetius's system with him
in a close carriage.
"Strangulat inclusus dolor atque exæstuat intus."
A. The true spirit of conversation consists in building
on another man's observation, not overturning it; thus, the
wit says, "Apropos of
Apropos of your remark; " and the disagree-
able man exclaims, "I cannot agree with you.'
Here our discourse was interrupted by the entrance of a
female relation of L's; she came with his medi-
cine; for, though he considered himself beyond human aid,
he does not affect to despise the more sanguine hopes of
those attached to him. "Let them think," said he, "that
they have done all they could for me; my boat is on the
water, it is true; but it would be ill-natured if I did not
loiter a little on the strand. It seems to me,
by the way,
a singular thing that among persons about to die we note
so little of that anxious, intense, restless curiosity to know
what will await them beyond the grave, which, with me, is
powerful enough to conquer regret. Even the most resigned
to God, and the most assured of revelation, know not, nor
can dream of the nature of the life, of the happiness, pre
pared for them. They know not how the senses are to be
bɛ
refined and sublimated into the faculties of a spirit; they
know not how they shall live, and move, and have their
being; they know not whom they shall see, or what they
shall hear; they know not the color, the capacity, of the
glories with which they are to be brought face to face.
Among the many mansions, which is to be their's? All this,
the matter of grand and of no irreverent conjecture, all
this, it seems to me, so natural to revolve,—all this,
revolve so often that the conjecture incorporates itself into
a passion, and I am impatient to pass the ebon gate, and
be lord of the eternal secret. Thus, as I approach nearer
to death, nature and the face of things assume a mor
I
156
BULWER'S NOVELS.
solemn and august aspect. I look upon the leaves, and the
grass, and the water, with a sentiment that is scarcely
mournful; and yet I know not what all else it may be
called, for it is deep, grave, and passionate, though scarcely
sad. I desire, as I look on those, the ornainents and chil-
dren of earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall
see no more, whether they have no likeness, no arche-
type in the world in which my future home is to be cast ;
or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a
more wondrous and delightful mould. Whether, in the
strange land that knoweth neither season nor labor, there
will not be, among all its glories, something familiar.
Whether the heart will not recognise somewhat that it has
known, somewhat of the blessed household tones,' some-
what of that which the clay loved and the spirit is reluctant
to disavow. Besides, to one who, like us, has made a
thirst and a first love of knowledge, what intenseness, as
well as divinity, is there in that peculiar curiosity which
re ates to the extent of the knowledge we are to acquire!
What, after all, is heaven but a transition from din guesses
and blind struggling with a mysterious and adverse fate, to
the fulness of all wisdom, from ignorance, in a word, to
knowledge, but knowledge of what order? Thus, even
books have something weird and mystic in their specula-
tions, which, some years ago, my spirit was too encumbered
with its frame to recognise; for what of those speculations
shall be true,
what false? How far has our wisdom gone
towards the arcanum of a true morality; how near has
some daring and erratic reason approached to the secret of
circulating happiness round the world? Shall he whom we
now contemn as a visionary be discovered to have been the
inspired prophet of our blinded and deafened race? and
shall he whom we now honor as the lofty saint, or the pro-
found teacher, be levelled to the propagator and sanctifier
of narrow prejudices; the reasoner in a little angle of the
great and scarce-discovered universe of truth; the moral
Chinese, supposing that his empire fills the map of the
world, and placing under an interdict the improvements of
a nobler enlightenment?"
M
Gand
A. But to those, and how many are there? who
doubt of the future world in itself, this solace of conjecture
must be but a very languid and chilled exertion of the
mind.
-
L. I grant it. I am not referring to the herd, whether
of one faith or another, or of none. I have often pleased
myself with recalling an anecdote of Fuseli, - a wonderful
man, whose capacities in this world were only a tithe part
developed; in every thing of his, in his writings as well as
his paintings, you see the mighty intellect struggling forth
with labor and pain, and with only a partial success; and
feeling this himself, feeling this contest between the
glorious design and the crippled power, I can readily
penetrate into his meaning in the reply I am about to
repeat. Some one said to him, "Do you really believe,
Mr. Fuseli, in the future existence of the soul?"— “ I
don't know," said Fuseli, "whether you have a soul or
no; but, by God! I know that I have." And really, were
t not for the glorious and all-circling compassion expressed
by our faith, it would be a little difficult to imagine that
the soul, that title-deed to immortality, were equal in all,
equal in the dull, unawakened clod of flesh which per-
forms the offices that preserve itself, and no more, and in
the bright and winged natures with which we sometimes
exalt our own, and which seem to have nothing Luman
about them but the garments (to use the Athenian's famil-
iar metaphor) which they wear away. You will smile at
my pedantry, but one of the greatest pleasures I anticipate
in arriving at home, as the Moravian sectarians so
endearingly call heaven, is to see Plato, and learn if he
had ever been, as he himself imagined, and I am ready to
believe, in a brighter world before he descended to this.
So bewitching is the study of that divine genius, that I
have often felt a sort of jealous envy of the living Platonist,
Taylor; a man who seems to have devoted a whole life
to the contemplation of that mystical and unearthly philos-
ophy. My ambition, had I enjoyed health, would nev-
e have suffered me to have become so dreaming a watcher
over the lamp in another's tomb; but my imagination
would have placed me in an ideal position, that my rest-
lessness forbade me in reality. This activity of habit, yet
tove of literary indolence, this planning of schemes and
conquests in learning, from which one bright sinile from
* Socrates.
enterprise would decoy me, when half begun, made C-
call me, not unaptly, "the most extraordinary reader he
ever knew in theory.
-in theory." I see, by the by, that you are
leaning upon the "Life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury,
will you open the page in which I have set a mark? We
were speaking of the soul, and that page expresses a very
beautiful and eloquent, if not very deep, sentiment on the
subject. Will you read it?
Mag
A. Certainly. "As in my mother's womb,* that for
matrix which formed my eyes, ears, and other senses did
not intend them for that dark and noisome place, but,
as being conscious of a better life, made them as fitting
organs to apprehend and perceive those things which occur
in this world, so I believe, since my coming into this
world, my soul hath formed or produced certain faculties,
which are almost as useless for this life as the above-named
senses were for the mother's womb; and these faculties are
hope, faith, love, and
hope, faith, love, and joy, since they never rest or fix
on any transitory or perishing object in this world,
extending themselves to something farther than can be here
given, and, indeed, acquiesce only in the perfect, eternal,
and infinite."
L. It is fine,
is it not?
ar
A. Yes. It is a proof that the writer has felt that
vague something which carries us beyond the world. To
discover the evidence of that feeling is one of my first
tasks in studying a great author. How solemnly it burns
through Shakspeare! with what a mournful and austere
grandeur it thrills through the yet diviner Milton! how
peculiarly it has stamped itself in the pages of our later
poets, Wordsworth, Shelley, and even the more alloyed,
and sensual, and less benevolent verse of Byron. But this
feeling is rarely met in any of the continental poets, ex-
cept, if I am informed rightly, the Germans.
L. Ay; Goethe has it. To me there is something very
mysterious and spiritual about Goethe's genius; even that
homely and plain sense with which, in common with all
master-minds, he so often instructs us, and which is espe-
cially evident in his Memoirs, is the more effective from
some delicate and subtle beauty of sentiment with which
it is always certain to be found in juxtaposition.
A. I remember a very delicate observation of his in
"Wilhelm Meister," a book which had a very marked in-
fluence upon my own mind; and, though the observation
may seem commonplace, it is one of a nature very peculiar
to Goethe: "When," he remarks, "we have despatch-
ed a letter to a friend which does not find him, but is
brought back to us, what a singular emotion is produced
by breaking open our own seal, and conversing with our
altered self as with a third person."
L. There is something ghost-like in the conference,
something like a commune with one's wraith.
4. You look in vain among the works of Scott for a
remark like that.
L. Is the accusation fair? You look in vain in the
"Wilhelm Meister" for the gorgeous painting of "Ivan-
hoe." But I confess myself no idolater of the
"Waver-
ley" novels; nor can I subscribe to the justice of advan-
cing them beyond the wonderful poetry that preceded them,
All Scott's merits seem to me especially those of a poet;
and, when you come to his prose writings, you have the
same feelings, the same descriptions, the same scenes,
with the evident disadvantage of being stripped of a style
of verse peculiarly emphatic, burning, and original.
Where, in all the novels, is there a scene that, for rapidi-
ty, power, and the true lightning of the poet, if I may use
the phrase, equals that in "Rokeby, not often quoted
now, in which Bertrand Risingham enters the church:
"The outmost crowd have heard a sound,
Like horse's hoof on hardened ground," &c.
Rokeby, canto 6, stanza 32.
painting, is to be found in the " Bride of Abydos:
A scene, very celebrated for its compression and bold
>>
"One bound he made, and gained the strand "
Bride of Abydos, canto 2, stanza 24.
Compare the two. How markedly the comparison is in
favor of Scott! In a word, he combines in his poetry all
the merits of his prose; and the demerits of the atter,
the trite moral, the tame love, the want of sympathy with
* I am not sure that I retail this passage verbatim. I com-
mited it to memory, and I cannot now obtain the book by
which to collate my recollection.
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
157
the great herd of man, the aristocratic and kingly preju-
dice, either vanish from the poetry or assume a graceful
and picturesque garb. I venture to prophesy that the
world will yet discover that they have overrated one proof
of his mighty genius, at the expense of an unjust slight to
another. Yes, his poetry burns with its own light. A
reviewer in the "Edinbro””
Edinbro'" observes, that in spirit,
however different in style, Shakspeare and Scott convey
the best idea of Homer." The resemblance of Shaks-
peare to Hoiner I do not, indeed, trace; but that of Scott to
the great Greek I have often and often noted. Scott would
have translated Homer wonderfully, and in his own hallad
metre.
A. Have you seen his work on Demonology?
L. No. I hear his explainings away are ingenious;
but I am far from disbelieving in ghosts. I hold the mat-
ter in doubt: the proper state of the mind in all things
where evidence and experience are not positive.
A. Are you in earnest ?
L. Perfectly.
A. Have you seen a ghost, then?
L. You may smile; but I am not certain whether I have
or not.
A. The story, the story.
L. It must not be retailed, then.
A. It shall not.
**
A. Of all enthusiasts, the painter Blake seems to have
been the most remarkable. With what a hearty faith he
believed in his faculty of seeing spirits and conversing
with the dead! And what a delightful vein of madness it
was, with what exquisite verses it inspired him!
L. And what engravings! I saw, a few days ago, a
copy of the "Night Thoughts," which he had illustrated
in a manner at once so grotesque, so sublime, now by so
literal an interpretation, now by so vague and disconnect-
ed a train of invention, that the whole makes one of the
most astonishing and curious productions which ever bal-
anced between the conception of genius and the raving of
positive insanity. I remember two or three, but they are
not the most remarkable. To these two fine lines,
""Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to heaven,"
he has give the illustration of one sitting and with an
earnest countenance conversing with a small shadowy
shape at his knee, while other shapes of a similar form
and aspect are seen gliding heavenward, each with a scroll
in its hands. The effect is very solemn. Again, the
line,
"Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all,"
is bodied forth by a grim savage with a huge spear, cheer-
ing on fiendish and ghastly hounds, one of which has just
torn down, and is griping by the throat, an unfortunate
fugitive: the face of the hound is unutterably death-like.
The verse,
"We censure Nature for a span too short,"
obtains an illustration, literal to ridicule. A bearded
man of gigantic stature is spanning an infant with his fin-
ger and thumb. Scarcely less literal, but more impressive,
is the engraving of the following: -
A. We can, to be sure, but ill supply the place of such a
critic; but let us, some day or other, open his C
Night
Thoughts
Thoughts" together, and make our comments.
L. It will be a great pleasure to me. Young is, of all
poets, the one to be studied by a man who is about to break
the golden chains that bind him to the world, this gloom,
then, does not appal or deject; for it is the gloom of this
earth we are about to leave, and casts not a single shadow
over the heaven which it contrasts, the dark river of his
solemn and dread images sweeps the thoughts onward to
eternity. We have no desire even to look behind; the
ideas he awakens are, in his own words, "the pioneers of
death;" they make the road broad and clear; they bear
down those "arrests and barriers," the affections; the
goal, starred and luminous with glory, is placed full before
us; every thing else with which he girds our path afflicts
and saddens. We recoil, we shudder at life; and as chil-
dren that in tears and agony at some past peril bound for-
ward to their mother's knee, we hasten, as our comfort and
our parent, to the bosom of death.
CONVERSATION THE SECOND.
WHEN I called on L, the third day after the
conversation I have attempted to record, though with the
partial success that must always attend the endeavour to
retail dialogue on paper, I found him stretched on his sofa,
and evidently much weaker than when I had last seen him.
He had suffered the whole night from violent spasms in the
chest, and, though now free from pain, was laboring under
the exhaustion which follows it. But nothing could wholly
conquer in him a certain high-wrought, rather than cheerful
elasticity of mind, and in illness it was more remarkable
than in health; for I know not how it was, but in illness
his thoughts seemed to stand forth more prominent, to grow
more transparent, than they were wont in the ordinary state
of the body. He had also of late, until his present malady,
fallen into an habitual silence, from which only at moments
he could be aroused. Perhaps now, however, when all his
contemplations were bounded to a goal apparently near at
hand, and were tinged with the grave (though in him no
gloomy) colors common to the thoughts of death, that
secret yearning for sympathy, that desire to communicate,
>
inherent in man, became the stronger for the short date
that seemed allowed for their indulgence. Wishes long
hoarded, reflections often and deeply revolved, finding
travailed to acquire, seemed wisely to lay down their bur-
themselves cut off from the distant objects which they had
den, and arrest their course upon a journey they felt they
were never destined to complete. "I have been reading,"
said L-
(after we had conversed for some minutes
of Learning.' What English writer (unless it be Milton
about himself) " that divine work on 'The Advancement
in his prose works) ever lifted us from this low earth like
Bacon? How shrink before his lofty sentences all the
meagre consolation and trite commonplace of lecturers and
preachers, it is, as he has beautifully expressed it, upon
no 'waxen wings' that he urges the mind through the great
courses of heaven. He makes us feel less earthly in our
desires, by making us imagine ourselves wiser; the love of
a divine knowledge inspires and exalts us. And so nobly
has he forced even our ignorance to contribute towards
enlarging the soul, towards increasing our longings after
immortality, that he never leaves us, like other philoso-
phers, with a sense of self-littleness and dissatisfaction.
With the same hand that limits our progress on carth, he
points to the illimitable glories of heaven. Mark how he
has done this in the passage I will read to you. As he
ceeds in his sublime vindication of knowledge, ' from the
discredits and disgraces it hath received all from igno-
rance, but ignorance, severally acquired, appearing some-
L. What wonderful metaphors they are! sometimes times in the zeal and jealousy of divines; sometimes in the
trite, familiar, commonplace, sometimes bombast and severity and arrogance of politicians; sometimes in the
fantastic, but often how ineffably sublime! Milton him- errors and imperfections of learned men themselves.' Pro-
self has not surpassed them. But Young is not done jus-ceeding in this august and majestical defence, he states the
tice to, popular as he is. He has never yet had a critic to
display and make current his most peculiar and emphatic
"When sense runs savage, broke from reason's chain,
And sings false peace till smothered by the pall!"
You perceive a young female savage, with long locks, wan-
dering alone, and exulting; while above, two bodiless
hands extend a mighty pall, that appears about to fall upon
the unconscious rejoicer.
4. Young was fortunate. He seems almost the only
poet who has had his mere metaphors illustrated and made
corporeal.
beauties
The reader will forgive me for allowing the above sen-
tences to stand; they are curious, as showing a peculiar infir-
mity of character. L-
L-is quite sincere.
+
pro-
legitimate limits of knowledge as follows: -First, that we
do not so place our felicity in knowledge as to forget our
mortality; secondly, that we make application of our
knowledge to give ourselves repose and contentment, not
distaste or repining; thirdly, that we do not presume, by
the contemplation of Nature, to attain to the mysteries d
10:
BULWER'S NOVELS.
d. After speaking of the first two imits, he comes as
follows to the last :- And for the third point, it deserveth
to be a little stood upon, and not to be lightly passed over;
for if any man shall think, by view and inquiry into these
sensible and material things, to attain that light whereby
be nay reveal unto himself the nature or will of God, then
indeed is he spoiled by vain philosophy; for the contem-
plation of God's creatures and works produceth (having
regard to the works and creatures themselves) knowledge;
but (having regard to God) no perfect knowledge, but won-
der, which is broken knowledge. And therefore (note
how wonderfully this image is translated, and how beauti-
fully applied) it was most aptly said by one of Plato's
school, that the sense of inan carrieth a resemblance
with the sun, which, as we see, openeth and revealeth all
the celestial globe; but then again it obscureth the stars and
the celestial globe so doth the sense discover natural
things, but it darkeneth and shutteth up divine." Tell
me now, and speak frankly, not misled by the awe and
antique splendor of the language alone, tell me whether
you do not feel in the above passages, not humbled by your
ignorance, but transported and raised by its very convic-
tion? for, by leaving the mysteries of heaven, and heaven
alone, unpenetrated by our knowledge, what do we, in re-
ality, hut direct the secret and reverent desires of our hearts
to that immortal life which shall put the crown upon the
great ambition of knowledge, and reveal those mysteries
which are shut out from us in this narrow being? Here
then there is nothing to lower us in our imaginations,
nothing to chill us in the aidor of our best aspirings,
nothing to disgust us with the bounds of knowledge, or
make us recoil upon ourselves with the sense of vanity, of
emptiness, of desolation. It is this, this peculiar pre-
rogative of the conviction of our inborn immortality, to
take away from us that bitterness at the checks and arrests
of knowledge, of which the wise of all ages have complain- |
ed, -to give wings to our thoughts at the very moment
they are stopped on their earthly course, to ennoble us
from ourselves at the moment when self languishes and
droops it is this prerogative, I say, which has always
seemed to me the greatest advantage which a thinking
man, who believes in our immortality, has over one who
And though, fortunately for mankind and for all
real virtue, the time is rapidly passing away for attempting
to measure the conduct of others by the proportion in which
their opinions resemble our own, yet it must be confessed,
that he who claims this prerogative has a wonderful advan-
tage over him who rejects it, in the acquisition of noble
and unworldly thoughts, in the stimulus to wisdom, and
the exalting of the affections, the visions, and the desires!
It seems to me as if not only the form, but the SOUL of
man was made to walk erect, and to look upon the
does not.
stars.›››
A. Whom we were to criticise.
L. Yes; but not to-day. My mood is brighter than that
of the poet, whose soul walketh in the valley of the shadow
of death. Let us enter upon our task when we can both
feel thoroughly satisfied with the consolations of his gloom,
and forget the darkness around in the stars "which he calls
to listen."* What news is there stirring in this lower
world?
Here we talked some time on the aspect of affairs, the
administration, the disturbances in the country. I told
him of a distinguished cotemporary of ours at Cambridge,
who had just been placed in Parliament on account of his
talents. L spoke at large on his own ambition to
enter a public career. "I think," said he," if I had even
at this moment the opportunity to do so, the activity, the
zeal, the stimulus, which the change would produce, might
yet save my life. I feel now as if certain sources of emo-
tion dammed up were wasting my heart away with a sup-
pressed ebb and flow, as if all my keenest energies were
perishing in their scabbard with their own rust. I should
not, were I plunged into action, have time to die. As it
is, I feel like the old sage, who covered his face with his
cloak, and sat himself down, waiting for death.
A. But why not enter public life then at once?
L. Look at me. Am I in a state to canvass some free
borough? to ride here, -to walk there, - to disguise,
to bustle, to feast, to flatter, to lie ?
A. But your relation, Lord L
?
L. Has offered me a seat if I will support his party, the
old tories.
A. And your college friend, Lord
?
L. Has forgotten me; yet none more than he will grieve,
for an hour at least, when I am dead. Let me return to
my image of the sage and his cloak; I have always thought
it one of the most affecting anecdotes in history. When
Pericles, hearing of the determination of the philosopher,
(who you remember was his preceptor Anaxagoras) has-
tened to the spot where he sat, and tarried for the last
release; he implored the sage in a late and unavailing grief
to struggle with his approaching fate, and to battle the
gathering death. "Oh Pericles," said the old man, stung
by the memory of long neglect, and in a feeble and dying
voice, as he just lifted his face from his mantle, "they who
need the lamp do not forget to feed it with oil."
It
Returning to the excitement and the animation of the
political world around; how strangely falls the sound of
tumult on the ear of one who is about to die,
how strange
doth it seem to behold life so busy and death so near.
is this contrast which, I own, gives me the most mournful,
though vague and reluctantly acknowledged, feelings that I
experience; it gives me a dejection, an envy; my higher
and more soaring thoughts desert me, I become sensible
only of my weakness, of my want of use, in this world
where all are buckling to their armor, and awaiting an
excitation, an enterprise, and a danger. I remember all
my old ambition, my former hopes, my energies,
my anticipations: I see the great tides of action sweep
over me, and behold myself not even wrestling with death,
but feel it gather and darken upon me, unable to stir or to
A. (after some pause). Whether or not that it arises from
this sentiment, common (however secretly nursed) to the
generality of men; this sentiment, that the sublimest
sources of emotion and of wisdom remain as yet unknown,
there is one very peculiar characteristic in all genius of the
highest order, viz. even its loftiest attempts impress us with
the feeling that a vague but glorious SOMETHING "in-resist. I could compare myself to some neglected fountain
spired or exalted the attempt, and yet remains unexpressed.
The effect is like that of the spire, which, by insensibly
tapering into heaven, owes its pathos and its sublimity to
Le secret thoughts with which that heaven is associated.
L. Yes; and this, which you say justly is the character-
Istic of the loftiest order of genius, is that token and test
of sublimity so especially insisted upon by the ancients,
who, perhaps, in consequence of the great scope left by
their religion to inquiry, were more impressed with the
sentiment we speak of than is common to the homelier
sense, and the satisfied and quiet contemplations of the
moderns. The illustrious friend of Zenobia* has made it
a characteristic of the true sublime to leave behind it some-
thing more to be contemplated than is expressed; and
again, Pliny, speaking of painters, observes, I think of
Timanthes, "that in his works something more than was
painted was understood, and that when his art was at the
highest, the genius was beyond the art." It is this which
especially designates the poetry of Young.
* Longin. sect. 7.
"In unius hujus operibus intelligitur plus semper quam
pingitur; et cum sit ars summa, ingenium tamen ultra artem
eat."
in a ruined city: amid the crumbling palaces of hope,
which have fallen around me, the waters of my life ooze
away in silence and desolation.
L 's voice faltered a little as he spoke, and his dog,
whether, as I often think, there is in that animal an in-
stinct which lets him know by a look, by a tone of voice,
when the object of his wonderful fidelity and affection is
sad at heart; his dog, an old pointer, which he had cher-
ished for many years, and was no less his companion in
the closet than it had once been in the chase, came up to
him and licked his hand. I own this little incident affected
me, and the tears rushed into my eyes. But I was yet
more softened when I saw that L- 's tears were falling
fast over the honest countenance of the dog; I knew well
what was passing in his mind, -no womanly weakness, –
no repining at death; of all men he had suffered most,
and felt most keenly, the neglect and perfidy of friends;
and, at that moment, he was contrasting a thousand bittet
remembrances with the simple affection of that humble
companion. I never saw L weep before, though I
have seen him in trying afflictions, and though his emotions
are so easily excited that he never utters a noble thought
* "And calls the stars to listen." - Young's Night Thoughts
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
159
or reads a touching sentiment in poetry but you may per-
ceive a certain moisture in his eyes, and a quiver in his
lips.
Our conversation drooped after this, and though I staid
with him for some hours longer, I do not remember any
thing else that day in our meeting that was worth repeating.
said K
CONVERSATION THE THIRD.
one of
I CALLED on L—— the next day; K
the few persons he admits, was with him; they were talk-
ing on those writers who have directed their philosophy
towards matters of the world: who have reduced wisdom
into epigrams, and given the goddess of the grove and the
portico the dress of a lady of fashion "Never, perhaps,"
"did virtue, despite the assertion of Plato
that we had only to behold in order to adore her, attract so
many disciples to wisdom as wit has done. How many of
us have been first attracted to reason, first learned to think,
to draw conclusions, to extract a moral from the follies of
life, by some dazzling aphorism from Rochefoucault or La
Bruyere. Point, like rhyme, seizes at once the memory
and the imagination; for my own part, I will own frankly,
that I should never have known what it was to reflect, I
should never have written on political economy, I should
never have penetrated into the character of my rogue of a
guardian, and saved my fortune by a timely act of prudence,
I should never have chosen so good a wife, nay, I
-'s friend, if I had not, one
wet Sunday at Versailles, stumbled upon Rochefoucault's
maxims: from that moment I thought, and I thought very er-
roneously and very superficially for some time, but the habit
of thinking by degrees cures the faults of its novitiateship;
and I often bless Rochefoucault as the means which re-
deemed me from a life of extravagance and debauchery,
from the clutches of a rascal, and made me fond of rational
pursuits and respectable society. Yet how little would
Rochefoucault's book seem likely, to the shallow declaimer
on the heartlessness of its doctrines, to produce so good an
effect.
should never have been L
A. Yes, the faults of a brilliant writer are never dan-
gerous on the long run, a thousand people read his work
who would read no other; inquiry is directed to each of
his doctrines, it is soon discovered what is sound and what
is false; the sound become maxims, and the false beacons.
But your dull writer is little conned, little discussed. De-
bate, that great winnower of the corn from the chaff, is
denied him; the student hears of him as an authority, reads
him without a guide, imbibes his errors, and retails them
as a proof of his learning. In a word, the dull writer
does not attract to wisdom those indisposed to follow it:
and to those disposed he bequeaths as good a chance of
inheriting a blunder as a truth.
L. I will own to you very frankly that I have one objec-
tion to beginning to think, from the thoughts of these world-
ly inquirers. Notwithstanding Rochefoucault tells us him-
self, with so honest a gravity, that he had "les sentimens
belles," and that he approved "extrêmement les belles
passions," his obvious tendency is not to ennoble; he gives
us the exact world, but he does not excite us to fill its grand
parts; he tells us the real motives of men, but he does not
tell us also the better motives with which they are entwined,
and by cultivating which they can be purified and raised.
This is what I find not to blame, but to lament in most of
the authors who have very shrewdly, and with a felicitous
and just penetration, unravelled the vices and errors of man-
kind. I find it in La Bruyere, in Rochefoucault, and even
in the more weak and tender Vauvenargues, whose merits
nave, I think, been so unduly extolled by Dugald Stewart;
I find it in Swift, Fielding (admirable moralist as the lat-
ter.indubitably is in all the lesser branches of morals;) and
among the ancients, who so remarkable for the same want
as the sarcastic and inimitable Lucian? But let us not
udge hastily; this want of nobleness, so to speak, is not
secessarily the companion of shrewdness. But mark, where
we find them united, we acknowledge at once a genius of
the very highest order; we acknowledge a Shakspeare, a
Tacitus, a Voltaire.
4. Another characteristic of the order of writers we re-
fer to is this, they are too apt to disregard books, and to
write from their own experience; now an experience,
|
backed upon some wide and comprehensive theory, is of
incalculable value to truth; but where that theory is want-
ing, the experience makes them correct in minute points,
but contracted, and therefore in error, on the whole; for
error is but a view of some facts instead of a survey of
all.
L. In a word, it is with philosophers as with politicians;
the experience that guides the individuals must be no rule
for the community. And here I remember a fine and just
comparison of the emperor Julian's: speaking of some one
who derived knowledge from practice rather than principle,
he compares him to an empiric, who by practice may cure
one or two diseases with which he is familiar, but having
no system or theory of art, must necessarily be ignorant of
the innumerable complaints which have not fallen under
his personal observation.
his personal observation. Yet now, when a man ventures
to speak of a comprehensive and scientific theory, in op-
position to some narrow and cramped practice, he who in
reality is the physician, "he is exclaimed against as the
quack.”
A
- went
Shortly after this part of our conversation K-
away, and we talked on
talked on some matters connected with
L- 's private and household affairs. By degrees, as
our talk grew more familiar and confidential, and while
the shades of these long winter evenings gathered rapidly
over us, as we sat alone by the fire, L spoke of some
incidents in his early history, and I, who had always
felt a deep interest even in the smallest matter respecting
him, and, despite of our intimacy, was unacquainted with
many particulars of his life, in which I faucied there must
be something not unworthy recital, pressed him earnestly
to give me a short and frank memoir of his actual and lit
erary life. Indeed I was anxious that some portion of the
world should know as much as may now be known of one
who is of no common clay, and who, though he has not
numbered many years, and has passed some of those years
in the dissipation and pleasures common to men of his birth
and wealth, is now, at least, never mentioned by those who
know him without a love bordering on idolatry, and an es-
teem more like the veneration we feel for soine aged and
celebrated philosopher, than the familiar attachment gener-
ally felt for those of our own years and of no public repu-
tation.
"As to my early LIFE," said L smiling, in
answer to my urgent request, "I feel that it is but an echo
of an echo. I do not refuse, however, to tell it you,
such as it is; for it may give food to some observations
from you more valuable than the events which excite them;
and, as to some later epochs in
and, as to some later epochs in my short career, it will
comfort me, even while it wounds, to speak of them.
Come to me then to-morrow, and I will recall in the mean
while what may best merit repeating in the memoir you so
inconsiderately ask for. But do not leave me yet, dear
A
Sit down again, let us draw nearer to th
fire. How many scenes have we witnessed in common,-
how many enterprises have we shared! let us talk of these
and to-morrow shall come my solitary history: self, self
the eternal self, let us run away from it one day more
Could you but know how forcibly it appears to me that, as
life wanes, the affections warm! I have observed this in
many instances of early death (early, for in the decay by
years the heart outlives all its ties). As the physical parts
stiffen, so harden the moral. But in youth, when all the
affections are green within us, they will not willingly
perish; they stretch forth their arms, as it were, from their
ruined and falling prison-house, they yearn for expansion
and release. Is it,' as that divine, though often sullied
nature, at once the luminary and the beacon to English
statesmen, has somewhere so touchingly asked; is i
that we grow more tender as the moment of our grea
separation approaches, or is it that they who are to live
together in another state (for friendship exists not but for
the good) begin to feel more strongly that divine sympathy
which is to be the great bond of their future society?***
I could have answered this remark by an allusion to the
change in the physical state; the relaxation incurred by
illness; the helplessness we feel when sick, and the sense
of dependence, the desire to lean somewhere, that it occa
sions. But I had no desire to chill or lower the imagina
tive turn of reasoning to which L- was inclined
and after a little pause he continued: "For men who
have ardent affections, there seems to me no medium be
* Bolingbroke's Letters to Swift.
160
BULWER'S NOVELS.
tween public life and dissatisfaction. In public life those
affections find ample channel: they become benevolence,
or patriotism, or the spirit of party,- or, finally, attach-
ing themselves to things, not persons, concentrate into
ambition. But in private life, who, after the first enthusi-
asm of passion departs, who, possessed of a fervent and
tender soul, is ever contented with the return it meets?
A word, a glance, chills us; we ask for too keen a sym-
pathy; we ourselves grow irritable that we find it not,
the irritability offends; that is given to the temper which
in reality is the weakness of the heart, accusation, dis-
pute, coldness, succeed. We are flung back upon our own
breasts, and so comes one good or one evil, we grow
devout or we grow selfish. Denied vent among our fellows,
the affections find a refuge in heaven, or they centre in a
peevish and lonely contraction of heart, and self-love
becomes literally, as the forgotten LEE has expressed it
generally,
'The axletree that darts through all the frame.'
This inevitable alternative is more especially to be noted
in women; their affections are more acute than ours, so
also is their disappointment. It is thus you see the credu-
lous fondness of the devotee, or the fossilized heart of the
solitary crone, where, some thirty years back, you would
have witnessed a soul running over with love for all things,
and the yearning to be loved again! Ah! why, why is it
no natures are made wholly alike? Why is it that of all
blessings we long the most for sympathy? and of all bless-
ings it is the one which none (or the exceptions are so
scanty as not to avail) can say, after the experience of
years and the trial of custom, that they have possessed.
Milton, whose fate through life was disappointment,
disappointment in his private ties and his public attach-
ments, Milton, who has descended to an unthinking
posterity as possessing a mind, however elevated, at least
austere and harsh, has in one of his early Latin poems
expressed this sentiment with a melancholy and soft pathos,
not often found in the golden and Platonic richness of his
youthful effusions in his own language:-
C
"Vix sîbi quisque parem de millibus invenit unum ;
Aut si fors dederit tandem non aspera votis
Illum inopina dies, qua non speraveris hora
Surripit, eternum linquens in sæcula damnum.'*
"And who is there that hath not said to himself, if
possessed for a short time of one heart entirely resembling
and responding to his own, who has not said to himself
daily and hourly, This cannot last?' Has he not felt a
dim, unacknowledged dread of death? Has he not, for the
first time, shrunk from penetrating into the future? Has
he not become timorous and uneasy? Is he not like the
miser who journeys on a road begirt with a thousand
perils, and who yet carries with him his all? Alas! there
was a world of deep and true feeling in that expression,
which, critically examined, is but a conceit. Love hath,
indeed, made his best interpreter a sigh.'" +
t
A. Say what we will of Lord Byron, and thinking
men are cooling from the opinion first passed upon him, no
poet hath touched upon more of the common and daily
chords of our nature.
L. His merits have undoubtedly been erroneously ranked
and analyzed; but we will speak of him more at large
when I come to my history; for I shall have to mention
the effect produced on my mind by his poems, and the
opinion I have formed of them now that the effect has
passed away. Nothing seems to me more singular in the
history of imitation than the extraordinary misconception
all Lord Byron's imitators incurred with respect to the
strain they attempted to echo. The great characteristics
of Lord Byron are vigor, nerve,- the addressing at once
the common feelings and earthly passions, -never grow
ing mawkish, never girlishly sentimental, - never, despite
of all his digressions, encouraging the foliage to the preju-
dice of the fruit. What are the characteristics of all the
imitators?—they are weak, they whine, they address
no common passion, they heap up gorgeous words,
they make pyramids of flowers, they abjure vigor,
―
* Which may be thus prosaically translated.
"Scarce one in thousands meets a kindred heart
Or if no harsh fate grant, at last, his dreams,
Comes death; and in the least foreboded hour
Bequeaths the breast an everlasting blank."
Byron.
they talk of appealing "to the few congenial minds,"
they are proud of wearying you, and consider the want of
interest the proof of a sublime genius. Byron, when he
complains, is the hero who shows his wounds; his imita-
tors are beggars in the street, who cry, "Look at these
sores, siri 55
In the former case there is pathos, because
there is admiration as well as pity; in the latter there is
disgust, because there is at once contempt for the prac-
tised whine and the feigned disease. A man who wishes
now to succeed in poetry mus. be imbued deeply with the
spirit of this day, not that of the past. He must have
caught the mighty inspiration which is breathing through-
out the awakened and watchful world. With enthusi-
asm he must blend a common and plain sense; he must
address the humors, the feelings, and the understand-
ings of the middle as well as the higher orders; he must
find an audience in Manchester and Liverpool.
aristocratic gloom, the lordly misanthropy, that Byron
represented, have perished amid the action, the vividness,
the life of these times. Instead of sentiment, let shread
wit or determined energy be the vehicle; instead of ae
habits and moods of a few, let the great interests of the
many be the theme.
Ine
A. But in this country the aristocracy yet make the first
class of readers into whose hands poetry falls; if they are
not conciliated, the book does not become the fashion,
if not the fashion, the middle orders will never read it.
L. But can this last? can it even last long? Will
there be no sagacions, no powerful critic, who will drag
into notice what can fall only into a temporary neglect? I
say temporary, for you must allow that whatever addresses
the multitude through their feelings, or their everlasting inter-
ests, must be destined to immortality: the directors, the
lovers of the multitude, glad of an authority, will perpet-
ually recur to its pages, attention directed to them, fame
follows. To prophesy whether or not, in these times, a
rising author will become illustrious, let me inquire only,
after satisfying me of his genius, how far he is the servant
of truth, how far he is willing to turn all his powers to
her worship, to come forth from his cherished moods of
thought, from the strong-holds of mannerism and style, -
let me see hin disdain no species of composition that pro-
motes her good, now daring the loftiest, now dignifying the
lowest, let me see him versatile in the method, but the
same in the purpose, let him go to every field for the
garland or the harvest, but be there but one altar for all the
produce! Such a man cannot fail of becoming great;
through envy, through neglect, through hatred, through for
tune, he will win his way; he will neither falter nor grow
sick at heart; he will feel, in every privation, in every
disappointment, the certainty of his reward; he will in-
dulge enthusiasm, nor dread ridicule; he will brandish the
blade of satire, nor fear the enmity it excites. By little
and little, men will see in him who fights through all obsta-
cles a champion and a leader. When a principle is to be
struggled for, on him they will turn their eyes; when a
prejudice is to be stormed, they will look to see his pennant
wave the first above the breach. Amid the sweeping and
gathering deluge of ages, he shall be saved, for TRUTH is
the indestructible and blessed ark to which he hath con-
fided his name!
CONVERSATION THE FOURTH.
In order to make allowance for much of the manner and
the matter of L- -'s conversation, I must beg the
reader to observe how largely the faculties of the imagina-
tion enter even into those channels of his mind from which
(were the judginent thoroughly sound) all that is merely
imaginative would be the most carefully banished. In
L
—'s character, indeed, whatever may be his talents,
there was always a string loose, something morbid and
vagne, which even in perceiving one could scarcely con-
temm, for it gave a tenderness to his views, and a glow of
sentiment to his opinions, which made us love him better
perhaps, than if his learning and genius had been accom
panied with a severer justness of reasoning. For my owr
part, I, who hate the world and seldom see any thing tha
seems to me, if rightly analyzed, above contempt, am ofter
carried away in spite of myself by his benevolence of opin
ion, and his softening and gentle order of philosophy
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
161
I reminded L
often smile, as I listen to his wandering and platonic con-
jectures on our earthly end and powers, but I am not sure
that the smile is in disdain, even when his reasoning
appears the most erratic.
when I next saw him, of his
promise, in our last conversation, to give me a sketch of
his early history. I wished it to be the history of his mind
as well as his adventures; in a word, a literary and moral,
as well as actual narrative; -"MEMOIR OF A STU-
DENT. The moment in which I pressed the wish was
favorable. He was in better spirits than usual, and free
from pain; the evening was fine, and there was that quiet
cheerfulness in the air which we sometimes find toward the
close of one of those inild days that occasionally relieve the
severity of an English winter.
THE CONFESSIONS OF AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT.
You know," said L commencing his story,
"that I was born to the advantage of a good name, and of
more than a moderate opulence; the care of my education,
for I was an orphan, devolved upon my aunt, a maiden-
lady, of some considerable acquirement and some very rare
qualities of heart. Good old woman! how well and how
kindly I remember her, with her high cap and 'kerchief,
the tortoise-shell spectacles, that could not conceal or injure
the gentle expression of her eyes, eyes above which the
brow never frowned. How well too I remember the spell-
ing-book, and the grammar, aud (as I grew older) the odd
volume of Plutarch's Lives, that always lay, for my use and
profit, on the old dark table beside her chair. And some-
ihing better, too, than spelling and grammar, ay, and even
the life of Caius Marius, with that grand and terrible inci-
dent in the memoir which Plutarch has so finely told, of
how the intended murderer, entering the great Roman's
hiding-chamber, as he lay there, stricken by years and mis-
fortune, saw through the dim and solemn twilight of the
room the eye of the purposed victim fall like a warning
light upon him, while a voice exclaimed, Darest thou,
man to slay Caius Marius' and how the stern Gaul, all
awe stricken and amazed, dropped the weapon, and fled
from the chamber; better, I say, even than spelling and
grammar, and these fine legends of old were certain homely
precepts with which my good aunt was wont to diversify
the lecture. Never to tell a lie, never to do a mean action,
never to forsake a friend, and never to malign a foe; these
were the hereditary maxims of her race, and these she in-
stilled into my mind, as something, which if I remembered,
even the sin of forgetting how to spell words in eight sylla-
bles might be reasonably forgiven me.
C
"I was sent to school when I was somewhat about seven
he was generally courteous, and it was a part of his policy
to get himself invited home by one or the other of us during
the holydays. For this purpose he winked at many of our
transgressions, allowed us to give feasts on a half-holyday,
and said nothing if he discovered a crib* in our possession.
But ob, to the mistress, he was meekness in a human shape.
Such bumble and sleek nodesty never appeared before in
a pair of drab inexpressibles and long gaiters. How he
praised her pudding on a Sunday! how he extolled her
youngest dunce on his entrance into Greek. how delicately
he hinted at her still existent charms, when she wore her
new silk gown at the parish church! and how subtlely he
alluded to her gentle influence over the rigid doctor! Some
how or other, between the usher and myself there was a
feud; we looked on each other not lovingly; he said I had
set the boys against him, and I accused him, in my own
heart, of doing me no good service with the fat schoolmis-
tress. Things at length came to an open rupture. One
evening, after school, the usher was indulging himself with
one of the higher boys in the gentle recreation of a game at
draughts. Now, after school, the schoolroom belonged
solely and wholly to the boys; it was a wet afternoon, and
some half-a-dozen of us entered into a game not quite so
quiet as that the usher was engaged in. Mr.
manded silence! my companions were awed, not so my-
self; I insisted on our right to be as noisy as we would out
of school. My eloquence convinced them, and we renewed
the game. The usher again commanded silence; we af
fected not to hear him. He rose; he saw me in the act
of rebellion.
com-
« ‹ Mr. L————,' cried he, do
,' cried he, do you hear me, sir? Si-
lence!'
"I beg pardon, sir; but we have a right to the school-
room after hours; especially of a wet evening.'
"Oh! very well, sir; very well; I shall report you to
the doctor.'
the doctor.' So saying, the usher buttoned up his nether
garment, which he had a curious custom of unbracing after
school, especially when engaged in draughts, and went
forthwith to the master. I continued the game.
ter entered. He was a tall, gaunt, lame man, very dark
in hue, and of a stern Cameronian countenance, with a cast
in his eve.
C
The mas-
"How is this, Mr. L-?' said he, walking up to
me; how dared you disobey Mr. -'s orders?
"Sir his orders were against the custom of the
school.'
"Custom, sir! and who gives custom to this school
but myself? You are insolent, Mr. L and you don't
know what is due to your superiors.'
Superiors!' said I, with a look at the usher. The
master thought I spoke of himself; his choler rose, and he
gave me a box on the ear.
years old, and I remained at that school till I was twelve,
and could construe Ovid's Epistles. I was then trans-
planted to another, better adapted to my increased years
and wisdom. Thither I went with a notable resolution,
which greatly tended in its consequences to expand my fu-
ture character. At my first academy, I had been so often
and so bitterly the victim of the exuberant ferocity of the
elder boys, that I inly resolved, the moment I was of an
age and stature to make any reasonable sort of defence, to
anticipate the laws of honor, and never put up, in tranquil
endurance, with a blow. When, therefore, I found myself
at a new school, and at the age of twelve years, I saw (in
my fancy) the epoch of resistance and emancipation which
I had so long coveted. The third day of my arrival I was
put to the proof; I was struck by a boy twice my size,
I returned the blow, we fought, and I was conquered,
I honor him at this moment for his forbearance;
but he never struck me again. That was an admirable rule
at that moment I despised him for his cowardice. He
of mine, if a boy has but animal hardihood; for, for one looked thunderstruck, after he had received so audacious a
sound beating one escapes at least twenty lesser ones, with proof of my contumacy; the blood left, and then gushed
teasings and tormentings indefinitely numerous into the bar-burningly back to, his sallow cheek.
It is well, sir,'
gain. No boy likes to engage with a boy much less than
himself, and rather than do 90, he will refrain from the
pleasure of tyrannizing. We cannot, alas! in the present
state of the world, learn too early the great wisdom of re-
sistance. I carried this rule, however, a little too far, as
you shall see. I had never been once touched, once even
chidden by the master, till one day, when I was about fif-
teen, we had a desperate quarrel, ending in my expulsion,
There was a certain usher in the school, a very pink and
pattern of ushers. He was hard to the lesser boys, but he had
his favorites among them, fellows who always called him
Sir, and offered him oranges. To us of the higher school
"All my blood was up in a moment; never yet, under
that roof, had I received a blow unavenged on the spot. I
had fought my way in the school, step by step, to the first
rank of pugilistic heroism. Those taller and more peace-
able than myself hated me, but attacked not; these were
now around me exulting in my mortification; I saw them
nudge each other with insolent satisfaction; I saw thei
eyes gloat and their features grin. The master had never
before struck a boy in my class. The insult was tenfold,
because unparalleled. All these thoughts flashed across me.
I gathered myself up, clenched my fist, and, with a sudden
and almost unconscious effort, I returned, and in no gentle
manner, the blow 1 had received. The pedagogue could
have crushed me on the spot; he was a remarkably power-
ful man.
|
VOL. I
ma J
21
<
עונן
said he, at length; follow me!' and he walked straight
out of the schoolroom. I obeyed with a mechanical and
dogged sullenness. He led the way into the house, which
was detached from the schoolroom; entered a little dingy
front parlour, in which only once before (the eve of
first appearance under his roof) had I ever set foot; mo-
tioned me also within the apartment; gave me one stern,
contemptuous look; turned on his heel; left the room:
locked the door, and I was alone. At night the maid-ser-
vants came in, and made up a bed on a little black horse
The cant word at schools for a literal translation of some
classic author.
162
BULWER'S NOVELS.
C
-
J
hair sofa. There was I left to repose. The next morning | What a life he breathed into the dull lecture! How glow
came at last. My breakfast was brought me, in a inyste-ingly, as if touched by a wand, was the Greek crabbed
rious silence. I began to be affected by the monotony and sentence, hitherto breathing but of lexicons and grammars,
dulness of ny seclusion. I looked carefully round the little exalted into the freshness and the glory of the poet! Euri-
chamber for a book, and at length, behind a red tea-tray, pides was the first of the divine spirits of old who taught
I found one.
it was,
I remember it well,
it was Be- me to burn over the dreams of fiction, and so great and
loe's Sexagenarian. I have never looked into the book deep is my gratitude, that at this day I read his plays more
since, but it made considerable impression on me at the often than I do even those of Shakspeare, and imagine
time, -a dull melancholy impression, like that produced that beauties speak to me from that little old worn edition,
on us by a rainy, drizzling day; there seemed to me then in which I then read him, that are dumb and lifeless to
a stagnant quiet, a heavy repose about the memoir which every heart but my own. I now studied with a new frame
saddened me with the idea of a man writing the biography of mind: first, I began to admire, then to dwell upon
of a life never enjoyed, and wholly unconscious that it had what I admired, then to criticize, or sometimes to iini-
not been enjoyed to the utmost. It is very likely that this tate. Within two years I had read and pondered over the
impression is not a just one, and were I to read the work works of all the Greek and Latin poets, historians
again it might create very different sensations. But I rec- orators! the pages of the philosophers alone were shut to
ollect that I said, at some passage or another, with con- me. The divine lore of Plato, and the hard and grasping
siderable fervor, Well, I will never devote existence to intellect of the Stagyrite, S― did not undertake to deci-
becoming a scholar.' I had not finished the book, when pher and expound. I except, indeed, those hackneyed and
the mistress entered, as if looking for a bunch of keys, but petty portions of the latter through which every orthodox
in reality to see how I was employed; a very angry glance scholman pushes his brief but unwilling way. You recol-
did she cast upon my poor amusement with the Sexagena- lect that passage in Gibbon's Memoirs, in which he sub-
rian, and about two minutes after she left the room, a ser- joins, with a pedant's pleasing ostentation, the list of the
vant entered and demanded the book. The reading of the
books he had read, I think, within a year. Judge of the
Sexagenarian remains yet unconcluded, and most probably gratification to my pride, when, chancing to meet with this
will so remain to my dying day. A gloomy evening and a passage, I found that my labors in this department hə¹
sleepless night succeeded; but early next morning a ring at least equalled those of the triumphant historian.
was heard at the gate, and from the window of my dungeon
I saw the servant open the gate, and my aunt enter and
walk up the little strait riband of gravel that intersected
what was termed the front garden. In about half an hour
afterward the doctor entered with my poor relation, the
latter in tears. The doctor had declared himself inexora-
ble; nothing less than my expulsion would atone for my
crime. Now my aunt was appalled by the word expulsion;
she had heard of boys to whom expulsion had been ruin for
life; on whom it had shut the gates of college, the advan-
tages of connexion, the fold of the church, the honors of
civil professions; it was a sound full of omen and doom to
her ear.
She struggled against what she deemed so lasting
a disgrace. I remained in the dignity of silence, struck
to the heart by her grief and reproaches, but resolved to
show no token of remorse.
CC C
Look, ma'am,' cried the doctor, irritated by obsti-
nacy; 'look at the young gentleman's countenance: do
you see repentance there?' My aunt looked, and I walked
to the window to hide my face. This finished the busi-
ness, and I returned home that day with my aunt; who
saw in me a future outcast, and a man undone for life, for
want of a proper facility in bearing boxes on the ear.
"Within a week from that time I was in the house of a
gentleman, who professed not to keep a school, but to take
pupils, a nice distinction, that separates the school-
master from the tutor. There were about six of us, from
the age of fifteen to eighteen. He undertook to prepare
us for the university, and with him, in real earnest, I, for
the first time, began to learn. Yes; there commenced an
epoch both in my mind and heart, I woke to the knowl-
edge of books and also of myself. In one year I passed
over a world of feelings. From the child I rose at once
into the man. But let me tell my story methodically; and
first, as to the education of the intellect. Mr. S———— was an
elegant and graceful scholar, of the university calibre, not
deeply learned, but intimately acquainted with the beauties.
and the subtleties of the authors he had read. You know,
A———, what authors a university scholar does read, and
those which he neglects. At this time it is with those
most generally neglected that I am least imperfectly ac-
quainted; but it was not so then, as you may suppose,
Before I went to Mr. S's, I certainly never betrayed
any very studious disposition; the ordinary and hackneyed
method of construing, and parsing, and learning by heart,
and making themes, whose only possible excellence was to
be unoriginal, and verses, in which the highest beauty was
a dexterous plagiarism; all this had disgusted me be-
times, and I shirked lessons with the same avidity as the rest
of my tribe.
It became quite and suddenly different with
Mr. S The first day of my arrival, I took up the Medea
of Euripides. Into what a delightful recreation did S
manage to convert the task I had hitherto thought so
wearisome; how eloquently he dwelt on each poetical
expression,- how richly he illustrated every beauty, by
comparisons and contrasts from the pages of other poets!
"I had been a little more than a year with S
>
ant
a fit, one bright spring morning, came over me-a fit of
poetry. From that time the disorder increased, for I
indulged it; and though such of my performances as have
been seen by friendly eyes have been looked upon as medio-
cre enough, I still believe that if ever I could win a lasting
reputation, it would be through that channel. Love usu-
ally accompanies poetry, and, in my case, there was no
exception to the rule.
"There was a slender, but pleasant brook, about two
miles from S―'s house, to which one or two of us were
accustomed, in the summer days, to repair to bathe and
saunter away our leisure hours. To this favorite spot
I one day went alone, and crossing a field which led to the
brook, I encountered two ladies, with one of whom, having
met her at some house in the neighbourhood, I had a slight
acquaintance. We stopped to speak to each other, and I
saw the face of her companion. Alas! were I to live ten
thousand lives, there would never be a moment in which I
could be alone nor sleeping, and that face not with me!
My acquaintance introduced us to each other. I
walked home with them to the house of Miss D— (so
was the strange, who was also the younger, lady, named).
The next day I called upon her the acquaintance thus
commenced did not droop; and, notwithstanding our
youth, for Lucy D- was only seventeen, and I nearly
a year younger, we soon loved, and with a love which,
full of poesy and dreaming, as from our age it necessarily
must have been, was not less durable nor less heartfelt than
if it had arisen from the deeper and more earthly sources
in which later life hoards its affections.
Oh, God! how little did I think of what our young
folly entailed upon us! We delivered ourselves up to the
dictates of our hearts, and forgot that there was a future.
Neither of us had any ulterior design; we did not think,
poor children that we were, of marriage, and settle-
ments, and consent of relations. We touched each other's
hands, and were happy; we read poetry together, — and
when we lifted up our eyes from the page, those eyes met,
and we did not know why our hearts beat so violently;
and at length, when we spake of love, and when we
called each other Lucy and ; when we described all
that we had thought in absence, and all we had felt
when present, when we sat with our hands locked each
in each,
and at last, growing bolder, when in the still
and quiet loneliness of a summer twilight we exchanged
our first kiss, we did not dream that the world forbade
what seemed to us so natural; nor, feeling in our own
hearts the impossibility of change,
did we ever ask
whether this sweet and mystic state of existence was to
last for ever!
CC
Lucy was an only child; her father was a man of
wretched character. A profligate, a gambler, ruined
alike in fortune, hope, and reputation, he was yet her only
guardian and protector. The village in which we both
had a smal
resided was near London; there Mr D
MrˇD)
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
163
cottage, where he left his daughter and his slender estab- |
lishment for days, and sometimes for weeks together,
while he was engaged in equivocal speculations, giving
no address, and engaged in no professional mode of life.
Lucy's mother had died long since of a broken heart,
(that fate, too, was afterward her daughter's,)
so that
this poor girl was literally without a monitor or a friend,
save her own innocence, and, alas! innocence is but a
poor substitute for experience. The lady with whom I
had met her had known her mother, and she felt compas-
sion for the child. She saw her constantly, and sometimes
took her to her own house, whenever she was in the neigh-
bourhood; but that was not often, and only for a few days
at a time. Her excepted, Lucy had no female friend.
"Was it a wonder, then, that she allowed herself to
eet me?—that we spent hours and hours together?— that
she called me her only friend, her brother as well as her
lover? There was a peculiarity in our attachment worth
noticing Never, from the first hour of our meeting to the
last of our separation, did we ever say an unkind or cut-
ting word to each other. Living so much alone, never
meeting in the world, unacquainted with all the tricks,
and doubts, and artifices of life, we never had cause for
the jealousy and the reproach, the sharp suspicion, or the
premeditated coquetry, which diversify the current of loves
forined in society, the kindest language, the most tender
thoughts, alone occurred to us. If any thing prevented
her meeting me, she never concealed her sorrow, nor did I
ever affect to chide. We knew from the bottom of our |
hearts that we were all in all to each other, and there
was never any disguise to the clear and full understanding |
of that delicious knowledge. Poor, poor Lucy! what
an age seems to have passed since that time! How dim
and melancholy, yet, oh! how faithful, are the hues in
which that remembrance is clothed? When I muse over
that time, I start, and ask myself if it was real, or if I did
not wholly dream it, and with the intenseness of the
dream, fancy it a truth. Many other passages in my life
have been romantic, and many, too, colored by the affec-
tions. But this short part of my existence is divided utter-
ly from the rest, it seems to have no connexion with all
else that I have felt and acted,--a strange and visionary
wandering out of the living world, having here no being
and no parallel.
"One evening we were to meet at a sequestered and
lonely part of the brook's course, a spot which was our
usual rendezvous. I waited considerably beyond the time
appointed, and was just going sorrowfully away when she
appeared. As she approached, I saw that she was in
tears, and she could not for several moments speak for
weeping. At length I learned that her father had just
returned home, after a long absence, that he had an-
nounced his intention of immediately quitting their present
home and going to a distant part of the country, or,
perhaps even abroad.
-
"And this chance so probable, so certain, this chance
of separation had never occurred to us before! We had
lived in the happy valley, nor thought of the strange and
desert lands that stretched beyond the mountains around
us ! I was stricken, as it were, into torpor at the intelli-
gence. I 1 lid not speak, or attempt, for several moments,
to console her. At length we sat down under an old tree,
and Lucy it was who spoke first. I cannot say whether
Lucy was beautiful or not, nor will I attempt to describe
her; for it has seemed to me that there would be the same
apathy and triteness of heart necessary, to dwell coldly
upon that face and figure, which are now dust, as
would ask in a bridegroom, widowed ere the first intoxica-
tion was over, to minute and item every inch and article in
his bridal chamber. But putting her outward attractions
wholly aside, there was something in Lucy's sweet and
fine voice which would have filled me with love, even for
deformity; and now, when quite forgetting herself, she
thought only of comfort and hope for me, my love to her
seemed to grow and expand, and leave within me no
thought, no feeling, that it did not seize and color. It is
an odd thing in the history of the human heart, that the
times most sad to experience are often the most grateful to
recall; and of all the passages in our brief and checkered
love, none have I clung to so fondly or cherished so tender-
ly, as the remembrance of that desolate and tearful hour.
We walked slowly home, speaking very little, and linger-
ing on the way—and my arm was round her waist all the
|
|
✔
formed any plan for
time. Had we fixed any scheme,
None! We were (and felt ourselves, nor
hope ?- None!
struggled against the knowledge,) - we were playthings
in the hands of fate. It is only in after-years that wisdom
(which is the gift of prophecy) prepares us for, or delivers
us from destiny! There was a little stile at the entrance
of the garden round Lucy's home, and sheltered as it was
by trees and bushes, it was there, whenever we met, we
took our last adieu, and there that evening we stopped,
and lingered over our parting words and our parting kiss,
and at length, when I tore myself away, I looked back
and saw her in the sad and gray light of the evening still
there, still watching, still weeping! What, what hours of
anguish and gnawing of heart inust one, who loved so
kindly and so entirely as she did, have afterward endured!
"As I lay awake that night, a project, natural enough,
| darted across me. I would seek Lucy's father, communi-
cate our attachment, and sue for his approbation. We
but we could
might, indeed, be too young for marriage,
wait, and love each other in the mean while. I bst no
time in following up this resolution. The next day, before
I was in
I was at the door of Lucy's cottage,
the little chamber that faced the garden, alone with her
father.
noon,
"A boy forms strange notions of a man who is consid-
ered a scoundrel. I was prepared to see one of fierce and
sullen appearance, and to meet with a rude and coarse re-
ception. I found in Mr. D—————— a person who, early accus-
tomed,
tomed, (for he was of high birth,) -to polished soci-
ety, still preserved, in his manner and appearance, its best
characteristics. His voice was soft and bland; his face,
though haggard and worn, retained the traces of early
beauty; and a courteous and attentive ease of deportment
had been probably improved by the habits of deceiving
others, ratlier than impaired. I told our story to this man,
frankly and fully. When I had done, he rose; he took
ine by the hand; he expressed some regret, yet some satis-
faction, at what he had heard. He was sensible how much
peculiar circumstances had obliged him to leave his daugh-
ter unprotected; be was sensible, also, that from my birth
and future fortunes, my affection did honor to the object of
my choice. Nothing would have made him so happy, so
proud, had I been older, had I been my own master.
But I and he, alas! must be aware that my friends and
guardians would never consent to my forming any engage-
ment at so premature an age, and they and the world would
impute the blame to him; for calumny (he added in a
melancholy tone) had been busy with his name, and any
story, however false or idle, would be believed of one who
was out of the world's affections.
"All this, and much more, did he say; and I pitied him
while he spoke. Our conference then ended in nothing
fixed; but, he asked me to dine with him the next day.
In a word, while he forbade me at present to recur to the
subject, he allowed me to see his daughter as often as I
pleased: this lasted for about ten days. At the end of
that time, when I made my usual morning visit, I saw
D
alone; he appeared much agitated. He was
about, he said, to be arrested. He was undone for ever,
and his poor daughter! he could say no more,
his
manly heart was overcome, and he hid his face with his
hands. I attempted to console him, and inquired the sum
necessary to relieve him. It was considerable; and on
hearing it named, my power of consolation I deemed over
at once. I was mistaken. But why dwell on so hack-
neved a topic as that of a sharper on the one hand, and a
dupe on the other? I saw a gentleman of the tribe of
Israel, -I raised a sum of money, to be repaid when I
came of age, and that sum was placed in D's hands.
My intercourse with Lucy continued; but not long. This
matter came to the ears of one who had succeeded my poor
aunt, now no more, as my guardian. He saw D
and threatened him with penalties, which the sharper did
not dare to brave. My guardian was a man of the world;
he said nothing to me on the subject, but he begged me to
accompany him on a short tour through a neighbouring
conuty. I took leave of Lucy only for a few days, as I im-
agined. I accompanied my guardian, -was a week absent,
- returned, and hastened to the cottage it was shut
up, an old woman opened the door, they were gone,
father and daughter, none knew whither!
"It was now that my guardian disclosed his share in
this event, so terribly unexpected by me. He unfolded the
268
BULWER'S NOVELS.
M
-
Madman,' said he, as at last he extricated himself
from my gripe,' my daughter married with her free con
sent, and to one far better fitted to make her happy thar
you. Go, go, I forgive you, I also was once in love.
and with her mother!'
—
"I did not answer, I let him depart.
life,
arts of D- ; he held up his character in its true light. | when imaged forth even the outline of a doom like this
I listened to him patiently while he proceeded thus far; Married! my Lucy, my fond, my constant, my pure-hearted,
but when, encouraged by my silence, he attempted to and tender Lucy! Suddenly all the chilled and revolted en
insinuate that Lucy was implicated in her father's arti-ergies of my passions seemed to re-act, and rush back upon
fices, that she had lent herself to decoy, to the mutual me. I seized that smiling and hollow wretch with a fierce
advantage of sire and daughter, the inexperienced heir grasp. You have done this, you have broken her heart,
of considerable fortunes, my rage and indignation ex- - you have crushed mine! I curse you in her name and my
ploded at once. High words ensued. I defied his au- own! I curse you from the bottom, and with all the ven-
thority, I laughed at his menaces,-I openly declared om of my soul! Wretch! wretch!' and he was as a reed
my resolution of tracing Lucy to the end of the world, in my hands.
and marrying her the instant she was found. Whether
or not that my guardian had penetrated sufficiently into
my character to see that force was not the means by
which I was to be guided, I cannot say; but he softened
from his tone at last, apologized for his warmth,
condescended to soothe and remonstrate, and our dis-
pute ended in a compromise. I consented to leave Mr.
and to spend the next year, preparatory to my
going to the university, with my guardian: he promised,
on the other hand, that if, at the end of that year, I still
wished to discover Lucy, he would throw no obstacles
in the way of my search. I was ill contented with this
compact; but I was induced to it by my firm persuasion
that Lucy would write to me, and that we should console
each other, at least, by a knowledge of our mutual situ-
ation and our mutual constancy.
insisted on remaining six weeks longer with S, and
gained my point; and that any letter Lucy might write
might not be exposed to any officious intervention from
or my guardian's satellites, I walked every day
to meet the postman who was accustomed to bring our
letters. None came from Lucy. Afterward I learned
whom my guardian had wisely bought,
as well as intimidated, had intercepted three letters which
she had addressed to me, in her unsuspecting confidence,
and that she only ceased to write when she ceased to
believe in me.
S
that D
A
“Behold me now, then, entered upon a new stage of
- a long, sweet, shadowy train of dreams, and fancies,
and forethoughts of an unreal future was for ever past. Í
had attained suddenly to the end of that period which is as
a tale from the East, 'a tale of glory and of the sun.'
startling and abrupt truth had come upon me in the night,
and unawares ! I was awakened, and for ever, the
charm had fallen from me; and I was as other meu!
the real and daily present,
In this persuasion, I The little objects of earth,
the routine of trifles, the bustle and the contest, the
poor employment and the low ambition,-
henceforth to me as to my fellow-kind. I was brought at
once into the actual world; and the arinor for defence was
girded round me as by magic; the weapon adapted to hard-
ship and to battle was in my hand. And all this had hap
pened, love, disappointment, despair, wisdom
"I went to reside with my guardian. A man of a hos-
pitable and liberal turn, his house was always full of guests,
who were culled from the most agreeable circles in London.
We lived in a perpetual round of amusement; and my
uncle, who thought i should be rich enough to afford to be
ignorant, was more anxious that I should divert my mind
than instruct it. Well, this year passed slowly and sadly
away, despite of the gayety around me, and at the end of
that time I left my uncle to go to the university; but I first
lingered in London to make inquiries after D. I could
learn no certain tidings of him, but heard that the most
probable place to find him was at a gaming-house in
K- street. Thither I repaired forthwith. It was a
haunt of no delicate and luxurious order of vice; the chain
attached to the threshold indicated suspicion of the spies of
justice; and a grim and sullen face peered jealously upon
me before I was suffered to ascend the filthy and noisome
staircase. But my search was destined to a brief end. At
the head of the Rouge et Noir table, facing my eyes the
moment I entered the evil chamber, was the marked and
working countenance of D——
He did not look up,-no, not once, all the time he
played he won largely,-rose with a flushed face and
rose with a flushed face and
trembling hand,-descended the stairs, stopped in a
room below, where a table was spread with meats and wine,
took a large tumbler of Madeira, and left the house. I had
waited patiently, I had followed him with a noiseless.
step, -I now drew my breath hard, clenched my hands,
as if to nerve myself for a contest, and as he paused a mo-
ment under one of the lamps, seemingly in doubt whither to
go, I laid my hand on his shoulder, and uttered his name.
His eyes wandered with a leaden and dull gaze over my
face before he remembered me. Then he recovered his
usual bland smile and soft tone. He grasped my unwilling
hand, and inquired with the tenderness of a parent after my
health. I did not heed his words. Your daughter?' said
'Your daughter?' said
I. convulsively.
"Ah! you were old friends,' quoth he, smiling, 'you
have recovered that folly, I hope. Poor thing! she will
he happy to see an old friend. You know, of course-'
"What?' for he hesitated.
"That Lucy is married!
"Married!' and as that word left my lips, it seemed
as if my very life, my very soul, had gushed forth also in the
sound. When, oh when, in the night-watch and the
daily yearning, when, whatever might have been my grief,
or wretchedness, or despondency, when had I dreamed,
while I was yet a boy!
B
these were
"It was a little while after this interview, but I men
tion it now, for there is no importance in the quarter from
which I heard it, that I learned some few particulars of
Lucy's marriage. There was, and still is, in the world's
gossip, a strange story of a rich, foolish man, awed as well
as gulled by a sharper, and of a girl torn to a church with a
violence so evident that the priest refused the ceremony.
But the rite was afterward solemnized by special license, in
private, and at night. The pith of that story has truth,
and Lucy was at once the heroine and victim of the ro-
mance. Now, then, I turn to a somewhat different strain
my narrative.
"You, A-
in
The
who know so well the habits of a
university life, need not be told how singularly monotonous
and contemplative it may be made to a lonely man.
first year I was there I mixed, as you may remember, in
none of the many circles into which that curious and motley
society is split. I formed, or rather returned to my old
passion for study: yet the study was desultory, and wanted
that system and vigor on which you have, at a later time.
complimented my lettered ardor. Two or three books, of
a vague and unmellowed philosophy, fell in my way, and
I fed upon their crude theories. We live alone, and we
form a system; we go into the world, and we see the
errors in the systems of others. To judge and to invent
are two opposite faculties, and are cultivated by two op-
posite modes of life, or as Gibbon has expressed it, Cou-
versation enriches the understanding, but solitude is the
school of genius.'
"My only recreation was in long and companionless
rides; and in the flat and dreary country around our uni-
versity, the cheerless aspect of Nature fed the idle melan-
choly at my heart. In the second
In the second year of my college life
I roused myself a little from my seclusion, and rather by
accident than design, you will remember that my ac
quaintance was formed among the men considered most
able and promising of our time. I appeared but to poor
advantage among these young academicians, fresh as they
were from public schools; their high animal spirits for
ever on the wing, ready in wit and argument, prone
now to laugh at trifles, and now earnestly to dispute on
them, they stunned and confused my quiet and gravo
habits of mind. I have met the most brilliant of these
men since, and they have been astonished, and confessed
themselves astonished, even at the little and meagre repu-
tation I have acquired, and at whatsoever conversational
ability I can now, though only by fits and starts, manage to
display. They compliment me on my improvement: they
mistake, my intellect is just the same, I have im-
proved only in the facility of communicating its fruits.
the summer of that year I resolved to make a bold effort ta
In
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
165
harden my mind and conquer its fastidious reserve; and I
ɛet out to travel over the north of England, and the greater
part of Scotland, in the humble character of a pedestrian
tourist. Nothing ever did my character inore solid good
than that experiment. I was thrown among a thousand
varieties of character; I was continually forced into bustle
and action, and into providing for myself, that great and
indelible lesson towards permanent independence of char-
acter.
"One evening, in an obscure part of Cumberland, I was
seeking a short cut to a neighbouring village through a gen-
tleman's grounds, n which there was a public path. Just
within sight of the house, (which was an old, desolate
building, in the architecture of James the First, with
gable-ends and dingy walls, and deep-sunk, gloomy win-
dows,) I perceived two ladies at a little distance before
me; one seemed in weak and delicate health, for she
walked slowly and with pain, and stopped often as she
leaned on her companion. I lingered behind, in order not
to pass them abruptly; presently they turned away towards
the house, and I saw them no more. Yet that frail and
bending form, as I soon afterward learned, that form
which I did not recognise, which, by a sort of fatality, I
saw only in a glimpse, and yet for the last time on earth,
that form, was the wreck of Lucy D -!
"Unconscious of this event in my destiny, I left that
neighbourhood, and settled for some weeks on the borders
of the lake Keswick. There, one evening, a letter, re-
directed to me from London, reached me. The hand-
writing was that of Lucy; but the trembling and slurred
characters, so different from that graceful ease which was
wont to characterize all she did, filled me, even at the first
glance, with alarm. This is the letter, read it, -you
——
will know then what I have lost:
(
>
: :
not that hope also animate you, and guide you unerring
through the danger and the evil of this entangled life?
May God bless you, and watch over you,
may He
comfort, and cheer, and elevate your heart to Him!
and my love
Before you receive this, I shall be no more,
my care for you will, I trust and feel, have become eternal
- Farewell!
L. M.'
"The letter," continued L-
, struggling with his
was dated from that village through which I
emotions, "
had so lately passed; thither I repaired that very night,
Lucy had been buried the day before! I stood upon a green
mound, and a few feet below, separated from me by a
scanty portion of earth, mouldered that heart which had
loved me so faithfully and so well!
Oh, God! what a difference throughout the whole of
this various and teeming earth a single DEATH can effect!
Sky, sun, air, the eloquent waters, the inspring mountain.
tops, the murmuring and glossy wood, the very
-
'Glory in the grass, and splendor in the lower,
do these hold over us an eternal spell? Are they as a part
and property of an unvarying course of nature? Have they
aught which is unfailing, steady, -same in its effect? Alas!
their attraction is the creature of an accident. One gap,
invisible to all but ourself in the crowd and turmoil of the
world, and every thing is changed. In a single hour, the
whole process of thought, the whole ebb and fow of emotion,
be revulsed for the rest of an existence. Nothing can
ever seem to us as it did: it is a blow upon the fine mech-
auism by which we think, and move, and have our being,
the pendulum vibrates aright no more, the dial hath no
account with time, the process goes on, but it knows no
symmetry or order; it was a single stroke that marred
it, but the harmony is gone for ever!
"I write to you, my dear, my unforgotten L
the last letter this hand will ever trace. Till now, it would
have been a crime to write to you; perhaps it is so still,
but dying as I am, and divorced from all earthly thoughts
and remembrances, save yours, I feel that I cannot quite
collect my mind for the last hour until I have given you the
blessing of one whom you loved once; and when that bless-
ing is given, I think I can turn away from your image, and
sever willingly the last tie that binds me to earth. I will
not afflict you by saying what I have suffered since we
parted, with what anguish I thought of what you would
feel when you found me gone, — and with what cruel, what
fearful violence I was forced into becoming the wretch I
now am. I was hurried, I was driven, into a dreadful and
bitter duty, but I thank God that I have fulfilled it.
What, what have I done, to have been made so miserable
throughout life as I have been! I ask my heart, and tax my
conscience, and every night I think over the sins of the
day; they do not seem to me heavy, yet my penance has
been very great. For the last two years, I do sincerely
think that there has not been one day which I have not
marked with tears. But enough of this, and of myself.
You, dear, dear L- let me turn to you! Something
at my heart tells me that you have not forgotten that we
were once the world to each other, and even through the
changes and the glories of a man's life, I think you will not
forget it. True, L- that I was a poor, and friend-
less, and not too well-educated girl, and altogether unwor-
thy of your destiny; but you did not think so then, and
when you have lost me, it is a sad, but it is a real comfort,
to feel that that thought will never recur to you.
memory will invest me with a thousand attractions and
graces I did not possess, and all that you recall of me will
be linked with the freshest and happiest thoughts of that
period of life in which you first beheld me. And this
thought, dearest L-
sweetens death to me, and
sometimes it comforts me for what has been. Had our lot
been otherwise, had we been united, and had you sur-
vived your love for me, (and what more probable !) my lot
would have been darker even than it has been. I know
not how it is, perhaps from my approaching death,
but I seem to have grown old, and to have obtained the
right to be your monitor and warner. Forgive me, then, ¦
if I implore you to think earnestly and deeply of the great
ends of life; think of them as one might think who is anx-
ious to gain a distant home, and who will not be diverted
from his way. Oh! could you know how solemn and |
thrilling a joy comes over me as I nurse the belief, the
ertainty, that we shall meet at length, and for ever! Will
Your
|
may
"And yet I often think that that shock which jarred on
the mental, renders vet softer the moral, nature. A deato
that is connected with love unites us by a thousand remem-
brances to all who have mourned: it builds a bridge between
the young and the old; it gives them in common the most
touching of human sympathies; it steals from nature its
glory and its exhilaration, not its tenderness. And what,
perhaps, is better than all, to mourn deeply for the death of
another loosens from ourself the petty desire for, and the
animal adherence to, life. We have gained the end of the
philosopher, and view, without shrinking, the coffin and
the pall.
—
the
"For a year my mind did not return to its former
pursuits: my scholastic ambition was checked at once.
Hitherto I had said, 'If I gain honors, she will know it
now, that object was no more. I could not even bear we
sight of books: my thoughts had all curdled into torpor,
a melancholy listlessness filled and oppressed me,
truditur dies die, the day chasing day without end or
profit,
profit,—the cloud after cloud over the barren plain, — the
breath after breath across the unmoved mirror, these
were the sole types and images of my life. I had beer
expected by my friends to attain some of the highest of
academical rewards; you may imagine that I deceived
their expectations. I left the university and hastened to
London. I was just of age. I found myself courted, and
I plunged eagerly into society. The experiment was peril.
ous; but in my case it answered. I left myself no time
for thought gambling, intrigue, dissipation, these are the
occupations of polished society; they are great resources
to a wealthy mourner. The man stirred again within
me; the weakness of my repinings gradually melted away
beneath the daily trifles of life; perpetual footsteps, though
the footsteps of idlers, wore the inscription from the stʊne.
I said to my heart, Why mourn, when mourning is but
vanity, and to regret is only to be weak? Let me turn to
what life has left; let me struggle to enjoy.’
"Whoever long plays a part, ends by making it natural
to him. At first I was ill at ease in feigning attention to
frivolities; by degrees frivolities grew into importance.
Society, like the stage, gives rewards intoxicating in pro-
portion as they are immediate: the man who has but to
appear behind the lamps of the orchestra to be applauded,
must find „d other species of fame distant and insipid; so
with society. The wit and the gallant can seldom covet
praise, which, if more lasting, is less present than that
which they command by a word and a glance. And having
once tasted the eclat of sorial power, they cannot resist the
struggle to preserve it. This, then, gre a my case, and it
166
BULWER'S NOVELS.
did me good, though it has done others evil. Life again
presented to me an object; and, in a little time, I was yet
more riveted to the world we live in, by, not a love, but, in
the phrase of the day, a liaison. I shall pass over this part
of my memoirs very briefly; for I wish to come to what,
as yet, I have but slightly touched on, my literary history.
This tie was the result of circumstance, not design: the
lady was a star in the great world, exigeante, handsome,
warm-hearted, yet not unselfish. It lasted about six months,
and then snapped for ever! And now the London season
was over summer was upon us in all its later prodigality.
I was no longer mournful, but I was wearied. Ambition,
as I lived with the world, again dawned upon me. I said,
when I saw the distinction mediocrity had acquired, Why
content myself with satirizing the claim?—why not strug-
gle against the claimant?' In a word, I again thirsted for
knowledge and coveted its power Now comes the main
history of the Student; but I have fatigued you enough
for the present."
CONVERSATION THE FIFTH.
"It was observed by Descartes," said L- (as we
renewed, a day or two after our last conversation, the
theme we had then begun) "that in order to improve
the mind, we ought less to learn than to contemplate.' In
this sentence lies the use of retirement. There are certain
moments when study is peculiarly grateful to us: but in no
season are we so likely to profit by it, as when we have
taken a breathing-time from the noise and hubbub of the
world when the world has wearied us. Behold me, then,
within a long day's journey from London, in a beautiful
country, an old house, and a library collected with great
labor by one of my forefathers, and augmented in more
modern works at the easy cost of expense by myself.
C
>
|
tion. We all know the poetical and indistinct meanings
with which the lofty soul of Plato, and the imitative jargon
of his followers, clothed the word,-
—a symmetry, a harmo-
ny, a beautiful abstraction, invariable, incomprehensible,-
that is the Platonic virtue. Then comes the hard and
shrewd refining away of the worldly school. "What is
virtue here," say they, "is vice at our antipodes: the laws
of morals are arbitrary and uncertain,
Imposteur à la Mecque, et prophète à Médine;
there is no permanent and immutable rule of good; virtue
is but a dream." Helvetius is the first who has not in-
vented, but rendered popular, this great, this useful, this
all-satisfying interpretation, "Virtue
"Virtue is the habitude of
directing our actions to the public good; the love of virtue
is but the desire of the general happiness; virtuous actions
are those which contribute to that happiness." In this
clear and beautiful explanation all contradictions are solved:
actions may be approved in one country, condemned in
another, yet this interpretation will remain unchanged in
its truth. What may be for the public good in China may
not be so in the Hebrides; yet, so long as we consult the
public good, wheresoever we are thrown, our intentions
are virtuous. We have thus, in every clime, one star
always before us; and, without recurring to the dreams of
Plato, we are not driven, by apparent inconsistences, to
find virtue itself a dream. "The face of truth is not less
fair and beautiful for all the counterfeit visors which have
been put upon her."†
A. And it is from this explanation of the end of virtue
that Bentham has deduced his definition of the end of gov
ernment. Both tend to the public good; or, in yet broader
terms, the greatest happiness of the greatest number. It
is a matter worthy of inuch pondering, to think that the
end of virtue and the end of good government can only
have the same explanation.
L. Yes; and hence a surpassing merit in Helvetius!
more than any reasoner before him: he united public vir-
tues with private. Though so excellent, so exemplary
"The first branch of letters to which I directed my
application was moral philosophy; and the first book I
seized upon was Helvetius. I know of no work so fascin-himself, in the minor charities and graces of life, he for-
ating to a young thinker as the Discours de l'Esprit :
the variety, the anecdote, the illustration, the graceful
criticism, the solemn adjuration, the brilliant point that
characterize the work, and render it so attractive, not as a
treatise only, but a composition, would alone niake that
writer delightful to many who mistake the end of his system,
and are incapable of judging its wisdom in parts; and, in
spite of one metaphysical error, its admirable utility as a
code of morals.”
A. You think so highly, then, of Helvetius? His merits
are not merely a scholastic question of letters. Though
not extensively popular in himself, Helvetius must be con-
sidered the great apostle of a philosophy ably advocated in
England, and every day increasing in its disciples.
L. Let us, then, pause a moment upon this writer. His
metaphysical error is in supposing all men born with the
same capacity; in resolving all effects of character and
genius to education. For, in the first place, the weight of
proof being thrown upon him, he does not prove the fact;
and, secondly, if he did prove it, neither we nor his system
would be a whit the better for it: for the utmost human
and possible care in education cannot make all men alike;*
and whether a care above humanity could do so is, I appre-
hend, of very little consequence in the eyes of practical and
sensible beings. Yet even this dogma has been beneficial,
if not true for the dispute it occasioned obliged men to
examine, and to allow the wonders that education can effect,
and the general features in common which a common mode
of education can be tow upon a people; -grand truths, to
which the human race will owe all that is feasible in its
progress towards amelioration! But passing from this
point, and steering from the netaphysical to the more
plainly moral portion of his school, let us see whether he
has given to that most mystical word VIRTUE its true solu-
*For chance being included in Helvetius's idea of education,
and, indeed, according to him (Essay iii., chap. i.) "making the
greatest share of it,” it is evident that we must agree in what he
himself almost immediately afterward says, viz. "That no per-
sons being placed exactly in the same circumstances, no person
can receive exactly the same education," — id est, no persons
can be exactly the same, the question then is reduced to a
re scholastic dispute. As long as both parties agree that no
can be made exactly the same, it matters very little from
arter comes the impossibility.
bore, like egotistical preachers, to dwell upon them they
are less important to mankind than the great principles of
public conduct, principles which rule states and enlighten
them. It was a noble truth at that time, the father of how
much that is inestimable now, to proclaim, "that, in order
to perfectionize our moral state, legislators had two
methods: the first, to unite private interests to the general
interest; the other, to advance the progress and diffusion
of intellect." This is a maxim the people should wear in
their hearts.
A. Yes; before Helvetius, moralists were in league with
the ills that are: they preached to man to amend himself,
not to amend his laws, without which all amelioration is
partial. To what use would it be to tell the modern Greeks
not to lie? Give them a code, in which to lie would be to
sin against self-interest.
L. The form of government gives its tone to popular
opinion. It is in proportion as popular opinion honors or
neglects a virtue, that that virtue is popularly followed. In
commercial countries, wealth is respectability; in despotic
countries flattery is considered wisdom: the passions lead
men to action, and the passions are excited according to
the reward proposed to them. These are grave and
weighty truths: we are to thank Helvetius if they are now
known.
A. And, passing from his morals, how fine are his criti-
cal remarks, how acute his knowledge of the world,
how delicate his appreciation of the noble and the just!
L. For instance, what a perfect example of a refined
idea (viz. an idea, the naturalness and beauty of which
requires some attention to discover) he selects from Mo-
li're. Harpagon suspects his valet of having robbed him,
"Give me
and not finding any thing in his pocket, says,
what thou hast stolen, without searching!" (Rends moi,
sans te fouiller, ce que tu m'as volé.)
A. And in a previous chapter, how beautiful an illustra
tion has he gleaned from the oriental fables, in order to
show the grace with which the imagination may invest a
sentiment. A happy lover, by the following allegory,
attributes to his mistress, and to his love for her, the
qualities admired in himself : -
"I was one day in the bath; an odoriferons piece of earth
* Voltaire, Mahomet, Let. i.
Shaftesbury.
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
167
and of one I loved into my own.
C
passed from the
'Art
thou,' said I to it, art thou musk,:
art thou musk,-art thou amber?'
Nay, it replied, 'I am but a piece of the common earth;
but I have come in contact with the rose; her fragrance
imbued me; without her I should still be but a piece of
the common earth!
L. I wish, indeed, that these sparkling and beautiful
ornaments that so thickly, even to redundance, bestrew his
works, would induce readers who shun a dry book on
morals to enter upon his. No work can be more useful *
o Englishmen at this moment: no work contains clearer
elucidations of those truths for which they are now daily
comending: no work would more serve to ennolle our
national character, to lift us from the sordid and low
desires of our bartering and huckstering spirit of pounds
and pence,
lift us to the comprehension of the objects of
a true glory: no work, in a word, can more tend to exalt
our little, domestic, higgling, narrow virtues, into a lofty
and generous code.
A. And yet this writer is supposed by the shallow sen-
timentalists, and canting Scottists of the hour, to be of a
school that debases and degrades.
L. Because he has taken men from their own delusions,
and taught then, that in order to avoid a deluge, it is
better to learn honesty than to erect a Babel.
A. But I have diverted you from the thread of your
narrative. To what new studies did your regard for Hel-
vetius direct you?
|
sively on themselves." But we must know the pinciples
of the science before we can apply the experiments.
A. And yet, while the real uses of history are philo-
sophical, a mere narrator of facts is often far better than a
philosophical historian.
L. Because it is better to reflect for ourselves than to
suffer others to reflect for us. A philosopher has a system;
he views things according to his theory; he is unavoidably
partial; and, like Lucian's painter, he paints his one-eyed
princes in profile.
A. It is especially in our language that the philosophi-
cal historians have been most dangerous. No man can
give us history through a falser medium than Hume and
Gibbon have done.
L. And this not only from the inaccuracy of their facts,
but their general way of viewing facts. Hume tells the
history of a faction, and Gibbon the history of oligarchies,
the people, the people are altogether omitted by both.
The fact is, neither of them had seen enough of the mass
of men to feel that history should be something more than
a chronicle of dynasties, however wisely chronicled it be :
they are fastidious and graceful scholars; their natural
leanings are towards the privileged elegancies of life:
eternally sketching hunan nature, they give us, perhaps, a
skeleton tolerably acute, it is the flesh and blood they
are unable to accomplish their sympathies are for the
courtly, their minds were not robust enough to feel sym-
pathies with the undiademed and unlaurelled tribes each
most pretends to what he most wants, Hume, with his
smooth affectation of candor, is never candid, —and Gib-
bon, perpetually philosophizing, is never philosophical.
A. Tacitus and Polybius are not easily equalled.
L. And why? Because both Tacitus and Polybius had
seen the world in more turbulent periods than our histori-
ans have done; the knowledge of their kind was not light-
ly printed, but deeply and fearfully furrowed, as it were,
upon their hearts; their shrewd, yet dark wisdom, was the
fruit of a terrible experience. Gibbon boasts of the bene-
fit he derived for his History from being a captain in the
militia; it was from no such holyday service that Polybius
acquired his method of painting wars. As the Megalopo-
L. It did not immediately lead to new studies, but
gave a more solid direction to those I had formerly in-
dulged. I had, as I mentioned, been before addicted to
abstract speculation; but it was of a dreamy and wild
cast. I now sought to establish philosophy on the basis of
common sense. I recommenced, then, a stern and reso-
lute course of metaphysical study, giving, indeed, a slight-
er attention to the subtleties which usually occupy the
student, than to the broader principles on which the spirit
of human conduct and our daily actions do secretly depend.
Moral philosophy is the grandest of all sciences: metaphy-
sics, abstracted from moral philosophy, is at once the most
pedantic and the most frivolous. Hominem delirum qui ver-
borum minutiis rerum frangit pondera. Slowly and reluc-litan passed through his stormy and bold career; as he
tantly did I turn from the consideration of motives to that learned rough lessons in the camp, and imbued himself with
of actions, from morals to history. Volney has said, in the cold sagacity which the diplomatic intrigues he shared
his excellent lectures, that the proper state of mind for the both required and taught, he was slowly boarding that mass
examination of history, is that in which we "hold the of observation, that wonderful intuition into the true spirit
judgment in suspense. This truth is evident; yet they of facts, that power of seeing at a glance the improbable,
who allow the doctrine, when couched in the above phrase, and through its clouds and darkness seizing at once upon
might demur if the phrase were a little altered; aud, the truth, which characterize the fragments of his great
instead of a suspension of judgment, we spoke of a state history, and elevate what in other hands would have been
of doubt. It is true! in this state, a state of "investiga- but a collection of military bulletins, into so estimable a
ting doubt," history should be studied. In doubt, all the manual for the statesman and the civilian. And when we
faculties of the mind are aroused, we sift, we weigh, glance over the life of the far greater Roman, we see no
we examine, every page is a trial to the energies of the less palpably how much the wisdom of the closet was won
understanding. But confidence is sleepy and inert. If by the stern nature of those fields of action in which he
we make up our minds beforehand to believe all we are who had witnessed the reign of a Domitian was cast.
about to read, the lecture glides down the memory without When we grow chained to his page by the gloomy intense-
awakening one thought by the way. We may be stored ness of his colorings, when crime after crime, in all the
with dates and legends; we may be able to conclude our living blackness of those fearful days, arises before us,
periods by a fable about Rome; but we do not feel that we when in his grasping apothegms the fierce secrets of kings
have reasoned as well as read. Our minds may be fuller, lie bared before us, when in every sentence we shudder
but our intellects are not sharper than they were before; at a record, in every character we mark a portent, yet
we have studied, but not investigated : —- to what use is a mirror of the times; we feel at once how necessary to
investigation to those who are already persuaded? There that force and fidelity must have been the severity and dark-
is the same difference between the advantage of history to ness of his experience. Through action, toil, public dan
him who weighs, because he mistrusts, and to him whoger, and public honors, he sought his road to philosophy,*
discriminates nothing, because he believes all, as there is
between the value of a commonplace-book and a philo-
sophical treatise. The first may be more full of facts than
the latter, but the latter is facts turned to use. It is this
state of rational doubt which a metaphysical course of
study naturally induces. It is, therefore, after the investi-
gation of morals that we should turn to history. Nor is
this all the advantage which we derive from the previous
study of morals. History were, indeed, an old almanac to
him who knows neither what is right, what wrong; where
governments have been wise, where erroneous, History,
egarded in the light of political utility, is, to quote Vol-
ney again, "a vast collection of moral and social experi- |
ments, which mankind make involuntarily and very expen-
* And this persuasion must be my apology for detailing at
such length criticisms which must appear to many readers not
■ little tedious.
|
V
Mga bag
a road beset with rapine and slaughter; every slave that
feli graved in his heart a warning, every horror he experi
enced animated and armed his genius. Saturate with the
spirit of his age, his page has made it incarnate for pos
terity, actual, vivified, consummate and entire. If, in-
deed, it be dread and ghastly, it is the dread and ghastli
ness of an unnatural life. Time has not touched it with a
charnel touch. The magician has preserved the race in
their size and posture, motionless, breathless; in all else,
unchanged as in life
A. It is a great loss to our language that Bolingbroke
never fulfilled what seems to have been the intention of his
life, and the expectation of his friends,
viz. the purpose
so often alluded to in his letters, of writing a history.
* It is a great proof of the wisdom the world had taught him,
that though he differed with Pliny on all political and publi
views, the difference never impaired their private friendship.
'63
BULWER'S NOVELS.
L. Yes; from all he has left us, he seems to have been
preeminently qualified for the task: his thoughts so just,
yet so noble; his penetration into men so keen; his dis-
cernment of true virtue so exact!
A. He gave, certainly, its loftiest shape to the doctrine.
of utility, and is the real father of that doctrine in Eng-
land.*
L. Returning from these criticisms on historians to the
effect which history produces, I cannot but think that its
cannot but think that its
general effect tends rather to harden the heart against
mankind. Its experience, so long, so consistent, so unva-
rying, seems a silent and irresistible accuser of the human
species. Men have taken the greatest care to preserve their
most unanswerable villifier. All forms of government,
however hostile to each other, are alike in one effect,
the generai baseness of the governed. What differs the
A
:
feeling of despair for human amendment, which histor
otherwise produces : we can, alas! only counteract the
influence of past facts by recurring to the dreams of enthu-
siasts for the future; by clinging to some one or other of
those dreams; and by a hope that, if just, is at least
unfounded by any example in gone ages: that by the
increase of knowledge, men will approach to that political
perfection which does not depend alone on the triumphs of
art, or the advance of sciences, which does not depend
alone on palaces, and streets, and temples, and a few
sounding and solemn names, but which shall be felt by the
common herd, viz. by the majority of the people felt by
them in improved comfort; in enlightened minds; in con-
sistent virtues; in effects, we must add, which no causes
have hitherto produced. For why study the mysteries of
legislation and government? Why ransack the past, and
extend our foresight to distant ages? if our skill can only
improve, as hitherto it has only improved, the condition of
oligarchies; if it can only give the purple and the palace
to the few,
to the few, if it must leave in every state the degraded
many to toil, to sweat, to consume the day in a harsh and
sterile conflict with circumstance for a bare subsistence;
their faculties dormant; their energies stifled in the cradle;
strangers to all that ennobles, refines, exalts; if at every
effort to rise they are encountered by a law, and every
enterprise darkens with them into a crime; if, when we
cast our eyes among the vast plains of life, we see but one
universal arena of labor, bounded on all sides by the gib
bet, the hulks, the wheel, the prison; all ignorance, preju-
dice, bloodshed, sin; if this state is to endure for ever
on earth, why struggle for a freedom which a few only can
enjoy, for an enlightenment, which can but call forth a
few luminous sparks from an atmosphere of gloom : for a
political prosperity which props a throne, and gives steeds
to a triumphal car, and animates the winged words of elo-
quence, or the golden tomes of verse, or the lofty specula-
tion of science, and yet leaves these glories and effects
but as fractions that weigh not one moment against the
incalculable sum of human miseries? Alas! if this be the
eternal doom of mortality, let us close our books, let us
shut the avenues to our minds and hearts, let us despise
benevolence as a vanity, and speculation as a dream. Let
us play the Teian with life, think only of the rose and
vine, and since our most earnest endeavours can effect so
little to others, let us not extend our hopes and our enjoy-
ments beyond the small and safe circle of self! No man
must either believe in the perfectibility of his species, or
virtue and the love of others are but a heated and object-
boasted Greece from the contemned Persia ?- the former
produces some hundred names which the latter cannot
equal. True! But what are a few atoms culled from the
sea-sands ? what a few great men to the happiness
of the herd? Are not the Greek writers, the Greek sages,
more than all others, full of contempt for the mass around
them? the fraud, the ingratitude, the violence, the
meanness, the misery of their fellow-beings, do not these
make the favorite subject of ancient satire and ancient dec-
lamation? And even among
And even among their great men, how few on
whose merits history can at once decide!-how few unsul-
lied, even by the condemnation of their own time. Plutarch
says, that the good citizens of Athens were the best men the
world ever produced; but that her bad citizens were unparal-
leled for their atrocities, their impiety, their perfidy. Let us
look over even the good citizens Plutarch would select, and,
judging them by the rules of their age, how much have the
charitable still left to forgive! Were I to select a person-
ification of the genius of Athens, I would choose Them-
istoclos; a great warrior and a wise man, resolute in ad-
versity, accomplished in expedients, consummate in ad-
dress. Reverse the portrait; he begins his career by the
most unbridled excesses; he turns from them, it is said,-
to what ? -to the grossest flattery of the multitude: the
people he adulates at first, he continues to rule by deceiv-
ing; he has recourse to the tricks and arts of superstition
to serve the designs and frauds of ambition. He governs
professedly as a quack. He thinks first of destroying
his allies, and, baffled in that, contents himself with plun-
dering them. Not naturally covetous, he yet betrays his
host (Timocreon the Rhodian) for money. Vain, as well
as rapacious, he lavishes in ostentation what he gains by
meanness. Lastly, —" linking one virtue with a thou-
sand crines,' he completes his own character, and con-
summates the illustration he affords of the spirit of his
country, by preserving to the last (in spite of his hollow L. I must own, that until it broke upon me I saw noth、
promises of aid to the barbarian, in spite of his resenting in learning but despondency and gloom. As clouds
ment) his love to his native city, a passion that did not
prevent error, nor baseness, nor crime, exerted in her cause,
but prevented all hostility against her. The most sel-
fish, the most crafty, the most heartless of men, destroyed
himself, rather than injure Greece.
A. Leaving his life a proof that patriotism is contracted
and unphilosophical feeling; it embraces but a segment of
morals. Philanthropy is the only consistent species of
public love.
A patriot may be honest in one thing, yet a
knave in all else, - a philanthropist sees and seizes the
whole of virtue.
L. And it is by philanthropy, perhaps, (a modern affec-
tion,) that we may yet add a more pleasing supplement to
the histories of the past. This hope can alone correct the
The Utilitarians have quite overlooked their obligations to
Lord Bolingbroke : they do not seem to be aware with what
a lite and majesty he ansferred their doctrines from morals to
politics.
When he was chosen admiral by the Athenians, he put off
all affairs, public and private, to the day that he was about to
embark, in order that he might appear, in having a great deal of
business to transact, with a greater dignity and importance,
(Plutarch.) It is quite clear that all the business thus deferred
inust have been very badly done, and thus a trick to preserve
power was nobler and better in his eyes than a care for the
public advantage.
† As an evidence how little the wisdom of the chiefs had de-
scended to the deliberaons of the people; viz. how little the
- we find that
majority profited by their form of government,
when an Athenian orator argued a certain point too closely
with Themistocles, the people stoned him, and the women
stoned his wife So much for free discussion among the
Ancients.
less enthusiasm.
A. And this hope, whether false or true, gains ground
daily.
was
across the heaven, darkening the light, and fading one
after the other into air, seemed the fleeting shadows which
philosophy had called forth between the earth and sun.
If, day after day, in my solitary retreat, I pondered over
the old aspirations of sages, with the various jargon with
which, in pursuit of truth, they have disguised error, I felt
that it was not to teach myself to be wise, but to learn
to despair of wisdom. What a waste of our power,
what a mockery of our schemes seemed the fabrics they
had erected, the Pythagorean unity and the Heraclitan
fire to which that philosopher of woe reduced the origin of
all things. And the "Homoomeria" and primitive "in-
telligence" of Anaxagoras; and the affinity and discord
of Empedocles, and the atoms of Epicurus, and the bipar.
and preëxistent soul which was evoked by Flato:
there not something mournful in the wanderings and chime-
ras of these lofty natures? fed as they were in caves and
starry solitudes, and winged by that intense and august
contemplation, which they of the antique world were alone
able to endure. And when, by a sounder study, or a more
fortunate train of conjecture, the erratic enterprise of their
knowledge approached the truth, when Democritus, for
a moment, and at intervals, eyes by a glimmering light the
true courses of the heavenly host, -or when Aristippus,
amid the roseate and sparkling errors of his creed, yet
catches a glimpse of the true doctrine of morals and the
causes of human happiness, -or when the lofty Zeno and
the sounder Epicurus, differing in the path, meet at length
at the true goal,- and then again start forth into delusion;
their very approach to truth, so momenta y and partial
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
169
CC
►
all was sullen and wintry, the March wind had swept
along dry hedges and leafless trees, the only birds I had
encountered were two melancholy sparrows in the middle
of the road, too dejected even to chirp: but now a glory
had passed over the earth, the trees were dight in that
delicate and lively verdure which we cannot look upon
without feeling a certain freshness creep over the heart.
Here and there thick blossoms burst in clusters from the
fragrant hedge, and (as a schoolboy pranked out in the
to mock at the past winter by assuming its gaib. Above,
about, around,--all was in motion, in progress, in joy,-
the birds, which have often seemed to me like the messen-
gers from earth to heaven, charged with the homage and
gratitude of Nature, and gifted with the most eloquent of
created voices to fulfil the mission; the birds were upon
every spray, their music upon every breath of air. Just
where the hedge opened to the left, I saw the monarch of
English rivers glide on his serene and silver course, — and
in the valley on either side of his waters, village, spire,
cottage, and, at rarer yet thick intervals, the abodes of
opulence looked out among the luxuriant blossoms and the
vivid green by which they were encircled. It was a thor-
oughly English scene. For I have always thought that the
peculiar characteristic of English & enery is a certain air of
content. There is a more serene and happy smile on the
face of an English landscape than is found in any which,
far more rich and voluptuous in its features, I have admired
in other countries.
only mocks the more the nature of human wanderings,
caput ac fontem ignorant, divinant, ac delirant omnes."*
Couple then the records of philosophy with those of history;
couple the fallacies of the wise with the sorrow and the
sufferings of the herd, and how dark and mournful is our
knowledge of the past, and therefore our prospects of the
future! And how selfish does this sentiment render our am-
bition for the present! How vain seem the mighty struggle
and small fruit of those around us! Look at this moment at
the agitation and ferment of the world, with what pre-hoops and ruffies of his grandsire) the white thorn seemed
tence can they who believe that the past is the mirror of the
future lash themselves into interest for any cause or princi-
ple, save that immediately profitable to self! To them, if
deeply and honestly acquainted with history and the progress
of knowledge, -to them how vain must seem the struggles
and aspirations of the crowd! Why do the people im-
agine a vain thing? Why the hope and strife of the re-
joicing Gaul; or the slow murmur that foretells irruption
through the bright land of Italy? Why should there be
blood spilt in the Vistula or why should the armed Bel-
gian dispute for governments and kings? Why agitate
ourselves for a name, —an ideal good? These orations,
and parchments, and meetings, and threats, and prayers,
this clamor for "reform," how miserable a delusion
how miserable a delusion
must it seem to him who believes that the mass of men
nust for ever be "the hewers of wood and drawers of
water!" To them no change raises the level of existence;
famine still urges on to labor, want still forbids knowl-
edge. What matters whether this law be passed, or that
flect be launched, or that palace built, their condition is
the same; the happiest concurrence of accident and wis-
don brings them but a greater certainty of labor. A free
state does not redeem them from toil, nor a despotism
increase it. So long as the sun rises and sets, so long
mus their bread he won by travail, and their life "be
rounded with temptation to crime. It seems, therefore,
to me, impossible for a wise and well-learned man to feel
sincerely, and without self-interest, for the public good,
unless he believe that laws and increased knowledge will at
length, however gradually, devise some method of raising
the great multitude to a nearer equality of comfort and
intelligence with the few; that human nature is capable of
a degree of amelioration that it seems never hitherto to
have reached; and that the amelioration will be felt from
the surface to the depth of the great social waters, over
which the spirit shall move. The repablics of old never
effected this object. To expect it, society must be altered
as well as legislation. It is for this reason that I feel glad,
with an ingenious and admirable writer, † that even theory
is at work: I am glad that inquiry wanders, even to the
fallacies of Owen, or the chimeras of St. Simon. Out of
that inquiry good may yet come; and some future Bacon
overturn the axioms of an old school, polluted, not re-
deemed, by every new disciple. To the man who finds it.
possible to entertain this hope, how different an aspect the
world wears! Casting his glance forward, how wondrous
a light rests upon the future! the farther he extends his
vision, the brighter the light. Animated by a hope more
sublime than wishes bounded to earth ever before inspired,
ne feels armed with the courage to oppose surrounding
prejudices, and the warfare of hostile customs. No secta-
rian advantage, no petty benefit is before him; he sees but
the regeneration of mankind. It is with this object that
he links his ambition, that he unites his efforts and his
name ! From the disease, and the famine, and the toil
around, his spirit bursts into prophecy, and dwells among
ature ages; even if in error, he luxuriates through life in
.ne largest benevolence, and dies, — if a visionary, — the
isionary of the grandest dream.
>>
CONVERSATION THE SIXTH.
-
Ir is a singularly pretty spot in which L resides.
Perhaps some of the most picturesque scenery in England
is in the eighbourboəd of London, and as I rode the other
day, in the early pri', along the quiet lane which branches
from the mair ;oad to L- 's house, spring never seemed
to me to smile upon a lovelier prospect. The year had
broken into as youth as with a sudden and hilarious bound.
A few days before, I had passed along the same road,-
* Erasmi Colloquia: Hedonius et Spudæus.
The author of Essays on the Publication of Opinion, &c.
VOL II
22
Presently I came to the turn of the lane which led at
once to L
-'s house, in a few minutes I was at the
gate. Within, the grounds, though not extensive, have the
appearance of being so, the trees are of great size, and
the turf is broken into many a dell and hollow, which gives
the ground a park-like appearance. The house is quaint and
old-fashioned (not gothic or Elizabethan) in its architecture;
it seems to have been begun at the latter period of the reigu
of James the First, and to have undergone sundry altera-
tions, the latest of which might have occurred in the time
of Anne. The old brown bricks are covered with jessa-
mine and ivy, and the room in which L—— generally
passes his day looks out upon a grove of trees, among
which, at every opening, are little clusters and parterres
of flowers. And this spot, half-wood, half-garden, I
found my friend, seduced froin his books by the warmth and
beauty of the day, seated on a rustic bench, and surrounded
by the numerous dogs which, of all species and all sizes, he
maintains in general idleness and favor.
>
"I love," said L-
speaking of these retainers,
"like old Montaigne, to have animal life around me. The
mere consciousness and sensation of existence is so much
stronger in brutes than in ourselves, their joy in the com-
mon air and sun is so vivid and buoyant, that I (who think
we should sympathize with all things if we would but con-
descend to remark all things) feel a contagious exhilaration
of spirits in their openness to pleasurable perceptions.
And how happy, in reality, the sentiment of life is!-how
glorious a calin we inhale in the warm sun!-how raptur
ous a gladness in the fresh winds!
ous a gladness in the fresh winds! - how profound a med-
itation, a delight in the stillness of the starry time!'-
how sufficient alone to make us happy is external nature,
were it not for these eternal cares that we create for our-
selves. Man would be happy but that he is forbidden to
be so by men. The most solitary persons have always been
the least repining."
A. But then their complacency arises from the stagna-
tion of the intellect, it is indifference, not happiness.
L. Pardon me, I cannot think so. How many have
found solitude not only, as Cicero calls it, the pabulum of
the mind, but the nurse of their genius! How many of
the world's most sacred oracles have been uttered, like
those of Dodona, from the silence of deep woods! Look
over the lives of men of genius, how far the larger pro-
portion of them have been passed in loneliness. No, for
my part I think solitude has its reward both for the dull
and the wise; the former are therein more sensible to the
mere animal enjoyment which is their only source of happi-
ness; the latter are not (by the irritation, the jealousy,
the weariness, the round of small cares, which the crowd
produces) distracted from that contemplation and those
pursuits which constitute the chief luxury of their life, and
the TO Kador of their desires. There is a feeling of escape,
when a man who has cultivated his faculties rather in
170
BULWER'S NOVELS.
|
thought than action finds himself, after a long absence in And how few among the mass of writings that float down to
cities, returned to the spissa nemoru domusque Nympharum, posterity are not far more impregnated with the bright col-
which none but himself can comprehend. With what a orings of the mind, than its gloomier hues! Homer, Vir-
deep and earnest dilation Cowley luxuriates in that, the gil, Ariosto, Goethe, Voltaire, Scott, and, perhaps, a
most eloquent essay perhaps in the language! - although, lower grade, Cervantes, Fielding, Le Sage, Molière.
as a poet, the author of the Davideis was idolized far be- What a serene and healthful cheerfulness! nay, what a
yond his merits by a courtly audience, and therefore was quick and vigorous zest for life are glowingly visible in all !
not susceptible, like most of his brethren, of that neglect It is with a very perverted judgment that some have
of the crowd which disgusts our hearts by mortifying our fastened on the few exceptions to the rule, and have as
vanity. How calm, how august, and yet how profoundly serted that the gloom of Byron or the morbidity of Rousseau
joyful is the vein with which he dwells on the contrast of characterize, not the individual, but the tribe. Nay, even
the town and the country! "We are here among the vast in these exceptions, I imagine that, could we accurately
and noble scenes of Nature. We are there among the pit- examine, we should find, that the capacity to enjoy strong-
iful shifts of policy. We walk here in the light and openly pervaded their temperament, and made out of their griefs
ways of Divine bounty. We grope there in the dark and
confused labyrinths of human malice!"
A. There is a zest even in turning from the harsher sub-
jects, not only of life, but of literature, to passages like
these! How these green spots of the poetry of sentiment
soften and regenerate the heart!
L. And so,
after wading through the long and dry details
which constitute the greater part of history, you may con-
ceive the pleasure with which I next turned to that more
grateful way of noting the progress of nations, the his-
tory of their literature.
A. I thank you for renewing the thread broken off in our
last conversation. We had been speaking of the reflections
which history awakened in your mind. That necessary
(and yet how seldom a useful) study was followed then by
the relaxation of more graceful literature.
L. Yes, and in the course of this change a singular ef-
fect was produced in my habits of mind. Hitherto I had
read without much emulation. Philosophy, while it soothes
the reason, damps the ambition. And so few among histo-
rians awaken our more lively feelings, and so little in his-
tory encourages us to pass the freshness of our years in
commemorating details at once frivolous to relate and labo-
rious to collect, that I did not find myself tempted by either
study to compose a treatise or a record. But fiction now
opened to me her rich and wonderful world, I was
brought back to early (and early are always aspiring) feel-
ings, by those magical fascinations which had been so
dear to my boyhood. The sparkling stores of wit and
fancy, the deep and various mines of poesy, stretched be-
fore me, and I was covetous! I desired to possess, and
to reproduce. There is a German legend of a man who
had resisted all the temptations the earth could offer. The
demon opened to his gaze the marvels beneath the earth.
Trees effulgent with diamond fruits, pillars of gold, and
precious stones. Fountains with water of a million hues,
and over all a floating and delicious music instead of air.
The tempter succeeded: envy and desire were created in
the breast that had been calm till then. This weakness
was a type of mine! I was not only charmed with the
works around me, but I became envious of the rapture
which they who created them must, I fancied, have enjoyed.
I recalled that intense and all-glowing_description which
De Staël has given in her Essay on Enthusiasm, of the
ecstasy which an author enjoys, not in the publication, but
the production of his work. Could Shakspeare, I ex-
claimed, have composed his mighty Temple to Fame, with-
out feeling, himself, the inspiration which consecrated the
fame? Must he not have enjoyed, above all the rest of
mankind, every laugh that rang from Falstaff, or every
moral that came from the melancholy Jaques Must he
not have felt the strange and airy rapture of a preternatural
being, when his soul conjured up the Desert Island, the
Caliban, and the Ariel? Must he not have been intoxica-
ted with a gladness, lighter and more delicate, yet, oh,
mo exquisite and rich, than any which the merriment of
earth can father, when his fancy dwelt in the summer-noon
under the green boughs with Titania, and looked on the
ringlets of the fairies, dewy with the kisses of the flowers?
And was there no delight in the dark and weird terror
with which he invoked the grisly three, "so withered and
so wild in their attire," who, in foretelling, themselves cre-
ated the bloody destinies of Macbeth? So far from believ-
ing, as some have done, that the feelings of genius are in-
clined to sadness and dejection, it seemed to me vitally
necessary tɔ genius to be vividly susceptible to enjoyment.
The poet in prose or verse,- the creator, -can only stamp
his images forcibly on the page in proportion as he has
forcibly felt, ardently nursed, and long brooded over them.
|
a luxury! Who shall say whether Rousseau breathing
forth his reveries, or Byron tracing the pilgrimage of Childe
Harold, did not more powerfully feel the glory of the task,
than the sorrow it was to immortalize? Must they not
have been exalted with an almost divine gladness, by the
beauty of their own ideas, the melody of their own mur
murs, the wonders of their own art? Perhaps we should
find that Rousseau did not experience a deeper pleasure,
though it might be of a livelier hue, when he dwelt on his
racy enjoyment of his young and pedestrian excursion, than
when in his old age, and his benighted but haunted mood,
he filled the solitude with imaginary enemies, and bade his
beloved lake echo to self-nursed woes. You see, then, that
I was impressed, erroneously or truly, with the belief that
in cultivating the imagination I should cultivate my happi-
ness. I was envious, not so much of the fame of the orna-
ments of letters, as of the enjoyment they must have expe-
rienced in acquiring it. I shut myself in a closer seclusion,
not to study the thoughts of others, but to imbody my own.
I had been long ambitious of the deepest hoards of learning.
I now became ambitious of adding to the stores of a lighter
knowledge.
A. And did you find that luxury in ideal creation which
you expected?
L. I might have done so, but I stopped short in my ap-
prenticeship.
A. And the cause?
1
fac-
L. Why, one bright day in June, as I was sitting alone
in my room, I was suddenly aroused from my reverie by a
sharp and sudden pain, that shot 'hrough my breast, and
when it left me I fainted away. I was a little alarmed by
this circumstance, but thought the air might relieve me.
walked out, and ascended a hill at the back of the house.
My attention being now aroused and directed towards my.
self, I was startled to find my breath so short that I was
forced several times to stop in the ascent. A low, short
cough, which I had not heeded before, now struck me as a
warning, which I ought to prepare myself to obey. That
evening, as I looked in the glass, for the first time for sev
eral weeks with any care in the survey, I perceived that
my apprehensions were corroborated by the change in my
appearance. My cheeks were fallen, and I detected in
their natural paleness that hectic which never betrays its
augury. I saw that my days were numbered, and I lay
down to my pillow that night with the resolve to prepare
for death. The next day when I looked over my scattered
papers, when I saw the mighty schemes I had commenced,
and recalled the long and earnest absorption of all my
ulties, which even that commencement had required, — I
was seized with a sort of despair. It was evident that I
could now perform nothing great, and as for trifles, ought
they to occupy the mind of one whose eye was on the
grave? There was but one answer to this question. I
committed my fragments to the flames; and now there
came, indeed, upon me a despondency I had not felt before.
I saw myself in the condition of one who, after much tra
vail in the world, has found a retreat, and built himself a
home, and who in the moment he says to his heart, "Now
thou shalt have rest!" beholds himself summoned away.
I had found an object, - it was torn from me,
my staff
was broken, and it was only left to me to creep to the tomb
without easing by any support the labor of the way. I had
coveted no petty aim, I had not bowed my desires to the
dust and mire of men's common wishes, I had bade my
ambition single out a lofty end, and pursue it by generous
means. In the dreams of my spirit, I had bound the joys
of my existence to this one aspiring hope, nor had I built
that hope on the slender foundations of a young inexperi-
ence, I had learned, I had thought, I had toiled before
-
-
M
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
17)
I ventured in my turn to produce. And now, between my- | chance, by a concurrence of atoms, by nothing intelligent,
self and the fulfilment of schemes that I had wrought with or contriving in itself, should we not cry out, "This is a
travail, and to which I looked for no undue reward, there ridiculous fable; every thing that our experience affords
yawned the eternal gulf. It seemed to me as if I was con- as testimony contradicts it." Is the universe less pregnant
demned to leave life at the moment I had given to life an with art and design than the clock or the house? Is there
object. There was a bitterness in these thoughts which it lens harmony in the change of the seasons, in the life of
was not easy to counteract. In vain I said to my soul, the tides, in the mechanism of Nature, than in the handi-
"Why grieve?- Death itself does not appal thee. And work of man, which, however skilful, however wondrous,
after all, what can life's proudest objects bring thee better an accident deranges, a blow destroys? But what ever
than rest?" But we learn at last to conquer our destiny, stops, what convulsion, what incident ever arrests the
by surveying it; there is no regret which is not to be van- august regularity of creation, the motion of the stars, the
quished by resolve. And now, when I saw myself declining appointed progress of vegetable life? Wherever we look
day by day, I turned to those more elevating and less earthly on external nature, we see developed in perfection all that
meditations, which supply us, as it were, with wings, when answers to our fullest conception of the word "design."
the feet fail. They have become to me dearer than the And is it not, then, an easy and an irresistible conjec.
dreams which they succeeded, and they whisper to me of a ture, that by design the world was created? But design
brighter immortality than that of fame.
at once necessarily implies something active, intelligent,
and living. And lo! this is our elementary notion of a
CONVERSATION THE SEVENTH.
"I KNOW not," said L
"what the presentiment
of certain death may effect in changing the thoughts and
tae feelings of other men; but in me the change was in-
stantaneous and complete. Sometimes, in the evening, we
see a cloud on which the setting sun has rested, and has
coloured it with gold and vermeil: we look again some
minutes afterward, and the glory is gone; all is cold and
gray. That cloud was to me the image of life. The bright
delusion that one moment had made the vapor so lovely,
vanished the next; and I now cared not how soon it might
melt away
into air, —oh ! might I rather
oh might I rather say into heaven!
"With a sigh I closed my more worldly studies. I
apandoned at once the labors destined never to know com-
pletion, and I surrendered my whole heart to the contem-
plation of that futurity which was not denied me. Yet
even here one thought startled me it aroused the doubt,
and I bent myself sternly to wrestle with what it roused.
And whom has that doubt not startled? who, at least, in
whom faith is the creature of reason, and who has applied
himself dispassionately and seriously to consider the ele-
ments of his nature and the causes of his hope? You guess
what I refer to; we have often conversed on it."
A. The existence of evil in the world, the crime trium-
phant, and the virtue dejected?
L. Exactly. This has been, in all ages, the chief cause
of skepticism, -to such skeptics as are both reflective and
sincere. Yet, while I was sadly revolving this truth, a
light seemed to break from the heart of the cloud, and in
this very source of discontent below I saw a proof of futu-
rity beyond.
A. Indeed that will be a new step in theological sci-
ence.
L. I will explain shortly: but you must give me your
whole attention. I come first to an old problem. This
world is. It must, therefore, have been created, or it must
always have existed. If created, it must have been crea-
ted either by chance or by design. Now which of these
three conjectures is the most probable? First, that the
world always existed; secondly, that it was formed by
chance; or, thirdly, that it was created by design? You
know the old argument of Clarke, in proof that matter
cannot be eternal, and that the world, therefore, could not
always have existed; but, unhappily, no metaphysician
ever read that argument without detecting its fallacies.
Fortunately, however, we do not require metaphysics to
prove that the world has not always existed. That truth
is proved by physical science. Geology makes it probable;
astronomy makes it certain. There must come a time when,
in the ordinary course of nature, light alone would destroy
the world.* If there is a time when it must end, there
must have been a time when it begun. And we come then
to the two next suppositions, if the world has not always
existed, was it commenced by chance, or created by design?
Which is the more probable conjecture? Let us take the
daily evidence of our senses. Does chance, in what we
see around us, ever create one uniform, harmonious, un-
changeable system? If we see a clock, if we see a house,
and we are told the house and the clock were made by
* Singularly enough, the "Edinburgh Review," for October
1831, has taken up exactly this view of the question. This pa-
pe was written months before that Review appeared.
God!
Having proceeded so far, the rest of my argument is sim-
ple. This Being, or this Power, is, then! What are its
unavoidable attributes? Let us dismiss the word "in-
finite :" it puzzles, and is not necessary: but That which
created this universe must be, according to all our notions
of wisdom, greatly wise, wise above all dream of com-
parison, beyond the wisest of us, who spend our lives in
examining its works, and can only discover new harmonies
without piercing to the cause. According to the same no-
tions, it must likewise be greatly powerful,- powerful in
the same ratio beyond the power of humanity. This Being,
then, is greatly wise and greatly powerful! Is it benevo-
lent? Let us hear what Paley says. He is great on this
point. Perhaps it is one of the best passages in a work
rarely indeed profound, but always clear. I have never
heard even a plausible answer to it.
"Contrivance proves design, and the predominant ten-
dency of the contrivance indicates the disposition of the
designer. The world abounds with contrivances; and all
the contrivances which we are acquainted with are directed
to beneficial purposes. Evil, no doubt, exists, but is never,
that we can perceive, the object of contrivance. Teeth are
contrived to eat, not to ache: their aching now and then is
incidental to the contrivance; perhaps inseparable from it;
or even, if you will, let it be called a defect in the contri-
vance; but it is not the object of it. This is a distinction
which well deserves to be attended to. In describing im-
plements of husbandry, you would hardly say of a sickle
that it is made to cut the reaper's fingers, though, from the
construction of the instrument and the manner of using it,
this mischief often happens. But if you had occasion to
describe instruments of torture or execution, this engine,
you would say, is to extend the sinews; this to dislocate
the joints; this to break the bones; this to scorch the soles
of the feet. Here pain and misery are the very objects of
the contrivance. Now nothing of this sort is to be found in
the works of Nature. We never discover a train of con-
trivance to bring about an evil purpose. No anatomist
ever discovered a system of organization calculated to
produce pain and disease; or, in explaining the parts of
the human body, ever said, This is to irritate; this is to
inflame; this duct is to convey the gravel to the kidneys;
this gland to secrete the humor which forms the gout. If
by chance he come at a part of which he knows not the
use, the most he can say of it is, that it is useless; no one
ever suspects that it is put there to incommode, to annoy,
or torment.
>>
The general contrivance, then, is benevolent; and the
benevolence of the Unseen Being is thus proved. Now,
then, we have the three attributes, wisdom, power, be-
nevolence. So far I have said little that is new; now for
my corollary. If a being be greatly wise, greatly power-
ful, and also benevolent, it must be just. For injustice
springs only from three causes; either because we have
not the wisdom to perceive what is just, or the power to
enforce it, or the benevolence to will it. Neither of these
causes for injustice can be found in a Being wise, powerful,
benevolent; and thus justice is unavoidably a fourth at-
tribute of its nature. But the justice is not visible in this
world. We bow to the wisdom; we revere the power; we
acknowledge the benevolence; the justice alone we cannot
recognise. The lowest vices are often the most triumphant,
and sorrow and bitterness are the portions of virtue. Look
at the beasts as well as mankind; they offend not; yet
172
BULWER'S NOVELS.
;
what disease and misery! Again: how implicitly are
we the creatures of circumstance! What can be more un-
just than such an ordination ?— to be trained to crime from
our childhood, as the sons of offenders often are, and to
suffer its penalties from following an education we could not
resist. How incompatible with all that we know of justice!
It is in vain to answer that this is not a very general rule
that, in the majority of human instances, virtue and self-
interest are one. This is quite sufficient argument for the
foundation of human codes and an earthly morality; but it
is not a sufficient argument for the justice, in this world,
of a Being so much greater and wiser than ourselves. It
is the misfortune of mankind that we must adopt general |
rules, and disregard individual cases. And why? Because
our wisdom and our power cannot be so consummate, so
complete, as to embrace individual cases. Not so with a
Being whose wisdom and whose power are not measured
by our low standards. The justice is not visible here in
the same proportion as the other attributes. But we have
proved, nevertheless, that justice must exist: if not visible
here, it must be visible elsewhere. What is that else-
where ? AN HEREAFTER.
new.
A. Your deductions are ingenious enough, and, I believe,
But recollect, the same argument from which you
would deduce an hereafter to man is equally applicable to
the brute tribe. For, as you rightly observe, injustice and
the power of evil are no less visibly displayed in their lot
upon earth than they are in the fate of mankind.
"I was about to come to that point, and," (continued
L
with that beautiful and touching smile which I
never saw upon any other human countenance; a smile
full of the softness, the love, the benevolence, the visionary,
the dreaming benevolence of his character, - -a benevo-
lence that often betrays, but with how tender a grace!
the progress of his judgment,) "and" (continued
L) "for my part, I often please inyself with fancy-
ing that the poor Indian,'
'Who thinks, admitted to the equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company,'
no,
is not so untutored' by the great truths and presentiments
of Nature as we imagine. It does not revolt my reason,
nor my pride, to believe that there may be an Eden in the
future as well as in the past, —a garden where the lion
may lie down with the lamb; and there may be at last a
blessed suspension of the universal law, that holds this
world together, the law that all things shall prey upon
each other; the law that makes earth one stupendous
slaughter-house, and unites the countless tribes of creation
in one family of violence and death. But when we see
what evil reigns among the wild things of Nature, not a
fish that swims, not a bird that flies, not an insect that
springs to life one hour, and perishes the next, that is
not subject to the most complicated and often the most
agonizing variety of disease; when we see some whole
tribes only marked for sustenance to others, and a life of
perpetual fear, the most dreadful of all curses, consummat-
d by a violent and torturing death; why should we think
t incompatible with the nature of God, that if reparation
is due to us, reparation should be due also to them? I
own I find nothing irrational in the supposition! Among
the many mansions of our Father's house, there is room for
all his creatures. And often when I consider how many
noble and endearing traits, even in a dog, we may call
forth by kindness, which with all things is the best sort of
education, I am at a loss to know why we should give to
the human clod the germ of an immortality which we
would deny to creatures subject to the same passions, rich
in the same instincts, condemned often to greater miseries,
open to fewer pleasures, and yet capable of all of good
or useful that their physical organization will permit. No!
wherever there is evil, there should from the hands of a
just being be reparation also; and if this be true, all that
partake of life in this world have some sort of claim to
another."
CONVERSATION THE EIGHTH.
·
I HAVE not omitted what, in the eyes of many. will not
redound n ich to the credit of L's understanding; but
ine general reader will not be sorry to find in that char-
acter even weakness, so long as the weakness may de
amiable and endearing; and, after all, I am not drawing
the portraiture of one singular only for his genius. When
Johnson believed in ghosts, it may be pardonable for au
obscure scholar to believe in a more kindly exertion of the
Supreme Power than pride willingly allows; and though
cannot say I share in a L 's opinions, I am cer-
tainly at a loss to decide whether, in looking to the
attributes of God, it is more easy to believe that there is
certain damnation for the deist, or possible atonement to
the poor creatures of the field and air.
I
great
And now I saw L- daily, for his disease increased
rapidly upon him, and I would not willingly have lost any
rays of that sun that was so soon to set for ever. Noth-
ing creates within us so many confused and strange senti-
ments as a conversation on those great and lofty topics of
life or nature which are rarely pleasing, except to wisdom
which contemplates, and genius which imagines;
a conversation on such topics with one whose lips are
about to be closed for an eternity. This thought impresses
even common words with a certain sanctity; what, tuen,
must it breathe into matters which, even in ordinary times,
are consecrated to our most high-wrought emotions and our
profoundest hopes? It is this which gives to the Phædo
of Plato such extraordinary beauty. The thoughts of the
wisest of the heathens on the immortality of the soul must
always have been full of interest; but uttered in a prison,
at the eve of death, the light of another world already
reposes on them!
I saw, then, L
daily, and daily he grew more re-
signed to his fate; yet I cannot deny that there were mo-
ments when his old ambition wou.d break forth, when
the stir of the living world around him, when action,
enterprise, and fame, spoke loudly to his heart moments
when he wished to live on, and the deep quiet of the grave
seemed to him chilling and untimely; and, -- reflect,-
while we were conversing on these calm and unearthly
matters, what was the great world about? Strife and
agitation, the stern wrestle between things that have
been and the things to come, the vast upheavings of so-
ciety, the revolution of mind that was abroad,
not this felt, even to the solitary heart of that retirement
in which the lamp of a bright and keen existence was
wasting itself away?
>
C
was
"I remember," said L- one evening, when we
sat conversing in his study; the sofa wheeled round; the
curtains drawn; the table set, and the night's sedentary
preparations made; "I remember hearing the particulars
of the last hours of an old acquaintance of mine, a lawyer,
rising into great eminence in his profession, a resolute,
hard-minded, scheming, ambitious man. He was attack-
ed in the prime of life with a sudden illness; mortifica-
tion ensued; there was no hope; he had some six or seven
hours of life before him, and no more. He was perfectly
sensible of his fate, and wholly unreconciled to it. 'Come
hither,' he said to the physician, holding out his arm; (he
was a man of remarkable physical strength;) look at
these muscles; they are not wasted by illness; I am still
at this moment in the full vigor of manhood, and you tell
me I must die !' He ground his teeth as he spoke.
'Mark, I am not resigned; I will battle with this enemy;'
and he raised himself up, called for food and wine, and
died with the same dark struggles and fiery resistance
that he would have offered in battle to some imbodied and
palpable foe. Can you not enter into his feelings? I can
most thoroughly. Yes," L
"L-
renewed, after a short
pause, "I ought to be deeply grateful that my mind has
been filed down and conciliated to what is inevitable by
the gradual decay of my physical powers; the spiritual
habitant is not abruptly and violently expelled from its
mansion; but the mansion itself becomes ruinous, and the
inmate has had time to prepare itself for another. Yet
when I see you all about me, strong for the race and eager
for the battle, when, in the dead of a long and sleepless
night, images of all I might have done, had the common
date of life been mine, start up before me, I feel as a man
must feel who sees himself suddenly arrested in the midst
of a journey, of which all the variety of scene, the glow
of enterprise, the triumph of discovery were yet to come.
It is like the traveller who dies in sight of the very land
that he has sacrificed the case of youth and the pleasures
of manhood to reach. But these are not the reflections I
ought to indulge, let me avoid them. And where can
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
173
So Jove usurping reigned - these first in Crete
And Ida known, thence on the snowy top
Of cold Olympus ruled!
ind a better refuge for my thoughts than in talking to you
of this poem, which, long ago, we said we would attempt
to criticise, and which of all modern works, gloomy and
monotonous as it seems to men in the flush of life, offers Even in the Hebrew paradise,
the calmnest and most sacred consolation to those whom
life's objects should no longer interest?"
A. You speak of "The Night Thoughts?" Ay, we
were to have examined that curious poem, which has so
many purchasers, and has been honored with so few critics.
Certainly, when we remember the day in which it appear-
ed, and the poetry by which it has been succeeded, it is
worthy of a more ample criticism than, with one excep-
tion, it has received.
C
C
"It is very remarkable," said L, willingly suf
fering himself to sink into a more commonplace vein,
"how great a difference the spirit of poetry in the last
century assumes, when breathed through the medium of
blank verse, and in that of rhyme. In rhyme, the fashion
of poetry was decidedly French, and artificial; polish,
smoothiess, point, and epigram are its prevailing charac-
teristics; but in blank verse, that noble metre, introduced
by Surrey, and perfected by Shakspeare, the old genius
of English poetry seems to have made a stubborn and re-
solute stand. In the same year that Pope produced The
Dunciad,' appeared the Summer' of James Thomson.
Two years prior to that, viz. 1726, the first published of
the Seasons, Winter,' had been added to the wealth of
English poetry, unnoticed at first, but singled out happily
by perhaps the best critic of the day, Whately, and
recommended by his to more vulgar admiration. The
Seasons' is a thoroughly national poem, thoroughly En-
glish not that Thomson, or any English poet of great
name, has entirely escaped the affectation of classical
models; that affectation is indeed to be found not the
least frequently among those poets the most purely na-
tional. Nicholas Grimoald, the second English poet in
blank verse after Surrey, a translater as well as poet,
:
is a curious instance of the English spirit blended with
the Latin school. Thus, in his poem on Friendship, the
lines,
'Of all the heavenly gifts, that mortal men commend,
What trusty treasure in the world can countervail a friend?
Our health is soon decayed, goods casual, light, and vain,
Broke have we seen the force of power,and honor suffer stain!'
These lines, I say, are soon afterward followed by ref-
erences to Scipio and Lælius, and Cicero and Atticus;
and, by the way, Theseus and Pirithous, or, as he is pleas-
ed to abbreviate the latter name, Pirith, are thus made the
vehicle to one of those shrewd hits of quaint, odd satire
which the old poets so loved to introduce,
'Down Theseus went to hell,
Pirith, his friend, to find;
✪ that the wives, in these our days,
Were to their mates as kind !'
—
Vaux,
>
'The universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Leads on the eternal spring!'
The climax of beauty in Raphael's appearance, is that,
And
'Like Maia's son he stood."
–
the Eternal' himself borrows Homer's scales to
decide upon the engagement between fiend and angel,
'Golden scales yet seen
Betwixt Astræa and the Scorpion sign.'
We all know how much the same classic adulterations min-
gle with the English Helicon at a later period; how little
even the wits of the time of Charles the Second escape ite
hereditary taint. Sedley's mistresses are all Uranias and
Phillises. Now he borrows a moral from Lycophron, and
next he assures us, in one of the prettiest of his songs, that
'Love still has something of the sea
From whence his mother rose.'
Dryden, whose excellence never lay greatly in an accurate
taste, though in his admirable prose writings he proves
that he knew the theory while he neglected the practice, is
less painfully classical and unseasonably mythological than
might have been expected; and as from his time the school
of poetry became more systematically copied from a classi-
cal model, so it became less eccentric in its classical ad-
mixtures. Pope is at once the most Roman of all our
poets, and the least offensive in his Romanism. I mention
all this to prove, that when we find much that is borrowed,
and often awkardly borrowed, from ancient stores, ancient
names, and ancient fables, in those poets of the last cen
tury whom I shall take the license to call preeminently
English, we must not suppose that they are, from that
fault, the less national; nay, that very aptitude to borrow,
that very leaning to confuse their present theme with the
incongruous ornaments of a country wholly opposite from
our own, are almost, on the contrary, a testimony how
deeply they were imbued with that spirit which belonged to
the most genuine of their predecessors.
CC
a
Among the chief characteristics of our English poetry
deep melancholy in moral reflection, coupled with a strong
are great minuteness and fidelity in rural description,
repine at the bitters,
and racy aptitude to enjoy the sweets of life as well as to
a glowing richness, a daring cour-
age of expression, and a curious love of abrupt change in
thought and diction; so that the epigrammatic and the
sublime, the humorous and the grave, the solemn and the
quaint, are found in a juxtaposition the most singular and
startling; as much the reverse of the severe simplicity of
blance, and that but occasionally, and in this point alone,
the true ancient schools as possible, and having its resem-
in the Italian.'
*
"So, in short, through all the long series of English
poets, through those preceding Elizabeth,
Sackville, -even the homely Tussur, in his Five Hun-
dreth Poyntes of good Husbandrie,' (certainly as English the poets in blank verse are Akenside, Thomson, and
"In the middle of the last century, the three greatest of
and as rural a poem as possible,) fly with peculiar avid-Young. Of these three the last I consider the most thor
ity to ancient times for ornaments and allusions the most
unseasonable and ostentatious. The grace and elegance of
Elizabeth's age were no preventives to the same perversion
of taste; Christianity and mythology, knight-errantry and
stoicism, Gothic qualities and Roman names, all unite to-
gether in the most exulting defiance of reason and common
The Arcadia,' a poem (if Telemachus has right-
ly been called a poem) of the polished Sidney, is the most
arabesque of all these mixtures of poetical architecture:-
Shakspeare does not escape the mauia; Marlowe plunges
into it; Ben Jonson, with all his deep learning, and cer-
tainly correct taste, pictures his own age most faithfully,
but covers the dress with Roman jewelry. The taste contin-
ued; the sanctity of Milton's theme, and the rigidity of his
religious sect, sufficed not to exclude from his venerable
page,
sense;
-
C
C
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train.’
The gods of old are translated to see in the modern hell, -
{ Titan, heaven's-first-born,
With his enormous brood and birthright seized
By younger Saturn, he from mightier Jove
Ilis own and Rhea's son, like measure found:
•
oughly English in his muse; but with the exception of that
extreme love of blending extremes which I have noted be-
fore, the two former are largely possessed of the great fea-
tures of their national tribe. Pope's Pastorals were writ-
ten at so early an age that it would not be fair to set them
in comparison to Thomson's Seasons,' if Pope's descrip-
tions of scenery had ever undergone any change in their
spirit and conception, in proportion as he added to the
taste, the incomparable epigram, and even (witness the
correct ear of his youth, the bold turn, the exquisite
image, which adorn the poetry of his maturer years; but
prologue to Cato') the noble thought and the august
however Pope improved in all else, his idea, his notion of
rural description always remained pretty nearly the same,
viz. as trite as it could be. And this, an individual
failing, was the failing also of his school, the eminent
failing of the French school to this very day. Well, then,
Pope having fixed upon autumn as the season of a short
* Critics not acquainted with our early literature have im-
agined this mixture of grave and gay the offspring of late years
nay, some have actually attributed its origin in England t♥
Byron's imitations from the Italian,
74
BULWER'S NOVELS.
pastoral, chooses
telling us first, that
'Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were strewed with purple light.'
“Tuneful Hylas,' then, thus
'Taught rocks to weep and made the mountains groan.'
'Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove,
tuneful Hylas' for his songster, and Latin is better than much which is more celebrated;) and,
above all, he was a pedant in the Greek philosophy. All
this tended to unanglicise his poem, and make
and make it infinitely
too scholastic, and certainly neither in vigor or richness of
expression, in close description, in sublimity, in terseness,
in avoidance of cold generalities, is he to be put on a par
with Thomson or Young. But still if you compare his
blank verse with his own rhyme, or with that of Johnson's
'London,' (which, though I do not remember the exact date
it was published, must have appeared somewhere about that
period,) you find the native muse more visible, more at
liberty in the blank verse, than the other and more crippled
metre. I mention Johnson in particular, for the gen us
of both was scholastic and didactic. Both thought of the
ancients, the one copied from Juvenal, the other imagined
from Lucretius. The passages I shall quote from each are
strictly classical. But one is of the old English race of
classical description, it breathes of Spenser and of Mil-
-the other was the antinational, the new, the borrow-
ed, the diluted, the classical description, which steals the
triteness of old, without its richness. One takes the dress,
the other the jewels. Thus Johnson :--
not
Just gods shall all things yield returns but love?'
"Now these lines are very smooth, and, for the age at
which they were composed, surprisingly correct. They are
as good, perhaps, as any thing in Les Jardins' of Delille;
but there is not a vestige of English poetry in them,
a vestige. Thomson would not have written them at any
age, and Pope would only have polished them more had he
written them when he published the Dunciad,' i. e. as I
said before, in the same year in which Thomson published
the 'Summer.' But thus begins the poet of the Seasons'
with his Autumn :
<<
C
'Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes ovial on
*
*
*
*
broad, brown, below
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head,
Rich, silent, deep they stand
for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain,
A calm of plenty!'
Again, how fine what follows! Wordsworth is not
more true to Nature. He speaks of the Autumn fogs, -
'Expanding far
The huge dusk, gradual, swallows up the plain,
Vanish the woods, the dim-seen river seems
Sullen and slow to roll the misty wave,
Even in the height of noon oppressed, the sun
Sheds weak
Indistinct on earth,
Seen through the turbid air, beyond the life
Objects appear; and wildered o'er the waste
The shepherd stalks gigantic, till at last
Wreathed dun around, in deeper circles still
Successive, closing sits the general fog
Unbounded o'er the world, and mingling thick,
A formless gray confusion covers all.'
"This is description !—and this is national! - this is
English! — albeit it was the Tweed,
'Whose pastoral banks first heard that Doric reed.'
"Again, too, in another vein, that inclination to stoop
from the grave to the low, which, as I have hinted, is
less frequently displayed in Thomson than in Young (in
Akenside it is scarcely, if at all, noticeable) this is
English. A fox-hunter's debauch,
For serious drinking,
*
*
'Set ardent in
confused above
Glasses and bottles, pipes and gazetteers,
As if the table even itself was drunk,
Lie a wet broken scene, and wide below
Is heaped the social slaughter, where astride
The lubber power in filthy triumph sits,
Perhaps some doctor of tremendous paunch
Awful and deep, a black abyss of drink,
Outlives them all!' &c.
"These are passages which would be rarely found in the
ame poem in any other language than ours, and the
spirit that pervades blank verse such as this, is altogether
different from that which reigned over the cotemporaneous
raymes of the day. It breathes of life, of action, of the
open air, of the contemplative walk in the fields at eve, or
the social hearth at night. But the genius of rhyme lived
in Loudon, -talked with courtiers, made love and wit-
ticisms in a breath, babbled about green fields' in a
dusty closet, and when it walked into print, it was never
without a bag-wig and a sword.
:
--
"The Seasons' were completed in 1730. Fourteen
years afterward appeared Akenside's 'Pleasures of Imag-
ination it is a great poem; but Akenside's habits and
profession and education all conspired to rob it of the fresh-
ness and zest that the subject claimed. He was a physician,
a warm political controversialist, an elegant scholar; (his
ton,
-
'Couldst thou resign the park and play, content,
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;
There mightst thou find some elegant retreat,
Some hireling senator's deserted seat,
And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;
There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers,
And while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,
Despise the dainties of a venal lord;
There every bush with Nature's music rings,
There every breeze bears health upon its wings
On all thy hours security shall smile,
And bless thine evening walk, and morning toil.'
"Now then for Akenside. He has burst into an
apostrophe on Beauty, (with Johnson it would have been
Venus) and after asking whether she will fly,-
'With laughing Autumn to the Atlantic isles;
The poet adds, -
!
-
>
'Or wilt thou rather stoop thy vagrant plume
Where gliding through his daughter's honored shades
The smooth Peneus from his glassy flood
Reflects purpureal Tempe's pleasant scene, —
Fair Tempe haunt beloved of sylvan powers
Of nymphs and fauns, where in the golden age
They played in secret on the shady brink
With ancient Pan. While round their choral steps
Young Hours and genial gales with constant hand
Showered blossoms, odors, showered ambrosial dews
And Spring's elysian bloom!'
it might
"Here all is classic, — antique, Grecian,
be a translation from Euripides. But how different the
life in this page to the cold resuscitation of dry bones in
Johnson! Johnson, who despised the fine ballads which
make the germ of all that is vivid and noble in our poetry,
could not have comprehended the difference between the
genuine antique and the mock. They both have filled their
vases from the old fountain 'splendidior vitro ;' but the vase
of one is the Etruscan shape,- and that of the other is a
yellow-ware utensil from Fleet-street. But now, having
somewhat prepared ourselves by the short survey,
spective and cotemporaneous, that we have thus taken
of English poetry, we come at once to Young,- a man
whose grandeur of thought, whose sublimity of expression,
whose wonderful power of condensing volumes into a line,
place him, in my opinion, wholly beyond the reach of any
of his cotemporaries, and enable him to combine the vari-
ous and loftiest characteristics of prose and verse ;—enable
him to equal now a Milton in the imperial pomp of his
imagery, and now a Tacitus in the iron grasp of his reflec-
tion."
G
retro-
A. There seems to have been in Young's mind a remark-
able turn towards the ambitious. His poetry and his life
equally betray that certain loftiness of desire and straining
after effect, which, both in composition and character, we
term ambitions.
L. It is rather a curious anecdote in literary history that
the austere Young should have attempted to enter Parlia-
ment, under the auspices of that profligate bankrupt of all
morality, public and private, Philip, Duke of Wharton.
Had he succeeded, what difference might it have rade, not
only in Young's life, but in his character! Is it not or
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
175
the cards that the grandest of all theological poets (for
neither Milton nor Dante are in reality theological poets,
though they are often so called) might have become, in
that vicious and jobbing age of parliamentary history, a
truckling adventurer or an intriguing placeman?
A. The supposition is not uncharitable when we look to
his after-life, and see his manoeuvres for ecclesiastical pre-
ferment. For my own part, I incline to suspect that half
the sublime melancholy of the poet proceeded from the dis-
content of the worldling.
(C
|
It is the genius in whom we miss the one that avoids the
other. We may be quite sure when we open Shakspeare
that the sublimest metaphor will be in the closest juxtapo-
sition with what in any one case we should not hesitate to
call the most vulgar,
"To-morrow, and to-morrow,
and to-morrow
"Ma plus douce esperance est de perdre l'espoir," *
is one among a thousand. You recollect, of course, those
extravagances which Addision selects from Milton, and
the many others in that great poet which Addison did not
select; in short, when we blame Young for a want of strict
taste in his metaphors, we blame him for no fault peculiar
to himself, but one which he shares with the greatest poets
of modern times in so remarkable a degree that it almost
seems a necessary part of their genius. And I am not
quite certain whether, after all, it is they or we the critics
who are in the wrong. I think that had a list of their
conceits been presented to Milton and to Young, they
would have had a great deal to say in their defence. Cer-
tainly, by the way, Dr. Johnson, in his hasty and slurring
essay on Young's poetry, has not been fortunate in the
instances of conceits which he quotes for reprobation.
Young's Merchant, "Let burlesque try to go beyond him."
For example, he says of a certain line applied to Tyre in
The line is this,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time:
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death,- Out, out, brief candle!"
L. It is certainly possible that not even the loftiest sen- It is too much the cry to accuse Young, as a peculiarity
timents, the fullest mind, the most devout and solemn
in his genius, of being too bombastic, and turgid, and per-
fervor of religion, may suffice to chase away the poor and egrinate in his metaphors, fond of conceits and addicted
petty feelings that in this artificial world fasten themselves
to exaggeration. Doubtless he is so; but as the man in
around the heart, and are often the base causes of the most
the play exclaims, "Your great geniuses can never say a
magnificent efforts of genius. The blighting of a selfish
The blighting of a selfish thing like other people, - and it certainly is noticeable,
ambition produced the Gulliver of Swift, and possibly though commonplace or uninvestigating critics have said
also deepened the ebon dies of the verse of Young. A
the contrary, that in all modern literature it is the loftiest
morbid discontent, an infirmity of constitution,-breath- order of genius that will furnish examples of the most
breath-order
ed its gloom into the "Rasselas" of Johnson, and the
numerous exaggerations and the most grotesque conceits
"Childe Harold" of him who loved to be compared with Among the Italians we all know how prevalent they are.
Johnson. When the poet flies, after any affliction in the Even the cold rules of the French drama do not banish
world, to his consolatory and absorbing art, he is unaware them, and Corneille, still beyond all comparison the
that that affliction which inspires him is often composed of grandest of the French poets, is also the most addicted to
the paltriest materials. So singular and complex, in short, extravagances.
are the sources of inspiration, so completely and subtly are
the clay and the gold moulded together, that, though it may
be a curious metaphysical pleasure to analyze, and weigh,
and sift the good and the evil therein, it is not a labor that
is very wise in us to adopt. Let us drink into our souls
the deep thought and lofty verse of Lucretius, without ask
ing what share belonged to the filter and what to the genius.
We may remark that the contemplation exhibited in the
poetry of the ancients turns usually towards a gay result,
and sighs forth an Epicurean moral, the melancholy is
soft, not gloomy, and brightens up at its close.
Vina liques, et spatio brevi
Spem longam reseces; dum loquimur fugerit invida
Etas; carpe diem quàm minimùm credula postero."
Life is short, while we speak it flies, enjoy, then, the
enjoy, then, the
present and forget the future: such is the chief moral of
ancient poetry; a graceful and a wise moral, — indulged
beneath a southern sky, and well deserving the phrase
applied to it, the philosophy of the garden," telling
us of the brief and fleeting life of the flowers that surround
us, only to encourage us to hang over their odors while we
may. But it must be observed that this the more agreeable
shape of melancholy is more remarkable among the Ro-
mans than the Greeks. Throughout the various philoso-
phies of the latter the dark and saddening doctrine of an
irresistible fate flows like a bitter stream; and an unre-
lieved and heavy despondency among the less popular of the
remains of Greek poesy often comes in startling contrast to
the gayer wisdom of that more commonly admired. Turn
from Anacreon to the fragments of Mimnermus, collected
by Stobæus, it is indeed turning from the roses to the
sepulchre beneath. "Life is short, we learn from the
gods neither evil nor good, the black fates are before us,
death and old age at hand. Not one among mortals
whom Jupiter heaps not with afflictions," &c. It is chiefly
frota this more sombre order of reflection that the English
contemplative writers deduce their inspiration. Lord
Sackville, in the "Mirror of Magistrates," may furnish
no inadequate notion of the exaggerating extent to which
we have carried despondency. He therein makes sorrow
in hell, introducing the reader to the principal characters in
our history! With our earlier writers Young was intimate-
ly acquainted and deeply imbued. But of all great poets
his plagiarisins are the least naked. Drummond says,—
"This world a hunting is;
The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is death."
And Young at once familiarizes and exalts the image,
"I see the circling hunt of noisy men
Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey,-
Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all."
The love of common and daily images is very remarkable
in Young; but when we come to examine the works of
the greater poets, we shall generally be surprised to find
that those poets who abound in the most lofty and far-
fetched images, invariably furnish also the most homely.
"Her inerchants princes, and each deck a throne !"
It is at least doubtful whether the words that seem so
ridiculous to Johnson do not, on the contrary, body forth a
very bold and fine image; and it is quite certain that the
critic might have selected at least a hundred far more
glaring specimens of conceit or tumidity. One great merit
in Young, and also one great cause of his exaggerations,
is his habit of imbodying feelings, his fondness of per-
sonifying. For instance:
"My hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down, -on what? a fathomless abyss."
This vivifying the dread inmates of the human heart,
and giving the dark invisible a shape and action, is singu
larly fine in the above passage. Again: -
Thought, busy thought, -too busy for my peace, -
Through the dark postern of time long elapsed,
Led softly by the stillness of the night,
Led like a murderer,
-meets the ghosts
Of my departed joys.”
thought that wanders and the joy it meets, that belongs
There is here a dim and sepulchral life breathed into the
only to the highest order of creative poetry; and some-
times a few lines testifying of this sublime power, will
show as prolific and exuberant an invention as that which
calls forth the beings of the drama and the epic,
as the
Greeks often conveyed their most complicated similes in
one epithet. It is scarcely possible to conceive a more
solemn and august example of this faculty than where
afterward he calls bis sorrow itself into a separa'e exist-
ence, and says,
"Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,
I keep an assignation with my woe."
But if this great proneness to personify produce so much
* The Cid.
176
BULWER'S NOVELS.
tha is the greatest in Young, it produces also that
which criticism condemns as the lowest. For instance, you
will smile at the following verses:
tr
Who can take
Death's portrait true? The tyrant never sat."
*
*
*
*
Rude thought runs wild in contemplation's field,
Converse the manège breaks it to the bit.
*
*
*
Insidious death,
*
*
*
He's at the door,
*
*
should his strong hand arrest,
No composition sets the prisoner free."
It is the same habit of personification which, I think,
on looking over Milton and Shakspeare, you will find
mainly produce the same fault (if fault it really be) in
them.
That power of the Greeks to which I have alluded, of
conveying the most complicated images by a word, belongs
also to Young in a greater degree than to any poet since his
As where he exclaims, -
time
"Much wealth how little worldlings can enjoy;
At best it babies us with endless toys."
And again,
a finer instance,
"Mine" (joys) "died with thee, Philander; thy last sigh
Dissolved the charm: the disenchanted earth
Lost all her lustre.
Where her glittering towers,
Her golden mountains where? all darkened down
To naked waste, - a dreary vale of years. —
The great magician's dead!"
the
Here the whole contents of the preceding lines,
the whole victory of death,
are summed up at once in the words,
whole power of friendship,
"The great MAGICIAN'S dead!"
Nothing, indeed, throughout the whole poem is more
remarkable in Young than his power of condensation. He
gathers up a vast store of thought, and coins the whole into
one inestimable sentence. He compresses the porosities of
language, and imbodies a world of meaning in a single line.
And it is indeed remarkable, that a writer possessing this
power to so unrivalled a degree should ever subject himself
with justice to the charge of tumidity.
But what place in our literature is to be assigned to
Young? At present his position is vague and uncertain.
Like many other of our poets, his merits are acknowledged,
but his station undecided. Shall we place him before Pope ?
Pope's admirers would be startled at the presumption.
Below Goldsmith? Few would assert the "Deserted Vil-
the rich, nervous humor, the deep mastery of the living
world that breathes a corporeal life into the shadows of the
"Don Juan," I am at no loss to allow Byron to be a greater
genius, and a greater poet, than Young.
A. But you really think the "Night Thoughts" fine!
than the "Harold.'
L. So much so, that I doubt if the finest parts of
"Childe Harold," the most majestic of its reflections,
and the most energetic of its declamation, -are not found
in those passages which have been (perhaps indistinctly
and unconsciously) borrowed from Young.
A. Byron always admired the " Night Thoughts
idolatry, and his favorite play was "The Revenge."
to
L The fault of the "Childe Harold " is as a whole.
There is no grandeur in its conception. Every novel in
the Minerva Press furnishes a similar idea of the hero and
the plan. A discontented young nobleman, sated and
jaded, setting out on his travels, -turn the conception as
you will, it comes always to that in plain and sober reality.
But this poor and hackneyed conception the poet has hid
in so magnificent a robe, and decorated with such a costly
profusion of gems, that it matters little to the delight and
interest of the reader. Still, in judging of it as a great
poem, we must remember that in the most important part
of a great poem it is deficient. But the conception of the
Night Thoughts," for a didactic poem, is unutterably
grand. An aged and bereaved mourner stands alone with
the dead, the grave his scene, the night his canopy,--
and time, death, eternity, the darkest, the loftiest objects
of human hope and human intellect, supply his only themes.
Here, at this spot, and at this hour, commencing his strain
with a majesty worthy of its aims and end, he calls upon
-
"Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters, twins
From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought
To reason, and on reason build resolve,
That column of true majesty in man!
Assist me I will thank you in the grave,
The grave, your kingdom
")
the veiled and
Following the course of the sombre inspiration that he
adjures, he then passes in a vast review before him, in the
presence of the stars, and above the slumbers of the dead,
the pomps and glories of the world,
shadowy forms of Hope, the dim hosts of Memory -
"The spirit walks of each departed hour,
And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns-
""
—
Standing upon the grave, -the creations of two worlds
are around him, and the gray hairs of the mourner become
touched with the halo of the prophet. It is the time and
spot he has chosen wherein to teach us, that dignify and
consecrate the lesson: it is not the mere human and earth-
lage to be a greater poem than the “ Night Thoughts." ly moral that gathers on his tongue. The conception hal-
What is his exact rank? I confess that I should incline lows the work, and sustains its own majesty in every
to place it on a very lofty eminence. In a word, I should change and wandering of the verse. And there is this
consider the "Night Thoughts," altogether, the finest
greatness in his theme, dark, terrible, severe, - hope
didactic poem in the language. The greatest orders of
never deserts it! It is a deep and gloomy wave, but the
poetry, we all allow, are the epic and the dramatic. I am
stars are glassed upon its bosom. The more sternly he
at a loss to say whether, in general, lyrical or didactic questions the world, the more solemnly he refers its answer
poetry should be placed next; but I am sure that, in our
to heaven. Our bane and antidote are both before him;
country, didactic poetry takes the precedence. None of and he only arraigns the things of time before the tribuna
our lyrists have equalled our great didactic writers; and of eternity. It is this, which to men whom grief or ap-
with us, the order itself of lyrical writing seldom aspires proaching death can divest of the love and hankerings of
beyond the graceful. But it must be understood that there
the world, leaves the great monitor his majesty, but deprives
18 sometimes a great difference between the rank of the
him of his gloom. Convinced with him of the vanities of
poem and that of the poet; many writings of great excel-life, it is not an ungracious or unsoothing melancholy which
lence can pile up a higher reputation than one work of the confirms us in our conviction, and points with a steady
greatest. Both Voltaire and Scott depend, not only on the
hand to the divine SOMETHING that awaits us beyond;
quality, but the quantity of their productions for their fame.
When the public were crying out that the author of “ Wa-
verley was writing too much and too fast, they did not
perceive that even his bad works contributed to swell the
sum of his glory, by proving the fertility of his genius. And
to them may be well applied the words applied to another,
-"He would not have effected such great things, if his
errors had been less numerous. So, although I consider
the "Night Thoughts a poem entitled to rank immediate-
ly below the "Paradise Lost," I am far from contending
that Young should rank as a poet immediately rext to Mil-
I think the " Night Thoughts" a more sustained,
solemn, and mighty poem than the "Childe Harold ;" but
when I recall all the works that accompany the latter,
produce of the same fiery and teeming mind, the dark
tale of "Lara ” the sweetness of the "Prisoner of Chil-
the daring grandeur of "Cain," and, above all,
ton.
lon,"
وو
'
"The darkness aiding intellectual light,
And sacred silence whispering truths divine,
And truths divine converting pain to peace.
I know not whether I should say too much of this great
poem if I should call it a fit appendix to "Paradise Lost."
It is the consolation to that complaint. Imagine the ages
to have rolled by since our first parents gave earth to their
offspring, who sealed the gift with blood, and bequeathed
it to us with toil:- imagine, after all that experience can
teach, after the hoarded wisdom and the increasing
pomp of countless generations, -an old man, one of that
exiled and fallen race, standing among the tombs of his
ancestors, telling us their whole history, in his appeals to
the living heart, and holding out to us, with trembling
hands, the only comfort which earth has yet discovered for
the anticipation of heaven! To me
its cares and sores,
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
197
that picture completes all that Milton began. It sums
up the human history, whose first great chapter he had
chapter he had
chronicled; it preacheth the great issues of the fall; it
shows that the burning light then breathed into the soul
lives there still, and consummates the mysterious record of
our mortal sadness and our everlasting hope. But if the
conception of the "
Night Thoughts" be great, it is also
uniform and sustained. The vast wings of the inspiration
never slacken or grow fatigued. Even the humors and
conceits are of a piece with the solemnity of the puein,
like the grotesque masks carved on the walls of a cathe-
dral, which defy the strict laws of taste, and almost ines-
plicably harmonize with the whole. The sorrow, too, of
the poet is not egotistical, or weak in its repining. It is
the great one sorrow common to all human nature, the
deep and wise regret that springs from an intimate knowl-
edge of our being, and the scene in which it has been cast.
The same knowledge, operating on various minds, pro-
duces various results. In Voltaire, it sparkled into wit: in
Goethe, it deepened into a humor that belongs to the sub-
lime; in Young it generated the same high and profound
melancholy as that which produced the inspirations of the
son of Sirach, and the soundest portion of the philosophy
of Plato. It is, then, the conception of the poem, and its
sustained flight, which entitle it to so high a rank in our lit-
erature. Turn from it to any other didactic poem,
poem, and
are struck at once by the contrast,
once by its greatness. "The Seasons "shrink into a mere
pastoral; the " Essay on Man" becomes French and arti-
ficial; even the "Excursion" of Wordsworth has I know
not what of childish and garrulous, the moment they are
forced into a comparison with the solemn and stern majesty
of the " Night Thoughts.'
you
There is another merit in the "Night Thoughts; " apart
from its one great lesson, it abounds in a thousand minor
ones. Forget its conception, open it at random, and its
reflections, its thoughts, its worldly wisdom alone may
instruct the most worldly. It is strange, indeed, to find
united in one page the sublimity of Milton and the point of
La Bruyere. I know of no poem, except the Odyssey,
which in this excels the one before us. Of insulated
beauties, what rich redundance ! The similes and the
graces of expression with which the poem is sown are full
of all the lesser wealth of invention. How beautiful, in
mere diction, is that address to the flowers : —
"Queen lilies, and ye painted populace,
Who dwell in fields and lead ambrosial lives."
So, too, how expressive the short simile,
like our shadows,
Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines."
While we admire his genius, let us benefit from its object,
while we bow in homage before the spirit that "stole the
music from the spheres to sooth their goddess;
" while we
behold aghast the dread portrait he has drawn of death,
noting from his grim and secret stand the follies of a wild
and revelling horde of bacchanals; while we shudder with
him when he conjures up the arch-fiend from his lair
while we stand awed and breathless beneath his adjuration
to night,-
"Nature's great ancestor, Day's elder born,
And fated to survive the transient sun;
>>
;
let us always come back at last to his serene and ly con-
solation :—
"Through many a field of moral and divine
The muse has strayed, and much of sorrow seel
In human ways, and much of false and vain,
Which none who travel this bad road can miss;
O'er friends deceased full heartily she wept,
Of love divine the wonders she displayed;
Proved man immortal; showed the source of joy ;
The grand tribunal raised; assigned the bounds
Of human grief. In few, to close the whole,
The moral inuse has shadowed out a sketch
Of most our weakness needs believe, or do,
In this our land of travail and of hope,
For peace on earth, or prospect of the skies.”
M
M
— -
I have given the substance, — and, as far as I could
remember, the words of my friend's remarks,
you are amazed at
the last
conversation I ever held with him on his favorite poet,
or indeed upon any matters merely critical. And although
the reader, attached to more worldly literature, may not
agree with L
as to the high and settled rank in which
the poem thus criticised should be placed, — I do not think
he will be displeased to have had his attention drawn for a
few moments towards one, at least, among the highest, but
not most popular of his country's poets. At this solemn
time, too, of the year, the graver and the holier thoughts
of life can scarcely be considered strangers altogether un-
invited and unwelcome. And as for the rest, it is not
perhaps amiss to refresh ever and anon our critical suscep-
tibilities to genius, its defects and its beauties, by re-
curring to those departed writers, who, being past the
reach of our petty jealousies, inay keep us, as it were,
in the custom to praise without envy and blame without in-
justice. And I must confess, moreover, that it appears to
me a sort of duty we owe to the illustrious dead, to turn at
times from the busier and more urgent pursuits of the
world,― and to water from a liberal urn the flowers or the
laurels which former gratitude planted above their tombs.
It was a fine morning at the end of last August, and I
rode leisurely to L- 's solitary house; his strength
had so materially declined during the few days past, that I
felt a gloomy presentiment that I was about to see him for
the last time. He had always resolved, and I believe this
is not uncommon with persons in his disease, not to take
to his bed until absolutely compelled. His habitual amuse-
ments, few and tranquil, were such that he could happily
continue them to the last, and his powers of conversation,
naturally so rich and various, were not diminished by the
approach of death; perhaps they were only rendered more
impressive by the lowered tones of the sweetest of human
voices, or the occasional cough that mingled, as it were,
his theories on this world with a warning from the next.
I have observed that as in old people the memory becomes
the strongest of the faculties, so it also does with those
whom mortal sickness, equally with age, detaches from the
lengthened prospects of the future. Forbidden the objects
from without, the mind turns within for its occupation, and
the thoughts, formerly impelled towards hope, nourish
themselves on retrospection. Once I had not noted in
L- that extraordinary strength of memory,
the ready
copiousness of its stores,-that he now seemed to display.
His imagination had been more perceptible than his learn-
ing, -now every subject on which we conversed elicited
hoards of knowledge, always extensive and often minute,
of which perhaps he himself had been previously uncon-
scious. It is a beautiful sight, even in the midst of its
melancholy, the gradual passing away of one of the better.
order of souls, the passions lulled as the mind awakens,
and a thousand graces of fortitude and gentleness called
forth by the infirmities of the declining frame.
character assumes a more intellectual, a more ethereal com»
plexion; and our love is made a loftier quality by our ad
miration, while it is softened by our pity.
What, -but here I must pause abruptly, or I should go on
for ever; for the poet is one who strikes the superficial
even more on opening a single page at randoin than in re-
viewing the whole in order. Only one word, then, upon
the author himself. Ambition he certainly possessed;
and, in spite of all things, it continued with him to the last.
His love of ambition perhaps deepened, in his wiser mo-
ments, his contempt of the world: for we are generally
disappointed before we despise. But the purer source of
his inspiration seems to have been solemnly and fervently
felt throughout life. At college he was distinguished for
his successful zeal in opposing the unbelief of Tindal. In
literature, some of his earliest offerings were laid upon the
altar of God. In the pulpit, where he was usually a pow-
erful and victorious preacher, he is recorded to have once
burst into tears on seeing that he could not breathe his
own intense emotion into the hearts of a worldly audience.
Naterally vain, he renounced the drama, in which he had
gaited so great a reputation, when he entered the church;
and though called covetous, he afterward gave, when his
S
૧
play of "The brothers" several years afterward was acted,
not the real proceeds of the play, (for it was not successful,)
but what he had imagined might be the proceeds,
thousand pounds, to the propagation of the gospel abroad.
A religious vein distinguished his private conversation in
health and manhood, no less than his reflections in sorrow,
and his thoughts at the approach of death. May we hope
with him that the cravings of his heart were the proof of
an hereafter,
That grief is but our grandeur in disguise,
And discontent is immortali……
VOL. II.
23
|
The
178
BULWER'S NOVELS
Full of these eflections, I arrived at the house of my
lying friend. "My master, sir," said the old servant,
"has passed but a poor night; he seems in low spirits this
morning, and I think he will be glad to see you, for he has
Inquired repeatedly what o'clock it was, as if time passed
heavily with him. The old man wiped his eyes as ne
spoke, and I followed him into L 's study. The
countenance of the invalid was greatly changed even since
I last saw him. The eyes seemed more sunken, and the
usual flush of his complaint had subsided into a deep trans-
parent paleness. I took his hand, and he shook his head
gently as I did so. "The goal is nearly won!" said he,
faintly, but with a slight smile. I did not answer, and he
proceeded after a short pause, "It has been said that
ife is a jest; it is a very sorry one, and unlike jests in
general; its dulness is the greater as we get to the close.
At the end of a long illness it is only the dregs of a man's
spirit that are left him. People talk of the moral pangs
that attend the death-bed of a sinner, as well might they
talk of the physical weakness of a dying wrestler. The
mental and the physical powers are too nearly allied for us
fairly to speculate or the fidelity of one while the other de-
clines. Happy in any case that the endurance if not the
elasticity of my mind lingers with me to the last! I was
looking over soine papers this morning, which were full of
my early visions, aspirations of fame, and longings after
immortality. I am fortunate that time is not allowed me
to sacrifice happiness to these phantoms. A man's heart
must be very frivolous if the possession of fame rewards
the labor to attain it. For the worst of reputation is, that
it is not palpable or present, we do not feel, or see, or
taste it. People praise us behind our backs, but we hear
them not: few before our faces, and who is not suspicious
of the truth of such praise? What does come perpetually
in our career of honors is the blame, not praise, the
envy, not esteem. Every review, if in letters, every
newspaper, if in politics, erects itself into, not our wor-
shipper, but our censor. We receive justice as one believed
guilty is discovered to have been innocent, -only after
death."
CC
P
"Ay," said I; "but after a little while the great man
learns to despise the abuse which is not acknowledged to
be just."
live
how mysteriously have they sprung from the desire to ne
higher than we are. As the banyan tree springs aloft only
to return to the mire, we would climb to the heaven and
find ourselves once more in the dust. Thus, looking up to
the starred and solemn heavens,* girt with the vast soli-
tudes of unpeopled Nature, hearkening to the
thunder,' or suffering the nightly winds to fill their hearts
with a thousand mysterious voices, mankind in the early
time felt the inspiration of something above them; they
bowed to the dark afflatus; they nourished the unearthly
dream; and they produced,
produced, — what?
what? SUPERSTITION!
The darkest and foulest of moral demons sprang from. their
desire to shape forth a God, and their successors made
earth a hell by their efforts to preserve the mysteries and
repeat the commands of heaven!
Our
"How beautiful, how high were those desires in man's
heart which lifted it up to the old Chaldean falsehoods of
astrology! Who can read at this day of those ancient
seers, striving to win from the loveliest and most glorious
objects given to our survey the secrets of men and empires,
the prodigies of time, the destinies of the universe, with
out a solemn and stirring awe, an admiration at the vast
conception even of so unwise a dream? Who first thought
of conning the great page of heaven? who first thought
that in those still, and cold, and melancholy orbs,
chronicles were writ? Whoever it was, his must have
been a daring and unearthly soul; but the very loftiness
of its faculties produced ages of delusion, and priestcraft,
and error to the world.
and error to the world. Leave for one moment the chain
of the petty KNOWN, — give wings to the mind, let the
aspiring loose, and what may be the result? How
rarely aught but a splendid folly! As the fireworks that
children send forth against a dark sky,
sky,—our ambition
burns, and mounts, and illumes for one moment the dim
vault of the uncomprehended space, but falls to the earth
quenched of its lustre, - brilliant, but useless, ascend-
ing, but exploring not, - a toy to all, but a light to none."
"There is one ambition," said I," which you do not
mean thus to characterize, the ambition of philanthropy,
the desire more
and
"To raise the wretched than to rise:
you, I know, who believe in human perfectibility, can
"In proportion as he despises abuse," answered he, "he appreciate at a higher value that order of ambition."
will despise praise, if the one gives no pain, the other "You kindly remind me, "said L-
" of one of
will give no pleasure; and thus the hunt after honors will the greatest consolations with which a man, who has any
be but a life of toil without a reward, and entail the apa- warmth or benevolence of heart, can depart this world,
thies of obscurity without its content.
the persuasion that he leaves his species gradually progress-
"But consider, there is the reward of our own heart ing towards that full virtue and generalized happiness which
which none can take away,
, our proud self-esteem, and, his noblest ambition could desire for them. Night, ac-
if you will, our fond appeal to the justice of an after-cording to the old Egyptian creed, is the dark mother of
age.
""
>>
And
all things; as ages leave her, they approach the light. That
"But our self-esteem, -our self-applause may be equal- which the superficial dread is in reality the vivifier of the
ly, perhaps more securely, won in obscurity than in fame; world, I mean the everlasting spirit of change.
and as to posterity, what philosophical, what moderately figuring forth unconsciously to themselves this truth, the
wise man can seriously find pleasure for the present in re- Egyptians, we are told by Porphyry, represented their de
flecting on the praises he can never hear? No, say what mons as floating upon the waters; for ever restless and
we will, you may be sure that ambition is an error: its
its evoking the great series of mutabilities. Yet who lightly
wear and tear of heart are never recompensed, it steals cares to take upon himself the fearful responsibility of
away the freshness of life, — it deadens its vivid and social
it deadens its vivid and social shaking the throned opinions of his generation, knowing
enjoyments, it shuts our soul to our own youth, and that centuries may pass before the good that is worked shall
we are old ere we remember that we have made a fever compensate for the evil done? This fear, this timidity of
and a labor of our raciest years. There is, and we cannot
conscience it is that makes us cowards to the present, and
deny it, a certain weary, stale, unprofitable flatness in all leaves the great souls that should lead on reform inert and
things appertaining to life; and, what is worse, the more sluggish, while the smaller spirits, the journeymen of time,
we endeavour to lift ourselves from the beaten level, the just creep up inch by inch to what necessity demands,
keener is our disappointment. It is thus that true philoso- leaving the world ages and ages behind that far goal which
phers have done wisely when they have told us to cultivate the few, in heart, and cye, and speculation, have already
our reason rather than our feelings, for reason reconciles reached."
us to the daily things of existence, our feelings teach us
to yearn after the far, the difficult, the unseen,
Pag
'Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.'
But the golden exhalations' last not, our fancies make
the opium of our life, the rapture and the vision, the
languor and the anguish. This is an old remark. Poets
eternally complain of the same truth. But what, when we
come deeply to consider of it, what a singular fatality is
that which makes it unwise to cultivate our divinest emo-
tions! We bear within us the seeds of greatness; but
suffer them to spring up, and they overshadow both our
sense and our happiness! Note the errors of mankind!
A. One of the strange things that happen daily is this,
men who the most stir the lives of others lead themselves
the most silent and balanced life. It is curious to read
how Känt, who set the mind of Germany on fire with the
dim light of mysticism, himself lived on from day to day
the mere creature of his habits, and performing somewhat
of the operations of the horologe, that in its calm regularity
leads the blind million, to portion out in new and wild
dreams the short span of existence. So with all philoso-
phers, all poets, -how wonderful the contrast between the
* "She, mid the lightning's blaze and thunder's sound,
When rocked the mountains and when groaned the ground,
She taught the weak to bend, the proud to pray
To powers unseen and mightier far than they, POPE.
CONVERSATIONS WITH A STUDENT.
NVERS
179
quiet of their existence and the turbid effects they produce!
This, perhaps secretly to ourselves, makes the great charm
in visiting the tranquil and still retreats from whence the
oracles of the world have issued, the hermitage of Ere-
monville, the fortress of Wartenburg; the one where
Rousseau fed his immortal fancies, the other whence
burst, from the fiery soul of Luther, the light that yet lives
along the world : - what reflections must the silence and
the mouldering stone awaken, as we remember the vivid
and overflowing hearts of the old inhabitants! Plato and
his cave are, to all ages, the type and prophecy of the
philosopher and his life.
ear!
P
>
L. Few, my friend, think of all the lofty and divine
hopes that the belief in immortality opens to us. One of
the purest of these is the expectation of a more entire intel-
ligence, of the great gift of conversing with all who have
lived before us, of questioning the past ages and unray-
elling their dark wisdom. How much in every man's
heart dies away unuttered! How little of what the sage
knows does the sage promulge! How many chords of the
lyre within the poet's heart have been dumb to the world's
All this untold, uncommunicated, undreamed-of
hoard of wisdom and of harmony, it may be the privilege
of our immortality to learn. The best part of genius the
world often knows not, the Plato buries much of his lore
within his cave,
and this, the high unknown, is our her-
itage. With these thoughts," continued L
you
see how easy it is for the parting soul to beautify and adorn
death! With how many garlands we can hang the tomb!
Nay, if we begin betimes, we can learn to make the pros-
pect of the grave the more seductive of human visions,
by little and little we wean from its contemplation all that
is gloomy and abhorrent, by little and little we hive
therein all the most pleasing of our dreams. As the neg-
lected genius whispers to his muse, Posterity shall know
thee, and thou shalt live when I am no more,' we find in
this hallowed and all-promising future a recompense
for
every mortification, for every disappointment, in the pres-
It is the belief of the Arabs, that to the earliest places
of human worship there clings a guardian sanctity,
there
the wild bird rests not, there the wild beast may not wan-
der; it is the blessed spot on which the eye of God dwells
and which man's best memories preserve. As with the
earliest place of worship, so is it with the latest haven of
repose, as with the spot where our first imperfect
adoration was offered up, our first glimpses of divinity
indulged, so should it be with that where our full knowl-
edge of the arch-cause begins, and we can pour forth a
gratitude no longer clouded by the troubles and cares of
earth. Surely if any spot in the world be sacred, it is that
in which grief ceases, and from which, if the harmonies
of creation, if the voice within our hearts, if the impulse
which made man so easy a believer in revelation, if these
mock and fool us not with an everlasting lie, we spring up
on the untiring wings of a pangless and seraphic life,
those whom we loved, around us; the aspirings that we
nursed, fulfilled; our nature, universal intelligence, -
atmosphere, eternal love!"
ent.
our
In discourses of this sort the day wore to its close, and
when will the remembrance of that day ever depart from
me! It seemed to me, as we sat by the window, the sun
sinking through the still summer air, the leaves at rest, but
how fell of life, the motes dancing upon the beam, the
Lirds with their hymns of love, and every now and then the
chirp of the grasshopper,
"That evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy and sings his fill;"
as we so sat, and looking upon the hushed face of our
mother Nature, I listened to the accents of that wild and
impassioned wisdom, so full of high conjecture and burning
vision, and golden illustration, which belonged to him for
whom life was closing, I could have fancied that the wor d
was younger by some two thousand years, and that it was
not one of this trite and dull age's children that was taking
his farewell of life; but rather one of the sage enthusiasts
of that day when knowledge was both a passion and a
dream, when the mysteries of the universe and the life to
come were thought the most alluring of human themes, and
when, in the beautiful climates of the west, the sons of
wisdom crept out to die among the trees they had peopled
with divinities, and yielded their own spirit to the great
soul of which it was a part, and which their mysterious
not
faith had made the life and ruler of the world.* For 1
think, nay, I feel assured, that those, the high sons of the
past philosophy, have neither in their conduct nor their
manner of thought been fully appreciated by that posterity
that treads lightly over the dust of what once was life.
They wandered wildly, but their wanderings were
of the earth, earthly; " and they possessed more of that
power, and beauty, and majesty, and aspiration, which are
the soul, they had less of the body, and more of spirit,
than all the priests have dreamed of while they railed
against the earthliness of paganism, from the cherubic par-
adise of tithes. For religion, Christ's religion, the beauti-
ful, the saving, is not fenced round with the hedges of glebe
land, or doled forth in the cold hypocrisies of pulpited
orthodoxy. Religion and priests have the same connex-
ion with each other as justice and attorneys. And now
the sun sank, and
"Maro's shepherd star
Watched the soft silence with a loving eye."†
"Above all things deeply interesting to the heart," said
L, as we continued our various thread of talk, "in
every time and age, has been the theory of ghosts and ap-
paritions, the return of the dead to earth. With the
solemn secrets, which the living pine to know, clinging
around thein, the evidence borne by such return, that the
human feeling and the human memory exist beyond the
grave, -the dread transgression of the customary law by
which the dead sleep to sight, and their dreams the eye
may follow not, these cannot fail to engross the whole
mind of one who once admits the possibility of such an
event.
M
A. I have met with a man who not only deposes to have
seen the ghost of his dearest friend at the hour in which he
died, at the distance of several hundred miles, but who
also brings a second eyewitness of the same apparition.
The story of Sir John Sherbrooke is well known and an.
thenticated. It is rather strange that these tales do not die
away equally with those of sorcerers and witches, but that
they occur to the present age, with enlightened men to
vouch for their truth.
—
and
"And I," said L —, solemnly, "might almost be
classed among such witnesses. Listen! About the time
when I became first aware that my doom was fixed, I had
been reading some old letters of hers, you know whom I
refer to,- and with my heart full of them, it was some
time before I could fall asleep. I did so at last,
she came to me in my dreams, wan, yet not as with death's
hues, but exceeding fair and lovely, fairer than in life,
and she spoke to me of a thousand things that had
passed between us, and told me (for I was yet a doubter)
that love lived beyond the grave; and then methought that
her voice changed, and it was rather as the strain of some
tender but solemn music, such as we hear in cathedrals,
than the sound of a human voice; and in this strain she
went on, telling me of what she now felt and knew, and of
the mysteries of her present life. I strove, while I lis-
tened, to impress these upon my memory; but the words
were like an air heard the first time, that leaves a delicious
indistinctness on the soul, which haunts us, but which we
cannot ourselves repeat. Yet since, as I have sat alone at
night, and thought of what may be, certain broken and
fitful images, as of recollection, have come across me, and
I have fancied I could trace them to that night. And I
thought that when she had done, I said, in the tumult and
impatience of my heart, This is but a dream!' and she
answered, It is more.' And I exclaimed, 'Give me a
sign that it is more, and that to-morrow I may still believe
so!' And I thought that she smiled, and assured me of a
certain sign; and—and on the morrow, I awoke, and
the sign was given me !'
"Of what nature was it?" said I, curiously, though
incredulously.
ייִן
>
"That," replied L speaking with great agitation,
"that I cannot reveal. I know what you are about tc
say, you think you could resolve it to natural and ordi-
nary causes. Probably; but I, seeking diligently, — can-
not! nor would I now, in the last hours of my life, have it
* But Phornutus, by Jupiter, understands the soul of the
world, he writing thus concerning him, cons; fi nosic, &c. “As
we ourselves are governed by a soul, so hath the world, in like
manner, a soul that containeth it, and this is called Zeus, 0:25
the cause of life to all things that live," &c.—Cu lworth, vol. i.
p. 529.
| Milton, a poem. By the author of “Eugene Eram," &c.
180
BULWER'S NOVELS.
―
so explained away. It has been to me a comfort and a
hope, I have nursed it fondly, I have linked around it
—
many pleasant dreams: -- it may be a superstition; but
when a man's life is at its last sands, such harmless super-
stition can injure none,
<<
not even himself. 'Nor," said
L , speaking more collectedly, "would I relate the
secret to you, impressed as it is with my faith, lest, if you
could not reason away its possibility, it might hanker rest-
lessly in your mind, the parent of a thousand other super-
stitions. As it is, you will naturally suppose me unduly
credulous; and even in wondering and guessing, will not
believe."
I endeavoured to persuade Lout of his resolution,
but could not succeed, and my endeavouring gave him
pain; in fact, I could see that he was, when the glow of
narration had died away, a little sorry and a little ashamed
of a weakness not worthy of him, though natural to his im-
aginative and brooding temperament of mind.
"Do you remember," said L , drawing me away
from the subject, "a story in one of the old English chroni-
cles, how a bird flew into the king's chamber, when the
king was conversing with some sage upon the nature of the
soul? 'Behold!' said the sage, it is like that bird while
within this room; you can note its flight and motions, but
you know not whence it came ere it entered, nor can you
guess whither it shall fly when it leaves this momentary
lodging.'
C
,
- to
It chanced, somewhat curiously, that, as I spoke,
a small bird, I know not of what name or tribe, for I
am not learned in ornithology, suddenly alighted on the
turf beneath the window, and though all its fellow-songsters
were already hushed, poured forth a long, loud, sweet lay,
that came, in the general silence, almost startlingly on the
ear. "Poor bird!" said L
said L
musingly, it is thy
farewell to one, who, perhaps, has given thee food for thy
little ones, and whose hand is wellnigh closed. And,
continued he, after a short pause, and lifting up his eyes,
he gazed long and earnestly around the scene, now bathed
in all the darkening but tender hues of the summer night,
-"and shall I be ungrateful to that Power which has, since
my boyhood, fed my thoughts, the wanderers of the heart,
-have I no farewell for that Nature whom, perhaps, I be-
hold for the last time? Oh, unseen Spirit of creation!
that watchest over all things, the desert and the rock, no
less than the fresh water bounding on like a hunter on his
path, when his heart is in his step, -or the valley girded
by the glad woods, and living with the yellow corn,
me, thus sad and baffled, thou hast ministered as to the
happiest of thy children!-thou hast whispered tidings of
unutterable comfort to a heart which the world sated while
it deceived! Thou gavest me a music, sweeter than that
of palaces, in the mountain wind ! thou badest the flowers
and the common grass smile up to me as children to the
face of their father! — Like the eve of a woman first loved
to the soul of the poet was the face of every soft and never-
silent tar to me! Nature! my mother Nature! as the in-
fant the harsh slavery of schools pines for home, I yearned
wit the dark walls of cities, and amid the hum of un-
familier men, for thy sweet embrace, and thy bosom
whereon to lay my head, and weep wild tears at my will!
I thank thee, Nature, that thou art round and with me
to the last . Not in the close thoroughfares of toil and
traffic, not tethered to a couch, whence my eyes, asking
for thee, would behold only those dim walls which are the
dying man's worst dungeon, or catch through the lattice
the busy signs and crowded tenements of the unsympathiz-
ing herd, not thus shall my last sigh be rendered up to
the great Fount of life! To the mystic moment when the
breath flutters and departs, thy presence will be round me,
and the sentiment of thy freedom bathe my soul like a fresh
air! Farewell thou, and thy thousand ministrants and chil-
dren! every leaf that quivers on the bough, — every dew-
drop that sparkles from the grass, — every breeze that ani-
mates the veins of earth, are as friends, that I would rather
feel around my death-bed than the hollow hearts and un-
genial sympathies of my kind! O Nature, farewell! if we
are re-united, can I feel in a future being thy power, and
thy beauty, and thy presence, more intensely than I have
done in this?"
*
* * * *
****
for the
g
th
64 по
When I was about to take leave of L
he asked me, in a meaning voice, to stay with him a littl
longer: "The fact is," said he, "that Dr. implies a
doubt whether I shall see another day; so be with me at
least till I fall asleep. I mean," added he, smiling,
in the metaphoric, but the literal sense of the word."
Accordingly, when he retired for the night, I sat by his
bedside, and we continued to converse, for he wished it,
though but by fits and starts: be gave me several instruc-
tions as to his burial, and as to various little bequests, not
mentioned in his formal testament. While indifferent tc
the companionship of men, he had never been ungrateful
for their affection: the least kindness affected him sensi-
bly, and he was willing in death to show that he had not
forgotten it. Indeed I have observed, that the more we
live out of the world, the more little courtesies, such as in
the crowd are unheeded, are magnified into favors, —— true,
that the same process of exaggeration occurs in respect to
petty affronts or inconsiderate slights. The heart never
attains the independence of the mind.
66
;
Before the window, which looked out into the garden,
the dark tops of the trees waved mournfully to and fro; and
above, in deep relief, was the sky, utterly cloudless, and all
alive with stars. My eyes are very heavy," said L
"close the curtains round my head." I did so, and crept
softly into the next room, where the nurse sat dozing in a
large chair by the fireside.
Does he sleep, sir?" said she, waking up as I ap-
proached.
"He will shortly," said I; "he seems inclined to it."
"Poor gentleman! he will soon be out of his suffer-
ings," said the nurse; and she therewith took a huge
pinch of snuff.
Yes! this is the world's notion. With what wondrous
ingenuity they shift off the pain of regret !
A friend, a
brother, nay, a son dies, they thank God he is out of
bis afflictions! In one sense they are right. They make
the best of their own short summer, and do not ask the
cloud to stay longer than sufficient to call up the flowers or
refresh the soil. Yet this is a narrow view of the subject
of death.
of death. A bright genius disappears, -a warm heart is
stilled, and we think only (when we console ourselves) of
the escape of the individual from his bed of pain. But
ought we not to think of the loss that the world, that
our whole race sustains? I believe so.
How many
thoughts which might have flashed conviction on the
universe will be stricken for ever dumb by the early death
of one being! What services to earth might the high
purity, the deep knowledge, the ardent spirit of L
have effected! But this we never think of.
tleman!" quoth the nurse, he will soon be out of his
sufferings!" and therewith she took a huge pinch of snuff.
- My God! what shallow self-comforters we are!
L~
"Poor gen-
"He is a good gentleman!" said she again, turning
round to the fire; "and so fond of dumb animals. Cæsar,
sir, the dog Cæsar, is at the foot of the bed, as usual?
ay, I warrant he lies there, sir, as still as a mouse.
sure them creturs know when we are sick or not.
" and the nurse,
sir, how the dog will take on, when,
breaking off, applied again to her snuff-box.
-
I am
Ah!
I did not feel at home in this conversation, and I soon
stole again into the next room.
What a stillness there
was in it! It seemed palpable. Stillness is not silent,
at least to the heart. I walked straight up to the bed.
L- 's wan hand was flung over the pillow. I felt it gently;
but it fluttered
the pulse was almost imperceptibly low,
nevertheless. I was about to drop the hand, when L——
half turned round, and that hand gently pressed my own.
I heard a slight sigh, and fancying he was awake, I bent
over to look into his face. The light from the window
came fall upon it, and I was struck, appalled, by the
exceeding beauty of the smile that rested on the lips. But
those lips had fallen from each other! 1 pressed the pulse
the fluttering was gone.
I started away
again. No,
I moved to the
with an unutterable tightness at my heart.
door, and called (but under my breath) to the nurse. She
came quickly; yet I thought an hour had passed before she
We went once more to the bed,
crossed the threshold.
and there, by his master's face, sat the poor dog. He had
crept softly up from his usual resting-place; and when he
saw us draw aside the curtain, he looked at us so wistfully,
that, no, I cannot go on! - There is a religion in a
good man's death that we cannot babble to all the world
―
-
G
THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD IN MEN AND BOOKS.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD IN MEN AND BOOKS.
ROYALTY and its symbols were abolished in France.
A showman of wild beasts had (the pride of his flock) an
immense Bengal tiger, commonly called the Royal Tiger.
What did our showman do? Why, he knew the world,
and he changed the name of the beast from the Tigre Royal |
to the Tigre National! Horace Walpole was particularly
charmed with this anecdote, for he knew the world as well
as the showman. It is exactly these little things, the
happy turn of a phrase, —a well-timed pleasantry, that no
unobservant man ever thinks of, and that, while seeming
humor, are in reality wisdom. There are changes in the
veins of wit, as in every thing else. Sir William Temple
tells us that on the return of Charles II. none were more
out of fashion than the old Earl of Norwich, who was
esteemed the greatest wit of the time of Charles the First.
But it is clear that the Earl of Norwich must have wanted
knowledge of the world; he did not feel, as by an instinct,
like the showman, how to vary an epithet, he stuck to
the last to his tigre royal !
This knowledge of the world baffles our calculations,
t does not always require experience. Some men take to
stuitively; their first step in life exhibits the same pro-
ound mastery over the minds of their cotemporaries,
the same subtle consideration, the same felicitous ad-
dress, as distinguish the close of their career. Congreve
had written his comedies at twenty-five; the best anec-
dotes of the acuteness of Cyrus are those of his boyhood.
I should like, above all things, a veracious account of the
childhood of Talleyrand. What a world of shrewdness
may he have vented in trundling his hoop! Shakspeare
has given us the madness of Hamlet the youth, and of Lear
the old man,
but there is a far deeper wisdom in the
young man's thoughts than those of the old man.
Minds early accustomed to solitude usually make the
keenest observers of the world, and chiefly for this reason,
when few objects are presented to our contemplation we
seize them, - we ruminate over them, - we think, again
and again, upon all the features they present to our exami-
nation; and we thus master the knowledge of the great
book of mankind as Eugene Aram mastered that of learn-
ing, by studying five lines at a time, and ceasing not from
our labor till those are thoroughly acquired. A boy whose
attention has not been distracted by a multiplicity of ob- |
jects, who, living greatly alone, is obliged therefore to
think, not as a task, but as a diversion, emerges at last
into the world,—a shy man, but a deep observer. Accus-
tomed to reflection, he is not dazzled by novelty; while it
strikes his eye, it occupies his mind. Hence, if he sits
down to describe what he sees, he describes it justly at
once, and at first; and more vividly perhaps than he might
in after-life, because it is newer to him. Perhaps, too, the
moral eye resembles the physical, — by custom familiarizes
itself with delusion, and inverts mechanically the objects
presented to it, till the deceit becomes more natural than
Nature itself.
M
There are men who say they know the world, because
they know its vices. So does an officer at Bow-street or
the turnkey at Newgate. This would be a claim to knowl-
edge of the world, if there were but rogues in it. But
these are as bad judges of our minds as a physician would
be of our bodies, if he had never seen any but those in a
diseased state. Such a man would fancy health itself a
disease. We generally find, indeed, that men are governed
by their weaknesses, not their vices; and those weaknesses
are often the most amiable part about them. The wavering
Jaffier betrays his friend through a weakness, which a
hardened criminal might equally have felt, and which, in
|
|
that criminal, might have been the origin of his guilt. 1.
is the knowledge of these weaknesses, as if by a glance,
that serves a man better in the understanding and conquest
of his species than a knowledge of the vices to which they
lead, it is better to seize the one cause than ponder over
the thousand effects. It is the former knowledge which I
chiefly call the knowledge of the world. It is this which
immortalized Moliere in the drama, and distinguishes
Talleyrand in action.
r
It has been asked whether the same worldly wisdom
which we admire in a writer would, had occasion brought
him prominently forward, have made him equally successful
in action. Certainly not, as a necessary consequence.
Swift was the most sensible writer of his day, and one of
the least sensible politicians, in the selfish sense, the
only sense in which he knew it, of the word. What
knowledge of the world in "Don Juan" and in Byron's
Correspondence," what seeming want of that knowl-
edge in the great poet's susceptibility to attack on the one
hand, and his wanton trifling with his character on the
other! How is this difference between the man and the
writer to be accounted for? Because, in the writer the in-
firmities of constitution are either concealed or decorated
by genius, not so in the man: fretfulness, spleen, morbid
sensitiveness, eternally spoil our plans in life,
but they
often give an interest to our plans on paper. Byron quar-
relling with the world as Childe Harold, proves his genius;
but Byron quarrelling with the world in his own person,
betrays his folly! To show wisdom in a book, it is but
necessary that we should possess the theoretical wisdom;
but in life, it requires not only the theoretical wisdom, but
the practical ability to act up to it.
the practical ability to act up to it. We may know exactly
what we ought to do, but we may not have the fortitude to
do it. Now," says the shy man in love, "I ought to go
and talk to my mistress, my rival is with her, I ought
to make myself as agreeable as possible, I ought to
throw that fellow in the shade by my bons mots and my
compliments." Does he do so? No! he sits in a corner,
and scowls at the lady. He is in the miserable state de-
scribed by Persius. He knows what is good, and cannot
perform it. Yet this man,
Yet this man, if an author, from the very
circumstance of feeling so bitterly that his constitution
is stronger than his reason, would have made his lover in a
book all that he could not be himself in reality.
-
There is a sort of wit peculiar to knowledge of the
world, and we usually find that writers who are supposed
to have the most exhibited that knowledge in their books,
are also commonly esteemed the wittiest authors of their
country, Horace, Plautus, Moliere, Le Sage, Voltaire,
Cervantes, Shakspeare, Fielding, Swift; * and this is
because the essence of the most refined species of wit is
truth. Even in the solemn and grave Tacitus we come
perpetually to sudden turns,—striking points, of senten-
tious brilliancy, which make us smile, from the depth
itself of their importance, - an aphorism is always on the
borders of an epigram. †
It is remarkable that there is scarcely any very popular
* Let me mention two political writers of the present day,
men equally remarkable for their wit and wisdom, Sidney
Smith and the editor of the “ Examiner," Mr. Fonblanque; bar-
ring, may I say it? a little affectation of pithiness, the latter
writer is one of the greatest masters of that art which makes
" words Fke sharp swords" that our age has produced. And I
cannot help adding, in common with many of his admirers, aa
tled monument of lus great abilities than the pages of any peri
earnest hope that he may leave the world a more firm and set-
odical can afford.
† And every one will recollect the sagaciɔus sneer of Gibbon
182
BULWER'S NOVELS
-
author of great imaginative power in whose works we do
not recognise that common sense which is knowledge of
the world, and which is so generally supposed by the super-
ficial to be in direct opposition to the imaginative faculty.
When an author does not possess it eminently, he is never
eminently popular, whatever be his fame. Compare Scott
and Shelley, the two most imaginative authors of their
time. The one, in his wildest flights, never loses sight of
co:m:non sense, there is an affinity between him and his
humblest reader; nay, the more discursive the flight, the
closer that affinity becomes. We are even more rapt with
the author when he is with his spirits of the mountain and
fell, arth the mighty dead at Melrose, than when he is
leading us through the humors of a guard-room, or confiding
to us the interview of lovers. But Shelley disdains com-
mon sense. Of his "Prince Athanase" we have no early
comprehension, with his "Prometheus " we have no
human sympathies; and the grander he becomes, the less
popular we find him. Writers who do not in theory know
their kind may be admired, but they can never be popular.
And when we hear men of unquestionable genius complain
of not being appreciated by the herd, it is because they are
not themselves skilled in the feelings of the herd. For
what is knowledge of mankind but the knowledge of their
feelings, their humors, their caprices, their passions; touch
these, and you gain attention, develope these, and you
have conquered your audience.
Among writers of an inferior reputation we often dis-
cover a sufficient shrewdness and penetration into human
foibles, to startle us in points, while they cannot carry
their knowledge far enough to please us on the whole.
They can paint nature by a happy hit, but they violate all
the likeness before they have concluded the plot, they
charm us with a reflection, and revolt us by a character.
Sir John Suckling is one of these writers,
spondence is witty and thoughtful, and his plays, but little
known in comparison to his songs, abound with just
remarks and false positions, the most natural lines and the
most improbable inventions. Two persons in one of these
plays are under sentence of execution, and the poet hits off
the vanity of the one by a stroke worthy of a much greater
dramatist.
his corre-
-
"I have something troubles me," says Pellagrin.
"What's that?" asks his friend.
C
In fact, it is not often that the graver writers have su
ceeded in plot and character as they have done in the
allurement of reflection or the graces of style. While
Goldsmith makes us acquainted with all the personages of
his unrivalled story, while we sit at the threshold in the
summer evenings, and sympathize with the good vicar in
his laudable zeal for monogamy, while ever and anon we
steal a look behind through the lattice, and smile at the gay
Sophia, who is playing with Dick, or fix our admiration on
Olivia, who is practising an air against the young squire
comes, - while we see the sturdy Burchell crossing the
stile, and striding on at his hearty pace, with his oak
cudgel cutting circles in the air, nay, while we ride with
Moses to make his bargains, and prick up our ears when
Mr. Jenkinson begins with "Ay, sir! the world is in its
dotage," - while in recalling the characters of that im-
mortal tale, we are recalling the memory of so many living
persons with whom we have dined, and walked, and chat-
ted, we see in the gloomy Rasselas of Goldsmith's sag
cotemporary a dim succession of shadowy images without
life or identity, mere machines for the grinding of moraw,
and the nice location of sonorous phraseology.
-
That delightful egotist,- half good-fellow, half sage,-
half rake, half divine, the pet gossip of philosophy, the
in one wordinimitable and unimitated Montaigne,
insists upon it in right earnest, with plenty to support him,
that continual cheerfulness is the most indisputable sign of
wisdom, and that her estate, like that of things in the
regions above the moon, is always calm, cloudless, and
serene. And in the saine essay he recites the old story of
Demetrius the grainmarian, who, finding in the temple of
Delphos a knot of philosophers chatting away in high glee
and comfort, said, "I am greatly mistaken, gentlemen, or
by your pleasant countenances you are not engaged in any
very profound discourse." Whereon Heracleon answercil
the grammarian with a "Pshaw, my good friend! it does
very well for fellows who live in a perpetual anxiety to
know whether the future tense of the verb ballo should b
spelled with one or two, to knit their brows and look.
solemu; but we who are engaged in discoursing true phi
losophy, are cheerful as a matter of course!" Ah, thos
were the philosophers who had read the world aright; give
me Heracleon the magician, for a fellow who knew wha
he was about when he resolved to be wise. And yet, afte
"The people," replies Pellagrin, "will say, as we go all, it is our constitution, and not our learning, that make
along, Thou art the properer fellow!'"'*
us one thing or the other, grave or gay,
severe !
Had the whole character been conceived like that sen-
tence I should not have forgotten the name of the play, and
instead of making a joke, the author would have consum-
mated a creation. Both Madame de Staël and Rousseau
appear to me to have possessed this sort of imperfect
knowledge. Both are great in aphorisms, and feeble in
realizing conceptions of flesh and blood. When Madame
de Staël tells us "that great losses, so far from binding men
more closely to the advantages they still have left, at once
loosen all ties of affection," she speaks like one versed in
the mysteries of the human heart, and expresses exactly
what she wishes to convey; but when she draws the char-
acter of Corinne's lover, she not only confounds all the
moral qualities into one impossible compound, but she
utterly fails in what she evidently attempts to picture. The
proud, sensitive, generous, high-minded Englishman, with
a soul at once alive to genius, and fearing its effect,
daring as a soldier, timid as a man, — the slave of love
that tells him to scorn the world, and of opinion that tells
him to adore it, this is the new, the delicate, the many
colored character Madame de Staël conceived, and nothing
can be more unlike the heartless and whining pedant she
has accomplished.
J
In Rousseau every sentence Lord Edouard utters is full
of beauty, and sometimes of depth, and yet those sen-
tences give us no conception of the utterer himself. The
expressions are all soul, and the character is all clay,
nothing can be more brilliant than the sentiments or more
heavy than the speaker.
*Suckling's plays abound also in passages of singular beauty
of diction and elegance of thought. I will quote one which
seems to me to contain one of the most beautiful compliments
a woman ever received. Orsabrin, a seaman, if I recollect
right, says to Reginella,
“Have you a name too?
Reginella. Why do you ask ?
Orsabrin.
Because I'd call upon it in a storm,
And save a ship from perishing sometimes !”
―
lively o
For my own part I candidly confess, that in spite of alt
my endeavours, and though all my precepts run the contra
ry way, I cannot divest myself at times of a certain sad
ness when I recall the lessons the world has taught me
It is true that I now expect little or nothing from man·
kind, and I therefore forgive offences against me with ease,
but that ease which comes from contempt is no desirable
acquisition of temper. I should like to feel something of
my old indignation at every vice, and my old bitterness at
every foe.
After all, as we know, or fancy that we know, mankind,
there is a certain dimness that falls upon the glory of all
we see. We are not so confiding of our trust, and that
is no petty misfortune to some of us; without growing
perhaps more selfish, we contract the circle of our enjoy
ments. We do not hazard,- we do not venture as we
once did. The sea that rolls before us proffers to our curi-
osity no port that we have not already seen. About this
time, too, our ambition changes its character, -it be-
comes more a thing of custom than of ardor. We have
begun our career, shame forbids us to leave it; but I
question whether any man, moderately wise, does not see
how small is the reward of pursuit. Nay, ask the oldest,
the most hackneyed adventurer of the world, and you will
find he has some dream at his heart, which is more cherish-
ed than all the honors he seeks, -some dream perhaps of a
happy and serene retirement, which has lain at his breast
since he was a boy, and which he will never realize. Tho
trader and his retreat at Highgate are but the type of
Walpole and his palace at Houghton. The worst feature
in our knowledge of the world is, that we are wise to little
purpose, we penetrate the hearts of others, but we do
not satisfy our own. Every wise man feels that he ought
not to be ambitious, nor covetons, nor subject to emotion,
yet the wisest go on toiling and burning to the last.
Men who bave declaimed most against ambition have beev
SPIRIT OF SOCIETY IN ENGLAND AND FRANCE.
19h
**
among the most ambitious; so that at the best we only | best but like a froward child, that must be played with and
get wise for the sake of writing books which the world humored a little to keep it quiet till it falls asleep, and
seldom sees till we are dead, -or of making laws and
then the care is over.
speeches which, when dead, the world hastens to forget.
"When all is done, human life is at the greatest and the
* Sir William Temple.
(From the Edinburgh Review, — No. CIV.)
A Comparative View of the Social Life of England and France, from the Restoration of
Charles the Second to the French Revolution. By the Editor of Madame du Deffand's
Letters.
THE French and the English can no longer be accused of
hat mutual contempt which furnishes the preliminary ground
of remark to the writer of the agreeable work before us.
After a jealousy of eight hundred years, we have begun to
conquer our prejudices and recant our opinions; and we are
now contented to glean from the customs and manners of
our neighbours, benefits somewhat more important than the
innovations in caps, or the improvements in cookery, which
formed pretty nearly the limit of that portion of our forefa-
thers' ambition which was devoted to the imitation of “our
hereditary foes.” Late events have put the finishing stroke
to popular prejudice; and we have now, of two extremes,
rather to guard against the desire blindly to copy, than the
resolution zealously to contemn. Those national senti-
inents, "grave, with a bright disdain," of Monsieur and
soupe maigre, which gave so patriotic a character to the
British theatre, never more will awaken a sympathizing
gallery to
tions,
"The loud collision of applauding hands."
But the character of the people, and the spirit of society,
in the two countries are still, in many respects, remarkably
different. When a French mob are excited, they clamor
for glory,
when an English mob are inclined to be riot-
ous, they are thirsty for beer. At a contested election, the
feelings of the working classes must necessarily be strongly
excited. The harangues to their understandings, the
addresses to their interests, the artifices for their affec-
the congregating together, the conference,
the discussion, the dispute, the spirit of party,-
these, if any emotions, might well be supposed to call forth
the man from himself, to excite, to their inmost depth, his
generous as well as angry sympathies, and, warming him
from all selfish considerations, to hurry him into even a
blind and rasa devotion for the cause he adopts, and a dis-
dain, which no lure can soften, for that which he opposes.
And so, indeed, to the uninitiated spectator it may appear;
but how generally is that noisy ardor the result of a pur
chase, how many, in such a time and in such scenes, will
grow inebriate on the hospitality of one, with the intention
of voting for another, how large the number of those to
whom you speak of retrenchment and reform, who remain
unmoved till the bribe is hinted, and the vote, callous to
the principles, is suborned by the purse! When, in the
late general election, a patriotic adventurer was engaged in
attempting to open (as the phrase is) a close borough, one
of his most strenuous supporters, declaiming on the vileness
of the few privileged voters in receiving thirty pounds each
for their votes, added, with the air of a man of delicate
conscience, "But if you open the borough, sir, we will
——
"
vie with each other has been that exact point in which per-
sonal merit can have the least possible weight in the com-
petition. The ambition of the French gallant, if devated
to a frivolous object, was at least more calculated to impress
society with a gracefu and gay tone than the inactive ana
unrelieved ostentation of the English pretender. And those
circles to which a bon mot was the passport could scarcely
fail to be more agreeable than circles in which, to be the
most courted, it is sufficient to be the first-born. A French-
man had, at least, one intellectual incentive to his social
ambition; -to obtain access to the most fashionable was
to obtain access to the most pleasant, the most witty circles
in the capital. But to enjoy the most difficult society of
London is to partake of the insipidity of a decorated and
silent crowd, or the mere sensual gratification of a costly
dinner.
M
To give acerbity to the tone of our fashion, while it is
far from increasing its refinement,
there is a sort of neg-
ative opposition made by the titled aristocrats to that order
themselves. Descended, for the most part, from the unped-
from which it must be allowed the majority have sprung
igreed rich, they affect to preserve from that class circles
exclusive and impassable. Fashion to their heaven is like
the lotus to Mahomet's; it is at once the ornament and the
barrier. To the opulent, who command power, they pre-
tend, while worshipping opulence, to deny ton; a genera-
tion
passes, and the proscribed class have become the ex-
clusive. "Si le financier manque son coup, les courtisans
disent de lui, c'est un bourgeois, un homme de rien, un
malòtru: S'il réussit, ils lui demandent sa fille."* This
mock contest, in which riches ultimately triumph, encour-
ages the rich to a field in which they are ridiculous till they
conquer; and makes the one race servile, that the race
succeeding may earn the privilege to be insolent. If the
merchant or the banker has the sense to prefer the station
in which he is respectable, to attempting success in one
that destroys his real eminence, while it apes a shadowy
distinction, his wife, his daughters, his son in the Guards,
aloof, another class are sought, partly to defy, and partly to
are not often so wise. If one class of the great remain
decoy; and ruinous entertainments are given, not for the
sake of pleasure, but with a prospective yearning to the
columns of the Morning Post. They do not relieve dulness,
but they render it pompous; and instead of suffering wealth
to be the commander of enjoyment, they render it the slavs
to a vanity that, of all the species of that unquiet passion,
don, in which to be admitted is to be pleased and to ad
is the most susceptible to pain. Circles there are in Lon
mire; but those circles are composed of persons above the
fashion, or aloof from it. Of those where that tawdry
deity presides would it be extravagant to say that existence
is a course of strife, subserviency, hypocrisy, meanness,
do it for five!
But leaving, for the present, the graver discussions con-
nected with the effects of our civil institutions, it is our
intention to make a few observations on that spirit of soci-ingratitude, insolence, and mortification; and that to judge
ety which is formed among the higher classes, and imitated
among those possessing less aristocratical distinction.
The great distinction of fashion in France, as it was,-
and in England as it is, - we consider to be this. In the
former country the natural advantages were affected, in the
latter we covet the acquired. There the aspirants to fashion
pretended to wit, here they pretend to wealth. In this
country, from causes sufficiently obvious, social reputation
has long been measured by the extent of a rent-roll; re-
spectability has been another word for mone; and the
point on which competitors have been the mos anxious to
imagine the wish to be everywhere in the pursuit of noth-
of the motives which urge to such a life, we have only to
ings?
Fashion in this country is also distinguished from her
sister in France by our want of social enthusiasm for genius.
It showed, not the power of appreciating his talents, but
a capacity for admiring the more exalted order of talents,
trait in national character,) that the silent and inelegant
(which we will take leave to say is far from a ridiculous
Hume was yet in high request in the brilliant coteries of
* Les Caractères de LA BRUYERE.
184
BULWER'S NOVELS.
may
•
—
-
Paris. In England, the enthusiasm is for distinction of a
more sounding kind. Were a great author to arrive in
London, he might certainly be neglected; but a petty prince
could not fail of being eagerly courted. A man of that
species of genius which amuses, not exalts, might in-
deed create a momentary sensation. The oracle of science,
the discoverer of truth, might be occasionally asked to
the soirées of some noble Mæcenas; but every drawing-
room, for one season at least, would be thrown open to the
new actress, or the imported musician. Such is the natu-
ral order of things in our wealthy aristocracy, among whom
there can be as little sympathy with those who instruct, as
there must be gratitude to those who entertain, till the en-
tertainment has become the prey of satiety, and the hobby-
horse of the new season replaces the rattle of the last.
Here, we cannot but feel the necessity of subjecting our
gallantry to our reason, and inquiring how far the indiffer-
ence to what is great, and the passion for what is frivolous,
be occasioned by the present tone of that influence
which women necessarily exercise in this country, as in all
modern civilized communities. Whoever is disposed to
give accurate attention to the constitution of fashion (which
fashion in the higher classes is, in other words, the spirit
of society) must at once perceive how largely that fashion
is formed, and how absolutely it is governed, by the gentler
sex. Our fashion may indeed be considered the aggregate
of the opinions of our women. In order to account for the
tone that fashion receives, we have but to inquire into the
education bestowed upon women. Have we, then, instilled
into them those public principles (as well as private accom-
plishments) which are calculated to ennoble opinion, and
to furnish their own peculiar inducements of reward to a
solid and lofty merit in the opposite sex? Our women are
divided into two classes, - the domestic and the dissipated.
The latter employ their lives in the pettiest intrigues, or at
best in a round of vanities that usurp the name of amuse-
ments. Women of the highest rank alone take much im-
mediate share in politics; and that share, it must be con-
fessed, brings any thing but advantage to the state. No
one will assert that these soft aspirants have any ardor
for the public, any sympathy with measures that are pure
and unselfish. No one will deny that they are the first to
augh at principles which, it is but just to say, the educa-
tion we have given them precludes them from comprehend-
ing, and to excite the parental emotions of the husband,
by reminding him that the advancement of his sons requires
nterest with the minister. The domestic class of women
are not now, we suspect, so numerous as they have been
esteemed by speculators on our national character. We
grant their merits at once; and we inquire if the essence
of these merits be not made to consist in the very refrain-
ing from an attempt to influence public opinion, - in the
very ignorance of all virtues connected with the commu-
nity; if we shall not be told that the proper sphere of
a woman is private life, and the proper limit to her virtues
the private affections. Now, were it true that women did
not influence public opinion, we should be silent on the
subject, and subscribe to all those charming commonplaces
on retiring modesty and household attractions that we have
so long been accustomed to read and hear. But we hold,
tnat feminine influence, however secret, is unavoidably
great; and, owing to this lauded ignorance of public mat-
ters, we hold it also to be unavoidably corrupt. It is clear
that women of the class we speak of, attaching an implied
blame to the exercise of the reasoning faculty, are neces-
sarily the reservoir of unexamined opinions and established
prejudices, that those opinions and prejudices color the
education they give to their children, and the advice they
bestow upon their husbands. We allow them to be the
soothing companion and the tender nurse, (these are ad-
mirable merits, these are all their own,) — but in an hour
of wavering between principle and interest, on which side
would their influence lie?—would they inculcate the shame
of a pension, or the glory of a sacrifice to the public inter-
est? On the contrary, how often has the worldly tender-
ness of the mother been the secret cause of the tarnished
character and venal vote of the husband; or, to come to a
pettier source of emotion, how often has a wound, or an
artful pampering, to some feminine vanity, led to the renun-
ciation of one party advocating honest measures, or the
adherence to another subsisting upon courtly intrigues!
In more limited circles, how vast that influence in forming
the national character, which you would deny because it is
|
secret! - how evident a proof of the influence of those
whose minds you will not enlarge, in that living which ex-
ceeds means, - so preeminently English, so wretched
in its consequences, -so paltry in its object! Who sha
say that the whole comfortless, senseless, heartless system
of ostentation which pervades society, has no cause, not
in women, if you like, but in the education we give
them?
undis-
We are far from wishing that women, of what rank
soever, should intermeddle with party politics, or covet the
feverish notoriety of state intrigues, any more than we wish
they should possess the universal genius ascribed to Lady
Anne Clifford by Dr. Donne, and be able to argue on all
subjects,
subjects," from predestination to slea silk." We are fa
from desiring them to neglect one domestic duty, or one
household tie; but we say, for women as for men,
there is no sound or true morality, where there is no knowl
edge of, — no devotion to,— public virtue. In the educa
tion women receive, we would enlarge their ideas to the
comprehension of political integrity; and in the var ety of
events with which life tries the honesty of men, we wou.d
leave to those principles we have inculcated, unpollured
as they would be by the close contagion of party,
turbed by the heat and riot of action, that calm influence
which could then scarcely fail to be as felicitous and just
as we deem it now not unoften unhappy and dishonoring.
But of all the inducements to female artifice and ambition,
our peculiar custom of selling our daughters to the best ad-
vantage is the most universal. We are a match-making
nation. The system in France, and formerly existent in
this country, of betrothing children, had at least with us
one good effect among many bad. If unfriendly to chastity
in France, it does not appear to have produced so perni-
cious an effect in England; but while it did not impair the
endearments of domestic life, it rendered women less pro-
fessionally hollow and designing that period of life when
love ceases to encourage decei; it did not absorb their
acutest faculties in a game in which there is no less hypoc
risy requisite than in the amours of a Dorimont or a Be-
linda, but without the excuse of the affections. While
this custom increases the insincerity of our social life, it is
obvious that it must react also on its dulness; for wealth
and rank, being the objects sought, are the objects courted;
and thus, another reason is given for crowding our circles
with important stolidity, and weeding them of persons
poor enough to be agreeable, and because agreeable,
dangerous and unwelcome.
Would we wish, then, the influence of women to be less?
We will evade the insidious question, - we wish it to be
differently directed. By contracting their minds, we
weaken ourselves; by cramping their morality, we ruin our
own; as we ennoble their motives, society will rise to a
loftier tone,
and even fashion herself may be made to
reward glory as well as frivolity. Nay, we shall not even
be astonished if it ultimately encourages, with some por-
tion of celebrity and enthusiasin, the man who has refused
a bride, or conferred some great benefit on his country, as
well as the idol of Crockford's, or the heir to a dukedom,
It is somewhat remarkable that that power of ridicule, so
generally cultivated as a science in France, has scarcely ex
ercised over the tone of feeling in that country so repressing
an influence as it has among ourselves. It never destroyed
in the French the love of theatrical effect; and even in the
prevalence of those heartless manners formed under the old
régime, it never deterred them from avowing romantic
feeling, if uttered in courtly language. Nay, it was never
quite out of fashion to affect a gallant sentiment, or a gen-
erous emotion; and the lofty verse of Corneille was echoed
with enthusiasm by the courtiers of a Bourbon, and the
friends of a Pompadour. But here, a certain measured and
cold demeanour has been too often coupled with the dispo-
sition to sneer, not only at expressions that are exag-
gerated, but at sentiments that are noble. Profligacy in
action surprises, shocks, less than the profession of exalted
motives, uttered in conversation, when, as a witty orator
observed, "the reporters are shut out, and there is no oc-
casion to humbug. We confess that we think it a bad
sign when lofty notions are readily condemned as bombast
and when a nation, not much addicted to levity, or eren
liveliness, is, above all others, inclined to ridicule the bias
to magnify and exalt. A shoeblack of twelve years old,
plying his trade by the Champs Elysée, was struck by a
shoeblack four years younger. He wout › return the
:
-
SPIRIT OF SOCIETY IN ENGLAND AND FRANCE.
185
—
M
blow, an old fruit-woman arrested his arm, exclaiming, national literature is influenced by the place which our lit-
"Have you then no greatness of soul?" Nothing could be erary men hold in society. That men of letters do not en-
more bombastic than the reproof. Granted. But who joy in England their legitimate and proper rank is a com-
shall say how far such bombast influenced the magnanimity mon and trite complaint. There is, doubtless, something
of the laboring classes in that late event, which was no equivocal in their station. An English author of but mod-
less a revolution in France than the triumph of the human erate eminence at home is often astonished at the respect
species? Exaggeration of sentiment can rarely, as a na- paid
the chief object
paid to him abroad. Political power,
tional trait, be dangerous. With men of sense it unavoid- of desire with us, - leaves to that direction of intellect
ably settles into greatness of mind; but moral debasement, which does not command it but a moderate and lukewarm
a sneer for what is high, - a disbelief of what is good, homage. Fashion may indeed invest the new author with
is the very worst symptom a people can display.
a momentary eclat; but the "lion" loses his novelty, and
The influence which it is the natural province of the the author ceases to be courted. We recollect to have
drama to exert towards the exalting the standard of senti- heard one of the most brilliant and successful writers of the
ment and opinion, is not, at this time, it will readily be day exclaim, that he would rather, for the gratification of
allowed, very efficacious in counterbalancing the worldly social vanity, be a dull, but officious, member of Parlia-
and vulgar tendency to degrade. Tragedy sleeps side by ment, than enjoy his own high and popular reputation as an
side with the epic; and the loftier shapes of comedy have author. The vanity of authors is not, then, confined to their
dwindled into farce, that most dwarfish imp of all the va- profession, which does not bring them a reward sufficiently
rieties of dramatic humor. The stage seems even to have palpable and present. Led, like the rest of their country.
relinquished the most common, though not the least moral, men, by the rage of fashion, they long for the reputation
of its prerogatives, viz. to hold the mirror to existing cus- being admitted to brilliant society, rather than the consid-
toms, and to correct folly by exhibiting it. We question, eration accorded to them in literary circles. One effect, at
indeed, whether that power has ever been largely exer- least not favorable to the higher and purer branches of
cised, whether the drama has ever visibly and truly composition, is produced by this uneasiness and yearning.
bodied forth the image of the times, since the plastic and Straining for the effect, the glitter, or the novelty that will
unappreciated genius of Johnson adapted his various render them "the fashion," they give to literature a fever-
knowledge of the past to a portraiture of his own period ish and exaggerated cast. They grasp at the humor, some
even too individual and exact. The Restoration,· so per- times the frivolity, of the moment, and endeavour to hurry
nicious for the most part to what was most excellent in the serene and dignified glories of literature into a succes-
political truths, - - was little more favorable to whatsoeversion of "lucky hits." Two other effects noticeable, we
was noble in the provinces of literary fiction. The stage think, among English men of letters, may be derived from
was lowered to clumsy and graceless imitations from the the same cause. First, the want of that social brilliancy
French, and reflected the grossness and vice of the court, which is generally the characteristic of a Frenchman emi-
--not the manners or morals of that people over whom the nent in literature. When one of our most popular moral-
contagion of the court was far from extensive. Seeking ists observed, "that he never knew a man of sense a gen-
its food from a form of society, artificial alike in its vices eral favorite,
eral favorite," he uttered a sentiment peculiarly adapted
and its customs, the comedy of that day, despite its lavish to charm the English In France every man of sense
and redundant wit, rarely touched upon a single chord ded- would have aspired to be a general favorite, and every man
icated to simplicity or nature. And to believe that the of literary distinction might have won easily enough to
literary Aretins, the dramatizing Don Raphaels of the that ambition. But here intellect alone does not produce
Restoration, represented or influenced their age, were to fashion, and the author, failing to attain it, affects the priv-
believe that they found, or made, the countrymen of Vane lege of railing, and the right to be disappointed. This dis-
and Bradshaw, of Falkland and of Derby, a community of satisfaction at the place destined to the nature of his exer
sharpers rioting in a metropolis of brothels. The remark- tions, this consciousness of enjoying neither that station
able contrast that the delicate and somewhat emasculate of honor nor that method of being honored which he bas
refinement of the celebrated periodicals in the reign of been taught to covet, is almost necessarily destructive to
Anne present to the indecency even then characteristic of the self-confidence and self-complacency without which no
the stage, and the universal and instantaneous impression man makes a great proficiency in the graces of society or
they produced, - so far deeper than that created by any of the courageous profession of a wit. The second effect pro-
the licentious comedies of the day, will be quite sufficient duced by the desire to shine in other circles than their own
to convince those who remember that the brilliancy and ra- is, we think, visible in the scattered and desultory manner
pidity of literary success are proportioned to the exactness with which our literary men encounter each other; they do
with which the literary effort accords with some popular not herd closely together. There is not among them that
train of feeling deeply felt, but not hitherto commonly ex- intimate knot and union which was, and is, characteristic
pressed, that the stage did not, at that period, represent of the authors and beaux esprits of Paris, and produces so
the manners of the cotemporaries of Addison much more remarkable an influence on their works; giving to their
faithfully than, in the preceding times, it had reflected the philosophy the graces of animated conversation, and color-
tone of feeling common to the cotemporaries of Russell and ing their style with that air of life, and fulness of worldly
Sidney. Coming to a period nearer the present, it can knowledge, which, whatever be the changes and caprices
scarcely be asserted that even the exquisite humor of of their literature, invariably remain, sometimes the staple,
Goldsmith, or still less the artificial and exuberant wit of and almost always the predominant characteristic. When
Sheridan, were exercised in giving a very peculiar and Helvetius produced that celebrated work, so rich in anec-
marked representation of their times, whatever they dote, illustration, and isolated brilliances of remark, he
might effect in exhibiting certain aspects of society as com- was accused of merely collecting, and forming into a
mon in one nation of Europe as another, since the mas-
whole, the opinions current in the circles with which he
terpieces of their genius, the attempt to show "the formu mixed every day. It would be somewhat difficult for an
and pressure of the age, has not been made with any tol- English philosopher to subject himself, with any semblance
And should any novelty (not arising from of justice, to a similar accusation.
the claims of the actor) now attract to the theatre, we
must thank Germany for a superstition, France for a
farce, Siam for an elephant, or England for a scene.
The influence attributed of old to the stage has passed into
new directions: novels represent manners, and periodicals
opinions. The higher, the more abstruse, the more ex-
tended branches of morals, are but slightly and feebly culti-
vated. Thus, little of general influence is left to that part
of literature which teaches, save what may be exercised
by publications adapted to the immediate necessity, preju-
dice, or caprice of the times, and by cheap works addressed
to the people; -elementary, if intended for their under-
standing, — declamatory, if for their passions.
erable success.
It would be a matter of speculation deserving a larger
notice than we can afford it here, to inquire how far our
VOL. II.
24
|
It would be a little unjust to quit our subject without say
ing any thing upon what we consider improvements in the
condition of society; the more especially, as some points,
that appear to us worthy of praise, have been the subject of
vulgar complaint. We hear, for instance, much pathetic
lamentation on the decline of country hospitality, at a time
when that "first cousin to a virtue seems more deserving
of commendation than at any period referred to by its
detractors.
In what did the hospitality of the last century consist?
An interchange of dinner visits between country neigh-
bours, -
-a journey some half a dozen miles over wretched
roads, and a return home some eight hours afterward, with
the footman drunk, the coachman more drunk, and the mas-
ter most drunk. Hospitality, in a word, was a profusion
186
BULWER'S NOVELS.
of port wine; and the host welcomed his friends by ruining
their constitutions. Houses, much less conveniently ar-
ranged than at present, were not often capable of affording
accommodation, for days together, to visiters from a dis-
tance. Few, comparatively speaking, were the guests
who found their way from the metropolis to these rustic
receptacles of Silenus; and the strangers were then stared
at for their novelty, or ridiculed for their refinement,
oracles to the silly, and butts to the brutal. What an im-
provement in the present tone of country hospitality! In-
stead of solemn celebrations of inebriety, instead of
jolting at one hour through the vilest of lanes, to return at
another from the most senseless of revels, improved roads
facilitate the visits of neighbours, improved houses accom-
modate a greater number of guests, and an improved hos-
pitality gives to both a welcome reception, without endan-
gering their health or making war on their reason. The
visiters are more numerous; the victims less. To give a
To give a
dinner, and to receive a gentleman from London, are not
the events in a squire's life that they were in the last cen-
tury. At stated periods of the year the house is filled with
persons who can be cultivated as well as manly; and im-
provements in opinions are thus circulated throughout the
country, as well as improvements in gunlocks.
So far, indeed, from the tone of society in the country
being, as formerly, considerably below that in the metro-
polis, it is now perhaps more graceful and courteous. The
host, dissatisfied with his station in London, beholds his
acres and his hall, rises into a great man in his province,
and, content with the tokens of his own consequence, nat-
urally grows complaisant to cthers. The petty vieing and
the paltry cringing are no longer necessary, the heartburn
of fashion ceases, there is no compromise of comfort and
of public principle. By the habits of constant intercourse,
truths circulate, and prejudices are frittered away. "Noth-
ing," observes that great writer in whom we scarcely
know which to admire the most, the brilliant imagination
or the quiet rationality," nothing more contributes to
maintain our common sense than living in the universal
way with multitudes of men;" and, let us add, that it not
only maintains our common sense, but diminishes the
selfishness of our motives. In the close circle of private
life, public matters are rarely and coldly discussed. In
public, they form the chief topic; and made interesting,
first, as the staple of conversation, they assume, at length,
an interest and a fascination in themselves.
was
We cannot quit our subject without adverting to taat
tone of consideration and respect towards the great bulk
of the people which especially characterizes the present
time, and was almost a stranger to the past. Even in the
ancient democracies, in which the flattery of the people
was the science of power, -even among the later pala-
dins of chivalry," rough to the haughty, but gentle to
the low," -mirrors not less of courtesy than valor, - the
tone alike of literature and philosophy breathes with a
high contempt for the emotions and opinions of the vulgar.
Among the Greeks, the crowd, the berd, the peo-
ple,
their fickleness, their violence, their ingrati-
tude, furnished the favorite matter to scornful maxims and
lordly apothegms. Taking their follies and their vices as the
common subject for notice, where do we find their virtues
panegyrized, or their characters dispassionately examined?
And in the models of chivalry, the " doffing to the low
but the insult of condescension; the humble were not to be
insulted, because they were not to be feared. But the in-
stant the aspirer of plebeian birth attempted to rise against
the decrees of fortune, the instant he affected honor or dis-
tinction, he was "audacious varlet" and " presuming
caitiff."
The tender and accomplished author of the
Arcadia, that noble work in which chivalry appears in its
most romantic and lovely shape, evidently esteems it the
proof of a thoughtful and lofty mind to disdain the multi-
tude, and rise beyond a regard for their opinion. Were
it not something profane to accuse so glorious a benefactor
as Shakspeare of any offence, it might, perhaps, be justly
observed, that while his works abound with pithy sarcasms
on the foibles of the common people, they have never
brought into a strong light their nobler qualities; even the
virtues accorded them are the mere virtues of servants, and
rarely aspire beyond fidelity to a master in misfortune.
While, in his mighty page, the just and impartial mirror
has been held to almost every human secret of character
among the higher and middle classes of life, how little
have the motives and conduct of the great mass (beyond
what are contemptible) been sifted and examined; how
many opportunities of displaying their firmness, their
fortitude, their resistance to oppression, of sympathizing
with their misfortunes and their wrongs, have been passed
over in silence, or devoted rather to satire than to praise !
But not now, thank God, is it the mode, the cant, to affect
a disdain of the vast majority of our fellow-creatures,
an unthinking scorn for their opinions or pursuits: the
philosophy of past times confused itself with indifference ;
the philosophy of the present rather seeks to be associated
with philanthropy.
nature for the attainment of wearisome and artificial ob-
jects; even the coldness, the distraction, and the formality
incident to London coteries subside with the causes; and
that tone of general equality which the most courtly circles
can alone establish in a capital becomes the easy and natu-
ral characteristic of the manners in a country mansion.
Another main feature in the aspect of society is the im-
provement and multiplicity of clubs. That the luxuries of
these houses render husbands less domestic, and impart to
sons notions disproportionate to their fortune, have been
made very common and vulgar grounds of attack. With
regard to the first, we will own frankly that that mere ani-
mal habit which would confine men to the narrow circle of
their firesides, and render it a misdemeanor to seek ration-
al intercourse abroad, might, we think, be lessened, with-
out operating in any way to the disadvantage of society.
But, in fact, so rigid a domesticalness exists little among
the classes for which clubs are as yet chiefly instituted.
We fear, that at those witching hours of night in which the
gentleman is at his club, the lady and her daughter, so far
from deploring his absence at home, are enjoying them-
selves at the ball or the soirée. The latter charge is equally
ridiculous. That all men are not rich enough to enjoy a
good house, airy rooms, new publications, the constant so-
ciety of their acquaintances, and the decent pleasures of
the table, is a grievance very much to be lamented; but
that when men can obtain these advantages without being
rich there should be any harm in enjoying them, because
they are not rich, or that they should be more discontent-
ed with a small room because they have the power of quit-it what share of the general disposition to which we
It may be worth while to some future inquirer to ascer-
ting it for a large room whenever they please, are notions
in metaphysics with which we cannot agree. Besides,
while the principle of a club is economy, its temptations
are not those of extravagance; while a young man is en-
abled by its organization to save half his income, he meets
there little that could allure him to spend the other half.
The more attached he becomes to the quiet and orderly
habits of a club life, the less he will feel inclined towards
the expenses of that dissipation to which the routine of a
club life is so opposed. A third objection sometimes urged
against clubs would be serious indeed, were it generally
founded in truth, viz. the custom of gaming. But gaming
18 not practised in the great majority of clubs, especially
those lately established. In the few notorious for the sup-
port of that vice, the usual advantages of a club, viz. econ-
omy, the facility of intellectual conversation, &c. are not
found; they are gaming-houses, in a word, with a more
specious name; and we willingly surrender them, without
word of defence, to the indignation of their impugners.
The increase of clubs we think favorable to the growth
tain
refer
refer may be attributed to writers now little remembered,
and, in their own time, not unjustly condemned. It is the
glorious doom of literature, that the evil perishes and the
good remains. Even when the original author of some
healthy and useful truth is forgotten, the truth survives,
transplanted to works more calculated to purify it from
error, and perpetuate it to our benefit. Nor can we tell
how much we now owe of the tendency to enlighten and
consult the people, how much of broad and rational opin-
ion, to certain heated and vague enthusiasts of the last
century. Time has consigned to oblivion the wild theo-
ries and the licentious morals that clouded, in their works,
the temper towards benevolence and the desire of freedom.
But time has ripened what was no less the characteristic
of their writings, -a disposition to unrobe the "solemn
plausibilities" that hid their interests from the people; to
reduce to its just estimate the value of military glory; to
* Goethe.
In the Historical Plays.
DE LINDSAY.
187
ct analysis to the end and nature of governments, and
to consider above the rest those classes of society hitherto
the most contemned. Amid the tumults and portents of
the time, we hail this disposition as the best safeguard to
one order, and the surest augury to the other; in propor-
tion as it increases, society triumphs against whatever
may oppose its welfare in prejudice or in custom; reform
becomes at once tranquil and universal; the necessity of
revolutions is superseded, and what once was enforced by
violence is effected by opinion.
Meanwhile, whatsoever channels may be open to the
honest ambition of literature, we trust that those who have
the power to influence the bias of popular sentiment will
inculcate what has too long been the subject of jest or in-
credulity, viz. the glory of promoting public interests; and
the necessity, in order to bring virtue from the hearth to
the forum, of calling forth from their present obscurity and
neglect those rewards to exertion which confer, if they be
but rightly considered, a deeper respect than wealth, and
an honor more lofty than titles.
DE LINDSAY.
us,
"Man walketh in a vain shadow: and disquieteth himself in vain!'
THERE is one feeling which is the earliest-born with
which accompanies us throughout life, in the grada-
tions of friendship, love, and parental attachment, and
of which there is scarcely one among us who can say, "It
has been realized according to my desire." This feeling
is the wish to be loved, - loved to the amount of the height
and the fervor of the sentiments we imagine that we our-
selves are capable of imbodying into one passion. Thus,
who that hath nicely weighed his own heart, will not con-
fess that he has never been fully satisfied with the love ren-
dered to him, whether by the friend of his boyhood, the
mistress of his youth, or the children of his age. Yet even
while we reproach the languor and weakness of the affection
bestowed on us, we are reproached in our turn with the
same charge; and it would seem as if we all, all and
each, possessed within us certain immortal and spiritual
tendences to love, which nothing human and earth-born can
wholly excite; they are instincts which make us feel a
power never to be exercised, and a loss doomed to be
irremediable.
gust; they brought him, also, knowledge of the world ;
and nothing hardens the heart more than that knowledge
of the world which is founded on a knowledge of its vices,
made bitter by disappointment, and misanthropical by
deceit.
I saw him just before he left England, and his minc then
was sore and feverish. I saw him on his return, after an
absence of five years in the various courts of Europe, and
his mind was callous and even. He had then reduced the
art of governing his own passions, and influencing the pas-
sions of others, to a system; and had reached the second
stage of experience, when the deceived becomes the de-
ceiver. He added to his former indignation at the vices of
human nature, scorn for its weakness. Still many good,
though irregular impulses, lingered about his heart. Still
the appeal, which to a principle would have been useless,
was triumphant when made to an affection. And though
selfishness constituted the system of his life, there were yet
many hours when the system was forgotten, and he would
have sacrificed himself at the voice of a single emotion
The simple, but singular story which I am about to nar- Few men of ability, who neither marry nor desire to marry.
rate, is of a man in whom this craving after a love beyond live much among the frivolities of the world after the age
the ordinary loves of earth, was so powerful and restless a of twenty-eight. And De Lindsay, now waxing near to
passion, that it became in him the source of all the errors his thirtieth year, avoided the society he had once courted
and the vices that have usually their origin in the grossness and lived solely to satisfy his pleasures and indulge his
of libertinism; led his mind through the excess of dissipa- indolence. Women made his only pursuit and his sole
tion to the hardness of depravity, and when at length it
and when at length it ambition: and now, at length, arrived the time when, il
arrived at the fruition of dreams so wearying and so anxious, the prosecution of an intrigue, he was to become suscepti
when with that fruition, virtue long stifled by disappoint-ble of a passion; and the long and unquenched wish of his
ment, seemed slowly, but triumphantly to awake,-betray heart was to be matured into completion.
ed him only into a punishment he had almost ceased to
deserve, and hurried him into an untimely grave, at the
very moment when life became dear to himself, and ap-
peared to promise atonement and value to others.
Rupert de Lindsay was an orphan of ancient family and
extensive possessions. With a person that could advance
but a slight pretension to beauty, but with an eager desire
to please, and a taste the most delicate and refined, he very
early learned the art to compensate by the graces of manner
for the deficiencies of form; and before he had reached an
age when other men are noted only for their horses or their
follies, Rupert de Lindsay was distinguished no less for the
brillianey of his ton and the number of his conquests, than
for his acquirements in literature and his honors in the
senate. But while every one favored him with envy, he
was, at heart, a restless and disappointed man.
Among all the delusions of the senses, among all the
triumphs of vanity, his ruling passion, to be really, purely,
and deeply loved, had never been satisfied. And while this
leading and master-desire pined at repeated disappointments,
all other gratifications seemed rather to mock than to console
him. The exquisite tale of Alcibiades, in Marmontel, was
applicable to him. He was loved for his adventitious quali-
fications, not for himself. One loved his fashion, a second
his fortune; a third, he discovered, had only listened to him
out of pique at another; and a fourth accepted him as her
lover because she wished to decoy him from her fr end.
These adventures, and these discoveries, brought hin dis-
K
|
In a small village not far from London, there dwelt a
family of the name of Warner; the father, piously termed
Ebenezer Ephraim, was a merchant, a bigot, and a saint;
the brother, simply and laically christened James, was i
rake, a boxer, and a good fellow. But she, the daughter
who claimed the chaste and sweet name of Mary, simple
and modest, beautiful in feature and heart, of a tempe..
rather tender than gay, saddened by the gloom which hung
for ever upon the home of her childhood, but softened by
early habits of charity and benevolence, unacquainted with
all sin even in thought, loving all things from the gentleness
of her nature, finding pleasure in the green earth, and
drinking innocence from the pure air, moved in her grace
and holiness amid the rugged kindred, and the stern tribe
among whom she had been reared, like faith sanctified by
redeeming love, and passing over the thorns of earth on its
pilgrimage to heaven.
In the adjustment of an ordinary amour with the wife of
an officer in the
regiment, then absent in Ireland,
but who left his gude woman to wear the willow in the
village of T- Rupert saw, admired, and coveted the
fair form I have so faintly described. Chance favored his
hopes. He entered one day the cottage of a poor man,
whom, in the inconsistent charity natural to him, he visited
and relieved.
and relieved. He found Miss Warner employed in the
same office; he neglected not his opportunity; he addressed
her; he accompanied her to the door of her home; he tried
every art to please a young and unawakened heart, and he
189
BULWER'S NOVELS
succeeded. Unfortunately for Mary, she had no one among
her relations calculated to guide her conduct, and to win
her confidence. Her father, absorbed either in the occupa-
tions of his trade or the visions of his creed, of a manner
whose repellant austerity belied the real warmth of his
affections, supplied but imperfectly the place of an anxious
and tender mother; nor was this loss repaired by the habits
still coarser, the mind still less soft, and the soul still less
susceptible, of the fraternal rake, boxer, and good fellow.
And thus was thrown back upon that gentle and feminine
heart all the warmth of its earliest and best affections. Her
nature was love; and though in all things she had found
wherewithal to call forth the tenderness which she could
not restrain, there was a vast treasure as yet undiscovered,
and a depth beneath that calm and unruffled bosom, whose
slumber had as yet never been broken by a breath. It will
not, therefore, be a matter of surprise that De Lindsay, who
availed himself of every opportunity, De Lindsay, fasci-
nating in manner and consummate in experience, soon
possessed a dangerous sway over a heart too innocent for
suspicion, and which, for the first time, felt the luxury of
being loved. In every walk, and her walks hitherto had
always been alone, Rupert was sure to join her; and there
was a supplication in his tone, and a respect in his manner,
which she felt but little tempted to chill and reject. She
had not much of what is termed dignity; and even though
she at first had some confused idea of the impropriety of
his company, which the peculiar nature of her education
prevented her wholly perceiving, yet she could think of no
method to check an address so humble and diffident, and to
resist the voice which only spoke to her in music. It is
needless to trace the progress by which the affection is
seduced. She soon awakened to the full knowledge of the
recesses of her own heart, and Rupert, for the first time,
felt the certainty of being loved as he desired. "Never,"
said he, "will I betray that affection; she has trusted in
me, and she shall not be deceived; she is innocent and
happy, I will never teach her misery and guilt!" Thus
her innocence reflected even upon him, and purified his
heart while it made the atmosphere of her own. So passed
weeks, until Rupert was summoned by urgent business to
his estate. He spoke to her of his departure, and he drank
deep delight from the quivering lip and the tearful eye with
which his words were received. He pressed her to his
heart, and her unconsciousness of guilt was her protection
from it. Amid all his sins, and there were many, let this
one act of forbearance be remembered.
every
Day after day went on its march to eternity, and
morning came the same gentle tap at the post-office win-
dow, and the same low tone of inquiry was heard; and
every morning the same light step returned gayly home-
wards, and the same soft eye sparkled at the lines which
the heart so faithfully recorded. I said every morning,
but there was one in each week which brought no letter,
and on Monday Mary's step was listless, and her spirit
dejected, on that day she felt as if there was nothing to
ive for.
the doctor was ultimately victorious, and his patient recov-
ered. "Give me the fresh air," said Rupert, directly he
was able to resume his power of commanding, "and bring
ine whatever letters came during my illness." From the
pile of spoiled paper from fashionable friends, country
cousins, county magistrates, and tradesmen who take the
liberty to remind you of the trifle which has escaped your
recollection, from this olio of precious conceits Rupert
drew a letter from the Irish officer's lady, who, it will be
remembered, first allured Rupert to Mary's village, ac-
quainting him that she had been reported by some d-d
good-natured friend to her husband, immediately upon his
return from Ireland. Unhappily, the man loved his wife,
valued his honor, and was of that unfashionable tempera-
ment which never forgives an injury. He had sent his
Achates twice during Rupert's illness to De Lindsay Cas-
tle, and was so enraged at the idea of his injurer's depart-
ing this life by any other means than his bullet, that he was
supposed in consequence to be a little touched in the head.
He was observed to walk by himself, sometimes bursting
into tears, sometimes muttering deep oaths of vengeance;
he shunned all society, and sat for hours gazing vacantly
on a pistol placed before him. All these agreeable cir-
cumstances did the unhappy fair one (who picked up her
information second-hand, for she was an alien from the
conjugal bed and board) detail to Rupert with very consid
erable pathos.
"" no
"Now then for Mary's letters," said the invalid;
red-hot Irishman there, I trust; " and Rupert took up a
large heap, which he had selected from the rest as a child
picks the plums out of his pudding by way of a regale at the
last. At the perusal of the first three or four letters he
smiled with pleasure; presently his lips grew more com-
pressed, and a dark cloud settled on his brow. He took
up another, he read a few lines, started from his sofa.
"What ho, there!- my carriage and four directly
not a moment ! - Do you hear me?-Too ill, do you say!
Not another word, or
never so well in my life! -
My carriage, I say, instantly! Put in my swiftest horses:
I must be at T- to-night before five o'clock !" and
the order was obeyed.
►
lose
"he
To return to Mary. The letters which had blessed her
through the livelong day suddenly ceased. What could be
the reason? -was he faithless, forgetful, ill? Alas'
whatever might be the cause, it was almost equally omi-
nous to her. "Are you sure there are none ?" she said,
every morning, when she inquired at the office, from which
she once used to depart so gayly; and the tone of that
voice was so mournful, that the gruff postman paused to
look again, before he shut the lattice and extinguished the
last hope. Her appetite and color daily decreased; shut
up in her humble and fireless chamber, she passed whole
hours in tears, in reading and repeating, again and again,
every syllable of the letters she already possessed, or in
pouring forth, in letters to him, all the love and bitterness
of her soul. "He must be ill," she said at last;
never else could have been so cruel!" and she could bear
the idea no longer. "I will go to him, I will soothe and
attend him,
attend him, who can love him, who can watch over him
like me?" and the kindness of her nature overcame its
modesty, and she made her small bundle, and stole early
one morning from the house. "If he should despise me,
she thought; and she was almost about to return, when the
stern voice of her brother came upon her ear. He had for
several days watched the alteration in her habits and man-
ners, and endeavoured to guess at the cause. He went
into her room, discovered a letter in her desk which she
had just written to Rupert, and which spoke of her design.
He watched, discovered, and saved her. There was no
mercy or gentleness in the bosom of Mr. James Warner.
He carried her home; reviled her in the coarsest and most
taunting language; acquainted her father; and after seeing
her debarred from all access to correspondence or escape,
after exulting over her unupbraiding and heart-broken
shame and despair, and swearing that it was vastly theat-
One day Rupert had been surveying some timber intend-rical, Mr. James Warner mounted his yellow Stanhope,
ed for the are; the weather was truly English, and changed
suddenly from heat into rain. A change of clothes was
quite out of Rupert's ordinary habits, and a fever of severe
nature, which ended in delirium, was the result. For
some weeks he was at the verge of the grave. The devil
and the doctor do not always agree, for the moral saith
that there is no friendship among the wicked. In this case
She did not strive to struggle with her love. She read
over every word of the few books he had left her, and she
walked every day over the same ground which had seemed
fairy-land when with him; and she always passed by the
house where he had lodged, that she might look up to the
window where he was wont to sit. Rupert found that
landed property, where farmers are not left to settle their
own leases, and stewards to provide for their little families,
is not altogether a sinecure. He had lived abroad like a
prince, and his estate had not been the better for his ab-
sence. He inquired into the exact profits of his property;
enewed old leases on new terms; discharged his bailiff;
shut up the roads in his park, which had seemed to all the
neighbourhood a more desirable way than the turnpike
conveniences; let off ten poachers, and warned off ten
gentlemen; and, as the natural and obvious consequences
of these acts of economy and inspection, he became the
most unpopular man in the county.
and went his way to the Fives Court. But these were tri-
fling misfortunes, compared with those which awaited this
unfortunate girl.
There lived in the village of T- one Zacharias
Johnson, a godly man and a rich, moreover a saint of the
same chapter of Ebenezer Ephraim Warner; his voice
was the most nasal, his holding forth the most unctuors,
DE LINDSAY.
189
CC
"Is it too late?" she
There was
At a
his aspect the most sinister, and his vestments the most one word for your father?"
threadbare of the whole of that sacred tribe. To the eyes said; can you not preserve me yet?"
of this man there was something comely in the person of relenting in the father's eye, but at that moment James
Mary Warner he liked her beauty, for he was a sensual- stood before them. His keen mind saw the danger; he
the opportunity was past.
"God
ist; her gentleness, for he was a coward; and her money, frowned at his father,
for he was a merchant. He proposed both to the father forgive you!" said Mary, and cold, and trembling, scarce-
and to the son; the daughter he looked upon as a conclud-ly alive, she descended to the small and, dark room, which
ing blessing sure to follow the precious assent of the two was nevertheless the state chamber of the house.
relations. To the father he spoke of godliness and scrip, small table of black mahogany, prim and stately, starched
of the delightfulness of living in unity, and the receipts and whaleboned within and without, withering and fossil-
of his flourishing country house; to the son he spoke the ized at heart by the bigotry and selfishness, and ice of sixty
language of kindness and the world, he knew that young years, sat two maiden saints: they came forward, kissed
men had expenses, he should feel too happy to furnish the unshrinking cheek of the bride, and then, with one
Mr. James with something for his innocent amusements, if word of blessing, returned to their former seats and re-
he might hope for his (Mr. James's) influence over his sumed their former posture. There was so little appear-
worthy father: the sum was specified, and the consent was ance of life in the persons caressing and caressed, that
sold. Among those domestic phenomena, which the inqui- you would have started as if at something ghastly and
rer seldom takes the trouble to solve, is the magical power supernatural,
as if
you had witnessed the salute of the
possessed by a junior branch of the family over the
grave. The bridegroom sat at one corner of the dim fire-
main tree, in spite of the contrary and perverse direction place, arrayed in a more gaudy attire than was usual with
taken by the aforesaid branch. James had acquired and the sect, and which gave a grotesque and unnatural gayety
exercised a most undue authority over the paternal patri- to his lengthy figure and solemn aspect. As the bride
arch, although in the habits and sentiments of each there entered the room, there was a faint smirk on his lip, and
was not one single trait in common between them. But a twinkle in his half-shut and crossing eyes, and a hasty
James possessed a vigorous and unshackled, his father a shuffle in his unwieldy limbs, as he slowly rose, pulled
weak and priest-ridden mind. In domestic life, it is the down his yellow waistcoat, made a stately genuflexion, and
mind which is the master. Mr. Zacharias Johnson had regained his seat.
regained his seat. Opposite to him sat a little lank-haired
once or twice, even before Mary's acquaintance with boy, about twelve years old, mumbling a piece of cake,
Rupert, urged his suit to Ebenezer; but as the least hint and looking with a subdued and spiritless glance over the
of such a circumstance to Mary seemed to occasion her a whole group, till at length his attention riveted on a large
pang which went to the really kind heart of the old man, dull-colored cat sleeping on the hearth, and whom he durst
and as he was fond of her society, and had no wish to lose not awaken even by a murmured ejaculation of "
it; and as, above all, Mr. James had not yet held those
conferences with Zacharias which ended in the alliance of
their interests, the proposal seemed to Mr. Warner like
a lawsuit to the lord chancellor, something rather to be
talked about than to be decided. Unfortunately, about the
very same time in which Mary's proposed escape had
drawn upon her the paternal indignation, Zacharias had
made a convert of the son; James took advantage of his
opportunity, worked upon his father's anger, grief, mercan-
tile love of lucre, and saintlike affection to sect, and
obtained from Ebenezer a promise to enforce the marriage,
backed up his recoiling scruples, preserved his courage
through the scenes with his weeping and wretched daugh-
ter, and, in spite of every lingering sentiment of tender-
ness and pity, saw the very day fixed which was to leave
his sister helpless for ever.
It is painful to go through that series of inhuman perse-
cutions, so common in domestic records; that system
which, like all grounded upon injustice, is as foolish as
tyrannical, and which always ends in misery, as it begins
in oppression. Mary was too gentle to resist; her prayers
became stilled; her tears ceased to flow; she sat alone in
her helpless, hopeless brokenness of heart," in that
deep despair which, like the incubus of an evil dream,
weighs upon the bosom, a burden and a torture from which
there is no escape nor relief. She managed at last, within
She managed at last, within
three days of that fixed for her union, to write to Rupert,
and get her letter conveyed to the post.
"
"Save me," it said in conclusion, "I ask not by
what means, I care not for what end,— save me, I implore
you, my guardian angel. I shall not trouble you long,
I write to you no romantic appeal : ~ God knows that I
have little thought for romance, but I feel that I shall soon
die, only let me die unseparated from you, — you,
you, who
first taught me to live, be near me, teach me to die, take
away from me the bitterness of death. Of all the terrors
of the fate to which they compel me, nothing appears so
dreadful as the idea that I may then no longer think of
you and love you. My hand is so cold that I can scarce
hold my pen, but my head is on fire. I think I could go
mad if I would, but I will not, for then you could no
longer love me. I hear my father's step, oli, Rupert ! -
on Friday next, remember, save me, save me !
But the day, the fatal Friday arrived, and Rupert came
not. They arrayed her in the bridal garb, and her father
came up stairs to summon her to the room, in which the
few guests invited were already assembled. He kissed her
cheek; it was so deathly pale, that his heart smote him,
and he spoke to her in the language of other days. She
turned towards him, her lips moved, but she spoke not.
"My child, my child!" said the old man, "have you not
>
Such was the conclave,
puss!"
On the window-seat, at the farther end of the room,
there sat, with folded arms and abstracted air, a tall, mili-
tary-looking figure, apparently about forty.
He rose,
bowed low to Mary, gazed at her for some moments with
a look of deep interest, sighed, muttered something to
himself, and remained motionless, with eyes fixed upon
the ground, and leaning against the dark wainscot.
This was Monkton, the husband of the woman who had
allured Rupert to T- and from whom he had heard so
threatening an account of her liege lord. Monkton had
long known Zacharias, and, always inclined to a seri
ous turn of mind, he had lately endeavoured to derive
consolation from the doctrines of that enthusiast. On
hearing from Zacharias, for the saint had no false notions
of delicacy, that he was going to bring into the pale of
matrimony a lamb which had almost fallen a prey to
the same wolf that had invaded his own fold, Monk-
ton expressed so warm an interest, and so earnest a desire
to see the reclaimed one, that Zacharias had invited him
to partake of the bridal cheer.
and never was a wedding
party more ominous in its appearance.
“We will have,'
said the father, and his voice trembled, "one drop of spir
itual comfort before we repair to the house of God. James
reach me the holy book." The Bible was brought, and
all, as by mechanical impulse, sank upon their knees. The
old man read with deep feeling some portions of the Scrip-
tures calculated for the day; there was a hushed and heart-
felt silence; he rose, he began an extemporaneous and
fervent discourse. How earnest and breathless was the
attention of his listeners! the very boy knelt with open
mouth and thirsting ear. "Oh, beneficent Father," he
said, as he drew near to his conclusion, "we do indeed
bow before thee with humbled and smitten hearts. The
evil spirit hath been among us, and one who was the pride,
and the joy, and the delight of our eyes, hath forgotten
thee for awhile; but shall she not return unto thee, and
shall we not be happy once more? Oh, melt away the
hardness of that bosom which rejects thee and thy chosen
for strange idols, and let the waters of thy grace flow from
the softened rock. And now, O Father, let thy mercy and
healing hand be upon this thy servant (and the old man
looked to Monkton) upon whom the same blight hath
fallen, and whose peace the same serpent bath destroyed.
Here Monkton's sobs were audible. "Give unto him the
comforts of thy Holy Spirit; wean him from the sins and
worldly affections of his earlier days, and both unto him
and her who is now about to enter upon a new career of
duty, vouchsafe that peace which no vanity of earth can
take away. From evil let good arise; and though the
voice of gladness be mate, and though the so mds of brida
>>
190
BULWER'S NOVELS.
C
light step and a lighter heart. "Follow air follow him!
cried the father, in his agony; save my daughter! why
will ye not save her?" and he wrung his hands, but stirred
" I will
not, for his grief had the stillness of despair.
save her," said Monkton; and still grasping the knife, of
which, indeed, he had not once left hold, he darted after
Rupert. He came up to the object of his pursuit just as
the latter had placed Mary (who was in a deep swoon)
within his carriage, and had himself set his foot on the
step. Rupert was singing, with a reckless daring natural to
his character, "She is wou, we are gone over brake, bush,
and scaur," when Monkton laid his hand upon his shoul-
der; "Your name is De Lindsay, I think," said the
former. "At your service," answered Rupert, gayly,
and endeavouring to free himself from the unceremonious
grasp. "This, then, at your heart!" cried Monkton, and
he plunged his knife twice into the bosom of the adulterer.
Rupert staggered and fell. Monkton stood over him with
a brightening eye, and brandishing the blade which reeked
be
with the best blood of his betrayer, "Look at me!
do you know me
shouted, "I am Henry Monkton!
"Oh, God!" murmured the dying man, "it is
just, it is just!" and he writhed for one moment on the
earth, and was still for ever!
now ?"
—
rejoicing are not heard within our walls, yet grant that this
day may be the beginning of a new life, devoted unto hap-
piness, to virtue, and to thee!" There was a long pause,
-they rose, -even the old women were affected. Monk-
ton returned to the window, and throwing it open leaned
forward as for breath. Mary resumed her seat, and there
she sat motionless and speechless. Alas! her very heart
seemed to have stilled its beating. At length James said,
(and his voice, though it was softened almost to a whisper,
broke upon that deep silence as an unlooked-for and un-
natural interruption,) "I think, father, it must be time to
go, and the carriages must be surely coming, and here they
are, no, that sounds like four horses." And at that very
moment the rapid trampling of hoofs, and the hurried
rattling of wheels were heard, the sounds ceased at the
gate of the house. The whole party, even Mary, rose and
looked at each other, -a slight noise was heard in the
hall,
-a swift step upon the stairs, - the door was flung
open, and, so wan and emaciated that he would scarcely
have been known but by the eyes of affection, Rupert de
Lindsay burst into the room. "Thank God," he cried,
"I am not too late! and, in mingled fondness and de-
fiance, he threw his arm round the slender form which
clung to it all wild and tremblingly. He looked round.
"Old man," he said, "I have done you wrong; I will
repay it; give me your daughter as my wife. What are
the claims of her intended husband to mine? Is he rich ?
riches treble his! Does he love her?
- my
Does he love her I swear
that I love her more! Does she love him? Look, old man!
are this cheek, whose roses you have marred, this pining
and wasted form, which shrinks now at the very mention
of his name, tokeus of her love? Does she love me? You
her father, you her brother, you her lover,
her lover, ay, all, every
one among you know that she does, and may heaven for-hearted father to his grave, to see the last days of the
sake me if I do not deserve her love! give her to me as
my wife,
she is mine already in the sight of God. Do
not divorce us, we both implore you upon our knees."
"Avaunt, blasphemer!" cried Zacharias, "begone!
said the father. The old ladies looked at him as if they
were going to treat him as Cleopatra did the pearl, and
dissolve him in vinegar. "Wretch!" muttered, in a deep
and subdued tone, the enraged and agitated Monkton, who,
the moment Rupert had entered the room, had guessed
who he was, and stood frowning by the sideboard, and
handling, as if involuntarily, the knife which had cut the
boy's cake, and been left accidentally there. And the
stern brother coming towards him, attempted to tear the
clinging and almost lifeless Mary from his arms.
cr
Nay, is it so ?" said Rupert, and with an effort
almost supernatural for one who had so lately recovered
from an illness so severe, he dashed the brother to the
ground, caught Mary in one arm, pushed Zacharias against
the old lady with the other, and fled down stairs, with a
Mary recovered from her swoon to see the weltering
body of her lover before her, to be dragged by her brother
over the very corpse into her former prison, and to relapse
with one low and inward shriek into insensibility. For
two days she recovered from one fit only to fall into
another, -on the evening of the third, the wicked had
ceased to trouble, and the weary was at rest.
It is not my object to trace the lives of the remaining
actors in this drama of real life, -to follow the broken-
brother consume amid the wretchedness of a jail, or to
witness, upon the plea of insanity, the acquittal of Henry
Monkton, these have but little to do with the thread and
catastrophe of my story. There was no romance in the
burial of the lovers, death did not unite those who in
life had been asunder. In the small churchyard of her
native place, covered by one simple stone, whose simpler
inscription is still fresh, while the daily passions and events
of the world have left memory but little trace of the de-
parted, the tale of her sorrows unknown, and the beauty
of her life unrecorded, sleeps Mary Warner.
And they of
ed for Rupert de Lindsay the mouldering
vaults of his Knightly fathers; and amid the banners of
old triumphs and the escutcheons of heraldic vanity, they
laid him in his palled and gorgeous coffin !
I attempt not to extract a moral from his life. His
existence was the chase of a flying shadow, that resæd
his grave!
not till it slept in gloom and for ever upon
MONOS AND DAIMONOS.
A LEGEND..
I AM English by birth, and my early years were passed
in * * * * *. I had neither brothers nor sisters; my
mother died when I was in the cradle; and I found my sole
father. He was a
companion, tutor, and playmate in my father. He was a
younger brother of a noble and ancient house: what in-
duced him to forsake his country and his friends, to abjure
all society, and to live on a rock, is a story in itself, which
has nothing to do with mine.
As the Lord liveth, I believe the tale that I shall tell you
will have sufficient claim on your attention, without calling
in the history of another to preface its most exquisite details,
or to give interest to its most amusing events. I said my
father lived on a rock, the whole country round seemed no-
thing but rock! wastes, bleak, blank, dreary; trees stunt-
nd, herbage blasted; caverns, through which some black and
wild stream (that never knew star or sunlight, but througa
rare and hideous chasms of the huge stones above it) went
dashing and howling on its blessed course; vast cliffs, cov-
ered with eternal snows, where the birds of prey lived, and
sent, in screams and discordance, a grateful and meet music
to the heavens, which seemed too cold and barren to wear
even clouds upon their wan, gray, comfortless expanse :
these made the character of that country where the spring
of my life sickened itself away. The climate which, in the
milder parts of ***** relieves the nine months of win-
ter with three months of an abrupt and autumnless summer,
never seemed to vary in the gentle and sweet region in which
my home was placed. Perhaps, for a brief interval, the
snow in the valleys melted, and the streams swelled, and a
blue, ghastly, unnatural kind of vegetation seemned here and
MONOS AND DAIMONOS.
191
there to mix with the rude lichen, or scatter a grim smile
over minute particles of the universal rock; but to these
witnesses of the changing season were the summers of my
boyhood confined. My father was addicted to the sciences,
the physical sciences, and possessed but a moderate
share of learning in any thing else; he taught me all he
knew; and the rest of my education, Nature, in a savage
and stern guise, instilled in my heart by silent but deep
lessons. She taught my feet to bound, and my arm to
smite; she breathed life into my passions, and shed dark-
ness over my temper; she taught me to cling to her, even in
the most rugged and unalluring form, and to shrink from all
else, from the companionship of man, and the soft smiles
of woman, and the shrill voice of childhood; and the ties,
and hopes, and socialities, and objects of human existence,
as from a torture and a curse. Even in that sullen rock,
and beneath that ungenial sky, I had luxuries unknown to
the palled tastes of cities, or to those who woo delight in an
air of odors and in a land of roses! What were those lux-
cries? They had a myriad of varieties and shades of en-
they had but a common name. What were
joyment,
M
those luxuries? Solitude!
My father died when I was eighteen: I was transferred
to my uncle's protection, and I repaired to London. I ar-
rived there, gaunt and stern, a giant in limbs and strength,
and to the tastes of those about me, a savage in bearing
and in mood. They would have laughed, but I awed
them;
they would have altered me, but I changed them; I
threw a damp over their enjoyment, and a cloud over their
meetings. Though I said little, though I sat with them,
estranged, and silent, and passive, they seemed to wither
beneath iny presence. Nobody could live with me and be
happy, or at ease! I felt it, and I hated them that they
could not love me. Three years passed, I was of age,
I demanded my fortune, and scorning social life, and
pining once more for loneliness, I resolved to journey into
those unpeopled and far lands, which if any have pierced,
none have returned to describe. So I took my leave of
them all, cousin and aunt, —and when I came to my old
uncle, who had liked me less than any, I grasped his hand
with so friendly a gripe, that, well I ween, the dainty and
nice member was but little inclined to its ordinary functions
in future.
-
My
-
I commenced my pilgrimage, — I pierced the burning
sands, I traversed the vast deserts, I came into the
enormous woods of Africa, where human step never trod,
nor human voice ever startled the thrilling and intense
solemnity that broods over the great solitudes, as it brooded
over chaos before the world was! There the primeval
nature springs and perishes, undisturbed and unvaried by
the convulsions of the surrounding world; the leaf becomes
the tree, lives through its uncounted ages, falls and moul-
ders, and rots and vanishes, unwitnessed in its mighty and
mute changes, save by the wandering lion, or the wild os-
trich, or that huge serpent, a hundred times more vast
than the puny boa that the cold limners of Europe have
painted, and whose bones the vain student has preserved,
as a miracle and marvel. There, too, as beneath the
heavy and dense shade I couched in the scorching noon, I
heard the trampling as of an army, and the crush and fall
of the strong trees, and beheld through the matted boughs
the deaemoth pass on its terrible way, with its eyes burning
as a sun, and its white teeth arched and glistening in the
rabid jaw, as pillars of spar glitter in a cavern; the mon-
ster to whom only those waters are a home, and who never,
since the waters rolled from the dædal earth, has been
given to human gaze and wonder but my own! Seasons
glided on, but I counted them not; they were not doled to
me by the tokens of man, nor made sick to me by the
changes of his base life, and the evidence of his sordid la-
bor. Seacons glided on, and my youth ripened into man-
hood, and manhood grew gray with the first rose of age;
and then a vague and restless spirit fell upon me, and I
said in my foolish heart, "I will look upon the counte-
nances of my race once more! I retraced my steps, -I
recrossed the wastes, I reentered the cities, I took
again the garb of man; for I had been hitherto naked in
the wilderness, and hair had grown over me as a garment.
I repaired to a seaport, and took ship for England.
In the vessel there was one man, and only one, who
neither avoided my companionship nor recoiled at my
frown. He was an idle and curious being, full of the fri-
volities, and egotisris, aud importance of them to whom
|
towns are homes, and talk has become a mental aliment,
He was one pervading, irritating, offensive tissue of little
and low thoughts. The only meanness he had not was
fear. It was impossible to awe, to silence, or to shan him.
He sought me for ever; he was as a blister to me, which no
force could tear away; my soul grew faint when my eyes
met his. He was to my sight as those creatures which
from their very loathsomeness are fearful as well as des-
picable to us. I longed and yearned to strangle him when
he addressed me! Often I would have laid my hand on
him, and burled him into the sea to the sharks, which,
lynx-eyed and eager-jawed, swam night and day around
our ship; but the gaze of many was on us, and I curbed
myself, and turned away,
myself, and turned away, and shut my eyes in very sick-
ness; and when I opened them again, lo! he was by my
side, and his sharp, quick voice grated, in its prying, and
asking, and torturing accents, on my loathing and repug
nant ear! One night I was roused from
my sleep by the
screams and oaths of men, and I hastened on deck: we
had struck upon a rock.
a rock. It was a ghastly, but, oh Christ
- the
how glorious a sight! Moonlight still and calin,
sea sleeping in sapphires; and in the midst of the silent
and soft repose of all things, three hundred and fifty souls
were to perish from the world ! I sat apart, and looked
on, and aided not. A voice crept like an adder's hiss
upon my ear; I turned, and saw my tormentor; the moon-
light fell on his face, and it grinned with the maudlin grin
of intoxication, and his pale blue eye glistened, and he said,
"We will not part even here! My blood ran coldly
through my veins, and I would have thrown him into the
sea, which now came fast and fast upon us; but the moon-
light was on him, and I did not dare to kill him. But I
would not stay to perish with the herd, and I threw my-
self alone from the vessel and swam towards a rock. I
saw a shark dart after me, but I shunned him, and the mo-
ment after he had plenty to sate his maw. I heard a crash,
and mingled with a wild burst of anguish, the anguish of
three hundred and fifty hearts that a minute afterward were
stilled, and I said in my own heart, with a deep joy, "His
voice is with the rest, and we have parted!” I gained the
shore, and lay down to sleep.
The next morning my eyes opened upon a land more
beautiful than a Grecian's dreams. The sun had just risen,
and laughed over streams of silver, and trees bending with
golden and purple fruits, and the diamond dew sparkled
from a sod covered with flowers, whose faintest breath was
a delight. Ten thousand birds with all the hues of a
northern rainbow blended in their glorious and growing
wings, rose from turf and tree, and loaded the air with
melody and gladness; the sea, without a vestige of the
past destruction upon its glassy brow, murmured at my
feet; the heavens without a cloud, and bathed in a liquid
and radiant light, sent their breezes as a blessing to m
cheek. I rose with a refreshed and light heart; I traversed
the new home I had found; I climbed upon a high mountain
and saw that I was in a small island, it had no trace of
man, and my heart swelled as I gazed around and cried
aloud in my exultation, “I shall be alone again! I de
scended the hill: I had not yet reached its foot, when?
saw the figure of a man approaching towards me. I looked
at him, and my heart misgave me. He drew nearer, anc
I saw that my despicable persecutor had escaped the
waters, and now stood before me. He came up with a
hideous grin and his twinkling eye; and he flung his arms
round me,
I would sooner have felt the slimy folds of
the serpent,
and said, with his grating and harsh voice
"Ha ha! my friend, we shall be together still!" }
looked at him with a grim brow, but I said not a word.
There was a great cave by the shore, and I walked down
and entered it, and the man followed me. "We shall live
so happily here," said he, "we will never separate!"
And my lip trembled, and my hand clenched of its own ac
cord. It was now noon, and hunger came upon me; I
went forth and killed a deer, and I brought it home aud
broiled part of it on a fire of fragrant wood; and the man
eat, and crunched, and laughed, and I wished that the
bones had choked him; and he said, when we had done,
"We shall have rare cheer here! But I still held my
peace. At last he stretched himself in a corner of the cav
and slept. I looked at him, and saw that the slumber was
heavy, and I went out and rolled a huge stone to the mouth
of the cavern, and took my way to the opposite part of the
island; it was my turu to laugh then! I found out another
>>
192
BULWER'S NOVELS.
cavern; and I made a bed of moss and leaves, and I
wrought a table of wood, and I looked out from the mouth
of the cavern and saw the wide seas before me and said,
"Now I shall be alone!
When the next day came, I again went out and caught a
kid, and brought it in, and prepared it as before; but I
was not hungered, and I could not eat; so I roamed forth
and wandered over the island: the sun had nearly set
when I returned. I entered the cavern, and sitting on my
bed and by my table was that man whom I thought I had
left buried alive in the other cave. He laughed when he
saw me, and laid down the bone he was gnawing.
"Ha! ha!" said he, " you would have served me a
rare trick; but there was a hole in the cave which you did
ut see, and I got out to seek you. It was not a difficult
matter, for the island was so small; and now we have met,
and we will part no more!"
I said to the man, <C
Rise, and follow me!" So he
rose, and I saw that of all my food he had left only the
bones. "Shall this thing reap and I sow?" thought I,
and my heart felt to me like iron.
I ascended a tall clift: "Look round," said I;
"Look round," said I; "you
see that stream which divides the island; you shall dwell
on one side, and I on the other; but the same spot shall
not hold us, nor the same feast supply!
"That may never be !" quoth the man; "for I cannot
catch the deer, nor spring upon the mountain kid; and if
you feed me not, I shall starve !
"Are there not fruits," said I, "and birds that you may
snare, and fishes which the sea throws up ?
"But I like them not," quoth the man, and laughed,
so well as the flesh of kids and deer!"
Look, then," said I," look: by that gray stone, upon
the opposite side of the streamn, I will lay a deer or a kid
daily, so that you may have the food you covet; but if ever
you cross the stream and come into my kingdom, so sure
as the sea murmurs, and the bird flies, I will kill !'
you
I descended the cliff, and led the man to the side of the
stream. "I cannot swim," said he; so I took him on my
shoulders and crossed the brook, and I found him out a
cave, and I made him a bed and a table like my own, and
left him. When I was on my own side of the stream
again, I bounded with joy, and lifted up my voice; "I
shall be alone now!" said I.
So two days passed, and I was alone. On the third I
went after my prey; the noon was hot, and I was wearied
when I returned. I entered my cavern, and behold the
man lay stretched upon my bed. "Ha ha!" said he,
"here I am; I was so lonely at home that I have come to
live with you again !”
I frowned on the man with a dark brow, and I said,
"So sure as the sea murmurs, and the bird flies, I will kill
you!" I seized him in my arms: I plucked him from
iny bed; I took him out into the open air, and we stood
together on the smooth sand, and by the great sea. A fear
came suddenly upon me; I was struck with the awe of the
still Spirit which reigns over solitude. Had a thousand
been round us, I would have slain him before them all. I
feared now because we were alone in the desert, with si-
lence and God! I rdaxed
I relaxed my hod. "Swear," I said,
never to molest me again; swear to preserve unpassed
the boundary of our several homes, and I will not kill
you!",
"I cannot swear," answered the man; "I would
sooner die than forswear the blessed human face,
though that face be my enemy's!"
M
even
At these words my rage returned; I dashed the man to
the ground, and I put my foot upon his breast, and my hand
upon his neck; and he struggled for a moment,
and was
dead! I was startled and as I looked upon his face I
thought it seemed to revive; I thought the cold blue eye
fixed upon me, and the vile grin returned to the livid mouth,
and the hands, which in the death-pang had grasped the
sand, stretched themselves out to me. So I stamped on
the breast again, and I dug a hole in the shore, and I buried
the body. "And now," said 1, "I am alone at last!"
And then the sense of loneliness, the vague, vast, comfortless,
I,
And 1
objectless sense of desolation passed into me.
shok, shook in every limb of my giant frame, as if I
had been a child that trembles in the dark; and my hat
rose, and my blood crept, and I would not have staid in
that spot a moment more if I had been made young again
for it. I turned away and fled, fled round the whole
island; and gnashed my teeth when I came to the sea, and
longed to be cast into some illimitable desert, that I might
Alee on for ever. At sunset I returned to my cave,—I sat
myself down on one corner of the bed, and covered my
face with my hands, I thought I heard a noise; I raised
my eyes, and, as I live, I saw on the other end of the bed
the man whom I had slain and buried. There he sat, six
feet from me, and nodded to me, and looked at me with his
wan eyes and laughed. I rushed from the cave, — I en-
tered a wood, I threw myself down, there opposite to
me, six feet from my face, was the face of that man again !
And my courage rose, and I spoke, but he answered not.
I attempted to seize him; he glided from my grasp, and
was still opposite, six feet from me as before. I flung my
self on the ground, and pressed my face to the sod, and
would not look up till the night came on and darkness was
over the earth. I then rose and returned to the cave: I
laid down on my bed, and the man lay down by me; and I
frowned and tried to seize him as before, but I could not,
and I closed my eyes, and the man lay by me. Day passe
on day, and it was the same. At board, at bed, at hom
and abroad, in my up-rising and down-sitting, by day and
at night, there, by my bedside, six feet from me, and no
more, was that ghastly and dead thing. And I said, as I
looked upon the beautiful land and the still heavens, and
then turned to that fearful comrade, "I shall never be alone
again!" And the man laughed.
Gold
At last a ship came, and I hailed it, it took me up,
and I thought, as I put my foot on the deck, "I shall es-
cape from my tormentor!" As I thought so, I saw him
climb the deck too, and I strove to push him down into the
sea, but in vain; he was by my side, and he fed and slept
with me as before! I came home to my native land! I
forced myself into crowds, I went to the feast, and I
heard music, and I made thirty men sit with me, and
watch by day and by night. So I had thirty-one compan-
ions, and one was more social than all the rest.
At last I said to myself, "This is a delusion, and a
cheat of the external senses, and the thing is not, save in
my mind. I will consult those skilled in such disorders,
and I will be alone again!"
I summoned one celebrated in purging from the mind's
eye its films and deceits, I bound him by an oath to se-
crecy, and I told him my tale. He was a bold man and
a learned, and he promised me relief and release.
"Where is the figure now?" said he, smiling;
it not."
And I answered, "It is six feet from us!"
"I see
"I see it not," said he, again; "and if it were real, my
senses would not receive the image less palpably than
yours." And he spoke to me as schoolmen speak. I diu
not argue nor reply, but I ordered my servants to prepare
a room, and to cover the floor with a thick layer of sand.
When it was done, I bade the leech follow me into the
room, and I barred the door. "Where is the figure now ?
repeated he; and I said, "Six feet from us as before!
And the leech smiled. "Look on the floor," said I, and I
pointed to the spot; "what see you?" And the leech
shuddered, and clung to me that he might not fall. "The
sand,” said he,
sand," said he, "was smooth when we entered, and now I
see on that spot the print of human feet!"
And I laughed, and dragged my living companion on ;
"See," said I, "where we move what follows us?"
The leech gasped for breath; "The print," said he,
"of those human feet! "
"Can you not minister to me then?" cried I, in a sud-
den fierce agony ; "and must I never be alone again?"
And I saw the feet of the dead thing trace one word upor
the sand; and the word was —— NEVER.
TOO HANDSOME FOR ANY THING.
198
TOO HANDSOME FOR ANY THING.
MR. FERDINAND FITZROY was one of those models
af perſection of which a human father and mother can pro-
duce but a single example, Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was
therefore an only son. He was such an amazing favorite
with both his parents, that they resolved to ruin him; ac-
cordingly, he was exceedingly spoiled, never annoyed by
the sight of a book, and had as much plum-cake as he
could eat. Happy would it have been for Mr. Ferdinand
Fitzroy could he always have eaten plum-cake, and re-
mained a child. "Never," says the Greek tragedian,
"reckon a mortal happy till you have witnessed his end."
A most beautiful creature was Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy !
Such eyes, such hair, such teeth, -such a figure,
rch manners, too,- and such an irresistible way of tying
is neckcloth! When he was about sixteen, a crabbed old
uncle represented to his parents the propriety of teaching
Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy to read and write. Though not
without some difficulty, he convinced them;
for he was
exceedingly rich, and riches in an uncle are wonderful ar-
guments respecting the nurture of a nephew whose parents
have nothing to leave him. So our hero was sent to school.
He was naturally (I am not joking now) a very sharp,
clever boy; and he came on surprisingly in his learning.
The schoolmaster's wife liked handsome children.
"What
a genius will Master Ferdinand Fitzroy be, if you take
pains with him!" said she to her husband.
"Pooh, my dear, it is of no use to take pains with him."
"And why, love?
"Because he is a great deal too handsome ever to be a
scholar."
"And that's true enough, my dear!" said the school-
master's wife.
So, because he was too handsome to be a scholar, Mr.
Ferdinand Fitzroy remained the lag of the fourth form!
They took our hero from school. "What profession
shall he follow?" said his mother.
My first cousin is the lord chancellor," said his
father," let him go to the bar."
The lord chancellor dined there that day: Mr. Ferdi-
nand Fitzroy was introduced to him; his lordship was a
little, rough-faced, beetle-browed, hard-featured man, who
thought beauty and idleness the same thing, and a parch-
ment skin the legitimate complexion for a lawyer.
"Send him to the bar!" said he; " no, no, that will
never do! Send him into the army; he is much too
handsome to become a lawyer.'
"And that's true enough, my lord!" said the mother.
So they bought Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy a cornetcy in the
regiment of dragoons.
Things are not learned by inspiration. Mr. Ferdinand
Fitzroy had never ridden at school, except when he was
hoisted; he was, therefore, a very indifferent horseman;
they sent him to the riding-school, and every body laughed
at him.
"He is a d—d ass!
d ass!" said Cornet Horsephiz, who
was very ugly; "A horrid puppy!" said Lieutenant St.
Squintem, who was still uglier; "If he does not ride
better, he will disgrace the regiment!" said Captain
Riva hate, who was very good-looking: "If he does not
ride better, we will cut him!" said Colonel Everdrill,
who was a wonderful martinet; "I say, Mr. Bumpemwell
(to the riding-master) make that youngster ride less like
a miller's sack."
"Poob, sir, he will never ride better."
"And why the d-I will he not?
"Bless you, colonel, he is a great deal too handsome
for a cavalry officer ! ”
"True!" said Cornet Horsephiz.
"Very true!" said Lieutenant St. Squintem.
"We must cut him!" said the colonel.
And Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly cut.
VOL. II
25
Our hero was a youth of susceptibility, he quitted the
regiment, and challenged the colonel. The colo.
nel was killed!
"What a terrible blackguard is Mr. Ferdinand Fitz
roy!
said the colonel's relations.
"Very true!" said the world.
The parents were in despair! -They were not rich;
but our hero was an only son, and they sponged hard upon
the crabbed old uncle.
"He is very clever," said they both, "and may do
yet."
· con-
So they borrowed some thousands from the uncle, and
bought his beautiful nephew a seat in Parliament.
Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was ambitious, and desirous of
retrieving his character. He fagged like a dragon,
ned pamphlets and reviews,-got Ricardo by heart,
and made notes on the English constitution.
He rose to speak.
"What a handsome fellow !" whispered one member.
Ah, a coxcomb!" said another.
"Never do for a speaker!" said a third, very audibly.
And the gentlemen on the opposite benches sneered and
heared! Impudence is only indigenous in Milesia, and
an orator is not made in a day. Discouraged by his re-
ception, Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy grew a little embarrassed.
"Told you so!" said one of his neighbours.
Fairly broke down!" said another.
“Too fond of his hair to have any thing in his head,”
said a third, who was considered a wit.
Hear, hear!" cried the gentlemen on the opposite
benches.
Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy sat down, he had not shone ;
but, in justice, he had not failed. Many a first-rate
speaker had begun worse; and many a county member
had been declared a phoenix of promise upon half his
merit.
Not so thought the heroes of corn laws.
"Your Adonises never make orators!" said a crack
speaker with a wry nose.
a
Nor men of business either," added the chairman of
committee, with a face like a kangaroo's.
"He's a
"Poor devil!" said the civilest of the set.
deused deal too handsome for a speaker! By Jove, he is
going to speak again, this will never do; we must cough
him down!"
And Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly ghed
down.
Our hero was now seven or eight and twenty, nand-
somer than ever, and the adoration of all the young ladies
at Almack's.
"We have nothing to leave you," said the parents, who
had long spent their fortune, and now lived on the credit
of having once enjoyed it. -"You are the handsomest
man in London; you must marry an heiress.”
"I will," said Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy.
Miss Helen Convolvulus was a charming young lady,
with a hare-lip and six thousand a year. To Miss Helen
Convolvulus then our bero paid his addresses.
Heavens! what an uproar her relations made about the
matter. "Easy to see his intentions," said one; "a
handsome fortune-hunter, who wants to make the best of
his person!"—"Handsome is that handome does," says
another; "he was turned out of the army, and murdered
his colonel! " "Never marry a beauty," said a third;
"he can admire none but himself.” "Will have 80
many mistresses," said a fourth;- "Make you perpetual-
ly jealous," said a fifth; "Spend your fortune," said a
sixth ; "And break your heart," said a seventh.
Miss Helen Convolvulus was prudent and wary. She
saw a great deal of justice in what was said; and wae
sufficiently contented with liberty and six thousand a year
194
BULWER'S NOVELS.
not to be highly impatient for a husband; but our heroine
had no aversion to a lover, especially to so handsome a
lover as Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy. Accordingly, she neither
accepted nor discarded him, but kept him on hope, and
suffered him to get into debt with his tailor and his coach-
maker, on the strength of becoming Mr. Fitzroy Convol
vulus. Time went on, and excuses and delays were easily
found; however, our hero was sanguine, and so were his
parents. A breakfast at Chiswick and a putrid fever car-
ried off the latter, within one week of each other; but not
till they had blessed Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, and rejoiced
that they had left him so well provided for.
Now, then, our hero depended solely upon the crabbed
old uncle and Miss Helen Convolvulus; the former,
though a baronet and a satirist, was a banker and a man
of business : - he looked very distastefully at the Hype-
rian curls and white teeth of Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy.
"If I make you my heir," said he, "I expect you will
continue the bank."
66
Certainly, sir!" said the nephew.
Humph!" grunted the uncle; "a pretty fellow for a
banker!"
Debtors grew pressing to Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, and
Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy grew pressing to Miss Helen
Convolvulus. "It is a dangerous thing," said she, tim-
idly, "
to marry a man so admired, will you always be
faithful?"
ઃઃ
"By heaven!" cried the lover,
Heigho!" sighed Miss Helen Convolvulus, and Lord
Rufus Pumilion entering, the conversation was changed.
But the day of the marriage was fixed; and Mr. Ferdi-
nand Fitzroy bought a new curricle. By Apollo, how
handsome he looked in it! A month before the wedding-
day the uncle died. Miss Helen Convolvulus was quite
tender in her condolences, -"Cheer up, my Ferdinand,"
said she; "for your sake, I have discarded Lord Rufus
Pumilion!"
" Bri
"Adorable condescension!" cried our hero;
Lord Rufus Pumilion is only four feet two, and has hai
like a peony."
"All men are not so handsome as Mr. Ferdinand Fitz-
roy!" was the reply.
Away goes our hero, to be present at the opening of his
uncle's will.
"I leave," said the testator (who, I have before said,
was a bit of a satirist) "my share of the bank, and the
whole of my fortune, legacies excepted, to❞— (here Mr
Ferdinand Fitzroy wiped his beautiful eyes with a cambric
handkerchief, exquisitely brodé) "my natural son, John
Spriggs, an industrious, pains-taking youth, who will do
credit to the bank. I did once intend to have made my
nephew Ferdinand my heir; but so curling a head car
have no talent for accounts. I want my successor to be a
man of business, not beauty; and Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy
is a great deal too handsome for a banker; his good looks
will, no doubt, win him any heiress in town. Meanwhile,
I leave him, to buy a dressing-case, a thousand pounds."
"A thousand devils!" said Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy,
banging out of the room. He flew to his mistress. She
was not at home. "Lies," says the Italian proverb,
"have short legs; " but truths, if they are unpleasant,
have terribly long ones! The next day Mr. Ferdinand
Fitzroy received a most obliging note of dismissal.
"I wish you every happiness," said Miss Helen Con
volvulus, in conclusion, but my friends are right; you
are much too handsome for a husband!"
And the week after, Miss Helen Convolvulus became
Lady Rufus Pumilion.
"Alas! sir," said the bailiff, as, a day or two after the
dissolution of Parliament, he was jogging along with Mr
Ferdinand Fitzroy, in a hackney-coach, bound to the
King's Bench, "alas! sir, what a pity it is to take so
handsome a gentleman to prison !"
A MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A MADHOUSE.
eous;
I AM the eldest son of a numerous family; — noble in and fed me. I grew up, I asked for something to re
birth, and eminent for wealth. My brothers are a vigorous I loved every thing: the common earth,-
the fresh grass,
and comely race; — my sisters are more heautiful than
more beautiful than the living insect, the household brute; from the dead
dreams. By what fatality was it that I alone was thrust stone I trod on, to the sublime countenance of man, made
into this glorious world distorted, and dwarf-like, and hid- to behold the stars, and to scorn me; from the noblest
my limbs a mockery, my countenance a horror, thing to the prettiest, the fairest to the foulest, I loved
myself a blackness on the surface of creation; - a discord them all! I knelt to my mother, and besought her to love
in the harmony of nature, a living misery, an animated me, she shuddered. I fled to my father, and he
and he spurn-
curse? I am shut out from the aims and objects of my ed me! The lowest minion of the human race, that had
race; with the deepest sources of affection in my heart, its limbs shapen and its countenance formed, refused to
I am doomed to find no living thing on which to pour them. consort with me ; the very dog, (I only dared to seek out
Love! -out upon the world, I am its very loathing and one that seemed more rugged and hideous than its fellows,)
abhorrence friendship turns from me in disgust; pity the very dog dreaded me, and slunk away!-I grew up
beholds me, and withers to aversion. Wheresoever I wan- lonely and wretched; I was like the reptile whose prison
der, I am encompassed with hatred as with an atmosphere. is the stone's heart,-immured in the eternal penthouse of
Whatever I attempt, I am in the impassable circle of a a solitude to which the breath of fellowship never came ;
dreadful and accursed doom. Ambition, pleasure, girded with a wall of barrenness, and flint, and doomed to
philanthropy, fame, the common blessing of social in-vegetate and batten on my own suffocating and poisoned
tercourse,
1 J
are all as other circles, which mine can touch
but in one point, and that point is torture. I have knowl-
edge to which the wisdom of ordinary sages is as dust to
gold ; — I have energies to which relaxation is pain; - I
have benevolence which sheds itself in charity and love over
For what,
merciful God! for what are
these blessings of nature or of learning? The instant I
employ them, I must enter among men: the moment I
enter among men, my being blackens into an agony. Laugh-
ter grins upon me, -terror dogs my steps; I exist upon
poisons, and my nourishment is scorn!
a worm!
At my birth the nurse refused me suck; my mother saw
me and became delirious; my father ordered that I should
be stifled as a monster. The physicians saved my life,.
accursed be they for the act! One woman,
she was old
and childless, took compassion upon me; she reared
-
meditations. But while this was my heart's dungeon, they
could not take from the external senses the sweet face of
the universal Nature; they could not bar me from com-
mune with the voices of the mighty dead. Earth opened
to me her marvels, and the volumes of the wise their stores.
I read, — I mused,
I mused, I examined, I descended into the
deep wells of truth, and mirrored in my soul the holiness
of her divine beauty. The past lay before me like a scroll
the mysteries of this breathing worl? rose from the present
like clouds ; -even of the dark future, experience shadow-
ed forth something of a token and a sign; and over the
wonders of the world I hung the intoxicating and mingled
spells of poesy and of knowledge. But I could not without
a struggle live in a world of love, and be the only thing
doomed to hatred. "I will travel," said 1, "to other
quarters of the globe. All earth's tribes have not the proud
MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A MAD HOUSE.
195
stamp of angels and of gods, and among its infinite variety |
I may find a being who will not sicken at myself." I took
leave of the only one who had not loathed me, the woman
who had given me food, and reared me up to life. She had
now become imbecile, and doting, and blind ;
; so she did
not disdain to lay her hand upon my distorted head, and to
bless me.
"But better," she said, even as she blessed me,
and in despite of her dotage, -"better that you had
per-
ished in the womb." And I laughed with a loud laugh
when I heard her, and rushed from the house.
One evening, in my wanderings, as I issued from a wood,
I came abruptly upon the house of a village priest. Around
it, from a thick and lofty fence of shrubs which the twilight
of summer bathed in dew, the honeysuckle, and the sweet-
brier, and the wild rose sent forth those gifts of fragrance
and delight which were not denied even unto me. As I
walked slowly behind the hedge, I heard voices on the
opposite side; they were the voices of women, and I paused
to listen. They spoke of love, and of the qualities which
should create it.
ine.
no,
+
"But," said the other voice, "you could not love a
monster in person, even if he were a miracle of intellect
and of love!
mantle, and safe in the oath by which I had bound her not
to seek to penetrate my secret, or to behold my form before
the hour I myself should appoint arrived, I held commune
with her in the deep nights of summer, and beneath the
unconscious stars; and while I unrolled to her earnest
spirit the marvels of the mystic world, and the glories of
wisdom, I mingled with my instruction the pathos and the
passion of love!
"Go," said she, one night, as we conferred together,
and through the matted trees I saw, though she beheld
me not, that her cheek blushed as she spoke; "go,
and win from others the wonder that you have won from
me. Go, pour forth your knowledge to the crowd; go,
gain the glory of fame, the glory which makes man im-
mortal, and then come back, and claim me, I will be
yours!"
"Swear it!" cried I.
"I I swear!" she said; and as she spoke the moonlight
streamed upon her face, flushed as it was with the ardor
of the moment and the strangeness of the scene; her eye
No," said one, and the words, couched in a tone of burned with a steady and deep fire, her lip was firm,
music, thrilled to my heart,
it is not beauty which and her figure, round which the light fell like the glory of
I require in a lover; it is the mind which can command a halo, seemed indistinct and swelling, as it were, with the
others, and the passion which would bow that mind unto determinate energy of the soul. I gazed, and my heart
I answered not,
I ask for genius and affection. I ask for nothing leaped within me ;
but I stole silently
else."
away for months she heard of me no more.
I fled to a lonely and far spot, I surrounded myself
once more with books. I explored once more the arcana
of science; I ransacked once more the starry regions of
poetry; and then upon the mute page I poured the thoughts
and the treasures which I had stored within me! I sent
the product, without a name, upon the world: the world re-
ceived it; approved it; and it became fame. Philosophers
bowed in wonder before my discoveries: the pale student
in cell and cloister pored over the mines of learning which
I had dragged into day; the maidens in their bowers
blushed and sighed, as they drank in the burning pathos of
my verse. The old and the young, all sects and all
countries, united in applause and enthusiasm for the un-
known being who held, as they averred, the genii of wis-
dom and the spirits of verse in mighty and wizard spells,
which few had ever won, and none had ever blended be-
fore.
"I could," answered the first speaker, fervently; "if I
kuow my own heart, I could. You remember the fable of
a girl whom a monster loved! I could have loved that
monster."
I returned to her, I sought a meeting under the same
mystery and conditions as of old; I proved myself that
unknown whose fame filled all ears and occupied all tongues.
Her heart had foreboded it already! I claimed my reward!
And in the depth and deadness of night, when not a star
crept through the curtain of cloud and gloom, when not
a gleam struggled against the blackness, not a breath
stirred the heavy torpor around us, that reward was
yielded. The dense woods and the eternal hills were the
sole witnesses of our bridal ; and girt with darkness as
with a robe, she leaned upon my bosom, and shuddered
not at the place of her repose!
-
And with these words they passed from my hearing; but
I stole round, and through a small crevice in the fence,
beheld the face and form of the speaker, whose words had
opened, as it were, a glimpse of heaven to my heart. Her
eyes were soft and deep, her hair, parting from her girl-
ish and smooth brow, was of the hue of gold, her aspect
was pensive and melancholy, and over the delicate and
transparent paleness of her cheek, hung the wanness, but
also the eloquence, of thought. To other eyes she might not
have been beautiful, to mine, her face was as an angel's.
Oh! lovelier far than the visions of the Carian, or the
shapes that floated before the eyes of the daughters of Delos,
is the countenance of one that bringeth to the dark breast
the first glimmerings of hope! From that hour my resolu.
tion was taken; I concealed myself in the wood that bor- |
dered her house; I made my home with the wild fox in the
cavern and the shade; the daylight passed in dreams and
passionate delirium, and at evening I wandered forth, to
watch afar off her footstep; or creep through the copse,
unseen, to listen to her voice; or through the long and lone
night to lie beneath the shadow of her house, and fix my
soul, watchful as a star, upon the windows of the chamber
where she slept. I strewed her walks with the leaves of
poetry, and at midnight I made the air audible with the
breath of music. In my writings and my songs, whatever
in the smooth accents of praise, or the burning language of
passion, or the liquid melodies of verse, could awaken her
fancy or excite her interest, I attempted. Curses on the
attempt! May the hand wither!-may the brain burn!
May the heart shrivel, and parch like a leaf that a flame
devours, from which the cravings of my ghastly and un-
natural love found a channel, or an aid! I told her in my
verses, in ny letters, that I had overheard her confession.
I told her that I was more hideous than the demons which
the imagination of a northern savage had ever bodied forth;
I told her that I was a thing which the daylight loathed
to look upon; — but I told her, also, that I adored her
and I breathed both my story and my love in the numbers
of song, and sung them to the silver chords of my lute, with
a voice which belied my form, and was not out of harmonypared them to see me! I entered : all eyes but hers were
with nature. She answered me, and her answer filled
the air, that had hitherto been to me a breathing torture,
with enchantment and rapture. She repeated, that beauty
was as nothing in her estimation, that to her all loveli-
ness was in the soul. She told me that one who wrote as
I wrote, who felt as I felt, could not be loathsome in
her eyes.
She told me that she could love me, be my form
form
even more moustrous than I had portrayed it. Fool!
miserable fool that I was, to believe her! So, then, shroud-
ed among the trees, and wrapped from head to foot in a
Thus only we met, but for months we did meet, and I
was blessed. At last, the fruit of our ominous love could
no longer be concealed. It became necessary, either that
I should fly with her, or wed her with the rites and ceremo-
nies of man,
as I had done amid the more sacred solem-
nities of Nature. In either case, disclosure was imperious
and unavoidable ; I took therefore that which gratitude
ordained. Beguiled by her assurances,- touched by her
trust and tenderness, maddened by her tears, duped
by my own heart, — Í agreed to meet her, and for the first
time openly reveal myself, at the foot of the altar!
P
The appointed day came. At our mutual wish, only two
witnesses were present, besides the priest and the aged and
broken-hearted father, who consented solely to our singular
marriage because mystery was less terrible to him than
disgrace. She had prepared them to see a distorted and
fearful abortion, but, - ha ! ha! ha!
she had not pre-
-
turned to me,
turned to me, a unanimous cry was uttered,
the priest
involuntarily closed the book, and muttered the exorcism
for a fiend, - the father covered his face with his hands,
and sunk upon the ground, the other witnesses, -ha!
ha! ha! (it was rare mirth) rushed screaming from the
chapel! It was twilight, the tapers burned dim and
faint, I approached my bride, who, trembling and
weeping beneath her long veil, had not dared to look at me.
"Behold me!"— said I, my bride, my beloved!-
behold thy husband!” I raised her veil, she saw my
196
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the bride. By little and little, the crowd assembled, to
gaze upon the monster in mingled derision and dread; -
then I recollected myself and arose. I scattered them in
terror before me, and uttering a single and piercing cry, I
rushed forth, and hid myself in the wood.
and the
ha
-
and
ha!
countenance glare full upon her, uttered one shriek, and | corpse-like hue, and the black shaggy haiz,
fell senseless on the floor. I raised her not, I stirred horrible limbs, and the unnatural shape, there,
not, I spoke not. I saw my doom was fixed, my curse ha! there they were,
my wife and my child! I took
complete; and my heart lay mute, and cold, and lead them both in my arms,
I hurried from the house,-!
within me, like a stone ! Others entered, they bore away carried them into the wood. I concealed them in a cav-
ern, I watched over them, and lay beside them,
played with the worms that played with them,
ha ha!—it was a jovial time that, in the old cavern!
And so, when they were all gone but the hones, I buried
them quietly, and took my way to my home. My father
was dead, and my brothers hoped that I was dead also.
But I turned them out of the house, and took possession
of the titles and the wealth. And then I went to see the
doting old woman who had nursed me; and they showed
me where she slept, -a little green mound in the church-
yard, and I wept, oh, so bitterly! I never shed a tear
for my wife,
ha ha ha!
or,
for my beautiful
child!
But at night, at the hour in which I had been accustomed
to meet her, I stole forth again. I approached the house,
I climbed the wall, I entered the window; I was in her
chamber. All was still and solitary; I saw not a living
thing there; but the lights burned bright and clear. I drew
near to the bed; I beheld a figure stretched upon it, a
taper at the feet, and a taper at the head, - so there was
plenty of light for me to see my bride. She was a corpse!
I did not speak, nor faint, nor groan; but I laughed
aloud. Verily, it is a glorious mirth, to behold the only
thing one loves, stiff, and white, and shrunken, and food
for the red, playful, creeping worm! I raised my eyes,
and saw upon a table near the bed something covered with
a black cloth. I lifted the cloth, and beheld, -ha! ha!
ha!
by the foul fiend, -a dead, but beautiful like-
ness of myself! A little infant monster!
A little infant monster! The ghastly
mouth and the laidley features, and the delicate, green,
M
g
-
And so I lived happily enough for a short time; but at
last they discovered that I was the unknown philosopher,
the divine poet whom the world rung of.
of. And the
crowd came, and the mob beset me, and my rooms
were filled with eyes,― large, staring eyes,
large, staring eyes, all surveying
me from head to foot, and peals of laughter and shrieks
wandered about the air, like disimbodied and damned
spirits, - and I was never alone again
1
RIENZI,
THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
Then turn we to her latest tribune's name,
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
nedeemer of dark centuries of shame,
The friend of Petrarch,
Rienzi, last of Romans!
hope of Italy,
While the tree
Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be,
The forum's champion and the people s chief,
Her newborn Numa thou!
Childe Harold, cant. iv. stanza 114.
Amid the indulgence of enthusiasm and eloquence, Petrarch, Italy, and Europe were astonished bv a
revolution which realized for a moment his most splendid visions - GIBBON, chap. lxx.
i
1
ΤΟ
ALESSANDRO MANZONI,
AS
ГO
TO THE GENIUS OF THE PLACE,
ARE DEDICATED
THESE FRUITS,
GATHERED ON THE SOIL OF ITALIAN FICTION
PREFACE.
I BEGAN this tale two years ago at Rome. On remov-
ing to Naples, I threw it aside for "The Last Days of
Pompeii," which required, more than “Rienzi,” the ad-
vantage of residence within reach of the scenes described.
The fate of the Roman tribune continued, however, to haunt
and impress me, and as soon as " Pompeii" was published,
I hastened to conclude my earlier undertaking. I regarded
the completion of these volumes, indeed, as a kind of duty,
for having had occasion to read the original authorities from
which modern historians have drawn their accounts of the
life of Rienzi, I was led to believe that a very remarkable
man had been superficially judged, and a very important
period crudely examined. And this belief was sufficiently
strong to induce me at first to meditate a more serious work
upon the life and times of Rienzi. Various reasons con-
curred against this project, and I renounced the biography
to commence the fiction. I have still, however, adhered
with a greater fidelity than is customary in romance, to all
the leading events of the public life of the Roman tribune;
and the reader will perhaps find in these pages a more full
and detailed account of the rise and fall of Rienzi than in
as to what he is to expect in the following volumes,
duty I think incumbent upon every author of discretion and
benevolence, for being somewhat warned and trained, ag
it were, the docile reader thus avoids directing his expec-
tations to paths which lead to goals different from that in
tended by the author. Mistake not, oh courteous reader,
imagine not that all this prologue is to prepare thee for a
dull romance, -imagine not that I desire to prove to thee
that romances ought to be dull. And yet I must allow my
preface to be ominous, little of costume, less of mystery,*
nothing of humor! What is there then left to interest or
|
amuse? Passion, character, action, truth! Enough of
materials if the poor workman can but weave them properly!
In the picture of the Roman populace, as in that of the
Roman nobles of the fourteenth century, I follow literally
the descriptions left to us; they are not flattering, but they
are faithful likenesses. In much of my work those who
think that the many, no matter in what age, no matter
in what land, are always right, will possibly detect (what
indeed I could scarcely be suspected of by others) a con-
servative moral. But it must be by very 'ngenious minds
indeed that these volumes can be perverted to the party pur-
poses of the day; nothing at least is further from my own
my own intention. The fiction composed from
history, like history itself, may deal with the calm and
acknowledged lessons of the past, but it deserts its dignity
if it warp inappropriate analogies to the heated and equivo-
cal contests of the present
any English work of which I am aware. I have, it is true,
taken a view of his character different in some respects
from that of Gibbon or Sismondi. Such is the indisput-wish,
able prerogative of romance. But it is a view in all its
main features which I believe (and think I could prove)
myself to be warranted in taking, not less by the facts of
history than the laws of fiction. In the mean while, as I
nave given the acts from which I have drawn my interpre-
tation of the principal agent, the reader has sufficient data.
for his own judgment.
Preserving, generally, the real chronology of Rienzi's
life, the plot of this work extends over a space of some
years, and embraces the variety of characters necessary to
a true delineation of events. The story, therefore, cannot
have precisely that order of interest found in fictions strictly
and genuinely dramatic, in which (to my judgment at least) |
the time ought to be as limited as possible, and the charac- |
ters as few; no new character of importance to the denoue-
ment being admissible towards the end of the work. If I
may use the word epic in its most modest and unassuming
acceptation, this fiction, in short, though indulging in dra-
matic situations, belongs, as a whole, rather to the epic
than the dramatic school.
A work which takes for its subject the crimes and errors
of a nation, which ventures, however unsuccessfully, to seek
the actual and the real in the highest stage of passion or
action, can, I think, rarely adopt, with advantage, the melo-
dramatic effects produced by a vulgar mystery, or that stage-
effect humor, which, arising from small peculiarities of
character, draws the attention of the reader from greatness
or from crime, to a weakness or a folly. Nor does a fiction
dealing in such subjects admit very frequently or with a
minute detail superfluous description of costume and man-
ners.
Of costume and manners I have had indeed a less
ambitious and less disputable motive for brevity in delinea-
tion. I write of a feudal century, and I have no desire to
write more than is necessary of feudal manners, after the
inimitable and everlasting portraitures of Sir Walter Scott.
I say thus much in order to prepare the mind of the reader
|
I cannot conclude without rendering the tribute of my
humble praise and homage to the versatile and gifted author
of the beautiful tragedy of Rienzi. Considering that our
hero be the same, considering that we had the same materials
from which to choose our several stories, I trust I shall be
found to have little, if at all, trespassed upon ground pre-
viously occupied. With the single exception of a love in
trigue between a relative of Rienzi, and one of the antag-
onist party, which makes the plot of Miss Mitford's tragedy,
and is little more than an episode in my romance, having
slight effect on the conduct and none on the fate of the hero,
I am not aware of any resemblance between the two works.
Even this resemblance I could easily have removed, had I
deemed it the least advisable. But to that which possesses
so much it were an honor to imitate, it would be almost a
discredit had I nothing alike.
In fact, the prodigal materials of the story, the rich and
exuberant complexities of Rienzi's character, joined to the
advantage possessed by the novelist of embracing all that
the dramatist must reject, are sufficient to prevent dramatist
and novelist from interfering with each other. If I differ
from Gibbon in his view of Rienzi's character, I differ also
in many respects from Miss Mitford; I differ yet more
from her in the moral to be drawn from his fate; but of the
two, I own that I think Miss Mitford is more just than Gib-
bon. Of men who become great by enthusiasm, (which is
a poetry of temperament,) poets are often the most profound
historians.
LONDON, December 1835.
* What mystery there be is intentionally left under a very
thin veil. Terror is sometimes made the greater when traced
afar off.
RIENZI,
THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
BOOK I.
THE TIME, THE PLACE, AND THE MEN
O, come
Fu da sua gioveatudine nutricato di latte di eloquenza; buono grammatico, megliore rettorico, autorista buono
spesso diceva, 'Dove sono questi buoni Romani? Dov'è loro summa giustizia? Poterommi trovare in tempo che questi
fioriscano?' Era bell' omo... Accadde che uno suo frate fu ucciso, e non ne fu fatta vendetta di sua morte; non lo poted
aiutare; pensa lungo mano vendicare 'l sangue di suo frate; pensa lunga mano dirizzare la cittate di Roma male guidata.” -
Vita di Cola di Rienzi, ed. 1828, Forli.)
CHAPTER I.
The Brothers.
THE Dame which these volumes bear will sufficiently
apprize the reader that it is in the earlier half of the four-
teenth century that my story opens.
It was on a summer evening that two youths might be
Been walking beside the banks of the Tiber, not far from
that part of its winding course which sweeps by the base
of Mount Aventine. The path they had selected was re-
mote and tranquil. It was only at a distance that were
seen the scattered and squalid houses that bordered the
river, from amid which rose, dark and frequent, the high
roof and enormous towers which marked the fortified man-
sion of some Roman baron. On the one side the river,
behind the cottages of the fishermen, rose Mount Jani-
culum, dark with massive foliage, from which gleamed, at
frequent intervals, the gray walls of many a castellated
palace, and the spires and columus of a hundred churches;
on the other side, the deserted Aventine rose abrupt and
steep, covered with thick brushwood; while, on the height,
from concealed but numerous convents, rolled, not unmu-
sically, along the quiet landscape and the rippling waves,
the sound of the holy bell.
which
about the brothers, for such their connexion,
elevated the lowliness of their apparent condition.
"Dear brother," said the elder, "I cannot express to
thee how I enjoy these evening hours. To you alone I feel
as if I were not a mere visionary and idler when I talk of
the uncertain future, and build up my palaces of the air.
Our parents listen to me as if I were uttering fine things
out of a book; and my dear mother, heaven bless her,
wipes her eyes, and says, 'Hark, what a scholar he is!
As for the monks, if I ever dare look from my Livy, and
Thus should Rome be again!' they stare, and gape,
and frown, as though I had broached a heresy. But you,
sweet brother, though you share not iny studies, sympathize
so kindly with all their results, -you seem so to approve
my wild schemes, and to encourage my ambitious hopes,
that sometimes I forget our birth, our fortunes, and think,
and dare, as if no blood save that of the Teutou emperor
flowed through our veins."
cry,
"Methinks, dear Cola," said the younger brother, “that
Nature played us an unfair trick, to you she transmitted
the royal soul, derived, though obscurely, from our father's
parentage; and to me only the quiet and lowly spirit of my
mother's humble lineage."
CC
Nay," answered Cola, quickly, "you would then have
the brighter share, for I should have but the barbarian
origin, and you the Roman. Time was, when to be a sim-
ple Roman was to be nobler than a northern king. Well,
well, we may live to see great changes."
a
"I shall live to see thee a great man, and that will con-
tent me, "said the younger, smiling affectionately;
great scholar all confess you to be already: our mother
predicts your fortunes every time she hears of
your welcome
visits to the Colonna.”
Of the young men introduced in this scene, the elder,
who might have somewhat passed his twentieth year, was
of a tall and even commanding stature, and there was that
in his presence remarkable and almost noble, despite the
homeliness of his garb, which consisted of the long loose
gown and the plain tunic, both of dark gray serge, which
distinguished, at that time, the dress of the humbler
scho ars who frequented the monasteries for such rude
knowledge as then yielded a scanty return for intense toil.
His countenance was handsome, and would have been "The Colonna!" said Cola, with a bitter smile; "the
rather gay than thoughtful in its expression, but for that Colonna, the pedants! They affect, dull souls, the
vague and abstracted dreaminess of eye which so usually knowledge of the past, play the patron, and misquote Latin
denotes a propensity to reverie and contemplation, and be- over their cups! They are pleased to welcome ine at their
trays that the past or future is more congenial to the mind board, because the Roman doctors call me learned, and
within, than the enjoyment and action of the present hour. because Nature gave me a wild wit, which to them is pleas-
The younger, who was yet a boy, had nothing striking anter than the stale jests of a hired buffoon. Yes, they
in his appearance or countenance, unless an expression of would advance iny fortunes, but how? by some place in
great sweetness and gentleness could be so called; and the public offices, which would fill a dishonored coffer by
there was something almost feminine in the tender defer-wringing, yet more sternly, the hard-earned coins from our
ence with which he appeared to listen to his companion. famishing citizens! If there be a vile thing in the world,
His dress was that usually worn by the humbler classes, it is a plebeian advanced by patricians, not for the purpose
though somewhat neater, perhaps, and newer; and the of righting his own order, but for playing the pander to the
fond vanity of a mother might be detected in the care with worst interests of theirs. He who is of the people but
which the long and silky ringlets had been smoothed and makes himself a traitor to his birth, if he becomes a pup-
parted, as they escaped from his cap and flowed midway pet for these tyrant hypocrites to lift up their hands and
down his shoulders.
cry, 'See what liberty exists in Rome, when we, the
patricians, thus elevate a plebeian! Did they ever elevate
a plebeian if he sympathized with plebeians? No, brother
should I be lifted above our condition, I will be raised by
the arms of my countrymen, and not upon their necks.'
As they thus sauntered on beside the whispering reeds
of the river, each with his arm round the form of his com-
rade, not only in their manner and gait, but in their youth
and evident affection, there was a grace and sentiment
VOL. II.
26
|
>
2
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"All I hope is, Cola, tnat you will not, in your zeal for
ar fellow-citizens, forget how dear you are to us. Νο
eatness could ever reconcile me to the thought that it
ought you danger."
And I could laugh at all danger, if it led to greatness.
ut greatness, greatness! Vain dream! Let us keep it
or our night sleep. Enough of my plans; now, dearest
brother, of yours."
""
And with the sanguine and cheerful elasticity which be-
onged to him, the young Cola, dismissing all wilder
thoughts, bent his mind to listen and to enter into the hum-
bler projects of his brother. The new boat, and the holy-
day dress, and the cot removed to a quarter inore secure
from the oppression of the barons, and such distant pictures
of love as a dark eye and a merry lip conjure up to the
vague sentiment of a boy. To schemes and aspirations of
which such objects made the limit, did the scholar listen,
with a relaxed brow and a tender sinile; and often, in later
life, did that conversation recur to him, when he shrank
from asking his own heart which ambition was the wiser.
"And then," continued the younger brother, "by degrees
I might save enough to purchase such a vessel as that which
we now see, laden, doubtless, with corn and merchandise,
bringing, oh, such a good return, that I could fill your
room with books, and never hear you complain that you
were not rich enough to purchase some crumbling old monk-
ish manuscript. Ah, that would make me so happy!"
Cola smiled as he pressed his brother closer to his breast.
"Dear boy," said he, " may it rather be mine to provide
for your wishes! Yet methinks the masters of yon vessel
have no enviable possession; see how anxiously the men
see how anxiously the men
look round, and behind, and before; peaceful traders
though they be, they fear, it seems, even in this city (once
the emporium of the civilized world) some pirate in pur-
suit; and, ere the voyage be over, they may find that pirate
in a Roman noble. Alas, to what are we reduced!
The vessel thus referred to was speeding rapidly down
the river, and some three or four armed men on deck were,
indeed, intently surveying the quiet banks on either side,
as if anticipative of a foe. The bark soon, however, glided
out of sight, and the brothers fell back upon those themes
which require only the future for a text to be so attractive
to the young.
At length, as the evening darkened, they remembered
that it was past the usual hour in which they returned home,
and they began to retrace their steps.
Stay," said Cola, abruptly, "how our talk has beguiled
me! Father Uberto promised me a rare manuscript, which the
good friar confesses hath puzzled the whole convent. I was
to seek his cell for it this evening. Tarry here a few min-
utes,
it is but half-way up the Aventine. I shall soon return.”
"Can I not accompany you
-CC
?
Nay," returned Cola, with considerate kindness, "you
have borne toil all the day, and must be wearied; my labors
of the body, at least, have been light enough. You are
delicate, too, and seem fatigued already; the rest will re-
fresh vou. I shall not be long."
The boy acquiesced, though he rather wished to accom-
pany his brother; but he was of a meek and yielding tem-
per, and seldom resisted the slightest command of those be
loved. He sat him down on a little bank by the river-side,
and the firm step, and towering form of his brother were
soon hid from his gaze by the thick and melancholy foliage.
At first he sat very quietly, enjoying the cool air, and
thinking over all the stories of ancient Rome that his brother
had told him in their walk. At length he recollected that
his little sister Irene had begged him to bring her home
some flowers; and, gathering such as he could find at haud,
(and wild and clustering grew many a flower over that des-
olate spot,) he again seated himself, and began weaving
them into one of those garlands for which the southern
peasantry still retain their ancient affection, and something
of their classic skill.
While the boy was thus engaged, the tramp of horses and
the loud shouting of men were heard at a distance. They
came near and nearer.
"Some baron's procession, perhaps, returning from a
feast," thought the boy: "it will be a pretty sight, their
white plumes and scarlet mantles, I love to see such
sights, but I will just move out of their way."
So, still mechanically platting his garland, but with his
yes turned towards the quarter of the expected procession,
e young Roman moved yet nearer towards the river.
Presently the train came in view, -a gallant company
in truth; horsemen in front, riding two abreast, where
the path permitted, their steeds caparisoned superbly, -
their plumes waving gayly, and the gleam of their corslets
glittering through the shades of the dusky twilight. A
large and miscellaneous crowd, all armed,
some with
pikes and mail, others with less warlike or worse-fashioned
weapons, followed the cavalier, and high above plume and
pike floated the blood-red banner of the Orsini, with the
motto and device, (in which was ostentatiously displayed
the Guelfic badge of the keys of St. Peter,) wrought in
burnished gold. A momentary fear crossed the boy's mind,
for at that time, and in that city, a nobleman begirt with
his swordmen was more dreaded than a wild beast by the
plebeians; but it was already too late to fly, the train
were upon him.
"Ho boy!" cried the leader of the horsemen, Martino
di Porto, one of the great house of the Orsini; "hast thou
seen a boat pass up the river? but thou must have seen
it, how long since?
"I saw a large boat, about half an hour ago," answered
the boy, terrified by the rough voice and the imperious
bearing of the cavalier.
Sailing right a-head, with a green flag at the stern?”
"The same, noble sir."
On, then we will stop her course ere the moon rise,"
said the baron. "On!-let the boy go with us, lest he
prove traitor, and alarm the Colonna,"
on,
"An Orsini, an Orsini!" shouted the multitude,
on!" and, despite the prayers and remonstrances of the
boy, he was placed in the thickest of the crowd, and borne,
or rather dragged along with the rest, frightened, breath-
less, almost weeping, with his poor little garland still
hanging on his arm, while a sling was thrust into his un-
willing hand. Still he felt, through all his alarm, a kind
of childish curiosity to see the result of the pursuit.
By the loud and eager conversation of those about him,
he learned that the vessel he had seen contained a supply of
corn destined to a fortress up the river held by the Colonna,
then at deadly feud with the Orsini; and it was the object
of the expedition in which the boy had thus been luckless-
ly entrained, to intercept the provision, and divert it to the
garrison of Martino di Porto. This news somewhat in-
creased bis consternation, for the boy belonged to a family
that claimed the patronage of the Colonna.
Anxiously and tearfully he looked with every moment up
the steep ascent of the Aventine; but his guardian, his
protector, still delayed his appearance.
They had now proceeded some way, when a winding in
the road brought suddenly before them the object of their
pursuit, as, seen by the light of the earliest stars, it scudded
rapidly down the stream.
CC
Now, the saints be blessed," quoth the chief; "she is
ours!"
"Hold!" said a captain (a German) riding next to
Martino, in a half-whisper; "I hear sounds which I like
not, by yonder trees, hark! the neigh of a horse! - by
my faith, too, there is the gleam of a corslet."
"Push on, my masters," cried Martino, "the heron shall
not balk the eagle, — push on !
With renewed shouts those on foot pushed forward, till,
as they had nearly gained the copse referred to by the Ger-
man, a small compact body of horsemen, armed cap-a-pie,
dashed from amid the trees, and, with spears in their rests,
charged into the ranks of the pursuers.
"A Colonna ! a Colonna!"-"An Orsini! an Orsi-
ni!" were shouts loudly and fiercely interchanged. Mar-
tino di Porto, a man of great bulk and ferocity, and his
cavaliers, who were chiefly German mercenaries, met the
encounter unshaken. "Beware the bear's hug," cried the
Orsini, as down went his antagonist, rider and steed,
before his lance.
The contest was short and fierce; the complete armor of
the horsemen protected them on either side from wounds;~
not so unscathed fared the half-armed foot-followers of the
Orsini, as they pressed, each pushed on by the other, against
the Colonna. After a shower of stones and darts, which fell
but as hailstones against the thick mail of the horsemen,
they closed in, and, by their number, obstructed the move-
ments of the steeds, while the spear, sword, and battle-axe
of their opponents made ruthless havoc among their undis
ciplined ranks. And Martino, who cared little how mar
of his mere mob were butchered, seeing that his foe we
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
204
for the moment embarrassed by the wild rush and gather-
ing circle of his foot-train, (for the place of conflict, though
wider than the previous road, was confined and narrow,)
made a sign to some of his horsemen, and was about to
ride forward towards the boat, now nearly out of sight,
when a bugle at some distance was answered by one of his
enemy
at hand; and the shout of" Colonna to the rescue!
was echoed afar off. A few moments brought in view a
numerous train of horse, at full speed, with the banners of
the Colonna waving gallantly in the front.
CC
دو
we
"A plague on the wizards! who would have imagined
they had divined us so craftily!" muttered Martino;
must not abide these odds and the hand he had first
raised for advance, now gave the signal of retreat.
رو
|
an
who rode his palfrey close by the side of the Colonna, drew
forth his sword. "My lord," said he, half sobbing,
Orsini only could have butchered a harmless lad like this,
let us lose not a moment; let us on after the ruffians."
.
No, Adrian, no!" cried Stephen, laying his hand on
the boy's shoulder; your zeal is to be lauded, but we
must beware an ambush. Our men have ventured too far,
what ho, there! sound a return.
The bugles, in a few minutes, brought back the pursuers,
among them, the horseman whose spear had been so
fatally misused. He was the leader of those engaged in the
conflict with Martino di Porto, and the gold wrought into
his armor, with the gorgeous trappings of his charger,
betokened his rank.
t
"Thanks, my son, thanks," said the old Colonna to this
cavalier, you have done well and bravely. But tell me,
knowest thou, for thou hast an eagle eye, who of the
Orsini slew this poor boy? - a foul deed; his family, too,
our clients!
Serried breast to breast, and in complete order, the
horsemen of Martino turned to fly; the foot rabble who
had come for spoil remained but for slaughter. They en-
deavoured to imitate their leaders; but how could they all
hope to elude the rushing charger and sharp lance of their
antagonists, whose blood was heated by the affray, and who "Who? yon lad?" replied the horseman, lifting the
regarded their lives at their mercy, as a boy regards the helmet from his head, and wiping his heated brow;
say
wasp's nest he destroys? The crowd dispersed in all direc- you so! how came he, then, with Martino's rascals? I
tions; some, indeed, escaped up the hills, where the foot- fear me the mistake hath cost him dear. I could but sup-
ing was impracticable to the horses, -
and so
pose him of the Orsini rabble, and so,
- some plunged into
the river and swam across to the opposite bank, those
less cool or experienced, who fled right onwards, served, by
clogging the way of their enemy, to facilitate the flight
of their leaders, but fell themselves, corpse upon corpse,
butchered in the unrelenting and unresisted pursuit.
"No quarter to the ruffians, every Orsini slain is a
robber the less, strike for God, the emperor, and the
Colonna !" Such were the shouts which rung the knell of
the dismayed and fallen fugitives. Among those who fled
onward, in the very path most accessible to the cavalry,
was the young brother of Cola, so innocently mixed with
the affray. Fast he fled, dizzy with terror, -poor boy,
scarce before ever parted from his parents' or his brother's
side! the trees glided past him, the banks receded:
on he sped, and fast behind came the tramp of the hoofs,
the shouts, the curses, the fierce laughter of the
foe, as they bounded over the dead and dying in their path.
He was now at the spot in which his brother had left him;
hastily he looked behind, and saw the couched lance and
horrent crest of the horsemen close at his rear; despair-
ingly he looked up, and, behold! his brother bursting
through the tangled brakes that clothed the mountain, and
bounding to his succour.
"Save me! save me, brother!" he shrieked aloud, and
the shriek reached Cola's ear; the snort of the fiery
charger breathed hot upon him a moment more, and with
: a moment more, and with
one wild shrill cry of " Mercy, mercy!" he fell to the
ground, - a corpse the lance of the pursuer passing
through and through him, from back to breast, and nailing
him on the very sod where he had sat, full of young life, and
careless hope, not an hour ago.
―
The horseman plucked forth his spear, and passed on in
pursuit of new victims; his comrades following. Cola had
descended, was on the spot, kneeling by his murdered
brother. Presently, to the sound of horn and trumpet,
came by a nobler company than most of those hitherto eu-
gaged; who had been, indeed, but the advanced guard of
the Colonna. At their head rode a man in years, whose
long white hair escaped from his plumed cap and mingled
with his venerable beard. "How is this?" said the
chief, reining in his steed, "young Rienzi!"
The youth looked up as he heard that voice, and then
flung himself before the steed of the old noble, and, clasping
his hands, cried out, in a scarce articulate tone, " It is my
"It
brother, noble Stephen, a boy, a mere child! the best,
the mildest! See, how his blood dabbles the grass ;
back, back, your horse's hoofs are in the stream! Jus-
tice, my lord, justice! -you are a great man."
"Who slew him? an Orsini, doubtless; you shall have
justice."
"Thanks, thanks," murmured Rienzi, as he tottered
once more to his brother's side, turned the boy's face from
the
grass, and strove wildly to feel the pulse of his heart;
he drew back his hand hastily, for it was crimsoned with
blood, and, lifting that hand on high, shrieked out again,
Justice! justice!"
The group round the old Stephen Colonna hardened as
they were in such scenes, were affected by the sight. A
handsome boy, whose tears ran fast down his cheeks, and
CC
M
"You slew him!" cried Rienzi, in a voice of thunder,
starting from the ground. "Justice! then, my Lord Ste-
phen, justice! you promised me justice, and I will have it!”
My poor youth," said the old man, compassionately,
you should have justice against the Orsini, but see you
not this has been an error? I do not wonder you are too
grieved to listen to reason now. We must make this up to
you.
ઃઃ
دو
CC
"And let this pay for masses for the boy's soul; I grieve
me much for the accident," said the younger Colonna,
flinging down a purse of gold. Ay, see us at the palace
next week, young Cola, -next week. My father, we had
best return towards the boat; its safeguard may require us
yet."
rr
Right, Gianni; stay, some two of you, and see to the
poor lad's corpse; -a grievous accident! how could it
chance?'
The company passed back the way they came, two of the
common soldiers alone remaining, except the boy Adrian,
who lingered behind a few moments, striving to console
Rienzi, who, as one bereft of sense, remained motionless,
gazing on the proud array as it swept along, and muttering
to himself," Justice, justice! I will have it yet."
The loud voice of the elder Colonna summoned Adrian,
reluctantly and weeping, away. "Let me be your brother,"
said the gallant boy, affectionately pressing the scholar's
hand to his heart, "I want a brother like you.
Rienzi made no reply; be did not heed or hear him,
dark and stern thoughts, thoughts in which were the germ
of a mighty revolution, were at his heart. He woke from
them with a start, as the soldiers were now arranging their
bucklers, so as to make a kind of bier for the corpse, and
then burst into tears as he fiercely motioned them away,
and clasped the clay to his breast till he was literally soaked
with the oozing blood.
The poor child's garland had not dropped from his arm
even when he fell, and, entangled by his dress, it still clung
round him. It was a sight that recalled to Cola all the
gentleness, the kind heart, and winning graces of his only
brother, his only friend! It was a sight that seemed to
make yet more inhuman the untimely and unmerited fats
of that innocent boy. "My brother! my brother!
groaned the survivor; "how shall I meet our mother?
how shall I meet even night and solitude again? — so
young, so harmless! See ye, sirs, he was but too gentle.
And they will not give us justice, because his murderer was
a noble and a Colonna. And this gold, too,— gold for a
brother's blood! Will they not "- and the young man's
eyes glared like fire, "will they not give us justice!
Time shall show!" So saying, he bent nis head over the
corpse; his lips muttered, as with some prayer or invoca
tion, and then rising, his face was as pale as the dead
beside him, but it was no longer pale with grief!
From that bloody clay and that inward prayer, Cola di
Rienzi rose a new being. With his young brother died his
own youth! But for that event, the future liberator of Rome
might have been but a dreamer, a scholar, a poet, the
peaceful rival of Petrarch, a man of thoughts, not deeds
But from that time, all his faculties, energies, fancies
204
BULWER'S NOVELS
genius, became concentrated to a single point; and patri- Holding their palaces as the castles and fortresses of
otism, before a vision, leaped into the life and vigor of a princes, each asserting his own independence of all author-
passion, lastingly kindled, stubbornly hardened, and aw-ity and law, and planting fortifications, and claiming
fully consecrated, by revenge!
CHAPTER II.
An historical survey, not to be skipped, except by those who
dislike to understand what they read.
YEAPS had passed away, and the death of the Roman
boy, amid more noble and less excusable slaughter, was
soon forgotten, forgotten almost by the parents of the
slain, in the growing fame and fortunes of their elder son,
-forgotten and forgiven never by that son himself. But,
between that prologue of blood and the political drama
which ensues,
between the fading interest (as it were)
of a dream, and the more busy, actual, and continuous ex-
citements of sterner life, this may be the most fitting time
to place before the reader a short and rapid outline of the
state and circumstances of that city in which the principal
scenes of this story are aid; ―an outline necessary, per-
haps, to many, for a ful comprehension of the motives of
the actors, and the vicissitudes of the plot.
Despite the miscellaneous and mongrel tribes which had
forced their settlements in the city of the Caesars, the Ro-
man population retained an inordinate notion of their own
supremacy over the rest of the world, and, degenerated
from the iron virtues of the republic, possessed all the in-
solent and unruly turbulence which characterized the plebs
of the ancient forum. Among a ferocious, yet not a brave
populace, the nobles supported themselves less as sagaci-
ous tyrants than as relentless banditti. The popes had
struggled in vain against these stubborn and stern patri-
cians. Their state derided, their command defied, their
persons publicly outraged, the pontiff sovereigns of the rest
of Europe resided, at the Vatican, as prisoners under ter-
ror of execution. When, thirty-eight years before the
date of the events we are about to witness, a Frenchman,
under the name of Clement V., had ascended the chair of
St. Peter, the new pope had, with more prudence than
valor, deserted Rome for the tranquil retreat of Avignon;
and the luxurious town of a foreign province became the
court of the Roman pontiff and the throne of the Christian
church.
|
Thus deprived of even the nominal check of the papal
presence, the power of the nobles might be said to have no
limits, save their own caprice, or the mutual jealousies
and feuds. Though arrogating through fabulous genealo-
gies their descent from the ancient Romans, they were, in
reality, for the most part, the sons of the bolder barbarians
of the north; and, contaminated by the craft of Italy,
rather than imbued with its national affections, they retain-
ed the disdain of their foreign ancestors for a conquered
soil and a degenerate people. While the rest of Italy,
especially in Florence, in Venice, and in Milan, was fast
and far advancing beyond the other states of Europe in
civilization and in art, the Romans appeared rather to re-
cede than to progress;
unblessed by laws, unvisited by
art, strangers at once to the chivalry of a warlike, to the
graces of a peaceful people. But they still possessed the
sense and desire of liberty, and, by ferocious paroxysms
and desperate struggles, sought to vindicate for their city
the title it still assumed of "the Metropolis of the World."
For the last two centuries they had known various revolu- |
tions, brief, often bloody, and always unsuccessful.
Still, there was the empty pageant of a popular form of
government. The thirteen quarters of the city named
each a chief; and the assembly of these magistrates, called
Caporioni, by theory possessed an authority they had nei-
ther the power nor the courage to exert. Still there was
the proud name of senator; but, at the present time, the
office was confined to one or to two persons, sometimes
elected by the pope, sometimes by the nobles.
thority attached to the name seems to have had no definite
limit; it was that of a stern dictator, or an impotent pup-
pet, according as he who held it had the power to enforce
the dignity he assumed. It was never conceded but to
nobles, and it was by the nobles that all the cutrages were
committed. Private enmity alone vas gratified whenever
dus.ic justice was invoked; and the vindication of order
was but the execution of revenge.
-
The au-
Out-
principalities in the patrimonial territories of the church,
the barons of Rome made their state still more secure, and
still more odious, by the maintenance of troops of foreign
(chiefly of German) mercenaries, at once braver in disposi-
tion, more disciplined in service, and more skilful in arms,
than even the freest Italians of that time. Thus, they uni-
ted the judicial and the military force, not for the protec
tion, but for the ruin of Rome Of these barons, the most
powerful were the Orsini and Colonna; their feuds wero
hereditary and incessant, and every day witnessed the
fruits of their lawless warfare, in bloodshed, in rape, and
in conflagration. The flattery or the friendship of Pe-
trarch, too credulously believed by modern historians, has
invested the Colonna, especially of the date now entered
upon, with an elegance and a dignity not their own.
rage, fraud, and assassination, -a sordid avarice in secur-
ing lucrative offices to themselves, - an insolent oppression
of their citizens, and the most dastardly cringing to power
superior to their own, mark (with but few exceptions) the
character of the first family of Rome. But, wealthier than
the rest of the barons, they were, therefore, more luxu-
rious, and, perhaps, more intellectual; and their pride was
flattered in being patrons of the arts, of which they could
but clumsily become the professors. From these multi
plied oppressors the Roman citizens turned with fond and
impatient regret to their ignorant and dark notions of
departed liberty and greatness. They confounded together
the times of the empire with those of the republic, and
often looked to the Teutonic king, who obtained his elec-
tion from beyond the Alps, but his title of emperor from
the Romans, as the deserter of his legitimate trust and
proper home; vainly imagining that, if both the emperor
and the pontiff fixed their residence in Rome, liberty and
law would again seek their natural shelter beneath the re-
suscitated majesty of the Roman people.
The absence of the pope and the papal court served
greatly to impoverish the citizens; and they had suffered
yet more visibly by the depredations of hordes of robbers,
numerous and unsparing, who infested Romagna, obstruct-
ed all the public ways, and were, sometimes secretly,
sometimes openly, protected by the barons, who often
recruited their banditti garrisons by banditti soldiers.
But besides the lesser and ignobler robbers, there had
risen in Italy a far more formidable description of free.
booters. A German, who assumed the lofty title of the
Duke Werner, had, a few years prior to the period we
approach, enlisted and organized a considerable force,
styled "The Great Company," with which he besieged
cities and invaded states, without any object less shame-
less than that of pillage. His example was soon imitated:
numerous "Companies," similarly constituted, devastated
the distracted and divided land. They appeared suddenly
raised, as if by magic, before the walls of a city, and
demanded immense sums as the purchase of peace. Ner-
ther tyrant nor commonwealth maintained a force sufficient
to resist them; and if other northern mercenaries were
engaged to oppose them, it was only to recruit the stand-
ards of the freebooters with deserters. Mercenary fought
not mercenary, nor German, German: and greater pay,
and more unbridled rapine, made the tents of the "Com.
panies" far more attractive than the regulated stipends of
a city, or the dull fortress and impoverished coffers of a
chief. Werner, the most implacable and ferocious of all
these adventurers, and who had so openly gloried in his
enormities as to wear upon his breast a silver plate,
engraved with the words "Enemy to God, to Pity, and to
Mercy," had not long since ravaged Romagna with fire
and sword. But ultimately induced by money, or unable to
control the fierce spirits he had raised, he afterwards led
the bulk of his company back to Germany. Small detach-
ments, however, remained scattered throughout the land,
waiting only an able leader once more to re-unite them
among those who appea ed most fitted for that destiny was
Walter de Montreal, a night of St. John, and gentleman
of Provence, whose valor and military genius had already,
though yet young, raised his name into dreaded celebrity;
and whose ambition, experience, and sagacity, relieved by
certain chivalric and noble qualities, were fitted to enter
prises far greater and more important than the v vlent
depredations of the atrocious Werner. From these scourges
•
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
204
no state had suffered more grievously than Rome. The
patrimonial territories of the pope, in part wrested from
him by petty tyrants, in part laid waste by these foreign
robbers, yielded but a scanty supply to the necessities of
Clement VI., the most accomplished gentleman and the
most graceful voluptuary of his time and the good father
had devised a plan whereby to enrich at once the Romans
and their pontiff.
:
Nearly fifty years before the time we enter upon, in
order both to replenish the papal coffers and pacify the
starving Romans, Boniface VIII. had instituted the festi-
val of the Jubilee, or Holy Year; in fact, a revival of a
pagan ceremonial.
A plenary indulgence was promised to
every Catholic who, in that year, and in the first year of
every succeeding century, should visit the churches of St.
Peter and St. Paul. An immense concourse of pilgrims,
from every part of Christendom, had attested the wisdom
of the invention, "and two priests stood night and day,
with rakes in their hands, to collect, without counting, the
heaps of gold and silver that were poured on the altar
of St. Paul.” *
It is not to be wondered at that this most lucrative festi-
yal should, ere the next century was half expired, appear
to a discreet pontiff to be too long postponed. And both
pope and city agreed in thinking it might well bear a less
distant renewal. Accordingly, Clement VI. had pro-
claimed, under the name of the Mosaic Jubilee, a second
Holy Year for 1350, viz., three years distant from the
present date. This circumstance had great effect in whet-
ting the popular indignation against the barons, and
pre-
paring the events I shall narrate; for the roads were, as I
before said, infested by the banditti, the creatures and
allies of the barons. And if the roads were not cleared,
the pilgrims might not attend. It was the object of the
pope's vicar, Raimond, Bishop of Orvietto, (bad politician
and good canonist,) to seek, by every means, to remove
all impediment between the offerings of devotion and the
treasury of St. Peter.
Such, in brief, was the state of Rome at the period of
the events I am about to relate. Her ancient mantle of
renown, still, in the eyes of Italy and of Europe, cloaked
her ruins. In name, at least, she was still the queen of
the earth, and from her hands came the crown of the empe-
ror of the north, and the keys of the father of the church.
Her situation was precisely that which presented a vast
and glittering triumph to bold ambition, an inspiring, if
mournful spectacle, to determined patriotism,
and a
fitting stage for that more august tragedy, which seeks its
incidents, selects its actors, and shapes its moral, amid
the vicissitudes and crimes of nations.
CHAPTER III.
The Brawl.
ON an evening in April, 1347, and in one of those wide
spaces in which modern and ancient Rome seemed blended
together, equally desolate and equally in ruins,
a mis-
cellaneous and indignant populace were assembled. That
morning the house of a Roman jeweller had been forcibly
entered and pillaged by the soldiers of Martino di Porto,
with a daring effrontery which surpassed even the ordinary
license of the barons. The sympathy and sensation
throughout the city were deep and ominous.
"Never will I submit to this tyranny!
"Nor I!"
|
"Down with him! down with him! he is an Orsinist,
-down with him!" cried at least ten of the throng, but
no hand was raised against the giant.
CC
"He speaks the truth," said a second voice, firmly.
Ay, that doth he," said a third, knitting his brows,
and unsheathing his knife, "and we will abide by it. The
Orsini are tyrants,
and the Colonnas are, at the best,
as bad."
"Thou liest in thy teeth, ruffian!" cried the young
noble, advancing into the press, and confronting the last
asperser of the Colonna.
Before the flashing eye and menacing gesture of the
cavalier, the worthy brawler retreated some steps, so as to
leave an open space between the towering form of the
smith and the small, slender, but vigorous frame of the
young noble.
Taught from their birth to despise the courage of the
plebeians, even while careless of much reputation as to their
own, the patricians of Rome were not unaccustomed to
the rude fellowship of these brawls; nor was it unoften
that the mere presence of a noble sufficed to scatter whole
crowds, that had, the moment before, been breathing
vengeance against his order and his house.
Waving his hand, therefore, to the smith, and utterly
unheeding either his brandished weapon or his vast stature,
the young Adrian di Castello, a distant kinsman of the
Colonna, bade him, imperiously, give way.
"To your homes, friends! and know," said he, with
some dignity, "that
"that ye wrong us much, if ye imagine we
share the evil doings of the Orsini, or are pandering solely
to our own passions in the feud between their house and
ours. May the Holy Mother so judge me," added he, de-
voutly lifting up his eyes, "as I now with truth declare,
that it is for your wrongs, and for the wrongs of Rome,
that I have drawn this sword against the Orsini."
SUME
it is
"So say all the tyrants," rejoined the smith, hardily, as
he leaned his hammer against a fragment of stone,
remnant of ancient Rome, "they never fight against
each other but it is for our good. One Colonna cuts me
the throat of Orsini's baker,—it is for our good! Another
Colonna seizes on the daughter of Orsini's tailor,
for our good! our good, -yes, for the good of the people!
the good of the bakers and tailors, eh?"
"Fellow," said the young nobleman, gravely, "if a
Colonna did thus, he did wrong; but the holiest cause may
have bad supporters."
"Yes, the Holy Church itself is propped on very in-
different columns," answered the smith, in a rude witti-
cism on the affection of the pope for the Colonna.
"He blasphemes! the smith blasphemes! cried the
partizans of that powerful house. "A Colonna, a Col-
onna ! "
"An Orsini, an Orsini!" was no less promptly the
counter-cry.
"THE PEOPLE!" shouted the smith, waving his for
midable weapon far above the heads of the group.
-
In an instant, the whole throng, who had at first united
against the aggression of one man, were divided by the
hereditary wrath of a faction. At the cry of Orsini, several
new partisans hurried to the spot; the friends of the Col-
onna drew themselves on one side, the defenders of the
Orsini on the other, and the few who agreed with the
smith that both factions were equally odious, and the
people was the sole legitimate cry in a popular commotion,
would have withdrawn themselves from the approaching
mêlée, if the smith himself, who was looked upon by them
as an authority of great influence, had not, whether from
resentment at the haughty bearing of the young Colonna,
or from that appetite of contest not uncommon in men of
"And what, my friends, is this tyranny, to which you a bulk and force which assure them in all personal affrays
will not submit?" said a young nobleman addressing the lofty pleasure of superiority, if, I say, the smith
himself to the crowd of citizens who, heated, angry, half-himself had not, after a pause of indecision, retired among
armed, and with the vehement gestures of Italian passion,
were now sweeping down the long and narrow street that
led to the gloomy quarter occupied by the Orsini.
Ah, my lord!" cried two or three of the citizens in a
breath,"
you will right us, you will see justice done to
you are a Colonna,
us,
" Nor I !
"Nor, by the bones of St. Peter, will I!"
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed scornfully one man of gigantic
frame, and wielding on high a huge hammer, indicative of
Vis trade. "Justice and Colonna ! body of God! those
Rames are not often found together."
* Gibbon, vol. xii. c. 59.
the Orsini, and entrained, by his example, the alliance of
his friends with the favorers of that faction.
In popular commotions, each man is whirled along with
the herd, often haif against his own approbation or assent.
The few words of peace by which Adrian di Castello com-
menced an address to his friends were drowned amid their
shouts. Proud to find in their ranks one of the most
beloved and one of the noblest of that name, the partisans-
of the Colonna placed him in their frout, and charged
impetuously on their foes. Adrian, however, who had
acquired from circumstances something of that chivalrous
206
BULWER'S NOVELS.
code which he certainly could not have owed to his Roman
birth, disdained at first to assault men, among whom he
recognised no equal, either in rank or the practice of arms.
He contented himself with putting aside the few strokes
that were aimed at him in the gathering confusion of the
conflict; few, for those who recognised him, even amid
the bitterest partisans of the Orsini, were not willing to
expose themselves to the danger and odium of spilling the
blood of a man who, in addition to his great birth and the
terrible power of his connexions, added the sanction of a
personal popularity, which he owed rather to a comparison
with the vices of his relatives than to any remarkable
virtues hitherto displayed by himself. The smith alone,
who had as yet taken no active part in the fray, seemed to
gather himself up in determined opposition, as the cavalier
now advanced within a few steps of him.
"Did we not tell thee," quoth the giant, frowning,
"that the Colonna were equally foes to the people as the
Orsini? Look at thy followers and clients are they not
cutting the throats of humble men by way of vengeance for
the crime of a great one? But that is the way one patri-
cian always scourges the insolence of another. He lays
the rod on the backs of the people, and then cries, 'See
how just I am!'"
"I do not answer thee now," answered Adrian, "but
if thou regrettest with me this waste of blood, join with
me in attempting to prevent it."
"I,
not I let the blood of the slaves flow to-day;
the time is fast coming when it shall be washed away by
the blood of the lords."
r
Away, ruffian!" said Adrian, seeking no further
parley, and touching the smith with the flat side of his
sword. In an instant the hammer of the smith swung in
the air, and, but for the active spring of the young noble,
would infallibly have crushed him to the earth. Ere the
smith could gain time for a second blow, Adrian's sword
passed twice through his right arm, and the weapon fell
heavily to the ground.
"Slay him! slay him!" cried several of the clients of
the Colonna, now pressing, dastard-like, round the dis-
armed and disabled smith.
Ay, slay him!" said, in tolerable Italian, but with a
barbarous accent, one man, half clad in armor, who had
but just joined the group, and who was one of those wild
German bandits whom the Colonna held in their pay; "he
belongs to a horrible gang of miscreants, sworn against all
order and peace. He is one of Rienzi's followers, and
(bless the three kings!) raves about the people.
padding
"Thou sayest right, barbarian," said the sturdy smith,
in a loud voice, and tearing aside the vest from his breast
with his left hand; "come all, Colonna and Orsini,
dig to this heart with your sharp blades, and when you
have reached the centre, you will find there the object of
your common hatred, Rienzi and the People.'
C
As he uttered these words, in language that would have
seemed above his station, (if a certain glow and exaggera-
tion of phrase and sentiment were not common, when ex-
cited, to all the Romans,) the loudness of his voice rose
above the noise immediately round him, and stilled, for an
instant, the general din; and when, at last, the words
"Rienzi and the People" rang forth, they penetrated mid-
way through the increasing crowd, and were answered as
by an echo, with a hundred voices, "Rienzi and the
People!"
But whatever impression the words of the mechanic
made on others, it was equally visible in the young Colonna.
At the name of Rienzi the glow of excitement vanished
from his cheek; he started back, muttered to himself, and
for a moment seemed, even in the midst of that stirring
commotion, to be lost in an abstract and distant reverie.
He recovered, as the shout died away; and, saying to the
smith in a low tone, " Friend, I am sorry for thy wound;
but seek me on the morrow, and thou shalt find thou hast
wronged me; he beckoned to the German to follow him,
and thridded his way through the crowd, which generally
gave back as he advanced for the bitterest hatred to the
order of the nobles was at that time in Rome mingled with
a servile respect for their persons, and a mysterious awe
of their uncontrollable power.
As Adrian passed through that part of the crowd in
which the fray had not yet commenced, the murmurs that
followed him were not those which many of his race could
bave heard
::
"A Colonna," said one.
"Yet no ravisher," said another, laughing wildly.
"Nor murderer," muttered a third, pressing his band to
his breast. ""Tis not against him that my father's blood
cries aloud.”
"Bless him," said a fourth, "for, as yet, no man curseg
him! "
"Ah, God help us!" said an old man, with a long gray
beard, leaning on his staff: "the serpent 's young yet;
the teeth will show by and by."
"For shame, father! he is a comely youth, and not
proud in the least. What a smile he hath !" quoth a fair
matron, who kept on the outskirt of the mêlée.
"Farewell to a man's honor when a noble smiles on his
wife!" was the answer.
Nay," said Luigi, a jolly butcher, with a roguish eye,
"what a man can win fairly from maid or wife, that let
him do, whether plebeian or noble, that 's my morality;
but when an ugly old patrician finds fair words will not
win fair looks, and carries me off a dame on the back of
a German boar, with a stab in the side for comfort to the
spouse;
then, I say, he is a wicked man, and an adul-
terer.
""
While such were the comments and the murmurs that
followed the noble, very different were the looks and words
that attended the German soldier.
Equally, nay, with even greater promptitude, did the crowd
make way at his armed and heavy tread; but not with
looks of reverence; the eye glared as he approached;
but the cheek paled, the head bowed, the lip quivered,
each man felt a shudder of hate and fear, as recognising
a dread and mortal foe. And well and wrathfully did the
fierce mercenary note the signs of the general aversion.
He pushed rudely on, half smiling in contempt, half
frowning in revenge, as he looked from side to side, — and
his long, matted, light hair, tawny-colored mustache, and
brawny front, contrasted strongly with the dark eyes, raven
locks, and slender frames of the Italians.
"May Lucifer double damn those German cut-throats!"
muttered, between his grinded teeth, one of the citizens.
"Amen!" answered, heartily, another.
"Hush!" said a third, timorously looking round; "if
one of them hear thee, thou art a lost man.
>>
"Oh Rome! Rome! to what art thou fallen! said,
bitterly, one citizen, clothed in black, and of a higher
seeming than the rest, "when thou shudderest in thy streets
at the tread of a hired barbarian!
"Hark to one of our learned men and rich citizens !
said the butcher, reverently.
""Tis a friend of Rienzi's," quoth another of the group,
lifting his cap.
With downcast eyes, and a face in which grief, shame,
and wrath were visibly expressed, Pandulfo di Guido, a
citizen of birth and repute, swept slowly through the crowd,
and disappeared.
CC
Meanwhile Adrian, having gained a street, which,
though in the neighbourhood of the crowd, was empty and
desolate, turned to his fierce comrade. Rodolf," said he,
"mark! no violence to the citizens. Return to the
crowd; collect the friends of our house; withdraw them
from the scene; let not the Colonna be blamed for this
day's violence; and assure our followers, in my name,
I swear, by the knighthood I received at the emperor's
hands, that by my sword shall Martino di Porto be pun-
ished for his outrage. Fain would I, in person, allay the
tumult, but my presence only seems to sanction it. Go,-
thou hast weight with them all.”
CC
that
Ay, signor, the weight of blows!" answered the grim
soldier. "But the command is hard; I would fain let their
puddle-blood flow an hour or two longer. Yet, pardon me,
in obeying thy orders, do I obey those of my master,
thy kinsman? It is old Stephen Colonna, who seldom
spares blood or treasure, God bless him,- (save his own.)
whose money I hold, and to whose hests I am sworn.
""
"Diavolo!" muttered the cavalier, and the angry spot
was on his cheek; but, with the habitual self-control of
the Italian nobles, he smothered his rising choler, and said
alond, with calmness, but dignity,
make us
"Do as I bid thee; check this tumult,
the forbearing party. Let all be still within one hour
hence, and call on me to-morrow for thy reward; be this
purse thy present earnest of my future thanks. As for my
kinsman, whom I command thee to name more reverently
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
207
'tis in his name I speak. Hark! the din increases,
the contest swells, go, lose not another moment.
Somewhat awed by the quiet firmness of the patrician,
Rodolf nodded, without answer, slid the money into his
bosom, and strode rapidly away into the thickest of the
throng. But, even ere he arrived, a sudden reaction had
taken place.
•
CHAPTER IV.
An Adventure.
AVOIDING the broken streams of the dispersed crowd,
Adrian Colonna strode rapidly down one of the narrow
streets leading to his palace, which was situated at no in-
considerable distance from the place in which the late con-
test had occurred. The education of his life made him feel
a profound interest, not only in the divisions and disputes
of his country, but also in the scene he had just witnessed
and the authority exercised by Rienzi.
The young cavalier, left alone in that spot, followed with
his eyes the receding form of the mercenary, as the sun,
now setting, shone slant upon his glittering casque, and said
bitterly to himself, "Unfortunate city, fountain of all
mighty memories, fallen queen of a thousand nations,
bow art thou decrowned and spoiled by thy recreant and
An orphan of a younger but opulent branch of the Co
apostate children! Thy nobles divided against themselves, lonna, Adrian had been brought up under the care and
-thy people cursing thy nobles, - thy priests, who should guardianship of his kinsman, that astute yet valiant Ste-
sow peace, planting discord, - the father of thy church de-phen Colonna, who, of all the nobles of Rome, was the
serting thy stately walls, his home a refuge, his mitre a fief, number of armed hirelings, whom his wealth enabled him
most powerful, alike from the favor of the pope, and the
his court a Gallic village, and we! we, of the haughtiest
to maintain. Adrian had early manifested what in that
blood of Rome, we, the sons of Caesars, and of the lineage
of demigods, guarding an insolent and abhorred state by age was considered an extraordinary dispositior towards
the swords of hirelings, who mock our cowardice while intellectual pursuits, and had acquired much of the ttle
they receive our pay,
who keep our citizens slaves, and
that was then known of the ancient language and the
ancient history of his country.
lord it over their very masters in return. Oh! that we, the
hereditary chiefs of Rome, could but feel, oh, that we
could but find our own legitimate safeguard in the grateful
hearts of our countrymen!"
-
So deeply did the young Adrian feel the galling truth of
all be uttered, that the indignant tears rolled down his
cheeks as he spoke. He felt no shame as he dashed them
away, for that weakness which weeps for a fallen race is
the tenderness not of women, but of angels.
As he turned slowly to quit the spot, his steps were sud-
denly arrested by a loud shout. "Rienzi! Rienzi!"
smote the air. From the walls of the capitol to the bed
of the glittering Tiber, that name echoed far and wide;
and, as the shout died away, it was swallowed up in a
silence so profound, so universal, so breathless, that you
might have imagined that death itself had fallen over the
city. And now, at the extreme end of the crowd, and
elevated above their level, on vast fragments of stone
which had been dragged from the ruins of Rome in one
of the late frequent tumults between contending factions,
to serve as a barricade for citizens against citizens,
these silent memorials of the past grandeur, the present
misery of Rome, stood that extraordinary man, who, above
all his race, was the most penetrated with the glories of the
one time, with the degradations of the other.
on
From the distance at which he stood from the scene,
Adrian could only distinguish the dark outline of his form;
he could only bear the faint sound of his mighty voice; he
could only perceive in the subdued, yet waving sea of hu-
man beings that spread around, their heads hared in the
last rays of the sun, the unutterable effect which an elo-
quence, described by cotemporaries almost as miraculous,
but in reality less so from the genius of the man than
the sympathy of the audience, created upon all, who
drank into their hearts and souls the stream of its burning
thoughts.
It was but for a short time that that form was visible
to the earnest eye, that that voice at intervals reached the
straining ear of Adrian di Castello; but that time suffered
to produce all the effect which Adrian himself had desired.
Another shout, more earnest,
more prolonged than the
first, a shout in which spoke the release of swelling
ence.
thoughts, of intense excitement,-betokened the close
of the harangue; and then you might see, after a minute's
pause, the crowd breaking in all directions, and pouring
down the avenues in various knots and groups, each testi-
fving the strong and lasting impression made upon the
lasting_impression
multitude by that address. Every cheek was flushed,
every tongue spoke the animation of the orator had
passed, like a living spirit, into the breasts of the andi-
He had thundered against the disorders of the
patricians, yet, by a word, he had disarmed the anger of
the plebeiaus, he had preached freedom, yet he had op-
posed license. He had calmed the present by a promise
of the future. He had chid their quarrels, yet had sup-
ported their cause. He had mastered the revenge of to-
day by a solemn assurance that there should come justice
So great may be the power, so mighty
the eloquence, so formidable the genius of one man,
without arms, wiaout rank, without sword or ermine, who
ad Iresses himself to a people that is oppressed '
by the morrow.
Though Adrian was but a boy at the time in which first,
presented to the reader, he witnessed the emotions of Rienzi
at the death of his brother, his kind heart had been pene-
trated with sympathy for Cola's affliction, and shame for
the apathy of his kinsmen at the result of their own feuds.
He had earnestly sought the friendship of Rienzi, and,
despite his years, became aware of the power and energy
of his character. But though Rienzi, after a short time,
had appeared to think no more of his brother's death,
though he again entered the halls of the Colonna, and mixed
at their feasts, he preserved a certain distance and reserve
of manner, which even Adrian could only partially over-
He rejected every offer of service, favor, or pro-
motion; and
any unwonted proof of kindness from Adrian
seemed, instead of making him more familiar, to offend
him into colder distance. The easy humor and conversa-
tional vivacity which had first rendered him welcome
guest with those who passed their lives between fighting
and ennui, had changed into a vein ironical, cynical, and
But the dull barons were equally amused at his
wit, and Adrian was almost the only one who detected the
serpent couched beneath the smile.
come.
severe.
Öften Rienzi sat at the feast, silent, but observing, as if
watching every look, weighing every word, taking gauge
and measurement of the intellect, policy, temperament of
every guest; and when he had seemed to satisfy himself,
his spirits would rise, his words flow, and while his dazzling
but bitter wit lit up the revel, none saw that the unmirthful
flash was the token of the coming storm. But all the while,
he neglected no occasion to mix with the humbler citizens,
to stir up their minds, to inflame their imaginations, to
kindle their emulation with pictures of the present, and
with legends of the past. He grew in popularity and re-
honor with the nobles. Perhaps it was for that reason that
pute, and was yet more in power with the herd, because in
he had continued the guest of the Colonna,
When, six years before the present date, the capitol of
the Cæsars witnessed the triumph of Petrarch, the scho-
lastic fame of the young Rienzi had attracted the friendship
of the poet,
-a friendship that continued, with slight inter
ruption, to the last, through careers so widely different;
and afterward, one among the Roman deputies to Avignon,
he had been conjoined with Petrarch * to supplicate Clement
in this mission that, for the first time, be evinced his extra-
VI. to remove the holy see from Avignon to Rome. It was
ordinary powers of eloquence and persuasion. The pontiff,
indeed, more desirous of ease than glory, was not convinced
by the arguments, but he was enchanted with the pleader;
and Rienzi returned to Rome, loaded with honors, and
clothed with the dignity of high and responsible office. No
longer the inactive scholar, the gay companion, he rose at
once to preeminence above all his fellow-citizens. Never
before had authority been borne with so austere an integri
ty, so uncorrupt a zeal. He had sought to impregnate his
colleagues with the same loftiness of principle,-- he had
failed. Now, secure in his footing, he had begun openly
probable that Rienzi's mission to Avignon was posterior to that
According to the modern historians; but it seems more
of Petrarch. However this be, it was at Avignon that Petrarch
and Rienzi became most intimate, as Petrarch himself observes
in one of his letters.
20€
BULWER'S NOVELS.
to appeal to the people; and already a new spirit seemed
to animate the populace of Rome.
While these were the fortunes of Rienzi, Adrian had
been long separated from him, and absent from Rome.
The Colonna were stanch supporters of the imperial
party, and Adrian di Castello had received, and obeyed, an
invitation to the emperor's court. Under that monarch he
had initiated himself in arms, and, among the knights of
Germany, he had learned to temper the natural Italian
shrewdness with the chivalry of northern valor.
In leaving Bavaria, he had sojourned a short time in the
solitude of one of his estates by the fairest lake of northern
Italy; and thence, with a mind improved alike by action
and study, had visited many of the free Italian states, im-
bibed sentiments less prejudiced than those of his order, and
acquired an early reputation for himself while inly marking
the characters and deeds of others. In him, the best quali-
ties of the Italian noble were united. Passionately addicted
to the cultivation of letters, subtle and profound in policy,
gentle and bland of manner, dignifying a love of pleasure
a love of pleasure
with a certain elevation of taste, he yet possessed a gal-
lantry of conduct, a purity of honor, and an aversion from
cruelty, which were then very rarely found in the Italian
temperament, and which even the chivalry of the North,
while maintaining among themselves, usually abandoned
the moment they came into contact with the systematic
craft and disdain of honesty which made the character of
the ferocious, yet wily South. With these qualities he
combined, indeed, the softer passions of his countrymen ;
he adored beauty, and he made a deity of love.
nay, he scarce knows of my very existence. He, the Lord
Adrian di Castello, dream of the poor Irene! the merc
thought is madness!"
"Then why," said the nurse, briskly, "dost thou dream
of him?”
CC
Her companion sighed again, more deeply than at first.
Holy St. Catharine!" continued Benedetta," if there
were but one man in the world, I would die single ere I
would think of him, until, at least, he had kissed iny hand
twice, and left it my own fault if it were not my lips in-
stead."
The young lady still replied not.
"But how didst thou contrive to love him?" asked the
nurse. "Thou canst not have seen him very ofter: it is
but some four or five weeks since his return to Rome.'
""
"Oh, how dull art thou!" answered the fair Irene
"Have I not told thee, again and again, that I loved him
six years ago
?
a
"When thou hadst told but thy tenth year, and a doll
would have been thy most suitable lover! As I am a
Christian, signora, thou hast made good use of thy time."
"And during his absence," continued the girl, fondly,
yet sadly, " did I not hear him spoken of, and was not the
mere sound of his name like a love-gift that bade me re-
member? and when they praised him, har? Rejoiced?
and when they blamed him, have I not reset.ed? and when
they said that his lance was victorious in the tournay, did
I not weep with pride? and when they whispered that his
vows were welcome in the bower, wept I not as fervently
with grief? Have not the six years of his absence been a
He had but a few weeks returned to his native city, dream, and was not his return a waking into light,
whither his reputation had already preceded him, and morning of glory and the sun? And I see him now in the
where his early affection for letters and gentleness of bear-church, when he wots not of me; and on his happy steed,
ing were still remembered. He returned to find the position as he passes by my lattice; and is not that enough of hap-
of Rienzi far more altered than his own. Adrian had not piness for love?
yet sought the scholar. He wished first to judge with his
"But if he loves not thee?
own eyes, and at a distance, of the motives and object of "Fool! I ask not that; - nay, I know not if I wish it
his conduct; for partly he caught the suspicions which his Perhaps I would rather dream of him, such as I would
own order entertained of Rienzi, and partly he shared in have him, than know him for what he is. He might be
the trustful enthusiasm of the people.
unkind, or ungenerous, or love me but little; rather would
I not be loved at all, than loved coldly, and eat away my
heart by comparing it with his. I can love him now, as
something abstract, unreal, and divine: but what would be
my shame, my grief, if I were to find him less than I have
imagined! Then, indeed, my life would have been wasted;
then, indeed, the beauty of the earth would be gone!"
"
"Certainly," said he now to himself, as he walked
musingly onward, certainly, no man has it more in his
power to reform our diseased state, to heal our divisions,
to awaken our citizens to the recollections of ancestral
virtue. But that very power, how dangerous is it! Have
I not seen, in the free states of Italy, men, called into
authority for the sake of preserving the people, honest The good nurse was not very capable of sympathizing
themselves at first, and then, drunk with the sudden rank, with sentiments like these. Even had their characters
betraying the very cause which had exalted them? True, been more alike, their age would have rendered such sym-
those men were chiefs and nobles, but are plebeians less pathy impossible. What but youth can echo back the soul
human? Howbeit, I have heard and seen enough from of youth,—all the music of its wild vanities and romantic
afar; - I will now approach and examine the man himself." follies? The good nurse did not sympathize with the sen-
While thus soliloquizing, Adrian but little noted the timents of her young lady, but she sympathized with the
various passengers who, more and more rarely as the even-deep earnestness with which they were expressed. She
ing waned, hastened homeward. Among these were two thought it wondrous silly, but wondrous moving; she wiped
females, who now alone shared with Adrian the long and her eyes with the corner of her veil, and hoped in her se-
gloomy street into which he had entered. The moon was cret heart that her young charge would soon get a real hus-
already bright in the heavens, and as the women passed the band, to put such unsubstantial fantasies out of her head.
cavalier with a light and quick step, the younger one turned There was a short pause in their conversation, when, just
back and regarded him by the clear light with an eager, where two streets crossed one another, there was heard a
yet timid glance.
loud noise of laughing voices and trampling feet. Torches
were seen on high, affronting the pale light of the moon;
and, at a very short distance from the two females, in the
cross street, advanced a company of seven or eight men,
bearing, as seen by the red light of the torches, the formid-
able badge of the Orsini.
''
Why dost thou tremble, my pretty one?" said her
companion, who might have told some five-and-forty years,
and whose garb and voice bespoke her of inferior rank to
the younger female. "The streets seem quiet enough now,
and, the Virgin be praised, we are not so far from home
either."
"Oh! Benedetta, it is he! it is the young signor, it is
Adrian!
"That is fortunate," said the nurse, for such was her
condition, “since they say he is as bold as a Northman;
and, as the Palazzo Colonna is not very far from hence, we
shall be within reach of his aid should we want it; that is
to say, sweet one, if you will walk a little slower than you
have yet done.”
The young lady slackened her pace, and sighed. "He
is certainly very handsome," quoth the nurse; "but thou
must not think more of him; he is too far above thee for
marriage, and, for aught else, thou art too honest, and thy
brother too proud — »
"And thou, Benedetta, art too quick with thy tongue.
How canst thou talk thus, when thou knowest he hath never,
ince, at least, I was a mere child, even addressed me;
Amid the other disorders of the time, it was no unfre
quent custom for the younger or more dissolute of the nobles,
in small and armed companies, to parade the streets at
night, seeking occasions for a licentious gallantry among
the cowering citizens, or a skirmish at arms with some
rival stragglers of their own order. Such a band had
Irene and her companion now chanced to encounter.
"Holy Mother!" cried Benedetta, turning pale, and
half running, "what curse has befallen us? How could
we have been so foolish as to tarry so late at the Lady
Nina's! Run, signora; run, or we shall fall into their
hands! "
But the advice of Benedetta came too late, the flutter-
ing garments of the women had been already descried:
in a moment more they were surrounded by the marauders.
A rude hand tore aside Benedetta's veil, and, at sight
of features which, if time had not spared, it could never
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
209
very materially injure, the rough aggressor cast the poor
nurse against the wall with a curse, which was echoed by
a loud laugh from his comrades
"Thou hast a fine fortune in faces, Giuseppe !
"Yes: it was but the other day that he seized on a girl
of sixty."
"And then, by way of improving her beauty, cut her
across the face with a dagger, because she was not six-
teen!"
C
Hush, fellows! whom have we here?" said the chief
of the party, a nan richly dressed, and who, though bor-
dering upon middle age, had only the more accustomed
himself to the excesses of youth; as he spoke he snatched
the trembling Irene from the grasp of his followers. Ho,
there! the torches! Oh, che bella carnagione! what blushes,
what eyes,
nay, look not down, pretty one; thou
needest not be ashamed to win the love of an Orsini, - yes;
know the triumph thou hast achieved: it is Martino di
Porto who bids thee smile upon him!"
For the blessed Mother's sake, release me! nay, sir,
this must not be, I am not unfriended, — this insult shall
not pass!"
"Hark to her silver chiding, it is better than my best
hound's bay! This adventure is worth a month's watch-
ing. What! will you not conie?-restiff, shrieks,
too! Francesco, Pietro, ye are the gentlest of the band.
Wrap her veil around her, muffle this music; so!
bear her before me to the paiace, and to-morrow, sweet
oue, thou shalt go home with a basket of florins, which
thou mayst say thou hast bought at the market."
But Irene's shrieks, Irene's struggles had already brought
succour to her side, and, as Adrian approached the spot,
the nurse flung herself on her knees before him.
J
Oh, sweet signor, for Christ's sake save us! deliver
my young mistress, her friends love you well! We are
all for the Colonna, my lord; yes, indeed, all for the Co-
lonna! Save the kin of your own clients, gracious sig-
nor!"
"It is enough that she is a woman,” answered Adrian,
and adding, between his teeth, "that an Orsini is her as-
sailant.”
He strode haughtily into the thickest of the
group; the servitors laid hands on their swords, but gave
way before him as they recognised his person; he reached
the two men who had already seized Irene, in one moment
he struck the foremost to the ground; in another, he passed
his left arm round the light and slender form of the maiden,
and stood confronting the Orsini with his drawn blade,
which, however, he pointed to the ground.
C
"For shame! my lord, for shame!" said he, indignant-
ly. "Will you force Rome to rise, to a man, against our
order? Vex not too far the lion, chained though he be:
war against us, if ye will! draw your blades upon men,
though they be of your own race and speak your own
tongue; but, if ye would sleep at nights, and not dread the
avenger's gripe, if ye would walk the market-place se-
cure, wrong not a Roman woman! Yes, the very wails
around us preach to you the punishment of such a deed :
for that offence fell the Tarquins, for that offence were
swept away the Decemvirs, for that offence, if ус rush
upon it, the blood of your whole house may flow like water.
Cease, then, my lord, from this mad attempt, so unworthy
your great name; cease, and thank even à Colonna, that
he has come between you and a moment's frenzy."
ent chances, and wrong thyself in men's mouths, as to at-
tack, with eight swords, even thy hereditary foe, thus cum-
bered, too, as he is. But,
nay, hold! if thou art so
purposed, bethink thee well, one cry of my voice would
soon turn the odds against thee. Thou art now in the
quarter of
my tribe; thou art surrounded by the habitations
of the Colonna; yon palace swarms with men who sleep
not, save with harness on their backs, men whom my
voice could reach even now, but from whom, if they once
taste of blood cook not save thee!
>>
"He speaks true, noble lord," said one of the band;
"we have wandered too far out of our beat: we are in
their very den; the palace of old Stephen Colonna is with-
in call, and, to my knowledge," added he, in a whisper,
"eighteen fresh men-of-arms,—ay, and Northmen too,—
marched through its gates this day."
"Were there eight hundred men at arm's length,
answered Martino, furiously, "I would not be thus beard.
ed by a solitary foe, amid mine owu train. Away with
yon woman!
yon woman! To the attack! to the attack!”
Thus saying, he made a desperate lunge at Adrian, who
having kept his eye cautiously on the movements of his
enemy, was not unprepared for the assault. As he put
aside the blade with his own, he shouted with a loud voice,
"Colonna! to the rescue, Colonna!"
Nor had it been without an ulterior object that the deep
and self-controlling mind of Adrian had hitherto sought to
prolong the parley. Even as he first addressed Orsini, he
had perceived, by the moonlight, the glitter of armor upon
two men advancing from the far end of the street, and
judged at once, by the neighbourhood, that they must be
among the mercenaries of the Colonna.
Gently he suffered the form of Irene, which now, for she
had swooned with the terror, pressed too heavily upon him,
to slide from his left arm, and standing over her form,
while sheltered from behind by the wall which he had so
warily gained, he contented himself with parrying the
blows hastily aimed at him, without attempting to retaliate.
Few of the Romans, however used to such desultory war-
fare, were then well and dexterously practised in the use
of arms; and the science Adrian had acquired among the
chivalry of the North, befriended him now even against
such odds. It is true, indeed, that the followers of Örsini
did not share the fury of their lord; partly afraid of the
consequence to themselves should the blood of so high-borr
a signor be spilt at their hands, partly embarrassed with
the apprehension that they should see themselves suddenly
beset with the ruthless hirelings so close within hearing,
they struck but aimless and random blows, locking every
moment behind and aside, and rather prepared for flight
than slaughter. Echoing the cry of Colonna,'
Benedetta fled at the first clash of swords. She ran down
the dreary street, still shrieking that cry, and passed the
very portals of Stephen's palace (where some grim forms
yet loitered) without arresting her steps there, so great
was her confusion and terror.
CC
poor
Meanwhile, the two armed men, whom Adrian had de-
scried, proceeded leisurely up the street. The one was of
a rude and common mould; his arms and his complexiou
testified his calling and race; and by the great respect he
paid to his companion, you might be sure that that compan-
ion was no native of Italy. For the brigands of the North,
while they served the vices of the southern, scarce affected
to disguise their contempt for his cowardice.
So noble, so lofty were the air and gesture of Adrian,
as he thus spoke, that even the rude servitors felt a thrill The companion of the brigand was a man of a martial,
of approbation and remorse, -not so Martino di Porto. yet easy air. He wore no helmet, but a cap of crimson
He had been struck with the beauty of the prey thus sud-velvet, from which a snow-white plume waved over his
denly snatched from him; he had been accustomed to long
outrage, and to long impunity; the very sight, the very
voice of a Colonna, was a blight to his eye and a discord
to his ear; what, then, when a Colonna interfered with his
lusts, and rebuked his vices ?
Pedant!" he cried, with quivering lips, "prate not
to me of thy vain legends and gossip's tales! Think not
to snatch from me my possession in another, when thine
own life is in my hands. Unhand the maiden! throw
down thy sword! return home without further parley, or,
by my faith, and the blades of my followers, (look at
then. well!)-thou diest!"
C. T
"Signor," said Adrian, calmly, yet while he spoke he
retreated gradually with his fair burden towards the neigh-
bouring wall, so as at least to leave only his front exposed
to those fearful odds, "Thou wilt not so misuse the pres-
VOL. II.
27
brow; on his mantle, or surcoat, which was of scarlet, was
wrought a broad white cross, both at back and breast; and
so brilliant was the polish of his corslet, that, as from time
to time the mantle waved aside and exposed it to the moon-
beams, it glittered like light itself.
CC
Nay, Rodolf, said he, " if thou hast so good a lot of it
here with that hoary schemer, heaven forbid that I should
wish to draw thee back again to our merry band. But tell
this Rienzi, thinkest thou he has any solid and
formidable power?"?
me,
"Pshaw! noble chieftain, not a whit of it. He pleases
the mob, but as for the nobles, they laugh at him ; and, as
for the soldiers, he has no money!"
"He pleases the mob, then?
Ay, that doth he; and when he speaks aloud to them
all the roar of Rome is hushed."
210
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Humph! when nobles are hated, and soldiers are
bought, a mob may, in any hour, become the master.
An
honest people and a weak mob,
a corrupt people and a
strong mob," said the other, rather to himself than to his
comrade, and scarce, perhaps, conscious of the eternal
truth of his aphorism. "He is no
mere brawler, this
Rienzi, I suspect, I must see to it. Hark! what noise
is that? By the holy sepulchre, it is the ring of our own
metal!"
And that cry,
-'a Colonna '" exclaimed Rodolf.
"Pardon me, master, I must away to the rescue!'
"Ay, it is the duty of thy hire; run! - Yet stay, I will
accompany thee gratis for once, and for pure passion for
pure passion for
mischief. By this hand there is no music like clashing
steel!"
Still Adrian continued gallantly and unwounded to defend
himself, though his arm now grew tired, his breath well-
nigh spent, and his eyes began to wink and reel beneath
the glare of the tossing torches. Orsini himself, exhausted
by his fury, had pansed for an instant, fronting his foe with
a heaving breast and savage looks, when, suddenly, his fol-
lowers exclaimed, "Fly! fly ! the bandits approach,
we are surrounded ! and two of the servitors, without
further parley, took fairly to their heels. The other five
remained irresolute, and waiting but the command of their
master, when he of the white pluine, whom we have just
left, thrust himself into the mêlée.
"What, gentles," said he, "have ye finished already?
Nay, let us not mar the sport; begin again, I beseech you.
What are the odds? Ho! six to one!
nay, no wonder
that ye have waited for fairer play. See, we two will take
the weaker side. Now, then, let us begin again."
"Insolent," cried the Orsini, "knowest thou whom
thou addressest thus arrogantly?—I am Martino di Porto.
Who art thou ?
"Walter de Montreal, gentleman of Provence, a knight
of St. John!" answered the other, carelessly.
At that redoubted name, the name of one of the boldest
warriors, and of the most accomplished freebooter of his
time, even Martino's cheek grew pale, and his followers
uttered a cry of terror.
"And this, my comrade," continued the knight, " for we
may as well complete the introduction, is probably better
known to you than I am, gentles of Rome, and you doubtless
recognise in him Rodolf of Saxony, a brave man and a true,
where he is properly paid for his services."
CC
Signor," said Adrian to his enemy, who, aghast and
dumb, remained staring vacantly at the two new-comers,
you are now in my power. See, our own people, too, are
approaching."
[C
And, indeed, from the palace of Stephen Colonna, torches
began now to blaze, and armed men were seen rapidly
advancing to the spot.
"Go home in peace, and if, to-morrow, or any day more
suitable to thee, thou wilt meet me alone, and lance to
lance, as is the wont of the knights of the empire, or with
band to band, and man for man, as is rather the Roman
custom, I will not fail thee,
there is my gage.'
'Nobly spoken," said Montreal; "and, if ye choose the
latter, by your leave, I will be one of the party."
دو
Martino answered not; he took up the glove, thrust it in
his bosom, and strode hastily away; only, when he had got
some paces down the street, he turned back, and, shaking
his clinched hand at Adrian, exclaimed, in a voice trem-
bling with impotent rage, "Faithful to death!"
The words made one of the mottoes of the Orsini, and,
whatever its earlier signification, had long passed into a
current proverb, to signify their hatred to the Colonna.
Adrian, now engaged in raising and attempting to revive
Irene, who was still insensible, disdainfully left it to Mon-
treal to reply.
"I should never have thought, signor," said the latter,
coolly, "that thou couldst be faithful to any thing, but I
knew well, at least, that it was to nothing living!"
"Pardon me, gentle knight," said Adrian, looking up
from his charge, "if I do not yet give myself wholly to
gratitude. I have learned enough of knighthood to feel,
thou wilt acknowledge that my first duty is here
25
"Oh, what, a lady, then, was the cause of the quarrel,
and I need not ask who was in the right, when a man
brings to the rivalry such odds as you caitiff."
Thou mistakest a little, sir knight, it is but a lamb
it is but a lamb
I have rescued from the wolf.”
"For thy own table! Be it so!" returned the knight
gayly.
Adrian smiled gravely, and shook his head in denial. Ir
truth, he was somewhat embarrassed by his situation.
Though habitually gallant, he was not willing to expose to
misconstruction the disinterestedness of his late conduct, and
(for it was his policy to conciliate popularity) to sully the
credit which his bravery would give him among the citi-
zens, by conveying Irene (whose beauty, too, as yet he had
scarcely noted) to his own dwelling; and yet, in her
present situation, there was no alternative. She evinced
no sign of life. He knew not her home nor parentage.
Benedetta had vanished. He could not leave her in the
streets; he could not resign her to the care of another; and,
as she lay now upon his breast, he felt her already endeared
to him, by that sense of protection which is so grateful to
the human heart. He briefly, therefore, explained to those
now gathered round him his present situation, and the
cause of the past conflict, and bade the torch-bearers pre-
cede him to his home.
You, sir knight," added he, turning to Montreal, " if
not already more pleasantly lodged, will, I trust, deign to
be my guest."
«Ε
"Thanks, signor," answered Montreal, maliciously,
"but I also, perhaps, have my own affairs to watch over
Adieu! I shall seek you at the earliest occasion. Fair
night, and gentle dreams!
"Robers Bertrams qui estoit tors
Mais à ceval estoit mult fors
Cil avoit o lui grans effors
Multi ot 'homes per lui mors.'"
And, muttering this rugged chant from the oid "Roman de
Rou," the Provençal, followed by Rodolf, pursued his way
The vast extent of Rome, and the thinness of its popula
tion, left mauy of the streets utterly deserted. The princi
pal nobles were thus enabled to possess themselves of a wide
of buildings, which they fortified, partly against each
other, partly against the people; their numerous relatives
and clients lived around them, formning, as it were, petty
courts and cities in themselves.
range
Almost opposite to the principal palace of the Colonna
(occupied by his powerful kinsman, Stephen) was the
mansion of Adrian. Heavily swung back the massive gates
at his approach; he ascended the broad staircase, and bore
his charge into an apartment which his taste had decorat-
ed in a fashion not as yet common in that age. Ancient
statues and busts were arranged around; the pictured arras
of Lombardy decorated the walls and covered the massive
seats.
"What ho! lights here, and wine!" cried the seneschal.
"Leave us alone," said Adrian, gazing passionately on
the pale cheek of Irene, as he now, by the clear light,
beheld all its beauty; and a sweet yet burning hope crept
into his heart.
CHAPTER V.
The description of a conspirator, and the dawn of the
conspiracy.
ALONE, by a table covered with various papers, sat a
man in the prime of life. The chamber was low and long;
many antique and disfigured bass-reliefs and torsos were
placed around the wall, interspersed, here and there, with
the short sword and close casque, time-worn relics of the
prowess of ancient Rome. Right above the table at which
he sat, the moonlight streamed through a high and narrow
casement, deep sunk in the massy wall. In a niche to the
right of this window, guarded by a sliding door, which was
now partially drawn aside, but which, by s solid sub-
stance, and the sheet of iron with which it was plated, tes-
tified how valuable in the eyes of the owner was the treasure
it protected, were ranged some thirty or forty volumes,
then deemed no inconsiderable library; and being, for the
most part, the laborious copies in manuscript, by the hand
of the owner, from immortal originals.
Leaning his cheek on his hand, his brow somewhat knit,
his lip slightly compressed, that personage indulged in medi-
tations far other than the indolent dreams of scholars. As
the high and still moonlight shone upon his countenance, it
gave an additional and solemn dignity to features which had
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
.211
only to repose in order to assume a grave and majestic cast.
Thick and auburn hair, the color of which, not common to
the Romans, was ascribed to his descent from the Teuton
emperor, clustered in large curls above a high and expan-
sive forehead; and even the present thoughtful compression
of the brow could not mar the aspect of latent power, which
it derived from that great breadth between the eyes, in which
the Grecian sculptors of old so admirably conveyed the ex-
pression of authority, and the silent energy of command.
But his featu. es were not cast in the Grecian, still less in
the Teuton mould. The iron jaw, the aquiline nose, the
somewhat sunken cheek, strikingly recalled the character
of the hard Roman race, and might not inaptly have sug-
gested to a painter a model for the younger Prutus.
The marked outline of the face, and the short, firm upper
lip, were not concealed by the beard and mustaches usually
then worn; and, in the faded and antique portrait of the
person now described, and still extant at Rome, may be
traced a certain resemblance to the popular pictures of Na-
poleon, not indeed in the features, which are more stern
and prominent in the portrait of the Roman, but in that
peculiar expression of concentrated and tranquil power
which so nearly realizes the ideal of intellectual majesty.
Though still young, the personal advantages most peculiar
to youth, the bloom and glow, the rounded cheek in
which care has not yet ploughed its lines, the full unsunken
eye, and the slender delicacy of frame; these were not
the characteristics of that solitary student. And, though
considered by his cotemporaries as eminently handsome,
the judgment was probably formed less from the more vulgar
claims to such distinction, than from the height of the
stature, at that time more highly esteemed than at present,
and that nobler order of beauty which cultivated genius and
commanding character usually stamp upon even homely
features; -the more rare in an age so rugged.
The character of Rienzi (for the youth presented to the
reader in the first chapter of this history is now again be-
fore him in maturer years) had acquired greater hardness
and energy with each stepping-stone to power. There was
a circumstance attendant on his birth which had probably
exercised great and early influence on his ambition. Though
his parents were in humble circumstances, and of lowly call-
ing, his father was the natural son of the emperor, Henry
VII.; and it was the pride of the parents that probably
gave to Rienzi the unwonted advantages of education. This
pride transmitted to himself, - the descent from royalty,
dinned into his ear, infused into his thoughts, froin his
cradle, — made him, even in his earliest youth, deem him-
self the equal of the Roman signors, and dimly aspire to be
their superior. But, as the literature of Rome was unfolded
to his cager eye and ambitious heart, he became imbued
with that pride of country which is nobler than the pride of
birth, and, save when stung by allusions to his origin,
he unaffectedly valued himself more on being a Roman
plebeian than the descendant of a Teuton king. His brother's
death and the vicissitudes he himself had already under-
gone, deepened the earnest and solemn qualities of his char-
acter; and, at length, all the faculties of a very uncommon
intellect were concentrated to one object, which bor-
rowed from a mind strongly and mystically religious, as
well as patriotic, a sacred aspect, and grew at once a duty
and a passion.
|
the rich liveries worn by the pope's officials,* presented
himself.
Signor," said he, "my lord, the Bishop of Orvietto,
is without.'
་
"Ha! that is fortunate. Lights there! My lord,
this is an honor which I can estimate better than express.'
"Tut, tut my good friend, said the bishop, entering,
and seating himself familiarly, no ceremonies between
the servants of the church; and never, I ween well, had
she greater need of true friends than now. These unholy
tumults, these licentious contentions, in the very shrines and
city of St. Peter, are sufficient to scandalize all Christen-
dom."
"And so will it be," said Rienzi, "until his holiness
himself shall be graciously persuaded to fix his residence
in the seat of his predecessors, and curb with a strong arm
the excesses of the nobles."
"Alas, man!" said the bishop, "though knowest that
these words are but wind; for were the pope to fulfil thy
wishes, and remove from Avignon to Rome, by the blood
of St. Peter! he would not curb the nobles, but the nobles
would curb him. Thou knowest well that until his blessed
predecessor, of pious memory, conceived the wise design of
escaping to Avignon, the father of the Christian world was
but like many other fathers in their old age, controlled and
guarded by his rebellious children. Recollectest thou not
how the noble Boniface himself, a man of great heart, and
nerves of iron, was kept in thraldom by the ancestors of
the Orsini, his entrances and exits made but at their
will, so that, like a caged eagle, he beat himself against
his bars and died? Verily, thou talkest of the memories
of Rome, these are not the memories that are very
attractive to popes.
-
"Well," said Rienzi, Laughing gently, and drawing his
seat nearer to the bishop's, "my lord has certainly the best
of the argument at present, and I must own that, strong,
licentious, and unhallowed as the nobility was then, it is
yet more so now."
His
“Even I,” rejoined Raimond, coloring as he spoke,
"though vicar of the pope, and representative of his spirit-
ual authority, was but three days ago subjected to a coarse
affront from that vety Stephen Colonna, who has ever re-
ceived such favor and tenderness from the holy see.
servitors justled mine in the open streets, and I myself, -
I, the delegate of the sire of kings, was forced to draw
aside to the wall, and wait until the hoary insolent swept
by.
by. Nor were blaspheming words wanting to complete the
insult. Pardon, lord bishop,' said he, as he passed me;
but this world, thou knowest, must necessarily take pre-
cedence of the other.'"
"Dared he so high?" said Rienzi, shading his face
with his hand, as a very peculiar smile, scarcely itself
joyous, though it made others gay, and which completely
changed the character of his face, naturally grave even to
sternness, played round his lips. "Then is it time for
thee, holy father, as for us, to-
"Can
"To what?" interrupted the bishop, quickly.
we effect aught? Dismiss thy enthusiastic dreamings,
descend to the real earth, look soberly round us.
Against men so powerful, what can we do?"
"My lord," answered Rienzi, gravely, "it is the mis
fortune of signors of your rank never to know the people,
"Yes," said Rienzi, breaking suddenly from his reverie, or the accurate signs of the time. As those who pass over
"yes, the day is at hand when Rome shall rise again from the heights of mountains see the clouds sweep below, veil-
her ashes; justice shall dethrone oppression; men shalling the plains and valleys from their gaze, while they, only
walk safe in their ancient forum. We will rouse from his
forgotten tomb the indomitable soul of Cato! There shall
he a people once more in Rome! And I, I shall be the
instrument of that triumph, the restorer of my race,
mine shall be the first voice to swell the battle-cry of free-
dom, mine the first hand to rear her banner, yes, from
the height of my own soul, as from a mountain, I see already
rising the liberties and the grandeur of the new Rome, and
on the corner-stone of the mighty fabric posterity shall read
my name.
Uttering these lofty boasts, the whole person of the
speaker seemed instinct with his ambition. He strode the
gloomy chamber with light and rapid steps, as if on air;
his breast heaved, his eyes glowed. He felt that love itself
can scarcely bestow a rapture equal to that which is felt,
in his first virgin enthusiasm, by a patriot who knows him-
gelf sincere!
There was a slight knock at the door, and a servitor, in
a little above the level, survey the movements and the
homes of men; even so from your lofty eminence ye behold
but the indistinct and sullen vapors, while, from my
humbler station, I see the preparations of the shepherds to
shelter themselves and herds from the storm which those
clouds betoken. Despair not, my lord; endurance goes
but to a certain limit,—to that limit it is already stretched,
- Rome waits but the occasion (it will come soon, but not
suddenly) to rise simultaneously against her oppressors.
The great secret of eloquence is to be in earnest, the
great secret of Rienzi's eloquence was in the mightiness
of his enthusiasm. He never spoke as one who doubted ot
success. Perhaps, like most men who undertake high and
great actions, he himself was never thoroughly aware of
the obstacles in his way. He saw the end, bright and
clear, and overleaped, in the vision of his soul, the crosses
*Not the present hideous habiliments, which are said to have
been the invention of Michael Angelo.
212
BULWER'S NOVELS
and the length of the path; thus the deep convictions of
his own mind stamped themselves irresistibly upon others.
He seemed less to promise than to prophesy.
The Bishop of Orvietto, not over wise, yet a man of
cool temperan ent and much worldly experience, was forci-
bly impressed by the energy of his companion; perhaps,
indeed the more so, in that his own pride and his own
passsions were enlisted also against the arrogance and
license of the nobles. He paused ere he replied to Rienzi.
"But is it," he asked, at length, "only the plebeians who
will rise? Thou knowest how they are caitiff and uncer-
tain,”
-
"My lord," answered Rienzi, "judge by one fact, how
strongly I am surrounded by friends of no common class:
thou knowest how loudly I speak against the nobles, I
cite them by their name, I beard the Savelli, the Orsini,
the Colonna, in their very hearing. Thinkest thou that
they forgive me? Thinkest thou that, were only the plebe-
ians my safeguard and my favorers, they would not seize
ine by open force, that I had not long ere this found a
gag in their dungeons, or been swallowed up in the eter-
nal dumbness of the grave? Observe," continued he, as,
reading the vicar's countenance, he perceived the impres-
sion he had made, observe, that throughout the whole
world a great revolution has begun. The barbaric dark-
ness of centuries has been broken; the KNOWLEDGE
which made men as demigods in the past time has been
called from her urn; a power, subtler than brute force, and
mightier than armed men, is at work; we have begun once
more to do homage to the royalty of mind. Yes, that same
Yes, that same
power which, a few years ago, crowned Petrarch in the
capitol, when it witnessed, after the silence of twelve cen-
turies, the glories of a TRIUMPH, which heaped upon a
man of obscure birth, and unknown in arms, the same hon-
ors given of old to emperors and the vanquishers of kings,
which united in one act of homage, even the rival houses
of Colonna and Orsini, which made the haughtiest
patricians emulous to bear the train, to touch but the pur-
ple robe of the son of the Florentine plebeian,— which still
draws the eyes of Europe to the lowly cottage of Vancluse,
which gives to the humble student the all-acknowledged
license to admonish tyrants, and approach, with haughty
prayers, even the father of the church; yes, that same
power which, working silently throughout Italy, murmurs
under the solid base of the Venetian oligarchy, which,
beyond the Alps, has woke into visible and sudden life in
Spain, in Germany, in Flanders, and which, even in that
barbarous isle, conquered by the Norman sword, ruled by
the bravest of living kings, † has roused a spirit Norman
cannot break,―kings to rule over must rule by, - yes,
that same power is everywhere abroad; it speaks, it con-
quers in the voice even of him who is before you; it unites
in his cause all on whom but one glimmering of light has
burst, all in whom one generous desire can be awakened !
Know, lord vicar, that there is not a man in Rome, save
our oppressors themselves, not a man who has learned
one syllable of our ancient tongue, whose heart and sword
are not with me. The peaceful cultivators of letters,
the proud nobles of the second order, the rising race,
wiser than their slothful sires; above all, my lord, the
humbler ministers of religion, priests and monks, whom
luxury hath not blinded, pomp hath not deafened, to the
monstrous outrage of Christianity daily and nightly perpe-
trated in the Christian capital these, all these,
linked with the merchant and the artisan in one indissolu,
ble bond, waiting but the signal, to fall or to conquer, to
live free, or to die immortally, with Rienzi and their
Country!"
—
—
are
"Sayest thou so in truth?" said the bishop, startled,
and half rising ; "Prove but thy words, and thou shalt not
find the ministers of God are less eager than their lay
brethren for the happiness of men.
""
"that
"What I say," rejoined Rienzi, in a cooler tone,
can I show; but I may only prove it to those who will be
with us.'
*It was about eight years afterward that the long-smothered
hate of the Venetian people to that wisest and most vigilant of
all oligarchies, the Sparta of Italy, broke out in the conspiracy
under Marino Faliero.
† Edward III., in whose reign opinions far more popular than
those of the following century began to work. The civil wars
threw back the action into the blood. It was, indeed, an age
throughout the world which put forth abundant blossoms, but
crude and unripened fruit; a singular leap, followed by as
angular a pause.
"Fear me not," answered Raimond; "Ikr ow well the
secret mind of his holiness, whose delegate and representa-
tive I am; and could he see but the legitimate and natura.
limit set to the power of the patricians, who, in their arro-
gance, have set at naught the authority of the church itself,
be sure that he would smile on the hand that drew the line.
Nay, so certain of this am I, that if ye succeed, I, his re-
sponsible but unworthy vicar, will myself sanction the suc-
cess. But beware of crude attempts; the church must
not be weakened by linking itself to failure."
Right, my lord," answered Rienzi; "and in this, the
policy of religion is that of freedoin. Judge of iny prudence
by my long delay. He who can see all around him impa
tient, himself not less so, and yet suppress the signal,
and bide the hour, is not likely to lose himself by rashness."
"More, then, of this anon," said the bishop, re-settling
himself in his seat. "As thy plans mature, fear not to
communicate with me. Believe that Rome has no firmer
friend than he who, ordained to preserve order, finds him.
self impotent against aggression. Meanwhile, to the object
of my present visit, which links itself, in some measure,
perhaps, with the topics on which we have conversed.
Thou knowest that when his holiness intrusted thee with
thy present office, be bade thee also announce his beneficent
intention of granting a general jubilee at Rome for the year
1350, -a most admirable design for two reasons, suffi-
ciently apparent to thyself; first, that every Christian soul
that may undertake the pilgrimage to Rome on that occa-
sion, may thus obtain a general remission of sins; and
secondly, because, to speak carnally, the concourse of pil-
grims so assembled, usually, by the donations and offerings
their piety suggests, very materially add to the revenues of
the holy see; at this time, by the way, in no very flourish-
ing condition. This thou knowest, dear Rienzi."
Rienzi bowed his head in assent, and the prelate con-
tinued,
"Well, it is with the greatest grief that his holiness per-
ceives that his pious intentions are likely to be frustrated;
for so fierce and numerous are now the trigands in the pub-
lic approaches to Rome, that, verily, the boldest pilgrim
may tremble a little to undertake the journey; and those
who do so venture, will, probably, be composed of the
poorest of the Christian community; men who, bringing
with them neither gold nor silver, nor precious offerings,
will have little to fear from the rapacity of the brigands.
Hence arise two consequences on the one hand, the rich,
- who, heaven knows, and the gospel has, indeed, ex-
pressly declared, have the most need of a remission of sins,
will be deprived of this glorious occasion for absolution;
and on the other hand, the coffers of the see will be impious
ly defrauded of that wealth which it would otherwise doubt-
less obtain from the zeal of her children.
Nothing can be more logically manifest, my lord," said
Rienzi.
The vicar continued, "Now, in letters received five
days since from his holiness, he bade me expose these fear-
ful consequences to Christianity to the various patricians
who are legitimately fiefs of the church, and command their
resolute combination against the marauders of the road.
With these have I conferred, and vainly.'
"For by the aid, and from the troops, of those very brig
ands, these patricians have fortified their palaces against
each other,” added Rienzi.
C
"Exactly for that reason," rejoined the bishop. " Nay,
Stephen Colonna himself had the audacity to confess it.
Utterly unmoved by the loss to so many precious souls, and,
I may add, to the papal treasury, which ought to be little
less dear to right-discerning men, they refuse to advance a
step against the bandits. Now, then, hearken the second
mandate of his holiness: Failing the nobles,' saith he
in his prophetic sagacity, confer with Cola di Rienzi
He is a bold man, and a pious, and thou tellest me, of
great weight with the people, and say to him, that if his
wit can devise the method for extirpating these sons of
Belial, and rendering a safe passage along the public ways,
largely, indeed, will he merit at our hands; lasting will be
the gratitude we shall owe him; and whatever succour
thou, and the servants of our sce, can render to him, let it
not be stinted.'”
"Said his holiness thus!" exclaimed Rienzı; “I ask
no more, the gratitude is mine that he hath thought thus
of his servant, and intrusted me with this charge; at once
accept it, — at once I pledge myself to success.
Let us
I
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
218
"Such conduct the very nature of the charge demands,"
replied Raimond.
"Ay, even though it be exercised against the arch of
fenders, against the supporters of the brigands,- against
the haughtiest of the nobles themselves?""
ng lord, let us then, clearly understand the limits ordained | slowly beneath the marble, so gazed the young and pas-
to my discretion. To curb the brigands without the walls,sionate Adrian upon the form reclined before him re-awak-
I must have authority over those within. If I undertake, ening gradually to life. And if the beauty of that face
at peril of my life, to clear all the avenues to Rome of the were not of the loftiest, or the most dazzling order, if its
of
robbers that now infest it, shall I have full license for con- soft and quiet character might be outshone by many
duct bold, peremptory, and severe ?"
loveliness, less really perfect, yet never was there a coun-
tenance that to some eyes would have seemed more charm-
ing, and never one in which more cloquently was wrought
that ineffable and virgin expression which Italian art seeks
for in its models; in which the modesty is the outward,
and the tenderness the latent, expression; the bloom of
youth, both of form and heart, ere the first frail and deli-
cate freshness of either is brushed away and when even
love itself, the only unquiet visitant that should be known
at such an age, is but a sentiment, and not a passion !
"Benedetta!" murmured Irene, at length opening her
eyes unconsciously upon him who kneeled beside her,
eyes of that uncertain, that most liquid hue, on which you
night gaze for years and never learn the secret of the
color, so changed it with the dilating pupil, darkening
in the shade, and brightening into azure in the light,
Benedetta," said Irene, "where art thou? Oh, Bene-
detta! I have had such a dream.”
The bishop paused, and looked hard in the face of the
speaker. "I repeat,
said he, at length, sinking his
voice, and with a significant tone," in these bold attempts,
success is the sole sanction. Succeed, and we will excuse
thee all, even to the
“Death of a Colonna or an Orsini, should justice de-
mand it, and provided it be according to the law, and only
incurred by the violation of the law!" added Rienzi, firmly.
The bishop did not reply in words, but a slight motion
of his head was sufficient answer to Rienzi.
My lord," said he," from this time, then, all is well;
I date the revolution, the restoration of order, of the
state, from this hour, this very conference. Till now, know-
ing that justice must never wink upon great offenders, I had
hesitated, through fear, lest thou and his holiness might
deem it severity, and blame him who replaces the law, be-
Canse he smites the violators of law. Now I judge ye
more rightly. Your hand, my lord."
The bishop extended his hand; Rienzi grasped it firmly,
and then raised it respectfully to his lips. Both felt that
the compact was sealed.
This conference, so long in recital, was short in the re-
ality; but its object was already finished, and the bishop
rose to depart. The outer portal of the house was opened,
the numerous servitors of the bishop held on high their
torches, and he had just turned from Rienzi, who had at-
tended him through the court, when a female passed hastily
through the prelate's train, and starting, as she beheld
Rienzi, flung herself at his feet.
"Oh, hasten, sir! hasten, for the love of God, hasten!
or the young signora is lost for ever!”
S
"The signora !— heaven and earth, Benedetta, of whom
do you speak of my sister, of Irene? is she not within?
Oh, sir, the Orsini, the Orsini !"
"What of them?-speak, woman!"
Here, breathlessly, and in many a break, Benedetta re-
counted to Rienzi, in whom the reader has already recog-
nised the brother of Irene, so far of the adventure with
Martino di Porto as she had witnessed: of the termina-
tion and result of the contest she knew naught.
Rienzi listened in silence, but the deadly paleness of his
countenance, and the writhing of the nether lip, testified
the emotions to which he gave no audible rent.
“You hear, my lord bishop, you hear," said he, when
Benedetta had concluded, and turning to the bishop, whose
departure the narrative had delayed; "you hear to what
outrage the citizens of Rome are subjected. My hat and
sword! instantly! My lord, forgive my abruptness."
"Whither art thou bent, then?" asked Raimond.
"Whither, whither! Ay, I forgot, my lord, you have no
sister. Perhaps, too, you have no brother? No, no; one
victim, at least, I will live to save. Whither, you ask me?
to the palace of Martino di Porto."
"To an Orsini, alone, and for justice!"
"Alone, and for justice. No!" shouted Rienzi, in a
loud voice, as he seized his sword, now brought to him by
one of his servants, and rushed from the house; "but one
man is sufficient for revenge!"
"
"He
The bishop paused for a moment's deliberation.
must not be lost," muttered he, "as he well may be, if ex-
posed thus solitary to the wolf's rage. What ho!" he
cried aloud; advance the torches ! - quick, quick! We
ourself, -we, the vicar of the pope, will see to this.
Calm yourselves, good people; your young signora shall be
restored. On! to the palace of Martino di Porto !
CHAPTER VI.
Irene in the palace of Adrian di Castello.
As he Cyprian gazed on the image in which he had im-
Dodied a youth of dreams, what ti ne the living hues flushed
"And I, too, such a vision!" thought Adrian.
"Where am I?" cried Irene, rising from the couch.
do I
"This room, these hangings, Holy Virgin!
dream stil!! and you! - Heavens ? it is the lord
Adrian di Castello !
"Is that a name thou hast been taught to fear?" said
Adrian; "if so, I will forswear it."
If Irene now blushed deeply, it was not in tha: wild
delight with which her romantic heart might have foretold
that she would listen to the first words of homage from
terrified
Adrian di Castello. Bewildered and confused,
at the strangeness of the place, and shrinking even from
the thought of finding herself alone with one who, for
years, had been present to her fancies, - alarm and dis-
tress were the emotions she felt the most, and which most
were impressed upon her speaking countenance; and as
Adrian now drew nearer to her, despite the gentleness of
his voice and the respect of his looks, her fears, not the
less strong that they were vague, increased upon her; she
retreated to the farther end of the room, looked wildly
round her, and then, covering her face with her hands,
burst into a paroxysm of tears,
Moved himself by these tears, and divining her thoughts,
Adrian forgot for a moment all the more daring wishes he
had formed.
"recollect
"Fear not, sweet lady," said he, earnestly;
thyself, I beseech thee; no peril, no evil can reach thee
here; it was this hand that saved thee from the outrage of
the Orsini, this roof is but the shelter of a friend! Tell
me, then, fair wouder, thy name and residence, and I will
summon my servitors, and guard thee to thy home at
once."
Perhaps the relief of tears, even more than Adrian's
words, restored Irene to herself, and enabled her to com
prehend her novel situation; and, as her senses thus
cleared, told her what she owed to him whom her dreams
had so long imaged as the ideal of all excellence, she
recovered her self-possession, and uttered her thanks with
a grace not the less winning, if it still partook of embar-
rassment.
“Thank me not," answered Adrian, passionately; "I
have touched thy hand, I am repaid. Repaid! nay, all
gratitude, all homage is for me to render!"
Blushing again, but with far different emotions than
before, Irene, after a momentary pause, replied, “Yet,
my lord, I must consider it a debt not the ess weighty
that you speak of it so lightly. And now complete the
obligation; I see not my companion, suffer her to ac-
company me home; it is but a short way from hence."
"Blessed, then, is the air that I have breathed so
unconsciously!" said Adrian. "But thy companion, dear
lady, is not here. She fled, I imagine, in the confusion of
the conflict; and not knowing thy name, nor being able,
in thy then state, to learn it from thy lips, it was my happy
necessity to convey thee hither; but I will be thy compan-
ion. Nay, why that timid glance? my people, also,
shall attend us. *
My thanks, noble lord, are of little worth; my brother
who is not unknown to thee, will thank thee more fitting-
ly. May I depart ?" and Ireae, as she spoke,was alread
at the door.
214
BULWER'S NOVELS.
it
"Art thou so eager to leave me ?" answered Adrian,
sadly. "Alas! when thou hast departed from my eyes,
will seem as if the moon had left the night! but it is hap-
piness to obey thy wishes, even though they tear thee from
me."
A slight smile parted Irene's lips, and Adrian's heart
beat audibly to himself, as he drew from that smile, and
those downcast eyes, no unfavorable omen.
Reluctantly and slowly he turned towards the door, and
summoned his attendants. But," said he, as they now
stood on the lofty staircase, "thou savest, sweet lady, that
tay orother's name is not unknown to me. Heaven grant
that he be, indeed, a friend of the Colonna ! "
"His boast," answered Irene, evasively; "the boast
of Cola di Rienzi is, to be a friend to the friends of
Rome."
Holy Virgin of Ara Coeli! is thy brother that extra-
ordinary man?" exclaimed Adrian, as he foresaw, at the
mention of that name, a barrier to his sudden passion.
"Alas! in a Colonna, in a noble, be will see no merit;
even though thy fortunate deliverer, sweet maiden, sought
to be his early friend!
رو
M
"Thou wrongest him much, my lord," returned Irene,
warmly; "he is a man above all others to sympathize
with thy generous valor, even had it been exerted in de-
fence of the humblest woman in Rome,
how much more,
then, when in protection of his sister!"
"The times are, indeed, diseased," answered Adrian,
thoughtfully, as they now found themselves in the open
street,
"when men who alike mourn for the woes of their
country are yet suspicious of each other, — when to be a
patrician is to be regarded as an enemy to the people, -
when to be termed the friend of the people is to be con-
sidered a foe to the patricians: but come what may, oh!
let me hope, dear lady, that no doubts, no divisions, shall
banish from thy breast one gentle memory of me!
"Ab! little, little do you know me!
and stopped suddenly short.
وو
began Irene,
Speak! speak again! of what music has this envious
silence deprived my soul! Thou wilt not, then, forget me?
And," continued Adrian, “ we shall meet again? It is
to Rienzi's house we are bound now; to-morrow I shall
to-morrow I shall see thee,
visit my old companion,
will it not be so ?"
In Irene's silence was her answer.
S
Turning to take his leave of Irene, he conveyed her
hand to his lips, and pressing it as it dropped from his
clasp, was be deceived in thinking that those delicate
he
fingers lightly, involuntarily, returned the pressure 2
CHAPTER VII.
Upon love and lovers.
And
IF, in adopting the legendary love-tale of Romeo and
Juliet, Shakspeare had changed the scene in which it is
cast for a more northern clime, I doubt whether the art of
Shakspeare himself could have reconciled us at once to the
suddenness and the strength of Juliet's passion.
even as it is, I believe there are few of our rational and
sober-minded islanders who would not honestly confess, if
fairly questioned, that they deemed the romance and fervor
of those ill-starred lovers of Verona exaggerated and over-
drawn. Yet in Italy, the picture of that affection born of
a night, but "strong as death," is one to which the veriest
commonplaces of life would afford parallels without num-
ber. As in different ages, so in different climes, love va-
ries wonderfully in the shapes it takes. And even at this
day, beneath Italian skies, many a simple girl would feel
as Juliet, and many a homely gallant would rival the
extravagance of Romeo. Long suits in that sunny land
wherein, as whereof, I now write, are unknown. In no
other land, perhaps, is there found so commonly the love
at first sight, which in France is a jest, and in England, a
doubt; in no other land, too, is love, though so suddenly
conceived, more faithfully preserved. That which is ripen-
ed in fancy, comes at once to passion, yet is embalmed
through all time by sentiment. And this must be their aud
my excuse, if the love of Adrian seem too prematurely
formed, and that of Irene too romantically conceived; it
is the excuse which they take from the air and sun, -from
the customs of their ancestors, from the soft contagion
of example. But while they yielded to the dictates of
their hearts, it was with a certain though secret sadness,-
a presentiment that had perhaps its charm, though it was
of cross and evil. Born of so proud a race, Adrian could
scarcely dream of marriage with the sister of a plebeian
and Irene, unconscious of the future glory of her brother,
could hardly have cherished any hope, save that of being
"And as thou hast told me thy brother's name, make loved. Yet these adverse circumstances, which, in the
it sweet to my ear, and add to it thine own.”
"They call me Irene."
"Irene, Irene let me repeat it. It is a soft name,
and dwells upon the lips as if loath to leave them,
fitting name for one like thee."
a
Thus making his welcome court to Irene, in that flow-
ered and glowing language which, if more peculiar to that
age and to the gallantry of the South, is also the language
in which the poetry of youthful passion would, in all times
and lands, utter its rich extravagance, could heart speak to
heart, Adrian conveyed homeward his beautiful charge,
taking, however, the most circuitous and lengthened route;
an artifice which Irene either perceived not, or silently
forgave. They were now within sight of the street in
which Rienzi dwelt, when a party of men, bearing torches,
came unexpectedly upon them. It was the train of the
Bishop of Orvietto, returning from the palace of Martino
di Porto, and in their way (accompanied by Rienzi) to
that of Adrian. They had learned at the former, without
an interview with the Orsini, from the retainers in the
court below, the fortune of the conflict, and the name of
Irene's champion; and, despite of Adrian's general repu-
tation for gallantry, Rienzi knew enough of his character,
and the nobleness of his temper, to feel assured that Irene
was safe in his protection. Alas! in that very safety to
the person is often the most danger to the heart.
never so dangerously loves, as when he who loves her, for
her sake, subdues himself.
Woman
Clasped to her brother's breast, Irene bade him thank
her deliverer; and Rienzi, with that fascinating frankness
which sits so well on those usually reserved, and which all
who would rule the hearts of their fellow-men must at
times command, advanced to the young Colonna,and poured
forth his gratitude and praise.
"We have been severed too long, — we must know
each other again," replied Adrian; "I shall seek thee ere
long be assured."
harder, the more prudent, the more self-denying, perhaps
the more virtuous minds that are formed beneath the north-
ern skies, would have been an inducement to wrestle
against love so placed, only contributed to feed and to
strengthen theirs by an opposition which has ever its attrac
tion for romance. They found frequent though short op-
portunities of meeting, not quite alone, but only in the
conniving presence of Benedetta, sometimes in the
public gardens, sometimes amid the vast and deserted
ruins by which the house of Rienzi was surrounded. They
surrendered themselves without much question of the future
to the excitement, the elysium of the hour; they lived
but from day to day; their future was the next time they
should meet; beyond that epoch, the very mists of their
youthful love closed in obscurity and shadow which they
sought not to penetrate; and as yet they had not arrived
at that period of affection when there was an immediate
danger of their fall, their love had not passed the golden
portal where heaven ceases and earth begins. Everything
for them was the poetry, the vagueness, the refinement,
not the power,
not the power, the concentration, the mortality,- of de-
sire! the look, the whisper, the brief pressure of the hand,
at most, the first kisses of love, rare and few; these
marked the human limits of that sentiment which filled
them with a new life, which elevated them as with a new
soul.
The roving tendencies of Adrian were at once fixed and
centred; the dreams of his tender mistress had wakened
to a life dreaming still, but "rounded with a truth, All
that earnestness, and energy, and fervor of emotion which,
in her brother, broke forth in the schemes of patriotism
and the aspirations of power, were, in Irene, softened
down into one object of existence, one concentration of
soul, and that was love. Yet, in this range of thought
and action, so apparently limited, there was, in reality, no
less boundless a sphere than in the wide space of her
brother's many-pathed ambition. Not the less had she the
RIENZI, THE LAST
21
OF THE TRIBUNES.
power and scope for all the loftiest capacities granted to
our clay. Equal was her enthusiasm for her idol, equal,
bad she been equally tried, would have been her generos-
ity, her devotion: greater be sure, her courage, more ina-
lienable her worship, more unsullied by selfish purposes and
sordid views. Time, change, misfortune, ingratitude
would have left her the same! What state could fall, what
liberty decay, if the zeal of man's noisy patriotism was as
pure as the silent loyalty of a woman's love?
In them, every thing was young! the heart unchilled,
unblighted; that fulness and luxuriance of life's life which
has in it something of divine. At that
At that age, when it seems
as if we could never die, how deathless, how flushed and
mighty as with the youngness of a god, are all that our
hearts create ! Our own youth is like that of the earth
itself, when it peopled the woods and waters with divini-
ties; when life ran riot, and yet only gave birth to beauty;
all its shapes, of poetry, all its airs, the melodies of Arca-
dia and Olympus, all earth itself, even in its wildest lairs,
another, nay, a happier heaven, prodigal of the same glo-
ries, and haunted by the same forms! The golden age
never leaves the world: it exists still, and shall exist, till
love, health, poetry, are no more, but only for the young!
If I now dwell, though but for a moment, on this inter-
lude in a drama calling forth more masculine passions than
that of love, it is because I foresee that the occasion will
but rarely recur. If I linger on the description of Irene
and her hidden affection, rather than wait for circumstances
to portray them better than can the author's words, it is
because I foresee that that loving and lovely image must
continue to the last, rather a shadow than a portrait;
thrown in the back ground, as is the real destiny of such
natures, by bolder figures, and more gorgeous colors; a
something whose presence is rather felt than seen, and
whose very harmony with the whole consists in its retiring
and subdued repose.
CHAPTER VIII.
The enthusiastic man judged by the discreet man.
"THOU wrongest me," said Rienzi, warmly, to Adrian,
as they sat alone, towards the close of a long conference,
"I do not play the part of a mere demagogue; I wish not
to stir the great deeps in order that my lees of fortune may
rise to the surface. So long have I brooded over the past,
that it seems to me as if I had become a part of it, as if
I had no separate existence. I have coined my whole soul
into one master passion, and that is, for the restoration
of Rome.' >>
"But by what means?"
CC
My lord! my lord! there is but one way to restore the
greatness of a people,
a people, — it is an appeal to the people them-
selves. It is not in the power of princes and barons to
make a state permanently glorious; they raise themselves,
but they raise not the people along with them. All great
regenerations are the universal movement of the mass.
;
Nay," answered Adrian, "then have we read history
differently. To me, all great regenerations seem to have
been the work of the few, and tacitly accepted by the
multitude. But let us not dispute after the manner of the
schools. Thou sayest loudly that a vast crisis is at hand
that the good state (buono stato) shall be established? How?
where are your arms? your soldiers? Are the nobles less
storg than heretofore? is the mob more bold, more
Constant? Heaven knows that I speak not with the preju-
dices of my order; I weep for the debasement of my coun-
try. I am a Roman, and in that name I forget that I am
a noble. But I tremble at the storm you would raise so
hazardously. If your insurrection succeed, it will be vio-
lent, - it will be purchased by blood, by the blood of all
the loftiest names of Rome. You will aim at a second
expulsion of the Tarquins; but it will be more like a second
proscription of Sylla, Massacres and disorders never pave
the way to peace; if, on the other hand, you fail, the chains
of Roine are riveted for ever: an ineffectual struggle to
escape is but an excuse for additional tortures to the slave."
“And what, then, would the Lord Adrian have us do ?”
said Rienzi, with that peculiar and sarcastic smile which I
have before noted. "Shall we wait till the Colonna and
Orsini quarrel no more? shall we ask the Colonna for
liberty, and the Orsini for justice? My lord, we cannot
:
J
We must not ask
appeal to the nobles against the nobles
them to moderate their power; we must estore to ourselves
that power there may be danger in the attempt,
but we
attempt it among the monuments of the forum; and if we
fall, we shall perish worthy of our sires! Ye have high
descent, and sounding titles, and wide lands, and you talk
of your ancestral honors! We, too, we plebeians of
Rome, we have ours! Our fathers were freemen! where
is our heritage? not sold,- not given away, but stolen
from us, now by fraud, now by force, filched from us in
our sleep; or wrung from us with fierce hands, amid our
cries and struggles. My lord, we but ask that lawful heri-
tage to be restored to us; to us, nay, to you it is the same,
your liberty, alike, is gone. Can you dwell in your
father's house, without towers and fortresses, and the
bought swords of bravos? can you walk in the streets at
dark without arms and followers? True, you, a noble,
may retaliate, though we dare not. You, in your turn, may
terrify and outrage others; but does license compensate
for liberty? They have given you pomp and power,
I
the safety of equal laws were a better gift. Oh, were youl,
were I Stephen Colonna himself, I should pant, ay,
thirstily as I do now, for that free air which comes not
through bars and bulwarks against my fellow-citizens, but
in the open space of heaven, safe, because protected by
the silent providence of law, and not by the lean fears and
hollow-eyed suspicions which are the comrades of a hated
power. The tyrant thinks he is free, because he commands
slaves, the meanest peasant, in a free state, is more free
than he is. Oh, my lord, that you, the brave, the gener-
ous, the enlightened, you, almost alone amid your order,
in the knowledge that we had a country, oh, would that
you, who can sympathize with our sufferings, would strike
with us for their redress!"
but
"Thou wilt war against Stephen Colonna, my kinsman,
and though I have seen him but little, nor, truth to say,
esteem him much, yet he is the boast of our house, how can
I join thee?
"His life will be safe, his possessions safe, his rauk
safe. What do we war against? His power to do wrong
to others."
"Should he discover that thou hast force beyond words,
he would be less merciful to thee.”
"And has he not discovered that? Do not the shouts of
the people tell him that I am a man whom he should fear?
does he
Does he, the cautious, the wily, the profound, -
build fortresses, and erect towers, and not see from his
battlement the mighty fabric that I, too, have erected?
"You! Where, Rienzi?"
"In the hearts of Rome! Does he not see?" continued
Rienzi. "No, no; he, -all, all his tribe are blind. Is
it not so ?"
"Of a certainty, my kinsman has no belief in your power,
else he would have crushed you long ere this. Nay, it was
but three days ago that he said, gravely, he would rather
you addressed the populace than the best priest in Christen-
dom, for that other orators inflamed the crowd, and no man
so stilled and dispersed them as you did.”
"And they call him profound! Does not heaven hush the
air most when most it prepares the storm? Ay, my lord,
I understand. Stephen Colonna despises me. I have
been," (here, as he continued, a deep blush mantled
over his cheek) – you remember it, -at his palace in
my younger days, and pleased him with witty tales and
light apothegms. Nay, ha, — ha ! —
ha! — he would call me,
r
I think, sometimes, in gay compliment, his jester, — bis
buffoon !
buffoon! I have brooked his insult; I have even bowed
to his applause. I would undergo the same penance, stoop
to the same shame, for the same motive, and in the same
cause. What did I desire to effect? Can you tell me?
No! I will whisper it, then, to you: it was,
the con-
tempt of Stephen Colonna. Under that contempt I was
protected, till protection became no longer necessary.
I desired not to be thought formidable by the patricians,
in order that, quietly and unsuspected, I might make my
way among the people. I have done so; I now throw
aside the veil. Face to face with Stephen Colonna, I
could tell him, this very hour, that I brave his anger,
that I laugh at his dungeons and armed men. But if he
think me the same Rienzi as of old, let him; I can wait
my hour."
"Yet,” said Adrian, waiving an answer to the haughty
language of his companion, "tell me, what dost thou ask
216
BULWER'S NOVELS.
for the people, in order to avoid an appeal to their pas- | he jostled aside, and open objurgations and shrill cries from
sions Ignorant and capricious as they are, thou canst uct
appeal to their reason.
"I ask full justice and safety for all men. I will be
contented with no less a compromise. I ask the nobles to
dismantle their fortresses; to disband their armed re-
tainers; to acknowledge no impunity for crime in high
lineage; to claim no protection save in the courts of the
common law.'
"Vain desire!" said Adrian. Ask what may yet be
granted."
"Ha
ha!" replied Rienzi, laughing bitterly,
" did
I not tell you it was a vain dream to ask for law and
justice at the hands of the great? Can you blame me then
that I ask it elsewhere? Then suddenly changing his
tone and manner, he added, with great solemnity, "Wak-
ing life hath false, vain dreams. But sleep is sometimes
a mighty prophet. Then it is that heaven mysteriously
communes with its creatures, and guides and sustains its
earthly agents in the path to which its providence leads
them on.
Adrian made no reply. This was not the first time he
had noted that Rienzi's strong intellect was strangely con-
joined with a deep and mystical superstition. And this
yet more inclined the young noble, who, though sufficiently
devout, gave but little to the wilder credulities of the time,
to doubt the success of the schemer's projects. In this he
erred greatly, though his error was that of the worldly
wise. For nothing ever so inspires human daring, as the
fond belief that it is the agent of a diviner wisdom. Re-
venge and patriotism, united in one man of genius and
ambition, such are the Archimedian levers that find in
fanaticism the spot out of the world by which to move the
world. The prudent man may direct à state; but it is the
enthusiast who regenerates it, or ruins.
CHAPTER IX.
"When the people saw this picture, every one marvelled."
The Cotemporaneous Biographer of Cola di Rienzi.
BEFORE the market-place and at the foot of the capitol,
an immense crowd was assembled. Each man sought to
push before his neighbour; each struggled to gain access
to one particular spot, round which the crowd was wedged
thick and dense.
"Corpo di Dio!" said a man of huge stature, pressing
onward, like some bulky ship casting the noisy waves right
and left from its stern; "this is hot work; but for what,
in the Holy Mother's name, do ye crowd so? see you not,
Sir Ribald, that my right arm is disabled, swathed, and
bandaged, so that I cannot help myself better than a baby? |
and yet you will be pushing against one as if I was an old
wall."
"Ah, Cecco del Vecchio! what, man! we must make
way for you, -you are too small and tender to bustle
hrough a crowd! Come, I will protect you!" said a
dwarf of some four feet high, looking up at the giant.
"Faith," said the grim smith, looking round on the
mob, who laughed loud at the dwarf's proffer, "we all do
want protection, big and small. What do ye laugh for, ye
apes?
ay, you don't understand parables."
"And yet it is a parable we are come to gaze upon,"
said one of the mob, with a slight sneer.
"Pleasant day to you, Signor Baroncelli," answered
Cecco del Vecchio, "you are a good man, and love the
people; it makes one's heart smile to see you. What's
all this pother for ?"
<<
Why, the pope's notary hath set up a great picture in
the market-place, and the gapers say it relates to Rome;
so they are melting their brains out, this hot day, to guess
at the riddle.
**
"Ho, ho!" said the smith, pushing on so vigorously
that he left the speaker suddenly in the rear, "if Cola di
Rienzi hath aught in the matter, I would break through
stone rocks to get to it."
"Much good will a dead daub do us," said Baroncelli,
sourly, and turning to his neighbours; but no man listened
to him, and he, a would-be deinagogue, gnawed his lip in
envy.
Amid half-awed groans and curses from the men whom
the women, to whose robes and head-gear he showed as
little respect, the sturdy smith won his way to a space
fenced round by chains, in the centre of which was placed
a huge picture.
"How came it hither?" cried one; "I was first at
the market.”
"We found it here at daybreak," said a vender of
fruit: "no one was by."
"But why do you fancy Rienzi had a hand in it?
"Why, who else could?" answered twenty voices.
"True! Who else?" echoed the gaunt smith.
dare be sworn the good man spent his whole life in paint-
ing it himself. Blood of St. Peter! but it is mighty fine!
What is it about ? "
"That's the riddle," said a meditative fish-woman; “if
I could make it out I should die happy."
"It is something about liberty and taxes, no doubt,'
said Luigi, the butcher, leaning over the chains. "Ah, if
Rienzi were minded, every poor man would have his bit of
meat in his pot.
>>
"And as much bread as he could eat," added a pale
baker.
"Chut! bread and meat, - every body has that now!
but, what wine the poor folks drink! One has no encour-
agement to take pains with one's vineyard," said a vine-
dresser.
J
"Ho, halloo ! — long life to Pandulfo di Guido! make
way for Master Pandulfo; he is a learned man; he is a
friend of the great notary's; he will tell us all about the
picture; make way, there, make ! ""
way
Slowly, and modestly, Pandulfo di Guido, a quiet, weal-
thy, and honest man of letters, whom naught save the vio-
lence of the times could have roused from its tranquil home,
or his studious closet, passed to the chains. He looked
long and hard at the picture, which was bright with new,
and yet moist colors, and exhibited somewhat of that reviv-
ing art which, though hard and harsh in its features, was
about that time visible, and, carried to a far higher degree,
we yet gaze upon in the paintings of Perugino, who flour-
ished during the succeeding generation. The people pressed
round the learned man with open mouths, - now turning
their eyes to the picture, now to Pandulfo.
"Know you not," at length said Pandulfo, "the casy
and palpable meaning of this design? Behold how the
painter has presented to you a vast and stormy sea, — mark
how its waves-
shouted the impatient
'
""
Speak louder, louder !"
crowd.
The
"Hush!” cried those in the immediate vicinity of Pan-
dulfo; "the worthy signor is perfectly audible."
Meanwhile, some of the more witty, pushing towards a
stall in the market-place, bore from it a rough table, from
which they besought Pandulfo to address the people.
pale citizen, with some pain and shame, for he was no
practised spokesman, was obliged to assent; but when he
cast his eyes over the vast and breathless crowd, his own
deep sympathy with their cause inspired and emboldened
him. A light broke from his eyes; his voice swelled into
power; and his head, usually buried on his breast, became
erect and commanding in its air.
J
"You see before you, in the picture," he began again,
"a mighty and tempestuous sea; upon its waves you behold
five ships; four of them are already wrecks,
their masts
are broken, the waves are dashing through the rent
planks, they are past all aid and hope: on each of these
ships lies the corpse of a woman. See you not, in the wan
face and livid limbs, how faithfully the immer hath painted
the hues and loathsomeness of death? Below each of
these ships is a word that applies the nutaphor to truth.
Yonder, you see the name of Carthage; the other three are
Troy, Jerusalem, and Babylon. To these four is one com-
mon inscription. "To exhaustion were we brought by
injustice! Turn now your eyes to the middle of the sea;
there you behold the fifth ship, tossed amid the waves, her
mast broken, her rudder gone, her sails shivered, but not
yet a wreck like the rest, though she soon may be. On
her deck kneels a female, clothed in mourning; mark the
woe upon her countenance, how cunningly the artist has
conveyed its depth and desolation! she stretches out her
arms in prayer, she implores your and heaven's assist-
ance. Mark now the superscription, This is Rome !
Yes, it is your country that addresses you in this emblem 1 ”
,
<
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TR. BUNES
217
The crowd waved to and fro, and a deep murmur crept
gathering over the mighty silence which they had hitherto
kept.
"Now," continued Pandulfo, "turn your gaze to the
right of the picture, and you will behold the cause of the
tempest, you will see why the fifth ship is thus periled,
and her sisters are thus wrecked. Mark, four different
Mark, four different
kinds of animals, who, from their horrid jaws, send forth
the winds and storms which torture and rack the sea. The
first are the lions, the wolves, the bears. These, the in-
scription tells you, are the lawless and savage signors of
the state. The next are the dogs and swine; these are the
evil counsellors and parasites. Thirdly, you behold the
dragons and the foxes, and these are false judges and nota-
ries, and they who sell justice. Fourthly, in the hares, the
goats, the apes, that assist in creating the storm, you per-
ceive, by the inscription, the emblems of the popular thieves
and homicides, adulterers and spoliators. Are ye bewil-
dered still, oh Romans! or have ye mastered the riddle of
the picture?"
Far in their massive palaces the Savelli and Orsini
heard the echo of the shouts that answered the question of
Pandulfo.
"Are ye then, without hope?" resumed the scholar, as
the shout ceased, and hushing, with the first sound of his
voice, the ejaculations and speeches which each man had
turned to utter to his neighbour. "Are ye without hope?
without hope?
Doth the picture, which shows your tribulation, promise
you no redemption? Behold, above that angry sea, the
heavens open, and the majesty of God descends gloriously,
as to judgment; and from the rays that surround the Spirit
of God, extend two flaming swords, and on those swords
stand, in wrath, but in deliverance, the two patron saints,
the two nighty guardians of your city! People of Rome,
farewell! the parable is finished.”*
CHAPTER X.
A rough spirit raised, which may hereafter rend the wizard.
"Oh, by St. Peter! yes," returned the citizen, whose
spirits were elevated by his recent discovery that he to
was an orator, -a great and luxurious pleasure for a shy
man. "They swallowed every word of the interpretation;
they are moved to the very marrow; you might lead them
this very hour to battle, and find them heroes. As for the
sturdy smith,
>>
"What, Cecco del Vecchio ? interrupted Rienzi; "ah!
his heart is wrought in bronze what did he ?
CC
>
C
Why, he caught me by the hem of my robe as I de-
scended my rostrum, (oh! would you could have seen me !
Per fede, I had caught your mantle! I was a second you!)
and said, weeping like a child, Ah, signor, I am but a
poor man, and of little worth, but if every drop of blood in
this body was a life, I would give it for my country!""
"Brave soul!" said Rienzi, with emotion ;
"would
Rome had but fifty such! No man hath done us more good
among his own class than Cecco del Vecchio."
:
They feel a protection in his very size," said Pandulfo.
"It is something to hear such big words from such a big
fellow. Were there any voices lifted in disapprobation of
the picture and its sentiment! "
"None."
"The time is nearly ripe, then; a few hours more, and
the fruit must be gathered. The Aventine, the Lateran,
and then the solitary trumpet!" Thus saying, Rienzi, with
folded arms and downcast eyes, seemed sunk into a reverie.
"By the way," said Pandulfo, "I had almost forgot to
tell thee, that the crowd would have poured themselves
hither, so impatient were they to see thee; but I bade Cecco
del Vecchio mount the rostrum, and tell them, in his blunt
way, that it would be unseemly at the present time, when
thou wert engaged in the capitol in civil and holy affairs, to
rush in so great a body into thy presence. Did I not right?"
"Most right, my Pandulfo.
"But Cecco del Vecchio says he must come and kiss thy
hand; and thou mayst expect him here the moment he can
escape unobserved from the crowd."
as one of the scribes an-
"He is welcome!" said Rienzi, half mechanically, for
he was still absorbed in thought.
"And, lo! here he is,
nounced the visit of the smith.
"Let him be admitted!" said Rienzi, seating himse
composedly
WHILE thus animated was the scene around the capitol
within one of the apartments of the palace sat the agent and
prime cause of that excitement. In the company of his
quiet scribes, Rienzi appeared absorbed in the patient de-
When the huge smith found himself in the presence of
tails of his avocation. While the murmur and the hum, Rienzi, it amused Pandulfo to perceive the wonderful
the shout and the tramp of multitudes rolled to his cham-influences of mind over matter. That fierce and sturdy
ber, he seemed not to heed them, nor to rouse himself a
moment from his task. With the unbroken regularity of
an automaton, he continued to enter in his large book, and
with the clear and beautiful characters of the period, those
damning figures which taught him, better than declama-
tions, the frauds practised on the people, and armed him
with that weapon of plain fact which it is so difficult for
abuse to parry.
Page 2, vol. B.," said he, in the tranquil voice of
business, to the clerks; "see there the profits of the salt
duty. Department No. 3, very well. Page 9, vol. D.
what is the account rendered by Vescobaldi, the collec-
tor? What! twelve thousand florins? no more? Uncon-
scionable rasca!!" (Here was a loud shout without, of
"Pandulfo! long live Pandulfo !") "Pastrucci, my friend,
your head wanders; you are listening to the noise without;
please to amuse yourself with the calculation I intrusted to
you. Santi, what is the entry given in by Antonio Tralli?"
CC
you
A slight tap was heard at the door, and Pandulfo entered.
The clerks continued their labor, though they looked up
bastily at the pale and respectable visiter, whose name, to
their great astonishment, had thus become a popular cry.
Ah, my friend," said Rienzi, calmly enough in voice,
but his hands trembled with ill-suppressed emotion, "
would speak to me alone, eh? well, well, this way."
Thus saying, he led the citizen into a small cabinet in the
rear of the room of office, carefully shut the door, and then,
giving himself up to the natural impatience of his character,
seized Pandulfo by the hand: " Speak!" cried he; "do
they take the interpretation? Have you made it plain and
nalpable enough? Has it sunk deep into their souls?"
PR
* M. Sismondi attributes to Rienzi, a fine oration at the show-
ing of the picture, in which he thundered against the vices
of the patricians. The cotemporary biographer of Rienzi says
nothing of this harangue, and I imagine that, for historical con-
enience, Sismondi confounds two occasions.
28
VOL II
giant, who in all popular commotions towered above his
tribe, with thews of stone and nerves of ion, the rallying
point and bulwark of the rest, stood now coloring and
trembling before the intelleet, which (so had the eloquen
spirit of Rienzi waked and fanne! the spark which, til
then, had lain dormant in that rough bosom) might almost
be said to have created his own. And he, indeed, who first
arouses in the bondsman the sense and soul of freedom
comes as near as is permitted to man, nearer than the phi-
losopher, nearer even than the poet, to the great creative
attribute of God! But, if the breast be uneducated, the gift
may curse the giver, and he who passes at once from the
slave to the freeman, may pass as rapidly from the freeman
to the ruffian.
Approach, my friend," said Rienzi, after a moment's
pause; "I know all that thou hast done, and would do fa:
Rome! Thou art worthy of her best days, and thou art
born to share in their returu.
The smith dropped at the feet of Rienzi, who held out
bis hand to raise him, which Cerco del Vecchio seized, and
reverentially kissed.
“This kiss does not betray,” said Rienzi, smiling; “but
rise, my friend, this posture is only due to God and his
saints!"
"He is a saint who helps us at need!" said the smith,
bluntly: "and that no man has done as thou hast. But
when," he added, sinking his voice, and fixing his eyes
hard on Rienzi, as one may do who waits a signal to strike
a blow," when! when shall we make the great effort?"
"Thou hast spoken to all the brave men in thy neigh-
bourhood, - are they well prepared?"
"To live or die as Rienzi bids them!"
callings this night."
"I must have the list,
"Thou shalt.”
Magda
the number, naires, houses, and
"Each man must sign his name or mark with his own
band.”
218
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"It shall be done."
"Then, hark ye! attend Pandulfo di Guido at his house
this evening, at sunset. He shall instruct thee where to
meet this night some brave hearts; thou art worthy to be
ranked among them. Thou wilt not fail!
tr
By the holy stairs! I will count every minute till
then," said the smith, his swarthy face lighted with pride
at the confidence shown him.
"Meanwhile, watch all your neighbours; let no man flag
or grow faint-hearted,-none of thy friends must be branded
as a traitor!
وو
"I will cut his throat, were he my own mother's son, if
I find one pledged man flinch ?" said the fierce smith.
"Ha ha!" rejoined Rienzi, with that strange laugh
which belonged to him; a miracle! a miracle! The
picture speaks now!"
It was already nearly dusk when Rienzi left the capitol.
The broad space before its walls was empty and deserted,
and wrapping his mantle closely round him, he walked
musingly on.
"I have almost climbed the height," thought he, "and
now the abyss yawns before me. If I fail, what a fall!
The last hope of my country fails with me. Never will a
noble rise against the nobles. Never will another plebeian
have the opportunities and the power that I have! Rome
is bound up with me, with a single life. The liberties
of all time are fixed to a reed that a wind may uproot.
But, oh, Providence! hast thou not reserved and marked
me for great deeds? How, step by step, have I been led
on to this solemn enterprise! How has each hour prepared
its successor! And yet what danger! if the inconstant
people, made cowardly by long thraldom, do but waver in
the crisis, I am swept away
!
As he spoke, he raised his eyes, and lo, before him, the
first star of twilight shone calmly down upon the crumbling
remnants of the Tarpeian rock. It was no favoring omen,
aud Rienzi's heart beat quicker as that dark and ruined
mass frowned thus suddenly on his gaze.
"Dread moment," thought he, "of what catastrophes
and to unknown schemes hast thou been the witness! To
how many enterprises, on which history is dumb, hast thou
set the seal! How know we whether they were criminal or
just? How know we whether he, thus doomed as a traitor,
would not, had he been successful, have been immortalized
as a deliverer? If I fall, who will write my chronicle?
one of the people? Alas! blinded and ignorant, they fur-
nish forth no minds that can appeal to posterity. One of
the patricians? in what colors then shall I be painted!
No tomb will rise for me amid the wrecks,
no hands
scatter flowers upon my grave, all my visions of past
Lonor and fame will reap but the damnation of eternal
bloquy!"
Thus meditating on the verge of that mighty enterprise
to which he had bound himself, Rienzi pursued his way.
He gained the Tiber, and paused for a few moments beside
its legendary stream, over which the purple and star-lit
heaven shone deeply down. He crossed the bridge which
leads to the quarter of the Traskval, whose haughty inhabi-
tants yet boast themselves the sole and true descendants of
the ancient Romans. Here his steps grew quicker and
more light; brighter, if less solemn, thoughts crowded
upon his breast; and ambition, lulled for a moment, left
his strained and over-labored mind to the reign of a softer
passion.
CHAPTER XI.
Nina di Raselli
"I TELL you, Lucia, I do not love those stuffs; they
do not become me. Saw you ever so poor a die? this
purple, indeed!—that crimson! Why did you let the man
leave them? - let him take them elsewhere to-morrow.
They may suit the signoras on the other side of the Tiber,
who imagine every thing Venetian must be perfect; but I,
Lucia, I see with my own eyes, and judge from my own
mind.'
"Ah, dear lady," said the serving maid, "if you were,
as you doubtless will be, some time or other, a grand signora,
how worthily you would wear the honors! Santa Cecilia!
vo other dame in Rome would be looked on while the
Lady Nina were by."
"Would we not teach them what pomp was?" answere
Nina. "Oh! what festivals would we hold? Saw you
not from the gallery the revels given last week by the Lady
Giulia Savelli ?"
CC
Ay, signora; and when you walked up the hall in
your silver and pearl tissue, there ran such a murmur
through the gallery: every one cried, the Savelli have
entertained an angel!"
"Pish! Lucia; no flattery, girl."
"It is naked truth, lady. But that was a revel, was it
not? There was grandeur ! fifty servitors in scarlet and
gold! and the music playing all the while. The minstrels
were sent for from Bergarmo. Did not that festival please
you? Ah, I warrant many were the fine speeches made to
you that day!"
••
Heigh ho! —No, there was one voice wanting, and all
the music was marred. But, girl, were I the Lady Giulia,
I would not have been contented with so poor a revel."
How, poor!- Why, all the nobles say it outdid the
proudest marriage feast of the Colonna. Nay, a Neapolitan
who sat next me, and who had served under the young
Queen Jane, at her marriage, says, that even Naples was
outshone."
"That may be. I know naught of Naples; but I know
what my court should have been, were I what, what I am
not, and may never be! The banquet vessels should have
been of gold, the cups jewelled to the brim, not an inch of
the rude pavement should have been visible, all should
have glowed with the cloth of gold. The fountain in the
court should have showered up the perfumes of the East, —
my pages should not have been rough youths, blushing at
their own uncouthness, but fair boys, who had not told their
twelfth year, culled from the daintiest palaces of Rome;
and, as for music, oh, Lucia ! each musician should have
worn a chaplet, and deserved it; and he who played best
should have had a reward, to inspire all the rest, a rose
from me.
Saw you, too, the Lady Giulia's robe? What
colors! they might have put out the sun at noonday! yel-
low, and blue, and orange, and scarlet! Oh! sweet saints!
but my eyes ached all the next day!"
Doubtless, the Lady Giulia lacks your skill in the
mixture of colors," said the complaisant waiting woman.
"And then, too, what a mein; no royalty in it! She
moved along the hall, so that her train wellnigh tripped
her every moment; and then she said, with a foolish laugh,
These holyday robes are but troublesome luxuries.' Troth,
for the great there should be holyday robes; 't is for my
self, not for others, that I would attire! Every day should
have its new robe, more gorgeous than the last; every day
should be a holyday!
•
Methought," said Lucia, "that the Lord Giovanni
Orsini seemed very devoted to my lady."
"He! the bear!
"Bear, he may be ! but he has a costly skin. His riches
are untold."
"And the fool knows not how to spend thein.”
"Was not that the young Lord Adrian who spoke to you
just by the columns, where the music played ?"
"It might be; I forget."
CC
Yet, I hear that few ladies forget when Lord Adrian di
Castello woos them."
"There was but one ar whose company seemed to me
worth the recollection," answered Nina, unheeding the in
sinuation of the artful handmaid.
And who was he?" asked Lucia.
"The old scholar from Avignon ! "
"What! he with the gray beard? Oh, signora ! "
CC
Yes," said Nina, with a grave and sad voice; “when
he spoke, the whole scene vanished from my eyes, for he
spoke to me of HIM!"
As she said this, the signora sighed deeply, and the tears
gathered to her eyes.
The waiting woman raised her lip in disdain, and her
looks in wonder; but she did not dare to venture a reply.
"Open the lattice," said Nina, after a pause,
" and give
me you paper. Not that, girl; but the verses sent me yes
terday. What! art thou Italian, and dost thou not know,
by instinct, that I spoke of the rhyme of Petrarch.”
Seated by the open casement, through which the moon-
light stole soft and sheen, with one lamp beside her, from
which she seemed to shade her eyes, though in real ty she
sought to hide her countenance from Lucia, the young
signora appeared absorbed in one of those tender sonnets
RIENZI, THE LAST
219
OF THE TRIBUNES.
which then turned the brains and inflamed the hearts of
Italy.
***
Born of an impoverished house, which, though boasting
its descent from a consular race of Rome, scarcely at that
day maintained a rank among the inferior order of nobility,
Nina di Raselli was the spoiled child, the idol and the
tyrant, of her parents. The energetic and self-willed
cha icter of her mind made her rule where she should have
obeyed; and as in all ages dispositions can conquer custom,
she had, though in a clime and land where the young and
unmarried of her sex are usually chained and fettered, as-
suined, and, by assuming, won the prerogative of indepen-
dence. She had, it is true, more learning and more genius
than generally fell to the share of women in that day, and
enough of both to be deemed a miracle by her parents.
She had, also, what they valued more, a surpassing beauty,
and, what they feared more, an indomitable haughtiness,
a haughtiness mixed with a thousand soft and endearing
qualities where she loved, and which, indeed, where she
loved, seemed to vanish. At once vain, yet high-minded,
resolute, yet impassioned, there was a gorgeous mag-
nificence in her very vanity and splendor, an ideality in her
waywardness: her defects made a part of her brilliancy;
without them she would have seemed less woman, and,
knowing her, you would have compared all women by her
standard. Softer qualities beside her seemed not more
charming, but more insipid. She had no vulgar ambition,
for she had obstinately refused many alliances which the
daughter of Raselli could scarcely have hoped to form.
The untutored minds and savage power of the Roman no-
bles seemed to her imagination, which was full of the poetry
of rank, (its luxury and its graces,) as something barbarous
and revolting, at once to be dreaded and despised. She
had, therefore, passed her twentieth year unmarried, but
aot, perhaps, without love. The faults, themselves, of her
character, elevated that ideal of love which she had formed.
She required some being round whom all her vainer quali-
ties could rally; she felt that where she loved she must
udore; she demanded no common idol before which to
humble so strong and imperious a mind. Unlike women
of a gentler mould, who desire for a short period to exer-
cise the caprices of sweet empire, when she loved she must
cease to command, and pride, at once, be humbled to de-
votion. So rare were the qualities that could attract her,
-so imperiously did her haughtiness require that those
qualities should be above her own, yet of the same order,
that her love elevated its object like a god. Accustomed to
despise, she felt all the luxury it is to venerate! And if it
were her lot to be united with one thus loved, her nature
was that which might become elevated by that it gazed on.
For her beauty, reader, shouldst thou ever go to Rome,
thou wilt see in the capitol the picture of the Cumæan si-
byl, which, often copied, no copy can even faintly repre-
sent; why this is so called I know not, save that it has
something strange and unearthly in the dark beauty of the
eyes. I beseech thee, mistake not this sibyl for another,
for the Roman galleries abound in sibyls. † The siby! I
speak of is dark, and the face has an eastern cast; the robe
and turban, gorgeous though they be, grow dim before the
rich but transparent roses of the cheek; the hair would be
black, save for that golden glow which mellows it to a hue
and lustre never seen but in the South, and even in the South
most rare; the features, not Grecian, are yet faultless; the
mouth, the brow, the ripe and exquisite contour, all are
human and voluptuous; the expression, the aspect, is some-
thing more; the form is perhaps too full for the ideal of love-
liness, for the proportions of sculpture, for the delicacy of
Athenian models; but the luxuriant fault has a najesty.
Gaze long upon that picture: it charms, yet commands the
eye. While you gaze, you call back five centuries. You
see before you the breathing image of Nina di Raselli.
But it was not those ingenious and elaborate conceits in
which Petrarch, great poet though he be, has so often mis-
* Although it is true that the love sonnets of Petrarch were
not then, as now, the most esteemed of his works, yet it has
been a great, though a common error, to represent them as lit-
tle known, and coldly admired. Their effect was, in reality,
prodigious and universal. Every ballad-singer sung them in the
streets, and says Filippo Villani) "Gravissimi nesciebant absti-
nere."--"Even the gravest could not abstain from them."
'
The sibyl referred to is the well-known one by Domenichi-
no. As a mere work of art, that by Guercino, called the Persian
sibyl, in the same collection, is perhaps superior; but in beauty,
in character there is no comparison.
Į
¦
!
F
taken pedantry for passion, that absorbed at that moment
the attention of the beautiful Nina. Her eyes rested not on
the page, but on the garden that stretched below the case-
inent. Over the old fruit trees and hanging vines fell the
moonlight; and in the centre of the green, but half-neglect-
ed sward, a small and circular fountain, whose perfect pro-
portions spoke of days long past, cast up its playful waters
to the kisses of the stars. The scene was still and beauti-
ful;-but neither of its stillness nor its beauty thought Nina :
towards one spot, the gloomiest and most rugged in the
whole garden, she turned her gaze; there the trees stood
densely massed together, and shut from view the low but
heavy wall which encircled the mansion of Raselli. The
boughs on those trees stirred gently, but Nina saw them
wave; and now from the copse emerged, slow and cau-
tiously, a solitary figure, whose shadow threw itself, long
and dark, over the sward. It approached the window, and
a low voice breathed Nina's name.
"Quick! Lucia," cried she, breathlessly, turning to
her handmaid;
her handmaid; "quick! the rope ladder! it is be! he is
come! How slow you are! haste, girl, he may be dis
covered! there,
covered! there, it is attached now. My love! my
hero! my Rienzi!
-
"It is you!" said Rienzi, as, now entering the cham-
ber, he wound his arms around her half-averted form;
"and what is night to others is day to me!"
The first sweet moments of welcome, of gratulation,
were over; and Rienzi was seated at the feet of his mis-
tress; his head rested on her knees, his face looking up
to hers, their hands clasped each in each.
"And for me thou bravest these dangers!" said the
lover; "the shame of discovery,
"the shame of discovery, the wrath of thy pa-
rents!"
"But what are my perils to thine? Oh, heaven! if my
father found thee here thou wouldst die !"
"He would think it then so great a humiliation, that
thou, beautiful Nina, who mightst match with the haugh-
tiest names of Rome, should waste thy love on a plebeian,
even though the grandson of an emperor !"
The proud heart of Nina could sympathize well with the
wounded pride of her lover she detected the soreness
which lurked beneath his answer, carelessly as it was ut-
tered.
"of
"Hast thou not told me," she said, " of that great
Marius, who was no noble, but from whom the loftiest Co-
lonna would rejoice to claim his descent? and do I not
know in thee one who shall yet eclipse the power of Ma-
rius, unsullied by his vices ! "
"Delicious flattery! sweet prophet!" said Rienzi,
with a melancholy smile; never were thy supporting
promises of the future more welcome to me than now; for to
thee I will say what I would utter to none else,
my soul
half sinks beneath the mighty burden I have heaped upon
it. I want new courage as the dread hour approaches;
and from thy words and looks I drink it."
ઃઃ
"Oh!" answered Nina, blushing as she spoke, "glori-
ous is indeed the lot which I have bought by my love for
thee: glorious to share thy schemes, to cheer thee in
doubt, to whisper hope to thee in danger.'
"And give grace to me in triumph!" added Rienzi,
passionately.
Ah! should the future ever place upon
these brows the laurel wreath due to one who has saved his
country, what joy, what recompense, to lay it at thy feet!
Perhaps, in those long and solitary hours of coolness and
exhaustion which fill up the interstices of time, the dull
space for sober thought between the epochs of exciting
action, perhaps I should have failed and flagged, and re-
nounced even my dreams for Rome, had they not been
linked with my dreams for thee ! bad I not pictured to
myself the hour when my fate had elevated me beyond my
birth, when thy sire would deem it no disgrace to give
thee to my arms,
when thou, too, shouldst stand amid
the dames of Rome, more honored, as more beautiful, than
all, and when I should see that pomp, which my own
soul disdains,* made dear and grateful to me, because as-
sociated with thee! Yes, it is these thoughts that have
inspired me when sterner ones have shrunk back appalled
Nina, sacred, strong, enduring must be, indeed, the love
from the spectres that surround their goal. And oh! my
*"Quem semper abhorrui sicut cenum" is the expression
used by Rienzi, in his letter to his friend at Avignon, and wh ch
was probably sincere. Men rarely act according to the bias of
| their own tastes.
220
BULWER'S NOVELS.
which lives in the same pure and elevated air as thatni, half hid by the dark foliage which sprang up amid the
which sustains my dreams of patriotism, of liberty, of
fame!"
~-
This was the language which, more even than the vows
of fidelity and the dear adulation which springs from the
heart's exuberance, had bowed the proud and vain soul of
Nina to the chains that it so willingly wore. Perhaps, -
deed, in the absence of Rienzi, her weaker nature picture,
.o herself the triumph of humbling the high-born signoras,
and eclipsing the barbarous magnificence of the chiefs of
Rome; but in his presence, and listening to his more ele-
vated and generous ambition, as yet all unsullied by one
private feeling, save the hope of her, a selfishness too
easily overlooked, her higher sympathies were enlisted
with his schemes, her mind aspired to raise itself to the
height of his, and she thought less of her own rise than of
his glory. It was sweet to her pride to be the sole confi-
dant of his most cret thoughts, as of his most hardy un-
dertakings, -to see bared before her that intricate and
plotting spirit, to be admitted even to the knowledge of
its doubts and weakness, as of heroism and power.
Nothing could be more contrasted than the loves of Ri-
enzi and Nina, and those of Adrian and Irene; in the lat-
ter, all were the dreams, the fantasies, the extravagance of
youth; they never talked of the future; they mingled no
other aspirations with those of love. Ambition, glory, the
world's high objects, were nothing to them when together;
their love had swallowed up the world, and left nothing
visible beneath the sun, save itself. But the passion of
Nina and her lover was that of more complicated natures
and more nature years; it was made up of a thousand
feelings, each naturally severed from each, but compelled
into one focus by the nighty concentration of love their
talk was of the world; it was from the world that they
drew the aliment which sustained it; it was of the future
they spoke and thought; of its dreams and imagined glo-
ries they made themselves a home and altar; their love
had in it more of the intellectual, than that of Adrian and
Irene; it was more fitted for this hard earth; it had in it,
also, more of the leaven of the latter and iron days, and
less of poetry and the first golden age.
"And must thou leave me now?" said Nina, her cheek
no more averted from his lips, nor her form from his part-
ing embrace. "The moon is high yet; it is but a little
hour thou hast given me."
"An hour! Alas!" said Rienzi; "it is near upon
midnight, our friends await me."
"Go, then, my soul's best half! Go; Nina shall not
detain thee one moment from those higher objects which
make thee so dear to Nina. When,- when shall we
meet again?"
"Not," said Rienzi, proudly, and with all his soul upon
his brow, "not thus, by stealth! no! nor as I thus
have met thee, the obscure and contemned bondsman !
When next thou seest me it shall be at the head of the
sons of Rome! her champion! her restorer! or" said
he, sinking his voice.
י,
"There is no or ! " interrupted Nina, weaving her arms
around him, and catching his enthusiasm; "thou hast
"thou hast
uttered thine own destiny!"
"One kiss more! farewell! The tenth day from the
morrow shines upon the restoration of Rome!"
CHAPTER XII.
The strange adventures that befell Walter de Montreal.
Ir was upon that same evening, and while the earlier
stars yet shone over the city, that Walter de Montreal,
returning alone to the convent then associated with the
church of Santa Maria del Priorata, (both of which
belonged to the knights of the hospital, and in the first of
which Montreal had taken his lodgement,) paused amid
the ruins and desolation which lay around his path.
Though little skilled in the classic memories and associa-
tions of the spot, he could not but be impressed with the
surrounding witnesses of departed empire, the vast skele-
ton, as it were, of the dead giantess.
"No," thought he, as he gazed around upon the roofless
columns and shattered walls, everywhere visible, over
which the starlight shone, ghastly and transparent, backed
y the frowning and embattled fortresses of the Frangipa-
very fanes and palaces of old, Nature exulting over
the frailer art, now," thought he, "bookmen would
he inspired by this scene, with fantastic and dreaming
visions of the past. But to me these monuments of high
ambition and royal splendor create only images of the
future. Rome may yet be, with her seven-hilled diadem,
as Rome has been before, the prize of the strongest hand
and the boldest warrior, -revived, not by her own degen-
erate sons, but the infused blood of a new race. William
the Bastard could scarce have found the hardy Englishers
as easy a conquest as Walter the Well-born may find these
sunken Romans. And which conquest were the more
glorious, the barbarous isle, or the metropolis of the
world? Short step from the general to the podesta, -
shorter step from the podesta to the king!
While thus revolving his wild, yet not altogether chi-
merical ambition, a quick, light step was heard amid the
long herbage, and looking up, Montreal perceived the
figure of a tall female, descending, from that part of the
hill then covered by many convents, towards the base cf the
Aventine. She supported her steps with a long staff, and
moved with such elasticity and erectness, that now, as
her face became visible by the starlight, it was surpris-
ing to perceive that it was the face of one advanced in
years, a harsh, proud countenance, withered, and deeply
wrinkled, but not without a certain regularity of out-
line.
"Merciful Virgin!" cried Montreal, starting back as
that face gleamed upon him; " is it possible! Is it she!
it is-"
He sprung forward, and stood right before the old
woman, who seemed equally surprised, though more dis-
mayed, at the sight of Montreal.
σε
"I have sought thee for years," said the knight, first
breaking the silence, "
breaking the silence, "years, long years,
years, long years, thy conscience
can tell thee why."
"Mine, man of blood!" cried the female, trembling
with rage or fear; "darest thou talk of conscience? Thou,
the dishonorer, the robber, the professed homicide!
Thou, disgrace to knighthood and to birth! Thou, with
the cross of chastity and of peace upon thy breast! Thou
talk of conscience, hypocrite! thou?"
CC
Lady, lady!" said Montreal, deprecatingly, and
almost quailing beneath the fiery passion of that feeble
woman, "I have sinned against thee and thine. But
remember all my excuses! early love, fatal obstacles,-
rash vow,
irresistible temptation! Perhaps," he added,
in a more haughty tone, perhaps, yet, I may have the
power to atone my error, and wring, with mailed hand,
from the successor of St. Peter, who hath power to loose
as to bind "
a
"Perjured and abandoned!" interrupted the female;
"dost thou dream that violence can purchase absolution,
or that thou canst ever atone the past? A noble name
undone, a father's broken heart and dying curse! Yes,
that curse,
I hear it now! it rings upon me thrillingly, as
when I watched the expiring clay! it cleaves to thee, - it
pursues thee, it shall pierce thee through thy corslet,
it shall smite thee in the meridian of thy power! Genius
wasted, ambition blasted, penitence deferred,
life of brawls, and a death of shame, thy destruction the
offspring of thy crime? To this,-
To this, to this, an old man's
curse hath doomed thee! AND THOU ART DOOMED!
These words, rather shrieked than spoken, the flash-
ing eye,
the lifted hand, the dilated form of the speaker,
-the bour, the solitude of the runs around,
- all con-
spired to give to that fearful execration the character of
prophecy. The warrior, against whose undaunted breast
a hundred spears had shivered in vain, fell appalled and
humble to the ground. He seized the hem of his fierce
denouncer's robe, and cried, in a choked and hollow voice,
"Spare me ! spare me !"
Spare thee!" said the unrelenting crone; "hast thou
ever spared man in thy hatred, or woman in thy lust? Ah,
grovel in the dust! crouch, crouch! wild beast as thou
art! whose sleek skin and beautiful hues have taught the
unwary to be blind to the talons that rend, and the grinders
that devour; crouch, that the foot of the old and impotent
may spurn thee!"
Hag! " cried Montreal, in the reaction of sudden fury
and maddening pride, springing up to the full height of his
stature, hag! thou hast passed the limits to which,
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
221
remembering who thou art, my forbearance gave thee
license. I had wellnigh forgotten that thou hadst assumed
my part, — I am the accuser!
the boy!
shrink not! equivocate not !
equivocate not! - lie not! - thou wert the
thief!"
"I was.
—
Woman!
Thou taughtest me the lesson how to steal a
"Render, restore him!" interrupted Montreal, stamp-
ng on the ground with such force that the marble frag-
ments on which he stood shivered into splinters under his
armed heel.
The woman little heeded a violence at which the fiercest
warrior of Italy might have trembled; but she did not
nake an immediate answer. The character of her coun-
enan altered from passion into an expression of grave,
intent, and melancholy thought. At length she replied to
Montreal, whose hand had wandered to his dagger lilt,
with the instinct of long habit, whenever enraged or
hwarted, rather than from any design of blood; which,
stern and vindictive as he was, he would have been inca-
pable of forming against any woman, much less against
the one then before him.
"Walter de Montreal," said she, in a voice so calm that
it almost sounded like that of compassion, "the boy, I
think, has never known brother or sister, the only child
of a once haughty and lordly race, on both sides, though
now on both dishonored, nay, why so impatient? thou
wilt soon learn the worst, the boy is dead!”
"Dead!" repeated Montreal, recoiling and growing
"dead! no, no, say not that ! He has a mother, you
pale,
know he has a fond, meek-hearted, anxious, hoping moth-
er! No, no, he is not dead! "
Thou canst feel, then, for a mother?" said the old
woman, seemingly touched by the tone of the Provençal.
"Yet, bethink thee, is it not better that the grave should
save him from a life of riot, of bloodshed, and of crime?
Better to sleep with God than to wake with fiends!
"Dead!" echoed Montreal, "dead! the pretty one, —
so young
! those eyes,
the mother's eyes,- closed so
soon !
"Hast thou aught else to say? Thy sight scares my
very womanhood from my soul! Let me begone."
Dead! May I believe thee, or dost thou mock me?
Thou hast uttered thy curse, hearken to my warning: if
thou hast lied in this, thy last hour shall dismay thee, and
thy death-bed shall be the death-bed of despair!'
"Thy lips," replied the female, with a scornful smile,
are better adapted for lewd vows to unhappy maidens,
than to the denunciations which sound solemn only when
coming from the good. Farewell!
Stay! inexorable woman! stay! Where sleeps he?
Masses shall be sung! priests shall pray! the sins of the
father shall not be visited on that young head!"
"At Florence," returned the woman, hastily; "but no
stone records the departed one,— the boy had no name!"
Waiting for no further questionings, the woman now
passed on, pursued her way; and the long herbage and the
winding descent soon snatched her ill-omened apparition
from the desolate landscape.
whose colorings no portrait of chivalry is complete, and
in which he was capable of a sentiment, a tenderness, and
a loyal devotion, which could hardly have been supposed
compatible with his reckless levity and his undisciplined
career.
restless
Well," said he, as he rose slowly, folded his mant.e
"it was not for myself I
around him and resumed his way,
grieved thus. But the pang is past, and the worst is known.
Now, then, back to those things that never die,
projects and daring schemes. That hag's curse keeps my
blood cold still, and this solitude has something in it weird
and awful. Ha! what sudden light is that?
The light which caught Montreal's eye broke forth almost
like a star, scarcely larger, indeed, but more red and in-
Of itself it was nothing uncommon, and
tense in its ray.
in-
But it
might have broken either from convent or cottage.
streamed from a part of the Aventine which contained no
habitation of the living, but only the empty ruins and shat-
tered porticoes of which even the names and memories of
the ancient inhabitants were dead. Aware of this, Mon-
treal felt a slight awe, as the beam threw its steady light
over the dreary landscape, for he was not without the
knightly superstitions of the age, and it was now the witch-
ing hour consecrated to ghost and spirit. But fear, whether
of this world or the next, could not long daunt the mind of
the hardy freebooter; and after a short hesitation be re-
solved to make a digression from his way, and ascertain
the cause of the phenomenon. Unconsciously the martial
tread of the barbarian passed over the site of the famed,
or infamous temple of Isis, which had once witnessed
those wildest orgies commemorated by Juvenal, and came
at last to a thick and dark copse, from an opening in the
centre of which gleamed the mysterious light. Penetrating
the gloomy foliage, the knight now found himself before a
large ruin, gray and roofless, from within which came,
distinct and muffled, the sound of voices. Through a rent
in the wall, forming a kind of casement, (probably unknown
to the building in its ancient glory,) and about ten feet from
the ground, the light now broke over the matted and rank
soil, imbedded as it were in vast masses of shade, and
streaming through a broken portico hard at hand. The
Provençal stood, though he knew it not, on the very place
once consecrated by the temple, the portico and the li-
brary of liberty (the first public library instituted in Rome.)
The wall of the ruin was covered with innumerable creep-
ers and wild brushwood, and it required but little agility on
the part of Montreal, by the help of these, to raise himself
to the height of the aperture, and, concealed by the luxu-
riant foliage, to gaze within. He saw a table, lighted with
tapers, in the centre of which was a crucifix, a dagger un-
sheathed, an open scroll, which the event proved to be of
sacred character, and a brazen bowl. About a hundred
men, in cloaks and with black vizards, stood motionless
around; and one, taller than the rest, without disguise or
mask, whose pale brow and stern features seemed by that
light yet paler and yet more stern, appeared to be conclud-
ing some address to his companions.
on
Yes," said he, " in the church of the Lateran I will
Montreal thus alone sunk with a deep and heavy sigh | make the last appeal to the people. Supported by the vicar
upon the ground, covered his face with his hands, and burst of the pope, myself an officer of the pontiff, it will be seen
into an agony of grief; his chest heaved, his whole frame that religion and liberty, the heroes and the martyrs, are
trembled, and he wept and sobbed aloud, with all the fear-united in one cause. After that time words are idle: ac-
ful vehemence of a man whose passions are strong and tion must begin. By this crucifix I pledge my faith,
fierce, but to whom the violence of grief alone is novel and this blade I devote my life to the regeneration of Rome!
unfamiliar.
And you, (then no need for mask or mantle ! when the sol
itary trump is heard, when the solitary horseman is seen,
you swear to rally around the standard of the republic, and
resist, with heart and hand, with life and soul, in defiance
of death and in hope of redemption, the arms of the
oppressor?"
He remained thus prostrate and unmanned for a consid-
erable time, growing slowly and gradually more calm as
tears relieved his emotion, and at length, rather indulging
a gloomy reverie than a passionate grief. The moon was
high and the hour late when he arose, and then few traces
of the past excitement remained upon his countenance; for
Walter de Montreal was not of that mould in which woe
can force a settlement, or to which any affliction can bring
the continued and habitual melancholy that darkens those
who feel more enduringly, though with emotions less stor-
my. His were the elements of the true Franc character,
though carried to excess: his sternest and his deepest qual-
ities were mingled with fickleness and levity; his profound
sagacity often frustrated by a whim; his towering ambition
deserted for some frivolous temptation; and his elastic,
sanguine, and high-spirited nature faithful only to the desire
of military glory, to the poetry of a dashing and stormy life,
and to the susceptibilities of that tender passion, withou,
"We swear! — we swear!" exclaimed every voice,-
and crowding towards cross and weapon the tapers were
obscured by the intervening throng, and Montreal could not
perceive the ceremony, nor hear the muttered formula of
the oath but he could guess that the rite then common to
conspiracies, and which required each conspirator to
shed some drops of his blood, in token that life itself was
devoted to the enterprise, had not been omitted, when,
the group again receding, the same figure as before had ad
dressed the meeting, holding on high the bowl with both
hands; while from the left arm, which was bared, the blood
weltered slowly, and trickled, drop by drop, upon the
ground, said, in a solemn voice and up-turned eyes, —
—
222
BULWER'S NOVELS.
• Araid the ruins of thy temple, oh liberty! we, Romans,
dedicate to thee this libation! We, befriended and inspired
by no unreal and fabled idols, but by the Lord of hosts, and
him who, descending to earth, appealed not to emperors and
to princes, but to the fisherman and the peasant, giving to
the lowly and the poor, the mission of revelation." Then,
turning suddenly to his companions, as his features, singu-
larly varying in their character and expression, brightened
from solemn awe into a martial and kindling enthusiasm,
he cried aloud, "Death to the tyranny! Life to the repub-
lic!" The effect of the transition was startling. Each
man, as by an involuntary and irresistible impulse, laid nis
hand upon his sword, as he echoed the sentiment; some,
indeed, drew forth their blades, as if for instant action.
"I have seen enow: they will break up anon,” said
Montreal to himself; " and I would rather face an army o
thousands, than even half a dozen enthusiasts, so inflamed,
and thus detected." And, with this thought, he dropped
on the ground, and glided away, as, once again, through
the still midnight air, broke upon his ear the muffled shout,
"DEATH ΤΟ THE TYRANNY!--LIFE TO THE
REPUBLIC!
BOOK II.
THE REVOLUTION.
Ogni lascivia, ogni male, nulla giustizia, ullo freno. Non c' era più remedio, ogni persona periva. Allora Cola di Rienzi, &c.—
Vit. di COLA DI RIENZI, lib. i., c. ii.
CHAPTER I.
The knight of Provence, and his proposal.
IT was nearly noon as Adrian entered the gates of the
palace of Stephen Colonna. The palaces of the nobles
were not as we see them now, receptacles for the immortal
canvass of Italian, and the imperishable sculpture of Gre-
cian art; but still to this day are retained the massive
walls, and barred windows, and spacious courts, in which
at that time they protected their rude retainers. High
High
above the gates rose a lofty and solid tower, whose height
commanded a wide view of the mutilated remains of Rome:
the gate itself was adorned and strengthened on either side
by columns of granite, whose Doric capitals betrayed the
sacrilege that had torn them from one of the many temples
that had formerly crowded the sacred forum. From the
same spoils came, too, the vast fragments of travertine
which made the walls of the outer court. So common at
that day were these barbarous appropriations of the most
precarious monuments of art, that the columns and domes
of earlier Roine were regarded by all classes but as quarries,
from which every man was free to gather the materials,
whether for his castle or his cottage, - a wantonness of
outrage far greater than the Goths', to whom a later age
would fain have attributed all the disgrace, and which, more,
perhaps, than even heavier offences, attracted the classical
indignation of Petrarch, and made hin sympathize with
Rienzi in his hopes of Rome. Still may you see the
churches of that, or even earlier dates, of the most shapeless
architecture, built on the site, and from the marbles, conse-
ating (rather than consecrated by) the names of Venus,
of Jupiter, of Minerva; the palace of the prince of the
Orsini, duke of Gravina, is yet reared above the graceful
arches (still visible) of the theatre of Marcellus,
fortress of the Savelli.
then a
As Adrian passed the court, a heavy wagon blocked up
the
way, laden with huge marbles, dug from the unexhausted
mine of the golden house of Nero: they were intended for
an additional tower, by which Stephen Colonna proposed
yet more to strengthen the tasteless and formless edifice in
which the old noble maintained the dignity of outraging the
wagon,
law.
The friend of Petrarch, and the pupil of Rienzi, sighed |
deeply as he passed this vehicle of new spoliations, and as
a pillar of fluted alabaster, rolling carelessly from the
fell with a loud crash upon the pavement. At the
foot of the stairs grouped some dozen of the bandits whom
the old Colonna entertained they were playing at dice,
upon an ancient tomb, the clear and deep inscription on
which (so different from the slovenly character of the latter
empire) bespoke it a memorial of the most powerful age
of Rome, and which, now empty even of ashes, and upset,
served for a table to these foreign savages, and was strewn,
ere at that early hour, with fragments of meat and flasks
of wine. They scarcely stirred,
they scarcely looked up,
as the young noble passed them; and their fierce oaths
and loud ejaculations, uttered in a northern patois, grated
harsh upon his ear, as he mounted, with a slow step, the
lofty and unclean stairs. He came into a vast antechamber,
which was half filled with the higher class of the patrician's
retainers: some five or six pages, chosen from the inferior
noblesse, congregated by a narrow and deep-sunk case-
ment, were discussing the grave matters of gallantry and
intrigue: three pretty chieftains of the band below, with
their corslets donned, and their swords and casques beside
them, were sitting, stolid and silent, at a table in the mid-
dle of the room, and might have been taken for automatons,
save for the solemn regularity with which they ever and
anon lifted to their mustached lips their several goblets, and
then, with a complacent grunt, resettled to their contem-
plations. Striking was the contrast which their northern
phlegm presented to a crowd of Italian clients, and petition-
ers, and parasites, who walked restlessly to and fro, talking
loudly to each other, with all the vehement gestures and
varying physiognomy of southern vivacity. There was a
general stir and sensation as Adrian broke upon this mis-
cellaneous company. The bandit captains nodded their
heads mechanically; the pages bowed, and admired the
fashion of his plume and hose; the clients, and petitioners,
and parasites crowded round him, each with a separate
request for interest with his potent kinsman. Great need
bad Adrian of his wonted urbanity and address, in extri
cating himself from their grasp; and painfully did he win,
at last, the low and narrow door, at which stood a tall
servitor, who admitted or rejected the applicants, accord-
ing to his interest or caprice.
"Is the baron alone?" asked Adrian.
r
Why, scarcely, my lord: a foreign signor is with him,
- but to you he is of course visible."
'
Well, you may admit me. I would inquire of his
health."
The servitor opened the door, through whose aperture
peered many a jealous and wistful eye, and consigned
Adrian to the guidance of a page, who, older and of great-
er esteem than the loiterers in the anteroom, was the es•
pecial henchman of the lord of the castle. Passing another
but empty chamber, vast and dreary, Adrian found himself
in a small cabinet, and in the presence of his kinsman.
Before a table, bearing the implements of writing, sat
the old Colonna: a robe of rich furs and velvet hung loose
upon his tall and stately frame; from a round skullcap, of
comforting warmth and crimson hue, a few gray locks de-
scended, and mixed with a long and reverend beard. The
countenance of the aged noble, who had long passed his
eightieth year, still retained the traces of a comeliness for
which in earlier manhood he was remarkable. His eyes.
if deep sunken, were still dark and lively, and sparkled
with all the fire of youth his mouth. rved upward in a
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
223
leasant, though half satiric smile; and his appearance on
the whole was prepossessing and commanding, indicating
rather the high blood, the shrewd wit, and the gallant val-
or of the patrician, than his craft, hypocrisy, and habitual
but disdainful spirit of oppression.
Stephen Colonna, without being absolutely a hero, was
indeed far braver than most of the Romans, though he held
ast to the Italian maxim,- never to fight an enemy while
t is possible to cheat him. Two faults, however, marred
the effect of his sagacity: a supreme insolence of disposi-
tion, and a profound belief in the lights of his experience.
He was incapable of analogy. What had never happened
in his time, he was perfectly persuaded never could happen.
Thus, though generally esteemed an able diplomatist, he
had the cunning of the intriguant, and not the providence
of a statesman. If, however, pride made him arrogant in
prosperity, it supported him in misfortune. And in the
earlier vicissitudes of a life which had partly been con-
sumed in exile, he had developed many noble qualities of
fertitude, endurance, and real greatness of soul, — which
showed that his failings were rather acquired by circum-
stance than derived from nature. His numerous and high-
born race were proud of their chief; and with justice, for
he was the ablest and most honored, not only of the direct
branch of the Colonna, but also, perhaps, of all the more
powerful barons.
Seated at the same table with Stephen Colonna, was a
man of noble presence, of about three or four-and-thirty
years of
age, in whom Adrian instantly recognised Walter
de Montreal. This celebrated knight was scarcely of the
personal appearance which might have corresponded with
the terror his name generally excited. His face was hand-
foine, almost to the extreme of womanish delicacy. His
fair hair waved long and freely over a white and unwrink-
ed forehead: the life of a camp and the suns of Italy had
but little imbrowned his clear and healthful complexion,
which retained much of the bloom of youth. His features
were aquiline and regular; his eyes of a light hazel, were
large, bright, and penetrating; and a short but curled beard
and mustache, trimmed with soldierlike precision, and
very little darker than the hair, gave indeed a martial ex-
pression to his comely countenance, but rather the ex-
pression which might have suited the hero of courts and
tournaments, than the chief of a brigand's camp. And
the aspect, manner, and bearing of the Provençal were
those which captivate rather than awe, - blending, as they
did, a certain military frankness with the easy and grace-
ful dignity of one conscious of gentle birth, and accustom-
ed to mix, on equal terms, with the great and noble. His
form happily contrasted and elevated the character of a
Countenance which required strength and stature to free its
ancommon beauty from the charge of effeminacy, being of
great height and remarkable muscular power, without the
east approach to clumsy and unwieldy bulk; it erred, in-
deed, rather to the side of leanness than flesh, at once
robust and slender. But the chief personal distinction of
this warrior, the most redoubted lance of Italy, was an air
and carriage of chivalric and heroic grace, almost approach
ing to the ideal, and greatly set off at this time by his
splendid dress, which was of brown velvet sown with
pearls, over which hung the surcoat worn by the knights
of the hospital, whereon was wrought, in white, the eight-
pointed cross which made the badge of his order. The
knight's attitude was that of earnest conversation, bending
slightly forward towards the Colonna, and resting both his
hands, which (according to the usual distinction of the
old Norman race,* from whom, though born in Provence,
Montreal boasted his descent) were small and delicate, the
fingers being covered with jewels, as was the fashion of the
day, upon the golden hilt of an enormous sword, on the
sheath of which was elaborately wrought the silver lilies,
that made the device of the Provençal Brotherhood of Je-
rusalem.
“Good-morrow, fair kinsman!" said Stephen. "Seat
thyself, I pray; and know in this knightly visiter the cele-
brated Sieur de Montreal."
* Small hands and feet, however disproportioned to the rest of
the person, were at that time deemed no less a distinction of
the well-born, than they have been in a more refined age. Many
readers will remember the pain occasioned to Petrarch by his
tight shoes. This peculiarity still characterizes the true Norman
preed, and the notion of its beauty is more derived from the
feudal han the classic time.
"Ah, my lord!" said Montreai, smiling, as he saluted
Adrian," and how is my lady, at home?"
Yon mistake, sir knight," quoth Stephen; " my young
kinsman is not yet married; 'faith, as Pope Boniface re-
marked, when he lay stretched on a sick-bed, and his con-、
fessor talked to him about Abraham's bosom, that is a
pleasure the greater for being deferred.'”
C
"The signor will pardon my mistake," returned Montreal
"But not," said Adrian," the neglect of Sir Walter in
not ascertaining the fact in person. My thanks to aim, nɔole
kinsman, are greater than you wot of, and he promised to
visit me that he might receive them at leisure."
"I assure you, signor," answered Montreal," that I have
not forgotten the invitation; but so weighty hitherto bave
been my affairs at Rome, that I have been obliged to par-
ley with my impatience to better our acquaintance."
"Oh,
, ye
knew each other before!" said Stephen. 'And
how?"
My lord, there is a damsel in the case!" replied Mon-
treal. "Excuse my silence."
"Ah, Adrian, Adrian! when will you learn my coati
nence!" said Stephen, solemnly, stroking his gray beard
"What an example I set you! But a truce to this light
conversation, let us resume our theme. You must know,
Adrian, that it is to the brave band of my guest I am in-
debted for those valiant gentlemen below, who keep Rome
so quiet, though my poor habitation so noisy. He has
called to proffer more assistance, if need be; and to advise
me on the affairs of northern Italy. Continue, I pray thee,
sir knight; I have no disguises from my kinsman."
"Thou seest," " said Montreal, fixing his penetrating eyes
on Adrian, "thou seest, doubtless, my lord, that Italy at
this moment presents to us a remarkable spectacle. It is a
contest between two opposing powers, which shall destroy
the other. The one power is that of the unruly and turbu-
lent people, -a power which they call liberty; the other
power is that of the chiefs and princes, -a power which
they more appropriately call 'order.' Between these par-
ties the cities of Italy are divided. In Florence, in Genoa,
in Pisa, for instance,
in Pisa, for instance, is established a free state, a repub.
lic, God wot! and a more riotous and unhappy state of
government cannot well be imagined."
-
That is perfectly true," quoth Stephen; "they ɔan-
ished my own first cousin from Genoa.”
>
"A perpetual strife, in short," continued Montrea
"between the great families; an alternation of prosecu-
tions, and confiscations, and banishments: to-day the
Guelfs proscribe the Ghibellines, -to-morrow the Ghibel-
lines drive out the Guelfs. This may be liberty, but it is
the liberty of the strong against the weak. In the other
cities, as Milan, as Verona, as Bologna, the people are
under the rule of one man, who calls himself a prince,
and whom his enemies call a tyrant. Having more force
than any other citizen, he preserves a firm government;
having more constant demand on his intellect and energies
than the other citizens, he also preserves a wise one.
These two orders of government are enlisted against each
other whenever the people in the one rebel against their
prince, the people of the other, that is, the free states,
send arms and money to their assistance."
"You hear, Adrian, how wicked those last are!"
Stephen.
quota
"Now it seems to me," continued Montreal, "that this
contest must end some time or other. All Italy must
become republican or monarchical It is easy to predict
which will be the result.'
Yes, liberty must conquer in the end!" said Adrian
warmly.
"Pardon me, young lord; my opinion is entirely the
reverse. You perceive that these republics are commer-
cial, traders; they esteem wealth, they despise valor,
they cultivate all trades except that of the armorer. Accord
ingly, how do they maintain themselves in war? By their
own citizens? Not a whit of it! Either they send to
some foreign chief, and promise, if he grant them his pro-
tection, the principality of the city for five or ten years in
like myself, as many troops as they can afford to pay for.
return; or else they borrow from some hardy adventurer,
Is it not so, Lord Adrian?"
Adrian nodded his reluctant assent.
"Well, then, it is the fault of the foreign chief if he
does not make his power permanent: as has been already
done in states once free by the Visconti and the Scala
224
BULWER'S NOVELS.
or else it is the faul of the captain of the mercenaries if
he do not convert his brigands into senators, and himself
into a king. These are events so natural, that one day or
other they will occur throughout all Italy. And all Italy
will then become monarchical. Now it seems to me the in-
terest of all the powerful families, your own at Rome,
as that of the Visconti at Milan, to expedite this epoch,
and to check, while you yet may with ease, that rebellious
contagion among the people which is now rapidly spread-
ing, and which ends in the fever of license to them, but in
the corruption of death to you. In these free states, the
In these free states, the
nobles are the first to suffer; first your privileges, then
your property are swept away. Nay, in Florence, as ye
well know, my lords, no noble is even capable of holding
the meanest office in the state!"
"Villains!" said Colonna, "they violate the first law
of nature!"
"At this moment," resumed Montreal, who, engrossed
with his subject, little heeded the interruptions he received
from the holy indignation of the baron, "at this moment
there are many,
the wisest, perhaps, in the free states,
who desire to renew the old Lombard leagues, in de-
fence of their common freedom everywhere, and against
whomsoever shall aspire to be prince. Fortunately, the
deadly jealousies between these merchant states,— the base
plebeian jealousies, more of trade than of glory, interpose
at present an irresistible obstacle to this design; and Flo-
rence, the most stirring and the most esteemed of all, is
happily so reduced by reverses of commerce as to be utter-
ly unable to follow out so great an undertaking. Now,
then, is the time for us, my lords, while these obstacles
are so great for our foes, now is the time for us to form
and cement a counter-league between all the princes of
Italy. To you, noble Stephen, I have come as your rank
demands, alone of all the barons of Rome, to propose
to you this honorable union. Observe what advantages it
proffers to your house. The
The popes have abandoned Rome
for ever; there is no counterpoise to your ambition, there
need be none to your power. You see before you the ex-
amples of Visconti and Taddeo di Pepoli. You may found
in Rome, the first city of Italy, a supreme and uncon-
trolled principality, subjugate utterly your weaker rivals, -
the Savelli, the Malatesta, the Orsini, and leave to your
sons' sons a hereditary kingdom that may aspire once
more, perhaps, to the empire of the world."
Stephen shaded his face with his hand as he answered,
"But this, noble Montreal, requires means, money,
and men.
my
Of the last, you can command from me enow,
small company, the best disciplined, can (whenever I please)
swell to the most numerous in Italy in the first, noble
baron, the rich house of Colonna cannot fail; and even a
mortgage on its vast estates may be well repaid when you
have possessed yourselves of the whole revenues of Rome.
You see," continued Montreal, turning to Adrian, in whose
youth he expected a more warm ally than in his hoary
kinsman, " you see, at a glance, how feasible is this pro-
ject, and what a mighty field it opens to your house.”
"Sir Walter de Montreal," said Adrian, rising from
his seat, and giving vent to the indignation he had with
difficulty suppressed, "I grieve much that, beneath the
roof of the first citizen of Rome, a stranger should excite,
thus calmly, and without interruption, an ambition to em-
ulate the guilty and execrated celebrity of a Visconti or a
Pepoli. Speak, my lord! (turning to Stephen,)-speak,
noble kinsman! and tell this knight of Provence, that if
by a Colonna the ancient grandeur of Rome cannot be re-
stored, it shall not be, at least, by a Colonna that her last
wrecks of liberty shall be swept away.'
How now, Adrian! - how now, sweet kinsman ! "
said Stephen, thus suddenly appealed to, "calm thyself,
I pr'ythee. Noble Sir Walter, he is young,
young and
hasty, he means not to offend thee."
“He
"Of that I am persuaded," returned Montreal, coldly,
but with a great and courteous command of temper.
speaks from the impulse of the moment, -a praiseworthy
fault in youth. It was mine at his age, and many a time
have I nearly lost my life for the rashness. Nay, signor,
touch not your sword so meaningly, as if you fan-
cied I intimated a threat; far from me such presumption.
I have learned sufficient caution, believe me, in the wars,
not wantonly to draw me against a blade which I have seen
wielded against such odds."
nay !
Touched, despite himself, by the courtesy of the knight,
and the allusion to a scene in which, perhaps, his life had
been preserved by Montreal, Adrian extended his hand to
the latter.
“I was to blame for my haste," said he, frankly, “but
know, by my very heat," he added, more gravely," that
your project will find no friends among the Colonna. Nay,
in the presence of my noble kinsman, I dare to tell you,
that could even his high sanction lend itself to such a
scheine, the best hearts of his house would desert him;
and I myself, his kinsman, would man yonder castle
against so unnatural an ambition!
A slight and scarce perceptible cloud passed over Mon-
treal's countenance at these words; and he bit his lip ere
he replied,—
"Yet, if the Orsini be less scrupulous, their first exer-
tion of power would be heard in the crashing house of the
Colonna."
Know you," returned Adrian, " that one of our mot-
toes is this haughty address to the Romans, 'If we fail,
ye fall also!' And better that fate than a rise upon the
wrecks of our native city."
Well, well, well!" said Montreal, reseating himself;
"I see that I must leave Rome to herself: the league must
thrive without her aid. I did but jest, touching the Orsini,
for they have not the power that would make their efforts
safe. Let us sweep, then, our past conference from our
recollection. It is the nineteenth, I think, Lord Colonna,
on which you propose to repair to Corneto, with your
friends and retainers, and on which you have invited my
attendance."
"It is on that day, sir knight," replied the baron, evi-
dently much relieved by the turn the conversation had
assumed. "The fact is, that we have been so charged
with indifference to the interests of the good people, that I
strain a point in this expedition to contradict the assertion;
and we propose, therefore, to escort and protect, against
the robbers on the road, a convoy of corn to Corneto. In
truth, I may add another reason, besides fear of the rob-
bers, that makes me desire as numerous a train as possible.
I wish to show my enemies, and the people generally, the
solid and growing power of my house; the display of such
an armed band as I hope to levy, will be a magnificent.
occasion to strike awe into the riotous and refractory.
Adrian, you will collect your servitors, I trust, on that
day; we would not be without you.
"And as we ride along, fair signor," said Montreal,
inclining to Adrian, "you and I will entirely heal the
wound I inadvertently occasioned you. Fortunately, there
is one point on which we can agree, our gallantry to the
sex. You must make me acquainted with the names of the
fairest dames of Rome; and we will discuss old adventures
in that line, and hope for new. By the way, I suppose,
Lord Adrian, you, with the rest of your countrymen, are
Petrarch-stricken?"
"Do you not share our enthusiasm? Slur not so your
gallantry, I pray you.'
"Come, we must not again disagree; but, by my
halidame, I think one troubadour roundel worth all that
Petrarch ever wrote. He has but borrowed from our
knightly poesy, to disguise it, like a carpet coxcomb.'
"Well," said Adrian, gayly, "for every line of the
troubadours that you quote, I will cite you another. I will
forgive you for injustice to Petrarch, if you are just to the
troubadours.”
"Just!” cried Montreal, with real enthusiasm, “I am
of the land, nay, the very blood, of the troubadour! But
we grow too light for your noble kinsman; and it is time
for me to bid you, for the present, farewell. My Lord
Colonna, -peace be with you; farewell, Sir Adrian, my
brother in knighthood, remember your challenge."
And with an easy and careless grace the Knight of St.
John took his leave. The old baron making a dumb sign of
excuse to Adrian, followed Montreal into the adjoining room.
"Sir knight!" said he, "sir knight ! as he closed
the door upon Adrian, and then drew Montreal to the re-
cess of the casement,
Think not
your ear.
a word in
I slight your offer, but these young men must be man-
aged; the plot is great, noble, grateful to my heart;
but it requires time and caution. I have many of my
house, scrupulous as yon hot-skull, to win over; the way is
pleasant, but must be sounded well and carefully; you
understand?
RIENZI, THE LAST
225
OF THE TRIBUNES.
From wider his best brows, Montreal darted one keen
glance at Stephe and then answered, —
66
My friendship for you dictated my offer. The league
may stand without the Colonna, beware a time when the
Colonna cannot stand without the league. My lord, look
well around you, there are more freemen, ay, bold and
stirring oues, too, in Rome, than you imagine. Beware
Rienzi! Adieu, we meet soon again.
Thus saying, Montreal departed, soliloquizing as he pass-
ed with his careless step through the crowded anteroom,
"I shall fail here! these caitiff nobles have neither the
courage to be great, nor the wisdom to be honest. Let
them fall! I may find an adventurer from the people,
an adventurer like myself,
CA
worth them all."
p
-
No somer had Stephen returned to Adrian than he flung
his arms affectionately round his ward, who was preparing
his pride for some sharp rebuke for his petulance.
Nobly feigned, admirable, admirable!" cried the
baron, you have learned the true art of a statesman
at the emperor's court. I always thought you would,
always said it. You saw the dilemma I was in, thus taken
by surprise by that barbarian's mad scheme; afraid to
refuse, -more afraid to accept. You extricated me with
consummate address; that passion, - so natural to your
age, - was a famous feint, drew off the attack,
me time to breathe, - allowed ine to play with the savage.
But we must not offend him, you know; all my retainers
would desert ine, or sell me to the Orsini, or cut my throat,
if he but held up his finger. Oh, it was admirably managed,
Adrian, admirably !”
gave
John of Lateran, to hear explained the inscription on a
table just discovered. It bears, he saith, the most intimate
connexion with the welfare and state of Rome."
'
men.
Very entertaining, I dare say, to professors and book-
Pardon me, kinsman; I forgot your taste for these
things; and my son, Gianni, too, shares your fantasy.
Well, well! it is innocent enough! Go, the man talks
well.'
""
"Will you not attend, too ?”
I, my dear boy, -
dear boy,-I!" said the old Colonna, opening
his eyes in such astonishment that Adrian could not help
laughing at the simplicity of his own question.
CHAPTER II.
The interview, and the doubt,
As Adrian turned from the palace of his guardian and
bent his way in the direction of the forum, he came some-
what unexpectedly upon Raimond, Bishop of Orvietto, who,
mounted upon a low palfrey, and accompanied by some
three or four of his waiting men, halted abruptly when he
recognised the young noble.
-
"Ah, my son! it is seldom that I see thee; how fares it
with thee?. well? So, so! I rejoice to hear it. Alas!
what a state of society is ours, when compared to the tran-
quil pleasures of Avignon! There, all men who, like us,
are fond of the same pursuits, the same studies, delicio
musarum, hum! hum! (for the bishop was proud of an
"Thank heaven," said Adrian, with some difficulty occasional quotation, right or wrong,) are brought easily
recovering the breath which his astonishment had taken and naturally together. But here we scarcely dare stir
away,
you do not think of embracing that black proposi-out of our houses, save upon great occasions. But, talking
tion.
CC
?
"Think of it! no, indeed!" said Stephen, throwing
himself back on his chair. Why, do you not know my
age, boy? Hard on my ninetieth year, I should be a fool
indeed to throw myself into such a whirl of turbulence and
agitation. I want to keep what I have, - not risk it by
grasping more. Am I not the beloved of the pope shall
I hazard his excommunication? Am I not the most pow-
erful of the nobles? should I be more if I were king At
my age, to talk to me of such stuff! the man 's an idiot.
Besides, added the old man, sinking his voice, and
looking fearfully round, "if I were a king, my sons might
poison me for the succession. They are good lads, Adrian,
very! but such a temptation! I would not throw it in
their way; these gray hairs have experience! Tyrants
don't die a natural death; no, no! Plague on the knight,
say I; he has already cast me into a cold sweat.
Adrian gazed on the working features of the old man,
whose selfishness thus preserved him from crime. He lis-
ened to his concluding words,
full of the dark truth of
the times,
and as the pure and high ambition of Rienzi
flashed upon him in contrast, he felt that he could not blame
its fervor, or marvel at its excess.
“And then, too," resumed the baron, speaking more
deliberately as he recovered his self-possession, "this man,
by way of a warning, shows me, at a glance, his whole
ignorance of the state. What think you? he has mingled
with the mob, and taken their rank breath for power; yes,
he thinks words are soldiers, and bade me, -me, Stephen |
Colonna beware, of whom, think you? No!
No! you win
never guess! of that speech-maker, Rienzi! my own old
jesting guest! Ha-ha-ha! the ignorance of these
barbarians! ha-ha ha!" and the old man laughed
till the tears ran down his cheeks.
Got my
whe
"Yet many of the nobles fear that Rienzi," said Adrian,
gravely.
CC
Ah! let them, 'et them! they have not our experience,
our knowledge of the world, Adrian. Tut, man, when
did declamation ever overthrow castles, and conquer sol-
diery! I like Rienzi to harangue the mob about old Rome,
ari such stuff; it gives them something to think of and
prite about, and so all their fierceness evaporates in words;
they might burn a house if they did not hear a speech.
But, now I am on that score, I must own the pedant has
grown impudent in his new office; here, here, Ireceived
this
paper ere I rose to-day. I hear a similar insolence
kas been shown to all the nobles. Read it, will you!
and the Colonna put a scroll into his kinsman's hand.
"I have received the like, said Adrian, glancing at it.
"It is a request of Rienzi's to attend at the church of St.
VOL II.
29
of great occasions and the muses reminds me of our good
Rienzi's invitation to the Lateran of course you will at-
tend; 't is a mighty knotty piece of Latin he proposes to
solve, -so I hear at least, very interesting to us, my
very!"
son,
"It is to-morrow," answered Adrian. "Yes, assured-
ly; I will be there."
"And harkye, my dear son," said the bishop, resting his
"I have reason
hand affectionately on Adrian's shoulder.
to hope that he will remind our poor citizens of the jubilee
for the year fifty, and stir them towards clearing the road
of the brigands: a necessary injunction, and one to be
heeded timeously; for who will come here for absolution
when he stands a chance of rushing unannealed upon pur-
gatory by the way? You have heard Rienzi,-ay? quite
a Cicero, quite! Well, heaven bless you, my son! You
will not fail?
CC
Nay, not I.
"Yet, stay; a word with you: just mention to all you
meet the advisability of a full meeting; it looks well for
the city to show respect to letters."
CC
"To say nothing of the jubilee," added Adrian, smiling.
Ay, to say nothing of the jubilee, - very good! Adieu
for the present! " And the bishop, resettling himself on
his saddle, ambled solemnly on to visit his various friends,
and press them to the meeting,
Meanwhile Adrian continned his course till he had passed
the capitol, the arch of Severus, the crumbling columns of
the fane of Jupiter, and found himself amid the long grass,
the whispering reeds, and the neglected vines, that ware
over the now vanished pomp of the golden house of Nero.
Seating himself on a fallen pillar, by that spot where now
the traveller descends to the (so called) baths of Livia, he
looked impatiently to the sun, as if to blame it for the slow-
ness of its march.
Not long, however, had he to wait before a light step
was heard crushing the fragrant grass; and presently
through the arching vines gleamed
through the arching vines gleamed a face that might well
have seemed the nymph,
have seemed the nymph, the goddess of the scene.
!
My beautiful my Irene! how shall I thank thee?"
It was long before the delighted lover suffered himself
to observe upon Irene's face à sadness that did not usually
cloud it in his presence. Her voice, too, trembled; her
words seemed constrained and cold.
"Have I offended thee?” he asked, "or what less mis-
fortune hath occurred ?”
Irene raised her eyes to her lover's, and said, looking at
him carnestly, “ Tell me, my lord, in simple truth, tell me.
would it grieve thee much were this to be our last meet
ing?
226
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Paler than the marble at his feet grew the dark check
of Adrian. It was some moments ere he could reply, and
ne did so then with a forced smile and a quivering lip.
"Jest not so, Irene! Last! that is not a word
for us!"
"But hear me, my lord
"Why so cold? Call me Adrian! friend! lover,-
be dumb!
وو
or
my
!
“Well, then, my soul's soul, my all of hope!
life's life!" exclaimed Irene, passionately, "hear me
I dread that we stand at this moment upon some gulf,
whose depth I see not, but which may divide us for ever!
Thou knowest the real nature of my brother, and dost not
misrea! him as many do. Long has he planned, and schem-
ed and communed with himself, and, feeling his way amid
he people, prepared the path to some great design. But
now, (thou wilt not betray,—thou wilt not injure him?
he is thy friend !")
"And thy brother!
Say on! "
I would give my life for his !
men who brought then, a grim giant, known well among
the people, say, as he wiped his brow, "These will see
work soon! 255
"Arms! Are you sure of that?" said Adrian, anx-
jously. "Nay, then, there is more in these schemes than
I imagined! But, (observing Irene's gaze bent fearfully
on him, as his voice changed, he added, more gayly,) but,
come what may, believe me, my beautiful! my adored!
that while I live, thy brother shall not suffer from the
wrath he may provoke; nor I, though he forget our ancient
friendship, cease to love thee less."
tr
"Signora! signora, child! it is time! we must go!"
said the shrill voice of Benedetta, now peering through
the foliage. "The working men pass home this way; I
see them approaching."
The lovers parted; for the first time the serpent had
penetrated into their Eden; they had conversed, they had
thought of other things than love.
CHAPTER III.
scene of the Lateran.
M
"But now, then," resumed Irene, "the time for that
enterprise, whatever it be, is coming fast. I know not of
its exact nature, but I know that it is against the nobles,
- against thy order, against thy house itself! If it A liberal patrician's situation amid popular discontents; the
succeed, oh, Adrian thou thyself mayst not be free
from danger; and my name, at least, will be coupled with
the name of thy foes. If it fail, my brother, my bold
brother, is swept away! He will fall a victim to revenge
or justice, call it as you will. Your kinsman may be his
judge,- his executioner; and I, even if I should yet live
to mourn over the boast and glory of my humble line, could
I permit myself to love, to see one in whose veins flow-
ed the blood of his destroyer? Oh! I am wretched,
wretched! These thoughts make me wellnigh mad!"
and wringing her hands bitterly, Irene sobbed aloud.
-
THE situation of a patrician who honestly loves the
people is, in those evil times, when power oppresses and
freedom struggles, when the two divisions of men are
wrestling against each other, the most irksome and per-
plexing that destiny can possibly contrive. Shall be take
part with the nobles? he betrays his conscience; with the
people? he deserts his friends. But that consequence of
the last alternative is not the sole; nor, perhaps, to a
strong mind, the most severe. All men are swayed and
chained by public opinion it is the public judge: but
Adrian himself was struck forcibly by the picture thus public opinion is not the same for all ranks. The public
presented to him, although the alternatives it embraced opinion that excites or deters the plebeian is the opinion
had often before forced themselves dimly on his mind. It of the plebeians; of those whom he sees,
and meets, and
was true, however, that, not seeing the schemes of Rienzi knows; of those with whom he is brought in contact;
backed by any physical power, and never yet having wit-
those with whom he has mixed from childhood; those
nessed the mighty force of a moral revolution, he did not
whose praises are daily heard; whose censure frowns upon
conceive that any rise to which he might instigate the peo-him with every hour. So, also, the public opinion of the
ple could be permanently successful: and, as for his punish-great is the opinion of their equals, of those whom birth
ment in that city, where all justice was the slave of inte-
rest, Adrian knew himself powerful enough to gain forgive-
ness even for the greatest of all crimes, armed insur-
rection against the nobles. As these thoughts recurred to
him, he gained the courage to console and cheer Irene.
But his efforts were only partially successful. Awakened
by her fears to that consideration of the future which hith-
erto she had forgotten, Irene, for the first time, seemed
deaf to the charmer's voice.
"Alas!" said she, sadly, "even at the best, what can
this love, that we have so blindly encouraged,
what can
it end in? Thou must not wed with one like me; and I!
how foolish I have been !"
"Recall thy senses, then, Irene," said Adrian, proudly;
partly, perhaps, in anger, partly in his experience of the
"Love another, and more wisely, if thou wilt;
cancel thy vows with me, and continue to think it a crime
to love, and a folly to be true!"
sex.
"Cruel!" said Irene, falteringly, and in her turn
alarmed. "Dost thou speak in earnest ?"
"Tell me, ere I answer you, tell me this: come death,
come anguish, come a whole life of sorrow, as the end of
this love, wouldst thou yet repent that thou hadst loved?
If so, thou knowest not the love that I feel for thee."
"Never! never can I repent ! said Irene, falling
upon Adrian's neck; "forgive
forgive me!
>
"But is there, in truth," said Adrian, a little while
after this lovelike quarrel and reconciliation, "is there, in
truth, so marked a difference between thy brother's past
and present bearing? How knowest thou that the time
for action is so near?
"Because now he sits closeted whole nights with all
ranks of men; he shuts up his books,— he reads no more;
but, when alone, walks to and fro his chamber, muttering
to himself. Sometimes he pauses before the calendar,
which of late he has fixed with his own hand against the
wall, and passes his finger over the letters, till he comes
to some chosen date, and then he plays with his sword, and
smiles. But two nights since, arms, too, in great number,
were brought to the house; and I heard the chief of the
*
J
and accident cast for ever in their way. When we read,
at this day, in the shallow pages of some dogmatizing
journalist that this or that noble will not dare to commit
this or that action, terrify a tenant, or bribe a voter, —
because public opinion awes him! is it the public opinion
of those around him that will condemn? The public opin-
ion of his parasites, his clients, his equals, his co-mates,
in policy and in sentiment? Will that condemn him?
No! It is the public opinion of another class,
- a class
whom his orbit does not approach, a class, whose praise
or blame sounds seldom on his ear, a class whom the pub-
lic opinion of his own rank may deem it courage to brave,
or dignity to disregard. This distinction is full of impor-
tant practical deductions; it is one which, more than most
maxims, should never be forgotten by a politician who
desires to be profound. It is, then, an ordeal terrible to
pass; which few plebeians ever pass; which it is, there-
fore, unjust to expect patricians to cross unfalteringly; the
ordeal of opposing the public opinion which exists for them.
They cannot help doubting their own judgment; they can-
not help thinking the voice of wisdom or of virtue speaks
in those sounds which have been deemed oracles from their
cradle. In the tribunal of sectarian prejudice they imagine
they recognise the court of the universal conscience.
Another powerful detergent to the acting of a patrician so
placed, is in the certainty that to the last the motives of
such activity will be alike misconstrued by the aristocracy
he deserts and the people he joins. It seems so unnatural
* It is the same in still smaller divisions. The public opinion
for lawyers is that of lawyers; of soldiers, that of the army;
of scholars, it is that of men of literature and science. And to
the susceptible among the latter, the hostile criticism of learn-
ing has been more stinging than the severest moral censures of
the vulgar. Many a man has done a great act, or composed a
great work, solely to please the two or three persons constantly
present to him. Their voice was his public opinion. The
public opinion that operated on Bishop, the murderer, was the
opinion of the Burkers, his comrades. Did that condemn him?
No! He knew no other public opinion till he came to be
hanged, and caught the loathing eyes, and heard the hissing
execrations of the crowd below his gibbet.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
227
in a man to fly in the face of his own order, that the world
is willing to suppose any clue to the mystery save that
of honest conviction or lofty patriotism." Ambition!"
savs one. "Disappointment! cries another. "Some
private grudge!” hints a third. "Mob-courting vanity!
sneers a fourth. The people admire at first, but suspect
afterwards. The moment he thwarts a popular wish,
there is no redemption for him; he is accused of having
acted the hypocrite; of having worn the sheep's fleece:
and now say they, "See! the wolf's teeth peep out!"
Is he familiar with the people, it is cajolery! Is he
distant, it is pride! What, then, sustains a man in
Euch a situation, following his own conscience, with his
eyes open to all the perils of the path Away with the
cant of public opinion; away with the poor delusion of
posthumous justice; he will offend the first; he will never
obtain the last. What sustains him? His owN SOUL!
A man thoroughly great has a certain contempt for his
kind while he aids them their weal or woe are all; their
applause,― their blame, are nothing to him. He walks
forth from the circle of birth and habit; he is dumb to the
little motives of little men. High, through the widest
space his orbit may describe, he holds on his sphered
course to guide or to enlighten; but the noises below reach
him not! Until the wheel is broken; until the dark void
swallow up the star; it makes melody night, and day to
ear thirsting for no sound from the earth it
illumines, anxious for no companionship in the path
through which it rolls, conscious of its own glory, and
contented, therefore, to be alone!
its own
But minds of this order are rare. All ages cannot pro-
duce them. They are exceptions to the ordinary and human
virtue, which, if not corrupted, is at least influenced and
regulated by external circumstance. At a time when even
to be merely susceptible to the voice of fame was a great
preeminence in moral energies over the rest of mankind, it
would be impossible that any one should ever have formed
the conception of that more refined and metaphysical sen-
timent, that purer excitement to high deeds, that glory
in one's own heart, which is so immeasurably above the
desire of renown from others. In fact, before we can dis-
pense with the world, we must, by a long and severe novi-
tiate, by the probation of much thought, and much sorrow,
by deep and sad conviction of the vanity of all that the
world can give us, have raised ourselves, not in the fer-
vor of an hour, but habitually,
above the world : an ab-
straction, —an idealisın,—which, in our wiser age, how
few, even of the wisest, can attain! Yet, till we are thus
fortunate, we know not the true divinity of contemplation,
nor the all-sufficing mightiness of conscience; nor can we
retreat with solemn footsteps into that holy of holies in our
own souls, wherein we know, and feel, how much our
vature is capable of the self-existence of a God !
But to return to the things and thoughts of earth. Those
considerations, and those links of circumstance, which, in
a similar situation, have chained so many honest and cour-
ageous minds, chained also the mind of Adrian. He felt
in a false position. His reason and conscience shared in
the schemes of Rienzi, and his natural hardihood and love
of enterprise would have led him actively to share the dan-
ger of their execution. But this, all his associations, his
friendships, his private and household ties, loudly forbade.
Against his order, against his house, against the companions
of his youth, how could he plot secretly, or act sternly?
If, on one side, he was impelled by patriotism, on the other
gile stood hypocrisy and ingratitude. Who, too, would
believe him the honest champion of his country, who was a
traitor to his friends? Thus, indeed,
"The native hue of resolution
Was sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought!
And he who should have been by nature a leader of the time
became only its spectator. Yet Adrian endeavoured to
console himself for his present passiveness in a conviction
of the policy of his conduct. He who takes no share in
the commencement of civil revolutions, can often become,
with the most effect, a mediator between the passions and
the parties subsequently formed. Perhaps, under Adrian's
circumstances, delay was really the part of a prudent states-
man; the very position which cripples at the first, often
gives authority before the end. Clear from the excesses,
and saved from the jealousies of rival factions, all men are
willing to look with complaisance and respect to a new
actor in a turbulent drama; his modera tion ray make him
trusted by the people; his rank enable him to be a fitting
mediator with the nobles; and thus the qualities that would
have rendered him a martyr at one period of the revolution,
raise him, perhaps, into a saviour at another.
Silent, therefore, and passive, Adrian waited the progress
of events. If the projects of Rienzi failed, he might, by
that inactivity, the better preserve the people from new
chains, and their champion from death. If those projects
succeeded, he might equally save his house from the popular
wrath, and, advocating liberty, check disorder. Such,
at least, were his hopes; and thus did the Italian sagacity
and caution of his character control and pacify the enthu-
siasm of youth and courage.
The sun shone calm and cloudless upon the vast concourse
gathered before the broad space that surrounds the church
of St. John of Lateran. Partly by curiosity, -partly by
the desire of the Bishop of Orvietto, partly because it
was an occasion in which they could display the pomp of
their retinues, many of the principal barons of Rome had
gathered to this spot.
M
On one of the steps ascending to the church, with his
mantle folded round him, stood Walter de Montreal, gazing
on the various parties that one after another swept through
the lane which the soldiers of the church preserved unim-
peded, in the middle of the crowd, for the access of the
principal nobles. He watched with interest, though with
his usual carelessness of air and roving glance, the different
inarks and looks of welcome given by the populace to the
different personages of note. Banners and pennons pre-
ceded each signor, and, as they waved aloft, the witticisms
or nicknames, the brief words of praise or censure, that
imply so much, which passed to and fro among that lively
crowd, were treasured carefully in his recollection.
"Make way, there! way for my Lord Martino Or-
sini, Baron di Porto!"
C
"Peace! minion, draw back! way for the Signor
Adrian Colonna, Baron di Castello, and Knight of the
Empire!"
And at those two rival shouts, you saw waving on high
the golden bear of the Orsini, with the motto, "Beware
my embrace !" and the solitary column on an azure ground
of the Colonna, with Adrian's especial device, "Sad, but
strong." The train of Martino Orsini was much more
numerous than that of Adrian, which last consisted but of
ten servitors. But Adrian's men attracted far greater ad-
miration among the crowd, and pleased more the experi-
enced eye of the warlike knight of St. John. Their arms
were polished like mirrors; their height was to an inch the
same; their march was regular and sedate; their mien
erect; they looked neither to the right nor left; they be-
trayed that ineffable discipline, that harmony of order,
which Adrian had learned to impart to his men during his
own apprenticeship of arms. But the disorderly train of
the Lord of Porto was composed of men of all heights.
Ill polished, il fashioned, were their arms; they pressed
confusedly on each other; they laughed, and spake aloud;
and in their mien and bearing expressed all the insolence
of men who despised alike the master they served and the
people they awed. The two bands coming unexpectedly
on each other through this narrow defile, the jealousy of
the two houses presently declared itself. Each pressed for-
ward for the precedence; and, as the quiet regularity of
Adrian's train, and even its compact paucity of numbers,
enabled it to pass before the servitors of his rival, the pop-
ulace set up a loud shout, "A Colonna for ever!"
"Let the Bear dance after the Column !
"On, ye knaves!" said Orsini, aloud to his men.
"How have ye suffered this affront?" And passing him
self to the head of his men, he would have advanced
through the midst of his rival's train, had not a tall guard,
in the pope's livery, placed his baton in the
CC
way.
Pardon, my lord! we have the vicar's express com-
mands to suffer no struggling of the different trains cne
with another.”
"Knave! dost thou bandy words with me!" said he
fierce Orsini, and with his sword he clove the baton in two.
"In the vicar's name I command you to fall back!'
said the sturdy guard, now placing his huge bulk in the
very front of the noble's path.
It is Cecco del Vecchio!” cried those of the popu-
lace who were near enough to perceive the interruption aad
its cause
228
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Ay," said one, "the good vicar has put many of the
aloutest fellows in the pope's livery, in order the better to
keep peace.
He could have chosen none better than
Cecco."
"But he must not fall!" cried another, as Orsini, glar-
ing on the smith, drew back his sword as if to plunge it
through his bosom.
"Shame, shame! shall the pope be thus insulted in
his own city?" cried several voices. "Down with the
sacrilegious, -down!" And, as if by a preconcerted
plan, a whole body of the mob broke at once through the
lane, and swept like a torrent over Orsini and his jostled
and ill-assorted train. Orsini himself was thrown on the
ground with violence, and trampled upon by a hundred
footsteps; his men, huddled and struggling as inuch against
themselves as against the mob, were scattered and overset;
and when, by a great effort of the guards, headed by the
smith himself, order was again restored, and the line re-
formed, Orsini, wellnigh choked with his rage and humil-
iation, and greatly bruised by the rude assaults he had
received, could scarcely stir from the ground. The officers
of the pope raised him, and, when he was on his legs, he
looked wildly around for his sword, which, falling from his
hand, had been kicked among the crowd, and seeing it not,
he said, between his ground teeth, to Cecco del Vecchio,
Fellow, thy neck shall answer this outrage, or may
God desert me!" and passed along through the space;
while a half-suppressed and exultant hoot from the by-
standers followed his path.
t
'
Way there!" cried the smith, "for the Lord Martino
di Porto, and may all the people know that he has threat-
ened to take my life for the discharge of my duty in obedi-
ence to the pope's vicar!"
"He dare not!" shouted out a thousand voices; "the
people can protect their own ! "
This scene had not been lost to the Provençal, who well
knew how to construe the wind by the direction of straws,
and saw at once, by the boldness of the populace, that they
themselves were conscious of a coming tempest. "Par
Dieu," said he, as he saluted Adrian, who, gravely, and
without looking behind, had now won the steps of the
church," yon tall fellow has a brave heart, and many
friends too. What think you," he added, in a low whis-
"is not this scene a proof that the nobles are less safe
than they wot of?
per,
"The beast begins to kick against the spur, sir knight,"
answered Adrian; "a wise horseman should, in such a
case, take care how he pull the rein too tight, lest the beast
should rear, and he be overthrown, yet that is the policy
thou wouldst recommend.”
—
"You mistake, "returned Montreal, "dropping the
metaphor, my wish was to give Rome one sovereign instead
of many tyrants, - but, hark! what means that bell?"
"The ceremony is about to begin," answered Adrian.
"Shall we enter the church together?
Seldom had a temple consecrated to God witnessed so
singular a spectacle as that which now animated the solemn
space of the Lateran.
In the centre of the church, seats were raised in an amphi-
theatre, at the far end of which was a scaffolding, a little
higher than the rest; below this spot, but high enough to
be in sight of all the concourse, was placed a vast table of
iron, on which was graven an ancient inscription, and bear-
ing in its centre a clear and prominent device, presently
to be explained.
The seats were covered with cloth and rich tapestry. In
the rear of the church was drawn a purple curtain. Around
the amphitheatre were the officers of the church, in the
parti-colored liveries of the pope. To the right of the
Bcaffold sat Raimond, Bishop of Orvietto, in his robes of
state. On the benches round him you saw all the marked
personages of Rome, the judges, the men of letters, the
nobles, from the lofty rank of the Savelli to the inferior
grade of a Raselli. The space beyond the amphitheatre
was filled with the people, who now poured fast in, stream
after stream all the while rang, clear and loud, the great
bell of the church.
:
At length, as Adrian and Montreal seated themselves at
little distance from Raimond, the bell suddenly ceased,
the murmurs of the people were stilled, the purple
curtain was withdrawn, and Rienzi came forth with slow
and majestic steps. He came, but not in his usual som-
bre and plain attire. Over his broad breast he wore a vest
of dazzling whiteness, - a long robe, in ne ample fash on
of the toga, descended to his feet, and swept the floor. On
his head he wore a fold of white cloth, in the centre of
which shone a golden crown. But the crown was divided,
or cloven, as it were, by the mystic ornament of a silver
sword, which, attracting universal attention, testified at
once, that this strange garb was worn, not from the vanity
of display, but for the sake of presenting to the concourse,
in the person of the citizen, -a type and embler of
that state of the city on which he was about to descant.
"Faith," whispered one of the old nobies to his neigh
bour, "the plebeian, assumes it bravely
"What showman's tricks are these ?" said a second.
"It will be rare sport," said a third.
"I trust the
good man will put some jests in his discourse."
"He is certainly crazed!" said a fourth.
"How handsome he is!" said the women mixed with
the populace.
""
"This is a man who has learned the people by heart,"
observed Montreal to Adrian. "He knows he must speak
to the eye, in order to win the mind; a knave,
knave!
a wise
And now Rienzi had ascended the scaffold; and as he
looked long and steadfastly around the inceting, the high
and thoughtful repose of his majestic countenance, its deep
and solemn gravity, hushed all the murmurs, and made its
effect equally felt by the sneering nobles as the impatient
populace.
"and ye, friends
'
Signors of Rome," said he, at length,
and citizens, you have heard why we are met together this
day; and you, my lord Bishop of Orvietto,
and ye,
fellow-laborers with me in the field of letters, ye, too,
are aware that it is upon some matter relative to that
ancient Rome, the rise and the decline of whose past power
and glories we have spent our youth in endeavouring to
comprehend. But this, believe me, is no vain enigma of
erudition, useful but to the studious, referring but to the
dead Let the past perish!-let darkness shroud it!
let it sleep for ever over the crumbling temples and desolate
tombs of its forgotten sons, -if it cannot afford us, from
its disgraved secrets, a guide for the present and the future.
What, my lords, ye have thought that it was for the sake
of antiquity alone that we have wasted our nights and days
in studying what antiquity can teach us! You are mis-
taken; it is nothing to know what we have been, unless it
is with the desire of knowing that which we ought to be.
Our ancestors are mere dust and ashes, save when they
speak to our posterity; and then their voices resound, not
There is an
from the earth below, but the heaven above.
eloquence in memory, because it is the nurse of hope.
There is a sanctity in the past, but only because of the
chronicles it retains, chronicles of the progress of man-
kind, stepping-stones in civilization, in liberty, and in
knowledge. Our fathers forbid us to recede, they teach
us what is our rightful heritage, they bid us reclaim, they
bid us augment that heritage, preserve their virtues, and
avoid their errors. These are the true uses of the past.
Like the sacred edifice in which we are, it is a tomb
upon which to rear a temple. I see that you marvel at this
long beginning; ye look to each other, ye ask to what it
tends. Behold this broad plate of iron; upon it is graven
an inscription but lately disinterred from the heaps of stone
and ruin, which, oh shame to Rome!
palaces of empire, and the arches of triumphant power.
The device in the centre of the table, which you behold,
conveys the act of the Roman senators, who are conferring
upon Vespasian the imperial authority. It is this inscrip-
tion which I have invited you to hear read! It specifies the
very terms and limits of the authority thus conferred. To
the emperor was confided the power of making laws and
alliances with whatsoever nation, of increasing, or of
diminishing the limits of towns and districts, — of,
this, my lords ! -exalting men to the rank of dukes and
kings,ay, and of deposing and degrading them; of
making cities, and of unmaking; in short, of all the attri- .
butes of imperial power. Yes, to that emperor was con-
fided this vast authority; but, by whom? Heed, listen,
I pray you, -let not a word he lost; by whom, I say? By
the Roman senate! What was the Roman senate? The
representative of the Roman people!
—
A
د,
-
were once the
mark
"I knew he would come to that!" said the smith, who
stood at the door with his fellows, but to whose car, clear
and distinct, rolled the silver voice of Rianzi.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES
229
Brave fellow! and this, too, in the hearing of the
lords."
"Ay, you see what the people were! and we should
never have known this but for him."
clear your roads from the bandits that infest hem! your
walls from the hirelings that they harbor! Banish these
civil discords, or the men, how proud, how great, soev-
who maintain them! Pluck the scales from the hand
er,
Peace, fellows!" said the officer to those of the of fraud the sword from the hand of violence the bal-
!
crowd, from whom came these whispered sentences.
ance and the sword are the ancient attributes of justice!
restore them to her again! This be your high task, these be
your great ends ! Deem any man who opposes them a
traitor to his country. Gain a victory greater than those
of the Caesars, -a victory over yourselves! Let the pil-
grims of the world behold the resurrection of Rome!
make one epoch of the jubilee of religion and the restora-
tion of law! Lay the sacrifice of your vanquished passions,
the first fruits of your renovated liberties, upon tae
very altar that these walls contain! and never! oh never !
since the world began, shall men have made a more grate-
ful offering to their God!"
Rienzi continue 1. Yes, it is the people who intrusted
this power, - to the people, therefore, it belongs! Did the
haughty emperor arrogate the crown? Could he assume the
authority himself? Was it born with him? Did he derive
it, my lord barons, from the possession of towered castles,
of lofty lineage? No! all-powerful as he was, he had
no right to one atom of that power, save from the voice and
trust of the Roman people. Such, oh, my countrymen !
such was even at that day, when liberty was but the shadow
of her former self, such was the acknowledged preroga-
tive of your fathers! All power was the gift of the people.
What have ye to give now? Who, who, I say, what
single person, what petty chief, asks you for the authority
he assumes? His senate is his sword; his chart of license
is written, not with ink, but blood. The people! · there
is ro people! Oh! would to God that we might disentomb
the spirit of the past as easily as her records !
"If I were
your kinsman," whispered Montreal to
Adrian, "I would give this man short breathing-time be-
tween his peroration and confession.”
;
CC
a
"What is your emperor ?" continued Rienzi
stranger! What the great head of your church? — an
exile! Ye are without your lawful chiefs; and why? Be-
cause ye are not without your law-defying tyrants! The
license of your nobles, their discords, their dissensions,
have driven our holy father from the heritage of St. Peter;
they have bathed your streets in your own blood; they have
wasted the wealth of your labors on private quarrels and
the maintenance of hireling ruffians! Your forces are ex-
hausted against yourselves. You have made a mockery of
your country, once the mistress of the world. You have
steeped her lips in gall, ye have set a crown of thorns
upon her head! What, my lords!" cried he, turning
sharply round towards the Savelli and Orsini, who, endeav-
ouring to shake off the thrill which the fiery eloquence of
Rienzi had stricken to their hearts, now, by contemptuous
gestures and scornful smiles, testified the displeasure they
did not dare loudly to utter in the presence of the vicar and
the people, -"what! even while I speak, not the
sanerity of this place restrains you! I am an humble man,
- a citizen of Rome, but I have this distinction; I have
raised against myself many foes and scoffers for that which
I have done for Rome. I am hated, because I love
my
country; I am despised, because I would exalt her. I re-
taliate, I shall be avenged. Three traitors in your own
palaces shall betray you: their names are, — luxury, envy,
and dissension!"
"There he had them on the hip !"
"Ha, ha! by the holy cross, that was good!
So intense was the sensation these words created in the
audience, so breathless and overpowered did they leave
the souls which they took by storm, that Rienzi had de-
scended the scaffold and already disappeared behind the
curtain from which he had emerged, ere the crowd were
fully aware that he had ceased.
The singularity of this sudden apparition, robed in
mysterious splendor, and vanishing the moment its errand
was fulfilled, gave additional effect to the words it had
uttered. The whole character of that bold address became
invested with a something preternatural and inspired; to
the minds of the vulgar, the mortal was converted into the
oracle; and, marvelling at the unhesitating courage with
which their idol had rebuked and conjured the haughty
barons, each of whom they regarded in the light of
sanctioned executioners, whose anger could be manifest at
once by the gibbet or the axe, the people could not but
superstitiously imagine that nothing less than authority
from above could have gifted their leader with such hardi-
hood, and preserved him from the danger it incurred. In
fact, it was this very courage of Rienzi in which his safety
consisted; he was placed in those circumstances wherein
audacity is prudence. Had he been less bold, the nobles
would have been more severe; but so great a license of
speech in an officer of the holy see, they naturally imagined,
was not unauthorized by the assent of the pope, as well as
by the approbation of the people. Those who did not
(like Stephen Colonna) despise words as wind, shrank
back from the task of punishing one whose voice might
be the mere echo of the wishes of the pontiff. The dis-
sensions of the nobles among each other were no less fa-
vorable to Rienzi. He attacked a body, the members of
which had no union.
It is not my duty to slay him!" said one.
"It
"I am not the representative of the barons!" said
another.
"If Stephen Colonna heeds him not, it would be absurd,
as well as dangerous, in a meaner man to make himself the
"I would go to the hangman for such another keen champion of the order!" said a third.
stroke as that!"
"This is the man we have always wanted!"
The Colonna smiled approval, when Rienzi denounced
an Orsini, -an Orsini laughed aloud, when the eloquence
"It is a shame if we are cowards, when one man is thus burst over a Colonna. The lesser nobles were well pleased
brave," said the smith.
Silence!" proclaimed the officer.
Oh, Romans!" said Rienzi, passionately,-
"awake!
In a
I conjure you! Let this memorial of your former power,
your ancient liberties, sink deep into your souls.
propitious hour, if ye seize it, in an evil one, if ye suffer
the golden opportunity to escape, has this record of the
past been unfolded to your eyes. Recollect that the jubilee
approaches.
The Bishop of Orvietto smiled, and bowed approvingly :
the people, the citizens, the inferior nobles, noted well
those signs of encouragement; and, to their minds, the
Dope himself, in the person of his vicar, looked benignly
on the daring of Rienzi.
“The jubilee approaches, the eyes of all Christendom
will be directed hither. Here, where, from all quarters of
the globe, men come for peace, shall they find discord?
seeking absolution, shall they perceive but crime? In the
centre of God's dominion, shall they weep at your weak-
ness in the seat of the martyred saints, shall they shud-
der at your vices? in the fountain and source of Christ's
law, shall they find all law unknown? You were the glory
of the world, will you be its by-word? You were its ex-
ample, will you be its warning? Rise, while it is yet time!
!
to hear attacks upon both; while, on the other hand, the
bishop, by the long impunity of Rienzi, had taken courage
to sanction the conduct of his fellow-officer. He affected,
indeed, at times, to blame the excess of his fervor, but it
was always accompanied by the praises of his honesty;
and the approbation of the pope's vicar confirmed the in-
pression of the nobles as to the approbation of the pope.
Thus, from the very rashness of his enthusiasm had grown
his security and success.
Still, however, when the barons had a little recovered
from the stupor into which Rienzi had cast them, they
looked round to each other; and their looks confessed their
sense of the insolence of the orator, and the affront offered
to themselves.
bearing,
"Per fede!" quoth Reginaldo di Orsini," this is past
the plebeian has gone too far!"
"Look at the populace below! how they murmur and
Bend at us ?" said Luca di Savelli, to his mortal
gape, and how their eyes sparkle, and what looks they
Castruccio Malatesta: the sense of a common danger united
enemy
in one moment, but only for a moment, the enmity of years.
“Diavolo ! muttered Raselli, Nina's father,) to
baron, equally poor," but the clerk has truth in his lips
"T is a pity he is not noble.”
230
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Whe
a clever brain marred!" said a Florentine |
merchant. "That man might be something, if he were
sufficiently rich.”
Adrian and Montreal were silent: the first seemed lost
in thought, -
the last was watching the various effects pro-
duced upon the audience.
"Silence!" proclaimed the officers. "Silence, for my
lord vicar"
At this announcement, every eye turned to Raimond, who,
rising with much clerical importance, thus addressed the
assembly :-
Although, barons and citizens of Rome, my well-
beloved flock, and children, — I, no more than yourselves,
anticipated the exact nature of the address you have just
beard, and albeit, I cannot feel unalloyed contentment
at the manner, nor, I may say, at the whole matter of that
fervent exhortation, yet, (laying great emphasis on the
last word,) I cannot suffer you to depart without adding
to the prayer of our holy father's servant, those, also, of
his holiness's spiritual representative. It is true! the ju-
bilee approaches! The jubilee approaches, -and yet our
roads, even to the gates of Rome, are infested with mur-
derous and godless ruffians! What pilgrim can venture
What pilgrim can venture
across the Apennines to worship at the altars of St. Pe-
ter? The jubilee approaches; what scandal shall it be
to Rome if these shrines be without pilgrims, if the
timid recoil from, if the bold fall victims to, the dangers of
the way ! Wherefore, I pray you all, citizens and chiefs
alike, I pray you all to lay aside those unhappy dissen-
sions which have so long consumed the strength of our sa-
cred city; and, uniting with each other in the ties of amity
and brotherhood, to form a blessed league against the ma-
rauders of the road. I see among you, my lords, many of
the boasts and pillars of the state; but, alas! I think
with grief and dismay on the causeless and idle hatred
that has grown up between you! -a scandal to our city,
and reflecting, let me add, my lords, no honor on your
faith as Christians, nor on your dignity as defenders of the
church."
Among the inferior nobles, along the seats of the judges
and the inen of letters, through the vast concourse of the
people, ran a loud murmur of approbation at these words.
The greater barous looked proudly, but not contemptuous-
ly, at the countenance of the prelate, and preserved a strict
and unrevealing silence.
"In this holy spot," continued the bishop, "let me
bescech you to bury those fruitless animosities which have
already cost enough of blood and treasure; and let us quit
these walls with one common determination to evince our
courage and display our chivalry only against our universal
foes, those ruffians who lay waste our fields, and infest our
public ways, the foes alike of the people we should protect,
and the God whom we should serve!"
The bishop resumed his seat; the nobles looked at each
other without reply; the people began to whisper loudly
among themselves; when, after a short pause Adrian di
Castelio rose.
"Pardon me, my lords, and you, reverend father, if I,
inexperienced in years and of little mark or dignity among
you, presune to be the first to embrace the proposal we
have just heard. Willingly do I renounce all ancient
cause of enmity with any of my compeers. Fortunately
for me, my long absence from Rome has swept from my
remembrance the feuds and rivalries familiar to my earlier
youth ; and in this noble conclave I see but one man
(glancing to Martino di Porto, who sat sullenly looking
down) against whom I have, any time, deemed it a duty to
draw my sword; the gage that I once cast to that noble,
is yet, I rejoice to think, unredeemed. I withdraw it.
Henceforth my only foes shall be the foes of Rome!'
"Nobly spoken," said the bishop, aloud.
و
“And,
continued Adrian, casting down his glove
among the nobles,
the nobles, “I I throw, my lords, the gage, thus re-
sumed, among you all, in challenge to a wider rivalry, and
a more noble field. I invite any man to vie with ine in the
zeal that he shall show to restore tranquillity to our roads,
and order to our state. It is a contest in which, if I be
vanquished with reluctance, I will yield the prize without
envy. In ten days from this time, reverend father, I will
raise forty horsemen at arms, ready to obey whatever or-
ders shall be agreed upon for the security of the Roman
state. And for oh Romans, dismiss, I pray you, from
your minds, those eloquent invectives against your fellow-
you,
|
citizens which you have lately heard.
have lately heard. All of us, of what
rank soever, may have shared in the excesses of these un.
happy times; let us endeavour, not to avenge nor to imitate,
but to reform and unite. And may the people hereafter
find that the true boast of a patrician is, that his power the
better enables him to serve his country.´´
"Brave words!" quoth the smith, sneering.
"If they were all like him!" said the smith's neigh
bour.
"He has helped the nobles out of a dilemma," said
Pandulfo.
"He has shown gray wit under young hairs," said an
aged Malatesta.
"You have turned the tide, but not stemmed it, noble
Adrian," whispered the ever-boding Montreal, as amid
the murmurs of the general approbation, the young Colonna
resumed his seat.
"How mean you?" said Adrian.
"That your soft words, like all patrician conciliations,
have come too late.”
Not another noble stirred, though they felt, perhaps,
disposed to join in the general feeling of amnesty, and
appeared, by signs and whispers, to applaud the speech
of Adrian. They were too habituated to the ungraceful-
ness of an unlettered pride to bow themselves to address
conciliating language, either to the people or their foes
And Raimond, glancing round, and not willing that their
unseemly silence should be long remarked, rose at once, to
give it the best construction in his power.
CC
My son, thou hast spoken as a patriot and a Christian;
by the approving silence of your peers we all feel that they
share your sentiments. Break we up the meeting, — its
end is obtained. The manner of our proceeding against
the leagued robbers of the road requires maturer consid-
eration elsewhere. This day shall be an epoch in our
history."
"It shall," quoth Cecco del Vecchio, gruffly, between
his teeth.
"Children, my blessing upon you all!" concluded the
vicar, spreading his arms.
And in a few minutes more the crowd poured from the
church. The different servitors and flag-bearers ranged
themselves on the steps without, each train anxious for
their master's precedence; and the nobles, gravely collect-
ing in small knots, in the which was no mixture of rival
blood, followed the crowd down the aisles. Soon rose
again the din, and the noise, and the wrangling, and the
oaths, of the hostile bands, as, with pain and labor, the
vicar's officers marshalled them in order most disor-
derly."
But so true were Montreal's words to Adrian, that the
populace already half forgot his generous appeal, and were
only bitterly commenting on the ungracious silence of his
brother lords. What, too, to them was this crusade
against the robbers of the road? They blamed the good
bishop for not saying boldly to the nobles, "Ye are the
first robbers we must march against?" The popular dis-
contents had gone far beyond palliatives; they had arrived
at that point when the people longed less for reform than
change. There are times when a revolution cannot be
warded off; it must come, come alike by resistance or by
concession. Woe to that race in which a revolution pro-
duces no fruits, in which the thunderbolt smites the high
place, but does not purify the air. To suffer in vain is
often the lot of the noblest individuals; but when a people
suffer in vain, let them curse themselves!
CHAPTER IV.
The ambitious citizen, and the ambitious soldier.
THE Bishop of Orvietto lingered last, to confer with Ri-
enzi, who awaited him in the recesses of the Lateran. Rai-
mond had the penetration not to be seduced into believing
that the late scene could effect any reformation among the
nobles, heal their divisions, or lead them actively against
the infestors of the Campagna. But, as he detailed to
Rienzi all that had occurred subsequent to the departure of
that hero of the scene, he concluded with saying,
"You will perceive from this, one good result will
occur: the first armed dissensiou, the first fray among
the nobles, will seem like a breach of premise; and, te
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
231
an excuse
the people and to the pope, a reasonable excuse for des-
pairing of all amendment among the barons,
which will sanction the efforts of the first, and the appro-
val of the last."
"For such a fray we shall not long wait," answered
Rienzi.
"I believe the prophecy," answered Raimond, smiling;
"at present all runs well. Go you with us homeward?"
Nay, I think it better to tarry here till the crowd is
entirely dispersed; for if they were to see me, in their
present excitement, they might insist on some rash and
hasty enterprise. Besides, my lord," added Rienzi, "with
an ignorant people, however honest and enthusiastic, this
rule must be rigidly observed, stale not your presence
by castom. Never may men like me, who have no exter-
nal rank, appear among the crowd, save on those occasions
when the mind is itself a rank.”
CC
"That is true, as you have no train," answered Rai-
mond, thinking of his own well-liveried menials. Adieu,
then; we shall meet soon.
66
دو
Ay, at Philippi, my lord. Reverend father, your
blessing!"
It was some time subsequent to this conference that Ri-
enzi quitted the sacred edifice. As he stood on the steps
of the church, -now silent and deserted, the hour that
precedes the brief twilight of the south lent its magic to
the view. There he beheld the sweeping arches of the
mighty aqueduct extending far along the scene, and backed
by the distant and purpling hills. Before, -to the right,
rose the gate which took its Roman name from the Coelian
mount, at whose declivity it yet stands. Beyond,— from the
height of the steps, he saw the villages scattered through
the gray Campagna, and whitening in the sloped sun; and
in the farthest distance the mountain shadows began to
darken over the roofs of the ancient Tusculum, and the
second Alban* city, which yet rises, in desolate neglect,
above the vanished palaces of Pompey and Domitian.
the
The Roman stood absorbed and motionless for some mo-
ments, gazing on the scene, and inhaling the sweet balm of
the mellow air. It was the soft spring-time, the season
of flowers, and green leaves, and whispering winds,
pastoral May of Italia's poets: but hushed was the voice
of song on the banks of the Tiber, the reeds gave music
no more. From the sacred mount in which Saturn held
his home, the dryad and the nymph, and Italy's native
sylvan, were gone for ever. Rienzi's original nature,
its enthusiasm, its veneration for the past, its love of
the beautiful and the great, that very attachment to the
graces and pomp which give so florid a character to the
harsh realities of life, and which power afterward too
luxuriantly developed; the exuberance of thoughts and
fancies, which poured itself from his lips in so brilliant
and inexhaustible a flood, all bespoke those intellectual
-all bespoke those intellectual
and imaginative biasses which, in calmer times, might
have raised him in literature to a more indisputable
eminonce than that to which action can ever lead; and
something of such consciousness crossed his spirit at that
moment.
Happier had it been for me, thought he, had I
never looked out from my own heart upon the world. I
had all within me that makes contentment of the present,
because I had that which can make me forget the present.
I had the power to repeople, -to create: the legends and
dreams of old, the divine faculty of verse, in which the
beautiful superfluities of the heart can pour themselves,
these were mine! Oh! wisely for himself chose Petrarch!
To address the world, but from without the world; to per-
sua le, -- to excite, — to command; for these are the aim
and glory o`ambrion; but to shun its tummult, and its ton!
His the quiet cell, which he fills with shapes of beauty,
the solitude, from which he can banish the evil times
whereon we are fallen, but in which he can dream back
the great hearts and the glorious epochs of the past. For
me,
<
to what cares I am wedded to what labors I am
bound! what instruments I must use! what disguises I
must assume! to tricks and artifice I must bow my pride !
Base are my erenties,-- uncertain my friends! and verily,
in this struggle with blinded and mean men, the soul itself
becomes warped and dwarfish. Patient and darkling, the
* The first Alba,
the Alba Longa, — whose origin fable
ascribes to Ascanius, was destroyed by Tullius Hostilius. The
second Alba, or modern Albano, was erected on the plain be-
low the ancient town a little before the time of Nero,
-
|
|
means creep through caves and the soiling mire, to gain
at last the light which is the end.”
In these reflections there was a truth, the whole goom
and sadness of which the Roman had not yet experienced.
However august be the object we propose to ourselves,
every less worthy path we take to insure it, distorts the
mental sight of our ambition; and the means, by degrees,
abase the end to their own standard. This is the true
that the instru-
misfortune of a man nobler than his age,
ments he must use soil himself: half he reforms his times;
but half, too, the times will corrupt the reformer. His
own craft undermines his safety; the people, whom he
himself accustoms to a false excitement, perpetually crave
it; and when their ruler ceases to seduce their fancy he
falls their victim. The reform he makes by these means
is hollow and momentary,
is hollow and momentary,—it is swept away with him-
self; it was but the trick, the show,-
the wasted ge-
nius,- of a conjurer: the curtain falls,—the magic is over,
the cup and balls are kicked aside. Better one slow step
in enlightenment, which, being made by the reason of a
than these sudden flashes
whole people, cannot recede,
in the depths of the general night, which the darkness, by
contrast doubly dark, swallows up everlastingly again!
As, slowly and musingly, Rienzi turned to quit the
church, he felt a light touch upon his shoulder.
"Fair evening to you, sir scholar," said a frank voice.
"To you, I return the courtesy," answered Rienzi,
gazing upon the person who thus suddenly accosted him,
and in whose white cross and martial bearing the reader
recognises the knight of St. John.
"You know me not, I think?
think?" said Montreal; "but
that matters little, we may easily commence our acquaint-
ance; for me, indeed, I am fortunate enough to have made
myself already acquainted with you.
<<
66
>>
Possibly, we have met elsewhere, at the house of one
of those nobles to which rank you seem to belong?"
"Belong! no, not exactly!" returned Montreal,
proudly. High-born and great as your magnates deem
themselves, I would not, while the mountains claim one
free spot for my footstep, change my place in the world's
many grades for theirs. To the brave, there is but one sort
of plebeian, and that is the coward. But you, sage Rienzi,"
"I have seen in
continued the knight, in a gayer tone,
more stirring scenes than the hall of a Roman baron.”
Rienzi glanced keenly at Montreal, who met his eye
with an open brow.
"Yes!" resumed the knight; "but let us walk ou ;
suffer me for a few moments to be your companion. Yes!
I have listened to you, the other eve, when you addressed
the populace, and to-day, when you rebuked the nobles;
and at midnight, too, not long since, when (your ear, fair
sir! lower, it is a secret') at midnight, too, when you
administered the oath of brotherhood to the bold conspira-
tors, on the ruined Aventine!"
As he concluded, the knight drew himself aside to watch,
upon Rienzi's countenance, the effect which his words
might produce.
>>
/
A slight tremor passed over the frame of the conspirator,
for so, unless the conspiracy succeed, would Rienzi be
termed by others than Montreal: he turned abruptly round
to confront the knight, and placed his hand involuntarily on
his sword, but presently relinquished the grasp.
"Ha!" said the Roman, slowly, "if this be true, fall
Rome! There is treason even among the free!
“No treason, brave sir! answered Moutreal;
I pos-
sess the secret, --but none have betrayed it to me.
"And is it as friend or foe that thou hast learned it ?
"That as it may be," returned Montreal, carelessly
Enough, at present, that I could send thee to the giblet
if I said but the word, to show my power to be thy foe:
enough, that I have not done it, to prove my disposition to
be thy friend.”
“Thou mistakest, stranger! that man does not live whe
could shed my blood in the streets of Rome! The gibbet!
Little dost thou know of the power which surrounds
Rienzi?”
CC
These words were said with some scorn and bitterness;
but, after a moment's pause, Rienzi resumed, more calmly:---
By the cross on thy mantle ou belongest to one of the
proudest orders of knighthood : thou art a foreigner, and a
cavalier. What generous sympathies can convert thee inte
a friend of the Roman people?
“ Cola di Rienzi," returned Montreal, "the sympathies
232
BULWER'S NOVELS.
that unite us are those that unite all men, who, by their own
efforts, rise above their herd. True, I was born noble,
but powerless, and poor: at my beck now move, from city
to city, the armed instruments of authority; my breath is
the law of thousands. This empire I have not inherited;
I won it by a cool brain, and a fearless arm.
Know me
for Walter de Montreal; is it not a name that speaks a
spirit kindred to thine own? Is not ambition a common
sentiment between us? I do not inarshal soldiers for gain
only, though men have termed me avaricious, -'nor butcher
peasants for the love of blood, though men have called me
cruel. Arms and wealth are the sinews of power; it is
power that I desire thou, bold Rienzi, strugglest thou not
for the same? Is it the rank breath of the garlic-chewing
mob, is it the whispered envy of schoolinen, is it the
hollow mouthing of boys who call thee patriot and freeman,
words to trick the ear, that will content thee? These are
but thy instruments to power. Have I spoken truly?
Whatever distaste Rienzi might conceive at this speech,
he masked effectually. "Certes," said he, "it would be
in vain, renowned captain, to deny that I seek but that
power of which thou speakest. But what union can there
be between the ambition of a Roman citizen and the leader
of paid armies, that take their cause only according to their
hire, to-day fight for liberty in Florence, to-inorrow,
for tyranny in Bologna ? Pardon my frankness; for in this
age that is deemed no disgrace which I impute to thy ar-
mies. Valor and generalship are held to consecrate any
cause they distinguish; and he who is the master of princes,
may be well honored by them as their equal.”
no
"We are entering into a less deserted quarter of the
town," said the knight; "is there no secret place,
Aventine, in this direction, where we can confer?"
"Hush!" replied Rienzi, cautiously looking round,
"I thank thee, noble Montreal, for the hint; nor may it be
well for us to be seen together. Wilt thou deign to follow
me to my home, by the Palatine bridge?* there we can
converse undisturbed and secure."
"Be it so," said Montreal, falling back.
With a quick and hurried step, Rienzi passed through
the town, in which, wherever he was discovered, the scat-
tered citizens saluted him with marked respect; and, turn-
ing through a labyrinth of dark alleys, as if to shun the
more public thoroughfares, arrived at length at a broad
space near the river. The first stars of night shone down
on the ancient temple of Fortuna Virile, which the chances
of time had already converted into the church of St. Mary
of Egypt; and facing the twice-hallowed edifice, stood the
house of Rienzi.
"It is a fair omen to have my mansion facing the an-
cient temple of Fortune," said Rienzi, smiling, as Mon-
treal followed the Roman into the chamber I have already
described.
"Yet valor need never pray to Fortune," said the
knight; "the first commands the last."
Long was the conference between these two men, the
most enterprising of their age. Meanwhile, let me make
the realer somewhat better acquainted with the character
and designs of Montreal, than the hurry of events has yet
permitted him to become.
Walter de Montreal, generally known in the chronicles
of Italy by the designation of Fra Moreale, had passed
into Italy,
a bold adventurer, worthy to become a suc-
cessor of those roving Normans, (from one of the most
eminent of whom, by the mother's side, he claimed de-
scent,) and who had formerly played so strange a part in
the chivalric erantry of Europe, realizing the fables of
Amadis and Palmerin, (each knight, in himself a host,)
winning territories and oversetting thrones; acknowledg-
ing no laws save those of knighthood; never confounding
themselves with the tribe among which they settled; iuca-
pable of becoming citizens, and scarcely contented with
aspiring to be kings. At that time, Italy was the India of
all those well-born and penniless adventurers, who, like
Montreal, had inflamed their imagination by the ballads
and legends of the Roberts and the Godfreys of old; who
.1
*The picturesque ruins shown a day as having once been
he habitation of the celelrrted Cola di Rienzi, were long as-
serted by the antiquarians to have belonged to another Cola or
Nicola. I believe, however, that the dispute has been lately
decided; and, indeed, no one but an antiquary, and that a
Roman one, could suppose that there were two Colas to whom
the inscription on the house would apply.
had trained themselves from youth to manage the barb, am
bear, through the heats of summer, the weight of arms;
and who, passing into an effeminate and distracted land,
had only to exhibit bravery in order to command wealth.
It was considered no disgrace for some powerful chieftain
to collect together a band of these hardy aliens, to subsist
amid the mountains on booty and pillage, to make war
upon tyrant or republic, as interest suggested, and to sell,
at enormous stipends, the immunities of peace. Some-
times they hired themselves to one state to protect it
against the other; and the next year beheld them in the
field against their former employers. These bands of
northern stipendaries assumed, therefore, a civil, as well
as a military importance; they were as indispensable to
the safety of one state as they were destructive to the
security of all. But five years before the present date, the
Florentine republic had hired the services of a celebrated
leader of these brigands, Gualtier, duke of Athers.
By acclamation, the people themselves had elected trat
warrior to the state of prince, or tyrant of their state;
before the year was completed, they revolted against his
cruelties, or rather against his exactions,- for, despite all
the boasts of their historians, they felt an attack on their
purses more deeply than an assault on their libertien, -
they had chased him from their city, and once more pro
claimed themselves a republic. The bravest and most
favored of the soldiers of the duke of Athens had been his
namesake, Montreal; he had shared the rise and the down
fall of his chief. Among popular commotions, the derp and
observant mind of the knight of St. John had leared no
mean civil experience; he had learned to sound a people,
And
to know how far they would endure, to construe the
signs of revolution, to be a reader of the times. After the
downfall of the duke of Athens, a free companion, in
others words a freebooter, he had augmented under the
fierce warrior his revenues and his renown. At present
without employment worthy his spirit of enterprise and
intrigue, the disordered and chiefless state of Rome haq
attracted him thither. In the league he had proposed to
Colonna, in the suggestions he had made to the vanity
of that signor, his own object was to render his services
indispensable, to constitute himself the head of the sol-
diery whom his proposed designs would render necessary
to the ambition of the Colonna, could it be excited, — and,
in the vastness of his hardy genius for enterprise, he
probably foresaw that the command of such a force would
be, in reality, the command of Rome; a counter-revolution
might easily unseat the Colonna and elect himself to the
principality. It had sometimes been the custom of Roman,
as other Italian states, to prefer for a chief magistrate,
under the title of podesta, a foreigner to a native.
Montreal hoped that he might possibly become to Rome
what the duke of Athens had been to Florence, an
ambition he knew well enough to be above the gentleman
of Provence, but not of the leader of an army. But, as we
have already seen, his sagacity perceived at once that he
could not move the aged head of the patricians to those
hardy and perilous measures which were necessary to the
attainment of supreme power. Contented with his pres-
ent station, and taught moderation by his age and his past
reverses, Stephen Colonna was not the man to risk a scaf
fold from the hope to gain a throne. The contempt which
the old patrician professed for the people, and their idol,
also taught the deep-thinking Montreal, that, if the Colon-
na possessed not the ambition, neither did he possess the
policy requisite for empire. The knight found his caution
against Rienzi in vain, and he turned to Rienzi himself.
Little cared the knight of St. John which party was upper-
most,prince or people, so that his own objects wers
attained; in fact, he had studied the humors of a people,
not in order to serve, but to rule them; and, believing all
men actuated by a similar ambition, he imagined that,
whether a demagogue or a patrician reigned, the people
were equally to be victims, and that the cry of "Order "
on the one hand, or of “ Liberty on the other, was but
the mere pretext by which the energy of one man sought to
justify his ambition over the herd. Deeming himself one
of the most honorable spirits of his age, he believed in. no
honor which he was unable to feel, and, skeptic in virtue
was therefore credulous of vice.
But the boldness of his own nature inclined him, perhaps,
rather to the adventurous Rienzi than to the self-compla
¡cent Colonna; and he considered that to the safety of the
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
238
hrst he and his armed minions might be even more neces-
sary than to that of the last. At present, his main object
was to learn from Rienzi the exact strength which he pos-
sessed, and how far he was prepared for any actual revolt.
The acute Roman took care, on the one hand, how he
betrayed to the knight more than he yet knew, or how he
disgusted him by apparent reserve on the other. Crafty as
Montreal was, he possessed not that wonderful art of mas-
tering others which was so preeminently the gift of the
eloquent and profound Rienzi, and the difference between
the grade of their intellect was visible in their present
conference.
"I see," said Rienzi, " that among all the events which
have lately smiled upon my ambition, none is so favorable
as that which assures me of your countenance and friend-
ship. In truth, I require some armed alliance. Would
you believe it, our friends, so bold in private meetings, yet
elink from a public explosion. They fear not the patri-
cians, but the soldiery of the patricians; for it is the re-
markable feature in the Italian courage, that they have no
terror for each other, but the casque and the sword of a
foreign hireling make them quail like deer."
*
They will welcome gladly, then, the assurance that such
hirelings shall be in their service, not against them; and
as many as you desire for the revolution, so many shall you
receive."
>>
"But the and the conditions?" said Rienzi, with
pay
bis dry sarcastic smile.
"How shall we arrange the first,
and what shall we hold to be the second?
“That is an affair easily concluded," replied Montreal.
"For me, to tell you frankly, the glory and excitement of
so great a revulsion would alone suffice. I like to feel my-
I like to feel my-
self necessary to the completion of high events.
For my
men it is otherwise. Your first act will be to seize the rev-
enues of the state. Well, whatever they amount to, the
product of the first year, great or small, shall be divided
among us. You the one half, and I and my men the other
half."
"It is much," said Rienzi, gravely, and as if in cal-
culation: but Rome cannot purchase her liberties too
dearly. So be it then decided."
"Amen!—and now, then, what is your force? for
these eighty or hundred signors of the Aventine,
men, doubtless, scarce suffice for a revolt!"
worthy
Gazing cautiously round the room, the Roman placed his
hand on Montreal's arm,
"Between you and me, it requires time to cement it.
We shall be unable to stir these five weeks. I have too
rashly anticipated the period. The harvest is indeed ripe,
but I must now, by private adjurations and address, bind
the scattered sheaves."
up
"Five weeks!" repeated Montreal; "that is far longer
than I anticipated."
"What I desire," continued Rienzi, fixing his search-
ing eyes upon Montreal, “is, that, in the mean while, we
should preserve a profound calm; we should remove every
suspicion. I shall bury myself in my studies, and convoke
no more meetings."
familiar, and Montreal, whose craft was acquired, and
whose frankness was natural, unwittingly committed his
secret projects and ambition more nakedly to Rienzi than
he had designed to do. They parted, apparently the best
of friends.
By the way," said Rienzi, as they drained the last
goblet, "Stephen Colonna betakes him to Corneto, with a
convoy of corn, on the 19th. Will it not be as well if you
join him? You can take that opportunity to whisper dis-
content to the mercenaries that accompany him on his mis-
sion, and induce them to our plan.
"I thought of that before," returned Montreal; "it
shall be done. For the present farewell!
"His barb, and his sword,
And his lady the peerless,
Are all that are prized
By Orlando the fearless.
Success to the Norman,
The darling of story ;
His glory is pleasure,
His pleasure is glory.'"
Chanting this rude ditty as he resumed nis mantle, the
knight waved his hand to Rienzi, and departed.
expression of hate and fear
Rienzi watched the receding form of his guest with an
"Give
his countenance.
upon
that man the power," he muttered, "and he may be a
cious nature,
second Totila.* Methinks I see, in his griping and fero-
through all the gloss of its gayety and
knightly grace,
the very personification of our old
Gothic foes. I trust I have lulled him! Verily, two suns
could no more blaze in one hemisphere, than Walter de
Montreal and Cola d Rienzi live in the same city. The
star-seers tell us that we feel a secret and uncontrollable
fair-faced
antipathy to those whose astral influences destine them to
work us evil; such antipathy do I feel for yon
homicide. Cross not my path, Montreal! cross not my
path!
With this soliloquy, Rienzi turned within, and, retiring
to his apartment, was seen no more that night.
CHAPTER V.
The procession of the barons. The beginning of the end.
IT was the morning of the 19th of May, the air was
brisk and clear, aud the sun, which had just risen, shone
cheerily upon the glittering casques and spears of a gallant
procession of armed horsemen, sweeping through the long
and principal street of Rome. The neighing of the horses
the ringing of the hoofs, the dazzle of the armor, and the
tossing to and fro of the standards, adorned with the proud
insignia of the Colonna, presented one of the gay and
brilliant spectacles peculiar to the middle ages.
At the left of Stephen Colonna rode Adrian, grave and
silent, and replying only by monosyllables to the gay bavar-
dage of the knight of Provence. A considerable number
of the flower of the Roman nobles followed the old baron ;
and the train was closed by a serried troop of foreign
horsemen, completely armed.
At the head of the troop, on a stout palfrey, rode Ste-
phen Colonna. At his right was the knight of Provence,
curbing, with an easy hand, a slight but fiery steed of the
• Well,
Arab race behind him followed two squires, the one lead-
"And for yourself, noble knight, might I venture to dic-ing his war horse, the other bearing his lance and helmet.
tate, I would pray you to mix with the nobles: to profess,
for me and for the people, the profoundest contempt; and
to contribute to rock them yet more in the cradle of their
false security. Meanwhile, you could quietly withdraw as
many of the armed mercenaries as you influence from
Rome, and leave the nobles without their only defenders.
Collecting these hardy warriors in the recesses of the
mountains, a day's march from hence, we may be able to
summon them at nced, and they shall appear at our gates,
and in the midst of our rising, hailed as deliverers by the
nobles, but in reality allies with the people. In the con-
fusion and despair of our enemies at discovering their mis-
take, they will fly from the city.'
"And its revenues and its empire will become the
appanage of the hardy soldier and the intriguing dema-
gɔgue ! cried Montreal, with a laugh.
Sit knight, the division shall be equal."
Agreed!"
"And now, noble Montreal, a flask of our best vint-
age!" said Rienzi, changing his tone.
"You know the Provençals," answered Montreal,
gayly.
The wine was brought, the conversation became free and
VOL. II
30
There was no crowd in the street, the citizens looked
with seeming apathy at the cortège from their half-closed
shops.
"Have these Romans no passion for shows?" asked
Montreal; "if they could be easier amused, they would
be easier governed.
"Oh! Rienzi, and such buffoons, amuse them We do
better, we terrify!" replied Stephen.
"What sings the troubadour, Lord Adrian?" said
Montreal.
“Smiles, false smilɛs, should form the school,
For those who rise, and those who rule :
The brave they trick, the fair subdue,
Kings deceive, and states undo.
Smiles, false smiles'
*Innocent VI., some years afterward proclairied Montreal
to be worse than Totila.
284
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Frowns, true frowns, ourselves betray,
The brave arouse, the fair dismay,
Sting the pride, which blood must heal,
Mix the bowl, and point the steel.
Frowns, false frowns!'
"The lay is of France, signor; yet methinks it brings
its wisdom from Italy; for the serpent smile is your country-
men's proper distinction, and the frown ill becomes them."
"Methinks, sir knight," replied Adrian, sharply, for he
was incensed at the taunt, "you have taught us how to
frown; a virtue sometimes."
"But not wisdom, unless the hand could maintain what
the brow menaced," returned Montreal, with haughtiness;
for he had much of that frank vivacity which often over-
came his prudence; and he had conceived a secret pique
against Adrian since their interview at Stephen's palace.
"Sir knight," answered Adrian, coloring, our conver-
sation may lead to warmer words than I would desire to
have with one who has rendered me so gallant a service."
Nay, then, let us go back to the troubadours," said
Montreal, indifferently. "Forgive me if I do not think
highly of Italian honor, or Italian valor; your valor I ac-
knowledge, for I have witnessed it, and valer and honor go
together; let that suffice!"
As Adrian was about to answer, his eye fell suddenly on
the burly form of Cecco del Vecchio, who was leaning his
bared and brawny arms over his anvil, and gazing, with a
smile, upon the group. There was something in that smile
which turned the current of Adrian's thoughts, and which
he could not contemplate without an unaccountable mis-
giving.
"A strong villain, that," said Montreal, also eyeing the
smith. "I should like to enlist him. Fellow!" cried he,
aloud," you have an arm that were as fit to wield the sword
as to fashion it. Desert your anvil, and follow the fortunes
of Fra Moreale !
The smith nodded his head. "Signor cavalier," said
he, gravely, "we poor men have no passion for war; we
want not to kill others, we desire only ourselves to live, if
you will let us!"
By the Holy Mother, a slavish answer!
Romans
>
But you
"Are slaves ! interrupted the smith, turning away to
the interior of his forge.
"The dog is mutinous!" said the old Colonna; and as
the band swept on, the rude foreigners, encouraged by their
.eaders, had each some taunt or jest, uttered in a barbarous
attempt at the southern patois, for the lazy giant, as he
again appeared in the front of his forge, leaning on his
anvil as before, and betraying no sign of attention to his
insulters, save by a heightened glow of his swarthy visage;
and so the gallant procession passed through the streets,
und quitted the eternal city.
of general
There was a long interval of deep silence,
calm, throughout the whole of Rome: the shops were
still but half open; no man betook himself to his business;
it was like the commencement of some holyday, when indo-
lence precedes enjoyment.
About noon, a few small knots of men might be seen
scattered about the streets, whispering to each other, but
soon dispersing; and every now and then a single passen-
ger, generally habited in the long robes used by the men of
letters, or in the still more sombre garb of monks, passed
hurriedly up the street towards the church of St. Mary of
Egypt, once the temple of Fortune. Then, again, all was
solitary and deserted. Suddenly, there was heard the sound
of a single trumpet! It swelled, it gathered on the ear.
Cecco del Vecchio looked up from his anvil! A solitary
horseman paced slowly by the forge, and wound a long loud
blast of the trumpet suspended round his neck, as he passed
through the middle of the street. Then might you see a
crowd, suddenly, and as by magic, appear emerging from
every corner; the street became thronged with multitudes;
but it was only by the tramp of their feet, and an indistinct
and low murmur, that they broke the silence. Again the
horseman wound his trump, as commanding attention, and
as the note ceased, he cried aloud, "Friends and Romans!
"Friends and Romans!
to-morrow, at dawn of day, let each man find himself un-
armed before the church of St. Angelo. Cola di Rienzi
convenes the Romans to provide for the good state of
Rome." A shout, that seemed to shake the bases of the
seven hills, broke forth at the end of this brief exhortation ;
the horseman rode slowly on, and the crowd followed.
This was the commencement of the revolution !
CHAPTER VI.
The conspirator becomes the magistrate.
AT midnight, when the rest of the city seemed hushed in
of St. Angelo. Breaking from its echoing aisles, the long
rest, lights were streaming from the windows of the church
and solemn notes of sacred music stole at frequent intervals
thirty masses consumed the hours from night till morn, and
upon the air. Rienzi was praying within the church;
all the sauction of religion was invoked to consecrate the
crowd had long been assembled before the church door,
enterprise of liberty. * The sun had long risen, and the
and in vast streams along every street that led to 't, when
the bell of the church tolled out long and merrily; and as
it ceased, the voices of the cnosters within chanted the
following hymn; in which was somewhat strikingly, though
barbarously, blended the spirit of the classic patriotism
with the fervor of religious zeal : —
THE ROMAN HYMN OF LIBERTY
LET the mountains exult around! †
On her seven-hilled throne renowned,
Once more old Rome is crowned!
Jubilate '
Sing out, oh vale and wave!
Look out from each laurelled grave,
Bright dust of the deathless brave i
Jubilate !
Pale vision, what art thou? Lo,
From time's dark deeps,
Like a wind it sweeps,
Like a wind when the tempests blow:
A shadowy form, - as a giant ghost,
It stands in the midst of the armed host!
The dead man's shroud on its awful limbs ;
And the gloom of its presence the daylight dime
And the trembling world looks on aghast, -
All hail to the SOUL OF THE MIGHTY PAST !
Hail all hail !
As we speak, - as we hallow it moves, it breathes
From its clouded crest bud the laurel wreaths,
As a sun that leaps up from the arms of night,
The shadow takes shape, and the gloom takes light.
Hail all hail '
THE SOUL OF THE PAST, again
To its ancient home,
In the hearts of Rome,
Hath come to resume its reign!
Oh Fame, with a prophet's voice,
Bid the ends of the earth rejoice!
Wherever the proud are strong,
And right is oppressed by wrong,
Wherever the day dim shines
Through the cell where the captive pines,
Go forth, with a trumpet's sound!
And tell to the nations round,
-
On the hills which the heroes trod,
In the shrines of the saints of God,
In the Cæsars' hall, and the martyr's prison,
That the slumber is broke, and the sleeper arisen!
That the reign of the Goth and the Vandal is o'er;
And earth feels the tread of THE ROMAN once more '
As the hymn ended, the gate of the church opened; the
crowd gave way on either side, and, preceded, by three
of the young nobles of the inferior order, bearing standards
of allegorical design, depicting the triumph of liberty, jus
tice, and concord, forth issued Rienzi, clad in complete
armor, the helmet alone excepted. His face was pale
but stern, grave,
with watching and intense excitement,
and solemnly composed; and its expression so repelled
any vociferous and vulgar burst of feeling, that those who
beheld it hushed the shout on their lips, and stilled, by a
simultaneous cry of reproof, the gratulations of the crowd
behind.
Side by side, with Rienzi, moved Raimond,
Bishop of Orvietto; and behind, marching two by two,
followed a hundred men-at-arms. In complete silence the
procession began its way, until, as it approached the capi-
Madaga
* In fact, I apprehend that if ever the life of Cola di Rienzi
shall be written by a hand worthy of the task, it will be shown
that a strong religious feeling was blended with the political
enthusiasm of the people, the religious feeling of a premature
and crude reformation, the legacy of Arnold of Brescia. It was
not, however, one excited against the priests, but favored by
them. The principal conventual orders declared for the revolu
tion.
"Exultent in circuito vestro montes," &c. Let the moun-
tains exult around! So begins Rienzi's letter to the senate and
Roman people; preserved by Hocsemius
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
235
tol, the awe of the crowd gradually vanished, and thousands
apon thousands of voices rent the air with shouts of exul-
tation and joy.
Arrived at the foot of the great staircase, which then
made the principal ascent to the square of the capitol, the
procession halted; and as the crowd filled up that vast
space in front, adorned and hallowed by many of the
most majestic columns of the temples of old,-Rienzi
addressed the populace whom he had suddenly elevated
into a people.
He depicted forcibly the servitude and misery of the
people, the utter absence of all law, the want even of
common security to life and property. He declared that,
undaunted by the peril he incurred, he devoted his life to
the regeneration of their common country; and he solemn-
ly appealed to the people to assist the enterprise, and at
once to sanction and consolidate the revolution by an
established code of law and a constitutional assembly.
He then ordered the chart and outline of the constitution
he proposed, to be read by the herald to the multitude.
It created, or rather revived, with new privileges and
powers, a representative assembly of counsellors. It
proclaimed, as its first law, one that seems simple enough
to our happier times, but hitherto never executed in Rome,
every wilful homicide, of whatever rank, was to be
punished by death. It enacted, that no private noble or
citizen should be suffered to maintain fortifications and
garrisons in the city, or the country; that the gates and
bridges of the state should be under the control of whom
soever should be elected chief magistrate. It forbade all
harbor of brigands, mercenaries, and robbers, on penalty
of a thousand marks of silver; and it made the barons
who possessed the neighbouring territories responsible for
the safety of the roads, and the transport of merchandise.
It took under the protection of the state the widow and
the orphan. It appointed, in each of the quarters of the
city, an armed militia, whom the tolling of the bell of the
capitol, at any hour, was to assemble to the protection of
the state. It ordained, that in each harbour of the coast a
vessel should be stationed, for the safeguard of commerce.
It decreed the sum of one hundred florins to the heirs
of every man who died in the defence of Rome; and it
devoted the public revenues to the service and protection
of the state.
Such, moderate, at once, and effectual, was the outline
of the new constitution; and it may amuse the reader to
consider how great must have been the previous disorders
of the city, when the common and elementary provisions
of civilization and security made the character of the code
proposed, and the limit of a popular revolution.
The most rapturous shouts received this sketch of the
new constitution; and, amid the clamor, up rose the huge
form of Cecco del Vecchio. Despite his condition, he was
a man of great importance at the present crisis: his zeal
and his courage, and, perhaps, still more, his brute passion
and stubborn prejudice, had made him popular. The
lower order of mechanics looked to him as their head and
representative; out then he spake loud and fearlessly,
speaking well, because his mind was full of what he had
to say.
Countrymen and citizens! This new constitution meets
with your approbation, -so it ought. But what are good
laws, if we do not have good men to execute them? Who
should execute a law so well as the man who designs it?
If you ask me to give you a notion how to make a good
shield, and my notion pleases you, would you ask me, or
another smith, to make it for you? If you ask another, he
may make a good shield, but it would not be the same as
that which I should have made, and the description of which
contented you. Cola di Rienzi has proposed a code of
law that shall be our shield. Who should see that the
shield become what he proposes, but Cola di Rienzi? Ro-
mans! I suggest that Cola di Rienzi be intrusted by the
people with the authority, by whatsoever name he pleases,
of carrying the new constitution into effect; and, whatever
be the means, we, the people, will bear him harmless."
"Long life to Rienzi! long live Cecco del Vecchio!
He hath spoken well! -none but the lawmaker shall be
the governor!"
Such were the acclamations which greeted the ambitious
heart of the scholar. The voice of the people invested him
with the supreme power. He had created a commonwealth,
-to become, if he desired it, a despot!
CHAPTER VII.
Looking after the halter when the mare is stolen.
WHILE Such were the events at Rome, a servitor of
Stephen Colonna was already on his way to Corneto. The
astonishment with which the old baron received the intelli-
gence may be easily imagined. He lost not a moment in
convening his troop; and while in all the bustle of depar-
ture, the knight of St. John abruptly entered his presence.
His mien had lost its usual frank composure.
Ri-
"How is this?" said he, hastily; "a revolt?
enzi sovereign of Rome ?-can the news be believed?"
"It is too true!" said Colonna, with a bitter smile.
"Where shall we hang him on our return?
"Talk not so wildly, sir baron, replied Montreal, dis-
courteously; "Rienzi is stronger than you think for. I
know what men are, and you only know what nobiemen
are! Where is your nephew?"
"He is here, noble Montreal," said Stephen, shrugging
his shoulders, with a half-disdainful smile at the rebuke
which he thought it more prudent not to resent; "he is
here! - see him enter! "
"You have heard the news?" exclaimed Montreal.
"I have."
"And despise the revolution ? "
"I fear it!"
"Then you have some sense in you. But this is none of
my affair: I will not interrupt your consultations. Adieu
for the present!" and, ere Stephen could prevent him, the
knight had quitted the chamber.
"What means this demagogue?" Montreal muttered to
himself. "Would he trick me ?-has he got rid of my
presence in order to monopolize all the profit of the enter-
prise? I fear me so! the cunning Roman! We north-
eru warriors could never compete with their intellect, but
for their cowardice. But what shall be done? I have
already bid Rodolf communicate with the brigands, and
they are on the eve of departure from their present lord.
Well let it be so! Better that I should first break the
power of the barons, and then make my own terms, sword
in hand, with the plebeian. And if I fail in this,
Adeline! I shall see thee again!—that is some comfort!
and Louis of Hungary will bid high for the arm and brain
of Walter de Montreal. What ho! Rodolf!" he ex-
claimed aloud, as the sturdy form of the trooper, half armed
and half intoxicated, reeled along the court-yard. "Knave!
art thou drunk at this hour?"
sweet
"Drunk or sober," auswered Rodolf, bending low, “I
am at thy bidding.'
Well said! are thy friends ripe for the saddle?”
Eighty of them, already tired of idleness and the dull air
of Rome, will fly wherever Sir Walter de Montreal wishes.”
"Hasten, then, - bid them mount; we go not hence
with the Colonna, we leave while they are yet talking.
Bid my squires attend me ! "
And when Stephen Colonna was settling himself on his
palfrey, he heard for the first time that the knight of Prov-
ence, Rodolf the trooper, and eighty of the stipendiaries,
had already departed, whither none knew.
"To precede us to Rome! gallant barbarian!" saio
Colonna. "Sirs, on!"
CHAPTER VIII.
The attack, the retreat, the election, and the adica ke
ARRIVING at Rome, the company of the Colonne found
the gates barred, and the walls manned. Stephen tade ad.
vance his trumpeters, with one of his captains imperiously
to demand admittance.
"We have orders," replied the chief of the town guard,
"to admit none who bear arms, flags, or trumpets. Let
the Lords Colonna dismiss their train, and they are wel-
come
"Whose are these insolent mandates?" asked the
captain.
"Those of the Lord Bishop of Orvietto and Cola di
Rienzi, joint protectors of the buono stato."*
The captain of the Colonna returned to his chief with
these tidings. The rage of Stephen it is easier to imagine
than to describe. “Go back,” he cried, as soon as be
* Good state.
234
BULWER'S NOVELS.
pope
could suminon voice, "and say, that if the gates are not
orthwith opened to me and mine, the blood of the plebeians
De on their own head. As for Raimond, vicars of the
have high spiritual authority, none temporal. Let him
prescribe a fast, and he shall be obeyed; but, for the rash
Renzi, say that Stephen Colonna will seek him in the cap-
itol to-morrow, for the purpose of throwing him out of the
highest window."
These messages the captain failed not to deliver.
The captain of the Romans was equally stern in his
reply.
"Declare to your lord," said he, "that Rome holds him
and his as rebels and traitors; and that the moment that
you regain your troop our archers receive our command to
draw their bows, in the name of the pope, the city, and the
iberator."
This threat was executed to the letter; and ere the old
aron had time to draw up his men in the best array, the
ates were thrown open, and a well-armed, if undisciplined,
multitude poured forth, with fierce shouts, clashing their
arms, and advancing the azure banners of the Roman state.
So desperate their charge, and so great their numbers, that
the barons, after a short and tumultuous conflict, were
driven back, and chased by their pursuers for more than a
mile from the walls of the city.
As soon as the barons recovered their disorder and dis-
may, a hasty council was held, at which various and con-
tradictory opinions were loudly urged. Some were for de-
parting on the instant to Palestrina, which belonged to the
Colonna, and possessed an almost inaccessible fortress.
Others were for dispersing and entering peaceably, and in
detached parties through the other gates. Stephen Colon-
na, (himself incensed and disturbed from his usual self-
command,) was unable to preserve his authority; and some
of the barons, among others, Luca di Savelli, a timid,
though treacherous and subtle man, already turned his
horse's head, and summoned his men to follow him to his
castle in Romagna, when the old Colonna bethought him-
self of a method by which to keep his band from a dis-
union, that he had the sense to perceive would prove fatal to
the common cause. He proposed that they should at once
repair to Palestrina, and there fortify themselves; while
one of the chiefs should be selected to enter Rome, alone
and apparently submissive, to examine the strength of Ri-
enzi; and with the discretionary power to resist if possi-
ble, or to make the best terms he could for the admission
of the rest.
"And who," asked Savelli, sneeringly, "will undertake
this dangerous mission? Who unarmed and alone will
expose himself to the rage of the fiercest populace of Italy,
and the caprice of a demagogue in the first flush of his
power?"
The barons and the captains looked at each other in si-
lence. Savelli laughed.
Hitherto Adrian had taken no part in the conference,
and but little in the previous contest. He now came to
the
support of his kinsman.
"Signors! said he, "I will undertake this mission,
out on mine own account, independently of yours; free to
act as I may think best for the dignity of a Roman noble
and the interests of a Roman citizen; free to raise my
standard on mine own tower, or to yield fealty to the new
state.
Adrian saw them depart, and then, attended cnly by ha
squire, slowly rode towards a more distant entrance into
the city. On arriving at the gates, his name was demanded,
he gave it freely.
"Enter, my lord," said the warder; "our orders were
to admit all that came unarmed and unattended. But to
the Lord Adrian di Castello, alone, we had a special in-
junction, to give the honors due to a citizen and a friend.
Adrian, a little touched by this implied recollection of
friendship, now passed through a long line of armed citi-
zens, who saluted him respectfully as he passed, and, as he
returned the salutation with courtesy, a loud and approving
shout followed his horse's steps.
young
So, save by one attendant alone, and in
patrician rode leisurely through the long streets, empty and
peace, the
deserted, — for nearly one half of the inhabitants were as-
sembled at the walls, and nearly the other half were engaged
in a more peaceful duty, -until, penetrating the interior,
the wide and elevated space of the capitol broke upon his
sight. The sun was slowly setting over an immense me.
titude that overspread the spot, and high above a scaffɔ♫
raised in the centre, shone to the western ray, the great
gonfalon of Rome, studded with silver stars.
Adrian reined in his steed. "This," thought he, "is
scarcely the hour thus publicly to confer with Ricnzi; yet
fain would I mingle with the crowd, judge how far his
power is supported, and in what manner it is borne.'
Musing a little, he withdrew into one of the obscurer
streets, then wholly deserted, surrendered his horse to his
squire, and, borrowing of the latter his morion and long
mantle, passed to one of the more private entrances of the
capitol, and, enveloped in his cloak, stood, one of the
crowd, intent upon all that followed.
“And what,
دو
he asked of a plainly-dressed citizen,
"is the cause of this assembly?
"Heard you not the proclamation?" returned the other,
in some surprise. "Do you not know that the council of
the city and the guilds of the artisans have passed a vote
to proffer to Rienzi the title of King of Rome ?"
The knight of the emperor, to whom belonged that au-
gust dignity, drew back in dismay.
CC
And," resumed the citizen," this assembly of all the
lesser barons, councillors, and artificers, is convened to
hear the answer.
"Of course it will be assent ?
"I know not,
there are strange rumors; hitherto the
liberator has concealed his sentiments."
At that instant a loud flourish of martial music announced
the approach of Rienzi. The crowd tumultuously divi-
ded, and presently, from the palace of the capitol to the
scaffold, passed Rienzi, still in complete armor, save the
helmet, and with him, in all the pomp of his episcopal
robes, Raimond of Orvietto.
As soon as Rienzi had ascended the platform, and was
thus made visible to the whole concourse, no words can
suffice to paint the enthusiasm of the scene, the shouts,
the gestures, the tears, the sobs, the wild laughter, in which
the sympathy of those lively and susceptible children of
the South broke forth. The windows and balconies of the
palace were thronged with the wives and daughters of the
lesser barons and more opulent citizens; and Ädrian, with
a slight start, beheld among them, — pale, — agitated,
tearful, the lovely face of his Irene, a face that even
“Well said !” cried the old Colonna, hastily. "Heav-thus would have outshone all present, but for one by her
en forbid we should enter Rome as foes, if to enter it as
friends be yet allowed us! What say ye, gentles?"
"A more worthy choice could not be selected," said Sa-
velli; "but I should scarce deem it possible that a Colonna
could think there was an option between resistance and
fealty to this upstart revolution."
"Of that, signor, I will judge for myself; if you demand
an agent for yourselves, choose another. I announce to ye
frankly, that I have seen enough of other states to think
the recent condition of Rome demanded some redress.
Whether Rienzi and Raimond be worthy of the task they
nave assumed, I know not.
""
Savelli was silent. The old Colonna seized the word.
"To Palestrina then!-are ye all agreed on this? At
the worst, or at the best, we should not be divided! On
this condition alone I hazard the safety of my kinsman !”
The barons murmured a little among theinselves; the
expediency of Stephen's proposition was evident, and they
at length assented to it.
side, whose beauty the emotion of the hour only served to
embellish. The dark, large, and flashing eyes of Nina di
Raselli, just bedewed, were fixed proudly on the hero of
her choice; and pride, even more than joy, gave a richer
carnation to her cheek, and the presence of a queen to her
noble and rounded form. The setting sun poured his ful
glory over the spot; the bared heads, the animated faces
of the crowd, the gray and vast mass of the capitol;
and, not far from the side of Rienzi, it brought into a
strange and startling light the sculptured form of a colossal
lion of basalt,* which gave its name to a staircase leading
to the capitol. It was an old Egyptian relic,— vast, wớn,
and grim; some symbol of a vanished creed, to whose
* The existing capitol is very different from the building at
the time of Rienzi; and the reader must not suppose that the
present staircase, designed by Michael Angelo, at the base of
which are two marble Eons, removed by Pius IV. from the
church of St. Stephen del Cucco, was the staircase of the lion
of basalt which bears so stern a connexion with the history
of Rienzi. That mute witness of dark deeds is no more.
RIENZI, THE LAST
237
OF THE TRIBUNES.
face the sculptor had imparted something of the aspect of
the human countenance. And this, producing the effect
probably sought, gave at all times a mystic, preternatural,
and fearful expression to the stern features, and to that
solemn and hushed repose, which is so peculiarly the secret
of Egyptian sculpture. The awe which this colossal and
frowning image was calculated to convey, was felt yet
more deeply by the vulgar, because the staircase of the
lion":
was the wonted place of the state executions, as of
the state ceremonies. And seldom did the stoutest citizen
forget to cross himself, or feel unchilled with a certain ter-
ror, whenever, passing by the place, he caught, suddenly
fixed upon him, the stony gaze and ominous grin of that
old monster from the cities of the Nile.
It was some minutes before the feelings of the assembly
allowed Rienzi to be heard. But when, at length, the last
shout closed with a simultaneous cry of "Long live Rien-
zi! Deliverer and king of Rome!" he raised his hand
impatiently, and the curiosity of the crowd procured a
sudden silence
"Deliverer of Rome, my countrymen!" said he. "Yes!
change not that title, I am too ambitious to be a king!
I am too ambitious to be a king!
Preserve your obedience to your pontiff, — your allegiance
to your emperor, but be faithful to your own liberties.
You have a right to your ancient constitution; but that
constitution needed not a king. Emulous of the name of
Brutus, I am above the titles of a Tarquin! Romans,
awake! awake! be inspired with a nobler love of liberty
than that which, if it dethrones the tyrant of to-day, would
madly risk the danger of tyranny for to-morrow! Rome
wants still a liberator, -never a usurper! Take away
you bauble!
There was a pause; the crowd were deeply affected,
but they uttered no shouts; they looked anxiously for a
reply from their councillors, or popular leaders.
CC
tr
Signor," said Pandulfo di Guido, who was one of the
caporioni, your answer is worthy of your fame. But, in
order to enforce the law, Rome must endow you with
a legal title; if not that of king, deign to accept that of
dictator, or of consul."
Long live the Consul Rienzi!" cried several voices.
Rienzi waved his hand for silence.
ye
“Pandulfo di Guido! and you, honored councillors of
Rome! such title is at once too august for my merits, and
too inapplicable to my functions. I am one of the peo-
ple; the people are my charge; the nobles can protect
themselves. Dictator and consul are the appellations
of patricians. No," he continued, after a short pause;
" if
deem it necessary, for the preservation of order,
that your fellow-citizen should be intrusted with a formal
title and a recognised power, be it so; but let it be such
us may attest the nature of our new institutions, the
wis low of the people, and the moderation of their leaders.
Once, my countrymen, the people elected for the protectors
of their rights and the warders of their freedom, certain
officers responsible to the people, chosen from the people,
-provident for the people. Their power was great, but
it was delegated: a dignity, but a trust. The name of
these officers was that of tribune. Such is the title that,
conceded, not by clamor alone, but in the full parliament
of the people, and accompanied by such parliament, ruling
with such parliament *such is the title I will gratefully
accept.
CC
The speech, the sentiments, of Rienzi were rendered far
more impressive by a manner of earnest and deep sinceri-
ty; and the Romans, despite their corruption, felt a mo-
mentary exultation in the forbearance of their chief.
Long live the tribune of Rome!" was shouted; but
*Gibbon and Sismondi alike, neither of whom appears to
have consulted the original documents preserved by locsemius,
say nothing of the representative parliament, which it was al-
most Rienzi's first public act to institute or model. Six days
from the memorable nineteenth of May, he addressed the peo-
ple of Viterbo in a letter yet extant. He summons them to
elect and send two syndics, or ambassadors, to the general
peritament
And
less loud than the cry of "Long live the king!
Rome almost thought the revolution incomplete, because
the loftier title was not assumed. To a degenerate and
imbruted people, liberty seems too plain a thing, if un-
adorned by the pomp of the very despotism they would
dethrone. Revenge is their desire, rather than release;
and the greater the new power they create, the greater
seems their revenge against the old.
the old. Still, all that was
inost respected, intelligent, and powerful ainong the assem-
bly, were delighted at a temperance which they foresaw
would free Rome from a thousand dangers, whether from
the emperor or the pontiff. And their delight was yet in-
creased, when Rienzi added, so soon as returning silence
permitted, "And since we bave been equal laborers in the
same cause, whatever honors be awarded to me should be
extended also to the vicar of the pope, Raimond, lord
Bishop of Orvietto. Remember, that both church and
state are properly the rulers of the people, on y because
their benefactors. Long live the first vicar of a pope
that was ever also the liberator of a state!"""
"
Whether or not Rienzi was only actuated by patriotism in
his moderation, certain it is, that his sagacity was at least
equal to his virtue; and, perhaps, nothing could have ce-
mented the revolution more strongly than thus obtaining
for a colleague the vicar and representative of the pontifi-
cal power it borrowed, for the time, the sanction of the
pope himself, thus made to share the responsibility of
the revolution, without monopolizing the power of the
state.
:
While the crowd hailed the proposition of Rienzi; while
their shouts yet filled the air; while Raimond, somewhat
taken by surprise, sought by signs and gestures to convey
at once his gratitude and his humility, the tribune eleci,
casting his eyes around, perceived many hitherto attracted
by curiosity, and whom, from their rank and weight, it was
desirable to secure in the first heat of the public enthusiasm.
Accordingly, as soon as Raimond had uttered a short and
pompous harangue, in which his eager acceptation of the
honor proposed him was ludicrously contrasted by his em-
barrassed desire not to involve himself or the pope in any
untoward consequences that might ensue, Rienzi motioned
to two heralds that stood behind upon the platform, and
one of these advancing, proclaimed: "That as it was
desirable that all hitherto neutral should now profess them-
selves friends or foes, so they were invited to take at once
the oath of obedience to the laws, and subscription to the
buono stato."
So great was the popular fervor, and so much had it
been refined and deepened in its tone by the addresses of
Rienzi, that even the most indifferent had caught the con-
tagion; and no man liked to be seen shrinking from the
rest; so that the most neutral, knowing themselves the
most marked, were the most entrapped into allegiance to
the buono stato. The first who advanced to the platform
and took the oath was the Signor di Raselli, the father of
Nina. Others of the lesser nobility followed his example.
The
The
The presence of the pope's vicar induced the aristocrat-
ic; the fear of the people urged the selfish; the encour-
agement of shouts and gratulations excited the vain.
space between Adrian and Rienzi was made clear.
young noble suddenly felt the eyes of the tribune were upon
him; he felt that those eyes recognised and called upon
him, he colored, -he breathed short. The noble for-
bearance of Rienzi had touched him to the heart; the
applause, the pageant, the enthusiasm of the scene
intoxicated, confused him. He lifted his eyes and saw
before him the sister of the tribune, the lady of his love!
His indecision,
his pause,
continued, when Raimond
observing him, and obedient to a whisper from Rienzi,
Castello! a Colonna! a Colonna!" Retreat was cut off.
- artfully cried aloud, "Room for the Lord Adrian di
Mechanically, and as if in a dream, Adrian ascended to
the platform; and, to complete the triumph of the tribunt,
the sun's last ray beheld the flower of the Colonna,
best and bravest of the barons of Rome, confissing'
authority, and subscribing to his laws!
the
238
BULWER'S NOVELS.
BOOK III.
THE FREEDOM WITHOUT LAW.
Ben furo avventurosi i cavalieri
Ch' erano a quella età, che nei valloni,
Nelle scure spelonche e boschi fieri,
Tane di serpi, d' orsi e di leoni,
Trovavan quel che nei palazzi altieri
Appena or trovar pon giudici buoni;
Donne che nella lor più fresca etade
Sien degne di aver titol di beltade.
ARIOSTO ORL. FUR., can. xiii. 1
CHAPTER I.
The return of Walter de Montreal to his fortress.
WHEN Walter de Montreal and his mercenaries quitted
Corneto, they made the best of their way to Rome; arri-
ving there, long before the barons, they met with a similar
reception at the gates, but Montreal prudently forbore all
attack and menace, and contented himself with sending his
trusty Rodolf into the city to seek Rienzi, and to crave
permission to enter with his troop. Rodolf returned in a
shorter time than was anticipated. "Well," said Mon-
treal, impatiently, "you have the order I suppose. Shall
we bid them open the gates?"
"Bid them open our graves," replied the Saxon, bluntly.
"I trust my next heraldry will be to a more friendly
court."
"How ! what mean you?"
"Briefly this. I found the new governor, or whatever
his title, in the palace of the capitol, surrounded by guards
and counsellors, and in the finest suit of armor I ever saw
out of Milan."
"Pest on his armor! give us his answer.'
added the knight, as he waved his hand on high, struck
spurs into his already wearied horse, and breaking out into
his favourite song,
"His barb, and his sword,
And his lady, the peerless," &c.
Montreal, with his troop, struck gallantly across the des-
olate Campagna.
The knight of St. John soon, however, relapsed into an
absorbed and moody reverie; and his followers imitating
the silence of their chief, in a few minutes the clatter of
their arms and the jingle of their spurs alone disturbed the
stillness of the wide and gloomy plains across which they
made towards Terracina. Montreal was recalling with
bitter resentment his conference with Rienzi; and, proud
of his own sagacity and talent for scheming, he was hum-
bled and vexed at the discovery that he had been duped by
a wilier intriguer. His ambitious designs on Rome were
crossed, too, and even crushed for the moment, by the very
means to which he had looked for their execution. He had
seen enough of the barons to feel assured that while Stephen
Colonna lived, the head of the order, he was not likely to
obtain that mastery in the state which, if leagued with a
more ambitious, or a less timid and less potent signor,
Under all cir-
cumstances, he deemed it advisable to remain aloof.
Should Rienzi grow strong, Montreal might make the ad-
"Tell Walter de Montreal' (said he, then, if you will
have it) that Rome is no longer a den of thieves: tell him, might reward his aid for expelling Rienzi.
that if he enters, he must abide a trial—' ''
"A trial!" cried Montreal, grinding his teeth.
"For participation in the evil doings of Werner and vantageous terms he desired with the barons; should
his freebooters." "
"Ha!"
“Tell him, moreover, that Rome declares war against
that Rome declares war against
all robbers, whether in tent or tower, and that we order
him in forty-eight hours to quit the territories of the
church.'"
"He thinks not only to deceive me, but to menace me,
then? Well, proceed."
"That was all his reply to you; to me, however, he
Vouchsafed a caution still more obliging. Hark ye,
friend,' said he. For every German bandit found in
Rome after to-morrow, our welcome will be cord and
gibbet! Begone.'
"Enough enough" cried Montreal, coloring with
age and shame; "Rodolf, you have a skilful eye in these
matters, how many northmen would it take to give this
same gibbet to the upstart?
Rodolf scratched his huge head, and seemed a while lost
In calculation; at length he said, “ You, captain, must be
the best judge, when I tell you that twenty thousand Ro-
mans are the least of his force; so I heard by the way; and
this evening he is to accept the crown, and depose the
emperor."
“Ha, ha!" laughed Montreal; " is he so mad? then
he will not want our aid to hang himself. My friends, let
us wait the result. At present neither barons nor people
seem likely to fill our coffers. Let us cross the country to
Terracina. Thank the saints," and Montreal (who was
not without a strange kind of devotion, indeed he deemed
that virtue essential to chivalry) crossed himself piously,
"the free companions are never long without quarters!
"Hurra for the knight of St. John!" cried the merce-
naries. "And hurra for fair France and bold Germany!"
Rienzi's power decay, his pride necessarily humbled, might
drive him to seek the assistance, and submit to the propo-
sals of Montreal. The ambition of the Provençal, though
vast and daring, was not of a consistent and persevering
nature. Action and enterprise were dearer to him, as yet,
than the rewards which they proffered; and if baffled in
one quarter, he turned himself, with the true spirit of the
knight errant, to any other field for his achievements,
Louis, king of Hungary, stern, warlike, implacable, seek-
ing vengeance for the murder of his brother, the ill-fated
husband of Jane, (the beautiful and guilty queen of Naples,
the Marie Stuart of Italy,),had already prepared himself
to subject the garden of Campania to the Hungarian yoke.
Already his bastard brother had entered Italy, already
some of the Neapolitan states had declared in his favor,-
already promises had been held out by the northern mon-
arch to the scattered companies, and already those fierce
mercenaries gathered menacingly round the frontiers of that
Eden of Italy, attracted, as vultures to the carcass, by the
preparation of war and the hope of plunder. Such was the
field to which the bold mind of Montreal now turned its
thoughts; and his soldiers joyfully conjectured his design
when they heard him fix Terracina as their bourn. Prov-
ident of every resource, and refining his audacious and
unprincipled valor by a sagacity which promised, when
years had more matured and sobered his restless chivalry,
to rank him among the most dangerous enemies Italy had
ever known, on the first sign of Louis's warlike intentions,
Montreal had seized and fortified a strong castle on that
delicious coast beyond Terracina, by which lies the cel
ebrated pass once held by Fabius against Hannibal, and
which Nature had so favored for war as for peace, that a
handful of armed men might stop the march of an army
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
239
'The possession of such a fortress, on the very frontiers of
Naples, gave Montreal an importance of which he trusted
to avail himself with the Hungarian king; and now,
thwarted in his more grand and aspiring projects upon
Rome, his sanguine, active, and elastic spirit congratulated
itself upon the resource it had secured.
The band halted at nightfall on this side the Pontine
marshes, seizing without scruple some huts and sheds, from
which they ejected the miserable tenants, and slaughtering
with no greater ceremony the swine, cattle, and poultry
of a neighbouring farm. Shortly after sunrise they crossed
those fatal swamps which had already been partially
drained by Boniface VIII.; and Montreal, refreshed by
sleep, reconciled to his late mortification by the advantages
opened to him in the approaching war with Naples, and
rejoicing as he approached a home which held one who
alone divided his heart with ambition, had resumed all the
gayety which belonged to his Gallic birth and his reckless
habits; and that deadly but consecrated road, where yet
may be seen the labors of Augustus, in the canal which
had witnessed the voyage so humorously described by
Horace, echoed with the loud laughter and frequent
snatches of wild song, by which the barbarian robbers
enlivened their rapid march.
It was noon when the company entered upon that ro-
mantic pass I have before referred to, the ancient
Lautulæ. High to the left rose steep and lofty rocks, then
covered by the prodigal verdure and the countless flowers
of the closing May; while to the right the sea, gentle as a
lake, and blue as heaven, rippled musically at their feet.
Montreal, who largely possessed the poetry of his land,
which is so eminently allied with a love of Nature, might at
another time have enjoyed the beauty of the scene; but at
that moment less external and more household images
were busy within him.
Abruptly ascending a narrow and winding path in the
mountain, which offered a rough and painful path to their
horses' feet, the band at length arrived before a strong for-
tress of gray stone, whose towers were concealed by the
lofty foliage, until they emerged sullenly and suddenly from
the laughing verdure. The sound of the bugle, the pennon
of the knight, the rapid watchword, produced a loud shout
of welcome from a score or two of grim soldiery on the
walls; the portcullis was raised, and Montreal, throwing
himself hastily from his panting steed, sprung across the
threshold of a jutting porch, and traversed a huge hall,
when a lady, young, fair, and richly dressed, met him
with a step equally swift, and fell breathless and overjoyed
nto his arms.
My Walter, my dear, dear Walter! welcome, ten
thousand welcomes !
r
Adeline, my beautiful, my adored, I see thee
again!
Such were the greetings interchanged as Montreal
pressed his lady to his heart, kissing away her tears, and
lifting her face to his, as he gazed on its delicate bloom
with all the wistful anxiety of affection after absence.
t
Fairest," said he, tenderly," thou hast pined, thou
hast lost roundness and color since we parted. Come,
come, thou art too gentle, or too foolish for a soldier's
love."
"Ah, Walter!" replied Adeline, clinging to him, now
thou art returned, and I shall be well. Thou wilt not
leave me again a long, long time."
“ M’amie, no ;
"and flinging his arm round her waist,
tne lovers, for alas! they were not wedded! retired to
the more private chambers of the castle.
CHAPTER II.
The life of love and war. - The messenger of peace. The
joust.
GIRT with his soldiery, secure in his feudal hold, en-
chanted with the beauty of the earth, sky, and sea around,
and passionately adoring his Adeline, Montreal for a while
forgot all his more stirring projects and his ruder occupa-
tions. His nature was capable of great tenderness, as of
great ferocity; and his heart smote him when he looked at
the fair cheek of his lady, and saw that even his presence
did not suffice to bring back the smile and fresh hues of
ole Often he cursed hat fatal oath of his knightly order
which forbade him to wed, though with one more than his
equal; and the remorse of wrong imbittered his happiest
hours. That gentle lady in that robber hold, severed from
all that she had been taught most to prize, mother,
friends, and fair fame, only loved her seducer the more
intensely; only the more concentrated in one object all the
womanly and tender feelings denied every other and less
sinful vent. But she felt her shame, though she sought to
conceal it, and a yet more gnawing grief than even that of
shame contributed to prey upon her spirits and undermine
her health. Yet, withal, in Montreal's presence she was
happy, even in regret; and in her declining health she had
at least a consolation in the hope to die while his love was
undiminished. Sometimes they made short excursions, for
the disturbed state of the country forbade them to wander
far from the castle, through the sunny woods, and along the
glassy sea, which make the charm of that delicious scenery;
and that mixture of the savage with the tender, the wild
escort, the tent in some green glade in the woods it noon,
the lute and voice of Adeline, with the fierce soldiers
grouped and listening at the distance, might have well suit-
ed the verse of Ariosto, and harmonized singularly with
that strange, disordered, yet chivalric time, in which the
classic south became the seat of the northern romance.
Still, however, Montreal maintained his secret intercourse
with the Hungarian king, and, plunged in new projects,
willingly forsook, for the present, all his desigus on Rome.
Yet deemed he that his more august ambition was only
delayed, and, bright in the more distant prospects of his
adventurous career, rose the capitol of Rome and the
sceptre of the Cæsars.
One day, as Montreal, with a small troop in attendance,
passed on horseback near the walls of Terracina, the gates
were suddenly thrown open, and a numerous throng issued
forth, preceded by a singular figure, whose steps they fol-
lowed, bareheaded and with loud blessings; a procession
of monks closed the procession, chanting a hymn, of which
the concluding words were as follows:
"Beauteous on the mountains, —lo,
The feet of him glad tidings gladly bringing;
The flowers along his pathway grow,
And voices, heard aloft, to angel harps are singing,
And strife and slaughter cease
Before thy blessed way, young messenger of peace
O'er the mount, and through the moor,
Glide thy holy steps secure.
Day and night no fear thou knowest,
Lonely, -but with God thou goest.
Where the heathen rage the fiercest,
Through the armed throng thou piercest.
For thy coat of mail, bedight
In thy spotless robe of white.
For the sinful sword,— thy hand
Bearing bright the silver wand;
Through the camp and through the court,
Through the bandit's gloomy fort,
On the mission of the dove,
Speeds the minister of love ;
By a word the wildest taming,
And the world to Christ reclaiming ;
While, as once the waters trod
By the footsteps of thy God,
War, and wrath, and rapine cease,
Hushed round thy charmed path, oh messenger of peace!"
The stranger to whom these honors were paid, was a
young unbearded man, clothed in white, wrought with sil-
ver; he was unarmed and barefooted; in his hand he held
a tall silver wand. Montreal and his party halted in aston-
ishment and wonder, and the knight, spurring his horse
towards the crowd, confrouted the stranger.
"How, friend," quoth the Provençal, is thine a new
order of pilgrims, or what especial holiness has won thee
this homage?"
"Back, back,” cried some of the bolder of the crowd,
"let not the robber dare to arrest the messenger of peace.
Moutreal waved his hand disdainfully.
"I speak not to you, good sirs; and the worthy friars
in your rear know full well that I never injured herald or
palmer."
The monks, ceasing from their hymn, advanced hastily
to the spot; and indeed the devotion of Montreal had ever
induced him to purchase the good-will of whatever monas-
tery neighboured his wandering home.
My son," said the eldest of the brethren, "this is
a strange spectacle, and a sacred; and when thou learnest
all, thou wilt rather give the messenger a passport of safe.
240
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ty from the unthinking courage of thy friends than intercept
his path of peace.
>>
Ye puzzle still more my simple brain," said Montreal,
impatiently; "let the youth speak for himself; I perceive
that on his mantle are the arms of Rome blended with
other quarterings which are a mystery to me, though suf-
ficiently versed in heraldic art as befits a noble and a
knight."
CC
Signor," said the youth, gravely, "know in me the
messenger of Cola di Rienzi, tribune of Rome, charged
with letters to many a baron and prince in the ways be-
tween Rome and Naples. The arms wrought upon my
mantle are those of the pontiff, the city, and the tribune."
Umph; thou must have bold nerves to traverse the
Campagna with no other weapon than that stick of silver!"
"Thon art mistaken, sir knight," replied the youth,
boldly," and judgest of the present by the past; know that
not a single robber now lurks within the Campagna, the
arms of the tribune have rendered every road around the
city as secure as the broadest street of the city itself."
"Thou tellest me wonders.”
Through the forest, and in the fortress, through the
wildest solitudes, through the most populous towns, have
my comrades borne this silver wand unmolested and un-
scathed; wherever we pass along, thousands hail us, and
tears of joy bless the messengers of him who hath expelled
the brigand from his hold, the tyrant from his castle, and
insured the gains of the merchant and the hut of the
peasant."
"Par Dieu," said Montreal, with a stern smile; "I
ought to be thankful for the preference shown to me: I have
not yet received the commands, nor felt the vengeance of
the tribune; yet, methinks, my humble castle lies just
within the patrimony of St. Peter."
"Pardon me, signor cavalier," said the youth; "but do
I address the renowned knight of St. John, warrior of the
cross, yet leader of banditti ?"
Boy, you are bold; I am Walter de Montreal.”
"I ain bound then, sir knight, to your castle."
"Take care how thou reach it before me, or thou stand-
est a fair chance of a quick exit. How now, my friends ?"
seeing that the crowd at these words gathered closer round
the messenger. "Think ye that I, who have my mate in
kings, would find a victim in an unarmed boy? Fie! give
way, give way. Young man, follow me homeward :
you are as safe in my castle as in your mother's arms." So
saying, Montreal, with great dignity and deliberate gravi-
ty, rode slowly towards his castle, bis soldiers, wondering,
at a little distance, and the white-robed messenger follow-
ing with the crowd, who refused to depart; so great was
their enthusiasm, that they even ascended to the gates of
the dreaded castle, and insisted on waiting without until
the return of the youth assured them of his safety.
"Wonderful man!" said Montreal, with reluctant ad
miration; "by what means was this effected ?”
Jour
"A stern command and a strong force to back it. Ar
the first sound of the great bell twenty thousand Romane
rise in arms. What to such an army are the brigands of
an Orsini or a Colonna? Sir knight, your valor and
renown make even Rome admire you, and 1, a Roman
bid you beware.”
"Well, I thank thee; thy news, friend, robs me of
breath. So the barons submit then?"
"Yes; on the first day, one of the Colonna, the Lord
Adrian, took the oath; within a week, Stephen, assured
of safe conduct, left Palestrina, the Savelli in his train;
the Orsini followed; even Martino di Porto has silently
succumbed.'
but is that his dignity ?-methought
"The tribune,
he was to be king--
"He was offered, and refused the title. His present
rank, which arrogates no patrician honors, went far to cor
ciliate the nobles.”
"A wise knave!
I beg pardon, a sagacious prince !
Well, then, the tribune lords it mightily I suppose over the
great Roman names.
"Pardon me, he enforces impartial justice from peasant
and patrician; but he preserves to the nobles all their just
privileges and legal rank."
“Hà! and the vain puppets, so they keep the semblance,
scarce miss the substance, I understand.
I understand. But this shows
genius. The tribune is unwed, I think. Does he look
among the Colonna for a wife?
CC
Sir knight, the tribune is already married; within
three days after his ascension to power, he won and bore
home the daughter of the Baron de Raselli."
"Raselli! -no great name; he might have done better."
"But it is said," resumed the youth, smiling," that the
tribune will shortly be allied to the Colonna through his
fair sister the Signora Irene. The Baron di Castello woos
her."
"What, Adrian Colonna! Enough! you have con-
vinced me that a man who contents the people and awes or
conciliates the nobles is born for empire. My answer to
this letter I will convey myself. For your news, sir mes-
senger, accept this jewel;" and the kiright took from his
finger a gem of some price. Nay, shrink not, it was as
freely given to me as it is now to thee."
r
The youth, who had been agreeably surprised and im-
pressed by the manner of the renowned freebooter, and who
was not a little astonished himself, at the ease and famil-
iarity with which he had been relating to Fra Moreale, in
his own fortress, the news of Rome, bowed low as he ac-
cepted the gift.
ger,
The astute Provençal, who saw the evident impression he
had made, perceived also, that it might be of advantage in
pre-delaying the measures he might deem it expedient to adopt
"Assure the tribune," said he, on dismissing the messen
“shouldst thou return cre my letter arrive, that I ad
mire his genius, bail his power, and will not fail to consider
as favorably as I may of his demand.”
Better," said the messenger, warmly, (he was of
good blood and gentle bearing,)
"better ten tyrants for
our enemy, than one Montreal."
"An enemy! believe me, sir, I seek no enmity with
princes that know how to govern, or a people that have the
wisdom at once to rule and to obey.'
Montreal who, however lawless elsewhere, strictly
erved the rights of the meanest boor in his immediate
neighbourhood, and rather affected popularity with the
poor, bade the crowd enter the courtyard, ordered his
servitors to provide them with wine and refreshment, regaled
the good monks in his great hall, and then led the way to
a small room, where he received the messenger.
"This," said the youth," will best explain my mis-
sion," as he placed a letter before Montreal.
The knight cut the silk with his dagger, and read the
epistle with great composure.
"Your tribune," said he, when he had finished it, "has
learned the laconic style of power very soon. He orders
me to render this castle and vacate the papal territory
within ten days. He is obliging; I must have breathing
time to consider the proposal; be seated, I pray you,
young sir. Forgive me, but I should have imagined that
your lord had enough upon his hands with his Roman
barons, to make him a little more indulgent to us foreign
visiters. Stephen Colonna
The whole of that day, however, Montreal remained
thoughtful and uneasy; he despatched trusty messengers to
the governor of Aquila, (who was then in correspondence
with Louis of Hungary,) to Naples, and to Rome; the last
charged with a letter to the tribune, which, without abso-
lutely compromising himself, affected submission, and de-
manded only a longer leisure for the preparations of de-
parture. But, at the same time, fresh fortifications were
added to the castle, ample provisions were laid in, and,
"Is returned to Rome, and has taken the oath of alle-night and day, spies and scouts were stationed along the
giance; the Savelli, the Orsini, and the Frangipani have
all subscribed their submission to the buono stato.
""
"How!" cried Montreal, in great surprise.
"Not only have they returned, but they have submitted
to the dispersion of all their mercenaries, and the dis-
mantling of all their fortifications. The iron of the Orsi-
ni palace now barricades the capitol, and the stonework of
the Colonna and the Savelli has added new battlements to
the gates of the Lateran and St. Laurence.'
pass, and in the town of Terracina. Montreal was pre-
cisely the chief who prepared most for war when must he
pretended peace.
One morning, the fifth from the appearance of the Roman
messenger, Montreal, after narrowly surveying his outworks
and his stores, and feeling satisfied that he could hold out
at least a month's siege, repaired, with a gayer counte
nance than he had lately worn, to the chamber of Adeline
The lady was seated by the casement of the tower, from
A
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
241
which might be seen the glorious landscape of woods, and
vales, and orange groves, -a strange garden for such a
palace! As she leaned her face upon her band, with her
profile slightly turned to Montreal, there was something in-
expressibly graceful in the bend of her neck; the small head
so expressive of gentle blood, with the locks parted in front
in that simple fashion which modern times have so happily
revived. But the expression of the half-averted face, the
abstracted intentness of the gaze, and the profound stillness
of the attitude, were so ineffably sad and mournful, that
Montreal's purposed greeting of gallantry and gladness died
upon his lips. He approached her in silence, and laid his
hand upon her shoulder.
Adeline turned, and taking the hand in hers, pressed it
to her heart, and siniled away all her sadness. "Dearest,"
said Montreal, "couldst thou know how much any shadow
of grief on thy bright face darkens my heart, thou wouldst
Dever grieve. But no wonder that in these rude walls,
Do female of equal rank near thee, and such mirth as Mon-
treal can summon to his halls, grating to thy ear,
wonder that thou repentest thee of thy choice."
"Ah, no, no, Walter, I never repent; shame on me for
saying so. I did but thick of our child as you entered.
Alas! he was our only child! How fair he was, Walter;
how he resembled thee!
CC
no
Nay, he had thine eyes and brow," replied the knight,
with a faltering voice, and turning away his head.
"Walter," resumed the lady, sighing, "do you remem-
ber, this is his birth-day. He is ten years old to-day.
We have loved each other eleven years, and thou hast not
tired yet of thy poor Adeline."
"As well might the saints weary of paradise," replied
Montreal, with an enamoured tenderness, which changed
into softness the whole character of his heroic countenance.
"Could I think so, I should indeed be blest!" answered
Adeline. "But a little while longer, and the few charms
I yet possess must fade; and what other claim have I on
thee?
,"
"All claim; the memory of thy first blushes, thy first
kiss, of thy devoted sacrifices, of thy patient wander-
ings, of thy uncomplaining love! Ah, Adeline, we are
of Provence, not of Italy; and when did knight of Prov-
ence avoid his foe, or forsake his love? But come, dear-
est, enough of home and melancholy for to-day. I come to
bid thee forth. I have sent on the servitors to pitch our
tent beside the sea; we will enjoy the orange blossoms
while we may. Ere another week pass over us, we may
have sterner pastime and closer confines."
ger
CC
"How, dearest Walter, thou dost not apprehend dan-
?
"Thou speakest, lady-bird," said Montreal, laughing,
as if danger were novelty: methinks by this time, thou
shouldst know it as the atmosphere we breathe."
Ah, Walter, is this to last for ever? Thou art now
rich and renowned; canst thou not abandon this career of
strife?"
K
Now, out on thee, Adeline! what are riches and re-
nown but the means to power? And for strife, the shield
of warriors was my cradle, pray the saints it be my bier!
These wild and wizard extremes of life, from the bower
to the tent, from the cavern to the palace,-to-day a
wandering exile, to-morrow the equal of kings, - make the
true element of the chivalry of my Norman sires.
Norman sires. Norman-
dy taught me war, and sweet Provence love. Kiss me, dear
Adeline; and now let thy handmaids attire thee. Forget
not thy luze, sweet one. We will rouse the echoes with the
songs of Provence.”
The ductile temper of Adeline yielded easily to the gay-
ety of her lord; and the party soon sallied from the castle
towards the spot in which Montreal had designed their rest-
ing place during the heats of day. But already prepared
for all surprise, the castle was left strictly guarded, and
besides the domestic servitors of the castle, a detachment
of ten soldiers, completely armed, followed the pair. Mon-
treal himself wore his corslet, and his squires followed with
his helmet and lance. Beyond the narrow defile at the base
of the castle, the road at day opened into a broad patch of
verdure, circled on all sides, save that open to the sea, by
wood, interspersed with myrtle and orange, and a wilder-
ness of odorous shrubs. In this place, and sheltered by the
broad-spreading and classic fagus, (so improperly translated
nto the English beech,) a gay pavilion was prepared,
which commanded the view of the sheer and sparkling sea;
VOL II
31
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shaded from the sun, but open to the gentle breeze. This
was poor Adeline's favorite recreation, if recreation it
might be called. She rejoiced to escape from the gloomy
walls of her castellated prison, and to enjoy the sunshine
and the sweets of that voluptuous climate without the fa-
tigue, which of late all exercise occasioned her. It was a
gallantry on the part of Montreal, who foresaw how short
an interval might elapse before the troops of Rienzi be-
sieged his walls; and who was himself no less at home in
the bower than in the field.
As they reclined within the pavilion, the lover and
his lady, of the attendants without, some lounged idly
on the beach; some prepared the awing of a pleasure
float against the decline of the sun; some,
some, in a ruder
tent, out of sight in the wood, arranged the mid-day re-
past; while the strings of the lute, touched by Montreal
himself with a careless skill, gave their music to the
dreamy stillness of the noon.
While thus employed, one of Montreal's scouts arrived,
breathless and heated, to the tent.
CC
has
Captain," said he, "a company of thirty lances, com-
pletely armed, with a long retinue of squires and pages,
Their banners bear the twofold
just quitted Terracina.
insignia of Rome and the Colonna."
"Ho!" said Montreal, gayly, "such a troop is a wel-
come addition to our company; send our squire hither."
The squire appeared.
"Hie thee on thy steed towards the procession thou wilt
meet with in the pass, (nay, sweet lady mine, no forbid-
dal!) seek the chief, and say that the good knight Walter
de Montreal sends him greeting, and prays him, in passing
our proper territory, to rest a while with us, a welcome
guest: and, stay, — add, that if to while an hour or so
in gentle pastime be acceptable to him, Walter de Mon-
treal would rejoice to break a lance with him, or any
knight in his train, in honor of our respective ladies. Hie
thee quick!"
"Walter, Walter," began Adeline, who had that keen
and delicate sensitiveness to her situation which her reck-
less lord often wantonly forgot, "Walter, dear Walter,
canst thou think it honor to
"Hush thee, sweet fleur de lis! Thou hast not seen
pastime this many a day; I long to convince thee that thou
art still the fairest lady of Italy, ay, and of Christendom.
But these Italians are craven knights, and thou needest not
fear that my proffer will be accepted. But in truth, lady
mine, I rejoice for graver objects, that chance throws a
Roman noble, perhaps a Colonna, in my way; women un-
derstand not these matters; and aught concerning Rome
touches us home at this moment."
With that the knight frowned, as was his wont in
but retired
thought, and Adeline ventured to say no more,
to the interior division of the pavilion.
Meanwhile the squire approached the procession that had
now reached the middle of the pass. And a stately and
gallant company it was if the complete harness of the
soldiery seemed to attest a warlike purpose, it was contra-
dicted on the other hand by the numerous train of unarmed
squires and pages gorgeously attired, while the splendid
blazon of two heralds preceding the standard-bearers, pro-
claimed their object as peaceful, and their path as sacred.
It required but a glance at the company to tell the leader,
-arrayed in a breastplate of steel, wrought profusely
with gold arabesques, over which was a mantle of dark
green velvet, bordered with pearls, while above his long
dark locks waved a black ostrich plume in a high Macedo-
nian cap, such as, I believe, is now worn by the grand mas-
ter of the order of St. Constantine, rode in front of the
party a young cavalier, distinguished 'from his immediate
comrades parily by his graceful presence and partly by his
splendid dress.
The squire approached respectfully, and, dismounting,
delivered himself of his charge.
The young cavalier smiled, as he answered, " Bear back
to Sir Walter de Montreal the greeting of Adrian Colon-
na. Baron di Castello, and say, that the solemn object
of my present journey will scarce permit me to encounter
the formidable ance of so celebrated a knight, and I re
gret this the more, inasmuch as I may not yield to any
dame the palm of my liege lady's beauty. I must live in
hope of a happier occasion. For the rest, I will cheerfully
abide for some few hours the guest of so courteous a host.
The squire bowed low. "My master," said he, besita-
242
BULWER'S NOVELS.
:
tingly, "will grieve much to miss so noble an opponent.
But my message refers to all this knightly and gallant train;
and if the Lord Adrian di Castello deems himself forbid-
den the joust by the object of his present journey, surely
one of his comrades will be his proxy with iny master."
Out and quickly spoke a young noble by the side of
Adrian, Riccardo Annibaldi, who afterward did good ser-
vice both to the tribune and to Rome, and whose valor
brought him, in later life, to an untimely end.
By the Lord Adrian's permission," cried he, “I will
break a lance with "
"Hush! Annibaldi," interrupted Adrian.
"And you,
eir squire, know, that Adrian di Castello permits no proxy
in arms. Advise the knight of St. John that we accept his
hospitality, and if after some converse on graver matters
he should still desire so light an entertainment, I will for-
get that I am the ambassador to Naples, and remember only
that I am a knight of the empire. You have your answer.
The squire with much ceremony made his obeisance, re-
mounted his steed, and returned in a half gallop to his
master.
""
Forgive me, dear Annibaldi," said Adrian, “that I
balked your valor, and believe me that I never more
longed to break a lance against any man than I do against
this boasting Frenchman. But bethink you, that though to
us, brought up in the dainty laws of chivalry, Walter de
Montreal is the famous knight of Provence, to the tribune
of Rome, whose grave mission we now fulfil, he is but the
mercenary captain of a free company. Grievously in his
eyes should we sully our dignity by so wanton and irrele-
vant a holyday conflict with a declared and professional
brigand."
"For all that," said Annibaldi, " he ought not to boast
that a Roman knight shunned a Provençal lance."
[
completed his array with the indifference of a man certaia
of victory. He was destined, however, to one disadvan
tage, and that the greatest; his armor and lance had been
brought from the castle, not his war horse. His palfrey
was too slight to bear the great weight of his armor, nor
among his troop was there one horse that for power and
bone could match with Adrian's. He chose, however, the
strongest that was at hand, and a loud shout from his wild
followers testified their admiration, when he sprung unaided,
from the ground into the saddle, -a rare and difficult feat
of agility in a man completely arrayed in te ponderous
armor which issued at that day from the forges of Milan,
and was worn far more weighty in Italy than any other
part of Europe. While both companies grouped slowly,
and mingled in a kind of circle round the green zward, and
the Roman heralds with bustling importance attempted to
marshal the spectators into order, Montreal rode his charge
ટ
round the sward, forcing it into various caracoles, and ex
hibiting, with the vanity that belonged to him, his exquisita
and practised horsemanship.
At length Adrian, his visor down, rode slowly into the
green space amid the cheers of his party. The two knights,
at either end, gravely fronted each other; they made the
courtesies with their lances, which, in friendly and sportive
encounters, were customary; and as they thus paused for
the signal of encounter, the Italians trembled for the honor
of their chief, Montreal's stately height and girth of chest
forming a strong contrast, even in armor, to the form of his
opponent, which was rather under the middle standard,
and, though firmly knit, slightly and slenderly built. But
to that perfection was skill in arms brought in those chiv-
alric times, that great strength and size were far from being
either the absolute requisites, or even the usual attributes,
of the more celebrated knights; in fact, so much was effect-
ed by the power and the management of the steed, that a
light weight in the rider was often rather to his advantage
than his prejudice; and even at a later period, the most
accomplished victors in the tourney, the French Bayard
and the English Sydney, were far from remarkable either
for bulk or stature.
"Cease, I pray thee!" said Adrian, impatiently. In
fact, the young Colonna already chafed bitterly against his
discreet and dignified rejection of Montreal's proffer; and
recollecting with much pique the disparaging manner in
which the Provençal had spoken of the Roman chivalry, as
well as a certain tone of superiority which in all warlike
matters Montreal had assuined over him, he now felt his
cheek burn, and his lip quiver. Highly skilled in the
martial accomplishments of his time, he had a natural and
excusable desire to prove that he was at least no unworthyer the blood, bone, nor practised discipline of the northern
antagonist even of the best lance in Italy; and, added to
this, the gallantry of the age made him feel it a sort of
treason to his mistress to forego any means of asserting her
perfections.
It was therefore with considerable irritation that Adrian,
as the pavilion of Montreal became visible, perceived the
squire returning to him. And the reader will judge how
much this was increased when the latter, once more dis-
mounting, accosted him thus :
Whatever the superiority of Montreal in physical power,
was also largely compensated by the inferiority of his horse,
which, though a thick built and strong Calabrian, had neith-
"My master, the knight of St. John, on hearing the
courteous answer of the Lord Adrian di Castello, bids me
say, that lest the graver converse the Lord Adrian refers to
should mar gentle and friendly sport, he ventures respect-
fully to suggest, that the tilt should preface the converse.
The sod before the tent is so soft and smooth, that even a
fall could be attended with no danger to knight or steed.'
"By our Lady!" cried Adrian and Annibaldi in a
breath, "but thy last words are discourteous; and," pro-
ceeded Adrian, recovering himself, "since thy master will
have it, let him look to his horse's girths. I will not gain-ments, and who, had he foreseen the "
say his fancy."
Montreal, who had thus insisted upon the exhibition,
partly, it may be, from the gay and ruffling bravado com-
mon still among his brave countrymen; partly because he
was curious of exhibiting before those who might soon be
bis open foes his singular and unrivalled address in arms,
was yet more moved to it on learning the name of the leader
of the Roman company; for his vain and haughty spirit,
however it had disguised resentment at the time, had by no
means forgiven certain warm expressions of Adrian in the
palace of Stephen Colonna, and in the unfortunate journey
to Corneto. While Adrian, halting at the entrance of the
defile, aided by his squires, indignantly, but carefully indued
the rest of his armor, and saw himself to the girths, stirrup
leathers, and various buckles in the caparison of his noble
charger, Montreal in great glee kissed his lady, who, though
too soft to be angry, was deeply vexed, (and yet her vexa-
tion half forgotten in fear for his safety,) snatched up her
scarf of blue, which he threw over his breastplate, and
charger of the Roman. The shining coat of the latter, coal
black, was set off by a scarlet cloth, wrought in gold; the
neck and shoulders were clad in scales of mail; and from
the forehead projected a long point, like the horn of a
unicorn, while on its crest waved a tall plume of scarlet
and white feathers. As the mission of Adrian to Naples
was that of pomp and ceremony to a court of great splendor,
so his array and retinue were befitting the occasion, and
the passion for show that belonged to the time; and the
very bridle of his horse, which was three inches broad, was
decorated with gold, and even jewels. The knight himself
was clad in mail, which had tested the finest art of the
celebrated Ludovico of Milan; and, altogether, his appear-
ance was unusually gallant and splendid, and seemed still
more so beside the plain but brightly polished, and artfully
flexile armor of Montreal, (adorned only with his lady's
scarf,) and the common and rude mail of his charger.
This contrast, however, was not welcome to the Provençal,
whose vanity was especially indulged in warlike equip
pastime" that
awaited him, would have outshone even the Colonna.
the
The trumpeters of either party gave a short blast,
knights remained erect as statues of iron; a second, and
each slightly bent over his saddle bow; a third, and with
spears couched, slackened reins, and at full speed, on they
rushed, and fiercely they met midway. With the reckless
arrogance which belonged to him, Montreal had imagined
that at the first touch of his lance Adrian would have been
unhorsed; but to his great surprise the young Roman
remained firm, and amid the shouts of his party passed on
to the other end of the lists.
to the other end of the lists. Montreal himself was rudely
shaken, but lost neither seat nor stirrup.
"This can be no carpet knight," muttered Montreal
between his teeth, as this time he summoned all his skill for
a second encounter ; while Adrian, aware of the great
superiority of his charger, resolved to bring it to bear
against his opponent. Accordingly, when the knights again
rushed forward, Adrian covering himself well with his
buckler, directed his care less against the combatant, whom
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
243
ne felt no lance wielded oy mortal hand was likely to dis-
lodge, than against the less noble animal he bestrode. The
shock of Montreal's charge was like an avalanche, his
lance shivered into a thousand pieces; Adrian lost both
stirrups, and but for the strong iron bows which guarded
the saddle in front and rear, would have been fairly
unhorsed as it was, he was almost doubled back by the
encounter and his ears rung and his eyes reeled, so that for
a momen, or two he almost lost all consciousness. But his
steed had well repaid its nurture and discipline. Just as
the combatants closed, the animal, rearing on high, pressed
forward with its mighty crest against its opponent, with a
force so irresistible as to drive back Montreal's horse sev-
eral paces; while Adrian's lance, poised with exquisite
skil, striking against the Provençal's helmet, somewhat
rudely diverted the knight's attention for the moment from
ais rein. Montreal, drawing the curb too tightly in the
zuddenness of his recovery, the horse reared on end; and,
receiving at that instant, full upon his breastplate, the sharp
horn and mailed crest of Adrian's charger, fell back over
its rider upon the sward. Montreal disencumbered himself
in great rage and shame, as a faint cry from his pavilion
reached his ear, and redoubled his mortification. He rose
with a lightness which astonished the beholder; (for so
heavy was the armor worn at that day, that few knights,
once stretched upon the ground, could rise without assist-
ance,) and drawing his sword, cried out fiercely, "On foot,
on foot! The fall was not mine, but this accursed beast's,
that I must needs for my sins raise to the rank of a charger.
Come on-
"Nay, sir knight," said Adrian, drawing off his gauntlets
and unbuckling his helmet, which he threw on the ground,
"I come to thee a guest and a friend; but to fight on foot
is the encounter of mortal foes. Did I accept thy offer, my
defeat would but stain thy knighthood."
Montreal, whose passion had beguiled him for the mo-
ment, sullenly acquiesced in this reasoning. Adrian has-
tened to soothe his antagonist. "For the rest," said he,
I cannot pretend to the prize. Your lance lost me my
stirrups, mine left you unshaken. You say right: the
defeat, if any, was that of your steed."
"We may meet again when I am more equally horsed,"
said Montreal, still chafing.
"Now, our lady forbid!" exclaimed Adrian, with so
devout an earnestness that the bystanders could not refrain
from laughing, and even Montreal, grimly and half reluc-
tant, joined in the merriment. The courtesy of his foe,
however, conciliated and touched the more frank and sol-
dierly qualities of his nature, and composing himself, he
replied,
Signor di Castello, I rest your debtor for a courtesy
that I have but little imitated. Howbeit, if thou wouldst
bind me to thee for ever, thou wilt suffer me to send for my
own charger, and afford me a chance to retrieve mine
honor. With that steed, or with one equal to thine, which
seems to me of the English breed, I will gage all I possess,
lands, castle, and gold, swords and spurs, to maintain this
pass, one by one, against all thy train.'
Fortunately, perhaps, for Adrian, ere he could reply,
Riccardo Annibaldi cried with great warmth, "Sir knight,
I have with me two steeds well practised in the tourney,
take thy choice and accept in me a champion of the Roman
against the French chivalry; there is my gage.'
Signor,” replied Montreal, with ill-suppressed delight,
"thy proffer shows so gallant and free a spirit, that it
were foul sin in me to balk it. I accept thy gage, and
which ever of thy steeds thou rejectest, in God's name
bring it hither, and let us waste no words before action.'
Adrian, who felt that hitherto the Romans had been
more favored by fortune than merit, vainly endeavoured to
prevent this second hazard. But Annibaldi was greatly
chafed, and his high rank rendered it impolitic in Adrian to
offend him by peremptory prohibition; the Colonna reluc-
tantly, therefore, yielded his assent to the engagement.
Annibaldi's steeds were led to the spot; the one a noble
roan, the other a bay, of somewhat less breeding and bone,
but still of great strength and price. Montreal finding the
choice pressed upon, gallantly selected the latter and less
excellent.
Annibaldi was soon arrayed for the encounter, and
Adrian gave the word to the trumpeters. The Roman was
of a stature almost equal to that of Montreal, and though
Ame years younger, seemed, in his armor, nearly of the
same thews and girth, so that the present antagonists
appeared at the first glance more evenly matched than the
last. But this time Montreal, well horsed, inspired to the
utmost by shame and pride, felt himself a match for an
army; and he met the young baron with such prowess, that
while the very plume on his casque seemed scarcely stirred,
the Italian was thrown several paces from his steed, and it
was not till some moments after his visor was removed
This event
by his squires, that he recovered his senses.
restored Montreal to all his natural gayety of humor, and
effectually raised the spirits of his followers, who had felt
much humbled by the previous encounter.
He himself assisted Annibaldi to rise with great courtesy,
and a profusion of compliments, which the proud Roman
took in stern silence; and then led the way to the pavilion,
loudly ordering the banquet to be spread. Annibaldi, how-
ever, loitered behind, and Adrian, who penetrated his
thoughts, and who saw that over their cups a quarrel be-
tween the Provençal and his friend was very likely to
ensue, drawing him aside, said, "Methinks, dear Anni-
baldi, it would be better, if you, with the chief of our fol
lowing, were to proceed onward to Fondi, where I wil.
join you at sunset. My squires, and some eight lances,
will suffice for my safeguard here, and, to say truth, I de-
sire a few private words with our strange host, in the hope
that he may be peaceably induced to withdraw from hence
without the help of our Roman troops, who have enough
elsewhere to feed our valor."
Annibaldi pressed his companion's hand. "I under-
stand thee," he replied, with a slight blush, " and indeed
I could but ill brook the complacent triumph of the barba-
rian. I accept thy offer.”
CHAPTER III.
The converse between the Roman and the Provençal.
Adeline's history. The moonlight sea. The lute and the
song.
HAVING seen Annibaldi with the greater part of his
retinue depart, and divesting himself of his heavy greaves,
Adrian entered alone the pavilion of the knight of St.
John. Montreal had already doffed all his armor, save
the breastplate, and he now stepped forward to welcome
his guest with the winning and easy grace which better
suited his birth than his profession. He received Adrian's
excuses for the absence of Annibaldi, and the other knights
of his train with a smile which seemed to prove how read-
ily he divined the cause, and conducted him to the other
and more private division of the pavilion, in which the
repast (rendered acceptable by the late exercise of guest
and host) was prepared; and here Adrian for the first time
discovered Adeline. Long inurement to the various and
roving life of her lover, joined to a certain pride which she
derived from conscious, though forfeited rank, gave to the
outward manner of that beautiful lady an ease and free-
dom which often concealed, even froni Montreal, her sen-
sitiveness to her unhappy situation. At times, indeed,
when alone with Montreal, whom she loved with all the de-
votion of romance, she was sensible only to the charm of a
presence which consoled her for all things; but, in his
frequent absence, or on the admission of any stranger, the
illusion vanished, -the reality returned. Poor lady! na-
ture had not formed, education had not reared, habit
had not reconciled her to the breath of shame!
The young Colonna was much struck by her beauty, and
more by her gentle and high-born grace. Like her lord,
she appeared younger than she was; time seemed to spare
a bloom which an experienced eye might have told was
destined to an early grave; and there was something al-
most girlish in the lightness of her form, the braided
luxuriance of her rich auburn hair, and the color that went
and came, not only with every movement, but almost with
every word. The contrast between her and Montreal be-
came them both, -it was the contrast of devoted reliance
and protecting strength: each looked fairer in the presence
of the other;
of the other; and, as Adrian sat down to the well-la-
den board, he thought he had never seen a pair more formed
for the poetic legends of their native troubadours.
Montreal conversed gayly upon a thousand matters,
pressed the wine-flasks,--and selected for his guests the
inost delicate portions of the delicious spicola of the neigh
244
BULWER'S NOVELS
bouring sea, and the rich flesh of the wild boar of the
Pontine marshes.
*
"Nay," said A teline, in a voice singularly sweet am
clear, CC
"Tell me,
nay, I know well at what price to value my lord's
" said Montreal, as their hunger was now ap-flattery, and Signor di Castello's courtesy. But you are
peased, "tell me, noble Adrian, how fares your kins- bound, sir knight, to a court, that, if fame speak true,
man, Signor Stephen? A brave old man for his years." boasts in its queen the very miracle and mould of beauty."
"He bears him as the youngest of us," answered Adrian. "It is some years since I saw the queen of Naples,'
"Late events must have shocked him a little," said answered Adrian "and I little dreamed then, when I
Montreal, with an arch smile. "Ah, you look grave,
gazed upon
that angel face, that I should live to hear her
yet commend my foresight, I was the first who prophe- accused of the foulest murder that ever stained even Italian
sied to thy kinsinan the rise of Cola di Rienzi; he seems royalty.'
a great man, never more great than in conciliating the
Colonna and the Orsini.”
The tribune," returned Adrian, evasively, "is cer-
tainly a man of extraordinary genius. And now, seeing
him command, my only wonder is how he ever brooked to
obey, - majesty seems a very part of him.”
Aktuā
Men who win power, easily put on its harness dig-
nity," answered Montreal; "and, if I hear aright,
(pledge me to your lady's health ! ) the tribune, if not
himself nobly born, will soon be nobly connected."
"He is already married to a Raselli, - an old Roman
house," replied Adrian.
e
"And, as if resolved to prove her guilt," said Montreal,
"ere long be sure she will marry the very man who did
the deed. Of this I have certain proof."
Thus conversing, the knights wore away the daylight,
and beheld from the open tent the sun cast his setting glow
over the purple sea. Adeline had long retired from the
board, and they now saw her seated with her handmaids,
on a mound by the beach; while the sound of her lute
faintly reached their ears. As Montreal caught the air, he
turned from the converse, and sighing, half shaded his face
with his hand. Somehow or other, the two knights had
worn away all the little jealousy or pique which they had
conceived against each other at Rome. Both imbued with
the soldierlike spirit of the age, their contest in the morn-
ing had served to inspire them with that strange kind of
respect, and even cordiality which one brave man even still
(how much more at that day!) feels for another, whose
courage he has proved while vindicating his own. It is
like the discovery of a congenial sentiment hitherto latent;
and, in a life of camps, often establishes sudden and lasting
friendship in the very lap of enmity. This feeling had been
ripened by their subsequent familiar intercourse, and was
increased on Adrian's side by the feeling, that in convin-
cing Montreal of the policy of withdrawing from the Roman
territories, he had obtained an advantage that well repaid
whatever danger and delay he had undergone.
Sig-whatever
"You evade my pursuit, Le doulx soupir! le doula
soupir! as the old Cabestan has it,' said Montreal, laugh-
ing. Well, you
have pledged me one cup to your lady,
pledge another to the fair Irene, the tribune's sister, — al-
al-
ways provided they two are not one. You smile and shake
your head."
"I do not disguise from you, sir knight," answered
Adrian, "that when my present embassy is over, I trust
the alliance between the tribune and a Colonna will go far
towards the benefit of both.”
"I have heard rightly, then," said Montreal, in a grave
and thoughtful tone. "Rienzi's power must indeed be
great."
"Of that my mission is a proof. Are you aware, Sig-
nor de Montreal, that Louis, king of Hungary -
"How ! what of him?
"Has referred the decision of the feud between himself
and Jane of Naples, respecting the death of her royal
spouse, his brother, to the fiat of the tribune? This is the
first time, methinks, since the death of Constantine, that
so great a confidence and so high a charge were ever in-
trusted to a Roman !"
"By all the saints in the calendar," cried Montreal,
crossing himself, "this news, indeed, is amazing. The
fierce Louis of Hungary waive the right of the sword, and
choose other umpire than the field of battle!
"And this," continued Adrian, in a significant tone,
"this it was which induced me to obey your courteous
summons I know, brave Montreal, that you hold inter-
course with Louis. Louis has given to the tribune the best
pledge of his amity and alliance; will you do wisely if
you
وو
Wage war with the Hungarian's ally," interrupted
Montreal. "This you were about to add; the same thought
crossed myself. My lord, pardon me,- Italians some-
times invent what they wish. On the honor of a knight
of the empire, these tidings are the naked truth?
C
By my honor, and on the cross," answered Adrian,
drawing himself up; "and in proof thereof, I am now
bound to Naples, to settle with the queen the preliminaries
of the appointed trial."
"Two crowned heads before the tribunal of a plebeian,
and one a defendant against the charge of murder!" nut-
tered Montreal; "the news might well amaze me!
He remained musing and silent a little while, till, look-
ing up, he caught Adeline's tender gaze fixed upon him,
with that deep solicitude with which she watched the out-
ward effect of schemes and projects she was too soft to de-
sire to know, and too innocent to share.
"Lady mine," said the Provençal, fondly, "how sayest
thou? must we abandon our mountain castle, and these
wild woodland scenes, for the dull walls of a city? I fear
me so. The Lady Adeline," he continued, turning to
Adrian, "is of a singular bias; she hates the gay crowds
of streets and thoroughfares, and esteems no palace like
the solitary outlaw's hold. Yet, methinks, she might out-
shine all the faces of Italy, thy mistress, Lord Adrian,
of course, excepted."
"It is an exception which only a lover, and that, too, a
betrothed lover, would dare to make,” replied Adrian, gal-
lantly.
The sigh, and the altered manner of Montreal, did not
escape Adrian, and he naturally connected it with some-
thing relating to her whose music had been its evident
cause.
"Yon lovely dame," said he, gently, "touches the lute
with an exquisite and fairy hand, and that plaintive air
seems to my ear as of the minstrelsy of Provence."
"It is the air I taught her," said Montreal, sadly,
"married as it is to indifferent words, with which I first
wooed her heart that should never have given itself to me!
Ay, young Colonna, many a night has my boat moored
beneath the starlit Sorgia that washes her proud father's
halls, and my voice woke the stillness of the waving
sedges with a soldier's serenade. Sweet memories ! bitter
fruit!"
C
Why bitter? ye love each other still."
M
she
"But I am vowed to celibacy, and Adeline de Courval
is leman where she should be wedded dame. Methinks I
fret at that thought even more than she, dear Adeline !"
"Your lady, as all would guess, is, then, nobly born?
"She is," answered Montreal, with a deep and evident.
feeling, which, save in love, rarely, if ever, crossed his
hardy breast. "She is our tale is a brief one:- we
loved each other as children; her family was wealthier than
mine; we were separated. I was given to understand that
she abandoned me. I despaired, and in despair I took the
cross of St. John. Chance threw us again together. I
learned that her love was undecayed. Poor child!
was even then, sir, but a child! I, wild, reckless,
and not unskilled, perhaps, in the arts that woo and win.
She could not resist my suit or her own affection! We
fled. In those words you see the thread of my after-history.
My sword and my Adeline were all my fortune. Society
frowned on us. The church threatened my soul, the
grand master my life. I became a knight of fortune.
Fate and my right hand favored me. I have made those
who scorned me tremble at my name. That name shall
yet blaze, a star or a meteor, in the front of troubled na-
tions, and I may yet win by force, from the pontiff, the
dispensation refused to my prayers. On the same day I
may offer Adeline the diadem and the ring. Eno' of this;
you marked Adeline's cheek! Seems it not delicate!
I like not that changeful flush, and she moves languidly,
-her step that was so blithe!"
*
Change of scene and the mild south will scon restore
her health," said Adrian, “and in your peculiar life she is
so little brought in contact with others, especially of her
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
245
own sex, that I trust she is but seldom made aware of
whatever is painful in her situation. And woman's love,
Montreal, as we both have learned, is a robe that wraps
her from many a storm!"
"You speak kindly," returned the knight;
"but you
know not all our cause of grief. Adeline's father, a proud
sieur, died, they said, of a broken heart, but old men
die of many another disease than that! The mother, a
dame who boasted her descent from princes, bore the mat-
ter more sternly than the sire; clainored for revenge,
which was odd, for she is as religious as a Dominican, and
revenge is not christian in a woman, though it is knightly
in a man! Well, my lord, we had one boy, our only
child; he was Adeline's solace in my absence,
his pretty
ways were worth the world to her! She loved him so,
that, but he had her eyes and looked like her when he slept,
I should have been jealous! He grew up our wild life,
strong and comely; the young rogue, he would have been
a brave knight! My evil stars led me to Milan, where I
had business with the Visconti. One bright morning in
June, our boy was stolen; verily, that June was like a
December to us !”
"Stolen !-how? - by whom?
"The first question is answered easily, the boy was
with his nurse in the courtyard; the idle wench left him
for but a minute or two, so she avers, to fetch him some
childish toy; when she returned he was gone; not a trace
left, save his pretty cap with the plume in it! Poor Ade-
line, many a time have I found her kissing that relic till it
was wet with tears!
"A strange fortume, in truth. But what interest
could — "
She
"I will tell you," interrupted Montreal, "the only
conjecture I could forın; — Adeline's mother, on learning
we had a son, sent to Adeline a letter that wellnigh
broke her heart, reproaching her for her love to me, and so
forth, as if that had made her the vilest of the sex.
bade her take compassion on her child, and not bring him
up to a robber's life, -so was she pleased to style the bold
career of Walter de Montreal. She offered to rear the
child in her own dull halls, and fit him, no doubt, for a
shaven pate, and a monk's cowl. She chafed much that a
mother would not part with her treasure! She alone,
partly in revenge, partly in silly compassion for Adeline's
child, partly it may be, from some pious fanaticism, could,
t so seemed to me, have robbed us of our boy. On inqui-
-y, I learned from the nurse, who, but that she was of
he same sex as Adeline, should have tasted my dagger,
that in their walks, a woman of advanced years, but
seemingly of humble rank (that might be disguise!) had
often stopped, and caressed, and admired the child. I re-
paired at once to France, sought the old castle of De
Courval; it had passed to the next heir, and the old
widow was gone, none knew whither, but it was conjec-
tured to take the veil in some remote convent.'
"And you never saw her since ?"
-
"Yes, at Rome," answered Montreal, turning pale;
"when last there I chanced suddenly upon her; and then
at length I learned my boy's fate, and the truth of my own
surinise; she confessed to the theft, and my child was
dead! I have not dared to tell Adeline of this; it seems
to me as if it would be like plucking the shaft from the
wounded side, and she would die at once, bereft of the
uncertainty that rankles within her. She has still a hope,
it comforts her; though my heart bleeds when I think
on its vanity. Let this pass, my Colonna."
And Montreal started to his feet, as if he strove, by a
strong effort, to shake off the weakness that had crept over
I am in his narration.
"Think no more of it. Life is short, its thorns are
many, let us not neglect any of its flowers. This is
piety and wisdom too; nature, that meant me to struggle
and to toil, gave me, happily, the sanguine heart and the
elastic soul of France; and I have lived long enough to
own that to die young is not an evil. Come, Lord Adrian,
let us join my lady ere you part, if part yon must; the
moon will be up soon, and Fondi is but a short journey
hence. You know, that though I admire not your Pe-
trarch, you with more courtesy laul our Provençal ballads,
and you must hear Adeline sing one, that you may prize
them the more.
The race of the troubadours is dead, but
he minstrelsy survives the minstrel!"
Adrian, who scarce knew what comfort to administer
|
to the affliction of his companion, was somewhat relieved
by the change in his mood, though his more grave and
sensitive nature was a little startled at its suddenness.
But, as we have before seen, Montreal's spirit (and this
made perhaps its fascination) was as a varying and change
ful sky; the gayest sunshine and the fiercest storm swept
over it in rapid alternation; and elements of singular
night and grandeur, which, properly directed and concen.
trated, would have made him the blessing and glory of his
time, were wielded with a boyish levity, roused into war
and desolation, or lulled into repose and smoothness, with
all the suddenness of chance, and all the fickleness of ca-
price.
Sauntering down to the beach, the music of Adeline's
lute sounded more distinctly in their ears, and involuntari-
ly they hushed their steps upon the rich and odorous turf,
as, in a voice, though not powerful, marvellously sweet
and clear, and well adapted to the simple fashion of the
words and melody, she sung the following stanzas:—
LAY OF THE LADY OF PROVENCE
I.
Ah, why art thou sad, my heart? Why
Darksome and lonely!
Frowns the face of the happy sky
Over thee only?
Ah me, ah me !
Render to joy the earth!
Grief shuns, not envies, mirth '
But leave one quiet spot,
Where mirth may enter not,
To sigh, ah me! -
II.
As a bird, though the sky be clear,
Feels the storm lower,
My soul bodes the tempest near
In the sunny hour;
Ah me'
Ah me, ah me !
Be glad while yet we may !
I bid thee, my heart, be gay
And still, I know not why,
Thou answerest with a sigh
(Fond heart!) ah me! -
Ah me
III.
As this twilight o'er the skies,
Doubt brings the sorrow;
Who knows, when the daylight dies,
What waits the morrow!
Ah me, ah me!
-
Be blithe, be blithe, my lute,
Thy strings will soon be mute;
Be blithe, hark! while it dies,
The note forewarning, sighs
Its last, -ah me!
Ah me!
"My own Adeline, my sweetest night-bird," half whis-
pered Montreal, and, softly approaching, he threw himselı
at his lady's feet,· "thy song is too sad for this golden
eve."
"No sound ever went to the heart," said Adrian,
"whose arrow was not feathered by sadness. True senti-
ment, Montreal, is twin with melancholy, though not with
gloom.
The lady looked softly and approvingly up to Adrian's
face; she was pleased with its expression; she was pleas-
ed yet more with words of which women, more than men,
would acknowledge the truth. Adrian returned the look
with one of deep and eloquent sympatny and respect; in
fact, the short story he had heard from Montreal had inter-
ested him deeply in her; and never, to the brilliant queen,
to whose court be was bound, did his manner wear so chi-
valric and earnest a homage as it did to that lone and ill.
fated lady on the twilight shores of Terracina.
Adeline blushed slightly and sighed; and then, to break
the awkwardness of a pause which had stolen over them,
as Montreal, unheeding the last remark of Adrian, was
tuning the strings of the lute, she said, "Of course the
Signor of Castello shares the universal enthusiasm for
Petrarch ?”
Ay," cried Montreal my lady is Petrarch-mad, like
the rest of them; but all I know is, that never did belted
knight and honest lover wc › in such fantastic and tortured
strains.”
16
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"In Italy," answered Adrian, "common language is
exaggeration ; but even your own troubadour poetry
might tell you that love, ever seeking a new language of its
own, cannot but often run into what, to all but lovers, seems
distortion and conceit."
"Come, dear signora," said Montreal, placing the lute
in Adrian's hands, "let Adeline be the umpire between
us, which music, yours or mine, -can woo the blander."
Ah," said Adrian laughing, "I fear me, sir knight,
you have already bribed the umpire.
CC
Montreal's eyes and Adeline's met; and in that gaze
Adeline forgot all her sorrows.
With a practised and skilful hand, Adrian touched the
strings; and selecting a song which was less elaborate
than those mostly in vogue among his country, though still
conceived in the Italian spirit, and in accordance with the
sentiment he had previously expressed to Adeline, he
as follows: —
LOVE'S EXCUSE FOR SADNESS.
Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee
I feel not rapture wholly;
For aye, the heart that 's filled with love,
Runs o'er in melancholy.
To streams that glide in noon, the shade
From summer skies is given;
So, if my breast reflects the cloud,
'T is but the cloud of heaven!
Thine image glassed within my soul
So well the mirror keepeth,
That, chide me not, if with the light
The shadow also sleepeth.
""
sang
• And now,” said Adrian, as he concluded, "the lute
is to you: I but prelude your prize.'
The Provençal laughed, and shook his head, "With
any other umpire, I had had my lute broken on my own
head for my conceit, in provoking such a rival; but I must
not shrink from a contest I have myself provoked, even
though in one day twice defeated; " and with that, in a
deep and exquisitely melodious voice, which wanted only
more scientific culture to have challenged any competition,
the knight of St. John poured forth
THE LAY OF THE TROUBADOUR.
1.
Gentle river, the moonbeam is hushed on thy tide,
On thy pathway of light to my lady I glide.
My boat, where the stream laves the castle, I moor, —
All at rest save the maid and her young troubadour!
As the stars to the waters that bore
My bark, to my spirit thou art;
Heaving yet, see it bound to the shore,
So moored to thy beauty my heart,
Bel' amie, beľ amie, beľ' amie !
IL.
Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath wealth for the vain;
But love breaks his bond when there 's gold in the chain;
Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath courts for the proud;
But love, born in caves, pines to death in the crowd.
Were this bosom thy world, dearest one,
Thy world could not fail to be bright;
For thou shouldst thyself be its sun,
And what spot could be dim in thy light,-
Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie!
111.
The rich and the great woo thee, dearest; and poor,
Though his fathers were princes, thy young troubadour,
But his heart never quailed save to thee, his adored,
There's no guile in his lute, and no stain on his sword.
Ah, I reck not what sorrows I know,
Could I still on thy solace confide;
And I care not, though earth be my foe,
If thy soft heart is found by my side,
Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie '
IV.
The maiden she blushed and the maiden she sighed,
Not a cloud in the sky, not a gale on the tide,
But though tempest had raged on the wave and the wind,
That castle methinks, had been still left behind!
Sweet lily, though bowed by the blast,
(To this bosom transplanted) since then,
Wouldst thou change, could we call up the past,
To the rock from thy garden again,
Bel' amie, bel' amie, Lel' amie "
Thus they alternated the time with converse and song, at
the wooded hills threw their sharp, long shadows over the
sea; while from many a mound of waking flowers, and
many a copse of citron and orange, relieved by the dark
and solemn aloe, stole the summer breeze, ladened with
mingled odors; and, over the seas, colored by the slow-
fading hues of purple and rose, that the sun had long be-
queathed to the twilight, flitted the gay fire-flies that
sparkle along that enchanted coast. At length, rising
above the dark forest-steeps, the moon slowly rose, gleam-
ing on the gay pavilion and glittering pennant of Montreal,
-on the verdant sward, the polished mail of the sol-
diers, stretched on the grass in various groups, half shaded
by oaks and cypress, and the war steeds grazing peaceably
together, —a wild mixture of the pastoral and the iron
time.
Adrian, reluctantly reminded of his journey, rose
depart.
"I fear," said he to Adeline, "that I have already
detained you too late in the night air; but selfishness is
little considerate.”
<<
Nay, you see we are prudent," said Adeline, pointing
to Montreal's mantle, which his provident hand had long
since drawn around her form; but, if you must part,
farewell, and success attend you!
*
"We meet again, I trust," said Adrian.
treal aside,
Adeline sighed gently; and the Colonna, gazing on her
painfully struck by its almost transparent delicacy. Moved
face by the moonlight, to which it was slightly raised, was
by his compassiou, ere he mounted his steed, he drew Mon-
"Forgive me if I seem presumptuous," said
but to one so noble this wild life is scarce a fitting
I know that, in our time, war consecrates all his
children; but surely a settled rank in the court of the em-
brethren, were better—"
peror, or an honorable reconciliation with your knightly
he;
career.
'A
"Than a Tartar camp, and a brigand's castle," inter-
rupted Montreal, with some impatience." This you were
about to say; -you are mistaken. Society thrust me from
her bosom; let society take the fruit it hath sown.
fixed rank,' say you? some subaltern office, to fight at
other men's command! You know me not: Walter de
Montreal was not formed to obey. War when I will, and
rest when I list, is the motto of my escutcheon. Ambition
proffers me rewards you wot not of; aud I am of the
mould, as of the race, of those whose swords have con-
quered thrones. For the rest, your news of the alliance
of Louis of Hungary with your tribune make it necesssary
for the friend of Louis to withdraw from all feud with
Rome. Ere the week expire, the owl and the bat may
seek refuge in you gray turrets.
"But your lady?
""
"Is inured to change. God help her, and temper the
rough wind to the lamb !
પ
Enough, sir knight; but should you desire a sure
refuge at Rome for one so gentle and so high-born, oy the
right hand of a knight, I promise a safe roof and an hon-
ored home to the Lady Adeline.”
Montreal pressed the offered hand to his heart; then,
plucking his own hastily away, drew it across his eyes,
and joined Adeline in a silence that showed he dared not
trust himself to speak. In a few moments Adrian and his
train were on the march; but still the young Colonna
turned back to gaze once more on his wild host and that
lovely lady, as they themselves lingered on the moonlit
sward, and the sea rippled mournfully on his ear.
It was not many months after that date that the name of
Fra Moreale scattered terror and dismay throughout the
fair Campania. The right hand of the Hungarian king,
in his invasion of Naples, he was chosen afterwards vicar
(or vicegerent) of Louis in Aversa; and fame and fate
seemed to lead him triumphantly along that ambitious
career which he had elected, whether bounded by the scaf
fold or the throne.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES
247
BOOK IV.
THE TRIUMPH AND THE POMP.
Allora fama e paura di si buono reggimento passa in ogni terra. — · Vit. di Cola di Rienzi, lib. i., c. zxi.
CHAPTER I.
The boy Angelo. -The dream of Nina fulfilled.
THE thread of my story transports us back to Rome.
It was in a small chamber, in a ruinous mansion, by the
base of Mount Aventine, that a young boy sat, one evening,
with a woman of a tall and stately form, but somewhat
bowed both by infirmity and years. The boy was of a fair
and comely presence; and there was that in his bold,
frank, undaunted carriage, which made him appear older
than he was.
The old woman, seated in the recess of the deep win-
dow, was apparently occupied with a Bible that lay open
on her knees; but ever and anon she lifted her eyes, and
gazed on her young companion with a sad and anxious
expression.
"Dame," said the boy, who was busily employed in
hewing out a sword of wood, "I would you had seen the
show to-day. Why, every day is a show at Rome now!
It is show enough to see the tribune himself on his white
steed (oh, it is so beautiful !) with his white robes all
studded with jewels. But to-day, as I have just been tell-
ing you, the Lady Nina took notice of me, as I stood on
the stairs of the capitol; you know, dame, I have donned
my best blue velvet doublet.”
p
And she called you a fair boy, and asked if you would
be her little page; and this has turned thy brain, silly
urchin that thou art —”
"But the words are the least; if you saw the Lady
Nina, you would say that a smile from her might turn the
wisest head in Italy. Oh, how I should like to serve
the tribune! All the lads of my age are mad for him.
How they will stare and envy me at school to-morrow!
You know too, dame, that though I was not always
brought up at Rome, I am Roman. Every Roman loves
Every Roman loves
Rienzi."
"Ay, for the hour the cry will soon change. This
vanity of thine, Angelo, vexes my old heart. I would
thou wert humbler.”
"Bastards have their own name to win," said the boy,
coloring deeply. " They twit me in the teeth, because I
cannot say who my father and mother were."
66
"Thou
They need not," returned the dame, hastily.
comest of noble blood and long descent, though, as I have
old thee ten, I know not the exact names of thy parents;
out what art thou shaping that tough sapling of oak
inte?"
“A sword, dame, to assist the tribune against the rob-
bers."
<
"Alas! I fear me, like all those who seek power in Italy,
he is more likely to enlist robbers than to assail them.
Why, la you there, you live so shut up, that you know
and hear nothing, or you would have learned that even
that fiercest of all the robbers, Fra Moreale, has at length
yielded to the tribune, and fled from his castle, like a rat
from a falling house."
"How, how!" cried the dame; "what say you? Has
this plebeian, whom you call the tribune, has he boldly
thrown the gage to that dread warrior and has Montreal
left the Roman territory?"
Ay, it is the talk of the town.
But Moreale seems as
much a bugbear to you as to e'er a mother in Rome. Did
he ever wrong you, dame?”
"Yes!" exclaimed the old woman, with so abrupt a
fierceness that even that hardy boy was startled.
"I wish I could meet him, then," said he, after a pause,
as he flourished his mimic weapon.
"Now heaven forbid! He is a man ever to be shunned
by thee, whether for peace or war. Say again this good
tribune holds no terms with the Free Lances."
CC
Say it again, why all Rome knows it."
"He is pious, too, I have heard; and they do bruit that
" said the
he sees visions and is comforted from above,"
woman, speaking to herself. Then, turning to Angelo,
she continued, "Thou wouldst like greatly to accep
the Lady Nina's proffer?"
"Ah, that I should, dame, if you could spare me.”
"Child,” replied the matron, solemnly,
my sand is
nearly run, and my wish is to see thee with one who will
nurture thy young years, and save thee from a life of l-
cense. That done, I may fulfil my vow, and devote the
desolate remnant of my years to God. I will think more
of this, my child. Not under such a plebeian's roof shouldst
thou have lodged, nor from a stranger's board been fed:
but at Rome, my last relative worthy of the trust is dead!
-and, at the worst, obscure honesty is better than gaudy
crime. Thy spirit troubles me already. Back, my child;
I must to my closet, and watch and pray.
Thus saying, the old woman, repelling the advance, and
silencing the inuttered and confused words of the boy,
half affectionate as they were, yet half touchy and wayward,
- glided from the chamber.
—
The boy looked abstractedly at the closing door, and
then said to himself, "The dame is always talking rid-
dles I wonder if she know more of me than she tells, or
if she is in any way akin to me. I hope not; for I don't
love her much; nor, for that matter, any thing else. I
wish she would place me with the tribune's lady, and then
we 'll see which of the lads will call Angelo Villani, bastard."
With that, the boy fell to work again at his sword with
redoubled vigor. In fact, the cold manner of this female
his sole nurse, companion, substitute for parent, had re
pelled his affections without subduing his temper; and
though not originally of evil disposition, Angelo Villan
was already insolent, cunning, and revengeful; but no.
without, on the other hand, a quick susceptibility to kind-
ness as to affront, a natural acuteness of talent, and a great
indifference to fear. Brought up in quiet affluence rather
than luxury, and living much with his protector, whom he
knew but by the name of Ursula, his bearing was graceful,
and his air that of the well-born. And it was his carriage,
perhaps, rather than his countenance, which, though hand-
some, was more distinguished for intelligence than beauty,
which had attracted the notice of the tribune's bride.
education was that of one reared for some scholastic pro-
fession. He was not only taught to read and write, but
had been even instructed in the rudiments of Latin. He
did not, however, incline to these studies half so fondly as
to the games of his companions, or the shows or riots in
the street, into all of which be managed to thrust himself,
and from which he had always the happy dexterity to returı:
safe and unscathed.
Hin
The next morning Ursula entered the young Angelo's
chamber. "Wear again thy blue doublet this morning,'
said she; "I would have thee look thy best. Thou shalt
go with me to the palace.'
"What, to-day?" cried the boy, joyfully, half caping
from his bed. Dear dame Ursula, shall I really, then,
belong to the train of the great tribune's lady?"
Your
Yes; and leave the old woman to die alone.
joy becomes you, but ingratitude is in your blood. In-
gratitude! Oh, it has burnt my heart into ashes. Ap!
yours, boy, can no longer find a fuel in the d'y crumbing
cinders
245
BULWER'S NOVELS
|
“Der dame, you are always so biling. You know you
said you wished to retire into a convent, and I was too
troublesome a charge for you. But you delight in rebuking |
me, justly or unjustly."
sigh.
My task is over," said Ursula, with a deep-drawn
The boy answered not, and the old woman retired with
a heavy step, and, it may be, a heavier heart. When he
joined her in their common apartment, he observed what
his joy had previously blinded him to,
that Ursula wore
not her usual plain and sober dress. The gold chain, rare-
ly worn then by women not of noble birth, though, not
in the other sex, affected also by public functionaries and
wealthy merchants, glittered upon a robe of the rich-
fowered stuffs of Venice, and the clasps that confined the
vest at the throat and waist were adorned with jewels of no
common price.
Angelo's eye was struck by the change, but he felt a
more manly pride in remarking that the old lady became
it well. Her air and mien were indeed those of one to
whom such garments were habitual; and they seemed that
day more than usually austere and stately.
She smoothed the boy's ringlets, and drew his short
mantle more gracefully over his shoulder, and then placed
in his belt a poniard whose handle was richly studded, and
a purse well filled with florins.
"Learn to use both discreetly," said she;
and wheth-
er I live or die, you will never require to wield the poniard
to procure the gold."
"This, then," cried Angelo, enchanted, " is a real pon-
iard, to fight the robbers with. Ah, with this I should not
fear Fra Moreale, who wronged thee so. I trust I may yet
may yet
avenge thee, though thou didst rate me so just now for in-
gratitude.'
"I am avenged. Nourish not such thoughts, my son,
they are sinful; at least I fear so. Draw to the board
and eat; we will go betimes, as petitioners should do."
Angelo had soon finished his morning meal, and sallying
with Ursula to the porch, he saw, to his surprise, four of
those servitors who then usually attended persons of dis-
tinction, and who were to be hired in every city, for the
convenience of strangers or the holyday ostentation of the
gayer citizens.
How grand we are to-day," said he, clapping his
he, clapping his
hands with an eagerness which Ursula failed not to reprove.
"It is not for vain show," she added, " which true nobility
can well dispense with, but that we may the more readily
gain admittance to the palace. These princes of yesterday
are not easy of audience to the over humble.”
"Oh! but you are wrong this time," said the boy.
"The tribune gives audience to all men, the poorest as the
richest. Nay, there is not a ragged boor, or a barefooted
friar, who does not win access to him sooner than the proud-
est baron. That's why the people love him so. And
he devotes one day of the week to receiving the widows
and the orphaus; and you know, dame, I am an or-
phan.”
Ursula, already occupied with her own thoughts, did not
answer, and scarcely heard the boy; but, leaning on his
young arm, and preceded by the footmen to clear the way,
passed slowly towards the palace of the capitol.
A wonderful thing would it have been to a more observ-
ant eye, to note the change which two or three short months,
of the stern but salutary and wise rule of the tribune had
effected in the streets of Rome. You no longer beheld the
gaunt and mail-clad forms of foreign mercenaries stalking
through the vistas, or grouped in lazy indolence before the
embattled porches of some gloomy palace. The shops,
that in many quarters had been closed for years, were again
open, glittering with wares and bustling with trade. The
thoroughfares, formeny either silent as death, or crossed
by some affrighted and solitary passenger, with quick steps,
and eyes that searched every corner, -or resounding with
the roar of a pauper rabble, or the open feuds of savage
nobles, now exhibited the regular, and wholesome, and
mingled streams of civilized life, whether bound to pleas-
ure or to commerce. Carts and wagons, laden with goods
which had passed in safety by the dismantled holds of the
robbers of the Campagna, rattled cheerfully over the path-
ways. "Never, perhaps,". to use the translation adapt-
ed from the Italian authorities, by a modern and by no
means a partial historian, "never, perhaps, has the
*
* Gibbon
|
—
energy and efect of a single mind been more remarkab
felt than in the sudden reformation of Rome by the tribous
Rienzi. A den of robbers was converted to the discipline
of a camp or convent. In this time," says the historian,
“did the woods begin to rejoice that they were no longer
infested with robbers; the oxen began to plough; the pil-
grins visited the sanctuaries; the roads and inns were
replenished with travellers: trade pienty, and good faith
were restored in the markets; and a purse of gold might
be exposed without danger in the midst of the highways.
Amid all these evidences of comfort and security to the
people, some dark and discontented countenances might
be seen mingled in the crowd; and whenever one who
wore the livery of the Colonna or the Orsini felt himself
justled by the throng, a fierce hand moved involuntarily
to the sword-belt, and a half-suppressed oath was ended
with an indignant sigh. Here and there, too, -contrast-
ing the re-decorated, re-furnished, and smiling shops,-
heaps of rubbish before the gate of some haughty mansion,
testified the abasement of fortifications which the owner
impotently resented as a sacrilege. Through such greets
and such throngs did the party we accompany wend their
way, till they found themselves amid crowds assembled be-
fore the entrance of the capitol. The officers there sta-
tioned kept, however, so discreet and dexterous an order,
that they were not long detained; and now, in the broad
place or court of that memorable building, they saw the
open doors of the great justice-hall, guarded but by a single
sentinel, and in which for six hours daily did the tribune
hold his court, for, “ patient to hear, swift to redress, inex-
orable to punish, his tribunal was always accessible to the
poor
poor and stranger."†
Not, however, to that hall did the party bend its way,
but to the entrance which admitted to the private apart.
ments of the palace. And here the pomp, the gaud, the
more than regal magnificence of the residence of the tri-
bune strongly contrasted the patriarchal simplicity which
marked his justice court.
Even Ursula, not unaccustomed, of yore, to the luxuri-
ous state of Italian and French principalities, seemed
roused into surprise at the hall crowded with retainers in
costly liveries, the marble and gilded columns wreathed with
flowers, and the gorgeons banners wrought with the blend-
ed arms of the republican city, and the pontifical see,
which blazed aloft and around.
‹‹ The
Scarce knowing whom to address in such an assemblage,
Ursula was relieved from her perplexity by an officer, at-
tired in a suit of crimson and gold, who, with a grave and
formal decorum, which indeed reigned throughout the whole
retinue, demanded respectfully, whom she sought.
Signora Nina!” replied Ursula, drawing up her stately
person with a natural, though somewhat antiquated dignity,
There was something foreign in the accent which induced
the officer's answer.
To-day, madam, I fear that the signora receives only
the Roman ladies. To-morrow is that appointed for all
foreign dames of distinction."
Ursula, with a slight impatience of tone, replied,
ઃઃ
My business is of that nature which is welcome on any
day, at palaces. I come, siguor, to lay certain presents
at the signora's feet, which, I trust, she will deign to ac-
cept.
"And say, signor," added the boy, abruptly, "that
Angelo Villani, whom the Lady Nina honored yesterday
with her notice, is no stranger, but a Roman, and comes,
as she bade him, to proffer to the signora his homage and
devotion."
The grave officer could not refrain a smile at the pert,
yet not ungraceful, boldness of the boy.
"I remember me, Master Angelo Villani," he replied,
"that the Lady Nina spoke to you by the great staircase.
Pleuse tu tuzow me to an
Madam, I will do your errand.
apartment more fitting your sex and seeming.
With that the oficer led the way across the hall to a
broad staircase of white marble, along the centre of which
were laid those rich eastern carpets, which at that day,
when rushes strewed the chambers of an English monarch,
were already common to the greater luxury of Italian pal-
aces. Opening a door at the first flight, he ushered Ursula
and her young charge into a lofty antechamber, hung with
arras of wrought velvets, while over the opposite door,
through which the officer now vanished, were blazoned the
* Vita di Cola di Rienzi. lib. 1 c. x.
† Gibbon
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
249
armorial bearings which the tribune so constantly introduced
Into all his pomp, not more from the love of show than
from his politic desire to mingle with the keys of the pon-
tiff, the heraldic insignia of the republic.
"Philip of Valois is not housed like this man!" mut-
tered Ursula. "I shall have done (if this last) better for
my charge than I recked of.
The officer soon returned, and led them across an apart-
ment of vast extent, which was, indeed, the great recep-
tion-chamber of the palace. Four-and-twenty columus of
the oriental alabaster, which had attested the spoils of the
later emperors, and had been disinterred from forgotten
ruins to grace the palace of the reviver of the old repub-
lic, supported the light roof, which, half Goth c, half clas-
sic in its architecture, was inlaid with gilded and purple
mosaics. The tesselated floor was covered in the centre
with cloth of gold, the walls were clothed at intervals with
the same gorgeous hangings, relieved by pannels freshly
painted in the most glowing colors, with mystic and sym-
bolical designs. At the upper end of this royal chamber,
two steps ascended to the place of the tribune's throne,
above which was the canopy wrought with the eternal ar-
morial bearings of the pontiff and the city.
Traversing this apartment, the officer opened the door
at its extremity, which admitted to a small chamber
crowded with pages in rich dresses of silver and blue vel-
ret. There were few among them elder than Angelo, and,
from their general beauty, seemed the very flower and
blossom of the city.
Short time had Angelo to gaze on his comrades that
were to be : another minute, and he and his protectress
were in the presence of the tribune's bride.
The chamber was not large, but it was large enough
to prove that the beautiful daughter of Raselli had realized
her imaginative charm of vanity and splendor.
It was an apartment that mocked description; it seemed
a cabinet for the gems of the world. The daylight, sha-
ded by high and deep-set casements of stained glass,
streamed in a purpling and mellow hue, over all that the
art of that day boasted most precious, or regal luxury held
most dear. The candelabras of the silver workmanship of
Florence, the carpets and stuffs of the East, the draperies
of Venice and Genoa; paintings like the illuminated mis-
sals, wrought in gold and those lost colors of blue and
crimson; antique marbles, which spoke of the bright days
of Athens; tables of disinterred mosaics, their freshness
preserved as by magic; censers of gold that streamed with
the odors of Araby, yet so subdued as not to deaden the
healthier scent of flowers, which blushed in every corner
from their marble and alabaster vases; a small miniature
and spirit-like fountain, which seemed to gush from among
wreaths of roses, diffusing, in its diamond and fairy spray,
a scarce-felt coolness to the air ; all these, and such as
these, it were vain work to detail; congregated in the
richest luxuriance, harmonized with the most exquisite
taste, uniting the ancient arts to the modern, amazed and
intoxicated the sense of the beholder. It was not so much
the cost, nor the luxury, that made the character of the
chamber, it was a certain gorgeous and almost sublime
imaginativeness; it was rather the fabled retreat of an en-
chantress, an Armida, at whose word genii ransacked the
earth, and fairies arranged the produce, than the grosser
splendor of an earthly queen. Behind the piled cushions
upon which Nina half reclined, stood four girls, beautiful
as houries, with fans of the rarest feathers, and at her feet
lay one older than the rest, whose lute, though now silent,
attested her legitimate occupation.
But, had the room in itself seemed somewhat too fantas-
tie and overcharged in its prodigal adornments, the form
and face of Nina would at once have rendered all appro-
priate; so completely did she seem the natural spirit of the
place; so wonderfully did her beauty, elated as it now was
with contented love, gratified vanity, exultant hope, body
orth the brightest vision that ever floated before the eyes
of Tasso, when he wrought into one immortal shape the
glory of the enchantress with the allurements of the
woman.
Nina half rose as she saw Ursula, whose sedate and
mouroful features involuntarily testified her surprise and ad-
miration at a loveliness so rare and striking, but who, un-
dazzled by the splendor around, soon recovered her wonted
elf-composure and seated herself on a cushion to which
Nina pointed, while the young visiter remained standing
VOL II
32
and spell-bound by childish wonder in the centre of the
apartment. Nina recognised him with a smile,-
"Ah, my pretty boy, whose quick eyes and bold air
caught my fancy yesterday! Have you come to accept
my offer? Is it you, madam, who claim this fair child?"
Lady," replied Ursula, "my business here is brief :
by a train of events, needless to weary you with narrating,
this boy from his infancy fell to my charge, - a weighty
and anxious trust to one whose thoughts are beyond the
barrier of life. I have reared him as became one of gen-
tle blood: for, on both sides, lady, he is noble, though an
orphan, inotherless and sireless."
"Poor child!" said Nina, compassionately.
"Growing now," continued Ursula, "oppressed by
years, and desirous only to make my peace with heaven, I
journeyed hither some months since, in the design to place
the boy with a relation of mine; and that trust fulfilled, to
take vows in the city of the apostle. Alas! I found my
kinsman dead, and a baron of wild and dissolute character
was his heir. Here remaining, perplexed and anxious,
it seemed to me the voice of Providence when, yester even-
ing, the child told me you had been pleased to honor him
with your notice. Like the rest of Rome, he has already
learned to give his enthusiasm to the tribune, his devo-
tion to the tribune's bride. Will
Will you, in truth, admit him
of your household? He will not dishonor your protec-
tion by his blood, nor, I trust by his bearing.
"I would take his face for his guarantee, madam, even
without so distinguished a recommendation as your own.
Is he Roman? His name, then, must be known to me.”
"Pardon me, lady," replied Ursula: "he bears the
name of Angelo Villani,-not that of his sire or mother.
The honor of a noble house condemns his parentage ever
to rest unknown. He is the offspring of a love unsanc-
tioned by the church.”
"He is the more to be loved, then, and to be pitied,-
victim of sin not his own!" answered Nina, with mois-
tened eyes, as she saw the deep and burning blush that cov-
ered the boy's cheeks. "With the tribune's reign com-
mences a new era of nobility, when rank and knighthood
shall be won by a man's own merit, -not that of his an-
cestors. Fear not, madam: in my house he shall know
no slight."
Ursula was moved from her pride by the kindness of
Nina: she approached with involuntary reverence, and
kissed the signora's hand,
won.
more.
May our lady reward your noble heart!" said she;
"and now my mission is ended, and my earthly goal is
Add only, lady, to your nestimable favors, one
These jewels," and Ursula drew from her robe
a casket, touched the spring, and the lid flying back, dis-
covered jewels of great size and most brilliant water,
"these jewels," she continued, laying the casket at Nina's
feet, "once belonging to the princely house of Thoulouse,
are valueless to me and mine. Suffer me to think that they
are transferred to one whose queenly brow will give them
a lustre it cannot borrow."
"How!" said Niña, coloring very deeply, "think you,
madam, my kindness can be bought? What woman's
kindness ever was? Nay, nay, take back the gifts, or
I shall pray you to take back your boy."
Ursula was astonished and confounded: to her experi-
ence such abstinence was a novelty, and she scarcely knew
how to meet it. Nina perceived her embarrassment with
a haughty and triumphant smile, and then, regaining her
former courtesy of demeanor, said, with a grave sweet-
ness,
"The tribune's hands are clean, the tribune's wife
must not be suspected. Rather, madam, should I press
upon you some token of exchange for the fair charge you
have committed to me. Your jewels, hereafter, may profit
the boy in his career: reserve them for one who needs
them.
"No, lady," said Ursula, rising and lifting her eyes to
heaven, they shall buy masses for his mother's soul;
for him I shall reserve a competence when his years require
it. Lady, accept the thanks of a wretched and desolate
heart. Fare you well."
She turned to quit the room, but with so faltering and
weak a step, that Nina, touched and affected, sprung up,
and with her own hand guided the old woman across the
room, whispering comfort and soothing to her; while, as
they reached the door, the boy rushed forward, and clasp-
230
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ing Ursula's robe, sobbed out, Dear dame, not one
farewell for your little Angelo! Forgive him all he has cost
you! Now, for the first time, I feel how wayward and
thankless I have been "
The old woman caugnt him in her arms, and kissed him
passionately, when the boy, as if a thought suddenly struck
him, drew forth the purse she had given him, and said, in
a choked and scarce articulate voice, "And let this,
dearest dame, go to masses for my poor father's soul; for
he is dead, too, you know!"
These words seemed to freeze at once all the tender
emotions of Ursula. She put back the boy with the same
chilling and stern severity of aspect and manner which had
so often before repressed him; and recovering her self-
possession at once, quitted the apartment without saying
another word. Nina, surprised, but still pitying her sor-
row and respecting her age, followed her steps across the
pages' anteroom and the reception-chamber, even to the
foot of the stairs, - a condescension the haughtiest princess
of Rome could not have won from her; and, returning,
saddened and thoughtful, she took the boy's hand, and
affectionately kissed his forehead.
"Poor boy," she said, "it seems as if providence had
made me select thee yesterday from the crowd, and thus
conducted thee to thy proper refuge. For to whom should
come the friendless and the orphans of Rome, but to the
palace of Rome's first magistrate." Turning then to her
attendants, she gave them instructions as to the personal
comforts of her new charge, which evinced that, if power
had ministered to her vanity, it had not steeled her heart.
Angelo Villani lived to repay her well!
She retained the boy in her presence, and conversing
with him familiarly, she was more and more pleased with
his bold spirit and frank manner. The converse was, how-
ever, interrupted as the day advanced, by the arrival of
several ladies of the Roman nobility. And then it was that
Nina's virtues receded into shade, and her faults appeared.
She could not resist the woman's triumph over those arro-
gant signoras, who now cringed in homage where they had
once slighted with disdain. She affected the manner of,
she demanded the respect due to,-a queen. And by inany
of those dexterous arts which the sex know so well, she
contrived to render her very courtesy a humiliation to her
haughty guests. Her commanding beauty and her graceful
intellect saved her, indeed, from the vulgar insolence of the
upstart; but yet more keenly stung the pride, by forbidding
to those she mortified the retaliation of contempt. Hers were
the covert taunt, the smiling affront, the sarcasm in
the mask of compliment, the careless exaction of respect
in trifles, which it was impossible outwardly to resent, but
which rankled unforgivingly within.
"Fair day to the Signora Colonna," said she to the
proud wife of the proud Stephen; "we passed your palace
yesterday. How fair it now seems, relieved from those
gloomy battlements which it must often have saddened you
to gaze upon. Signora, (turning to one of the Orsini,)
your lord has high favor with the tribune, who destines him
to great command. His fortunes are secured, and we
rejoice at it, for no man more loyally serves the state.
Have you seen, fair lady of Frangipani, the last verse of
Peurarch in honor of my lord? It lies yonder. May we so
far venture as to request you to point its beauties to the
Signora di Savelli? We rejoice, noble lady of Malatesta,
to observe that your eyesight is so well restored. The last
time we met, though we stood next to you in the revels of
the Lady Giulia, you seemed scarce to distinguish us from
the pillar by which we stood !
Must this insolence be endured?" whispered the
Signora Frangipani to the Signora Malatesta.
"Hush, bush, if ever it be our day again!"
CHAPTER II.
The blessing of a counsellor whose interests and heart are
our own. The straws thrown upward. Do they portend
the storm?
It was later that day than usual when Rienzi returned
from his tribunal to the apartments of the palace. As he
traversed the reception hall, his countenance was much
flushed; his teeth were set firmly, like a man who has
taken a strong resolution from which he will not be moved;
and his brow was dark with that settled and fearful frown
which the describers of his personal appearance have not
failed to notice as the characteristic of an anger the more
deadly, because invariably just. Close at his heels followed
the Bishop of Orvietto, and the aged Stephen Colonna. “I
tell you, my lords," said Rienzi," that ye plead in vain.
Rome knows no distinction between ranks. The law is
blind to the agent, - lynx-eyed to the deed."
"Yet," said Raimond, hesitatingly, "bethink thee,
tribune; the nephew of two cardinals, and himself once a
senator."
A
Rienzi halted abruptly, and faced his companions.
"My lord bishop," said he, "does not this make the
crime more inexcusable? Look you, thus it reads: - A
vessel from Avignon to Naples, charged with the revenues
of Provence to Queen Jane, on whose cause, mark you, we
now hold solemn council, is wrecked at the mouth of the
Tiber; with that, Martino di Porto, - a noble, as you say,
the holder of that fortress whence he derives his title,
doubly bound, by gentle blood and by immediate neighbour-
hood, to succour the oppressed, falls upon the vessel with
his troops (what hath the rebel with armed troops ?) and
pillages the vessel like a common robber. He is appre
hended, - brought to my tribunal, receives fair trial,
is condemned to die. Such is the law,
what more
would ye have ?
Mercy," said the Colonna.
"" I
Rienzi folded his arms, and laughed disdainfully.
never heard my Lord Colonna plead for mercy when a
peasant had stolen the bread that was to feed his famishing
children."
"Between a peasant and a prince, tribune, I, for one,
recognise a distinction ; the bright blood of an Orsini is
not to be shed like that of a base plebeian.
Is
"Which, I remember me," said Rienzi, in a low voice,
you deemed small matter enough when my boy brother
fell beneath the wanton spear of your proud son. Wake
not that memory. I warn you, let it sleep! For shame,
old Colonna, for shame; so near the grave, where the
worm levels all flesh, and preaching, with those gray hairs,
the uncharitable distinction between man and man.
there not distinction enough at the best? Does not one
wear purple and the other rags? Hath not one ease and
the other toil? Doth not the one banquet while the other
starves? Do I nourish any mad scheme to level the ranks
which society renders an evil necessary? No. I war no
more with Dives than with Lazarus. But, before inan's
judgment-seat as before God's, Lazarus and Dives are
made equal. No more.'
Colouna drew his robe round him with great haughtiness,
and bit his lip in silence. Raimond interposed.
CC
All this is true, tribune. But," and he drew Rienzi
aside, "you know we must be politic as well as just.
Nephew to two cardinals, what enmity will not this pro-
voke at Avignon !"
"Vex not yourself, holy Raimond; I will answer it to
the pontiff." "While they spoke the bell tolled heavily and
loudly..
Colonna started.
"Great tribune," said he, with a slight sneer, "deign
to pause ere it be too late. I know not that I ever before
bent to you a suppliant; and I ask you now to spare mine
own foe. Stephen Colonna prays Cola di Rienzi to spare
the life of an Orsini."
"I understand thy taunt, old lord," said Rienzi, calmly,
"but I resent it not. You are foe to the Orsini, yet you
plead for him,
plead for him, it sounds
it sounds generous; but hark you, you
are more a friend to your order than a foe to your rival.
You cannot bear that one great enough to have contended
with you should perish like a thief. I give full praise to
such noble forgiveness; but I am no noble, and I do not
sympathize with it. One word more ; - if this were the
sole act of fraud and violence that this bandit-baron had
committed, your prayers should plead for him; but is not
his life notorious? Has he not been, from boyhood, the
terror and disgrace of Rome? How many matrons violated,
merchants pillaged, robbers stilettoed in the daylight, rise
in dark witness against the prisoner? And for such a man
do I live to hear an aged prince, and a pope's vicar, plead
for mercy? Fie, fie. But I will be even with ye. The
next poor man whom the law sentences to death, for your
sake will I pardon.
Raimond again drew aside the tribune, while Colonna
struggled to suppress his rage.
RIENZI, THE LAST
251
OF THE TRIBUNES.
My friend," said the bishop, "the nobles will feel this
as an insult to their whole order; the very pleading of
Orsini's worst 1ɔe must convince thee of this. Martino's
blood will seal their reconciliation with each other, and
they will be as one man against thee.'
""
"Be it so; with God and the people with me, I will
dare, though a Roman, to be just. The bell ceases, — you
are already too late.” So saying, Rienzi threw open a
casement, and by the staircase of the Lion rose a gibbet,
from which swung, with a creaking sound, arrayed in his
patrician robes, the yet palpitating corpse of Martino di
Porto.
"Behold!" said the tribune, sternly; "thus die all
robbers. For traitors the same law has the axe and the
scaffold!"
Raimond drew back and turned pale; not so the veteran
noble. Tears of wounded pride started from his eyes; he
approached, leaning on his staff, to Rienzi, touched him on
the shoulder, and said,
"Tribune, without treason, a judge has lived to envy his
v'ct m ! "
Rieuzi turned with an equal pride to the baron
"We forgive idle words in the aged, my lord,
done with us? we would be alone."
you
S
ice and desertion, and historians with a plausible explana
tion of causes they had not the industry to fathom. Rienzi
returned his wife's caresses with an equal affection, and
bending down to her beautiful face, the sight was sufficient
to chase from his brow the emotions, whether severe or
sad, which had lately darkened its broad expanse.
“Thou hast not been abroad this morning, Nina !
"No, the heat was oppressive. But, nevertheless,
-half the matronage of
Cola, I have not lacked company,
Rome has crowded the palace."
Ah, I warrant it. But, yon boy, is he not a new face?"
Hush, Cola, speak to him kindly, I entreat of his
story anon. Angelo, approach. You see your new mas
ter, the tribune of Rome."
Angelo approached with a timidity not his wont, for an
air of majesty was at all times natural to Rienzi, and
since his power it had naturally taken a graver and auster-
er aspect, which impressed those who approached him,
even the ambassadors of princes, with a certain invo un-
tary awe. The tribune smiled at the effect he saw he had
produced, and being, by temper, fond of children, and
affable to all but the great, he hastened to dispel it. He
have took the child affectionately in his arms, kissed him, and
"Tri-
May we have a son as fair!" he whispered to Nina,
who blushed and turned away.
"Give me thy arm, Raimond," said Stephen.
bune, farewell. Forget that the Colonna sued thee,
an easy task, methinks; for, wise as you are, you forget
what every one else can remember.”
،،
Ay, my lord, what?"
"Birth, tribune, birth,
that's all !"
"The Signor Colonna has taken up my old calling, and
turned a wit," returned Rienzi, with an indifferent and
easy tone.
Then following Raimond and Stephen with his eyes, till
the door closed upon them, he muttered, "Insolent! were
it not for Adrian, thy gray beard should not bear thee
harmless. Birth! what Colonna would not boast himself,
if he could, the grandson of an emperor ?— Old man, there
is danger in thee, which must be watched." With that
he turned musingly towards the casement, and again that
grisly spectacle of death met his eye. The people below,
assembled in large concourse, rejoiced at the execution of
one whose whole life had been infamy and rapine, but
who had seemed beyond justice, with all the fierce clamor
that marks the exultation of the rabble over a crushed foe.
And where Rienzi stood, he heard their shouts of “ Long
live the tribune, the just judge, Rome's liberator ! ' But
at that time other thoughts deafened his senses to the pop-
ular enthusiasm.
My poor brother!" he said, with tears in his eyes,
"It was owing to this man's crimes, and to crime almost
similar to that for which he has now suffered, that thou
wert entrained to the slaughter; and they who had no pity
for the lamb, clamor for compassion to the wolf! Ah, wert
thou living now, how these proud heads would bend to
thee; though dead, thou wert not worthy of a thought.
God rest thy gentle soul, and keep my ambition pure as it
was when we walked at twilight, side by side together!
The tribune shut the casement, and turning away, sought
the chamber of Nina. When she heard his step without,
she had already risen from the couch, her eyes sparkling,
breast heaving, and, as he entered, she threw herself
on nis neck, and murmured, as she nestled to his breast,
"Ah, the hours since we parted!
T
It was a singular thing to see that proud lady, proud of
her beauty, her station, her new honors, whose gorgeous
vanity was already the talk of Rome, and the reproach to
Rienzi, how suddenly and miraculously she seemed
caanged in his presence! Blushing and timid, all pride in
herself seemed merged in her proud love for him. No
woman ever loved to the full extent of the passion who did
not venerate where she loved, and who did not feel humbled
(delighted in that humility) by her exaggerated and over-
weening estimate of the superiority of the object of her
worship.
And it might be the consciousness of this distinction
between himself and all other created things, which con-
tinued to increase the love of the tribune to his bride, to
blind him to her failings towards others, and to indulge
her in a magnificence of parade, which, though to a cer-
tain point politic to assume, was carried to an extent,
which, if it did not conspire to produce his downfall, has
served the Romans with an excuse for their own coward-
bade him welcome.
CC
CC
Thy name, my little friend?"
"Angelo Villani."
"A Tuscan name.
There is a man of letters at Flor-
ence, doubtless writing our annals from hearsay, at this
moment, so called. Is John Villani akin to thee?
"I have no kin," said the boy, bluntly, "and therefore
I shall the better love the signora, and honor you, if
you
will let me. I am Roman, all the Roman boys honor
Rienzi."
دو
"Do they, my brave lad?" said the tribune, coloring
with pleasure; that is a good omen of my continued
prosperity. He put down the boy, and threw himself on
the cushions, while Nina placed herself on a kind of low
stool beside him.
"Let us be alone," said he; and Nina motioned to the
attendant maidens to withdraw.
"Take my new page with you," said she; "he is yet,
perhaps, too fresh from home to enjoy the company of his
giddy brethren."
When they were alone, Nina proceeded to narrate to
Rienzi the adventure of the morning; but, though he
seemed outwardly to listen, his gaze was on vacancy, and
he was evidently abstracted and self-absorbed. At length,
as she concluded, he said, "Well, my beautiful, you have
acted as ever, kindly and nobly. Let us to other themes
I am in danger."
CC
Danger! "echoed Nina, turning pale.
Why, the word must not appal you; you have a spirit
like mine, that scorns fear; and for that reason, Nina, in
all Rome you are my only confidant. It is not only to
glad me with thy beauty, but to cheer me with thy coun-
sel, to support me with thy valor, that heaven gave me thee
as a helpmate.
"Now, our lady bless you for those words!" said Nina,
kissing the hand that hung over her shoulder; "and if I
started at the word danger, it was but the woman's thought
of thee, -an unworthy thought, my Cola, for glory and
danger go together. And I am as ready to share the last
as the first. If the hour of trial ever come, none of thy
friends shall be so faithful to thy side as this weak form,
but undaunted heart."
Thou knowest that to
"I know it, my own Nina; I know it," said Rienzi,
rising, and pacing the chamber with large and rapid
strides. "Now listen to me.
govern in safety, it is my policy, as my pride, to govern
justly. To govern justly is an awful thing, when mighty
barons are the culprits. Nina, for an open and auda
cious robbery, our court has sentenced Martin of the
Orsini, the lord of Porto, to death. His corpse swings
now on the staircase of the Lion."
“A dreadful doom!” said Nina, shuddering.
"True; but by his death thousands of poor and honest
men may live in peace. This is not that which troubles
me; the barous resent the deed as an insult to them, that
law should touch a noble. They will rise, they will
rebel. I foresee the storm, not the spell to allay it."
They have taken."
Nina paused a moment,
252
BULWER'S NOVELS.
then said, a sole un oath on the eucharist not to bear
arms against thee.”
"Perjury is a light addition to theft and murder,”
answered Rienzi, with his sarcastic smile.
"But the people are faithful."
"Yes, but in a civil war (which the saints forefend!)
those combatants are the stanchest who have no home but
their armor, no calling but the sword. The trader will
not leave his trade at the toll of a bell every day; but the
barons' soldiery are ready at all hours."
"To be strong," said Nina, who, when summoned
to the councils of her lord, showed an intellect not unwor-
thy of the honor, -"to be strong in dangerous times,
authority must seem strong. By showing no fear, you may
prevent the cause of fear."
CC
My own thought!" returned Rienzi, quickly. "You
know that half my power with these barons is drawn from
the homage rendered to me by foreign states. When from
every city in Italy the ambassadors of crowned princes
seck the alliance of the tribune, they must veil their re-
sentment at the rise of the plebeian. On the other hand,
to be strong abroad, I must seem strong at home: the vast
design I have planned, and, as by a miracle, begun to exe-
cute, will fail at once, if it seem abroad to be intrusted to
an unsteady and fluctuating power. That design (con-
tinued Rienzi, pausing, and placing his hand on a marble
bust of the young Augustus) is greater than his, whose
profound yet icy soul united Italy in subjection, for it
would unite Italy in freedom; yes ! could we but form
one great federative league of all the states of Italy, each
governed by its own laws, but united for mutual and com-
mon protection against these Attilas of the North, with
Roine for their metropolis and their mother, this age and
this brain would have wrought an enterprise which men
should quote till the sound of the last trump ! "
"I know thy divine scheme," said Nina, catching his
enthusiasm; and what if there be danger in attaining
it, have we not mastered the greatest danger in the first
step?",
Right, Nina, right! Heaven (and the tribune, who
ever recognised in his own fortunes the agency of the hand
above, crossed himself reverently) will preserve him to
whom it hath vouchsafed such lofty visions of the future
redemption of the land of the true church, and the liberty
and advancement of its children! This I trust already
many of the cities of Tuscany have entered into treaties
for the formation of this league: nor from a single tyrant,
save John di Vico, have I received aught but fair words
and flattering promises. The time seems ripe for the
grand stroke of all."
"And what is that?" demanded Nina, wonderingly.
"Defiance to all foreign interference. By what right
does a synod of stranger princes give Rome a king in some
Teuton emperor? Rome's people alone should choose
Rome's governor ; — and shall we cross the Alps to render
the title of our master to the descendants of the Goth?
Nina was silent: the custom of choosing the sovereign
by a diet beyond the Rhine, reserving only the ceremony
of his subsequent coronation for the mock assent of the
Romans, however degrading to that people, and however
hostile to all notions of substantial independence, was so
unquestioned at that time, that Rienzi's daring suggestion
left her amazed and breathless, prepared as she was for
any scheme, however extravagantly bold.
|
often ascends where mine flags to follow; yet be not over
bold."
"Nay, did you not, a moment since, preach a different
doctrine? To be strong, was I not to seem strong?"
"May fate preserve you!" said Nina, with a forebod-
ing sigh.
"Fate!" cried Rienzi, "there is no fate! Between the
thought and the success, God is the only agent; and (he
added with a voice of deep solemnity) I shall not be de-
serted. Visions by night, even while thine arms are around
me; omens and impulses, stirring and divine, by day, even
in the midst of the living crowd,
encourage my path, and
point my goal. Now, even now, a voice seems to whisper
in my ear, 'Pause not; tremble not; waver not; - - for
the eye of the All-Seeing is upon thee, and the hand of the
All-Powerful shall protect!"
As Rienzi thus spoke, his face gew pare, his hair seemed
to bristle, his tall and proud form nemt led visibly, and
presently he sunk down on a seat, and covered his face
with his hands.
An awe crept over Nina, though not unaccustomed to
such strange and preternatural emotions, which appeared
yet the more singular in one who, in common life, was so
calm, and stately, and self-possessed. But with every in-
crease of prosperity and power, they seemed to increase in
their fervor, as if in such increase the devout and over-
wrought superstition of the tribune recognised additional
proof of a mysterious guardianship mightier than the valor
or art of man.
She approached fearfully, and threw her arms around
him, but without speaking.
Ere yet the tribune had well recovered himself, a sligh;
tap at the door was heard, and the sound seemed at once
to recall his self-possession.
"Enter," he said, lifting his face, to which the wonted
color slowly returned.
An officer, half opening the door, announced that the
person he had sent for waited his leisure.
rr
دو
"I come! -core of my heart," (he whispered to Nina,)
we will sup alone to-night, and will converse more on
these matters: so saying, with somewhat less than his
usual loftiness of mien, he left the room, and sought his
cabinet, which lay at the other side of the reception-
chamber. Here he found Cecco del Vecchio.
"How, iny bold fellow," said the tribune, assuming with
wonderful ease that air of friendly equality which he always
adopted with those of the lower class, and which made a
striking contrast with the majesty, no less natural, which
marked his manner to the great. "How now, my Cecco?
Thou bearest thyself bravely, I see, during these sickly
heats: we laborers, for both of us labor, Cecco, are too
busy to fall ill, as the idle do, in the summer or the autumn
of Roman skies. I sent for thee, Cecco, because I would
know how thy fellow-craftsmen are like to take the Orsini's
execution."
"Oh! tribune,” replied the artificer, who, now famil
iarized with Rienzi, had lost much of his earlier awe of
him, and who regarded the tribune's power as partly his
own creation; "they are already out of their honest wits
at your courage in punishing the great men as you would
the small!"
"So;
I am repaid! But hark you, Cecco, it will
bring, perhaps, hot work upon us. Every baron will dread
lest it be his turn next, and dread will make them bold,
"How!" said she, after a long pause, "do I under-like rats in despair. We may have to fight for the good
stand aright? Can you mean defiance to the emperor ?"
Why, listen at this moment there are two pretenders
to the throne of Rome, -to the imperial crown of Italy,
—a Bohemian and a Bavarian. To their election our
Rome's assent,
assent,
is not requisite, not asked.
name.
state!"
"With all my heart, tribune," answered Cecco, gruffly
I, for one, am no craven.
CC
"Then keep the same spirit in all your meetings with
the artificers. I fight for the people. The people, at a
Can we be called free, -can we boast ourselves repub-pinch, must fight for me."
lican, when a stranger and a barbarian is thus thrust They will," replied Cecco, "they will!"
upon our necks? No, we will be free in reality as in
Beside, (continued the tribune, in a calmer tone,)
this seems to me politic as well as daring. The people in-
cessantly demand wonders from me: how can I more nobly
dazzle, more virtuously win them, than by asserting their
inalienable right to choose their own rulers? The daring
will awe the barons, and foreigners themselves; it will
give a startling example to all Italy; it will be the first
brand of a universal blaze. It shall be done, and with a
pomp that befits the deed!"
"Cola," said Nina, hesitatingly, "your eagle spirit
"Cecco,
this city is under the spiritual dominion of
the pontiff,
so be it,
it is an honor, not a burden.
But the temporal dominion, my friend, should be with Ro-
mans only. Is it not a disgrace to republican Rome, that,
while we now speak, certain barbarians, whom we never.
neard of, should be deciding beyond the Alps on the
merits of two sovereigns whom we never saw? Is not
this a thing to be resisted?
this a thing to be resisted? An Italian city,— what hath
it to do with a Bohemian emperor ?
"Little eno', St. Paul knows!" said Cecco.
"Should it not be a claim questioned ?"
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
"I think so," replied the smith.
in which from many a column gleamed upon him the mar-
"And, if found an outrage on our ancient laws, should ble effigies of the great of old, he opened the casement to
it not be a claim resisted?
inhale the air of the now declining day.
"Not a doubt of it."
Well, go to the archives assure me that never was
emperor lawfully crowned but by the free votes of the peo-
ple. We never chose Bohemian or Bavarian.”
"But, on the contrary, whenever these Northmen come
hither to be crowned, we try to drive them away with
stones and curses, for we are a people, tribune, that
love our liberties."
p
see,
"Go back to your friends,
address them; say
that your tribune will demand of these pretenders to Rome
the right to her throne. Let them not be mazed or start-
led, but support me when the occasion comes."
""
"I am glad of this," quoth the huge smith, "for our
friends have grown a little unruly of late, and say
"What do they say
?
"That it is true you have expelled the banditti, and
curb the barons, and administer justice fairly!"
"Is not that miracle enough for the space of some two
or three short months?"
CC
Why, they say it would have been more than enough
in a noble; but you, being raised from the people, and hav-
ing such gifts and so forth, might do yet more; it is now
three weeks since they have had any new thing to talk
about; but Orsini's execution to-day will cheer them a
bit."
"Well, Cecco, well," said the tribune, rising, "they
shall have more anon to feed their mouths with. So you
think they love me not quite so well as they did some three
weeks back ?”
"I say not so," answered Cecco. "But we Romans
are an impatient people."
"Alas! yes.
"However, they will no doubt stick close enough to
you, provided, tribune, you don't put any new tax upon
them."
"Ha! but if, in order to be free, it be necessary to
fight, if, to fight, it be necessary to have soldiers, why,
—
then the soldiers must be paid: - won't the people con-
tribute something to their own liberties; -to just laws,
and safe lives?"
"I don't know," returned the smith, scratching his
head, as if a little puzzled; "but I know that poor men
won't be overtaxed. They say they are better off with
you than with the barons before, and therefore they love
you. But men in business, tribune, poor men with fami-
lies, must look to their bellies. Only one man in ten goes
to law, only one man in twenty is butchered by a baron's
brigand; but every man eats, and drinks, and feels a tax.'
This cannot be your reasoning, Cecco!" said Rienzi,
gravely.
Why, tribune, I am an honest man, but I have a large
family to rear.
Enough! enough!" said the tribune, quickly; and
then he added abstractedly, as to himself, but aloud,-
"Methinks we have been too lavish; these shows and
spectacles should cease."
would you
"What!" cried Cecco; "what, tribune!
deny the poor fellows a holyday? They work hard enough,
and their only pleasure is seeing your fine shows and pro-
cessions; and then they go home and say, -See, our
man beats all the barons! What state he keeps !
of
"Ah! they blame not my splendor then!"
"Blame it? no! Without it they would be ashamed
you, and think the buono stato but a shabby concern.”
"You speak bluntly, Cecco, but perhaps wisely. The
saints keep you.
Fail no. to remember what I told
you.
' No, no.
It is a shame to have an emperor thrust
upon us ! -so it is. Good evening, tribune.'
Left alone, the tribune remained for some time plunged
in gloomy and foreboding thoughts.
I am in the midst of a magician's spell," said he;
"if I leave off, the fiends tear me to pieces. What I have
begun, that must I conclude. But this rude man shows
me too well with what tools I work. For me, failure is
nothing. I have already climbed to a greatness which
might render giddy many a born prince's brain. But with
my fall,
Rome, Italy, peace, justice, civilization,
fall back into the abyss of ages!"
He rose
all
and after once or twice pacing his apartment,
The place of the capitol was deserted, save by the tread
of the single sentinel. But still, dark, and fearful, hung
from the tall gibbet, the clay of the robber noble; and the
colossal shape of the Egyptian lion rose hard by, sharp
and dark in the breathless atmosphere.
"Dread statue !" thought Rienzi, "how many un-
whispered and solemn rites hast thou witnessed by thy
native Nile, ere the Roman's hand transferred thee uither,
the antique witness of Roman crimes! Strange! but
when I look upon thee I feel as if thou hadst some mystic
influence over my own fortunes. Beside thee was I hailed
the republican lord of Rome; beside thee are my palace,
my tribunal, the place of my justice, my triumphs, and
my pomp; -to thee my eyes turn from my bed of state:
and, if fated to die in power and peace, thou mayst he the
last object my eyes will mark !
last object my eyes will mark! Or, if myself a victiin
he paused, shrank from the thought presented to him,
turned to a recess in the chamber, drew aside a curtain
which veiled a crucifix and a small table, on which lay a
Bible and the monastic emblems of the scull and cross-
bones,-emblems, indeed, grave and irresistible, of the
Before
nothingness of power and the uncertainty of life.
these sacred monitors, whether to humble or to elevate,
knelt that proud and aspiring man; and when he rose, it
was with a lighter step and more cheerful mien than hɩ
had worn that day.
CHAPTER III.
The actor unmasked.
"IN intoxication," says the proverb, "men betray then
real characters." There is no less honest and truth-
revealing intoxication in prosperity than in wine. The
varnish of power brings forth at once the defects and beau-
ties of the human portrait.
The unprecedented and almost miraculous rise of Rienzi
from the rank of the pontiff's official to the lord of Rome,
would have been accompanied with a yet greater miracle,
if it had not somewhat dazzled and seduced the object it
elevated. When, as in well-ordered states and tranquil
times, men rise slowly, step by step, they accustom them-
selves to their growing fortunes. But the leap of an hour
from the victim of oppression
from a citizen to a prince,
to the dispenser of justice, is a transition so sudden as
to render dizzy the most sober brain. And, perhaps, in
proportion to the imagination, the enthusiasm, the genius
of the man, will the suddenness be dangerous, excite too
extravagant a hope, —and lead to too chimerical an ambi-
tion. The qualities that made him rise, hurry him to his
fall; and victory at the Marengo of his fortunes, urges him
to destruction at its Moscow.
In his greatness Rienzi did not so much acquire new
qualities, as develope in brighter light and deeper shadow
those which he had always exhibited. On the one hand
he was just, resolute; the friend of the oppressed, — the
terror of the oppressor. His wonderful intellect illumined
every thing it touched. By rooting out abuse, and by search-
ing examination and wise arrangement, he had trebled the
revenues of the city without imposing a single new tax
Faithful to his idol of liberty, he had not been betrayed by
the wish of the people into despotic authority; but had, as
we have seen, formally revived, and established with new
powers, the parliamentary council of the city. However
extensive his own power, he referred its exercise to the
people; in their name he alone declared himself to govern,
and he never executed any signal action without submitting
to them its reasons or its justification. No less faithful to
his desire to restore prosperity as well as freedom to Rome,
he had seized the first dazzling epoch of his power to pro-
pose that great federative league with the Italian states
which would, as he rightly said, have raised Rome to the
indisputable head of European nations. Under his rule
trade was secure, literature was welcome, art began to
rise.
On the other hand, the prosperity which made more ap-
parent his justice, bis integrity, his patriotism, his virtues,
and his genius, brought out no less glaringly his arroganı
consciousness of superiority, his love of display, and the
254
BULWER'S NOVELS..
Y
wild and too daring insolence of his ambition. Though I
too just to avenge himself by retaliating on the patricians
their own violence, though, in his troubled and stormy tri-
buneship, not one unmerited or illegal execution of baron
or citizen could be alleged against him, even by his enemies,
yet, sharing, less excusably, the weakness of Nina, he
could not deny his proud heart the pleasure of humiliating
those who had ridiculed him as a buffoon, despised him as
a plebe an, and who, even now, slaves to his face, were
cynics behind his back. They stood before him while
he sat," says his biographer; all these barons, bare-
headed; their hands crossed on their breasts; their looks
downcast; oh, how frightened they were?" a picture
more disgraceful to the servile cowardice of the nobles than
the haughty sternness of the tribune. It might be that he
deemed it policy to break the spirit of his foes, and to awe
those whom it was a vain hope to conciliate.
For his pomp there was a greater excuse; it was the
custom of the age; it was the insignia and witness of
power; and when the modern historian taunts him with
not imitating the simplicity of an ancient tribune, the sneer
betrays an ignorance of the spirit of the age, and the vain
people whom the chief magistrate was to govern. No doubt
his gorgeous festivals, his solemn processions, set off and
ennobled, if parade can be so ennobled, by a refined
and magnificent richness of imagination, associated always
with popular emblems, and designed to convey the idea of
rejoicing for liberty restored, and to assert the state and
majesty of Rome revived, -no doubt these spectacles,
however otherwise judged in a more enlightened age and
by closet sages, served greatly to augment the importance
of the tribune abroad, and to dazzle the pride of a fickle
and ostentatious populace. And taste grew refined, luxury
called labor into requisition, and foreigners from all states
were attracted by the splendor of a court over which pre-
sided, under republican names, two sovereigns, young and
brilliant, the one renowned for his genius, the other eminent
for her beauty. It was, indeed, a dazzling and royal dream
in the long night of Rome, spoiled of her pontiff and his
voluptuous train, that holyday reign of Cola di Rienzi! |
And often afterward it was recalled with a sigh, not only
by the poor for its justice, the merchant for its security, but
the gallant for its splendor, and the poet for its ideal and
intellectual grace!
As if to show that it was not to gratify the more vulgar
appetite and desire, in the midst of all his pomp, when the
board groaned with the delicacies of every clime, when the
wine most freely circled, the tribune himself preserved a
temperate and even rigid abstinence. † While the apart-
ments of state and the chamber of his bride were adorned
with a profuse luxury and cost, to his own private rooms
he transported precisely the same furniture which had been
familiar to him in his obscurer life. The books, the busts,
the reliefs, the arms which had inspired him heretofore
with the visions of the past, were endeared by associations
which he did not care to forego.
—
ments. He believed himself inspired by awful and mighty
commune with beings of the better world. Saints and an-
gels ministered to his dreams; and without this, the more
profound and hallowed enthusiasm, he might never have
been sufficiently emboldened by mere human patriotism to
his unprecedented enterprise: it was the secret of much of
his greatness, much of his errors. Like all men who are
thus self-deluded by a vain but not inglorious superstition,
united with, and colored by, earthly ambition, it is impos.
sible to say how far he was the visionary, and how far, at
times, he dared to be the impostor. In the ceremonies of
his pageants, in the ornaments of his person, were invariably
introduced mystic and figurative emblems. In times of
danger he publicly professed to have been cheered and
directed by divine dreams; and on many occasions the
prophetic warnings he announced having been singularly
verified by the event, his influence with the people was
strengthened by a belief in the favor and intercourse of
heaven. Thus, delusion of self might tempt and conduce
to imposition on others, and he might not scruple to avail
himself of the advantage of seeming what he believed him-
self to be. Yet, no doubt this intoxicating credulity pushed
him into extravagance unworthy of, and strangely contrast-
ed by his sobered intellect, and made him disproportion his
vast ends to his unsteady means, by the proud fallacy, that
where man failed God would interpose. Cola di Rienzi
was no faultless hero of romance. In him lay, in conflict-
ing prodigality, the richest and most opposite elements of
character, strong sense, visionary superstition, an elo-
quence and energy that mastered all he approached, a blind
enthusiasm that mastered himself;-- luxury and abstinence,
sternness and susceptibility, pride to the great, humility to
the low; the most devoted patriotism, and the most avid
desire of personal power. As few men undertake great
and desperate designs without strong animal spirits, so it
may be observed, that with most who have risen to eminence
over the herd, there is an aptness, at times, to a wild mirth,
and an elasticity of humor, which often astonish the more
sober and regulated minds, that are "the commoners of
life;" and the theatrical grandeur of Napoleon, the severe
dignity of Cromwell, are strangely contrasted by a frequent,
nor always seasonable buffoonery, which it is hard to recon-
cile with the ideal of their characters, or the gloomy and
portentous interest of their careers. And this, equally a
trait in the temperament of Rienzi, distinguished his hours
of relaxation, and contributed to that marvellous versatility
with which his harder nature accommodated itself to all
humors and all men. Often from his austere judgment-seat
he passed to the social board an altered man; and even
the sullen barons that reluctantly attended his feasts, forgot
his public greatness in his familiar wit; albeit this reckless
humor could not always refrain from seeking its subject in
the mortification of his crest-fallen foes, - a pleasure it
would have been wiser and more generous to forego. And
perhaps it was, in part, the prompting of this sarcastic and
unbridled humor, that made him often love to astonish as
well as to awe. But even his gayety, if so it may be called,
taking an appearance of familiar frankness, served much to
ingratiate him with the lower orders, and, if a fault in the
prince, was a virtue in the demagogue.
To these various characteristics, now fully developed, the
reader must add a genius of designs so bold, of conceptions
so gigantic and august, conjoined with that more minute
and ordinary ability which masters details, that with a
brave, noble, intelligent people to back his projects, the
accession of the tribune would have been the close of the
thraldom of Italy, and the abrupt limit of the dark age of
Europe. With such a people, his faults would have been
insensibly checked, his more unwholesome power have re-
But that which constituted the most singular feature of
his character, and which still wraps all around him in a
certain mystery, was his religious enthusiasm. The daring
but wild doctrines of Arnold of Brescia, who several years
anterior had preached reform, but inculcated mysticism,
still lingered in Rome, and had in earlier youth deeply col-
ored the mind of Rienzi; and, as I have before observed,
his youthful propensity to dreamy thought, the melancholy
death of his brother, his own various but successful fortunes,
had all contributed to nurse the more zealous and solemn
aspirations of this remarkable man. Like Arnold of
Brescia, his faith bore a strong resemblance to the intense
fanaticism of our own puritans of the civil war, as if similar
political circumstances conduced to similar religious senti-ceived a sufficient curb. Experience familiarizing him with
Rienzi, speaking in one of his letters of his great enterprise,
refers it to the ardor of youth. The exact date of his birth is
unknown; but he was certainly a young man at the time now
referred to. His portrait in the Museo Barberino, from which
nis description has been already taken in the first volume of
this work, represents him as beardless, and, as far as one can
judge, somewhere above thirty, old enough, to be sure, to have
a beard; and seven years afterward he wore a long one, which
greatly displeased his native biographer, who seems to consider
it a sort of crime. The head is very remarkable for its stern
beauty, and little, if at all, inferior to that of Napoleon, to which,
as I before remarked, it has some resemblance in expression, if
not in feature.
*
Vita di Cola di Rienzi.—The biographer praises the absti-
nence of the tribune
power, would have gradually weaned him from extravagance
in its display; and the active and masculine energy of his
intellect would have found field for the more restless spirits,
as his justice gave shelter to the more tranquil. Faults he
had, but whether those faults or the faults of the people
were to prepare his downfall, is yet to be seen.
Meanwhile, amid a discontented nobility and a fickle
populace, urged on by the danger of repose to the danger of
enterprise; partly blinded by his outward power, partly
impelled by the fear of internal weakness; at once made
sanguine by his genius and his fanaticism, and uneasy by
he threw himself headlong
the expectations of the crowd,
into the gulf of the rushing time, and rendered his lofty
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
255
spirit to no other guidance than a conviction of its natural
buoyancy and its heaven-directed haven.
CHAPTER IV.
The enemy's camp.
WHILE Rienzi was preparing, in concert, perhaps, with
the ambassadors of the brave Tuscan states, whose pride
of country and love of liberty were well fitted to compre-
hend, and even share them, his schemes for the emanci-
pation from all foreign yoke of the ancient queen and the
everlasting garden of the world, the barons, in restless
secrecy, were revolving projects for the restoration of their
own power.
One morning the heads of the Savelli, the Orsini, and
the Frangipani, met at the disfortified palace of Stephen
Colonna.
Their conference was warm and earnest, now
resolute, now wavering, in its object, as indignation or
fear prevailed.
"You have heard," said Luca di Savelli, in his usual
soft and womanly voice, "that the tribune has proclaimed
that the day after to-morrow he will take the order of
knighthood, and watch the night before in the church of the
Lateran he has honored me with a request to attend his
vigil.”
#
Yes, yes, the knave. What means this new fantasy?"
said the brutal prince of the Orsini.
"Unless it be to have the cavalier's right to challenge
a noble,” said old Colonna, "I cannot conjecture. Will
Rome never grow weary of this madman ?"
"Rome is the more mad of the two," said Luca di
Savelli; "but, methinks, in his wildness, the tribune hath
committed one error of which we may well avail ourselves
at Avignon."
CL
Ah," cried the old Colonna, "that must be our game:
passive here, let us fight at Avignon!"
"In a word, then, he hath ordered that his bath shall be
prepared in the holy porphyry vase in which once bathed
the Emperor Constantine."
"Profanation? profanation!" cried Stephen. "This
is enough to excuse a bull of excommunication.
shall hear of it. I will despatch a courier forthwith.”
The pope
Better wait and see the ceremony," said the Savelli ;
some greater folly will close the pomp, be assured.'
"Hark ye, my masters," said the grim lord of the
Orsini; " ye are for delay and caution, I for promptness
and daring; my kinsman's blood calls aloud, and brooks
no parley.
And what do ?" said the soft-voiced Savelli; " fight
without soldiers, against twenty thousand infuriate Ro-
mans? Not I."
Orsini sunk his voice into a meaning whisper. "In
Venice," said he, "this upstart might be mastered without
an ariny. Think you in Rome no man wears a stiletto?"
"Hush," said Stephen, who was of far nobler and better
nature than his compeers, and who, justifying to himself all
other resistance to the tribune, felt his conscience rise
against assassination ; "this must not be; your zeal
transports you.'
CC
Besides, whom can we employ ? Scarce a German left
in the city; and to whisper this to a Roman were to ex-
change places with poor Martino, heaven take him, for
he's nearer heaven now than ever he was before," said the
Savelli.
"Jest me no jests," cried the Orsini, fiercely. "Jests
on such a subject! By St. Francis, I would, since thou
would, since thou
brest such wit, thou hadst it all to thyself; and, methinks,
at the trib ne's board, I have seen thee laugh at his rude
bumor as i´thou didst not require a cord to choke thee.
"Better to laugh than,to tremble," returned the Savelli.
"How darest thou say I tremble?" cried the baron.
!
Hush, nush," said the veteran Colonna, with impa-
tient dignity. "We are not now in such holyday times as
to quarrel anong ourselves. Forbear, my
"Your greater prudence, signor," said the sarcastic
Savelli, "arises from your greater safety. Your house is
about to shelter itself under the tribune's; and, when the
Lord Adrian returns from Naples, the innkeeper's son will
be brother to your kinsman."
lords.
"You might spare me that taunt," said the old noble,
with some emotion. "Heaven knows how bitterly I have
chafed at the thought; yet I would Adrian were with us.
His word goes far to moderate the tribune, and to guide my
own course, for my passion beguiles my reason; and, since
his departure, methinks we have been the more su ler
without being the more strong. Let this pass. If my own
son had wed the tribune's sister, I would strike a blow for
the old constitution as becomes a noble, if I but saw that
the blow would not cut off my own head."
Savelli, who had been whispering apart with Rinaldo
Frangipani, now said, -
"Noble prince, listen to me. You are bound, by your
kinsman's approaching connexion, your venerable age, and
your intimacy with the pontiff, to a greater caution than we
Leave to us the management of the enterprise, and be
assured of our discretion.”
are.
A young boy, Stefanello, who afterward succeeded to the
representation of the direct line of the Colonna, and whom
the reader will once again encounter ere our tale be closed,
was playing by his grandsire's knees. He looked sharply
up at Savelli, and said, "My grandfather is too wise, and
you are too timid. Frangipani is too yielding, and Orsin'
is too like a vexed bull. I wish I were a year or two
older."
"And what would you do, my pretty censurer ?" said
the smooth Savelli, biting his smiling lip.
"Stab the tribune with my own stiletto, and then hey for
Palestrina! "
"The egg will hatch a brave serpent," quoth the Savelli;
yet why so bitter against the tribune, my cockatrice?
"Because he allowed an insolent mercer to arrest my
uncle Agapet for debt. The debt had been owed these ten
years; and though it is said that no house in Rome has
owed more money than the Colonna, this is the first time I
ever heard of a rascally creditor being allowed to claim his
debt unless with doffed cap and bended knee. And I say
that I would not live to be a baron, if such upstart insolence
is to be put upon me."
cr
My child," said old Stephen, laughing heartily. "I see
our noble order will be safe enough in your hands."
"And,” continued the child, emboldened by the applause
he received, "if I had time after pricking the tribune, I
would fain have a second stroke at
“Whom?" said the Savelli, observing the boy pause.
My cousin Adrian. Shame on him, for dreaming to
make one a wife whose birth would scarce fit her for a
Colonna's leman."
"Go play, my child, go play," said the old Colonna, as
he pushed the boy from him.
Enough of this babble," cried the Orsini, rudely.
"Tell me, old lord, just as I entered I saw an old friend
(one of your former mercenaries) quit the palace; may I
crave his errand ?
CC
Ah, yes; a messenger from Fra Moreale. I wrote to
the knight, reproving him for his desertion on our ill-starred
return from Corneto, and intimating that five hundred lances
would be highly paid for just now.
"Ah," said Savelli, "and what is his answer?"
"Oh, wily and evasive he is profuse in compliments
and good wishes, but says he is under fealty to the Huu-
garian king, whose cause is before Rienzi's tribunal; that
he cannot desert his present standard; that he fears Rome
so evenly balanced between patricians and the people,
that whichever party would permanently be uppermost must
call in a podestà; and this character alone, the Provença,
insinuates, would suit him."
"Montreal our podesta!" cried the Orsini.
"And why not?" said Savelli, "as good a weli-bora
podesta as a low-born tribune? But I trust we may do
without either. Colonna, has this messenger from Fra
Moreale left the city?"
"I suppose so."
<<
No," said Orsini, "I met him at the gate, and knew
him of old; it is Rodolf, the Saxon, (once a hireling of
the Colonna,) who has made some widows among my cli-
ents in the good old day. He is a little disguised now;
however, I recognised and accosted him, for I thought he
was one who might yet become a friend, and I bade him
await me at my palace."
"You did well," said the Savelli, musing, and his eyes
met those of Orsini shortly afterward a conference, in
which much was said, and nothing settled, was broken up;
bur Luca di Savelli, loitering at the porch, prayed the
Frangipani and the other barons to adjourn to the Örsini's
palace.
256
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"The old Colonna," said he, "is wellnigh in his do-
tage. "We shall come to a quick determination without
him, and we can secure his proxy in his son.
And this was a true prophecy; for half an hour's con-
sultation with Rodolf of Saxony sufficed to ripen thought
into enterprise.
CHAPTER V.
The night and its incidents.
Wir the following twilight Rome was summoned to
the commencement of the most magnificent spectacle the
imperial city had witnessed since the fall of the Caesars.
It had been a singular privilege, arrogated by the people
of Rome, to confer upon their citizens the order of knight-
hood. Twenty years before, a Colonna and an Orsini had
received this popular honor. Rienzi, who designed it as
the prelude to a more important ceremony, claimed from
the Romans a similar distinction. From the capitol to the
Lateran swept, in long procession, all that Rome boasted
of noble, of fair, and brave. First went horsemen without
number, and from all the neighbouring parts of Italy, in
apparel that well befitted the occasion. Trumpeters and
musicians of all kinds followed, and the trumpets were of
silver; youths bearing the harness of the knightly war-
steed, wrought with gold, preceded the march of the lofti-
est matronage of Rome, whose love for show, and it may
be whose admiration for triumphant fame, (which to woman
sanctions many offences,) made them forget the humbled
greatness of their lords; amid them Nina and Irene, out-
shining all the rest; then came the tribune and the pontiff's
vicar, surrounded by all the great signors of the city, sinoth-
ering alike resentment, revenge, and scorn, and struggling
who should approach nearest to the monarch of the day.
The high-hearted old Colonna alone remained aloof, fol-
lowing at a little distance, and in a garb studiously plain.
But his age, his rank, his former renown in war and state,
did not suffice to draw to his gray locks and high-born mien
a single one of the shouts that followed the meanest lord on
who the great tribune smiled. Savelli followed nearest
to Rienzi, the most obsequious of the courtly band; imme-
diately before the tribune caine two men, the one bore a
drawn sword, the other the pendone, or standard usually
assigned to royalty. The tribune himself was clothed in a
long robe of white satin, whose snowy dazzle (miri cando-
ris) is peculiarly dwelt on by the historian, richly decorated
with gold, while on his breast were many of those mystic
symbols I have before alluded to, the exact meaning of
which was perhaps known only to the wearer. In his dark
eye, and on that large tranquil brow, in which thought
seemed to sleep, as sleeps a storm, there might be detected
a mind abstracted from the pomp around; but ever and
anɔn he roused himself, and conversed partially with Rai-
mond or Savelli.
"This is a quaint game," said the Orsini, falling back
to the old Colonna. But it may end tragically."
"Methinks it may," said the old man," if the tribune
overhear thee."
Orsini grew pale. "How, nay, nay, even if he did,
ne never resents words, but professes to laugh at our spoken
rage. It was but the other day that some knave told him
what one of the Annibaldi said of him, words for which a
true cavalier would have drawn the speaker's life's blood,
and he sent for the Annibaldi, and said, ' My friend, accept
this purse of gold, court wits should be paid.""
"Did Annibaldi take the gold?
C
Why, no; the tribune was pleased with his spirit, and
made him sup with him, and Annibaldi says he never spent
a merrier evening, and no longer wonders that his kinsman
Riccardo loves the buffoon so,
""
|
omen of their tril une's unflagging resolution. The concoursa
dispersed with singular order and quietness; it was record.
ed as a remarkable fact, that none of so great a crowd of
men of all parties exhibited license or indulged in quarren.
Some of the barons and cavaliers, among whom was Luca
di Savelli, whose sleek urbanity and sarcastic humor found
favor with the tribune, and a few subordinate pages and at-
tendants, alone remained; and, save a single sentinel at
the porch, that broad space before the palace, the Basilica
and fount of Constantine, soon presented a silent and des-
olate void to the melancholy moonlight. Within the church,
according to the usage of the time and rite, the descendant
of the Teuton kings received the order of the Santo Spiri
His pride, or some superstition equally weak, though
more excusable, led him to bathe in the porphyry vase,
which an absurd legend consecrated to Constantine; and
this, as Savelli predicted, cost him dear. These appointed
ceremonies concluded, his arms were placed in that part
of the church within the columns of St. John. And bere
his state bed was prepared.*
to.
""
The attendant barons, pages, and chamberlains retired
out of sight to a small side chapel in the edifice; and Ri-
enzi was left alone. A single lamp, placed beside his oed,
contended with the mournful rays of the moon, that cast
through the long casements, over aisle and pillar, its “ dim,
religious light. The sanctity of the place, the solemnity
of the hour, and the solitary silence round, were well calcu-
lated to deepen the high-wrought and earnest mood of that
son of fortune. Many and high fancies swept over his
mind, now of worldly aspirations, now of more august
but visionary belief, till at length, wearied with his own.
reflections, he cast himself on the bed. It was an omen
which graver history has not neglected to record, that the
moment he pressed the bed, new prepared for the occasion,
part of it sank under him he himself was affected by the
accident, and sprung forth, turning pale and muttering;
but, as if ashamed of his weakness, after a moment's pause,
again composed himself to rest, and drew the drapery round
him.
:
The moonbeams grew fainter and more faint as the time.
proceeded, and the sharp distinction between light and shade
faded fast from the marble floor, when from behind a col·
umn at the farthest verge of the building, a strange shadow
suddenly crossed the sickly light, it crept on,— it moved,
but without an echo, from pillar to pillar it flitted, it
rested at last behind the column nearest to the tribune's
bed, it remained stationary.
―
<
—
The shades gathered darker and darker round; the
stillness seemed to deepen; the moon was gone; and, save
from the struggling ray of the lamp beside Rienzi, the
blackness of night closed over the solemn and ghostly scene.
In one of the side chapels, as I have before said, which,
in the many alterations the church has undergone, is proba
bly long since destroyed, were Savelli and the few attend-
ants retained by the tribune. Savelli alone slept not; he
remained sitting erect, breathless and listening, while the
tall lights in the chapel rendered yet more impressive the
rapid changes of his countenance.
"Now, pray heaven," said he, "the knave miscarry
not! Such an occasion may never again occur ! He has
a strong arm and a dexterous hand, doubtless; but the
other is a powerful man. The deed once done, I care not
whether the doer escape or not; if not, why, we must stab
him! Dead men tell no tales. At the worst, who can
avenge Rienzi? There is no other Rienzi! Ourselves
and the Frangipani seize the Aventine, the Colonna and
the Orsini the other quarters of the city; and, without the
master-spirit, we may laugh at the mad populace. But it
discovered "and Savelli, who, fortunately for his foes,
had not nerves equal to his will, covered his face and shud
dered; "I think I hear a noise ! — no,—- is it the wind ?
tush, it must be old Vico de Scotto, turning in his shell
of mail! — Silent, —I like not that silence!
No cry,
no sound! Can the ruffian have played us false? or could
he not scale the casement? It is but a child's effort;
did the sentry spy him?"
or
Arrived now at the Lateran, Luca di Savelli fell also
back, and whispered to Orsini; the Frangipani, and some
other of the nobles, exchanged meaning looks; Rienzi, en-
tering the sacred edifice in which, according to custom, he
was to pass the night watching his armor, bade the crowd Time passed on; the first ray of daylight slowly gleam-
farewell, and summoned them the next morning" to heared, when he thought he heard the door of the church close
things that might, he trusted, be acceptable to heaven and Savelli's suspense became intolerable; he stole from the
earth.”
The immense multitude heard this intimation with curi-
osity and gladness, while those who had been in some
measure prepared by Cecco del Vecchio, hailed it as an
* In a more northern country, the eve of knighthood would
have been spent without sleeping :
:-in Italy, the ceremony of
watching the armor does not appear to have been so rigidly ob
served.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
257
back.
chapel, and came in sight of the tribune's bed, — all was
silent.
Perhaps the silence of death," said Savelli, as he crept
Meanwhile the tribune, vainly endeavouring to close his
eyes, was rendered yet more watchful by the uneasy posi-
tion he was obliged to assume, for the part of the bed
towards the pillow having given way, while the rest re-
mained solid, he had inverted the legitimate order of lying,
and drawn himself up, as he might best accommodate his
limbs, towards the foot of the bed. The light of the lamp,
though shaded by the draperies, was thus opposite to him.
Impatient of his wakefulness, he at last thought it was
this dull and flickering light which scared away the slum-
ber, and was about to rise, to remove it farther from him,
when he saw the curtain at the other end of the bed gently
lifted he remained quiet and alarmed -ere he could
draw a second breath, a dark figure interposed between
the light and the bed; and he felt that a stroke was given
towards that part of the latter, which, but for the accident
that had seemed to him ominous, would have given his
breast to the knife. Rienzi waited not a second and better
directed blow as the assassin yet stooped, groping in the
uncertam light, he threw on him all the weight and power
of his large and muscular frame, wrenched the stiletto from
his dismayed hand, and dashing him on the bed, placed his
knee on his breast. The stiletto rose,-
gleamed, -de-
scended, — the murderer swerved aside, and it pierced only
his right arm.
The tribune raised for a deadlier blow the
revengeful blade:
The assassin thus foiled was a man used to all form and
shape of danger; and he did not now lose his presence
of mind.
"Hold!" said he; "if you kill me, you will die your-
self. Spare me, and I will save you."
"Miscreant ! "
"Hush,
-not so loud, or you will disturb your guards,
and some of them may do what I have failed to execute.
Spare me, I say, and I will reveal that which were worth
more than my life; but call not, speak not aloud, I warn you.'
The tribune felt his heart stand still in that lonely place,
afar from his idolizing people, his devoted guards,
with but loathing barons, or, it might be, faithless menials,
within call, might not his baffled murderer give a whole-
some warning! and those words and that doubt seemed
suddenly to reverse their respective positions, and leave the
conqueror still in the assassin's power.
"Thou thinkest to deceive me," said he, but in a voice
whispered and uncertain, which showed the ruffian the ad-
vantage he had gained: "thou wouldst that I might release
thee without summoning my attendants, that thou mightst|
a second time attempt my life."
į
The ruffian nodded; with his left hand took up the lamp
as he was ordered; and with Rienzi's grasp on his shoul-
der, while the wound from his right aro dropped gore as he
passed, he moved noiselessly along the church, gained
the altar, -to the left of which was a small room for the
use or retirement of the priest. To this he ma le his way.
Rienzi's heart misgave him a moment.
S
"Beware," he whispered, "the least sign o´raud, and
thou art the first victim!
The assassin nodded again, and proceeded. They
entered the room; and then the tribune's strange guide
pointed to an open casement.
"Behold my entrance,"
CC
>>
said he; and, if you permit me my egress
"The frog gets not out of the well so easily as he came
in, friend," returned Rienzi, smiling.
"And now, if I
am not to call my guards, what am I to do with thee?
"Let me go, and I will seek thee to-morrow; and if
thou payest me handsomely, and promisest not to harm
limb nor life, I will put thine enemies and any employers in
thy power.
Rienzi could not refrain from a slight laugh at the prop-
osition, but composing himself, replied, "And what if
I call my attendants, and give thee to their charge?"
"Thou givest me to those very enemies and employers;
and, in despair lest betray them, ere the day dawn they
cut my throat,
— or thine,"
CC
Methinks, knave, I have seen thee before."
"Thou hast. I blush not for name or country. I am
Rodolf of Saxony !
"I remember me :- servitor of Walter de Montreal.
He, then, is thy instigator?
"Roman, no! That noble knight scorns other weapons
than the open sword, and his own hand slays his own foes.
Your pitiful, miserable, dastard Italians alone employ the
courage and hire the arm of others."
Rienzi remained silent. He had released hold of his
prisoner, and now stood facing him; every now and then
regarding his countenance, and then relapsing into thought.
At length,
At length, casting his eyes round the small chamber thus
singularly tenanted, he observed a kind of closet, in which
the priest's robes, and some articles used in the sacred ser-
vice, were contained. It suggested at once an escape from
his dilemma: he pointed to it,—
"There, Rodolf of Saxony, shalt thou pass some part
of this night, a small penance for thy meditated crime;
and to-morrow, as thou lookest for life, thou wilt reveal
all."
،،
"Hark ye, tribune," returned the Saxon, doggedly,
my liberty is in your power, but neither my tongue nor
my life. If I consent to be caged in that hole, thou must
swear on the crossed hilt of the dagger thou now holdest,
that, on confession of all I know, you pardon and set me
Thou hast disabled my right arm, and disarmed me of free. My employers are enough to glut your rage, an' you
my only weapon."
"How camest thou hither?
CC
By connivance.”
"Whence this attempt?"
"The dictation of others."
"
"If I pardon thee-
"Thou shalt know all !"
"Rise," said the tribune, releasing his prisoner, but
with great caution, and still grasping his shoulder with one
hand, while the other pointed the dagger at his throat.
"Did my sentry admit thee? There is but one entrance
to the church methinks."
"He did not; follow me, and I will tell thee more.
Dog! thou hast accomplices?"
"If I have, thou hast the knife at my throat."
"Wouldst thou escape
?
“I cannot, or I would.”
Rienzi looked hard, by the dull light of the lamp, at the
assassin. His rugged and coarse countenance, rude garb,
and barbarian speech, seemed to him proof sufficient that
he was but the hireling of others; and it might be wise
to brave one danger present and certain, to prevent much
danger future and unforeseen. Rienzi, too, was armed,
strong, active, in the prime of life; and, at the worst,
there was no part of the building whence his voice would
not reach those within the chapel, if they could be de-
pended upon.
"Show me, then, thy place and means of entrance,"
said he; and if I but suspect thee as we move, thou
liest. Take up the lamp."
VOL II.
33
|
were a tiger. If you do not swear this
(C
22
Ah, my modest friend ! the alternative ?"
"I brain myself against the stone wall! Better such a
death than the rack!"
"Fool, I want not revenge against such as thou. Be
honest, and I swear that, twelve hours after thy confession,
thou shalt stand safe and unscathed without the walls of
Rome. So help me our Lord and his saints."
"I am content, donner and hagel, I have lived long
enough to care only for my own life, and the great captain's
next to it; for the rest I reck not if ye southerns cut
each others' throats, and make all Italy one grave."
• gp by
With this benevolent speech, Rodolf entered the closet;
but ere Rienzi could close the door, he stepped forth
again,
Hold," said he this blood flows fast. Help me to
bandage it, or I shall bleed to death ere my confessio 1."
"Per fede," said the tribune, his strange nor enjoy-
ing the man's cool audacity," but, considering the service
thou wouldst have rendered me, thou art the most pleasant,
forbearing, unabashed good fellow I have seen this many
a year. Give us thine own belt. I little thought my
first eve of knighthood would have been so charitably
spent!”
“Methinks these robes would make a better bandage,”
said Rodolf, pointing to the priests' gear suspended from
the wall.
no
"Silence, knave!" said the tribune, frowning;
sacrilege! yet, as thou takest such dainty care of thyself,
thou shalt have mine own scarf to accommodate thee
258
BULWER'S NOVELS.
With that the tribune, placing his dagger on the ground,
while he cautiously guarded it with his foot, bound up the
wounded limb, for which condescension Rodolf gave him
short thanks; resumed his weapon and the lamp; closed
the door; drew over it the long, heavy bolt without; and
returned to his couch, deeply and indignantly musing over
the treason he had so fortunately escaped.
:
At the first gray streak of dawn he went out of the great
door of the church, called the sentry, who was one of his
own guard, and bade him privately, and now ere the world
was astir, convey the prisoner to one of the private dun-
geons of the capitol. "Be silent," said he "utter not a
word of this to any one; be obedient, and thou shalt be
promoted. This done, find out the counsellor, Pandulfo di
Guido, and bid him seek me ere the crowd assemble."
He then, making the sentinel doff his heavy shoes of
iron, led him across the church, resigned Rodolf to his
care, saw them depart, and in a few minutes afterward his
voice was heard by the inmates of the neighbouring chapel;
and he was soon surrounded by his train.
He was already standing on the floor, wrapped in a large
gown lined with furs; and his piercing eye scanned care-
fully the face of each man that approached. Two of the
barons of the Frangipani family exhibited some tokens of
confusion and embarrassment, from which they speedily re-
covered at the frank salutation of the tribune.
But all the art of Savelli could not prevent his features
from betraying to the most indifferent eye the terror of his
soul, and, when he felt the penetrating gaze of Rienzi upon
him, he trembled in every joint. Rienzi alone did not,
nowever, seem to notice his disorder; and when Vico di
Scotto, an old knight from whose hands he received his
sword, asked him how he had passed the night, he replied
cheerfully,
CC
'Well, well, my brave friend! Over a maiden
knight some good angel always watches. Signor di Sa-
velli, I fear you have slept but ill you seem pale. No
matter! - our banquet to-day will soon brighten the cur-
rent of your gay blood."
"Blood, tribune!" said Di Scotto, who was innocent
of the plot "thou sayest blood, and lo! on the floor are
large gouts of it not yet dry.”
66
:
Now, out on thee, old hero, for betraying my awkward-
ness ! I pricked myself with my own dagger in unrobing.
Thank heaven, it hath no poison in its blade!
The Frangipani exchanged looks; Luca di Savelli
clung to a column for support; and the rest of the atten-
dants seemed grave and surprised.
a
Think not of it, my masters," said Rienzi: "it is a
good omen, and a true prophecy. It implies that he who
girds on his sword for the good of the state, must be ready
to spill his blood for it; that am I. No more of this,
mere scratch: it gave more blood than I recked of from
so slight a puncture, and saves the leech the trouble of the
lancet. How brightly breaks the day! We must prepare
to meet our fellow-citizens, - they will be here anon. Ha,
my Pandulfo, welcome! - thou, my old friend, shalt
buckle on this mantle !
And while Pandulfo was engaged in the task, the tribune
whispered a few words in his ear, which, by the smile on
his countenance, seemed to the attendants one of the fa-
miliar jests with which Rienzi distinguished his intercourse
with his more confidential intimates.
CHAPTER VI.
The celebrated citation.
THE bell of the great Lateran church sounded shrill and
loud, as the mighty multitude, greater even than that of the
preceding night, swept on. The appointed officers made
way with difficulty for the barons and ambassadors, and
scarcely were these noble visiters admitted ere the crowd
closed in their ranks, poured headlong into the church, and
took the way to the chapel of Boniface VIII. There, fill-
ing every cranny, and blocking up the entrance, the more
fortunate of the press beheld the tribune surrounded by the
splendid court his genius had collected and his fortune had
subdued. At length, as the solemn and holy music began
to swell through the edifice, preluding the celebration of
the mass,
the tribune stepped forth, and the hush of the
music was increased by the universal and dead silence of
|
the audience. His height, his air, his countenance, were
such as always command the attention of crowds; and at
this time they received every adjunct from the interest of
the occasion, and that peculiar look of intent, yet sup-
pressed fervor, which is, perhaps, the sole gift of the elo-
quent that nature alone can give.
"Be it known," said he, slowly and deliberately, "in
virtue of that authority, power, and jurisdiction, which the
Roman people, in general parliament, have assigned to us,
and which the sovereign pontiff hath confirmed, that we,
not ungrateful of the gift and grace of the Holy Spirit,
whose soldier we now are, nor of the favor of the Ro-
man people, declare, that Rome, the capital of the world,
and base of the Christian church, and that every city, state,
and people of Italy, are henceforth free. By that freedom,
and in the same consecrated authority, we proclaim, that
the election, jurisdiction, and monarchy of the Roman
empire appertain to Rome and Rome's people, and the
whole of Italy. We cite then and summon personally the
illustrious princes, Louis, Duke of Bavaria, and Charles,
King of Bohemia, who would style themselves emperors
of Italy, to appear before us, or the other magistrates of
Rome, to plead and to prove their claim, between this day
and the day of Pentecost. We cite also, and within the
same term, the Duke of Saxony, the Prince of Branden-
burg, and whosoever else, potentate, prince, or prelate, as-
serts the right of elector to the imperial throne, - a right
that, we find it chronicled from ancient and immemorial
time, appertaineth only to the Roman people, — and this
in vindication of our civil liberties, without derogation of
the spiritual power of the church, the pontiff, and the sa-
cred college.*
cred college. Herald, proclaim the citation, at the great-
er and more formal length, as written and intrusted to your
hands, without the Lateran."
As Rienzi concluded this bold proclamation of the liber-
ties of Italy, the Tuscan ambassadors, and those of some
of the other free states, murmured low approbation. The
ainbassadors of those states that affected the party of the
emperor looked at each other in silent amaze and conster-
nation. The Roman barons remained with mute lips and
downcast eyes; only over the aged face of Stephen Colon-
na settled a smile, half of scorn, half of exultation. But
the great mass of the citizens were caught by words that
opened so grand a prospect as the emancipation of all Ita-
ly, and their reverence of the tribune's power and fortune
was almost that due to a supernatural being; so that they
did not pause to calculate the means which were to corre-
spond with the boast.
as on
While his eye roved over the crowd, the gorgeous as-
semblage near him, the devoted throng beyond,
his ear boomed the murmur of thousands and ten thousands,
in the space without, from before the palace of Constantine,
* "Il tutto senza derogare all' autorità della Chiesa, del Papa
e del Sacro Collegio.” — So concludes this extraordinary cita-
tion, this bold and wonderful assertion of the classic indepen-
dence of Italy, in the most feudal time of the fourteenth century
The anonymous biographer of Rienzi declares that the tribune
cited also the pope and the cardinals to reside in Rome. De
Sade powerfully and incontrovertibly refutes this addition to
the daring or the extravagance of Rienzi Gibbon, however,
who has rendered the rest of the citation in terms more abrupt
and discourteous than he was warranted by any authority,
copies the biographer's blunder, and sneers at De Sade, as
using arguments "rather of decency than of weight." With-
out wearying the reader with all the arguments of the learned
abbé, it may be sufficient to give the first two.
1st. All the other cotemporaneous historians that have
treated of this event, G. Villani, Hocsemius, the Vatican MSS.,
and other chronicles, relating the citation of the emperor
and
electors, say nothing of that of the pope and cardinals; and
the pope (Clement VI.,) in his subsequent accusations of Rienzi,
while very bitter against his citation of the emperor, is wholly
silent on what would have been to the pontiff the much greater
offence of citing himself and the cardinals.
2d. The literal act of this citation, as published formally in
the Lateran, is extant in Hocsemius; (whence is borrowed,
though not at all its length, the speech in the text of our pres-
ent tale ;) and in this document the pope and his cardinals are
not named in the summons.
Gibbon's whole account of Rienzi is singularly superficial, in-
accurate, and distorted. To his cold and sneering skepticism,
allowing nothing for that sincere and urgent enthusiasm which,
whether of liberty or religion, is the most common parent of
daring action, the great Roman seems but an ambitious and fan-
tastic madman. In Gibbon's hands what would Cromwell have
been; what Vane, what Hampden? The pedant Julian, with
his dirty person and pompous affectation, was Gibbon's ideal of
a great man
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
258
palace now his own!) sworn to devote life and fortune to
his cause; in the flush of prosperity that had yet known
no check; in the zenith of power, as yet unconscious of
reverse, the heart of the tribune swelled proudly visions
of mighty fame and limitless dominion, fame and domi-
nion once his beloved Rome's, and by him to be restored,
rushed before his intoxicated gaze; and in the delirious
and passionate aspirations of the moment, he turned his
sword alternately to the three quarters of the then known
globe, and said, in an abstracted voice, as a man in a
dream, "In the right of the Roman people, this, too, is
wine!"*
Low though the voice, the wild boast was heard by all
around as distinctly as if borne to them in thunder. And
vain it were to describe the various sensations it excited;
the extravagance would have moved the derision of his
foes, the grief of his friends, but for the manner of the
speaker, which, solemn and commanding, hushed for the
moment even reason and hatred themselves in awe; after-
ward remembered and repeated, void of the spell they had
borrowed from the utterer, the words met the cold condem-
nation of the well-judging; but at that moment all things
seemed possible to the hero of the people. He spoke as
one inspired, they trembled and believed; and as, rapt
from the spectacle, he stood a moment silent, his arm still
extended, his dark dilating eye fixed upon space, his lip
parted, his proud head towering and erect above the herd,
—his own enthusiasm kindled that of the more humble
and distant spectators; and there was a deep murmur
begun by one, echoed by the rest, "The Lord is with
Italy and Rienzi!"
The tribune turned; he saw the pope's vicar astonished,
newildered, rising to speak. His sense and foresight re-
His sense and foresight re-
turned to him at once, and, resolved to drown the dange-
rous disavowal of the papal authority for this hardihood,
which was ready to burst from Raimond's lips, he motion-
ed quickly to the musicians, and the solemn and ringing
chant of the sacred ceremony prevented the Bishop of Or-
vietto all occasion of self-exoneration or reply.
The moment the ceremony was over, Rienzi touched the
bishop, and whispered, "We will explain this to your
liking. You feast with us at the Lateran. Your arm.
Nor did he leave the good bishop's arm, nor trust him to
other companionship, until to the stormy sound of horn
and trumpet, drum and cymbal, and amid such a concourse
as might have hailed on the same spot the legendary
baptisin of Constantine, the tribune and his nobles entered
the great gates of the Lateran, then the palace of the
work.
of Constantine. The mighty halls of the Lateran palace,
open to all ranks, were prodigally spread; and the games,
sports, and buffooneries of the time were in ample requi-
sition. Apart, the tribunessa, as Nina was rather unclas-
sically entitled, entertained the dames of Rome; while
the tribune had so effectually silenced or conciliated Rai-
mond, that the good bishop shared his peculiar table,
the only one admitted to that honor. As the eye ranged
each saloon and hall, it beheld the space lined with all the
nobility and knighthood, the wealth and strength, the
learning and the beauty, of the Italian metropolis; ming.
led with ambassadors and noble strangers, even from beyond
the Alps;* envoys, not only of the free states that has'
welcomed the rise of the tribune, but of the high-born
and haughty tyrants who had first derided his arrogance, and
now cringed to his power. There were not only the am-
bassadors of Florence, of Sieuna, (of Arezzo, which last
subjected its government to the tribune,) of Todi, of Spo-
leto, and of countless other lesser towns and states, but of
the dark and terrible Visconti, Prince of Milan, of Obizzo
of Ferrara, and the tyrant rulers of Verona and Bologna;
even the proud and sagacious Malatesta, Lord of Rimini,
whose arm afterward broke for a while the power of Mon-
treal, at the head of his great company, had deputed his
representative in his most honored noble. John di Vico,
the worst and most malignant despot of his day, who had
sternly defied the arms of the tribune, now subdued and
humbled, was there in person; and the ambassadors of
Hungary and of Naples mingled with those of Bavaria
and Bohemia, whose sovereigns that day had been cited to
the Roman judgment-court. The nodding of plumes, the
glitter of jewels and cloth of goid, the rustling of silks and
jingle of golden spurs, the waving of banners from the
roof, the sounds of minstrelsy from the galleries above, all
presented a picture of such power and state, - a court and
chivalry of such show, -as the greatest of the feudal
kings might have beheld with a sparkling eye and a swell-
ing heart. But at that moment the cause and lord of all
that splendor recovered from his late exhilaration, sat
moody and abstracted, remembering with a thoughtful
brow the adventure of the last night, and sensible that
among his gaudiest revellers lurked his intended murder-
ers. Amid the swell of the minstrelsy and the pop of
the crowd, he felt that treason scowled beside him; and
the image of the skeleton obtruding, as of old, its grim
thought of death upon the feast, darkened the ruby of the
wine, and chilled the glitter of the scene..
It was while the feast was loudest that Rienzi's page
was seen gliding through the banquet, and whispering
several of the nobles; each howed low, but changed color,
as he received the message.
CC
My Lord Savelli," said Orsini, himself trembling,
"bear yourself more bravely. This must be meant in
honor, not revenge. I suppose your summons corresponda
with mine."
"He - he asks-asks me to supper at the capi
tol; a friendly meeting, (pest on his friendship !)
after the noise of the day."
Thus ended that remarkable ceremony, and that_proud
challenge of the northern powers, in behalf of the Italian
liberties, which, had it been afterward successful, would
have been deemed a subline daring; which unsuccessful,
has been construed by the vulgar into a frantic insolence;
but which, calmly considering all the circumstances that
urged on the tribune, and all the power that surrounded
him, was not, perhaps, altogether so imprudent as it seem-
ed. And, even accepting that imprudence in the extre-
mest sense, by the more penetrating judge of the higher
order of character, it will probably be considered as the
magnificent folly of a bold nature, excited at once by posi- Those who received the summons soon broke from the
tion and prosperity, by religious credulities, by patriotic feast, and collected in a group, eagerly conferring. Some
aspirings, by scholastic visions too suddenly transfered were for flight, but flight was confession; their number,
from the reverie to the action, beyond that wise and earth-rank, long and consecrated impunity, re-assured them, and
ward policy which sharpens the weapon ere it casts the
gauntlet.
CHAPTER VII.
The festival.
THE festival of that day was far the most sumptuous
hitherto known. The hint of Cecco del Vecchio, which
so well depicted the character of his fellow-citizens, as
yet it exists, though not to such excess, in their love of
holyday pomp and gorgeous show, was not lost upon Rien-
One instance of the universal banqueting, (intended,
zi
indeed, rather for the people than the higher ranks,) may
ilustrate the more than royal profusion that prevailed.
From morn till eve, streams of wine flowed like a fountain
from the nostrils of the horse in the great equestrian statue
* "Questo e mio."
"The words addressed also to me!" said Orsini, turn-
ing to one of the Frangipani.
they resolved to obey. The old Colonna, the sole innocent
baron of the invited guests, was also the one who refused
the invitation. "Tush!" said he, peevishly: "here is
feasting enough for one day! Tell the tribune that ere he
sups I hope to be asleep. Gray hairs cannot encounter al
this fever of festivity."
As Rienzi rose to depart, which he did early, for the
banquet took place while yet morning, Raimond, eager to
escape, and to confer with some of his spiritual friends,
as to the report he should make to the pontiff, was begin-
ning his expressions of farewell, when the merciless tribune
said to him, gravely,
tol. À prisoner,
"My lord, we want you on urgent business at the capi-
-a trial, perhaps (he added, with his
Come."
portentous and prophetic frown) an execution waits us!
The simple and credulous biographer of Rienzi declares his
fame to have reached the ears of the soldan of Babylon.
260
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Verily, tribune," stammered the good bishop, "this
is a strange time for execution!"
"Last night was a time yet more strange. Come."
There was something in the way in which the final
word was pronounced, that Raimond could not resist. He
sighed, muttered, twitched his robes, and followed the
tribune. As he passed through the halls the company rose
on all sides. Rienzi repaid their salutations with smiles
and whispers of frank courtesy and winning address.
Young as he yet was, and of a handsome and noble pres-
ence, that took every advantage from splendid attire, and
yet more from an appearance of intellectual command in
his brow and eye, which the less cultivated signors of that
dark agc necessarily wanted; he glittered through the
court as one worthy to form, and fitted to preside over it;
and his supposed descent from the Teuton emperor, which,
since his greatness, was universally bruited and believed
abroad, seemed undeniably visible to the foreign lords,
in the majesty of his mien, and the easy blandness of his
address.
"My lord prefect," said he, to a dark and sullen per-
sonage in black velvet, the powerful and arrogant John di❘
Vico, prefect of Rome, "we are rejoiced to find so noble
a guest at Rome: we must repay the courtesy by surpris-
ing you in your own palace ere long; nor will you, signor
(as he turned to the envoy from Tivoli) refuse us a shelter
amid your groves and waterfalls ere the vintage be gath-
ered. Methinks Rome, united with sweet Tivoli, grows
reconciled to the Muses. Your suit is carried, Master
Venoni the council recognises its justice; but I reserved
the news for this holyday, you do not blame me, I trust."
This was whispered, with a half-affectionate frankness, to
a worthy citizen, who, finding himself amid so inany of the
great, would have shrunk from the notice of the tribune;
but it was the policy of Rienzi to pay an especial and
marked attention to those engaged in commercial pursuits.
As, after tarrying a moment or two with the merchant, be
passed on, the tall person of the old Colonna caught his
eye,
rr
CC
Signor,"
," said he, with a profound inclination of his
head, but with a slight emphasis of tone, you will not
fail us this evening."
"Tribune" began the Colonna.
"We receive no excuse," interrupted the tribune, hasti-
ly, and passed on.
of men
He halted for a few moments at a small group
plainly attired, who were watching him with intense inter-
est; for they too were scholars, and in Rienzi's rise they
saw another evidence of that wonderful and sudden power
which intellect had begun to assume over brute force.
With these, as if abruptly mingled with congenial spirits,
the tribune relaxed all the gravity of his brow. Happier,
perhaps, his living career, more unequivocal his posthu-
mous renown, had his objects, as his tastes, been theirs!
"Ah, carissime!" said he to one, whose arm he drew
within his own, -" and how proceeds thy interpretation of
—
the old marbles?-half unravelled? I rejoice to hear
it! Confer with me as of old, I pray thee. To-morrow,
―no, nor the day after, but next week, -we will have a
tranquil evening. Dear poet, your ode transported me to
the days of Horace; yet, methinks, we do wrong to reject
the vernacular for the Latin. You shake your head?
Well, Petrarch thinks with you: his great epic moves
with the stride of a giant, so I hear from his friend and
envoy; and here he is; my Lælius, is not that your
name with Petrarch? how shall I express my delight at
his comforting, bis inspiring letter? Alas! he over-
rates not my intention, but my power. Of this hereafter.'
A slight shade darkened the tribune's brow at these
words; and moving on, a long line of nobles and prines
on either side restored him to his self-possession, and he
dignity he had dropped with his former equals. Thus he
passed through the crowd, and gradually disappeared.
"He bears him bravely," said one, as the revellers
reseated themselves. "Noticed you the we, the style
royal?"
"But it must be owned that he lords it well," said the
ambassador of the Visconti; "less pride would be cringing
to his haughty court.
CC
Why, "said a professor of Bologna, "why is the
tribune called proud? I see no pride in him "
"Nor I," said a wealthy jeweller.
While these, and yet more contradictory comments, fol-
lowed the exit of the tribune, he passed into the saloon,
where Nina presided; and here his fair person and silver
tongue ("Suavis coloratæque sententiæ," according to the
description of Petrarch) won him a more general favor
with the matrons than he experienced with their lords, and
not a little contrasted the forinal and nervous compliments
of the good bishop, who served him, on such occasions,
with an excellent foil.
But as soon as these ceremonies were done, and Rienzi
mounted his horse, his manner changed at once into a stern
and ominous severity.
rr
CC
"Vicar," said he, with great shortness, to the bishop,
we might well need your presence. Know that at the
capitol now sits the council in judgment upon an assassin.
Last night, but for heaven's mercy, I should have fallen a
victim to a hireling's dagger. Know you aught of this?"
And he turned so sharply on the bishop, that the poor
canonist nearly dropped from his horse in surprise and
terror.
"I—I!" said he.
-
Rienzi smiled, "No, good my lord bishop! I see you
are of no murderer's mould; - but to continue : that I
might not appear to act in mine own cause, I ordered the
prisoner to be tried in my absence. In his trial (you
marked the letter brought me at our banquet) —”
Ay, and
you changed color.”
"Well I might in his trial, I say, he has confessed
that nine of the loftiest lords of Rome were his iustigators.
They sup with me to-night! — Vicar, forward!”
BOOK V.
THE CRISIS.
Questo ha acceso 'l fuoco e la fiamma la quale non la potrà spegnere.
Vit. di COLA DI RIENZI, lib. I., c. xxix
CHAPTER I.
The judgment of the tribune.
THE brief words of the tribune to Stephen Colonna,
though they sharpened the rage of the proud old noble,
were such as he did not on reflection deem it prudent to
disobey. Accordingly, at the appointed hour, he found
himself in one of the halls of the capitol, with a gallant
party of his peers. Rienzi received them with more than
his usual graciousness.
They sat down to the splendid board in secret uneasiness
and alarm, as they saw that, with the exception of Stephen
Colonna, none, save the conspirators, had been invited to
the banquet. Rienzi, regardless of their silence and ab-
straction, was more than usually gay, the old Colonna
more than usually sullen.
"We have but ill pleased you, methinks, my Lord
Colonna, by our summons. Once, methinks, we might
more easily provoke you to a smile."
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
261
Situations are changed, tribune, since you were my
guest."
"Why, scarcely so. I have risen, but you have not
fallen. Ye walk the streets day and night in security and
peace; your lives are safe from the robber, and your pal-
aces no longer need bars and battlements to shield you from
your fellow-citizens. I have risen, but we all have risen,
from barbarous disorder into civilized life! My lord
Gianni Colonna, whom we have made captain over Cam-
pagna, you will not refuse a cup to the buono stato ; nor
think we mistrust your valor, when we say, that we rejoice
Rome hath no enemies to attest your generalship."
<<
Methinks," quoth the old Colonna, bluntly, "we shall
have enemies enough from Bohemia and Bavaria, ere the
next harvest is green."
66
And, if so," replied the tribune, calmly, "foreign foes
are better than civil strife.”
دو
"Ay, if we have money in the treasury, which is but
little likely, if we have many more such holydays.
"You are ungracious, my lord," said the tribune," and
besides, you are more uncomplimentary to Rome than to
ourselves. What citizen would not part with gold to buy
fame and liberty?"
baron.
—
"I know very few in Rome that would," answered the
"But tell me, tribune, you who are a notable
casuist, which is the best for a state, that its governor
should be over thrifty or over lavish?"
"I refer the question to my friend Luca di Savelli,"
replied Rienzi. "He is a grand philosopher, and I wot
well, could explain a much knottier riddle, which we will
presently submit to his acumen.
The barons, who had been much embarrassed by the
bold speech of the old Colonna, all turned their eyes to
Savelli, who answered with more composure than was
anticipated.
"The question admits a double reply. He who is born
a ruler, and maintains a foreign army, governing by fear,
should be penurious. He who is made ruler, courts the
people, and would reign by love, must win their affection
by generosity, and dazzle their fancies by pomp. Such I
believe is the usual maxim in Italy, which is rife in all
experience of state wisdom."
The barons unanimously applauded the discreet reply of
Savelli, excepting only the old Colonna.
bar stood a ruffian form, which the banqueters to well
recognised.
"Bid Rodolph of Saxony approach!" said the tribune
And led by two guards, the robber entered the hall.
"Wretch, you then betrayed us! said one of the
Frangipani.
>>
Rodolph of Saxony goes ever to the highest bidder,'
"You gave
returned the miscreant, with a horrid grin.
me gold, and I would have slain your foe,
defeated me.
He gives me life, and life is a greater boon
than gold ! "
your foe
"Ye confess your crime, my lords! Silent! dumb!
Where is your wit, Savelli! Where your pride, Rinaldo
di Orsini? Gianni Colonna, is your chivalry come to this?"
"Oh!" continued Rienzi, with deep and passionate
bitterness; "oh, my lords, will nothing conciliate you,
not to me, but to Rome? What hath been my sin to yon
and yours? Disbanded ruffians (such as your accuser) -
dismantled fortresses, impartial law, what man, in alt
the wild revolutions of Italy, sprung from the people, ever
yielded less to their license. Not a coin of your coffers
touched by wanton power, not a hair of your heads harmed
by private revenge. You, Gianni Colonna, loaded with
honors, intrusted with command,
you, Alphonso d
did the
Frangipani, endowed with new principalities,
tribune remember one insult he received from you as the
plebeian? — You accuse my pride; was it my fault that
ye
cringed and fawned upon my power?-flattery on your
lips, poison at your hearts. No, I have not offended you,
let the world know, that in me you aimed at liberty, justice,
law, order, the restored grandeur, the renovated rights of
Rome! At these, the abstract and the immortal,
this frail form, ye struck; by the divinity of these ye are
defeated, for the outraged majesty of these, criminals
and victims, ye must die!"
not at
With these words, uttered with the tone and air that
would have become the loftiest spirit of the ancient city,
Rienzi, with a majestic step, swept from the chamber into
the hall of council.*
All that night, the conspirators remained within that
room, the doors locked and guarded; the banquet un-
removed, and its splendor strangely contrasting the mood
of the guests.
The utter prostration and despair of these dastard crim-
Yet pardon me, tribune," said Stephen, "if I departinals, -so unlike the knightly Normans of France and
from the courtier-like decision of our friend, and opine, England, has been painted by the historian in odious
though with all due respect, that even a friar's coarse and withering colors. The old Colonua alone sustained
serge, the parade of humility, would better behoove thee, his impetuous and imperious character. He strode to and
than this gaudy pomp, the parade of pride!" So saying, fro about the room, like a lion in his cage, uttering loud
be touched the large loose sleeve, fringed with gold, of the threats of resentinent and defiance; and beating at 'e door
tribune's purple robe.
with his clenched hands, demanding egress, and proclaiming
the vengeance of the pontiff.
C
Hush, father!" said Gianni, Colonna's son, coloring
at the unprovoked rudeness and dangerous candor of the
veteran.
Nay, it matters not," said the tribune, with affected
indifference, though his lip quivered, and his eye shot fire;
and then, after a pause, he resumed with an awful smile,
"If the Colonna loves the serge of the friar, he may see
enough of it ere we part."
"And now, my lord Savelli, for my question, which I
pray you listen to; it demands all your wit. Is it best
for a state's ruler to be over forgiving, or over just? Take
breath to answer; you look faint, you grow pale,—you
tremble, -you cover your face! Traitor and assassin, your
conscience betrays you! My lords, relieve your accomplice,
and take up the answer.
>>
"Nay, if we are discovered," said the Orsini, rising in
despair," we will not fall unavenged, - die, tyrant!
He rushed to the place where Rienzi stood, for the
tribune also rose,
and made a thrust at his breast with
his dagger, the steel pierced the purple robe, yet glanced
harmlessly away, and the tribune regarded the balled
murderer with a scornful smile.
"M
My
"Till yester night, I never dreamed, that under the robe
of state I should need the secret corslet," said he.
lords, you
have taught me a dark lesson, and I thank ye.
So saying, he clapped his hands, and suddenly the folding
doors at the end of the hall flew open, and discovered the
saloon of the council hung with silk of a blood red color,
relieved by rays of white, the emblem of crime and death.
At a long table sat the councillors in their robes; at the
* Vestimenta da Bizoco, was the phrase used by Colonna ; an
expression hard to render literally.
The dawn came, slow and gray upon that agonized as-
sembly; and just as the last star faded from the melancholy
horizon, and by the wan and comfortless heaven, they re-
garded each others' faces, almost spectral with anxiety and
fear, the great bell of the capitol sounded the notes in which
they well recognised the chime of death! It was then that
the door opened, and a drear and gloomy procession of
cordeliers, one to each baron, entered the apartment! At
that spectacle, we are told, the terror of the conspirators
was so great, that it froze up the very power of speech.†
The greater part at length, deeming all hope over, resigned
themselves to their ghostly confessors. But when the friar
appointed to Stephen approached that passionate old man,
he waved his hand impatiently, and said, "Tease me not
tease me not.
Nay, son, prepare for the awful hour.
"Son, indeed," quoth the baron; "I am old enough to
be thy grandsire; and for the rest, tell him who sent thee,
that I neither am prepared for death, nor will prepare! Į I
have made up my mind to live these twenty years, and
Jonger too, if I catch not my death with the cold of this
accursed night."
Just at that moment a cry that almost seemed to rend the
capitol asunder, was heard, as with one voice the multitude
below yelled forth,
Rienzi, though hastily slurred over by Gibbon, and other mod
* The guilt of the barons and their designed assassination of
ern writers, is clearly attested by Muratori, the Bolognese
Chronicle, &c. They even confessed the crime. (See Cron
Estens: Muratori, tom. xviii. p. 442.)
| Diventero si gelati, che non poteano favellare.
262
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Death to the conspirators! death! death!"
While this the scene in that hall, the tribune issued from
his chamber, in which he had been closeted with his wife
and sister. The noble spirit of the one, the tears and grief
of the other, (who saw at one fell stroke perish the house
of her betrothed,) had not worked without effect upon a
temper, stern and just indeed, but naturally averse to blood;
and a heart capable of the loftiest species of revenge.
He entered the council, still sitting, with a calm brow,
and even a cheerful eye.
*
"Pandulfo di Guido," he said, turning to that citizen,
you are right; you spoke as a wise man and a patriot,
when you said that to cut off with one blow, however mer-
ited, the noblest heads of Rome, would endanger the state,
sully our purple with an indelible stain, and unite the nobil-
ity of Italy against us."
Such, tribune, was my argument, though the council
would have decided otherwise.'
"Hearken to the shouts of the populace, you cannot ap-
pease their honest wrath," said the demagogue Baroncelli.
Many of the council murmured applause.
"Friends," said the tribune, with a solemn and earnest
aspect, "let not posterity say, that liberty loves blood; let
us for once adopt the great example of the mercy of our
great Redeemer! We have triumphed, let us forbear;
we are saved, let us forgive!”
The speech of the tribune was supported by Pandulfo,
and others of the more mild and moderate policy; and,
after a short but animated discussion, the influence of
Rienzi prevailed, and the sentence of death was revoked,
but by a small majority.
And now," said Rienzi, "let us be more than just, let
us de generous. Speak, and boldly. Do any of ye think
that I have been over hard, over haughty with these stub-
born spirits? I read your answer in your brows! I
have! Do any of ye think this error of mine may have
stirred them to their dark revenge? Do any of ye deem
that they partake, as we do, of human nature,
that they
are sensible to kindness, that they are softened by gene-
rosity, that they can be tamed and disarmed by such
vengeance as is dictated to noble fues by Christian laws?"
"I think," said Pandulfo, after a pause, "that it will
not be in human nature, if the men you pardon, thus offend-
ing and thus convicted, attempt again your life! "
"Methinks," said Rienzi, we must do even more than
pardon. The first great Cæsar, when he did not crush a
foe, strove to convert him to a friend
"And perished by the attempt,'
abruptly.
CC
said Baroncelli,
Rienzi started and changed color.
"If you would save these wretched prisoners, better not
wait till the fury of the mob become ungovernable," whis-
pered Pandulfo.
to nurture its arts, your chivalry to protect its laws! Take
back your swords, and the first man who strikes against
the liberties of Rome, let him be your victim; even though
that victim be the tribune. Your cause has been tried,
your sentence is pronounced. Renew your oath to forbear
all hostility, private or public, against the government and
the magistrates of Rome, and ye are pardoned,
ye are
free!"
―
Amazed, bewildered, the barons mechanically bent the
knee the friars who had received their confessions admin-
istered the appointed oath; and while, with white lips,
they muttered the solemn words, they heard below the roar
of the multitude for their blood.
This ceremony ended, the tribune passed into the ban-
quet hall, which conducted to a balcony, whence he was
accustomed to address the people; and never, perhaps,
was his wonderful mastery over the passions of an audience
(ad persuadendum efficax dictator quoque dulcis ac lepidus *)
more greatly needed or more eminently snown, than on that
day; for the fury of the people was at its height, and it was
long ere he succeeded in turning it aside. Before he con-
cluded, however, every wave of the wild sea lay hushed.
The orator lived to stand on the same spot, to plead for a
nobler life than those he now saved, and to plead unheard
and in vain!
As soon as the tribune saw the favorable moment had
arrived, the barons were admitted into the balcony in the
presence of the breathless thousands, they solemnly pledged
themselves to protect the good state. And thus the morn-
ing which seemed to dawn upon their execution, witnessed
their reconciliation with the people.
The crowd dispersed; the majority, soothed and pleased;
the more sagacious, vexed and dissatisfied.
"He has but increased the smoke and the flame which
he was not able to extinguish," growled Cecco del Vecchio,
and the smith's appropriate saying passed into a proverb
and a prophecy.
Meanwhile the tribune, conscious at least that he had
taken the more generous course, broke up the council, and
retired to the chamber, where Nina and his sister waited
him. These beautiful young women had conceived for each
other the tenderest affection. And their differing charac-
ters, both of mind and feature, seemed by contrast to
heighten the charins of both; as in a skilful jewelry, the
pearl and diamond borrow beauty from each other.
And as Irene now turned her pale countenance and
streaming eyes from the bosom to which she had clung for
support, the timid sister, anxious, doubtful, wistful; the
proud wife, sanguine and assured, as if never diffident of
the intentions nor of the power of her Rienzi, the contrast
would have furnished to a painter no unworthy incarnation
of the love that hopeth, and the love that feareth, all things.
"Be cheered, my sweet sister," said the tribune, first
The tribune roused himself from his reverie.
caught by Irene's imploring look, "not a hair on the heads
"Pandulfo," said he, in the same tone, " my heart mis- of those who boast the name of him thou lovest so well, is
gives me, the brood of serpents is in my hand, I do injured. Thank heaven," as his sister, with a low cry,
not strangle them, they may sting me to death, in return rushed into his arins, "that it was against my life they
for my mercy,
it is their instinct ! No matter. It shall conspired! had it been another Roman's, mercy might
not be said that the Roman tribune bought, with so many have been a crime! Dearest, may Adrian love thee half
lives, his own safety: nor shall it be written upon my as well as I; my sister and my child, none will know thy
grave-stone, Here lies the coward, who did not dare for- soft soul as well as I, who watched over it since its first
give!' What, ho! there, officers, unclose the doors! My blossom expanded to the sun. My poor brother! had he
masters, let us acquaint the prisoners with their sentence. lived, your council had been his, aud methinks his gentle
With that, Rienzi seated himself on the chair of state, spirit often whispers away the sternness which, otherwise,
at the head of the table, and the sun now risen, cast its rays
would harden over mine. Nina, my queen, my inspirer,
over the blood-red walls, in which the barons, marshalled my monitor,- -ever thus let thy heart, masculine in my
in order into the chamber, thought to read their fate. distress, be woman's in my power, and be to me, with
Irene, upon earth what my brother is in heaven.”
C
t
My lords," said the tribune, " ye have offended the
laws of God and man; but God teaches man the quality of
mercy. Learn at last, that I bear a charmed life. Nor is
be, whom, for high purposes, heaven bath raised from the
cottage to the popular throne, without invisible aid, and
spiritual protection. If hereditary monarchs are deemed
sacred, how much more one in whose power the divine
hand hath writ its witness. Yes, over him who lives but
for his country, whose greatness is his country's gift, whose
life is his country's liberty, watch the souls of the just, and
the unsleeping eyes of the sworded seraphim! Taught by
your late failure and your present peril, bid your anger
against me cease; respect the laws, Levere the freedom of
your city, and think that no state presents a nobler specta-
cle than men born as ye are,-a patrician and illustrious
rder, - - using your rower to protect your city, your wealth
care
The tribune, exhausted by the trials of the night, retired
for a few hours to rest and as Nina, encircling him within
her arms, watched over his noble countenance,
hushed, ambition laid at rest, its serenity had something
almost of sublime and tears of that delicious pride, which
woman sheds for the hero of her dreams, stood heavy in
the wife's eyes, as she rejoiced more, in the deep stillness
of her heart, at the prerogative alone hers, of sharing his
solitary hours, than in all the rank to which his destiny had
raised her, and which her nature fitted her at once to adorn
and to enjoy. In that calm and lonely hour, she beguiled
her heart by waking dreams, vainer than the sleeper's,
and pictured to herself the long career of glory, the august
decline of peace, which were to await her lord,
* Petrarch of Rienza.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
263
And while she thus watched and thus dreamed, the cloud,
as yet no bigger than a man's hand, darkened the horizon
of a fate whose sunshine was wellnigh past.
CHAPTER II.
The flight.
FBILLING his proud heart, as a steed frets on the bit,
old Colonna regained his palace. To him, innocent of the
proposed crime of his kin and compeers, the whole scene
of the night and morning presented but one feature of in-
sult and degradation. Scarce was he in his palace, ere he
ordered couriers, in whom he knew he could confide, to be
in preparation for his summons. "This to Avignon," said
he to himself, as he concluded an epistle to the pontiff.
"We will see whether the friendship of the great house of
the Colonna will outweigh the frantic support of the rab-
ble's puppet. This to Palestrina, the rock is inacces-
sible! This to John de Vico, he may be relied upon,
traitor though he be! This to Naples; the Colonna will
disown the tribune's ambassador, if he throw not up the
trust and hasten hither, not a lover, but a soldier ! And
And
may this find Walter de Montreal! Ah, a precious mes-
senger he sent us, but I will forgive all, all for a thou- |
sand lances.' And as with trembling hands he twined the
silk round his letters, he bade his pages invite to his board
next day all the signors who had been implicated with him
on the previous night.
The barons came,
far more enraged at the disgrace
of pardon, than grateful for the boon of mercy. Their
fears united with their pride, and the shouts of the mob, the
whine of the cordeliers, still ringing in their ears; they
deemned united resistance the only course left to protect
their lives, and avenge their affront.
than one malicious sneer at her mortification was apparent.
She recovered herself instantly, and said to the Signora
Frangipani, with a smile, " May we be a partaker of your
mirth? You seem to have chanced on some gay thought,
which it were a sin not to share freely."
The lady she addressed colored slightly, and replied,
"We were thinking, madam, that had the tribune been
present, his vow of knighthood would have been called into
requisition."
"And how, signora ?
"It would have been his pleasing duty, madam, to suc-
cour the distressed." And the signora glanced significantly
on the handkerchief still on the floor.
"You designed me then this slight, signoras," said
Nina, rising with great majesty. "I know not whether
your lords are equally bold to the tribune; but this I know,
that the tribune's wife can in future forgive your absence.
Four centuries ago, a Frangipani might weli have stooped
to a Raselli; to-day the dame of a Roman baron might ac
knowledge a superior in the wife of the first magistrate of
Rome. I compel not your courtesy, nor seek it."
"We have gone too far," whispered one of the ladies to
her neighbour. Perhaps the enterprise may not succeed;
and then
Further remark was cut short by the sudden entrance of
the tribune. He entered with great haste, and on his brow
was that dark frown which none ever saw unquailing.
>>
CC
rr
"How, fair matrons?" said he, looking round the room
with a rapid glance; ye have not deserted us yet. By
the blessed cross, your lords pay a compliment to our honor,
to leave us such lovely hostages, or else, God's truth, they
are ungrateful husbands. So, madam," turning sharp
round to the wife of Gianni Colonna, "your husband has
fled to Palestrina; yours, signora Orsini, to Marino;
yours with him, fair bride of Frangipani, ye came
hither to- But ye are sacred even from a word!”
The tribune paused a moment, evidently striving to sup-
press his emotion, as he observed the terror he had excited,
-his eye fell upon Nina, who, forgetting her previous
vexation, regarded him with anxious amazement.
"Yes,
madam," said he to her, "you alone, perhaps, of this fair
assemblage, know not that the nobles whom I lately released
from the headman's gripe, are a second time forsworn.
They have left home in the dead of the night, and already
the heralds proclaim them traitors and rebels. Rienzi for-
gives no more.
To them the public pardon of the tribune seemed only a
disguise to private revenge. All they believed was, that
Rienzi did not dare to destroy them in the face of day.
Forgetfulness and forgiveness were the means that were to
full their passion, while abasing their pride; and the knowl-madam," said he to her,
edge of crime detected, forbade them all hope of safety.
The hand of their own assassin might be armed against
them, or they might be ruined singly, one by one, as was
the common tyrant craft of that day. Singularly enough,
Luca di Savelli was the most urgent for immediate rebel-
lion. The fear of death made the coward brave.
Unable even to conceive the romantic generosity of the
tribune, the barons were yet more alarmed when, the next
day, Rienzi summoning them one by one to a private audi-
ence, presented them with gifts, and bade them forget the
past; excused himself rather than them, and augmented
their offices and honors.
In the Quixotism of a heart to which royalty was natu-
ral, he thought that there was no medium course; and that
the enmity he would not silence by death, he could crush by
confidence and favors. Such conduct from a born king to
hereditary inferiors might have been successful: but the
generosity of one who has abruptly risen over his lords, is
but the ostentation of insult. Rienzi in this, and perhaps
in forgiveness itself, committed a fatal error of policy, which
the dark sagacity of a Visconti, or in later times of a Bor-
gia, would never have perpetrated. But it was the error
of a bright and a great mind.
Nina was seated in the grand saloon of the palace,
was the day of reception to the Roman ladies.
it
The attendance was so much less numerous than usual,
that it startled her, and she thought there was a coldness
and restraint in the manner of the visiters present, which
Comewhat stung her vanity.
"I trust we have not offended the Signora Colonna,"
she said to the lady of Gianni, Stephen's son. "She was
wont to grace our halls, and we miss much her stately
presence."
“Madam, my lord's mother is unwell!"
"Is she so ?
We will send for her more welcome news,
methinks we are deserted to-day."
As she spoke, she carelessly dropped her handkerchief,
the haughty dame of the Colonna bent not, -not a hand
stirred; and the tribunessa looked for a moment surprised
and disconcerted. Her eye roving over the throng she
perceived several, whom she knew as the wives of Rienzi's
foes, whispering together with meaning glances, and more
"Tribune," exclaimed the Signora Frangipani, who
had more bold blood in her veins than her whole house,
"were I of thine own sex, I would cast the words, traitor
and rebel, given to my lord, in thine own teeth. Proud
man, the pontiff soon will fulfil that office!"
"Your lord is blest with a dove, fair one," said the tri
bune, scornfully. "Ladies, fear not, while Rienzi lives;
the wife even of his worst foe is safe and honored. The
crowd will be here anon; our guards shall attend you home
in safety, or this palace may be your shelter; for, I warn
ye, that your lords have rushed into a great peril. And ere
many days be past, the streets of Rome may be as rivers of
blood."
"We accept your offer, tribune," said the Signora
Frangipani, who was touched, and, in spite of herselt,
awed by the tribune's manner. And as she spoke she
dropped on one knee, picked up the kerchief, and present-
ing it respectfully to Nina, said, “ Madame, forgive me
I alone of these present respect you more in danger than
in pride."
And I," returned Nina, as she leaned in graceful con-
fidence on Rienzi's arm, "I reply, that if there be danger,
the more need of pride.
All that day and all that night rang the great bell of the
capitol. But on the following daybreak the assemblage
was thin and scattered; there was a great fear stricken
into the hearts of the people by the flight of the barons,
and they bitterly and loudly upbraided Rienzi for sparing
the lordly rebels to this opportunity of mischief. That day
the rumors continued; the murmurers for the most part
remained within their houses, or assembled in listless and
discontented troops. The next day dawned; the same leth-
argy prevailed. The tribune summoned his council (which
was a representative assembly).
Shall we go forth as we are," said he, "with such
few as will follow the Roman standard ?”
“No,” replied Pandulfo, who, by nature timid, was yet
261
BULWER'S NOVELS.
well acquainted with the disposition of the people, and
therefore a sagacious counsellor, "let us hold back; let us
wait till the rebels commit themselves by some odious out-
rage, and then hatred will unite the waverers, and resent-
ment lead them."
This counsel prevailed; the event proved its wisdom.
To give excuse and dignity to the delay, messengers were
sent to Marino, whither the chief part of the barons had
fled, and which was strongly fortified, demauding their
immediate return.
On the day on which the haughty refusal of the insur-
gents was brought to Rienzi, came fugitives to all parts of
the Campagna. Houses burnt, convents and vineyards
pillaged, cattle and horses seized, attested the warfare
practised by the barons, and animated the drooping Ro-
mans, by showing the mercies they might expect for them
selves. That evening, of their own accord, the Romans
rushed into the place of the capitol. Rinaldo Orsini had
Rinaldo Orsini had
seized a fortress in the immediate neighbourhood of Rome,
and had set fire to a tower, the flames of which were visi-
ble to the city. The tenant of the tower, a noble lady, old
and widowed, was burnt alive. Then rose the wild clamor,
the mighty wrath, the headlong fury.
the headlong fury. The hour for
action had arrived. *
Cod
CHAPTER III.
The battle.
"I HAVE dreamed a dream," cried Rienzi, leaping
from his bed. "The lion-hearted Boniface, foe and victim
of the Colonna, hath appeared to me and promised victory.
Nina, prepare the laurel wreath; this day victory shall be
ours"
Oh, Rienzi, to-day?"
"Yes! hearken to the bell, hearken to the trumpet.
Nay, I hear even now the impatient hoofs of my white war
steed! One kiss, Nina, ere I arın for victory,-stay,
comfort poor Irene; let me not see her, she weeps that
my foes are akin to her betrothed; I cannot brook her
tears; I watched her in her cradle. To-day I must have
no weakness on my soul! Knaves, twice perjured!
wolves never to be tamed!
shall I meet ye at last sword
to sword! Away, sweet Nina, to Irene, quick. Adrian
is at Naples, and were he in Rome, her lover is sacred,
though fifty times a Colonna.'
The citizen read, with surprise and consternation, the
answer of the wily prefect to the Colonna's epistle.
"He promises the baron to desert to him in the battle,
with the prefect's banner," said Pandulfo; "what is to be
done?"
"What! take my signet, here, -see him lodged
forthwith in the prison of the capitol: Bid his train leave
Rome, and if found acting with the barons, warn them
that their lord dies Go,
see to it without a moment's
delay. Meanwhile, to the chapel, -we will hear mass.'
Within an hour the Roman army, vast, miscellaneous
old men and boys, mingled with the vigor of life, were
on their march to the gate of San Lorenzo; of their num
ber, which amounted to twenty thousand foot, not one sixth
could be deemed men-at-arms, but the cavalry was well
equipped, and consisted of the lesser barons, and the more
opulent citizens. At the head of these rode the tribune in
complete armor, and wearing on his casque a wreath of oak
and olive leaves wrought in silver. Before him waved the
great gonfalon of Rome, while in front of this multitudi-
nous array marched a procession of monks of the order of
St. Francis, (for the ecclesiastical body of Rome wen
chiefly with the popular spirit, and its enthusiastic leader,)
slowly chanting the following hymn, which was made inex-
pressibly startling and imposing at the close of each stanza
by the clash of arms, the blast of trumpets, and the deep
roll of the drum; which formed, as it were, a martial cho-
rus to the song.
ROMAN WAR SONG
I.
March, march for your hearths and your altars'
Cursed to all time be the dastard that falters;
Never on earth may his sins be forgiven,
Death on his soul, shut the portals of heaven;
A curse on his heart, and a curse on his brain, -
Who strikes not for Rome, shall to Rome be her Cain
Breeze fill our banners; sun gild our spears,
Santo Spirito, cavaliers ! *
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Gayly to glory we come,
Like a king in his pomp,
To the blast of the tromp,
And the roar of the mighty drum!
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Santo Spirito, cavaliers !
II.
March, march for your freedom, and laws!
Earth is your witness, all earth's is your cause !
Seraph and saint from their glory shall heed ye,
The angel that smote the Assyrian shall lead ye;
To the Christ of the cross man is never so holy
With that, the tribune passed into his wardrobe, where
"I hear
his pages and gentlemen attended with his armor.
by our spies," said he, "that they will be at our gates ere
noon, four thousand foot, seven hundred horsemen. We
will give them a hearty welcome, my masters. How, An-
gelo Villani, my pretty page, what do you out of your lady's As in braving the proud in defence of the lowly!
service?"
"I would fain see a warrior arm for Rome," said the
boy, with a boy's energy.
"Bless thee, my child, there spoke one of Rome's true
sons.
""
"And the signora has promised me that I shall go with
her guard to the gates, to hear the news
""
"And report the victory! thou shalt. But they must
not let thee come within shaft-shot. What, my Pandulto,
thou in mail!
"Rome requires every man," said the citizen, whose
weak nerves were strung by the contagion of the general
enthusiasın.
"She doth, and once more I am proud to be a Romau.
Now, gentles, the dalmaticum:t I would that every foe
should know Rienzi: and by the Lord of hosts, fighting
at the head of the imperial people, I have a right to the
imperial robe! Are the friars prepared? Our march to
the gates shall be preceded by a solemn hymn, - so fought
pur sires."
“Tribune, John di Vico is arrived with a hundred horse,
to support the good state.
"He hath! The Lord has delivered us then of a foe and
given our dungeons a traitor! Bring hither yon casket,
Angelo, Hark thee! Pandulfo, read this letter."
C
so.
Arden terra, arse la Castelluzza, e case, e uomini. Non si
schito di ardere una nobile donna vedova, veterana, in una torre.
Per tale crudeltade i Romani furo più irati, &c. Vita di C. di
Rienzi, lib. 1. chap. xx.
A robe or mantle of white, borne by Rienzi; but properly,
'he emblem of empire.
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Santo Spirito, cavaliers!
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Gayly to glory we come,
Like a king in his pomp,
To the blast of the tromp,
And the roar of the mighty drum !
Breeze fill our banuers, sun gild our spears,
Santo Spirito, cavaliers'
III.
March, march! ye are sons of the Roman,
The sound of whose step was us fate to the foeman!
Whose realm, save the air and the wave, had no wall,
As he strode through the world like a lord in his hall;
Though your fame hath sunk down to the night of the grave,
It shall rise from the field like the sun from the wave.
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Santo Spirito, cavaliers !
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Gayly to glory we come,
Like a king in his pomp,
To the blast of the tromp,
And the roar of the mighty drum!
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Santo Spirito, cavaliers!
In this order they reached the wide waste that ruin and
devastation left within the gates, and, marshalled in long
lines on either side, extending far down the vistaed streets,
and leaving a broad space in the centre, awaited the order
of their leader.
* Rienzi's word of battle.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
265
cried
"Throw open the gates, and admit the foe!” cried
Rienzi, with a loud voice, as the trumpets of the barons
announced their approach.
Meanwhile the insurgent patricians, who had marched
that morning from a place called the Monument, four miles
distant, came gallantly and boldly on.
With old Stephen, whose great height, gaunt frame, and
lordly air showed well in his gorgeous mail, rode his sons,
the Frangipani and the Savelli, and Giordano Orsini,
brother to Rinaldo.
"To-day the tyrant shall perish," said the proud baron,
"and the flag of the Colonna shall wave from the capitol."
"The flag of the bear," said Giordano Orsini, angrily.
"The victory will not be yours alone, my lord!'
"Our house ever took precedence in Rome," replied the
Colonna, haughtily.
"Never, while one stone of the palaces of the Orsini
stands upon another."
"" Hush !
said Luca di Savelli, "are ye dividing the
skin while the lion lives? We shall have fierce work
to-dav."
"John di Vico will
"Not so," said the old Colonna," John di Vico will
turn with his Romans, at the first onset, and some of the
malcontents within have promised to open the gates.
How, knave!" as a scout rode up breathless to the baron;
what tidings?"
"The gates are opened,- not a spear gleams from the
walls!"
"Did I not tell ye, lords?" said the Colonna, turning
round triumphantly.
"Methinks we shall win Roine with
out a single blow. Grandson, where now
Grandson, where now are thy silly
forebodings?" This was said to Pietro, one of his grand-
sons, the first-born of Giasni, -a comely youth, not two
weeks wedded, who made no reply. "My little Pietro
here," continued the baron, speaking to his comrades, "is
so new a bridegroom, that last night he dreamed of his
oride; and deems it, poor lad, a portent.'
4
>>
"She was in deep mourning, and glided from my arms,
uttering, Woe, woe to the Colonna !'" said the young
man, solemnly.
"I have lived nearly ninety years," replied the old man,
"and I may have dreamed, therefore, some forty thousand
dreams; of which, two came true, and the rest were
false. Judge, then, what chances are in favor of the
science."
Thus conversing, they approached within bow-shot of
the gates, which were still open. All was silent as death.
The army,
which was composed chiefly of foreign merce-
naries, halted in deliberation, when, lo! a torch was
suddenly cast on high, over the walls; it gleamed a mo-
ment, and then hissed in the miry pool below.
"It is the signal of our friends within, as agreed on,"
cried old Colonna. "Pietro, advance with your compa-
ny!" The young nobleman closed his visor, put himself
at the head of the band under his command, and, with his
lauce in his rest, rode in a half gallop to the gates. The
morning had been clouded and overcast, and the sun, ap-
pearing only at intervals, now broke out in a bright streain
of light, as it glittered on the waving plume and shining
mail of the young horseman, disappearing under the
gloomy arch, several paces in advance of his troop. On
swept his followers, forward went the cavalry, headed,
by Gianni Colonna, Pietro's father. There was a minute's
silence, save the clatter of arms, and tramp of hoofs, when
out rose the abrupt ery, "Rome, the Tribune, and the
People! "Santo Spirito, Cavaliers!" The main body
halted aghast. Suddenly Gianui Colonna was seen flying
backward from the gate at full speed.
>>
My son, my son!" he cried, "they have murdered
him.”
He halted abrupt and irresolute, then added, "But
I will avenge him!" wheeled round, spurred again through
the arch, when a huge machine of iron, shaped as a port-
cullis, suddenly descended upon the unhappy father, and
crushed man and horse to the ground, one blent, man-
gled, bloody mass.
The old Colonna saw, and scarce believed his eyes; and
ere his troop recovered its stupor, the machine rose, and
over the corpse dashed the popular armament. Thousands
upon thousands, they came on; a wild, clamorous, roaring
stream. They poured on all sides upon their enemies, who,
drawn up in steady discipline, and clad in complete mail,
received and broke their charge.
Orsini !
ઃઃ
!"
*
"Strike
Charity and the Frangipani!
for the snake and the Savelli!" were then heard on high
mingled with the German and hoarse shout, "Full purses,
and the three kings of Cologne.
and the three kings of Cologne." The Romans, rather fe
rocious than disciplined, fell butchered in crowds round the
ranks of the mercenaries; but as one fell another succeed
ed; and still burst with undiminished fervor the counter
"Santo
cry of "Rome, the Tribune, and the People!
Spirito, Cavaliers!" Exposed to every shaft and every
sword, by his emblematic diadem and his imperial robe,
the fierce Rienzi led on each assault, wielding an enormous
battle-axe, for the use of which the Italians were celebra-
ted, and which he regarded as a national weapon. Inspired
by every darker and sterner instinct of his nature, his blood
heated, his passions aroused, fighting as a citizen for liberty,
as a monarch for his crown, his daring seemed to the as-
tonished foe, as that of one frantic; his preservation that
of one inspired; now here, now there; wherever flagged
his own, or failed the opposing force, glittered his white
robe, and rose his bloody battle-axe; but his fury seemed
rather directed against the chiefs than the herd; and still
where his charger wheeled was heard his voice,
"Where
is a Colonna ? " "Defiance to the Orsini !"
Spirito, Cavaliers !
Spirito, Cavaliers!" Three times was the sally led from
the gate; three times were the Romans beaten back; and
on the third, the gonfalon, borne before the tribune, was
cloven to the ground. Then, for the first time, he seemed
amazed and alarmed, and, raising his eyes to heaven, he
exclaimed, "Oh Lord, hast thou then forsaken me?" with
that, taking heart, once more waved his arm, and again he
led forward his wild array.
"Santo
At eve the battle ceased. Of the barens who had beer
the main object of the tribune's assault, the pride and boast
was broken. Of the princely line of the Colonna, three
lay dead. Giordano Orsini was mortally wounded; the
fierce Rinaldo had not shared the conflict. Of the Frangi-
pani the haughtiest signors were no more; and Luca, the
dastard head of the Savellis, had long since saved himself
by flight. On the other hand, the slaughter of the citizens
had been prodigious; the ground was swamped with blood,
and over heaps of slain (steeds and riders) the twilight
star beheld Rienzi and the Romans returning victors from
the pursuit. Shouts of rejoicing followed the tribune's
panting steed through the arch; and just as he entered the
space within, crowds of those whose infirmities, sex, or
years had not allowed them to share the conflict, women,
and children, and drivelling age, mingled with the bare feet
and dark robes of monks and friars, apprized of the vic-
tory, were prepared to hail his triumph.
Rienzi reined his steed by the corpse of the boy Colonna,
which lay half immersed in a pool of water, and close by
it, removed from the arch where he had fallen, lay that of
Gianni Colonna, (that Gianni Colonna whose spear had
dismissed his brother's gentle spirit!) He glanced over
the slain, as the melancholy Hesperus played upon the
bloody pool and the gory corslet, with a breast heaved with
many emotions; and turning, he saw the young Angelo,
who, with some of Nina's guard, had repaired to the spot,
and had now approached the tribune.
،،
Child," said Rienzi, pointing to the dead, “bless el
art thou who hast no blood of kindred to avenge! to him who
hath, sooner or later comes the hour, and an awful hour
it is!"
The words sank deep into Angelo's heart, and in after
life became words of fate to the speaker and the listener
Ere Rienzi had well recovered himself, and as were
heard around him the shrieks of the widows and the
mothers of the slain, the groans of the dying,
hortations of the friars, mingled with sounds of joy aud
triumph, a cry was raised by the women and stragglers on
the battle field without, of The foe! the foe!"
--
A V
the ex-
"To your swords, cried the tribune," fall back in
order; yet they cannot be so bold."
The tramp of horses, the blast of a trumpet were
heard; and presently, at full speed, some thirty horsemen
dashed through the gate.
Your bows," exclaimed the tribune, advancing;
CC yet
hold, the leader is unarmed, it is our own banner.
By our Lady it is our ambassador of Naples, the Lord
Adrian di Castello!"
Panting, breathless, covered with dust, Adrian halted at
* Who had taken their motto from some fabled ancestor who
Revenge and the Colonna ! "The bear and the had broke bread with a beggar in a time of famine.
VOL. II.
34
266
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the pool red with the blood of his kindred, and their
pale faces, set in death, glared upon him.
"Too late,―alas! alas! dread fate,- unhappy Rome!"
They fell in the pit they themselves had digged," said
he tribune, in a firm but hollow voice.
“Noble Adrian,
would thy counsels had prevented this!
"Away, proud man,-away!" said Adrian, impatient-
ly waving his hand, "thou shouldst protect the lives of
Romans, and, oh, Gianni, Pietro, could not birth,
renown, and thy green years, poor boy, could not these
save ye!
دو
"Pardon him, my friends," said the tribune to the crowd,
"his grief is natural, and he knows not all their guilt.
Back, I pray ye,
- leave him to our ministering."
It might have fared ill for Adrian, but for the tribune's
brief speech. And as the young lord, dismounting, now
bent over his kinsmen, the tribune also surrendering his
charger to his squires, approached, and despite Adrian's
reluctance and aversion, drew him aside.
"Young friend," said he, mournfully, "my heart bleeds
for you,
yet bethink thee, the wrath of the crowd is
fresh upon them, be prudent."
"Prudent!"
"Hush, by my honor, these men were not worthy of
your name. Twice perjured, once assassins, twice
rebels, listen to me!"
"Tribune, I ask no other construing of what I see, -
they might have died justly, or been butchered foully. But
there is no peace between the executioner of my race and
me."
"Will you too be forsworn? Thine oath ! Come,
come, I hear not these words. Be composed, retire,
and if, three days hence, you impute any other blame to
me than that of unwise lenity, I absolve you from your
oath, and you are free to be my foe. The crowd gape and
gaze upon us; a minute more, and I may not avail to save
you."
M
we
be-
CHAPTER IV.
The hollowness of the base.
THE rapid and busy march of state events has led us
long away from the sister of the tribune and the betrothed
of Adrian. And the sweet thoughts and gentle day-dreams
of that fair and enamoured girl, however full to her of an
interest beyond all the storms and perils of ambition, are
not so readily adapted to narration; their soft monotony a
few words can paint. They knew but one image, they
tended to but one prospect. Shrinking from the glare of
her brother's court, and eclipsed, when she forced herself
to appear, by the more matured and dazzling beauty and
all-commanding presence of Nina, to her the pomp and
crowd seemed an unreal pageant, from which she retired to
the truth of life, the hopes and musings of her own heart.
Poor girl! with all the soft and tender nature of her dead
brother, and none of the stern genius and the prodigal
ambition, the eye-aching ostentation and fervor of the
living, she was but ill fitted for the unquiet but splendid
region to which she was thus suddenly transferred.
—
S
With all her affection for Rienzi, she could not conquer
a certain fear which, conjoined with the difference of sex
and age, forbade her to be communicative with him upon
the subject most upon her heart.
As the absence of Adrian at the Neapolitan court passed
the anticipated date, (for at no court then, with a throne
fiercely disputed, did the tribune require a nobler or more
intelligent representative, and intrigues and counter
intrigues delayed his departure from week to week,) she
grew uneasy and alarmed. Like many, themselves unseen
inactive, and spectators of the scene, she saw involuntarily
farther into the time than the deeper intellect either of the
tribune or Nina; and the dangerous discontent of the no-
bles was visible and audible to her in looks and whispers,
which reached not acuter or more suspected ears and eyes.
Anxiously, restlessly, did she long for the return of Adrian,
not from selfish motives alone, but from well-founded
apprehensions for her brother. With Adrian di Castello,
alike a noble and a patriot, each party had found a medi-
ator, and his presence grew daily more needed, till at
length the conspiracy of the barons had broken out. From
that hour she scarce dared to hope; her calm sense, un
blinded by the high-wrought genius which, as too often
happens, made the tribune see harsh realities through a
false and brilliant light, felt that the Rubicon was passed;
and through all the events that followed she could behold
but two images, danger to her brother, separation from
her betrothed.
The feelings of the young patrician were such as utterly
baffle description. He had never been much among his
house, nor ever received more than common courtesy at
their hands. But lineage is lineage still! And there, in
fatal hazard of war, lay the tree and the sapling, the prime
and hope of his race. He felt there was no answer to the
tribune, the very place of their death proved they had
fallen in the assault upon their countrymen. He sympathi-
zed not with their cause, but their fate. And rage, revenge
rage, revenge
alike forbidden,his heart was the more softened to the
shock and paralysis of grief. He did not therefore speak,
but continued to gaze upon the dead, while large and un-
heeded tears flowed down his cheeks, and his attitude of With Nina alone could her full heart confer; for Nina
dejection and sorrow was so moving, that the crowd at first with all the differences of character, was a woman whe
indignant, now felt for his affliction. At length his mind loved.
At length his mind loved. And this united them. In the earlier power o.
seemed made up. He turned to Rienzi, and said, falter-Rienzi, many of their happiest hours had been passe.
ingly, "Tribune, I blame you not, nor accuse. If you together, remote from the gaudy crowd, alone and unre
have been rash in this, God will have blood for blood. I strained, in the summer nights, on the moonlit balconies
wage no war with you,— you say right, my oath prevents in that interchange of thought, sympathy, and consolation,
ine; and if you govern well, I can remember that I am which to two impassioned and guileless women makes the
Roman. But, but, look to that bleeding clay, most interesting occupation, and the most effectual solace.
meet no more! Your sister, God be with her,
But of late this intercourse had been much marred From
tween her and ine flows a dark gulf!" The young noble the morning in which the barons had received their pardon
paused some moments, choked by his emotions, and then to that on which they had marched on Rome, had been one
continued, "These papers discharge me of my mission. succession of fierce excitements. Every face Irene saw
Standard-bearers, lay down the banner of the republic. was clouded and overcast, all gayety was suspended,
Tribune, speak not,--I would be calm. And so, farewell bustling and anxious councillors, or armed soldiers, had
to Rome."
With a hurried glance towards the dead, he | for days been the only visiters of the palace. Rienzi had
sprung upon his steed, and followed by his train, vanished been seen but for short moments; his brow wrapped in
through the arch.
care. Nina had been more fond, more caressing than ever,
but in those caresses there seemed a mournful and ominous
compassion. The attempts at comfort and hope were suc-
ceeded by a sickly smile and broken words ; and Irene
was prepared, by the presentiments of her own heart, for
the stroke that fell,victory was to her brother, his foe
was crushed, Rome was free, - but the lofty house of the
Colonnas had lost its stateliest props, and Adrian was gone
Such is the eternal doom of disordered states. The me- for ever? She did not blame him; she could not blame her
diator between rank and rank, the kindly noble, the dis-brother; each had acted as became his several station.
the first to act,
passionate patriot,
the
the most hailed in She was the poor sacrifice of events and fate,
action, darkly vanishes from the scene. Fiercer and Iphigenia to the winds which were to bear the bark of
more unscrupulous spirits alone stalk the field ; and no
Rome to the haven, or it might be, to whelm it in the abyss.
neutral and harmonizing link remains between hate and She was stunned by the blow; she did not even weep or
hate, until exhaustion, sick with horrors, succeeds to complain; she bowed to the storm that swept over her, and
frenzy and despotism is welcomed as repose!
it passed. For two days she neither took food nor rest; she
The tribune had not attempted to detain him, had not
interrupted him. He felt that the young noble had thought,
acted as became him best. He followed him with his
eyes.
“And thus,” said he gloomily, "fate plucks from me my
noblest friend, and my justest counsellor, a better man
Rome never lost!"
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
267
―
victory, and its results in the complete restoration cf peace.
But pay was due to the soldiery; they already murmured;
the treasury was emptied, it was necessary to fill it by
raising a new tax.
shut herself up, she asked only the boon of solitude; but
on the third morning she recovered as by a miracle, for on
the third morning the following letter was left at the palace:
IRENE, Ere this you have learned my deep cause
of grief; you feel that to a Colonna Rome can no longer be Among the councillors were some whose families had
a home, nor Rome's tribune be a brother. While I write suffered grievously in the battle, they lent a lukewarm
these words, honor but feebly supports me all the hopes I attention to propositions of continued strife. Others, among
had formed, all the prospects I had pictured, all the love I whom was Pandulfo, timid but well-meaning, aware that
bore and bare thee rush upon my heart, and I can only feel grief and terror even of their own triumph had produced
that I am wretched. Irene, Irene, your sweet face rises reaction among the people, declared that they would not
before me, and in those beloved eyes I read that I am for- venture to propose a new tax. A third party, headed by
given, I am understood; and dearly as I know thou lovest Baroncelli,
|
a demagogue whose ambition was without
me, thou wouldst rather I were lost to thee, rather I were principle, but who, by pandering to the worst passions
in the grave with my kinsmen, than know I lived the of the populace, by a sturdy coarseness of nature with which
reproach of my order, the recreant of my name. Ah! why they sympathized, and by that affectation of advancing
was I a Colonna ? Why did fortune make me noble, and what we now term "the movement," which often gives to
nature and circumstance attach me to the people? I am the fiercest fool an advantage over the most prudent states-
barred alike from love and from revenge; all my revenge man, had quietly acquired a great influence over the lower
falls upon thee and me. Adored! we are perhaps separ- ranks, offered a more bold opposition. They dared
ated for ever; but, by all the happiness I have known by even to blame the proud tribune for the gorgeous extrava-
thy side, by all the rapture of which I dreamed, by gance they had themselves been the first to recommend,
that delicious hour which first gave thee to my gaze, when
and half insinuated sinister and treacherous motives in his
I watched the soft soul returning to thine eyes and lip, acquittal of the barons from the accusation of Rodolf. In
by thy first blushing confession of love, by our first kiss, the very parliament the tribune had revived and remodelled
by our last farewell, I swear to be faithful to thee to the for the support of freedom, freedom was abandoned. His
last. None other shall ever chase thine image from my fiery eloquence met with a gloomy silence, and finally, the
heart. And now, when hope seems over, faith becomes votes were against his propositions for the new tax and the
doubly sacred; and thou, my beautiful, wilt thou not re- Inarch to Marino. Rienzi broke up the council in haste
member me? wilt thou not feel as if we were the betrothed and disorder. As he left the hall, a letter was put into his
of heaven? In the legends of the North we are told of the hands; he read it, and remained for some moments thunder-
knight who, returning from the Holy Land, found his mis- struck, he then summoned the captain of his guards and
tress (believing his death) the bride of heaven, and he ordered a band of fifty horsemen to be prepared for his
built a hermitage by the convent where she dwelt, and commands; he repaired to Nina's apartment, he found her
though they never saw each other more, their souls were alone, and stood for some moments gazing upon her sc
faithful unto death. Even so, Irene, be we to each other, intently that she was awed and chilled from all attempt at
dead to all else, betrothed in memory, -to be wedded speech. At length he said abruptly, -
above! And yet, yet ere I close, one hope dawns upon me.
"We must part."
Thy brother's career, bright and lofty, may be but as a
falling star; should darkness swallow it, should his power
cease, should his throne be broken, and Rome know no
more her tribune; shouldst thou no longer have a brother in
the judge and destroyer of my house; shouldst thou be
stricken from pomp and state; shouldst thou be friendless,
kindredless, alone, then, without a stain on mine honor,
without the shame and odium of receiving power and hap-
piness from hands yet red with the blood of my race, I may
claim thee as my own.
Honor ceases to command when
thou ceasest to be great. I dare not indulge further in this
dream, perchance it is a sin in both. But it must be
whispered, that thou mayst know all thy Adrian, all his
weakness and his strength. My own loved, my ever loved,
loved more fondly now when loved despairingly, farewell!
May angels heal thy sorrow, and guard me from sin, that
bereafter at least we may meet again."
"He loves me,
he loves me still!" said the maiden,
weeping at last," and I am blessed once more!"
With that letter pressed to her heart she recovered out-
wardly from the depth of her affliction; she met her broth-
er with a smile, and Nina with embraces; and if still she
pined and sorrowed, it was that "concealment " which is
the worm i' the bud.”
**
Meanwhile, after the first flush of victory, lamentation
succeeded to joy in Rome; so great had been the slaughter
that the private grief was large enough to swallow up all
public triumph; and many of the mourners blamed even
their defender for the swords of the assailant, "Roma fu
terrabilmente vedovata.” The numerous funerals deeply
affected the tribune; and in proportion to his sympathy
with his people, grew his stern indignation against the
barous. Like all men by whom religion is honestly and
zealously embraced, the tribune had little toleration for
those crimes which went to the root of religion. Perjury
was to him the most base and inexpiable of offences, and
the slain barons had been twice perjured in the bitterness
of his wrath he forbade their families for some days to
mimster and lament over their remains; and it was only in
private and in secret that he permitted them to be interred
in their ancestral vaults; an excess of vengeance which
sullied his laurels, but which was scarcely inconsistent with
the stern patriotism of his character. Impatient to finish
what he had begun, anxious to march at once to Marino,
where the insurgents collected their shattered force, he
summoned his council, and represented the certainty of
"Part !"
"Yes, Nina, your guard is preparing, you have rela-
tions, I have friends, at Florence. Florence must be you
home."
"Cola
ور
"Look not on me thus ; in power, in state, in safety
you were my ornament and counsellor. Now you bu
embarrass me.
And "
"Oh, Cola, speak not thus. What hath chanced? Be no
so cold, frown not, - turn not away. Am I not some
thing more to thee than the partner of joyous hours,
minion of love. Am I not thy wife, Cola,—not thy leman ?”
the
"Too dear, too dear to me, "muttered the tribune;
"with thee by my side I shall be but half a Roman. Nina,
the base slaves whom I myself made free desert me. Now,
in the very hour in which I might sweep away for ever all
obstacles to the regeneration of Rome, now, when one
conquest paints the path to complete success, my fortune
suddenly leaves me in the midst of the storm. There is
greater danger now than in the rage of the barons, the
barons are fled; it is the people who are becoming traitors
to Rome and to me.
>>
Q
"And wouldst thou have me traitor also? No, Cola,
in death itself Nina shall be beside thee. Life and honor
are reflected but from thee, and the stroke that slays the
substance, shall destroy the humble shadow. I will not
part from thee.”
"Nina," said the tribune, contending with strong and
convulsive emotion," it may be literally of death that you
"it
speak. Go! leave one who can no longer protect you or
Rome!"
"Never,
never."
"You are resolved.'
"I am."
""
"Be it so," said the tribune, with deep sadness in his
tone. "Arm thee for the worst.
"There is no worst with thee, Cola."
"Come to my arms, brave woman; thy words rebuke
weakness. But, Irene! if I fall you will not survive, -
your beauty a prey to the most lustful heart and the strong-
est hand. We will have the same tomb on the wrecks of
Roman liberty. But my sister is of weaker mould; poor
child, I have robbed her of a lover, and now
my
"You are right, let Irene go. And in truth we may
well disguise from her the real cause of her departure
Change of scene were best for her grief; and under all
BULWER'S NOVELS.
circumstances wou seem decorum to the curious. I will
see and prepare her."
"Do so, sweetheart.
I would gladly be a moment alone
with thought. But remember she must part to-day,
sands run low.”
Our
As the door closed on Nina, the tribune took out the let-
ter and again read it deliberately. "So the pope's legate
left Sienna, prayed that republic to withdraw its auxil-
iary troops from Rome, proclaimed me a rebel and a
heretic, thence repaired to Marino, now in council with
the barons. Why, have my dreams belied me then,
false as the waking things that flatter and betray by day?
In such peril will the people forsake me and themselves!
Army of saints and martyrs, shades of heroes and patriots,
have ye abandoned for ever your ancient home? No, no, I
was not raised to perish thus; I will defeat them yet,
and leave my name a legacy to Rome; a warning to the
oppressor, an example to the free !"
CHAPTER V.
The rottenness of the edifice.
THE kindly skill of Nina induced Irene to believe that
it was but the tender consideration of her brother to change
a scene imbittered by her own thoughts and in which the
notoriety of her engagement with Adrian exposed her to
all that could mortify and embarrass, which led to the
proposition of her visit to Florence. Its suddenness was
ascribed to the occasion of an unexpected mission to Flo-
rence, (for a loan of arms and money,) which thus gave
her a safe and honored escort. Passively she submitted to
what she herself deemed a relief, and it was agreed that
she should for a while be the guest of a relation of Nina's,
who was the abbess of one of the wealthiest of the Floren-
tine convents;
the idea of monastic seclusion was wel-
come to the bruised heart and wearied spirit.
But though not apprized of the immediate peril of Rienzi,
it was with deep sadness and gloomy forebodings that she re-
turned his embrace and parting blessing; and when at length
alone in her litter, and beyond the gates of Rome, she re-
pented a departure to which the chance of danger gave the
seeming of desertion.
Meanwhite as the declining day closed around the litter
and its troop, more turbulent actors in the drama demand
our audience. The traders and artisans of Rome at that
time, and especially during the popular government of Ri-
enzi, held weekly meetings in each of the thirteen quarters
of the city. And in the most democratic of these, Cecco
del Vecchio was an oracle and leader. It was at that as-
sembly, over which the smith presided, that the murmurs
that preceded the earthquake were heard.
"So," cried one of the company, Luigi, the goodly
butcher, "they say he wanted to put a new tax upon us;
that is the reason he broke up the council to-day; because,
good men, they were honest, and had bowels for the
peo-
le! It is a shame and a sin that the treasury should
e empty."
J
"I told him," said the smith, " to beware how he taxed
the people. Poor men won't be taxed. But as he does
not follow my advice, he must take the consequence,
the horse runs from one hand, the halter remains in the
other."
"Take your advice, Cecco! I warrant
I warrant me, his stomach
is too high for that now. Why, he has grown as proud as
a pope.
>>
For al. that, he is a great man, "said one of the party.
"He gave us laws, -he rid the Campagna of robbers,
filled the streets with merchants, and the shops with
wares, defcated the boldest lords and fiercest soldiery
of Italy -
"And now wants to tax the people! that 's all the
thanks we get for helping him," said the grumbling Cecco.
"What would he have been without us? - We that make
can unmake."
ceive them. Though, for the matter of that, I think we
have had enough fighting, —my two poor brothers had
each a stab too much for them. Why won't the tribune,
if he be a great man, let us have peace? All we want now
is quiet."
"Ah!" said a seller of horse-harness, "let him make it
up with the barons. They were good customers after all."
For my part," said a merry-looking fellow, who had
been a grave-digger in bad times, and had now opened a
stall of wares for the living, "I could forgive him all, but
bathing in the holy vase of porphyry.”
"Ah, that was a bad job," said several, shaking thei
heads.
"And the knighthood was but a silly show, an' it were
not for the wine from the horse's nostrils,
sense in it."
that had soia,
"My masters," said Cecco, "the folly was in not be
heading the barons when he had them all in the net, and ›
Messere Baroncelli says. (Ah, Baroncelli is an hones
man, and follows no half measures.)
son to the people not to do so.
should never have lost so many tall
San Lorenzo."
It was a sort of trea
Why, but for that, we
fellows by the gate of
True, true, it was a shame; some say the barons
bought him."
"And then," said another, "those poor lords Colonna,
- boy and man, they were the best of the family, save
the Castello. I vow I pitied them."
—
"But to the point," said one of the crowd, the most rag-
ged of the set," the tax is the thing. The ingratitude to
tax us. Let him dare do it.”
"Oh, he will not dare, for I hear that the pope's bris-
tles are up at last; so he will only have us to depend upon !
The door was thrown open, a man rusbed in open-
mouthed --
"Masters, masters, the pope's legate has arrived at
Rome, and sent for the tribune, who has just left his pres-
ence.
و,
Ere his auditors had recovered their surprise, the sound
of trumpets made them rush forth; they saw Rienzi sweep
by with his usual cavalcade, and in his proud array. The
twilight was advancing, and torch-bearers preceded his
way. Upon his countenance was deep calm, but it was
not the calm of contentment. He passed on, and the street
was again desolate. Meanwhile Rienzi reached the capi-
tol in silence, and mounted to the apartments of the palace,
where Nina, pale and breathless, awaited his return.
"Well, well, thou smilest! No, it is that dread smile,
worse than frowns. Speak, beloved, speak. What said
the cardinal ?”
"Little thou wilt love to hear. He spoke at first high
and solemnly, about the crime of declaring the Romans free;
next about the treason of asserting that the election of the
king of Rome was in the hands of the Romans."
Well, thy answer."
CC
"That which became Rome's tribune. I reasserted
each right, and proved it. The cardinal passed to other
charges.
"What!"
ear.
"The blood of the barons by San Lorenzo, blood only
shed in our own defence against perjured assailants; this
is in reality the main crime. The Colonnas have the pope's
Furthermore, the sacrilege, yes, the sacrilege of
(come, laugh, Nina, laugh!) of bathing in a vase of por-
phyry used by Constantine, while yet a heathen."
"Can it be ! What saidst thou ?
"I laughed.
Cardinal,' quoth I, what was not too
good for a heathen is not too good for a Christian Catho-
lic!' And verily the sour Frenchman looked as if I had
smote him on the hip.
G
"When he had done, I asked him, in my turn, 'Is it
alleged against me that I have wronged one man in my
judginent-court?' Silence. "Is it said that I have broken
one law of the state?' Silence. Is it even whispered
that trade does not flourish, that life is not safe, that
abroad or at home the Roman name is not honored, to that
point which no former rule can parallel?' Silence.
Then,' said I, 'lord cardinal, I demand thy thanks, not
thy censure. His eminence looked, and looked, and
Why, the barons are daily mustering new strength at trembled, and shrunk, and then out he spake. I have but
Marino.
"But," continued the advocate, seeing that he had his
supporters,
"but then he taxes us for our own liberties."
"Who strikes at them now?" asked the butcher.
"Marino is not Rome," said the butcher. "Let's wait
they come to our gates again,- we know how to re-
one mission to fulfil, on the part of the pontiff, -resign at
once thy tribuneship, or the church inflicts upon thee ita
solemn curse
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
26y
"How, how! said Nina, turning very pale; "what nication against a heretic and rebel
it that awaits thee?
"Excommunication.”
CC
I
This awful sentence, by which the spiritual arm had so
often stricken down the fiercest foe, came to Nina's ear as
a knell. She covered her face with her hands. Rienzi
paced the room with rapid strides. "The curse!" he
Puttered; "the church's curse,
for me,
for ME!"
"Oh Cola! didst thou not seek to pacify this stein-"
Pacify Death and dishonor! Pacify! Cardinal,'
Cardinal,'
I said, and I felt his soul shrivel at my gaze, my power
received from the people,- -to the people alone I render it.
For my soul, man's word cannot scathe it. Thou, haughty
priest, thou art thyself the accursed, if, puppet and tool
of low cabals and exiled tyrants, thou breathest but a breath
in the name of the Lord of Justice, for the cause of the
oppressor, and against the rights of the oppressed.' With
that I left him, and now -
Ay, now, now what will happen? Excommunica-
tion! In the metropolis of the church too,- the supersti-
tion of the people! Oh Cola !"
وو
—
"If," muttered Rienzi, "my conscience condemned me
of one crime, if I had stained my hands in one just
man's blood, if I had broken one law I myself had
framed, if I had taken bribes, or wronged the poor, or
scorned the orphan, or shut my heart to the widow, then,
then, but no! Lord, thou wilt not desert me!"'
"But man may
! thought Nina, mournfully, as she
perceived that one of Rienzi's dark fits of fanatical and
mystical reverie was growing over him, fits which he
suffered no living eye, not even Nina's, to witness when
they gathered to their height. And now, indeed, after a
short interval of muttered soliloquy, in which his face
worked so that the veins on his temple swelled up like
cords, he abruptly left the room, and sought the private
oratory connected with his closet. Over the emotions there
indulged, let us draw the veil. Who shall describe those
awful and mysterious moments, when man, with all his
fiery passions, turbulent thoughts, wild hopes, and despon-
dent fears, demands the solitary audience of his Maker?
It was long after this conference with Nina, and the
midnight, bell had long tolled, when Rienzi stood alone,
upon one of the balconies of the palace, to cool, in the
starry air, the fever that yet lingered on his exhausted
frame. The night was exceedingly calm, the air clear,
but chill, for it was now December. He gazed intently
upon those solemn orbs to which our wild credulity have
referred the prophecies of our doom.
of the church !
CHAPTER VI.
Woe to the accursed
The fall of the temple.
Ir was as a thunderbolt in a serene day, the reverse
of the tribune in the zenith of his power, in the abasement
of his foe; when with but a handful of brave Romans,
determined to be free, he might have crushed for ever the
-have secured
antagonist power to the Roman liberties,
the rights of his country, and filled up the measure of his
own renown. Such a reverse was the very mockery of
fate, who bore him through disaster, to abandon him in the
sunniest noon of his prosperity.
The next morning not a soul was to be seen in the
streets; the shops, were shut, the churches were closed;
the city was as under an interdict. The awful curse of
the papal excommunication upon the chief magistrate of
the pontifical city, seemned to freeze up all the arteries of
life. The legate himself, affecting fear of his life, had
fled to Monte Fiascone, where he was joined by the barons
immediately after the publication of the edict. The curse
worked best in the absence of the execrator.
Towards evening a few persons might be seen traversing
the broad space of the capitol, crossing themselves as the
bull, placarded on the lion, met their eyes, and disappear-
ing within the great doors of the palace. By and by, a
few anxious groups collected in the streets, but they soon
dispersed. It was a paralysis of all intercourse and com-
mune. That spiritual and unarmed authority, which, like
the invisible hand of God, desolated the market-place, and
humbled the crowned head, -no physical force could rally
against or resist. Yet, through the universal awe, one
conviction touched the multitude, it was for them that
their tribune was thus blasted in the midst of his glories!
The words of the brand recorded against him on wall and
column detailed his offences, rebellion in asserting the
liberties of Rome, heresy in purifying ecclesiastical
abuses: and, to serve for a miserable covert to the rest,
it was sacrilege, for bathing in the porphyry vase of Con-
stantine. They felt the conviction; they sighed, they
shuddered, and, in his vast palace, save a few attached
and devoted hearts, the tribune was alone!
The stanchest of his Tuscan soldiery were gone with
Irene. The rest of his force, save a few remaining guards,
was the paid Roman militia, composed of citizens, who,
long discontented by the delay of their stipends, now seized
on the excuse of the excommunication to remain passive,
but grumbling, in their homes.
On the third day, a new incident broke upon the death-
like lethargy of the city; a hundred and fifty mercenaries,
with Pepin of Minorbino, a Neapolitan, half noble, half
bandit, (a creature of Montreal's,) at their head, entered
the city, seized upon the fortresses of the Colonca, and
sent a herald through the city, proclaiming, in the name
of the cardinal legate, the reward of ten thousand florins
for the head of Cola di Rienzi.
Vain science!" thought the tribune," and gloomy
fantasy, that man's fate is preordained, irrevocable,
unchangeable, from the moment of his birth. Yet, were
the dream not baseless, fain would I know which of yon
stately lights is my natal star, - which images,
which
reflects, my career in life, and the memory I shall leave
in death." As this thought crossed him, and his gaze was
still fixed above, he saw, as if made suddenly more distinct
han the stars around it, that rapid and fiery comet which
in the winter of 1347 dismayed the superstitions of those
who recognised in the stranger of the heavens the omen of
disaster and of woe. He recoiled as it met his eye, and Then, swelled on high, shrill and inspiring as of old, the
muttered to himself, "Is such indeed my type! or, if the great bell of the capitol, the people, listless, dishearten-
legendary lore speak true, and these strange fires portended, awed by the spiritual fear of the papal authority, (yet
ratious ruined and rulers overthrown, does it foretell my
Ate? I will think no more."* As his eyes fell, they
rested upon the colossal lion of basalt in the place below,
the starlight investing its gray and towering form with a
more ghostly whiteness, and then it was that he perceived
two figures in black robes lingering by the pedestal which
supported the statue, and apparently engaged in some oc-
cupation which he could not guess. A fear shot through
his veins, for he had never been able to divest himself of
the vague idea that there was some solemn and appointed
connexion between his fate and that dismal relic. Some-
what relieved, he heard his sentry challenge the intruders;
and as they came forward to the light, he perceived that
they wore the garments of monks.
CC
"Molest us not, son,” said one of them. By order
of the legate of the holy father we but aflix to this public
monument of justice and of wrath, the bull of excommu-
Alas! if by the Romans associated with the fall of Rienzi,
that comet was by the rest of Europe connected with the more
lire calamity of the Great Plague that so soon afterward en-
sued.
greater, on such events, since the removal of the see,)
came unarmed to the capitol; and there, by the place of
the lion, stood the tribune. His squires, below the step,
held his war-horse, his helm, and the same battle-axe which
had blazed in the van of victorious war,
Beside him were a few of his guard, his attendants, and
two or three of the principal citizens.
He stood bareheaded and erect, gazing upon the
abashed and unarmed crowd with a look of bitter scorn,
mingled with deep compassion; and as the bell ceased its
toll, and the throng remained hushed and listening, he thus
spoke :-
"Ye come, then, once again! Come ye as slaves or
freemen? A handful of armed men are in year walls:
will ye, who chased from your gates the haughtiest knights
-the most practised battle-men of Rome, succumb now to
one hundred and fifty hirelings and strangers? Will yo
arın for your tribune? You are silent!-be it so ! Will
so!
you arm for your own liberties, your own Rome ?-si-
lent still. By the saints that reign on the throne of the
heathen gods, are ye thus fallen from Fore birthright ?
70
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Have you no arms for your own defence? Romans, hear
me! Have I wronged you?-if so, by your hands let me
die: and then, with knives yet reeking with my blood, go
forward against the robber who is but the herald of your
slavery; and I die honored, grateful, and avenged. You
weep, great God, you weep! Ay, and I could weep, too,
that I should live to speak of liberty in vain to Romans.
Weep! is this an hour for tears? Weep now, and
your tears shall ripen harvests of crime, and license, and
despotism, to come! Romans, arm; follow me at once to
the place of the Colonna: expel this ruffian,-
expel your
enemy, (no matter what afterward you do to me:)" He
paused; no ardor was kindled by his words, or," he
continued, "I abandon you to your fate." There was a
long, low, general murmur; at length it became shaped into
speech, and many voices cried, simultaneously,
pope's bull! Thou art a man accursed!"
tr
"The
"What!" cried the tribune; "and is it ye who for-
sake me, for whose cause alone man dares to hurl against
me the thunders of his God! Is it not for you that I am
Is it not for you that I am
declared heretic and rebel? What are my imputed crimes?
that I have made Rome and asserted Italy to be free! -
that I have subdued the proud magnates, who were the
scourge both of pope and people. And you, you upbraid
me with what I have dared and done for you! Men, with
you I would have fought, for you I would have perished.
You forsake yourselves in forsaking me, and since I no
longer rule over brave men, I resign my power to the ty-
rants you prefer. Seven months I have ruled over you,
prosperous in commerce, stainless in justice,- victorious
in the field: I have shown you what Rome could be; and,
since I abdicate the government ye gave me, when I am
gone, strike for your own freedom! It matters nothing|
who is the chief of a brave and great people. Prove that
Rome hath many a Rienzi, but of brighter fortunes."
"I would he had not sought to tax us, "said Cecco del
Vecchio, who was the very incarnation of the vulgar feel-
ing;
"and that he had beheaded the barons.”
Ay !
"cried the ex-grave-digger; "but that blessed
forphyry vase !
"And why should we get our throats cut," said the
butcher, "like my two brothers ?- God rest them."
The Romans remained on the place, and after a patre,
the demagogue Baroncelli, who saw an opening to his
ambition, addressed them. Though not an eloquent nor
gifted man, he had the art of uttering the most popular
commonplaces. And he knew the weak side of his au
dience, in their vanity, indolence, and arrogant pride.
"Look you, my masters," said he, leaping up to the
Place of the Lion; "the tribune talks bravely, he always
did, but the monkey used the cat for his chestnuts; he wants
to thrust your paws into the fire, you will not be so silly as
to let him. The saints bless us; but the tribune, good
man, gets a palace and has banquets, and bathes in a por-
phyry vase; the more shame on him, in which San Syl-
vester christened the Emperor Constantine; all this is worth
fighting for; but you, iny masters, what do you get except
hard blows, and a stare at the holyday spectacle? What
if you beat these fellows, you will have another tax on the
wine, that will be your reward!"
"Hark," cried Cecco, "there sounds the trumpet: a
pity he wanted to tax us.
دو
-
True," cried Baroncelli, "there sounds the trumpet,
a silver trumpet by 'r Lord! Next week, if you help hir
out of the scrape, he 'll have a golden one. But go, why
don't you move, my friends, 't is but one hundred ad fifty
mercenaries; true, they are devils to fight, clad in armor
from top to toe; but what then?- if they e cut soine four
or five hundred throats, you'll beat the hst, and the
tribune will sup the merrier."
"If
"There goes the second blast," said the nutcnet.
my old mother had not lost two of us already, 't is odds,
but I'd strike a blow for the bold tribune."
"You had better put more quicksilver in you," continued
Baroncelli," or you'll be too late. And what a pity that
will be, if you believe the tribune, he is the only man
that can save Rome What, you, the finest people in the
world, you not able to save yourselves,
|
you, bound up
with one man, -you, not able to dictate to the Colonna
and Orsini ? Why, who beat the barons at San Lorenzo ?
Was it not you ? Ah! you got the buffets, and the tribune
I warrant
the moneta Tush, my friends, let the man go;
there are plenty as good as he to be bought a cheaper bar-
gain. And, hark! there is the third blast; it is too
late now!"
his audience disperse in all directions, just as he was about
to inform them what great things he himself could do in
their behalf.
On the face of the general multitude there was a com-
toon expression of irresolution and shame; many wept and As the trumpet from the distance sounded its long and
roaned, none (save the aforesaid grumblers) accused; none melancholy note, it was as the last warning of the parting
pbraided; but none seemed disposed to arm. It was one genius of the place; and when silence swallowed up the
of those listless panics, those strange fits of indifference sound, a gloom fell over the whole assembly. They begar
und lethargy which often seize upon a people who make to regret, to repent, when regret and repentance availed no
liberty a matter of impulse and caprice; to whom it has be- more; the buffoonery of Baroncelli became suddenly dis
come a catchword; who have not long enjoyed all its ra-pleasing; and the orator had the mortification of seeing
、ional, and sound, and practical, and blessed results; who
have been affrayed by the storing that herald its dawn; a
people such as is common to the South: such as even the
North has known; such as, had Cromwell lived a year
longer, even England might have seen; and, indeed, in
rome measure such a reaction from popular enthusiasm to
popular indifference, England did see, when her children
madly surrendered the fruits of a bloody war, without re-
serve, without foresight, to the lewd pensioner of Louis,
and the royal murderer of Sidney. To such prostration of
soul, such blindness of intellect, even the noblest people
will be subjected, when liberty, which should be the growth
of ages, spreading its roots through the strata of a thou-
sand customs, is raised, the exotic of an hour, and (like
the and dryad of ancient fable) flourishes and withers
tree
with the single spirit that protects it.
"Oh heaven, that I were a man!" exclaimed Angelo,
who stood behind Rienzi.
"Hear him, hear the boy," cried the tribune: "out of
the mouths of babes speaketh wisdom. He wishes that he
were a inan, as ye are men, that he might do as ye should
do. Heed me: I ride with these faithful few through the
quarter of the Colonna, before the fortress of your foe.
Three times before that fortress shall my trumpets sound;
if, at the third blast ye come not, armed as befits you, I say
not all, but three, but two, but one hundred of ye, I break
up my wand of office, and the world shall say one hundred
and fifty robbers quelled the soul of Rome, and crushed her
magistrate and her laws!
With those words he descended the stairs, and mounted
his charger; the populace gave way in silence, and their
tribune and his slender train passed slowly on, and gradu-
ally vanished from the view of the increasing crowd.
Meanwhile the tribune, passing unscathed through the
dangerous quarter of the enemy, who, dismayed at his
approach, shrunk within their fortress, proceeded to the
castle of St. Angelo, whither Nina had already preceded
him; and which he entered to find that proud lady with a
smile for his safety, without a tear for his reverse
CHAPTER VII.
The successors of an unsuccessful revolution.- Who is to tame,
the forsaken one or the forsakers?
CHEERFULLY broke the winter sun over the streets of
Rome, as the army of the barons swept along them. The
cardinal legate at the head; the old Colouna (no longer
haughty and erect, but bowed and broken-hearted at the
loss of his sons) at his right hand; the sleek smile of Luca
Savelli, the black frown of Rinaldo Orsini, were seen
close behind. A long but barbarous array it was, made
up chiefly of foreign hirelings; nor did the procession
resemble the return of exiled citizens, but the march of
invading foes.
My Lord Colonna," said the Cardinal de Deux, a
small, withered man, by birth a Frenchman, and full of the
bitterest prejudices against the Romans, who had in a for-
mer mission very ill received him as was their wont with
foreign ecclesiastics, "this Pepin, whom Montreal has
deputed at your orders, hath done us indeed good ser-
vice."
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
271
The old lord bowed, but made no answer. His strong
intellect was already broken, and there was a dotage in
his glassy eyes. The cardinal muttered, "He hears me
not; sorrow hath brought him to second childhood !”
and looking back, motioned to Luca Savelli to approach.
"Luca,
said the legate, "it was fortunate that the
Hungarians' black banner detained the Provençal at
A versa Had he entered Rome, we might have found
Rienzi's successor worse than the tribune himself. Mon-
treal," he added, with a slight emphasis, and a curled lip,
"is a gentleman, and a Frenchman. This Pepin, who is
his delegate, we must bribe, or menace to our will.”
as well to infuse a wholesome terror; they are all un-
armed : let me bid the guards disperse them. A word will
do it."
“Assuredly,” answered Savelli,
" answered Savelli, "it is not a difficult
task, for Montreal calculated on a more stubborn contest,
which he himself would have found leisure to close
"As podesta, or prince of Rome! the modest man!
ne Frenchmen have a due sense of our own merits; but
this sudden victory surprises him as it doth us, Luca; and
we shall wrest the prey from Pepin, ere Montreal can
come to his help! But this Rienzi must die. He is still,
I hear, shut up in St Angelo. The Orsini shall storm
him there ere the day be much older. To-day we possess
the capitol, annul all the rebel's laws,
break up his
ridiculous parliament, and put all the government of the
city under three senators, Rinaldo Orsini, Colonna, and
myself; you, my lord, I trust we shall fitly provide for."
"Oh, I am rewarded enough by returning to my palace;
and a descent on the jewellers' quarter will soon build up
its fortifications. Luca Savelli is not an ambitious man.
He wants but to live in peace."
The cardinal smiled, sourly, and took the turn towards
the capitol.
way,
In the front space the usual gapers were assembled.
Make
make way, knaves," cried the guards,
trampling on either side of the crowd, who, accustomed to
the sedate and courteous order of Rienzi's guard, fell back
too slowly for many of them to escape severe injury from
the pikes of the soldiers, and the hoofs of the horses. Our
friend Luigi, the butcher, was one of these, and the sur-
liness of the Roman blood was past boiling heat, when
le received in his ample stomach the blunt end of a Ger-
Jan's pike.
The cardinal assented; the word was given; and in a
few minutes the soldiery, who still smarted under the vin-
dictive memory of defeat from an undisciplined multitude,
scattered the crowd down the streets without scruple or
mercy; riding over some, spearing others, filling the air
with shrieks and yells, and strewing the ground with
almost as many men as a few days before would have suf
ficed to have guarded Rome, and preserved the costu
tion. Through this wild, tumultuous scene, and crer the
bodies of its victims, rode the legate and his train, to
receive in the hall of the capitol the allegiance of the
citizens, and to proclaim the blessing of their return.
As they dismounted at the stairs, a placard in large let-
ters struck the eye of the legate. It was placed upon the
pedestal of the lion of basalt, covering the very place that
had been occupied by the bull of excommunication. The
words were few, and ran thus :—
"TREMBLE! RIENZI SHALL RETURN!
"How! what means this mummery?" cried the legate,
trembling already, and looking around to the nobles.
"Please your eminence," said one of the councillors,
who had come from the capitol to meet the legate,
saw it at daybreak, the ink yet moist, as we entered the
hall. We deemed it best to leave it for your eminence to
deal with."
"You deemed ! Who are you, then?"
CC
we
"One of the members of the council, your eminence,
and a stanch opponent of the tribune, as is well known,
when he wanted the new tax
"Council,
trash! No more councils now? Order
is restored at last. The Orsini and the Colonna will look
to you in future. Resist a tax, did you? Well, that was
right when proposed by a tyrant; but I warn you, friend.
to take care how you resist the tax we shall impose. Hap-
py if
your city can buy its peace with the church on any
terms and his holiness is short of the florins."
The discomfited councillor shrank back.
"Tear off yon insolent placard. Nay, hold! fix over
our proclamation of ten thousand florins for the heretic's
head ! Ten thousand ! Methinks that is too much now,
"There, Roman," said the rude mercenary, in his bar-it
barous attempt at Italian, "make way for your betters;
you have had enough crowds and shows of late, in con-
science."
"Betters!
we will alter the cipher. Meanwhile, Rinaldo Orsini,
lord senator, march thy soldiers to St. Angelo let us seef
if the heretie can stand a siege.
gulped out the poor butcher, "a Roman
has no betters; and if I had not lost two brothers by San
Lorenzo, I would
"The dog is mutinous," said one of the followers of
the Orsini, succeeding the German who had passed on,
"and talks of San Lorenzo.'
Oh," said another Orsinist, who rode abreast, “I
remember him of old. He was one of Rienzi's gang.'
"Was he?" said the other, sternly; "then we cannot
begin salutary examples too soon; and, offended at
something swaggering and insolent in the butcher's look,
the Orsinist coolly thrust him through the heart with his
pike, and rode on over his body.
"Shame! shame!" "Murder! murder!" cried the
crowd and they began to press, in the passion of the
moment, around the fierce guards.
The legate heard the cry, and saw the rush he turned
pais "The rascals rebel again! " he faltered.
"No, your eminence, no, " said Luca; “but it
may
be
""
"It needs not, your eminence," said the councillor
again officiously brustling up; "St. Angelo is surrendered.
The tribune, his wife, and one page escaped last night, it
is said, in disguise."
"Ha!" said the old Colonna, whose dulled sense had
at length arrived at the conclusion that something extra-
ordinary arrested the progress of his friends. "What is
the matter? What is that placard?
me the words? My old eyes are dim."
Will no one tell
As he uttered the questions, in the shrill and piercing
treble of age, a voice replied in a loud and deep tone,
none knew whence it came, the crowd was reduced to a
few stragglers, chiefly friars in cowl and serge, whose curi-
osity naught could daunt, and whose garb insured them
safety, the soldiers closed the rear, a voice, I say, came,
starting the color from many a cheek, in answer to the
Colonna, saying, –
"TREMBLE! RIENZI SHALL RETURI
272
BULWER'S NOVELS.
BOOK VI.
THE PLAGUE.
in the year of our Lord 1348, there happened at Florence a most terrible plague.- BOCCACCIO
CHAPTER I.
The retreat of the lover.
By the borders of one of the fairest lakes of northera
Italy, stood the favorite mansion of Adrian di Castello, to
which in his softer and less patriotic moments his imagina-
tion had often and fondly turned; and hither the young
noble, dismissing his more courtly and distinguished com-
panions in his Neapolitan embassy, retired after his ill-
starred return to Rome. Most of those thus dismissed
joined the barons; the young Annibaldi, whose daring and
ambitious nature had attached him strongly to the tribune,
maintained a neutral ground; he betook himself to his
castle in the Campagna, and did not return to Rome till
the expulsion of Rienzi.
The retreat of Irene's lover was one well fitted to feed
his melancholy reveries. Without being absolutely a for-
tress, it was sufficiently strong to resist any assault of the
mountain robbers or petty tyrants in the vicinity; while,
built by some former lord from the materials of the half-
ruined villas of the ancient Romans, its marble columns
and tesselated pavements, relieved with a wild grace, the
gray stone walls and massive towers of feudal masonry.
Rising from a green eminence gently sloping to the lake,
the stately hill cast its shadow far and dark over the beau-
tiful waters; by its side, from the high and wooded moun-
`tains on the back-ground, broke a waterfall in irregular and
sinucus force, -now hid by the foliage, now gleaming in
the light, and collecting itself at last in a broad basin,
beside which a little fountain, inscribed with half oblitera-
ted letters, attested the departed elegance of the classic age,
some memento of lord and poet, whose very names were
lost; then descending through mosses, and lichen, and
odorous herbs, - a brief, sheeted stream bore its surplus
into the lake. And there, amid the sturdier and bolder
foliage of the north, grew, wild and picturesque, many a
tree transplanted, in ages back, from the sunnier east,-
not blighted nor stunted in that golden clime which fosters
almost every product of Nature as with a mother's care.
The place was remote and solitary. The roads that con-
ducted to it from the distant towns were tangled, intricate,
mountainous, and beset by robbers. A few cottages and a
small couvent, a quarter of a league up the verdant margin,
were the nearest habitations; and save by some occasional
pilgrim or some bewildered traveller, the loneliness of the
mansion was rarely invaded. It was precisely the spot
which proffered rest to a man weary of the world, and in-
dulged the memories which grow in rank luxuriance over
the wrecks of passion. And he, whose mind at once gentle
and self-dependent can endure solitude, might have ran-
sacked all earth for a more fair and undisturbed retreat.
But not to such a solitude had the earlier dreams of
Adrian dedicated the place. Here had he thought,
should one bright being have presided, -here should love
have found its haven; and hither, when love at length ad-
mitted of intrusion, hither might wealth and congenial cul-
ture have invited all the gentler and better spirits which had
begun to move over the troubled face of Italy, promising a
second and younger empire of poesy, and lore, and art.
To the graceful and romantic, but somewhat pensive and
inert, temperament of the young noble, more adapted to
calm and civilized than stormy and barbarous times, ambi-
tion proffered no reward so grateful as lettered leisure and
intellectual repose. His youth colored by the influence of
Petrarch, his manhood had dreamed of a happier Vaucluse
not untenanted by a Laura. The visions which had coa
nected the scene with the image of Irene, made the place
still haunted by her shade and time and absence only
ministering to his impassioned meditations, deepened his
melancholy and increased his love.
In this lone retreat, which even in describing from
memory, for these
for these eyes have seen, these feet have trodden,
this heart yet yearneth for, the spot,
which even, I say,
in thus describing, seems to me (and haply also to the
gentle reader) a grateful and welcome transit from the
storms of action and the vicissitudes of ambition, so long
engrossing the narrative, in this lone retreat, Adrian
passed the winter, which visits with so mild a change that
intoxicating clime. The roar of the world without was
borne, but in faint and indistinct murmurings, to the ear.
He learned only imperfectly, and with many contradictions,
the news which rolled like a thunderstorin throughout Italy,
that the singular and aspiring man, himself a revolution,
- who had excited the interest of all Europe, the brightest
hopes of the enthusiastic, the profusest adulation of the
great, the deepest terror of the despot, the wildest aspira-
tions of all free spirits, had been suddenly stricken from his
state, his name branded and his head proscribed. This
event, which happened at the end of December, reached
Adrian, through a wandering pilgrim, at the comnience-
ment of March, somewhat more than two months after the
date. The March of that awful year, 1348, which saw
Europe, and Italy in especial, desolated by the direst pesti-
lence which history has recorded, accursed alike by the
numbers and the celebrity of its victims, and yet strangely
connected with some not unpleasing images by the grace of
Boccaccio and the pathetic eloquence of Petrarch.
The pilgrim who informed Adrian of the revolution at
Rome was unable to give him any clew to the present fate
of Rienzi or his family. It was only known that himself
and his wife had escaped, none knew whither; many guess-
ed that they were already dead, victims to the numerous
robbers who, immediately on the fall of the tribune, settled
back in their former haunts, sparing neither age nor sex,
wealth or poverty. As all relating to the ex-tribune was
matter of eager interest, the pilgrim had also learned that,
previous to the fall of Rienzi, his sister had left Rome,
but it was not known to what place she had been conveyed.
The news utterly roused Adrian from his dreaming life.
Irene was then in the condition his letter had dared to pic-
ture, severed from her brother, fallen from her rank,
desolate and friendless. Now," said the generous and
high-hearted lover, "she may be mine without a disgrace
to my name. Whatever Rienzi's faults, she is not impii-
cated in them. Her hands are not red with my kinsmen's
bood; nor can men say that Adrian di Castello allies him-
self with a prince whose power is built upon the ruins of
the Colouna's house. The Colonna are restored,― agai
triumphant, Rienzi is nothing, distress and misfortune
unite me at once to her on whom they fall!
But how were these romantic resolutions to be executed,
Irene's dwelling-place unknown? He resolved himself to
repair to Rome, and make the necessary inquiries. Ac-
cordingly he summoned his retainers : blithe tidings to
them, those of travel.
them, those of travel. The mail left the amory, the banner
the hall; and after two days of animated bustle, the foun-
tain by which Adrian had passed so many hours of reverie
was haunted only by the birds of the returning spring; and
the nightly lamp no longer cast its solitary ray from his
turret chamber over the bosom of the deserted lase
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
273
CHAPTER II.
The seeker.
food! Plenty of food now for the stirring forth. But oh,
that stirring forth!" and she peered about and around, lest
any of the diseased might be near; Adrian paused.
"My friend," said he, can you direct me to the convent
of-
"
CC Away, man, away "shrieked the woman.
C6
Alas!" said Adrian, with a mournful smile, "can
you not see that I am not, as yet, one to spread contagion?"
But the woman, unheeding him, fed on; when, after a
few paces, she was arrested by the child that clung to her.
"Mother, mother!" it cried, "I am sick, — I cannot
stir!"
Ir was a bright, oppressive, sultry morning, when a sol-
itary horseman was seen winding that unequalled road,
from whose height, amid fig trees, vines, aud olives, the
traveller beholds gradually break upon his gaze the en-
chanting valley of the Arno, and the spires and domes of
Florence. But not with the traveller's customary eye of
admiration and delight passed that solitary horseinan; and
not upon the usual activity, and mirth, and animation of
the Tuscan life broke that noonday sun. All was silent,
The woman halted, tore aside the child's robe, saw under
void, and bushed; and even in the light of heaven there
the arm the fatal tumor, and, deserting her own flesh, fled
seemed a sicklied and ghastly glare. The cottages by the with a shriek along the square. The shriek rung long in
roadside were some shut up and closed, some open, but
Adrian's ears, though not aware of the unnatural cause :
eeemingly inmateless. The plough stood still, the distaff
the mother feared not for her infant, but for herself. The
plied not horse and man had a dreary holyday. There
voice of nature was not more heeded in that charnel city
was a darker curse upon the land than the curse of Cain!
than it is in the tomb itself! Adrian rode on at a brisker
Now and then a single figure, usually clad in the gloomy
pace, and came at length before a stately church; its doors
robe of a friar, crossed the road, lifting towards the tray-
were wide open, and he saw within a company of monks
eller a livid and amazed stare, and then hurried on, and
(the church had no other worshippers, and they were
vanished beneath some roof, whence issued a faint and dy-masked) gathered round the altar, and chanting the Miserere
ing moan, which but for the exceeding stillness around
could scarcely have pierced the threshold. As the travel-
ler neared the city, the scene became less solitary, but more
dread. There might be seen carts and litters, thick awn-
ings wrapped closely around them, containing those who
sought safety in flight, forgetful that the plague was every-
where! And as these gloomy vebicles, conducted by horses,
gaunt, shadowy skeletons, crawling heavily along, passed
by, like hearses of the dead, sometimes a cry burst the
silence with which they moved, and the traveller's steed
started aside, as some wretch on whom the disease had
broke forth, was dropped from the vehicle by the selfish
inhumanity of his comrades, and left to perish by the way.
Hard by the gate a wagon paused, and a man with a mask
threw out its contents in a green slimy ditch that bordered
the road. These were garments and robes of all kind and
value; the broidered mantle of the gallant, the hood and
veil of my lady, and the rags of the peasant. While glanc-
ing at the labor of the masker, the cavalier beheld a herd
of swine, gaunt and half-famished, run to the spot in the
hopes of food, and the traveller shuddered to think what
food they might have anticipated! But ere he reached the
gate, those of the animals that had been busiest rooting at
the infectious heap dropped down dead among their fel-
lows. *
Domine: the ministers of God, in a city hitherto boasting)
the devoutest population in Italy, without a flock!
The young cavalier paused before the door, and waited
till the service was done, and the monks descended the
steps into the street.
CC
Holy fathers," said he then, "may I pray your good-
ness to tell me the nearest way to the convent Santa Maria
dei Pazzi ?
CC
Son," said one of these featureless spectres, for so they
seemed in their shroudlike robes and uncouth vizards; son.
pass on your way, and God be with you. Robbers or revel-
lers may now fill the holy cloister you speak of. The ab-
bess is dead; and many a sister sleeps with her. And th
nuns have fled from the contagion."
Adrian half fell from his horse, and, as he still remained
rooted to the spot, the dark procession swept on, hymning
in solemn dirge through the desolate street the monastic
chant,
"By the Mother and the Son,
Death endured and mercy won:
Spare us, sinners though we be,
Miserere, Domine!"
Recovering from his stupor, Adrian regained the breth-
ren, and, as they closed the burden of their song, again
accosted them.
"Ho, ho!" said the masker, and his hollow voice
Holy father, dismiss me not thus. Perchance the one
sounded yet more hollow through his vizard, " comest thou
Tell me which
here to die, stranger? See, thy brave mantle of triple pile I seek may yet be heard of at the convent.
and golden broidery will not save thee from the gavocciolo.†
Ride on, ride on! to-day a fit morsel for thy lady's lip, to-
morrow too foul for the rat and worm.'
Replying not to this hideous welcome, Adrian, for it was
he, pursued his way. The gates stood wide open: this
was the most appalling sign of all, for at first the most
jealous precaution had been taken to prevent the ingress of
strangers. Now all care, all foresight, all vigilance were
vain. And thrice nine warders had died at that single
post, and the officers to appoint their successors were dead
too.
Law and police, and the tribunals of health, and the
boards of safety, death had stopped them all! And the
plague killed art itself, social union, the harmony and
mechanism of civilization, as if they had been bone and
flesh.
So, mute and solitary, went on the lover in his quest of
love, resolved to find and to save his betrothed, and guided
(that faithful and loyal knight !) through that wilderness of
horrors by the blessed hope of that strange passion, noblest
of all when noble, basest of all when base! He came into
a broad and spacious square lined with palaces, the usual
haunt of the best and most graceful nobility of Italy. The
stranger was alone now, and the tramp of his gallant steed
sounded ghastly and fearful in his own ears, when just as
he turned the corner of one of the streets that led from it,
be saw a woman steal forth with a child in her arms, while
another, yet in infancy, clung to her robe. She held a large
bunch of flowers to her nostrils, (the fancied and favorite
mode to prevent infection,) and muttered to the children,
who were moaning with hunger, “Yes, yes, you shall have
The same spectacle greeted and is recorded by Boccaccio.
The tumor that made the fatal symptom.
VOL. II
35
way to shape my course."
"Disturb us not, son," said the monk who spoke before.
"It is an ill omen for thee to break thus upon the invoca
tions of the ministers of heaven ?”
-
M
Pardon, pardon. I will do ample penance, pay many
masses; but I seek a dear friend, — the
the way
way,
"To the right, till you gain the first bridge. Beyond
the third bridge, on the river side, you will find the con-
vent," said another monk, moved by the earnestness of
Adrian.
"Bless you, holy father," faltered forth the cavalier, and
spurred his steed in the direction given. The friars heeded
him not, but again resumed their dirge. Mingled with the
sound of his horse's hoofs on the clattering pavement, came
to the rider's ear the imploring line,
Miserere Domine!
Impatient, sick at heart, desperate, Adrian flew through
the streets at the full speed of his horse. He passed the
market-place; it was empty as the desert; the gloomy, bar-
ricadoed streets, in which the counter cries of Guelf and
Ghibeline had so often cheered on the chivalry and rank of
Florence. Now, huddled together in vault and pit, lay
Guelf and Ghibeline, knightly spurs and beggar's crutch.
To that silence the roar even of civil strife would have been
a blessing. The first bridge, the river side, the second, the
third bridge, all were gained, and Adrian at last reined bis
steed before the walls of the convent. He fastened his
steed to the porch, in which the door stood ajar, half torn
from its hinges, traversed the court, gained the opposite
door, that admitted to the main building, came to the jeal
ous grating, now no more a barrier from the profane world.
and, as he there paused a moment to recover breath and
274
BULWER'S NOVELS.
nerve, wild laughter and loud song, interrupted and mixed!
with caths, startled his ear. He pushed aside the grated
door. entered, and, led by the sounds, came to the refectory.
In that meeting-place of the severe and mortified maids of
heaven, he now beheld gathered round the upper table,
used of yore by the abbess, a strange disorderly ruffian herd,
wno at first glance seemed indeed of all ranks; for some
wore serge, or even rags, others were tricked out in all the
bravery of satin and velvet, plume and mantle. But a
second glance sufficed to indicate that the companions were
much of the same degree, and that the finery of the more
showy was but the spoil rent from unguarded palaces or
tenantless bazaars for under plumed hats, looped with
jewels, were grim, unwashed, unshaven faces, over which
hung the long locks which the professed brethren of the
sharp knife and hireling arm had just begun to assume,
serving them often instead of a mask. Amid these savage
revellers were many women, young and middle-aged, foul
and fair, and Adrian piously shuddered to see among the
loose robes and uncovered necks of the professional harlots
the saintly habit and beaded rosary of nuns. Flasks of
wine, ample viands, gold and silver vessels, mostly con-
secrated to holy rites, strewed the board. As the young
Roman paused spell-bound at the threshold, the man who
acted as president of the revel, a huge, swarthy ruffian with
a deep scar over his face, which, traversing the whole of
the left cheek and upper lip, gave his large features an
aspect preternaturally hideous, called out to him
"Come in, man, come in. What stand you there for,
amazed and dumb? We are hospitable revellers, and give
all men welcome. Here are wine, food, and women. My
lord bishop's wine and my lady abbess's women !
"Sing hey, sing ho, for the royal death
That scatters a host with a single breath;
That opens the prison to spoil the palace,
And ride honest necks from the hangman's malice.
Here's a health to the plague! Let the mighty ones dread,
The poor never lived till the wealthy were dead;
A health to the plague! may she ever as now
Loose the rogue from his chain and the nun from her vow.
To the jailer a sword, to the captive a key,
Hurrah for earth's curse, 't is a blessing to me!"
Ere this fearful stave was concluded, Adrian, sensible
that in such orgies there was no chance of prosecuting his
inquiries, left the desecrated chamber and fled, scarcely
drawing breath, so great was the terror that seized him,
till he stood once more in the court amid the bot, sickly,
stagnant sunlight, that seemed a fit atmosphere for the
scenes on which it fell. He resolved, however, not to de-
sert the place without making another effort at inquiry;
and while he stood without the court, musing and doubtful,
he saw a small chapel hard by, through whose long case-
ment gleamed faintly, and dimmed by the noonday, the
light of tapers. He turned towards its porch, entered, and
saw beside the sanctuary a single nun kneeling in prayer.
In the narrow aisle, upon a long table, at either end of
which burned the tall dismal tapers whose ray had attracted
him, the drapery of several shrouds showed him the half
distinct outline of human figures hushed in death. Adrian
himself, impressed with the sadness and sanctity of the
place, and the touching sight of that solitary and unselfish
watcher of the dead, knelt down and intensely prayed.
As he rose, somewhat relieved from the burden at his
heart, the nun rose also, and startled to perceive him.
Unhappy man!" said she, in a voice which, low,
faint, and solemn, sounded as a ghost's, "what fatality
brings thee hither? Seest thou not thou art in the
presence of clay which the plague hath touched, thou
breathest the air which destroys! Hence! and seek through-
out all the desolation for one spot where the dark visiter
hath not come !"
CC
Holy maiden!" answered Adrian, "the danger you
hazard does not appal me; I seek one whose life is dearer
to me than my own.
"Thou_needst say no more to tell me thou art newly
come to Florence! Here son forsakes his father, and
mother deserts her child. When life is most hopeless,
these worms of a day cling to it as if it were the salvation
of immortality! But for me alone, death has no horror.
Long severed from the world, I have seen my sisterhood
perish, the house of God desecrated,
its altar over-
thrown, and I care not to be the last whom the pestilence
leaves at once unperjured and alive.”
The nun paused a few minutes, and then looking earn
estly at the healthful countenance and unbroken frame of
Adrian, sighed heavily. 'Stranger, why fly you not?"
she said. "Thou mightst as well search the crowded
vaults and rotten corruption of the dead, as search the city
for one living."
*
Sister, and bride of the blessed Redeemer!" returned
the Roman, clasping his hands, "one word, I implore thee.
Thou art, methinks, of the sisterhood of yon dismantled
convent; tell me, knowest thou if Irene di Gabrini,* guest
of the late abbess, sister of the fallen tribune of Rome, be
yet among the living!
"Ar
"Art thou her brother, then?" said the nun
thou that fallen son of the morning?"
"I am her betrothed," replied Adrian, sadly. "Speak!"
"Oh, flesh! flesh! bow art thou victor to the last, even
among the triumphs and in the lazar-bouse of corruption!"
said the nun. "Vain man! think not of such carnal ties ;
make thy peace with heaven, for thy days are surely num-
bered!"
"Woman!" cried Adrian, impatiently, "talk not to
me of myself, nor rail against ties whose holiness thou canst
not know. I ask thee again, as thou thyself hopest for
mercy and for pardon, is Irene living?"
The nun was awed by the energy of the young lover, and
after a moment, which seemed to him an age of agonized
suspense, she replied,
"The maides thou speakest of died not with the general
death.
death. In the dispersion of the few remaining, she left the
convent, I know not whither; but she had friends it
Florence, their names I cannot tell thee."
W
"Now bless thee, holy sister! bless thee! How long
since she left the convent?"
"Four days have elapsed since the robber and the harlot
have seized the house of Santa Maria," replied the nun,
groaning; "and they were quick successors to the sister-
hood.'
"Four days! — and thou canst give me no clew?"
"None, yet stay, young man!" and the nun, ap-
"Ask
proaching, lowered her voice to a hissing whisper, -
the becchini."†
“Adrian started aside, crossed himself hastily, and
quitted the convent without answer. He returned to his
horse, and rode back into the silenced heart of the city.
Tavern and hostel there were no more; but the palaces of
the dead were held in common by the living. He entered
one, - a spacious and princely mansion. In the stables he
found forage still in the manger; but the horses, at that
time in the Italian cities a proof of rank as well as wealth,
were gone with the hands that fed them. The high-born
knight assumed the office of groom, took off the heavy
harness, fastened his steed to the rack, and as the wearied
animal, unconscious of the surrounding horrors, fell eagerly
upon its meal, its young lord turned away, and muttered,
"Faithful servant, and sole companion! may the pesti-
lence that spareth not beast or man, spare thee! and mayst
thou bear me hence with a lighter heart!"
A spacious hall hung with arms and banners,
- a wide
and marble flight of stairs, whose walls were painted in the
stiff outlines and gorgeous colors of the day, conducted to
vast chambers, hung with velvets and cloth of gold, but
silent as the tomb. He threw himself upon the cushions
which were piled in the centre of the room, for he had
ridden far that morning, and for many days before, and he
was wearied and exhausted body and limb; but he could
not rest. Impatience, anxiety, hope, and fear gnawed his
heart and fevered his veins, and after a brief and unsatis-
factory attempt to sober his own thoughts, and devise some
plan of search more certain than that which chance might
afford him, he rose, and traversed the apartments, in the
unacknowledged hope which chance alone could suggest.
It was easy to see that he had made his resting-place in
the home of one of the princes of the land; and the splen-
dor of all around him far outshone the barbarous and rude
magnificence of the less civilized and wealthy Romans.
Here lay the lute as last touched, the gilded and illumined
volume as last conned; there were seats drawn familiarly
* The family name of Rienzi was Gabrini.
According to the usual custom of Florence, the dead were
borne to their resting-place on biers, supported by citizens of
equal rank; but a new trade was created by the plague, and men
of the lowest dregs of the populace, bribed by immense pay
ment, discharged the office of transporting the remains of the
victims. They were called becchini.
RIENZI, THE LAST
275
OF THE TRIBUNES.
together, as when lady and gallant had interchanged whis-
pers last.
"And such," thought Adrian, "such desolation may
soon swallow up the vestige of the unwelcomed guest, as of
the vanished lord,'
At length he entered a saloon, in which was a table
still spread with wine-flasks, goblets of glass, and one of
silver, withered flowers, half-mouldy fruits, and viands.
At one side the arras, folding-doors opened to a broad flight
of stairs that descended to a little garden at the back of
the house, in which a fountain still played sparkling and
livingly, the only thing, save the stranger, living there!
On the steps lay a crimson mantle, and by it a lady's glove.
The relics seemed to speak to the lover's heart of a lover's
last wooing and last farewell He groaned aloud, and
feeling he should have need of all his strength, filled one of
the goblets from a half-emptied flask of Cyprus wine. He
drained the draught, it revived him. "Now," he said,
"once more to my task! I will sally forth," when suddenly
he heard heavy steps along the rooms he had quitted,
they approached, they entered; and Adrian beheld two
huge and ill-omene forms stalk into the chamber. They
were wrapped in black homely draperies, only their arms
were bare, and they wore large shapeless masks, which
descended to the breast, leaving only access to sight and
breath in three small and circular apertures. The Colonna
half drew his sword, for the forms and aspect of these vis-
iters were not such as men think to look upon in safety.
"Oh!" said one,
"the palace has a new guest to-day.
Fear us not, stranger; there is room, ay, and wealth enough
for all men now in Florence! Deh! but there is still one
w
goblet of silver left, how comes that?" So saying, the
man seized the cup which Adrian had just drained, and
thrust it into his breast. He then turned to Adrian, whose
hand was still upon his hilt, and said, with a laugh, which
came choked and muffled through his vizard, “Oh, we cut
no throats, signor the Invisible spares us that trouble.
We are honest men, state officers, and come but to see if
the cart should halt here to-night."
•
"Ye are then,
"Becchini ! ”
Adrian's blood ran cold. The becchini continued,
And keep you this house while you rest at Florence,
signor ?"
"Yes, if the rightful lord claim it not."
C
"Ha! ha! Rightful Lord!' The plague is lord of all
now. Why, I have known three gallant companies tenant
this palace the last week, and have buried them all, all!
It is a pleasant house enough, and gives good custom. Are
ye alone?"
"At present, yes.”
;
"Show us where you sleep, that we may know where to
come for you. You won't want us these three days, I see."
"Ye are pleasant welcomers!" said Adrian
" but
listen to me. Can find the living as well as bury the
dead? I seek one in this city whom, if you discover, shall
be worth to you a year of burials!
ye
"No, no that is out of our line. As well look for a
dropped sand on the beach, as for a living being among
closed houses and yawning vaults; but if you will pay the
poor grave-diggers beforehand, I promise you, you shall
have the first of a new charnel-house; it will be finished
just about your time.”
"There!" said Adrian, flinging the wretches a few
pieces of gold, —“ there! and if you would do me a kinder
service, leave me, at least while living. Or I may save
you that trouble
and he left the room.
""
The becchini who had been spokesman followed him.
You are generous, signor, stay; you will want fresher
food than these filthy fragments. I will supply thee of the
best, while, — while thou wantest it. And hark, whom
wishest thou that I should seek!"
to discover, or even to bury, so many charms! I will do
my best; meanwhile I can recommend you, if in a hurry o
make the best of your time, to many a pretty face and
comely shape,
"Out, fiend!" muttered Adrian, "fool to waste time
with such as thou."
The laugh of the grave-digger followed his steps.
All that day did Adrian wander through the city, but
search and question were alike unavailing; all whom he
encountered and interrogated seemed to regard him as a
madman, and these were indeed of no kind likely to
advance his object. Wild troops of disordered, drunken
revellers, processions of monks, or, here and there, scat-
tered individuals gliding rapidly along, and shunning all
approach or speech, made the only haunters of the dismal
streets, ti the sun sank, lurid and yellow, behind the hills,
and darkness closed around the unresting and no selesa
pathway of the pestilence
CHAPTER III.
The flowers amid the tombs.
ADRIAN found that the becchini had taken care that
famine should not forestall the plague; the banquet of the
dead was removed, and fresh viands and wines of all kinds,
for there was plenty then in Florence, spread the
table. He partook of the refreshment, though but spar-
ingly, and shrinking from repose in beds beneath whose
gorgeous hangings death had been so lately busy, carefully
closed door and window, wrapped himself in his mantle,
and found his resting-place on the cushions of the chamber
in which he had supped. Fatigue cast him into an unquiet
slumber, from which he was suddenly wakened by the roll
of a cart below and the jingle of bells. He listened as the
cart proceeded slowly from door to door, and at length its
sound died away in the distance. He slept no more that
night!
The sun had not long risen ere he renewed his labors;
and it was yet early when, just as he passed a church, two
ladies richly dressed, came from the porch, and seemed
through their vizards to regard the young cavalier with
earnest attention. The gaze arrested him also, when one
of the ladies said, "Fair sir, you are over bold, you wear
no mask; neither do you smell to flowers."
CC
Lady, I wear no mask, for I would be seen: I search
these miserable places for one whom to lose is to lose life. "
"He is young, comely, evidently noble, and the plague
hath not touched him; he will serve our purpose well,"
whispered one of the ladies to the other.
"You echo my own thoughts," returned her companion
And then turning to Adrian, she said, "You seek one you
are not wedded to, if you seek so fondly."
"It is true.
"Young and fair, with dark hair and a neck of snow,
I will conduct you to her."-
*
Signora !
"Follow us!"
"Know you who I am, and whom I seek!"
"Yes."
"Can you in truth tell me aught of Irene !
follow me."
"I can,
"To her?"
"Yes, yes, follow us!"
The ladies moved on as if impatient of farther parley
Amazed, doubtful, and as if in a dream, Adrian followed
them. Their dress, manner, and the pure Tuscan of the
one who had addressed him, indicated them of birth and
station; but all else was a riddle which he could not solve.
They arrived at one of the bridges, where a litter and a
servant on horseback, holding a palfrey by the bridal, were
in attendance. The ladies entered the litter, and she who
had before spoken bade Adrian follow on the palfrey.
"But tell me, "he began.
This question arrested Adrian's departure. He detailed
the name, and all the particulars he could suggest of Irene;
and, with sickened heart, described the hair, features, and
stature of that lovely and hallowed image, which might "No questions, cavalier," said she, impatiently; "fo.-
furnish a theme to the poet and now a clew to the grave-low the living in silence, or remain with the dead, as you
digger.
The unhallowed apparition shook his head when Adrian
had concluded. "Full five hundred such descriptions did
I hear in the first days of the plague, when there were still
such things as mistress and lover; but it is a dainty cat-
alogue, signor, and it will be a pride to the poor becchini
list."
With that the litter proceeded, and Adrian mounted the
palfrey wonderingly, and followed his strange conductors,
who moved on at a tolerably brisk pace. They crossed
the bridge, left the river on one side, and soon ascending
a gentle acclivity, the trees and flowers of the country
276
BULWER'S NOVELS.
--
quaintance agreed to join us. We pass our days, whether
many or few, in such diversions as we could find with na
ture and our own resources.
Music and the dance, merry
tales, and lively songs, with such slight change of scene as
from sward to shade, from alley to fountain, fill up our
time, and prepare us for peaceful sleep and happy dreams.
Each lady is by turns queen of our fairy court, as is my lot
this day. One law forms the code of our constitution, -
that nothing sad shall be admitted. We would live as if
yonder city were not, and as if," added the fair queen with
a slight sigh, "youth, grace, and beauty could endure for
ever. One of our knights madly left us for a day, promis-
ing to return; we have seen him no more; we will not
guess what hath chanced to him. It became necessary to
fill up his place; we drew lots who should seek his substi-
tute, it fell upon the ladies who have, not I trust to your
displeasure, brought you hither. Fair sir, my explana-
tion is made.”
began to succeed dull walls and
empty streets. After pro-
ceeding thus somewhat less than half an hour, they turned
up a green lane remote from the road, and came suddenly
upon the porticoes of a fair and stately palace. Here the
ladies descended from their litter; and Adrian, who had
vainly sought to extract speech from the attendant, also
dismounted, and following them across a spacious court
filled on either side with vases of flowers and orange trees,
and then through a wide hall in the farther side of the quad-
rangle, found himself in one of the loveliest spots eye ever
saw or poet ever sung. It was a garden plot of the
green-
est and most emerald verdure, bosquets and arcades of lau-
rel and of myrtle opened on either side in vistas and arcades,
half overhung with clematis and rose, and closing the pros-
pect with alternated statues and gushing fountains; in front,
the lawn was bounded by rows of vases on marble pedes-
tals filled with flowers; and broad and gradual flights of
steps of the whitest marble led from terrace to terrace,
each adorned with statues and fountains, half-way down a "Alas, lovely queen," said Adrian, wrestling strongly
high but softly sloping and verdant hill. Beyond, spread but vainly, with the bitter disappointment he felt, "I can-
in wide, various, and luxuriant landscape, the vineyards not be one of your happy circle: I am in myself a viola-
and olive groves, the villas and villages of the vale of Arno, tion of your law. I am filled with but one sad and anx-
intersected by the silver river, while the city, in all its calm, ious thought, to which all mirth would seem impiety. I am
but without its horror, raised its roofs and spires to the sun. a seeker among the living and the dead, for one being, of
Birds of every hue and song, some free, some in network whose fate I am uncertain. And it was only from the
of golden wire, warbled round; and upon the centre of words that fell from my fair conductor, that I have been
the sward reclined four ladies unmasked and richly dressed, decoyed hither from my mournful task.
Suffer me, gra-
the eldest of whom seemed scarcely more than twenty, and cious lady, to return to Florence.”
five cavaliers, young and handsome, whose jewelled vests The queen looked in mute vexation towards the dark-
and golden chains attested their degree. Wines and fruits eyed Mariana, who returned the glance by one equally ex-
were on a low table beside; and musical instruments, chess-pressive, and then suddenly stepping up to Adrian, she
boards, and gammon-tables lay scattered all about.
fair a group and so graceful a scene Adrian never beheld
but once, and that was in the midst of the ghastly pesti-
lence of Italy! such group and such scene our closet in-
dolence may yet revive in the pages of the bright Boccac-
cio !
So
On seeing Adrian and his companions approach, the par-
ty rose instantly; and one of the ladies, who wore upon her
head a wreath of laurel leaves, stepping before the rest,
exclaimed, "Well done, my Mariana! welcome back, my
fair subjects; and you, sir, welcome hither.”
The two guides of the Colonna had by this time removed
their masks; and the one who had accosted him, shaking
her long and raven ringlets over a bright laughing eye and
a check to whose native olive now rose a slight blush,
turned to him ere he could reply to the welcome he had
received.
CC
Signor cavalier," said she, "you now see to what I
have decoyed you.
Own that this is pleasanter than the
sights and sounds of the city we have left. You gaze on me
in surprise. See, my queen, how speechless the marvel of
your court has made our new gallant; I assure you he could
talk quickly enough when he had only us to confer with :
nay, I was forced to impose silence on him.”
Oh, then you have not yet informed him of the custom
and origin of the court he enters ?" quoth she of the laurel
wreath.
"No, my queen; I thought all description given in such
a spot as our poor Florence now is, would fail of its ob-
ject. My task is done, I resign him to your grace!"
So saying, the lady tripped lightly away, and began
coquettishly sleeking her locks in the smooth mirror of a
marble basin, whose waters trickled over the margin upon
the grass below, ever and anon glancing archly towards
the stranger, and sufficiently at hand to overhear all that
was said.
66
"In the first place, signor, permit us to inquire," said
the lady who bore the appellation of
thy name,
queen,
rank, and birthplace.
"Madame," returned Adrian, " I came hither little
dreaming to answer questions respecting myself: but what
pleases you to ask it must please me to reply to; my
name is Adrian di Castello, one of the Roman house of the
Colonna."
"A noble column of a noble house!" answered the
queen; "for us, respecting whom your curiosity may per-
naps be aroused, know, that we six ladies of Florence, de-
serted by, or deprived of our kin and protectors, formed
the resolution to retire to this palace; where, if death
comes, it comes stripped of half its horrors; and as the
earned tell us, that sadness engenders the awful malady, so
ou see us svorn foes to sadness. Six cavaliers of our ac-
said
CC
But, signor, if I should still keep my promise, if I
should be able to satisfy thee of the health and safety of-
of Irene."
"Irene!" echoed Adrian, in surprise forgetful at the
moment that he had before revealed the name of her he
sought. "Irene, Irene di Gabrini, sister of the once re-
nowned Rienzi.”
It is
"The same, ,"replied Mariana, quickly, "I knew her,
as I told you. Nay, signor, I do not deceive thee.
true that I cannot bring thee to her; but better as it is, -
she went away many days ago to one of the towns of
Lombardy, which, they say, the scourge has not yet pierc-
ed. Now, noble sir, is not your heart lightened? and
you so soon be a deserter from the court of loveliness?
perhaps," she added, with a soft look from her large
dark eyes,
" of love!"
will
And
"Dare I in truth believe you, lady ?" said Adrian, all
delighted, yet still half doubting.
"Would I deceive a true lover, as methinks you are?
Be assured. Nay, I pray thee, queen, receive your
subject."
The queen extended her hand to Adrian, and led him to
the group that still stood on the grass at a little distance.
They welcomed him as a brother, and soon forgave his
abstracted courtesies, in compliment to his good mien and
illustrious name.
The queen clapped her hands, and the party again
ranged themselves on the sward. Each lady beside cach
gallant. You, Mariana, if not fatigued," said the
queen, "shall take the lute and silence these noisy grass-
hoppers, which chirp about us with as much pretension as
if they were nightingales. Sing, sweet subject, sing;
and let it be the song of our dear friend Signor Visdomi-
ni, * made for a kind of inaugural anthem to such as we
admitted to our court."
Mariana, who had reclined herself by the side of Adri
an, took up the lute, and after a short prelude, sung
the
words thus imperfectly translated:
THE SONG OF THE FLORENTINE LADY.
Enjoy the more the smiles of noon,
If doubtful be the morrow,
And know the fort of life is soon
Betray'd to death by sorrow!
Death claims us all, then, grief, away!
We'll own no meaner master;
The clouds that darken round the day,
But bring the night the faster.
* I know not if this be the same Visdomini who three yeas
afterward, with one of the Medici, conducted so gallant a rein
forcement to Scarperia, they besieged by Visconti d'Oleggiɔ.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
277
Love, feast, be merry while on earth,
Such, grave, should be thy moral!
Even death itself is friends with mirth,
Ard veils the tomb with laurel."
While gazing on the eyes I love,
New life to mine is given,
If joy the lot of saints above,
Joy fits us best for heaven.
To this song, which was much applauded, succeeded
those light and witty tales in which the Italian novelists
furnished Voltaire and Marmontel with a model, each,
in bis or her turn, taking up the discourse, and with an
equal dexterity avoiding every lugubrious image or mourn-
ful reflection that might remind those graceful idlers of the
vicinity of death. At any other time the temper and ac-
complishments of the young Lord di Castello would have
fitted him to enjoy and to shine in that Arcadian court.
But now he in vain sought to dispel the gloom from his
brow and the anxious thought from his heart. He revol-
ved the intelligence he had received, wondered, guessed,
oped, and dreaded still; and if for a moment his mind
returned to the scene about him, his nature, too truly poe-
tical for the false sentiment of the place, asked itself in
what save the polished exterior and the graceful circum-
stance, the mirth that he now so reluctantly witnessed, dif-
fered from the brutal revels in the convent of Santa Maria,
- each alike in its motive, though so differing in the
manner: equally callous and equally selfish, coining horror
into enjoyment. The fair Mariana, whose partner had
heen reft from her as the queen had related, was in no
mind to lose the new one she had gained. She pressed
upon him from time to time the wine-flask and the fruits;
and in those unmeaning courtesies her hand gently lingered
upon his.
At length the hour arrived when the compan-
ions retired to the palace, during the fiercer heats of noon;
to come forth again in the declining sun, to sup by the side
of the fountain, to dance, to sing, and to make merry by
torch-light and the stars, till the hour of rest. But Adri-
an, not willing to continue the entertainment, no sooner
found himself in the apartment to which he was conducted,
than he resolved to effect a silent escape, as under all cir-
cumstances the shortest, and not perhaps the least courte-
ous farewell left to him. Accordingly, when all seemed
quiet and hushed in the repose common to the inhabitants
of the South during that hour, he left his apartment, des-
conded the stairs, passed the outer court, and was already
at the gate, when he heard himself called by a voice that
spake vexation and alarm. He turned to behold Mariana.
Why, how now Signor di Castello, is our company so
unpleasing, is our music so jarring, or our brows so wrin-
kled, that you should fly as the traveller flies from the
witches he surprises at Benevento? Nay, you cannot mean
to leave us yet?"
CC
"Fair dame," returned the cavalier, somewhat discon-
certed,
"it is in vain that I seek to rally my mournful spir-
its, or to fit myself for the court, to which nothing sad
should come.
Your laws hang about me like a culprit:
better timely flight than harsh expulsion."
As he spoke, he moved on, and would have passed the
gate, but Mariana caught his arm.
"Nay," said she, softly, "are there no eyes of dark
light, and no neck of wintry snow, that can compensate to
thee for the absent one? Tarry and forget, as doubtless
in absence even thou art forgotten."
|
|
philosophical mysteries which separate the Eros from the
Anteros, reserved for our privileged and sagacious sex, and
neither to be divulged nor (heaven forbid!) to be shared
by the daughters of Eve, it is yet certain that at that time
the advances of the gentle Mariana met with no gracious
return. The terrors of the charnel-house still clung t
Adrian's imagination, and the thought of the stranger
woman scemed a revolting and unnatural intrusion upon
the awful and solemn meditations proper to the time.
Lady," he therefore answered, with great gravity, not
unmixed with an ill suppressed disdain, "I have not so-
journed long enough amid the sights and sounds of wo, to
blunt my
heart and spirit into callousness to all around.
Enjoy if thou canst, and gather the rank roses of the sep-
ulchre; but to me, haunted still by funeral images, beauty
fails to bring delight, and love, -even holy love,
darkened by the shadow of death. Pardon me, and fare-
well.”
seems
"Go then," said the Florentine, stung and enraged
his coldness; "go, and find your mistress amid the asso-
I
ciations on which it pleases your philosophy to dwell.
did but deceive thee, blind fool, as I had hoped for thine
own good, when I told thee Irene (was that her name?)
was gone from Florence. Of her I know naught, and heard
and search the vault,
naught, save from thee. Go back,
and see whether thou lovest her still!
CHAPTER IV.
35
We obtain what we seek, and know it not.
IN the fiercest heat of the day, and on foot, Adrian pro-
ceeded back to Florence. As he approached the city, all
that festive and gallant scene he had quitted seemed to him
like a dream; a vision of the gardens and bowers of au
enchantress, from which he woke abruptly, as a criminal
might wake on the morning of his doom, to see the scaf-
fold and the deathman: so much did each silent and lonely
step in the funeral city bring back his bewildered thoughts
at once to life and to death. The parting words of Mari-
ana sounded like a knell at his heart. And now as he
paced on, the heat of the day, the lurid atmosphere, long
fatigue, alternate exhaustion and excitement, combining
with the sickness of disappointment, the fretting conscious-
ness of precious moments irretrievably lost, and his utter
despair of forming any systematic mode of search, fever
began rapidly to burn through his veins. His temples felt
oppressed as with the weight of a mountain; his lips
parched with intolerable thirst; his strength seemed sud-
denly to desert him; and it was with pain and labor that
he dragged one languid limb after the other.
"I feel it," thought he, with the loathing nausea, and
shivering dread with which nature struggles ever against
death, and now recoiled from such death,
"I feel it upon
me,
the devouring and the viewless,—I shall perish,
and without saving her, nor shall even one grave contain
us ! "
But these thoughts served rapidly to augment the disease
which began to prey upon him; and ere he reached the in-
terior of the city, even thought itself forsook him. The
images of men and houses grew indistinct and shadowy be-
fore his eyes; the burning pavement became unsteady and
reeling beneath his feet; delirium gathered over him, and
It is not for us to determine whether Adrian di Castello, he went on his way muttering broken and incoherent words;
true lover and loyal as he was, might at all times be insen- the few who met fled from him in dismay. Even the monks,
sible to the charins of others than Irene; for man, and still continuing their solemn and sad processions, passed
the truth may as well be spoken, · may have deep fidelity with a murmured bene vobis to the other side from that on
at his heart, and yet not be possessed at all hours, and which his steps swerved and faltered. And from a booth
against all temptations, of the rigid virtue of the exemplary at the corner of a street, four becchini drinking together,
Joseph, that male Susannah, (but then, by the way, it was fixed upon him from their black masks, the gaze that vul.
the elders that tempted her, and many even of our incon- tures fix upon some dying wanderer of the desert. Still he
stant sex might have been Susannaish under a similar crept on, stretching out his arms like a man in the dark,
trial!) Nor did the tender and devoted Petrarch, tenderest and seeking, with a vague sense that still struggled through
and most devoted of all lovers and sonneteers, deep that the closing delirium, to find out the mansion in which he
the faith of the heart was impaired by the grosser aberra- had fixed his home, though many as fair to live and as meet
tion of the flesh, seeing that he diversified the intensity of to die in, stood with open portals before and beside his
his chaste and ill-fated passion, by producing, from time to
path.
time, little grandchildren to his respected sire. Neither, "Irene, Irene!" he cried, sometimes in a muttered and
1 say, arrogating nor denying to the young Roman the all-low tone, sometimes in a wild and piercing shriek,·
immaculate purity of an Amadis, nor entering into those "where art thou? where? I come to snatch thee from
them, they shall not have thee! the foul and ugly fiends.
al! how the air smells of dead flesh. Irene, Irene, we
* At that time, in Italy, the laurel was frequently planted
over the dead.
278
BULWER'S NOVELS.
away to mine own palace, and the heavenly lake,
will
Frene!"
J
While thus benighted, and thus exclaiming, two females
suddenly emerged from a neighbouring house masked and
mantled.
whose faith is the scorn of self, w.jose hope is beyond the
lazar-house, whose feet, already winged for immortality,
trample with a conqueror's inarch upon the graves of
death!
"A
While thus the ministry and the office of love; along
"Vain wisdom!" said the taller and slighter of the two that street, in which Adrian and Irene had met at last,
whose mantle, it is here necessary to observe, was of a came, singing, reeling, roaring, the dissolute and abandon.
deep blue, richly broidered with silver, of a shape and col-ed crew who had fixed their quarters in the convent of
or not common in Florence, but usual in Rome, where the Santa Maria dei Pazzi, their bravo chief at their head, and
dress of ladies of the higher rank was singularly bright in a nun (no longer in nun's garments) upon either arm.
hue, and ample in fold; thus differing from the simpler and health to the plague!" shouted the ruffian.
more slender draperies of the Tuscan fashion, "vain the plague ! echoed his frantic bacchanals,
wisdom, to fly a relentless and certain doom!"
"A health to the Plague, may she ever as now,
Loose the rogue from his chain, and the nun from her vow ;
To the jailer a sword, -to the captive a key,
Hurrah for earth's curse! 'tis a blessing to me."
CC
Why, thou wouldst not have us hold the same home
with three of the dead in the next chamber, strangers to us,
too, when Florence has so many empty halls. Trust me,
we shall not walk far ere we suit ourselves with a safer
odgment."
Hitherto, indeed, we have been miraculously preser-
ved," sighed the other, whose voice and shape were those
of extreme youth; "yet would that we knew where to fly;
what mount, what wood, what cavern, held my brother and
his faithful Nina? I am sick with horrors!""
Irene, Irene! Well then, if thou art at Milan, or
some Lombard town, why do I linger here? To horse, to
horse! Oh no! no! not the horse with the bells! not the
death-cart." With a cry, a shriek, louder than the loudest
of the sick man's, broke that young female away from her
companion. It seemed as if a single step took her to the
side of Adrian. She caught his arm, she looked in his
face, she met his unconscious eyes bright with a fearful fire.
"It has seized him!" she then said, in a deep but calm
tone, "the plague!"
"Away, away, are you mad?" cried her companion;
"hence, hence, touch me not now thou hast touched him,-
go! here we part!"
"Help me to bear him somewhere; see, he faints, he
droops, he falls; help me, dear signora, for pity, for the
love of God."
;
But, wholly possessed by the selfish fear which overcame
all humanity in that miserable time, the elder woman,
though naturally kind, pitiful, and benevolent, fled rapidly
away, and soon vanished. Thus left alone with Adrian,
who had now, in the fierceness of the fever that preyed
within him, fallen on the ground, the strength and nerve of
that young girl did not forsake her. She tore off the heavy
mantle which encumbered her arms, and cast it from her
and then lifting up the face of her lover, for who but
Irene was that weak woman, thus shrinking not from the
contagion of death, she supported him on her breast, and
called aloud and again for help. At length the becchini,
in the booth before noticed, hardened in their profession,
and who, thus hardened, better than the most cautious,
escaped the pestilence, lazily approached. Quicker,
quicker, for Christ's love," said Irene; "I have much
gold; I will reward you well; help me to bear him under
the nearest roof."
Add
CC
"Leave him to us, young lady; we have had our eye
upon him," said one of the grave-diggers. "We'll do our
duty by him, first and last.
"No, no! touch not his head, that is my care. There,
I will help you; so, now then, but be gentle."
Assisted by these portentous officers, Irene, who would
Lot release her hold, but seemed to watch over the beloved
eyes and lips, (set and closed as they were,) as if to look
back the soul from parting, bore Adrian into a neighbour-
ing house, and laid him on a bed; from which Irene (pre-
serving as only women do, in such times, the presence of
mind and vigilant providence which make so sublime a
contrast with their keen susceptibilities) caused them
first to cast off the draperies and clothing, which might
retain additional infection. She then despatched them for
new furniture, and for whatsover leech, money might yet
bribe to a duty, now chiefly abandoned to those heroic
brotherhoods, who, however vilified in modern judgment by
the crimes of some unworthy members, were yet, in the
dark times, the best, the bravest, and the holiest agents, to
whom God ever delegated the power to resist the oppressor,
to feed the hungry, to minister to wo; and who, alone,
amid that fiery pestilence, (loosed, as it were, a demon
from the abyss, to shiver into atoms all that binds the world
to virtue and to law,) seemed to awaken, as by the sound
of an angel's trumpet, to that noblest chivalry of the cross;
|
"A health to
"Hillo!" cried the chief, stopping; "here, Marga-
retta; here's a brave cloak for thee, my girl; silver enow
on it to fill thy purse, if it ever grow empty; which it may,
if ever the plague grow slack.”
"Nay," said the girl, who amid all the havoc of de-
bauch retained much of youth and beauty in her form and
face.
Nay, Guidotto, perhaps it has infection."
"Pooh, child, silver never infects. Clap it on, clap it
Besides, fate is fate, and when it is thine hour there
will be other means besides the gavocciolo."
on.
So saying, he seized the mantle, threw it roughly over.
her half-bared shoulders, and dragged her on as before,
half pleased with the finery, half frightened with the dan-
ger; while gradually died away along the lurid air and the
mournful streets, the chant of that most miserable mirth.
CHAPTER V.
The error.
FOR three days, the fatal three days, did Adrian remain
bereft of strength and sense. But he was not smitten by
the scourge which his devoted and generous nurse had an-
ticipated. It was a fierce and dangerous fever, brought on
by the great fatigue, restlessness, and terrible agitation he
had undergone.
Not an
No professional mediciner could be found to attend him,
but a good friar, perhaps better skilled in the healing art
than many who claimed its monopoly, visited him daily.
And in the long and frequent absences to which his other
and numerous duties compelled the monk, there was one
ever at hand to smooth the pillow, to wipe the brow, to
listen to the moan, to watch the sleep. And even in that
dismal office, when in the frenzy of the sufferer, her name,
coupled with terms of passionate endearment, broke from
his lips, a thrill of strange pleasure crossed the heart of the
betrothed, which she chid as if it were a crime. But even
the most unearthly love is selfish in the rapture of being
loved! Words cannot tell, heart cannot divine, the ming-
led emotions that broke over her when, in some of these
incoherent ravings, she dimly understood that for her the
city had been sought, the death dared, the danger incurred.
And as then bending passionately to kiss that burning
brow, her tears fell fast over the idol of her youth, the
fountains from which they gushed were those, fathomless
and countless, which a life could not weep away.
impulse of the human apd the woman heart that was not
stirred; the adoring gratitude, the meek wonder thus to be
loved, while deeming it so simple a merit thus to love; as
if all sacrifice in her were a thing of course, to her, a
virtue nature could not paragon, worlds could not repay
And there he lay, a victim to his own fearless faith, helpless,
dependant upon her, a thing between life and death,
to thank, to serve, to be proud of, yet protect,
passionate, yet revere, the saver, to be saved! Never
seemed one object to demand at once from a single heart so
many and so profound emotions; the romantic enthusiasm
of the girl, the fond idolatry of the bride, - the watch-
ful providence of the mother over her child.
And strange to say, with all the excitement of tha
lonely watch, scarcely stirring from his side, taking food
only that her strength might not fail her, unable to close
though, from the same cause she would fain
have taken rest, when slumber fell upon her charge,
strange to say, with all such wear and tear of frame and
her eyes,
S
M
!
to com-
•
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES
279
heart, she seemed wonderfully supported. And the holy
man marvelled in each visit to see the cheek of the nurse
still fresh, and her eye still bright. In her own supersti-
tion she thought and felt that heaven gifted her with a pre-
ternatural power to be true to so sacred a charge and in
this fancy she did not wholly err; for heaven did gift her
with that diviner power, when it planted in so soft a heart
the enduring might and energy of affection! The friar
had visited the sick man, late on the third night, and
administered to him a strong sedative. This night,"
said he to Irene, "will be the crisis; should he awaken,
as I trust he may, with a returning consciousness, and a
calm pulse, he will live; if not, young daughter, prepare
for the worst. But should
you
note any turn in the disease,
that may excite alarm, or require my attendance, this
scroll will inform you where I am, if God spare me still,
if God spare me still,
at each nour of the night and morning."
The monk retired, and Irene resumed her watch.
The sleep of Adrian was at first broken and interrupted,
-his features, his exclamations, his gestures, all evinced
great agony, whether mental or bodily; it seemed, as per-
haps it was, a fierce and doubtful struggle between life and
death for the conquest of the sleeper. Patient, silent,
breathing but by long-drawn gasps, Irene sat at the bed
head The lamp was removed to the farther end of the
chamber, and its ray shaded by the draperies did not suf-
fice to give to her gaze more than the outline of the coun-
tenance she watched. In that awful suspense, all the
thoughts that hitherto had stirred her mind lay hushed and
She was only sensible to that unutterable fear
which few of us have been happy enough not to know.
That crushing weight under which we can scarcely breathe
or move, the avalanche over us, freezing and suspended,
which we cannot escape from, with which, every moment,
we may be buried and overwhelmed. The whole destiny
of life was in the chances of that single night. It was
just as Adrian at last seemed to glide into a deeper and
serener slumber that the bells of the death-cart broke with
their boding knell the palpable silence of the streets. Now
hushed, now revived, as the cart stopped for its gloomy
passengers, and coming nearer and nearer after every
At length she heard the heavy wheels stop under
the very casement, and a voice deep and muffled calling
aloud, Bring out the dead!" She rose, and with a
noiseless step passed to secure the door, when the dull
lamp gleamed upon the dark and shrouded forms of the
becchini.
mute.
pause.
(C
"You have not marked the door, nor set out the body,
said one gruffly; "but this is the third night! He is
ready for us."
"Hush, he sleeps! away, quick, it is not the plague
that seized him.”
"Not the plague," growled the becchino, in a disap-
pointed tone; "I thought no other illness dared encroach
upon the rights of the gavocciolo !
Go, here's money, leave us.
The cart
And the grim carrier sullenly withdrew.
moved on, the bell renewed its summons, till slowly and
faintly the dreadful larum died in the distance.
-
Shading the lamp with her hand, Irene stole to the bed-
side, fearful that the sound and the intrusion had disturbed
the slumberer. But his face was still locked, as in a vice,
with that iron sleep. He stirred not, his breath scarce-
ly passed his lips, she felt his pulse, as the wan hand lay
on the coverlid,- there was a slight beat, she was con-
tented, removed the light, and, retiring to a corner of
the room, placed the little cross suspended round her neck,
upon the take, and prayed, in her intense suffering, to
Him wne had known death; and who, Son of heaven
though He was, and Sovereign of the seraphim, had also
prayed in his earthly travail that the cup might pass away.
The morning broke not as in the north, slowly and
tarough shadow, but with the sudden glory with which in
those climates day leaps upon earth, like a giant from his
sleep. A sudden smile,. -a burnished glow, and night
bad vanished. Adrian still slept; not a muscle seemed
to have stirred; the sleep was even heavier than before;
the silence became a burden upon the air. Now, in that
exceeding torpor so like unto death, the solitary watcher
became alarmed and terrified. Time passed, morning
glided to noon,
still not a sound nor motion. The sun
was midway in heaven; the friar came not,
And now,
again touching Adrian's pulse, she felt no flutter; she
she would learn the worst,
gazed on him appalled and confounded; surely naught living
could be so still and pale. "Was it indeed sleep, might il
not be She turned away sick and frozen; her tongue
she would
clove to her lips. Why did the father tarry,
she could for.
go to him,
bear no longer. She glanced over the scroll the monk bac
left her. "From sunrise, it said, I shall be at the con-
vent of the Dominicans. Death hath stricken many of the
brethren." The convent was at some distance, but she
knew the spot, and fear would wing her steps. She gave
one wistful look at the sleeper, and rushed from the house,
Alas!
"I shall see thee again presently," she murmured.
And whe
what hope can calculate beyond the moment.
shall claim the tenure of " The again !
It was not many minutes after Irene had left the room,
ere with a long sigh Adrian opened his eyes,
- an altered
and another man; the fever was gone, the reviving pulse
beat low indeed, but calm. His mind was once more mas
ter of his body, and though weak and feeble, the danger
was passed, and life and intellect regained.
"I have slept long," he muttered; "and Oh, such dreams.
and methought I saw Irene, but could not speak to her,
and while I attempted to grasp her, her face changed, her
form dilated, and I was in the clutch of the foul grave-dig-
ger. It is late, the sun is high, I must be and stirring
Irene is in Lombardy. No, no; that was a lie, a wicked
lie she is in Florence, I must renew my search."
up
As this duty came to his remembrance, he rose from the
bed; he was amazed at his own debility; at first he could
not stand without support from the wall, by degrees
however, he so far regained the mastery of his limbs, as tc
walk, though with effort and pain. A ravening hunger
preyed upon him, he found some scanty and light food in
the chamber, which he devoured eagerly. And with scarce
less eagerness laved his enfeebled form and haggard face
with water that stood at hand. He now felt refreshed and
invigorated, and began to indue his garments, which he
found thrown on a heap beside the bed. He gazed with
surprise and a kind of self-compassion upon his emaciated
hands and shrunken limbs, and began now to comprehend
that he must have had some severe but unconscious illness.
Na-
Alone, too," thought he, "no one near to tend me.
ture my only nurse. But alas! alas! how long a time may
thus have been wasted, and my adored Irene, quick,
quick, not a moment more will I lose.'
He soon found himself in the open street; the air revived
him; and that morning, the first known for weeks, had
sprung up the blessed breeze. He wandered on very slowly
and feebly, till he came to a broad square, from which, ir
the vista, might be seen one of the principal gates of Flor-
ence, and the fig trees and olive groves beyond. It was
then that a pilgrim of tall stature approached towards him,
as from the gate; his hood was thrown back, and gave to
view a countenance of great, but sad command; a face, in
whose high features, massive brow, and proud, unshrinking
gaze, shaded by an expression of melancholy more stern
than soft, nature seemed to have written majesty, and ſatɛ
disaster. As, in that silent and dreary place, these two,
the only tenants of the street, now encountered, Adrian
stopped abruptly, and said in a startled and doubting voice,
"Do I dream still, or do 1 behold Rienzi ?”
The pilgrim paused also, as he heard the name, and gaz.
ing long on the attenuated features of the young lord, said,
"I am he that was Rienzi! and you, pale shadow, is it in
this grave of Italy that I meet with the gay and high Colon.
na? Alas, young friend," he added in a more relaxed and
kindly voice," hath the plague not spared the flower of the
Roman nobles? Come, I, the cruel and the harsh tribune,
I will be thy nurse
I will be thy nurse he who might have been my brother,
shall yet claim from me a brother's care."
With these words, he wound his arm tenderly round
Adrian; and the young noble, touched by his compassion,
and agitated by the surprise, leaned upon Rienzi's breast in
silence.
"Poor youth," resumed the tribune, for so since rather
fallen than deposed he may yet be called, "I ever loved the
young; (my brother died young !) and you more an most.
What fatality brought thee hither?"
• !
Irene replied Adrian, falteringly.
Is it so, really? Art thou a Colonna, and yet prize
the fallen? The same duty has brought me also to the city
of death. From the farthest south, over the mountains of
the ebber, through the fastnesses of my foes, — through
280
BULWER'S NOVELS.
towns in which the herald proclaimed in my ear the price
of my head, I have passed hither, on foot and alone, safe
under the wings of the Almighty One. Young man, thou
shouldst have left this task to one who bears a wizard's life,
and whom heaven and earth yet reserve for an appointed
end ! "
The tribune said this in a deep and inward voice; and
in his raised eye and solemn brow might be seen how much
his reverses had deepened his fanaticism, and added even to
the sanguineness of his hopes.
But," asked Adrian, withdrawing gently from Rienzi's
arm, "thou knowest, then, where Irene is to be found, let
us go together. Lose not a moment in this talk, time is of
inestimable value, and a moment in this city is often but
the border to eternity."
"Right," said Rienzi, awakening to his object. "But
fear not, I have dreamed that I shall save her, the gem and
darling of my house. Fear not, I have no fear."
"Know you where to seek?" said Adrian, impatiently;
"the convent holds far other guests.
"Ha! so said my dream.'
I
"Talk not now of dreams," said the lover, "but if you
have no other guide, let us part at once in quest of her ;
will take yonder street, you take the opposite, and at sun-
set let us meet in the saine spot.
>>
"Rash man," said the tribune, with great solemnity,
"scoff not at the visions which heaven makes a parable to
its chosen. Thou seekest counsel of thy human wisdom;
I, less presumptuous, follow the hand of the mysterious
providence, moving even now before my gaze as a pillar of
light, through the wilderness of dread. Ay, meet we here
at sunset, and prove whose guide is the most unerring. If
my dream tell me true, I shall meet my sister living, ere
the sun reach yonder hill, and by a church dedicated to St.
Mark.'
The grave earnestness with which Rienzi spoke, impress-
ed Adrian with a hope his reason would not acknowledge.
He saw him depart with that proud and stately step to
which his sweeping garments gave a yet more imposing
dignity, and then passed up the street to the right hand.
He had not got half-way when he felt himself pulled by the
mantle. He turned and saw the shapeless mask of a bec-
chino.
"I feared you were sped, and that another had cheated
me of my office," said the grave-digger, "seeing that you
returned not to the old prince's palace. You don't know
me from the rest of us, I see, but I am the one you told to
seek
"Irene !"
and architecture. Again he tapped thrice at the par ou
door, and this time came forth a man withered, old, and
palsied, whom death seemed to disdain to strike.
CC
Signor Astuccio," said the becchino, "pardon me ;
but I told thee I might trouble thee again. This is the
gentleman who wants to know, what is often best unknown,
but that's not my affair. Did a lady, young and beautiful,
with dark hair, and of a slender form, enter this house,
stricken with the first symptom of the plague, three days
since?"
Ay, thou knowest that well enough; and thou knowest
still better, that she has departed these two days; it was
quick work with her; quicker than with most!"
"Did she wear any thing remarkable ?"
"Yes, troublesome man, a blue cloak, with stars of
silver.”
"Couldst thou guess aught of her previous circum-
stances?"
""
No, save that she raved much about the nunnery of
Santa Maria dei Pazzi, and bravos, and sacrilege.'
"Are you satisfied, signor ?" asked the grave-digger,
with an air of triumph, turning to Adrian.
will satisfy thee better, if thou hast courage. Wilt the
follow?"
" But no,
"I comprehend thee; lead on. Courage! what is there
on earth now to fear?”
Muttering himself, "Ay, leave me alone. I have a head
worth something; I ask no gentleman to go by my word;
I will make his own eyes the judge of what my trouble is
worth," the grave-digger now led the way through one of
the gates a little out of the city. And here, under a shed,
sat six of his ghastly and ill-omened brethren, with spades
and pickaxes at their feet.
His guide now turned round to Adrian, whose face was
set, and resolute in despair.
"Fair signor," said he, with some touch of lingering
compassion, "wouldst thou really convince thine own eyes
and heart? The sight may appal, the contagion may destroy
thee, if, indeed, as it seems to me, death has not already
written Mine upon thee."
C
>
"Raven of bode and wo, answered Adrian, "seest
thou not that all I shrink from is thy voice and aspect.
Show me her I seek, living or dead.”
"I will show her to you, then," said the becchino, sul-
lenly, "such as two nights since she was committed to my
charge. Line and liacament may already be swept away,
for the plague hath a rapid besom; but I have left that
upon her by which you will know the becchino is no liar.
Bring hither the torches, comrades, and lift the door. Never
Yes, Irene di Gabrini; you promised ample reward." stare; it's the gentleman's whim, and he 'll pay it well.”
"You shall have it."
"Follow me."
The becchino strode on, and soon arrived at a mansion.
Ile knocked twice at the porter's entrance, an old woman
cautiously opened the door; "Fear not, good aunt," said
the grave-digger, "this is the young lord I spoke to thee
of. Thou sayst thou hadst two ladies in the palace, who
alone survived of all the lodgers, and their names were
Bianca di Medici, and what was the other ?"
“Irene di Gabrini, a Roman lady. But I told thee this
was the fourth day they had left the house, terrified by the
deaths within it.”
"Thou didst so, and was there any thing remarkable
in the dress of the Signora di Gabrini ?
"Yes, I have told ther a blue mantle, such as I have
rarely seen, wrought with ilver.”
"Was the broidery that of stars, silver stars," exclaimed
Adrian, "with a sun ir 'he centre?"
"It was."
"Alas! alas! the arms of the tribune's family! I re-
member how I praised the mantle the first day she wore it,
the day on which we were betrothed ! And the lover
at once conjectured the secret sentiments which had induced
Irene to retain so carefully a robe so endeared by associa-
tion.
“You know no more of your lodgers?"
"Nothing.
"And is this all you have learned, knave?" cried
Adrian.
"Patience. I must bring you from proof to proof, and
link to link, in order to win my reward. Follow, signor.
The becchino, then passing through several lanes and
streets, arrived at another house of less magr Vicent size
Turning to the right, while Adrian mechanically followed
his conductors, a spectacle, whose dire philosophy crushes
as with a wheel, all the pride of mortal man,
the spec-
tacle of that vault in which earth hides all that on earth
M
flourished, rejoiced, exulted, awaited his eye!
The becchino lifted a ponderous grate, lowered their
torches, (scarcely needed, for through the aperture rushed,
with a hideous glare, the light of the burning sun,) and
motioned to Adrian to advance. He stood upon the summit
of the abyss and gazed below. It was a large deep and
circular space, like the bottom of an exhausted well. In
niches cut into the walls of earth around, lay, duly coffined,
those who had been the earliest victims of the plague, when
the becchino's market was not yet glutted, and priest
followed, and friend mourned, the dead. But on the floor
below, there was the loathsome horror! Huddled and
matted together, some naked, some in shrouds already
black and rotten, lay the later guests, the unshriven and
unblessed! The torches, the sun, streamed broad and red
over corruption in all its stages, from the pale blue tint and
bursting stomach, to the moistened, undistinguishable mass,
or the riddled bones, where yet clung, in strips and tatters,
the black and mangled flesh. In many, the face remained
almost perfect, while the rest of the body was but bone;
the long hair, the human face, surmounting the grizzly
skeleton. There was the infant, still on the mo 'her's
breast; there was the lover stretched across the limbs of
the dainty leman! The rats, (for they clustered in auc
bers to that feast,) disturbed, not scared, sat up from their
horrid meal as the light glimmered over them. There, too,
the wild satire of the grave-diggers had cast, though strip-
ped of their gold and jewels, the emblems that spoke of
departed rank; the broken wand of the councillo; the
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
281
general's baton; the priestly mitre! The foul and livid
xhalations gathered, like flesh itself, fungous and putrid,
upon the walls. But who shall detail the ineffable and
unimaginable horrors that reigned over the palace where the
great king received the prisoners whom the sword of the
pestilence had subdued?
over, deeming you would now be quitting Florence if you
have any sense left to you, I went for your good horse. I
have fed him since your departure from the palace. Indeed
I fancied he would be my perquisite, but there are plenty
as good. Come, young sir, mount. I feel a pity for you,
I know not why, except that you are the only one I have
met for weeks who seems to care for another more than
for yourself.
for yourself. I hope you are satisfied now that I showed
some brains, eh! in your service; and as I have kept my
promise, you'll keep yours."
But through all that crowded court, crowded with
beauty and with birth, with the strength of the young, and
the honors of the old, and the valor of the brave, and the
wisdom of the learned, and the wit of the scorner, and the
piety of the faithful, one only figure attracted Adrian's
eye. Apart from the rest, a late comer, the long locks
streaming far and dark over arm and breast, lay a female,
the face turned partially aside, the little seen not recognisa-
ble even by the mother of the dead, but wrapped round in
that fatal mantle, on which, though blackened and tar-
nished, was yet visible the starry heraldry assumed by those
who claimed the name of the proud tribune of Rome.
Adrian saw no more; he fell back in the arms of the grave-
diggers when he recovered, he was still without the gates horse."
:
of Florence, reclined upon a green mound: his guide
stood beside him, holding his steed by the bridle as it
grazed patiently on the neglected grass. The other breth-
ren of the axe had resuined their seat under the shed.
So, you have revived; ah! I thought it was only the
effluvia; few stand it as we do. And so, as your search is
""
وو
"Friend," said Adrian, "here is gold enough to make
thee rich; here, too, is a jewel that merchants will tell thee
princes might vie to purchase. Thou seemest hcrest,
despite thy calling, or thou mightst have robbed and mur-
dered me long since. Do me one favor more.
By my poor mother's soul, yes.
"Take you yon clay from that fearful place. Inter it
in some quiet and remote spot, apart, alone! You promise
you swear it it is well. And now help me on my
"Farewell, Italy, and if I die not with this stroke, may
with trumpet
I die as befits at once honor and despair,
and banner round me, in a well-fought field against a
worthy foe!
save a knightly death nothing is left to live
for!"
me,
J
BOOK VII.
THE PRISON.
Fu rinchiuso in una torre grossa e larga; avea libri assai, suo Tito Livio, sue storie di Roma, la Bibbia, &c.
Vit. di COLA RIENZI, lib. xi., c. xill.
CHAPTER I.
Avignon. The two pages. The stranger beauty.
THERE is this difference between the drama of Shaks-
peare and that of almost every other master of the same
art; that in the first, the catastrophe is rarely produced by
one single cause, -one simple and continuous chain of
events. Various and complicated agencies work out the
final end. Unfettered by the rules of time and place, each
time, each place depicted, presents us with its appropriate
change of action or of actors. Sometimes the interest
seems to halt, to turn aside, to bring us unawares upon
objects hitherto unnoticed, or upon qualities of the charac-
ters, hitherto hinted at, not developed. But, in reality,
the pause in the action is but to collect, to gather up, and
to grasp, all the varieties of circumstance that conduce to
the great result and the vulgar art of fiction is only de-
serted for the nobler fidelity of history. Whoever seeks to
place before the world the true representation of a man's
life and times, and, enlarging the dramatic into the epic,
extends his narrative over the vicissitudes of years, will
find himself unconsciously, in this, the imitator of Shaks-
peare. New characters, each conducive to the end,
new scenes, each leading to the last, rise before him as he
proceeds, sometimes seeming to the reader to delay, even
while they advance, the dread catastrophe.
The sacrifi-
cial procession sweeps along, swelled by new comers,
losing many that first joined it; before, at last, the same
as a whole, but differing in its components, the crowd
reach the fated bourn of the altar and the victim !
:
It is five years after the date of the events I have
recorded, and my story conveys us to the papal court at
Avignon, that tranquil seat of power, to which the suc-
cessors of St. Peter had transplanted the luxury, the pomp,
and the vices of the imperial city. Secure from the fraud
of violence of a powerful and barbarous nobility, the cour-
tiers of the see surrendered themselves to a holyday of
delight, their repose was devoted to enjoyment, and
Avignon presented, at that day, perhaps, the gayest and
most voluptuous society of Europe. The elegance of
VOL II.
36
Clement VI. had diffused an air of literary refinement over
the sensualities of the spot, and the penetrative spirit of
Petrarch still continued to work its way through the coun-
cils of faction and the orgies of debauch.
Innocent VI. had lately succeeded Clement, and, what-
ever his own claims to learning, he at least appreciated
knowledge and intellect in others,
and the graceful pe-
dantry of the time continued to mix itself with the pursuit
of pleasure. The corruption which reigned through the
whole place was too confirmed to yield to the example of
Innocent, himself a man of simple habits and exemplary
life. Though, like his predecessor, obedient to the policy
of France, Innocent possessed a hard and an extended am-
bition. Deeply concerned for the interests of the church,
be formed the project of confirming and reestablishing her
shaken dominion in Italy, - and he regarded the tyrants
of the various states as the principal obstacles to his eccle-
siastical ambition. Nor was this the policy of Innocent
VI. alone. With such exceptions as peculiar circumstances
necessarily occasioned, the papal see was, upon the
whole, friendly to the political liberties of Italy. The
republics of the middle ages grew up under the shadow of
the church; and there, as elsewhere, it was found, contrary
to a vulgar opinion, that religion, however prostituted and
perverted, served for the general protection of civil free-
| dom, raised the lowly, and resisted the oppressor.
M
At this period, there appeared at Avignon a lady of sin-
gular and matchless beauty. She had come with slender
but well-appointed retinue from Florence, but declared her-
self of Neapolitan birth; the widow of a noble of the
brilliant court of the unfortunate Jane. Her name was
Cæsarini. Arrived at a place where, even in the citadel
of Christianity, Venus retained her ancient empire, where
love made the prime business of life, and to be beautiful
was to be of power; the Signora Cesarini had scarcely
appeared in public before she saw at her feet half the rank
and gallantry of Avignon. Her female attendants were
beset with bribes and billets; and nightly beneath her lat-
tice was heard the plaintive serenade. She entered largely
into the gay dissipations of the town, and her charms shared
282
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the celebrity of the hour with the verse of Petrarcn. But
though she frowned on none, none could claim the monop-
oly of her smiles. Her fair fame was as yet unblemished;
but if any might presume beyond the rest, she seemed to
have selected rather from ambition than love; and Giles,
the warlike Cardinal D'Albornoz, all-powerful at the
sacred court, already foreboded the hour of his triumph.
It was late noon and in the antechainber of the fair sig-
nora waited two of that fraternity of pages, fair and richly
clad, which, at that day, furnished the favorite attendants
to rank of either sex.
tr
By my troth," cried one of these young servitors,
pushing from him the dice with which himself and his
companion had sought to beguile their leisure, "this is but
dull work! and the best part of the day is gone. Our lady
is late."
C
>>
"And I have donned my new velvet mantle. Daylight
will be over before it has its opportunity of admiration!
replied the other, compassionately eyeing his finery.
"Chut, Giacomo," said his comrade, yawning; "a
truce with thy conceit. What news abroad, I wonder.
Has his holiness come to his senses yet?"
"His senses! what, is he mad then?" quoth Giacomo,
in a serious and astonished whisper.
"I think he is; if, being pope, he does not discover
that he may at length lay aside mask and hood. Conti-
nent cardinal, lewd pope,' is the old motto, you know;
something must be the matter with the good man's brain if
he continue to live like a hermit.
"Oh, I have you! But, faith, his holiness has proxies
eno'. The bishops take care to prevent women, heaven
bless them, going out of fashion; and his eminence of
Albornoz does not maintain your proverb, touching the
cardinals.'
"True, but Giles is a warrior, a cardinal in the
church, but a soldier out of it.”
"Will he carry the fort here, think you, Angelo?"
Why, fort is female, but
"But what? ""
"That brow of the signora's is made for power rather
than love, fair as it is. She sees in Albornoz the prince,
and not the lover. With what a step she sweeps the floor!
it disdains even the cloth of gold.
>>
"Hark!" cried Giacomo, hastening to the lattice,
"hear you the hoofs below? Ah, a gallant company!"
"Returned from hawking, a foreign sport, but a gentle,'
answered Angelo, regarding wistfully the cavalcade, as it
swept the narrow street. "Plumes waving, steeds cur-
vetting, -see how yon handsome cavalier presses close to
that dame!""
"His mantle is the color of mine," sighed Giacomo.
As the gay procession passed slowly on, till hidden by
the winding street, and as the sound of laughter and the
ramp of horses were yet faintly heard, there gloomed right
before the straining gaze of the pages, a dark massive
tower of the mighty masonry of the eleventh century: the
sun gleamed sadly on its vast and dismal surface, which
was only here and there relieved by loopholes and narrow
glits rather than casements. It was a striking contrast to
the gayety around, the glittering shops, and the gaudy train
that had just filled the space below. This contrast the
young men seemed involuntarily to feel they drew back,
and looked at each other.
"I know your thoughts, Giacomo," said Angelo, the
handsomer and elder of the two. "You think yon tower
affords but a gloomy lodgment?"
"And I thank my stars that made me not high enough
to require so grand a cage," rejoined Giacomo.
"Yet," observed Angelo, "it holds one, who in birth
was not our superior.”
"Do tell me something of that strange man," said
Giacomo, regaining his seat; "you are Ronian, and
should know.
up.
"Yes!" answered Angelo, haughtily drawing himself
“I am Roman! and I should be unworthy my birth,
if I had not already learned what honor is due to the name
of Cola di Rienzi."
"Yet your fellow-Romans nearly stoned him, I fancy,'
muttered Giacomo. "Honor seems to lie more in kicks
than money.
Can you tell me," continued the page, in a
louder key,
can you tell me if it be true, that Rienzi
appeared at Prague before the emperor, and prophesied
that the late pope and all the cardinals should be murdered,
،،
|
and a new Italian pope elected, who should endue tor
emperor with a golden crown, as sovereign of Sicilia,
Calabria, and Apulia, * and himself with a crown of silver,
as the king of Rome and all Italy ? And "
"Hush!" interrupted Angelo, impatiently.
"Lister
to me, and you shall know the exact story. On last leav-
ing Rome (thou knowest, that, after his fall, he was present
at the jubilee in disguise) the tribune" here Angelo,
pausing, looked round, and then, with a flushed cheek and
raised voice, resumed, "Yes, the tribune, that was and
shall be,
travelled in disguise, as a pilgrim, cver moun-
tain and forest, night and day, exposed to rain and storm,
no shelter but the cave, he who had been, they say, the
very spoiled one of luxury. Arrived at length in Bohe
mnia, he disclosed himself to a Florentine in Prague, and
through his aid obtained audience of the Emperor Charles."
"A prudent man, the emperor !" said Giacomo, "close-
fisted as a miser. He makes conquests by bargain, and
goes to market for laurels, - as I have heard my brother
say, who was under him."
C
C
True, but I also have heard that he likes bookmen
and scholars, is wise and temperate, and much is ye
hoped from him in Italy! Before the emperor, I say,
came Rienzi. Know, great prince,' said he, that I am
that Rienzi to whom God gave to govern Rome, in peace,
with justice, and to freedom. I curbed the nobles, I purg-
ed corruption, I amended law. The powerful persecuted
pride and envy have chased me from my dominions.
Great as you are, fallen as I am, I too have wielded the
sceptre, and might have worn a crown. Know, too, that
I am illegitimately of your lineage; my father, the son of
Henry VII;t the blood of the Teuton rolls in my veins;
mean as were my earlier fortunes, and humble my earlier
name ! From you, O king, I seek protection, and I de-
mand justice.'
me,
"A bold speech, and one from equal to equal,” said
Giacomo; CC
surely you swell us out the words.”
"Not a whit; they were written down by the emperor's
scribe, and every Roman, who has once heard, knows them
by heart once, every Roman was the equal to a king,
and Rienzi maintained our dignity in asserting his own.
Giacomo, who discreetly avoided quarrels, knew the
weak side of his friend; and, though in his heart he
thought the Romans as good-for-nothing a set of turbulent
dastards as all Italy might furnish, he merely picked a
straw from his mantle, and said, in rather an impatient
tone, “Humph! proceed! did the emperor dismiss him?"
"Not so,
Charles was struck with his bearing and
his spirit, received him graciously, and entertained him
hospitably. He remained some time at Prague, and as-
tonished all the learned with his knowledge and elo-
quence." +
"But if so honored at Prague, how comes he a prisoner
at Avignon ?"
Giacomo," said Angelo, thoughtfully, "there are some
men whom we, of another mind and mould, can rarely com-
prehend and never fathom. And of such men I have ob-
served, that a supreme confidence in their own fortune or
their own souls, is the most common feature. Thus im-
pressed, and thus buoyed, they rush into danger with a
seeming madness, and from danger soar to greatness, or
sink to death. So with Rienzi; dissatisfied with empty
courtesies, and weary of playing the pedant, since once he
had played the prince; -some say of his own accord,
(though others relate that he was surrendered to the pope's
legate by Charles,) he left the emperor's court, and,
without arms, without money, betook himself at once to
Avignon !"
sy,
"Madness indeed!"
Yet, perhaps, his only course, under all circumstan
ces," resumed the elder page. "Once before his fall, and
once during his absence from Rome, he had been excom-
municated by the pope's legate. He was accused of here-
the ban was still on him. It was necessary that he
should clear himself. How was the poor exile to do so?
No powerful friend stood up for the friend of the people.
No courtier vindicated one who had trampled on the nex
* An absurd fable adopted by historians.
Uncle to the Emperor Charles.
His Italian cotemporary delights in representing this re-
him when at Prague, "disputava con mastri di teologia: molto
markable man as another Crichton. Disputava,"
"he says of
diceva, parlava cose meravigliose, lingua deserta .
fea ogni versona.”
•
abbair
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
238
of the nobles II's own genius was his only friend; on
that only could he rely. He sought Avignon to free him-
gelf from the accusations against him; and, doubtless, he
hoped that there was but one step from his acquittal to his
restoration. Besides, it is certain that the emperor had
been applied to, formally to surrender Rienzi. He had the
choice before him; for to that, sooner or later, it must
come, to go free, or to go in bonds, - as a criminal,
or as a Roman. He chose the latter. Wherever he passed
along, the people rose in every town, in every hamlet. The
name of the great tribune was honored throughout all Italy.
They besought him not to rush into the very den of peril,
they implored him to save himself for that country he
had sought to raise. I go to vindicate myself, and te
triumph,' was the tribune's answer. Solemn honors were
paid him in the cities through which he passed; and I am
told that never ambassador, prince, or baron, entered Avig-
non with so long a train as that which followed into these
very walls the path of Cola di Rienzi.'
"And on his arrival?"
"He demanded an audience, that he might refute the
charges against him. He flung down the gage to the proud
cardinals who had excommunicated him. He besought a
trial."
"And what said the pope ?
CC
Nothing, by word. Yon tower was his answer!"
"A rough one!"
"But there have been longer roads than that from the
prison to the palace, and God made not men like Rienzi
for the dungeon and the chain."
As Angelo said this with a loud voice, and with all the
enthusiasm with which the fame of the fallen tribune had
inspired the youth of Rome, he heard a sigh behind him.
He turned in some confusion, and at the door which ad-
mitted to the chamber occupied by the Signora Cæsarini,
stood a female of noble presence. Attired in the richest
garments, gold and geins were dull to the lustre of her dark
eyes; and as she now stood, erect and commanding, never
seemed brow more made for the regal crown,
never did
human beauty more fully consummate the ideal of a heroine
and a queen.
yet almost a youth, attained the archbishopric of Toledo-
But no peaceful career, however brilliant, sufficed his am
bition. He could not content himself with the honors of the
church, unless they were the honors of a church militant.
In the war against the Moors, no Spaniard had more highly
distinguished himself; and Alphonso XI., king of Castile,
had insisted on receiving from the hand of the martial priest
the badge of knighthood. After the death of Alphonso,
who was strongly attached to him, Albornoz repaired to
Avignon, and obtained from Clement VI. the cardinal's
hat. With Innocent he continued in high favor, and now,
constantly in the councils of the pope, rumors of warlike
preparation, under the banners of Albornoz, for the recov-
ery of the papal dominions from the various tyrants that
usurped them, were already circulated through the court.
Bold, sagacious, enterprising, and cold-hearted,
the valor of the knight, and the cunning of the priest,
was the character of Giles, Cardinal D'Albornoz.
with
such
Leaving his attendant gentlemen in the antechamber,
Albornoz was ushered into the apartment of the Signora
Cæsarini. In person about the middle height, the dark
complexion of Spain had faded, by thought and the wear
of ambitious schemes, into a sallow, but hardy hue. His
brow was deeply furrowed, and though not yet past the
prime of life, Albornoz might seem to have entered age,
but for the firmness of his step, the slender elasticity of his
frame, and an eye which had acquired calmness and depth
from thought without losing any of the brilliancy of youth.
"Beautiful signora," said the cardinal, bending over the
hand of the Cæsarini with a grace which betokened more
of the prince than of the priest," the commands of his holi-
ness have detained me, I fear, beyond the hour in which
you vouchsafed to appoint my homage, but my heart has
been with you since we parted."
"has so
"The Cardinal D'Albornoz," replied the signora, gen-
tly withdrawing her hand, and seating herself,
many demands on his time, from the duties of his rank and
renown, that, methinks, to divert his attention for a few
moments to less noble thoughts is a kind of treason to his
fame."
"Pardon me, signora," said Angelo, hesitatingly; "Ibition so
spoke loud, I disturbed you; but I am a Roman, and
theme was
my
"Ah lady," replied the cardinal, "never was my am-
"Ibition so nobly directed as it is now. And it were a proud-
er lot to be at thy feet than on the throne of St. Peter.”
A momentary blush passed over the cheek of the signora,
yet it seemed the blush of indignation as much as of vanity:
it was succeeded by an extreme paleness. She paused
before she replied, and then fixing her large and haughty
eyes on the enamoured Spaniard, she said, in a low voice,
My lord cardinal, I do not affect to misunderstand
your words; neither do I place them to the account of a
general gallantry. I am vain enough to believe you imag-
ine you speak truly when
ine you speak truly when you say you love me.
Imagine! - as well might I imagine I believed in the
sanctity of the cross," answered the priest.
"Rienzi!" said the lady, approaching; "a fit one to
stir a Roman heart. Nay, no excuses,
they would
sound ill on thy generous lips. Ah, if, the signora
paused suddenly and sighed again; then, in an altered and
graver tone, she resumed, -"if fate restore Rienzi to his
proper fortunes, he shall know what thou deemest of him.”
"If you lady, who are of Naples," said Angelo, with
meaning emphasis, "speak thus of a fallen exile, what
"speak thus of a fallen exile, what
must I have felt who acknowledged a sovereign ?"
"Rienzi is not of Rome alone, he is of Italy, of the
world," returned the signora. "And you, Angelo, who
have had the boldness to speak thus of one fallen, have
proved with what loyalty you can serve those who have the
fortune to own you.
As she spoke, the signora looked at the page's downcast
and blushing face long and wistfully, with the gaze of one
accustomed to read the soul in the countenance.
"Men are often deceived," said she, sadly, yet with a
half smile; "but women rarely, - save in love. Would
that Rome were filled with such as you! Enough! Hark!
Is that the sound of hoofs in the court below ?"
"Madam," said Giacomo, bringing his mantle gallantly
over his shoulder, "I see the servitors of his eminence the
Cardinal D'Albornoz. It is his eminence himself."
"It is well!" said the signora, with a brightening eye.
"I await his eminence! With these words she with-
drew by the door through which she had surprised the
Roman page.
CHAPTER II.
The character of a warrior priest. An interview. - The
intrigue and counter intrigue of courts.
GILES, (or Egidio,) Cardinal D'Albornoz, was one of
the most remarkable men of that remarkable time, so prod-
igal of genius. Boasting his descent from the royal houses
of Arragon and Leos, he had early entered the church, and
"Listen to me," returned the signora.
"She whom the
Cardinal Albornoz honors with his love has a right to de-
mand of him his proofs. In the papal court, whose power
like his? I require you to exercise it for me."
CC
Speak, dearest lady, have your estates been seized by
the barbarians of these lawless times? Hath any dared to
injure you Lanus and titles, are these thy wish ?- my
power is thy slave.”
CC
Cardinal, no! there is one thing dearer to an Italian
and a woman, than wealth or station, it is revenge!"
The cardinal drew back from the flashing eye that was
bent upon him, but the spirit of her speech touched a con-
genial chord.
"There," said he, after a little hesitation, "there spake
high descent. Revenge is the luxury of the well-born. Let
serfs and churls forgive an injury. Proceed, lady."
"Hast thou heard the last news from Rome?" said the
signora.
Surely," replied the cardinal, in some surprise, "we
were poor statesmen to be ignorant of the condition of the
capital of the papal dominions. And my heart mourns for
that unfortunate city; but wherefore wouldst thou question
me of Rome? Thou art—”
"Roman! know, my lord, that I have a purpose in call-
ing myself of Naples. To your discretion I intrust my
secret. I am of Rome! Tell me of her state.”
"Fairest one," returned the cardinal, "I should have
known that that brow and presence were not of the light
Campania. My reason she'd have told me that they bore
284
BULWER S NOVELS
the stamp of the empress of the world. The state of Rome,"
continued Albornoz, in a graver tone, "is briefly told.
Thou knowest that after the fall of the able but insolent
Rienzi, Pepin, Count of Minorbino, (a creature of Mon-
(a creature of Mon-
treal's,) who had assisted in expelling him, would have
betrayed Rome to Montreal,- but he was neither strong
enough nor wise enough, and the barons chased him as
he had chased the tribunes. Some time afterward a new
demagogue, John Cerroni, was installed in the capitol.
He once more expelled the nobles; new revolutions en-
sned, the barons were recalled. The weak successor
of Rienzi summoned the people to arms, in vain,-in
terror and despair he abdicated his power, and left the
city a prey to the interminable feuds of the Orsini, the Co-
lonna, and the Savelli."
“Thus much I know, my lord; but when his holiness
succeeded to the chair of Clement VI.
Then," said Albornoz,—and a slight frown darkened
his sallow brow, "then came the blacker part of the
history. Two senators were elected in concert by the pope."
"Their names?"
"Bertoldo Orsini, and one of the Colonna. A few
weeks afterward, the high price of provisions stung the
rascal stomachs of the mob, they rose, they clamored,
they armed, they besieged the capitol-
>"
"Well, well," cried the signora, clasping her hands,
and betokening in every feature her interest in the nar-
"ation.
"Colonna only escaped death by a wild disguise; Ber-
toldo Orsini was stoned.”
"Stoned! there fell one!"
"Yes, lady, one of a great house; the least drop of
whose blood were worth an ocean of plebeian puddles. At
present, all is disorder, misrule, anarchy, at Rome. The
contests of the nobles shake the city to the centre; and
prince and people, wearied of so many experiments to
establish a government, have now no governor but the fear
of the sword. Such, fair madam, is the state of Rome.
Sigh not; it occupies now our care. It shall be remedied,
and I, madam, may be the happy instrument of restoring
peace to your native city.
""
"There is but one way of restoring peace to Rome,"
answered the signora, abruptly, "and that is the resto-
ration of Rienzi!"
The cardinal started.
“Madam,” said he, " do I hear
aright, are you not nobly born,— can you desire the rise
of a plebeian? Did you not speak of revenge, and now
you ask for mercy?"
"Lord cardinal," said the beautiful signora, earnestly,
"I do not ask for mercy; such a word is not for the lips
of one who demands justice. Nobly born I am, — ay,
and from a stock to whose long descent from the patricians
of ancient Rome the high line of Arragon itself would be
of yesterday. Nay, I would not offend your eminence;
your greatness is not borrowed from pedigrees and tomb-
stones, your greatness is your own achieving: would
you speak honestly, my lord, you would own that you are
proud only of your own laurels, and that, in your heart,
you laugh at the stately fools who trick themselves out in
the mouldering finery of the dead!
speak.
Rome.
fail,
You desire to reestablish the papal power in
Your senators have failed to do it. Demagogues
Rienzi alone can succeed; he alone can command
|
the turbulent passions of the barons,
he alone can sway
the capricious and fickle mob. Release, restore Rienzi,
and through Rienzi the pope regains Rome!
The cardinal did not answer for some moments. Buried
as in a reverie, he sat motionless, shading his face with his
hand. Perhaps he secretly owned that there was a wiser
policy in the suggestions of the signora thau he cared open-
ly to confess. Lifting his hand, at length, from his bosom,
he fixed his eyes upon the signora's watchful countenance,
and, with a forced smile, said,
"Pardon me, madam; but while we play the politi
cians, forget not that I am thy adorer. Sagacious may be
thy counsels, yet, wherefore are they urged
Why this
anxious interest for Rienzi? If by releasing him the
church may gain an ally, am I sure that Giles D'Albornoz
will not raise a rival?
66
My lord," said the signora, half rising, " you are my
suitor, but your rank does not tempt me, your gold can-
not buy. If you love me, I have a right to command your
service to whatsoever task I would require, it is the law
of chivalry. If ever I yield to the addresses of morta
lover, it will be to the man who restores to my native land
her hero and her saviour."
"Fair patriot," said the cardinal, your words en-
courage my hope, yet they half damp my ambition, for fain
would I desire that love, and not service, should alone give
me the treasure that I ask. But hear me, sweet lady; you
overrate my power; I cannot deliver Rienzi, he is ac-
cused of rebellion; he is excommunicated for heresy His
acquittal rests with himself."
"You can procure his trial
Perhaps, lady
"That is his acquittal! — and, a private audience of
his holiness! "
"Doubtless."
"That is his restoration. Behold all I ask !"'
"And then, sweet Roman, it will be mine to ask," said
the cardinal, passionately, dropping on his knee, and tak-
ing the signora's hand. For one moment, that proud lady
felt that she was woman, she blushed, she trembled; but
it was not (could the cardinal have read that heart) with
passion or with weakness; it was with terror and with
shame. Passively she surrendered her hand to the cardi-
nal, who covered it with kisses.
"Thus inspired," said Albornoz, rising, "I will no
doubt of success. To-morrow I wait on thee again.
He pressed her hand to his heart, the lady felt it not.
He sighed his farewell, she did not hear it. Lingeringly
he gazed, and slowly he departed. But it was some mo
ments before, recalled to herself, the signora felt that she
was alone.
"Alone!" she cried, half aloud, and with wild empha-
sis, "alas! Oh, what have I undergone, what have I
said! Unfaithful, even in thought, to him! Oh, never!
never! I, that have felt the kiss of his hallowing lips,
that have slept on his kingly heart, I! holy Mother, be-
friend and strengthen me!" she continued, as, weeping
"Muse! prophetess! you spek aright," said the high-bitterly, she sunk upon her knees, and for some moments
spirited cardinal, with unwonted energy; "and your voice
is like that of the fame I dreamed of in my youth. Speak
on, speak ever!
دو
"Such," continued the signora, "such as your pride,
is the just pride of Rienzi; proud that he is the work-
man of his own great renown. In such as the tribune of
Rome we acknowledge the founders of noble lineage.
Ancestry makes not them, they make ancestry. Enough
of this. I am of noble race, it is true, but my house, aud
those of many, have been crushed and broken beneath the
yoke of the Orsini and Colonna, it is against them I de-
sire revenge. But I am better than an Italian lady,
am a Roman woman, I weep tears of blood for the disor-
ders of my unhappy country. I mourn that even you, my
lord, yes, that a barbarian, however eminent and how-
ever great, should mourn for Rome. I desire to restore her
fortunes."
I
"But Rienzi would only restore his own.”
"Not so, my lord cardinal, not so. Vain, ambitious,
proud he may be, great souls are so, but he has never
had one wish divorced from the welfare of Rome. But
put aside all thought of his interests, - it is not of these I
she was lost in prayer. Then, rising composed, but deadly
pale, and with the tears rolling heavily down her cheeks,
the signora passed slowly to the casement; she threw it
open, and leaned forward; the air of the declining day
came softly on her temples; it cooled, it mitigated, the
fever that preyed within. Dark and huge before her
frowned in its gloomy shadow the tower, in which Rienz
lay a prisoner and a criminal; she gazed at it long and wist
fully; and then, turning away, drew from the folds of he
robe a small and sharp dagger. "Let me save him fo
glory!" she murmured; and this shall save me from
dishonor!"
CHAPTER III.
Holy men. Sagacious deliberations. Just resolves. And
sordid motives to all.
ENAMOURED of the beauty, and almost equally so of
the lofty spirit, of the Signora Casarini, as was the wur
like cardinal of Spain, love with him was not so master a
RIENZI THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES
283
passion as that ambition of complete success in all the
active designs of life, which had hitherto animated his
character, and signalized his career. Musing, as he left
the signora, on her wish for the restoration of the Roman
tribune, his experienced and profound intellect ran swiftly
through whatever advantages might result from that restora-
tion to his own political designs. We have already seen
that it was the intention of the new pontiff to attempt the
recovery of the patrimonial territories, now torn from him
by the gripe of able and disaffected tyrants. With this
view, a military force was already in preparation, and the
cardinal was already secretly nominated the chief. But the
force was very inadequate to the enterprise; and Albornoz
depended much upon the moral strength of the cause in
bringing recruits to his standard, in his progress through
the Italian states. The wonderful rise of Rienzi had ex-
cited an extraordinary enthusiasm in his favor through all
the free populations of Italy. And this had been yet more
kindled and inflamed by the influential eloquence of Pe-
trarch, who, at that time possessed of a power greater
than ever wielded, before or since, (not even excepting the
sage of Ferney,) wielded by a single literary man,- had
put forth his bollest genius in behalf of the Roman tribune.
Such a companion as Rienzi in the camp of the cardinal
might be a magnet of attraction to the youth and enter-
prise of Italy. On nearing Rome, he might himself judge
how far it would be advisable to reinstate Rienzi as a del-
egate of the papal power. And, in the meanwhile, the
Roman's influence might be serviceable, whether to awe
the rebellious nobles or conciliate the stubborn people.
On the other hand, the cardinal was shrewd enough to per-
ceive that no possible good could arise from Rienzi's pres-
ent confinement. With every month it excited deeper and
more universal sympathy. To his lonely dungeon turned
half the hearts of republican Italy. Literature had leagued
its new and sudden, and therefore mighty and even dispro-
portioned power, with his cause; and the pope, without
daring to be his judge, incurred the odium of being his
jailer. "A popular prisoner," said the sagacious cardinal
to himself, "is the most dangerous of guests. Restore
him as your servant, or destroy him as your foe! In this
case I see no alternative but acquittal or the knife! In
these reflections, that able plotter, deep in the Machiavel-
ism of the age, divorced the lover from the statesman.
Recurring now to the former character, he felt some dis-
agreeable and uneasy forebodings at the earnest interest of
his mistress. Fain would he have attributed either to some
fantasy of patriotism, or some purpose of revenge, the
anxiety of the Cæsarini; and there was much in her stern
and haughty character which favored that belief. But he
was forced to acknowledge to himself some jealous appre-
hension of a sinister and latent motive, which touched his
vanity and alarmed his love. "Howbeit," he thought, as
he turned from his unwilling fear, "I can play with her at
her own weapons; I can obtain the release of Rienzi, and
claim my reward. If denied, the hand that opened the
dungeon can again rivet the chain. In her anxiety is my
power!"
وو
"scarcely wouldst thou imagine, after our long conference
this morning, that new cares would so soon demand the
assistance of thy counsels. Verily, the wreath of thorns
stings sharp under the triple crown; and I sometimes long
for the quiet abode of my old professor's chair in Toulouse:
my station is of pain and toil."
"God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," observed
the cardinal, with pious and compassionate gravity.
Innocent could scarcely refrain a smile as he replied,
"The lamb that carries the cross must have the strength
of the lion. Since we parted, my son, I have had painful
intelligence; our couriers have arrived from the Campagna,
the heathen rage furiously, the force of John di Vico
has augmented fearfully, and the most redoubted adventurer
of Europe has enlisted under his banner."
"Does his holiness," cried the cardinal, anxiously,
"speak of Fra Moreale, the knight of St. John ?"
"Of no less a warrior," returned the pontiff. "1
dread the vast ambition of that wild adventurer."
"Your holiness hath cause," said the cardinal, dryly.
"Some letters of his have fallen into the hands of the
servant of the church; they are here: read them, my son.
Albornoz received and deliberately scanned the letters,
this done, he replaced them on the table, and remained for
a few moments silent and absorbed.
"What think you, my son?" said the pope, at length,
with an impatient and even peevish tone.
"I think that, with Montreal's hot genius, and John di
Vico's frigid villany, your holiness may live to envy, if not
the quiet, at least the revenue, of the professor's chair"
How, cardinal!" said the pope, hastily, and with an
angry flush on his pale brow. The cardinal quietly pro-
ceeded.
rr
"By these letters it seems that Montreal has written to
all the commanders of free lances throughout Italy, offering
the highest pay of a soldier to every man that will join his
standard, combined with the richest plunder of a brigand.
He meditates great schemes, then! I know the man?"
Well, and our course?"
CC
-
"Is plain," said the cardinal, loftily, and with an eye
that flashed with a soldier's fire. "Not a moment is to be
lost! Thy son should at once take the field. Up with the
banner of the church!"
"But are we strong enough? our numbers are few.
Zeal slackens! the piety of the Baldwins is no more!
"Your holiness knows well," said the cardinal, "that
for the multitude of men there are two watchwords of
<
war, liberty and religion. If religion begin to fail, we
must employ the profaner word. Up with the banner
of the church, and down with the tyrants!' We will
proclaim equal laws, and free government, and, God will-
ing, our camp shall prosper better with those promises
than the tents of Montreal with the more vulgar shout of
Pay and Rapine.'
C
"Giles D'Albornoz," said the pope, emphatically, and,
warmed by the spirit of the cardinal, he dropped the
wonted etiquette of phrase, "I trust implicitly to you
Now the right hand of the church, hereafter perhaps its
head. Too well I feel that the lot has fallen on a lowly
These thoughts the cardinal was still revolving in his
palace, when he was suddenly summoned to attend the pon-place. My successor must requite my deficiencies."
tiff.
this poor
The pontifical palace no longer exhibited the gorgeous,
yet graceful luxury of Clement VI., and the sarcastic car-
dinal smiled to himself at the quiet gloom of the ante-
chambers. "He thinks to set an example,
native of Limoges!" thought Albornoz, and has but the
mortification of finding himself eclipsed by the poorest
bishop. He humbles himself, and fancies that the humility
will be contagious.
""
His holiness was seated before a small and rude table,
bestrewed with papers, his face buried in his bands; the
room was simply furnished, and in a small niche beside the
casement was an ivory crucifix; below, the death's head
and cross bones, which most monks then introduced with a
ourpose similar to that of the ancients by the like orna-
ments, mementoes, of the shortness of life, and, there-
fore, admonitions to make the best of it! On the ground
ay a map of the patrimonial territory, with the fortresses
in especial, distinctly and prominently marked. The pope
gently lifted up his head as the cardinal was announced,
and discovered a plain, but sensible and somewhat interest-
ing countenance. My son!" said he, with a kindly
courtesy, to the lowly salutation of the proud Spaniard,
C
|
33
He
No changing hue, no brightening glance, betrayed to the
searching eye of the pope whatever emotion these words
had called up in the breast of the ambitious cardinal.
bowed his proud head humbly as he answered, Pray
heaven that Înnocent VI may long live to guide the church
to glory. For Giles D'Albornoz, less priest than soldier,
the din of the camp, the breath of the war-steed, present
the only aspirations which he ever dares indulge. But has
your holiness imparted to your servant all that
"Nay," interrupted Innocent," I have yet intelligence
equally ominous. This John di Vico, pest go with him!
who still styles himself (the excommunicated ruffian !) pre-
fect of Rome, has so filled that unhappy city with his emis-
saries, that we have wellnigh lost the seat of the apostle.
Rome, long in anarchy, seems now in open rebellion. The
nobles, sous of Belial, — it is true, are once more hum-
bled; but how? -one Baroncelli, a new demagogue, the
fiercest, the most bloody that the fiend ever helped, — has
arisen,-is invested by the mob with power, and uses it to
butcher the people and insult the pontiff. Wearied of the
crimes of this man, (which are not even decorated by abil-
ity,) the shout of the people, day and night, along the streets
is, for Rienzi the Tribune.'”
286
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Ha!" said the cardinal, "Rienzi's faults then are
forgotten in Rome, and there is felt for him the same
enthusiasm in that city as in the rest of Italy."
"Alas! it is so.
"It is well I have thought of this; Rienzi can accom-
pany my progress
ઃઃ
CC
My son the rebel, the heretic
"Men are
By your holiness's absolution will become a quiet sub-
ject and orthodox catholic," said Albornoz.
good or bad as they suit our purposes. What matters a
virtue that is useless, or a crime that is useful, to us? The
army of the church proceeds against tyrants; it proclaims
everywhere the restoration to the papal towns of their pop-
ular constitutions. Sees not your holiness that the acquit-
tal of Rienzi, the popular darling, will be hailed an earnest
of your sincerity, sees not your holiness that his name
will fight for us? sees not your holiness that the great
demagogue Rienzi must be used to extinguish the little
demagogue Baroncelli? We must regain the Romans,
whether of the city or whether in the seven towns of John
di Vico. When they hear Rienzi is in our camp, trust me,
we shall have a multitude of deserters from the tyrants,
trust me, we shall hear no more of Baroncelli.”
"Ever sagacious," said the pope, musingly; "it is true,
we can use this man, but with caution. His genius is
formidable"
"And therefore must be conciliated; if we acquit, we
must make him ours. My experience has taught me this;
when you cannot slay a demagogne by law, crush him with
honors. He must be no longer tribune of the people.
Give him the patrician title of senator, and he is then the
lieutenant of the pope!
!",
"I will see to this, my son, your suggestions please,
but alarm me: he shall at least be examined; but if
found a heretic ""
CC
Should, I humbly advise, be declared a saint."
The pope bent his brow for a moment; but the effort was
too much for him, and, after a moment's struggle, he fairly
laughed aloud.
"Go to, my son,
said he, affectionately patting the
cardinal's sallow cheek. "Go to. If the world heard
thee, what would it say?"
"That Giles D'Albornoz had just enough religion to
remember that the state is a church, but not too much to
forget that the church is a state."
With these words the conference ended. That very
evening the pope decreed that Rienzi should be permitted
the trial he had demanded.
CHAPTER IV.
The lady and the page.
Ir wanted three hours of midnight, when Albornoz,
resuming his character of gallant, despatched to the Sig-
nora Cæsarini the following billet.
"Your commands are obeyed. Rienzi will receive an
examination on his faith. It is well that he should be
prepared. It may suit your purpose, of which I am so
faintly enlightened, to appear to the prisoner what you are,
the obtainer of this grace? See how implicitly one
noble heart can trust another! I send by the bearer an
order that will admit one of your servitors to the prison-
er's cell. Be it, if you will, your task to announce to him
the new crisis of his fate. Ah! madam, may fortune be
as favorable to me, and grant me the same intercessor;
from thy lips my sentence is to come."
As Albornoz finished this epistle, he summoned his con-
âdential attendant, a Spanish gentleman, who saw nothing
in his noble birth that should prevent his fulfilling the vari-
ous hests of the cardinal.
"Alvarez," said he, "these to the Signora Cæsarini
by another hand. Thou art unknown to her household;
repair to the state tower, this to the governor admits thee.
Mark who is admitted to the prisoner Cola di Rienzi !
Know his name, examine whence he comes. Be keen,
Alvarez. Learn by what motive the Cæsarini interests
nerself in the prisoner's fate. All, too, of herself, birth,
fortunes, lineage, would be welcome intelligence. Thou
comprehendest me. It is well. One caution, thou hast
no mission from, no connexion with, me. Thou art an
officer of the prison, or of the pope, what thou wilt.
Give me the rosary; light the lamp before the crucifix;
place yon hair shirt beneath those arms. I would have it
appear as if meant to be hidden! Tell Gomez that the
Dominican preacher is to be admitted.”
"Those friars have zeal," continued the cardinal to
himself, as, after executing his orders, Alvarez withdrew.
They would burn a man, but only on the Bible!
They are worth conciliating, if the triple crown be really
worth the winning; were it mine, I would add the eagle's
plume to it."
And, plunged into the aspiring future, this bold man
forgot even the object of his passion. In real life, after a
certain age, ambitious men love indeed, but it is only as
an interlude. And, indeed, with most men, life has more
absorbing, though not more frequent concerns than those of
love. Love is the business of the idle, but the idleness of
the busy.
The Cæsarini was alone when the cardinal's messenger
arrived, and he was scarcely dismissed with a few lines,
expressive of a gratitude which seemed to bear down all
those guards with which the coldness of the signora usual-
ly fenced her pride, before the page Angelo was summoned
to her presence.
The room was dark with the shades of the gathering
night when the youth entered, and he discerned but dimly
the outline of the signora's stately form; but, by the tone
of her voice, he perceived that she was deeply agitated.
Angelo," said she, as he approached,
"Angelo
and her voice failed her. She paused as for breath, and
again proceeded. “You alone have served us faithfully;
you alone shared our escape, our wanderings, our exile,
you alone know my secret, you of my train alone are
Roman! Roman! it was once a great name. Angelo,
the name has fallen; but it is only because the nature of
the Roman race fell first. Haughty they are, but fickle;
fierce, but dastard; vehement in promise, but rotten in
their faith. You are a Roman, and though I have proved
your truth, your very birth makes me afraid of falsehood.”
"Madam," said the page, "I was but a child when
you admitted me of your service, and I am yet only on the
verge of manhood. But, boy though I yet be, I would
brave the stoutest lance of knight or freebooter, in defence
of the faith of Angelo Villani to his liege lady and his
native land."
"Such
"Alas! alas!" said the signora, bitterly.
have been the words of thousands of thy race. What have
been their deeds! But I will trust thee, as I have trusted
ever. I know that thou art covetous of honor, that thou
hast youth's comely and bright ambition —"
"I am an orphan and a bastard," said Angelo, bluntly.
"And circumstance stings me sharply on to action; I
would win my own name.
"We shall live yet
Bring hither one of
Quick, I say, and
"Thou shalt," said the signora.
to reward thee. And now be quick.
thy page's suits, mantle and head-gear.
whisper not to a soul what I have asked of thee."
CHAPTER V.
The inmate of the tower.
THE night slowly advanced, and in the highest chain-
ber of that dark and rugged tower which fronted the
windows of the Cæsarini's palace, sat a solitary prisoner.
A single lamp burnt before him on a table of stone, and
threw its rays over an open Bible; and those stern but
fantastic legends of the prowess of ancient Rome, which
the genius of Livy has dignified into history. A chain
hung pendent from the vault of the tower, and confined the
captive; but so as to leave his limbs at sufficient liberty to
measure at will the greater part of the cell. Green and
damp were the mighty stones of the walls, an 1 through a
narrow aperture, high out of reach, came the moonlight,
and slept in long shadow over the rude floor. A bed a
one corner completed the furniture of the room,
for months had been the abode of the conqueror of the
haughtiest barons, and the luxurious dictator of the state-
liest city of the world !
Such
Care, and travel, and time, and adversity, had wrought
their change in the person of Rienzi. The proportions of
his frame had enlarged from the compact strengin of ear-
lier manhood, the clear paleness of his cheek was bespread
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
237
with a hectic and deceitful glow. Even in his present |
studies, intent as they seemed, and genial though the lec-
ture to a mind enthusiastic, even to fanaticism, his eyes
could not rivet themselves as of yore steadily to the page.
The charm was gone from the letters. Every now and
then he moved restlessly, started, resettled himself, and
muttered broken exclamations like a man in an anxious
dreain. Anon, his gaze impatiently turned upward, about,"
around, and there was a strange and wandering fire in
those large deep eyes, which might nave thrilled the be-
holder with a vague and unaccountable awe.
Angelo had in the main correctly narrated the latter of
the adventures of Rienzi after his fall. He had first with
Nina and Angelo betaken himself to Naples, and found a
fallacio is and brief favor with Louis, King of Hungary;
that harsh but honorable monarch had refused to yield his
illustrious guest to the demands of Clement, but had plainly
declared his inability to shelter him in safety. Maintain-
ing secret intercourse with his partisans at Rome, the
fugitive then sought a refuge with the Eremites, sequestered
in the lone recesses of the Monte Maiella, where in solitude
and thought he had passed a whole year, save the time
consumed in his visit to and return from Florence. Taking
advantage of the jubilee in Rome, he had then, disguised as
a pilgrim, traversed the vales and mountains still rich in
the melancholy ruins of ancient Rome, and entering the
city, his restless and ambitious spirit indulged in new but
vain conspiracies. Excommunicated a second time by the
Cardinal di Ceccano, and again a fugitive, he shook the
dust from his feet as he left the city, and raising his hand
towards those walls in which are yet traced the witness of
the Tarquins, cried aloud, "Honored as thy prince,
persecuted as thy victim, Rome, Rome, thou shalt yet
receive me as thy conqueror ! "
I am
friends, my comrades, the rats! It is their hour,
glad I put aside the bread for them!" His eye brightened,
as it now detected those strange and unsocial animals,
venturing forth through a hole in the wall, and, — darken-
ing the moonshine on the floor, steal fearlessly towards
him. He flung some fragments of bread to them, and for
some
some moments watched their gainbols with a smile,
Manchino, the white-faced rascal! he beats all the rest,
ba, ha! he is a superior wretch, he commands the
trioe, and will venture the first into the trap. How will
he bite against the steel, the fine fellow! while all the igno-
ble herd will gaze at him afar off, and quake, and fear, and
never help. Yet, if united, they might gnaw the trap and
release their leader! Ah, ye are base vermin, and while ye
eat my bread, if death come upon me, and I were clay, ye
would riot on my carcass. Away!" and clapping his
hands, the chain round him clanked harshly, and the
noisome co-mates of his dungeon vanished in an instant.
That singular and eccentric humor which marked Rienzi,
and which had seemed a buffoonery to the stolid sullennes.
of the Roman nobles, still retained its old expression in his
countenance, and he laughed loud as he saw the vermin
hurry back to their hiding-place.
"A little noise and the clank of a chain, fie, how yo
imitate mankind!" Again he sank into silence, and then
heavily and listlessly drawing towards him the animated
tales of Livy, said, "An hour to midnight ! — waking
dreams are better than sleep. Well, history tells us how
men have risen, ay, and nations too, after wilder falls
than that of Rienzi or of Rome ! "
In a few minutes, he was apparently absorbed in the lec-
ture; so intent indeed was he in the task, that he did not
hear the steps which wound the spiral stairs that conducted
to his cell, and it was not till the wards harshly grated
beneath the huge key, and the door creaked on its hinges,
that Rienzi, in amaze at intrusion at so unwented an hour,
lifted his eyes. The door had reclosed on the dungeon,
and by the lonely and pale lamp, he beheld a figure leaning,
as for support, against the wall. The figure was wrapped
from head to foot in the long cloak of the day, and aided
by a broad hat, shaded by plumes, concealed even the
features of the visiter.
Rienzi gazed long and wistfully.
<<
am
Still disguised as a pilgrim, he passed unscathed through
Italy into the court of the Emperor Charles of Bohemia,
where the page, who had probably witnessed, had rightly
narrated his reception. It is doubtful, however, whether
the conduct of the emperor had been as chivalrous as
appears by Angelo's relation, or whether he had not
delivered Rienzi to the pontiff's emissaries. At all events,
it is certain, that from Prague to Avignon, the path of the
fallen tribune had been as one triumph. The lapse of
years, his strange adventures, his unbroken spirit,
Speak," he said at length, putting his hand to his brow
the disorders of Rome, when relieved from his inflexible "Methinks either long solitude has bewildered me, or,
justice, the new power that intellect daily and wonder-sweet sir, your apparition dazzles. I know you not,
fully excited over the minds of the rising generation, -the I sure?—" and Rienzi's hair bristled while he slowly rose,
eloquence of Petrarch, and the common sympathy of the -" am I sure that it is living man who stands before me!
vulgar for fallen greatness, all conspired to make Rienzi Angels have entered the prison-house before now. Alas!
the hero of the age.
Not a town through which he passed an angel's comfort never was more needed."
which would not have risked a siege for his protection,
not a house that would not have sheltered him,
hand that would not have struck in his defence. Refusing
all offers of aid, disdaining all occasion of escape, inspired
by his indomitable hope, and his unalloyed belief in the
brightness of his own destinies, the tribune sought Avig-
- and found a dungeon!
non,
-
- not a
These, his external adventures, are briefly and easily
told, but who shall tell what passed within? who nar-
rate the fearful history of the heart?— who paint the rapid
changes of emotion and of thought, the indignant grief-
the stern dejection, the haughty disappointment that
enddened while it never destroyed the resolve of that great
soul? Who can
Who can say what must have been endured,
what meditated, in the hermitage of Maiella,
on the
lonely hills of the perished empire it had been his dream to
restore, - in the courts of barbarian kings, — and, above
all, on returning, obscure and disguised, amid the crowds
of the Christian world, to the seat of his former power?
What elements of memory, and in what a wild and fiery
brain! What reflections to be conned in the dungeons of
Avignon, by a man who had pushed into all the fervor of
fanaticism, four passions, a single one of which has, in
excess, sufficed to wreck the strongest reason, passions
which, in themselves, it is most difficult to combine, --the
dreamer, the aspirant,
the very nympholept of free-
dom, yet of power, of knowledge, yet of religion!
Ay," muttered the prisoner, "ay, these texts are com-
forting, comforting. The righteous are not always op-
pressed." With a long sigh he deliberately put aside the
Bible, kissed it with great reverence, remained silent and
musing for some minutes, and then, as a slight noise was
card at one corner of the cell, said softly, "Ah, my
|
CC
The stranger answered not, but the captive saw that his
heart heaved even beneath his cloak; loud sobs choked his
voice; at length, as by a violent effort, be sprung forward,
and sunk at the tribune's feet. The disguising hat, the
long mantle, fell to the ground, it was the face of a
woman that looked upward through passionate and glazing
tears, the arms of a woman that clasped the prisoner's
knees! Rienzi gazed mute and motionless as stone. Pow-
ers and saints of heaven!" he muttered at last, "do ye
tempt me further!— is it? no, no, - yet speak!"
"Beloved, adored ! — do you not know me ?"
"It is, it is!" shrieked Rienzi, wildly, "it is my
Nina, my wife, my
His voice forsook him.
Clasped in each others' arms, the unfortunates for some
moments seemed to have lost even the sense of delight at
their reunion. It was an unconscious and deep trance,
through which something like a dream only faintly and in-
distinctively stirs.
-
M
w
Nina
At length recovered, at length restored, the first broken
exclamations, the first wild caresses of joy over,
lifted her head from her husband's bosom, and gazed sadly
on his countenance, -"Oh, what thou hast known sincè
we parted!what, since that hour, when borne on by thy
bold heart and wild destiny, thou didst leave me in the im-
perial court, to seek again the diadem and find the chain!
Ah! why did I heed thy commands, why suffer thee to
depart alone? How often, in thy progress hitherward, in
doubt, in danger, might this bosom have been thy resting-
place, and this voice have whispered comfort to thy soul!
Thou art well, my lord, my Cola Thy pulse beats
quicker than of old, -thy brow is furrowed. Ah! tel.
me thou art well!"
"Well!" said Rienzi, mechanically. "Methinks so
'
283
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the mind diseased blunts all sense of bodily decay.
Well! - yes! And you, you, at least, are not changed,
save to maturer beauty. The glory of the laure,-wreath
has not faded from thy brow. Thou shalt yet,
" then
breaking off abruptly,
"Rome,
tell me of Rome!
And thou, how camest thou hither? Ah perhaps my
doom is set, and in their mercy they have vouchsafed that
I should see thee once more before the deaths-man blinds
me. I remember, it is the grace vouchsafed to malefac-
tors. When I was a lord of life and death, I, too, per-
mitted the meanest criminal to say farewell to those he
loved."
No, not so, Cola!" exclaimed Nina, putting her
hand before his mouth. "I bring thee more auspicious
tidings. To-morrow thou art to be heard. The favor of
the court is propitiated. Thou wilt be acquitted."
"Ha! speak again."
>>
"Thou wilt be heard, my Cola,-thou must be acquitted!"
"And Rome be free! Great God, I thank thee!
The tribune sank on his knees, and never had his heart,
in his youngest and purest hour, poured forth thanksgiving
more fervent, yet less selfish. When he rose again, the
whole man seemed changed. His eye had resumed its
earlier expression of deep and serene command. Majesty
sat upon his brow. The sorrows of the exile were forgot-
ten.
In his sanguine and rapid thoughts, he stood once
more the guardian of his country, - and its sovereign !
Nina gazed upon him with that intense and devoted wor-
ship, which, for Rienzi, the hero of her youth, steeped her
vainer and her harder qualities in all the fondness of the
softest woman. "Such," thought she, "was his look
eight years ago, when he left my maiden chamber, full of
the mighty schemes which liberated Rome, such his look,
when at the dawning san he towered amid the crouching
barons and the kneeling population of the city he had made
his throne!""
r
"Yes, Nina!" said Rienzi, as he turned and caught
her eye.
My soul tells me that my hour is at hand. If
they try me openly, they dare not convict, if they acquit
me, they dare not but restore. To-morrow, saidst thou,
to-morrow?"
"To-inorrow, Rienzi; be prepared ! ”
"I am,
for triumph! But tell me what happy chance
brought thee to Avignon ?"
dis-
Chance, Cola!" said Nina, with reproachful tender-
ness. "Could I know that thou wert in the dungeons of
the pontiff, and linger in idle security at Prague? Even
at the emperor's court thou hadst thy partisans and favorers.
Gold was easily procured. I repaired to Florence,
guised my name, and came hither to plot, to scheme, to
win thy liberty, or to die with thee. Ah! did not thy heart
tell thee that morning and night the eyes of thy faithful Nina
gazed upon this gloomy tower; and that one friend, humble
though she be, never could forsake thee?
>>
"Sweet Nina! Yet, yet, at Avignon power yields
not to beauty without reward. Remember, there is a worse
death than the pause of life."
Nina turned pale. "Fear not," she said, with a low
out determined voice; "fear not, that men's lips should
Bay Rienzi's wife delivered him. None in this corrupted
court know that I am thy wife."
I
66
My noble and beloved Nina, it is enough. Keep the
dagger yet."
"Yes; till we meet in the capitol of Rome!"
A slight tap was heard at the door. Nina regained, is
an instant, her disguise.
"It is on the stroke of midnight," said the jailer, ap.
pearing at the threshold.
"I come," said Nina.
"And thou hast to prepare thy thoughts," she whispered
to Rienzi; "arm all thy glorious intellect.
glorious intellect. Alas! is it
again we part? How my heart sinks!"
The presence of the jailer at the threshold broke the
bitterness of parting by abridging it.
The false page
pressed her lips on the prisoner's hand, and left the cell.
The jailer, lingering behind for a moment, placed a
parchment on the table. It was the summons from the
court, appointed for the trial of the tribune
CHAPTER VI
The scent does not lie.
The priest and the soldier.
ON descending the stairs, Nina was met by Alvarez.
"Fair page,
said the Spaniard, gayly, "thy name,
thou tellest ine, is Villani? Angelo Villani, why,
I
know thy kinsman, methinks. Vouchsafe, young master,
to enter this chamber, and drink a night-cup to thy lady's
health, I would fain learn tidings of my old friends.
"Another time," answered the false Angelo, drawing
the cloak closer round her face; "it is late, I am hur-
ried."
rr
Nay," said the Spaniard, "you escape me not so
easily; and he caught firm hold of the page's shoulder.
"Unhand me, sir," said Nina, haughtily, and almost
weeping, for her strong nerves were yet unstrung. “Jailer,
at thy peril, unbar the gates."
So hot," said A'varez, surprised at so great a waste
of diguity in a page, nay, I meant not to offend thee
May I wait on thy pagesnip to-morrow?"
CC
Ay, to-morrow," said Nina, eager to escape.
"And meanwhile," said Alvarez,
"I will accompany
thee home, — we can confer by the way."
So saying, without regarding the protestations of the
supposed page, he passed with Nina into the open air.
"Your lady," said he, carelessly, "is wondrous fair; ber
lightest will is law to the greatest noble of Avignon, –
methinks she is of Naples, - is it so Art thou dumb,
sweet youth?"
The page did not answer, but, with a step so rapid that
it almost put the slow Spaniard out of breath, hastened
along the narrow space between the tower and the palace
of the Signora Cesarini, nor could all the efforts of Alva-
rez draw forth a single syllable from his reluctant compan-
ion, till they reached the gates of the palace, and he found
himself discourteously and discomfited left without the
walls.
"A plague on the boy!" said he, biting his lips; "if
the cardinal thrive as well as his servant, by 're lady, his
eminence is a happy man!”
By no means pleased with the prospect of an interview
"Woman," said the tribune, sternly, "thy lips elude with Albornoz, who, like most able men, valued the talents
the answer I would seek. In our degenerate time and of those he employed exactly in proportion to their success,
land, thy sex and ours forget too basely, what foulness the Spaniard slowly returned home. With the license ac-
writes a leprosy in the smallest stain upoù a matron's hon-corded to him, he entered the cardinal's chamber somewhat
That thy heart would never wrong me, I believe; but
if thy weakness, thy fear of my death, should wrong me,
thou art a bitterer foe to Rienzi than the swords of the
Colonna Nina, speak!"
or.
"Oh, that my soul could speak," answered Nina.
"Thy words are music to me, and not a thought of inine
but echoes them. Could I touch this hand, could I meet
that eye, and not know that death were dearer to thee than
shame? Rienzi, when last we parted, in sadness, yet in
nope, what were thy words to me ?
"I
"I remember them well," returned the tribune: -
eave thee,' I said, 'to keep alive at the emperor's court,
by thy genius, the great cause. Thou hast youth and
and courts have lawless and ruffian suitors. I
beauty,
thee no caution; it were beneath thee and me.
give
M
I leave thee the power of death.' And with that, Nina
abruptly, and perceived him in earnest conversation with a
cavalier, whose long mustache curled upward, and the bright
cuirass he wore underneath his mantle seemed to betoken
him of martial profession. Pleased with the respite, Alva-
rez hastily withdrew; and, in fact, the cardinal's thoughts
at that moment, and for that night, were bent upon other
subjects than those of love.
66
The interruption served, however, to shorten the conver
sation between Albornoz and his guest. The latter rose.
"I think," said he, buckling on a short and broad ra
pier, which he had laid aside during the interview,
[
think, my lord cardinal, that your eminence encourages
me to consider that our negotiation stands a fair chance of
brother
my
a prosperous close. Ten thousand florins, and
quits Viterbo, and launches the thunderbolt of the company
on the lands of Rimini. On your part
But
-
Thy hands tremblingly placed in mine this dagger.
ive, need I say more?"
I
"On my part it is agreed," said the cardinal, "that the
army of the church interferes not with the course of four
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
-
brother's ans,
there is peace between us. One warrior advance, exalt them, and millions of minds unknown, un.
understands another!"
dreamed of, are required to produce the immortality of one!
"And the word of Giles D'Albornoz, son of the royal Indulging meditations very different from those which
ace of Arragon, is a guarantee for the faith of a cardinal," the idea of Petrarch awakens in a later time, th cavalier
replied the cavalier, with a smile. "It is, my lord, in your pursued his path.
former quality that we treat.
"There is ny right hand," answered Albornoz, too pol-
itic to heed the insinuation. The cavalier raised it re-
spectfully to his lips, and his armed tread was soon heard
descending the stairs.
"Victory!" cried Albornoz, tossing his arms aloof;
Victory, now thou art mine.'
—
With that he rose hastily, deposited his papers in an
iron chest, and opening a concealed door behind the ar-
ras, entered a chamber that rather resembled a monk's cell
than the apartment of a prince. Over a mean pallet hung
a sword, a dagger, and a rude image of the Virgin. With
out summoning Alvarez, the cardinal unrobed, and in a few
moments was asleep.
CHAPTER VII.
Αι
Vaucluse, and its genius loci. - Old acquaintance renewed.
THE next day at early noon the cavalier, whom our last
chapter presented to the reader, was seen mounted on a
strong Norman horse, winding his way slowly along a
green and pleasant path some miles from Avignon.
length he found himself in a wild and romantic valley,
through which wandered that delightful river whose name
the verse of Petrarch has given to so beloved a fame.
Sheltered by rocks, and in this part winding through the
greenest banks, enamelled with a thousand wild flowers
and water-weeds, went the crystal Sorgia. Advancing
further, the landscape assumed a more sombre and sterile
aspect. The valley seemed inclosed or shut in by fantastic
rocks of a thousand shapes, down which dashed and glitter-
ed a thousand rivulets. And, in the very wildest of the
scene, the ground suddenly opened into a quaint and culti-
vatel garden, through which, amid a profusion of foliage,
was seen a small and lowly mansion, the hermitage of
the place. The horseman was in the valley of the Vau-
cluse, and before his eye lay the garden and the house
of PETRARCH! Carelessly, however, his eye scanned the
consecrated spot, and unconsciously it rested, for a mo-
ment, upon a solitary figure seated musingly by the margin
of the river. A large dog at the side of the noonday idler
barked at the horseman as he rode on. "A brave animal
—
<
and a deep bay! thought the traveller; to him the dog
seemed an object much more interesting than its master!
And so, as the crowd of little men pass, unheeding and
unmoved, those whom posterity acknowledges the land-
marks of their age,
the horseman turned his glance from
their poet!
Thrice blessed name! Immortal Florentine! not as the
lover, nor even as the poet, do I bow before thy consecrated
memory, venerating thee as one it were sacrilege to in-
troduce in this unworthy page, -save by name and as a
shadow; but as the first who ever asserted to people and
to prince the august majesty of letters; who claimed to
genius the prerogative to influence states, to control opinion,
to hold an empire over the hearts of men, and prepare events
by animating passion and guiding thought! What (though
but feebly felt and dimly seen) what do we yet owe to
thee if knowledge be now a power; if MIND be a prophet
and a fate, foretelling and foredooming the things to come!
From the greatest to the least of us, to whom the pen is at
once a sceptre and a sword, the low-born Florentine has
been the arch-messenger to smooth the way and prepare
the welcome. Yes! even the meanest of the after-comers,
even he who now vents his gratitude, is thine ever-
lasting debtor! Thine, how largely is the honor, if his
labors, humble though they be, find an audience wherever
literature is known, preaching in remotest lands the
moral of forgotten revolutions, and scattering in the
palace and the market-place the seeds that shall ripen into
fruit when the hand of the sower shall be dust, and his very
name, perhaps, be lost! For few, alas! are they whose
For few, alas! are they whose
names may outlive the grave; but the thoughts of every
man who writes are made undying ; others appropriate,
I need scarcely say that it is his origin, not his actual birth,
which entitles us to term Petrarch a Florentine.
VOL. II.
37
The valley was long left behind, and the way grc v m.ore
and more faintly traced, until it terminated in a wood,
through whose tangled boughs the sunlight broke playfully.
At length, the wood opened into a wide glade, from which
rose a precipitous ascent, crowned with the ruins of an old
castle. The traveller dismounted, led his horse up the
ascent, and, gaining the ruins, left his steed within one of
the roofless chambers, overgrown with the longest grass,
and a profusion of wild shrubs; and ascending, with some
toil, a narrow and broken staircase, found himself in a
small room, less decayed than the rest, of which the roof
and floor were yet whole.
Stretched on the ground in his cloak, and leaning his
head thoughtfully on his hand, was a man of tall stature and
middle age. He lifted himself on his arm with great alac-
rity as the cavalier entered.
"Well, Brettone, I have counted the hours;
tidings?
"Albornoz consents.
"Glad news!
wh
Hast
;
shall breakfast all the better for this, my brother.
Thou givest me new life. Pardieu, I
thou remembered that I am famishing?"
Brettone drew from beneath his cloak a sufficiently huge
the inmate of the tower threw himself upon the provant
flask of wine, and a small pannier, tolerably well filled
with great devotion. And both the soldiers, for such they
were, stretched at length on the ground, regaled themselves
with considerable zest, talking hastily and familiarly
between every mouthful.
ready devoured more than half the pasty: push it hither-
"I say, Brettone, thou playest unfairly; thou hast al-
ward. And so the cardinal consents! What manner of
man is he? Able as they say
say?"
“Quick, sharp, and earnest, with an eye of fire, few
words, and comes to the point."
“Unlike a priest, then;- a good brigand spoiled. What
hast thou heard of the force he heads ? Ho, not so fast
with the wine.”
Italy.
Scanty at present. He relies on recruits throughout
"What his designs for Rome? There, my brother,
there tends my secret soul! As for these petty towns and
petty tyrants, I care not how they fall, or by whom. But
The city of a new empire, the conquest of a new Attila !
the pope must not return to Rome. Rome must be mine.
There, every circumstance combines in my favor!
absence of the pope, the weakness of the middle class, the
barism of the barons, have long concurred to render Rome
poverty of the populace, the imbecile though ferocious bar-
the most facile, while the most glorious conquest."
the
“My brother, pray heaven your ambition do not wreck
you at last; you are ever losing sight of the land. Surely,
with the immense wealth we are acquiring, we may
CC
>>
generals to-day, and adventurers to-morrow. Remem Jerest
Aspire to something greater than free companions,
thou how the Norman sword won Sicily, and how the Bas-
tard William converted on the field of Hastings his baton
into a sceptre.
has crowns on the hedge for every one who can lead men, to
I tell thee, Brettone, that this loose Italy
I will form the fairest army in Italy, and with it I will win
carry off at the point of the lance. My course is taken;
a throne in the capitol. Fool that I was six years ago!
Instead of deputing that mad dolt Pepin, of Minorbino, had
soldiery to Rome, the fall of Rienzi would have been fol
I myself deserted the Hungarian, and repaired with my
lowed by the rise of Montreal. Pepin was outwitted, and
threw away the prey after he had hunted it down. The
lion shall not again trust the chase to the jackal!
"Walter, thou speakest of the fate of Rienzi, let it warn
thee !"
peaceful times, or with an honest people, he would have
"Rienzi!" replied Montreal; "I know the man! In
founded a great dynasty. But he dreamed of laws and
liberty, for men who despise the first and will not protect
the last. We, of a harder race, know that a new throne
must be built by the feudal and not the civil system. And
in the city we must but transport the camp. It is by the
multitude that the proud tribune gained powel -by the
290
BULWER'S NOVELS.
multitude he lost it: it is by the sword that I will win it, have been a vast majority for burning the prisoner, as a
and by the sword will I keep it."
marketable speculation!
"Rienzi was too cruel; he should not have incensed the
barons," said Brettone, about to finish the flask, when the
strong hand of his brother plucked it from him, and antici-
pated the design.
"Pooh," said Montreal, finishing the draught with a
ong sigh," he was not cruel enough. He sought only to
be just and not to distinguish between noble and peasant.
He should have distinguished! He should have extermin-
ated the nobles root and branch. But this no Italian can
do. This is reserved for me."
M
“Thou wouldst not butcher all the best blood of Rome ?"
"Butcher! No, but I would seize their lands, and en-
dow with them a new nobility, the hardy and fierce nobili-
ty of the north, who well know how to guard their prince,
and will guard him, as the fountain of their own power.
Enough of this now. And, talking of Rienzi, rots he
still in his dungeon?
Why, this morning, ere I left, I heard strange news.
The town was astir, groups in every corner.
corner. They said
that Rienzi's trial was to be to-day, and, from the names
of the judges chosen, it is suspected that acquittal is al-
ready determined on.
CC
>>
?"
"Ha! thou shouldst have told me of this before."
"Should he be restored to Rome, would it militate against
thy plans?"
**
Humph! I know not, deep thought and dexterous
management would be needed. I would fain not leave this
spot till I hear what is decided on.
66
Surely, Walter, it would have been wiser and safer to
have staid with thy soldiery, and intrusted me with the
absolute conduct of this affair."
"Not so," answered Montreal; "thou art a bold fellow
enough, and a cunning, but my head in these matters is
better than thine. Besides," continued the knight, lower-
ing his voice and shading his face, "I had vowed a pil-
grimage to the beloved river, and the old trysting-place.
Ah, me! But all this, Brettone, thou understandest not,
let it pass.
As for my safety, since we have come to
this amnesty with Albornoz, I fear but little danger even
if discovered; besides, I want the florins. There are those
in this country, Germans, who could eat an Italian army
at a meal, whom I would fain engage, and their leaders
want earnest-money, the griping knaves! How are the
cardinal's florins to be paid?"
"Half now, half when thy troops are before Rimini.”
"Rimini! the thought whets my sword. Rememberest
thou how that accursed Malatesta drove me from Aversa,
proke up my camp, and made me render to him all my
booty? There fell the work of years! But for that, my
banner now would be floating over St. Angelo. I will pay
back the debt with fire and sword, ere the summer has shed
its leaves."
The fair countenance of Montreal grew terrible as he
uttered these words; his hands griped the handle of his
sword, and his strong frame heaved visibly; tokens of the
fierce and unsparing passions, by the aid of which a life
of rapine and revenge had corrupted a nature originally
full, no less of the mercy than the courage of Provençal
chivalry.
Such was the fearful man who now (the wildness of his
youth sobered, and his ambition hardened and concentred)
was the rival of Rienzi for the mastery of Rome.
The crowd.
CHAPTER VIII.
The trial. -The verdict. The soldier and the
page.
It was on the following evening that a considerable crowd
had gathered in the streets of Avignon. It was the sec-
ond day of the examination of Rienzi, and with every
moment was expected the announcement of the verdict.
Among the foreigners of all countries, assembled in that
seat of the papal splendor, the interest was intense. The
Italians, even of the highest rank, were in favor of the
tribune, the French against. As for the good town's people
of Avignon themselves, they felt but little excitement in any
thing that did not bring nioney into their pockets; and if
t had een put to the secret vote, no doubt there would
Among the crowd was a tall man in a plain and rusty
suit of armor, but with an air of knightly bearing, which
somewhat belied the coarseness of his mail; he wore no
helmet, but a small morion of black leather with a long
projecting shade, much used by wayfarers in the hot cli-
mates of the south. A black
A black patch covered nearly the
whole of one cheek, and altogether he bore the appearance
of a grim soldier, with whom war had dealt harshly both
in purse and person.
Many were the jests at the shabby swordsman's expense,
with which that lively population amused their impatience;
and though the shade of the morion concealed his eyes, an
arch and merry smile about the corners of his mouth,
showed that he could take a jest at himself
"Well," said one of the crowd, (a rich Milanese,) "I
am of a state that was free, and I trust the people's man
will have justice shown him,'
""
Amen," said a grave Florentine.
They say," whispered a young student from Paris, to
a learned doctor of laws, with whom he abode, "that his
defence has been a master-piece.'
"He hath taken no degrees," replied the doctor, doubt-
ingly. Ho, friend, why dost thou push me so? thou hast
rent my robe.”
This was said to a minstrel, or jongleur, who, with a
small lute slung round him, was making his way with great
earnestness through the throng.
" but
"I beg pardon, worthy sir," said the minstrel;
this is a scene to be sung of! Centuries hence, ay, and in
lands remote, legend and song will tell the fortunes of Cola di
Rienzi, the friend of Petrarch, and the tribune of Rome !"
The young French student turned quickly round to the
minstrel, with a glow on his pale face; not sharing the
general sentiments of his countrymen against Rienzi, he
felt that it was an era in the world when a minstrel spoke
thus of the heroes of intellect, not of war.
At this time the tall soldier was tapped impatiently on
the back.
"I pray thee, great sir," said a sharp and imperious
voice," to withdraw that tall bulk of thine a little on one
side, I cannot see through thee; and I would fain my
eyes were among the first to catch a glimpse of Rienzi as
he passes from the court."
"Fair sir page," replied the soldier, good-humoredly,
as he made way for Angelo Villani, "thou wilt not always
find that way in the world is won by commanding the strong.
When thou art older, thou wilt beard the weak, and the
strong thou wilt wheedle.”
"I must change my nature then," answered Angelo,
(who was of somewhat small stature, and not yet come to
his full growth,) trying still to raise himself above the heads
of the crowd.
The soldier looked at him approvingly; and as he looked
he sighed, and his lips worked with strong emotion.
"Thou speakest well," said he, after a pause.
"Par-
don me the rudeness of the question; but art thou of Italy?
Thy tongue savors of the Roman dialect; yet I have seen
lineaments like thine on this side the Alps."
"It may be, good fellow," said the page, haughtity ;
"but I thank heaven that I am of Rome.”
At this moment a loud shout burst from that part of the
crowd nearest the court. The sound of trumpets hushed
the throng again into deep and breathless silence, while the
pope's guards, ranged along the space conducting from the
court, drew themselves up more erect, and fell a step or two
back upon the crowd.
As the trumpet ceased, the voice of a herald was heard,
but it did not penetrate within several yards of the spot
where Angelo and the soldier stood: and it was only by a
mighty shout that in a moment circled through and was
echoed back by the wide multitude, by the waving of ker-
chiefs from the windows,-by broken ejaculations, that
were caught up from lip to lip, that the page knew that
Rieuzi was acquitted!
"I would I could see his face," sighed the page, queru-
lously.
"And thou shalt," said the soldier; and he caught up
the boy in his arms, and pressed on with the strength of a
giant, parting the living stream from right to left, as he
took his way to a place near the guards, and by which
Rienzi was sure to pass.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
29
The page, half pleased, half indignant, struggled a little,
out finding it in vain, consented tacitly to what he felt an
outrage on his dignity.
"Never mind," said the soldier, "thou art the first I
ever willingly raised above myself; and I do it now for the
sake of thy fair face, that reminds me of one I loved."
But these last words were spoken low, and the boy, in
his anxiety to see the hero of Rome, did not hear or heed
them. Presently Rienzi came by! two gentlemen, of the
pope's own following, walked by his side. He moved
slowly, amid the gratulations of the crowd, looking neither
to the right nor left. His bearing was firm and collected,
and, save by the flush of his cheek, there was no exter-
nal sign of joy or excitement. Flowers dropped from
every balcony on his path; and just when he came to a
broader space, where the ground was somewhat higher,
and where he was in fuller view of the houses around, he
paused, — and, uncovering, acknowledged the homage he
had received, with a look, - a gesture, which each who
beheld never forgot. It haunted even that gay and thought-
less court, when the last tale of Rienzi's life reached their
ears. And Angelo, clinging then round that soldier's neck,
recalled, but we must not anticipate.
|
·
Albornoz had received him as his guest, in order to make
himself master of the character and disposition of one in
whom he sought a minister and a tool. That miraculous
and magic art, attested by all the historians of the time,
which Rienzi possessed over every one with whom he came
in contact, however various in temper, views, or station,
had not deserted him in his audience of the pontiff. Sa
faithfully had he described the true condition of Rome, sa
logically had he traced the causes and the remedies of the
evils she endured, so sanguinely had he spoken of his own
capacities for adininistering her affairs, and so brilliantly
had he painted the prospects which that administration
opened to the weal of the church, and the interests of the
pope, that Innocent, though a keen and shrewd, and some-
what skeptical, calculator of human chances, was entirely
fascinated by the eloquence of the Roman.
"Is this the man," he is reported to have said, "whom
for twelve months we have treated as a prisoner and a
criminal? Would that it were on his shoulders o. ly, that
the Christian empire reposed!"
At the close of the interview he had, with every mark
of favor and distinction, conferred upon Rienzi the rank of
senator, which, in fact, was that of viceroy of Rome, and
It was not, however, to the dark tower that Rienzi re- had willingly acceded to all the projects which the enter-
turned. His home was prepared at the palace of the Car-prising Rienzi had once more formed, -not only for re-
dinal D'Albornoz. The next day he was admitted to the
pope's presence, and on the evening of that day he was
proclaimed senator of Rome.
Meanwhile the soldier had placed Angelo on the ground;
and as the page faltered out no courteous thanks, he inter-
rupted him in a sad and kind voice, the tone of which struck
the page forcibly, so little did it suit the rough and homely
appearance of the man.
"We part," he said, "as strangers, fair boy; and since
thou sayest thou art of Rome, there is no reason why my
heart should have warmed to thee as it has done; yet, if
ever thou wantest a friend, seek him "and the sol-
and the sol-
dier's voice sunk into a whisper "in Walter de Mon-
treal."
Ere the page recovered his surprise at that redoubted
name, which his earliest childhood had been taught to
dread, the knight of St. John had vanished among the
crowd.
tears.
CHAPTER IX.
Albornoz and Nina,
BUT the eyes which, above all others, thirsted for a
glimpse of the released captive, were forbidden that delight
Alone, in her chamber, Nina awaited the result of the trial.
She heard the shouts, the exclamations, the tramp of thou-
sands along the street; she felt that the victory was won;
and, her heart long overcharged, she burst into passionate
The return of Angelo soon acquainted her with all
that had passed; but it somewhat chilled her joy to find
Rienzi was the guest of the dreaded cardinal. That shock,
in which certainty, however happy, replaces suspense,
had
En powerful an effect on her frame, joined to her loathing
fear of a visit from the cardinal, that she became for three
days alarmingly ill; and it was only on the fifth day from
that which saw Rienzi endowed with the rank of senator
of Rome, that she was recovered sufficiently to admit Al-
bornoz to her presence.
covering the territories of the church, but for extending the
dictatorial sway of the seven-hilled city over the old de-
pendencies of Italy.
Albornoz, to whom the pope retailed this conversation,
was somewhat jealous of the favor the new senator had so
suddenly acquired, and immediately on his return home
sought an interview with his guest. In his heart, the lord
cardinal, emphatically a man of action and business, re-
garded Rienzi as one rather cunning than wise, — rather
fortunate than great, a mixture of the pedant and the
demagogue. But, after a long and scrutinizing conversa-
tion with the new senator, even he yielded to the spell of
his enchanting and master intellect. Reluctantly Albornoz
confessed to himself that Rienzi's rise was not the thing
of chance, yet more reluctantly he perceived that the sena-
tor was one whom he might treat with as an equal, but
could not rule as a minion. And he entertained serious
doubts whether it would be wise to reinstate him in a
power, which be evinced the capacity to wield and the ge-
aius to extend. Still, however, he did not repent the share
he had taken in Rienzi's acquittal. His presence in a
camp so thinly peopled was a matter greatly to be desired.
And through his influence, the cardinal more than ever
trusted to enlist the Romans in favor of his enterprise for
the recovery of the territory of St. Peter!
Rienzi, who panted once more to behold his Nina, en-
deared to him by trial and absence, as by a fresh bridal, was
not, however, able to discover the name she had assumed
at Avignon; and his residence with the cardinal, closely
but respectfully watched as he was, forbade Nina all op
portunity of corresponding with him. Some half and ban
tering hints which Albornoz had dropped upon the interes
taken in his welfare by the most celebrated beauty of Avig
non, had filled him with a vague alarm which he trem
bled to acknowledge even to himself. But the volto sciolto
which, in common with all Italian politicians, concealed
whatever were his pensieri stretti,· enabled him to baffle
completely the jealous and lynx-like observation of the
cardinal. Nor had Alvarez been better enabled to satisfy
the curiosity of his master. He had, indeed, sought the
page Villani, but the short and imperious manner of that
haughty and wayward boy had cut short all attempt_at
cross-examination. And all he could ascertain was, that
the real Angelo Villani was not the Angelo Villani who
had visited Rienzi.
The cardinal had sent daily to inquire after her health, and
his inquiries, to her alarmed mind, had appeared to insinuate
a pretension to the right to make them. Meanwhile Albor-
Meanwhile Albor-
noz had had enough to divert and occupy his thoughts.
Having bought off the formidable Montreal from the service
of John di Vico, one of the ablest and fiercest enemies of Trusting at last that he should learn all, and inflamed
the church, he resolved to march to the territories of that by such passion and such hope as he was capable of feel-
tyrant as expeditiously as possible, and so not to allow himing, Albornoz now took his way to the Cæsarini's palace.
time to obtain the assistance of any other band of the mer-
cenary adventurers, who found Italy the market for their
valor. Occupied with raising troops, procuring money,
corresponding with the various free states, and establishing
alliances in aid of his ulterior and more ambitious projects
at the court of Avignon, the cardinal waited with tolerable
resignation the time when he might claim from the Signora
Cæsarini the reward to which he deemed himself entitled.
Meanwhile he had held his first conversations with Rienzi,
and, under the semblance of courtesy to the acquitted tribune,
He was ushered with due state into the apartment of the
signora. He found her pale, and with the traces of illness
upon her noble and statue-like features. She rose as he
entered; and when he approached, she half bent her knee,
and raised his hand to her lips. Surprised and delighted
at a reception so new, the cardinal hastened to prevent the
condescension; retaining both her hands, he attempted
gently to draw them to his heart.
"Fairest !" he whispered, "couldst thou know how I
have mourned thy illness, and yet it has but left thee.
292
BULWER'S NOVELS.
more love y, as the rain. only brightens the flower. Ah!
happy if I have promoted thy lightest wish, and if in thine
eyes I may henceforth seek at once an angel to guide me
and a paradise to reward."
Nina, releasing her hand, waved it gently, and motioned
the cardinal to a seat. Seating herself at a little distance,
she then spoke with great gravity and downcast eyes.
My lord, it is your intercession, joined to his own in-
nocence, that has released from yonder tower the elected
governor of the people of Rome. But freedom is the least
of the generous gifts you have conferred; there is a greater
in a fair name vindicated, and rightful honors rebestowed.
For this I rest ever your debtor; for this, if I bear chil-
dren, they shall be taught to bless your name; for this the
historian who recalls the deeds of this age, and the for-
tunes of Cola di Rienzi, shall add a new chaplet to the
wreaths you have already won. Lord cardinal, I inay
have erred. I may have offended
I may have offended you, you may accuse
me of woman's artifice. Speak not, wonder not, hear ine
out. I have but one excuse, when I say that I held justi-
fied any means short of dishonor, to save the life and re-
store the fortunes of Cola di Rienzi. Know, my lord, that
she who now addresses you is his wife."
The cardinal remained motionless and silent. But his
sallow countenance grew flushed from the brow to the
neck, and his thin lips quivered for a moment, and then
broke into a withering and bitter smile. At length he rose
from his seat, very slowly, and said, in a voice trembling
with passion,
"It is well, madam. Giles D'Albornoz has been, then,
a puppet in the hands, a stepping-stone in the rise, of the
plebeian demagogue of Rome. You but played upon me
for your own purposes; and nothing short of a cardinal of
Spain, and a prince of the royal blood of Arragon, was
meet to be the instrument of a mountebank's juggle.
Madam, yourself, and your husband might justly be accused
of ambition
Cease, my lord," said Nina, with unspeakable digni-
ty;
"whatever offence has been committed against you
was mine alone. Till after our last interview, Rienzi
knew not even of my presence at Avignon.'
"At our last interview, lady (you do well to recall it !)
methinks there was a hinted and implied contract. I have
fulfilled my part, I claim yours. Mark me! I do not
forego that claim. As easily as I rend this glove can I rend
the parchment which proclaims thy husband the senator of
Rome.' The dungeon is not death, and its door will open
twice."
►
<
"My lord, my lord!" cried Nina, sick with terror,
wrong not so your noble nature, your great name, your
sacred rank, your chivalric blood. You are of the knightly
race of Spain; yours not the sullen, low, and inexorable
vices that stain the petty tyrants of this unhappy land.
You are no Visconti,—no Castracani, you cannot stain
your laurels with revenge upon a woman. Hear me," she
continued, and she fell abruptly at his feet; "men dupe,
deccive our sex, and for selfish purposes, they are
pardoned, -even by their victims. Did I deceive you with
a false hope! Well, what my object? - what my ex-
cuse? My husband's liberty, — my land's salvation. Wo
mán, my lord, alas, your sex too rarely understand her
weakness or her greatness! Erring, all human as she
is to others, God gifts her with a thousand virtues to the
one she loves! It is from that love that she alone drinks
P
S -
Garden
her nobler nature. For the hero of her worship she has the
meekness of the dove,
meekness of the dove, — the devotion of the saint; for his
safety in peril, for his rescue in misfortune, her vain sense
imbibes the sagacity of the serpent, her weak heart the
courage of the lioness! It is this which, in absence, made
me mask my heart in smiles, that the friends of the house-
less exile might not despair of his fate, it is this which
brought me through forests beset with robbers, and less
gentle chiefs, to watch the stars upon yon solitary tower,-
it was this that led my steps to the revels of your hated
court, this which made me seek a deliverer in the noblest
of its chiefs,
of its chiefs, it is this which has at last opened the dun-
geon door to the prisoner now within your halls and this,
lord cardinal,” added Nina, rising and folding her arms
upon her heart; "this, if your anger seeks a victim, wil
inspire me to die without a groan, but without dis-
honor!
M
M
Albornoz remained rooted to the ground. Amazement,
emotion, admiration, all busy at his heart. He gazed at
Nina's flashing eyes and heaving bosom, as a warrior of
old upon a prophetess that is inspired. His eyes were
riveted to hers as by a spell. He tried to speak, but his
voice failed him. Nina continued.
"Yes, my lord; these are no idle words! If thou seek-
est revenge, it is in thy power. Undo what thou hast done
Give Rienzi back to the dungeon, or to disgrace, and you
are avenged; but not on him. All the hearts of Italy shall
become to him a second Nina! I am the guilty one, and I
the sufferer. Hear me swear, in that instant which
sees new wrong to Rienzi, this hand is my executioner.
My lord, I supplicate you no longer!"
Albornoz continued deeply moved. Nina but rightly
judged him, when she distinguished the aspiring Spaniard
from the barbarous and unrelenting voluptuaries of Italy.
Despite the profligacy that stained his sacred robe, de-
spite all the acquired and increasing callousness of a hard,
scheming, and skeptical man, cast amid the worst natures
of the worst of times, there lingered yet in his soul much
of the chivalric honor of his race and country. High
thoughts and daring spirits touched a congenial string in
his heart, and not the less, in that he had but rarely met
them in his experience of camps and courts. For the first
time in his life, he felt that he had seen the woman that
could have contented him even with wedlock, and taught
him the proud and knightly love of which the minstrels of
Spain had sung. He sighed, and still gazing on Nina,
approached her, almost reverentially, he knelt and kissed
the hem of her robe. Lady," he said, "I would I could
believe that you have altogether read my nature aright;
but I were indeed lost to all honor, and unworthy of gentle
birth, if I still harboured a single thought against the peace
and virtue of one like thee. Sweet heroine,"——
tinued, -"so lovely, yet so pure, so haughty, and yet so
soft, thou hast opened to me the brightest page these eyes
have ever scanned in the blotted volume of mankind. Mayst
thou have such happiness as life can give; but souls such as
thine make their nest, like the eagle, upon rocks and amid
the storms. Fear me no more, think of me no more,
unless hereafter, when thou, hearest men speak of Giles
D'Albornoz, thou mayst say in thine own heart," — and
here the cardinal's lip curled with scorn, “he did not
renounce every feeling worthy of a man when ambition and
fate endued him with the surplice of the priest."
G
M
The Spaniard was gone before Nina could reply.
he con-
RIENZI. THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
293
Montréal nourrissoit de plus vastes projets
BOOK VIII.
THE GRAND COMPANY.
·
·
•
il donnoit à sa compagnie un gouvernement régulier
Per cette
discipline il faisoit reguer l'abondance dans son camp, les gens de guerre ne parloient, en Italie, que des richesses qu'on aité-
reit à son service. - SISMONDI Hist. des Républiques Italiennes, tom. vi. c. xlii.
CHAPTER 1.
The encampment.
It was a most lovely day, in the very glow and meridian
of an Italian summer, when a small band of horsemen was
seen winding a hill which commanded one of the fairest
landscapes of Tuscany. At their head was a cavalier in a
complete suit of chain armor, the links of which were so
fine that they resembled a delicate and curious network,
but so strongly compacted, that they would have resisted
spear or sword no less effectually than the heaviest corslet,
while adapting themselves exactly, and with ease, to every
movement of the light and graceful shape of the rider. On
his head be wore a hat of dark green velvet, shaded by long
plumes, while of two squires behind, the one bore his helmet
and dance, the other led a strong war-horse, completely
cased in plates of mail, which seemed, however, scarcely to
encumber its proud and agile paces. The countenance of
the cavalier was comely, but strongly marked, and darken-
ed, by long exposure to the sums of many climes, to a deep
bronze hue: a few raven ringlets escaped from beneath his
hat down a cheek closely shaven. The expression of his
features was grave and composed, even to sadness; nor
could all the loveliness of the unrivalled scene before him
dispel the quiet and settled melancholy of his eyes. Besides
the squires, ten horsemen, armed cap-à-pie, attended the
knight; and the low and murmured conversation they car-
ried on at intervals, as well as their long fair hair, large
stature, thick short beards, and the studied and accurate
equipment of their arms and steeds, bespoke them of a
hardier and more warlike race than the children of the
south. The cavalcade was closed with two men almost of
gigantic height, each bearing a banner richly decorated,
wherein was wrought a colunm, with the inscription,
ALONE AMID RUINS. Fair indeed was the prospect |
which, with every step, expanded yet more widely its va-
rious beauty. Right before stretched a long vale, now
covered with green woodlands glittering in the yellow sun-
light, now opening into narrow plains bordered by hillocks,
from whose mosses of all hues grew fantastic and odorous
shrubs; while, winding amid them, a broad and silver
stream broke into light at frequent intervals, snatched by
wood and hillock from the eye, only to steal upon it again
in sudden and bright surprise the opposite slope of gentle
mountains, as well as that which the horsemen now descend-
ed, was covered with vineyards, trained in alleys and
arcades. And the clustering grape laughed from every
leafy and glossy covert, as gayly as when the fauns held à
holyday in the shade. The eye of the cavalier roved list-
lessly over this enchanting prospect, sleeping in the rosiest
light of a Tuscan heaven, and then became fixed with a
more earnest attention on the gray and frowning walls of a
distant castle, which, high upon the steepest of the opposite
mountains, overlooked the valley.
>>
:
“Behold," he muttered to himself," how every Eden in
Italy hath its curse! Wherever the land smiles fairest, be!
sure to find the brigand's tent and the tyrant's castle !"
Scarce had these thoughts passed his mind, ere the shrill
and sudden blast of a bugle that sounded close among the
vineyards, by the side of the path, startled the whole group.
The cavalcade halted abruptly. The leader made a gesture
to the squire that led his war-horse. The noble and prac
tise animal remained perfectly still, but champing its bit
restlessly, and moving its quick ear to and fro, as aware
ɔf a coming danger, while the squire, unencumbered by
the heavy armor of the Germans, plunged into the ticket
and disappeared. He returned in a few minutes, already
heated and breathless.
"We must be on our guard," he whispered, "I see the
glimmer of steel through the vine-leaves."
"Our ground is unhappily chosen," said the knight,
hastily bracing on his helmet and leaping on his charger;
and waving his hand towards a broader space in the road,
which would permit the horsemen more room to act in
union, with his small band he made hastily to the spot,
the armor of the soldiers rattling heavily as two by two
they proceeded on.
The space to which the cavalier had pointed was a green
semicircle of several yards in extent, backed by tangled
copses of brushwood sloping down to the vale below. They
reached it in safety; they drew up breast to breast, in the
form of a crescent every visor closed, save that of the
knight, who looked anxiously and keenly round the
landscape.
"Hast thou heard, Giulio," he said to his favorite
squire, (the only Italian of the band,)“ whether any bri-
gands have been seen lately in these parts
?
"No, my lord; on the contrary, I am told that every
lance hath left the country to join the grand company of
Fra Moreale. The love of his pay and plunder has drawn
away the mercenaries of every Tuscan signor.”
Scarce had he spoke, before the bugle sounded again
from nearly the same spot as before; it was answered by a
brief and inartial note from the very rear of the horsemen.
At the same moment, from the thickets behind, broke the
gleam of mail and spears. One after another,
rank after
rank, from the copse behind them, emerged men-at-arms,
while suddenly, from the vines in front, still greater num
bers poured down with loud and fierce shouts.
"For God, for the emperor, and for the Colonna !"
cried the knight, closing his visor; and the little band,
closely serried, the lance in every rest, broke upon the rush
of the enemy in front. Some score, borne to the ground by
the charge, cleared a path for the horsemen, and without
waiting the assault of the rest, the knight wheeled his
charger, and led the way down the hill, almost at fuli
gallop, despite the roughness of the descent: a flight of
arrows despatched after them fell idly on their iron mail.
"If they have no horse," cried the knight, we are
saved!"
66
And indeed the enemy seemed scarcely to think of pur-
suing them; but (gathered on the brow of the hill) appeared
contented to watch their flight.
Suddenly a curve in the road brought them before a
broad and wide patch of waste land, which formed almost
a level surface, interrupting the descent of the mountain.
On the commencement of this waste, drawn up in still
array, the sunlight broke on the breastplates of a long
line of horsemen, whom the sinuosities of the road had
hitherto concealed from the knight and his party.
The little troop halted abruptly, retreat, advance
alike cut off; -gazing first at the foe before them, that
remained still as a cloud, every eye was then turned towards
the knight.
CC
"An' thou wouldst, my lord," said the leader of the
Northmen, perceiving the irresolution of their chief, we
will fight to the last. You are the only Italian I ever
krew whom I would willingly die for!”
This rude profession was received with a sympathetic
murmur from the rest, and the soldiers drew closer around
294
BULWER'S NOVELS.
CC
the knight. Nay, my brave fellows," said the Colonna,
lifting his visor, it is not in so inglorious a field, after
such various fortunes, and against such ignoble foes, that
we are doomed to perish. If these be brigands, as we must
suppose, we can yet purchase our way. If the troops of
some signor, we are strangers to the feud in which he is
ngaged. Give me yon banner, I will ride on to them."
Nay, my lord," said Giulio; "such marauders do not
ways spare a flag of truce. There is danger
“For that reason your leader braves it. Quick
The knight took the banner, and rode deliberately up to
the horsemen. On approaching, his warlike eye could not
but admire the perfect caparison of their arms, the strength
and beauty of their steeds, and the steady discipline of their
long and glittering line.
As he rode up, and his gorgeous banner gleamed in the
noonlight, the soldiers saluted him. It was a good omen,
and he hailed it as such. "Fair sirs," said the knight,
I come, at once herald and leader of the little band who
have just escaped the unlooked-for assault of armed men on
yonder hill, and, claiming aid, as knight from knight
and soldier from soldier, I place my troop under the pro-
tection of your leader. Suffer me to see him."
"Sir knight,"
"answered one, who seemed the captain
of the band, "sorry am I to detain one of your gallant
bearing, and still more so, on recognising the device of one
of the most potent houses of Italy. But our orders are
strict, and we must bring all armed men to the camp of our
general."
"Long absent from my native land, I knew not,” replied
the knight, "that there was war in Tuscany. Permit me
to crave the name of the general whom you speak of, and
that of the foe against whom ye march."
The captain smiled slightly.
"Walter de Montreal is the general of the Great Com-
pany, and Florence his present foe.'
""
"We have fallen, then, into friendly, if fierce hands,"
replied the knight, after a moment's pause. "To Sir
Walter de Montreal I am known of old. Permit me to
return to my companions, and acquaint them that, if acci-
dent has made us prisoners, it is, at least, only to the most
skilful warrior of his day that we are condemned to yield."
The Italian then turned his horse to join his comrades.
"A fair knight and a bold presence," said the captain
of the Companions to his neighbour, though I scarce think
it is the party we are ordered to intercept. "Praised be
the Virgin, however, his men seem from the north. Them,
perhaps, we may hope to enlist
The knight now, with his comrades, rejoined the troop.
And, on receiving their parole not to attempt escape, a
detachment of thirty horsemen were despatched to conduct.
the prisoners to the encampment of the Great Company.
Turning from the main road, the knight found himself
conducted into a narrow defile between the hills, which,
succeeded by a gloomy tract of wild forest-land, brought
the party, at length, into a full and abrupt view of a wide
plain, covered with the tents of what, for Italian warfare,
was considered a mighty army. A stream, over which
rude and hasty bridges had been formed from the neigh-
bouring timber, alone separated the horsemen from the
encampment.
"A noble sight ! said the captive cavalier, with enthu-
siasm, as he reined in his steed, and gazed upon those wild
and warlike streets of canvass, traversing each other in
vistas broad and regular.
One of the captains of the Great Company, who rode
beside him, smiled complacently.
"There are few masters of the martial art that equal
Fra Moreale," said he ; "and, wild, reckless, and gath-
ered from all parts and all countries, from cavern and
from market-place, from prison and from palace, as are his
troops, he has already reduced them into a discipline which
might shame even the soldiery of the empire."
The knight made no reply; but spurring his horse over
one of the rugged bridges, soon found himself amid the
encampment. But that part at which he entered little
merited the praises bestowed upon the discipline of the
army. A more unruly and disorderly array, the cavalier,
accustomed to the stern regularity of English, French, and
German discipline, thought he had never beheld: here and
there, fierce, unshaven, half-naked brigands might be seen,
driving before then the cattle which they had just collected
by predatory excursions. Sometimes a knot of dissolute
cot
Nomen stood, — chattering, scolding, gesticulating,
lected round groups of wild shagged Northmen, who, despite
the bright purity of the summer noon, were already engaged
in deep potations. Oaths, and laughter, and drunken mer-
riment, and fierce brawl, rang from side to side, and ever
and anon some hasty conflict with drawn knives was begun
and finished by the fiery and savage bravoes of Calabria
or the Apennines, before the very eyes, and almost in the
very path of the troop. Tumblers, and mountebanks, and
jugglers, and Jew pedlers, were exhibiting their tricks or
their wares, at every interval, apparently well inured to the
lawless and turbulent market in which they exercized their
several callings. Despite the protection of the 'crsemen
who accompanied them, the prisoners were not allowed to
pass without molestation. Groups of urchi´s, squalid,
fierce, and ragged, seemed to start from the ground, and
surrounded their horses like swarms of bees, uttering the
most discordant cries, and, with the gestures of savages,
rather demanding than beseeching money, which, when
granted, seemed only to render them more insatiable.
While, sometimes mingled with the rest, were seen the
bright eyes and olive cheek, and half-pleading, half-laughing
smile of girls, whose extreme youth, scarce emerged from
childhood, rendered doubly striking their utter and unre-
deemed abandonment.
"You did not exaggerate the decorum of the Grand
Company!" cried the knight, gravely, to his new ac-
quaintance.
'Signor," replied the other, "you must not judge of
the kernel by the shell. We are scarcely yet arrived at
the camp. These are the outskirts, occupied rather by the
rabble than the soldiers. Twenty thousand men from the
sink, it must be owned, of every town in Italy, follow the
camp, to fight, if necessary, but rather for plunder and for
forage:- such you now behold. Presently you will see
those of another stamp.
"And to such men is
The knight's heart swelled high.
Italy given up!" thought he. His reverie was broken by
a loud burst of applause from some convivialists hard by.
He turned, and under a long tent, and round a board cov-
ered with wine and viands, sat some thirty or forty bravoes.
A ragged minstrel, or jongleur, with an immense beard
and mustaches, was tuning, with no inconsiderable skill,
a lute which had accompanied him in all his wanderings, -
and suddenly changing its note into a wild and warlike
melody, he commenced, in a loud and deep voice, the
following song :—
THE PRAISE OF THE GRAND COMPANY.
1.
Ho, dark one from the golden South, -ho, fair one from the
North;
Ho, coat of mail and spear of sheen, — ho, wherefore ride ye
forth?
-
"We come from mount, we come from cave, we come across
the sea,
In long array, in bright array, to Montreal's Companiè ”
Oh, the merry, merry band,
Light heart, and heavy hand,
Oh, the Lances of the Free '
II.
Ho, princes of the castled height, ho, burghers of the town ;
Apulia's strength, Romagna's pride, the Tusca's old renown!
Why quail ye thus? Why pale ye thus? What spectre do
Why quail ve thus?
yo see?
"The blood-red flag, and trampling march, of Montreal's
Companie."
Oh, the sunshine of your life,
Oh, the thunders of your strife !
Wild Lances of the Free!
III.
Ho, scutcheons o'er the vaulted tomb where Norman valor
sleeps,
Why shake ye so? Why quake ye so? What wind the trophy
sweeps?
"We shake without a breath, below the dead are stirred to
see
The Norman's fame revived again in Montreal's Companie."
Who, since Roger won his crown,
Ever equalled your renown,
Brave Lances of the Free
IV.
Ho, ye who seek to win a name, whose deeds are bravest
dove,
Ho, ye who wish to pile a heap, where gold is lightest wo;
RIENZI, THE LAST
295
OF THE TRIBUNES.
Ho, ye who loathe the stagnant life, or shun the law's decree,
Belt on the brand, and spur the steed to Montreal's Com-
panie.
And the maid shall share her rest,
And the miser share his chest,
With the Lances of the Free!
The Free!
The Free!
Oh! the Lances of the Free!
Then suddenly, as if inspired to a wilder flight by his own
minstrelsy, the jongleur, sweeping his hand over the chords,
broke forth into an air admirably expressive of the picture
that his words, running into a rude, but lively and stirring
doggerel, attempted to paint.
THE MARCH OF THE GRAND COMPANY.
Tirà, tirala, trumpet and drum,
Rising bright o'er the height of the mountain they come !
German, and Hun, and the Islandrie,
Who routed the Frenchmen at famed Cressie,
When the rose changed its hue with the fleur de lis ;
With the Roman, and Lombard, and Piedmontese,
And the dark-haired son of the southern seas.
Tirà, tiralà, more near and near !
Down the steep, see them sweep; - rank by rank they ap-
pear!
With the cloud of the crowd hanging dark at their rear, —
Serried, and steadied, and orderliè,
Like the course, like the force,
of a marching sea!
Open your gates, and out with your gold,
For the blood must be spilt, or the ransom be told '
Woe, burghers, woe! Behold them led
By the stoutest arm, and the wisest head,
With the snow-white cross on the cloth of red;
With the eagle eye, and the lion port,
His barb for a throne, and his camp for a court; —
Sovereign and scourge of the land is he,-
The kingly knight of the Companie !
-
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
Hurrah for the army, hurrah for its lord,
Hurrah for the gold that is got by the sword,
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
For the Lances of the Free!
Shouted by the full chorus of those desperate boon com-
panions, and caught up and reëchoed from side to side,
near and far, as the familiar and well-known words of the
burden reached the ears of more distant groups or strag-
glers, the effect of this fierce and licentious minstrelsy was
indescribable. It was impossible not to feel the zest which
that daring life imparted to its daring followers, and even
the gallant and stately knight who listened to it, reproved
himself for an involuntary thrill of sympathy and pleasure.
He turned with some impatience and irritation to his
companion, who had taken a part in the chorus, and said,
"Sir,
to the ears of an Italian noble, conscious of the
miseries of his country, this ditty is not welcome. I pray
you, let us proceed.'
""
"I humbly crave your pardon, signor," said the Free
signor," said the Free
Companion; "but really, so attractive is the life led by
Free Lances, under Fra Moreale, that sometimes we forget
the; but pardon me,
-we will on."
A few moments more, and, bounding over a narrow cir-
cumvallation, the party found themselves in a quarter, ani-
mated indeed, but of a wholly different character of anima-
tion. Long lines of armed men were drawn up on either
side of a path, conducting to a large markee, placed upon
a little hillock, surmounted by a blue flag, and up this path
armed soldiers were passing to and fro with great order,
but with a pleased and complacent expression upon their
swarthy features. Some that repaired to the markee were
bearing packets and bales upon their shoulders, those
that returned seemed to have got rid of their burdens, but
every now and then, impatiently opening their hands, ap-
Deared counting and recounting to themselves the coins
contained therein.
The knight looked inquiringly at his companion.
"It is the markee of the merchants," said the captain;
"they have free admission to the camp, and their property
and persons are rigidly respected. They purchase each
soldier's share of the plunder at fair prices, and each party
is contented with the bargain.'
>>
"It seems, then, that there is some kind of rude justice
observed among you," said the knight.
"Rude! Diavolo! Not a town in Italy but would be
glad of such even justice, and such impartial laws. Yon-
der lie the tents of the judges, appointed to try all offences
of soldier against soldier. To the right, the tent with the
|
golden ball contains the treasurer of the army. Fra Mo-
reale incurs no arrears with his soldiery. All within is
like the wheels of a machine; but the machine itself, I
allow, occasions disorder enough without."
It was, indeed, by these means that the knight of St.
John had collected the best equipped and the best contented
force in Italy. Every day brought him recruits. Nothing
was spoken of among the mercenaries of Italy but the
wealth acquired in his service, and every warrior in the
pay of republic or of tyrant, sighed for the lawless standard
of Fra Moreale. Already had exaggerated tales of the
fortunes to be made in the ranks of the Great Company
passed the Alps; and, even now, the knight, penetrating
farther into the camp, beheld from many a tent the proud
banners and armorial blazon of German nobility and Ga lic
knighthood.
"You see," said the Free Companion, pointing to these
insignia, we are not without our different ranks in our
wild city. And while we speak, many a golden spur is
speeding hitherward from the north!"
All now in the quarter they had entered was still and
solemn; ouly afar came the mingled hum, or the sudden
shout of the pandemonium in the rear, mellowed by dis-
tance to a not unpleasing sound. An occasional soldier,
crossing their path, stalked silently and stealthily to some
neighbouring tent, and seemed scarcely to regard their
approach.
"Behold! we are before the general's pavilion," said
the free lance.
Blazoned with purple and gold, the tent of Montreal lay
a little apart from the rest. A brooklet from the stream
they had crossed murmured gratefully on the ear, and a
tall and wide-spreading beech cast its shadow over the
gorgeous canvass.
While his troop waited without, the knight was cou
ducted at once to the presence of the formidable adventurer
CHAPTER II.
Adrian once more the guest of Montreal.
MONTREAL was sitting at the head of a table, su
rounded by men, some military, some civil, whom he called
his counsellors, and with whom he apparently debated all
his projects. These men, drawn from various cities, were
intimately acquainted with the internal affairs of the ser-
eral states to which they belonged. They could tell to a
fraction the force of a signor, the wealth of a merchant,
the power of a mob. And thus, in his lawless camp, Mon-
treal presided, not more as a general than a statesman.
Such knowledge was invaluable to the chief of the Great
Company. It enabled him to calculate exactly the time to
attack a foe, and the sum to demand for a suppression of
hostilities. He knew what parties to deal with,
where
to importune, where to forbear. And it usually hap-
pened, that by some secret intrigue, the appearance of
Montreal's banner before the walls of a city was the signal
for some sedition or some broil within. It may be that
he thus also promoted an ulterior, as well as his present
policy.
The divan were in full consultation, when an officer
entered, and whispered a few words in Montreal's ear.
His eyes brightened. "Admit him," he said, hastily
"Messieurs," he added to his counsellors, rubbing his
hands, “I think our net has caught our bird. Let us
see."
At this moment the drapery was lifted, and the knight
admitted.
How!" muttered Montreal; changing color, and in
evident disappointment. "Am I ever to be thus balked?"
"Sir Walter de Montreal," said the prisoner, "I am
once more your guest, in these altered features you
perhaps scarcely recognise Adrian di Castello,”
“Pardon me, noble signor," said Montreal, rising with
great courtesy; "the mistake of my varlets disturbed my
recollection for a moment, I rejoice once more to press
a hand that has won so many laurels since last we part-
ed. Your renown has been grateful to my ears. llo!
continued the chieftain, clapping his hands, see to the
refreshment and repose of this noble cavalier and his.
attendants. Lord Adrian, I will join you presently."
CC
Adrian withdrew. Montreal, forgetful of his counsel
296
BULWER'S NOVELS.
N
lors, traversed his tent with hasty strides, then summon-
ing the officer who had admitted Adrian, he said, "Count
Landau still keeps the pass?"
"Yes, general!"
"Hie thee fast, then, the ambuscade must tarry till
nigl tall. We have trapped the wrong fox."
The officer departed, and shortly afterward Montreal
broke up the divan. He sought Adrian, who was lodged
in a tent beside his own.
66
My lord," said Montreal," it is true that my men had
orders to stop every one on the roads towards Florence.
I am at war with that city. Yet I expected a very different
prisoner from you. Need I add, that you and your men
are free ?
"I accept the courtesy, noble Montreal, as frankly as it
ia rendered. May I hope hereafter to repay it? Mean-
while permit me, without any disrespect, to say, that had
I learned that the Grand Company was in this direction, I
should have altered my course. I had heard that your
arms were bent (somewhat, to my mind, more nobly)
against Malatesta, the tyrant of Rimini."
and the city disgorged half its inhabitants to attend the
person of the bold tribune. To the entreaties of these
worthy citizens, (perhaps the very men who had before
shut up their darling in St. Angelo,) the crafty legate
merely replied,' Arm against John di Vico,
conquer the
tyrants of the territory, reëstablish the patrimony of St.
Peter, and Rienzi shall then be proclaimed senator, and
return to Rome.'
"These words inspired the Romans with so great a zea
that they willingly lent their aid to the legate. Aquapen.
dente, Bolzena yielded, John di Vico was half reduced and
half terrified into submission, and Gabrielli, the tyrant
of Agobbio, has since succumbed. The glory is to the car-
dinal, but the merit with Rienzi."
"And now?"
"Albornoz continued to entertain the senator-tribune
with great splendor and fair words, but not a word about
restoring him to Rome. Wearied with this suspense, I
have learned by secret intelligence that Rienzi as left the
camp, and betaken himself with few attendants to Florence,
where he has friends, who will provide him with arms and
money to enter Rome."
They were so. He was my foe. He is my tributary.
We conquered him. He paid us the price of his liberty. "Åh, then! now I guess," said Adrian, with a half
We marched by Asciano upon Sienna. For sixteen thou- smile, "for whom I was mistaken!"
|
sand florins we spared that city, and we now hang like a Montreal blushed slightly. Fairly conjectured!"
thunderbolt over Florence, which dared to send her puny said he.
aid to the defence of Rimini. Our marches are forced and
rapid, and our camp in this plain but just pitched.'
"I hear that the Grand Company is allied with Albornoz,
and that its general is secretly the soldier of the church.
Is it so ?"
CC
―
Ay, Albornoz and I understand one another," re-
plied Montreal, carelessly; "and not the less so that we
have a mutual foe, whom both have sworn to crush, in
Visconti, the archbishop of Milan.”
"Visconti! the most potent of the Italian princes. That
he has justly incurred the wrath of the church, I know,
and I can readily understand that Innocent has revoked the
purchased pardon which the intrigues of the archbishop
purchased from Clement VI. But I see not so clearly why
Montreal should willingly provoke so dark and terrible a
foe."
S
Montreal smiled grimly. "Know you not," he said," the
vast ambition of that Visconti ? By the holy sepulchre, he
is precisely the enemy my soul leaps to meet. He has
a genius worthy to cope with Montreal's. I have made
myself master of his secret plans, they are gigantic! In
a word, the archbishop designs the conquest of all Italy.
His enormous wealth purchases the corrupt, his dark
sagacity ensnares the credulous, his daring valor awes
the weak. Every enemy he humbles, every ally he en-
slaves. This is precisely the prince whose progress Walter
de Montreal must arrest. For this (he said in a whisper
as to himself) is precisely the prince who, if suffered to
extend his power, will frustrate the plats and break the
force of Walter de Montreal.'
Adrian was silent, and for the first time a suspicion
of the real nature of the Provençal's designs crossed his
breast.
Meanwhile, at Rome," continued the Provençal,
"at Rome, your worthy house, and that of Orsini, being
elected to the supreme power, quarrelled among themselves,
and could not keep it. Francesco Baroncelli, a new dem-
agogue, an humble imitator of Rienzi, rose upon the ruins
of the peace broken by the nobles, obtained the title of tri.
bune, and carried about the very insignia used by his pred-
ecessor. But, less wise than Rienzi, he took the anti-papal
party; and the legate was thus enabled to play the papal
demagogue against the usurper. Baroncelli was a weak
man; his sons committed every excess, in mimicry of the
high-born tyrants of Padua and Milan. Virgins violated
and matrons dishonored, somewhat contrasted the solemn
and majestic decorum of Rienzi's rule; fine, Baroncelli
fell, massacred by the people. And new if you ask what
rules Rome, I answer, 'It is the hope of Rienzi.'”
"A strange man, and various fortunes. What will be
the end of both?
“Swift murder to the first, and eternal fame to the last,"
answered Montreal, calmly. "Rienzi will be restored;
that brave phenix will wing its way through storm and
cloud to its own funeral pyre; I foresee, I compassionate,
I admire. And then," added Montreal, "I look beyond !”
"But wherefore feel you so certain that, if restored,
Rienzi must fall?"
"Is it not clear to every eye, save his, that ambition
blinds? How can mortal genius, however great, rule that
most depraved people by popular means? The barons,
you know the indomitable ferocity of your Roman order,
wedded to abuse, and loathing every semblance to law;
the barons, humbled for a moment, will watch their occa-
sion, and rise. The people will again desert. Or else,
grown wise in one respect by experience, the new senator
will see that popular favor has a loud voice, but a recreant
arm. He will, like the barons, surround himself by foreign
swords. A detachment from the Grand Company will be
his courtiers; they will be his masters! to pay them, the
people must be taxed.
"Thou people must be taxed. Then the idol is execrated. No
Italian hand can govern these hardy demons of the north;
they will mutiny and fall away. A new demagogue will
lead on the people, and Rienzi will be the victim. Mark
my prophecy!
"But give me, noble Montreal," resumed the Colonna,
give me, if your knowledge serves, as no doubt it does,
give me the latest tidings of my native city. I am Roman,
and Rome is ever in my thoughts."
not.
"And well she may," replied Montreal, quickly. "Thou
knowest that Albornoz, as legate of the pontiff, led the army
of the church into the papal territories. He took with him
Cola di Rienzi. Arrived at Monte Fiascone, crowds of Ro-
mans of all ranks hastened thither to render homage to the
tribune. The legate was forgotten in the popularity of his
for
companion. Whether or no Albornoz grew jealous,
ne is proud as Lucifer, of the respect paid to the tribune,
or whether he feared the restoration of his power, I know
But he detained him in his camp, and refused to
yield him to all the solicitations and all the deputations of
the Romans. Artfully, however, he fulfilled one of the real
objects of Rienzi's release. Through his means he formally
regained the allegiance of Rome to the church, and, by the
attraction of his presence, swelled his camp with Roman
recruits. Marching to Viterbo, Rienzi distinguished him-
self greatly in deeds of arms against the tyrant,* John di |
Vico. Nay, he fought as one worthy of belonging to the
Grand Company. This increased the zeal of the Romans,
* Vit. di Col. Rienzi
|
C
And then, the beyond to which you .ook!"
"Utter prostration of Rome, for new and long ages,
God makes not two Rienzis; or," said Montreal, proudly,
"the infusion of a new life into the worn-out and diseased
frame, the foundation of a new dynasty. Verily, when
I look around me, I believe that the ruler of nations designs
the restoration of the South by the irruptions of the North;
and that out of the old Frank and Germanic race will be
built up the thrones of the future world!”
As Montreal thus spoke, leaning on his great war-sword,
with his fair and heroic features, so different, in their frank,
bold, fearless expression, from the dark and wily intellect
that characterizes the lineaments of the south, eloquent
at once with enthusiasm and thought, he might have
seemed no unfitting representative of the genius of that
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
297
northern chivalry of which he spake. And Adrian half
fancied that he saw before him one of the old Gothic
scourges of the western world.
Their conversation was here interrupted by the sound of
a trumpet, and presently an officer entering, announced the
arrival of ambassadors from Florence.
"Again you must pardon me, noble Adrian," said Mon-
treal," and let me claim you as my guest, at least for to-
night. Here you inay rest secure, and, on parting, my men
shall attend you to the frontiers of whatsoever territory you
design to visit.'
Adrian, not sorry to see more of a man so celebrated,
accepted the invitation.
Left alone, he leaned his head upon his hand, and soon
became lost in his reflections.
CHAPTER III.
-
Faithful and ill-fated love. The aspirations survive the
affections.
SINCE that fearful hour in which Adrian Colonna had
gazed upon the lifeless form of his adored Irene, the young
Roman had undergone the usual vicissitudes of a wander-
ing and adventurous life in those exciting times. His coun-
try seemed no longer dear to him. His very rank preclu-
ded him from the post he once aspired to take, in restoring
the liberties of Rome; and he felt that, if ever such a rev-
olution could be consummated, it was reserved for one in
whose birth and habits the people could feel sympathy and
kindred, and who could lift his hand in their behalf without
becoming the apostate of his order, and the judge of his
own house. He had travelled through various courts, and
served with renown in various fields. Beloved and hon-
Beloved and hon-
ored wheresoever he fixed a temporary home, no change
of scene had removed his melancholy, no new ties had
chased away the memory of the lost. In that era of pas-
sionate and poetical romance which Petrarch represented,
rather than created, love had already begun to assume a
more tender and sacred character thar it had hitherto
known, it had gradually imbibed the divine spirit which
it derives from Christianity, and which associates its sor-
rows on earth with the visions and hopes of heaven. To
him who relies upon immortality, fidelity to the dead is
easy, because death cannot extinguish hope; and the soul
of the mourner is already half in the world to come.
is an age which desponds of a future life, representing
death as an eternal separation, in which men may grieve
indeed for the dead, but hasten to reconcile themselves to
the living. For true is the old aphorism, that love exists
not without hope. And all that romantic worship which
the hermit of Vaucluse felt, or feigned, for Laura, found its
temple in the desolate heart of Adrian Colonna. He was
emphatically the lover of his time! Often as, in his pil-
grimage from land to land, he passed the walls of some
quiet and lonely convent, he seriously meditated the solemn
Vows, and internally resolved that the cloister, at least,
should receive his maturer age. The absence of five years
had, however, in some degree, restored the dimmed and
shattered affection for his father-land, and he desired once
more to behold the city in which he had first beheld Irene.
Perhaps," he thought, "time may have wrought some
unlooked-for change, and I may yet assist to restore my
country. But with this lingering patriotism, no ambition
was mingled.
CC
It
In that heated stage of action, in which the desire of
power seemed to stir through every breast, and Italy had
become the El Dorado of wealth or the Utopia of empire
to thousands of valiant arms and plotting minds, there was,
at least, one breast that felt the true philosophy of the her-
mit. Adrian's nature, though gallant and masculine, was
singularly imbued with that elegance of temperament which
recoils from rude contact, and to which a lettered and cul-
tivated indolence is the supremest luxury. His education,
his experience, and his intellect, had placed him far in ad-
vance of his age, and he looked with a high contempt at
the coarse villanies and base tricks by which Italian ambi-
tion sought its road to power. The rise and fall of Rienzi,
who, whatever his failings, was at least the purest and
most honorable of the self-raised princes of the age, had
conspired to make him despond of the success of noble, as
he recoiled from that of selfish aspirations. And the dreamy
melancholy which resulted from his ill-starred love, yet
VOL. II
35
|
more tended to wean him from the stale and hackncyed pur-
suits of the world. His character was full of beauty and
of poetry,
not the less so in that it found not a vent for
its emotions in the actual occupations of the poet ! Pent
within, those emotions diffused themselves over all his
thoughts, and colored his whole soul. Sometimes, in the
blessed abstraction of his visions, he pictured to himsel
the lot he might have chosen had Irene lived, and fate uni-
ted them, far from the turbulent and vulgar roar of Rome
- but amid some yet unpolluted solitude of the bright Ital
ian soil. Before his eye there rose the lovely landscape,
the palace by the borders of the waveless lake,
vineyards in the valley, the dark forests waving from the
hill, and that home, the resort and refuge of all the
minstrelsy and love of Italy, brightened by the "Lampeg-
gior dell' angelico riso," that makes a paradise in the face
we love. Often, seduced by such dreains to complete ob-
livion of his loss, the young wanderer started from the ideal
bliss, to behold around him the solitary waste of way,
or the moonlit tents of war, or, worse than all, the crowds
and revels of a foreign court.
the
Whether or not such fancies now for a moment allured
his meditations, conjured up perhaps by the name of Irene's
brother, which never sounded in his ears but to awaken ten
thousand associations, the Colonna remained thoughtfu!
and absorbed, until he was disturbed by his own squire,
who, accompanied by Montreal's servitors, ushered in his
solitary but ample repast. Flasks of the richest Florentine
wines, viands prepared with all the art which, alas,
Italy has now lost! goblets and salvers of gold and silver
prodigally wrought with barbaric gems, attested the
princely luxury which reigned in the camp of the Grand
Company. But Adrian saw in all but the spoliation of his
degraded country, and felt the splendor almost as an insult.
His lonely meal soon concluded, he became impatient of
the monotony of his tent; and, tempted by the cool air of
the descending eve, sauntered carelessly forth. He bent
his steps by the side of the brooklet that curved snake-like
and sparkling by Montreal's tent; and finding a spot some-
what solitary and apart from the warlike tenements around,
flung himself by the margin of the stream.
The last rays of the sun quivered on the wave that
danced musically over its stony bed; and amid a little
copse on the opposite bank broke the brief and momentary
song of such of the bolder inhabitants of that purple air as
the din of the camp had not scared from their green retreat.
The clouds lay motionless to the west, in that sky so darkly
and intensely blue, never seen but over the landscapes that
a Claude or a Rosa loved to paint; and dim and delicious
rose-hues gathered over the gray peaks of the distant
Apennines. From afar floated the hum of the camp,
broken by the neigh of returning steeds, the blast of an
occasional bugle, and at regular intervals by the armed
tramp of the neighbouring sentry. And opposite to the lef
of the copse, upon a rising ground, matted with reeds,
moss, and waving shrubs, -were the ruins of some old
Etruscan wall or building, whose name had perished, whose
very uses were unknown.
The scene was so calm and lovely, as Adrian gazed upon
it, that it was scarcely possible to imagine it at that very
hour the haunt of fierce and banded robbers, among most of
whom the very soul of man was imbruted, and to whom
murder or rapine made the habitual occupation of life.
Still buried in his reveries, and carelessly dropping stones
into the noisy rivulet, Adrian was aroused by the sound of
steps.
"A fair spot to listen to the lute and the ballads of
Provence," said the voice of Montreal, as the kaight of
St. John threw himself on the turf beside the young Colonna.
"You retain, then, your ancient love of your national
melodies," said Adrian.
Ay, I have not yet survived all my yonth," answered
Montreal, with a slight sigh. "But, somehow or other,
the strains that once pleased my fancy now go too directly
to my heart. So, though I still welcome jongleur and min-
strel, I bid them sing their newest conceits. I don't wish
ever again to hear the poetry I heard when I was young !”
"Pardon me," said Adrian, with great interest, "but
fain would I have dared, but a secret apprehension pre-
vented me hitherto, fain would I have dared to question
you of that lovely lady, with whom, seven years ago, we
gazed at moonlight upon the odorous orange-groves and
rosy waters of Terracina.”
298
BULWER'S NOVELS
Montreal turned away his face; he laid his hand on
Adrian's arm, and murinured, in a deep and hoarse tone,
-"I am alone now! ,,
Adrian pressed his hand in silence. He felt no light
shock at thus learning the death of one so gentle, so lovely,
and so ill-fated.
—
the
"The vows of my knighthood," continued Montreal,
"which precluded Adeline the rights of wedlock, — the
shame of her house, the angry grief of her mother,
the wild vicissitudes of my life, so exposed to peril,
loss of her son, all preyed silently on her frame. She
did not die, (die is too harsh a word!)- but she drooped
away, and glided into heaven. Even as on a summer's
morn some soft dream fleets across us, growing less and
less distinct, until it fades, as it were, into light, and we
awaken, so faded Adeline's parting spirit, till the day-
light of God broke upon it."
Montreal paused a moment, and then resumed,
"These thoughts make the boldest of us weak, sometimes,
and we Provençals are foolish in these matters! -God's
wot, she was very dear to me ! "
friendship and your forbearance, I ask myself, Is this the
great knight of St. John; and have men spoken of Lim
fairly, when they assert the sole stain on his laurels to Le
his avarice!
CC
Montreal bit his lip; nevertheless, he answered calmly,
'My frankness has brought its own penance, Lord Adrian
However, I cannot wholly leave so honored a guest under
an impression that I feel to be plausible, but not just. No,
brave Colonna ; report wrongs me.
I value gold, for gold
is the architect of power! It fills the camp,
it storms
the city, - it buys the market-place, — it raises the palace,
it founds the throne. I value gold, it is the means
necessary to my end!"
"And that end—”
-
"Is, - no matter what," said the knight, coldly. "Let
us to our tents, the dews fall heavily, and the malaria floats
over these houseless wastes.'
The pair rose, yet, fascinated by the beauty of the hour,
they lingered for a moment by the brook. The earliest
stars shone over its crisping wavelets, and a delicious
breeze murmured gently amid the glossy herbage.
M
The knight bent down and crossed himself devoutly; his "Thus gazing," said Montreal, softly, "we reverse the
lips muttered a prayer strange as it may seem to our old Medusan fable the poets tell us of, and look and muse
more enlightened age, so martial a garb did morality then ourselves out of stone. A little while, and it was the sun-
wear, that this man, at whose word towns had blazed and light that glided the wave, it now shines as brightly, and
torrents of blood had flowed, neither adjudged himself, nor glides as gayly, beneath the stars; even so rolls the stream
was adjudged by the majority of his cotemporaries, a crim- of time: one luminary succeeds the other, equally wel
inal. His order, half monastic, half warlike, was emblem-comed, equally illumining, equally evanescent! You
atic of himself. He trampled upon man, yet humbled him-
self to God, nor had all his acquaintance with the refining
skepticism of Italy shaken the sturdy and simple faith of
the bold Provençal. So far from recognising any want of
harmony between his calling and his creed, he held (like a
.rue Northman) that man no true chevalier who was not as
devout to the cross as relentless with the sword.
"And you have no child save the one you lost?" asked
Adrian, when he observed the wonted composure of Mon-
treal once more returning.
"None!" said Montreal, as his brow again darkened.
"No love-begotten heir of mine will succeed to the fortunes
I trust yet to build. Never on earth shall I see upon the
face of her child the likeness of Adeline! yet, at Avignon,
I saw a boy I would have claimed, for methought she
must have looked her soul into his eyes, they were so
like hers. Well, well; the Provence tree hath other
branches; and some unborn nephew must be, what?
the stars have not yet decided! But ambition is now the
only thing in the world left me to love."
"So differently operates the same misfortune upon dif-
ferent characters," thought the Colonna. “To me crowns
became valueless when I could no longer dream of placing
them on Irene's brow!"
The similarity of their fates, however, attracted Adrian
strongly towards his host, and the two knights conversed
together with more friendship and unreserve than they had
hitherto done. At length Montreal said, "By the way, I
have not inquired your destination."
"I am bound to Rome," said Adrian; "and the intel-
ligence I have learned from you, incites me thitherward yet
more eagerly. If Rienzi return, I may mediate success-
fully, perchance, between the tribune-senator and the
nobles; and if I find my cousin, young Stefanello, now the
bead of our house, more tractable than his sires, I shall not
despair of conciliating the less powerful barons. Rome
wants repose; and whoever
and whoever governs, if he govern but
with justice, ought to be supported, both by prince and
plebeian. "
Montreal listened with great attention, and then muttered
to himself, "No, it cannot be !" He mused a little while,
shading his brow with his hand, before he said aloud, "To
Rome you are bound. Well, we shall meet soon amid its
ruing Know, by the way, that my object here is already
won these Florentine merchants have acceded to my
terms; they have purchased a two years' peace; to-morrow
the camp breaks up, and the Grand Company march to
Lombardy, there, if my schemes prosper, and the Vene-
tians pay my price, I league the rascals (under Landau,
my lieutenant) with the Sea City, in defiance of the Vis-
conti, and shall pass my autumn in peace, amid the pomps
of Rome."
"Sir Walter de Montreal," said Adrian, "your frank-
frank-
ess, perhaps, makes me presumptuous; but when I hear
vou talk, like a huxtering trader, of selling alike your
see the poetry of Provence still lives beneath my mail!"
Adrian early sought his couch; but his own thoughts,
and the sounds of loud mirth that broke from Montreal's
tent, where the chief feasted the captains of his band, a
revel from which he had the delicacy to excuse the Roman
noble, kept him long awake; and he had scarcely fallen
into an unquiet slumber, when yet more discordant sounds
again invaded his repose. At the earliest dawn the wide
armament was astir, the creaking of cordage, — the
tramp of men, loud orders, and louder oaths, - the
slow rolling of baggage-wains, and the clank of the
armorers, announced the removal of the camp, and the
approaching departure of the Grand Company.
Ere Adrian was yet attired, Montreal entered his tent.
"I have appointed," he said, "five score lances, under
a trusty leader, to accompany you, noble Adrian, to the
borders of Romagna: they await your leisure. In anoth-
er hour I depart; the onguard are already in motion."
Adrian would fain have declined the proffered escort;
but he saw that it would only offend the pride of the chief,
who soon retired. Hastily Adrian indued his arms, the
air of the fresh morning, and the glad sua lifting himself
gorgeously from the hills, revived his wearied spirit. He
repaired to Montreal's tent, and found him alore, with the
implements of writing before him, and a truphant smile
upon his countenance.
"Fortune showers new favors on me!" he said, gayly.
Yesterday the Florentines spared me the trouble of a
siege; and to-day (even since I last saw you,—
a few
minutes since) puts your new senator of Rome into y
power.'
"How! have your bands, then, arrested Rienzi?
"Not so,
better still! The tribune changed his plan,
and repaired to Perugia, where my brothers now abide,
sought them, they have supplied him with money, and
soldiers enough to brave the perils of the way, and to defy
the swords of the barons. So writes my good brother
Arimbaldo, a man of letters, whom the tribune thinks
rightly he has decoyed with old tales of Roman greatness,
and mighty promises of grateful advancement.
You find
me hastily expressing my content at the arrangement. My
brothers themselves will accompany the senator-tribune to
the walls of the capitol."
CC
Still, I see not how this places Rienzi in your power."
"No! His soldiers are my creatures, his comrades
my brothers, his creditor myself! Let him rule Rome,
then, the time soon comes when the vice-regent must
yield to
"The chief of the Grand Company," interrupted Adri-
an, with a shudder, which the bold Montreal was too
engrossed with the unconcealed excitement of his own
thoughts to notice. "No, knight of Provence; basely
have we succumbed to domestic tyrants; but never, I trust,
shall Romans be so vile as te wear the yoke of a foreigy
usurper.”
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
299
Montreal looked hard at Adrian, and smiled sternly.
"You mistake me," said he; "and it will be time
enough for you to play the Brutus when I assume the
the Brutus when I assume the
Cæsar. Meanwhile we are but host and guest. Let us
change the theme.”
Nevertheless, this, their latter conference, threw a
chill over both during the short time the knights remained
together, and they parted with a formality which was ill
suited to their friendly intercourse of the night before.
Montreal felt he had incautiously revealed himself, but
caution was no part of his character whenever he found
himself at the head of an army, and at the full tide of for-
tune; and at that moment, so confident was he of the suc
cess of his wildest schemes, that he recked little whom he
offended, or whom alarmed.
Slowly, with his strange and ferocious escort, Adrian
renewed his way. Winding up a steep ascent that led
from the plain,
when he reached the summit, the curve
in the road showed him the whole army on its march :—
the gonfalons waving,
the gonfalons waving, the armor flashing in the sun,
line after line, like a river of steel and the whole plain
bristling with the array of that moving war; as the
solemn tread of the armed thousands fell subdued and
stifled at times by martial and exulting music. As they
swept on, Adrian descried at length the stately and tower-
ing form of Montreal upon a black charger, distinguished
even at that distance from the rest, not more by his gor-
geous armor than his lofty stature. So swept be on in the
pride of his array, in the flush of his hopes,
of a mighty armament, the terror of Italy,
that was,
the monarch that might be !
Three little months afterward, and six feet of ground
sufficed for all that greatness !
—
the head
the hero
BOOK IX.
THE RETURN.
Allora la sua venuta fu a Roma sentita, Romani si apparechiavano a ricevverlo con letizia, furo fatti archi trionfall, &c. &c
Vit. di COLA DI RIENZI, lib. ii. c. xvii.
CHAPTER I.
The triumphal entrance.
C
•
open air conversing with his captains. A crowd followea.
I was one of them; and the tribune nodded at me,
ay,
that did he ! and so, with his scarlet cloak and his scar-
ALL Rome was astir! - from St. Angelo to the capitol, let cap, he faced the proud cardinal with a pride greater
windows, balconies, roofs, were crowded with animated than his own. Though your eminence,' said he, 'accords
thousands. Only here and there, in the sullen quarters of me neither money nor arms to meet the dangers of the
the Colonna, the Orsini, and the Savelli, reigned a death-road, and brave the ambush of the barons, I am prepared
like solitude and a dreary gloom. In those fortifications, to depart. Senator of Rome his holiness hath made me;
rather than streets, was not even heard the accustomed according to custom, I demand your eminence forthwith to
tread of the barbarian sentinel. The gates closed, the confirm the rank.' I would you could have seen how the
casements barred, the grim silence around, attested proud Spaniard stared, and blushed, and frowned: but he
the absence of the barons. They had left the city so soon bit his lip, and said little."
as they had learned of the certain approach of Rienzi. In
the villages and castles of the Campagna, surrounded by
their mercenaries, they awaited the hour when the people,
weary of their idol, should welcome back even these fero-
cious Iconoclasts.
S
With these exceptions, all Rome was astir! Triumphal
arches of drapery, wrought with gold and silver, raised at
every principal vista, were inscribed with mottoes of wel-
come and rejoicing. At frequent intervals stood youths and
maidens, with baskets of flowers and laurels. High above
the assembled multitudes, from the proud tower of Ha-
drian, from the turrets of the capitol, from the spires
of the sacred buildings dedicated to apostle and to saint,
floated banners as for a victory. Rome once more opened
her arms to receive her tribune!
Mingled with the crowd, disguised by his large man-
tle, hidden by the pressure of the throng, his person,
indeed, forgotten by most,aud, in the confusion of the
moment, heeded by none, stood Adrian Colonna! He
nad not been able to conquer his interest for the brother of
Irene. Solitary amid his fellow-citizens, he stood, the
only one of the proud race of Colonna who witnessed the
triumph of the darling of the people.
eye,
gate.
<<
"They say he has grown large in his prison," said one
of the by-standers, "he was lean enough when he came
by daybreak out of the church of St. John of Lateran !
Ay, said another, a little man, with a shrewd, restless
they say truly; I saw him take leave of the le-
Every eye was turned to the last speaker; he became at
once a personage of importance. "Yes," continued the
little man, with an elated and pompous air,- as soon,
d'ye see, as he had prevailed on Messere Brettone, and
Messere Arimbaldo, the brothers of Fra Moreale, to ac-
company him from Perugia to Monte Fiascone, he went
at once to the Legate D'Albornoz, who was standing in the
|
"And confirmed Rienzi senator?
"Yes; and blessed him, and bade him depart.
"Senator!" said a grim and grizzled giant, with fold.
ed arms: "I like not the title that has been borne by
a patrician. I fear me, in the new title he will forget the
old."
"Fie, Cecco del Vecchio, you were always a grumbler ! "
said a merchant of cloth, whose commodity the ceremonial
had put in great request;
"fie! for my part, I think
senator a less new-fangled title than tribune. I hope there
will be feasting enow, at last: Rome has been long dull.
Deh! a bad time for trade, I warrant me!"
The artisan grinned, scornfully. He was one of those
who distinguished between the middle class and the work-
ing, and he loathed a merchant as much as he did a noble.
"The day wears," said the little man; "he must be here
anon. The senator's lady, and all his train, have gone
forth to meet him these two hours.
Scarce were these words uttered, when the crowd to the
right swayed restlessly; and presently a horseman rode
rapidly through the street. Way there, keep back!
way!
make way for the most illustrious, the sena-
tor of Rome ! "
M
then
The crowd became hushed, then murmuring, then
hushed again. From balcony and casement stretched the
neck of every gazer. The tramp of steeds was heard at
a distance, the sound of clarion and trumpet;
gleaming through the distant curve of the streets was seen
the wave of the gonfalons, then the glitter of spears,
and then, from the whole multitude, as of one voice, arose
the shout, He comes! he comes!"
Adrian shrunk yet more backward among the throng;
and leaning against the walls of one of the houses, con-
templated the approaching pageant.
First came, six abreast, the procession of Roman horse-
men, who had gone forth to meet the senator, bearing
300
BULWER'S NOVELS.
boughs of olive in their hands each hundred preceded by
banners, inscribed with the words, "Liberty and Peace
restored." As these passed the group by Adrian, each
more popular citizen of the cavalcade was recognised and
received with loud shouts. By the garb and equipment of
the horsemen, Adrian saw that they belonged chiefly to the
traders of Rome, a race who, he well knew, unless strange-
ly altered, valued liberty only as a commercial speculation.
"A vain support these," thought the Colonna; -"what
next?" On, then came, in glittering armor, the Gerinan
mercenaries, hired by the gold of the brothers of Provence,
ic number two hundred and fifty, and previously in the pay
of Malatesta of Rimini; tall, stern, sedate, disciplined,—
eyeing the crowd, with a look, half of barbarian wonder,
half of insolent disdain. No shout of gratulation welcom-
ed these sturdy strangers; it was evident that their aspect
cast a chill over the assembly.
"Shame!" growled Cecco del Vecchio, audibly. "Has
the people's friend need of the swords which guard an
Orsini or a Malatesta ? shame!
No voice this time silenced the huge malecontent.
"His only real defence against the barons," thought
Adrian, "if he pay them well!
them well! But their number is not
sufficient !
Next came two hundred fantassins, or footsoldiers, of
Tuscany, with the corslets and arins of the heavy-armed
soldiery -a gallant company, and whose cheerful looks
and familiar bearing appeared to sympathize with the
crowd. And, in truth, they did so, for they were Tus-
cans, and therefore lovers of freedom. In them, too, the
Romans seemed to recognise natural and legitimate allies,
and there was a general " Viva " for the brave Tuscan !
"Poor defence! thought the more sagacious Colonna :
"the barons can awe, and the mob corrupt them.'
Next came a file of trumpeters and standard-bearers ;-
and now the sound of the music was drowned by shouts,
that seemed to shake the old seven-hilled city to her centre.
"Rienzi! Rienzi! welcome, welcome! Liberty and
Rienzi! Rienzi and the good state!" Flowers dropped
on his path, kerchiefs and banners waved from every house;
-tears might be seen coursing, unheeded, down bearded
cheeks; youth and age were kneeling together, with
uplifted hands, invoking blessings on the head of the
restored. On he came, the senator-tribune, "the Phenix
to his pyre!"
—
<
Robed in crimson, that literally blazed with gold, hi
proud head was bared to the sun, and bending to the saddle-
bow, Rienzi passed slowly through the throng. Not in
the flush of that hour were visible, on his glorious coun-
tenance, the signs of disease and care: the very enlarge-
ment of his proportions gave a greater majesty to his mien.
Hope sparkled in his eye, triumph and empire sat upon
his brow. The crowd could not contain themselves; they
pressed forward, each upon each, anxious to catch the
glance of his eye, to touch the hem of his robe. He him-
He him-
self was deeply affected by their joy. He halted ; with
faltering and broken words he attempted to address them.
I am repaid," he said, "repaid for all : —
may I live
o make you happy!"
The crowd parted again
the senator moved on-again
the crowd closed in. Behind the tribune, to their excited ima-
gination, seemed to move the very goddess of ancient Rome.
Upon a steed, caparisoned with cloth of gold ; in
snow-white robes, studded with gems that flashed back the
day, came the beautiful and regal Nina. The memory
of her pride, her ostentation, all forgotten in that moment,
she was scarce less welcome scarcely less idolized than
her lord. And her smile, all radiant with joy her lip,
quivering with proud and elate emotion; never had she
seemed at once so born alike for love and for command ;
a Zenobia passing through the pomp of Rome, not a
captive, but a queen.
a
But not upon that stately form riveted the gaze of Adrian,
- pale, breathless, trembling, he clung to the walls against
which he leaned. Was it a dream? Had the dead revived?
Or was it his own his living Irene whose soft and
melancholy loveliness shone sadly by the side of Nina,
star beside the moon? The pageant faded from his eyes,
- all grew dim and dark. For a moment he was insensi-
For a moment he was insensi-
ble. When he recovered, the crowd was hurrying along,
confused and blended with the mighty stream that followed
the procession. Through the moving multitude he caught the
graceful form of Irene, again snatched by the closing stan-
dards of the procession from his view. His blood rushed
back from his heart through every vein. He was as a man
who for years had been in a fearful trance, and who is
suddenly awakened to the light of heaven.
One man only of that mighty throng remained motion-
less with Adrian. It was Cecco del Vecchio.
"He did not see me," muttered the smith to himself;
"old friends are forgotten now. Well, well, Cecco del
Vecchio hates tyrants still, -no matter what their name,
or how smoothly they are disguised. He did not see me!
- Umph!
CHAPTER II.
The masquerade.
THE acuter reader has already learned, without the
absolute intervention of the author as narrator, the inci-
dents occurring to Rienzi in the interval between his acquit.
tal at Avignon and his return to Rome. As the impression
made by Nina upon the softer and better nature of Albor
noz died away, he naturally began to consider his guest,
as the profound politicians of that day ever considered men,
- a piece upon the great chess-board, to be moved, ad-
vanced, or sacrificed, as best suited the scheme in view.
His purpose accomplished, in the recovery of the patrimo-
nial territory, the submission of John di Vico, and the fall
and massacre of the demagogue Baroncelli, the cardinal
deemed it far from advisable to restore to Rome, and with
so high a dignity, the able and ambitious Rienzi. Before the
daring Roman, even his own great spirit quailed; and he
was wholly unable to conceive or to calculate the policy
that might be adopted by the new senator when once more
lord of Rome. Without affecting to detain, he therefore
declined to assist in restoring him. And Rienzi thus saw
himself within an easy march of Rome, without one soldier
to protect him against the barons by the way. But heaven
had decreed that no single man, however gifted, or however
powerful, should long counteract or master the destinies of
Rienzi. And perhaps in no more glittering scene of his
life did he ever evince so dexterous and subtle an intellect,
as he now did in extricating himself from the wiles of the
cardinal. Repairing to Perugia, he had, as we have seen,
procured, through the brothers of Montreal, men and money
for his return. But the knight of St. John was greatly
mistaken, if he imagined that Rienzi was not thoroughly
aware of the perilous and treacherous tenure of the support
he had received. His keen eye read at a glance the aims
and the characters of the brothers of Montreal; he knew
that, while affecting to serve him, they designed to control;
that, made the debtor of the grasping and aspiring
Montreal, and surrounded by the troops conducted by Mon-
treal's brethren, he was in the midst of a net which, if not
broken, would soon destroy him. But, confident in the
resources and promptitude of his own genius, he yet san-
guinely trusted to make those his puppets, who dreamed
that he was their own; and, with empire for the stake, he
cared not how crafty the antagonists he was compelled to
engage.
Meanwhile, uniting to all his rasher and all his nobler
qualities a profound dissimulation, he appeared to trust
implicitly to his Provençal companions, and his first act on
entering the capitol, after the triumphal procession, was to
reward, with the highest dignities in his gift, Messere
Arimbaldo and Messere Brettone de Montreal!
High feasting was there that night in the halls of the
capitol; but dearer to Rienzi than all the pomp of the day
were the smiles of Nina. Her proud and admiring eyes,
swimming with delicious tears, fixed upon his countenance,
she but felt that they were reunited, and that the hours,
however brilliantly illumined, were hastening to that mo-
ment when, after so desolate and dark an absence, they
might once more be alone.
―
Far other the thoughts of Adrian Colonna, as he sat
alone in the dreary palace, in the yet more dreary quarter
he had
of his haughty race. Irene, then, was alive,
committed some strange error, she had escaped the
devouring pestilence; and something in the pale sadness of
her gentle features, even in that day of triumph, told him
he was still remembered. But as his mind by degrees
calmed itselt from its first wild and tumultuous rapture, he
could not help asking himself the question, whether they
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
301
were not still to be divided? Stefanello Colonua, the
grandson of the old Stephen, and (by the death of his sire
and brother) the youthful head of that powerful house, had
already raised his standard against the senator. Fortifying
himself in the almost impregnable fastness of Palestrina,
he had assembled around him all the retainers of his fami-
ly, and his lawless soldiery now ravaged the neighbouring
plains far and wide.
Adrian foresaw that the lapse of a few days would suf-
fice to bring the Colonna and the senator to open war.
Could he take part against those of his own blood? The
very circumstance of his love for Irene would yet more
rob such a proceeding of all appearance of disinterested
patriotism, and yet more deeply and irremediably stain his
knightly fame, wherever the sympathy of his equals was
enlisted with the cause of the Colonna. On the other
hand, not only his love for the senator's sister, but his own
secret inclinations and honest convictions, were on the side
of one who alone seemed to him possessed of the desire
and the genius to repress the disorders of his fallen city.
Long meditating, he perceived no alternative but in the
same cruel neutrality to which he had been before condem-
ned; but he resolved, at least, to make the attempt,
rendered favorable and dignified by his birth and reputa-
tion, to reconcile the contending parties. To effect
this, he saw that he must begin with his haughty cousin.
Were it known that he had first obtained an interview
with Rienzi,- did it appear as if he were charged with
overtures from the senator, he was well aware that, if
even Stefanello were himself inclined to yield to his repre-
sentations, the insolent and ferocious barons who surround-
ed him, would not deign to listen to the envoy of the peo-
ple's chosen one; and that, instead of being honored as
an intercessor, he should be suspected as a traitor. He
determined, then, with the next day to depart for Palestri-
na; but (and his heart beat audibly!) would it not be pos-
sible first to obtain an interview with Irene ? It was no
easy enterprise, surrounded as she was, but he resolved to
adventure it. He summoned Giulio.
"The senator holds a festival this evening,
if the assemblage is numerous?"
know you
"I hear," answered Giulio, "that the banquet given
to the ambassadors and signors to-day, is to be followed
to-morrow by a mask, to which all ranks are admitted.
By Bacchus, if the tribune only invited nobles, the
smallest closet in the capitol would suffice to receive
his maskers. I suppose a mask has been resolved on in
order to disguise the quality of the visiters."
Adrian mused a moment, and the result of his reverie
was a determination to take advantage of the nature of the
revel, and to join the masquerade.
That species of entertainment, though unusual at that
season of the year, had been preferred by Rienzi, partly
and ostensibly because it was one in which all his nume-
rous and motley supporters could be best received; but,
chiefly and secretly, because it afforded himself, and his
confidential friends, the occasion to mix unsuspected
among the throng, and learn more of the real anticipations
of the Romans with respect to his policy and his strength,
than could well be gathered from the enthusiasm of a
public spectacle. This resolution delayed for another sun
Adrian's journey to Palestrina.
The following night was beautifully serene and clear.
The better to accommodate the numerous guests, and to
take advantage of the warm and moonlit freshness of the
air, the open court of the capitol, with the place of the
Lion (as well as the state apartments within) were devoted
to the festival.
As Adrian entered the festive court with the rush of the
throng, it chanced that, in the eager impatience of some
maskers, more vehement than the rest, his vizard was de-
ranged. He hastily replaced it, but not before one of the
guests had recognised his countenance.
ment, as group after group pressed for ward, to win smile
and word from that celebrated man, whose fortunes had
been the theme of Europe, -or to bend in homage to the
lustrous loveliness of Nina,- -no omen and no warning
clouded the universal gladness.
her
Behind Nina, well contented to shrink from the gaze of
the throng, and to feel her softer beauty eclipsed by the
dazzling and gorgeous charms of her brother's wife, stood
Irene. Amid the crowd, on her alone Adrian fixed his
eyes. The years which had flown over the fair brow of
the girl of sixteen, then animated by, yet trembling be-
neath, the first wild breath of love; -youth in every vein
passion and childish tenderness in every thought, had
not marred, but it had changed the character of Irene's
beauty. Her cheek, no longer varying with every instant,
was settled into a delicate and thoughtful paleness,
form, more rounded to the proportions of Roman beauty,
had assumed an air of dignified and calm repose.
No
longer did the restless eye wander in search of some im-
agined object; no longer did the lip quiver into smiles
at some untold hope or half unconscious recollection. A
grave and mournful expression gave to her face (still how
sweet!) a gravity beyond her years, the bloom, the
flush, the April of the heart was gone. But yet neither
time, nor sorrow, nor blighted love, had stolen from her
countenance its rare and angelic softness, -nor that in.
expressible and virgin modesty of form and aspect, which,
contrasting the bolder beauties of Italy, had, more than
aught else, distinguished to Adrian from all other women,
the dream and idol of his heart. And feeding his gazo
upon those dark, deep eyes, which spoke of thought far
away and busy with the past, Adrian felt again and again
that he was not forgotten! Hovering near her, but suffer-
ing the crowd to press, one after another, before him, he
did not perceive that he had attracted the eagle eye of
the senator.
In fact, as one of the maskers passed Rienzi, he whis-
pered, “Beware, a Colonna is among the masks! beneath
the reveller's domino has often lurked the assassin's dagger.
Yonder stands your foe, — mark him !”
These words were the first sharp and thrilling intimation
of the perils into which he had rushed, that the tribune-
senator had received since his return. He changed color
slightly, and for some minutes the courtly smile and ready
gratulation with which he had hitherto delighted every
guest, gave way to a moody abstraction.
CC
he ap-
Why stands yon strange man so mute and motionless?"
whispered he to Nina. "He speaks to none,
proaches us not, -a churl, a churl, he must be seen to.'
"Doubtless some German or English barbarian,
swered Nina. "Let not, my lord, so slight a cloud dim
your merriment."
an-
we
"You are right, dearest, - we have friends, here,
are well girt. And, by my father's ashes, I feel that I must
accustom myself to danger. Nina, let us move on; me-
thinks we might now mix among the maskers,— masked
ourselves."
The music played loud and cheerily as the senator and
his party mingled with the throng. But still his eye turned
ever towards the gray domino of Adrian, and he perceived
that it followed his steps. Approaching the private en-
trance of the capitol, he for a few moments lost sight of
his unwelcome pursuer; but, just as he entered, turning
abruptly, Rienzi perceived him close at his side, the next
moment the stranger had vanished amid the throng. But
that moment had sufficed to Adrian; he had reached Irzne.
“Adrian Colonna (he whispered) waits thee bes'de the
Lion."
In the absorption of his own reflections, Rienzi fortu
nately did not notice the sudden paleness and agitation of
his sister. Entered within his palace, he called for wine,
the draught revived is spirits, he listened smilingly
to the sparkling remarks of Nina, and induing his mask
and disguise, said, with his wonted cheerfulness, "Now
for truth, strange that in festivals it should only speak
behind a vizard! My sweet sister, thou hast lost thine old
smile, and I would rather see that, than-Ha! has
Irene vanished?"
From courtesy, Rienzi and his family remained at first
unmasked. They stood at the head of the stairs to which
the old Egyptian lion gave the name. The lights shone
over that colossal monument, which, torn from its antique
home, had witnessed, in its grim repose, the rise and lapse
of countless generations, and the dark and stormy revolu- Only, I suppose, to change her dress, my Cola, and
tions of avenging fate. It was an ill omen often after-mingle with the revellers," answered Nina.
"Let me
ward remarked, that the place of that state festival was smile atone for hers."
the place also of the state executions. But, at that mo-
* Still a common Roman expletive.
CC
Rienzi kissed the bright brow of his wife as she clung
foudly to his bosom. "Thy smile is the sunlight," said
302
BULWER'S NOVELS.
he, "but this girl disturbs me! Methinks now, at least,
she might wear a gladder aspect."
"Is there nothing of love beneath my fair sister's
gloom?" answered Nina. "Do you not call to mind how
she loved Adrian Colonna ?"
"Does that fantasy hold still?" returned Rienzi, mus-
ingly. Well, and she is fit bride for a monarch."
"Yet it were an alliance that would, better than one
with monarchs, strengthen thy power at Rome ! "
،،
Ay, - were it possible, - but that haughty race!
Perchance this very masker, that so haunted our steps, was
out her lover. I will look to this. Let us forth, my Nina.
Am I well cloaked?"
"Excellently well, and I?
"The sun behind a cloud.'
"Ah, let us tarry not long; what hour of revel like that
when, thy hand in mine, this head upon thy bosom,
we forget the sorrows we have known, and even the tri-
umphs we have shared `”
is too true, to their own faults;) and, perhaps, amid all the
crowds that hailed his return, none more appreciated the
great and lofty qualities of Cola di Rienzi, than did Adrian
Colonna."
"If this be so," said Irene, "let me hope the best ;
meanwhile, it is enough of comfort and of happiness to
know that we love each other as of old. Ah, Adrian, I
am sadly changed; and often have I thought it a thing
beyond my dreams, that thou shouldst see me again and
love me still."
"Fairer art thou, and lovelier than ever," answered
Adrian, passionately; "and time, which has ripened thy
bloom, has but taught me more deeply to feel thy value.
Farewell, Irene; I linger here no longer; thou wilt, I
trust, hear soon of my success with my house, and, ere a
week be over, I may return to claim thy hand in face of
day.'
The lovers parted; Adrian lingered on the spot, and
Irene hastened to bury her emotion and her raptures in her
own chamber.
As her form vanished, and the young Colonna slowly
turned away, a tall mask strode abruptly towards him.
"Thou art a Colonna "it said, "and in the power
of the senator. Dost thou tremble ?"
Meanwhile, Irene, confused and lost amid a transport of
emotion, already disguised and masked, was thridding her
way through the crowd, back to the staircase of the Lion.
With the absence of the senator, that spot had become
comparatively deserted. Music and the dance attracted
the maskers to another quarter of the wide space. And
Irene, now approaching, beheld the moonlight fall over the
statue, and a solitary figure leaning against the pedestal.bles.
She paused, the figure approached, and again she heard the
voice of her early love.
"Oh, Irene recognised even in this disguise," said
Adrian, seizing her trembling hand; "have I lived to gaze
again upon that form, to touch this hand? Did not
these eyes behold thee lifeless in that fearful vault, which I
shudder to recall? By what miracle wert thou raised
again? By what means did heaven spare to this earth
one that it seemned already to have placed among its an-
gels?"
Was this indeed thy belief?" said Irene, falteringly,
but with an accent eloquent of joy. "Thou didst not,
then, willingly desert me? Unjust that I was, I wronged
thy noble nature, and deemed that my brother's fall, iny
humble lineage, thy brilliant fate, had made thee renounce
Irene.
>>
"If I be a Colonna, rude masker," answered Adrian,
coolly, "thou shouldst know that a Colonna never trem.
The stranger laughed aloud, and then raising his mask,
Adrian saw that it was the senator who stood before him.
My Lord Adrian di Castello," said Rienzi, resuming
all his gravity, "is it as friend or foe that you have honored
our revels this night?"
"Senator of Rome," answered Adrian, with equal
stateliness, "I partake of no man's hospitality but as a
friend. A foe, at least to you, I trust never justly to be
esteemed."
"I would," rejoined Rienzi, “that I could apply to
myself unreservedly that most flattering speech. Are these
friendly feelings entertained towards me as the governor of
the Roman people, or as the brother of the woman who has
listened to your vows?"
Adrian, who, when the senator had unmasked, had fol-
lowed his example, felt at these words that his eye quailed
beneath Rienzi's. However, he recovered himself with
the wonted readiness of an Italian, and replied laconically,
"As both."
"Unjust, indeed!" answered the lover; "but surely I
"but surely I
saw thee among the dead!-thy cloak, with the silver
stars, who else wore the arms of the Roman tribune ?"
"Was it but the cloak, then, which, dropped in the "Both!" echoed Rienzi; "then, indeed, noble Adrian,
streets, was probably assumed by some more ill-fated vic- | you are welcome hither. And
And yet, methinks, if you con-
tim; was it that sight alone that made thee so soon despair?ceived there was no cause for enmity between us, you would
Ah! Adrian," continued Irene, tenderly, but with re-
proach; "not even when I saw thee seemingly lifeless on
the couch by which I had watched three days and nights,
not even then did I despair!"
"What! then my vision did not deceive me; it was you
who watched by my bed in that dark hour, whose love
guarded, whose care preserved me. And I, wretch that I
was!
"Nay," answered Irene, " your thought was natural.
Heaven seemed to endow ine with supernatural strength
while I was necessary to thee. But, judge of my dismay.
I left thee to seek the good friar who attended thee as thy
leech; I returned, and found thee not. Heart-sick and
terrified I searched the desolate city in vain. Strong as I
was while hope supported me, I sunk beneath fear. And
my brother found me senseless, and stretched on the ground,
by the church of St. Mark."
“The church of St. Mark ! so foretold his dream! >
"He had told me he had met thee; we searched for
thee in vain at length we heard that thou hadst left the
city, and and — I rejoiced, Adrian, but I repined!"
For some minutes the young lovers surrendered them-
selves to the delight of reunion, while new explanations
called forth new transports.
"And now," murmured Irene, "now that we have
now that we have
met " she paused, and her mask conccaled her blushes.
"Now that we have met," said Adrian, filling up the
silence, "wouldst thou say farther that we should not part!
Trust me, dearest, that is the hope that animates my heart.
It was but to enjoy these brief bright moments with thee,
that I delayed my departure to Palestrina. Could I but
hope to bring my young cousin into amity with thy brother,
no barrier would prevent our union. Willingly I forget
the past,
the death of my unhappy kinsmen; (victims, it
have wooed the sister of Cola di Rienzi in a guise more
worthy of your birth; and, permit me to add, of that station,
which God, destiny, and my country, have accorded unto
You dare not, young Colonna, meditate dishonor to
the sister of the senator of Rome. High-born as you are,
she is your equal."
me.
"Were I the emperor, whose simple knight I but am,
your sister were my equal," answered Adrian, warmly,
"Rienzi, I grieve that I am discovered to you yet. I
had trusted that, as a mediator between the barons and
yourself, I might first have won your confidence, and then
claimed my reward. Know that with to-morrow's dawn I
depart for Palestrina, seeking to reconcile my young cousin
to the choice of the people and the pontiff. Various rea-
sons, which I need not now detail, would have made me
wish to undertake this heraldry of peace without previous
communication with you. But, since we have met, intrust
me with any terms of conciliation, and I pledge you the
right hand, not of a Roman noble, alas! the prisca fides
has departed from that pledge! —but of a knight of the
imperial court, that I will not betray your confidence.”
Rienzi, accustomed to read the human countenance, had
kept his eyes intently fixed upon Adrian while he spoke;
when the Colonna concluded, he pressed the proffered hand,
and said, with that familiar and winning sweetness which
at times was so peculiar to his manner,
"
"I trust you, Adrian, from my soul. You were mine
And
early friend in calmer, perchance happier, years.
never did river reflect the stars more clearly, than your
heart then mirrored back the truth. I trust you!
While thus speaking, he had mechanically led back the
Colonna to the statue of the Lion; there pausing, resumed.
“Know that I have this morning despatched my delegate
to your cousin Stefanello. With all due courtesy, I have
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES
303
+
apprized him of my return to Rome, and invited hither his
honored presence. Forgetting all ancient feuds, mine own
past exile, I have assured him here the station and dignity
due to the head of the Colonna. All that I ask in return
is obedience to the law. Years and reverses have abated
my younger pride, and though I may yet preserve the stern-
ness of the judge, none shall hereafter complain of the
insolence of the tribune."
"I would," answered Adrian, "that your mission to
Stefanello had been delayed a day; I would fain have
forestalled its purport. Howbeit, you increase my desire
of departure: should I yet succeed in obtaining an honor-
able and peaceful reconciliation, it is not in disguise that I
will woo thy sister."
"And never did Colonna,'
did Colonna," replied Rienzi, loftily,
"bring to his house a maiden whose alliance more gratified
arbition. I yet see, as I have seen ever, in mine own
projects, and mine own destinies, the chart of the new
Ronan empire!
>>
|
"Be not too sanguine yet, brave Rienzi," replied
Adrian; "bethink thee on how many scheming brains
brains
this dumb image of stone hath looked down from its pedes-
tal, schemes of sand, and schemers of dust. Thou hast
enough, at present, for the employ of all thine energy,
not to extend thy power, but to preserve thyself. For,
trust me, never stood human greatness on so wild and dark
◄ precipice!"
"Thou art honest, said the senator, " and these are
the first words of doubt, and yet of sympathy, I have heard
in Rome. But the people love me, the barons have fled
from Rome, the pontiff approves,
-and the swords of
all the Northmen guard the avenues of the capitol. But
these are naught in mine own honesty are my spear and
buckler. Oh, never," continued Rienzi, kindling with his
enthusiasm," never, since the days of the old republic,
did Roman dream a purer and a brighter aspiration, than
that which animates and supports me now. Peace restored,
law established, -art, letters, intellect, dawning upon
the night of time; the patricians, no longer bandits of
rapine, but the guard of order; the people ennobled from
a rob, brave to protect, enlightened to guide, themselves.
Then, not by the violence of arms, but by the majesty of
her moral power, shall the mother of nations claim the
obedience of her children. Thus dreaming and thus hoping,
shall I tremble or despond? No, Adrian Colonna, come
weal or woe, I abide, unshrinking and unawed, by the
chances of my doom!
So much did the manner and the tone of the senator
exalt his language, that even the sober sense of Adrian
was enchanted and subdued. He kissed the hand he held,
and said, earnestly,
CC
ancient world. Back to a period before Romulus existed,
in the earliest ages of that mysterious civilization, which
in Italy preceded the birth of Rome, could be traced the
existence and the power of that rocky city. Eight depen-
dant towns owned its sway and its wealth: its position,
and the strength of those mighty walls, in whose ruins may
yet be traced the masonry of the remote Pelasgi, had long
braved the ambition of the neighbouring Rome. From
that very citadel, the mural crown of the mountain, had
waved the standard of Marius; and up the road which
Adrian's scanty troop slowly wound, had echoed the march
of the murderous Sylla, on his return from the Mithridatic
war. Below, where the city spread towards the plain,
were yet seen the shattered and roofless columns of the
once celebrated temple of Fortune,- and still the inmemo-
rial olives clustered gray and mournfully around the ruins.
A more formidable hold the barons of Rome could not
have selected; and as Adrian's military eye scanned the
steep ascent and the rugged walls, he felt that, with ordi
nary skill, it might defy for months all the power of the
Roman senator. Below, in the fertile valley, dismantled
cottages and trampled harvests attested the violence of the
insurgent barons; and at that very moment were seen, in the
old plain of the warlike Hernici, troops of armed men,
driving before them herds of sheep and cattle collected in
their lawless incursions. In sight of that Præneste, which
had been the favorite retreat of the luxurious lords of Rome
in its most polished day, the age of iron seemed renewed.
The banner of the Colonna, borne by Adrian's troop,
obtained ready admittance at the Porta del Sole. As he
passed up the regular and narrow streets that ascended to
the citadel, groups of foreign mercenaries, half-ragged,
half-tawdry knots of abandoned women, mixed here and
there with the liveries of the Colonna, stood loitering amid
the ruins of the ancient fanes and palaces, or basked lazily
in the sun, upon terraces through which, from amid weeds
and grass, glowed the imperishable hues of the rich mosa-
ics, which had made the pride of that lettered and graceful
nobility, of whom savage freebooters were now the heirs.
The contrast between t past and the present forcibly
occurred to Adrian as he passed along; and, despite his
order, he felt as if civilization itself were enlisted against
his house upon the side of Rienzi.
Leaving his train in the court of the citadel, Adrian de-
manded admission to the presence of his cousin. He had
left Stefanello a child, on his departure from Rome, and
there could therefore be but a slight and unfamiliar ac-
quaintance between them, despite their kindred.
Peals of laughter came upon his ear as he followed one
of Stefanello's gentlemen through a winding passage that
led to the principal chamber. The door was thrown open,
and Adrian found himself in a rude hall, to which some
A doom that I will deem it my boast to share, - a
career that it will be my glory to smooth. If I succeed in appearance of hasty state and attempted comfort bad
my present mission
95
You are my brother!" said Rienzi.
"If I fail?"
"You may equally claim that alliance. You pause,
you change color."
"Can I desert my house?
"Young lord," said Rienzi, "say rather, can you desert
your country? If you doubt my honesty, if you fear my
ambition, desist from your task, rob me not of a single foe.
But, if you believe that I have the will and the power to
serve the state, — if you recognise, even in the reverses
and calamities I have known and mastered, the protecting
hand of the Saviour of nations,—if those reverses were
but the mercies of Him who chasteneth, necessary, it
may be, to correct my earlier daring, and sharpen yet more
my intellect, if, in a word, thou believest me one whom,
whatever he his faults, God hath preserved for the sake of
Rome, forget that you are a Colonna, remember only
that you are a Roman!”
"You have conquered me,— - strange and commanding
spirit," said Adrian, in a low voice, completely carried
away. "And whatever the conduct of my kindred, I am
yours and Rome's. Farewell ! ''
CHAPTER III.
Adrian's adventures at Palestrina.
It was yet noon when Adrian beheld before him the
ofty mountains that shelter Palestrina, the Preneste of the
been given. Costly arras imperfectly clothed the stone
walls, and the rich seats and decorated tables, which the
growing civilization of the northern cities of Italy had al-
ready introduced in the palaces of Italian nobles, strangely
contrasted the rough pavement, spread with heaps of armor
negligently piled around. At the farther end of the apart-
ment, Adrian shudderingly perceived, set in due and exact
order, the implements of torture.
Stefanello Colonna, with two other barons, indolently
reclined on seats drawn around a table, in the recesses of a
deep casement, from which might be still seen the same
glorious landscape, bounded by the dim spires of Rome,
which Hannibal and Pyrrhus had ascended that very cita
del to survey!
Stefanello himself, in the first bloom of youth, bore al-
ready on his beardless countenance those traces usually the
work of the passions and vices of maturest manhood. His
features were cast in the mould of the old Stephen's; -- in
their clear, sharp, high-bred outline, might be noticed that
regular and graceful symmetry which blood, in men as in
animals, will sometimes entail through generations; but
the features were wasted and meagre. His brows were
knit in an eternal frown; his thin and bloodless lips wore
that insolent contempt which seems so peculiarly cold and
unlovely in early youth; and, the deep and livid hollows
round his eyes spoke of habitual excess and premature ex-
haustion. By him sat (reconciled by hatred to another)
Hence, apparently, its Greek name of Stephane. Palestrina
is yet one of the many proofs which the vicinity of Rome
affords of the old Greek civilization of Italy.
804
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the hereditary foes of his race; the soft, but cunning and
astute features of Luca di Savelli, contrasted with the
oroad frame and ferocious countenance of the Prince of
the Orsini.
The young head of the Colonna rose with some cordial-
ity to receive his cousin. "Welcome," he said, "dear
Adrian; you are arrived in time to assist us with your well-
known military skill. Think you not we shall stand a long
siege, if the insolent plebeian dare adventure it? You
know our friends, the Örsini and the Savelli ? Thanks to
St. Peter, or St. Peter's delegate, we have now happily
meaner throats to cut than those of each other!
Thus saying, Stefanello again threw himself listlessly on
his cat, and the shrill woman's voice of Savelli took part
in the dialogue.
"I would, noble signor, that you had come a few hours
earlier, we are still making merry at the recollection,
he, he, he!"
CC
"Ah, excellent," cried Stefanello, joining in the laugh,
our cousin has had a loss. Know, Adrian, that this base
fellow, whom the pope has had the impudence to create
senator, dared but yesterday to send us à varlet, whom he
called, God wot, his ambassador !
<< Would you could have seen his mantle, Signor Adri-
an," chimed in the Savelli: "purple velvet, as I live,
decorated in gold, with the arms of Rome, we soon
spoiled his finery.
"What!" exclaimed Adrian; " you did not break the
laws of all nobility and knighthood; you offered no insult
to a herald?
Herald, sayst thou?" cried Stefanello, frowning till
his eyes were scarce visible. "It is for princes and barons
alone to employ heralds. And I had had my will, I would
have sent back the minion's head to the usurper."
"What did ye, then?" asked Adrian, coldly.
"Bade our swineherds dip the fellow in the ditch, and
gave him a night's lodging in a dungeon to dry himself
withal.
"And this morning, he, he, he!" added the Savelli,
"we had him before us, and drew his teeth, one by one;
I would you could have heard the fellow mumble out for
mercy.
Adrian rose hastily, and struck the table fiercely with
his gauntlet.
:
"Stefanello Colonna," said he, coloring with noble rage,
answer me did you dare to inflict this indelible disgrace
upon the name we jointly bear? Tell me, at least, that
you protested against this foul treason to all the laws of
civilization and of honor. You answer not. House of the
Colonna, can such be thy representative !
"To me these words!" said Stefanello, trembling with
passion. "Beware! Methinks thou art the traitor, leagued,
perhaps, with yon rascal mob. Well do I remember that
thou, the betrothed of the demagogue's sister, didst not join
with my uncle and my father of old, but didst basely leave
he city to her plebeian tyrant."
"That did he," said the fierce Orsini, approaching Adrian
menacingly, while the gentle cowardice of Savelli sought in
vain to pluck him back by the mantle, "that did he, and
but for thy presence, Stefanello — "
"Coward and blusterer," interrupted Adrian, fairly be.
side himself with indignation and shame, and dashing his
gauntlet in the very face of the advancing Orsini,
wouldst thou threaten one who has maintained, in every
list of Europe, and against the stoutest chivalry of the
North, the honor of Rome, which thy deeds the while dis-
graced? By this gage, I spit upon and defy thee. With
lance and with brand, on horse and on foot, I maintain
against thee and all thy line, that thou art no knight to
have thus maltreated, in thy strongholds, a peaceful and
unarined herald. Yes, even here, on the spot of thy dis-
grace, I challenge thee to arms.
2.9
"To the court below! Follow mc, " said Orsini, sullen-
ly, and striding towards the threshold; What ho, there,
my helmet and breastplate!"
J
Stay, noble Orsini," said Stefanello. "The insult
offered to thee is my quarrel, mine was the deed, and
against me speaks this degenerate scion of our line. Adrian
di Castello, sometimes called Colonna,· surrender your
Bword, you are my prisoner !”
“Oh!” said Adrian, grinding his teeth, "that my
ancestral blood did not flow through thy veins, - else,
but enough! Me! your equal, and the favored knight of
|
the emperor, whose advent now brightens the frontiers of
Italy! me, you dare not detain. For your friends, I
shall meet them yet, perhaps, ere many days are over,
where none shall separate our swords. Till then, remem
ber, Orsini, that it is against no unpractised arm that thou
| wilt have to redeem thine honor!”
Adrian, his drawn sword in his hand, strode towards the
door, and passed the Orsini, who stood, lowering and
irresolute, in the centre of the apartment.
•
Savelli whispered Stefanello, "He says, Ere many
days be past!' Be sure, dear signor, that he goes to join
Rienzi. Remember, the alliance he once sought with the
tribune's sister may be renewed. Beware of him! Ought
he to leave the castle? The name of a Colonua, associ
ated with the mob, would distract and divide half our
strength."
"Fear me not," returned Stefanello, with a malignart
smile. "Ere you spoke I had determined!"
The young Colonna lifted the arras from the wal,
opened a door, passed into a low hall, in which sat twenty
mercenauies.
"Quick!" said he. "Seize and disarm yon stranger
in the green mantle, but slay him not. Bid the guard
below find dungeons for his train. Quick! ere he reaches
the gate.'
Adrian had gained the open hall below, his train and
his steed were in sight in the court, when suddenly the
soldiery of the Colonna, rushing through another passage
than that which he had passed, surrounded and interrupted
his retreat.
"Yield thee, Adrian di Castello," cried Stefanello,
from the summit of the stairs, "or your blood be on your
own head."
22
Three steps did Adrian make through the press, and
three of his enemies fell beneath his sword. "To the
rescue! he shouted to his band, and already those bold
and daring troops had gained the hall. Presently the
alarum-bell tolled loud, the court swarined with soldiers.
Oppressed by numbers, beat down rather than subdued,
Adrian's little train were soon secured, and the flower of
the Colonna, wounded, breathless, disarmed, but still utter-
ing loud defiance, was a prisoner in the fortress of his
kinsman.
CHAPTER IV.
The position of the senator. The work of years. The
rewards of ambition.
THE judignation of Rienzi may readily be conceived on
the return of his herald, mutilated and dishonored. His
temper, so naturally stern, was rendered yet more hard by
the remembrance of his wrongs and trials; and the result
which attended his overtures of conciliation to Stefanello
Colonna stung him to the soul.
The bell of the capitol tolled to arms within ten minutes
after the return of the herald. The great gonfalon of
Rome, once more depicting, upon azure ground, a sun sur-
rounded by stars, was unfurled on the highest tower; and
the very evening after Adrian's arrest, the forces of the
senator, headed by Rienzi in person, were on the road to
Palestrina. The troopers of the barons had, however,
made incursions as far as Tivoli, with the supposed con-
nivance of the inhabitants, and Rienzi halted at that beau-
tiful spot to raise recruits, and receive the a..cgiance of the
suspected, while his soldiers, with Arimbaldo and Bret
tone at their head, went in search of the marauders. The
brothers of Montreal returned late at night with the intelli
gence, that the troopers of the barons had secured them-
selves amid the recesses of the wood of Pantano.
The red spot mounted to Rienzi's brow. Ile gazed hard
at Brettone, who stated the news to him, and a natural
suspicion shot across his mind.
"How, escaped!" he said. "Is it possible?
Enough of such idle skirmishes with these lordly robbers.
Will the hour ever come when I shall meet them, hand to
hand? Brettone and the brother of Montreal felt the
dark eye of Rienzi pierce to his very heart; "Brettone!
said he, abruptly, "are your men to be trusted? Is there
no connivance with the barons ?"
"How!" said Brettone, sullenly, but somewhat con
fused.
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
305
"How me no hows!" quoth the tribune-senator, fierce-
ly "I know that thou art a valiant captain of valiant
men Thou and thy brother Arimbaldo have served me
well, and I have rewarded ye well! Have I not?
Speak.'
و,
"Senator," answered Arimbaldo, taking up the word,
you have kept your word to us. You have raised us to
the highest rank your power could bestow, and this has
amply atoned our humble services.”
"I am glad ye allow thus much," said the senator.
Arimbaldo proceeded somewhat more loftily, "I trust,
my lord, you do not doubt us."
Aribaldo," replied Rienzi, in a voice of deep, but
half-suppressed emotion, you are a lettered man, and
you have seemed to share my projects for the regeneration
of our common kind. You ought not to betray me. There
is something in unison between us. But, chide me not, I
am surrounded by treason, and the very air I breathe
seems to poison my lips."
There was a pathos mingled with Rienzi's words which
touched the milder brother of Montreal. He bowed in
silence. Rienzi surveyed him wistfully, and sighed. Then,
changing the conversation, he spoke of their intended
siege of Palestrina, and shortly afterward retired to rest.
Left alone, the brothers regarded each other for some
moments in silence. "Brettone," said Arimbaldo, at
length, in a whispered voice, " my heart misgives me.
like not Walter's ambitious schemes. With our own
countrymen we are frank and loyal, why play the traitor
with this high-souled Roman ? "
I
"Tush!" said Brettone. "Our brother's hand of
iron alone can sway this turbulent people; and if Rienzi
be betrayed, so also are his enemies, the barons. No more
of this! I have tidings from Montreal; he will be in
Rome in a few days."
"And then!"
"Rienzi, weakened by the barons (for he must not con-
quer) the barons weakened by Rienzi, our Northmen
seize the capitol, and the soldiery, now scattered
throughout Italy, will fly to the standard of the great
captain. Montreal must be first podesta, then king, of
Rome."
Arimbaldo moved restlessly in his seat, and the brethren
conferred no more on their projects.
The situation of Rienzi was precisely that which tends
the most to sour and to harden the fairest nature. With
an intellect capable of the grandest designs, a heart that
beat with the loftiest emotions, elevated to the sunny pin-
nacle of power, and surrounded by loud-tongued adulators,
he knew not among men a single breast in which he could
confide. He was as one on a steep ascent, whose footing
crumbles, while every bough at which he grasps seems to
rot at his touch. He found the people more than ever elo-
quent in his favor, but while they shouted raptures as he
passed, not a man was capable of making a sacrifice for
him! The liberty of a state is never achieved by a single
Individual; if not the people, if not the greater number,
-a zealous and fervent minority at least, must go hand
and hand with him. Rome demanded sacrifices in all who
sought the Roman regeneration, sacrifices of time, ease,
and money. The crowd followed the procession of the
senator, but not a single Roman devoted his life, unpaid,
to his standard; not a single coin was subscribed in the
defence of freedom. Against him were arrayed the most
powerful and the most wealthy lordships of Italy: each
baron of which could maintain, at his own cost, a little
army of practised warriors. With Rienzi were traders
and artificers, who were willing to enjoy the fruits of liberty,
but not to labor at the soil; who demanded, in return for
empty shouts, peace and riches, and who expected that
one man was to effect in a day what would be cheaply pur
chased by the struggle of a generation. All their dark and
rude notion of a reformed state was to live unbutchered by
the barons, and untaxed by their governors. Rome gave
to her senator not a free arm, nor a voluntary florin. Well
aware of the danger which surrounds the ruler who defends
his state by foreign swords, the fondest wish, and the
most visionary dream of Rienzi, was to revive among
the Romans, in their first enthusiasm at his return, an
organized and voluntary force, who, in protecting him,
would protect themselves: not as before, in his first
power, a nominal force of twenty thousand men, who at y
any hour might yield (as they did yield) to one hundred |
Vor II.
39
♬
|
and fifty; but a regular, well-disciplined, and trusty body,
numerous enough to resist aggression, not numerous enough
to become themselves the aggressors.
saw
Hitherto all his private endeavours, his public exhorta-
tions, had failed: the crowd listened, shouted,
him quit the city to meet their tyrants, and returneo
to their shops, saying to each other, "What a great
man ! "
The character of Rienzi has chiefly received for its
judges men of the closet, who speculate upon human beings
as if they were steam-engines, who gauge the great,
not by their merit, but their success, and who have cen-
sured or sneered at the tribune, where they should have
condemned the people! Had but one half the spirit been
found in Rome which ran through a single vein of Cola di
Rienzi, the august republic, if not the majestic empire,
|
of Rome might be existing now! Turning from the people,
the senator saw his rude and savage troops accustomed to
the liceuse of a tyrant's camp, and under commanders in
whom it was ruin really to confide, whom it was equal
ruin openly to distrust. Hemmed in on every side by dan
gers, his character daily grew more restless, vigilant, an
stern; and still, with all the aims of a patriot, he felt al
the curses of the tyrant. Without the rough and hardening
career which, through a life of warfare, had brought Crom
well to a similar power, with more of grace and intel·
lectual softness in his composition, he resembled that yet
greater man in some points of character, in his religious
enthusiasm, his rigid justice, often forced by circumstances
into severity, but never wantonly cruel or blood-thirsty,
in his singular pride of country, and his mysterions.
command over the minds of others. But he resembled the
giant Englishman far more in circumstance than original
nature, and that circumstance assimilated their characters
at the close of their several careers. Like Cromwell, beset
by secret or open foes, the assassin's dagger ever gleamed
before his eyes. And his stout heart, unawed by real,
trembled at imagined, terrors. The countenance changing
suddenly from red to white, the restless eye, belying the
composed majesty of mein, the murmuring lips, the
broken slumber, the secret corslet ; these to both were
the rewards of power!
—
The elasticity of youth had left the tribune! His frame,
which had endured so many shocks, had contracted a pain-
ful disease in the dungeon of Avignon, his high soul still
supported him, but the nerves gave way. Tears came
readily into his eyes, and often, like Cromwell, he was
thought to weep from hypocrisy, when in truth it was the
hysteric of overwrought and irritable emotion. In all his
former life, singularly temperate, he now fled from his goad-
ing thoughts to the beguiling excitement of wine. He
drank deep, though its effects were never visible upon him
except in a freer and wilder mood, and the indulgence of
that racy humor, half mirthful, half bitter, for which his
younger day had been distinguished. Now the mirth had
more loudness, but the bitterness more gall.
Such were the characteristics of Rienzi at his return to
power, made more apparent with every day. Nina he
still loved with the same tenderness, and, if possible, she
adored him more than ever; but, the zest and freshness of
triumphant ambition gone, somehow or other, their nier-
course together had not its old charm. Formerly, they
talked constantly of the future, of the bright days in
store for them. Now, with a sharp and uneasy pang,
Rienzi turned from all thought of that " gay to-morrow.
There was gay to-morrow" for him! Dark and
thorny as was the present hour, all beyond seemed yet less
cheering and more ominous. Still he had his bright hours
and glowing themes, when, forgetting the iron race among
whom he was thrown, he plunged into scholastic reveries
of the worshipped past, and half fancied that he was of a
people worthy of his genius and his devotion. Like most
men who have been preserved through great dangers, he
continued with increasing fondness to nourish a credulous
belief in the grandeur of his own destiny. He could not
imagine that he had been so delivered, and for no end!
He was the elected, and therefore the instrument of heaven.
And thus, that Bible, which, in his loneliness, his wan-
derings, and his prison, had been his solace and support,
was more than ever needed in his greatness.
It was another source of sorrow and chagrin to one who,
amid such circumstances of public emergence, required so
peculiarly the support and sympathy of private friends, that
30€
BULWER'S NOVELS.
he found he had incurred among his old coadjutors the
common penalty of absence. Some were dead; others,
wearied with the storms of public life, and chilled in their
ardor by the turbulent revolutions to which, in every effort
for her amelioration, Rome had been subjected, had retired,
some altogether from the city, -some from all participa-
tion in political affairs. In his halls, the tribune-senator
was surrounded by unfamiliar faces and a new generation.
Of the heads of the popular party, most were animated by
a stern dislike to the pontifical domination, and looked
with suspicion and repugnance upon one, who, if he gov-
erned for the people, had been trusted and honored by the
pope. Rienzi was not a man to forget former friends,
however lowly, and had already found time to seek an in-
terview with Cecco del Vecchio. But that stern republican
had received him with coldness. His foreign mercenaries,
and his rank of senator, were things that the artisan could
not digest. With his usual bluntness, he had said so to
Rienzi.
"As for the last," answered the tribune, affably, "names
do not alter natures. When I forget that to be delegate
to the pontiff is to be the guardian of his flock, forsake me.
As for the first, let me but see five hundred Romans sworn
to stand armed day and night for the defence of Rome, and
I dismiss the Northmen."
Cecco del Vecchio was unsoftened; honest, but unedu-
cated, impracticable, and by nature a malecontent, he
felt as if he were no longer necessary to the senator, and
this offended his pride. Strange as it may seem, the gaunt
gaunt
artisan bore, too, a secret grudge against Rienzi, for not
having seen and selected him from a crowd of thousands on
the day of his triumphal entry. Such are the small offences
which produce deep danger to the great!
The artisans still held their meetings, and Cecco del
Vecchio's voice was heard loud in grumbling forebodings.
But what wounded Rienzi yet more than the alienation of
the rest, was the confused and altered manner of his old
friend and familiar, Pandulfo di Guido. Missing that pop-
ular citizen among those who daily offered their homage at
the capitol, he had sent for him, and sought in vain to re-
vive their ancient intimacy. Pandulfo affected great re-
spect, but not all the condescension of the senator could
conquer his distance and his restraint. In fact, Pandulfo
had learned to form ambitious projects of his own; and,
but for the return of Rienzi, Pandulfo di Guido felt that he
might now, with greater safety, and, indeed, with some
connivance from the barons, have been the tribune of the
people. The facility to rise into popular eminence which
a disordred and corrupt state, unblessed by a regular consti-
tution, offers to ambition, breeds the jealousy and the rival-
ship which destroy union, and rot away the ties of party.
Such was the situation of Rienzi; and yet, wonderful to
say, he seemed to be adored by the multitude; and law and
liberty, life and death, were in his hands!
"Would my lord wish to learn all their gossip, wnetner
it please or not?" answered Villani.
"If I studied only to hear what pleased me, Angelo, I
should never have returned to Rome."
say,
Why, then, I heard a constable of the Northmen
meaningly, that the place will not be carried."
Humph and what said the captains of my Roman
legion?"
CC
My lord, I have heard it whispered that they fear de
feat less than they do the revenge of the Larons, if they are
successful.”
“And with such tools the living race of Europe and mis-
judging posterity will deem that the workinan is to shape
out the ideal and the perfect. Bring me yon Bible."
As Angelo reverently brought to Rienzi the sacred book
he said,
"Just before I left my companions below, there was a
rumor that the Lord Adrian Colonna had been imprisoned
by his kinsman.”
“I too heard, and I believe as much," returned Rienz'
"these barons would gibbet their own children in irons, f
there were any chance of the shackles growing usty for
want of prey. But the wicked shall be brought low, and
their strong places shall be inade desolate."
"I would, my lord," said Villani, "that our Northmen
had other captains than these Provençals."
Why?" asked Rienzi, abruptly.
"Have the creatures of the captain of the Grand Com-
pany ever held faith with any man whom it suited the ava-
rice or the ambition of Montreal to betray? Was he not,
a few months ago, the right arm of John di Vico, and did
he not sell his services to John di Vico's enemy, the Car-
dinal Albornoz? These warriors barter men as cattle.'
-
"Thou describest Montreal rightly, — a dangerous and
an awful man. But, methinks his brothers are of a duller
and meaner kind; they dare not the crimes of the robber-
captain. Howbeit, Angelo, thou hast touched a string that
will make discord with sleep to-night. Fair youth, thy
young eyes have need of slumber; withdraw, and when
thou hearest men envy Rienzi, think that
respect.
"God never made genius to be envied! interrupted
Villani, with an energy that overcame his
"We
envy not the sun, but rather the valleys that ripen beneath
his beams."
66
Verily, if I be the sun," said Rienzi, with a bitter and
melancholy smile, "I long for night, and come it will,
to the human as to the celestial pilgrim! Thank heaven,
at least, that our ambition cannot make us immortal."
CHAPTER V.
The biter bit.
THE next morning when Rienzi descended to the room
where his captains awaited him, his quick eye perceived
that a cloud still lowered upon the brow of Messere Bret-
tone. Arimbaldo, sheltered by the recess of the rude case-
"A fair morning, gentles," said Rienzi; "the sun
laughs upon our enterprise. I have messengers from Rome
betimes, fresh troops will join us ere noon.
Of all those who attended his person, Angelo Villani was
the most favored, that youth, who had accompanied Ri-
enzi in his long exile, had also, at the wish of Nina, at-
tended him from Avignon, through his sojourn in the camp
of Albornoz. His zeal, intelligence, and frank and evidentment, shunned his eye.
affection, blinded the senator to the faults of his character,
and established him more and more in the gratitude of Ri-
enzi. He loved to feel that one grateful heart beat near
him, and the page, raised to the rauk of his chamberlain,
always attended his person, and slept in his antechamber.
Retiring that night at Tivoli, to the apartment prepared
for aim, the senator sat down by the open casement, through
which were seen, waving in the starlight, the dark pines
nat crowned the hills, while the stillness of the hour gave
to his car the dash of the waterfalls, heard above the
regu-
lar and measured tread of the sentinels below. Leaning
nis cheek upon his hand, Rienzi long surrendered himself
to gloomy thought; and when he looked up, he saw the
bright blue eye of Villani fixed in anxious sympathy on his
countenance.
"Is my lord unwell?" asked the young chamberlain,
hesitating.
"Not, so, my Angelo; but somewhat sick at heart.
Methinks, for a September night, the air is chill!"
"Angelo," resumed Rienzi, who had already acquired
that uneasy curiosity which belongs to an uncertain power,
"Angelo, bring me hither yon writing implements,
hast thou heard aught what the men say of our probable
success against Palestrina ?"
►
"I am glad, senator, "answered Brettone," that you
have tidings which will counteract the ill of those I have
to narrate to thee. The soldiers murmur loudly, their
pay is due to them, and I fear me that, without money,
they will not march to Palestrina."
As they will," returned Rienzi, carelessly. "It is but
a few days since they entered Rome; pay did they receive
in advance, if they demand more, the Colonna and Orsin
may outbid me. Draw off your soldiers, knight of Nar
bonine, and farewell.”
-
Brettone's countenance fell, it was his object to get
Rienzi more and more in his power, and he wished not to
suffer him to gain that strength which would accrue to him
from the fall of Palestrina; the indifference of the senator
foiled and entrapped him in his own net.
"That must not be," said the brother of Montreal, after
a confused silence, we cannot leave you thus to your
enemies, the soldiers, it is true, demand pay
I
"And should have it," said Rienzi. "I know theme
inercenaries, it is ever with them, mutiny or money.
will throw myself on my Romans, and triumph, -
-or fall
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
307
if so heaven decrees, with them. Acquaint your consta- | joined his standard, from the Campagna and the neighbour.
ples with my resolve."
ing mountains.
<<
Scarce were these words spoken, ere, as previously con-
serted with Brettone, the chief constable of the mercena-
-ies appeared at the door. Senator," said he, with a
rough semblance of respect, your orders to march have
reached me; I have sought to marshal my men,
but
""
"I know what thou wouldst say, friend," interrupted
Rienzi, waving his hand, "Messere Brettone will give
you my reply. Another time, sir captain, more ceremony
with the senator of Rome, you may withdraw."
The unforeseen dignity of Rienzi rebuked and abashed
the constable; he looked at Brettone, who motioned him
to depart. He closed the door, and withdrew.
"What is to be done ?" said Brettone.
"Sir knight," replied Rienzi, gravely, "let us under-
stand each other. Would you serve me or not? If the
first, you are not my equal, but subordinate,
- and you
must obey, and not dictate, if the last, my debt to you
shall be discharged, and the world is wide enough for both."
"We have declared allegiance to you," answered Bret-
“and it shall be given.
tone,
""
wap.
"One caution before I reaccept your fealty," replied
Rienzi, very slowly. "For an open foe I have my sword,
for a traitor, mark me, Rome has the axe; - of the first
I have no fear, for the last no mercy."
"These are not words that should pass between friends,”
said Brettone, turning pale with suppressed emotion.
"Friends! ye are my friends, then! your hands !—
Friends, so ye are! -and shall prove it! Dear Arimbaldo,
thou, like myself, art book-learned, a clerkly soldier. Dost
thou remember how in the Roman history it is told that the
treasury lacked money for the soldiers? The consul con-
vered the nobles. C
We,' said he, that have the offices
and dignity, should be the first to pay for them.' Ye heed
me, my friends, the nobles took the hint, they found the
money the army was paid. This example is not lost on
vou. I have made you the leaders of my force, Rome hath
showered her honors on you. Your generosity shall com-
mence the example which the Romans shall thus learn of
strangers. Ye gaze at me, my friends! I read your noble
souls, and thank ye beforehand. Ye have the dignity
and the offices; ve have also the wealth! pay the hire
lings, pay them! "
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Brettone, he could
not have been more astounded than at this simple sugges-
tion of Rienzi. He lifted his eyes to the senator's face,
and saw there that smile which he had already, bold as he
was, learned to dread. He felt himself fairly sunk in the
pit he had dug for another. There was that in the senator-
tribune's brow that told him to refuse was to declare open
war, and the moment was not ripe for that.
"Ye accede," said Rienzi; ye have done well."
The senator clapped his hands, his guard appeared.
"Summon the head constables of the soldiery."
The brothers still remained dumb.
The constables entered.
<<
My friends," said Rienzi, "Messere Brettone and
Messere Arimbaldo have my directions to divide among
your force a thousand florins. This evening we encamp
beneath Palestrina."
The constables withdrew in visible surprise. Rienzi
gaze i a moment on the brothers, chuckling within himself,
for his sarcastic humor enjoyed his triumph. "You
lunent not your devotion, my friends ! ”
No," said Brettone, rousing himself, "the sum but
trivially swells our debt.'
Frankly said, your hands once more! the good
people of Tivoli expect me in the piazza,—they require
some admonitions. Adieu till noon."
When the door closed on Rienzi, Brettone struck the
hamile of his sword fiercely, "The Roman laughs at
us,” said he. "But let Walter de Montreal once appear
ta Rouze, and the proud jester shall pay us dearly for this.”
“Hush!” said Arimbaldo, “walls have ears, and that
imp of Satan, young Villani, seems to me ever at our
heels !"
"A thousand florins! I trust his heart has as many
drops," growled the chafed Brettone, unheeding his
brother.
The soldiers were paid, the army marched, the
loquence of the senator had augmented his force by volun-
eers from Tivoli, and wild and half-armed peasantry
Palestrina was besieged: Rienzi continued dexterously
to watch the brothers of Montreal. Under pretext of im-
parting to the Italian volunteers the advantage of their mil-
itary science, he separated them from their mercenaries, and
assigned to them the command of the less disciplined
Italians, with whom, he believed, they could not venture to
tamper. He himself assumed the lead of the Northmen,
and, despite themselves, they were fascinated by his artful,
yet dignified affability, and the personal courage lied splayed
in some sallies of the besieged barons. But, as the hunts-
men upon all the subtlest windings of their prey,
pressed the relentless and speeding fate upon Cola di Rienzi
CHAPTER VI.
The events gather to the end.
SO
WHILE this the state of the camp of the besiegers, Luca
di Savelli and Stefanello Colonna were closeted with a
stranger, who had privately entered Palestrina on the
night before the Romans pitched their tents beneath its
walls. This visiter, who might have somewhat passed his
fortieth year, yet retained, scarcely diminished, the uncom
mon beauty of form and countenance for which his youth
had been remarkable. But it was no longer that character
of beauty which has been described in his first introduction
to the reader. It was no longer the almost woman delicacy
to the reader.
of feature and complexion, or the
of feature and complexion, or the high-born polish, and
graceful suavity of manner, which distinguished Walter do
Montreal a life of vicissitude and war had, at length,
done its work. His bearing was now abrupt and imperious,
as that of one accustomed to rule wild spirits, and he bad
exchanged the grace of persuasion for the sternness of com-
mand. His athletic form had grown more spare and
sinewy, and, instead of the brow half shaded by fair and
clustering curls, his forehead, though yet but slightly
wrinkled, was completely bald at the temple; and by its
unwonted height, increased the dignity and manliness of
his aspect. The bloom of his complexion was faded, less
by outward exposure than inward thought, into a bronzed
and settled paleness; and his features seemed more marked
and prominent, as the flesh had somewhat sunk from the
contour of the cheek. Yet the change suited the change of
age and circumstances; and if the Provençal now less
realized the idea of the brave and fair knight-errant, he but
looked the more what the knight-errant had become,
sagacious counsellor and the mighty leader.
the
You must be aware, " said Montreal, continuing a
discourse which appeared to have made great impression
on his companions," that in this contest between yourselves
and the senator, I alone hold the balance. Rienzi is utterly
in my power,
my brothers the leaders of his army, myself
his creditor. It rests with me to secure him on the throne,
or to send him to the scaffold. I have but to give the
order, and the Grand Company enter Rome; but, without
their agency, methinks, if you keep faith with me, our
purpose can be effected."
In the meanwhile, Palestrina is besieged by your
brothers!" said Stefanello, sharply.
"But they have my orders to waste their time before its
walls. Do you not see, that by this very siege, fruitless,
as, if I will, it shall be, Rienzi loses fame abroad, and
popularity in Rome?"
"Sir knight," said Luca di Savelli, "you speak as a
man versed in the profound policy of the times, and under
all the circumstances which menace
us, your proposal
seems but fitting and reasonable. On the one hand, you
undertake to restore us and the other barons to Rome; and
to give Rienzi to the staircase of the Lion —
"I will
"Not so, not so,” replied Montreal, quickly;
consent either so to subdue and cripple his power as to
render him a puppet in our hands, a mere shadow of
authority,-
- or, if his proud spirit chafe at its cage, to
give it once more liberty among the wilds of Germany. 1
would fetter or banish him, but not destroy; unless (added
Montreal, after a moment's pause) fate absolutely drives us
to it. Power should not demand victims; but to secure it,
victims may be necessary.
"I understand your refinements," said Luca di Savelli,
with his icy smile," and am satisfied. The barons once
308
BULWER'S NOVELS
restored, our palaces once more manned, and I am willing | We have bought, Colonna, not sold,
to take the chance of the senator's longevity. This service
you promise to effect?"
"I do."
bought our ives
from yon army, bought our power, our fortunes,
our castles, from the demagogue senator, bought, what
is better than all, triumph and revenge. Tush, Colonna'
"And, in return, you demand our assent to your enjoying see you not that if we had balked this great warrior, we
the rank of podesta for five years.”
"You say right."
"I,
I, for one accede to the terms," said the Savelli ;
"there is my hand; I am wearied of these brawls, even
among ourselves, and think that a foreign ruler may best
enforce o der; the more especially, if, like you, sir knight,
one whose birth and renown are such as to make him com-
prehend the difference between barons and plebeians.
"For my part," said Stefanello, "I feel that we have
but a choice of evils, I like not a foreign podesta; but I
like a plebeian senator still less; there, too, is my hand,
sir knight.
"Noble signors," said Montreal, after a short pause, and
turning his piercing gaze from one to the other with great
deliberation, our compact is sealed; one word by way
of codicil. Walter de Montreal is no Count Pepin of
Minorbino! Once before, little dreaming, I own. that the
victory would be so facile, I intrusted your cause and my
own to a deputy; your cause he promoted, mine he lost.
He drove out the tribune, and then suffered the barons to
banish himself. This time, I see to my own affairs; and,
mark you, I have learned in the Grand Company one lesson;
viz., never to pardon spy or deserter, of whatever rank.
Your forgiveness for the hint. Let us change the theme.
So ye detain in your fortress my old friend, the Baron di
Castello."
Ay," said Luca di Savelli; for Stefanello, stung by
Montreal's threat, which he dared not openly resent, pre-
served a sullen silence; "ay, he is one noble the less to
the senator's council."
views and temper: noble,
Use him well, I entreat
Use him well, I entreat
And now, iny lords, my
Pleasant dreams of
"You act wisely. I know his
but dangerous to our interests.
you; he may hereafter serve us.
eves are weary; suffer me to retire.
the new revolution to us all! "
rr
By your leave, noble Montreal, we will attend you to
your couch,” said Luca di Savelli.
،،
By my troth, and ye shall not. I am no tribune to
have great signors for my pages; but a plain gentleman,
and a hardy soldier: your attendants will conduct me to
whatever chamber your hospitality assigns to one who could
sleep soundly beneath the rudest hedge under your open
skies."
Savelli, however, insisted on conducting the podesta that
was to be, to his apartment. He then returned to Stefa-
nello, whom he found pacing the saloon, with long and
disordered strides.
"What have we done, Savelli ?" said he, quickly;
"sold our city to a barbarian!"
"Sold!" said Savelli; "to my mind it is the other
part of the contract in which we have played our share.
bad perished? Leagued with the senator, the Grand Com-
pany would have marched to Rome, and whether Mcntrea
assisted or murdered Rienzi, (for methinks he is a Romu-
lus, who would brook no Remus,) we had equally been un-
done. Now, we have made our own terms, and our shares
are equal. Nay, the first steps to be taken are in our fa-
vor. Rienzi is to be snared, and we are to enter Rome
"And then the Provençal is to be despot of the city."
Podesta, if you please. Podestas who offend the pen-
ple are often banished, and sometimes stoned, podestas
who insult the nobles are often stilettoed, and sometimes
poisoned," said Savelli. "Sufficient for the hour is the
evil thereof.' Meanwhile, say nothing to the bear Orsini
Such men mar all wisdom. Come, cheer thee, Stefa-
nello."
"Luca di Savelli, you have not such a stake in Rome
as I have," said the young lord, haughtily; no podesty
can take from you the rank of the first signor of the Ita-
lian metropolis.
"An' you had said so to the Orsini, there would have
been drawing of swords," said Savelli. "But cheer
thee, I say; is not our first care to destroy Rienzi, and
then, between the death of one foe and the rise of another,
are there not such preventives as Eccelino Romano has
taught to wary men? Cheer thee, I say; and next year,
if we but hold together, Stefanello Colonna and Luca di
Savelli will be joint senators in Rome, and these great
men be food for worms!"
While thus conferred the barons, Montreal, ere he retired
to rest, stood gazing from the open lattice of his cham-
ber, over the landscape below, which slept in the autumnal
moonlight, while at a distance gleamed, pale and steady,
the lights round the encampment of the besiegers.
"Wide plains and broad valleys," thought the warrior
soon shall
ye repose in peace beneath a new sway, against
which no petty tyrant shall dare rebel. And ye, white walls
of canvass, even while I gaze upon ye, admonish me how
realms are won. Even as of old, from the nomad tents
was built up the stately Babylon,* that was not till the
Assyrian founded it for them that dwell in the wilderness,'
so from the new Ishmaelites of Europe shall a race, un-
dreamed of now, be founded; and the camp of yesterday
be the city of to-morrow. Verily, when, for one soft of-
fence, the pontiff thrust me from the bosom of the church,
little guessed he what enemy he raised to Rome. How
solemn is the night, how still the heavens and earth,
the very stars are as hushed as if intent on the events that
are to pass below! So solemn and so still feels mine own
spirit, and an awe, unknown till now, warns me that I
approach the crisis of my daring fate!"
* Isaiah, c. xxiii.
—
BOOK X.
THE LION OF BASALT.
Ora voglio contare la morte del tribuno. Vit. di COLA DI RIENZI, lib. ii. c. xxiv.
CHAPTER I.
The conjunction of hostile planets in the house of death.
On the fourth day of the siege, and after beating back
those almost impregnable walls the soldiery of the
Larons, headed by the Prince of the Orsini, whom Rienzi
engaged, and wounded with his own hand, the senator re-
turned to his tent, where despatches from Rome awaited
him. He ran his eye hastily over them till he came,to the
hst; yet each contained news that might have longer de-
|
layed the eye of a man less inured to danger. From one
he learned that Albornoz, whose blessing had confirmed to
him the rank of senator, had received with special favor
the messengers of the Orsini and Colonna. He knew
that the cardinal, whose views connected him with the
Roman patricians, desired his downfall; but he feared not
Albornoz: perhaps in his secret heart he wished that any
open aggression from the pontiff's legate might throw him
wholly on the people.
He learne farther, that, short as had been his absence,
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
309
Pandulo di Guido had twice addressed the populace, not
in favor of the senator, but in artful regrets of the loss to
the trade of Rome in the absence of her wealthiest nobles.
"For this, then, he has deserted me," said Rienzi to
himself. "Let him beware!"
The tidings contained in the next touched him home.
Walter de Montreal had openly arrived in Rome. The
grasping and lawless bandit, whose rapine filled with a
robbe.'s booty every bank in Europe, - whose company
was the army of a king, whose ambition, vast, unprin-
cipled, and profound, he so well knew, whose brothers
were in his camp, their treason already more than sus-
pected; Walter de Montreal was in Rome!
The senator remained perfectly aghast at this new peril;
and then said, setting his teeth as in a vice,
"Wild tiger, thou art in the lion's den!
•
Then paus-
ing, he broke out again, "One false step, Walter de
Montreal, and all the mailed hands of the Grand Company
shall not pluck thee from the abyss! But what can I do?
Return to Roine, the plans of Montreal unpenetrated,
no accusation against him! On what pretence can I with
honor raise the siege? To leave Palestrina is to give a
triumph to the barons, -to abandon Adrian, to degrade
my cause. Yet, while away from Roine, every hour
breeds treason and danger. Pandulfo, Albornoz, Montre-
al, all are at work against me. A keen and trusty spy,
now; - ha, well thought of,- Villani ! What ho,
Angelo Villani !"
The young chamberlain appeared.
"I think," said Rienzi, "to have often heard that thou
wert an orphan ?”
"True, my lord; the old Augustine nun who reared my
boyhood has told me, again and again, that my parents
were dead. Both noble, my lord, but I am the child of
shame. And I say it often, and think of it ever, in order
to make Angelo Villani remember that he has a name to
win.”
CC
Young man, serve me as you have served, and if I
live, you shall have no need to call yourself an orphan.
Mark me! I want a friend, the senator of Rome wants
a friend, — only one friend,
one ! "
gentle heaven! — only
Angelo sank on his knee, and kissed the mantle of his
lord.
CC
Say a follower. I am too mean to be Rienzi's friend."
"Too mean!
go to!
there is nothing mean before
God, unless it be a base soul under high titles. With me,
With me,
boy, there is but one nobility, and Nature signs its charter.
Listen: thou hearest daily of Walter de Montreal, brother
to these Provençals, great captain of great robbers."
"Ay, and I have seen him, my lord."
r
Well, then, he is at Rome. Some daring thought,
some well-supported and deep-schemed villany, could alone
make that bandit venture openly into an Italian city,
whose territories he ravaged by fire and sword a few months
back. But his brothers have lent me money, - assisted
my return; for their own ends, it is true; but the scem-
ing obligation gives them real power. These northern
swordmen would cut my throat if the great captain bade
them. He counts on my supposed weakness. I know him
of old. I suspect, nay, I read his projects; but I can-
not prove them. Without proof I cannot desert Palestri-
na, in order to accuse and seize him, Thou art shrewd,
thoughtful, acute;
watch
couldst thou go to Rome?
day and night his movements, see if he receive messen-
gers from Albornoz or the barons, if he confer with
Pandulfo di Guido; watch his lodgment, I say, night
and day.
He affects no concealment your task will be
less difficult than it seeins. Apprize the signora of all you
learn. Give me your news daily. Will you undertake
this mission?
of
M
"I will, my lord.”
To horse, then, quick! — and mind,
my bosom, I have no confidant at Rome."
CHAPTER II.
|
the disposal of the Venetian state in its war with the arch-
bishop of Milan. For this service he received an immense
sum; while he provided winter quarters for his troop, for
whom he proposed ample work in the ensuing spring.
Leaving Palestrina secretly and in disguise, with but a
slender train, which met him at Tivoli, Montreal repaired
to Rome. His ostensible object was partly to congratulate
the senator on his return, partly to receive the moneys lent
to Rienzi by his brother.
His secret object we have partly seen; but, not content-
ed with the support of the barons, he trusted, by the cor-
rupting means of his enormous wealth, to form a third
party in support of his own ulterior designs. Wealth,
indeed, in that age and in that land, was scarcely less the
purchaser of diadems than it had been in the latter days of
the Roman empire.
the Roman empire. And in many a city torn by eredita-
ry feuds, the hatred of faction rose to that extent, that a
foreign tyrant, willing and able to expel one party, might
obtain at least the temporary submission of the other
after success was greatly in proportion as he cou d main.
tain his state by a force which was independent of the citi
zens, and a treasury which did not require the odious re-
cruit of taxes. But, more avaricious than ambitious, more
cruel than firm, it was by griping exaction, or unnecessary
bloodshed, that such usurpers usually fell.
Hiz
Montreal, who had scanned such revolutions with a calm
and investigating eye, trusted that he should be enabled to
avoid both these errors: and, as the reader has already seen,
he had formed the vast and sagacious project of consolida-
ing his usurpation by an utterly new race of nobles, who,
serving him by the feudal tenure of the North, and ever
ready to protect him, because in so doing they protected
their own interests, should assist to erect, not the rotten
and unsupported fabric of a single tyranny, but the strong
fortress of a new, hardy, and compact aristocratic state.
Thus had the great dynasties of the North been founded;
and the king, though seemingly curbed by the barons, was
in reality supported by a common interest, whether against
a subdued population or a foreign invasion.
Such were the vast schemes, extending into yet wider
fields of glory and conquest, bounded only by the Alps,
with which the captain of the Grand Company beheld the
columns and arches of the seven-hilled city.
No fear disturbed the long current of his thoughts. His
| brothers were the leaders of Rienzi's hireling army,
- that
Over Rienzi himself he assumed
army were his creatures.
the right of a creditor. Thus, against one party he deemed
himself secure. For the friends of the pope,
he had sup-
ported himself with private, though cautious, letters, from
Albornoz, who desired only to make use of him for the re-
turn of the Roman barons; and with the heads of the lat-
ter we have already witnessed his negotiations. Thus was
he fitted, as he thought, to examine, to tamper with all
parties, and to select from each the materials necessary for
his own objects.
The open appearance of Montreal excited in Rome no
inconsiderable sensation. The friends of the barons gave
out that Rienzi was in league with the Grand Company, and
that he was to sell the imperial city to the plunder and pil-
lage of barbarian robbers. The effrontery with which
Montreal (against whom, more than once, thé pontiff had
thundered his bulls) appeared in the metropolitan city of
the church, ― was made yet more insolent by the recollec
tion of that stern justice which had led the tribune to de-
clare open war against all the robbers of Italy; and this
audacity was linked with the obvious reflection, that the
brothers of the bold Provençal were the instruments of
Rienzi's return. So quickly spread suspicion through the
city, that Montreal's presence alone would in a few weeks
have sufficed to ruin the senator. Meanwhile, the natural
boldness of Montreal silenced every whisper of prudence,
and, blinded by the dazzle of his hopes, the knight of St.
save the wife John, as if to give double importance to his coming, took
up his residence in a splendid palace, and his retinue rival-
led, in the splendor of garb and pomp, the pomp of Rienzi
himself in his earlier and more brilliant power.
Montreal at Rome. His reception of Angelo Villani,
THE danger that threatened Rienzi by the arrival of
Montreal was indeed formidable. The knight of St. John,
ving marched his army into Lombardy, had placed it at
|
|
|
|
Amid the growing excitement, Angelo Villani arrived
at Rome. The character of this young man had leen
formed by his peculiar circumstances. He possessed qual
ities which often stamp the illegitimate as with a common
nature. He was insolent, like most of those who hold
a doubtful rank; and while ashamed at his bastardy, was
arrogant of the supposed nobility of his unknown parentage
310
BULWER'S NOVELS.
The universal fement and agitation of Italy at that day |
rendered ambition the most common of all the passions,
and thus ambition, in all its many shades and varieties,
forces itself into our delineations of character in this histo-
ry. Though not for Angelo Villani were the dreams of the
more lofty and generous order of that sublime infirmity, he
was strongly incited by the desire and resolve to rise. He
had warm affections, and grateful impulses; and his fidelity
to his patron had been carried to a virtue: but from his
irregulated and desultory education, and the reckless profli-
gacy of those with whom, in antechambers and guardrooms,
much of his youth had been passed, he had neither high
principles nor an enlightened honor. Like most Italians,
cunning and shrewd, he scrupled not at any deceit that
served a purpose or a friend. His strong attachment to
Rienzi had been unconsciously increased by the gratification
of pride and vanity, flattered by the favor of so celebrated
a man. Both self-interest and attachment urged him to
every effort to promote the views and safety of one at once
his benefactor and patron; and, on undertaking his present
mission, his only thought was to fulfil it with the most
complete success Far more brave and daring than was
cominon with Italians, something of the hardihood of an
ultramontane race gave nerve and vigor to his craft; and
from what his art suggested, his courage never shrunk.
When Rienzi had first detailed to him the objects of his
present task, he instantly called to mind his adventure with
the tall soldier in the crowd at Avignon.
"If ever thou
wantest a friend, seek him in Walter de Montreal," were
words that had often rung in his ear, and they now recurred
to him with prophetic distinctness. He had no doubt that
it was Montreal himself whom he had seen. Why the
great captain should have taken this interest in him, Angelo
little troubled himself to consider. Most probably it was
but a crafty pretence,
-one of the common means by which
the chief of the Grand Company attracted to himself the
youths of Italy, as well as the warriors of the North. He
only thought now how he could turn the knight's promise to
account. What more easy than to present himself to Mon-
treal, remind him of the words, enter his service,
and thus effectually watch his conduct? The office of spy
was not that which would have pleased every mind, but it
shocked not the fastidiousness of Angelo Villani; and the
fearful hatred with which his patron had often spoken of
the avaricious and barbarian robber, the scourge of his
native land, had inoculated the young man, who had much
of the arrogant and mock patriotism of the Romans, with
a similar sentiment. Naturally vindictive, even more than
grateful, he bore, too, a secret grudge against Montreal's
brothers, whose rough address had often wounded his pride;
and, more than all, his early recollections of the fear and
execration in which Ursula seemed ever to hold the terrible
Fra Moreale, impressed him with a vague belief of some
ancient wrong to himself or his race, perpetrated by the
Provençal, which he was not ill pleased to have the occa-
sion to avenge. In truth the words of Ursula, mystic and
dark as they were in their denunciation, had left upon
Villani's boyish impressions an unaccountable feeling of
antipathy and vindictive hatred to the man it was now his
object to betray. For the rest, every device seemed to him
decorous and justifiable, so that it saved his master, served
his country, and advanced himself.
—
Montreal was alone in his chamber when it was an-
nounced to him that a young Italian craved an audience.
Professionally open to access, he forthwith gave admission
to the applicant.
Montreal instantly recognised the page he had encoun-
tered at Avignon; and when Angelo Villani said, with
easy boldness, "I have come to remind the knight of St.
John of a promise
>>
Montreal interrupted him with cordial frankness,
"Thou needst not, I remember it. Dost thou now need
my friendship?"
"I do, noble knight !" answered Angelo, "I know
not where else to seek a patron.
""
"Canst thou read and write? I fear me not."
"I have been taught those arts," replied Villani.
"It is well. Is your birth gentle ?"
"It is."
"Better still;
your name?"
Angelo Villani."
I take your blue eyes and low broad brow," said
Montreal with a slight sigh, “in pledge of your truth,
|
Henceforth, Angelo Villani, you are in the list of my secre
taries. Another time thou shalt tell me more of thyself.
Your service dates from this day. For the rest, no man
ever wanted wealth who served Walter de Montreal; nor
advancement, if he served him faithfully. My closet, through
yonder door, is your waiting-room. Ask for, and send
hither, Lusignan of Lyons; he is my chief scribe, and w
see to thy comforts, and instruct thee in thy business."
Angelo withdrew, Montreal's eye followed him.
"A strange likeness!" said he, musingly and sadly,
my heart leaps to that boy!"
CHAPTER III.
Montreal's banquet.
SOME few days after the date of the last chapter, Rienz
received news from Rome which seemed to produce on hin
a joyous and elated excitement. His troops still lay before
Palestrina, and still the banners of the barons waved over
its unconquered walls. In truth, the Italians employed
half their time in brawls among themselves; the Velletre-
tani had feuds with the people of Tivoli, and the Romans
were still afraid of conquering the barons. "The hornet,"
said they, "stings worse after he is dead; and neither an
Orsini, a Savelli, nor a Colonna was ever known to for-
give."
Again and again had the captains of his army assured
the indignant senator that the fortress was impregnable,
and that time and money were idly wasted upon the siege.
Rienzi knew better, but he concealed his thoughts.
He now summoned to his tent the brothers of Provence,
and announced to them his intention of returning instantly
to Rome. "The mercenaries shall continue the siege un-
der our lieutenant, and you, with my Roman legion, shall
accompany me. Your brother Sir Walter, and I, both
want your presence; we have affairs to arrange between
After a few days I shall raise recruits in the city, and
This was what he brothers desired: they approved,
with evident joy, the senator's proposition.
us.
return.”
Rienzi sent next for the lieutenant of his body guard, the
same Riccardo Annibaldi whom the reader will remember
in the earlier part of this work as the antagonist of Mon-
treal's lance. This young man, one of the few nobles who
espoused the cause of the senator, had evinced great cour-
age and military ability, and promised fair to become one
of the best captains of his time.
"Dear Annibaldi," said Rienzi, "at length I can fulfil
the project on which we have privately conferred. I take
with me to Rome the two Provençal captains; I leave you
chief of the army. Palestrina will yield now, eh ! ha!
ha! ha!-- Palestrina will yield now!
By my right hand, I think so, senator," replied
Annibaldi. "These men have hitherto only stirred up
quarrels among ourselves, and if not cowards, are certainly
traitors."
"Hush, hush, hush! Traitors! The learned Arimbaldo,
the brave Brettone, traitors! Fie on it! No, no they
are very excellent, honorable men, but not lucky in the
camp, not lucky in the camp; better speed to them in
the city! And now to business!
,,
The senator then detailed to Annibaldi the plan he him-
self had formed for taking the town, and the military skill
of Annibaldi at once recognised its feasibility.
With his Roman troop and Montreal's brother, one at
either hand, Rienzi then departed to Rome.
That night Montreal gave a banquet to Pandulfo di
Guido, and to certain of the principal citizens, whom, ove
by one, he had already sounded, and found hollow at heart
to the cause of the senator.
Pandulfo sat at the right hand of the knight of St. John,
and Montreal lavished upon him the most courteous atten-
tions.
Pledge me in this; it is from the vale of Chiana, near
Monte Pulciano," said Montreal. "I think I have hear]
bookmen say, (you know, Signor Pandulfo, that we ought
all to be bookmen now!) that the site was renowned of
old. In truth, the wine hath a racy flavor.”
"I hear," said Bruttini, one of the lesser barons, a
stanch friend to the Colonna, "that in this respect the
innkeeper's son has put his book-learning to some use: he
knows every place where the vine grows richest."
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
31
'What! the senator has turned winebibber'" said
Montreal, quaffing a vast gobletful; "that must unfit him
for business: 't is a pity."
Verily, yes," said Pandulfo; "a man at the head of a
state should be temperate. I mix all my wine."
"Ah," whispered Montreal, "if your calmn good sense
ruled Rome, then, indeed, the metropolis of Italy might
taste of peace. Signor Vivaldi," and the host turned
towards a wealthy draper,
draper,"
"these disturbances are bad
for trade."
Very, very!" groaned the draper.
slightly. The wine circulated, the bell continued to toll
its suddenness over, it ceased to alarm. Conversation
flowed again.
I-
"What were you saying, sir knight ?" said Vivaldi.
"Why, let me think on 't. Oh, speaking of the neces
sity of supporting a new state by force, I said, that if I—”
"Ah, that was it," quoth Bruttini, thumping the table.
"If I were summoned to your aid, summoned, (mind
ye, and absolved by the pope's legate of my former sins, -
they weigh heavily on me, gentles,) I would myself guard
your city from foreign foe and civil disturbance, with my
ute a denaro' to the cost.'
“The barons are your best customers," quoth the minor gallant swordsmen. Not a Roman citizen should contrib-
noble.
Much, much!" said the draper.
"I is a pity that they are thus roughly expelled," said
Montreal, in a melancholy tone. "Would it not be possi-
ble, if the senator (I drink his health !) were less rash,
less zealous, rather, to unite free institutions with the
return of the barons? Such should be the task of a truly
.wise statesman.
"It surely might be possible," returned Vivaldi ;
"the
Savelli alone spend more with me than all the rest of
Rome."
“I know not if it be possible," said Bruttini; "but I
do know that it is an outrage to all decorum that an inn-
keeper's son should be enabled to make a solitude of the
palaces of Rome.”
"It certainly seems to indicate too vulgar a desire of
mob favor," said Montreal. However, I trust we
shall harmonize all these differences. Rienzi, perhaps,
nay, doubtless, means well! "
"I would," said Vivaldi, who had received his cue,
"that we might form a mixed constitution,- plebeians
and patricians, each in their separate order.”
"But," said Montreal, gravely, so new an experiment
would demand great physical force."
"Why, true; but we might call in an umpire,
a for-
eigner who had no interest in either faction, who might
protect the new buono stato, --a podesta, as we have done
before, ― Brancaleone, for instance. How well and wisely
he ruled that was a golden age for Rome. A podesta
for ever! that 's my theory."
"You need not seek for the president of your council,"
said Montreal, smiling at Pandulfo; "a citizen at once
popular, wellborn, and wealthy, may be found at my right
band.”
Pandulfo hemmed, and colored.
Montreal proceeded. "A committee of trades might
furnish an honorable employment to Signor Vivaldi; and
the treatment of all foreign affairs, the employment of
armies, &c. might be left to the barons, with a more open
competition, Signor di Bruttini, to the barons of the second
order than has hitherto been conceded to their birth and
importance. Sirs, will you taste the Malvoisie?"
CC
Still," said Vivaldi, after a pause, Vivaldi antici-
pated at least the supplying with cloth the whole of the
Grand Company,-"still, such a moderate and well-di-
gested constitution would never be acceded to by Rienzi."
"Why should it? what need of Rienzi?" exclaimed
Bruttini. "Rienzi may take another trip to Bohemia."
CC
Gently, gently," said Montreal; "I do not despair.
All
open violence against the senator would strengthen his
power. No, no, humble him, admit the barons, and then
insist on your own terms. Between the two factions you
might then establish a fitting balance. And in order to
keep your new constitution from the encroachment of either
&xtreme, there are warriors and knights too, who for a cer-
gain rank in the great city of Rome would maintain horse
and foot at his service. We ultramontanes are often
arshly judged; we are wanderers and Ishmaelites, solely
because we have no honorable place of rest. Now if I-",
"Ay, if you, noble Montreal!" said Vivaldi.
The company remained hushed in breathless attention,
when suddenly there was heard, deep, solemn, muffled,
the great bell of the capitol!
"Hark" said Vivaldi, "the bell it tolls for execu-
sion: an unwonted hour!
Sure, the senator has not returned!" exclaimed Pan-
dulfo di Guido, turning pale.
"No, no," quoth Bruttini, "it is but a robber, caught
two days ago in Romagna. I heard that he was to die
to-night."
At the word "robber" Montreal changed countenance
"Viva Fra Moreale!" cried Bruttini, and the shout was
echoed by all the boon companions.
Enough for me," continued Montreal, to expiate my
offences. You know, gentlemen, my order is vowed to
God and the church, a warrior monk am I! Enough
for me to expiate my offences, I say, in the defence of the
holy city. Yet I too have my private and more earthly
views,
(who is above them?) I The bell changes
its note !'
"It is but the change that preludes execution, the
poor robber is about to die!"
Montreal crossed himself, and resumed,-"I am a
knight and a noble," said he, proudly; "the profession I
have followed is that of arms; but, I will not disguise
it, mine equals have regarded me as one who has stained
his 'scutcheon by too reckless a pursuit of glory and of
gain. I wish to reconcile myself with my order,
to pur-
chase a new name, to vindicate myself to the grand master
and the pontiff.
and the pontiff. I have had hints, gentles, hints, that 1
might best promote my interest by restoring order to the
papal metropolis. The Legate Albornoz (here is his letter)
recommends me to keep watch upon the senator.
Surely," interrupted Pandulfo, "I hear steps below."
"The mob going to the robber's execution," said Brut-
tini; "proceed, sir knight !
And," continued Montreal, surveying his audience
before he proceeded further," what think ye, I do but
ask your opinion, wiser than mine,
what think ye, as a
fitting precaution against too arbitrary a power in the sen-
ator, what think ye of the return of the Colonna, and
the bold barons of Palestrina ?"
tr
you gave
M
what if
"Here's to their health,” cried Vivaldi, rising.
As by a sudden impulse, the company rose. "To the
health of the besieged barons," was shouted loud.
Next, what if, - I do but humbly suggest,
the senator a colleague? it is no affront to him.
It was but as yesterday that one of the Colonna, who was
senator, received a colleague in Bertoldo Orsini."
"A most wise precaution," cried Vivaldi.
" And
where a colleague like Pandulfo di Guido ?"
"Viva Pandulfo di Guido ?" cried the guests, and again
their goblets were drained to the bottom.
"And if in this I can assist ye by fair words with the
senator, (ye know he owes ine moneys, my brothers have
served him,) command Walter de Montreal.”
“And if fair words fail," said Vivaldi.
"The Grand Company, heed me, ye are the council-
lors, the Grand Company is accustomed to forced
marches!
"Viva Fra Moreale," cried Bruttini and Vivaldi, simul-
taneously. "A health to all,- my friends; " continued
Bruttini. "A health to the barons, Rome's old friends ;
to Pandulfo di Guido, the senator's new colleague; and to
Fra Moreale, Rome's new podesta."
"The bell has ceased," said Vivaldi, putting down his
goblet.
"Heaven have mercy on the robber!" added Bruttini
Scarce had he spoken, ere three taps were heard at the
door, — the guests looked at each other in dumb amaze.
"Some new guests!" said Montreal. "I asked some
trusty friends to join us this evening. By my faith they
are welcome! Enter !"
On they
The door opened slowly, three by three entered, in
complete armor, the guards of the senator.
marched, regular and speechless. They surrounded the
festive board, — they filled the spacious hall, and the lights
of the banquet were reflected upon their corslets as on a
wall of steel.
Not a sy Hlable was uttered by the feasters; they were as
if turned to stone. Presently the guards gave way, and
312
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Rienzi himself appeared. He approached the table, and
folding his arms, turned his gaze deliberately from guest to
guest, til, at last, his eyes rested on Montreal, who had
also risen, and who alone of the party had recovered the
amaze of the moment.
And there, as these two men, each so celebrated, so
proud, able, and ambitious, stood, front to front, — it was
literally as if the rival spirits of force and intellect, order
and strife, of the falchion and the fasces, the antagonist
principles by which empires are ruled and empires over-
thrown, had met together, incarnate and opposed. They
stood, both silent, -as if fascinated by each other's gaze,
- loftier in stature, and nobler in presence than all around.
Montreal spoke first, and with a forced smile.
"Senator of Rome !- dare I believe that my poor ban-
met tempts thee, and may I trust that these armed men
are a graceful compliment to one to whom arms have
been a pastime ?"
Rienzi answered not, but waved his hand to his guards.
Montreal was seized on the instant. Again he surveyed
the guests; as a bird from the rattlesnake shrunk Pandul-
fo di Guido, trembling, motionless, aghast, from the glit-
tering eye of the senator. Slowly Rienzi raised his fatal
hand towards the unhappy citizen; Pandulfo saw, felt his
doom, shrieked, and fell senseless in the arms of the sol-
diers.
..
"Walter, heaven hath demented you," rettanea Bret-
tone. Angelo Villani is the favorite menial of the sen
ator."
>>
"Those eyes deceive me then," muttered Montreal
solemnly and shuddering; "and, as if her ghost had re
turned to earth, God sites me from the grave!
There was a long silence. At length Montreal, whose
bold and sanguine temper was never long clouded, spoke
again.
"Are the senator's coffers full? But that is impossi
ble."
"Bare as a Dominican's."
"We are saved then. He shall name his price for our
heads. Money must be more useful to him than blood."
And, as if with that thought all further meditation
were rendered unnecessary, Montreal doffed his mantle,
uttered a short prayer, and flung himself on a pallet in the
corner of the cell.
"I have slept on worse beds," said the knight, stretch-
ing himself; and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.
The brothers listened to his deep-drawn but regular
breathing with envy and wonder, but they were in no mood
to converse. Still and speechless, they sat like statues be-
side the sleeper. Time passed on, and the first cold air of
the approaching dawn crept through the bars of their cell.
The bolts crashed, the door opened, six men-at-arms en-
One other and rapid glance cast the senator round the tered, passed the brothers, and one of them touched Mon-
board, and then, with a disdainful smile, as if anxious for treal.
no meaner prey, turned away. Not a breath had hitherto "Ha!" said he, still sleeping, but turning round.
passed his lips, all had been dumb show; and his grim"Ha!" said he, in the soft Provençal tongue,
"' sweet
silence had 'imparted a more freezing terror to his un- Adeline, we will not rise yet, it is so long since we
guessed-for apparition. Only, when he had reached the
door he turned back, gazed upon the knight of St. John's
bold and undaunted face, and said, almost in a whisper,
"Walter de Montreal! you heard the death knell !"
CHAPTER IV.
The sentence of Walter de Montreal.
IN silence the captain of the Grand Company was borne
to the prison of the capitol. In the same building lodged
the rivals for the government of Rome; the one occupied
the prison, the other the palace. The guards forbore the
ceremony of fetters, and leaving a lamp on the table, Mon-
treal perceived he was not alone; his brothers had pre-
ceded him.
"Ye are happily met," said the knight of St. John;
"we have passed together pleasanter nights than this is
likely to oe.'
""
"Can you jest, Walter ?" said Arimbaldo, half weep-
ing. "Know you not that our doom is fixed? Death
scowls upon us."
"Death!" repeated Montreal, and for the first time his
countenance changed; perhaps for the first time in his life
he felt the thrill and agony of fear.
"Death!" he repeated again.
Impossible! He dare
not, Brettone the soldiers, the Northmen, they will muti-
ny; they will pluck us back from the grasp of the heads-
man !
"
:
"Cast from you so vain a hope," said Brettone, sullen-
"the soldiers are encamped at Palestrina."
"Ilow! Dolt, -- fool! Came you then to Rome alone?
Are we alone with this dread man?
"You are the dolt. Why came you hither?" asked
the brother.
وو
Why, indeed! but that I knew thou wast the captain
of the army and, but you said right, the folly is
mine, to have played against the crafty tribune so unequal
a brain as thine. Enough! Reproaches are idle. When
were ye arrested ?”
"At dusk, the instant we entered the gates of Rome.
Rienzi entered privately.'
"Humph! What can he know against me? Who can
all trust-
have betrayed me? My secretaries are tried,
worthy, except that youth, and he so seemingly zealous,
that Angelo Villani.
#
"Villani, Angelo Villani," cried the brothers in a
breath. "Hast thou confided aught to him?"
''
Why, he must have seen my correspondence with you,
and with the barons, he was among my scribes. Know
vou aught of him?"
met!"
"What says he ?" muttered the guard, shaking Mon-
treal, roughly. The knight sprang up at once, and his hand
grasped the head of his bed as for his sword. He stared
round, bewildered, rubbed his eyes, and then going on the
guard, became alive to the present.
"What
"Ye are early risers in the capitol," said he.
want ye of me?"
"It waits you
!
"It! What?" said Montreal.
"The rack!" replied the soldier, with a malignant
scowl.
The great captain said not a word. He looked for one
moment at the six swordsmen, as if me.suring his single
His then wandered round the
eye
strength against theirs.
room. The rudest bar of iron would have been dearer to
him than he had ever yet found the proofest steel of Milan.
He completed his survey with a sigh, threw his mantle
over his shoulders, nodded at his brethren, and followed
the guard.
In a hall of the capitol, hung with the ominous silk of
white rays on a blood-red ground, sat Rienzi and his coud-
cillors. Over a recess was drawn a black curtain.
"Walter de Montreal," said a small man at the foot of
the table; knight of the illustrious order of St. John of
Jerusalem."
"And captain of the Grand Company!" added the
prisoner, in a firm voice.
C
You stand accused of divers counts: robbery and
murder, in Tuscany, Romagna, and Apulia — ”
"For robbery and murder, brave men and beltel
knights," said Montreal, drawing himself up,
"would
use the words
To those charges I
war and victory.'
plead guilty! Proceed."
"You are next charged of treasonable conspiracy against
the liberties of Rome for the restoration of the proscribed
barons, and with traitorous correspondence with Stefa-
nello Colonna at Palestrina."
"
"C
My accuser!"
Step forth, Angelo Villani!"
"You are my betrayer, then," said Montreal, steadily
"I deserved this. I beseech you, senator of Rome, let
this young man retire. I confess iny correspondence with
the Colonna, and my desire to restore the barons.
Rienzi motioned to Villani, who bowed low and with-
drew.
"There rests only then for you, Walter de Montreal, te
relate fully and faithfully the details of your conspiracy."
"That is impossible," replied Montreal, carelessly.
“And why?”
"Because, doing as I please with my own life, I wik
not betray the lives of others."
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
313
Bethink thee,
of thy judge!"
"Not betrayed,
ere many
thou wouldst have betrayed the life thee to announce, that in heaven or hell,
days be over, room must be given to one mightier than I
thou didst not trust me."
"The law, Walter de Montreal, hath sharp inquisitors,
behold!"
The black curtain was drawn aside, and the eye of Mon-
treal rested on the executioner and the rack! His proud
breast heaved indignantly.
"Senator of Rome," said he, "these instruments are
for serfs and villains. I have been a warrior and a leader;
life and death have been in my hands; I have used them
am!
As he spake, his form dilated, his eye glared; and
Rienzi, cowering as never had he cowered before, shrunk
back, and shaded his face with his hand.
"The manner of your death?" he asked, in a hollow
voice.
"The axe; it is that which befits knight and warrior
For thee, senator, fate hath a less noble death."
"Robber, be dumb!" cried Rienzi, passionately;
3s I listed; but to mine equal and my foe, I never proffer-"Guards, bear back the prisoner. At sunrise, Mon-
ed the insult of the rack."
A bright and approving expression settled on the lofty
brow of the senator.
"Sir Walter de Montreal," said he, gravely, but with
some courteous respect, your answer is that which rises
naturally to the lips of brave men. But learn from me,
whom fortune hath made thy judge, that no more for serf
and villain than for knight and noble, are such instruments
the engines of law, or the criteria of truth. I yielded but
to the desire of these reverend councillors to test thy nerves.
But wert thou the meanest peasant of the Campagna, be-
fore my judgment-seat, thou needst not apprehend the tor-
Walter de Montreal, among the princes of Italy thou
hast known, among the Roman barons thou wouldst have
aided, is there one who could make that boast?"
ture
"I desired ouly," said Montreal, with some hesitation,
"to join the barons with thee; nor did I intrigue against
thy life!"
Rienzi frowned. “ Enough," he said, hastily. "Knight
of St. John, I know thy secret projects; subterfuge and
evasion neither befit nor avail thee. If thou didst not in-
trigue against my life, thou didst intrigue against the life
of Rome. Thou hast but one favor left to demand on earth,
it is the manner of thy death."
Montreal's lip worked convulsively.
"Senator," said he, in a low voice, “may
may I crave audi-
ence with thee alone for one minute?"
The councillors looked up.
"My lord," whispered the eldest of them, " doubtless
he hath concealed weapons, trust him not.
"Prisoner," returned Rienzi, after a moment's pause;
"if
you seek for mercy your request is idle, and before my
coadjutors I have no secrets; speak ont what thou hast to
say
"Yet listen to me," said the prisoner, folding his arms;
"it concerns not my life, but Rome's welfare.
"Then," said Rienzi, in an altered tone, thy request
is granted. Thou mayst add to thy guilt the design of the
assassin, but for Rome I would dare greater danger.'
So saying, he motioned to the councillors, who slowly
withdrew by the door which had admitted Villani, while
the guard retired to the farthest extremity of the hall.
"Now, Walter de Montreal, be brief, thy time is short."
"Senator," said Montreal," my life can but little profit
you; men will say that you destroyed your creditor in order
to cancel your debt. Fix a sum upon my life, estimate it
at the price of a monarch's, every florin shall be paid to
you, and your treasury will be filled for five years to come.
If the buono stato' depends on your government, what I
have asked, your solicitude for Rome will not permit you
to refuse."
"You mistake me, bold robber," said Rienzi, sternly.
* Your treason I could guard against, and therefore for-
give; your ambition, never. Mark me, I know you!
Place your hand on your heart, and say whether, could we
cuange places, you, as Rienzi, would suffer all the gold of
cart to purchase the life of Walter de Montreal! For
men's reading of my conduct, that must I bear; for mine
own reading, mine eyes must be purged from corruption.
I am answerable to God for the trust of Rome. And
Rome trembles while the head of the Grand Company
lives in the plotting brain and the daring heart of Walter
de Montreal. Man, wealthy, great, and subtle as you
are, your hours are numbered; with the rise of the sun you
die
Montreal's eyes, fixed upon the senator's face, saw hope
was over; his pride and his fortitude returned to him.
"We have wasted words," said he; "I played for a
great stake, I have lost, and must pay the forfeit! I am
prepared. Ou the threshold of two worlds, the dark spirit
of prophecy rushes into us. Lord senator, I go before
VOL. II
40
treal,-
"Sets the sun of the scourge of Italy," said the knight,
bitterly. "Be it so.
One request more; the knights of
St. John claim affinity with the Augustine order; grant me
an Augustine confessor."
"It is granted; and in return for thy denunciations, 1,
who can give thee no earthly mercy, will implore the Judge
of all for pardon to thy soul.'
"Senator, I have done with man's mediation. My
brethren! - their deaths are not necessary to thy safety or
thy revenge!"
Rienzi mused a moment. "No," said he, "dangerous
tools they were, but without the workman they may rust
unharming. They saved me once, too. Prisoner, their
lives are spared."
CHAPTER V.
The discovery.
THE Council was broken up,-Rienzi hastened to nis
own apartments. He met Villani by the way, - he pressed
the youth's hand affectionately. "You have saved Rome
and me from great peril," said he ; "the saints reward
you!" Without waiting Villani's answer, he hurried on.
Nina, anxious and perturbed, awaited him in their chamber.
"Not abed yet?" said he : “fie, Nina, even thy beauty
will not stand these vigils."
"I could not rest till I had seen thee. I hear, (all Rome
has heard it ere this,) that thou hast seized Walter de
Montreal, and that he will perish by the headsman.”
"The first robber that ever died so brave a death,"
returned Rienzi, slowly unrobing himself.
"Cola, I have never crossed your schemes, your
policy, even by a suggestion. Enough for me to triumph
in your success, to mourn for their failure. Now, I ask
thee one request, spare me the life of this man.
"Nina,
"Hear me, for thee I speak! Despite his crimes, his
valor and his genius have gained him admirers, even
among his foes. Many a prince, many a state that secretly
rejoices at his fall, will affect horror against his judge.
Hear me further: his brothers aided your return, the world
will term you ungrateful. His brothers lent you moneys
the world, out on it will term you
G
"Hold!" interrupted the senator. "All that thou
sayest, my mind forestalled. But thou knowest me, to
thee I have no disguise. No compact can bind Montreal's
faith, -no mercy win his gratitude. Before his red right
hand, truth and justice are swept away. If I condemn
Montreal, I incur disgrace and risk danger, — granted.
If I release him, ere the first showers of April, the chargers
of the Northmen will neigh in the halls of the capitol.
Which shall I hazard in this alternative, myself or Rome?
Ask me no more,
Ask me no more, to bed, to bed!"
--
"Couldst thou read my forebodings, Cola, mystic,
gloomy, unaccountable!
"Forebodings! I have mine," answered Rienzi sadly,
gazing on space, as if his thoughts peopled it with spectres.
Then raising his eyes to heaven, he said, with that fanat
ical energy which made much both of his strength and
weakness," Lord, mine at least, is not the sin of Saul! the
Amalekite shall not be saved!"
While Rienzi enjoyed a short, troubled, and restless
sleep, over which Nina watched, unslumbering, anxious,
tearful, and oppressed with dark and terrible forewarnings,
the accuser was more happy than the judge. The last
dim thoughts that floated before the young mind of Angelo
Villani, ere wrapped in sleep, were bright and sanguine.
He felt no honorable remorse that he had entrapped the
$14
BULWER'S NOVELS.
confidence of another, he felt only that his scheme had
prospered, that his mission had been fulfilled. The
grateful words of Rienzi rang in his ear, and hopes of for-
tune and power, beneath the sway of the Roman senator,
lulled him into slumber, and colored all his dreams.
M
Scarce, however, had he been three hours asleep, ere he
was wakened by one of the attendants of the palace, him-
self half awake. "Pardon me, Messere Villani," said he,
"but there is a messenger below from the good sister
Ursula, --he bids thee haste instantly to the convent,
she is sick unto death, and has tidings that crave thy
immediate presence."
Angelo, whose morbid susceptibility as to his parentage
was ever excited by vague but ambitious hopes, started up,
dressed hurriedly, and joining the messenger below, re-
paired to the convent. In the court of the capitol, and by
the staircase of the Lion, was already heard the noise of
the workmen, and looking back, Villani beheld the scaffold,
hung with black, sleeping cloudlike in the gray light of
dawn; at the same time, the bell of the capitol tolled
heavily. A pang shot athwart him. He hurried on;
despite the immature earliness of the hour, he met groups
of either sex, pacing along the streets to witness the execu-
tion of the redoubted captain of the Grand Company. The
convent of the Augustines was at the farthest extremity of
that city, even then so extensive, and the red light upon the
hill-tops already heralded the rising sun, ere the young man
reached the venerable porch. His name obtained him
instant admittance.
"Heaven grant," said an old nun, who conducted him
through a long and winding passage, "that thou mayst
bring comfort to the sick sister she has pined for thee
grievously since matins."
In a cell apportioned to the reception of visiters from the
outward world, to such of the sisterhood as received the
necessary dispensation, sat the aged nun. Angelo had only
seen her once since his return to Rome, and since then
disease had made rapid havoc on her form and features.
And now,
in her shroudlike garments and attenuated frame,
she seemed, by the morning light, as a spectre whom day
had surprised above the earth, She approached the youth,
however, with a motion more elastic and rapid than seemed
possible to her worn and ghastly form. "Thou art come,
she said. "Well, well! This morning after matins, my
confessor, an Augustine, who alone knows the secrets of
my life, took me aside, and told me that Walter de Mon-
treal had been seized by the senator; that he was adjudged
to die, and that one of the Augustine brotherhood had been
sent for to attend his last hours. Is it so ?"
"Thou wert told aright," said Angelo, wonderingly.
"The man at whose name thou wert wont to shudder,
against whom thou hast so often warned me, will die at
sunrise."
"So soon, — so soon! Oh, mother of mercy!-fly!
thou art about the person of the senator, thou hast high
favor with him; fly down on thy knees ; and as thou
hopest for God's grace, rise not till thou hast won the
Provençal's life.”
"She raves, muttered Angelo, with white lips.
"I rave not. Boy!" screeched the sister, wildly,
"know that my daughter was his leman. He disgraced
our house, -a house haughtier than his own. Sinner that
I was, I vowed revenge. His boy, they had only one!
was brought up in a robber's camp. A life of bloodshed,
a death of doom, a futurity of hell, were before him. I
plucked the child from such a fate; I bore him away; I
told the father he was dead; I placed him in the path to
honorable fortunes. May my sin be forgiven me ! Angelo
Villani, thou art that child! Walter de Montreal is thy
father. But now, trembling on the verge of death, I shud-
der at the vindictive thought I once nourished. Perhaps
"Sinner and accursed!" interrupted Villani, with a
loud shout "sinner and accursed thou art indeed! Know
that it was I betrayed thy daughter's lover! by his son's
treason dies the father !"
The
Not a moment more did he tarry: he waited not to wit-
ness the effect his words produced. As one frantic, as
one whom the fiend possesses or pursues, he rushed from
the convent, he flew through the desolate streets.
death-bell came, first indistinct, then loud, upon his ear.
Every sound seemed to him like the curse of God;
on, he passed the more deserted quarter; crowds swept
before him; he was mingled with the living stream; delayed,
on,
pushed back; thousands on thousands around, before him
Breathless, gasping, he still pressed on; he forced his
way; he heard not; he saw not, all was like a dream
Up burst the sun over the distant hills!--the bell ceased!
From right to left he pushed aside the crowd, his strength
was as a giant's. He neared the fatal spot. A dead hush
lay like a heavy air over the multitude. He heard a voice,
as he pressed along, deep and clear, it was the voice of
his father! it ceased, the audience breathed heavily, -
they murmured, they swayed to and fro. On, on, wen
Angelo Villani. The guards of the senator stopped his
way; he dashed aside their pikes; he eluded their
grasp, -he pierced the armed barrier, he stood on the
place of the capitol. "Hold, hold !" he would have cried;
but his tongue clove to his lips. He beheld the gleaming
axe; he saw the bended neck. Ere another breath
passed
his lips, a ghastly and trunkless face was raised on high,
Walter de Montreal was no more!
Villani saw,
swooned not, shrunk not, breained
not!—but he turned his eyes from that lifted head, drop
ping gore, to the balcony, in which, according to custom,
sat, in solemn pomp, the senator of Rome, and the face
of that young man was as the face of a demon!
"Ha!" said he, muttering to himself, and recalling the
words of Rienzi, seven years before,-
"blessed art thou
who hast no blood of kindred to avenge !”
CHAPTER VI.
The suspense.
WALTER DE MONTREAL was buried in the church of
St. Maria dell' Araceli.
St. Maria dell' Araceli. But the "evil that he did lived
after him! Although the vulgar had, until his apprehen-
sion, murmured against Rienzi, for allowing so notorious
a freebooter to be at large, he was scarcely dead ere they
compassionated the object of their terror. With that sin-
gular species of piety which Montreal had always cultivated,
as if a decorous and natural part of the character of a war-
rior, no sooner was his sentence fixed, than he had surren-
dered himself to the devout preparation for death. With the
Augustine friar he consumed the brief remainder of the
night in prayer and confession; comforted his brothers,
and passed to the scaffold with the step of a hero, and the
self-acquittal of a martyr. In the wonderful delusions of
the human heart, far from feeling remorse at a life of pro-
fessional rapine and slaughter, almost the last words of the
brave warrior were in proud commendation of his own
deeds. "Be valiant, like me," he said to his brothers;
"and remember that ye are now the heirs to the humbler
of Apulia, Tuscany, and La Marca." (a)
I
This confidence in himself continued at the scaffold.
die," he said, addressing the Romans, "I die contented,
since my bones shall rest in the holy city of St. Peter and
St. Paul, and the soldier of Christ shall have the burial-
place of the apostles. But I die unjustly. My wealth is
my crime,
the poverty of your state my accuser. Sen-
ator of Rome, thou mayst envy my last hour: men like
Walter de Montreal perish not unavenged." So saying,
he turned to the east, murmured a brief prayer, knelt down,
deliberately, and said, as to himself, "Rome, guard my
ashes, — earth, my memory, - fate, my revenge. and now,
heaven receive my soul! Strike!" At the first blow the
head was severed from the body
He
His treason but imperfectly known, the fear of him for-
gotten, all that remained of the recollection of Walter de
Montreal (b) in Rome, was admiration for his heroism, and
compassion for his end. The fate of Pandulfo di Guido,
which followed some days afterward, excited a yet deeper,
though more quiet sentiment against the senator.
was once Rienzi's friend!" said one man: "He was an
honest, upright citizen!" muttered another: "He was an
advocate of the people!" growled Cecco del Vecchio. It
had not been without extreme reluctance that Rienzi had
signed the death-warrant of Pandulfo. With the bitter-
ness of betrayed trust, the recollection of ancient affection
wrestled strong. But Rienzi had wound himself up to a
resolve to be inflexibly just, and to regard every peril to
Rome as became a Roman. In vain he sought excuses for
Pandulfo, in vain he endeavoured to convince himself that
his life might be spared without injury to the state; but
every investigation more convinced him of the extent of the
RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
815
prisoner's treason, and the strength of his party: the very
interest he excited in Rome was proof of the influence of his
conspiracy. Rienzi remembered that he had never confided,
but to be betrayed, he had never forgiven, but to sharpen
enmity. He was amid a ferocious people, uncertain friends,
wily enemies and misplaced mercy would be but a pre-
mium to conspiracy. Yet, when Pandulfo died, the senator
burst into an agony of tears. "Can I never again have
the luxury to forgive?" said he. The coarse spectators of
that passion, deemed it, some imbecility, some hypocrisy.
But the execution produced the momentary effect intended.
All sedition ceased, terror crept throughout the city, order
and peace rose to the surface, but beneath, in the strong
expression of a cotemporaneous writer, "Lo mormorito
quetamente suonava.
On examining dispassionately the conduct of Rienzi, at
this awful period of his life, it is scarcely possible to con-
demn it of a single error in point of policy. Cured of his
faults, he exhibited no unnecessary ostentation; he in-
dulged in no exhibitions of intoxicated pride; that gorgeous
imagination rather than vanity, which had led the tribune
into spectacle and pomp, was now lulled to rest, by the
sober memory of grave vicissitudes and the stern calmness
of a maturer intellect. Frugal, provident, watchful, self-
collected, -"Never was seen," observes no partial wit-
ness, "so extraordinary a man. In him was concentrated
every thought for every want of Rome. Indefatigably occu-
pied, he inspected, ordained, regulated all things, in
the city, in the army, for peace, or for war. But he was
feebly supported, and those he employed seemed, beside the
energy of their chief, lukewarm and lethargic.' Still his
arms prospered. Place after place, fortress after fortress,
vielded to the lieutenant of the senator: and the cession of
Palestrina itself was hourly expected. His art and address
were always strikingly exhibited in difficult situations, and
the reader cannot fail to have noticed how conspicuously
they were displayed in delivering himself of the iron tute-
lage of his foreign mercenaries. Montreal executed, his
brothers imprisoned, (though their lives were spared,) a
fear that induced respect, was stricken into the breasts of
those bandit soldiers. Removed from Rome, and under
Annibaldi, engaged against the barons, constant action and
constant success, withheld those necessary fiends from fall-
ing on their master; while Rienzi, willing to yield to the
natural antipathy of the Romans, thus kept the Northmen
from all contact with the city; and, as he boasted, was the
only chief in Italy who reigned in his palace guarded only
by his citizens.
Despite his perilous situation, despite his suspicions,
and his fears, no wanton cruelty stained his stern justice:
Montreal and Pandulfo di Guido were the only state victims
he demanded. If, according to the dark Machiavelism of
Italian wisdom, the death of those enemies was impolitic,
it was not in the act, but the doing of it. A prince of
Bologna or of Milan would have avoided the sympathy
excited by the scaffold, and the drug or the dagger wouid
have been the safer substitute for the axe. But with all
his faults, real and imputed, no single act of that foul and
murderous policy, which made the science of the more
fortunate princes of Italy, ever advanced the ambition or
promoted the security of the last of the Roman tribunes.
Whatever his errors, he lived and died as became a man
who dreamed the vain but glorious dream, that in a corrupt
and dastard populace, he could revive the genius of the old
republic.
Of all who attended on the senator, the most assiduous
and the most honored was still Angelo Villani. Promoted
to a high civil station, Rienzi felt it as a return of youth, to
find one person entitled to his gratitude; he loved and con-
fided in the youth as a son. Villani was never absent from
his side, except in intercourse with the various popular
leaders in the various quarters of the city; and in this
intercourse his zeal was indefatigable, it seemed to prey
upon his health; and Rienzi chid him fondly, whenever
starting from his own reveries, he beheld the abstracted
eye, and livid paleness which had succeeded the sparkle
and bloom of youth.
Such chiding the young man answered only by the same
anvarying words :—
Senator, I have a great trust to fulfil ;" and at these
words he siniled.
One day Villani, while with the senator, said rather
The murmur sounded quietly.
|
abruptly, “Do you remember, my lord, that before Viterio,
I acquitted myself so in arms, that even the Cardinal D'AL
bornoz was pleased to notice me?"
"I remember your valor well, Angelo; but why the
question?"
My lord, Bellini, the captain of the guard of the capi-
tol, is dangerously ill."
"I know it."
"Who can my lord trust at the post?"
Why, the lieutenant.
""
"What! a soldier that has served under the Orsini ?
"True. Well! there is Tommaso Filangieri?
"An excellent man; but is he not kin by blood to Pan-
dulfo di Guido ?"
Ay, is be so? It must be thought of. Hast thou ry
"Methinks
friend to name?" said the senator, smiling.
thy cavils point that way."
My lord," replied Villani, coloring, "I am too young,
perhaps but the post is one that demands fidelity more
than it does years: shall I own it? My tastes are rather
to serve thee with my sword than with my pen.
"Wilt thou, indeed, accept the office? It is of less
dignity and emolument than the one you hold; and you
are full young to lead these stubborn spirits."
"Senator, I led taller men than they are to the assault
at Viterbo. But, be it as seems best to your superior
wisdom. Whatever you do, I pray you to be cautious. If
you select a traitor to the cominand of the capitol guard!
I tremble at the thought!"
(6
By ny faith, thou dost turn pale at it, my dear boy;
thy affection is a sweet drop in a bitter draught. Who
can I choose better than thee? Thou shalt have the post,
at least during Bellini's illness. I will attend to it to-day.
The business too will less fatigue thy young mind than that
which now employs thee. Thou art over-labored in our
cause."
"Senator, I can but repeat my usual answer, - I have
a great trust to fulfil !"
CHAPTER VII.
The tax.
THESE formidable conspiracies quelled, the barons
nearly subdued, and three parts of the papal territory
reunited to Rome, Rienzi now deemed he might safely
execute one of his favorite projects for the preservation of
the liberties of his native city; and this was to raise and
organize in each quarter of Rome a Roman legion. Armed
in the defence of their own institutions, he thus trusted to
establish among her own citizens the only soldiery requisite
for Rome.
But so base were the tools with which this great man
was condemned to work out his noble schemes, that none
could be found to serve their own country, without a pay
equal to that demanded by foreign hirelings. With the
insolence so peculiar to a race that has once been great,
each Roman said, "Am I not better than a German?
pay me then accordingly."
The senator smothered his disgust, he had learned at
last to know that the age of the Catos was no more. From
a daring enthusiast, experience had converted him into a
practical statesman. The legions were necessary to Rome,
they were formed, gallant their appearance and fault-
less their caparisons. How were they to be paid? There
was but one means to maintain Rome; Rome must be
taxed. A gabelle was put upon wine and salt.
S
The proclamation ran thus:
"Romans! raised to the rank of your senator, my
whole thought has been for your liberties and welfare;
already treason defeated in the city, our banners triumphant
without, attest the favor with which the Deity regards men
who seek to unite liberty with law. Let us set an exam-
ple to Italy and the world! Let us prove that the Roman
sword can guard the Roman forum! In each rione of the
city is provided a legion of the citizens, collected from the
traders and artisans of the town; they allege that they
cannot leave their occupations without remuneration.
Your senator calls upon you willingly to assist in your own
defence. He has given you liberty; he has restored to
you peace your oppressors are scattered over the earth,
He asks you now to preserve the treasures you have gained
:
316
BULWER'S NOVELS.
To be free you must sacrifice something; for freedom,
what sacrifice too great? Confident of your support, I at
length, for the first time, exert the right intrusted to me by
office, and for Rome's salvation I tax the Romans!"
Then followed the announcement of the gabelle.
The proclamation was placed upon the public thorough-
fares. Round one of the placards a crowd was assembled.
Their gestures were vehement and unguarded, their eyes
sparkled, they conversed low, but eagerly.
"He dares to tax us, then! Why the barons or the
pope could only do that! !”
"Shame! shame!" cried a gaunt female; "
we, who
were his friends! How are our little ones to get bread?"
"He should have seized the pope's money!" quoth an
honest wine-vender.
"Ah! Pandulfo di Guido would have maintained an
army at his own cost. He was a rich man. What inso-
lence in the innkeeper's son to be a senator !
"We are not Romans if we suffer this!" said a de-
serter from Palestrina.
"Fellow-citizens!" exclaimed, gruffly, a tall man who
had hitherto been making a clerk read to him the particu-
lars of the tax imposed, and whose heavy brain at length
understood that wine was to be made dearer, "fellow-
citizens, we must have a new revolution! This is indeed
gratitude! What have we benefited by restoring this
man? Are we always to be ground to the dust? To pay,
pay, pay!
pay! Is that all we are fit for ?
"Hark to Cecco del Vecchio !
"No, no; not now," growled the smith. "To-night
the artificers have a special meeting. We'll see, -we'll
A young man, muffled in a cloak, who had not been be-
fore observed, touched the smith.
see !
"Whosoever storms the capitol the day after to-morrow
at the dawn," he whispered, “shall find the guards
absent ! "
He was gone before the smith could look round.
The same night Rienzi, retiring to rest, said to Angelo
Villani, "A boid but necessary measure this of mine!
How do the people take it ?"
"They murmur a little; but seem to recognise the neces-
sity. Cecco del Vecchio was the loudest grumbler, but is
now the loudest approver."
"The man is rough; he once deserted me; but then
that fatal excommunication! He and the Romans learned
a bitter lesson in that desertion, and experience has, I
trust, taught them to be honest. Well, if this tax be
raised quietly, in two years Rome will be the master state
of Italy her army manned, her republic formed; and
then, then
:
"
>>
"Then what, senator ?”
"Why then, my Angelo, Cola di Rienzi may die in
peace! There is a want which a profound experience of
power and pomp brings at last to us, a want gnawing as
that of hunger, wearing as that of sleep! My Angelo, it
As the want to die!"
My lord, I would give this right hand," cried Villani,
"to hear you say you were attached to life!
"You are a good youth, Angelo!" said Rienzi, as he
passed to Nina's chamber; and in her smile and wistful
tenderness, forgot for a while, that he was a great man.
CHAPTER VIII.
The threshold of the event.
THE next morning the senator of Rome held high
court in the capitol. From Florence, from Padua, from
Pisa, even from Milan, (the dominion of the Visconti,)
from Genoa, from Naples, came ambassadors to wel-
come his return, or to thank him for having freed Italy from
the freebooter De Montreal. Venice alone, who held in
her pay the Grand Company, stood aloof. Never had
Rienzi seemed more prosperous and more powerful, and
never had he exhibited a more easy and cheerful majesty
ɔf demeanour.
Scarce was the audience over, when a messenger ar-
rive from Palestrina. The town had surrendered, the
Colonna had departed, and the standard of the senator
I
waved from the walls of the last hold of the rebellioua
barons. Rome might now at length consider herself free,
and not a foe seemed left to menace the repose of Rienzi.
The court dissolved. The senator, elated and joyous,
repaired towards the private apartments, previous to the
banquet given to the ambassadors. Villani met him with
his wonted sombre aspect.
"No sadness to-day, my Angelo," said the senator,
gayly; "Palestrina is ours!"
"I am glad to hear such news, and to see my lord of so
fair a mien," answered Angelo. "Does he not now de-
sire life?"
"Till Roman virtue revives, perhaps,
yes! - but
thus are we fools of fortune,-to-day glad,-to-morrow
dejected!"
To-morrow," repeated Villari, mechanically: "Ay,
-to-morrow perhaps dejected!
"Thou playest with my words, boy," said Rienzi, ha f
angrily, as he turned away.
But Villani heeded not the displeasure of his lord.
The banquet was thronged and brilliant; and Rieni
that day, without an effort, played the courteous host.
Milanese, Paduan, Pison, Neapolitan, vied with each
other in attracting the smiles of the potent senator. Prod
igal were their compliments, humble their promises of
support. No monarch in Italy seemed more securely
throned.
The banquet was over (as usual on state occasions) at
an early hour; and Rienzi, somewhat heated with wine,
strolled forth alone from the capitol. Bending nis solitary
steps towards the Palatine, he saw the pale and veil-like
mists that succeed the sunset, gather over the wild grass
that waves above the palace of the Caesars. On a mound
of ruins (column and arch overthrown) he stood, with fold
ed arms, musing and intent. In the distance lay the mel-
ancholy tombs of the Campagna, and the circling hills
crested with the purple hues, soon to melt beneath the
starlight. Not a breeze stirred the dark cypress and un-
waving pine. There was something awful in the stillness
of the skies, hushing the desolate grandeur of the earth be-
low. It was like the calm before a storm. Many and
mingled were the thoughts that swept over Rienzi's breast:
memory was busy at his heart. How often, in his youth,
had he trodden the same spot! what visions had he
nursed, what hopes conceived! In the turbulence of his
later life memory had long slept; but at that hour she re-
asserted her shadowy reign with a despotism that seemed
prophetic. He was wandering, - a boy, with his young
brother, hand in hand, by the riverside at eve: anon he
saw a pale face and gory side, and once more uttered his
imprecations of revenge! His first successes, his virgin
triumphs, his secret love, his fame, his power, his reverses
the hermitage of Maiella, the dungeon of Avignon, the
triumphal return to Rome, all swept across his breast
with a distinctness as if he were living those scenes again!
and now! he shrunk from the present, and descended the
hill. The moon, already risen, shed her light over the
forum, as he passed through its mingled ruins. By the
temple of Jupiter two figures suddenly emerged; the moon-
light fell upon their faces, and Rienzi recognised Cecco del
Vecchio and Angelo Villani. They saw him not; but,
eagerly conversing, disappeared by the arch of Trajan.
Ever active in my service!" thought the senator;
"methinks this morning I spoke to him harshly, — it was
churlish in me!
He reëntered the place of the capitol, he stood by
the staircase of the Lion; there was a red stain upon the
pavement, unobliterated since Montreal's execution, and
the senator drew himself aside with an inward shudder
Was it the ghastly and spectral light of the moon, or did
the face of that old Egyptian sculpture wear an aspect that
was as of life! The stony eyeballs seemed bent upon him
with a malignant scowl; and as he passed on, and looked
behind, they appeared almost preternaturally to follow his
steps. A chill, he knew not why, sunk into his heart. He
hastened to regain his palace. The sentinels made way
for him.
"Senator," said one of them, doubtingly, "Messere
Angelo Villani is our new captain, - we are to obey his
orders ?"
C
The
Assuredly," returned the senator, passing on.
man lingered uneasily, as if he would have spoken, but
Rienzi observed it not. Seeking his chamiher, he found
RIENZI, THE LAST
817
OF THE TRIBUNES.
Nina and Irene waiting for him. His heart yearned to
his wife. Care and toil had of late driven her from his
thoughts, and he felt it remorsefully, as he gazed upon her
noble face, softened by the solicitude of untiring and anx-
ious love.
care.
"Sweetest," said he, winding his arms around her ten-
derly, "thy lips never chide me, but thine eyes sometimes
du! We have been apart too long. Brighter days dawn
upon us, when I shall have leisure to thank thee for all thy
-ah,
And you, my fair sister, you smile on me!—
you have heard that your lover, ere this, is released by the
cession of Palestrina, and to-morrow's sun will see him at
your
feet. Despite all the cares of the day, I remembered
thee, my Irene, and sent a messenger to bring back the
blush to that pale cheek. Come, come, we shall be happy
again." And with that domestic fondness common to him,
when harsher thoughts permitted, he sat himself beside the
two dearest to his hearth and heart.
―
the sentries! The moon has set, the mountains are dim
with a mournful and chilling haze; Villani is before the
Where are
palace of the capitol, the only soldier there!
the Roman legions that were to guard alike the freedom
and the deliverer of Rome ?
CHAPTER THE LAST.
The close of the chase.
It was the morning of the 8th of October, 1354.
Rienzi, who rose betimes, stirred restlessly in his bed.
"It is yet early," he said to Nina, whose soft arm was
round his neck, "none of my people seem to be astir
Howbeit, my day begins before theirs."
"Rest yet, my Cola; you want sleep."
"No; I feel feverish, and this old pain in the side tor-
I have letters to write."
“So happy,
ments me.
if we could have many hours like this! "
murmured Nina, sinking on his breast.
I wish
>>
"Yet sometimes
"And I too," interrupted Rienzi; "for I read thy
woman's thought, I too sometimes wish that fate had
placed us in the lowlier valleys of life! But it may come
yet! Irene wedded to Adrian; Rome married to liber-
ty; and then, Nina, methinks you and I would find some
quiet hermitage, and talk over old gauds and triumphs, as
of a summer's dream. Beautiful, kiss me. Couldst thou
resign these pomps?"
For a desert with thee, Cola!"
"Let me reflect," resumed Rienzi; "is not to-day the
seventh of October ? Yes ! on the seventh, be it
noted, my foes yielded to my power! Seven !
Seven! my fated
Dumber, whether ominous of good or evil! Seven months
did I reign as tribune; seven (c) years was I absent as an
exile; to-morrow, that sees me without an enemy, com-
pletes my seventh week of return !
"And seven was the number of the crowns the Roman
convents and the Roman council awarded thee, after the
ceremony which gave thee the knighthood of the Santo
Spirito!" (d) said Nina, adding, with woman's tender
wit," the brightest association of all!"
"Follies seem these thoughts to others, and to philosophy,
in truth, they are so," said Rienzi; "but all my life long,
omen, and type, and shadow have linked themselves to ac-
tion and event: and the atmosphere of other men hath not
been mine. Life itself a riddle, why should riddles
aniaze us? The future! what mystery in the very word!
Had we lived all through the past since time was, our pro-
foundest experience of a thousand ages could not give us
a guess of the events that wait the very moment we are
about to enter! Thus deserted by reason, what wonder that
we recur to the imagination, on which, by dream and
sym-
bol, God sometimes paints the likeness of things to come?
Who can endure to leave the future all unguessed, and sit
tamely down to groan under the fardel of the present?
No, no! that which the foolish wise call fanaticism, be-
longs to the same part of us as hope. Each but carries
us onward, from a barren strand to a glorious, if unbound-
ed sea. Each is yearning for the GREAT BEYOND,
which attests our immortality. Each has its visions and
chimeras, some false, but some true! Verily, a man who
becomes great is often but made so by a kind of sorcery in
his own soul; a Pythia which prophesies that he shall be
great, and so renders the life one effort to fulfil the warn-
ing! Is this folly it were so, if all things stopped at
the grave! But perhaps the very sharpening, and exercis-
ing, and elevating the faculties here, though but for a
bootless end on earth, - may be designed to fit the soul,
thus quickened and ennobled, to some high destiny beyond
the earth! Who can tell? not I! Let us pray.
While the senator was thus employed, Rome in her
various quarters presented less holy and quiet scenes.
In the fortress of the Orsini, lights flitted to and fro,
through the gratings of the great court. Angelo Villani
Angelo Villani
might be seen stealing from the postern gate. Another
hour, and the moon was high in heaven; towards the ruins
of the Colosseum, men, whose dress bespoke them of the
lowest rank, were seen creeping from the lanes and alleys,
two by two; from these ruins glided again the form of the
son of Montreal. Later yet, the moon is sinking, a gray
light breaking in the east; and the gates of Rome, by St.
John of Lateran, are open! Villani is conversing with
C
"Let me be your secretary, dearest,' said Nina.
Rienzi similed affectionately as he rose, he repaired to
his closet adjoining his sleeping apartment, and used the
bath, as was his wont. Then dressing himself, he returned
to Nina, who, already loosely robed, sat by the writing
table, ready for her office of love.
"What a
"How still are all things!" said Rienzi.
cool and delicious prelude, in these early hours, to the
toilsome day."
Leaning over his wife he then dictated different letters,
interrupting the task at times by such observations as
crossed his mind.
So, now to Annibaldi! By the way, young Adrian
should join us to-day; how I rejoice for Irene's sake!"
"Dear sister; yes! she loves, if any, Cola, can love,
as we do."
"Well, but to your task, my fair scribe. Ha! what
noise is that? I hear an armed step; the stairs creak;
some one shouts my name.
Rienzi flew to his sword; the door was thrown rudely
open, and a figure in complete armor stood in the chamber
"How ! what means this?" said Rienzi, standing be-
fore Nina with his drawn sword.
The intruder lifted his visor, it was Adrian Colonna
"Fly, Rienzi!-basten, signor! Thank heaven, I can
save ye yet! Myself and my train, released by the cap-
ture of Palestrina, the pain of my wound detained me last
night at Tivoli. The town was filled with armed men, —
not thine, senator. I heard rumors that alarmed me. I
resolved to proceed onward,
I reached Rome, the gates
of the city were wide open!"
"How?""
"Your guard gone. Presently I came upon a band of
the retainers of the Savelli. My insignia, as a Colon-
misled themn. I learned that this very hour some of
your enemies are within the city, the rest are on their
march, the people themselves arm against you. In the
obscurer streets I passed through, the mob were already
forming.
forming. They took me for thy foe, and shouted.
canie hither, thy sentries have vanished. The private
door below is unbarred and open. Not a soul seems left
in thy palace. Haste, fly, save thyself! Where is
Irene ?"
na,
I
"The capitol deserted! impossible!" cried Rienzi.
He strode across the chambers to the anteroom, where
his night guard waited, it was empty. He passed has-
tily to Villani's room, it was untenanted! He would
have passed farther, but the doors were secured without.
It was evident that all egress had been cut off, save by the
private door below; and that had been left open to admi
his murderers!
He returned back to his room; Nina had already gone
to rouse and prepare Irene, whose chamber was on the
other side, within one of their own
ઃઃ
Quick, senator!" said Adrian. "Methinks there is
yet time. We must make across to the Tiber. I have
stationed my faithful squires and Northmen there. A boa!
waits us."
"Hark!" interrupted Rienzi, whose senses had of late
been preternaturally quickened. "I heard a distant shout,
-a familiar shout, Viva l' Popolo Why, so say 1!
There must be friends.
"Deceive act thyselt; thou hast scarce a friend a
Rome."
318
BULWER'S NOVELS.
"Hist!" said Rieuzi, in a whisper :
save Irene. I cannot accompany thee."
"Art thou mal?"
save Nina,
"No! but fearless. Besides, did I accompany, I might
but destroy you all. Were I found with you, you would
be massacred with me. Without me, ye are safe. Yes,
even the senator's x ife and rister have provoked no revenge.
Save them, noble Colonna, Cola di Rienzi puts his trust in
God alone.""
By this time Nina had returned, Irene with her.
Afar was heard the tramp, steady, — slow, — gathering,
of the fatal multitude.
"Now, Cola," said Nina, with a bold and cheerful air,
and she took her husband's arm, while Adrian had already
found his charge in Irene.
"Yes, now, Nina!" said Rienzi; "at length we part!
If this is my last hour, in my last hour I pray God to
bless and shield thee; for verily, thou hast been my ex-
ceeding solace, provident as a parent, tender as a child,
the smile of my hearth, the, the
Rienzi was almost unmanned. Emotions, deep, con-
flicting, unspeakably fond and grateful, literally choked
his speech.
What!" cried Nina, clinging to his breast, and part-
ing her hair from her eyes as she sought his averted face.
"Part! never! This is my place, -all Rome shall not
tear me from it."
Adrian in despair seized her hand, and attempted to
drag her thence.
"Touch me not, sir!" said Nina, waving her arm with
angry majesty, while her eyes sparkled as a lioness, whom
the huntsmen would sever from her young. "I am the wife
of Cola di Rienzi, the great senator of Rome, and by his
side will I live and die!"
"Take her hence; quick! quick! I hear the crowd
advancing."
Irene tore herself from Adrian, and fell at the feet of
Rienzi; she clasped his knees.
"Come, my brother, come! Why lose these precious
moments? Rome forbids you to cast away a life in which
her very self is bound up.'
Right, Irene, Rome is bound up with me, and we
will rise or fall together! no more!"
"You destroy us all!" said Adrian, with generous and
impatient warmth. "A few minutes more, and we are lost.
Rash man is it not to fall by an infuriate mob that you
nave been preserved from so many dangers?"
"I believe it," said the senator, as his tall form seemed
to dilate as with the greatness of his own soul. "I shall
triumph yet. Never shall mine enemies, never shall
posterity say that a second time Rienzi abandoned Rome!
Hark! Viva l' Popolo!' still the cry of The People.'
That cry scares none but tyrants! I shall triumph and
survive."
"And I with thee!" said Nina, firmly. Rienzi paused
a moment, gazed on his wife, passions tely clasped her to
his heart, kissed her again and again, and then said,
"Nina, I command thee, Go!
"Never!"
He paused. Irene's face, drowned in tears, met his eyes.
"We will all perish with you," said his sister; "
only, Adrian, you leave us."
you
Be it so,
"said the knight, sadly; "we will all re-
main,” and he desisted at once from further effort.
There was a dead, but short pause, broken but by a
convulsive sob from Irene. The tramp of the raging thou-
Rienzi seemed lost in
sands sounded fearfully distinct.
thought, then lifting his head, he said calmly, "Ye have
triumphed, -I join ye,-I but collect these papers and
follow you. Quick, Adrian, -save them!" and he point-
ed meaningly to Nina.
Waiting no other hint, the young Colonna seized Nina
in his strong grasp, with his left hand he supported Irene,
who, with terror and excitement, was almost insensible.
Rienzi relieved him of the lighter load, he took his sister
in his arms, and descended the winding stairs, - Nina rez
mained passive, she heard her husband's step behind, it
was enough for her,—she but turned once to thank him
with her eyes.
A tall Northman clad in armor stood at
the open door. Rienzi placed Irene, now perfectly lifeless,
in the soldier's arms, and kissed her pale cheek in silence.
Quick, my lord," said the Northman, "on all sides
they come !" So saying, he bounded down the descent
66
with his burden. Adrian followed with Nina; the senator
paused one moment, turned back, and was in his room ere
Adrian perceived him vanish.
Hastily he drew the coverlid from his bed, fastened it to
the casement bars, and, by its aid, dropped (at a distance
of several feet) into the balcony below. "I will not die
like a rat," said he, "in the trap they have set for me!
The whole crowd shall at least see and hear me !
This was the work of a moment.
Meanwhile, Nina had scarcely proceeded six paces, be-
fore she discovered that she was alone with Adrian.
"Ha! Cola!" she cried ; "where is he? he has
gone!"
"Take heart, lady, he has returned but for some secret
papers he has forgotten. He will follow us anon.
"Let us wait, then."
"Lady," said Adrian, grinding his teeth, "hear you not
the crowd? -on, on!" and he flew with a swifter step.
Nina struggled from his grasp, love gave her the
strength of despair. With a wild laugh she broke from
him. She flew back, the door was closed, — but unbar-
red, her trembling hands lingered a moment round the
spring. She opened it, drew the heavy bolt across the
panels, and frustrated all attempt from Adrian to regain
her. She was on the stairs, she was in the room. Ri-
enzi was gone! She fled, shrieking his name through the
state chambers, all was desolate. She found the doors
opening on the various passages that admitted to the rooms
below, barred without. Breathless and gasping, she re-
turned to the chamber. She hurried to the casement,
she perceived the method by which he had descended be-
low, her brave heart told her of his brave design; she
saw they were separated. "But the same roof holds us,
she cried, joyously, "and our fate shall be the same!"
With that thought she sank in mute patience on the floor
Forming the generous resolve not to abandon the faith-
ful and devoted pair without another effort, Adrian had
followed Nina, but too late, the door was closed against
his efforts. The crowd marched on,
he heard their cry
change on a sudden, it was no longer "LIVE THE PEO-
PLE!" but "DEATH TO THE TYRANT!" His attend-
ant had already disappeared, and waking now only to the
danger of Irene, the young Colonna in bitter grief turned
away, lightly sped down the descent, and hastened to the
river side, where the boat and his band awaited him.
-
The balcony on which Rienzi had alighted, was that
from which he had been accustomed to address the people,
it communicated with a vast hall used on solemn occa-
sions for state festivals, and on either side were square
projecting towers, whose grated casements looked into the
balcony. One of these towers was devoted to the armory,
the other contained the prison of Brettone, the brother of
Montreal. Beyond the latter tower was the general prison
of the capitol. For then the prison and the palace were in
awful neighbourhood.
The windows of the hall were yet open, and Rienzi
passed into it from the balcony, the witness of the day's
banquet was still there, the wine yet undried, crimsoned
the floor, and goblets of gold and silver shone from the
recesses. He proceeded at once to the armory, and se
lected from the various suits, that which he himself had
worn when nearly eight years ago he had chased the barons
from the gates of Rome. He arrayed himself in the mail,
leaving only his head uncovered; and then taking, in his
right hand, from the wall, the great gonfalon of Rome, re-
turned once more to the hall. Not a man encountered him.
In that vast building, save the prisoners, and one faith-
ful heart whose presence he knew not of, the senator
was alone.
G M
in all the
death
On they came, no longer in measured order, as stream
after stream, from lane, from alley, from palace and
from hovel, the raging sea received new additions. On
they came, - their passions excited by their numbers, -
women and men, children and malignant age,
awful array of aroused, released, unresisted physical
strength and brutal wrath: "Death to the traitor,
to the tyrant,
death to him who has taxed the people!
"Mora traditore che ha fatta la gabella ! —
Mora "
Such was the cry of the people, such the crime of the
senator! They broke over the low palisades of the capi-
tol, they filled with one sudden rush the vast space, —a
moment before so desolate, -now swarming with human
beings athirst for blood!
"
RIENZI, THE LAST
819
OF THE TRIBUNES.
Suddenly came a dead silence, and on the balcony above
stood Rienzi, his face was bared, and the morning sun
shone over that lordly brow, and the hair grown gray before
its time, in service of that maddening multitude. Pale and
erect he stood,- neither fear, nor anger, nor menace,
but deep grief and high resolve upon his features! A mo-
mentary shame, a momentary awe seized the crowd.
He pointed to the gonfalon, wrought with the republican
motto and arms of Rome, and thus he began:
--
"I too am a Roman and a citizen; hear me !
"Hear him not; hear him not! his false tongue can
charm away our senses!" cried a louder voice than his
own; and Rienzi recoguised Cecco del Vecchio.
"Hear him not; down with the tyrant!" cried a more
shrill and youthful tone; and by the side of the artisan
stood Angelo Villani.
"Hear him not; death to the death-giver!" cried a
voice close at hand, and from the grating of the neighbour-
ing prison glared near upon him, as the eye of a tiger, the
vengeful gaze of the brother of Montreal.
Then from earth to heaven rose the roar,
"Down
with the tyrant,
down with him who taxed the people!
A shower of stones rattled on the mail of the senator,-
still he stirred not. No changing muscle betokened fear.
His persuasion of his own wonderful powers of eloquence,
if he could but be heard, inspired him yet with hope.
He stood collected in his own indignant but determined
thoughts; but the knowledge of that very eloquence was
now his deadliest foe. The leaders of the multitude trem-
bled lest he should be heard; "and doubtless," says the
cotemporaneous biographer, " had he but spoken he would
have changed them all, and the work been marred!"
-
The soldiers of the barons had already mixed themselves
with the throng, -more deadly weapons than stones aided
the wrath of the multitude, darts and arrows darkened
the air; and now a voice was heard shrieking, "Way for
the torches!" Red in the sunlight they tossed and waved,
and danced to and fro, above the heads of the crowd, as if
the fiends were let loose among the mob! And what place
in hell hath fiends like those a mad mob can furnish?
Straw, and wood, and litter were piled hastily round the
great doors of the capitol, and the smoke curled suddenly
up, beating back the rush of the assailants.
Rienzi was no longer visible, an arrow had pierced his
hand,
the right hand that supported the flag of Rome,
the right hand that had given a constitution to the republic.
He retired from the stormn into the desolate hall. He sat
down; and tears, springing from no weak and woman
source, but tears from the loftiest fountain of emotion,
tcars that befit a warrior when his own troops desert him,
-a patriot when his countrymen rush to their own doom,
—a father when his children rebel against his love,
such as these forced themselves from his eyes and relieved,
but they changed his heart!
CC
tears
Enough, enough," he said, presently rising and dash-
ing the drops scornfully away; "I have risked, dared,
"I have risked, dared,
toiled enough for this dastard and degenerate race. I will
yet baffle their malice, I renounce the thought of which
they are so little worthy! Let Rome perish! I feel, at
last, that I am nobler than my country! she deserves not
so high a sacrifice!"
With that feeling, death lost all the nobleness of aspect
it had before presented to him, and he resolved, in very
scorn of his ungrateful foes, in very defeat of their inhu-
man wrath, to make one effort for life! He divested him-
self of his glittering arms; his address, his dexterity,
his craft returned to him. His active mind ran over the
chances of disguise, of escape; he left the hall, passed
through the humbler rooms, devoted to the servitors and
menials, found in one of them a coarse working garb, in-
dued himself with it, placed upon his head some of the
draperies and furniture of the palace, as if escaping with
them; and said, with his old “fantastico riso,”
"When
all other friends desert me, I may well forsake myself!
With that he awaited his occasion.
Meanwhile the flames burned fierce and fast; the outer
door below was already consumed; from the apartment he
had deserted the fire burst out in volleys of smoke; the wood
crackled; the lead melted; with a crash fell the severed
gates; the dreadful ingress was opened to all the multi-
tude; the proud capitol of the Caesars was already tottering
to its fall! Now was the time! he passed the flaming door,
-the smouling threshold; he passed the outer gate
unscathed; he was in the middle of the crowd. "Plenty
of pillage within," he said to the bystanders, in the Roman
patois, his face concealed by his load; "Suso, suso, a gliu
traditore!" The mob rushed past him; he went on; he
gained the last stair descending into the open street; he
was at the last gate; liberty and life were before him.
"Pass not,
A soldier (one of his own) seized htm.
where goest thou?
"Beware, lest the senator escape disguised!" cried a
voice behind,-it was Villani's. The concealing load
was torn from his head, Rienzi stood revealed!
"I am the senator!" he said in a loud voice. "Who
dare touch the representative of the people?"
The multitude were round him in an instant. Not led,
but rather hurried and whirled along, the senator was
borne to the place of 'he Lion. With the intense glare of
the bursting flames, the gray image reflected a lurid light,
as if
and glowed, that grim and solemn monument !
itself of fire!
There arrived, the crowd gave way, terrified by the
greatness of their victim. Silent he stood, and turned his
face around; nor could the squalor of his garb nor the
terror of the hour, nor the proud grief of detection, abate
the majesty of his mein, or reassure the courage of the
thousands who gathered, gazing round him. The whole
capitol wrapped in fire, lighted with ghastly pomp the im-
mense multitude. Down the long vista of the streets ex-
tended the fiery light and the serried throng, till the crowd
closed with the gleaning standards of the Colonna, — the
Orsini, the Savelli! Her true tyrants were marching
into Rome! As the sound of their approaching horns and
trumpets broke upon the burning air, the mob seemed to
regain their courage. Rienzi prepared to speak: his first
word was as the signal of his own death.
"Die, tyrant!" cried Cecco del Vecchio: and he plunged
his dagger into the senator's breast.
"Die, executioner of Montreal!" muttered Villani,
"thus the trust is fulfilled!" and his was the second
stroke. Then as he drew back, and saw the artisan, in all
the drunken fury of his brute passions, tossing up his cap,
shouting aloud, and spurning the fallen lion ; the young
man gazed upon him with a look of withering and bitter
scorn, and said, as he sheathed his blade, and slowly turned
to quit the crowd,
"Fool, miserable fool! Thou and these, at least, had no
blood of kindred to avenge!
They heeded not his words, they saw him not depart ;
for, as Rienzi, without a word, without a groan, fell
to the earth, -as the roaring waves of the multitude
closed over him, -a voice shrill, sharp, and wild, was
heard above all the clamor. At the casement of the palace,
(the casement of her bridal chamber,) Nina stood !-
through the flames, that burst below and around, her face
and outstretched arms alone visible. Ere yet the sound of
that thrilling cry passed from the air, down with a mighty
crash thundered that whole wing of the capitol, a blackened
and smouldering mass.
At that hour, a solitary boat was sailing swiftly down the
Tiber. Rome was at a distance, but the lurid glare of the
conflagration cast its reflection upon the placid and glassy
stream: fair beyond description was the landscape; soft
beyond all art of painter and of poet, the sunlight quiv-
ering over the autumnal herbage, and hushing into tender
calm the waves of the golden Tiber!
Adrian's eyes were strained towards the towers of the
capitol, distinguished by the flames from the spires an¹
domes around: senseless and clasped to his guardian
breast, Irene was happily unconscious of the horrors of
the time.
na,
They dare not, they dare not!" said the brave Colon-
"touch a hair of that sacred head, if Rienzi fall,
the liberties of Rome fall for ever! (e) As those towers
that surmount the flames, the pride and monument of Rome,
he shall rise above the dangers of the hour. Behold still
unscathed, amid the raging element, the capitol itself
is his emblem!
Scarce had he spoke, when a vast volume of smoke ob-
scured the fires afar off, a dull crash (deadened by the
distance) travelled to his ear, and the next moment, the
towers on which he gazed had vanished from the scene,
and one intense and sullen glare seemed to settle over
the atmosphere, making all Rome itself, the funeral
pyre of THE LAST OF THE ROMAN TRIBUNES !
NOTES.
Note (a) - Page 314.
The words of Montreal in the original are even yet stronger
un self-commendation, "Pregovi che vi amiate e siate valorosi
al mondo, come fui io, che mi feci fare obbedienza a la Puglia,
Toscana, e a la Marca."— Vit. di Cola Rienzi, lib. ii. cap. xxii.
Note (b) Page 314.
The military renown and bold exploits of Montreal are
acknowledged by all the Italian authorities. One of them de-
clares that since the time of Cæsar Italy had never known so
great a captain. The biographer of Rienzi, forgetting all the
offences of the splendid and knightly robber, seems to feel only
commiseration for his fate. He informs us, moreover, that at
Tivoli one of his servants hearing his death, died himself of
grief the following day. Notable reason have I for conjecturing
that this faithful servant was the rude and ferocious Rodolf of
Saxony,
fain would I have painted that wild fidelity. But
after Montreal's fall, no meaner death could be allowed to delay
that death which is his revenge!
Note (c) Page 317.
<
There was the lapse of one year between the release of
Rienzi from Avignon, and his triumphal return to Rome, a year
chiefly spent in the campaign of Albornoz.
Note (d)- Page 317.
This superstition had an excuse in strange historical coinci-
dences; and the number seven was indeed to Rienzi what the
third of September was to Cromwell. The ceremony of the
seven crowns which he received after his knighthood, and of the
nature of which ridiculous ignorance has been shown by many
recent writers, was in fact principally a religious and typical
donation, symbolical of the gifts of the Holy Spirit, conferred
by the heads of convents, and that part of the ceremony
which was political was republican, not regal.
-
Note (e)- Page 319.
I said that in some respects I differed from Gibbon in his view
of the character of Rienzi. I differ from him yet more as to the
causes of Rienzi's fall. Whatever his faults, I repeat, that it
was not by his faults he fell. The principal authority from
which the history of the tribune is composed, is a very curious
biography, by some unknown cotemporary. It was published
(and the errors of the former editions revised) by Muratori, in
his great collection, and has lately been reprinted separately,
accompanied by notes of much discrimination and scholastic
taste, and a comment upon that celebrated poem of Petrarch,
"Spirto Gentil," which the majority of Italian critics have con-
curred in considering addressed to Rienzi, and which no man
less dull, and less conceited than the Abbe de Sade, could possi-
bly consider addressed to any one else.
This biography has been generally lauded for its rare impar-
tiality. And the author does indeed praise and blame alike with
a most singular appearance of stolid candor. The work, in
truth, is one of those not uncommon proofs, of which Boswell's
Johnson is the most striking, that a very valuable book may be
written by a very silly man. The biographer of Rienzi appeurs
more like the biographer of Rienzi's clothes, so minute is he in
all details of their color and quality, so silent is he upon every-
thing that could throw light upon the motives of their wearer.
In fact, granting the writer every desire to be impartial, he is
too foolish to be so. It requires some cleverness to judge accu-
rately of a very clever man in very difficult circumstances, and
the worthy biographer is utterly incapable of giving us any clew
to the actions of Rienzi, utterly unable to explain the conduct
of the man by the circumstance of the time. The weakness or
nis vision causes him, therefore, often to squint. We must add
to this want of wisdom, a want of truth, which the Herodotus-
like simplicity of his style frequently conceals. He describes
things which had no witness, as precisely and distinctly as those
which he himself had seen. For instance, before the death of
Rienzi, in those awful moments when the senator was alone,
unheard, unseen, he coolly informs us of each motion, and each
thought of Rienzi's, with as much detail as if Rienzi had lived to
tell him all about it. And Gibbon, and others, have absolutely
adopted these palpable inventions without at all appearing sen-
sible of their own ridiculous credulity. Still, however, to a
patient and cautious reader the biography may furnish a much
better notion of Rienzi's character, than do those historians
who have borrowed from it piecemeal. Such a reader will dis-
card all the writer's reasonings, will think little of his praise
and blame, and regard only the facts he narrates, judging them
true or doubtful, according as the writer had the opportunities
of being himself the observer. Thus examining, the reader will
|
the senator.
Pay
find evidence sufficient of Rienzi's genius, and Rienzi's failings
carefully distinguishing the period of his power as tribune, and
that of his power as senator, he will find the tribune vain,
haughty, fond of display, he will not recognise those faults in
On the other hand, he will notice the difference
between youth and maturity,-hope and experience: he will
notice in the tribune vast ambition, great schemes, enterprising
activity, which sober into less gorgeous and more quiet colors
in the portrait of the senator. He will find that in neither
instance did Rienzi fall from his own faults, he will find that
the vulgar moral of ambition, blasted by its own excesses, is not
the true moral of the Roman's life, he will find that both in
his abdication as tribune and death as senator, Rienzi fell from
the vices of the people. The tribune was a victim to ignorant
cowardice, -the senator a victim to ferocious avarice. It is
this which modern historians have failed to represent. Gibbon
records rightly, that the Count of Minorbino entered Rome with
one hundred and fifty soldiers, and barricaded the quarter of the
Colonna,- -that the bell of the capitol sounded, -that Rienzi
addressed the people, that they were silent and inactive,
and that Rienzi then abdicated the government. But for this he
calls Rienzi" pusillanimous." Is not that epithet to be applied
to the people? Rienzi invoked them to move against the robber,
-the people refused to obey. Rienzi wished to fight, the
people refused to stir. It was not the cause of Rienzi alone
which demanded their exertions, it was the cause of the people
theirs, not his, the shame, if one hundred and fifty foreign
soldiers mastered Rome, overthrew their liberties, and restored
their tyrants! Whatever his sins, -whatever his unpopularity,
their freedom, their laws, their republic were at stake, and
these they surrendered to one hundred and fifty hirelings. This
is the fact that damns them! But Rienzi was not unpopular when
he addressed and conjured them, they found no fault with him.
"The sighs and the groans of the people," says Sismondi, "re
plied to his," they could weep, but they would not fight.
This strange apathy the historians have not accounted for, yet
the principal cause was obvious, Rienzi was excommunicat-
ed! In stating the fact, these writers seem to think that excom-
munication in Rome in the fourteenth century produced no
effect!
effect! The effect it did produce I have endeavoured in this
volume to convey.
-
—
-
The causes of the second fall and final massacre of Rienzi are
equally misstated by modern narrators. It was from no fault
of his, no injustice no cruelty, no extravagance, it was
not the execution of Montreal, -nor of Pandulfo di Guido,
it was from a gabelle on wine and salt that he fell. To preserve
Rome from the tyrants, it was necessary to maintain an armed
force; to pay the force, a tax was necessary: the tax was im
posed, -and the multitude joined with the tyrants, and their
cry was, "Perish the traitor who has made the gabelle !" This
was their only charge, this was the only crime that their
passions and their fury could cite against him.
The faults of Rienzi were sufliciently visible, and I have not
unsparingly shown them; but we must judge men, not accord-
ing as they approach perfection, but according as their good or
bad qualities preponderate, their talents or their weakness,-
the benefits they effected, the evil they wrought. For a man
who rose to so great a power, his faults were singularly few, -
crimes he committed none. He is almost the only man who
ever rose from a citizen to a power equal to that of monarchs,
without a single act of violence or treachery. When in power,
he was sometimes vain, ostentatious, and imprudent, always
an enthusiast, often a fanatic; but his very faults had great-
ness of soul, and his very fanaticisin at once supported his cour-
age, and proved his earnest honesty It is evident that no heinous
charge could be brought against him, even by his enemies; for
all the accusations to which he was subjected, when excommu-
nicated, exiled, fallen, were for two offences which Petrarch
rightly deemed the proots of his virtue and his glory: first, for
declaring Rome to be free; secondly, for pretending that Romans
had a right of choice in the election of the Roman emperor. †
Stern, just, and inflexible as he was when tribune, his fault was
never that of wanton cruelty. Petrarch's accusation against
him, indeed, was, that he was not determined enough, that he
did not consummate the revolution by exterminating the patri-
cian tyrants. When senator, he was, without sufficient ground,
accused of avarice, in the otherwise just and necessary execu
I should observe that Gibbon, from not having seen the original de-
ments preserved by Hocsemins, bas omitted to state that Rienzi himself
desired that the tribunitian anthority should be limited to three months; and
it was only by the urgent prayer of the people, who rightly considered that
Rienzi was the sole prop of the reformed state, that he continued his office
beyond that date.
The charge of heresy was dropped as without foundation.
NOTES.
321
tion of Montreal. * It was natural enough that his enemies
and the vulgar should suppose that he executed a creditor to get
rid of a debt; but it was inexcusable in later, and wiser, and
fairer writers to repeat so grave a calumny, without at least
alding the obvious suggestion, that the avarice of Rienzi could
have been much better gratified by sparing than by destroying
the life of one of the richest subjects in Europe. Montreal, we
may be quite sure, would have purchased his life at ten times.
the amount of the paltry sum lent to Rienzi by his brothers.
And this is not even a probable hypothesis, but a certain fact,
for we are expressly told, that Montreal, "knowing the tribune
was in want of money, offered Rienzi, that if he would let him
go, he, Montreal, would furnish him with as many soldiers and
as much money as he pleased." This offer Rienzi did not attend
to.
Would he have rejected it had avarice been his motive?
And what culpable injustice, to mention the vague calumny
without citing the practical contradiction! When Gibbon teils
us also that "the most virtuous citizen of Rome," meaning
Pandulfo, or Pandulficcio di Guido, † was sacrificed to his jeal-
ousy, he not only greatly exaggerates the expression bestowed
upon Pandulfo, which is that of "virtuoso assai," and that, too,
used by a man who styles the robber Montreal “excellente uomo,
- di quale fama suomo per tutta la Italia di vertude," — (so
good a moral critic was the writer;) but he also altogether
waives all mention of the probabilities that are sufficiently ap-
parent, of the scheming of Pandulfo to supplant Rienzi, and
obtain the "Signoria del Popolo."
the
Gibbon sneers at the military skill and courage of Rienzi. For
the last there is no cause. His first attempts, his first rise attest-
ed sufficiently his daring and brave spirit; in every danger he
was present, -never shrinking from a foe as long as he was
supported by the people. He distinguished himself at Viterbo
when in the camp of Albornoz, and his end was that of a hero.
For the first, it would be excusable enough in Rienzi,
eloquent and gifted student, called from the closet and the
rostrum to assume the command of an army, should have been
deficient in military science; yet, somehow or other, upon the
whole, his arms prospered. He defeated the chivalry of Rome
at her gates; and if he did not, after his victory, march to Ma-
rino, for which his biographer and Gibbon blame him, the
reason is sufficiently clear: "Volea pecunia per soldati," he
wanted money for the soldiers! On his return, as senator, it
must be remembered that he had to besiege Palestrina, which
was considered, even by the ancient Romans, almost impregna-
ble by position; but during the few weeks he was in power,
Palestrina yielded all his open enemies were defeated - the
tyrants expelled, Rome free; and this without support from
any party, papal or popular, or, as Gibbon well expresses it,
suspected by the people, abandoned by the prince."
CL
<
<<
Gag
-
On regarding what Rienzi did, we must look to his means,
to the difficulties that surrounded him, — to the scantiness of his
resources. We see a man without rank, wealth, or friends,
raising himself to the head of a popular government in the me-
tropolis of the church, in the city of the empire. We see him
reject any title save that of a popular magistrate, establish at
one stroke a free constitution, - a new code of law. We see
him first expel, then subdue, the fiercest aristocracy in Europe,
conquer the most stubborn banditti,- rule impartially the
most turbulent people, imbruted by the violence and sunk in
the corruption of centuries. We see him restore trade, estab-
lish order, create law as by a miracle, receive from crowned
heads homage and congratulation, outwit, conciliate, or awe
Gibbon, in mentioning the execution of Montreal, omits to state that
Montreal was more than suspected of conspiracy and treason to restore the
Colonna. Matthew Villani states it as a common belief that such truly was
the offence of the Provencal. The biographer of Rienzi gives some addi-
tional evidence of the fact. Gibbon's knowledge of this time was superficial.
Strangely enough, be represents Montreal as the head of the first free
company that desolated Italy.
+ Matthew Villani speaks of him as a wise and good citizen of great repute
among the people, and this it seems he really was.
I In this the anonymous writer compares him gravely to Hannibal, who
Inew how to conquer but not to use his conquest.
the wiliest priesthood of the papal diplomacy, and raise his
native city at once to sudden yet acknowledged eminence over
every other state, its superior in arts, wealth, and civilization,
we ask what errors we are to weigh in the opposite balance,
and we find an unnecessary ostentation and a certain insolent
sternness. But what are such offences, what the splendor of
a banquet, or the ceremony of knighthood, or a few arrogant
words, compared with the vices of almost every prince who
was his contemporary? This is the way to judge character,
we must compare men with men, and not with ideals of what
men should be. We look to the amazing benefits Rienzi confer-
red upon his country. We ask his means, and see but his own
abilities. His treasury becomes impoverished, - his enemies
- he is
revolt, -the church takes advantage of his weakness,
excommunicated. soldiers refuse to fight, the people refuse
-
—
to assist, the barons ravage the country,-"the ways are
A handful of
closed, the provisions are cut off from Rome."*
banditti enter the city,
Rienzi proposes to resist them, - the
people desert, --he abdicates, rapine, amine, massacre ensue,
they who deserted regret,- repent, yet he is still unassisted,
alone, now an exile, now a prisoner, his own genius saves
him from every peril, and restores him to greatness. He returns,
the pope's legate refuses him arms, the people refuse him
money. He reestablishes law and order, expels the tyrant,
renounces his former faults, t-is prudent, wary, provident,
reigns a few weeks, taxes the people, in support of the peo
ple, and is torn to pieces. One day of the rule that followed
is sufficient to vindicate his reign and avenge his memory; and
for centuries afterward, whenever that wretched and degenerate
populace dreamed of glory or sighed for justice, they recalled the
bright vision of their own victim, and deplored the fate of Cola
di Rienzi.
-
I have said that the moral of the tribune's life, and of this
fiction, is not the stale and unprofitable moral that warns the
ambition of an individual; more vast, more solemn, and more
useful, it addresses itself to nations. It proclaims, that to be
great and free, a people must not trust to individuals, but them-
selves; that there is no sudden leap from servitude to liberty;
that it is to institutions, not to men, that they must look for
reforms that last beyond the hour; that their own passions are
their own reason the
the real despots they should subdue,
true regenerator of abuses. With a calm and noble people, the
individual ambition of a citizen can never effect evil: to be im
patient of chains is not to be worthy of freedom; to massacre
a magistrate is not to ameliorate the laws. The people write
their own condemnation whenever they use characters of blood;
and theirs alone the madness and the crime, if they crown a
tyrant, or butcher a victim.
<
← “Allora le strade furo chiuse, li massari de la terre non portavano grano,
ogni die nasceva nuovo rumore.” - Vit. di Co. a Rienzi, lib. 1, c. xxxvii.
This, the second period of his power, has been represented as that of bis
principal faults, and he is evidently at this time no favorite with his
biographer;-but looking to what he did, we find amazing dexterity, pru-
dence, and energy in the most difficult crisis, and none of his earlier faults.
It is true that he does not show the same brilliant extravagance which I
suspect dazzled his contemporaries more than his sounder qualities; but we
find that in a few weeks he had conquered all his powerful enemies, - that
bis eloquence was as great as ever, -- bis promptitude greater, his diligence
indefatigable,-his foresight unslumbering. "He alone carried on the affairs
of Rome, but his officials were slothful and cold." This, too, tortured by a
painful disease, already, though yet young, broken and infirm. The only
charges against him, as senator, were the deaths of Montreal and Pandutfo
di Guido, the imposition of the gabelle, and the renunciation of his for
mer habits of rigid abstinence for indulgence in wine and feasting. Of the
first charges, the reader has already been enabled to form a judgment.
the last, alas! the reader must extend indulgence, and for it he may find
excuse. Melancholy is the physical excitement sometimes needed by man,
when the mental exhilarations of hope, youth, and glory begin to desert
him!
To
↑ Rienzi was massacred, because the Romans bad been in the habit of
massacring whenever they were displeased. They had very shortly before
stoned one magistrate, and torn to pieces another. A people may be made
by the same causes and the same career to resemble a bravo, whose hand,
once dipped in blood, wanders to his knife on the smallest afront; and if
to-day he poniards the enemy who assaults him, to-morrow he strikes the
friend who would restrain.
THE END OF RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES.
41
VOL. 1.
!
}
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
"Wilt thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould?"- SHELLEY.
"Thon passest in review before me the whole series of animated things; and teachest me to know raj
others in the still wood, in the air, and in the water." - HAYWARD's FAUST.
Faust.
!
ADVERTISEMENT.
COULD prescribe to the critic and to the public, I | interest of my work the simplest materials, and weaving
would wish that this work might be tried by the rules
rather of poetry than prose, for according to those rules
have been both its conception and its execution; and I
feel that something of sympathy with the author's design
is requisite to win indulgence for the superstitions he
has incorporated with his tale, for the floridity of his
style, and the redundance of his descriptions. Perhaps,
indeed, it would be impossible, in attempting to paint
the scenery and imbody some of the Legends of the
Rhine, not to give (it may be too loosely) the reins to the
imagination, or to escape the imbuing influence of that
wild German spirit which I have sought to transfer to
colder tongue.
I have made the experiment of selecting for the main
upon them the ornaments given chiefly to subjects of a
more fanciful and ideal nature. I know not how far I
have succeeded, but various reasons have conspired to
make this the work, above all others that I have writ-
ten, which has given me the most delight (though not
unmixed with melancholy) in producing, and in which
my mind, for the time, has been the most completely
absorbed. But the ardor of composition is often dis-
proportioned to the merit of the work; and the public
sometimes, nor unjustly, avenges itself for that forget-
fulness of its existence which makes the chief charm of
an author's solitude, and the happiest, if not the wisest
inspiration of its dreams.
THE
PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
CHAPTER I.
In which the reader is introduced to Queen Nymphalin.
IN one of those green woods which belong so peculiarly
to our island, (for the continent has its forests, but England
its woods,) there lived, a short time ago, a charming little
fairy, called Nymphalin; I believe she is descended from
a younger branch of the house of Mab, but perhaps that
may be only a genealogical fable, for your fairies are very
susceptible to the pride of ancestry, and it is impossible to
deny that they fall somewhat reluctantly into the liberal
opinions so much d-la-mode at the present day.
However that may be, it is quite certain that all the
courtiers in Nymphalin's domain (for she was a queen
fairy) made a point of asserting her right to this illustrious
descent; and accordingly she quartered the Mab arms with
her own,
three acorns vert, with a grasshopper rampant.
It was as merry a little court as could possibly be con-
ceived, and on a fine midsummer night it would have been
worth while attending the queen's balls, that
that is to say if
you could have got a ticket; a favor not obtained without
great interest.
But, unhappily, until both men and fairies adopt the
excellent Mr. Owen's proposition, and live in parallelo-
grams, they will always be the victims of ennui. And
Nymphalin, who had been disappointed in love, and was
still unmarried, had for the last five or six months been
exceedingly tired even of giving balls. She yawned very
frequently, and consequently yawning became a fashion.
"But why don't we have some new dances, my Pipalee?"
aid Nymphalin, to her favorite maid of honor; "these
waltzes are very old-fashioned?"
c
Very old-fashioned," said Pipalee.
The queen gaped, and Pipalee did the same.
stars pierced the foliage, or the moon slept with a richer
light upon some favored glade.
It was a gala night; the elderly fairies, as I said before,
were chatting among the honeysuckles; the young were
flirting, dancing, and making love; the middle-aged talked
politics under the mushrooms; and the queen herself, and
half a dozen of her favorites, were yawning their pleasure
from a little mound, covered with the thickest moss.
"It has been very dull, madam, ever since Prince Fay.
zenheim left us," said the fairy Nip.
The queen sighed.
"How handsome the prince was!" said Pipalee.
The queen blushed.
"He wore the prettiest dress in the world, and what
a mustache!" cried Pipalee, fanning herself with her left
wing.
"He was a coxcomb," said the lord-treasurer, sourly
The lord-treasurer was the honestest and most disagreeable
fairy at court; he was an admirable husband, brother, son,
cousin, uncle, and godfather; it was these virtues that had
made him a lord-treasurer. Unfortunately, they had not
made him a sensible man. He was like Charles the Second
in one respect; for he never did a wise thing; but he was
not like him in another, for he very often said a foolish one
The queen frowned.
"A young prince is not the worse for that," retorted
Pipalee. Heigho does your majesty think his highness
likely to return?"
"Don't tease me," said Nymphalin, pettishly.
The lord-treasurer, by way of giving the conversation an
agreeable turn, reminded her majesty that there was a pro-
digious accumulation of business to see to, especially that
difficult affair about the emmet-wasp loan. Her majesty
rose, and leaning on Pipalee's arm, walked down to the
supper tent.
It was a gala night; the court was held in a lone and
beautiful hollow, with the wild brake closing round it on
every side, so that no human step could easily gain the
spot. Wherever the shadows fell upon the brake, a glow-rance, I am only just out, you know.”
worm made a point of exhibiting himself, and the bright
August moon sailed slowly above, pleased to look down
upon so charming a scene of merriment for they wrong
the moon who assert that she has an objection to mirth;
with the mirth of fairies she has all possible sympathy.
Here and there in the thicket the scarce honeysuckles,
in August, honeysuckles are getting out of season, hung
their rich festoons, and at that moment they were crowded
with the elderly fairies, who had given up dancing and
taken to scandal. Besides the honeysuckle you might see
the hawkweed and the white convolvulus, varying the soft
verdure of the thicket; and mushrooms in abundance had
sprung up in the circle, glittering in the silver moonlight,
and acceptable beyond measure to the dancers; every one
knows how agreeable a thing tents are in a fête champêtre!
I was mistaken in saying that the brake closed the circle
entirely round; for there was one gap, scarcely apparent to
mortals, through which a fairy at least might catch a view
of a brook that was close at hand, rippling in the stars,
checkered at intervals by the rich weeds floating on the
surface, interspersed with the delicate arrow-head and the
silver water-lily Then the trees themselves, dight in their
prodigal variety of hues; the blue, the purple, the
yellowing tint, the tender and silvery verdure, and the
deep mass of shade frowning into black the willow,
the elm, the ash, the fir,
and, best of
all, old England's haunted oak: " these nues broke again
'nto a thousand minor and subtler shades as the twinkling
"Pray," said the fairy Trip to the fairy Nip, "what 19
all this talk about Prince Fayzenheim? Excuse my igno
"Why," answered Nip, a young courtier, not a marry-
ing fairy, but very seductive, "the story runs thus:
Last summer a foreigner visited us, calling himself Prince
Fayzenheim, one of your German fairies, I fancy; no
great things, but an excellent waltzer. He wore long
spurs, made out of the stings of the horse-flies in the Black
Forest; his cap sat on one side, and his mustaches curled
like the lip of the dragon-flower. He was on his travels,
and amused himself by making love to the queen.
You
can't fancy, dear Trip, how fond she was of hearing him
tell stories about the strange creatures of Germany,
about wild huntsmen, water-spirits, and a pack of
such stuff," added Nip, contemptuously; for Nip was a
M
VOL II.
42
the lime
free-thinker.
“In short," said Trip.
"In short, she loved," cried Nip, with a theatrical air
"And the prince ?"
"Packed up his clothes and sent on his travelling-car
riage, in order that he might go at his ease, on the top o
a stage pigeon, -in short, -as you say, in short, h
deserted the queen, and ever since she has set the fashio
of yawning."
"It was very naughty in him," said the gentle Trip.
"Ah, my dear creature," cried Nip, "if it had been
he had paid his addresses to!
you
|
Trip simpered, and the old fairies from their seats in the
honeysuckles observed she was "sadly conducted," ba
the Trips had never been too respectable.
330
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Meanwhile the queen, leaning on Pipalee, said, after a
short pause,
"Do
you know I have formed a plan ?”
"How delightful," cried Pipalee. "Another gala !"
"Pooh, surely even you must be tired with these levi-
ties; the spirit of the age is no longer frivolous; and I
dare say as the march of gravity proceeds, we shall get rid
of these galas altogether. The queen said this with an
air of inconceivable wisdom, for the "Society for the Dif
fusion of general Stupefaction" had been recently estab-
lished among the fairies, and its tracts had driven all the
light reading out of the market. The " Penny Proser
had contributed greatly to the increase of knowledge and
yawning, so visibly progressive among the courtiers.
"No," continued Nymphalin; "I have thought of
something better than galas, let us travel!
Pipalee clasped her hands in ecstasy.
"Where shall we travel?
"
Gertrude smiled her thanks.
"I feel better than I have done for weeks," said she
"and when once we get into the Rhine you will see ma
grow so strong as to shock all your interest for me.
"Ah, would to heaven my interest for you may be put to
such an ordeal!" said Trevylyan; and they turned slowly
to the inn, where Gertrude's father already awaited them.
Trevylyan was of a wild, a resolute, and an active na-
ture. Thrown on the world at the age of sixteen, he had
passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel, and solitary
study. At the age in which manhood is least susceptible
to caprice, and most perhaps to passion, he fell in love with
the loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision.
I say this without exaggeration, for Gertrude Vane's was
indeed the beauty, but the perishable beauty, of a dream.
It happened most singularly to Trevylyan, (but he was a sin-
gular man,) that being naturally one whose affections it was
very difficult to excite, he should have fallen in love at first
sight with a person whose disease, already declared, would
have deterred any other heart from risking its treasures on
a bark so utterly unfitted for the voyage of life. Consump-
tion, but consumption in its most beautiful shape, had set
its seal upon Gertrude Vane, when Trevylyan first saw her,
and at once loved. He knew the danger of the disease;
he did not, except at intervals, deceive himself; he
Pipa-wrestled against the new passion; but, stern as his nature
was, he could not conquer it. He loved, he confessed his
love, and Gertrude returned it.
"Let us go up the Rhine," said the queen, turning away
her head. "We shall be amazingly welcomed; there are
fairies without number, all the way by its banks; and
various distant connexions of ours, whose nature and prop-
erties will afford interest and instruction to a philosophi-
cal mind."
Number Nip, for instance," cried the gay Pipalee.
"The red man!" said the graver Nymphalin.
Oh, my queen, what an excellent scheme !" and
lee was so lively during the rest of the night that the old
fairies in the honeysuckle insinuated that the lady of honor
had drunk a buttercup too much of the May dew.
CHAPTER II.
The lovers.
I WISH only for such readers as give themselves heart
and soul up to me, if they begin to cavil I have done
with them; their fancy should put itself entirely under my
management; and, after all, ought they not to be too glad
to get out of this hackneyed and melancholy world, to be
run away with by an author who promises them something
new ?
From the heights of BRUGES, a mortal and his be-
trothed gazed upon the scene below. They saw the sun
set slowly among purple masses of cloud, and the lover
turned to his mistress and sighed deeply; for her cheek
was delicate in its blended roses, beyond the beauty that
belongs to the hues of health; and when he saw the sun
sinking from the world, the thought came upon him that
she was his sun, and the glory that she shed over his life
might soon pass away into the bosom of the " everduring
dark." But against the clouds rose
the clouds rose one of the many
spires that characterize the town of Bruges; and on that
spire, melting into heaven, rested the eyes of Gertrude
Vane.
The different objects that caught the gaze of each
was emblematic both of the different channel of their
thoughts, and the different elements of their nature he
thought of the sorrow, she of the consolation: his heart
prophesied of the passing away from earth, hers of the
ascension into heaven. The lower part of the landscape
was wrapt in shade; but, just where the bank curved
round in a mimic bay, the waters caught the sun's parting
smile, and rippled against the herbage that clothed the
shore with a scarcely noticeable wave. There were two
of the numerous mills which were so picturesque a feature
of that country, standing at a distance from each other on
he rising banks, their sails perfectly still in the cool
silence of the evening, and adding to the rustic tranquillity
which breathed around. For to me there is something in
the stilled sails of one of those inventions of man's indus-
:
try peculiarly eloquent of repose; the rest seems typical
of the repose of our own passions, short and uncertain,
contrary to their natural ordination; and doubly impres-
sive from the feeling which admonishes us how precarious
is the stillness, how utterly dependent on every wind
rising at any moment and from any quarter of the heavens!
They saw before them no living forms, save one or two
peasants yet lingering by the water-side.
Trevylyan drew closer to his Gertrude; for his love was
inexpressively tender, and his vigilant anxiety for her
made his stern frame feel the first coolness of the evening,
even before she felt it herself.
"Dearest, let me draw your mantle closer round you
35
In a love like this, there is something ineffably beautiful,
it is essentially the poetry of passion. Desire grows
hallowed by fear, and scarce permitted to indulge its vent
in the common channel of the senses, breaks forth into
those vague yearnings, those lofty aspirations, which pine
for the bright-the far the unattained. It is "the
desire of the moth for the star," - it is the love of the
soul !
C
Gertrude was advised by the faculty to try a southern
climate; but Gertrude was the daughter of a German
mother, and her young fancy had been nursed in all the wild
legends, and the alluring visions that belong to the children
of the Rhine. Her imagination, more romantic than classic,
yearned for the vine-clad hills and haunted forests, which
are so fertile of their spells to those who have once drunk,
even sparingly, of the literature of the north. Her desire
strongly expressed her declared conviction that if any change
of scene could yet arrest the progress of her malady, it would
be the shores of the river she had so longed to visit, prevailed
with her physicians and her father, and they consented to
that pilgrimage along the Rhine, on which Gertrude, her
father, and her lover were now bound.
It was by the green curve of the banks which the lovers
saw from the heights of Bruges, that our fairy travellers
met. They were reclining on the water-side, playing at
dominos with eye-bright, and the black specks of the
trefoil; viz. Pipalee, Nip, Trip, and the lord-treasurer,
(for that was all the party selected by the queen for her
travelling cortège,) and waiting for her majesty, who, being
a curious little elf, had gone round the town to reconnoitre.
"Bless me!" said the lord-treasurer, "what a mad freak
is this! Crossing that immense pond of water, and was
there ever such bad grass as this? One may see that the
fairies thrive ill here."
"You are always discontented, my lord," said Pipalee;
"but then you are somewhat too old to travel, at least,
unless you go in your nut-shell and four."
Add
The lord-treasurer did not like this remark, so he mut-
tered a peevish pshaw, and took a pinch of honeysuckle
dust to console himself for being forced to put up with so
much frivolity.
At this moment, ere the moon was at her middest height,
Nymphalin joined her subjects.
"I have just returned," said she with a melancholy
expression on her countenance, "from a scene that has
almost renewed in me that sympathy with human beings,
which of late years our race has wellnigh relinquished.
"I hurried through the town without noticing much food
for adventure. I paused for a moment on a fat citizen's
pillow, and bade him dream of love. He woke in a fright,
and ran down to see that his cheeses were safe. I swept
with a light wing over a politician's eyes, and straightway
he dreamed of theatres and music. I caught an undertaker
in his first nap, and I have left him whirled in a waltz
For what would be sleep if it did not contrast life! Then
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
831
I came to a solitary chamber, in which a girl, in her ten-
derest youth, knelt by the bedside in prayer, and I saw that
the death-spirit had passed over her, and the blight was on
the leaves of the rose. The room was still and hushed,
the angel of purity kept watch there. Her heart was
full of love, and yet of holy thoughts, and I bade her dream
of the long life denied to her, of a happy home,
of the kisses of her young lover, of eternal faith, and
unwaning tenderness. Let her at least enjoy in dreams
what fate has refused to truth! — and, passing from the
room, I found her lover stretched in his cloak beside the
door; for he reads with a feverish and desperate prophecy
the doom that waits her; and so loves he the very air she
breathes, the very ground she treads, that when she has left
his sight he creeps, silently and unknown to her, to the
nearest spot
hallowed by her presence, anxious that, while
she is on earth, not an hour, not a moment should be wasted
upon other thoughts than those that belong to her; and
feeling a security, a fearful joy, in lessening the distance
that now only momentarily divides them. And that love
seemed to me not as the love of the common world, and I
stayed my wings and looked upon it, as a thing that cen-
turies might pass and bring no parallel to, in its beauty and
its melancholy truth. But I kept away the sleep from the
lover's eyes, for well I knew that sleep was a tyrant that
shortened the brief time of waking tenderness for the
living, yet spared him; and one sad, anxious thought of
her was sweeter, in spite of its sorrow, than the brightest
of fairy dreams. So I left him awake, and watching there
through the long night, and felt that the children of earth
have still something that unites them to the spirits of a finer
race, so long as they retain among them the presence of
real love!"
And oh! is there not a truth also in our fictions of the
unseen world? Are there not yet bright lingerers by the
forest and the stream! Do the moon and the soft stars
look out on no delicate and winged forms bathing in their
light? Are the fairies and the invisible hosts but the
children of our dreams, and not their inspiration? Is that
all a delusion which speaks from the golden page? And
is the world only given to harsh and anxious travailers, that
walk to and fro in pursuit of no gentle shadows? Are the
chimeras of the passions the sole spirits of the universe?
No! while my remembrance treasures in its deepest cell
the image of one no more, -one who was "not of the
earth, earthy," one in whom love was the essence of
thoughts divine, -one whose shape and mould, whose heart
and genius would, had poesy never before have dreamed it,
have called forth the first notion of spirits resembling
mortals, but not of them; no, Gertrude, while I remember
you, the faith, the trust in brighter shapes and fairer
natures than the world knows of, comes clinging to my
heart; and still will I think that fairies might have watched
over your sleep, and spirits have ministered to your dreams!
CHAPTER III.
Feelings.
GERTRUDE and her companions proceeded, by slow,
and, to her, delightful stages, to Rotterdam. Trevylyan
sat by her side, and her hand was ever in his; and when
her delicate frame became sensible of fatigue, her head
drooped on his shoulder as its natural resting-place. Her
father was a man who had lived long enough to have en-
countered many reverses of fortune, and they had left him,
as I am apt to believe long adversity usually does leave its
prey, somewhat chilled and somewhat hardened to affec-
tion; passive and quiet of hope, resigned to the worst as
to the common order of events, and expecting little from
the best, as an unlooked-for incident in the regularity of
human afflictions. He was insensible of his daughter's
danger, for he was not one whom the fear of love endows
with prophetic vision; and he lived tranquilly in the pres-
ent, without asking what new misfortune awaited him in the
future. Yet he loved his child, his only child, with all the
warmth of attachment left him by the many shocks his heart
had received; and in her approaching connexion with one
ich and noble as Trevylyan, he felt even something border-
ng upon pleasure. Lapped in the apathetic indifference
of his nature, he leaned forth from the carriage, enjoying
the bright weather that attended their journey, and sensible,
- for he was one of fine and cultivated taste,- tc wnatever
beauties of nature or remains of art varied their course.
A companion of this sort was the most agreeable that two
persons never needing a third could desire; he left them
undisturbed to the intoxication of their mutual presence;
he marked not the interchange of glances; he listened not
to the whisper, the low delicious whisper, with which the
heart speaks its sympathy to heart. He broke not that
charmed silence which falls over us when the thoughts are
full, and words leave nothing to explain; that repose of
feeling; that certainty that we are understood without the
effort of words, which makes the real luxury of intercourse,
and the true enchantment of travel. What a memory hours
like these bequeath, after we have settled down into the
calm occupations of common life!
calm occupations of common life!-how beautiful, through
the vista of years, seems that brief moonlight track upon
the waters of our youth!
And Trevylyan's nature, which, as I have said before,
was naturally hard and stern, which was hot, irritable,
ambitious, and early tinctured with the policy and lesson
of the world, seemed utterly changed by the peculiarities
of his love; every hour, every moment was full of incident
to him; every look of Gertrude's was entered on the tab
lets of his heart, so that his love knew no languor, i
required no change; he was absorbed in it; it was himself!
And he was soft and watchful as the step of a mother by
the couch of her sick child: the lion within him was tamed
by indomitable love; the sadness, the presentiment that
was mixed with all his passion for Gertrude filled him too
with that poetry of feeling, which is the result of thoughts
weighing upon us, and not to be expressed by ordinary
language. In this part of their journey, as I find by the
date, were the following lines written; they are to be
judged as the lines of one in whom emotion and truth were
the only inspiration.
I.
"As leaves left darkling in the flush of day,
When glints the glad sun checkering o'er the tree,
I see the green earth brightening in the ray,
Which only casts a shadow upon me'
11.
"What are the beams, the flowers, the glory, all
Life's glow and gloss, the music and the bloom,
When every sun but speeds the eternal pall,
And time is death that dallies with the tomb?
III.
"And yet,
-oh yet, so young, so pure! — the while
Fresh laugh the rose-hues round youth's morning sky,
That voice, those eyes, the deep love of that smile,
-
Are they not soul, all soul,
IV.
S
and can they die?
"Are there the words 'NO MORE' for thoughts like ours?
Must the bark sink upon so soft a wave ?
Hath the short summer of thy life no flowers,
But those which bloom above thine early grave?
Y.
“O God! and what is life, that I should live,
(Hath not the world enow of common clay ?)
And she, the rose, whose life a soul could give
To the void desert, sigh its sweets away!
-
VI.
“And I that love thee thus, to whom the air,
Blest by thy breath, makes heaven where'er it be,
Watch thy cheek wane, and smile away despair, -
Lest it should dim one hour yet left to thee
VII
Still let me conquer self, oh, still conceal,
By the smooth brow, the snake that coils below;
Break, break my heart, it comforts yet to feel
That she dreams on, unwakened by my woe!
VIII.
"Hushed, where the star's soft angel loves to keep
Watch o'er their tide, the morning waters roll;
So glides my spirit, darkness, in the deep,
But o'er the wave the presence of thy soul!"
S
Gertrude herself had not as yet the presentiments that
filled the soul of Trevylyan. She thought too little of her-
self to know her danger, and those hours to her were hours
of unmingled sweetness. Sometimes, indeed, the exhaus-
tion of her disease tinged her spirits with a vague sadness,
an abstraction came over, and a languor she vainly strug-
gled against. These fits of dejection and gloom touched
Trevylyan to the quick; his eye never ceased to watch
632
BULWER'S NOVELS.
them, nor his heart to soothe. Often when he marked
them, he sought to attract her attention from what he fan-
cied, though erringly, a sympathy with his own forebodings,
and to lead her young and romantic imagination through
the temporary beguilements of fiction; for Gertrude was
yet in the first bloom of youth, and all the dews of beauti-
ful childhood sparkled freshly from the virgin blossoms of
her mind. And Trevylyan, who had passed some of his
earlier years among the students of Leipzic, and was
deeply versed in the various world of legendary lore, ran-
sacked his memory for such tales as seemed to him most
likely to win her interest; and often with false smiles en-
tered into the playful tale, or oftener, with more playful
interest, into the graver legend of trials that warned yet
beguiled them from their own. Of such tales I have select-
ed but a few; I know not that they are the least unworthy
of repetition; they are those which many recollections
induce me to repeat the most willingly. Gertrude loved
these stories, for she had not yet lost, by the coldness of the
world, one leaf from that soft and wild romance which be-
longed to her beautiful mind. And, more than all, she
loved the sounds of a voice which every day became more
and more musical to her ear. "Shall I tell you," said he,
one morning, as he observed her gloomier mood stealing
over the face of Gertrude, "shall I tell you, ere yet we
pass into the dull land of Holland, a story of Malines,
whose spires we shall shortly see?" Gertrude's face
brightened at once, and, as she leaned back in the carriage
as it whirled rapidly along, and fixed her deep blue eyes
on Trevylyan, he began the following tale.
CHAPTER IV.
The Maid of Malines.
It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as
the English usually term it; the Sabbath bell had summon-
ed the inhabitants to divine worship; and the crowd that
had loitered round the CHURCH OF ST. REMBAULD had
gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of the
sacred edifice.
own.
streets of Malines alone with a young stranger, woos
dress and air betc.ened him of rank superior to her
"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause
"and that," he added, with a slight sigh," is the crite
rion by which I only know the young and the beautiful.”
Lucille now blushed, and with a slight mixture of pain in
the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had no pre-
tension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he.
"Yes, sir; my father holds a small office in the customs,
and my mother and I eke out his salary by making lace.
We are called poor, but we do not feel it, sir.'
"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the
heart's wealth, content," answered the blind man, mourn-
fully.
And monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with her-
self that she had awakened a natural envy in the stranger's
mind, and anxious to change the subject,
" and mon-
sieur, has he been long at Malines?"
"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Coun-
tries on a tour; perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind
mau, but it is wearisome even to the blind to rest always
in the same place. I thought during church time, when
the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my
dog, enjoy safely at least the air, if not the sight of the
town; but there are some persons, methinks, who cannot
even have a dog for a friend.”
The blind man spoke bitterly, - the desertion of his
dog had touched him to the core.
Lucille wiped her eyes.
"And does monsieur travel then alone?" said she; and
looking at his face more attentively than she had yet ven-
tured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-
twenty. "His father, his mother," she added, with an
emphasis on the last word," are they not with him?"
*
"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I
have neither brother nor sister.”
The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted
Lucille; never had she been so strongly affected. She
felt a strange flutter at the heart, a secret and earnest
sympathy, that attracted her at once toward him. She
wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister.
The contrast between the youth and the form of the
stranger, and the affliction which took hope from the one,
and activity from the other, increased the compassion he
excited. His features were remarkably regular, and had
a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame was
gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cauticusly and
with no cheerful step.
A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes
bent on the ground, and apparently listening for some
sound; for, without raising his looks from the rude pave-
ment, he turned to every corner of it with an intent and
anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand
a staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which
trailed on the ground; every now and then he called, with They had now passed into a narrow street leading to
a plaintive voice, "Fido, Fido, come back! Why hastward the hotel, when they heard behind them the clatter
thou deserted me?" Fido returned not; the dog, wear-
ied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was
at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town,
leaving the blind man to seek his way as he might to his
solitary inn.
By and by a light step passed through the street, and
the young stranger's face brightened -
"Pardon me,
"said he, turning to the spot where his
quick ear had caught the sound," and direct me, if you
are not by chance much pressed for a few moments' time,
to the hotel Montier d'or."
It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she
belonged to the middling classes of life, whom he thus ad-
dressed. "It is some distance hence, sir," said she;
"but if you continue your way straight on for about a
hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right
hand >>
CC
"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy
smile, your direction will avail me little; my dog has
deserted me, and I am blind ! ”
of hoofs; and Lucille, looking hastily back, saw that a
troop of the Belgian horse was passing through the town.
She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling
with fear for him, she stationed herself by his side. The
troop passed at a full trot through the street; and at the
sound of their clanging arms, and the ringing hoofs of their
heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she looked
at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with
enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its
wonted and melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said,
as the troop had nearly passed them, "the danger is
over!" Not so.
One of the last two soldiers who rode
abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unman-
ageable horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only
increased the fire and impatience of the charger; he
plunged from side to side of the narrow street
"Gardez vous," cried the horseman, as he was borne
on to the place where Lucille and the stranger stood
against the wall; "are ye mad, why do you not run ?
"For heaven's sake, for mercy's sake, he is blind!"
cried Lucille, clinging to the stranger's side.
-
There was something in these words, and in the stran-
ger's voice, which went irresistibly to the heart of "Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger.
the young woman. "Pray forgive me, she said, almost But Lucille dreamed not of such desertion. The trooper
with tears in her eyes, "I I did not perceive your "mis- wrested the horse's head from the spot where they stood;
fortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with with a snort, as he felt the
but she checked herself with with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged animal lashed
an instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct out with its hind-legs; and Lucille, unable to save both,
you to the door; nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock
I have time enough to spare, I assure you.'
directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shat-
The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's tered by her side, the horseman was borne onward.
arm, and though Lucille was naturally so bashful that even "Thank God, you are saved! was poor Lucille's ex-
her mother would laughingly reproach her for the excess clamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and terror
of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least pang of shame, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened t◄
as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the receive her.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIN E.
389
you
CC
My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt,
No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better,
- I am well.
This arm, if you please, we are not far
now."
J
from your hotel now.
But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of
voice, told him at once of the pain she suffered; he drew
from her by degrees the confession of the injury she had
sustained; but the generous girl did not tell him it had
been incurred solely in his protection. He now insisted
on reversing their duties, and accompanying her to her
home; and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly
able to move, was forced to consent. But a few steps
down the next turning stood the humble mansion of her
father, - they reached it, and Lucille scarcely crossed
the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes
was insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to
explain, and to beseech them immediately to send for a
surgeon, "the most skilful, the most practised in the
town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the least I
can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking
even a stranger in peril."
He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused
the offer; and it saved the blind man some shame that he
could not see the blush of honest resentment with which
so poor a species of remuneration was put aside.
The young man stayed till the surgeon arrived, till the
arn was set; nor did ne depart until he had obtained a
promise from the mother, that he should learn the next
morning how the sufferer had passed the night.
The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a
town that offers but little temptation to the traveller; but
he tarried day after day, until Lucille herself accompanied
her mother to assure him of her recovery.
You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there
is such a thing as love at the first meeting, - a secret, an
unaccountable affinity between persons (strangers before)
which draws them irresistibly together. If there were
truth in Plato's beautiful fantasy, that our souls were a
portion of the stars, it might be that spirits, thus attracted
to each other, have drawn their original light from the
same orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of their
former union. Yet, without recurring to such ideal solu-
tions of a daily mystery, it was but natural that one in
the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene St. Amand,
should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had
so generously suffered for his sake.
The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut
from his mind's eye the haunting images of ideal beauty;
rather, on the contrary, in his perpetual and unoccupied
solitude, he fed the reveries of an'imagination naturally
warm, and a heart eager for sympathy and commune.
ear.
g
He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in
the melody of voice; and never had a softer or a more thrill-
ing tone than that of the young maiden touched upon his
Her exclamation, so beautifully denying self, so
devoted in its charity, "Thank God, you are saved!”
uttered, too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang
constantly upon his soul, and he yielded, without precisely
defining their nature, to vague and delicious sentiments,
that his youth had never awakened to till then. And Lu-
cille, the very accident that had happened to her on his
behalf, only deepened the interest she had already con-
ceived for one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus
cut off from the glad objects of life, and left to a night of
years, desolate and alone. There is, to your beautiful and
kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing lovingness to protect.
This makes them the angels of sickness, the comforters of
age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in Lucille
pecu iarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her
compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller
With ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her sta
tion and her years, she was not without that modest vanitș
which made her painfully susceptible to her own deficien
cies in beauty. Instinctively conscious of how deeply she
herself could love, she believed it impossible that she
could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so supe-
rior in her eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of
her own household who had ever addressed her in that
voice which by tones, not words, speaks that admiration
most dear to a woman's heart. To him she was beautiful,
and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the imperfec-
tons of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly
without personal attraction; her light step and gracefu
form were elastic with the freshness of youth, and her
mouth and smile had so gentle and tender an expression,
that there were moments when it would not have been the
blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful.
Her early childhood had indeed given the promise of at-
tractions, which the small-pox, that then fearful malady,
had inexorably marred. It had not only seared the smooth
skin and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed even the
character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's
family were celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celeb-
rity; and so bitterly had her parents deplored the effects
of the cruel malady, that poor Lucille had been early
taught to consider them far more grievous than they really
were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty,
the loss of which was considered by her parents so heavy
a misfortune. Lucille, too, had a cousin named Julie, who
was the wonder of all Malines for her personal perfec-
tions; and as the cousins were much together, the con-
trast was too striking not to occasion frequent mortifica-
tion to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a
counterpoise; and the consciousness of personal inferiority
had meekened, without souring, her temper, had given
gentleness to a spirit that otherwise might have been too
high, and humility to a mind that was naturally strong,
impassioned, and energetic.
And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage
she most dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was
never known but to be loved. Wherever came her pres-
ence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain inexpres-
sible charm; and where she was not, a something was
missing from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could
replace.
r
"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur,
Lucille's mother, as he sat in her little salon, - for he
had already contracted that acquaintance with the family
which permitted him to be led to their house, to return the
visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his dog, once
more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted
his steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at
the door, "I propose," said St. Amand, after a pause,
and with some embarrassment, "to stay a little while
longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and I like the
quiet of the place; but you are aware, madame, that at a
hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheer-
less. I have been thinking,' St. Amand paused again,
39
"I have been thinking that if I could persuade some
agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would fix my-
self here for some weeks. I am easily pleased."
"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too
happy to receive such a lodger.'
CC
Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly.
"It was of your family I thought."
"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarce-
ly a room good enough for you.”
"What difference between one room and another can
there be to me? That is the best apartment to my choice
in which the human voice sounds most kindly."
The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now
to reside beneath the same roof as Lucille. And was she
not happy that he wanted so constant an attendance? was
she not happy that she was ever of use? St. Amand was
passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill
that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his
voice; and was not Lucille happy when she sat mute and
listening to such sounds as at Malines were never heard
before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face to whose
melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile?
Was she not happy when the music ceased and St. Amand
called "Lucille?" Did not her own name uttered by that
voice seem to her even sweeter than the music? Was she
not happy when they walked out in the still evenings of
summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of
one to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud
in her happiness, and was there not something like worship
in the gratitude she felt to him, for raising her humble spirit
to the luxury of feeling herself loved?
St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in
the neighbourhood of Amiens, where they had inherited a
competent property, to which he had succeeded about two
years previous to the date of my story.
He had been blind from the age of three years. "I
know not," said he, as he related these particulars to
834
BULWER'S NOVELS
Lucille one evening when they were alone; "I know not
what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the rivers
whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection
beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a
thousand glorious colors, -a bright and quick sense of
joy, A VISIBLE MUSIC. But it is only since iny child-
hood closed that I have mourned, as I now unceasingly
mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet
My boyhood passed in a quiet
cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy
the vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in
being read to, as I listened to the vivid descriptions of
poetry, as I glowed at the recital of great deeds, as I was
made acquainted by books, with the energy, the action, the
heat, the fervor, the pomp, the enthusiasm of life, that I
gradually opened to the sense of all I was for ever denied.
I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the midst of
the universal liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from
whose blank walls there was no escape. Still, however,
while my parents lived, I had something of consolation;
at least I was not alone. They died, and a sudden and
dread solitude, a vast and empty dreariness settled upon
my dungeon. One old servant only, who had nursed me
from my childhood, who had known me in my short privi-
lege of light, by whose recollections my mind could grope
back its way through the dark and narrow passages of
memory to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained
to me of human sympathies. It did not suffice, however,
to content me with a home where my father and moth-
er's kind voice were not. A restless impatience, an anxi-
ety to move, possessed me, and I set out from my home,
journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could
change an air that weighed upon me like a palpable bur-
den. I took only this old attendant as my companion; he
too died three months since at Bruxelles, worn out with
years. Alas! I had forgotten that he was old, for I saw
not his progress to decay; and now, save my faithless dog,
I was utterly alone, till I came hither and found thee.”
Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blessed the
desertion that had led to a friend who never could desert.
But however much, and however gratefully St. Amand
loved Lucille, her power availed not to chase the melan-
choly from his brow, and to reconcile him to his forlorn
condition.
my
"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could
look upon a face that my heart vainly endeavours to de-
lineate."
"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease
to love me."
Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "how-
ever the world may find thee, thou wouldst become my
standard of beauty, and I should judge not of thee by others,
but of others by thee."
He loved to hear Lucille read to him, and mostly he
loved the descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adven-
ture, and yet they occasioned him the most pain. Often
she paused from the page as she heard him sigh, and felt
that she would even have renounced the bliss of being loved
by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing, the
desire for which haunted him as a spectre.
and indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer ao
corded, or a sin atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb.
One story peculiarly affected Lucille; the narrator, a ven-
erable old man with gray locks, solemnly declared himself
a witness of its truth.
A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the off-
spring of an illicit connexion, who came into the world
deaf and dumb.
deaf and dumb. The unfortunate mother believed the ca-
lamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah! would," said
she,
she,that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch
that I am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!"
This idea haunted her night and day: she pined and could
not be comforted. As the child grew up, and wound him-
self more and more round her heart, its caresses added new
pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the nar-
rator) hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the tomb of
Cologne, she resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the
shrine. "God is merciful," said she, "and He who called
Magdalene his sister, may take the mother's curse from tee
child.'
child." She then went to Cologne; she poured her tears,
her penitence, and her prayers at the sacred tomb. When
she returned to her native town, what was her dismay as
she approached her cottage to behold it a heap of ruins! -
its blackened rafters and yawning casements betokened the
ravages of fire. The poor woman sunk upon the ground
utterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that mo-
ment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child
rushed to her arms, and called her "Mother!
>>
He had been saved from the fire, which had broken out
seven days before; but in the terror he had suffered, the
string that tied his tongue had been loosened; he had
uttered articulate sounds of distress; the curse was re-
moved, and one word at least the kind neighbours had
already taught him, to welcome his mother's return.
What cared she now that her substance was gone, that her
roof was ashes? She bowed in grateful submission to so
mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sin of
the mother was visited no longer on her child.
"Is not
I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep
impression upon Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to
that of St. Ainand, removed by the prayer of another, filled
her with devoted thoughts, and a beautiful hope.
the tomb still standing?" thought she; "is not God still
in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may He not hear
the guiltless? Is He not the God of love? Are not the
affections, the offerings that please Him best? and what
though the child's mediator was his mother, can even a
mother love her child more tenderly than I love Eugene?
But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his
sight, thy charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No
matter! be it so,-Ï shall at least have made him happy!
Srch were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille;
she cherished them till they settled into resolution, and she
secretly vowed to perform her pilgrimage of love. She
told neither St. Amand nor her parents of her intention;
she knew the obstacles such an annunciation would create.
Fortunately she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to whom she
had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's
visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work
of a twelvemonth's industry, which found a readier sale at
Bruxelles than Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were
already betrothed; their wedding was shortly to take
ever poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving
some dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to
hide the object of her departure, under the pretence of
taking the lace to Bruxelles, which had been the year's
labor of her mother and herself, it would sell for suffi-
cient, at least, to defray the preparations for the wedding.
Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their
station, they possessed the superstitions, as well as the
devotion of the faith. Sometimes they amused themselves
of an evening by the various legends and imaginary mira-place; and the custom of the country leading parents, how
cies of their calendar: and once, as they were thus con-
versing with two or three of their neighbours, "The Tomb
of the three Kings of Cologne " became the main topic of
their wandering recitals. However strong was the sense
of Lucille, she wus, as you will readily conceive, naturally
influenced by the belief of those with whom she had been
brought up from her cradle, and she listened to talo after
tale of the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as
earnestly and undoubtingly as the rest.
And the kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to
the relics of the Three Magi, who followed the star of
Bethlehem, and were the first potentates of the earth who
adored its Saviour, well might the pious Catholic suppose
that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would belong.
Each of the circle,(St. Amand, who had been more
than usually silent, and even gloomy during the day, had
retired to his apartment, for there were some moments
when, in the sadness of his thoughts, he sought that soli-
tude which he so impatiently fled from at others,) each
of the circle had some story to relate, equally veracious
"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame le Tisseur;
"the richer St. Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to
go a beggar to his house."
In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was ex-
cited; their pride had been hurt by the envy of the town
and the current congratulations on so advantageous a mar-
riage; and they employed themselves in counting up the
fortune they should be able to give to their only child, and
flattering their pardonable vanity with the notion that there
would be no such great disproportion in the connexion
after all. They were right, but not in their own view of
the estimate; the wealth that Lucille brought was what
fate could not lessen, -reverse could not reach, the
ungracious seasons could not blight its sweet harvest,
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
335
mprudence could not dissipate, - fraud could not steal
one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in
the fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible.
St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure;
he chafed at the notion of a dowry: he was not appeased
even by Lucille's representation, that it was only to gratify!
and not to impoverish her parents. "And thou, toc, canst
leave me!" he said, in that plaintive voice which had
made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a second
blindness
"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest
Eugene
"
"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do,"
said St. Amand, bitterly.
ing.
"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weep-
The sound of her sobs restored him to a sense of his
ingratitude. Alas! he knew not how much he had to be
grateful for. He held out his arms to her; Forgive me,"
gaid he. "Those who can see Nature know not how ter-
rible it is to be alone."
"But my mother will not leave you."
"She is not you!"
"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.
"What is Julie to me?"
mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass through
Louvain in your way home, fail not to see there a certain
physician, named Le Kain. He is celebrated through
Flanders for the cures he has wrought among the blind
and his advice is sought by all classes from far and near
He lives hard by the Hôtel de Ville, but any one will in-
form you of his residence. Stay, my child, you shall take
him a note from me; he is a benevolent and kindly man
and you shall tell him exactly the same story (and with the
same voice) you have told to me.
>>
So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his
home, and forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than
she had yet done since she had left Malines, he gave her
his blessing, and a letter to Le Kain, which he rightly
judged would insure her a patient hearing from the physi-
cian. Well known among all men of science was the name
of the priest, and a word of recommendation from him went
farther, where virtue and wisdom were honored, than the
longest letter from the haughtiest sieur in Flanders
With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim
turned her back on the Roman Cologne, and now about to
rejoin St. Amand, she felt neither the heat of the sun nor
the weariness of the road. It was one day at noon that
she again passed through Louvain, and she soon found her-
Ab, you are the only one, save my parents, who could self by the noble edifice of the Hôtel de Ville. Proud rose
think of me in her presence.
"And why, Lucille ?"
CC
Why! She is more beautiful than a dream."
"Say not so.
Would I could see, that I might prove to
the world how much more beautiful thou art. There is no
music in her voice."
The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with
St. Amand and her mother. They conversed on the future;
they made plans; in the wide sterility of the world they
laid out the garden of household love, and filled it with
flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters, and the frost
that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand
sought his chamber, and they parted at his door, which
closed upon her, she fell down on her knees at the threshold,
and poured out the fulness of her heart in a prayer for his
safety, and the fulfilment of her timid hope.
At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that
performed the short journey from Malines to Bruxelles.
When she entered the town, instead of seeking her aunt,
she rested at an auberge in the suburbs, and confiding her
little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she set out
alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely
superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed
its weakness, her affection made it even sacred. And
well may we believe, that the eye which reads all secrets
scarce looked reprovingly on that fanaticism, whose only
infirmity was love.
·
So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy,
she might impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed her-
self rest or food. Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she
wandered a little from the road-side, and under the spread-
ing lime-tree surrendered her mind to its sweet and bitter
thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her enterprise urged
her on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she started
up and continued her way. At length she reached the
ancient city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the
habits and aspects of men the Roman trace. She pros-
trated herself at the tomb of the Magi: she proffered her
ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose Son those
fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had, nearly
eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice every
lay, for a whole week, she sought the same spot, and pour-
d forth the same prayer. The last day an old priest, who,
novering in the church, had observed her constantly at
devotion, with that fatherly interest which the better min-
isters of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered the
earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy,
approached her as she was retiring with moist and down-
cast eyes, and saluting her, assumed the privilege of his
order, to inquire if there was aught in which his advice or
aid could serve. There was something in the venerable air
of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she opened her
heart to him; she told him all. The good priest was much
moved by her simplicity and earnestness. He questioned
her minutely as to the peculiar species of blindness with
which St. Amand was afflicted; and after musing a little
vhile, he said, "Daughter, God is great and merciful;
<> must trust in his power, but we must not forget that Is
its Gothic spires against the sky, and the sun shone brigha
on its rich tracery and Gothic casements;
the broad open
street was crowded with persons of all classes, and it was
with some modest alarm that Lucille lowered her veil and
mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the priest had
said, to find the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant
take the priest's letter to his master, and she was not long
kept waiting before she was admitted to the physician's
presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a bald front,
and a calm and friendly countenance. He was not less
touched than the priest had been by the manner in which
she narrated her story, described the affliction of her be-
trothed, and the hope that had inspired the pilgrimage she
had just made.
ek
CC
we must see our
Well," said he, encouragingly,
patient. You can bring him hither to me.
53
Ah, sir, I had hoped- Lucille stopped suddenly.
“What, my young friend?"
"That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to
Malines. I know, sir, what you are about to say; and I
know, sir, your time must be very valuable; but I am not
so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is Monsieur St. Amand,
is very rich, and, and I have at Bruxelles what I am sure
is a large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding,
but it is most heartily at your service, sir."
Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to
read the human heart when its leaves are fair and unde-
filed; and, in the benevolence of science, he would have
gone a longer
gone a longer journey than from Louvain to Malines to
give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar
Well, well," said he, "but you forget that Monsieur
St. Amand is not the only one in the world who wants me
I must look at my note-book, and see if I can be spared for
a day or two.”
So saying he glanced at his memoranda; every thing
smiled on Lucille: he had no engagements that his partner
could not fulfil, for some days; he consented to accompany
Lucille to Malines.
Meanwhile, cheerless and dull had passed the time to St.
Amand; he was perpetually asking Madame le Tisseur
what hour it was; it was almost his only question. There
seemed to him no sun in the heavens, no freshness in the
air, and he even forbore his favorite music; the instrument
had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen.
It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel
some envy at the marriage Lucille was about to make with
one whose competence report had exaggerated into prod-
igal wealth, whose birth had been elevated from the re-
spectable to the noble, and whose handsome person was
clothed, by the interest excited by his misfortune, with the
beauty of Antinous.
beauty of Antinous. Even that misfortune, which ought to
have levelled all distinctions, was not sufficient to check the
general envy; perhaps to some of the dames of Malines
blindness in a husband was indeed not the least agreeable
of all qualifications! But there was one in whom this envy
rankled with a peculiar sting; it was the beautiful, the all-
conquering Julie. That the humble, the neglected Lucille
should be preferred to her, that Lucille, whose existence
336
BULWER'S NOVELS.
was wellnigh forgot beside Julie's, should become thus
suddenly of importance; that there should be one person in
the world, and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom
she was less than nothing, when weighed in the balance
with Lucille, mortified to the quick a vanity that had never
till then received a wound. "It is well," she would say,
with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's lover is blind. To be
the one, it is necessary to be the other!"
During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in
Madame le Tisseur's house, Indeed Lucille had prayed
her to be so. She had sought, with an industry that aston-
ished herself, to supply Lucille's place, and, among the
strange contradictions of human nature, she had learned,
during her efforts to please, to love the object of those
efforts, as much at least as she was capable of loving.
She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted
in imagining that nothing but the accident of first acquaint-
ance had deprived her of a conquest with which she per-
suaded herself her happiness had become connected. Had
St. Amand never loved Lucille, and proposed to Julie, his
misfortune would have made her reject him, despite his
wealth and his youth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a con-
quest to be won from Lucille, raised him instantly to an
importance not his own. Safe, however in his affliction,
the arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless on the fidelity of
St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it seemed
an impertinence in any one to counterfeit the anxiety and
watchfulness of Lucille.
"It is time, surely it is time, Madame le Tisseur, that
Lucille should return. She might have sold all the lace in
Malines by this time," said St. Amand one day, peevishly.
"Patience, my dear friend; patience, perhaps she may
return to-morrow."
"To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock; only
six, you are sure ?
>>
"Just five, dear Eugene, shall I read to you? This is
a new book from Paris, it has made a great noise," said
Julie.
"You are very kind, but I will not trouble you."
It is any thing but trouble."
"It
"In a word, then, I would rather not."
"Oh! that he could see!" thought Julie; "would I not
punish him for this?"
"I hear carriage-wheels; who can be passing this way?
Surely it is the voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand,
starting up, "it is his day, his hour, too. No, no, it is
a lighter vehicle," and he sank down listlessly on his
seat.
Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the
corner; they stopped at the lowly door; and, overcome,
- overjoyed, Lucille was clasped to the bosom of Amand.
Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-
possession, and turned to Le Kain, “ pray pardon me, sir.
Dear Eugene, I have brought with me one who, by God's
blessing, may yet restore you to sight.
""
"We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain;
any thing is better than disappointment.
St.
To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain
examined St. Amand, and the result of the examination
was a confident belief in the probability of a cure.
Amand gladly consented to the experiment of an operation;
it succeeded, the blind man saw! Oh! what were Lu-
cille's feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she
found the object of her pilgrimage, of her prayers, ful-
filled! That joy was so intense, that in the eternal alter-
ations of human life she might have foretold from its excess
how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue.
As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became
reconciled to the light, his first, his only demand was for
Lucille. "No, let me not see her alone, let me see her in the
midst of you all, that I may convince you that the heart nev-
er is mistaken in its instincts." With a fearful, a sinking
presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request to which the
umpetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The
father the mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters
assemb ed in the little parlour; the door opened, and St.
Amand stood hesitating on the threshold. One look
around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he uttered a
ery of joy. "Lucille! Lucille ! he exclaimed, "it is
you, I know it, you only!" He sprang forward, and fell
at the feet of Julie!
Flushed, eiated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her
sparkling eyes; she did not undeceive him.
|
"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame le Tis
seur, in confusion ; "that is her cousin Julie, this is you
Lucille."
St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that momen!
she wished herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification,
disappointment, almost dismay, were depicted in his gaze.
He had been haunting his prison-house with dreams, and,
now set free, he felt how unlike they were to the truth. Too
new to observation to read the woe, the despair, the lapse
and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned
Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise
was over, that it was not thus he should thank her who
had restored him to sight. He hastened to redeem his
error; ah! how could it be redeemed?
From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end;
her fairy palace was shattered in the dust; the magician's
wand was broken up; the Ariel was given to the winds;
and the bright enchantment no longer distinguished the land
she lived in from the rest of the barren world. It was true
that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he
remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done i
his behalf; it is true that he forced himself again and
again to say,
"She is my betrothed, my benefactress!"
and he cursed himself to think that the feelings he had
entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion of
his words? where the ardor of his tone? where that play
and light of countenance which her step, her voice could
formerly call forth? When they were alone he was embar-
rassed and constrained, and almost cold; his hand no
longer sought hers; his soul no longer missed her if she
was absent a moment from his side. When in their house-
hold circle, he seemed visibly more at ease; but did his
eyes fasten upon her who had opened them to the day? did
they not wander at every interval with a too eloquent ad-
miration to the blushing and radiant face of the exulting
Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly percep-
tible in one day or one week,
tible in one day or one week, but every day it was percep
tible more and more. Yet still, bewitched, ensnared as
St. Amand was, he never perhaps would have been guilty
of an infidelity that he strove with the keenest remorse to
wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal contrast, at
the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, which Julie
had presented to Lucille; but for that he would have formed
no previous idea of real and living beauty to aid the disap-
pointment of his imaginings and his dreams. He would
have seen Lucille young and graceful, and with eyes beam-
ing affection, contrasted only by the wrinkled countenance
and bended frame of her parents, and she would have
completed her conquest over him before he had discovered
that she was less beautiful than others; nay, more,
infidelity never could have lasted above the first few days,
if the vain and heartless object of it had not exerted every
art, all the power and witchery of her beauty, to cement
and continue it. The unfortunate Lucille, so susceptible
to the slightest change in those she loved, so diffident of
herself, so proud too in that diffidence, -no longer neces-
sary, no longer missed, no longer loved, could not bear
to endure the galling comparison of the past and present.
She fled uncomplainingly to her chamber to indulg her
tears, and thus, unhappily, absent as her father generally
was during the day, and busied as her mother was either at
work or in household matters, she left Julie a thousand
opportunities to complete the power she had begun to wield
over, no, not the heart! the senses of St. Amand!
Yet, still not suspecting, in the open generosity of her
mind, the whole extent of her affliction, poor Lucille buoyed
herself at times with the hope that when once married,
when once in that intimacy of friendship, the unspeakable
love she felt for him could disclose itself with less restraint
than at present, she should perhaps regain a heart which
had been so devotedly hers, that she could not think that
without a fault it was irrevocably gone; on that hope she
anchored all the iittle happiness that remained to her. And
still St. Amand pressed their marriage, but in what different
tones! In fact, he wished to preclude from himself the
possibility of a deeper ingratitude than that which he had
incurred already. He vainly thought that the broken reed
of love might be bound up and strengthened by the ties of
duty; and at least he was anxious that his hand, his fortune,
his esteem, his gratitude, should give to Lucille the only
recompense it was now in his power to bestow. Mean
while, left alone so often with Julie, and Julie bent on
achieving the last triumph over his heart, St Amand was
that
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIN E.
gradually preparing a far different reward, a far different
return!
return for her to whom he owed so incalculable a debt.
There was a garden behind the house, in which there
was a small arbour, where often in the summer evenings
Eugene an! Lucille had sat together, hours never to
One day she heard from her own chamber, where
she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's flute swelling
gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She wept
as she heard it, and the memories that the music bore soften-
ing and endearing his image, she began to reproach herself
that she had yielded so often to the impulse of her wounded
feelings; that, chilled by his coldness, she had left him so
often to himself, and had not sufficiently dared to tell him
of that affection which, in her modest self-depreciation,
constituted her only pretension to his love. Perhaps he
is alone now, "she thought; "the tune too is one which he
knew that I loved :" and with her heart on her step, she
stole from the house and sought the arbour. She had scarce
turned from her chamber when the flute ceased; as she
neared the arbour she heard voices, -- Julie's voice in grief,
St. Amand's in consolation. A dread foreboding seized
her; her feet clung rooted to the earth.
Yes, marry her,
forget me," said Julie; "in a few
days you will be another's, and I, I,— forgive me, Eugene,
forgive me that I have disturbed your happiness. I am
punishe sufficiently, my heart will break, but it will
break loving you,
"" sobs choked Julie's voice.
"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand.
6. I,
I only
am to blame; I, false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, froin
the hour that these eyes opened upon you I drank in a new
life; the sun itself to me was less wonderful than your beauty.
But,
What do I not owe
but, let me forget that hour.
―
to Lucille ? I shall be wretched, I shall deserve to be
for shall I not think, Julie, that I have imbittered
life with our ill-fated love? But all that I can give,
so;
your
my hand, my home, my plighted faith, must be
hers. Nay, Julie, nay, why that look? could I act
otherwise? can I dream otherwise? Whatever the sacri-
fice, must I not render it? Ah, what do I owe to Lucille,
were it only for the thought that but for her I might never
have seen thee !"
Lucille stayed to hear no more; with the same soft step
as that which had borne her within hearing of these fatal
words, she turned back once more to her desolate chamber.
That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his
apartment, he heard a gentle knock at the door. "Come
in," he said, and Lucille entered. He started, in some
confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she gently
repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and
looking down, thus addressed him :-
My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have
something on my mind that I think it better to speak at
once; and if I do not exactly express what I would wish
to say, you must not be offended at Lucille; it is not an
easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply.
Coloring, and suspecting something of the truth, St.
Amand would have broken in upon her here; but she, with
a gentle impatience, waved him to be silent, and con-
tinued :-
|
M
more against it; but I am now resigned. We must part:
you love Julie, that too is natural, and she loves you;
ah! what also more probable in the course of events?
Julie loves you not yet, perhaps, so much as I did, but
then she has not known you as I have, and she, whose
whole life has been triumph cannot feel the gratitude I felt
at fancying myself loved; but thus will come;
God grant
it! Farewell, then, for ever, dear Eugene; I leave you
when you no longer want me; you are now independent of
Lucille; wherever you go, a thousand hereafter can supply
my place; farewell!"
She rose, as she said this, to leave the room; but St.
Amand, seizing her hand, which she in vain endeavoured to
withdraw from his clasp, poured forth incoherently, pas-
sionately, his reproaches on himself, his eloquent persua
sions against her resolution.
"I confess," said he, "that I have been allured for a
moment; I confess that Julie's beauty made me less sensi-
ble to your stronger, your holier, oh! far, far holier title
to my love! But forgive me, dearest Lucille; aiready I
return to you, to all I once felt for you; make me not curse
the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You must not
leave me; never can we two part; try me, only try me,
and if ever, hereafter, my heart wander from you, then,
Lucille, leave me to my remorse!"
Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that
his prayer was but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that
there was a virtue in her pride; that to leave him was a
duty to herself. In vain he pleaded; in vain were his
embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded her of her
plighted truth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had
become wrapped in her union with him ; "How, even
were it as you wrongly believe, how in honor to them can
I desert you, can I wed another?”
"Trust that, trust all to me," answered Lucille;
CC your
honor shall be my care, none shall blame you; only do not
let
your marriage with Julie be celebrated here before their
eyes; that is all I ask, all they can expect. God bless you!
Do not fancy I shall be unhappy; for whatever happiness
the world gives you, shall I not have contributed to bestow
it? and with that thought I am above compassion
وو
She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more
bitter even than that of blindness; that very night Lucille
sought her mother; to her she confided all. I pass over
the reasons she urged, the arguments she overcame; she
conquered rather than convinced, and leaving to Madame
le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her father her
unalterable resolution, she quitted Malines the next morn-
ing, and with a heart too honest to be utterly without com-
fort, paid that visit to her aunt which had been so long
deferred.
The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from
reproaching St. Amand. He did not bear, however, their
cold and altered looks; he left their house; and though for
several days he would not even see Julie, yet her beauty
and her art gradually resumed their empire over him.
They were married at Courtroi, and, to the joy of the vain
Julie, departed to the gay metropolis of France. But
before their departure, before his marriage, St. Amand
endeavoured to appease his conscience, by purchasing for
Monsieur le Tisseur, a much more lucrative and honorable
office than that he now held. Rightly judging that Malines
could no longer be a pleasant residence for them, and much
less for Lucille, the duties of the post were to be fulfilled in
another town; and knowing that Monsieur le Tisseur's
delicacy would revolt at receiving such a favor from his
hands, he kept the nature of his negotiation a close secret,
and suffered the honest citizen to believe that his own
merits alone had entitled him to so unexpected a promotion.
"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell
you that you would cease to do so, could you see how un-
deserving I was of your attachment. I did not deceive
myself, Eugene; I always felt assured that such would be
the case, that your love for me necessarily rested on your
affliction: but, for all that, I never at least had a dream, or
a desire, but for your happiness; and God knows, that if
again, by walking barefooted, not to Cologne, but to Rome,
to the end of the world, I could save you from a much
less misfortune than that of blindness, I would cheerfully do
t; yes, even though I might foretell all the while that, on
Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble
my return, you would speak to me coldly, think of me affections took its date in a stormy epoch of the world,
light y, and that the penalty to me would would be
the dawning revolution of France. The family of Lucille
what it has been." Here Lucille wiped a few natural had been little more than a year settled in their new resi-
tears from her eyes; St. Amand, struck to the heart, cov-dence, when Dumouriez led his army into the Netherlands.
ered his face with his hands, without the courage to
interrupt her. Lucille continued:
"That which I foresaw has come to pass; I am no
'onger to you what I once was, when you could clothe this
poor form and this homely face with a beauty they did not
possess; you would wed me still, it is true; but I am
proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I once
had love. I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change
was natural, was inevitable. I should have steeled myself
VOL II.
43
|
But how meanwhile had that year passed for Lucille ? I
have said that her spirit was naturally high; that, though
so tender, she was not weak; her very pilgrimage to
Cologne alone, and at the timid age of seventeen, proved
that there was a strength in her nature no less than a devo-
tion in her love. The sacrifice she had made brought its
own reward. She believed St. Amand was happy, and she
would not give way to the selfishness of grief; she had still
duties to perform; she could still comfort her parents, and
533
BULWER'S NOVELS.
cheer their age; she could still be all the world to them;
she felt this, and was consoled. Only once during the
year had she heard of Julie; she had been seen by a mutual
friend at Paris, gay, brilliant, courted, and admired; of
St. Amand she heard nothing.
My tale, dear Gertrude, does not lead me through the
harsh scenes of war. I do not tell you of the slaughter
and the siege, and the blood that inundated those fair lands,
the great battle-field of Europe. The people of the Nether-
lands in general were with the cause of Dunouriez, but the
town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered some faint re-
sistance to his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his age,
girded on his sword; the town was carried, and the fierce
and licentious troops of the conqueror poured, flushed with
their easy victory, through its streets. Le Tisseur's house
was filled with drunken and rude troopers; Lucille herself
trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute sol-
diers, more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumou-
riez had united to his army, and by whose blood he so
often saved that of his nobler band; her shrieks, her cries
were vain, when suddenly the reeking troopers gave way;
"the captain! brave captain!" was shouted forth; the
insolent soldier, felled by a powerful arm, sank senseless
at the feet of Lucille; and a glorious form, towering above
its fellows, even through its glittering garb, even in that
dreadful hour remembered at a glance by Lucille, stood at
her side; her protector, her guardian! thus once
more she beheld St. Amand!
The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred.
Shouts, groans,
wild snatches of exulting song; the clang
of arms, the tramp of horses, the hurrying footsteps, the
deep music, sounded loud and blended terribly without;
Lucille heard them not, - she was on that breast which
never should have deserted her.
Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up
nis quarters at their house; and for two days he was once
more under the same roof as Lucille. He never recurred
voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's timid inquiry
after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke
with all the enthusiasm of a long-pent and ardent spirit,
of the new profession he had embraced. Glory seemed
now to be his only mistress, and the vivid delusion of the
first bright dreams of the revolution filled his mind, broke
from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes which
Lucille had redeemed to day.
She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw
his prond crest glancing in the sun; she saw his steed
winding through the narrow street; she saw that his last
glance reverted to her, where she stood at the door; and
as he waved his adieu, she fancied that there was on his
face that look of deep and grateful tenderness which re-
minded her of the one bright epoch of her life.
She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness
repented of a transient infatuation, had long since discov-
ered the true Florimel from the false, and felt that, in Julie,
Lucille's wings were avenged. But in the hurry and
heat of war he plunged that regret, the keenest of all,
- which imbodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE !"
Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of
Lucille's life the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appear-
ed as something dreamed of, not seen. The star of Napo-
leon had risen above the horizon; the romance of his early
career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt had
been the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes
which flashed forth from the gloom of the revolution of
France.
You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French
as well as the English troops returned home from Egypt,
blinded with the ophthalmia of that arid soil. Some of
the young men in Lucille's town, who had joined Napo-
leon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful affliction,
and Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet
voice were ever at hand for those poor sufferers, whose
common misfortune touched so thrilling a chord of her
heart.
Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother
to chee, amid the ills of age. As one evening they sat
at work together, Madame le Tisseur said, after a
pause
"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to mar-
ry Justin; he loves thee well, and now that thou art yet
young, and hast many years before thee, thou shouldst re-
member that when I die thou wilt be alone."
Ah, cease, dearest mother! I never can marry now ;
and as for love,- once taught in the bitter school in
which I have learned the knowledge of myself, — I canno
be deceived again."
::
My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never wa
woman loved, if Justin does not love you; and neve
did lover feel with more real warmth how worthily ho
loved."
And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's
modest virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulat-
ing and feminine grace, which accompanied all her move-
ments, had secured her as many conquests as if she had
been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of marriage
with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered
vanity. One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than
all things; and something sacred in its recollections made
her deem it even a crime to think of effacing the past by a
new affection.
"I believe," continued Madame le Tisseur, angry,
"that thou still thinkest fondly of him from whom only
the world thou couldst have experienced ingratitude."
CC
CC
Nay, inother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight
sigh, Eugene is married to another."
While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid
knock at the door, the latch was lifted. "This," said
the rough voice of a commnissaire of the town, this,
monsieur, is the house of Madame le Tisseur, and, voila
mademoiselle!"" A tall figure, with a shade over his eyes,
and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room.
A thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his
arms; "Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had
made the music of her first youth, - "where art thou, Lu-
cille? Alas! she does not recognise St. Amand.'
Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burn-
ing suns and the sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had
smitten the young soldier, in the flush of his career, with a
second, and this time, with an irremediable, - blindness!
He had returned to France to find his hearth lonely: Julie
was no more, a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst
of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house,
to see if one hope yet remained to him in the world!
And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he reurged
a former suit, did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did
her pride remember its wound, did she revert to his
desertion, did she say to the whisper of her yearning love,
"Thou hast been before forsaken ?" That voice and
those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to
be resisted; "I am once more necessary to him,” was all
her thought; "if I reject him, who will tend him?” In
that thought was the motive of her conduct; in that thought
gushed back upon her soul all the springs of checked, but
unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she
stood beside him at the altar, and pledged, with a yet
holier devotion than she might have felt of yore, the vow
of her imperishable truth.
and
And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the
common world could never comprehend. With his blind-
ness returned all the feelings she had first awakened in St.
Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned for her step,
again he missed even a moment's absence from his side,
again her voice chased the shadow from his brow,
in her presence was a sense of shelter and of sunshine. He
no longer sighed for the blessing he had lost; he reconciled
himself to fate, and entered into that serenity of mood which
mostly characterizes the blind. Perhaps, after we have
seen the actual world, and experienced its hollow pleasures,
we can resign ourselves the better to its exclusion ; and as
the cloister which repels the ardor of our hope is sweet to
our remembrance, so the darkness loses its terror when
experience has wearied us with the glare and travail of the
day. It was something, too, as they advanced in life, to
feel the chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening
daily, and to cherish in his overflowing heart the sweetness
of increasing gratitude; it was something that he could
not see years wrinkle that open brow, or dim the tender-
ness of that touching smile; it was something that to him
she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the
verge of a grave, (which received them both within a few
days of each other,) in all the bloom of her unwithering
affection, in all the freshness of a heart that never could
grow old!
—
Gertrude, who had broken in upon Trevylyan's story by
a thousand anxious interruptions, and a thousand pretty
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIN E.
339
apologies for interrupting, was charmed with a tale in
which true love was made happy at last, although she did
not forgive St. Amand his ingratitude, and although she
declared, with a critical shake of the head, that “it was
very unnatural that the mere beauty of Julie, or the mere
want of it in Lucille, should have produced such an effect
upon him, if he had ever really loved Lucille in his blind-
ness.
As they passed through Malines, the town assumed an
interest in Gertrude's eyes to which it scarcely of itself was
entitled. She looked wistfully at the broad market-place;
at a corner of which was one of those out-of-door groups of
quiet and noiseless revellers which Dutch art has raised
from the familiar to the picturesque; and then glancing to
the tower of St. Rembauld, she fancied, amid the silence
of noon, that she yet heard the plaintive cry of the blind
orphan, Fido, Fido, why hast thou deserted me?"
CHAPTER V.
The character of the Dutch.
Eosterdam.
Their resemblance
to the Germans. -A dispute between Vane and Trevylyan,
after the manner of the ancient novelists, as to which is pref-
crable, the life of action or the life of repose. Trevylyan's
contrast between literary ambition and the ambition of public
life. A chapter to be forgiven only by those who find Rasse-
las amusing.
OUR travellers arrived at Rotterdam on a bright and
Funny day. There is a cheerfulness about the operations
of commerce, a life, - a bustle,
an action which al-
ways exhilarates the spirits at the first glance. Afterward
they fatigue us; we get too soon behind the scenes, and
find the base and troublous passions which move the pup-
pets and conduct the drama.
As
"It reverses life, my child," said the moralizing Vane,
and the stream flows through dulness at first, reserving
its poetry for our perseverance.
"I will not allow your doctrine, said Trevylyan, as the
ambitious ardor of his native disposition stirred within him
"Life has always action; it is our own fault if it ever be
dull; youth has its enterprise, manhood its schemes; and
even if infirmity creep upon age, the mind, the mind still
triumphs over the mortal clay, and in the quiet hermitage,
among books, and from thoughts, keeps the great wheel
within everlastingly in motion. No, the better class of
spirits have always an antidote to the insipidity of a com-
mon career; they have ever energy at will
"And never happiness!" answered Vane, after a pause,
as he gazed on the proud countenance of Trevylyan, with
that kind of calm, half-pitying interest which belonged to a
character deeply imbued with the philosophy of a sad ex-
perience, acting upon an unimpassioned heart: "and in
truth, Trevylyan, it would please me if I could but teach
you the folly of preferring the exercise of that energy of
which you speak, to the golden luxury of REST. What
ambition can ever bring an adequate reward? Not surely
the ambition of letters,—the desire of intellectual renown.
True," said Trevylyan, quietly; "that dream I have
long renounced; there is nothing palpable in literary fame,
it scarcely soothes the vain, perhaps,
perhaps, it assuredly
chafes the proud. In my earlier years I attempted some
works, which gained what the world, perhaps rightly,
deemed a sufficient meed of reputation; yet was it not
sufficient to recompense myself for the fresh hours I had
consumed, for the sacrifices of pleasure I had made. The
subtle aims that had inspired me were not perceived; the
thoughts that had seemed new and beautiful to me fell flat
and lustreless on the soul of others; if I was approved, it
But Gertrude, in whom ill health had not destroyed the was often for what I condemned myself; and I found that
vividness of impression that belongs to the inexperienced, the trite commonplace and the false wit charmed, while the
was delighted at the cheeriness of all around her. truth fatigued, and the enthusiasm revolted. For men of
she leaned lightly on Trevylyan's arm, he listened with a that genius to which I make no pretension, who have dwelt
forgetful joy to her questions and exclamations at the stir apart in the obscurity of their own thoughts, gazing upon
and liveliness of a city from which was to commence their stars that shine not for the dull sleepers of the world, it
pilgrimage along the Rhine. And indeed the scene was must be a keen sting to find the product of their labor con-
rife with the spirit of that people at once so active and so founded with a class, and to be mingled up in men's judg-
patient, —so daring on the sea, so cautious on the land. ment with the faults or merits of a tribe. Every great
Industry was visible everywhere; the vessels in the har-genius must deem himself original and alone in his concep-
bour, the crowded boat, putting off to land, the throng tions;
the throng
on the quay, all looked bustling and spoke of commerce.
The city itself, on which the skies shone fairly through light
and fleecy clouds, wore a cheerful aspect. The church of
St. Lawrence rising above the clean, neat houses, and on
one side trees thickly grouped, gayly contrasted at once
the waters and the city.
"I like this place," said Gertrude's father, quietly, "it
has an air of comfort.”
"And an absence of grandeur," said Trevylyan.
"A commercial people are one great middle class in
their habits and train of mind," replied Vane; "and gran-
deur belongs to the extremes, -an impoverished people,
and a wealthy despot."
They went to see the statue of Erasmus, and the house
in which he was born. Vane had a certain admiration for
Erasmus which his companions did not share; he liked
the quiet irony of the sage, and his knowledge of the world;
and, besides, Vane was of that time of life when philoso-
phers become objects of interest. At first they are teachers,
secondly friends; and it is only a few who arrive at the
third stage, and find them deceivers. The Dutch are a
singular people; their literature is neglected, but it has
some of the German vein in its strata, the patience, the
Learning, the homely delineation, and even some traces of
the mixture of the humorous and the terrible, which form
that genius for the grotesque so markedly German,
find this in their legions and ghost stories. But in Holland
activity destroys, in Germany indolence nourishes, romance.
They stayed a day or two at Rotterdam, and then pro-
ceeled
up the Rhine to Gorcum. The banks were flat and
tame, and nothing could be less impressive of its native
majesty than this part of the course of the great river.
you
"I never felt before," whispered Gertrude, tenderly,
"how much there was of consolation in your presence, for
here I am at last on the Rhine, the blue Rhine, and how
disappointed I should be if you were not by my side.”
“But, my Gertrude, you must wait till we have passed
Cologne, before the glories of the Rhine burst upon you."
C
tions; it is not enough for him that these conceptions
should be approved as good, unless they are admitted as
inventive, if they mix him with the herd he has shunned,
not separate him in fame as he has been separated in soul
Some Frenchman, the oracle of his circle, said of the poet
of the Phêdre, Racine and the other imitators of Cor-
neille; and Racine, in his wrath, nearly forswore tragedy
for ever.
It is in vain to tell the author that the public is
the judge of his works. The author believes himself above
the public, or he would never have written, and,” continued
Trevylyan, with enthusiasm," he is above them; their fiat
may crush his glory, but never his self-esteem. He stands
alone and haughty amid the wrecks of the temple he imag
ined he had raised TO THE FUTURE,' and retaliates
neglect with scorn. But is this, the life of scorn, a pleas-
urable state of existence ? Is it one to be cherished? Does
even the moment of fame counterbalance the years of mor-
tification? And what is there in literary fame itself present
and palpable to its heir? His work is a pebble thrown into
the deep; the stir lasts for a moment, and the wave closes
up, to be susceptible no more to the same impression. The
circle may widen to other lands and other ages, but around
him it is weak and faint. The trifles of the day, the low
politics, the base intrigues, occupy the tongue, and fill the
thought of his cotemporaries; he is less rarely conversed
of than a mountebank, or a new dancer; his glory comes
not home to him; it brings no present, no pc-petual re
ward, te the applauses that wait the actor, or the actor
like mummer of the senate; and this which vexes, also
lowers him; his noble nature begins to nourish the base
vices of jealousy, and the unwillingness to admire. Gold-
smith is forgotten in the presence of a puppet; he feels it,
and is mean; he expresses it, and is ludicrous. It is well
to say that great minds will not stoop to jealousy; in the
greatest minds it is most frequent.* Few authors are ever
* See the long list of names furnished by D'Israeli, in that
most exquisite work, "The Literary Character," vol. ii. p. 75.
Plato, Xenophon, Chaucer, Corneille, Voltaire, Dryden, the
Caracci, Domenico, Venetigno, murdered by his envious friend.
340
BULWER'S NOVELS.
so aware of the admiration they excite, as to afford to be
generous; and this melancholy truth revolts us with our own
ambition. Shall we be demigods in our closet, at the price
of sinking below mortality in the world? No! it was from
this deep sentiment of the unrealness of literary fame, of
dissatisfaction at the fruits it produced, of fear for the
meanness it engendered, that I resigned betimes all love for
its career; and if by the restless desire that haunts men
who think much, to write ever, I should be urged hereafter
to literature, I will sternly teach myself to persevere in the
indifference to its fame."
You say as I would say," answered Vane, with his
tranquil smile; "and your experience corroborates my
theory Ambition then is not the root of happiness. Why
more in action than in letters ?
"Because, " said Trevylyan, "in action we commonly
gain in our life all the honor we deserve the public judge
of men better and more rapidly than of books. And he
who takes to himself in action a high and pure ambition,
associates it with so many objects, that, unlike literature,
the failure of one is balanced by the success of the other.
He, the creator of deeds, not resembling the creator of
books, stands not alone; he is eminently social; he has
many comrades, and without their aid he could not accom-
plish his design. This divides and mitigates the impatient
jealousy against others. He works for a cause, and knows
early that he cannot monopolize its whole glory; he shares
what he is aware it is impossible to engross. Besides, ac-
tion leaves him no time for brooding over disappointment.
The author has consumed his youth in a work, it fails
in glory
Can he write another work? Bid him call back
another youth! But in action the labor of the mind is from
day to day. A week replaces what a week has lost, and
all the aspirant's fame is of the present. It is lipped by
the Babel of the living world; he is ever on the stage, and
the spectators are ever ready to applaud. Thus perpetually
in the service of others, self ceases to be his world; he has
no leisure to brood over real or imaginary wrongs; the
excitement whirls on the machine till it is worn out
"And kicked aside," said Vane, "with the broken
lumber of men's other tools, in the chamber of their son's
forgetfulness. Your man of action lasts but for an hour;
the man of letters lasts for ages.'
,
-
"We live not for ages," answered Trevylyan;
life is on earth, and not in the grave."
-
""
CC our
"But even grant," continued Vane; "and I for one will
concede the point, that posthumous fame is not worth
the living agonies that obtain it, how are you better off in
your poor and vulgar career of action? Would you serve
the rulers?servility! The people?-folly! If you take
the great philosophical view which the worshippers of the
past rarely take, but which, unknown to them, is their sole
excuse, viz. that the changes which may benefit the future
unsettle the present; and that it is not the wisdom of prac-
tical legislation to risk the peace of our cotemporaries in
the hope of obtaining happiness for their posterity, to
what suspicions, to what charges are you exposed! You
are deemed the foe of all liberal opinion, and you read
your curses in the eyes of a nation. But take the side of
the people! What caprice, what ingratitude! You
have professed so much in theory, that you can never ac-
complish sufficient in practice. Moderation becomes a
c; to be prudent is to be perfidious. New dema-
gogues, without temperance, because without principle,
outstrip you in the moment of your greatest services. The
public is the grave of a great man's deeds; it is never
sated; its maw is eternally open; it perpetually craves for
more. Where in the history of the world do you find the
gratitude of a people? You find favor, it is true, but not
gratitude; the fervor that exaggerates a benefit at one mo-
ment, but not the gratitude that remembers it the next
year. Once disappoint them, and all your actions, all your
sacrifices, are swept from their remembrance for ever; they
break the windows of the very house they have given you,
and melt down their medals into bullets. Who serves man,
ruler, or peasant, serves the ungrateful; and all the am-
bitious are but types of a Wolsey or a De Witt."
"And what," said Trevylyan, "consoles a man in the
ills that flesh is heir to, in that state of obscure repose,
that serene inactivity to which you would confine him? Is
and the gentle Castillo fainting away at the genius of Murillo.
Let us add Wordsworth, cold to the lyre of Byron; and Byron
st once stealing from Wordsworth, and ridiculing while he stole.
it not his conscience? Is it not his self-acquittal, or his
self-approval ?"
CC
Doubtless," replied Vane.
"Be it so,
:
tne
We
answered the high-souled Trevylyan;
same consolation awaits us in action as in repose.
sedulously pursue what we deem to be true glory. We are
maligned; but our soul acquits us. Could it do more in
the scandal and the prejudice that assail us in private life?
you are silent but note how much deeper should be the
comfort, how much loftier the self-esteem; for if calumny
attack us in a wilful obscurity, what have we done to refute
the calumny? How have we served our species? Have
we' scorned delight and loved laborious days?' Have we
made the utmost of the talent' confided to our care?
Have we done those good deeds to our race upon whien we
can retire, - an 'estate of beneficence,'- from the malice
of the world, and feel that our deeds are our defenders?
This is the consolation of virtuous actions; is it so of
even a virtuous - indolence ?"
"You speak as a preacher," said Vane, "I merely as
a calculator; you of virtue in affliction, I of a life in
ease."
"Well, then, if the consciousness of perpetual endeav-
our to advance our race be not alone happier than the life
of ease, let us see what this vaunted ease really is. Tell
me, is it not another name for ennui? This state of qui-
escence, this objectless, dreamless torpor, this transition
du lit à la table, de la table au lit; what more dreary and
monotonous existence can you devise? Is it pleasure in
this inglorious existence to think that you are serving
pleasure? Is it freedom to be the slave to self? For I
hold," continued Trevylyan, "that this jargon of 'con-
sulting happiness,' this cant of living for ourselves, is but
a mean as well as a false poilosophy. Why this eternal
reference to self? Is self alone to be consulted? Is even
our happiness, did it truly consist in repose, really the
great end of life? I doubt if we cannot ascend higher. I
doubt if we cannot say with a great moralist, If virtue be
not estimable in itself, we can see nothing estimable in fol-
lowing it for the sake of a bargain.' But, in fact, repose
is the poorest of all delusions; the very act of recurring to
self brings about us all those ills of self from which in the
turmoil of the world we can escape. We become hypo-
chondriacs. Our very health grows an object of painfuÏ
possession. We are so desirous to be well (for what is re-
tirement without health) that we are ever fancying our-
selves ill; and, like the man in the Spectator, we weigh
ourselves daily, and live but by grains and scruples.
tirement is happy only for the poet, for to him it is not re-
tirement. He secedes from one world but to gain another,
and he finds not ennui in seclusion, — why ?
why? not because
seclusion hath repose, but because it hath occupation. In
one word, then, I say of action and of indolence, grant the
same ills to both, and to action there is the readier escape
or the nobler consolation.”
Re-
Vane shrugged his shoulders. Ah, my dear friend,"
said he, tapping his snuff-box with benevolent superiority,
you are much younger than I am!"
But these conversations which Trevylyan and Vane often
held together, dull as I fear this specimen must seem to the
reader, had an inexpressible charm for Gertrude. She
loved the lofty and generous vein of philosophy which
Trevylyan embraced, and which, while it suited his ardent
nature, contrasted a demeanour commonly hard and cold
to all but herself. And young and tender as she was, his
ambition infused its spirit into her fine imagination, and
that passion for enterprise which belongs inseparably to
romance. She loved to muse over his future lot, and in
fancy to share its toils and to exult in its triumphs. And
if sometimes she asked herself whether a career of action
might not estrange him from her, she had but to turn her
gaze upon his watchfu eye, and lo, he was by her side
or at her feet!
―
CHAPTER VI.
Gorcum. The tour of the virtues: A philosopher's tale.
It was a bright and cheery morning as they glided by
Gorcum. The boats pulling to the shore full of fishermen
and peasants in their national costume; the breeze just
curling the waters, and no more; the lightness of the Blus
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIN E.
$41
sky; the loud and laughing voices from the boats, -all |
contributed to raise the spirit and fill it with that inde-
scribable gladness which is the physical sense of life.
The tower of the church, with its long windows and its
round dial, rose against the light, clear sky, and on a bench
nder a green bush facing the water sat a jolly Hollander,
refreshing the breezes with the fumes of his nationa! weed.
"How little it requires to make a journey pleasant,
when the companions are our friends," said Gertrude, as
they sailed along. Nothing can be duller than these
Danks; nothing more delightful than this voyage."
-
"Yet what tries the affections of people for each other
so severely as a journey together?" said Vane. "That
perpetual companionship from which there is no escaping,
that confinement, in all our inoments of ill-humor and list-
lessness, with persons who want us to look amused, ah,
it is a severe ordeal for friendship to pass through! A
post-chaise must have jolted many an intimacy to death."
"You speak feelingly, dear father," said Gertrude,
laughing; and I suspect with a slight desire to be sar-
castic upon us.
Yet, seriously, I should think that travel
must be like life, and that good persons must be always
agreeable companions to each other.'
a smile.
""
"Good persons! my Gertrude," answered Vane, with
"Alas, I fear the good weary each other quite
as much as the bad. What say you, Trevylyan, would
virtue be a pleasant companion from Paris to Petersburg?
Ah, I see you intend to be on Gertrude's side of the ques-
tion. Well now, if I tell you a story, since stories are so
much the fashion with you, in which you shall find that the
virtues themselves actually made the experiment of a tour,
will you promise to attend to the moral ?"
Oh, dear father, any thing for a story," cried Gertrude;
"especially from you, who have not told one all the way.
Come, listen, Albert; nay, listen to your new rival.”
And, pleased to see the vivacity of the invalid, Vane
began as follows:
THE TOUR OF THE VIRTUES.
A PHILOSOPHER'S TALE.
ONCE upon a time, several of the virtues, weary of
living for ever with the Bishop of Norwich, resolved to
make a little excursion; accordingly, though they knew
every thing on earth was very ill prepared to receive them,
they thought they might safely venture on a tour from West-
minster bridge to Richmond; the day was fine, the wind
in their favor, and as to entertainment,-why there seemed,
according to Gertrude, to be no possibility of aay disagree-
ment among the virtues.
They took a boat at Westminster stairs, and just as they
were about to push off, a poor woman, all in rags, with a
child in her arms, implored their compassion. Charity
put her hand into her reticule, and took out a shilling.
Justice, turning round to look after the baggage, saw the
folly Charity was about to commit. "Heavens!" cried
Justice, seizing poor Charity by the arm, "what are you
"what are you
doing? Have you never read political economy? Don't
you know that indiscriminate almsgiving is only the en-
couragement to idleness, the mother of vice? You a virtue,
indeed! I'm ashamed of you. Get along with you, good
woman, yet stay, there is a ticket for soup at the Men-
dicity Society; they'll see if you 're a proper object of
compassion." But Charity is quicker than Justice, and
slipping her hand behind her, the poor woman got the
shilling and the ticket for soup too. Economy and Gen-
erosity saw the double gift. "What waste!" cried Econ-
omy, frowning; "what, a ticket and a shilling! either would
have sufficed.”
"Either. " said Generosity; "fie! Charity should
have giver the poor creature half a crown, and Justice a
dozen tickets! " So the next ten minutes were consumed
in a quarrel between the four virtues, which would have
lasted all the way to Richmond, if Courage had not advis-
ed them to get on shore and fight it out. Upon this, the
virtues suddenly perceived they had a little forgotten them-
selves, and Generosity offering the first apology, they made
it
up, and went on very agreeably for the next mile or two.
The day now grew a little overcast, and a shower seemed
at hand. Prudence, who had a new bonnet on, suggested
the propriety of putting to shore for half an hour: Courage
was for braving the rain; but, as most of the virtues are
ladies, Pru ience carried it. et as they were about to
|
land, another boat cut in before then very uncivilly, and
gave theirs such a shake that Charity was all but over-
board. The company on board the uncivil boat, who evi-
dently thought the virtues extremely low persons, for they
had nothing very fashionable about their exterior, burst out
laughing at Charity's discomposure, especially as a large
basket full of buns, which Charity carried with her for any
hungry-looking children she might encounter at Richmond,
fell pounce into the water.
into the water. Courage was all on fire; he
twisted his mustachio, and would have made an onset on
the
enemy, if, to his great indignation, Meekness had not
forestalled him by stepping mildly into the hostile boat,
and offering both cheeks to the foe; this was too muc
even for the incivility of the boatmen ; they made their
excuses to the virtues, and Courage, who is no bully
thought himself bound discontentedly to accept them. But
oh, if you had seen how Courage used Meekness afterward,
you could not have believed it possible that one virtue could
could be so enraged with another! This quarrel between
the two threw a damp on the party; and they proceeded on
their voyage, when the shower was over, with any thing
but cordiality. I spare you the little squabbles that took
place in the general conversation, how Economy found
fault with all the villas by the way; and Temperance ex-
pressed becoming indignation at the luxuries of the city
barge. They arrived at Richmond, and Temperance was
appointed to order the dinner; meanwhile Hospitality,
walking in the garden, fell in with a large party of Irish-
men, and asked them to join in the repast.
Imagine the long faces of Economy and Prudence, when
they saw the addition to the company. Hospitality was
all spirits; he rubbed his hands, and called for champagne
with the tone of a younger brother. Temperance soon
grew scandalized, and Modesty herself colored at some of
the jokes; but Hospitality, who was now half-seas over,
called the one a milksop, and swore at the other as a prude.
Away went the hours; it was time to return, and they made
down to the water-side, thoroughly out of temper with one
another, Economy and Generosity quarrelling all the way
about the bill and the waiters. To make up the sum of
their mortification, they passed a boat where all the com-
pany were in the best possible spirits, laughing and whoop-
ing like mad, and discovered these jolly companions to be
two or three agreeable vices, who had put themselves under
the management of Good Temper. So you see, Gertrude,
that even the virtues may fall at loggerheads with each
other, and pass a very sad time of it, if they happen to be
of opposite dispositions, and have forgotten to take Good
Temper along with them.
"Ah!" said Gertrude, "but you have overloaded your
boat; too many virtues might contradict one another, but
not a few.”
"Voila ce que je veux dire," said Vane: "but listen to
the sequel of my tale, which now takes a new moral.”
At the end of the voyage, and after a long sulky silence,
Prudence said, with a thoughtful air, "My dear friends, I
have been thinking, that as long as we keep so entirely
together, never mixing with the rest of the world, we shall
waste our lives in quarrelling among ourselves, and run the
risk of being still less liked and sought after than we al
ready are. You know that we are none of us popular;
every one is quite contented to see us represented in a vau-
deville, or described in an essay. Charity, indeed, has
her name often taken in vain at a bazaar, or a subscription,
and the miser as often talks of the duty he owes to me,
when he sends the stranger from his door, or his grandson
to jail; but still we only resemble so many wild beasts,
whom everybody likes to see, but nobody cares to possess.
Now, I propose, that we should all separate, and take up
our abode with some mortal or other for a year, with the
power of changing at the end of that time should we not feel
ourselves comfortable, that is, should we not find that we
do all the good we intend; let us try the experiment, and
on this day twelvemonths let us all meet, under the largest
oak in Windsor Forest, and recount what has befallen us
Prudence ceased, as she always does when she has said
enough, and, delighted at the project, the virtues agreed to
adopt it on the spot. They were enchanted at the idea of
setting up for themselves, and each not doubting of his of
her success: for Economy in her heart thought Generosity
no virtue at all, and Meekness looked on Courage as little
better than a heathen,
Generosity, being the most eager and active of all the
842
BULWER'S NOVELS.
virtues, set off first on his journey. Justice followed, and
kept up with him, though at a more even pace. Charity
never heard a sigh, or saw a squalid face, but she stayed to
cheer and console the sufferer; a kindness which somewhat
retarded her progress.
say
C
it was their first quarrel, they were but six weeks mar
ried: he looked at her for one moment sternly the next be
was at her feet. Forgive me, dearest Fanny, forgive me,
for I cannot forgive myself. I was too great a wretch to
what I did; and do believe, my own Fanny, that, while
Courage espied a travelling carriage, with a man and his I may be too poor to indulge you in it, I do from my heart
wife quarrelling most conjugally, and he civilly begged he admire so noble, so disinterested a generosity.' Not a lit.
might be permitted to occupy the vacant seat opposite the tle proud did I feel to have been the cause of this exempla.
lady. Economy still lingered, inquiring for the cheapestry husband's admiration for his amiable wife, and sincere-
inns. Poor Modesty looked round, and sighed, on finding
herself so near to London, where she was almost wholly
unknown, but resolved to bend her course thither, for two
reasons: first, for the novelty of the thing; and, secondly,
not liking to expose herself to any risks by a journey on the
continent. Prudence, though the first to project, was the
last to execute; and therefore resolved to remain where she
was for that night, and take daylight for her travels.
The year rolled on, and the virtues, punctual to the ap-
pointment, met under the oak tree; they all came nearly at
the same time, excepting Economy, who had got into a re-
turn post-chaise, the horses of which, having been forty miles
in the course of the morning, had foundered by the way
and retarded her journey till night set in. The virtues looked
sad and sorrowful, as people are wont to do after a long
and fruitless journey, and somehow or other, such was the
wearing effect of their intercourse with the world, that
they appeared wonderfully diminished in size.
"Ah, my dear Generosity," said Prudence, with a sigh,
"as you were the first to set out on your travels, pray let
us hear your adventures first."
"You must know, my dear sisters," said Generosity,
'that I had not gone many miles from you before I came
to a small country town, in which a marching regiment was
quartered, and at an open window I beheld, leaning over a
gentleman's chair, the most beautiful creature imagination
ever pictured; her eyes shone out like two suns of perfect
happiness, and she was almost cheerful enough to have
passed for Good Temper herself. The gentleman over
whose chair she leaned was her husband; they had been
married six weeks; he was a lieutenant, with a hundred
pounds a year besides his pay. Greatly affected by their
poverty, I instantly determined, without a second thought,
to ensconce myself in the heart of this charming girl.
During the first hour in my new residence, I made many
wise reflections: such as, that love never was so perfect
as when accompanied by poverty; what a vulgar error it
was to call the unmarried stateSingle Blessedness;' how
wrong it was of us virtues never to have tried the marriage
boud; and what a falsehood it was to say that husbands
neglected their wives, for never was there any thing in
nature so devoted as the love of a husband, -six weeks
married!
"The next morning, before breakfast, as the charming
Fanny was waiting for her husband, who had not yet fin-
ished his toilet, a poor, wretched-looking object appeared
at the window, tearing her hair and wringing her hands;
her husband had that morning been dragged to prison, and
her seven children had fought for the last mouldy crust.
Prompted by me, Fanny, without inquiring further into the
matter, drew from her silken purse a five pound note, and |
gave it to the beggar, who departed more amazed than
grateful. Soon after, the lieutenant appeared, -'What
the d--l, another bill !' muttered he, as he tore the yellow
wafer from a large, square-folded, bluish piece of paper.
"Oh, ah! confound the fellow, he must be paid. I must
trouble you, Fanny, for fifteen pounds, to pay this saddler's
bill.'
"Fifteen pounds, love!' stammered Fanny, blushing.
"Yes, dearest, that fifteen pounds I gave you yester-
day.'
"I have only ten pounds,' said Fanny, hesitatingly,
'for such a poor wretched-looking creature was here just
now, that I was obliged to give her five pounds.'
"Five pounds! good God!' exclaimed the astonished
husband; I shall have no more money these three weeks.'
He frowned, he bit his lips, nay, he even wrung his hands,
and walked up and down the room; worse still, he broke
forth with,Surely, madain, you did not suppose, when
you married a lieutenant in a marching regiment, that he
could afford to indulge you in the whim of giving five
pounds to every mendicant who held out her hand to yon?
You did not, I say, madam, imagine but the bride-
groom was interrupted by the convulsive sobs of his wife;
ย
ly did I rejoice at having taken up my abode with these
poor people; but not to tire you, my dear sisters, with the
minutie of detail, I shall briefly say that things did not
long remain in this delightful position; for, before many
months had elapsed, poor Fanny had to bear with her hus
band's increased and more frequent storms of passion, un-
followed by any halcyon and honeymoon suings for forgive-
ness; for, at my instigation, every shilling went; and
when there were no more to go, her trinkets, and even her
clothes followed. The lieutenant became a complete brute,
and even allowed his unbridled tongue to call me,―me,
sisters, me, -heartless Extravagance.' His despicable
brother-officers, and their gossiping wives, were no better,
for they did nothing but animadvert upon my Fanny's
ostentation and absurdity, for by such names had they the
impertinence to call me. Thus grieved to the soul to find
myself the cause of all poor Fanny's misfortunes, I re-
solved at the end of the year to leave her, being thoroughly
convinced, that, however amiable and praiseworthy I might
be in myself, I was totally unfit to be bosom friend and
adviser to the wife of a lieutenant in a marching regiment,
with only a hundred pounds a year besides his pay.'
The virtues groaned their sympathy with the unfortunate
Fanny; and Prudence, turning to Justice, said,
"I long to
hear what you have been doing, for I am certain you can-
not have occasioned harm to any one."
vou.
Justice shook her head, and said, "Alas, I find that
there are times and places when even I do better not to
appear, as a short account of my adventures will prove to
No sooner had I left you than I instantly repaired
to India, and took up my abode with a Bramin.
I was
much shocked by the dreadful inequalities of condition that
reigued in the several castes, and I longed to relieve the
poor Pariah from his ignominious destiny, accordingly
—
I set seriously to work on reform. I insisted upon the
iniquity of abandoning nien from their birth to an irreme-
diable state of contempt, from which no virtue could exalt
them. The Bramins looked upon my Bramin with in-
effable horror. They called me the most wicked of vices;
they saw no distinction between justice and atheism.
I uprooted their society, that was sufficient crime.
But the worst was, that the Pariahs themselves regarded
me with suspicion; they thought it unnatural in a Bramin
to care for a Pariah! And oue called me
to care for a Pariah ! And one called me Madness,'
another Ambition,' and a third The desire to innovate.'
My poor Bramin led a miserable life of it; when one day,
after observing, at my dictation, that he thought a Pariah's
life as much entitled to respect as a cow's, he was hurried
away by the priests, and secretly broiled on the altar, as a
fitting reward for his sacrilege. I fled hither in great tribu-
lation, persuaded that in soine countries even Justice may
do harm.
<
"As for me," said Charity, not waiting to be asked,
"I grieve to say that I was silly enough to take up my
abode with an old lady in Dublin, who never knew what
discretion was, and always acted from impulse; my iusti.
gation was irresistible, and the money she gave in her
drives through the suburbs of Dublin was so lavishly spent,
that it kept all the rascals of the city in idleness and whis-
ky. I found, to my great horror, that I was a main cause
of a terrible epidemic, and that to give alms without dis-
cretion was to spread poverty without help. I left the city
when my year was out, and, as ill-b ek would have
at the time when I was most wanted.”
"And oh,” cried Hospitality,
I went to eland
also. I fixed my abode with a squ vzen; I ruined im in
a year, and only left him because he and no longer a hovel
to keep me in.”
just
"As for myself," said Temperam I entered the
breast of an English legislator, and a bought in a bill
against alehouses; the consequence way that the laborers
took to gin, and I have been forced to coals, that Tempe
rance may be too zealous, when she dictates too vehement
ly to others."
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
343
"Well," said Courage, keeping more in the back-
keeping more in the back-
ground than he had ever done before, and looking rather
ashamed of himself, "that travelling carriage I got into
belonged to a German general and his wife, who were re-
turning to their own country. Growing very cold as we
proceeded, she wrapped me up in a polonaise; but the
cold increasing, I inadvertently crept into her bosom; once
there, I could not get out, and from thenceforward the poor
general had considerably the worst of it. She became so
provoking, that I wondered how he could refrain from an
explosion. To do him justice, he did at last threaten to
get out of the carriage, upon which, roused by ine, she
collared him, and conquered. When he got to his own
district, things grew worse, for every aid-de-camp that of
fended her, she insisted that he might be publicly repre-
hended, and should the poor general refuse, she would with
her own hands confer a caning upon them. It was useless
to appeal to the archduke; for if she said it was hot, the
general dared not hint that he thought it cold, and so far
did he carry his dread of this awful dame, that he never
issued a standing order for the army, curtailed a musta-
chio, or lengthened a coat, without soliciting her opinion
first. The additional force she had gained in me was too
much odds against the poor general, and he died of a
broken heart, six months after my liaison with his wife.
She after this became so dreaded and detested, that a con-
spiracy was formed to poison her; this daunted even me,
so I left her without delay,
et me voici."
prac-
Humph!" said Meekness, with an air of triumph;
"I at least have been more successful than you. On see-
ing much in the papers of the cruelties practised by the
Turks on the Greeks, I thought my presence would enable
the poor sufferers to bear their misfortunes calmly. I went
to Greece, then, at a moment when a well-planned and
ticable scheme of emancipating themselves from the Turk-
ish yoke was arousing their youth. Without confining
myself to one individual, I flitted from breast to breast; I
meckened the whole nation; my remonstrances against the
insurrection succeeded, and I had the satisfaction of leav-
ing a whole people ready to be killed or strangled, with the
most Christian resignation in the world.”
The virtues, who had been a little cheered by the open-
ing self-complacency of Meckness, would not, to her great
astonishment, allow that she had succeeded a whit more
happily than her sisters, and called next upon Modesty for
her confession.
"You know," said that amiable young lady, "that I
went to London in search of a situation. I spent three
months of the twelve in going from house to house, but I
could not get a single person to receive me. The ladies de-
clared they never saw so old-fashioned a gawky, and civilly
recommended me to their abigails; the abigails turned me
round with a stare, and then pushed me down to the kitchen
and the fat scullion-maids, who assured me that in the
respectable families they had had the honor to live in, they
had never even heard of my name. One young house-
maid, just from the country, did indeed receive ine with
some sort of civility; but she very soon lost me in the ser-
vants' hall. I now took refuge with the other sex, as the
least uncourteous. I was fortunate enough to find a young
gentleman of remarkable talents, who welcomed me with
open arms.
He was full of learning, gentleness, and hon-
esty. I had only one rival, Ambition. We both con-
tended for an absolute empire over him. Whatever Ambi-
tion suggested, I damped. Did Ambition urge him to
begin a book, I persuaded him it was not worth publication.
Did he get up, full of knowledge, and instigated by my
rival to make a speech, (for he was in parliament,) 1
shocked him with the sense of his assurance, I made
his voice droop and his accents falter. At last, with an
At last, with an
indignant sigh, my rival left him; he retired into the
country, took orders, and renounced a career he had fondly
hoped would be serviceable to others; but finding I did
not suffice for his happiness, and piqued at his melancholy,
I left him before the end of the year, and he has since
taken to drinking!
-
The eyes of the virtues were all turned to Prudence.
She was their last hope, "I am just where I set out,'
said that discreet virtue; "I have done neither good nor
harm. To avoid temptation, I went and lived with a her-
mit, to whom I soon found that I could be of no use be-
yond warning him not to overboil his pease and lintels, not
o leave his door open when a storm threatened, and not to
|
fill his pitcher too full at he neighbouring spring. I am
thus the only one of you that never did harm; but only
because I am the only one of you that never had an oppor
tunity of doing it! In a word," continued Prudence,
thoughtfully, "in a word, my friends, circumstances are
necessary to the virtues themselves. Had, for instance,
Economy changed with Generosity, and gone to the poor
lieutenant's wife, and had I lodged with the Irish squireen
instead of Hospitality, what misfortunes would have been
saved to both! Alas! I perceive we lose our efficacy when
we are misplaced; and then, though in reality virtues, we
operate as vices. Circumstances must be favorable to our
exertions and harmonious with our nature; and we lose
our very divinity unless Wisdom directs our foots.eps to
the home we should inhabit, and the dispositions we should
govern.'
The story was ended, and the travellers began to dispatc
about its moral. Here let us leave them
CHAPTER VII.
Cologne. The traces of the Roman yoke. The church of St.
Mary. Trevylyan's reflections on the monastic life. The
tomb of the three kings. -An evening excursion on the
Rhine.
ROME, magnificent Rome! wherever the pilgrim
wends, the traces of thy dominion greet his eyes. Still, in
the heart of the bold German race is graven the print of
the eagle's claws; and amid the haunted regions of the
Rhine, we pause to wonder at the great monuments of the
Italian yoke.
At Cologne our travellers rested for some days. They
were in the city to which the camp of Marcus Agrippa had
given birth: that spot had resounded with the armed tread
of the legions of Trajan. In that city, Vitellius, Sylva-
nus, were proclaimed emperors. By that church did the
latter receive his death.
As they passed round e door, they saw some peasants
loitering on the sacred ground; and when they noted the
delicate cheek of Gertrude, they uttered their salutations
with more than common respect. Where they then were,
the building swept round in a circular forni; and at its
base it is supposed, by tradition, to retain something of the
ancient Roman masonry. Just before them rose the spire of
a plain and unadorned church, singularly contrasting the
pomp in the old with the simplicity of the innovating creed.
The church of St. Mary occupies the site of the Roman
capitol; and the place retains the Roman name and still
something of the aspect of the people betrays the heredi-
tary blood.
Gertrude, whose nature was strongly impressed with the
venerating character, was singularly fond of visiting the
old Gothic churches, which, with so eloquent a moral, unite
the living with the dead.
And to
"Pause for a moment, " said Trevylyan, before they
entered the church of St. Mary. "What recollections
crowd upon us! ! On the site of the Roman capitol, a
Christian church and a convent are erected! By whom!
the mother of Charles Martel, the conqueror of the Sar-
acen, the arch-hero of Christendom itself!
these scenes and calm retreats, to the cloisters of the con-
veut once belonging to this church, fled the bruised spiza
of a royal sufferer, the wife of Henry IV., the victim
of Richelieu, the unfortunate Mary de Medicis. Alas!
the cell and the convent are but a vain emblem of that de
sire to fly to God which belongs to distress; the solitude
soothes, but the monotony recalls regret. And for my ow
part, I never saw in my frequent tours through Catholic
countries, the still walls in which monastic vanity hoped to
shut out the world, but a melancholy came over me! What
hearts at war with themselves! what unceasing regrets!
M
—
The weary
what pinings after the past!—what long and beautiful
years devoted to a inoral grave, by a momentary rashuess,
an impulse,— a disappointment ! But in these church-
es the lesson is more impressive and less sad
heart has ceased to ache,- -the burning pulses are still,
the troubled spirit has flown to the only rest which is not a
deceit Power and love, hope and fear, avarice,-
ambition, they are quenched at last! Death is the only
monastery, the tomb is the only cell; and the grave tha
adjoins the convent is the bitterest mock of its futility!
Your passion is ever for active life," said Gertrude,
844
BULWER'S NOVELS.

"you allow no charm to solitude; and contemplation to
You seems torture. If
any great sorrow ever come upon
you, you will never retire to seclusion as its balın. You
will plunge into the world, and lose your individual exist-
ence in the universal rush of life.'
Ah, talk not of sorrow!" said Trevylyan, wildly,-
"let us enter the church.'
They went afterward to the celebrated cathedral, which
is considered one of the noblest ornaments of the architec-
tural triumphs of Germany; but it is yet more worthy of
notice from the pilgrim of romance than the searcher after
antiquity; for here, behind the grand altar, is the tomb of
the three kings of Cologne, the three worshippers, whom
tradition humbled to our Saviour. Legend is rife with a
thousand tales of the relics of this tomb. The three kings
of Cologne are the tutelary names of that golden supersti-
tion which has often more votaries than the religion itself
from which it springs; and to Gertrude the simple story
of Lucille sufficed to make her for the moment, credulous
of the sanctity of the spot. Behind the tomb three
Gothic windows cast their "dim religious light" over
the tesselated pavement and along the Ionic pillars. They
found some of the more credulous believers in the au-
thenticity of the relics kneeling before the tomb, and
they arrested their steps, fearful to disturb the superstition
which is never without something of sanctity when con-
tented with prayer, and forgetful of persecution. The bones
of the Magi are still supposed to consecrate the tomb, and
on the higher part of the monument the artist has delineated
their adoration to the infant Saviour.
That evening came on with a still and tranquil beauty,
and as the sun hastened to its close they launched their boat
for an hour or two's excursion upon the Rhine. Gertrude
was in that happy mood when the quiet of Nature is enjoyed
like a bath for the soul, and the presence of him she so
idolized deepened that stillness into a more delicious and
subduing calin. Little did she dream, as the boat glided
over the water, and the towers of Cologne rose in the blue
air of evening, how few were those hours that divided her
from the tomb! But, in looking back to the life of one we
have loved, how dear is the thought, that the latter days
were the days of light, that the cloud never chilled the
beauty of the setting sun, and that if the years of existence
were brief, all that existence has most tender, most
sacred, was crowded into that space! Nothing dark,
then, or bitter, rests with our remembrance of the lost;
we are the mourners, but pity is not for the mourned,
our grief is purely selfish; when we turn to its object, the
hues of happiness are round it, and that very love which
is the parent of our woe was the consolation the triumph
- of the departed!
The majestic Rhine was calm as a lake; the splashing
of the oar only broke the stillness, and, after a long pause
in their conversation, Gertrude, putting her hand on Tre-
vylyan's arm, reminded him of a promised story; for he
too had moods of abstraction, which, in her turn, she loved
to lure him from; and his voice to her had become a sort
of want, which, if it ceased too long, she thirsted to enjoy.
"Let it be," said she, a tale suited to the hour; no
fierce tradition, nay, no grotesque fable, but of the ten-
derer dye of superstition. Let it be of love, of woman's
'ore, of the love that defies the grave; for surely even
after death it lives; and heaven would scarcely be heaven
if memory were banished from its blessings.
""
a
"I recollect," said Trevylyan, after a slight pause,
short German legend, the simplicity of which touched me
much when I heard it; but," added he, with a slight
smile, so much more faithful appears in the legend the
love of the woman than that of the man, that I at least
ought scarcely to recite it."
£6
Nay," said Gertrude, tenderly, "the fault of the
inconstant only heightens our gratitude to the faithful.”
CHAPTER VIII.
The soul in purgatory, or, love stronger than death.
THE angels strung their harps in heaven, and their mu-
sic went up like a stream of odors to the pavilions of the
Most High. But the harp of Seralim was sweeter than
that of his fellows, and the voice of the Invisible One (for
the angels themselves know not the glories of Jehovah,
only far in the depths of heaven, they see one unsleeping
reye watching for ever over creation) was hoard, saying,
"Ask a gift for the love that burns upon thy song, and
it shall be given thee."
And Seralim answered
"There are in that place which men call purgatory, and
which is the escape from hell, but the painful porch of
heaven, many souls that adore Thee, and yet are punished
justly for their sins; grant me the boon to visit them at
times, and solace their suffering by the hymns of the harp
that is consecrated to Thee!
And the voice answered
and
"Thy prayer is heard, oh gentlest of the angels
it seems good to Him who chastises but from love. Go!
Thou hast thy will."
Then the angel sang the praises of God, and when the
song was done, he rose from his azure throne at the right
band of Gabriel, and spreading his rainbow wings, he flew
to that melancholy orb which, nearest to earth, echces with
the shrieks of souls, that by torture become pure. There
the unhappy ones see from afar the bright courts they are
hereafter to obtain, and the shapes of glorious beings, who,
fresh from the fountains of immortality, walk amid the
gardens of paradise, and feel that their happiness hath no
morrow; and this thought consoles amid their torments,
and makes the true difference between purgatory and hell.
Then the angel folded his wings, and, entering the crystal
gates, sat down upon a blasted rock, and struck his divine
lyre, and a peace fell over the wretched; the demon ceased
to torture, and the victim to wail. As sleep to the mourn-
ers of earth was the song of the angel to the souls of the
purifying star; one only voice amid the general stillness
seemed not lulled by the angel; it was the voice of a
woman, and it continued to cry out with a sharp cry
"Oh, Adenheim, Adenheim, mourn not for the lost!"
The angel struck chord after chord, till his most skilful
melodies were exhausted, but still the solitary voice, un-
heeding, unconscious even, of the sweetest harp of the
angel choir, cried out —
Oh, Adenheim, Adenheim, mourn not for the lost!”
Then Seralim's interest was aroused, and approaching
the spot whence the voice came, he saw the spirit of a
young and beautiful girl chained to a rock, and the demons
lying idly by. And Seralim said to the demons, " Doth
the song lull ye thus to rest?"
And they answered, “Her care for another is bitterer
than all our torments; therefore are we idle."
Then the angel approached the spirit, and said, in a
voice which stilled her cry, for in what state do we
outlive sympathy? -"Wherefore, O daughter of earth,
wherefore wailest thou with the same plaintive wail? and
why doth the harp that soothes the most guilty of thy com-
panions fail in its melody with thee?"
"Oh! radiant stranger," answered the poor spirit,
"thou speakest to one who on earth loved God's creature
more than God; therefore is she thus justly sentenced.
But I know that my poor Adenheim mourns ceasclessly for
me, and the thought of his sorrow is more intolerable to
me than all that the demons can inflict."
"And how knowest thou that he laments thee?" asked
the angel.
"Because I know with what agony I should have
mourned for him," replied the spirit, simply.
The divine nature of the angel was touched; for love is
the nature of the sons of heaven. "And how," said he,
can I minister to thy sorrow?”
up
A transport seemed to agitate the spirit, and she lifted
her mistlike and impalpable arms, and cried :
"Give me,
oh, give me to return to earth but for one
little hour, that I may visit my Adenheim; and that, con-
cealing from him my present sufferings, I may comfort him
in his own.
دو
"Alas!" said the augel, turning away his eyes, for
angels may not weep in the sight of others, "I could,
indeed, grant thee this boon, but thou knowest not the
penalty. For the souls in pugatory may return to earth,
but heavy is the sentence that awaits their return.
word, for one hour on earth, thou must add a thousand
years to the tortures of thy confinement here!"
In a
"Is that all?” cried the spirit; "willingly, then, will
I brave the doom. Ah, surely they love not in heaven, or
thou wouldst know, O celestial visitant, that one hour of
consolation to the one we love is worth a thousand thousand
ages of torture to ourselves! Let me comfort and convince
my Adenheim; no matter what becomes of me.'
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
848
Then the angel looked on high, and he saw in far distant
regions, which in that orb none else could discern, the rays
that parted from the all-guarding Eye, and heard the
VOICE of the Eternal One, bidding him act as his pity
whispered. He looked on the spirit, and her shadowy arms
stretched pleadingly toward him he uttered the word that
looses the bars of the gate of purgatory; and lo, the spirit
had reëntered the human world.
It was night in the halls of the Lord of Adenheim; and
he sat at the head of his glittering board; loud and long
was the laugh, and merry the jest that echoed round; and
the laugh and the jest of the Lord of Adenheim were louder
and merrier than all.
And by his right side sat a beautiful lady; and ever and
anon he turned from others to whisper soft vows in her ear.
"And oh," said the bright dame of Falkenberg, "thy
words what ladye can believe? didst thou not utter the
same oaths and promise the same love, to Ida, the fair
daughter of Loden; and now but three little months have
closed upon her grave?"
"By my halidom," quoth the young Lord of Adenheim,
"thou dost thy beauty marvellous injustice. Ida! Nay,
thou mockest me; I love the daughter of Loden! why,
how then should I be worthy thee? A few gay words, a
A few gay words, a
few passing smiles, behold all the love Adenheim ever
bore to Ida. Was it my fault if the poor fool misconstrued
such common courtesy? Nay, dearest lady, this heart is
virgin to thee.”
"And what!" said the Lady of Falkenberg, as she suf-
fered the arm of Adenheim to encircle her slender waist,
"didst thou not grieve for her loss?
"Why, verily, yes, for the first week; but in thy bright
eves I found ready consolation."
At this moment, the Lord of Adenheim thought he heard
a deep sigh behind him; he turned, but saw nothing, save
a slight mist that gradually faded away, and vanished in
the distance. Where was the necessity for Ida to reveal
herself!
"And thou didst not, then, do thine errand to thy
lover" said Seralim, as the spirit of the wronged Ida
returned to purgatory.
"Bid the demons recommence their torture," was poor
Ida's answer.
"And was it for this that thou hast added a thousand
years to thy doom?
"Alas," answered Ida, "after the single hour I have
endured on earth, there seems to be but little terrible in a
thousand fresh years of purgatory!" *
"What is the story ended?" asked Gertrude.
"Yes."
Nay, surely the thousand years were not added to poor
Ida's doom; and Seralim bore her back with him to
heaven?"
-
toral errors that enamoured us of the village life, crowd
thick and fast upon us. So still do these hamlets seem, so
sheltered from the passions of the world; as if the passions
were not like winds, only felt where they breathe, and
invisible, save by their effects! Leaping into the broad
bosom of the Rhine comes many a stream and rivulet upon
either side. Spire upon spire rises and sinks as you sail
on. Mountain and city, the solitary island, the cas-
tled steep,
like the dreams of ambition, suddenly appea.,
proudly swell, and dimly fade away.
"You begin now," said Trevylyan, "to understand the
character of the German literature. The Rhine is an em-
blem of its luxuriance, its fertility, its romance. The best
commentary to the German genius is a visit to the German
scenery. The mighty gloom of the Hartz, the feudal towers
that look over vines and deep valleys on the legendary
Rhine; the gigantic remains of antique power, profusely
scattered over plain, mount, and forest; the thousand mixed
recollections that hallow the ground; the stately Roman,
the stalwart Goth, the chivalry of the feudal age, and the
dim brotherhood of the ideal world, have here alike their
record and their remembrance. And over such scenes the
young German student wanders. Instead of the pomp and
luxury of the English traveller, the thousand devices to
cheat the way, he has but his volume in his hand, his knap-
sack at his back. From such scenes he draws and hives
all that various store, which after-years ripen to invention
Hence the florid mixture of the German muse, the classic,
the romantic, the contemplative, the philosophic, and the
superstitious. Each the result of actual meditation over
different scenes. Each the produce of separate but con-
fused recollections. As the Rhine flows, so flows the
national genius by mountain and valley, the wildest soli-
tude, the sudden spires of ancient cities, the moul-
dered castle, the stately monastery, the humble cot.
Grandeur and homeliness, history and superstition, truth
and fable, succeeding one another so as to blend into a whole.
-
"But," added Trevylyan, a moment afterward, "the
ideal is passing slowly away from the German mind, a
spirit for the more active and the more material literature
is springing up among them. The revolution of mind
gathers on, preceding stormy events; and me memories
that led their grandsires to contemplate, will urge the youth
of the next generation to dare and to act.”
Thus conversing, they continued their voyage, with a
fair wave, and beneath a lucid sky.
The vessel now glided beside the Seven Mountains and
the Drachenfels.
The sun, slowly progressing to his decline, cast his
yellow beams over the smooth waters. At the foot of the
mountains lay a village deeply sequestered in shade; and
above, the ruin of the Drachenfels caught the richest
beams of the sun. Yet thus alone, though lofty, the ray
cheered not the gloom that hung over the giant rock; it
stood on high, like some great name on which the light of
glory may shine, but which is associated with a certain
above the level of the herd condemned its owner!
"The legend saith no more. The writer was contented melancholy, from the solitude to which its very height
to show us the perpetuity of woman's love-
"And its reward," added Vane.
"It was not I who drew that last conclusion, Albert,"
whispered Gertrude.
CHAPTER IX
The scenery of the Rhine analogous to the German literary
genius. - The Drachenfels.
ON leaving Cologne, the stream winds round among
banks that do not yet fulfil the promise of the Rhine but
they increase in interest as you leave Surdt and Godorf.
The peculiar character of the river does not, however,
really appear, until by degrees the Seven Mountains, and
"The Castled Crag of Drachenfels "above them all, break
upon the eye. Around Neider Cassel and Rheidt the vines
lie thick and clustering; and, by the shore you see from
place to place the islands stretching their green length
along, and breaking the exulting tide. Village rises
village, and viewed from the distance as you sail, the pas-
*This story is principally borrowed from a foreign soil. It
seemed to the author worthy of being transferred to an English
one, although he fears that much of its singular beauty in the
original has been lost by the way.
VOL II.
44
upon
CHAPTER X.
The Legend of Roland. -The adventures of Nymphalin on the
island of Nonneworth. — Her song. The decay of the fairy-
faith in England.
ON the shore opposite the Drachenfels stand the ruins
of Rolandseck; they are the shattered crown of a lofty
and perpend cular mountain, consecrated to the memory of
the brave Roland; below, the trees of an island to wh'ch
the lady of Roland retired, rise thick and verdant from the
smooth tide.
Nothing can exceed the wild and eloquent grandeur of
the whole scene. That spot is the pride and beauty of the
Rhine.
The legend that consecrates the tower and the island is
briefly told; it belongs to a class so common to the Ro-
maunts of Germany. Roland goes to the wars. A false
report of his death reaches his betrothed. She retires to
the convent in the isle of Nonneworth, and takes the irrev
ocable veil. Roland returns home, flushed with glory and
hope, to find that the very fidelity of his affianced had
placed an eternal barrier between them. He built the
846
BULWER'S NOVELS.
castle that bears his name, and which overlooks the monas-
tery, and dwelt there till his death; happy in the power at
least to gaze, even to the last, upon those walls which held
the treasure he had lost.
The willows droop in mournful luxuriance along the
island, and harmonize with the memory that, through the
desert of a thousand years, love still keeps green and fresh.
Nor hath it permitted even those additions of fiction.
which, like mosses, gather by time over the truth that they
adorn, yet adorning conceal,-to mar the simple tender-
ness of the legend.
All was still in the island of Nonneworth; the lights
shone through the trees from the house that contained our
travellers. On one smooth spot, where the islet shelves
into the Rhine, met the wandering fairies.
"Oh! Pipalee, how beautiful!" cried Nymphalin, as
she stood enraptured by the wave; a star-beain shining on
her, with her yellow hair "dancing its ringlets in the
whistling wind. "For the first time since our departure,
I do not miss the green fields of England.
"I
• Hist!" said Pipalee, under her breath, " I hear fairy
steps; they must be the steps of strangers.
"Let us retreat into this thicket of weeds," said Nym-
phalin, somewhat alarmed
; "the good lord-treasurer is
already asleep there." They whisked into what to them
was a forest, for the reeds were two feet high, and there,
sure enough, they found the lord-treasurer stretched beneath
a bulrush, with his pipe beside him, for since he had been
in Germany, he had taken to smoking; and indeed wild
thyme, properly dried, makes very good tobacco for a fairy.
They also found Nip and Trip sitting very close together;
Nip playing with her hair, which was exceedingly beautiful.
"What do you do here?" said Pipalee, shortly; for she
was rather an old maid, and did not like fairies to be too
close to each other.
66
Watching my lord's slumber," said Nip.
"Pshaw," said Pipalee.
Nay," quoth Trip, blushing like a sea-shell,
is no harm in that, I'm sure.'
CC
"there
|
Hush," said the queen, peeping through the reeds.
And now forth from the green bosom of the earth came
a tiny train; slowly, two by two, hand in hand, they swept
from a small aperture, shadowed with fragrant herbs, and
formed themselves into a ring; then came other fairies,
laden with dainties, and presently two beautiful white mush-
rooms sprang up, on which their viands were placed, and
lo, there was a banquet! Oh! how merry they were;
what gentle peals of laughter, loud as a virgin's sigh; what
jests, what songs! Happy race! if mortals could see you
as often as I do, in the soft nights of summer, they would
never be at a loss for entertainment. But as our English
fairies looked on, they saw that these foreign elves were of
a different race from themselves; they were taller, and less
handsome, their hair was darker, they wore mustachios,
and had something of a fiercer air. Poor Nymphalin was
a little frightened; but presently soft music was heard
floating along, something like the sound we suddenly hear
of a still night, when a light breeze steals through
rushes, or wakes a ripple in some shallow brook dancing
over pebbles. And lo, from the aperture of the earth came
forth a fairy superbly dressed, and of a noble presence.
The queen started back, Pipalee rubbed her eyes, Trip
Looked over Pipalee's shoulders, and Nip, pinching her arm,
cried out amazed, "By the last new star, that is Prince
Von Fayzenheim!"
Poor Nymphalin gazed again, and her little heart beat
under her bee's-wing boddice as if it would break. The
prince had a melancholy air, and he sat apart from the ban-
quet, gazing abstractedly on the Rhine.
"Ah!" whispered Nymphalin to herself, "does he
think of me?"
Presently the prince drew forth a little flute, hollowed
from a small reed, and began to play a mournful air. Nym-
phalin listened with delight; it was one he had learned in
her dominions.
When the air was over, the prince rose, and approaching
the banqueters, despatched them on different errands;
one to visit the dwarf of the Drachenfels, and another to
look after the grave of Musæus, and a whole detachment
to puzzle the students of Heidelberg. A few launched
themselves upon willow leaves on the Rhine, to cruise about
in the starlight, and another band set out a hunting after
the gray-legged moth. The prince was left alone; and now
Nymphalin, seeing the coast clear, wrapped herself up to
a cloak made out of a withered leaf; and only letting her
eyes glow out from the hood, she glided from the reeds,
and the prince, turning round, saw a dark fairy figure by
his side. He drew back, a little startled, and placed his
hand on his sword, when Nymphalin, circling around him,
sang the following words :
THE FAIRY'S REPROACH.
1.
By the glow-worm's lamp in the dewy brake;
By the gossamer's airy net;
By the shifting skin of the faithless snake;
Oh, teach me to forget:
For none, ah none,
Can teach so well that human spell
As thou, false one!
II.
By the fairy dance on the greensward smooth;
By the winds of the gentle west;
By the loving stars, when their soft looks scothe
The waves on their mother's breast;
Teach me thy lore!
By which like withered flowers,
The leaves of buried hours
Blossom no more '
III.
By the tent in the violet's bell;
By the may on the scented bough;
By the lone green isle where my sisters dwe..;
And thine own forgotten vow;
Teach me to live,
Nor turn with thoughts that pine
For love so false as thine!
Teach me thy lore,
And one thou lovest no more
Wili bless thee and forgive!
Surely," said Fayzenheim, faltering, surely I know
that voice.
And Nymphalin's cloak dropped off her shoulder. “
My
English fairy!" and Fayzenheim knelt beside her.
I wish you had seen the fay kneel, for you would have
sworn it was so like a human lover, that you would never
have sneered at love afterward. Love is so fairylike a part
of us,
that even a fairy cannot make it differently from us,
that is to say, when we love truly.
There was great joy in the island that night among the
elves. They conducted Nymphalin to their palace within the
earth, and feasted her sumptuously; and Nip told their ad-
ventures with so much spirit that he enchanted the merry
foreigners. But Fayzenheim talked apart with Nymphalin,
and told her how he was lord of that island, and how he
had been obliged to return to his dominions by the law of
his tribe, which allowed him to be absent only a certain
time in every year ;
time in every year; but, my queen, I always intended
to revisit thee next spring."
"Thou needest not have left us so abruptly," said Nym
phalin, blushing.
"But do thou never leave me!" said the ardent fuiry ;
"be mine, and let our nuptials be celebrated on these
shores. Wouldst thou sigh for thy green island? No! for
there the fairy altars are deserted, the faith is gone from the
land, thou art among the last of an unhonored and expiring
race. Thy mortal poets are dumb, and fancy, which was
thy priestess, sleeps hushed in her last repose. New and
hard creeds have succeeded to the fairy lore. Who steals
through the starlit boughs on the nights of June to watch
the roundels of the tribe? The wheels of commerce, the
in or trade, have silenced to mortal ear the music of thy
subjects' harps! And the noisy habitations of men, harsher
than their dreaming sires, are gathering round the dell and
vale where thy co-mates linger; a few years, and where
will be the green solitudes of England?
The queen sighed, and the prince, perceiving that he
was listened to, continued,
"Who in thy native shores, among the children of men,
now claims the fairy's care? What cradle wouldst thou
tend?
tend? On what maid wouldst thou shower thy rosy gifts?
What bard wouldst thou haunt in his dreams? Poesy is
fled the island, why shouldst thou linger behind? Time
hath brought dull customs that laugh at thy gentle being.
Puck is buried in the hare-bell, he has left no offspring,
and none mourn for his loss; for night, which is the fairy
season, is busy and garish as the day What heart is
desolate after the curfew? What house bathed in still
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
347
ness at the hour in which thy revels commence? Thine
empire among men has passed from thee, and thy race are
vanishing from the crowded soil. For, despite our diviner
nature, our existence is linked with man's. Their neglect
is our disease, their forgetfulness our death. Leave then
those dull yet troubled scenes that are closing round the
fairy rings of thy native isle. These mountains, this herb-
age, these gliding waves, these mouldering ruins, these
starred rivulets, be they, O beautiful fairy! thy new do-
main. Yet in these lands our worship lingers; still can
we fill the thought of the young bard, and mingle with his
yearnings after the beautiful, the unseen. Hither come
the pilgrims of the world, anxious only to gather from
these scenes the legends of us; ages will pass away ere
the Rhine shall be desecrated of our haunting presence.
Come then, my queen, let this palace be thine own, and the
moon that glances over the shattered towers of the Dragon
Rock witness our nuptials and our vows!"
In such words the fairy prince courted the young queen,
and while she sighed at their truth, she yielded to their
charm. Oh! still may there be one spot on the earth where
the fairy feet may press the legendary soil, still be there
one land where the faith of the bright invisible hallows
and inspires! Still glide thou, oh majestic and solemn
Rhine, among shades and valleys, from which the wisdom
of belief can call the creations of the younger world!
CHAPTER XI.
Wherein the reader is made spectator with the English fairies
of the scenes and beings that are beneath the earth.
DURING the heat of next day's noon, Fayzenheim took
the English visiters through the cool caverns that wind
amid the mountains of the Rhine. There a thousand won-
ders awaited the eyes of the fairy queen. I speak not of the
Gothic arch and aisle into which the hollow earth forms
itself, or the stream that rushes with a mighty voice
through the dark chasm, or the silver columns that shoot
alt, worked by the gnomes from the mines of the moun-
tains of Taunus; but of the strange inhabitants that from
time to time they came upon. They found in one solitary
cell, lined with dried moss, two misshapen elves, of a
larger size than common, with a plebeian, working-day
aspect, who were chatting noisily together, and making a
pair of boots: these were the haus-mannen or domestic
elves, that dance into tradesmen's houses of a night, and
play all sorts of undignified tricks, Pucks without his
graces. They were very civil to the queen, for they are
good-natured creatures on the who, and once had inany
relations in Scotland. They then, following the course of a
noisy rivulet, came to a hole, from which the sharp head of
a fox peeped out. The queen was frightened. “Oh, come
on," said the fox, encouragingly, "I am one of the fairy
race, and many are the gambols we of the brute-elves play
Indeed, Mr. Fox,'
in the German world of romance.
P
tr
said the prince, " you only speak the truth; and how is
Mr. Brain?' "Quite well, my prince; but tired of his
seclusion, for indeed our race can do little or nothing now
in the world, and lie here in our old age, telling stories of
the past, and recalling the exploits we did in our youth;
which, madam, you may see in all the fairy histories in the
prince's library.
"Your own love adventures, for instance, Master Fox,"
said the prince.
The fox snarled angrily, and drew in his head.
"You have displeased your friend," said Nymphalin.
"Yes,
he likes no allusions to the amorous follies of
his youth.
Did you ever hear of his rivalry with the dog,
for the cat's good graces ?"
—
"No,
that must be very amusing."
"Well, my queen, when we rest by and by, I will re-
late to you the history of the fox's wooing.
The next place they came to was a vast Runic cavern,
covered with dark inscriptions of a forgotten tongue; and
sitting on a huge stone they found a dwarf with long yel-
low hair, his head leaning on his breast, and absorbed in
meditation.
"This is a spirit of a wise and powerful race," whis-
pered Fayzenheim, "that has often battled with the
fairies; but he is of the kindly tribe."
Then the dwarf lifted his head with a tournful air, and
gazed upon the bright shapes before him, lighted by the
pine torches that the prince's attendants carried.
"And what dost thou muse upon, O descendant of the
race of Laurin ?" said the prince.
"Upon time!" answered the dwarf, gloomily. "I
see a river, and its waves are black, flowing from the
clouds, and none knoweth its source. It rolls deeply on,
aye and evermore, through a green valley, which it slowly
swallows up, washing away tower and town, and vanquish-
ing all things; and the naine of the river is Time."
Then the dwarf's head sank on his bosom, and he spoke
no more.
The fairies proceeded :-" Above us," said the prince,
"rises one of the loftiest mountains of the Rhine; for
mountains are the dwarfs' home. When the Great Spirit
of all made earth, He saw that the interior of the rocks
and hills were tenantless; and yet that a mighty kingdom
and great palaces were hid within them; a dread and dark
solitude, but lighted at times from the starry eyes of many
jewels; and there was the treasure of the human world,
gold and silver, and great heaps of gems, and a soil of
metals. So God made a race for this vast empire, and
gifted them with the power of thought, and the soul of
exceeding wisdom; so that they want not the merriment
and enterprise of the outer world: but musing in these
dark caves is their delight. Their existence rolls away in
the luxury of thought; only from time to time they appear
in the world, and betoken woe or weal to men; according
to their nature, for they are divided into two tribes, the
benevolent and the wrathful." While the prince spoke,
they saw glaring upon them from a ledge in the upper rock,
a grisly face with a long matted beard. The prince gath-
ered himself up, and frowned at the evil dwarf, for such
it was; but with a wild laugh the face abruptly disap
peared, and the echo of the laugh rang with a ghastly
sound through the long hollows of the earth.
“Fear not, my
The queen clung to Fayzenheim's arm.
queen," said he ; "the evil race hath no power over our
light and aërial nature; with men only they war; and he
whom we have seen was in the old ages of the world one
of the deadliest visiters to mankind."
But now they came winding by a passage to a beautiful
recess in the mountain empire; it was of a circular shape,
and of amazing height, and in the midst of it played a nat-
ural fountain of sparkling waters, and around it were
columns of massive granite, rising in countless vistas, till
lost in the distant shade. Jewels were scattered round,
and brightly played the fairy torches on the gem, the foun-
tain, and the pale silver, that gleamed at frequent inter-
"Here let us rest," said the gallant
fairy, clapping his hands, "what, ho! music and the
vals from the rocks.
feast."
So the feast was spread by the fountain's side; and the
courtiers scattered rose-leaves, which they had brought with
them for the prince and his visiter; and amidst the dark
kingdom of the dwarfs broke the delicate sound of fairy
lutes. "We have not these evil beings in England," said
the queen, as low as she could speak; “ they rouse my fear,
but iny interest also. Tell me, dear prince, of what nature
was the intercourse of the evil dwarf with man?"
"You know," answered the prince," that to every
species of living thing there is something in common; the
vast chain of sympathy runs through all creation. By that
which they have in common with the beast of the field, or
the bird of the air, men govern the inferior tribes; they
appeal to the common passions of fear and emulation when
they tame the wild steed; to the common desire of greed
and gain when they snare the fishes of the stream, or allure
the wolves to the pitfall by the bleating of the lamb. In
their turn, in the older ages of the world, it was by the
passions which men had in common with the demon raco
that the fiends commanded or allured them. The dwarf
whom you saw, being of that race which is characterized
by the ambition of power and the desire of hoarding,
appealed then in his intercourse with men to the same
characteristics in their own bosoms; to ambition or to
avarice. And thus were his victims made! But not now,
dearest Nymphalin," continued the prince, with a more
lively air, not now will we speak of those gloomy beings.
Ho, there! cease the music, and come hither all of ye, to
listen to a faithful and homely history of the dog, the cat
the griffin, and the fox.”
248
BULWER'S NOVELS
CHAPTER XII.
The wooing of Master Fox.*
You are aware, my dear Nymphalin, that in the time
of which I am about to speak, there was no particular
eninity between the various species of brutes; the dog and
the hare chatted very agreeably together, and all the world
knows that the wolf, unacquainted with mutton, had a par-
ticular affection for the lamb. In these happy days, two
most respectable cats, of very old family, had an only
daughter; never was kitten more amiable, or more seduc-
ing; as she grew up she manifested so many charms, that
she in a little while became noted as the greatest beauty in
the neighbourhood; need I to you, dearest Nymphalin,
describe her perfections? Suffice it to say that her skin
was of the most delicate tortoise-shell, that her paws were
smoother than velvet, that her whiskers were twelve inches
long at the least, and that her eyes had a gentleness
altogether astonishing in a cat. But if the young beauty
had suitors in plenty during the lives of monsieur and
madame, you may suppose the number was not diminished
when, at the age of two years and a half, she was left an
orphan, and sole heiress to all the hereditary property. In
fine, she was the richest marriage in the whole country.
Without troubling you, dearest queen, with the adventures
of the rest of her lovers, with their suit and their rejection,
I come at once to the two rivals most sanguine of success,
the dog and the fox.
Now the dog was a handsome, honest, straight-forward,
affectionate fellow: "For my part," said he, "I don't
wonder at my cousin's refusing Bruin the bear, and Gaunt-
grim the wolf; to be sure they give themselves great airs,
and call themselves noble; but what then? Bruin is
always in the sulks, and Gauntgrim always in a passion; a
cat of any sensibility would lead a miserable life with them:
as for me, I am very good-tempered when I am not put
out; and I have no fault except that of being angry if dis-
turbed at my meals. I am young and good-looking, fond
of play and amusement, and altogether as agreeable a hus-
Dand as a cat could find in a summer's day. If she marries
me, well and good; she may have her property settled on
herself, if not, I shall bear her no malice; and I hope I
shan't be too much in love to forget that there are other
cats in the world.”
you
With that the dog threw his tail over his back, and set
off to his mistress with a gay face on the matter.
Now the fox heard the dog talking thus to himself,
for
the fox was always peeping about in holes and corners, and
he burst out a laughing when the dog was out of sight.
"Ho, ho, my fine fellow," said he, "not so fast, if
please; you've got the fox for a rival, let me tell you.
The fox, as you very well know, is a beast that can never
do any thing without a manoeuvre; and as, from his cun-
ning, he was generally very lucky in any thing he under-
took, he did not doubt for a moment that he should put the
dog's nose out of joint. Renard was aware that in love
one should always, if possible, be the first in the field, and
he therefore resolved to get the start of the dog and arrive
before him at the cat's residence. But this was no easy
matter; for though Renard could run faster than the dog
for a little way, he was no match for him in a journey of
some distance. However," said Renard, "those good-
natured creatures are never very wise; and I think I know
already what wil make him bait on his way."
CC
With that, the fox trotted pretty fast by a short cut in
the woods, and getting before the dog, laid himself down
by a hole in the earth and began to how! most piteously.
The dog, hearing the noise, was very much alarmed;
"See now," said he, "if the poor fox has not got himself
into some scrape. Those cunning creatures are always in
mischief; thank heaven, it never comes into my head to be
cunning. And the good-natured animal ran off as hard
as he could to see what was the matter with the fox.
* In the excursions of the fairies, it is the object of the author
to bring before the reader a rapid phantasmagoria of the various
beings that belong to the German superstitions, so that the
work may thus describe the outer and the inner world of the
and of the Rhine. The tale of the fox's wooing has been com-
posed to give the English reader an idea of a species of novel
not naturalized among us, though frequent among the legends
of our Irish neighbours; in which the brutes are the only char-
acters drawn,-drawn, too, with all nice and subtle shades of
distinction, and with as much variety of traits as if they were
the creates of the civilized world.
"Oh dear!" cried Renard; "what shall I do, what
shall I do? my poor little sister has gotten into this hole,
and I can't get her out, - she'll certainly be smothered "
And the fox burst out a howling more piteously than before.
"But, my dear Renard," quoth the dog, very simply,
"why don't you go in after your sister?"
"Ah, you may well ask that,
well ask that," said the fox; "but, in
trying to get in, don't you perceive that I have sprained my
back, and can't stir? Oh dear! what shall I do if my
poor little sister gets smothered?
CC
Pray don't vex yourself," said the dog; "I'll get her
out in an instant;" and with that he forced himself with
great difficulty into the hole.
Now no sooner did the fox see that the dog was fairly in,
than he rolled a great stone to the mouth of the hole, and
fitted it so tight that the dog, not being able to turn round
and scratch against it with his forepaws, was made a c‚ose
prisoner.
CC
Ha, ha," cried Renard, laughing outside; amuse
yourself with my poor little sister, while I go and make
your compliments to mademoiselle the cat.
With that Renard set off at an easy pace, never troub-
ling his head what became of the poor dog. When he ar
rived in the neighbourhood of the beautiful cat's mansion,
he resolved to pay a visit to a friend of his, an old magpie
that lived in a tree, and was well acquainted with all the
news of the place. "For," thought Renard, "I may as
well know the weak side of my mistress that is to be, and
get round it at once.
The magpie received the fox with great cordiality, and
inquired what brought him so great a distance from home.
Upon my word," said the fox, "nothing so much as
the pleasure of seeing your ladyship, and hearing those
agreeable anecdotes you tell with so charming a grace;
but, to let you into a secret, be sure it don't go fur-
""
—
ther
"On the word of a magpie," interrupted the bird.
"Pardon me for doubting you," continued the fox, "I
should have recollected that a pie was a proverb for dis-
cretion; but, as I was saying, you know her majesty the
lioness."
to
CC
Surely," said the magpie, bridling.
Well; she was pleased to fall in, that is to say,
to take a caprice to your humble servant, and the
lion grew so jealous that I thought it prudent to decamp;
a jealous lion is no joke, let me assure your ladyship
But mum's the word."
So great a piece of news delighted the magpie. She
could not but repay it in kind, by all the news in her budg-
She told the fox all the scandal about Bruin and
Gauntgrim, and she then fell to work on the poor young
et.
cat.
She did not spare her foibles, you may be quite sure.
The fox listened with great attention, and he learned
enough to convince him, that however the magpie exagger-
ated, the cat was very susceptible to flattery, and had a
great deal of imagination.
When the magpie had finished, she said, “But it must
be very unfortunate for you to be banished from so magnifi-
cent a court as that of the lion.”
"As to that," answered the fox, "I consoled myself for
my exile, with a present his majesty made me on parting,
as a reward for my anxiety for his honor and domestic
tranquillity; namely, three hairs from the fifth leg of the
amoronthologosphorus. Only think of that, ma'am.”
"The what?" cried the pie, cocking down her left ear.
"The amoronthologosphorus."
"La!" said the magpic," and what is that very long
word, my dear Renard ?"
"The amoronthologosphorus is a beast that lives on the
other side of the river Cylinx; it has five legs, and on the
fifth leg there are three hairs, and whoever has those three
hairs can be young and beautiful for ever."
"Bless me! I wish you would let me see them,” said
the pie, holding out her claw.
"Would that I could oblige you, ma'am, but it's as
much as my life's worth to show them to any but the lady
I marry. In fact, they only have an effect on the fair sex,
as you may see by myself, whose poor person they utterly
fail to improve; they are, therefore, intended for a mar-
riage present, and his majesty the lion thus generously
atoned to me for relinquishing the tenderness of his queen
One must confess that there was a great deal of delicacy in
the gift. But you 'll be sure not to mention it."
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
349
"A magpie gossip, indeed!" quoth the old blah.
The fox then wished the magpie good-night, and retired
to a hole to sleep off the fatigues of the day, before he pre-
sented himself to the beautiful young cat.
The next morning, heaven knows how, it was all over
the place that Renard the fox had been banished from
court for the favor shown him by her majesty, and that the
lion had bribed his departure with three hairs that would
make any lady, whom the fox married, young and beautiful
for ever.
"
The cat was the first to learn the news, and she became
all curiosity to see so interesting a stranger, possessed of
"qualifications ” which, in the language of the day,
would render any animal happy ! She was not long
without obtaining her wish. As she was taking a walk in
the wood the fox contrived to encounter her. You may be
sure that he made her his best bow; and he flattered the
poor maid with so courtly an air that she saw nothing sur-
prising in the love of the lioness.
Meanwhile let us see what became of his rival, the dog.
Ah, the poor creature!" said Nymphalin; "it is
easy to guess that he need not be buried alive to lose all
chance of marrying the heiress."
"Wait till the end," answered Fayzenheim.
When the dog found that he was thus entrapped, he gave
himself up for lost. In vain he kicked with his hind legs
against the stone, he only succeeded in bruising his paws,
and at length he was forced to lie down, with his tongue
out of his mouth, and quite exhausted. However," said
he, after he had taken breath, "it won't do to be starved
here, without doing my best to escape; and if I can't get
out one way, let me see if there is not a hole at the other
end; thus saying, his courage, which stood him in lieu
of cunning, returned, and he proceeded on with the same
straight-forward way in which he always conducted him-
self. At first the path was exceedingly narrow, and he
hurt his sides very much against the rough stones that pro-
jected from the earth. But by degrees the way became
broader, and he now went on with considerable ease to
himself, till he arrived in a large cavern, where he saw an
immense griffin sitting on his tail, and smoking a huge
pipe.
The dog was by no means pleased at meeting so suddenly
a creature that had only to open his mouth to swallow him
up at a morsel; however, he put a bold face on the danger,
and walking respectfully up to the griffin, said, "Sir, I
should be very much obliged to you if you would inform
me the way out of these holes into the upper world.”
The griffin took the pipe out of his mouth, and looked
at the dog very sternly.
"Ho! wretch," said he, "how comest thou hither?
I suppose thou wantest to steal my treasure; but I know
how to treat such vagabonds as you, and I shall certainly
eat you up.
"You can do that if you choose," said the dog; "but
it would be very unhandsome conduct in an animal so much
bigger than myself. For my own part, I never attack any
dog that is not of equal size. I should be ashamed of my-
self if I did; and as to your treasure, the character I bear
for honesty is too well known to merit such a suspicion."
"Upon my word," said the griffin, who could not help
zmiling for the life of him, "you have a singularly free
mode of expressing yourself; and how, I say, came you
hither?"
my servant or be my breakfast; it is just the same to me
I give you time to decide till I have smoked out my pipe."
The poor dog did not take so long to consider." "It is
true,” he thought, " that it is a great misfortune to live in
a cave with a griffin of so unpleasant a countenance; but,
probably, if I serve him well and faithfully, he'll take pity
on me some day, and let me go back to earth, and prove to
my cousin what a rogue the fox is; and as to the rest,
though I would sell my life as dear as I could, it is impos-
sible to fight a griffin with a mouth of so monstrous a
size:" in short, he decided to stay with the griffin.
"Shake a paw on it," quoth the grim smoker; and the
dog shook paws.
"And now," said the griffin, "I will tell you what you
are to do, look here; and, moving his tail, he showed
the dog a great heap of gold and silver, in a hole in the
ground, that he had covered with the folds of his tail; and
also, what the dog thought more valuable, a great heap of
bones of very tempting appearance.
Now," said the griffin, "during the day, I can take
very good care of these myself; but at night it is very
necessary that I should go to sleep; so when I sleep, you
must watch over them instead of me."
เ
Very well," said the dog; "as to the gold and silver
I have no objection; but I would much rather you would
lock up the bones, for I'm often hungry of a night, and—”
"Hold your tongue," said the griftin.
But, sir," said the dog, after a short silence," surely
nobody ever comes into so retired a situation. Who are
the thieves, if I may make bold to ask?"
"Know," answered the griffin, "that there are a great
many serpents in this neighbourhood, and they are always
trying to steal my treasure; and if they catch me napping,
they, not contented with theft, would do their best to sting
me to death. So that I am almost worn out for want of
sleep.'
"Ah!" quoth the dog, who was fond of a good night's
rest, "I don't envy you your treasure, sir."
At night, the griffin, who had a great deal of penetration,
and saw that he might depend on the dog, laid down to
sleep in another corner of the cave; and the dog, shaking
himself well, so as to be quite awake, took watch over the
treasure. His mouth watered exceedingly at the bones,
and he could not help smelling them now and then; but he
said to himself, "A bargain's a bargain, and since I have
promised to serve the griffin, I must serve him as an hon-
est dog ought to serve.
In the middle of the night he saw a great snake creep-
ing in by the side of the cave, but the dog set up so loud
a bark that the griffin awoke, and the snake crept away as
fast as he could. Then the griffin was very much pleased,
and he gave the dog one of the bones to amuse himself
with; and every uight the dog watched the treasure, and
acquitted himself so well, that not a snake, at last, dared
to make its appearance; so the griffin enjoyed an excellent
night's rest.
The dog now found himself much more comfortable than
he expected. The griffin regularly gave him one of the
bones for supper; and, pleased with his fidelity, made
himself as agreeable a master as a griffin could do. Still,
however, the dog was secretly very anxious to return to
earth; for having nothing to do during the day but to doze
on the ground, he dreamned perpetually of his cousin the
cat's charms; and, in faney, he gave the rascal Renard as
Then the dog, who did not know what a lie was, told hearty a worry as a fox may well have the honor of receiv
the griffin his whole history, how he had set off to pay hising from a dog's paws. He awoke panting, alas! he
court to the cat, and how Renard the fox had entrapped
him into the hole.
When he had finished, the griffin said to him, "I see,
my friend, that you know how to speak the truth; I am in
want of just such a servant as you will make me; therefore
stay with me and keep watch over my treasure when I
sleep.'
could not realize his dreams
One night, as he was watching as usual over the treasure,
he was greatly surprised to see a beautiful little black and
white dog enter the cave; and it came fawning to our
honest friend, wagging its tail with pleasure.
"Ah! little one, "said our dog, whom, to distinguish, I
will call the watch dog, "you had better make the best of
your way back again. See, there is a great griffin asleep
in the other corner of the cave, and if he awakes, he will
either eat you up or make you his servant, as he has wade
me."
"Two words to that," said the dog. "You have hurt
my feelings very much by suspecting my honesty, and I
would much sooner go back into the wood and be avenged
on that scoundrel the fox, than serve a master who has so
ill an opinion of me; even if he gave me to keep, much "I know what you would tell me," says the little dog,
less to take care of, all the treasures in the world. I pray "and I have come down here to deliver you. The stone
you, therefore, to dismiss me, and to put me in the right is now gone from the mouth of the cave, and you have
way to my cousin the cat.”
nothing to do but to go back with me. Come, brother,
I am not a griffin of many words," answered the come.
master of the cavern, "and I give you your choice,
-
be
The dog was very much excited by this address "Don't
850
BULWER'S NOVELS.
ask me, my dear little friend," said he; "
you must be
aware that I should be too happy to escape out of this cold
cave, and roll on the soft turf once more; but if I leave my
master, the griffin, those cursed serpents, who are always
on the watch, will come in and steal his treasure, nay,
perhaps, sting him to death." Then the little dog came up
to the watch dog, and remonstrated with him greatly, and
licked him caressingly on both sides of his face; and,
taking him by the ear, endeavoured to draw him from the
treasure, but the dog would not stir a step, though his heart
sorely pressed him. At length the little dog, finding it all
in vain, said, "Well, then, if I must leave, good-by; but
I have become so hungry in coming down all this way after
you, that I wish you would give me one of those bones;
they smell very pleasantly, and one out of so many could
never be missed.'
"Alas!" said the watch dog, with tears in his eyes,
"how unlucky I am to have ate up the bone my master
gave me, otherwise you should have had it and welcome.
But I can't give you one of these, because my master has
made me promise to watch over them all, and I have given
him my paw on it. I am sure a dog of your respectable
appearance will say nothing further on the subject."
Then the little dog answered pettishly, "Pooh! what
nonsense you talk! surely a great griffin can't miss a little
bone, fit for me;" and nestling his nose under the watch
dog, he tried forthwith to bring up one of the bones.
On this the watch dog grew angry, and, though with
much reluctance, he seized the little dog by the nape of
the neck and threw him off, though without hurting him.
Suddenly the little dog changed into a monstrous serpent,
bigger even than the griffin himself, and the watch dog
barked with all his might. The griffin rose in a great
hurry, and the serpent sprang upon him ere he was well
awake. I wish, dearest Nymphalin, you could have seen
the battle between the griffin and the serpent, how they
coiled, and twisted, and bit and darted their fiery tongues
at each other. At length, the serpent got uppermost, and
was about to plunge his tongue into that part of the griffin
which is unprotected by his scales, when the dog, seizing
him by the tail, bit him so sharply, that he could not help
turning round to kill his new assailant, and the griffin,
taking advantage of the opportunity, caught the serpent by
the throat with both claws, and fairly strangled him.
As
soon as the griffin had recovered from the nervousness of
the conflict, he heaped all manner of caresses on the dog
for saving his life. The dog told him the whole story, and
the griffin then explained, that the dead snake was the king
of the serpents, who had the power to change himself into
any shape he pleased. "If he had tempted you," said he,
"to leave the treasure but for one moment, or to have given
him any part of it, ay, but a single bone, he would have
crushed you in an instant, and stung me to death ere I
could have waked; but none, no, not the most venomous
none, no, not the most venomous
thing in creation, has power to hurt the honest!
"That has always been my belief," answered the dog;
« and now, sir,
sir, you had better go to sleep again, and leave
the rest to me.
'
Nay," answered the griffin, "I have no longer need
of a servant, for now that the king of the serpents is dead, |
the rest will never molest me. It was only to satisfy his
avarice that his subjects dared to brave the den of the
griffin."
Upon hearing this the dog was exceedingly delighted;
and raising himself on his hind paws, he begged the griffin
most movingly to let him return to earth, to visit his mis-
tress the cat, and worry his rival the fox.
"You do not serve an ungrateful master," answered the
griffin. “You shall return, and 1 will teach you all the
craft of our race, which is much craftier than the race of
that pettifogger the fox, so that you may be able to cope
with your rival
Ab, excuse me," said the dog, hastily, "I am equally
obliged to you; but I fancy nonesty is a match for cunning
any day; and I think myself a great deal safer in being a
dog of honor than if I knew all the tricks in the world."
Well," said the griffin, a little piqued at the dog's
bluntness, “do as you please; I wish you all possible
success.
The griffin opened a secret door in the side of the cavern,
and the dog saw a broad path that led at once into the
wood. He thanked the griffin with all his heart, and ran
wagging his tail into the open moonlight. "Ah, ah!
Master Fox," said he, "there's no trap for an nonest dog
that has not two doors to it, cunning as you think your
self."
With that he curled his tail gallantly over his left leg,
and set off on a long trot to the cat's house. When he
was within sight of it, he stopped to refresh himself by a
pool of water, and who should be there but our friend the
magpie.
And what do you want, friend?" said she, rather
disdainfully, for the dog looked somewhat out of casc after
his journey.
"I am going to see my cousin the cat," answered he.
"Your cousin! marry come up," said the magpie ;
"don't you know she is going to be married to Renard
the fox? This is not a time for her to receive the visits
of a brute like you."
These words put the dog in such a passion that he very
nearly bit the magpie for her uncivil mode of communi-
cating such bad news. However, he curbed his temper,
and without answering her, went at once to the cat's resi-
dence.
The cat was sitting at the window, and no sooner did the
dog see her than he fairly lost his heart; never had he
seen so charming a cat before; he advanced, wagging his
tail, and with his most insinuating air; when the cat, get-
ting up, clapped the window in his face, and lo! Re-
nard the fox appeared in her stead.
"Come out, thou rascal!" said the dog, showing his
teeth; come out, I challenge thee to single combat; I
have not forgiven thy malice, and thou seest that I am no
longer shut up in the cave, and unable to punish thee for
thy wickedness."
Go home, silly one," answered the fox, sneering;
"thou hast no business here; and as for fighting thee,-
bah!" Then the fox left the window and disappeared.
But the dog, thoroughly
But the dog, thoroughly enraged, scratched lustily at the
door, and made such a noise that presently the cat herself
came to the window.
"How now!" said she, angrily; "what means all this
rudeness? Who are you, and what do you want at my
house?"
"Oh, my dear cousin," said the dog, "do not speak so
severely; know that I have come here on purpose to pay
you a visit; and whatever you do, let me beseech you not
to listen to that villain Renard; you have no conception
what a rogue he is!"
"What!" said the cat, blushing, "do you dare to abuse
your betters in this fashion? I see you have a design on
Go, this instant, or—”
ine.
Enough, madam," said the dog, proudly; "you need
not speak twice to me,
farewell."
And he turned away very slowly, and went under a tree,
where he took up his lodgings for the night. But the next
morning there was an amazing commotion in the neighbour-
hood; a stranger, of a very different style of travelling
from that of the dog, had arrived at the dead of the night,
and fixed his abode in a large cavern, hollowed out of a
steep rock. The noise he had made in flying through the
air was so great, that he had awakened every bird and
beast in the parish; and Renard, whose bad conscience
never suffered him to sleep very soundly, putting his head
out of the window, perceived, to his great alarm, that the
stranger was nothing less than a monstrous griffin.
Now the griffins are the richest beasts in the world; and
that's the reason they keep so close under ground. When-
ever it does happen that they pay a visit above, it is not a
thing to be easily forgotten.
The magpie was all agitation, what could the griffin
possibly want there?
possibly want there? She resolved to take a peep at the
cavern, and accordingly she hopped timorously up the rock,
and pretended to be picking up sticks for her nest.
"Hollo, ma'am," cried a very rough voice, and she saw
the griffin putting his head out of the cavern.
"Hollo,
you are the very lady I want to see; you know all the peo-
ple about here, eh?"
"All the best company, your lordship, I certainly do,"
answered the magpie, dropping a courtesy.
Upon this the griffin walked out; and smoking his pipe
leisurely in the open air, in order to set the pie at her case,
continued,
"Are there any respectable beasts of good family set-
tled in this neighbourhood?”
"O most elegant society, I assure your lordship
1
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RAINE.
861
of it!"
eried the pie. "I have lived here myself these ten years, | know what a story that cursed magpie would hatch out
and the great heiress, the cat yonder, attracts a vast num-
ber of strangers."
Humph, heiress, indeed! much you know about
beiresses! said the griffin. "There is only one heiress in
the world, and that is my daughter.'
"Bless me, has your lordship a family? I beg you a
thousand pardons. But I only saw your lordship's own
equipage last night, and did not know you brought any
one with you."
My daughter went first, and was safely lodged before
I arrived, She did not disturb you, I dare say, as I did;
for she sails along like a swan; but I have the gout in my
left claw, and that is the reason I puff and groan so in
taking a journey."
"Shall I drop in upon Miss Griffin, and see how she is
after her journey?" said the pie, advancing.
“I thank you, no; I don't intend her to be seen while I
stay here, it unsettles her and I 'm afraid of the young
beasts running away with her if they once heard how hand-
some she was; she's the living picture of nie, but she 's
monstrous giddy! Not that I should care much if she did
go off with a beast of degree, were I not obliged to pay
her portion, which is prodigious, and I don't like parting
with money, ma'am, when I have once got it. Ho, ho,
ho!"
"You are too witty, my lord. But if you refused your
consent?" said the pie, anxious to know the whole family
history of so grand a seigneur.
"I should have to pay the dowry all the same.
It was
left her by her uncle the dragon. But don't let this go any
farther."
"Your lordship may depend on my secrecy. I wish
your lordship a very good morning."
Away flew the pie, and she did not stop till she got to
the cat's house. The cat and the fox were at breakfast,
and the fox had his paw on his heart. "Beautiful scene !"
cried the pie; the cat colored, and bade the pie take a
seat.
Then off went the pie's tongue, glib, glib, glib, chatter,
chatter, chatter. She related to them the whole story of
the griffin, and his daughter, and a great deal more be-
sides, that the griffin had never told her.
The cat listened attentively. Another young heiress in
the neighbourhood might he a formidable rival. "But is
the griffiness handsome?" said she.
<.
Handsome!" cried the pie; Oh! if you could have
seen the father! such a mouth, such eyes, such a com-
plexion, and he declares she's the living picture of him-
self! But what do you say, Mr. Renard? you, who have
been so much in the world, have, perhaps seen the young
lady?"
Why, I can't say I have," answered the fox, waking
from a reverie; "but she must be wonderfully rich. I dare
say that fool, the dog, will be making up to her."
"Ah! by the way," said the pie," what a fuss he made
at your door yesterday; why would not you admit him,
my dear?"
"Oh!" said the cat, demurely, "Mr. Renard says
that he is a dog of very bad character, quite a fortune-
hunter, and hiding a most dangerous disposition to bite
under an appearance of good-nature. I hope he won't be
quarrelsome with you, dear Renard.”
"With me! Oh the poor wretch, no! he might blus-
ter a little; but he knows that if I'm once angry I'm a
devil at biting; but one should not boast of one's self.''
The rabbit looked very foolish: he assured the fox that
he was no match for the dog; that he was very fond of his
cousin, to be sure; but he saw no necessity to interfere
with her domestic affairs; and, in short, he tried all he
possibly could to get out of the scrape; but the fox so art-
fully played on his vanity, so earnestly assured him that
the dog was the biggest coward in the world, and would
make an humble apology, and so eloquently represented to
him the glory he would obtain for manifesting so much
spirit, that at length the rabbit was persuaded to go out
and deliver the challenge.
"I'll be your second,'
your second," said the fox;
"said the fox; "and the great
field on the other side of the wood, two miles hence, shall
be the place of battle; there we shall be out of observa-
tion. You go first, I'll follow in half an hour, and J
say, bark!- in case he does accept the challenge, and
you feel the least afraid, I'll be in the field, and take it of
your paws with the utmost pleasure; rely on me, my dear
sir!"
Away went the rabbit. The dog was a little astonished
at the temerity of the poor creature; but on hearing that
the fox was to be present, willingly consented to repair to
the place of conflict. This readiness the rabbit did not
at all relish; he went very slowly to the field, and seeing
no fox there, his heart misgave him, and while the dog
was putting his nose to the ground to try if he could track
the coming of the fox, the rabbit slipped into a burrow,
and left the dog to walk back again.
Meanwhile the fox was already at the rock; he walked
very soft-footedly, and looked about with extreme caution,
for he had a vague notion that a griffin papa would not be
very civil to foxes.
་
Now there were two holes in the rock, one below, one
above, an upper story and an under; and while the fox
was peering out, he saw a great claw from the upper rock
beckoning to him.
“Ah, ah!" said the fox, "that's the wanton young
griffiness, I'll swear.
«Ε
said
J
He approached, and a voice
Charming Mr. Renard ! Do you not think you could
deliver an unfortunate griffiness from a barbarous confine-
ment in this rock ?"
"what a
"Oh heavens !" cried the fox, tenderly,
beautiful voice! and, ah, my poor heart, what a lovely
claw! Is it possible that I hear the daughter of my lord,
the great griffin ?”
Co
Hush, flatterer! not so loud, if you please. My father
is taking an evening stroll, and is very quick of hearing.
He has tied me up by my poor wings in the cavern, for he is
mightily afraid of some beast running away with me. You
know I have all my fortune settled on myself."
“Talk not of fortune," said the fox;
"but how can I
deliver you? Shall I enter and gnaw the cord?”
"Alas!" answered the griffiness, "it is an immense
chain I am bound with. However, you may come in and
talk more at your ease."
The fox peeped cautiously all round, and seeing no sigu
of the griffin, he entered the lower cave and stole up staira
to the upper story; but as he went on, he saw immense
piles of jewels and gold, and all sorts of treasure, so that
the old griffin might well have laughed at the poor cat be-
ing called an heiress. The fox was greatly pleased at
such indisputable signs of wealth, and he entered the upper
cave resolved to be transported with the charms of the
griffiness.
In the evening Renard felt a strange desire to go and
see the griffin smoking his pipe; but what could he do? There was, however, a great chasm between the landing-
There was the dog under the opposite tree evidently watch-place and the spot where the young lady was chained, and
ing for him, and Renard had no wish to prove himself he found it impossible to pass; the cavern was very dark,
that devil at biting which he declared he was. At last he but he saw enough of the figure of the griffiness to per-
resolved to have recourse. stratagem to get rid of the
stratagem to get rid of the ceive, in spite of her petticoat, that she was the image of
dog
her father, and the most hideous heiress that the earth ever
A young buck of a rabbit, a sort of provincial fop, had
looked in upon his cousin the cat, to pay her his respects,
and Renard, taking him aside, said, "You see that shab-
by-looking dog under the tree? Well, he has behaved
very ill to your cousin the cat, and you certainly ought to
challenge him, forgive my boldness, nothing but re-
spect for your character induces me to take so great a
liberty; you know I would chastise the rascal myself, but
what a scandal it would make ! If I were already mar-
riod to your cousin, it would be a different thing. But
you
saw!
However, he swallowed his disgust, and poured forth
such a heap of compliments that the griffiness appeared
entirely won. He implored her to fly with him the first
moment she was unchained.
"That is impossible," said she, "for my father never
unchains me except in his presence, and then I cannot stir
out of his sight.
"The wretch !" cried Renard, "what is to ba
done?"
$52
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Why, there is only one thing I know of," answered
the griffiness, "which is this, I always make his soup
for him, and if I could mix something in it that would put
him fast to sleep before he had time to chain me up again,
I might slip down and carry off all the treasure below on
my back."
Charming!" exclaimed Renard "what inven-
tion ! what wit! I will go and get some poppies di-
rectly.'
"Alas!" said the griffiness, "poppies have no effect
upon griffins; the only thing that can ever put my father
fast to sleep is a nice young cat boiled up in his soup; it
is astonishing what a charm that has upon him. But where
to get a cat? it must be a maiden cat too!"
Renard was a little startled at so singular an opiate.
"But," thought he, "griffins are not like the rest of the
world, and so rich an heiress is not to be won by ordinary
means.
"I do know a cat, a maiden cat," said he, after a short
pause, "but I feel a little repugnance at the thought of
having her boiled in the griffin's soup. Would not a dog
do as well?"
CC
"Ah, base thing!" said the griffiness, appearing to
weep, you are in love with the cat, I see it; go and
marry her, poor dwarf that she is, and leave me to die of
grief."
In vain the fox protested that he did not care a straw
for the cat; nothing could now appease the griffiness but his
positive assurance that, come what would, poor puss should
be brought to the cave, and boiled for the griffin's soup.
"But how will you get her here?" said the griffiness.
"Ah, leave that to me," said Renard. "Only put a
basket out of the window, and draw it up by a cord; the
moment it arrives at the window, be sure to clap your claw
on the cat at once, for she is terribly active."
"Tush!" answered the heiress," a pretty griffiness I
should be if I did not know how to catch a cat! >>
"But this must be when your father is out?" said Re-
nard.
Certainly, he takes a stroll every evening at sunset.
"Let it be to-morrow, then," said Renard, impatient
for the treasure.
This being arranged, Renard thought it time to decamp;
he stole down the stairs again, and tried to filch some of
the treasure by the way, but it was too heavy for him to
carry, and he was forced to acknowledge to himself that it
was impossible to get the treasure without taking the grif
finess (whose back seemed prodigiously strong) into the
bargain.
He returned home to the cat, and when he entered her
house and saw how ordinary every thing looked after the
jewels in the griffin's cave, he quite wondered how he
had ever thought the cat had the least pretensions to good
looks.
However, he concealed his wicked design, and his mis-
tress thought he had never appeared so amiable.
CC
Only guess," said he, where I have been to our
new neighbour the griffin, a most charming person,
thoroughly affable, and quite the air of the court. As for
that silly magpie, the griffin saw her character at once;
and it was all a hoax about his daughter; he has no daugh-
ter at all. You know, my dear, hoaxing is a fashionable
amusement among the great. He says he has heard of
he has heard of
nothing but your beauty, and on my telling him we were
going to be married, he has insisted upon giving a great
ball and supper in honor of the event. In fact, he is a
gallant old fellow, and dying to see you. Of course I was
obliged to accept the invitation."
that cursed creature! I had quite forgotten him; what is to
be done now? he would make no bones of me if he once
saw mne set foot out of doors.”
With that the fox began to cast in his head how he
should get rid of his rival, and at length he resolved on
a very notable project; he desired the cat to set out
first and wait for him at a turn in the road a little way off.
For," said he, "if we go together, we shall certainly
be insulted by the dog: and he will know that, in the
presence of a lady, the custom of a beast of my fashion will
not suffer me to avenge the affront. But when I am alone,
the creature is such a coward that he would not dare say
his soul's his own; leave the door open, and I'll follow
directly."
The cat's mind was so completely poisoned against her
cousin that she implicitly believed this account of his
character, and accordingly, with many recommendations to
her lover not to sully his dignity by getting into any sort of
quarrel with the dog, she set off first.
The dog went up to her very humbly, and begged her to
allow him to say a few words to her; but she received him
so haughtily, that his spirit was up; and he walked back
to the tree more than ever enraged against his rival. But
what was his joy when he saw that the cat had left the
door open! "Now, wretch," thought he,
you cannot
escape me!""
So he walked briskly in at the back-door.
He was greatly surprised to find Renard lying down in
the straw, panting as if his heart would break, and rolling
his
his eyes in the pangs of death.
"Ah, friend," said the fox, with a faltering voice," you
are avenged; my hour is come; I am just going to give up
the ghost; put your paw upon mine, and say you forgive
me.
anger, the
Despite his
generous dog could not set tooth
on a dying foe.
"You have served me a shabby trick," said he; " you
have left me to starve in a hole, and you have evidently
maligned me with my cousin ; certainly I meant to be
avenged on you; but if you are really dying, that alters the
affair.”
Oh, oh!" groaned the fox, very bitterly; "I am past
help; the poor cat is gone for Doctor Ape, but he 'll never
come in time. What a thing it is to have a bad conscience
on one's death-bed! But, wait till the cat returns, and I'll
do you full justice with her before I die.”
The good-natured dog was much moved at seeing his
mortal enemy in such a state, and endeavoured as well as
he could to console him.
"Oh, oh!" said the fox, "I am so parched in the
throat, I am burning;" and he hung his tongue out of his
mouth, and rolled his eyes more fearfully than ever.
"Is there no water here?" said the dog, looking round.
"Alas, no!-yet stay, -es, now I think of it, there
is some in that little hole in the wall: but how to get at
it, it is so high, that I can't, in my poor weak state,
climb up to it; and I dare not ask such a favor of one I
have injured so much."
"Don't talk of it," said the dog; "but the hole 's very
small, I could not put my nose through it.”
"No; but if you just climb up on that stone, and thrust
your paw into the hole, you can dip it into the water, and
so cool my poor parched mouth. Oh, what a thing it is to
have a bad conscience !
The dog sprang upon the stone, and getting on his hind
legs, thrust his front paw into the hole; when suddenly
Renard pulled a string that he had concealed under the
straw, and the dog found his paw caught tight to the wall
in a running noose.
"You could not do otherwise," said the unsuspecting “Ah, rascal,” said he, turning round; but the fox leaped
young creature, who, as I before said, was very suscepti-up gayly from the straw, and fastening the string with his
ble to fiattery.
44
And only think how delicate his attentions are,” said
the fox. "As he is very badly lodged for a beast of his
rank, and his treasure takes up the whole of the ground-
floor, he is forced to give the fête in the upper story, so he
hangs out a basket for his guests, and draws them up with
his own claw. How condescending! But the great are
so amiable!
>
The cat, brought up in seclusion, was all delight at the
idea of seeing such high life, and the lovers talked of noth-
ing else all the next day. When Renard, toward evening,
putting his head out of the window, saw his old friend the
Ing lying as usual and watching him very grimly, “Ah,
<<
teeth to a nail in the other end of the wall, walked out,
crying, Good-by, my dear friend; have a care how you
believe hereafter in sudden conversions! So he left the
dog on his hind legs to take care of the house.
Renard found the cat waiting for him where he had
appointed, and they walked lovingly together till they came
to the cave; it was now dark, and they saw the basket
waiting below; the fox assisted the poor cat into it.
"There is only room for one," said he, “ you must go
first ! up rose the basket: the fox heard a piteous mew,
and no more.
"So much for the griffin's soup ! thought he.
He waited patiently for some time, when the griffiness,
3
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIN E.
Aving her claw from the window, said cheerfully, "All 's
night, my dear Renard; my papa has finished his soup,
and sleeps as sound as a rock! All the noise in the world
would not wake him now, till he has slept off the boiled cat,
which won't be these twelve hours. Come and assist
me in packing up the treasure, I should be sorry to leave a
single diamond behind.”
"So should I," quoth the fox; "stay, I'll come round
by the lower hole: why, the door 's shut! pray, beautiful
griffiness, open it to thy impatient adorer.”
"Alas, my father has hid the key! I never knew where
he places it, you must come up by the basket; see, I let it
down for you.”
The fox was a little loath to trust himself in the same
conveyance that had taken his mistress to be boiled; but
the most cautious grow rash when money's to be gained;
and avarice can trap even a fox. So he put himself as
comfortably as he could into the basket, and up he went in
an instant. It rested, however, just before it reached the
window, and the fox felt, with a slight shudder, the claw
of the griffiness stroking his back.
"Oh, what a beautiful coat!" quoth she, caressingly.
"You are too kind,” said the fox; "but you can feel it
more at your leisure when I am once up. Make haste, I
beseech you."
CC
Oh, what a beautiful bushy tail! Never did I feel
such a tail."
"It is entirely at your service, sweet griffiness," said the
fox; "but pray let me in. Why lose an instant?"
No, never did I feel such a tail.
feel such a tail.
80 successful with the ladies."
No wonder you are
Ah, beloved griffiness, my tail is yours to eternity, but
you pinch it a little too hard."
Scarcely had he said this, when down dropped the bas-
ket, but not with the fox in it; he found himself caught
by the tail, and dangling half-way down the rock, by the
help of the very same sort of pulley wherewith he had
snared the dog. I leave you to guess his consternation; he
yelped out as loud as he could, for it hurts a fox exceed
ingly to be hanged by his tail with his head downwards,
when the door of the rock opened, and out stalked the grif
fin himself, smoking his pipe, with a vast crowd of all the
fashionable beasts in the neighbourhood.
Oho, brother," said the bear, laughing fit to kill him-
Felf," who ever saw a fox hanged by the tail before?"
You'll have need of a physician," quoth Doctor Ape.
“A pretty match, indeed; a griffiness for such a creature
as you," said the goat, strutting by him.
"I have no daughter, and it was me you made lose to
Knowing what sort of a creature a magpie is, I amused
myself with hoaxing her, the fashionable amusement at
court, you know."
The fox made a mighty struggle, and leaped on the ground,
leaving his tail behind him. It did not grow again in a
burry.
See," said the griffin, as the beasts all laughed at the
figure Renard made running into the wood, "the dog beats
the fox, with the ladies, after all; and cunning as he is in
every thing else, the fox is the last creature that should
ever think of making love!"
"Charming," cried Nymphalin, clasping her hands," it
is just the sort of story I like."
"And I suppose, sir," said Nip, pertly, "that the dog
and the cat lived very happily ever afterward. Indeed,
the married felicity of a dog and cat is proverbia} ! "
"I dare say they lived much the same as any other mar-
ried couple," answered the prince.
CHAPTER XIII.
The tomb of a father of many children.
THE feast being now ended, as well as the story, the
fairies wound their way homeward by a different path, till
at length a red steady light glowed through the long, basaltic
arches upon them, like the demon hunters' fires in the
forest of pines.
he, in a grave tone,
The prince sobered in his pace, "You approach," said
"the greatest of our temples; you will
witness the tomb of a mighty founder of our race.
An
the fires in silence, they came to a vast space, in the inidst
awe crept over the queen, in despite of herself. Tracking
of which was a lone gray block of stone, such as the tray-
eller finds amid the dread silence of Egyptian Thebes.
And on this stone lay the gigantic figure of a man,
dead, but not deathlike, for invisible spells had preserved
lay a rude instrument of music, and at his feet was a sword
the flesh and the long hair for untold ages; and beside him
and a hunter's spear; and above the rock wound, hollow
and roofless, to the upper air, and daylight came through,
sickened and pale, beneath red fires that burnt everlastingly
around him, on such simple altars as belong to a savage
race. But the place was not solitary, for many mot onless,
but not lifeless, shapes sat on large blocks of stone beside
the tomb. There, was the wizard, wrapt in his long black
mantle, and his face covered with his hands, there, was
the uncouth and deformed dwarf, gibbering to himself,
there, sat the household elf, there, glowered from a
gloomy rent in the wall, with glittering eyes and shining
scale, the enormous dragon of the north. An aged crone in
rags, leaning on a staff, and gazing malignantly on the vis-
iters, with bleared but fiery eyes, stood opposite the tomb
of the
"Pardon me," said the griffin, taking the pipe out of his completed the group! But all was dumb and unutterably
gigantic dead. And now the fairies themselves
mouth; one never laughs at the honest.
The fox grinned with pain, and said nothing. But that
which hurt him most was the compassion of a dull fool of a
donkey, who assured him with great gravity, that he saw
nothing at all to laugh at in his situation!
CC
"At all events," said the fox, at last, cheated, gulled,
betrayed as I am, I have played the same trick to the dog;
go laugh at him, gentlemen, he deserves it as much as I can,
I assure you.
"And see," said the bear, "here he is."
And indeed the dog had, after much effort, gnawed the
string in two, and extricated his paw; the scent of the fox
had enabled him to track his footsteps, and here he arrived,
burning for vengeance and finding himself already avenged.
But his first thought was for his dear cousin. Ah,
where is she?" he cried, movingly; "without doubt that
villain Renard has served her some scurvy trick.”
CC
"I fear so, indeed, my old friend," answered the griffin,
"but don't grieve; after all, she was nothing particular.
You shall marry my daughter the griffiness, and succeed to
all the treasure, ay, and all the bones that you once guarded
so faithfully.
"I want
"Talk not to me," said the faithful dog,
none of your treasure; and, though I don't mean to be
rude, your griffiness may go to the devil. I will run over
the world but I will find my dear cousin.”
"See her then," said the griffin; and the beautiful cat,
more beautiful than ever, rushed out of the cavern, and
threw herself into the dog's paws.
A pleasant scene this for the fox !— he knew enough of
the female heart to know that a soft tongue may excuse
many little infidenties, but to be boiled alive for a grif-
no, the offence was inexpiable !
"You understand me, Mr. Renard," said the griffin,
Gin's soup,
VOL. II.
45
silent; the silence that floats over some antique city of the
desert, when, for the first time for a hundred centuries, a
living foot enters its desolate remains; the silence that be-
longs to the dust of old,—deep, solemn, palpable, and
sinking into the heart with a leaden and deathlike weight.
Even the English fairy spoke not; she held her breath,
and gazing on the tomb, she saw in rude vast characters,
THE TEVTON.
We are all that remains of his religion!" said the
prince, as they turned from the dread temple.
CHAPTER XIV
The fairy's cave and the fairy's wish.
Ir was evening; and the fairies were dancing boneatn
the twilight star.
"And why art thou sad, my violet," said the prince,
"for thine eyes seek the ground?”
"Now that I have found thee," answered the queen,
"and now that I feel what happy love is to a fairy, I sigh
over that love which I have lately witnessed among mor
354
BULWER'S NOVELS.
worm.
tals, but the bud of whose happiness already conceals the
For well didst thou say, my prince, that we are
linked with a mysterious affinity to mankind, and what-
ever is pure and gentle among them, speaks at once to our
sympathy, and commands our vigils."
"And most of all," said the German fairy, are they
who love under our watch; for love is the golden chain
that binds all in the universe; love lights up alike the star
and the glow-worm; and wherever there is love in men's
lot, lies the secret affinity with men, and with things divine."
But with the human race," said Nymphalin, 'cc there
is no love that outlasts the hour, for either death ends, or
custom alters; when the blossom comes to fruit, it is
plucked, and seen no more; and, therefore, when I behold
true love sentenced to an early grave, I comfort myself that
I shall not at least behold the beauty dimmed, and the soft-
ness of the heart hardened into stone. Yet, my prince,
while still the pulse can beat, and the warm blood flow,
in
that beautiful form which I have watched over of late, let
me not desert her; still let my influence keep the sky fair,
and the breezes pure; still let me drive the vapor from
the moon, and the clouds from the faces of the stars; still
let me fill her dreams with tender and brilliant images, and
glass in the mirror of sleep the happiest visions of fairy
land; still let me pour over her eyes that magic, which suf-
fers them to see no fault in one in whom she has garnered
up her soul! And as death comes slowly on, still let me
rob the spectre of its terror, and the grave of its sting;
so that, all gently and unconscious to herself, life may glide
into the great ocean where the shadows lie; and the spirit,
without guile, may be severed from its mansion without
pain ! "
The wish of the fairy was fulfilled.
CHAPTER XV.
- An
The banks of the Rhine, from the Drachenfels to Brohl.
incident that suffices in this tale for an epoch.
FROM the Drachenfels commences the true glory of the
Rhine; and, once more, Gertrude's eyes conquered the
languor that crept gradually over them, as she gazed on the
banks around.
Fair blew the breeze, and just curled the waters; and
Gertrude did not feel the vulture that had fixed its talons
within her breast. The Rhine widens, like a broad lake,
between the Drachenfels and Unkel; villages are scattered
over the extended plain on the left; on the right is the isle
of Werth, and the houses of Oberwinter; the hills are
covered with vines; and still Gertrude turned back with a
lingering gaze to the lofty crest of the Seven Hills.
On, on, - and the spires of Unkel rose above a curve in
the banks, and on the opposite shore stretched those won-
drous basaltic columns which extend to the middle of the
river, and when the Rhine runs low, you may see them,
like an ingulfed city beneath the waves. You then view
the ruins of Okkenfels, and hear the voice of the pastoral
Gasbach pouring its waters into the Rhine. From amid
the clefts of the rocks the vine peeps luxuriantly forth, and
gives a richness and coloring to what Nature, left to
herself, intended for the stern.
"But turn your eye backward to the right," said Tre-
vylyan; "those banks were formerly the special haunt of
the bold robbers of the Rhine, and from amid the entangled
Drakes that then covered the ragged cliffs, they rushed
upon their prey. Those feudal days were worth the living
; and a robber's life amid these mountains, and beside
this mountain stream, must have been the very poetry of
the spot carried into action.'
by her in her little inn, while Vane went forth, with the
curiosity of science, to examine the strata of the soil.
They conversed in the frankness of their affianced tic
upon those
those topics which are only for lovers; upon the
bright chapter in the history of their love; their first meet.
ing; their first impressions; the little incidents in their
present journey, incidents noticed by themselves alone;
that life within life which two persons know together,
which one knows not without the other, which ceases to
both the instant they are divided.
___
"I know not what the love of others may be," said
Gertrude, "but ours secms different from all of which I
have read. Books tell us of jealousies and misconstru
tions, and the necessity of an absence, the sweetness of a
quarrel; but we, dearest Albert, have had no experienc
of these passages in love. We have never misunderstood
each other; we have no reconciliation to look back to
When was there ever occasion for me to ask forgiveness
from you? Our love is made up only of one memory,
unceasing kindness! - a harsh thought, a wronging
thought, never broke in upon the happiness we have felt
and feel."
"Dearest Gertrude," said Trevylyan, "that character
of our love is caught from you; you, the soft, the gentle,
have been its pervading genius; and the well has been
smooth and pure, for you were the spirit that lived within
its depths.'
""
And to such talk succeeded silence still more sweet,
the silence of the hushed and overflowing heart. The last
voices of the birds, the sun slowly sinking in the west,
the fragrance of descending dews, filled them with that
deep and mysterious sympathy which exists between love
and Nature.
It was after such a silence, -a long silence that seemed
but as a moment, that Trevylyan spoke, but Gertrude
answered not; and, yearning once inore for her sweet
voice, he turned and saw that she had fainted away.
Oh
This was the first indication of the point to which her
increasing debility had arrived. Trevylyan's heart stood
still, and then beat violently; a thousand fears crept over
him, he clasped her in his arms, and bore her to the open
window. The setting sun fell upon her countenance, from
which the play of the young heart and warm fancy had
fled, and in its deep and still repose the ravages of disease
were fully visible to the agonized heart of Trevylyan.
God! what were then his emotions! His heart was like
stone; but he felt a rush as of a torrent to his temples;
his eyes grew dizzy, he was stunned by the greatness of
his despair. For the last week he had taken hope for his
companion, Gertrude had seemed so much stronger, for her
happiness had given her a false support; and though thero
had been moments, when watching the bright hectic come
and go, and her step linger, and the breath heave short, he
had felt the hope suddenly cease, yet never had he known
till now that fulness of anguish, that dread certainty of the
worst, which the calm, fair face before him struck into his
soul and, mixed with this agony as he gazed, was all the
passion of the most ardent love! For there she lay in his
arms, the gentle breath rising from lips where the rose yet
lingered, and the long, rich hair, soft and silken as an in-
fant's stealing from its confinement: every thing that be-
longed to Gertrude's beauty was so expressively soft, and
pure, and youthful! Scarcely seventeen, she seemed much
younger than she was; her figure had sunken from its round-
ness, but still how light, how lovely were its wrecks!
the neck whiter than snow, the fair, small hand!
weight was scarcely felt in the arms of her lover and he
Her
"Oh Gertrude !" cried he, "is it, is it thus, — is
there indeed no hope ?”
what a contrast ! was in all the pride and flower of
glorious manhood ! his was the lofty brow, the wreathing
hair, the haughty eye, the elastic form; and upon this frail,
They rested at Brohl, a small town between two moun-perishable thing had he fixed all his heart, all the hopes
tains. On the summit of one you see the gray remains of of his youth, the pride of his manhood, his schemes, his
Rheinech. There is something weird and preternatural energies, his ambition!
about the aspect of this place; its soil betrays signs that,
in the former ages (from which even tradition is fast fading
away) some volcano here exhausted its fires. The stratum
of the earth is black and pitchy, and the springs beneath it
are of a dark and graveolent water. Here the stream of
the Brohlbach falls into the Rhine, and in a valley rich
with oak and pine, and full of caverns, which are not
without their traditionary inmates, stands the castle of
Schweppenbourg, which our party failed not to visit.
Gertrude felt fatigued on their return, and Trevylyan sat
And Gertrude now slowly recovering, and opening her
eyes upon Trevylyan's face, the revulsion was so great, his
emotions so overpowering, that, clasping her to his bosom,
as if even death should not tear her away from him, he
wept over her in an agony of tears; not those tears that
relieve the heart, but the fiery rain of the internal storm, a
sign of the fierce tumult that shook the very core of hir
existence, not a relief.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
856
Awakened to herself, Gertrude, in amazement and alarm,
threw her arms around his neck, and looking wistfully into
his face, implored him to speak to her.
nay,
"Was it my illness, love?" said she; and the music
of her voice only conveyed to him the thought of how soon
it would be dumb to him for ever;
"she continued,
winningly, "it was but the heat of the day; I am better
I am well; there is no cause to be alarmed for
me;" and, with all the innocent fonduess of extreme youth,
she kissed the burning tears from his eyes.
now,
There was a playfulness, an innocence in this poor girl,
so unconscious as yet of her destiny, which rendered her
fate doubly touching; and which to the stern Trevylyan,
hackneyed by the world, made her irresistible charm; and
now, as she put aside her hair, and looked up gratefully,
vet pleadingly, into his face, he could scarce refrain from
pouring out to her the confession of his anguish and de-
spair. But the necessity of self-control, the necessity of
concealing from her a knowledge which might only, by
impressing her imagination, expedite her doom, while it
would imbitter to her mind the unconscious enjoyment of
the hour, nerved and manned him. He checked, by those
violen efforts which men only can make, the evidence of
his envotions; and endeavoured, by a rapid torrent of
words, to divert her attention from a weakness, the causes
of which he could not explain. Fortunately, Vane soon
returned, and Trevylyan, consigning Gertrude to his care,
hastily left the room.
Gertrude sank into a reverie.
CC
Ah, dear father!" said she, suddenly, and after a pause,
"if I indeed were worse than I have thought myself of
late, if I were to die now, what would Trevylyan feel?
Pray God, I may live for his sake!"
My child, do not talk thus; you are better, much better
than you were. Ere the autumn ends, Trevylyan's happi-
ness will be your lawful care. Do not think so despond-
ingly of yourself."
"I thought not of myself," sighed Gertrude, "but of
him!"
CHAPTER XVI.
Gertrude. The excursion to Hammerstein. Thoughts.
THE next day they visited the environs of Brohl. Ger-
trude was unusually silent, for her temper, naturally sunny
and enthusiastic, was accustomed to light up every thing
she saw. Ah, once how bounding was that step! how
undulating the young graces of that form! how playfully
once danced the ringlets on that laughing cheek! But she
clung to Trevylyan's proud form with a yet more endearing
tenderness than was her wont, and hung yet more eagerly on
his words; her hand sought his, and she often pressed it
to her lips, and sighed as she did so. Something that she
would not tell, seemed passing within her, and sobered her
playful mood. But there was this noticeable in Gertrude :
whatever took away from her gayety, increased her ten-
derness. The infirmities of her frame never touched her
emper. She was kind, — gentle,
gentle, loving to the last.
•
-
They had crossed to the opposite banks, to visit the castle
of Hammerstein. The evening was transparently serene
an I clear; and the warmth of the sun yet lingered upon
the air, even though the twilight had past, and the moon
risen, as their boat returned by a lengthened passage to
the village. Broad and straight flows the Rhine in this
part of its career. On one side lay the wooden village of
Namedy, the hamlet of Fornech, backed by the blue rock
of Kruzborner Ley, the mountains that shield the myste-
rions Brohl; and on the opposite shore they saw the mighty
rock of Hammerstein, with the green and livid ruins
sleeping in the melancholy moonlight. Two towers rose
haughtily above the more dismantled wrecks. How changed
ce the alternate banners of the Spaniard and the Swede
W from their ramparts, in that great war in which the
gorgeo. Wallenstein won his laurels! And in its mighty
calm, flow. on the ancestral Rhine, the vessel reflected on
its smooth exe, and, above, guided by thin and shadowy
clouds, the moonst her shadows upon rocks covered with
verdure, and brought into a dim light the twin spires of
Andernach, tranquil in the distance.
*
"How beautiful is this hour!" said Gertrude, with a
low voice: "surely we do not live enough in the night,-
―
What
n
one half of the beauty of the world is slept away.
in the day can equal the holy calm, the loveliness and the
stillness which the moon now casts over the earth? These,
she continued, pressing Trevylyan's hand," are hours tc
remember; and you, will you ever forget them?
Something there is in the recollection of such times and
scenes that seem not to belong to real life, but are rather
an episode in its history; they are like some wandering.
into a more ideal world; they refuse to blend with our
ruder associations; they live in us, apart and alone, to
be treasured ever, but not lightly to be recalled. There
are none living to whom we can confide them,
sympathize with what then we felt? It is this that makes
poetry, and that page which we create as a confidant to
ourselves, necessary to the thoughts that weigh upon the
breast. We write, for our writing is our friend, the inan-
imate paper is our confessional; we pour forth on it the
thoughts that we could tell to no private ear, and are reliev-
ed, - are consoled. And, if genius has one prerogative
dearer than the rest, it is that which enables it to do honor
to the dead, — to revive the beauty, the virtue that are no
more; to wreath chaplets that outlive the day, round the
urn which were else forgotten by the world!
-
who can
When the poet mourns, in his immortal verse, for the
dead, tell me not that fame is in his mind! - it is filled by
thoughts, by emotions that shut the living from his soul.
He is breathing to his genius,-to that sole and constant
friend, which has grown up with him from his cradle, -
the sorrows too delicate for human sympathy; and when
afterward he consigns the confession to the crowd, it is
indeed from the hope of honor ; honor not for himself
but for the being that is no more.
CHAPTER XVII.
Letter from Trevylyan to
"Coblentz.
"I AM obliged to you, my dear friend, for your letter,
which, indeed, I have not, in the course of our rapid jour-
ney, had the leisure, perhaps the beart, to answer before.
But we are staying in this town for some days, and I write
now in the early morning, ere any one else in our hotel is
awake. Do not tell me of adventure, of politics, of in-
trigues; ny nature is altered. I threw down your letter,
animated and brilliant as it was, with a sick and revolted
heart. But I am now in somewhat less dejected spirits.
Gertrude is better,-
better, yes, really better, there is a physi-
cian here who gives me hope; my care is perpetually to
amuse and never to fatigue her, never to permit her
thoughts to rest upon herself. For I have imagined that
illness cannot, at least, in the unexhausted vigor of our years,
fasten upon us irremediably, unless we feed it with our own
belief in its existence. You see men of the most delicate
frames engaged in active and professional pursuits, who
literally have no time for illness. Let them become idle,-
let them take care of themselves, - let them think of their
health, and they die! The rust rots the steel which use
preserves and, thank heaven, although Gertrude, once
during our voyage, seemed roused, by an inexcusable impru-
dence of emotion on my part, into some suspicion of her
state, yet it passed away; for she thinks rarely of herself,
I am ever in her thoughts and seldom from her side, and
you know too the sanguine and credulous nature of her
disease! But, indeed, I now hope more than I have done
since I knew her.
"When, after an excited and adventurous .ife, which had
comprised so many changes in so few years, I found myself
at rest, in the bosom of a retired and remote part of the
country, and Gertrude and her father were my only neigh-
bours, I was in that state of mind in which the passions,
recruited by solitude, are accessible to the purer and more
divine emotions. I was struck by Gertrude's beauty; I
was charmed by her simplicity. Worn in the usages and
fashions of the world, the inexperience, the trustfulness,
the exceeding youth of her mind, charmed and touched me;
but when I saw the stamp of our national disease in her
bright eye and transparent cheek, I felt my love chilled,
while my interest was increased. I fancied myself safe,
and I went daily into the danger; I imagined so pure a
light could not burn, and 1 was consumed. Not fill my
anxiety grew into pain, my interest into terror, did I know
the secret of my own heart; and at the moment that I dis
356
BULWER'S NOVELS.
•
covered this secret, I discovered also that Gertrude loved
ine !
What a destiny was mine! what happiness, yet
what misery! Gertrude was my own, but for what pe-
riod? I might touch that soft hand, I might listen to
the tenderest confession from that silver voice, I might
press my kisses upon her fragrant lips, but all the while
iny heart spoke of passion my reason whispered of death.
You know that I am considered of a cold and almost cal-rule frowned down upon the solitary tower, as if in the vain
lous nature, that I am not easily moved into affections;
but my very pride bowed me here into weakness, there
was so soft a demand upon my protection, so constant an
appeal to my anxiety. You know that my father's quick
temper burns within me, that I am hot, and stern, and ex-
that I am hot, and stern, and ex-
acting; but one hasty word, one thought of myself, here
were inexcusable. So brief a time might be left for her
earthly happiness, — could I imbitter one moment? All
that feeling of uncertainty which should in prudence have
prevented my love, increased it almost to a preternatural
excess. That which it is said mothers feel for an only
child in sickness, I feel for Gertrude. My existence is
not! I exist in her !
"Her illness increased upon her at home; they have
recommended travel. She chose the course we were to pur-
sue, and fortunately it was so familiar to me, that I have
been enabled to brighten the way. I am ever on the watch
that she shall not know a weary hour; you would almost
sinile to see how I have roused myself from my habitual
silence; and to find me, me, the scheming and worldly
actor of real life, - plunged back into the early romance
of my boyhood, and charming the childish delight of Ger-
trude with the invention of fables and the traditions of the
Rhine.
"But I believe I have succeeded in my object; if not,
what is left to me? Gertrude is better in that sentence
what visions of hope dawn upon me! I wish you could
could
have seen Gertrude before we left England; you might
then have understood my love for her. Not that we have
not, in the gay capitals of Europe, paid our brief vows to
forms more richly beautiful; not that we have not been
charmed by a more brilliant genius, by a more tutored
grace. But there is that in Gertrude which I never saw
before; the union of the childish and the intellectual, an
ethereal simplicity, a temper that is never dimmed, a ten-
derness, oh God! let me not speak of her virtues, for
they only tell me how little she is suited to the earth.
You will direct me at Mayence, whither our course
now leads us, and your friendship will make indulgence for
my letter being so little a reply to yours.
"Your sincere friend,
"A. G. TREVYLYAN."
CHAPTER XVIII.
Coblentz. Excursion to the mountains of Taunus. - Roman
tower in the valley of Ehrenbreitstein. - Travel, its pleas-
ures estimated differently by the young and the old. The
student of Heidelberg, -His criticisms on German literature.
GERTRUDE had, indeed, apparently rallied during their
stay at Coblentz; and a French physician, established in
the town (who adopted a peculiar treatment for consump-
tion, which had been attended with no ordinary success)
gave her father and Trevylyan a sanguine assurance of her
ultimate recovery. The time they passed within the white
walls of Coblentz, was, therefore, the happiest and most
cheerful part of their pilgrimage. They visited the various
places in its vicinity; but the excursion which most de-
lighted Gertrude was one to the mountains of Taunus.
They took advantage of a beautiful September day;
and, crossing the river, commenced their tour from the
Thal, or valley of Ehrenbreitstein. They stopped on their
way to view the remains of a Roman tower in the valley,
for the whole of that district bears frequent witness of the
ancient conquerors of the world. The mountains of Tau-
nus are still intersected with the roads which the Romans
cut to the mines that supplied them with silver. Roman
urns, and inscribed stones, are often found in these ancient
places. The stones, inscribed with names utterly unknown,
-a type of the uncertainty of fame!-the urns from
which the dust is gone, -a very satire upon life!
Lone, gray, and mouldering, this tower stands aloft in
he valley; and the quiet Vane smiled to see the blue uni-
form of a modern Prussian, with his white belt and lifte.
bayonet, by the spot which had once echoed to the clang of
the Roman arms. The soldier was paying a momentary
court to a country damsel, whose straw hat and rustic dress
did not stifle the vanity of the sex; and this rude and hum-
ble gallantry, in that spot, was another moral in the history
of human passions. Above, the ramparts of a modern
insolence with which present power looks upon past decay;
the living race upon ancestral greatness. And indeed, in
this respect, rightly!— for modern times have no parallel
to that degradation of human dignity stamped upon the
ancient world, by the long sway of the imperial harlot, al
slavery herself, yet all tyranny to earth; and, like her
own Messalina, at once a prostitute and an empress .
Madag
They continued their course by the ancient baths of
Ems, and keeping by the banks of the romantic Lahn,
arrived at Holzapfel.
rr
''
Ah," said Gertrude, one day, as they proceeded to the
springs of the Carlovingian Wishaden, surely perpetual
travel with those we love must be the happiest state of
existence. If home has its comforts, it also has its cares;
but here we are at home with Nature, and the minor evils
vanish almost before they are felt."
"True," said Trevylyan, we escape from the little,'
which is the curse of life; the small cares that devour us
up, the grievances of the day. We are feeding the divinest
part of our nature, the appetite to admire.”
"But of all things wearisome, " said Vane, "a succes
sion of changes is the most. There can be a monotony ir
variety itself. As the eye aches in gazing long at the new
shapes of the kaleidoscope, the mind aches at the fatigue
of a constant alternation of objects; and we delightedly
return to REST, which is to life what green is to the
earth.”
In the course of their sojourn among the various baths
of Taunus, they fell in, by accident, with a German student
of Heidelberg, who was pursuing the pedestrian excursions
so peculiarly favored by his tribe. He was tamer and
gentler than the general herd of those young wanderers,
and our party were much pleased with his enthusiasm,
because it was unaffected. He had been in England, and
spoke its language almost as a native.
"Our literature," said he, one day, conversing with
Vane, "has two faults, - - we are too subtle and too home-
ly. We do not speak enough to the broad comprehension
of mankind; we are for ever making abstract qualities of
flesh and blood. Our critics have turned your Hamlet into
an allegory; they will not even allow Shakspeare to paint
mankind, but insist on his imbodying qualities. They turn
poetry into metaphysics, and truth seems to them shallow,
unless an allegory, which is false, can be seen at the bottom.
Again, too, with our most imaginative works we mix a
homeliness that we fancy touching, but which in reality is
ludicrous. We eternally step from the sublime to the ridic-
ulous, we want taste.'
"But not, I hope, French taste. Do not govern a
Goethe, or even a Richter, by a Boileau!" said Tre
vylyan.
No, but Boileau's taste was false. Men, who have
the reputation for good taste, often acquire it solely because
of the want of genius. By taste, I mean a quick tact into
the harmony of composition, the art of making the whole
consistent with its parts, the concinnitas, Schiller alone
of our authors has it ;- but we are fast mending; and,
by following shadows so long, we have been led at last to
the substance. Our past literature is to us what astrology
was to science, false but ennobling, and conducting us to
the true language of the intellectual heaven."
Another time, the scenes they passed, interspersed with
the ruins of frequent monasteries, leading them to converse
on the monastic life, and the various additions time makes
to religion, the German said, "Perhaps one of the works
most wanted in the world, is the history of religion. We
have several books, it is true, on the subject, but none that
supply the want I allude to. A German ought to write it ;
for only a German would probably have the requisite learn-
ing. A German only too is likely to treat the mighty
subject with boldness, and yet with veneration; without
the shallow flippancy of the Frenchman, without the timid
sectarianism of the English. It would be a noble task, to
trace the winding mazes of antique falsehood; to clear up
the first glimmerings of divine truth; to separate Jehovah's
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
357
39
One only of the three thousand and tea wore not the
same aspect as his crowned brethren; a star, smaller than
the rest, and less luminous; the countenance of this star
was not impressed with the awful calmness of the others;
but there were sullenness and discontent upon his mighty
brow.
Word from man's invention; to vindicate the All-mercifully pointing, and regulated the fates of mer as the hand of
from the dread creeds of bloodshed and of fear: and watch- the dial speaks the career of time.
ing in the great heaven of truth the dawning of the true
star, follow it, like the magi of the east, till it rested
above the real God. Not indeed presuming to such a task,
continued the German, with a slight blush, "I have about
ine an humble essay, which treats only of one part of that
august subject; which, leaving to a loftier genius the histo-
ry of the true religion, may be considered as the history of
a false one ; —
of such a creed as Christianity supplanted
in the north; or such as may perhaps be found ainong the
fiercest of the savage tribes. It is a fiction, as you may
conceive ; but
yet, by a constant reference to the early
records of human learning, I have studied to weave it up
from truths. If you would like to hear it, - it is very
short - "
"Above all things," said Vane; and the German drew
a manuscript, neatly bound, from his pocket.
"After having myself criticised so insolently the faults
of our national literature," said he, smiling, " you will
have a right to criticise the faults that belong to so humble
a disciple of it. But you will see that, though I have
commenced with the allegoric, or the supernatural, I have
endeavoured to avoid the subtlety of conceit and the obscu-
rity of design which I blame in the wilder of our authors.
As to the style, I wished to suit it to the subject; it ought
to be, unless I err, rugged and massive; bewn, as it were,
out of the rock of primeval language. But you, madam;
doubtless do not understand German. >>
you
and she
"Her mother was an Austrian," said Vane;" and she
knows at least enough of the tongue to understand you; so
pray begin."
Without further preface, the German then commenced
the story, which the reader will find translated* in the next
chapter.
CHAPTER XIX.
The fallen star; or, the history of a false religion.
AND the stars sat, each on his ruby throne, and watched
with sleepless eyes upon the world. It was the night ush-
ering in the new year, a night on which every star receives
from the archangel that then visits the universal galaxy, its
peculiar charge. The destinies of men and empires are
then portioned forth for the coming year, and unconsciously
to ourselves, our fates become minioned to the stars. A
hushed and solemn night is that in which the dark gates of
time open to receive the ghost of the dead year, and the
young and radiant stranger rushes forth from the clouded
chasms of eternity. On that night, it is said, that there is
to the spirits that we see not a privilege and a power ;
the
dead are troubled in their forgotten graves, and men feast
and laugh while demon and angel are contending for their
doom.
It was night in heaven; all was unutterably silent, the
music of the spheres had paused, and not a sound came
from the angels of the stars; and they who sat upon those
shining thrones were three thousand and ten, each resem-
bling each. Eternal youth clothed their radiant limbs with
celestial beauty, and on their faces was written the dread
of calm, that fearful stillness which feels not, sympathizes
not with the dooms over which it broods. War, tempest,
pestilence, the rise of empires and their fall they ordain,
they compass, unexultaut and uncompassionate. The fell
and thrilling crimes that stalk abroad when the world sleeps,
the parricide with his stealthy step, and horrent brow, and
lifted knife; the unwifed mother that glides out and looks
behind, and behind, and shudders, and casts her babe upon
the river, and hears the wail, and pities not, the splash,
and does not tremble; these the starred kings behold,
these they lead the unconscious step; but the guilt blanches
not their lustre, neither doth remorse wither their unwrinkled
youth. Each star wore a kingly diadem; round the loins
of each was a graven belt, graven with many and mighty
signs; and the foot of each was on a burning ball, and the
right arm drooped over the knee as they bent down from
their thrones; they moved not a limb or feature, save the
Singer of the right hand, which ever and anon moved, slow-
to
* Nevertheless I beg to state seriously, that the German
student is an impostor; had he taken any other tale of mine, I
would have borne it; but one of my very best, — ah, scelerat :
And this star said to himself, -"Behold! I am created
less glorious than my fellows, and the archangel apportions
not to me the same lordly destinies. Not for me are the dooms
of kings and bards, the rulers of empires, or, yet nobler,
the swayers and harmonists of souls Sluggish are the
spirits and base the lot of the men I am ordained to lead
through a dull life to a fameless grave. And wherefore?
is it mine own fault, or is it the fault which is not mine,
that I was woven of beams less glorious than my brethren?
Lo! when the archangel comes, I will bow not my crowned
head to his decrees. I will speak, as the ancestral Lucifer
before me he rebelled because of his glory, I because of
my obscurity; he from the ambition of pride, and I from
its discontent."
And while the star was thus communing with himself,
the upward heavens were parted, as by a long river of light,
and adown that stream swiftly, and without sound, sped the
archangel visiter of the stars; his vast limbs floated in the
liquid lustre, and his outspread wings, each plume the
glory of a sun, bore him noiselessly along; but thick clouds
veiled his lustre from the eyes of mortals, and while above
all was bathed in the serenity of his splendor, tempest and
storm broke below over the children of the earth: "He
bowed the heavens and came down, and darkness was
under his feet.
And the stillness on the faces of the stars became yet
more still, and the awfulness was humbled into awe. Right
above their thrones paused the course of the archangel;
and his wings stretched from east to west, overshadowing,
with the shadow of light, the immensity of space. Then
forth, in the shining stillness, rolled the dread music of his
voice; and, fulfilling the heraldry of God, to each star he
appointed the duty and the charge, and each star bowed his
head yet lower as it received the fiat, while his throne
rocked and trembled at the majesty of the word. But at
last, when each of the brighter stars had, in succession,
received the mandate, and the viceroyalty over the nations
of the earth, the purple and diadems of kings; the arch-
angel addressed the lesser star as he sat apart from his
fellows:-
9
north, the fishermen of the river that flows beneath, and
"Behold," said the archangel, "the rude tribes of the
the hunter of the forests, that darken the mountain tops
with verdure! these be thy charge, and their destinies thy
care. Nor deem thou, Ở star of the sullen beams, that
thy duties are less glorious than the duties of thy brethren;
for the peasant is not less to thy master and mine than the
monarch; nor doth the doom of empires rest more upon the
sovereign than on the herd. The passions and the heart
are the dominion of the stars, a mighty realm; nor less
mighty beneath the hide that garbs the shepherd, than the
jewelled robes of the eastern kings
Then the star lifted his pale front from his breast, and
answered the archangel : —
"Lo!" he said, " ages have past, and each year thou
hast appointed me to the same ignoble charge. Release
wilt that the lowlier race of men be my charge, give unto
pray thee, from the duties that I scorn; or, if thou
breathe unto him the desire that spurns the valleys of life,
me the charge, not of many, but of one, and suffer me to
and ascends its steeps. If the humble are given to me,
let there be among them one whom I may lead on the mis.
sion that shall abase the proud; for, behold, O appointer
of the stars, as I have sat for uncounted years upon my
solitary throne, brooding over the things beneath, my spirit
Looking upon the tribes of earth, I have seen how the
hath gathered wisdom from the changes that shift below.
multitude are swayed, and tracked the steps that lead
weakness into power; and fain would I be the ruler of one
who, if abased, shall aspire to rule."
me,
I
As a sudden cloud over the face of noon was the change
on the brow of the archangel.
"Proud and melancholy star," said the herald, "the
wish would war with the courses of the invisible destiny,
that, throned far above, sways and harmonizes all; the
358
BULWER'S NOVELS.
source from which the lesser rivers of fate are eternally
gushing through the heart of the universe of things. Think-
est thou that thy wisdom of itself can lead the peasant to
become a king?"
And the crowned star gazed undauntedly on the face of
the archangel, and answered,
"Yea!
-grant me but one trial ! "
Ere the archangel could reply, the furthest centre of the
heaven was rent as by a thunderbolt; and the divine herald
covered his face with his hands, and a voice low and sweet,
and mild with the consciousness of unquestionable power,
spoke forth to the repining star.'
"The time has arrived when thou mayst have thy wish.
Below thee, upon yon solitary plain, sits a mortal, gloomy
as thyself, who, born under thy influence, may be moulded
to thy will."
The voice ceased as the voice of a dream. Silence was
over the seas of space, and the archangel, once more
borne aloft, slowly soared away into the farther heaven, to
promulgate the divine bidding to the stars of far distant
worlds. But the soul of the discontented star exulted
within itself; and it said, "I will call forth a king from
the valley of the herdsman, that shall trample on the kings
subject to my fellows, and render the charge of the con-
temned star more glorious than the minions of its favored
brethren; thus shall I revenge neglect, thus shall I❘
prove my claim hereafter to the heritage of the great of
earth!
At that time, though the world had rolled on for ages,
and the pilgrimage of man had passed through various
states of existence, which our dim traditionary knowledge
has not preserved, yet the condition of our race in the
northern hemisphere, was then what we, in our imperfect
lore, have conceived to be among the earliest.
*
When the sun arose, one of his brethren relieved him of
his charge over the herd, and he went away, but not to his
father's home. Musingly he plunged into the dark and
leafless recesses of the winter forest; and shaped, out of ma
wild thoughts, more palpably and clearly the outline of his
daring hope. While thus absorbed, he heard a great noise
in the forest, and fearful lest the hostile tribe of Alrich
might pierce that way, he ascended one of the loftiest pine
trees, to whose perpetual verdure the winter had not denied
the shelter he sought, and concealed by its branches, he
looked anxiously forth in the direction whence the noise
had proceeded. And IT came, it came, with a tramp
and a crash, and a crushing tread upon the crunched boughs
and matted leaves that strewed the soil,~ it came, it came,
the monster that the world now holds no more,
the mighty
Mammoth of the North! Slowly it moved in its huge
strength along, and its burning eyes glittered through the
gloomy shade; its jaws, falling apart, showed the grinders
with which it snapped asunder the young oaks of the for-
est; and the vast tusks, which curved downwards to the
middest of its massive limbs, glistened white and ghastly,
curdling the blood of one destined hereafter to be the
dreadest ruler of men of that distant age.
M
-
The livid eyes of the monster fastened on the form of
the herdsman, even amid the thick darkness of the pine.
It paused, —it glared upon him,· its jaws opened, and a
low deep sound as of gathering thunder, seemed to the son
of Osslah as the knell of a dreadful grave. But after glar-
ing on him for some momenta, it again, and calmly, pursued
its terrible way, crashing the boughs as it marched along,
till the last sound of its heavy tread died away upon bis
ear.*
Ere yet however Morven summoned the courage to de-
bare branches of the wood, and presently a small band of
scend the tree, he saw the shining of arms through the
the hostile Alrich came into sight. He was perfectly hid-
den from them; and, listening as they passed him, he heard
one say to another
"The night covers all things; why attack them by
day?"
And he who seemed the chief of the band, answered,
"Right. To-night, when they sleep in their city, we
will upon them. Lo! they will be drenched in wine, and
fall like sheep into our hands."
"But where, O chief," said a third of the band, "shall
our men hide during the day for there are many hunters
among the youth of the Oestrich tribe, and they night see
us in the forest unawares, and arm their race against our
coming."
"Is
Will it not shel-
"I have prepared for that," answered the chief.
not the dark cavern of Oderlin at hand?
ter us from the eyes of the victims ?
Then the men laughed, and shouting, they went their
way adown the forest.
By a rude and vast pile of stones, the masonry of arts
forgotten, a lonely man sat at midnight, gazing upon the
heavens, a storm had just passed from the earth, the
clouds had rolled away, and the high stars looked down
apon the rapid waters of the Rhine; and no sound save
the roar of the waves, and the dripping of the rain from
the mighty trees, was heard around the ruined pile; the
white sheep lay scattered on the plain, and slumber with
them. He sat watching over the herd, lest the foes of a
neighbouring tribe seized them unawares, and thus be com-
muned with himself: "The king sits upon his throne, and
is honored by a warrior race, and the warrior exults in the
trophies he has won; the step of the huntsman is bold upon
the mountain top, and his name is sung at night round the
pine fires, by the lips of the bard; and the bard himself
hath honor in the hall. But I, who belong not to the race
of kings, and whose limbs can bound not to the rapture of
war, nor scale the eyries of the eagle and the haunts of the
swift stag; whose hand can string not the harp, and whose
voice is harsh in the song; I have neither honor nor com-
mand, and men bow not the head as I pass along; yet
do I feel within me the consciousness of a great power that
should rule my species, not obey. My eye pierces the
secret hearts of men, I see their thoughts ere their lips For the son of Osslah was small in stature and of slen-
proclaim them; and I scorn, while I see, the weakness der strength, and his step had halted from his birth; but
and the vices which I never shared, - I laugh at the mad- he passed through the warriors unheedingly. At the out-
ness of the warrior,— I mock within my soul at the tyr-skirts of the city he came upon a tall pile in which some
anny of kings. Surely there is something in man's nature
more fitted to command, more worthy of renown, than
the sinews of the arm, or the swiftness of the feet, or the
accident of birth!
As Morven, the son of Osslah, thus mused within him-
self, still looking at the heavens, the solitary man beheld a
star suddenly shooting from its place, and speeding through
the silent air, till it as suddenly paused, right over the
midnight river, and facing the inmate of the pile of stones.
As he gazed upon the star strange thoughts grew slowly
over him. He drank, as it were, from its solemn aspect
the spirit of a great design. A dark cloud rapidly passing
over the earth, snatched the star from his sight, but left to
his awakened mind the thoughts and the dim scheme that
had come tḥ hm as he gazed.
When they were gone Morven cautiously descended, and
striking into a broad path, hastened to a vale that lay be-
tween the forest and the river in which was the city where
the chief of his country dwelt. As he passed by the war-
like men, giants in that day, who thronged the streets, (if
streets they might be called,) their half garments parting
from their huge limbs, the quiver at their backs, and the
hunting spear in their hands, they laughed and shouted out,
and pointing to him, cried,
and pointing to him, cried, "Morven the woman, Morven
the cripple, what dost thou
among men?
old men dwelt by themselves, and counselled the king when
times of danger, or when the failure of the season, the
famine, or the drought, perplexed the ruler, and clouded
the savage fronts of his warrior tribe.
They gave the counsels of experience, and when experi-
ence failed, they drew, in their believing ignorance, assuran-
ces and omens from the winds of heaven, the changes of the
moon, and the flights of the wandering birds. Filled (by the
voices of the elements, and the variety of mysteries which
ever shift along the face of things unsolved by the wonder
which pauses not, the fear which believes, and that eterna
reasoning of all experience, which assigns causes to effect)
* The critic will perceive that this sketch of the beast, whose
race has perished, is mainly intended to designate the remane
period of the world in which the tale is cast.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
300
with the notion of superior powers, they assisted their
ignorance by the conjectures of their superstition. But as
yet they knew no craft and practised no voluntary delu-
sion; they trembled too much at the mysteries which had
created their faith to seek to belie them. They counselled
as they believed, and the bold dream had never dared to
cross men thus worn and gray with age, of governing their
warriors and their kings by the wisdom of deceit.
The son of Osslah entered the vast pile with a fearless
step, and approached the place at the upper end of the hall
where the old men sat in conclave.
"How, base-born and craven-ligbed,” cried the eldest,
who had been a noted warrior in his day; "darest thou
enter unsuminoned amid the secret councils of the wise
men? Knowest thou not, scatterling, that the penalty is
death?"
Slay me, if thou wilt," answered Morven, "but
hear! As I sat last night in the ruined palace of our an-
cient kings, tending, as my father bade me, the sheep that
grazed around, lest the fierce tribe of Alrich should de-
scend unseen from the mountains upon the herd, a storm
came darkly on, and when the storm had ceased, and I
looked above on the sky, I saw a star descend from its
height toward ine, and a voice from the star said, 'Son of
Osslah, leave thy herd and seek the council of the wise
and
men, say unto them, that they take thee as one of their
number, or that sudden will be the destruction of them and
theirs. But I had courage to answer the voice, and I
said, Mock not the poor son of the herdsman. Behold,
they will kill me if I utter so rash a word for I am poor
and valueless in the eyes of the tribe of Oestrich, and the
great in deeds and the gray of hair alone sit in the coun-
cil of the wise men.'
C
•
"Then the voice said, Do my bidding, and I will give
thee a token that thou comest from the powers that sway
the seasons and sail upon the eagles of the winds. Say
unto the wise men that this very night, if they refuse to
receive thee of their band, evil shall fall upon them, and
the morrow shall dawn in blood.'
"Then the voice ceased, and the cloud passed over the
and I communed with myself, and came, O dread
star;
fathers, mournfully unto you. For I feared that ye would
smite me because of my bold tongue, and that ye would
sentence me to the death, in that I asked what may scarce
be given even to the sons of kings."
Then the grim elders looked one at the other, and mar-
velled much, nor knew they what answer they should make
to the herdsman's son.
At length one of the wise men said, "Surely there
must be truth in the son of Osslah, for he would not dare
to falsify the great lights of heaven. If he had given unto
men the words of the star, verily we might doubt the
truth. But who would brave the vengeance of the gods
of night?"
Then the elders shook their heads, approvingly; but one
answered and said
"Shall we take the herdsman's son as
as our equal?
No." The name of the man who thus answered was
Darvan, and his words were pleasing to the elders.
But Morven spoke out: "Of a truth, oh counsellors
of kings, I look not to be an equal with yourselves.
Enough if I tend the gates of your palace, and serve you
as the son of Osslah may serve;" and he bowed his head
humbly as he spoke.
Then said the chief of the elders, for he was wiser
han the others, "But how wilt thou deliver us from the
evil that is to come? Doubtless the star has informed thee
of the service thou canst render to us if we take thee into
our palace, as well as the ill that will fall on us if we
refuse.'
CC
Morven answered meekly, Surely, if thou acceptest
thy servant, the star will teach him that which may re-
quite thee; but as yet he knows only what he has ut-
tered."
Then the sages bade him withdraw, and they communed
with themselves, and they differed much; but though fierce
men, and bold at the war-cry of a human foe, they shudder-
ed at the prophecy of a star. So they resolved to take
the son of Osslah, and suffer him to keep the gate of the
council hall.
He heard their decree and bowed his head, and went to
the gate, and sat down by it in silence.
And the sun went down in the west, and the first stars
|
of the twilight began to glimme when Morven started
from his seat, and a trembling appeared to seize his limbs
His lips foamed; an agony and a fear possessed him: he
writhed as a man whom the spear of a foeman has pierced
with a mortal wound, and suddenly fell upon his face or
the stony earth.
The elders approached him; wondering, they lifted him
up. He slowly recovered as from a swoon; his eyes
rolled wildly.
"Heard ye not the voice of the star?" he said.
And the chief of the elders answered, "Nay, we heard
no sound."
Then Morven sighed heavily.
"To me only the word was given. Summon instantly,
oh counsellors of the king, summon the armed men, and
all the youth of the tribe, and let them take the sword
For lo! the star
and the spear, and follow thy servant.
hath announced to him that the foe shall fall into our hands
as the wild beasts of the forests."
The son of Osslah spoke with the voice of command,
and the elders were amazed. Why pause ye?' he cried.
"Do the gods of the night lie? On my head rest the
peril if I deceive ye.”
Then the elders communed together; and they went
forth and summoned the men of arms, and all the young of
the tribe; and each man took the sword and the
and
spear,
Morven also. And the son of Osslah walked first, still
looking up at the star; and he motioned them to be silent,
and move with a stealthy step.
So they went through the thickest of the forest, till they
came to the mouth of a great cave, overgrown with aged
and matted trees, and it was called the cave of Oderlin,
and he bade the leaders place the armed on either side of
the cave, to the right and to the left, among the bushes.
So they watched silently till the night deepened, when
they heard a noise in the cave and the sound of feet, and
forth came an armed man; and the spear of Morven pierced
him, and he fell dead at the mouth of the cave. Another
and another, and both fell! Then loud and long was heard
the war-cry of Alrich, and forth poured, as a stream over
a narrow bed, the river of armed men. And the sons of
Oestrich fell upon them, and the foe were sorely perplexed
and terrified by the suddenness of the battle and the dark-
ness of the night; and there was a great slaughter.
And when the morning came, the children of Oestrich
counted the slain, and found the leader of Alrich and the
chief men of the tribe among them, and great was the joy
thereof. So they went back in triumph to the city, and
they carried the brave son of Osslah on their shoulders,
and shouted forth," Glory to the servant of the star."
And Morven dwelt in the council of the wis
Now the king of the tribe had one daughter, and she
was stately among the women of the tribe, and fair to
look upon.
And Morven gazed upon her with the eyes of
love, but he did not dare to speak.
men.
Now the son of Osslah laughed secretly at the foolish-
ness of men; he loved them not, for they had mocked him;
he honored them not, for he had blinded the wisest of their
elders. He shunned their feasts and merriment, and lived
apart and solitary. The austerity of his life increased the
mysterious homage which his commune with the stars had
won him, and the boldest of the warriors bowed his head
to the favorite of the gods.
One day he was wandering by the side of the river, and
he saw a large bird of prey rise from the waters, and give
chase to a hawk that had not yet gained the full strength
of its wings. From his youth the solitary Morven had
loved to watch, in the great forests and by the banks of the
mighty stream, the habits of the things which Nature has
submitted to man; and looking now on the birds, he said
to himself, “Thus is it ever; by cunning or by strength
each thing wishes to master its kind." While thus mor-
alizing, the larger bird had stricken down the hawk, and
it fell terrified and panting at his feet. Morven took the
hawk in his hands, and the vulture shrieked abore him,
wheeling nearer and nearer to its protected prey; but Mor-
ven scared away the vulture, and placing the hawk in his
bosom, he carried it home, and tended it carefully, and ſed
it from his hand until it had regained its strength, and the
hawk knew him, and followed him as a dog. And Morven
said, smiling to himself, "Behold, the credulous fools
around me put faith in the flight and motion of birds. I
will teach this poor hawk to minister to my ends." So he
360
BULWER'S NOVELS.
timed the bird, and tutored it according to its nature; but
e concealed it carefully from others, and cherished it in
secr..
The king of the country was old and like to die, and the
eyes of the tribe were turned to his two sons, nor knew
they which was the worthier to reign. And Morven, pass-
ing through the forest one evening, saw the younger of the
two, who was a great hunter, sitting mournfully under an
oak, and looking with musing eyes upon the ground.
"Wherefore musest thou, O swift-footed Siror?" said
the son of Osslah; "and wherefore art thou sad?"
"Thou canst not assist me," answered the prince, stern-
"take thy way.
ly;
Nay," answered Morven, "thou knowest not what
hou sayest; am I not the favorite of the stars?"
"Away, I am no graybeard whom the approach of death
makes doting; talk not to me of the stars; I know only
he things that my eye sees and my ear drinks in."
"Hush," said Morven, solemnly, and covering his face,
"hush!
- lest the heavens avenge thy rashness. But be-
hold, the stars have given unto me to pierce the secret hearts
of others; and I can tell thee the thoughts of thine."
"Speak out, baseborn."
"Thou art the younger of two, and thy name is less
known in war than the name of thy brother; yet wouldst
thou desire to be set over his head, and to sit on the high
seat of thy father."
The young man turned pale. "Thou hast truth in thy
lips," said he, with a faltering voice.
"Not from me, but from the stars, descends the truth."
Can the stars grant my wish?"
They can; let us meet to-morrow.
Morven passed into the forest.
The next day, at noon, they met again.
and thou shalt give Orna as a bride to the favorite of the
stars. Arise, and go thy way!"
The voice ceased; the terror of Orna had overpow
ered for a time the springs of life; and Siror bore her
home through the wood in his strong arms.
"Alas!" said Morven, when at the next day he again
met the aspiring prince; "alas! the stars have ordained
me a lot which my heart desires not; for I, lonely of life.
and crippled of shape, am insensible to the fires of love;
and ever, as thou and thy tribe know, I have shunned the
eyes
of women,
for the maidens laughed at my halting step
and my sullen features; and so in my youth I learned be-
times to banish all thoughts of love; but since they told
me (as they declared to thee) that only through that mar-
riage, thou, oh beloved prince! canst obtain thy father's
plumed crown, I yield me to their will."
"But," said the prince, "not until I am king can I
give thee my sister in marriage, for thou knowest that my
sire would smite me to the dust, if I asked him to give
the flower of our race to the son of the herdsman Osslah."
"Thou speakest the words of truth. Go home and fear
not; but when thou art king, the sacrifice must be made,
and Orna mine. Alas! how can I dare lift my eyes to
her? But so ordain the dread kings of the night!-who
shall gainsay their word?
>>
"The day that sees me king, sees Orna thine," answered
the prince.
Morven walked forth, as was his wont, alone, and he
said to himself, "The king is old, yet may he live long
between me and mine hope!" and he began to cast in his
mind how he might shorten the time. Thus absorbed, he
Thus saying, wandered on so unheedingly, that night advanced, and he
had lost his path among the thick woods, and knew not
how to regain his home; so he lay down quietly beneath a
tree, and rested till day dawned; then hunger came upon
him, and he searched among the bushes for such simple
roots as those with which, for he was ever careless of
food, he was used to appease the cravings of nature.
I have consulted the gods of night, and they have given
une the power that I prayed for, but on one condition."
"Name it."
"That thou sacrifice thy sister on their altars; thou
must build up a heap of stones, and take thy sister into the
wood, and lay her on the pile, and plunge thy sword into
her heart; so only shalt thou reign.
The prince shuddered, and started to his feet, and shook
his spear at the pale front of Morven.
"Tremble," said the son of Osslah, with a loud voice,
"hark to the gods that threaten thee with death, that thou
hast dared to lift thine arm against their servant !
As he spoke, the thunder rolled above; for one of the
frequent storms of the early summer was about to break.
The spear dropped from the prince's hand; he sat down
and cast his eyes on the ground.
"Wilt thou do the bidding of the stars, and reign?
said Morven.
"I will!" cried Siror, with a desperate voice.
"This evening, then, when the sun sets, thou wilt lead
her hither, alone; I may not attend thee. Now, let us pile
the stones."
Silently the huntsman bent his vast strength to the frag-
ments of rock that Morven pointed to him, and they built
the altar, and went their way.
And beautiful is the dying of the great sun, when the
last song of the birds fades into the lap of silence; when
ine islands of the cloud are bathed in light, and the first
star springs up over the grave of day!
"Whither leadest thou my steps, my brother," said
Orna; "and why doth thy lip quiver? and why dost thou
turn away thy face?"
"Is not the forest beautiful; does it not tempt us forth,
my sister?"
"And wherefore are those heaps of stone piled to-
gether?"
He found, among other more familiar herbs and roots, a
red berry of a sweetish taste, which he had never observed
before. He ate of it sparingly, and had not proceeded far
in the wood before he found his eyes swim, and a deadly
sickness come over him. For several hours he lay convul-
sed on the ground expecting death; but the gaunt spareness
of his frame, and his unvarying abstinence, prevailed over
the poison, and he recovered slowly, and after great an-
guish; but he went with feeble steps back to the spot
where the berries grew, and, plucking several, hid them in
his bosom, and by nightfall regained the city.
The next day he went forth among his father's herds,
and seizing a lamb, forced some of the berries into its
stomach, and the lamb, escaping, ran away, and fell down
dead. Then Morven took some more of the berries and
boiled them down, and mixed the juice with wine, and he
gave the wine in secret to one of his father's servants,
|
and
the servant died.
Then Morven sought the king, and coming into his
presence alone, he said unto him, "How fares my lord ?”
The king sat on a couch, made of the skins of wolves,
and his eye was glassy and dim, but vaɛt were his aged
limbs, and huge was his stature, and he had been taller by
a head than the children of men, and none living could
bend the bow he had bent in youth. Gray, gaunt, and
worn, as some mighty bones that are dug at times from the
bosom of the earth, -a relic of the strength of old.
And the king said faintly, and with a ghastly laugh,
"The men of my years fare ill. What avails my
strength? Better had I been born a cripple like thee, so
should I have had nothing to lament in growing old.”
The red flush passed over Morven's brow; but he bent
humbly
"Oh king, what if I could give thee back thy youth ?
What if I could restore to thee the vigor which distin-
guished thee above the sons of men, when the warriors of
Alrich fell like grass before thy sword?"
"Let others answer, I piled them not."
"Thou tremblest, brother; we will return."
"Not so; by those stones is a bird that my shaft pierced What if
shaft pierced
10-day; a bird of beautiful plumage that I slew for thee."
"We are by the pile; where hast thou laid the bird ?”
"He e!" cried Siror; and he seized the maiden in his
arms, and casting her on the rude altar, he drew forth his
eword to smite her to the heart.
Right over the stones rose a giant oak, the growth of
¡minemorial ages; and from the oak, or from the heavens,
broke forth a loud and solemn voice, “Strike not, sou of
kings, the stars forbear their own; the maiden thou shalt
not slav; yet shalt thou reign over the race of Oestrich;
Then the king uplifted his dull eyes, and he said
"What meanest thou, son of Osslah? Surely I hear
much of thy great wisdom, and how thou speakest nightly
with the stars. Can the gods of the night give unto thee
the secret to make the old
young?
CC
Tempt them not by doubt," said Morren, reverently.
"All things are possible to the rulers of the dark hour
and, lo! the star that loves thy servant spake to him a,
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
36.
the dead of night, and said, 'Arise, and go unto the king;
and tell him that the stars honor the tribe of Oestrich, and
remember how the king bent his bow against the sons of
Alrich; wherefore, look thou under the stone that lies to
the right of thy dwelling, - even beside the pine tree; and
thou shalt see a vessel of clay, and in the vessel thou
wilt find a sweet liquid, that shall make the king thy
master forget his age for ever.' Therefore, my lord, when
the morning rose I went forth, and looked under the stone,
and benold the vessel of clay; and I have brought it hither,
to my lord, the king.
" Quick,
my youth!
slave,- -quick! that I may drink aud regain
Nay, listen, oh king: further said the star to me.
"It is only at night, when the stars have power, that
this their gift will avail; wherefore the king must wait till
the hush of the midnight, when the moon is high, and then
may he mingle the liquid with his wine. And he must re-
veal to none that he hath received the gift from the hand of
the servant of the stars. For THEY do their work in secret,
and when men sleep; therefore they love not the babble of
mouths, and he who reveals their benefits shall surely die.""
"Fear not," said the king, grasping the vessel, none
shall know, and behold, I will rise on the morrow; and
my two sons, wrangling for my crown, verily I shall
be younger than they !”
CC
Then the king laughed loud; and he scarcely thanked the
servant of the stars, neither did he promise him reward;
for the kings of those days had little thought,
save for
themselves.
And Morven said to him, "Shall I not attend my lord?
for without me perchance the drug might fail of its effect.”
Ay," said the king, "rest here."
CC
Nay," replied Morven ; thy servants will marvel and
talk much, if they see the son of Osslah sojourning in thy
palace. So would the displeasure of the gods of night per-
chance be incurred. Suffer that the hinder door of the
palace be unbarred, so that at the ninth hour, when the
moon is midway in the heavens, I may steal unseen into
thy chamber, and mix the liquid with thy wine.'
"So be it," said the king; "thou art wise, though thy
limbs are crooked and curt; and the stars might have
chose.. a taller man. Then the king laughed again; and
Morven laughed too, but there was danger in the mirth of
the son of Osslah.
•
woe! "
The night had begun to wane, and the inhabitants of
Oestrich were buried in deep sleep, when hark, a sharp
voice was heard crying out in the streets, " Woe, woe!
Awake, ye sons of Õestrich,
Then forth, wild,
-haggard, alarmed, - spear in hand, rushed the giant
sons of the rugged tribe, and they saw a man on a height
in the middle of the city, shrieking "Woe !" and it was
Morven, the son of Osslah! And he said unto them as
they gathered round him, "Men and warriors, tremble as
ye hear. The star of the west hath spoken to me, and
thus said the star. Evil shall fall upon the kingly house
of Oestrich, yea, cre the morning dawn; wherefore go
thou mourning into the streets, and wake the inhabitants to
woe.' So I rose and did the bidding of the star. And
while Morven was yet speaking, a servant of the king's
house ran up to the crowd, crying loudly, "The king is
dead."
So they went into the palace, and found the king
stark upon bis couch, and his huge limbs all cramped and
crippled by the pangs of death, and his hands clenched as
if in menace of a foe, the foe of all living flesh! Then
fear came on the gazers, and they looked on Morven with
a deeper awe than the boldest warrior would have called
forth;
and they bore him back to the council-hall of the
wise men, wailing and clashing their arms in woe, and
shouting ever and anon, "Honor to Morven the prophet;"
and that was the first time the word prophet was ever used
in those countries.
|
At noon on the third day from the king's death, Siror sought |
Morven, and he said, "Lo, my father is no more, and the
people meet this evening at sunset to choose his successor,
and the warriors and young men will surely choose my brother
for he is more known in war. Fail me not, therefore."
"Peace, boy," said Morven, sternly, "nor dare to ques-
tion the truth of the gods of night.'
For Morven now began to assume on his power among
the people, and to speak as rulers speak, even to the sons
of kings. And the voice silenced the fiery Siror, nor dared
be to reply.
VOL. II.
46
CC
دو
"Behold," said Morven, taking up a chaplet of colored
plumes, wear this on thy head, and put on a brave face,
for the people like a hopeful spirit, and go down with thy
brother to the place where the new king is chosen, and
leave the rest to the stars. But above all things forget not
that chaplet; it has been blessed by the gods of night.
The prince took the chaplet and returned home.
It was evening, and the warriors and chiefs of the tribe
were assembled in the place where the new king was to be
elected. And the voices of the many favored Prince Vol-
toch, the brother of Siror, for he had slain twelve foemed
with his spear, and verily in those days that was a great
virtue in a king.
Suddenly there was a shout in the streets, and the people
cried out," Way for Morven the prophet, the prophet.
For the people held the son of Osslah in greater respect
even than did the chiefs. Now, since he had become of
note, Morven had assumed a majesty of air which the son
of the herdsman knew not in his earlier days, and albeit
his stature was short, and limbs halted, yet his countenance
was grave and high. He only of the tribe wore a garment
that swept the ground, and his head was bare, and his
long black hair descended to his girdle, and rarely was
change or human passion seen in his calm aspect. He
feasted not, nor drank wine, nor was his presence frequent
He laughed not, neither did he sinile, save
when alone in the forest,- and then he laughed at the fol-
lies of his tribe.
in the streets.
So he walked slowly through the crowd, neither turning
to the left nor to the right, as the crowd gave way; and be
supported his steps with a staff of the knotted pine.
And when he came to the place where the chiefs were
met, and the two princes stood in the centre, he bade the
people around him proclaim silence; then mounting on a
huge fragment of rock, he thus spake to the multitude.
"Princes, warriors, and bards! ye, O council of the
wise men, and ye, O hunters of the forests, and snarers of
the fishes of the streams; hearken to Morven, the son of
Osslah. Ye know that I am lowly of race, and weak of
limb; but did not I give into your hands the tribe of Alrich
and did ye not slay them in the dead of night with a great
slaughter? Surely ye must know this of himself did not
the herdsman's son; surely he was but the agent of the
bright gods that love the children of Oestrich. Three nights
since, when slumber was on the earth, was not my voice
heard in the streets? Did I not proclaim woe to the kingly
house of Oestrich? and verily the dark arm had fallen on
the bosom of the mighty, that is no more. Could I have
dreamed this thing merely in a dream, or was I not as the
voice of the bright gods that watch over the tribes of
Oestrich? Wherefore, O men and chiefs, scorn not the
poor herdsman, son of Osslah, but listen to his words, for
are they not the wisdom of the stars? Behold, last night I
sat alone in the valley, and the trees were hushed around
and not a breath stirred; and I looked upon the star that
counsels the son of Osslah; and I said, ' Dread conqueror
of the cloud, thou that bathest thy beauty in the streams,
and piercest the pine boughs with thy presence; behold thy
servant grieved because the mighty one hath passed away,
and many foes surround the houses of my brethren; and
it is well that they should have a king valiant and prosper-
ous in war; the cherished of the stars. Wherefore, O star,
as thou gavest into our hands the warriors of Alrich, and
didst warn us of the fall of the oak of our tribe, wherefore
pray thee give unto the people a token that they may
choose that king whom the gods of the night prefer!
Then a low voice, sweeter than the music of the bard, stole
along the silence. Thy love for thy race is grateful to the
stars of night; go then, son of Osslah, and seek the meet
ing of the chiefs and the people to choose a king, and tell
them not to scorn thee because thou art slow to the chase,
and little known in war; for the stars give thee wisdom as
a recompense for all. Say unto the people, that as the wise
men of the council shape their lessons by the flight of birds,
so by the flight of birds shall a token be given unto them,
and they shall choose their kings. For, saith the star of
night, the birds are the children of the winds, they pass to
and fro along the ocean of the air, and visit the clouds that
are the war-ships of the gods. And their music is but
broken melodies which they gleam from the harps above
Are they not the messengers of the storm? Ere the stream
chafes against the bank, and the rain descends, know ye
not by the wail of birds and their low circles over the earth
I
862
BULWER'S NOVELS.
that the tempest is at hand? Wherefore, wisely do ye deem
that the children of the air are the fit interpreters between
the sons of men and the lords of the world above. Say then
to the people and the chiefs, that they shall take, from
among the doves that nest in the roof of the palace, a white
dove, and they shall let it loose in the air, and verily the
gods of the night shall deem the dove as a prayer coming
from the people, and they shall send a messenger to grant
the prayer and give to the tribes of Oestrich a king worthy
of themselves.""
"With that the star spoke no more.”
tt
Then the friends of Voltoch murmured among themselves,
and they said, Shall this man dictate to us who shall be
king?"
But the people and the warriors shouted, "Lis-
ten to the star; do we not give or deny battle according as
the bird flies, shall we not by the same token choose him
by whom the battle shall be led ? And the thing seemed
natural to them, for it was after the custom of the tribe.
Then they took one of the doves that built in the roof of the
palace, and they brought it to the spot where Morven stood,
and he, looking up to the stars, and muttering to himself,
released the bird.
There was a copse of trees at a little distance from the
spot, and as the dove ascended a hawk suddenly rose from
the copse and pursued the dove; and the dove was terrified,
and soared circling high above the crowd, when, lo, the
hawk, poising itself one moment on its wings, swooped
with a sudden swoop, and abandoning its prey, alighted on
the plumed head of Siror.
"Behold," cried Morven in a loud voice, "behold your
king!"
Hail, all hail the king!" shouted the people; "all
hail the chosen of the stars!"
Then Morven lifted his right hand, and the hawk left the
prince, and alighted on Morven's shoulder. "Bird of the
gods!" said he, reverently," hast thou not a sacred mes-
sage for my ear?" Then the hawk put its beak to Mor-
ven's ear, and Morven bowed his head submissively; and
the hawk rested with Morven from that moment and would
not be scared away. And Morven said, "The stars have
sent me this bird, that in the daytime when I see them
not, we may never be without a counsellor in distress."
So Siror was made king, and Morven the son of Osslah
was constrained by the king's will to take Orna for his
wife; and the people and the chiefs honored Morven the
prophet above all the elders of the tribe.
One day Morven said unto himself, musing,
"Am I not
already equal with the king? nay, is not the king my ser-
vant? did I not place him over the heads of his brothers ?
am I not therefore more fit to reign than he is? shall I not
push him from his seat? It is a troublous and stormy office
to reign over the wild men of Oestrich, to feast in the
crowded hall, and to lead the warriors to the fray. Surely,
if I feasted not, neither went out to war, they might say,
this is no king, but the cripple Morven ; and some of the
race of Siror might slay me secretly. But can I not be far
But can I not be far
greater than kings, and continue to choose and govern thein,
living as now at mine own case? Verily the stars shall
give ine a new palace, and many subjects.
Among the wise men was Darvan; and Morven feared
him, for his eye often sought the movements of the son of
Ossah.
And Morven said, "It were better to trust this man than
to blind, for surely I want a helpmate and a friend." So
he said to the wise man, as he sat alone watching the set-
ting sun,
"It seemeth to me, O Darvan! that we ought to build a
great pile in honor of the stars, and the pile should be more
glorious than all the palaces of the chiefs and the palace of
the king; for are not the stars our masters? and thou and
Iould be the chief dwellers in this new palace, and we
w.I serve the gods of night, and fatten their altars with the
sheicest of the herd, and the freshest of the fruits of the
earth."
And Darvan said, "Thou speakest as becomes the ser-
vant of the stars. But will the people help to build the
pile for they are a warlike race, and they love not toil."
And Morven answered, "Doubtless the stars will ordain
the work to be done. Fear not.'
"In truth thou art a wondrous man, thy words ever
come to pass, "answered Darvan; "and I wish thou
"and I wish thou
wouldst teach me, friend, the language of the stars.
"Assuredly if thou servest me, thou shalt know,"
|
|
|
answered the prou‹. Morven; and Darvan was secrety
wroth that the son of the herdsman should command the
service of an elder and a chief.
And when Morven returned to his wife he found her
weeping much. Now she loved the son of Osslah with an
exceeding love, for he was not savage and fierce as the men
she had known, and she was proud of his fame among the
tribe
tribe; and he took her in his arms and kissed her, and
asked her why she wept. Then she told him that her brother
the king had visited her, and had spoken bitter words of
Morven; "he taketh from me the affection of iny people,'
said Siror,
said Siror," and blindeth them with lies. And since he
hath made me a king, what if he take my kingdom from
me ?
Verily, a new tale of the stars might undo the old.”
And the king had ordered her to keep watch on Morven's
secrecy, and to see whether truth was in him when he
boasted of his commune with the powers of night.
But Orna loved Morven better than Siror, therefore she
told her husband all.
And Morven resented the king's ingratitude, and was
troubled much, for a king is a powerful foe; but he com
forted Orna, and bade her dissemble, and complain also of
him to her brother, so that he might confide to her unsus-
pectingly whatsoever he might design against Morven.
There was a cave by Morven's house in which he kept
the sacred hawk, and wherein he secretly trained and
nurtured other birds against future need, and the door of
the cave was always barred. And one day he was thus
engaged when he beheld opposite a chink in the wall, that
he had never noted before, and the sun came playfully in;
and while he looked he perceived the sunbeam was dark-
ened, and presently he saw a human face peering in. And
Morven trembled, for he knew he had been watched. He
ran hastily from the cave; but the spy had disappeare i
among the trees, and Morven went straight to the chamber
of Darvan, and sat himself down. And Darvan did no
return home till late, and he started and turned pale when
he saw Morven. But Morven greeted him as a brother,
and bade him to a feast, which, for the first time, he pur-
posed giving at the full of the moon, in honor of the stars.
And going out of Darvan's chamber he returned to his
wife, and bade her rend her hair, and go at the dawn of
day to the king her brother, and complain bitterly of Mor-
ven's treatment, and pluck the black plans from the breast
of the king. For, surely," said he, "Darvan bath lied
to thy brother, and some evil waits me that I would fain
know."
CC
So the next morning Orna sought the king, and she
said, "The herdsman's son hath reviled me, and spoken
harsh words to me; shall I not be avenged?"
Then the king stamped his feet and shook his mighty
sword. Surely thou shalt be avenged, for I have learned
from one of the elders that which convinceth me the man
hath lied to the people, and the base-born shall surely die.
Yea, the first time that he goeth alone into the forest, my
brother and I will fall upon him, and smite him to the
death.'
death." And with this comfort Siror dismissed Orna.
""
And Orna flung herself at the feet of her husband.
Fly now, my beloved, - fly into the forests afar from my
brethren, or surely the sword of Siror will end thy
days.'
Then the son of Osslah folded his arms, and seemed
buried in black thoughts; nor did he heed the voice of
Orna, until again and again she had implored him to fly.
Fly!" he said at length. "Nay, I was doubting
what punishment the stars should pour down upon our foe.
Let warriors fly. Morven the prophet conquers by arms
mightier than the sword.'
Nevertheless Morven was perplexed in his mind, and
knew not how to save himself from the vengeance of the
king.
king. Now, while he was musing hopelessly, he heard a
roar of waters; and behold the river, for it was now the
end of autumn, had burst its bounds, and was rushing along
the valley to the houses of the city. And now the men of the
tribe, and the women, and the children came running, and
with shrieks, to Morven's house, crying, "Behold the
river has burst upon us; save us, O ruler of the stars.”
Then the sudden thought broke upon Morven, and he
resolved to risk his fate upon one desperate schome.
And he came out from the house calm and sau, and he
said, "Ye know not what ye ask; I cannot save ve from
this peril; ye have brought it on yourselves.
And they cried, "How, O son of Osslah? We are igno-
rant of our crime.'
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
369
And he answered, "Go down to the king's palace and
wait before it, and surely I will follow ye, and ye shall
learn wherefore ye have incurred this punishment from the
gods." Then the crowd rolled murmuring back, as a
receding sea; and when it was gone from the place, Mor-
ven went alone to the house of Darvan, which was next
his own and Darvan was greatly terrified, for he was of
a great age, and had no children, neither friends, and he
feared that he could not of himself escape the waters.
And Morven said to him, soothingly, "Lo, the people
love me, and I will see that thou art saved, for verily thou
hast been friendly to me, and done me much service with
the king."
And as he thus spake, Morven opened the door of the
house and looked forth, and saw that they were quite
alone; then he seized the old man by the throat, and
ceased not his gripe till he was quite dead. And leaving
And leaving
the body of the elder on the floor, Morven stole from the
house, and shut the gate. And as he was going to his
cave, he nused a little while, when, hearing the mighty
roar of the waves advancing, and afar off the shrieks of
women, he lifted up his head, and said, proudly, “No! in
this hour terror alone shall be my slave; I will use no art
save the power of iny soul." He shut the gate, and lean-
ing on his pine staff, he strode down to the palace. And
it was now evening, and many of the men held torches,
that they might see each others' faces in the universal fear.
Red flashed the quivering flames on the dark robes and
pale front of Morven; and he seemed mightier than the
rest, because his face alone was calm amid the tumult.
And louder and hoarser came the roar of the waters; and
swift rushed the shades of night over the hastening tide.
And Morven said, in a stern voice, "Where is the king;
and wherefore is he absent from his people in the hour of
dread?" Then the gate of the palace opened; and, be-
hold, Siror was sitting in the hall by the vast pine fire, and
his brother by his side, and his chiefs around him; for they
would not deign to come among the crowd at the bidding
of the herdsman's son.
Then Morven standing on a rock above the heads of the
people, (the same rock whereon he had proclaimed the
king,) thus spake :
"Ye desired to know, O sons of Oestrich, wherefore the
river hath burst its bounds, and this peril hath come upon
you.
Learn then that the stars resent as the foulest of
human crimes an insult to their servants and delegates
below. Ye are all aware of the manner of life of Morven,
whom ye have surnamed the prophet! He harms not man
or beast; he lives alone; and, far from the wild joys of
the warrior tribe, he worships in awe and fear the powers
of night. So is he able to advise ye of the coming danger,
so is he able to save ye from the foe. Thus are your
huntsmen swift, and your warriors bold; and thus do your
cattle bring forth their young, and the earth its fruits.
What think ye, and what do ye ask to hear? Listen, men
of Oestrich they have laid snares for my life; and there
are among you those who have whetted the sword against
the bosom that is only filled with love for ye all. Therefore
have the stern lords of heaven loosened the chains of the
river, therefore doth this evil menace you. Neither will
it pass away until they who dug the pit for the servant of
the stars are buried in the same."
Then, by the red torches, the faces of the men looked
fierce and threatening; and ten thousand voices shouted
forth, "Name them who conspired against thy life, O holy
prophet, and surely they shall be torn limb from limb.”
And Morven turned aside, and they saw that he wept
bitterly; and he said,
"Ye have asked me, and I have answered; but now
scarce will ye believe the foe that I have provoked against
me; and by the heavens themselves, I swear, that if my
death would satisfy their fury, nor bring down upon your
selves, and your children's children, the anger of the throned
stars, gladly would I give my bosom to the knife. Yes,"
he cried, lifting up his voice, and pointing his shadowy
arm toward the hall where the king sat by the pine fire,
yes, thou whom by my voice the stars chose above thy
brother, yes, Siror, the guilty one, take thy sword and
come hither, strike, if thou hast the heart to strike, the
prophet of the gods !
The king started to his feet, and the crowd were bushed
in a shuddering silence.
Morven resumed :
"Know then, O men of Oestrich, that Saror and Voltoch
his brother, and Darvan, the elder of the wise men, have
purposed to slay your prophet, even at such hour as when
alone he seeks the shade of the forest to devise new benefits
for
you. Let the king deny it, if he can!
Then Voltoch, of the giant limbs, strode forth from the
hall, and his spear quivered in his hand.
C6
Rightly hast thou spoken, base son of my father's
herdsman, and for thy sins shalt thou surely die; for thou
liest when thou speakest of thy power with the stars, and
thou laughest at the folly of them who hear thee; wherefore,
put him to death."
Then the chiefs in the hall clashed their arms, and rushed
forth to slay the son of Osslah.
But he, stretching his unarmed hands on high, exclaimed
"Hear him, O dread ones of the night, hark how he
blasphemeth!"
Then the crowd took up the word, and cried, "He
blasphemeth, he blasphemeth against the prophet!”
But the king and the chiefs, who hated Morven, because
of his power with the people, rushed into the crowd; and
the crowd were irresolute, nor knew they how to act, for
never yet had they rebelled against their chiefs, and they
feared alike the prophet and the king.
And Siror cried, "Summon Darvan to us, for he hath
watched the steps of Morven, and he shall lift the veil from
my people's eyes." Then three of the swift of foot started
forth to the house of Darvan.
--
And Morven cried out with a loud voice, "Hark, thus
saith the star who, now riding through yonder cloud, breaks
forth upon my eyes, For the lie that the elder hath
uttered against my servant, the curse of the stars shall fall
upon him.' Seek, and as ye find him, so may ye find ever
the foes of Morven and the gods!"
A chill and an icy fear fell over the crowd, and even the
cheek of Siror grew pale; and Morven, erect and dark
above the waving torches, stood notioniess with folded
arms. And bark, far and fast 、ame on the war-steeds
of the wave, they heard them marching to the land, and
tossing their white manes in the roaring wind.
"Lo, as ye listen," said Morven, calmly, "the river
sweeps on, haste, for the gods will have a victim, be it
your prophet or your king.
_______
"Slave," shouted Siror, and his spear left his hand, and
far above the heads of the crowd sped hissing beside the
dark form of Morven, and rent the trunk of the oak behind.
Then the people, wroth at the danger of their beloved seer,
uttered a wild yell, and gathered round him with brandished
swords, facing their chieftains and their king. But at that
instant, ere the war had broken forth among the tribe, the
three warriors returned, and they bore Darvan on their
shoulders, and laid him at the feet of the king, and they
said, tremblingly, " Thus found we the elder in the centre
of his own hall,' And the people saw that Darvan was
a corpse, and that the prediction of Morven was thus veri
fied. "So perish the enemies of Morven and the stars !"
cried the son of Osslab. And the people echoed the cry.
Then the fury of Siror was at its height; and waving his
sword above his head, he plunged into the crowd, Thy
blood, base-born, or mine!”
G
CC
"So be it!" auswered Morven, quailing not. "People,
smite the blasphemer. Hark how the river pours down
upon your children and your hearths. On, on, or ye
perish!”
>>
And Siror fell, pierced by five hundred spears.
"Smite! smite! cried Morven, as the chiefs of the
royal house gathered round the king. And the clash of
swords, and the gleam of spears, and the cries of the dying,
and the yell of the trampling people, mingled with the roar
of the elements, and the voices of the rushing wave.
Three hundred of the chiefs perished that night by the
swords of their own tribe. And the last cry of the victors
was, "Morven the prophet, Morven the king!"
And the son of Osslah, seeing the waves now spreading
over the valley, led Orna his wife, and the men of Oestrich
their women, and their children, to a high mount, where
they waited the dawning sun. But Orna sat apart and
wept bitterly, for her brothers were no more, and her race
had perished from the earth. And Morven sought to com
fort her in vain.
When the morning rose, they saw that the river had
overspread the greater part of the city, and now stayed its
course among the hollows of the vale. Then Morven sai.l
064
BULWER'S NOVELS.
to the people,
"The star-kings are avenged, and their
wrath appeased. Tarry only here until the waters have
melted into the crevices of the soil." And on the fourth
day they returned to the city, and no man dared to name
another, save Morven, as the king.
But Morven retired into his cave and mused deeply,
and then assembling the people, he gave them new laws,
and he made them build a mighty temple in honor of
the stars, and made them heap within it all that the tribe
held most precious. And he took unto him fifty children
from the most famous of the tribe; and he took also ten
from among the men who had served him best, and he or-
dained that they should serve the stars in the great temple;
and Morven was their chief. And he put away the crown
they pressed upon him, and he chose from among the elders
a new king. And he ordained that henceforth the servants
only of the stars in the great temple should elect the king
nd the rulers, and hold council, and make war; but he
uffered the king to feast, and to hunt, and to make merry
in the banquet-halls. And Morven built altars in the tem-
ple, and was the first who in the north sacrificed the beast
and the bird, and afterward human flesh, upon the altars.
And he drew auguries from the entrails of the victim, and
made schools for the science of the prophet, and Morven's
piety was the wonder of the tribe, in that he refused to be
a king. And Morven the high priest was ten thousand
times nightier than the king. He taught the people to till
the ground, and to sow the herb, and by his wisdom, and
the valor that his prophecies instilled into men, he con-
quered all the neighbouring tribes. And the sons of
Oestrich spread themselves over a mighty empire, and with
them spread the name and the laws of Morven. And in
every province which he conquered, he ordered them to
build a temple to the stars.
But a heavy sorrow fell upon the years of Morven. The
The
sister of Siror bowed down her head, and survived not
long the slaughter of her race. And she left Morven child-
less. And he mourned bitterly, and as one distraught, for
her only in the world had his heart the power to love.
And he sat down, and covered his face, saying,
"Lo! I have toiled and travailed, and never before in
the world did inan conquer what I have conquered. Verily
the empire of the iron thews and the giant limbs is no
more! I have founded a new power, that henceforth shall
sway the lands; the empire of a plotting brain and a
commanding mind. But, behold! my fate is barren, and I
feel already that it will grow neither fruit nor tree as a shelter
to mine old age. Desolate and lonely shall I pass unto my
grave. O Orna! my beautiful! my loved! none were like
unto thee, and to thy love do I owe my glory and my life!
Would for thy sake, O sweet bird! that nestled in the
dark cavern of my heart, would for thy sake that thy
brethren had been spared, for verily with my life would I
have purchased thine. Alas! only when I lost thee did I
find that thy love was dearer to me than the fear of
others" and Morven mourned night and day, and none
might comfort him.
But from that time forth he gave himself solely up to the
cares of his calling; and his nature and his affections, and
whatever there was yet left soft in him grew hard like
stone; and he was a man without love, and he forbade love
aud marriage to the priests.
Now in his latter years there arose other prophets, for
the world had grown wiser even by Morven's wisdom, and
some did
say unto themselves, " Behold Morven, the herds-
Behold Morven, the herds-
man's son, is a king of kings; this did the stars for their
servant; shall we not also be servants to the stars?
""
And they wore black garments like Morven, and went
about prophesying of what the stars foretold them. And
Morven was exceeding wroth for he, more than other
men, knew that the prophets lied; wherefore he went forth
against them with the ministers of the temple, and he took
them, and burnt them by a slow fire; for thus said Morven
to the people :—"A true prophet hath honor, but I only
am a true prophet; to all false prophets there shall be
surely death."
And the people applauded the piety of the son of Osslah.
And Morven educated the wisest of the children in the
mysteries of the temple, so that they grew up to succeed
him worthily.
And he died fall of years and honor, and they carved hia
effigy on a mighty stone before the temple, and the effigy
udured for a thousand ages, and whoso looked on it
trembled; for the face was calm with the calmness of
unspeakable awe.
And Morven was the first mortal of the north that made
religion the stepping-stone to power. Of a surety Morven
was a great man !
It was the last night of the old year, and the stars sat,
each upon his ruby throne, and watched with sleepless eyes
upon the world. The night was dark and troubled, the
dread winds were abroad, and fast and frequent hurried the
clouds beneath the thrones of the kings of night. And ever
and anon fiery meteors flashed along the depths of heaven,
and were again swallowed up in the grave of darkness.
But, far below his brethren, and with a lurid haze around
his orb, sat the discontented star that had watched over the
hunters of the north.
And on the lowest abyss of space there was spread a
thick and mighty gloom, from which, as from a caldron,
rose columns of wreathing smoke; and still, when the
great winds rested for an instant on their paths, voices
of woe and laughter, mingled with shrieks, were heard
booming from the abyss to the upper air.
And now,
in the middest night, a vast figure rose slowly
from the abyss, and its wings threw blackness over the
world. High upward to the throne of the discontented star
sailed the fearful shape, and the star trembled on his throne,
when the form stood before him face to face
And the shape said, "Hail, brother!
Hail, brother! — all hail!"
"I know thee not," answered the star; "thou art not
the archangel that visitest the kings of night.'
And the shape laughed loud: "I am the fallen star of
the morning, I am Lucifer, thy brother! Hast thou not,
O sullen king, served ine and mine?-and hast thou not
me
wrested the earth from thy Lord that sittest above, and
given it to me, by darkening the souls of men with the
religion of fear? Wherefore come, brother, come, thou
hast a throne prepared beside my own in the fiery gloom
come ! The heavens are no more for thee.”
Then the star rose from his throne, and descended to the
side of Lucifer. For ever hath the spirit of discontent had
sympathy with the soul of pride. And they sank slowly
down to the gulf of gloom.
It was the first night of the new year, and the stars sat,
each upon his ruby throne, and watched with sleepless eyes
upon the world. But sorrow dimmed the bright faces of
the kings of night, for they mourned in silence and in fear
for a fallen brother.
And the gates of the heaven of heavens flew open with
a golden sound, and the swift archangel fled down on his
silent wings; and the archangel gave to each of the stars,
as before, the message of his Lord, and to each star was his
appointed charge. And when the heraldly seemed done,
there came a laugh from the abyss of gloom, and half-way
from the gulf rose the lurid shape of Lucifer the fiend.
"Thou countest thy flock ill, O radiant shepherd!
Behold! one star is missing from the three thousand and
ten!""
"Back to thy gulf, false Lucifer; the throne of thy
brother hath been filled.”
And lo! as the archangel spake, the stars beheld a young
and all-lustrous stranger on the throne of the erring star;
and his face was so soft to look upon, that the dimmest of
human eyes might have gazed upon its splendor unabashed;
but the dark fiend alone was dazzled by its lustre, and with
a yell that shook the flaming pillars of the universe he
plunged backward into the gloom.
Then, far and sweet from the arch unseen, came forth
the voice of God
Behold! on the throne of the discontented star sits
the star of hope; and he that breathed into mankind the
religion of fear hath a successor in him who shall teach
earth the religion of love.'
>>
And evermore the star of fear dwells with Lucifer, and
the star of love keeps vigil in heaven!
-
CHAPTER XX.
Gelnhausen. The power of love in sanctified places.- A por
trait of Frederic Barbarossa. — The ambition of men finds no
adequate sympathy in women.
“You made me tremble for you more than once," said
Gertrude to the student; "I feared you were about to
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
366
Louch upon ground really sacred; but your end redeemed
all."
"The false religion always tries to counterfeit the garb,
the language, the aspect of the true," answered the Ger-
man; "for that reason I purposely suffered my tale to
occasion that very fear and anxiety you speak of, conscious
that the most scrupulous would be contented when the
whole was finished."
This German was one of a new school, of which Eng-
land as yet knows nothing. We shall see, hereafter, what
it will produce.
The student left them at Friedberg, and our travellers
proceeded to Gelnhausen ; a spot interesting to lovers, for
here Frederic the First was won by the beauty of Gela;
and, in the midst of an island vale he built the imperial
palace, — in honor to the lady of his love. The spot is,
indeed, well chosen to itself; the mountains of the Rhine-
geburg close it in, with the green gloom of woods, and the
glancing waters of the Kinz.
"Still, wherever we go," said Trevylyan, "we find all
tradition is connected with love; and history, for that
reason, hallows less than romance.”
"It is singular," said Vane, moralizing, "that love
makes but a small part of our actual lives, but is yet the
master-key to our sympathies. The hardiest of us, who
laugh at the passion when they see it palpably before them,
are arrested by some dim tradition of its existence in the
past. It is as if life had few opportunities of bringing out
certain qualities within us, so that they always remain
untold and dormant, susceptible to thought, but deaf to
action !
"You refine and mystify too much," said Trevylyan,
smiling ; "none of us have any faculty, any passion,
uncalled forth, if we have really loved, though but for a
day.",
Gertrude smiled, and drawing her arm within his, Tre-
vylyan left Vane to philosophize on passion; a fit occupa-
tion for one who had never felt it.
"Here let us pause," said Trevylyan, afterward, as they
visited the remains of the ancient palace, and the sun
glittered on the scene," to recall the old chivalric day of
the gallant Barbarossa; let us suppose him commencing
him commencing
the last great action of his life; let us picture him as set-
ting out for the Holy Land. Imagine hin issuing from
those walls on his white charger; his fiery eye somewhat
dimmed by years, and his hair blanched; but nobler from
the impress of time itself; the clang of arms; the tramp
of steeds; banners on high; music pealing from hill to
hill; the red cross and the nodding plume; the sun, as
now, glancing on yonder trees, and thence reflected from
the burnished arms of the crusaders; but Gela
<<
>>
Ah," said Gertrude," she must be no more, for she
would have outlived her beauty, and have found that glory
had now no rival in his breast. Glory consoles men for
the death of the loved; but glory is infidelity to the
living."
"Nay, not so, dearest Gertrude," said Trevylyan,
quickly," for my darling dream of fame is the hope of laying
its honors at your feet! And if ever, in future years, I
should rise above the herd, I should only ask if your step
were proud, and your heart elated.”
"I was wrong," said Gertrude, with tears in her eyes,
"and, for your sake, I can be ambitious.”
Perhaps there, too, she was mistaken; for one of the
common disappointments of the heart is, that women have
so rarely a sympathy in our better and higher aspirings.
Their ambition is not for great things; they cannot under-
stand that desire" which scorns delight, and loves labo-
rious days." If they love us, they usually exact too much.
They are jealous of the ambition to which we sacrifice so
largely, and which divides us from them; and they leave
the stern passion of great minds to the only solitude which
affection cannot share. To aspire is to be alone!
Coblentz with the Petersberg, to linger over the superb
view of Ehrenbreitstein which you may there behold.
It was one of those calm noonday scenes which impress
upon us their own bright and voluptuous tranquillity
There stood the old herdsman leaning on his staff, and the
quiet cattle knee-deep in the gliding waters. Never did
stream, more smooth and sheen than was at that hour the
surface of the Moselle, mirror the images of the pastoral
life. Beyond, the darker shadows of the bridge, and of
the walls of Coblentz, fell deep over the waves, checkered
by the tall sails of the craft that were moored around the
harbor. But clear against the sun rose the spires and
roofs of Coblentz, backed by many a hill sloping away to
the horizon. High, dark, and massive, on the opposite
bank, swelled the towers and rock of Ehrenbreitstein, a
type of that great chivalric spirit, the honor that the
rock arrogates for its name,
which demands so many
sacrifices of blood and tears, but which ever creates in the
restless heart of man a far deeper interest than the more
peaceful scenes of life by which it is contrasted. There,
still, from the calm waters, and the abodes of common
toi! and ordinary pleasure, - turns the aspiring gaze! still
as we gaze on that lofty and immemorial rock, we recall
the famine and the siege; and own that the more daring
crimes of men have a strange privilege in hallowing the
very spot which they devastate!
Below, in green curves and mimic bays covered with
herbage, the gradual banks mingled with the water; and
just where the bridge closed, a solitary group of trees,
standing thick and dark in the thickest shadow, gave
that melancholy feature to the scene which resembles the
one dark thought that often forces itself into our sunniest
hours. Their boughs stirred not; no voice of birds broke
the stillness of their gloomy verdure; the eye turned from
them, as from the sad moral that belongs to existence.
In proceeding to Trarbach, Gertrude was seized with
another of those fainting fits which had so terrified Trevyl-
yan before; they stopped an hour or two at a little village,
but Gertrude rallied with such apparent rapidity, and so
strongly insisted on proceeding, that they reluctantly con-
tinued their way. This event would have thrown a gloom
over their journey, if Gertrude had not exerted herself to
dispel the impression she had occasioned; and so light, so
cheerful, were her spirits, that she, for the time at least,
succeeded.
They arrived at Trarbach late at noon. This now small
and humble town is said to have been the Thronus Bacchi
of the ancients. From the spot where the travellers halted
to take, as it were, their impression of the town, they saw
before them the little hostelry, a poor pretender to the
Thronus Bacchi, with the rude sign of the Holy Mother
over the door. The peaked roof, the sunk window, the
gray walls, checkered with the rude beams of wood so
common to the meaner houses on the continent, bore some-
thing of a melancholy and unprepossessing aspect. Right
above, with its Gothic windows and venerable spire, rose
the church of the town; and, crowning the summit of a
green and almost perpendicular mountain, scowled the
remains of one of those mighty castles, which make the
never failing frown on a German landscape.
The scene was one of quiet and of gloom; the exceeding
serenity of the day contrasted with an almost unpleasing
brightness, the poverty of the town, the thinness of the
population, and the dreary grandeur of the ruins that
overhung the capital of the perished race of the bold
counts of Spanheim.
They passed the might at Trarbach, and continued their
journey next day. At Treves, Gertrude was for some days
seriously ill; and when they returned to Coblentz, her dis-
ease had evidently received a rapid and alarming increase
CHAPTER XXI.
View of Ehrenbreitstein.— A new alarm in Gertrude's health.
Trarbach.
ANOTHER time our travellers proceeded from Coblentz
to Treves, following the course of the Moselle. They
"topped on the opposite bank below the bridge that unites
CHAPTER XXII.
The double life. - Trevylyan's fate. Sorrow the parent of
Fame. Neiderlahnstein. - Dreains.
THERE are two lives to each of us, gliding on at the
same time, scarcely connected with each other! the life
of our actions, the life of our minds; the external and
the inward history; the movements of the frame, the
deep and ever-restless workings of the heart! They wao
hat loved, know that there is a diary of the affections,
366
BULWER'S NOVELS.
which we might keep for years without having occasion
even to touch upon the exterior surface of life, our busy
occupations, the mechanical progress of our existence ;
yet by the last we are judged, the first is never known.
History reveals men's deeds, men's outward characters,
but not themselves. There is a secret self that hath its
own life “rounded by a dream," unpenetrated, unguessed.
What passed within Trevylyan, hour after hour, as he
watched over the declining health of the only being in the
world whom his proud heart had been ever destined to
love! His real record of the time was marked by every
cloud upon Gertrude's brow, every smile of her counte-
nance, every, the faintest, alteration in her disease; yet,
to the outward seeming, all this vast current of varying
eventful emotion lay dark and unconjectured. He filled up,
with wonted regularity, the colorings of existence, and
smiled and moved as other men. For still, in the heroism
with which devotion conquers self, he sought only to cheer
and gladden the young heart on which he had embarked
his all; and he kept the dark tempest of his auguish for
the solitude of night.
That was a peculiar doom which fate had reserved for
him; and casting him, in after-years, on the great sea of
public strife, it seemed as if she were resolved to tear
from his heart all yearnings for the land. For him there
was to be no green and sequestered spot in the valley of
household peace. His bark was to know no haven, and
his soul not even the desire of rest. For action is that
Lethe in which we alone forget our former dreams, and
the mind that, too stern not to wrestle with its emotion,
seeks to conquer regret, must leave itself no leisure to look
behind. Who knows what benefits to the world may have
sprung from the sorrows of the benefactor? As the harvest
that gladdens mankind in the suns of autumn was called
forth by the rains of spring, so the griefs of youth may
make the fame of maturity.
Gertrude, charmed by the beauties of the river, desired
to continue the voyage to Mayence. The rich Trevylyan
persuaded the physician who had attended her to accompa-
ny them, and they once more pursued their way along the
banks of the feudal Rhine. For what the Tiber is to the
classic, the Rhine is to the chivalric age. The steep rock
and the gray dismantled tower, the massive and rude pic-
turesque of the feudal days, constitute the great features of
the scene; and you might almost fancy, as you glide along,
that you are sailing back down the river of Time, and the
monuiments of the pomp and power of old, rising, one after
one, upon its shores!
Vane and Du -e, the physician, at the farther end of
the vessel, conversed upon stones and strata, in that singu-
lar pedantry of science which strips nature to a skeleton,
and prowls among the dead bones of the world, unconscious
of its living beauty.
They left Gertrude and Trevylyan to themselves, and
"bending o'er the vessel's laving side," they indulged in
silence the melancholy with which each was imbued. For
Gertrude began to waken, though doubtingly and at inter-
vals, to a sense of the short span that was granted to her
life and over the loveliness around her there floated that
sad and ineffable interest which springs from the presenti-
ment of our own death. They passed the rich island of
Oberworth, and Hocheim, famous for its ruby grape, and
saw, from his mountain bed, the Lahn bear his tribute of
fruits and corn into the treasury of the Rhine. Proudly
rose the tower of Neiderlahnstein, and deeply lay its
shadow along the stream. It was late noon; the cattle
had sought the shade from the slanting sun, and, far be-
yond, the holy castle of Marksburg raised its battlements
above mountains covered with the vine. On the water
two boats had been drawn alongside each other; and from
one, now moving to the land, the splash of oars broke the
general stillness of the tide. Fast by an old tower the
fishermen were busied in their craft, but the sound of their
voices did not reach the ear. It was life, but a silent life;
suited to the tranquillity of noon.
" which
"There is something in travel," said Gertrude,
constantly, even amid the most retired spots, impresses us
with the exuberance of life. We come to these quiet nooks,
and find a race whose existence we never dreamed of. In
their humble path they know the same passions and tread
the same career as ourselves. The mountains shut them
out from the great world, but their village is a world in
itself. And they know and need no more of the turbulent
scenes of remote cities than our own planet recks of toe
inhabitants of the distant stars. What then is death, but
the forgetfulness of some few hearts added to the general
unconsciousness of our existence that pervades the uni-
verse? The bubble breaks in the vast desert of the air
without a sound.”
Why talk of death?" said Trevylyan, with a writhing
smile; "these sunny scenes should not call forth such mel-
ancholy images.
כי
"Melancholy !" repeated Gertrude, mechanically. "Yes,
death is indeed melancholy when we are loved."
They stayed a short time at Neiderlahnstein, for Vane
was anxious to examine the minerals that the Lahn brings
into the Rhine; and the sun was waning towards its close
as they renewed their voyage. As they sailed slowly on,
Gertrude said, "How like a dream is this sentiment of
existence, when, without labor or motion, every change of
scene is brought before us; and if I am with you, dearest,
I do not feel it less resembling a dream, for I have dreained
of you lately more than ever. And dreams have become
part of my life itself."
Speaking of dreams," said Trevylyan, as they pursued
that mysterious subject, "I once during my former resi-
dence in Germany fell in with a singular enthusiast, who
had taught himself what he termed a system of dreaming.'
When he first spoke to me upon it, I asked him to explain
what he meant, which he did somewhat in the following
words."
CHAPTER XXIII.
The life of dreams.
"I was born," said he, "with many of the sentiments
of the poet, but without the language to express them; my
feelings were constantly chilled by the intercourse of the
actual world, my family, mere Germans, dull and unim-
passioned, had nothing in common with me; nor did I
out of my family find those with whom I could better sym-
pathize. I was revolted by friendships, for they were
susceptible to every change; I was disappointed in love,
for the truth never approached to my ideal. Nursed
early in the lap of romance, enamoured of the wild and
the adventurous, the commonplaces of life were to me in-
expressibly tame and joyless. And yet indolence, which
belongs to the poetical character, was more inviting than
that eager and uncontemplative action which can alone
wring enterprise from life.
wring enterprise from life. Meditation was my natural
element. I loved to spend the noon reclined by some
shady stream, and in half sleep, to shape images from the
glancing sunbeams, -a dim and unreal order of philoso-
phy, that belongs to our nation, -was my favorite intel-
lectual pursuit. And I sought among the obscure and the
recondite the variety and emotion I could find not in the
familiar. Thus constantly watching the operations of the
inner mind, it occurred to me at last, that sleep having its
own world, but as yet a rude and fragmentary one, it might
be possible to shape from its chaos all those combinations
of beauty, of power, of glory, and of love which were
denied to me in the world in which my frame walked and
had its being. So soon as this idea came upon me, I
nursed, and cherished, and mused over it, till I found that
the imagination began to effect the miracle I cesned By
brooding ardently, intensely, before I retired to rest, over
any especial train of thought, over any ideal creations; by
keeping the body utterly still and quiescent during the
whole day; by shutting out all living adventure, the mem-
ory of which might perplex and interfere with the stream
of events that I desired to pour forth into the wilds of
sleep, I discovered at last that I could lead in dreams a l'e
solely their own, and utterly distinct from the life of day.
Towers and palaces, all my heritage and seigneury, rose
before me from the depths of night; I quaffed from jewelled
cups the Falernian of imperial vaults; music from harps of
celestial tone filled up the crevices of air; and the smiles
of immortal beauty flushed like sunlight over all. Thus
the adventure and the glory that I could not for my waking
life obtain was obtained for me in sleep. I wandered with
the gryphon and the gnome; I sounded the horn at en-
chanted portals; I conquered in the knightly lists; I plant
ed my standard over battlements huge as the painter's birth
of Babylon itself.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIN E.
867
But I was afaid to call forth one shape on whose love-
finess to pour all the hidden passion of my soul. I trem-
bled lest my sleep should present me some image which it
could never restore, and waking from which, even the new
world I had created might be left desolate for ever. I
shuddered lest I should adore a vision which the first ray
of morning could site to the grave.
ર
the broken incoherence of other men's sleep, at times be
wilders me with strange and suspicious thoughts. What
if this glorious sleep be a real life, and this dull waking
the true repose? Why not? What is there more faithful
in the one than in the other? And there have 1 garnered
and collected all of pleasure that I am capable of feeling.
I seek no joy in this world, I form no ties, I feast not,
nor love, nor make merry, I am only impatient till the
hour when I may reenter my royal realms and pour my
renewed delight into the bosom of my bright ideal. There
then have I found all that the world denied me; there have
I realized the yearning and the aspiration within me;
there have I coined the untold poetry into the felt, the
seen!"
M
I found, continued Trevylyan, that this tale was corrob-
orated by inquiry into the visionary's habits. He shun-
ned society; avoided all unnecessary movement or excite-
ment. He fared with rigid abstemiousness, and only ap-
of return to his imaginary kingdom approached. He al
ways retired to rest punctually at a certain hour, and would
sleep so soundly, that a cannon fired under his window
would not arouse him. He never, which may seem singu-
lar, spoke or moved much in his sleep, but was peculiarly
calm, almost to the appearance of lifelessness; but, dis-
covering once that he had been watched in sleep, he was
wont afterward carefully to secure the chamber from intru-
sion. His victory over the natural incoherence of sleep
had, when I first knew him, lasted for some years; possi-
bly what imagination first produced was afterward con-
tinued by habit.
I saw him again a few months subsequent to this confer-
sion, and he seemed to me much changed. His health was
broken, and his abstraction had deepened into gloom.
I questioned him of the cause of the alteration, and he
answered me with great reluctance,
"In this train of mind I began to ponder whether it
might not be possible to connect dreams together; to sup-
ply the thread that was wanting; to make one night con-
tinue the history of the other, so as to bring together the
same shapes and the same scenes, and thus lead a connect-
ed and harmonious life, not only in the one half of exist-
ence, but in the other, the richer and more glorious half.
No sooner did this idea present itself to me than I burned
to accomplish it. I had before taught myself that faith is
the great creator; that to believe fervently is to make be-
lief true. So I would not suffer my mind to doubt the
practicability of its scheme. I shut myself up then entire-peared to feel pleasure as the day departed, and the hour
ly by day, refused books, and hated the very sun, and com-
pelled all my thoughts (and sleep is the mirror of thought)
to glide in one direction, the direction of my dreams,
so that from night to night the imagination might keep up
the thread of action, and I might thus lie down full of the
past dream and confident of the sequel. Not for one day
only, or for one month, did I pursue this system, but I
continued it zealously and sternly till at length it began to
succeed. Who shall tell," cried the enthusiast, I see
him now with his deep, bright, sunken eyes, and his wild
hair thrown backward from his brow, "the rapture I
experienced, when first, faintly and half distinct, I per-
ceived the harmony I had invoked dawn upon my dreams?
At first there was only a partial and desultory connexion
between them; my eye recognised certain shapes, my ear
certain tones common to each; by degrees these augment-
ed in number, and were more defined in outline. At length
one fair face broke forth from among the ruder forms, and
Dight after night appeared mixing with them for a moment
and then vanishing, just as the mariner watches, in a
clouded sky, the moon shining through the drifting rack,
and quickly gone. My curiosity was now vividly excited;
the face, with its lustrous eyes and seraph features, roused
all the emotions that no living shape had called forth. I
became enamoured of a dream, and as the statue to the
Cyprian was my creation to me; so from this intent and
unceasing passion, I at length worked out my reward. My
dream became more palpable; I spoke with it; I knelt to
it; my lips were pressed with its own; we exchanged the
vows of love, and morning only separated us with the
certainty that at night we should meet again. Thus then,”
continued my visionary, "
visionary, "I commenced a history utterly
separate from the history of the world, and it went on al-
ternately with my harsh and chilling history of the day,
equally regular and equally continuous. And what, you
And what, you
ask, was that history? Methought I was a prince in some
southern island that had no features in common with the
colder north of my native home. By day I looked upon
the dull walls of a German town, and saw homely or squal-
id forms passing before me; the sky was dim and the sun
cheerless. Night came on with her thousand stars, and
brought me the dews of sleep. Then suddenly there was
a new world; the richest fruits hung from the trees in
clusters of gold and purple. Palaces of the quaint fashion
of the sunnier climes, with spiral minarets and glittering
cupolas, were mirrored upon vast lakes sheltered by the
palm tree and banana. The sun seemed of a different orb,
80 mellow and gorgeous were his beams; birds and wing-
en things of all hues fluttered in the shining air; the faces
and garments of men were not of the northern regions of
the world, and their voices spoke a tongue which, strange
at first, by degrees I interpreted. Sometimes I made war
upon neighbouring kings: sometimes I chased the spotted
pard through the vast gloom of oriental forests; my life
was at once a life of enterprise and pomp. But above all
there was the history of my love! I thought there were a
thousand difficulties in the way of attaining its possession.
Many were the rocks I had to scale, and the battles to
wage, and the fortresses to storm, in order to win her as
my bride. But at last," continued the enthusiast, “she
is won, she is my own! Time in this wild world, which
I visit nightly, passes not so slowly as in this, and
yet an
hour may be the same as a year. This continuity of ex-
stence, this successive series of dreams, so different from
"She is dead," said he; " my realms are desolate!
A serpent stung her, and she died in these very arms.
Vainly, when I started from my sleep in horror and de-
spair, vainly did I say to myself, This is but a dream. I
shall see her again. A vision cannot die! Hath it flesh
that decays? is it not a spirit, bodiless, indissoluble?
With what terrible anxiety I awaited the night. Again I
slept, and the DREAM lay again before me, dead and
withered. Even the ideal can vanish. I assisted in the
burial; I laid her in the earth; I heaped the monumental
mockery over her form. And never since hath she, or
aught like her, revisited my dreams. I see her only when
I wake; thus to wake is indeed to dream! But," con-
tinued the visionary in a solemn voice, "I feel myse.f
departing from this world, and with a fearful joy; for I
think there may be a land beyond even the land of sleep,
where I shall see her again, a land in which a vision it-
self may be restored."
And in truth, concluded Trevylyan, the dreamer died
shortly afterward, suddenly, and in his sleep. One of
those strange dreams that ever and anon perplex with dark
bewilderment the history of men; and which did actually
with him what fate haih metaphorically with so many,
made his existence, his love, his power, and his death, the
results of a delusion, and the produce of a dream!
"There are indeed singular varieties in life,” said Vane,
who had heard the latter part of Trevylyan's story; "and
could the German have bequeathed to us his art, what a
refuge should we not possess from the ills of earth! The
dungeon and disease, poverty, affliction, shame, would
cease to be the tyrants of our lot; and to sleep we should
confine our history and transfer our emotions.”
"But most of all," said Trevylyan, "would it be a
science worth learning to the poet, whose very nature is a
pining for the ideal,—for that which earth has not, —
- for
that which the dreamer found. Ah, Gertrude," whispered
the lover, "what his kingdom and his bride were to him,
art thou to me!"
CHAPTER XXIV.
The brothers.
THE banks of the Rhine now shelved away into sweep
ing plains, and on their right rose the once imperial city
of Boppart. In no journey of similar length do you mea
368
BULWER'S NOVELS.
with such striking instances of the mutability and shifts of
power. To find, as in the Memphian Egypt, a city sunk
into a heap of desolate ruins; the hum, the roar, the mart
of nations hushed into the silence of ancestral tombs, is
less humbling to our human vanity than to mark, as along
the Rhine, the kingly city, dwindled into the humble town
or the dreary village; decay with but its grandeur, change
without the awe of its solitude! On the site on which
Drusus raised his Roman tower, and the kings of the Franks
their palaces, trade now dribbles into tobacco-pipes, and
transforms into an excellent cotton-factory the antique nun-
nery of Koningsberg! So be it; it is the progressive order
of things, the world itself will soon be one excellent
cotton-factory!
"Look!" said Trevylyan, as they sailed on, "at yon-
der mountain, with its two traditionary castles of Lieben-
stein and Sternfels."
Massive and huge the ruins swelled above the green rock,
at the foot of which lay, in happier security from time and
change, the clustered cottages of the peasant, with a single
spire rising above the quiet village.
"Is there not, Albert, a celebrated legend attached to
those castles?" said Gertrude. "I think I remember to
have heard their name in connexion with your profession
of tale teller.'
"Yes," said Trevylyan, "the story relates to the last
lords of those shattered towers, and-"
"You will sit here nearer to me, and begin," inter-
rupted Gertrude, in her tone of childlike command,-
"Come.'
THE BROTHERS.
A TALE.*
You must imagine, then, dear Gertrude, said Trevylyan,
a beautiful summer day, and by the same faculty, that none
possesses so richly as yourself, for it is you who can kindle
something of that divine spark even in me, you must re-
build these shattered towers in the pomp of old; raise
the gallery and the hall;
; man the battlement with warders,
and give the proud banners of ancestral chivalry to wave
upon the walls. But above, sloping half down the rock,
you must fancy the hanging gardens of Liebenstein, redo-
lent with flowers, and basking in the noonday sun.
On the greenest turf, underneath an oak, there sat three
persons in the bloom of youth. Two of the three were
brothers; the third was an orphan girl, whom the lord of
the opposite tower of Sternfels had bequeathed to the pro-
tection of his brother, the chief of Liebenstein. The cas-
tle itself and the demesne that belonged to it passed away
from the female line, and became the heritage of Otho, the
orphan's cousin, and the younger of the two brothers now
seated on the turf.
"And oh," said the elder, whose name was Warbeck,
you have twined a chaplet for my brother; have you not,
dearest Leoline, a simple flower for me?"
The beautiful orphan, (for beautiful she was, Ger-
trude, as the heroine of the tale you bid me tell ought to
be,
should she not have to the dreams of my fancy your
lustrous hair, and your sweet smile, and your eyes of blue,
that are never, never silent? Ah, pardon me, that in a
former tale I denied the heroine the beauty of your face,
your face,
and remember that, to atone for it, I endowed her with the
beauty of your mind,) the beautiful orphan blushed to
her temples, and culling from the flowers in her lap the
freshest of the roses, began weaving them into a wreath for
Warbeck.
—
"It would be better," said the gay Otho, "to make
my sober brother a chaplet of the rue and cypress; the
rose is much too bright a flower for so serious a knight.”
Leoline held up her hand, reprovingly.
Nothing could be more dissimilar than the features and
the respective characters of Otho and Warbeck. Otho'a
countenance was flushed with the brown hues of health;
his eyes were of the brightest hazel ; his dark hair
wreathed in short curls round his open and fearless brow;
the jest ever echoed on his lips, and his step was bounding
as the foot of the hunter of the Alps. Bold and light
was his spirit; and if at times he betrayed the haughty
insolence of youth, he felt generously, and though not ever
ready to confess sorrow for a fault, he was at least ready
to brave peril for a friend.
But Warbeck's frame, though of equal strength, was
more slender in its proportions than that of his brother;
the fair long hair, that characterized his northern race,
hung on either side of a countenance calm and pale, and
deeply impressed with thought, even in sadness. His
features, more majestic and regular than Otho's, rarely
varied in their expression.
varied in their expression. More resolute even than Otho,
he was less impetuous; more impassioned, he was also
less capricious.
The brothers remained silent after Leoline had left them
Otho carelessly braced on his sword, that he had laid aside.
on the grass; but Warbeck gathered up the flowers that
had been touched by the soft hand of Leoline, and piaced
them in his bosom.
The action disturbed Otho; he bit his lip, and changed
color; at length he said, with a forced laugh,
"It must be confessed, brother, that you carry your
affection for our fair cousin to a degree that even relation-
ship seems scarcely to warrant.
>>
"It is true," said Warbeck, calmly, "I love her with
a love surpassing that of blood."
"How," said Otho, fiercely, "do you dare to think of
Leoline as a bride ?"
"Dare!" repeated Warbeck, turning yet paler than
his wonted hue.
CG
Yes, I have said the word! Know, Warbeck, that
I, too, love Leoline; I, too, claim her as my bride; and
never, while I can wield a sword, never, while I wear the
spurs of knighthood, will I render my claim to a living
that rival be my brother!
rival. Even," he added, (sinking his voice,)
though
Warbeck answered not; his very soul seemed stunned,
ing his face away, ascended the rock without uttering a
he gazed long and wistfully on his brother, and then, turn
single word.
This silence startled Otho. Accustomed to vent every
emotion of his own, he could not comprehend the forbear-
ance of his brother; he knew his high and brave nature too
well to imagine that it arose from fear. Might it not be
contempt, or might he not, at this moment, intend to seek
their father; and, the first to proclaim his love for the
As these suspicions flashed across him, the haughty Otho
orphan, advance, also, the privilege of the elder born?
strode to his brother's side, and laying his hand on his
arm, said,
"Whither goest thou? and dost thou consent to surren-
der Leoline ??
"Does she love thee, Otho " answered Warbeck,
?
breaking silence at last, and his voice spoke so deep an
anguish, that it arrested the passions of Otho, even at
their height.
CC
"It is thou who art now silent," continued Warbeck;
speak, doth she love thee, and has her lip confessed it ?
I have believed that she loved me, "faltered Otho;
"but she is of maiden bearing, and her lip, at least, has
never told it."
CC
CC
Enough," said Warbeck, "release your hold.”
Stay," said Otho, his suspicions returning; "stay,-
yet one word; dost thou seek my father? He ever hon
ored thee more than me; wilt thou own to him thy love,
and insist on thy right of birth? By my soul and my
Let him laugh, dearest cousin," said Warbeck, ga-
zing passionately on her changing cheek; and thou, Le-hope of heaven, do it, and one of us two must fall!"
oline, believe that the silent stream runs the deepest.'
>>
At this moment they heard the voice of the old chief,
their father, calling aloud for Leoline; for ever, when he
returned from the chase, he wanted her gentle presence;
and the hall was solitary to him if the light sound of her step
and the music of her voice were not heard in welcome.
Leoline hastened to her guardian, and the brothers were
left alone.
*This tale is, in reality, founded on the beautiful tradition
which belongs to Liebenstein and Sternfels.
"Poor boy," answered Warbeck, bitterly, "how little
thou canst read the heart of one who loves truly. Think-
est thou I would wed her if she loved thee? Thinkest
thou I could, even to be blest myself, give her one moment's
pain? Out on the thought, away !
Then wilt not thou seek our father?" said Otho,
abashed.
M
"Our father! has our father the keeping of Leoline's
affection?" answered Warbeck; and shaking off his
brother's grasp, he sought the way to the castle.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
309
As he entered the hall, the voice of Leoline thrilled
pon him; she was singing to the old chief one of the
simple ballads of the time, that the warrior and the hunter
loved to hear. He paused lest he should break the spell,
(a spell stronger than a sorcerer's to him,) and gazing upon
Leoline's beautiful form, his heart sank within him. His
brother and himself had each that day, as they sat in the
gardens, given her a flower; his flower was the freshest
and the rarest; his he saw not, -but she wore his broth-
er's in her bosom !
The chief, lulled by the music, and wearied with the
toils of the chase, sank into sleep as the song ended, and
Warbeck, coming forward, motioned to Leoline to follow
him. He passed into a retired and solitary walk, and
when they were a little distance from the castle, Warbeck
turned round, and taking Leoline's hand gently, said,
"Let us rest here for one moment, dearest cousin; I
have much on my heart to say to thee."
"And what is there," answered Leoline, as they sat on
a mossy bank, with the broad Rhine glancing below;
"what is there that my kind Warbeck would ask of me?
Ah! would it might be some favor, something in poor
Leoline's power to grant; for ever from my birth you have
been to me most tender, most kind. You, I have often
heard them say, taught my first steps to walk; you formed
formed
infant lips into language; and, in after-years, when
my wild cousin was far away in the forests at the chase,
you would brave his gay jest, and remain at home, lest
Leoline should be weary in the solitude. Ah, would I
repay you!
my
could
Warbeck turned away his cheek; his heart was very
full, and it was some moments before he summoned cour-
age to reply.
My fair cousin," said he, "those were happy days;
but they were the days of childhood. New cares and new
thoughts have now come on us. But I am still thy friend,
Leoline, and still thou wilt confide in me thy young sor-
rows and thy young hopes, as thou ever didst. Wilt thou
not, Leoline?"
"Canst thou ask me?" said Leoline; and Warbeck,
gazing on her face, saw, that though her eyes were full of
tears, they yet looked steadily upon his; and he knew that
she loved him only as a sister.
He sighed, and paused again ere he resumed. "Enough,"
said he; now to my task. Once on a time, dear cousin,
there lived among these mountains a certain chief who had
two sons, and an orphan like thyself dwelt also in his halls.
And the elder son, but no matter, let us not waste words
on him! - the younger son, then, loved the orphan dearly,
then, loved the orphan dearly,
--more dearly than cousins love; and fearful of refusal,
he prayed the elder one to urge his suit to the orphan.
Leoline, ny tale is done. Canst thou not love Otho as he
loves thee ?"
And now, lifting his eyes to Leoline, he saw that she
trembled violently, and her cheek was covered with blushes.
Say," continued he, mastering himself; "is not that
"is not that
flower (his present) a token that he is chiefly in thy
thoughts?
CC
"
Ah, Warbeck! do not deem me ungrateful that I wear
not yours also: but "
"Hush!" said Warbeck, hastily; "I am but as thy
"I am but as thy
brother, is not Otho more? He is young, brave, and
beautiful. God grant that he may deserve thee, if thou
givest him so rich a gift as thy affections."
"I saw less of Otho in my childhood," said Leoline,
evasively; "therefore, his kindness of late years seemed
stranger to me than thine.”
"And thou wilt not reject then him? Thou wilt be his
bride ?"
"And thy sister," answered Leoline.
"Bless thee, mine own dear cousin; one brother's kiss
then, and farewell! Otho shall thank thee for himself.”
He kissed her forehead calmly, and turning away,
plunged into the thicket; then, -nor till then, he gave
vent to such emotions as, had Leoline seen them, Otho's
suit had been lost for ever; for passionately, deeply as in
her fond and innocent heart she loved Otho, the happiness
of Warbeck was not less dear to her.
When the young knight recovered his self-possession, he
went in search of Otho. He found him alone in the wood,
leaning with folded arms against a tree, and gazing mood-
ily on the ground. Warbeck's noble heart was touched at
his brother's dejection.
VOL II
47
"Cheer thee, Otho," said he; "I bring thee no bad
tidings; I have seen Leoline, I have conversed with her,
nay, start not, she loves thee; she is thine ! "
"Generous, generous Warbeck!" exclaimed Otho
and he threw himself on his brother's neck. "No, DO,'
said he, "this must not be; thou hast the elder claim.
resign her to thee. Forgive me my waywardness, brother,
forgive me!"
"Think of the past no more," said Warbeck; "the
love of Leoline is an excuse for greater offences than thine:
and now, be kind to her; her nature is soft and keen. I
know her well; for I have studied her faintest wish. Thou
art hasty and quick of ire; but remember, that a word
wounds where love is deep. For my sake as for hers,
think more of her happiness than thine own; now seek
her, she waits to hear from thy lips the tale that sounded
cold upon mine."
With that he left his brother, and, once more reënter-
ing the castle, he went into the hall of his ancestors. Hig
father still slept; he put his hand on his gray hair, and
blessed him; then stealing up to his chamber, he braced
on his helm and armor, and thrice kissing the hilt of his
sword, said, with a flushed cheek,
"Henceforth be thou my bride !" Then passing from
the castle, he sped by the most solitary paths down the
rock, gained the Rhine, and hailing one of the numerous
fishermen of the river, won the opposite shore; and alone,
but not sad, for his high beart supported him, and Leoline
at least was happy, he hastened to Frankfort.
St.
The town was all gayety and life, arms clanged at every
corner, the sounds of martial music, the wave of banners,
the glittering of plumed casques, the neighing of war-steeds,
all united to stir the blood and inflame the sense.
Bertrand had lifted the sacred cross along the shores of the
Rhine, and the streets of Frankfort witnessed with what
success !
On that same day Warbeck assumed the sacred badge,
and was enlisted among the knights of the Emperor Con-
rad.
We must suppose some time to have elapsed, and Otho
and Leoline were not yet wedded; for, in the first fervor
of his gratitude to his brother, Otho had proclaimed to his
father and to Leoline the conquest Warbeck had obtained
over himself; and Leoline, touched to the heart, would
not consent that the wedding should take place immedi-
ately. "Let him, at least," said she, "not be insulted
by a premature festivity, and give him time, among the
lofty beauties he will gaze upon in a far country, to forget,
Otho, that he once loved her who is beloved of thee.”
The old chief applauded this delicacy; and even Otho,
in the first flush of his feelings toward his brother, did not
venture to oppose it. They settled, then, that the marriage
should take place at the end of a year.
Months rolled away, and an absent and moody gloom
settled upon Otho's brow. In his excursions with his gay
companions among the neighbouring towns, he heard of
nothing but the glory of the crusaders, of the homage paid
to the heroes of the cross by the courts they visited, of the
adventure of their life, and the exciting spirit that anima-
ted their war. In fact, neither minstrel nor priest suffered
the theme to grow cold; and the fame of those who had
gone forth to the holy strife gave at once emulation and
discontent to the youths who had remained behind.
"And my brother enjoys this ardent and glorious life,"
said the impatient Otho
said the impatient Otho; "while I, whose arm is as
strong, and whose heart is as bold, languish here listening
to the dull tales of a hoary sire and the silly songs of an
orphan girl." His heart smote him at the last sentence, but
he had already begun to weary of the gentle love of Leo-
line. Perhaps when he had no longer to gain a triumph over
a rival, the excitement palled, or perhaps his proud spirit
secretly chafed at being conquered by his brother in gener-
osity, even when outshining him in the success of love.
But poor Leoline, once taught that she was to consider
Otho her betrothed, surrendered her heart entirely to his
control. His wild spirit, his dark beauty, his daring valor,
won while they awed her; and in the fitfulness of his na-
ture were those perpetual springs of hope and fear, that
are the fountains of ever agitated love. She saw with in-
creasing grief the change that was growing over Otho's
mind; nor did she divine the cause "Surely I have not
offended him," thought she.
Among the companions of Otho was one who possessed
370
BULWER'S NOVELS.
a singular sway over him. He was a knight of that myste- |
rious order of the Temple, which exercised at one time so
great a command over the minds of men.
A severe and dangerous wound in a brawl with an
English knight had confined the templar at Frankfort, and
prevented his joining the crusade. During his slow recov-
ery he had formed an intimacy with Otho, and taking up
his residence at the castle of Liebenstein, had been struck
with the beauty of Leoline. Prevented by his oath from
marriage, he allowed hitnself a double license in love, and
doubted not, could he disengage the young knight from his
betrothed, that she would add a new conquest to the many
he had already achieved. Artfully, therefore, he painted
to Otho the various attractions of the holy cause; and,
above all, he failed not to describe, with glowing colors,
the beauties, who, in the gorgeous East, distinguished with
a prodigal favor the warriors of the cross. Dowries, un-
known in the more sterile mountains of the Rhine, accom-
panied the hand of these beauteous maidens, and even a
prince's daughter was not deemed, he said, too lofty a
marriage for the heroes who might win kingdoms for
themselves.
To me,
"said the templar, "such hopes are eternally
denied. But you, were you not already betrothed, what
fortunes might await you !
By such discourses the ambition of Otho was perpetually
aroused; they served to deepen his discontent at his present
obscurity, and to convert to distaste the only solace it
afforded in the innocence and affection of Leoline.
One night, a minstrel sought shelter from the storm in
the halls of Liebenstein. His visit was welcomed by the
chief, and he repaid the hospitality he had received by the
exercise of his art. He sang of the chase, and the gaunt
hound started from the hearth. He sang of love, and Otho,
forgetting his restless dreams, approached to Leoline, and
laid himself at her feet. Louder, then, and louder rose
Louder, then, and louder rose
the strain. The minstrel sang of war; he painted the feats
of the crusaders; he plunged into the thickest of the
battle the steed neighed; the trump sounded; and you
might nave heard the ringing of the steel. But when he
came to signalize the names of the boldest knights, high
among the loftiest sounded the name of Sir Warbeck of
Liebenstein. Thrice had he saved the imperial banner;
two chargers slain beneath him, he had covered their
bodies with the fiercest of the foe. Gentle in the tent and
terrible in the fray, the minstrel should forget his craft ere
the Rhine should forget its hero. The chief started from
his seat. Leoline clasped the minstrel's hand.
:..
"Speak, you have seen him; he lives, he is honored?"
"I, myself, am but just from Palestine, brave chief and
noble maiden. I saw the gallant knight of Liebenstein at
the right hand of the imperial Conrad. And he, ladye,
was the only knight whom admiration shone upon without
envy, its shadow. Who then," continued the minstrel,
once more striking his harp, "who then would remain
inglorious in the hall? Shall not the banners of his sires
reproach him as they wave; and shall not every voice from
Palestine strike shame into his soul?"
'
"Right!" cried Otho, suddenly, and flinging himself at
the feet of his father. "Thou hearest what my brother has
done, and thine aged eyes weep tears of joy. Shall I only
dishonor thine old age with a rusted sword?
No! grant
me like my brother to go forth with the heroes of the cross!"
forth with the heroes of the cross!"
"Noble youth," cried the harper," therein speaks the
soul of Sir Warbeck; hear him, sir knight; hear the
noble vouth."
"The voice of heaven cries aloud in his voice," said the
templar, solemnly.
My son, I cannot chide thine ardor," said the old
chief, raising him with trembling hands; "but Leoline,
thy betrothed!"
Pale as a statue, with ears that doubted their sense as
they drank in the cruel words of her lover, stood the
orphan. She did not speak, she scarcely breathed; she
sank into her seat, and gazed upon the ground, till, at the
speech of the chief, both maiden pride and maiden tender-
nese restored her consciousness, and she said,
"I, uncle! shall I bid Otho stay, when his wishes bid
him depart ?"
"He will return to thee, noble ladye, covered with
glory," said the harper: but Otho said no more. The
touching voice of Leoline went to his soul: he resumed his
Beat in silence; and Leoline, going up to him, whispered
gently, "Act as though I were ;" and left toe ball to
commune with her heart and to weep alone.
"I can wed her before I go," said Otho, suddenly, as
he sat that night in the templar's chamber.
Why, that is true! and leave thy bride in the first
week, a hard trial.”
"Better than incur the chance of never calling her mine
Dear, kind, beloved Leoline!"
Assuredly she deserves all from thee; and, indeed, i
is no small sacrifice, at thy years and with thy mien, to
renounce for ever all interest among the noble maidens thou
wilt visit. Ah, from the galleries of Constantinople what
eyes will look down on thee; and what ears, learning that
thou art Otho the bridegroom, will turn away, caring for
thee no more. A bridegroom without a bride! Nay, man,
much as the cross wants warriors, I am enough thy friend
to tell thee, if thou weddest, stay peaceably at home, and
forget in the chase the labors of war, from which thou
wouldst strip the ambition of love."
"I would I knew what were best," said Otho, irreso
lutely. "My brother, ha, shall he for ever outshine me!
but Leoline, how will she grieve, she who left him for
me!"
"Was that thy fault?" said the templar, gayly. "It
another. Troth, it is a sin that the conscience may walk
may many times chance to thee again to be preferred to
lightly enough under. But sleep on it, Otho; my eyes
grow heavy."
The next day Otho sought Leoline, and proposed to her
that their wedding should precede his parting, but so
embarrassed was he, so divided between two wishes, that
Leoline, offended, hurt, stung by his coldness, refused the
proposal at once; she left him lest he should see her weep,
| and then, then she repented even of her just pride!
But Otho, striving to appease his conscience with the
belief that hers now was the sole fault, busied himself in
preparations for his departure. Anxious to outshine his
brother, he departed not as Warbeck, alone and unat-
tended, but levying all the horse, men, and money that his
domain at Sternfels, which he had not yet tenanted, -
would afford, he repaired to Frankfort at the head of a
glittering troop.
-
The templar, affecting a relapse, tarried behind, and
promised to join him at that Constantinople of which he
had so loudly boasted. Meanwhile he devoted his whole
powers of pleasing to console the unhappy orphan. The
force of her simple love was, however, stronger than all his
arts. In vain he insinuated doubts of Otho; she refused
to hear them in vain he poured, with the softest accents,
into her ear the witchery of flattery and song: she turned
heedlessly away; and only pained by the courtesies that
had so little resemblance to Otho, she shut herself up in her
chamber, and pined in solitude for her forsaker.
The templar now resolved to attempt darker arts to
obtain power over her, when fortunately he was summoned
suddenly away by a mission from the grand master, of so
high import that it could not be resisted by a passion
stronger in his breast than love, the passion of ambition.
He left the castle to its solitude; and Otho peopling it no
more with his gay companions, no solitude could be more
unfrequently disturbed.
Meanwhile though, ever and anon, the fame of Warbeck
reached their ears, it came unaccompanied with that of
Otho; of him they heard no tidings: and thus the love of
the tender orphan was kept alive by the perpetual restless-
ness of fear. At length. the old chief died, and Leoline was
left utterly alone.
One evening as she sat with her maidens in the hall, the
ringing of a steed's hoofs was heard in the outer court; a
horn sounded, the heavy gates were unbarred, and a knight
of a stately mien and covered with the red mantle of the
cross, entered the hall; he stopped for one moment at the
entrance, as if overpowered by his emotions; in the next
he had clasped Leoline to his breast!
"Dost thou not recognise thy cousin Warbeck?" He
doffed his casque, and she saw that majestic brow which,
unlike Otho's, had never changed or been clouded in its
aspect to her.
"The war is suspended for the present," said he; "I
learned my father's death, and I have returned home to hang
up my banner in the hall, and spend my days in peace.'
Time and the life of camps had worked their change
upon Warbeck's face; the fair hair, deepened in its shade,
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
371
was worn from the temples, and disclosed one scar that
rather aided the beauty of a countenance that had always
Bomething high and martial in its character; but the calin
it once wore had settled down into sadness; he conversed
more rarely than before, and though he smiled not less
often, or less kindly, the smile had more of thought, and
the kindness had forgot its passion. He had apparently
conquered a love that was so early crossed, but not that
fidelity of remembrance which wade Leoline dearer to him
than all others, and forbade him to replace the images he
had graven upon his soul.
The orphan's lips trembled with the name of Otho, but a
certain recollection stifled even her anxiety. Warbeck
hastened to forestall her questions.
Naught but a beauty such as thine can win my par-
don," said Otho, turning to his bride, and gazing passion
ately in her face.
The Greek smiled.
Well sped the feast, the laugh deepened, the wine cir-
cled, when Otho's eye rested on a guest at the bottom of
the board, whose figure was mantled from head to foot, and
whose face was covered by a dark veil.
"Beshrew me," said he, aloud; "but this is scarce
courteous at our revel; will the stranger vouchsafe to un-
mask?"
These words turned all eyes to the figure, and they who
sat next it perceived that it trembled violently; at length it
rose, and walking slowly, but with grace, to the fair Greek,
it laid beside her a wreath of flowers.
"Otho was well," he said, "and sojourning at Constan-
tinople; he had lingered there so long, that the crusade "It is a simple gift, ladye," said the stranger, in a voice
had terminated without his aid; doubtless now he would of such sweetness that the rudest guest was touched by it.
speedily return, - a month, a week, nay, a day, night" But it is all I can offer, and the bride of Otho should not
restore him to her side."
Leoline was inexpressibly consoled, yet something seemed
untold. Why, so eager for the strife of the sacred tomb,
had he thus tarried at Constantinople? She wondered, she
wearied conjecture, but she did not dare to search farther.
The generous Warbeck concealed from her that Otho led
a life of the most reckless and indolent dissipation, wasting
his wealth in the pleasures of the Greek court, and only
occupying his ambition with the wild schemes of founding
a principality in those foreign climes, which the enterprises
of the Norman adventurers had rendered so alluring to the
knightly bandits of the age.
The cousins resumed their old friendship, and Warbeck
believed that it was friendship alone. They walked again
among the gardens in which their childhood had strayed;
they sat again on the green turf whereon they had woven
flowers; they looked down on the eternal mirror of the
Rhine; ab, could it have reflected the same unawakened
freshness of their life's early spring!
The grave and contemplative mind of Warbeck had not
been so contented with the honors of war, but that it had
sought also those calmer sources of emotion which were yet
found among the sages of the East. He had drunk at
the fountain of wisdom of those distant climes, and had
acquired the habits of meditation which were indulged by
hose wiser tribes from which the crusaders brought back
to the north the knowledge that was destined to enlighten
their posterity. Warbeck, therefore, had little in common
with the ruder chiefs around; he summoned them not to
his board, or attended at their noisy wassails. Often late
at night, in yon shattered tower, his lonely lamp shone still
over the mighty stream, and his only relief to loneliness
was the presence and the song of his soft cousin.
Months rolled on, when suddenly a vague and fearful
rumor reached the castle of Liebenstein. Otho was return-
ing home to the neighbouring tower of Sternfels; but not
alone. He brought back with him a Greek bride of sur-
prising beauty, and dowered with almost regal wealth.
Leoline was the first to discredit the rumor. — Leoline was
soon the only one who disbelieved.
Bright in the summer noon flashed the array of horse-
'nen ; far up the steep ascent wound the gorgeous caval-
cade; the lonely towers of Liebenstein heard the echo of
many a laugh and peal of merriment. Otho bore home his
bride to the hall of Sternfels.
That night there was a great banquet in Otho's castle ;
the lights shone from every casement, and music swelled
loud and ceaselessly within.
By the side of Otlro, g ittering with the prodigal jewels
of the East, sat the Greek. Her dark locks, her flashing
eye, the false colors of her complexion, dazzled the
her guests. On her left hand sat the templar.
eyes
of
|
be without a gift at my hands. May ye both be happy!
With these words the stranger turned and passed from
the hall silent as a shadow.
"Bring back the stranger!" cried the Greek, recover-
ing her surprise. Twenty guests sprang up to obey her
mandate.
"No, no!" said Otho, waving his hand impatiently;
"touch her not, heed her not, at your peril."
The Greek bent over the flowers to conceal her anger,
and from among them dropped the broken half of a ring
Otho recognised it at once; it was the half of that ring
which he had broken with his betrothed. Alas, he re-
quired not such a sign to convince him that that figure, sc
full of ineffable grace, that touching voice, that simple ac-
tion, so tender in its sentiment, that gift, that blessing,
came only from the forsaken and forgiving Leoline!
But Warbeck, alone in his solitary tower, paced to and
fro with agitated steps. Deep, undying wrath at his broth-
er's baseness mingled with one burning, one delicious hope.
He confessed now that he had deceived himself when he
thought his passion was no more; was there any longer a
bar to his union with Leoline!
In that delicacy which was breathed into him by his love,
he had forborne to seek, or to offer her the insult of, conso-
lation. He felt that the shock should be borne alone, and
yet he pined, he thirsted to throw himself at her feet.
Nursing these contending thoughts, he was aroused by a
knock at his door; he opened it, the passage was
thronged by Leoline's maidens; pale, anxious, weeping.
Leoline had left the castle, but with one female attendant;
none knew whither :- - they knew too soon. From the hal.
of Sternfels she had passed over in the dark and inclement
night, to the valley in which the convent of Bornhofen of-
fered to the weary of spirit and the broken of heart a
refuge at the shrine of God.
At daybreak the next morning, Warbeck was at the con-
vent's gate.
He saw Leoline what a change one night
of suffering had made in that face, which was the fountain
of all loveliness to him. He clasped her in his arms; he
wept; he urged all that love could urge; he besought her
to accept that heart which had never wronged her memory
by a thought. "O Leoline, didst thou not say once that
these arms nursed thy childhood; that this voice soothed
thine early sorrows? Ah, trust to them again and for ever.
From a love that forsook thee turn to the love that never
swerved."
No," said Leoline;" no.
What would the chivalry
of which thou art the boast, what would they say of thee,
if thou weddest one affianced and deserted, who tarried
years for another, and brought to thine arms only that heart
which he had abandoned? No; and even if thou, as I
know thou wouldst be, wert callous to such wrong of thy
name, shall I bring to thee a broken heart and bruised
spirit? shalt thou wed sorrow, and not joy and shall sighs
that will not cease, and tears that may not be dried, be the
only dowry of thy bride? Thou, too, for whom all bless-
By the holy rood," quoth the templar, gayly, though
he crossed himself as he spoke, we shall scare the owls
to-night on those grim towers of Liebenstein. Thy grave
brother, Sir Otho, will have much to do to comfort his
cousin, when she sees what a gallant life she would haveings should be ordained? No, forget me; forget thy poor
led with thee.”
“Poor damsel! said the Greek, with affected pity,
"doubtless she will now be reconciled to the rejected one.
I hear he is a knight of a comely mien."
"Peace!" said Otho, sternly, and quaffing a large gob-
let of wine.
The Greek bit her lip, and glanced meaningly at the
templar, who returned the glance.
|
Leoline! She hath nothing but prayers for thee."
In vain Warbeck pleaded; in vain he urged all that
passion and truth could urge; the springs of earthly love
were for ever dried up in the orphan's heart, and her reso-
lution was immovable,
lution was immovable, she tore herself from his arms,
and the gate of the convent creaked harshly on his ear.
A new and stern emotion now wholly possessed him;
naturally mild and gentle, when once aroused to anger, he
372
BULWER'S NOVELS.
my
turned to Otho ; "This is the last time we shall meet on
earth. Peace be with us all.”
:
She then, with the same majestic and collected bearing,
passed on toward the sisterhood and as, in the same
solemn procession, they glided back toward the convent,
there was not a man present, no, not even the hardened
templar, who would not, like Otho, have bent his knee to
Leoline.
cherished it with the strength of a calm .nind. Leoline's
tears, her sufferings, her wrongs, her uncomplaining spirit,
the change already stamped upon her face, all cried aloud
to him for vengeance. She is an orphan," said he, bit-
terly; "she hath none to protect, to redress her, save me
alone. My father's charge over her forlorn youth descends
of right to me. What matters it whether her forsaker be
broher? he is her foe. Hath he not crushed her heart?
Hath he not consigned her to sorrow till the grave? And Once more Otho plunged into the wild revelry of the
with what insult; no warning, no excuse with lewd was- age; his castle was thronged with guests, and night after
sailers keeping revel for his new bridals in the hearing, night the lighted halls shone down athwart the tranquil
before the sight, of his betrothed. Enough! the time Rhine. The beauty of the Greek, the wealth of Otho, the
hath come, when, to use his own words, One of us two fame of the templar, attracted all the chivalry from far
must fall!"" He half drew his glaive as he spoke, and
and near.
Never had the banks of the Rhine known so
thrusting it back violently into the sheath, strode home to hospitable a lord as the knight of Sternfels. Yet gloom
his solitary castle. The sound of steeds and of the hunt- seized him in the midst of gladness, and the revel was wel-
ing horr met him at his portal; the bridal train of Stera-comed only as the escape from remorse. The voice of
fels, all mirth and gladness, were panting for the chase.
That evening a knight in complete armor entered the
banquet hall of Sternfels, and defied Otho, on the part of
Warbeck of Liebenstein, to mortal combat.
Even the templar was started by so unnatural a chal-
lenge; but Otho, reddening, took up the gage, and the day
and spot were fixed. Discontented, wroth with himself, a
savage gladness seized him; he longed to wreak his des-
perate feelings even on his brother. Nor had he ever in
bis jealous heart forgiven that brother his virtues and his
renown.
The ru-
At the appointed hour the brothers met as foes. War-
beck's visor was up, and all the settled sternness of his
soul was stamped upon his brow. But Otho, more willing to
brave the arm than to face the front of his brother, kept
his visor down; the templar stood by him with folded
arms. It was a study in human passions to his mocking
nind. Scarce had the first trump sounded to this dread
conflict, when a new actor entered on the scene.
mor of so unprecedented an event had not failed to reach the
convent of Bornhofen ; and now, two by two, came the
sisters of the holy shrine, and the armed men made way,
as with trailing garments and veiled faces they swept
along into the very lists. At that moment one from among
them left their sisters, and with a slow majestic pace,
paused not till she stood right between the brother foes.
"Warbeck," she said, in a bollow voice, that curdled up
his dark spirit as it spoke," is it thus thou wouldst prove
thy love, and maintain thy trust over the fatherless orphan
that thy sire bequeathed to thy care? Shall I have murder
on my soul?" At that question she paused, and those who
neard it were struck dumb and shuddered. "The murder
of one man by the hand of his own brother!-Away,
Warbeck! I command."
"Shall I forget thy wrongs, Leoline?" said Warbeck.
"Wrongs! they united me to God! they are forgiven,
they are no more; earth has deserted me, but heaven hath
taken me to its arms; shall. I murmur at the change?
And thou, Otho,- (here her voice faltered,) thou, does
thy conscience smite thee not, wouldst thou atone for
robbing me of hope by barring against me the future?
Wretch that 1 should be, could I dream of mercy, — could
I dream of comfort, if thy brother fell by thy sword in my
cause? Otho, I have pardoned thee, and blessed be thee
and thine. Once, perhaps, thou didst love me; remember
how I loved thee, -cast down thine arms "
Otho gazed at the veiled form before him.
Where had
the soft Leoline learned to command! He turned to his
brother; he felt all that he had inflicted upon both ; and
casting his sword upon the ground, he knelt at the feet of
Leoline, and kissed her garment with a devotion that
votary never lavished on a holier saint.
"And
The spell that lay over the warriors around was broken;
there was one loud cry of congratulation and joy.
thou, Warbeck!" said Leoline, turning to the spot where,
still motionless and haughty, Warbeck stood.
"Have I ever rebelled against thy will?" said he, softly;
and buried the point of his sword in the earth. Yet,
Leolinc, yet," added he, looking at his kneeling brother,
"yet art thou already better avenged than by this steel!
“Thou art! thou art !” cried Ŏtho, smiting his breast;
and slowly, and scarce noting the crowd that fell back from
his path, Warbeck left the lists.
Lecline said no more; her divine errand was fulfilled;
she looked long and wistfully after the stately form of the
knight of Liebenstein, and then with a slight sigh, she
scandal, however, soon began to mingle with that of envy
at the pomp of Otho.
of Otho. The fair Greek, it was said, weary
of her lord, lavished her smiles on others; the young and
the fair were always most acceptable at the castle; and,
above all, her guilty love for the templar scarcely affected
disguise. Otho alone appeared unconscious of the rumor;
and though he had begun to neglect his bride, he relaxed
not in his intimacy with the templar.
It was noon, and the Greek was sitting in her bower
alone with her suspected lover; the rich perfumes of the
East mingled with the fragrance of flowers, and various
luxuries, unknown till then in those northern shores, gave
a soft and effeminate character to the room.
"I tell thee," said the Greek, petulantly, "that he begins
to suspect; that I have seen him watch thee, and mutter
as he watched, and play with the hilt of his dagger. Bet-
ter let us fly ere it is too late, for his vengeance would be
terrible were it once roused against us. Ah, why did I
ever forsake my own sweet land for these barbarous shores?
There, love is not considered eternal, and inconstancy a
crime worthy death."
"Peace, pretty one," said the templar, carelessly:
"thou knowest not the laws of our foolish chivalry. Think-
est thou I could fly from a knight's halls like a thief in the
night? Why, verily, even the red cross would not cover
such dishonor. If thou fearest that thy dull lord suspects,
why, let us part. The emperor hath sent to me from Frank-
fort. Ere evening I might be on my way thither."
"And I left to brave the barbarian's revenge alone? Is
this thy chivalry?"
re
Nay, prate not so wildly," answered the templar.
Surely, when the object of his suspicion is gone, thy
woman's art and thy Greek wiles can easily allay the jeal
ous fiend. Do I not know thee, Glycera? Why, thou
wouldst fool all men save a templar."
“And, thou, cruel, wouldst thou leave me?" said the
Greek, weeping; "how shall I live without thee ?"
The templar laughed slightly. "Can such eyes ever
weep without a comforter? But farewell; I must not be
found with thee. To-morrow I depart for Frankfort; we
shall meet again."
As soon as the door closed on the templar, the Greek
rose, and pacing the room, said, "Selfish, selfish; how
could I ever trust him? Yet I dare not brave Otho alone.
Surely it was his step that disturbed us in our yesterday's
interview. Nay, I will fly. I can never want a com-
panion."
She clapped her hands; a young page appeared; she
threw herself on her seat and wept bitterly.
The page approached, and love was mingled with his
compassion.
CC
Why weepest thou, dearest lady?" said he ." is there
aught in which Conrade's services, services, — ab, thou
hast read bis heart, his devotion may avail ?"
Otho had wandered out the whole day alone; his vassals
had observed that his brow was more gloomy than its wont,
for he usually concealed whatever might prey within.
Some of the most confidential of his servitors he had con
ferred with, and the conference had deepened the shadow
on his countenance. He returned at twilight; the Greek
did not honor the repast with her presence. She was
unwell, and not to be disturbed. The gay templar was
the life of the board.
"Thou carriest a sad brow to-day, Sir Otho," said he;
good faith, thou hast caught it from the air of Lieben
stein."
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
373
"I have something troubles me," answered Otho, for- |
eing a smile," which I would fain impart to thy friendly
bosom. The night is clear and the moon is up; let us
forth alone into the garden.
""
The templar rose, and he forgot not to gird on his sword
as he followed the knight.
Otho led the way to one of the most distant terraces that
overhung the Rhine.
"Sir Templar," said he, pausing, "answer me one
question on thy knightly honor. Was it thy step that left
my lady's bower yester-eve at vesper?"
Startled by so sudden a query, the wily templar faltered
in his reply
The red blood mounted to Otho's brow; "Nay, lie not,
sir knight; these eyes, thanks to God, have not witnessed,
but these ears have heard from others of my dishonor."
As Otho spoke, the templar's eye, resting on the water,
perceived a boat rowing fast over the Rhine; the distance
forbade him to see more than the outline of two figures
within it. "She was right," thought he; "perhaps that
perhaps that
boat already bears her from the danger."
Drawing himself up to the full height of his tall stature,
the templar replied, haughtily,
"Sir Otho of Sternfels, if thou hast deigned to question
thy vassals, obtain from them only an answer. It is not to
contradict such minions that the knights of the Temple
pledge their word.”
Enough!" cried Otho, losing patience, and striking
the templar with his clenched hand. "Draw, traitor,
draw.
Alone in his lofty tower, Warbeck watched the night
deepen over the heavens, and communed mournfully with
himself. To what end," thought he, "have these strong
"have these strong
affections, these capacities of love, this yearning after sym-
pathy, been given me ? Unloved and unknown I walk to
my grave, and all the nobler mysteries of my heart are for
ever to be untold."
Thus musing, he heard not the challenge of the warder
on the wall, or the unbarring of the gate below, or the tread
of footsteps along the winding stair; the door was thrown
suddenly open, and Otho stood before him. "Come," he
said, in a low voice trembling with passion; "
come, I will
show thee that which shall glad thine heart. Twofold is
Leoline avenged."
Warbeck looked in amazement on a brother he had not
met since they stood in arms each against the other's life,
and he now saw that the arm that Otho extended to him
dripped with blood, trickling drop by drop upon the floor.
"Come," said Otho, " follow me it is
:
my last prayer.
Come, for Leoline's sake, come.”
At that name Warbeck hesitated no longer; he girded
on his sword, and followed his brother down the stairs and
through the castle gate. The porter scarcely believed his
eyes when he saw the two brothers, so long divided, go
forth at that hour alone, and seemingly in friendship.
Warbeck, arrived at that epoch in the feelings when
nothing stuns, followed with silent steps the rapid strides
of his brother. The two castles, as you are aware, are
scarce a stone's throw from each other. In a few minutes
Otho paused at an open space in one of the terraces of
Sternfels, on which the moon shone bright and steady.
"Behold," he said, in a ghastly voice, behold!" and
Warbeck saw on the sward the corpse of the templar,
bathed with the blood that even still poured fast and warm
from his heart.
"Hark!" said Otho, "He it was who first made me
saver in my vows to Leoline; he persuaded me to wed
yon whited falsehood. Hark! he, who had thus wronged
my real love, dishonored me with my faithless bride, and
thus - thus
thus "
as, grinding his teeth, he spurned
again and again the dead body of the templar, "thus
Leoline and myself are avenged!"
www.
"And thy wife?" said Warbeck, pityingly.
"Fled,
fled with a hireling page. It is well! she was
not worth the sword that was once belted on- by Leo-
line."
The tradition, dear Gertrude, proceeds to tell us that
Otho, though often menaced by the rude justice of the day
for the death of the templar, defied and escaped the
templar, defied and escaped the
menace. On the very night of his revenge a long delirious
illness seized him; the generous Warbeck forgave, forgot
all, save that he had been once consecrated by Leoline's
love. He tender him through his sickness, and when he
recovered, Otho was an altered man. He forswore the
comrades he had once courted, the revels he had once led.
The halls of Sternfels were desolate as those of Lieben-
stein. The only companion Otho sought was Warbeck,
and Warbeck bore with him. They had no subject in
common, for one subject Warbeck at least felt too deeply
ever to trust himself to speak; yet did a strange and secret
sympathy reunite them. They had at least a common
sorrow; often they were seen wandering together by the
solitary banks of the river, or amid the woods, without
apparently interchanging word or sign. Otho died first,
and still in the prime of youth; and Warbeck was now
left companionless. In vain the imperial court wooed him
to its pleasures; in vain the camp proffered him the oblivion
of renown. Ah! could he tear himself from a spot where
morning and night he could see afar, amid the valley, the
roof that sheltered Leoline, and on which every copse,
every turf, reminded him of former days? His solitary
life, his midnight vigils, strange scrolls about his chamber,
obtained him by degrees the repute of cultivating the darker
arts; and shunning, he became shunned by all. But still
it was sweet to hear from time to time of the increasing
sanctity of her in whom he had garnered up his last
thoughts of earth. She it was who healed the sick; she
it was who relieved the poor; and the superstition of
that age brought pilgrims from afar to the altars that she
served.
Many years afterward, a band of lawless robbers, who
ever and anon broke from their mountain fastnesses to
pillage and to desolate the valleys of the Rhine; who
spared neither sex nor age; neither tower nor hut; nor
even the houses of God himself; laid waste the territories
round Bornhofen, and demanded treasure from the convent.
The abbess, of the bold lineage of Rudesheim, refused the
sacrilegious demand; the convent was stormed; its vassals
resisted; the robbers, inured to slaughter, won the day;
already the gates were forced, when a knight at the head
of a small but hardy troop, rushed down from the mountain
side, and turned the tide of the fray. Wherever his sword
flashed, fell a foe. Wherever his war-cry sounded, was a
space of dead men in the thick of the battle. The fight was
won; the convent saved; the abbess and their sisterhood
came forth to bless their deliverer. Laid under an aged
oak, he was bleeding fast to death; his head was bare and
his locks were gray, but scarcely yet with years.
only of the sisterhood recognised that majestic face: one
bathed his parched lips; one held his dying hand; and in
Leoline's presence passed away the faithful spirit of the
last Lord of Liebenstein !
"surely you
One
it must
"Oh!" said Gertrude, through her tears,
must have altered the facts, surely, surely,
have been impossible for Leoline, with a woman's heart,
to have loved Otho more than Warbeck.”
"My child," said Vane, "so think women when they
read a tale of love, and see the whole heart bared before
them; but not so act they in real life, when they see
only the surface of character, and pierce not its depths.
until it is too late!"
CHAPTER XXV.
S
The immortality of the soul. A common incident not before
described. Trevylyan and Gertrude.
THE day now drew cool as it waned to its decline, and
the breeze came sharp upon the delicate frame of the suf-
ferer. They resolved to proceed no further; and as they
carried with them attendants and baggage, which rendered
their route almost independent of the ordinary accommo-
dation, they steered for the opposite shore, and landed at
a village beautifully sequestered in a valley, and where they
regions of the picturesque.
fortunately obtained a lodging not often met with in the
pas-
When Gertrude at an early hour retired to bed, Vane
and Du -e fell into speculative conversation upon the
nature of man. Vane's philosophy was of a quiet and
sive skepticism; the physician dared more boldly, and
rushed from doubt to negation. The attention of Trevyl-
yan, as he sat apart and musing, was arrested in despite
of himself. He listened to an argument in which he took
no share; but which suddenly inspired him with an interest
in that awful subject, which in the heat of youth and the
374
BULWER'S NOVELS.
occupations of the world had never been so prominently | Albert, I beseech you, and I wil thank you to-morrow.
called forth before.
Gertrude's voice was choked by the hectic cough, that
"Great God!" thought he, with unutterable anguish, went like an arrow to Trevylyan's heart; and he felt that
as he listened to the earnest vehemence of the Frenchman, in her anxiety for him, she was now exposing her own
and the tranquil assent of Vane; "if this creed were in-frame to the unwholesome night.*
deed true,
if there be no other world, Gertrude is
ost to me eternally, through the dread gloom of death
there would break forth no star!
,,
That is a peculiar incident that perhaps occurs to us all
at times, but which I have never found expressed in books;
viz. to hear a doubt of futurity at the very moment in
which the present is most overcast; and to find at once
this world stripped of its delusion, and the next of its con-
solations. It is perhaps for others rather than ourselves,
that the fond heart requires an hereafter. The tranquil
rest, the shadow, and the silence, the mere pause of the
whee of life, have no terror for the wise, who know the
due value of the world
"After the billows of a stormy sea,
Sweet is at last the haven of repose!"
But not so when that stillness is to divide us eternally from
others; when those we have loved with all the passion, the
devotion, the watchful sanctity of the weak human heart,
are to exist to us no more! when after long years of
desertion and widowhood on earth, there is to be no hope
of reunion in that INVISIBLE beyond the stars; when the
torch, not of life only, but of love, is to be quenched in the
dark fountain; and the grave, that we would fain hope is
the great restorer of broken ties, is but the dumb seal of
hopeless, utter, inexorable separation! And it is this
thought, this sentiment, which makes religion out of
woe, and teacheth belief to the mourning heart, that in the
gladness of united affections felt not the necessity of a heav-
en! To how many is the death of the beloved the parent
of faith!
Stung by his thoughts Trevylyan rose abruptly, and steal-
ing from the lowly hostelry, walked forth amid the serene
and deepening night; from the window of Gertrude's room
the light streamed calm on the purple air.
With uneven steps and many a pause, he paced to and
fro beneath the window, and gave the rein to his thoughts.
How intensely he felt the ALL that Gertrude was to him :
how bitterly he foresaw the change in his lot and character
that her death would work out! For who that met him in
later years ever dreamed that emotions so soft, and yet so
ardent, had visited one so stern? Who ever could have
believed that time was, when the polished and cold Trevyl-
yan had kept the vigils he now held, below the chamber
of one so little like himself as Gertrude, in that remote
and solitary hamlet; shut in by the haunted mountains of
the Rhine, and beneath the moonlight of the romantic north?
While thus engaged, the light in Gertrude's room was
suddenly extinguished; it is impossible to express how
much that trivial incident affected him! It was like an
emblem of what was to come; the light had been the only
evidence of life that broke upon that hour, and he was now
left alone with the shades of night. Was not this like the
herald of Gertrude's own death; the extinction of the only
living ray that broke upon the darkness of the world?
His anguish, his presentiment of utter desolation, in-
creased. He groaned aloud; he dashed his clenched hand
to his breast; large and cold drops of agony stole down
his brow. "Father," he exclaimed, with a struggling
voice, "let this cup pass from me! Smite my ambition to
the root; curse me with poverty, shame, and bodily dis-
ease; but leave me this one solace, this one companion of
my fate!
"
At this moment Gertrude's window opened gently, and
he heard her accents steal soothingly upon his ear.
"Is not that your voice, Albert?" said she, softly; "I
heard it just as I laid down to rest, and could not sleep
while you were thus exposed to the damp night air. You
do not answer; surely it is your voice; when did I mis-
take it for another's?
Mastering with a violent effort his emotions, Trevylyan
answered, with a sort of convulsive gazety,
Why come to these shores, dear Gercrude, unless you
are honored with the chivalry that belongs to them? What
wind, what blight, can harm me while within the circle of
your presence; and what sleep can bring me dreams so
lear as the waking thought of you ?
come in, dear
15
"It is cold," said Gertrude, shivering,
He spoke no more, but hurried within the house; and
when the gray light of morn broke upon his gloomy fea-
tures, haggard froin the want of sleep, it might have seemed,
in that dim eye and fast-sinking cheek, as if the lovers
were not to be divided, even by death itself.
CHAPTER XXVI.
In which the reader will learn how the fairies were receved by
the sovereigns of the mines. The complaint of the last of
the fauns. The red huntsman. - The storm. — Death.
IN the deep valley of Ehrenthal, the metal kings, the
prince of the Silver Palaces, the gnome monarch of the
dull Lead Mine, the president of the Copper United
States, held a court to receive the fairy wanderers from
the isle of Nonneworth.
The prince was then in a gallant hunting-suit of oak-
leaves, in honor to England; and wore a profusion of fairy
orders, which had been instituted from time to time in
honor of the human poets that had celebrated the spiritual
and ethereal tribes. Chief of these, sweet dreamer of the
Midsummer Night's Dream, was the badge chrystallized
from the dews that rose above the whispering reeds of
Avon on the night of thy birth, the great epoch of the
intellectual world! Nor wert thou, oh beloved Musaus,
nor thou, dim,dreaming Tieck; nor were ye, the wild
imaginer of the bright-haired Undine, and the wayward
spirit that invoked for the gloomy Manfred the witch of the
breathless Alps, and the spirits of earth and air;
were ye without the honors of fairy homage! Your mem-
ory may fade from the heart of man, and the spells of
newer enchanters may succeed to the charm you once wove
over the face of the common world; but still in the green
knolls of the haunted valley and the deep shade of forests,
and the starred palaces of air, ye are honored by the be-
ings of your dreams, as demigods and kings! Your graves
are tended by invisible hands, and the places of your birth
are hallowed by no perishable worship.
nor
""
Even as I write, far away amid the bills of Caledon,
and by the forest thou hast clothed with immortal verdure;
thou, the waker of "the harp by lone Glenfillan's spring,
art passing from the earth which thou hast "painted with
delight." And such are the chances of mortal fame! Our
children's children may raise new idols on the site of thy
holy altar, and cavil where their sires adored; but for thee
the mermaid of the ocean shall wail in her coral caves
and the sprite that lives in the waterfalls shall mourn
Strange shapes shali hew thy monument in the recesses of
the lonely rocks; ever by moonlight shall the fairies pause
from their roundel when some wild note of their minstrelsy
reminds them of thine own; ceasing from their revel-
ries, to weep for the silence of that mighty lyre, which
breathed alike a revelation of the mysteries of spirits and
of men!
The king of the Silver Mines sat in a cavern in the
valley, through which the moon just pierced and slept in
shadow on the soil shining with metals wrought into un-
numbered shapes; and below him, on an humbler throne,
with a gray beard and a downcast eye, sat the aged king
of the dwarfs that preside over the dull realms of lead,
and inspire the verse of and the prose of ! And
there, too, a fantastic household elf, was the president of
the copper republic, — a spirit that loves economy and
the uses, and smiles sparely on the beautiful. But, in the
centre of the cave, upon beds of the softest mosses, the
untrodden growth of ages, reclined the fairy visiters,
Nymphalin seated by her betrothed. And round the walls
of the cave were dwarf attendants on the sovereigns of the
metals, of a thousand odd shapes and fantastic garments.
On the abrupt ledges of the rocks the bats, charmed to
stillness but not sleep, clustered thickly, watching the scene
with fixed and amazed eyes and one old gray owl, the
favorite of the witch of the valley, sat blinking in a corner,
* It was just at the time the author was finishing this work,
that the great master of his art was drawing to the close of his
career.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIN E.
STE
"istening with all her might, that she might bring home the
scandal to her mistress.
"And tell me, prince of the Rhine-Island fays," said
the king of the Silver Mines, "for thou art a traveller,
and a fairy that hath seen much, how go men's affairs in
the upper world?
world? As to ourself, we live here in a stupid
splendor, and only hear the news of the day, when our
brother of Lead pays a visit to the English printing-press,
or the president of Copper goes to look at his improve-
ments in steam-engines.
>>
*
"Indeed," replied Fayzenheim, preparing to speak, like
Eneas in the Carthaginian court; indeed, your majesty,
I know not much that will interest you in the present as-
pect of mortal affairs, except that you are quite as much
honored at this day as when the Roman conqueror bent his
knee to you among the mountains of Taunus; and a vast
number of little round subjects of yours are constantly car-
ried about by the rich, and pined after with hopeless adora-
tion by the pour. But, begging your majesty's pardon,
may I ask what has become of your cousin, the king of
the Golden Mines? I know very well that he has no do-
minion in these valleys, and do not therefore wonder at his
absence from your court this night, but I see so little
of his subjects on earth that I should fear his empire was
wellnigh at an end, if I did not recognise everywhere the
most servile homage paid to a power now become almost
invisible."
The king of the Silver Mines fetched a deep sigh.
"Alas, prince," said he, "too well do you divine the ex-
piration of my
cousin's empire. So many of his subjects
have from time to time gone forth to the world, pressed
into military service and never returning, that his king-
dom is nearly depopulated. And he lives far off in the
distant parts of the earth in a state of melancholy seclu-
sion; the age of gold has passed, the age of paper has
commenced.
66
66
Paper, " said Nymphalin, who was still somewhat of a
paper is a wonderful thing. What pretty
precièuse;
books the human people write upon it.”
"Ah! that's what I design to convey," said the Silver
King. "It is the age less of paper money than paper
The lord-treasu-
government, the press is the true bank."
rer of the English fairies pricked up his ears at the word
"bank." For he was the Attwood of the fairies: he had
a favorite plan of making money out of bulrushes, and had
written four large bees' wings full upon the true nature of
capital.
While they were thus conversing, a sudden sound as of
some rustic and rude music broke along the air, and closing
its wild burden, they heard the following song: —
+7
THE COMPLAINT OF THE LAST FAUN.
T
The moon on the Latmos mountain
Her pining vigil keeps ;
And ever the silver fountain
In the Dorian valley weeps.
But gone are Endymion's dream ;-
And the chrystal lymph
Bewails the nymph
Whose beauty sleeked the streams'
11.
Round Arcady's oak, its green
The Bromian ivy weaves;
But no more is the satyr seen
Laughing out from the glossy leaves;
Hushed is the Lycian lute,
Still grows the seed
Of the Monale reed,
But the pipe of Pan is mute.
III.
The leaves in the uoonday quiver ;-
The vines on the mountains wave; -
And Tiber rolls his river
As fresh by the sylvan's cave;
But my brothers are dead and gone; -
And far away
From their graves I stray,
And dream of the past alone.
IV.
And the sun of the north is chill ;
And keen is the northern gale; -
Alas for the song on the Argive hill;
And the dance in the Cretan vale! -
The youth of the earth is o'er,
And its breast is rife
With the teeming life
Of the golden tribes no more
V.
My race are more blest than I,
Asleep in their distant bed ;
'T were better, be sure, to die
Than to mourn for the buried dead
To rove by the stranger streams,
At dusk and dawn
A lonely faun
The last of the Grecian's dreams.
As the song ended, a shadow crossed the moonlight, that
lay white and lustrous before the aperture of the cavern;
and Nymphalin, looking up, beheld a graceful, yet gro-
tesque figure standing on the sward without, and gazing on
the group
in the cave. It was a shaggy form, with a goat's
legs and ears; but the rest of its body, and the height of
the stature, like a man's. An arch, pleasant, yet malicious
smile, played about its lips; and in its hand it held the
pastoral pipe of which poets have sung; they would find
it difficult to sing to it!
"And who art thou?" said Fayzenheim, with the air
of a hero.
"I am the last lingering wanderer of the race which
the Romans worshipped: hither I followed their victorious
steps, and in these green hollows have I remained. Some-
times in the still noon, when the leaves of spring bud upon
the whispering woods, I peer forth from my rocky lair, and
startle the peasant with my strange voice and stranger
shape. Then goes he home, and puzzles his thick brain
with inopes and fancies, till at length he imagines me,
the creature of the south, one of his northern demons, and
his poets adapt the apparition to their barbarous lines."
:
"Ho!" quoth the Silver King, “surely thou art the
origin of the fabled Satan of the cowled men living whi
lome in yonder ruins, with its horns and goatish Timbs
and the harmless faun has been the figuration of the most
implacable of fiends. But why, O wanderer of the south.
lingerest thou in these foreign dells? Why returnest thou
not to the mountains of Achaia, or the wastes around the
yellow course of the Tiber?"
"My brethren are no more," said the poor faun; "and
the very faith that left us sacred and unharmed is departed.
But here all the spirits not of mortality are still honored;
and I wander, mourning for Silenus; though amid the
vines that should console me for his loss."
"Thou hast known great beings in thy day," said the
Leaden King, who loved the philosophy of a truism,
(and the history of whose inspirations I shall one day
write.)
"Ah, yes,
"said the faun, "my birth was amid the
freshness of the world, when the flush of the universal life
colored all things with divinity; when not a tree but had
its dryad, -not a fountain that was without its nymph.
I sat by the gray throne of Saturn, in his old age, ere yet
he was discrowned; (for he was no visionary ideal, but the
arch monarch of the pastoral age ;) and heard from his
lips the history of the world's birth. But those times are
gone for ever, they have left harsh successors
"It is the age of paper," muttered the lord-treasurer,
shaking his head.
"What ho, for a dance!" cried Fayzenheim, too royal
for moralities, and he whirled the beautiful Nymphalin into
a waltz. Then forth issued the fairies, and out went the
dwarfs. And the faun, leaning against an aged elm, ere
yet the midnight waned, the elves danced their charmed
round to the antique minstrelsy of his pipe, — the minstrelsy
of the Grecian world!
"Hast thou seen yet, my Nymphalin," said Fayzenheim
in the pauses of the dance; "the recess of the Hartz, and
the red form of its mighty hunter ?"
"It is a fearful sight," answered Nymphalin; "but
with thee I should not fear."
"Away, then," cried Fayzeuheim; "let us
"let us away, at
the first cock-crow, into those shaggy deils, for there is no
need of night to conceal us, and the unwitnessed blush of
moru, or the dreary silence of noon, is no less than the
moon's reign, the season for the sports of the super-human
tribes."
Nymphalin, charmed with the proposal, readily assented,
and at the last hour of night, bese iding the airbeams of
376
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the many-titled Friga, away sped the fairy cavalcade to the
gloom of the mystic Hartz.
Fain would I relate the manner of their arrival in the
thick recesses of the forest; how they found the red hunter
seated on a fallen pine beside a wide chasm in the earth,
with the arching boughs of the wizard oak wreathing
above his head as a canopy, and his bow and spear lying
idle at his feet. Faiu would I tell of the reception which
he deigned to the fairies, and how he told them of his
ancient victories over man; how he chafed at the gather-
ing invasions of his realm, and how joyously he gloated of
some great convulsion in the northern states, which, rapt
into moody reveries in these solitary woods, the fierce de-
mon broodingly foresaw. All these fain would I narrate,
but they are not of the Rhine, and my story will not brook
the delay. While thus conversing with the fiend, noon had
crept on, and the sky had become overcast and lowering;
the giant trees waved gustily to and fro, and the low gath-
erings of the thunder announced the approaching storm.
Then the hunter arose and stretched his mighty limbs, and
seizing his spear, he strode rapidly into the forest to meet
the things of his own tribe that the tempest wakes from
their rugged lair.
A sudden recollection broke upon Nymphalin. "Alas,
alas!' "she cried, wringing her hands; "what have I
done! In journeying hither with thee, I have forgotten
my office. I have neglected my watch over the elements,
and my human charge is at this hour, perhaps, exposed to
all the fury of the storm.'
"Cheer thee, my Nymphalin," said the prince, "we
will lay the tempest," and he waved his sword and mut-
tered the charms which curb the winds and roll back the
marching thunder; but for once the tempest ceased not at
his spells; and now, as the fairies sped along the troubled
air, a pale and beautiful form met them by the way, and
the fairies paused and trembled. For the power of that
shape could vanquish even them. It was the form of a
female, with golden hair, crowned with a chaplet of with-
ered leaves; her bosoms, of an exceeding beauty, lay bare
o the wind, and an infant was clasped between them,
nushed into a sleep so still, that neither the roar of the
thunder, nor the livid lightning flashing from cloud to cloud,
could even ruffle, much less arouse, the slumberer. And the
face of the female was unutterably calin and sweet, (though
with a something of severe,) there was no line or wrinkle
in her hueless brow; care never wrote its defacing charac-
ters upon that everlasting beauty. It knew no sorrow or
change; ghostlike and shadowy floated on that shape
through the abyss of time, governing the world with an
unquestioned and noiseless sway. And the children of the
green solitudes of the earth, the lovely fairies of my
tale shuddered as they gazed and recognised - the form
of DEATH!
DEATH VINDICATED.
amid the roar of the storm, as the dirge of the water
sprite over the vessel it hath lured into the whirlpool or
the shoals.
CHAPTER XXVII.
—
M
Thurmberg. A storm upon the Rhine.
A storm upon the Rhine. The reins of Rhein
fels. Peril unfelt by love. The echo of the Lurlei-berg.
St. Goar. Kaub, Gutenfels, and Pfalzgrafenstein. —A cer
tain vastness of mind in the first hermits. The scenery
of the Rhine to Bacharach.
—
OUR party continued their voyage the next day, which
was less bright than any they had yet experienced. The
clouds swept on dull and heavy, suffering the sun only to
break forth at scattered intervals; they wound round the
curving bay which the Rhine forms in that part of its
course, and gazed upon the ruins of Thurmberg with the
rich gardens that skirt the banks below. The last time
Trevylyan had seen those ruins soaring against the sky,
the green foliage at the foot of the rocks, and the quiet
village sequestered beneath, glassing its roofs and solitary
tower upon the wave, it had been with a gay summer troop
of light friends, who had paused on the opposite shore
during the heats of noon, and, over wine and fruits, had
mimicked the groups of Boccaccio, and intermingled the
lute, the jest, the momentary love, and the laughing tale.
What a difference now in his thoughts, in the object
of the voyage,
in his present companions! The feet of
years fall noiseless; we heed, we note them not, till track-
ing the same course we passed long since, we are startled
to find how deep the impression they leave behind. To
revisit the scenes of our youth is to commune with the
ghosts of ourselves.
At this time the clouds gathered rapidly along the heav
ens, and they were startled by the first peal of the thunder.
Sudden and swift came
Sudden and swift came on the storin, and Trevylyan
trembled as he covered Gertrude's form with the rude boat-
cloaks they had brought with them; the small vessel began
to rock wildly to and fro upon the waters. High above
them rose the vast dismantled ruins of Rheinfels, the light-
ning darting through its shattered casements and broken
arches, and brightening the gloomy trees that here and
there clothed the rocks, and tossed to the angry wind.
Swift wheeled the water-birds over the river, dipping their
pluinage in the white foam, and uttering their discordant
screams. A storm upon the Rhine has a grandeur it is in
vain to paint. Its rocks, its foliage, the feudal ruins that
everywhere rise from the lofty heights, speaking in char-
acters of stern decay of many a former battle against time
and tempest; the broad and rapid course of the legendary
river, all harmonize with the elementary strife; and you
feel that to see the Rhine only in the sunshine is to be uncon
scious of its most majestic aspects. What baronal war
had those ruins witnessed! From the rapine of the lordly
tyrant of those battlements rose the first Confederation of
the Rhine, the great strife between the new time and the
old, — the town and the castle, -the citizen and the chief.
Gray and stern those ruins breasted the storm, - a type of
the antique opinion which once manned them with armed
serfs; and yet, in ruins and decay, appeals from the victo
rious freedom it may no longer resist!
"And why
said the beautiful shape, with a voice soft
as the last sighs of a dying babe, " why trouble ye the air
the air
with spells? Mine is the hour and the empire, and the
storm is the creature of my power. Far yonder to the
west it sweeps over the sea, and the ship ceases to vex the old,
and the ship ceases to vex the
waves; it smites the forest, and the destined tree, torn
from its roots, feels the winter strip the gladness from its
boughs no more! The roar of the elements is the herald
of eternal stillness to their victims; and they who hear the
progress of my power, idly shudder at the coming of peace.
And thou, O tender daughter of the fairy kings, why
grievest thou at a mortal's doom? Knowest thou not that
sorrow cometh with years, and that to live is to mourn?
Blessed is the flower that, nipped in its early spring, feels
not the blast that one by one scatters its blossoms around it,
and leaves but the barren stem. Blessed are the young
whom I clasp to my breast, and lull into the sleep which
the storm cannot break, nor the sorrow arouse to sorrow
or to toil. The heart that is stilled in the bloom of its
first emotions, that turns with its last throb to the eye of
love, as yet unlearned in the possibility of change, — has
exhausted already the wine of life, and is saved only from
the lees As the mother soothes to sleep the wail of her
tronbled child, I open my arms to the vexed spirit, and my
bosom cradles the unquiet to repose!"
The fairs answered not, for a chill and fear lay over
them, and the shape glided on; ever as it passed away
through the vei ng clouds, they heard its low voice singing
Clasped in Trevylyan's guardian arms, and her head pil-
lowed on his breast, Gertrude felt nothing of the storm
save its grandeur; and Trevylyan's voice whispered cheer
and courage to her ear. She answered by a smile and a
sigh, but not of pain. In the convulsions of Nature we
forget our own separate existence, our schemes, our pro-
jects, our fears; our dreams vanish back into their cells.
One passion only the storm quells not, and the presence of
love mingles with the voice of the fiercest storms, as with
the whispers of the southern wind. So she felt, as they
were thus drawn close together, and as she strove to smile
away the anxious terror from Trevylyan's gaze, a secu
rity, a delight; for peril is sweet even to the fears of
woman, when it impresses upon her yet more vividly tha
she is beloved.
M
"A moment more, and we reach the land." murmured
Trevylyan.
"I wish it not," answered Gertrude, softly. But ere
thev got into St. Goar the rain descended in torrents, and
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
377
even the thick coverings round Gertrude's form were not
sufficient protection against it. Wet and dripping she
reached the inn but not then, nor for some days, was she
sensible of the shock her decaying health had received.
The storm lasted but a few hours, and the sun afterward
broke forth so brightly, and the stream looked so inviting,
that they yielded to Gertrude's earnest wish, and, taking
a larger vessel, continued their course; they passed along
the narrow and dangerous defile of the Gewirre, and the
fearful whirlpool of the "Bank;" and on the shore to the
left the enormous rock of Lurlei rose, huge and shapeless,
on their gaze. In this place is a singular echo, and one of
the boatmen wound a horn, which produced an almost su-
pernatural music, so wild, loud, and oft-reverberated
was its sound.
The river now curved along in a narrow and deep chan-
nel, among rugged steeps, on which the westering sun cast
long and uncouth shadows: and here the hermit, from
whose sacred naine the town of St. Goar derived its own,
fixed his abode and preached the religion of the cross.
"There was a certain vastness of mind," said Vane, "in
the adoption of utter solitude in which the first enthusiasts
of our religion indulged. The remote desert, the solitary
rock, the rude dwelling hollowed from the cave, the eter
nal commune with their own hearts, with nature, and their
dreams of God, all make a picture of severe and preter-
human grandeur. Say what we will of the necessity
and charm of social life, there is a greatness about man
when he dispenses with mankind.”
"As to that," said Du -e, shrugging his shoulders,
"there was probably very good wine in the neighbourhood,
and the females' eyes about Oberwesel are singularly
blue."
They now approached Oberwesel, another of the once
imperial towns, and behind it beheld the remains of the
castle of the illustrious family of Schomberg; the ances-
tors of the old hero of the Boyne. A little further on,
from the opposite shore, the castle of Gutenfels rose above
the busy town of Kaub.
"Another of those scenes," said Trevylyan, "celebra-
ted equally by love and glory, for the castle's name is
derived from that of the beautiful ladye of an emperor's
passion; and below, upon a ridge in the steep, the great
Gustavus issued forth his command to begin battle with
the Spaniards."
"It looks peaceful enough now," said Vane, pointing
to the craft that lay along the stream, and the green trees
drooping over a curve in the bank. Beyond, in the mid-
dle of the stream itself, stands the lonely castle of Pfalz-
grafenstein, sadly memorable as a prison to the more distin-
guished of criminals. How many pining eyes may have
turned from those casements to the vine-clad hills of the
free shore; how many indignant hearts have nursed the
deep curses of hate in the dungeous below, and longed for
the wave, that dashed against the gray walls, to force its
within and set them free!
way
Here the Rhine seems utterly bounded, shrunk into one
of those delusive lakes into which it so frequently seems
to change its course; and as you proceed, it is as if the
waters were silently overflowing their channel and forcing
their way into the clefts of the mountain shore. Passing
the Werth island on one side, and the castle of Stableck
on the other, our voyagers arrived at Bacharach, which,
associating the feudal recollections with the classic, takes
its name from the god of the vine; and, as Due declar-
ed with peculiar emphasis, quaffing a large goblet of the
peculiar liquor, "richly deserves the honor."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The voyage to Bingen.- The simple incidents in this tale ex-
cused. The situation and character of Gertrude. The
conversation of the lovers in the temple. A fact contra-
dicted. 'Thoughts occasioned by a madhouse among the
most beautiful landscapes of the Rhine.
P
-
THE next day they again resumed their voyage, and
Gertrude's spirits were more cheerful than usual; the air
seemed to her lighter, and she breathed with a less effort:
once more hope entered the breast of Trevylyan; and, as
the vessel bounded on, their conversation was steeped in
no sombre hues. When Gertrude's health permitted, no
48
VOL II.
temper was so gay, yet so gently gay, as hers; and now
the naïve sportiveness of her remarks called a smile to the
placid lip of Vane, and smoothed the anxious front of
Trevylyan himself; as for Du -e, who had much of the
boon companion beneath his professional gravity, he broke
out every now and then into snatches of French songs and
drinking glees, which he declared were the result of the
air of Bacharach. Thus conversing, the ruins of Fursten-
berg, and the echoing vale of Rheindeibach, glided past
their sail. Then the old town of Lorch, on the opposite
bank, (where the red wine is said first to have been made,)
with the green island before it in the water. Winding
round, the stream showed castle upon castle alike in ruins,
and built alike upon scarce accessible steeps. Then came
the chapel of St. Clements, and the opposing village of
Asmannshausen: the lofty Rossell, built at the extremest
verge of the cliff; and now the tower of Hatto, celebrated
by Southey's ballad; and the ancient town of Bingen.
Here they paused for some while from their voyage, with
the intention of visiting more minutely the Rheingau, or
valley of the Rhine.
It must occur to every one of my readers that, in under-
taking, as now, in these passages in the history of Trevyl-
yan, scarcely so much a tale as an episode in real life, it is
very difficult to offer any interest save of the most simple
and exciting kind. It is true that to Trevylyan every day,
every hour, had its incident; but what are those incidents
to others? A cloud in the sky, a smile from the lip of
Gertrude; these were to him far more full of events than
had been the most varied scenes of his former adventurous
career; but the history of the heart is not easily translated
into language; and the world will not readily pause from
its business to watch the alterations in the cheek of a dying
girl.
In the immense sum of human existence, what is a single
unit? Every sod on which we tread is the grave of some
former being: yet is there something that softens, without
enervating the heart, in tracing in the life of another those
emotions that all of us have known ourselves. For who is
there that has not, in his progress through life, felt all its
ordinary business arrested, and the varieties of fate com.
muted into one chronicle of the affections? Who has not
watched over the passing away of some being, more to him,
at that epoch, than all the world? And this unit, so trivial
to the calculation of others, of what inestimable value was
it not to him? Retracing in another such recollections,
shadowed and mellowed down by time, we feel the wonder-
ful sanctity of human life; we feel what emotions a single
being can awake; what a world of hope may be buried in
a single grave. And thus we keep alive within ourselves
the soft springs of that morality which unites us with our
kind, and sheds over the harsh scenes and turbulent contests
of earth the coloriag of a common love.
There is often, too, in the time of year in which such
thoughts are presented to us, a certain harmony with the
feelings they awaken. As I write, I hear the last sighs of
the departing summer, and the sere and yellow leaf is visi-
ble in the green of nature. But, when this book goes forth
into the world, the year will have passed through a deeper
cycle of decay; and the first melancholy signs of winter
have breathed into the universal mind that sadness which
associates itself readily with the memory of friends, of
feelings, that are no more. The seasons, like ourselves,
track their course by something of beauty, or of glory, tha!
is left behind. As the traveller in the land of Palestine
sees tomb after tomb rise before him, the landmarks of his
way, and the only signal of the holiness of the soй; thus
the memory wanders over the most sacred spots in its vari-
ous world, and traces them but by the graves of the past.
It was now that Gertrude began to feel the shock her
frame had received in the storm upon the Rhine. Cold
shiverings frequently seized her; her cough became more
hollow, and her form trembled at the slightest breeze
Vane grew seriously alarmed; he repented that he had
yielded to Gertrude's wish of substituting the Rhine for the
Tiber or the Arno; and would even now have hurried
across the Alps to a warmer clime, if Du —e had not
declared that she could not survive the journey, and that
her sole chance of regaining her strength was rest. Ger-
trude herself, however, in the continued delusion of her
disease, clung to the belief of recovery, and still supported
the hopes of her father, and soothed, with secret talk of
the future, the anguish of her betrothed. The reader mar
378
BULWER'S NOVELS.
1
remember that the most touching passage in the ancient
tragedians, the most pathetic part of the most pathetic of
human poets,
the pleading speech of Iphigenia, when,
imploring for her prolonged life, she impresses you with so
soft a picture of its innocence and its beauty; and in this
Gertrude resembled the Greek's creation, that she felt at
the verge of death, all the flush, the glow, the loveliness of
life. Her youth was filled with hope, and many-colored
dreams; she loved, and the hues of morning slept upon the
yet disenchanted earth. The heavens to her were not as
the common sky; the wave had its peculiar music to her
ear, and the rustling leaves a pleasantness that none, whose
heart is not bathed in the love and sense of beauty, could
discern. Therefore it was, in future years, a thought of
deep gratitude to Trevylyan, that she was so little sensible
of her danger; that the landscape caught not the gloom of
the grave; and that, in the Greek phrase, "death found
her sleeping among flowers."
;
At the end of a few days, another of those sudden turns,
common to her malady, occurred in Gertrude's health
her youth and her happiness rallied against the encroach
ing tyrant; and for the ensuing fortnight she seemed once
more within the bounds of hope. During this time, they
made several excursions into the Rheingau, and finished
their tour at the ancient Heidelberg.
One morning, in these excursions, after threading the
wood of Niederwald, they gained that small and fairy
temple, which, hanging lightly over the mountain's brow,
commands one of the noblest landscapes of earth. There,
seated side by side, the lovers looked over the beautiful
world below; far to the left lay the happy islets, in the
embrace of the Rhine, as it wound along the low and
curving meadows that stretch away towards Nieder Ingel-
heim and Mayence. Glistening in the distance, the opposite
Nah swept by the Mause tower, and the ruins of Klopp,
crowning the ancient Bingen, into the mother tide. There,
on either side the town, were the mountains of St. Roch
and Rupert, with some old monastic ruin, saddening in the
sun. But nearer, below the temple, contrasting all the
other features of landscape, yawned a dark and rugged
gulf, girt by cragged elms and mouldering towers, the very
black and fathomless
prototype of the abyss of time,
amid ruin and desolation.
"I think, sometimes," said Gertrude, "as, in scenes like
these, we sit together, and rapt from the actual world, see
only the enchantment that distance leads to our view,
I think, sometimes, what pleasure it will be hereafter to
recall these hours. If ever you should love me less, I need
only whisper to you, The Rhine,' and will not all the
feelings you have now for me return?
C
"Ah! there will never be occasion to recall my love
for you, it can never decay."
"What a strange thing is life!" said Gertrude; "how
unconnected, how desultory seem all its links! Has this
sweet pause from trouble, from the ordinary cares of life,
has it any thing in common with your past career,
with your future? You will go into the great world; in a
few years hence these moments of leisure and musing will
be denied to you; the action that you love and court is a
jealous sphere; it allows no wandering, no repose. These
moments will then seem to you but as yonder islets that
stud the Rhine, the stream lingers by them for a moment,
and then hurries on in its rapid course; they vary, but they
do not interrupt, the tide.”
"You are fanciful, my Gertrude, but your simile might
be juster. Rather let these banks be as our lives, and this
river the one thought that flows eternally by both, blessing
each with undying freshness.'
Gertrude smiled; and, as Trevylyan's arm encircled
her, she sunk her beautiful face upon his bosoin, he cov-
ered it with his kisses, and she thought at the moment,
that, even had she passed death, that embrace could have
recalled her to life.
They pursued their course to Mayence, partly by land,
partly along the river. One day, as returning from the
vine-clad mountains of Johannisberg, which commands the
whole of the Rheingau, the most beautiful valley in the
world, they proceeded by water to the town of Ellfeld,
Gertrude said,
"There is a thought in your favorite poet which you
have often repeated, and which I cannot think true,
'In nature there is nothing melancholy.'
To me it seems as if a certain melancholy were inseparable
|
from beauty in the sunniest noon there is a sense of soli
tude and stillness which pervades the landscape, and even
in the flush of life inspires us with a musing and tender
sadness. Why is this?"
" but 1
"I cannot tell," said Trevylyan, mournfully;
allow that it is true.'
"It is as if," continued the romantic Gertrude, “the
spirit of the world spoke to us in the silence, and filled us
with a sense of our mortality, a whisper from the religion
that belongs to nature, and is ever seeking to unite the
earth with the reminiscences of heaven. Ah, what without
a heaven would be even love! a perpetual terror of the
separation that must one day come! If," she resumed,
solemnly, after a momentary pause, and a shadow settled
on her young face," if it be true, Albert, that I must leave
you soon-
"It cannot, it cannot," cried Trevylyan, wildly;
"be still, be silent, I beseech you."
"Look yonder," said Du -e, breaking seasonably in
upon the conversation of the lovers; "on that hill to the
left, what once was an abbey is now an asylum for the
insane. Does it not seem a quiet and serene abode for the
unstrung and erring minds that tenant it! What a mystery
is there in our conformation! those strange and bewil
dered fancies which replace our solid reason, what a moral
of our human weakness do they breathe!"
►
eyes na-
It does indeed induce a dark and singular train of
thought, when, in the midst of these lovely scenes, we
chance upon this lone retreat for those on whose
ture, perhaps, smiles in vain! Or is it in vain? They look
down upon the broad Rhine, with its tranquil isles; do
their wild illusions endow the river with another name,
and people the valleys with no living shapes? Does the
broken mirror within reflect back the countenance of real
things, or shadows and shapes, crossed, mingled, and be-
wildered, the phantasma of a sick man's dreams? Yet,
perchance, one memory, unscathed by the general ruin of
the brain, can make even the beautiful Rhine more beau-
ful than it is to the common eye; -can calm it with the
hues of departed love, and bid its possessor walk over its
vine-clad mountains with the beings that have ceased to
be! There, perhaps, the self-made monarch sits his
upon
throne, and claims the vessels as his fleet, the waves and
the valleys as his own. There, the enthusiast, blasted by
the light of some imaginary creed, beholds the shapes of
angels, and watches in the clouds round the setting sun, the
pavilions of God. There the victim of forsaken or perished
love, mightier than the sorcerers of old, evokes the dead, or
recalls the faithless by the philter of undying fancies. Ah,
blessed art thou, the winged power of imagination that is
within us!-conquering even grief, brightening even
despair. Thou takest us from the world when reason can
no longer bind us to it, and givest to the maniac the inspi-
ration and the solace of the bard! Thou, the parent of the
purer love, lingerest like love, when even ourself forsakes
us, and lightest up the shattered chambers of the heart with
the glory that makes a sanctity of decay !
Ellfeld.-Mayence.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Heidelberg. -A converset in between
Vane and the German student.-The ruins of the castle of
Heidelberg, and its solitary habitant.
It was now the full moon; light clouds were bearing up
toward the opposite banks of the Rhine, but over the
Gothic towers of Ellfeld the sky spread blue and clear;
the river danced beside the old gray walls with a sunny
wave, and close at hand a vessel, crowded with passengers,
and loud with eager voices, gave a merry life to the scene
On the opposite bank the hills sloped away into the far
horizon, and one slight skiff in the midst of the waters
broke the solitary brightness of the noonday calın.
The town of Ellfeld was the gift of Otho the First to the
church; not far from thence is the crystal spring, that gives
its name to the delicious grape of Markbrunner,
"Ah!" quoth Du -e, "doubtless the good bishops
of Mayence made the best of the vicinity!"
They stayed some little time at this town, and visited
the ruins of Scharfenstein; thence proceeding up the river,
they passed Nieder Walluf, called the Gate of the Rheingau,
and the luxuriant garden of Schierstein; thence sailing by
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
879
the castle seat of the Prince Nassau Usingen, and passing
two long and narrow isles, they arrived at Mayence, as the
sun shot his last rays upon the waters, gilding the proud
cathedral spire, and breaking the mists that began to gather
behind, over the rocks of the Rheingau.
Ever memorable Mayence! - memorable alike for free-
dom and for song,-within those walls how often woke the
gallant music of the troubadour; and how often beside that
river did the heart of the maiden tremble to the lay!
Within those walls the stout Walpoden first broached the
great scheme of the Hanseatic league; and, more than all,
oh memorable Mayence, thou canst claim the first inven-
tion of the nightest engine of human intellect, the great
leveller of power, the Demiurgus of the moral world,
the press! Here too lived the maligned hero of the great-
est drama of modern genius, the traditionary Faust, illus-
trating in himself the fate of his successors in dispensing
knowledge, held a monster for his wisdom, and con-
signed to the penalties of hell as a recompense for the ben-
efits he had conferred on earth!
At Mayence, Gertrude heard so much and so constantly
of Heidelberg, that she grew impatient to visit that en-
chanting town, and as Du e considered the air of
Heidelberg more pure and invigorating than that of May-
ence, they resolved to fix within it their temporary resi-
dence. Alas, it was the place destined to close their brief
and melancholy pilgrimage, and to become to the heart of
Trevylyan the holiest spot which the earth contained :-
the KAABA of the world! But Gertrude, unconscious of
her fate, conversed gayly as their carriage rolled rapidly
on, and, constantly alive to every new sensation, she
touched with her characteristic vivacity on all they had
seen in their previous route. There is a great charm in
the observations of one new to the world, if we ourselves
have become somewhat tired of "its back sights and
sounds;" we hear in their freshness a voice from our own
youth.
In the haunted valley of the Neckar, the most crystal of
rivers, stands the town of Heidelberg. The shades of
evening gathered round it as their heavy carriage rattled
along the antique streets, and not till the next day was
as
Gertrude aware of all the unrivalled beauties that environ
the place.
Vane, who was an early riser, went forth alone in the
morning to reconnoitre the town and as he was gazing on
the tower of St. Peter, he heard himself suddenly accosted;
he turned round, and saw the German student, whom they
had met among the mountains of Taunus, at his elbow.
"Monsieur has chosen well in coming hither," said the
student, "and I trust our town will not disappoint his ex-
pectations.'
Vane answered with courtesy, and the German offering
to accompany him in his walk, their conversation fell natu-
rally on the life of a university, and the current education
of the German people.
"It is surprising," said the student, "that men are
eternally inventing new systems of education, and yet per-
severing in the old. How many years ago is it since
Fichte predicted, in the system of Pestalozzi, the regene-
ration of the German people? What has it done? We
admire, — we praise, and we blunder on in the very course
Pestalozzi proves to be erroneous. Certainly," continued
the student, "there must be some radical defect in a sys-
tem of culture in which genius is an exception, and dulness
the result. Yet here, in our German universities, every
thing proves that education without equitable institutions
avails little in the general formation of character. Here
the young men of the colleges mix on the most equal terms;
they are daring, romantic, enamoured of freedom, even to
its madness; they leave the university, no political career
continues the train of mind they had acquired; they
plunge into obscurity; live scattered and separate, and the
etudent, inebriated with Schiller, sinks into the passive
priest or the lethargic baron. His college career, so far
from indicating his future life, exactly reverses it; he is
brought up in one course in order to proceed in another.
And this I hold to be the universal error of education in
all countries; they conceive it a certain something to be
finished at a certain age. They do not make it a part of
the continuous history of life, but a wandering from it.”
"You have been in England?" asked Vane.
"Yes; I travelled over nearly the whole of it on foot.
I was poor at that time, and imagining there was a sort of
masonry between all men of letters, I inquired at each
town for the savans, and asked money of them as a matter
of course.
Vane almost laughed outright at the simplicity and naïve
unconsciousness of degradation with which the student
proclaimed himself a public beggar.
"And how did you generally succeed?"
"In most cases I was threatened with the stocks, and
twice I was consigned by the judge de paix to the village
police, to be passed to some mystic Mecca they were
pleased to entitle 'a parish.' Ah," (continued the German
with much bonhommie,) "it was a pity to see in a great
nation so much value attached to such a trifle as money.
But what surprised me greatly was the tone of your poe-
try. Madame de Staël, who knew perhaps as much of
England as she did of Germany, tells us that its chief
character is the chivalresque; and excepting only Scott,
who, by the way, is not English, I did not find one chival-
rous poet among you. Yet," continued the student,
"between ourselves, I fancy that in our present age of
civilization, there is an unexamined mistake in the gene-
ral mind as to the value of poetry. It delights still as ever,
but has ceased to teach. The prose of the heart enlight-
ens, touches, rouses, far more than poetry. Your most
philosophical poets would be commonplace if turned into
prose. Childe Harold, seemingly so profound, owes its
profundity to its style; in reality it contains nothing that
is new, except the mechanism of its diction. Verse can-
not contain the refining subtle thoughts which a great
prose writer imbodies; the rhyme eternally cripples it; it
properly deals with the common problems of human nature
which are now hackneyed, and not with the nice and phi-
losophizing corollaries which may be drawn from them.
Thus, though it would seem at first a paradox, common-
place is more the element of poetry than of prose. And,
sensible of this, even Schiller wrote the deepest of modern
tragedies, his Fiesco, in prose.
This sentiment charmned Vane, who had nothing of the
poet about him; and he took the student to share their
breakfast at the inn, a complacency he rarely experienced
at the remeeting with a new acquaintance.
After breakfast, our party proceeded through the town
toward the wonderful castle which is its chief attraction,
and the noblest wreck of German grandeur.
And now pausing, the mountain yet unscaled, the stately
ruin frowned upon them, girt by its massive walls and
hanging terraces, round which from place to place clung
the dwarfed and various foliage. High at the rear rose
the huge mountain, covered, save at its extreme summit,
with dark trees, and concealing in its mysterious breast
the shadowy beings of the legendary world. But toward
the ruins, and up a steep ascent, you may see a few scat-
tered sheep thinly studding the broken ground. Aloft,
above the ramparts, rose, desolate and huge, the palace of
the electors of the Palatinate. In its broken walls you may
trace the tokens of the lightning that blasted its ancient
pomp, but still leaves in the vast extent of pile a fitting
monument of the memory of Charlemagne. Below, in the
distance, spread the plain far and spacious, till the shadowy
river, with one solitary sail upon its breast, united the mel-
ancholy scene of earth with the autumnal sky.
"See," said Vane, pointing to two peasants who were
conversing near them on the matters of their little trade,
utterly unconscious of the associations of the spot," see!
after all that is said and done about human greatness, it is
always the greatness of the few. Ages pass, and leave
the poor herd, the mass of men, eternally the same, hew-
ers of wood and drawers of water. The
The pomp
of princes
has its ebb and flow, but the peasant sells his fruit as garly
to the stranger on the ruins, as to the emperor in the pal
ace."
"Will it be always so?" said the student.
"Let us hope not, for the sake of permanence in glory,"
said Trevylyan; "had a people built yonder palace, its
splendor would never have passed away.”
e took snuff.
Vane shrugged his shoulders, and Du
But all the impressions produced by the castle at a dis
tance, are as nothing when you stand within its vast area,
and behold the architecture of all ages blended into one
mighty ruin! The rich hues of the masonry, the sweeping
façades, every description of building which man ever
framed for war or for luxury, is here; all having only
the common character, ruin. The feudal rampart, the
880
BULWER'S NOVELS.
yawning fosse, the rude tower, the splendid arch, the
strength of a fortress, the magnificence of a palace, all
united, strike upon the soul like the history of a fallen em-
pire in all its epochs.
"There is one singular habitant of these ruins," said
the student, a solitary painter, who has dwelt here some
twenty years, companioned only by his art. No other
apartment but that which he tenants is occupied by a hu-
man being."
"What a poetical existence!" cried Gertrude, enchanted
with a solitude so full of associations.
Perhaps so," said the cruel Vane, ever anxious to dis
pel an illusion; "but more probably custom has deadened
to him all that overpowers ourselves with awe; and he may
tread among these ruins rather seeking to pick up some
rude morsel of antiquity, than feeding his imagination with
the dim traditions that invest them with so august a poetry.
"Monsieur's conjecture has something of the truth in
it," said the German; "but then the painter is a French
man."
There is a sense of fatality in the singular mournfulness
and majesty which belong to the ruins of Heidelberg; con-
trasting the vastness of the strength with the utterness of
the ruin. It has been twice struck with lightning, and is
the wreck of the elements, not of man; during the great
siege it sustained, the lightning is supposed to have struck
the powder magazine by accident.
What a scene for some great imaginative work! What
a mocking interference of the wrath of nature in the puny
contest of men! One stroke of the "red right arm
above us, crushing the triumph of ages, and laughing to
scorn the power of the beleaguers and the valor of the be-
sieged !
They passed the whole day among these stupendous
ruins, and felt, as they descended to their inn, as hy
of
had left the caverns of some mighty tomb.
CHAPTER XXX.
No part of the earth really solitary. -The song of the fairies.
The sacred spot. The witch of the evil winds. — The
spell and the duty of the fairies.
BUT in what spot of the work is there ever utter solitude?
The vanity of man supposes that loneliness is his absence!
Who shall say that millions of spiritual beings glide invisi-
bly among scenes apparently the most deserted? Or what
know we of our own mechanism, that we should deny the
possibility of life and motion to things that we cannot our-
selves recognise ?
At moonlight, in the great court of Heidelberg, on the
borders of the shattered basin overgrown with weeds,
the following song was heard by the melancholy shades that
roam at night through the mouldering halls of old, and the
gloomy hollows in the mountain of Heidelberg.
SONG OF THE FAIRIES IN THE RUINS OF
of
HEIDELBERG.
From the woods and the glossy green
With the wild thyme strewn;
From the rivers whose crisped stream
Is kissed by the trembling moon ;-
While the dwarf looks out from his mountain cave,
And the erl-king from his lair,
And the water-nymph from her mountain wave,
We skirr the limber air.
There's a smile on the vine-clad shore,
A smile on the castled heights,
They dream back the days of yore,
And they smile at our roundel rites!
Our roundel rites!
Lightly we tread these halls around,
Lightly tread we;
Yet hark! we have scared with a single sound
The moping owl on the breathless tree,
And the goblin sprites!
Ha ha! we have scared with a single und
The old gray owl on the breathless tree,
And the goblin sprites!
"They come not," said Pipalee; "yet the banquet is
prepared, and the poor queen will be glad of some re-
freshment."
"What a pity! all the rose leaves will be over-broiled,'
said Nip.
"Let us amuse ourselves with the old painter," quot
Trip, springing over the ruins.
"Well said," cried Pipalee and Nip; and all three,
leaving the lord-treasurer amazed at their levity, whisked
into the painter's apartment. Permitting them to throw
the ink over the victim's papers, break his pencils, mix
his colors, mislay his nightcap, and go whiz against his
face in the shape of a great bat, till the astonished French-
man began to think the pensive goblins of the place had
taken a sprightly fit,- we hasten to a small green spot
some little way from the town, in the valley of the Neckar,
and by the banks of its silver stream. It was circled round
by dark trees, save on that side bordered by the river.
The wild flowers sprang profusely up from the turf, which
was yet smooth and singularly green. And there was the
German fairy describing a circle round the spot, and
making his elvish spells. And Nymphalin sat, droopingly
in the centre, shading her face, which was bowed down as
the head of a water-lily, and weeping crystal tears,
There came a hollow murmur through the trees, and a
rush, as of a mighty wind, and a dark form emerged from
the shadow, and approached the spot.
The face was wrinkled and old, and stern with a malevo-
lent and evil aspect. The frame was lean and gaunt, and
supported by a staff, and a short gray mantle covered its
bended shoulders.
Things of the moonbeam," said the form, in a shril
and ghastly voice, "what want ye here, and why charm ye
this spot from the coming of me and mine ?"
"Dark witch of the blight and blast," answered the
fairy, "thou that nippest the herb in its tender youth, and
eatest up the core of the soft bud; behold, it is but a small
spot that the fairies claim from thy demesnes, and on which,
through frost and heat, they will keep the herbage green
and the air gentle in its sighs!
“And, wherefore, oh dweller in the crevices of the earth,
wherefore wouldst thon guace this spot from the curses of
'he seasons ?"
"We know by ou instiner, answered the fairy, ** ure
tuis spot will become the grave of one whom the fame
love; hither, by an unfelt mifluence, shall we guide het ye
living steps; and m gazing upon dus spot, shall the desire
of quiet and the resignation o deab steal upon her soul
Behold, throughout the universe a. Un ags at war with one
another, the lion with the lamb; te serpent with the bird,
and even the gentlest bird itself, with the urot. of me aa,
or the worm of the humble earth! What then men, nd
co
to the spirits transcending men, is so lovely and so sacien
as a being that harmeth none? what so beautiful as immo
cence? what so mournful as its untimely tomb? and sha
not that tomb be sacred? shall it not be our peculiar care
May we not mourn over it as the passing away of some fair
miracle in nature; too tender to endure; too rare to be for-
gotten? It is for this, oh dread waker of the blast, that
the fairies would consecrate this little spot: for this they
would charm away from its tranquil turf the wandering
ghoul and the evil children of the night. Here, not the
ill-omened owl, nor the blind bat, nor the unclean worm
shall come. And thou shouldst have neither will nor power
to nip the flowers of spring, or sear the green herbs of
summer. Is it not, dark mother of the evil winds, is it not
our immemorial office, to tend the grave of innocence, and
keep fresh the flowers round the resting-place of virgia
love?"
Then the witch drew her cloak round her, and muttered
to herself, and without further answer turned away among
the trees and vanished, as the breath of the east wind, which
goeth with her as her comrade, and scattered the melan-
choly leaves along her path !
CHAPTER XXXI.
Gertrude and Trevylyan, when the former is awakened to the
approach of death.
THE next day Gertrude and her companions went alɔng
the banks of the haunted Neckar. She had passed a sleep.
less and painful night, and her evanescent and childlike
spirits had sobered down into a melancholy and thoughtful
mood. She lent back in an open carriage with Trevylyan,
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
281
over constant by her side, while Due and Vane rode,
slowly in advance. Trevylyan tried in vain to cheer her,
even his attempts (usually so eagerly received) to charm
her duller moments by tale or legend, were, in this instance,
fruitless. She shook her head, gently pressed his hand,
and said, "No, dear Trevylyan, -even your art
fails to-day, but your kindness, never!" and pressing his
hand to her lips, she burst passionately into tears.
по,
Alarmed and anxious, he clasped her to his breast, and
strove to lift her face, as it drooped on its resting-place,
and kiss away its tears.
"Oh!" said she, at length, "do not despise my weak
ness, I am overcome by iny own thoughts; I look upon the
world, and see that it is fair and good; I look upon you,
and I see all that I can venerate and adore. Life seems to
me so sweet, and the earth so lovely, can you wonder then
that I should shrink at the thought of death? Nay, inter-
rupt me not, dear Albert; the thought must be born and
braved. I have not cherished, I have not yielded to it
through my long-increasing illness; but there have been
times when it has forced itself upon me; and now, now
more palpably than ever. Do not think me weak and
childish, I never feared death till I knew you; but to see
you no more, never again to touch this dear hand,
never to thank you for your love, never to be sensible of
your care, -to lie down and sleep, and never, never once
more to dream of you! Ah! that is a bitter thought!
but I will brave it, yes, brave it, as one worthy of your
regard."
Trevylyan, choked by his emotions, covered his own face
with his hands, and leaning back in the carriage, vainly
struggled with his sobs.
you
Perhaps," she said, yet ever and anon clinging to the
hope that had utterly abandoned him, “perhaps, I may yet
deceive myself; and my love for you, which seems to me as
if it could conquer death, may bear me up against this fell
disease; the hope to live with you, to watch you,
to share your high dreams, and oh, above all, to soothe
in sorrow and sickness, as you have soothed me, has not
that hope something that may support even this sinking
frame? And who shall love thee as I love? who see thee
as I have seen? who pray for thee in gratitude and tears
as I have prayed? Oh, Albert, so little am I jealous of
you, so little do I think of myself in comparison, that I
could close my eyes happily on the world, if I knew that
what I could be to thee, another will be !
"Gertrude," said Trevylyan; and lifting up his color-
less face, he gazed upon her with an earnest and calm so-
lemnity. "Gertrude, let us be united at once! if fate
must sever us, let her cut the last tie too; let us feel at
least that on earth we have been all in all to each other;
let us defy death, even as it frowns upon us. Be mine to
morrow, this day, oh God! be mine!
Over even that pale countenance, beneath whose hues the
lamp of life so faintly fluttered, a deep, a radiant flash
passed one moment, lighting up the beautiful ruin with the
glow of maiden youth and impassioned hope, and then died
rapidly away.
"No, Albert," she said, sighing; "no! it must not
be far easier would come the pang to you, while yet we
are not wholly united; and for my own part, I am selfish,
and feel as if I should leave a tenderer remembrance on
your heart, thus parted; — tenderer, but not so sad. Nor
would I wish you to feel yourself widowed to my memory,
or cling like a blight to your fair prospects of the future.
Remember me rather as a dream; as something never
olly won, and therefore asking no fidelity but that of
kind and forbearing thoughts. Do you remember one
evening as we sailed along the Rhine, (ah, happy, happy
hour!) that we heard from the banks a strain of music,
not so skilfully played as to be worth listening to for it-
self, but, suiting as it did, the hour and the scene, we re-
mained silent, that we might hear it the better; and when
it died insensibly upon the waters, a certain melancholy
stole over us; we felt that a something that softened the
landscape had gone, and we conversed less lightly than be-
fore. Just so, my own loved, my own adored Trevylyan,
just so is the influence that our brief love, your poor
Gertrude's existence, should bequeath to your remembrance.
A sound, - a presence, should haunt you for a little
while, but no more, ere you again become sensible of the
glories that court your way!"
But as Gertrude said this, she turned to Trevylyan, and
seeing his agony, she could refrain no longer; sae felt that
to soothe was to insult; and throwing herself upon his
breast, they mingled their tears together.
CHAPTER XXXII.
A spot to be buried in.
On their return homeward, Du -e took the third sear
in the carriage, and endeavoured, with his usual vivacity,
to cheer the spirits of his companions; and such was the
elasticity of Gertrude's nature, that with her, he, to a cer
tain degree, succeeded in his kindly attempt. Quickly
alive to the charms of scenery, she entered by degrees into
the external beauties which every turn in the road opened
on their view; and the silvery smoothness of the river,
that made the constant attraction of the landscape; the
serenity of the time, and the clearness of the heavens, as
sisted by those spells which nature ever exercises over her
votaries, tended to tranquillize a mind that, like the sun-
flower, so instinctively turned from the shadow to the
light.
Once Du ―e stopped the carriage in a spot of herbage,
bedded among the trees, and said to Gertrude, "We are
now in one of the many places along the Neckar, which
your favorite traditions serve to consecrate.
Amid yonder
copses, in the early ages of Christianity, there dwelt a
hermit, who, though young in years, was renowned for the
sanctity of his life. None knew whence he came, or for
what cause he had limited the circle of life to the seclusion
of his cell. He rarely spoke, save when his ghostly advice
or his kindly prayer was needed; he lived upon herbs, and
the wild fruits which the peasants brought to his cave; and
every morning, and every evening, he came to this spot to
fill his pitcher from the water of the stream. But here, he
was observed to linger long after his task was done, and
to sit gazing upon the walls of a convent which then rose
upon the opposite side of the bank, though now even its
ruins are gone.
ruins are gone. Gradually his health gave way beneath
the austerities he practised; and one evening he was found
by some fishermen, insensible on the turf. They bore him
for medical aid to the opposite convent; and out of the
sisterhood, the daughter of a prince, was summoned to tend
the recluse. But, when his eyes opened upon hers, a sud-
den recognition appeared to seize both. He spoke - but
words in some other tongue; and the sister threw herself
on the couch of the dying man, and shrieked forth a name,
the most famous in the surrounding country, the name of
a once noted minstrel, who, in those rude times, had min-
gled the poet with the lawless chief, and was supposed,
years since, to have fallen in one of the desperate frays be-
tween prince and outlaw, which were then common;
storming the very castle which held her, -now the pious
nun, then the beauty and presider over the tournament and
galliard. In her arms the spirit of the hermit passed away.
She survived but a few hours, and left conjecture busy with
a history to which it never obtained further clew. Many
a troubadour, in later times, furnished forth in poetry the
details which truth refused to supply; and the place where
the hermit at sunrise and sunset ever came to gaze upon
the convent, became consecrated by song."
The place invested with this legendary interest was im
pressed with a singular aspect of melancholy quiet; wild
flowers yet lingered on the turf, whose grassy sedges gently
overhung the Neckar, that murmured amid them with a
plaintive music. Not a wind stirred the trees; but, at a
little distance from the place, the spire of a church rose
amid the copse: and, as they paused, there suddenly arose
from the holy building the bell that summons to the burial
of the dead. It came on the ear in such harmony with the
spot, with the hour, with the breathing calm, that it thrilled
to the heart of each with an inexpressible power.
It was
like the voice of another world, that amid the solitude
of nature summoned the lulled spirit from the cares of this;
it invited, not revulsed, and had in its tone more of
softness than of awe.
Gertrude turned, with tears starting to her eyes, and
laying her hand on Trevylyan's, whispered,
in suca
a spot, so calm, so sequestered, yet in the neighbourhood
of the house of God, would I wish this broken frame to be
consigned to rest ! "
BULWER'S NOVELS
·
CHAPTER THE LAST.
The conclusion of this tale.
FROM that day Gertrude's spirit resumed its wonted
cheerfulness, and for the ensuing week she never reverted
to her approaching fate; she seemed once more to have
grown unconscious of its limit. Perhaps, she sought, anx-
ious for Trevylyan to the last, not to throw additional gloom
over their earthly separation; or, perhaps, once steadily
regarding the certainty of her doom, its terrors vanished.
The chords of thought, vibrating to the subtlest emotions,
nay be changed by a single incident, or in a single hour;
a sound of sacred music, a green and quiet burial-place,
may convert the form of death into the aspect of an angel.
And therefore wisely, and with a beautiful lore, did the
Greeks strip the grave of its unreal gloom; wisely did
they body forth the great principle of rest by solemn and
lovely images, - unconscious of the northern madness that
made a spectre of repose!
But while Gertrude's spirit resumed its healthful tone,
her frame rapidly declined, and a few days now could do
the ravage of months a little while before.
One evening, amid the desolate ruins of Heidelberg,
Trevylyan, who had gone forth alone, to indulge the
thoughts which he strove to stifle in Gertrude's presence,
suddenly encountered Vane. That calm and almost callous
pupil of the adversities of the world was standing alone,
and gazing upon the shattered casements and riven tower,
through which the sun now cast its slant and parting ray.
Trevylyan, who had never loved this cold and unsuscep-
tible man, save for the sake of Gertrude, felt now almost a
hatred creep over him, as he thought in such a time, and
with death fastening upon the flower of her house, he could
yet be calm, and smile, and muse, and moralize, and play
the common part of the world. He'strode slowly up to him,
and standing full before him, said, with a hollow voice and
writhing smile, "You amuse yourself pleasantly, sir; this
is a fine scene; and to meditate over griefs a thousand
years hushed to rest, is better than watching over a sick
girl, and eating away your heart with fear.”
Vane looked at him quietly, but intently, and made no
reply.
"Vane!" continued Trevylyan, with the same preter-
natural attempt at calm; "Vane, in a few days all will be
over, and you and I, the things, the plotters, the false men
of the world, will be left alone, left by the sole being that
grace our dull life, that makes, by her love, either of us
worthy of a thought !
"Forthwith," answered Trevylyan, with a calm smile;
"a bridegroom, you know, is naturally impatient."
For the next three days Gertrude was so ill as to be con
fined to her bed. All that time Trevylyan sat outside her
door, without speaking, scarcely lifting his eyes from the
ground. The attendants passed to and fro, he heeded
them not; perhaps, as even the foreign menials turned
aside and wiped their eyes, and prayed God to comfort
him, he required compassion less at that time than any
other. There is a stupefaction in woe, and the heart sleeps
without a pang when exhausted by its afflictions.
But on the fourth day Gertrude rose, and was carried
down, (how changed, yet how lovely ever!) to their com-
mon apartment. During those three days the priest had
been with her often, and her spirit, full of religion from her
childhood, had been unspeakably soothed by his comfort.
She took food from the hand of Trevylyan; she smiled
upon him as sweetly as of old. She conversed with him,
though with a faint voice and at broken intervals. But
she felt no pain; life ebbed away gradually and without a
pang. My father," said she to Vane, whose features
still bore their usual calm, whatever might have passed
within, "I know that you will grieve, when I am gone,
more than the world might guess; for I only know what
you were years ago, ere friends left you and fortune frown-
ed, - and ere my poor mother died. But do not, do not
believe that hope and comfort leave you with me. Till the
heavens pass away from the earth, there shall be hope and
comfort for all.'
They did not lodge in the town, but had fixed their
abode on its outskirts, and within sight of the Neckar;
and from the window they saw a light sail gliding gayly
by, till it passed, and solitude once more rested upon the
waters.
"The sail passes from our eyes," said Gertrude, point-
ing to it, "but still it glides on as happily though we
see it no more; and I feel, yes, father, I feel, -I
know that it so with us. We glide down the river of time
from the eyes of men, but we cease not the less to be."
And now, as the twilight descended, she expressed a
wish, before she retired to rest, to be left alone with Trevyk
yan. He was not then sitting by her side, for he would not
trust himself to do so; but with his face averted, at a lit-
tle distance from her. She called him by his name; he
answered not, nor turned. Weak as she was, she raised
herself from the sofa, and crept gently along the floor till
she came to him, and sank in his arms.
"Ah, unkind!" she said, "unkind for once! Will
you turn away from me? Come, let us look once more
Vane started, and turned away his face.
"You are
on the river; see, the night darkens over it. Our pleasant
ruel," said he, with a faltering voice.
voyage, the type of our love, is finished, our sail may be
"What, man!" shouted Trevylyan, seizing him abrupt- unfurled no more. Never again can your voice soothe the
ly by the arm, can you feel? Is
the
cold heart touched ? lassitude of sickness with the legend and the song,
your
Come, then," added he, with a wild laugh, "come, let us course is run, the vessel is broken up, night closes over its
be friends!
fragments; but now,
but now, in this hour, love me, be kind to me
still let me
Still let me be your own Gertrude,
close my eyes this night as before, with the sweet con-
sciousness that I am loved.”
Vane drew himself aside with a certain dignity, that
impressed Trevylyan even at that hour.
"Some years
hence," said he, " you will be called cold as I am; sorrow
will teach you the wisdom of indifference, it is a bitter
school, sir, a bitter school! But think you that I do indeed
the last tie that
see unmoved my last hope shivered,
binds me to my kind? No, no! I feel it as a man may
feel; I cloak it as a man grown gray in misfortune should
do! My child is more to me than your betrothed to you;
for you are young and wealthy, and life smiles before you;
but I no more, — sir, no more!
"Forgive me," said Trevylyan, humbly; "I have
wronged you; but Gertrude is an excuse for any crime of
love; and now listen to my last prayer, — give her to me,
-even on the verge of the grave. Death cannot seize her
in the arms, in the vigils, of a love like mine.'
Vane shuddered. "It were to wed the dead," said he;
"no."
Trevylyan drew back, and, without another word, hurried
away; he returned to the town; he sought, with methodi-
cal calmness, the owner of the piece of ground on which
Gertrude had wished to be buried. He purchased it, and
that very night he sought the priest of a neighbouring
church, and directed it should be consecrated according to
the due rite and ceremonial.
The priest, an aged and pious man, was struck by the
•equest, and the air of him who made it.
Shall it be done forthwith, sir?" said he, hesitating.
as ever.
J
"she
"Loved! - Oh Gertrude! speak not to me thus!"
"Come, that is yourself again!" and she clung with
and now,
weak arms caressingly to his breast ;
said, more solemnly, let us forget that we are mortal; let
us remember only that life is a part, not the whole of our
career; let us feel in this soft hour, and while yet we are
unsevered, the presence of the eternal that is within us,
so that it shall not be as death, but as a short absence; and
when once the pang of parting is over, you must think
only that we are shortly to meet again. What! you turn
from me still? See, I do not weep or grieve, I have con-
quered the pang of our absence, will you be outdone by
me? Do you remember, Albert, that you once told me
how the wisest of the sages of old, in prison, and before
death, consoled his friends with the proof of the immor
tality of the soul? Is it not a consolation? Does it no
suffice or will you deem it wise from the lips of wisdom,
but vain from the lips of love?"
"Hush, hush!" said Trevylyan, wildly, "or I shall
think you an angel already.'
But let us close this commune, and leave unrevealed
the last sacred words that ever passed between them upon
earth.
When Vane and the physician stole back softly into the
room, Trevylyan motioned them to be still." She sleeps,"
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
323
ae whispered,
"hush!
Andruth, wearied out by
her own emotions, and lulled by the belief that she had
soothed one with whom her heart dwelt now, as cver, she
had fallen into sleep, or, it may be, insensibility, on his
may be, insensibility, on his
breast. There as she lay, so fair, so frail, so delicate, the
twilight deepened into shade, and the first star, like the
hope of the future, broke forth upon the darkness of the
earth.
Nothing could equal the stillness without, save that
which lay breathlessly within. For not one of the group
stirred or spoke; and Trevylyan, bending over her, never
took his eyes from her face, watching the parted lips, and
fancying that he imbibed the breath. Alas, the breath was
stilled! from sleep to death she had glided without a sigh:
nappy, most happy in that death! Cradled in the arms of
unchanged love, and brightened in her last thought by the
ansciousness of innocence and the assurances of heaven!
-
Tre-ylyan, after long sojourn on the continent, returned
to Engand. He plunged into active life, and became what
is termed, in this age of little names, a distinguished and
noted man. But what was mainly reniarkable in his future
conduct, was his impatience of rest. He eagerly courted
all occupations, even of the most varied and motley kind;
business, letters, — ambition, pleasure. He suffered
no pause in his career; and leisure to him was as care to
others. He lived in the world like other men, discharging
its duties, fostering its affections, and fulfilling its career.
But there was a deep and wintry change within him,
the sunlight of his life was gone; the loveliness of romance
bad left the earth. The stem was proof as heretofore to
the blast but the green leaves were severed from it for
ever, and the bird bad forsaken its boughs Once he had
idolized the beauty that is born of song; the glory and the
ardor that invest such thoughts as are not of our common
clay; but the well of enthusiasm was dried up, and the
golden bowl was broken at the fountain. With Gertrude
the poetry of existence was gone. As she herself had de-
scribed her loss, a music had ceased to breathe along the
face of things; and though the bark might sail on as
swiftly, and the stream swell with as proud a wave,
something that had vibrated on the heart was still, and the
magic of the voyage was no more.
а
And Gertrude sleeps on the spot where she wished her
last couch to be made; and far, oh, far dearer is that
small spot on the distant banks of the gliding Neckar to
Trevylyan's heart, than all the broad lands and fertile
fields of his ancestral domain. The turf, too, preserves
its emerald greenness; and it would seem to me that the
field flowers spring up by the sides of the simple tomb even
more profusely than of old. A curve in the bank breaks
the tide of the Neckar, and therefore its stream pauses, as
if to linger reluctantly by that solitary grave, and to mourn
And I have
among the rustling sedges ere it passes on.
thought, when I last looked upon that quiet place,
I saw the turf so fresh, and the flowers so bright of hue,
that aërial hands might indeed tend the sod: that it was
by no imaginary spells that I summoned the fairies to my
tale; that in truth, and with vigils constant though unseen
they yet kept from all polluting footsteps, and from the
harsher influence of the seasons, the grave of one who se
loved their race; and who, in her gentle and spotless vir
claimed kindred with the beautiful ideal of the world
tue,
Is there one of us who has not known some being fo
whom it seemed not too wild a fantasy to indulge sa
dreams ?
when
THE END OF THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.
VOL. II
FALKLAND.
R. Vous comptez sur peu d'imitateurs
♥.
V. Vel duo vel nemo!
Preface de la Nouvelle Helmer.
PREFACE.
▲ TRUST that I shall no'; be considered to despise, when
I disclaim for this publication, the title of a novel. I feel,
on the contrary, that to most readers it will be less, and
can scarcely flatter myself that to a few it will be more.
For one class, my work will be too frivolous; for another
too dull. The cold will be displeased, and the sanguine
disappointed; the former with descriptions of feelings
they cannot recognise as true; the latter with reflections
upon life inimical to the philosophy they adopt. Whatever
has been my motive for publishing, it was not the anticipa-
tion of success; and probably no one, in making a similar
experiment, has ever claimed more sincerely the merit of
diffidence as to the result.
Perhaps, however altered for publication, the first idea
of this history had its foundation in fact; perhaps, among
the letters now given to the world in the hope that they
may point a moral," there are some not originally
written to "adorn a tale ; " but this would be matter
of idle affirmation in me, and unavailing inquiry in
others. Nor would it be any answer to those who may
find the characters unnatural, and the sentiments exag-
gerated, could I assert that the characters had existed,
and the sentiments had been felt. a state of society,
where all things are artificial, nothing seems so false as
that which is really true.
I have some apprehensions lest, by those readers who
judge of the whole only by a part, the end of this work
should be censured, because misunderstood. I have some
apprehensions lest occasional descriptions be considered
too vividly colored, or sketches of fee.ng too faithfully
portrayed; but let it be remembered, before I am con-
demned, that no mistake has been so great (though so
common) in morals, as to lay down a penalty without
particularizing the offence and if I have copied truth
in showing the punishment, it was necessary also to study
the same model in recording the annals of the passions.
But though I confess I have aimed at a resemblance, I
have carefully avoided an embellishment: never once in
the picture of guilt have I attempted to varnish its
misery, or to gloss over its shame. If my story has
been founded on the errors of the heart, it is because
the most useful to morals may be gathered from the con
sequences they bring.
In the character of Falkland I have wished to show
that all virtue is weak, and that all wisdom is unavail-
ing, where there is no pervading and fixed principle to
become at once our criterion for every new variation of
conduct, and our pledge for pursuing, if we have once
resolved to adopt it. Nor is it only in the general plot,
but in the scattered reflections it en braces, that I have
attempted to realize what ought to be the great object of
all human compositions.
If it be the good fortune of this volume to meet with
some to whom the passions have been the tutors of
reflection, who deem that observations on our nature,
even if erroneous in themselves, are always beneficial to
truth, and who think that more knowledge of the secret
heart may often be condensed into a single thought than
scattered over a thousand events; if it be the good
fortune of this volume to meet with such, it is to them
that I fearlessly intrust it,—not, indeed, to be approved
in its execution, but at least to be acquitted in its
design.
It now only remains to be added, that in entering a
career with no motive and ambition in common with
those of his competitors, the author earnestly trusts that
he shall be exonerated from the charge of presumption,
if he cannot adopt the language of hope or apprehension
which is customary with others: men who pretend to
experience, not to genius, are less likely to miscalculate
the bounds of their merits, or be susceptible to general
opinion as to their extent. If the author has reflected
erroneously, it is because events have led him rather to
imbody his own than to borrow the conclusions of another:
if he has offended in his delineation of the feelings, it is
because he has wrought from no model but remembrance;
and if he cannot now feel much eagerness of interest in the
success of his attempt, it is because, from his acquaint-
ance with mankind, he has shaped out an empire for
himself, which their praise cannot widen. and which their
cerure is unable to destroy
LONDON, March 7, .827
1
}
fi
:
*
FALKLAND.
BOOK I.
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO THE HON.
FREDERICK MONKTON.
L, May —, 1822.
YC are mistaken, my dear Monkton ! Your descrip-
tion of the gayety of " the season gives me no emotion.
You speak of pleasure; I remember no labor so wearisome;
you enlarge upon its changes; no sameness appears to me
so monotonous. Keep, then, your pity for those who require
it. From the height of my philosophy I compassionate
you.
No one is so vain as a recluse, and your jests at my
hermitship and hermitage cannot penetrate the folds of a
self-conceit which does not envy you in your suppers at
D—— House, nor even in your waltzes with Eleanor
It is a ruin rather than a house which I inhabit. I have
not been at L - since my return from abroad, and during
those years the place has gone rapidly to decay; perhaps,
for that reason, it suits me better, tel maître telle maison.
Of all my possessions this is the least valuable in itself,
and derives the least interest from the associations of child-
hood, for it was not at L that any part of that period
was spent. I have, however, chosen it for my present re-
treat, because here only I am personally unknown, and
therefore little likely to be disturbed. I do not, indeed,
wish for the interruptions designed as civilities; I rather
gather around myself, link after link, the chains that con-
nected me with the world; I find among my own thoughts
that variety and occupation which you only experience in
your intercourse with others; and I make, like the Chi-
nese, my map of the universe consist of a circle in a square,
-- the circle is my own empire of thought and self; and it
is to the scanty corners which it leaves without, that I ban-
ish whatever belongs to the remainder of mankind.
>>
About a mile from L― is Mr. Mandeville's beautiful
villa of E, in the midst of grounds which form a de-
lightful contrast to the savage and wild scenery by which
they are surrounded.
As the house is at present quite
deserted, I have obtained, through the gardener, a free ad-
mittance into his domains, and I pass there whole hours in-
dulging, like the hero of the Lutrin, "une sainte oisivetė,”
listening to a little noisy brook, and letting my thoughts be
almost as vague and idle as the birds which wander among
the trees that surround me. I could wish, indeed, that this
simile were in all things correct, that those thoughts, if
as free, were also as happy as the objects of my compari-
son; and could, like them, after the rovings of the day, turn
at evening to a resting-place, and be still. We are the
dupes and the victims of our senses: while we use them to
gather from external things the boards that we store within,
we cannot foresee the punishments we prepare for ourselves.
The remembrance which stings, and the hope which de-
Leives, the passions which promise us rapture, which reward
as with despair, and the thoughts which, if they constitute
the healthful action, make also the feverish excitement of
our mind. What sick man has not dreamed in his delirium
every thing that our philosophers have said ? *
But I am
growing into my old habit of gloomy reflection, and it is
time that I should conclude. I meant to have written
you
a letter as light as your own; if I have failed, it is no won-
der. -"Notre cœur est un instrument incomplet, une
¡yre où il manque des cordes, et ou nous sommes forcés de
rendre les accens de la joie, sur le ton consacré aux sou-
pirs.»
* Quid ægrotus unquam somniavit quod philosophorum ali-
que non dixeri - Lactantius.
?
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
You ask me to give you some sketch of my life, and of
that bel mondo which wearied me so soon. Men seldom
reject an opportunity to talk of themselves: and 1 am not
unwilling to reexamine the past, to reconnect it with the
present, and to gather from a consideration of each, what
hopes and expectations are still left to me for the future.
But my detail must be rather of thought than of action:
most of those whose fate has been connected with mine are
now living, and I would not, even to you, break that taci
confidence which much of my history would require. After
all, you will have no loss. The actions of another may
interest, but, for the most part, it is only his reflections
which come home to us; for few have acted, nearly all of
us have thought.
My own vanity too would be unwilling to enter upon in-
cidents which had their origin either in folly or in error.
It is true that those follies and errors have ceased, but their
vices increase.
effects remain. With years our faults diminish, but our
You know that my mother was Spanish, and that my
father was one of that old race of which so few scions re-
main, who, living in a distant country, have been little influ-
enced by the changes of fashion, and, priding themselves
on the antiquity of their names, have looked with contempt
upon the modern distinctions and the mushroom noblesse
which have sprung up to discountenance and eclipse the
plainness of more venerable and solid respectability. In
his youth my father had served in the army. He had known
much of men, and more of books; but his knowledge, in-
stead of rooting out, had rather ingrafted on, his prejudices.
He was one of that class (and I say it with a private rev-
erence, though a public regret) who, with the best inten-
tions, have made the worst citizens, and who think it a duty
consider it as sacred. He was a great country gentleman,
to perpetuate whatever is pernicious, by having learned to
a great sportsman, and a great Tory; perhaps the three
worst enemies which a country can have. Though benefi-
cent to the poor, he gave but a cold reception to the rich;
for he was too refined to associate with his inferiors, and
too proud to like the competition of his equals. One ball
and two dinners a year constituted all the aristocratic por-
blest and youngest companions that I possessed, were a
tion of our hospitality; and at the age of twelve, the no-
large Danish dog and a wild mountain pony, as unkker
and as lawless as myself. It is only in later years that we
can perceive the immeasurable importance of the early
scenes and circumstances which surround us.
the loneliness of my unchecked wanderings that my early
affection for my own thoughts was conceived. In the se-
clusion of nature, in whatever court she presided, the
education of my mind was begun; and, even at that early
* has
age, I rejoiced (like the wild hart the Grecian poet
described) in the stillness of the great woods, and the soli-
tudes unbroken by human footstep.
It was in
The first change in my life was under melancholy auspi
ces my father fell suddenly ill, and died; my mother,
whose very existence seemed only held in his presence,
followed him in three months. I remember that, a few
hours before her death, she called me to her : she reminded
me that, through her, I was of Spanish extraction, that
in her country I received my birth, and that, not the less
* Eurip. Bacchæ, 1. 874.
890
BULWER'S NOVELS.
for its degradation and distress, I might hereafter find in
the relations which I held to it a remembrance to value, or
even a duty to fulfil. On her tenderness to me at that hour,
on the impression it made upon my mind, and on the keen
and enduring sorrow which I felt for months after her death,
it would be useless to dwell.
My uncle became my guardian. He is, you know, a
member of Parliament of some reputation; very sensible
and very dull; very much respected by men ; very much
disliked by women; and inspiring all children, of either
sex, with the same unmitigated aversion which he feels for
them himself.
I did not remain long under his immediate care. I
was soon sent to school, that preparatory world, where
the great primal principles of human nature, in the aggres-
sion of the strong, and the meanness of the weak, constitute
the earliest lesson of importance that we are taught; and
where the forced primitive of that less universal knowledge
which is useless to the many who, in after-life, neglect, and
bitter to the few who improve it, are the first motives for
which our minds are to be broken into terror,
hearts initiated into tears.
and our
Bold and resolute by temper, I soon carved myself a sort
of career among my associates. A hatred to all oppression,
and a haughty and unyielding character, made me at once
the fear and aversion of the greater powers and principalities
of the school; while my agility at all boyish games, and
my ready assistance or protection to every one who requir-
ed it, made me proportionally popular with, and courted
by, the humbler multitude of the subordinate classes. I was
constantly surrounded by the most lawless and mischievous
followers whom the school could afford; all eager for my
commands, and all pledged to their execution.
In good truth, I was a worthy Roland of such a gang :
though I excelled in, I cared little for, the ordinary amuse-
ments of the school: I was fonder of engaging in maraud-
ing expeditions, contrary to our legislative restrictions, and
I valued nyself equally upon my boldness in planning our
exploits, and my dexterity in eluding their discovery." But
exactly in proportion as our school terms connected me
with those of my own years, did our vacations unfit me for
any intimate companionship but that which I already began
to discover in myself.
hours
Twice in the year, when I went home, it was to that
wild and romantic part of the country where my former
childhood had been spent. There, alone and unchecked,
I was thrown utterly upon my own resources. I wandered,
by day, over the rude scenes which surrounded us; and
at evening I pored, with an unwearied delight, over the
ancient legends which made those scenes sacred to my
imagination. I grew by degrees of a more thoughtful and
visionary nature. My temper imbibed the romance of my
studies; and whether, in winter, basking by the large
hearth of our old hall, or stretched, in the indolent volup-
tuousness of summer, by the rushing streams which formed
the chief characteristic of the country around us, my
were equally wasted in those dim and luxurious dreams,
which constituted, perhaps, the essence of that poetry
I had not the genius to imbody. It was then, by that
alternate restlessness of action and idleness of reflec-
tion, into which iny young years were divided, that the
impress of my character was stamped: that fitfulness
of temper, that affection for extremes, has accompanied
me through life Hence, not only all intermediums of
emotion appear to me as tame, but even the most over-
wrought excitation can bring neither novelty nor zest.
have, as it were, feasted upon the passions; I have made
that my daily food, which, in its strength and excess, would
have been poison to others; I have rendered my mind
unable to enjoy the ordinary aliments of nature; and I have
wasted by a premature indulgence, my resources and my
powers, till I have left my heart, without a remedy or a
hope, to whatever disorders its own intemperance has
engendered.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
period were connected with the first awakening of the most
powerful of human passions, and that, whatever their com
mencement, their end was despair! and she,
the only
object of that love,
object of that love, the only being in the world who ever
possessed the secret and the spell of my nature, her life
was the bitterness and the fever of a troubled heart, — her
rest is the grave,
Non la conobbe il mondo mentre l'ebbe
Con ibill 'io, ch 'a pianger qui rimasi.
That attachment was not so much a single event as the first
link in a long chain which was coiled around my heart. I
were a tedious and bitter history, even were it permitted,
to tell you of all the sins and misfortunes to which in after
life that passion was connected. I will only speak of the
more hidden but general effect it had upon my mind ;
though, indeed, naturally inclined to a morbid and melan-
choly philosophy, it is more than probable, but for that
occurrence, it would never have found matter for excite-
imbibed their feelings, and grown like thein by the influ-
Thrown early among mankind, I should early have
ence of custom. I should not have carried within me one
unceasing remembrance, which was to teach
to teach me, like
Faustus, to find nothing in knowledge but its inutility, or
in hope but its deceit ; and to bear like him, through the
blessings of youth and the allurements of pleasure, the
curse and the presence of a fiend.
ment.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
IT was after the first violent grief produced by that train
of circumstances to which I must necessarily so darkly
allude, that I began to apply with earnestness to books.
Night and day I devoted myself unceasingly to study, and
from this fit I was only recovered by the long and danger-
ous illness it produced. Alas! there is no fool like him
who wishes for knowledge! It is only through woe that
we are taught to reflect, and we gather the honey of world-
ly wisdom, not from flowers, but thorns.
!
"Une grande passion malheureuse est un grand moyen
de sagesse." From the moment in which the buoyancy of
my spirit was first broken by real anguish, the losses of the
heart were repaired by the experience of the mind. I passed
at once, like Melmoth, from youth to age. What were any
longer to me the ordinary avocations of my cotemporaries?
I had exhausted years in moments; I had wasted, like the
Eastern queen, my richest jewel in a draught. I ceased to
hope, to feel, to act, to burn such are the impulses of the
young I learned to doubt, to reason, to analyze : such
are the habits of the old ! From that time, if I have not
avoided the pleasures of life, I have not enjoyed them.
Women, wine, the society of the gay, the commune of the
wise, the lonely pursuit of knowledge, the daring visions of
ambition, all have occupied me in turn, and all alike have
deceived me; but, like the widow in the story of Voltaire,
I have built at last a temple to "time the comforter:
have grown calm and unrepining with years; and, if I am
now shrinking from men, I have derived at least this ad-
vantage from the loneliness first made habitual by regret ;-
that while I feel increased benevolence to others, I have
learned to look for happiness only in myself.
I
They alone are independent of fortune who have made
themselves a separate existence from the world.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
I WENT to the university with a great fund of general
reading, and habits of constant application. My uncle
Iho, having no children of his own, began to be ainbitiou
f e, formed great expectations of my career at Oxford
I stayed there three years, and did nothing! I did ng
gain a single prize, nor did I attempt any thing above the
most ordinary degree. The fact is, that nothing seemed to
me worthy the labor of success. I conversed with those
who had obtained the highest academical reputation, and I
smiled with a consciousness of superiority at the bound
lessness of their vanity, and the narrowness of their views.
The limits of the distinction they had gained seemed to
them as wide as the most extended renown; and the little
knowledge their youth had acquired only appeared to them
an excuse for the ignorance and the indolence of maturer
years. Was it to equal these that I was to labor? I felt
that I already surpassed them! Was it to gain their good
opinion, or still worse, that of their admirers? Alas! I
had too long learned to live for myself to find any happiness
in the respect of the idlers I despised.
It was
WHEN I left Dr. -'s, I was sent to a private tutor in
D. -C. Here I continued for about two years.
during that time that, but what then befell me is for no
living ear! The characters of that history are engraven
on my heart in letters of fire; but it is a language that
zone but myself have the authority to read. It is enough
or the purpose of my confessions that the events of that
FALKLAND.
I left Oxford at the age of twenty-one. I succeeded to
the large estates of my inheritance, and for the first time I
feit the vanity so natural to youth, when I went up to Lon-
don to enjoy the resources of the capital, and to display the
powers I possessed to revel in whatever those resources
could yield. I found society like the Jewish temple; any
one is admitted into its threshold; none but the chiefs of
the institution into its recesses.
Young, rich, of an ancient and honorable name, pursuing
pleasure rather as a necessary excitement than an occa-
sional occupation, and agreeable to the associates I drew
around me because my profusion contributed to their enjoy-
ment, and my temper to their amusement, I found myself
courted by many, and avoided by none. I soon discovered
that all civility is but the mask of design. I smiled at the
kindness of the fathers, who, hearing that I was talented,
and knowing that I was rich, looked to my support in
whatever political side they had espoused. I saw in the
notes of the mothers their anxiety for the establishment of
their daughters, and their respect for my acres ; and in the
cordiality of the sous who had horses to sell, and rouge-et-
noir debts to pay, I detected all that veneration for my
money which implied such contempt for its possessor. By
nature observant, and by misfortune sarcastic, I looked
upon the various colorings of society with a searching and
philosophic eye: I unravelled the intricacies which knit
servility with arrogance, and meanness with ostentation;
and I traced to its sources that universal vulgarity of inward
sentiment and external manner, which in all classes appears
to me to constitute the only unvarying characteristic of our
countrymen. In proportion as I increased my knowledge
of others, I shrunk with a deeper disappointment and de-
jection into my own resources. The first moment of real
happiness which I experienced for a whole year, was when
I found myself about to seek, beneath the influence of other
skies, that more extended acquaintance with my species
which might either draw me to them with a closer connex-
ion, or at least reconcile me to the ties which already
existed.
I will not dwell upon my adventures abroad; there is
little to interest others in a recital which awakens no inter-
est in one's self. I sought for wisdom, and I acquired but
knowledge. I thirsted for the truth, the tenderness of love,
while in the narrow circle in which we move, we suffer
daily from those who approach us, we car, in spite of our
resentment to them, glow with a general benevolence to
the wider relations from which we are remote; that while
smarting beneath the treachery of friendship, the sting of
ingratitude, the faithlessness of love, we would almost
sacrifice our lives to realize some idolized theory of legis-
lation; and that, distrustful, calculating, selfish in private,
there are thousands who would, with a credulous fanati-
cism, fling themselves as victims before that unrecompens
ing Moloch which they term the public.
Living, then, much by myself, but reflecting much upon
the world, I learned to love mankind. Philanthropy
brought ambition; for I was ambitious, not for my own
aggrandizement, but for the service of others,- for the
pour, the toiling, the degraded: these constituted that
part of my fellow-beings which I the most loved, for these
were bound to me by the most engaging of all human t'es,
-misfortune! I began to enter into the intrigues of the
state; I extended my observation and inquiry from indivi-
duals to nations; I examined into the mysteries of the
science which has arisen in these later days to give the lie
to the wisdom of the past, to reduce into the simplicity of
problems the intricacies of political knowledge, to teach
us the fallacy of the system which had governed by restric-
tion, and imagined that the happiness of nations depend-
ed upon the perpetual interference of its rulers; and to
prove to us that the only unerring policy of art is to leave
a free and unobstructed progress to the hidden energies
and providence of nature. But it was not only the theo-
retical investigation of the state which employed me.
mixed, though in secret, with the agents of its springs.
While I seemed only intent upon pleasure, I locked in my
heart the consciousness and vanity of power. In the levi-
ty of the lip I disguised the workings and the knowledge
of the brain; and I looked, as with a gifted eye, upon the
mysteries of the hidden depths, while I seemed to float, an
idler, with the herd, only on the surface of the stream.
I
Why was I disgusted, when I had but to put forth my
hand and grasp whatever object my ambition might desire?
Alas! there was in my heart always something too soft
for the aims and cravings of my mind.
I felt that I was
wasting the young years of my life in a barren and weari-
and I found but its fever and its falsehood. Like the two some pursuit. What to me, who had outlived vanity,
Florimels of Spenser, I mistook, in my delirium, the delu- would have been the admiration of the crowd? I sighed
sive fabrication of the senses for the divine reality of the for the sympathy of the one! and I shrunk in sadness from
heart; and I only awoke from my deceit when the phantom the prospect of renown, to ask my heart for the reality of
I had worshipped melted into snow. Whatever I pursued love. For what purpose, too, had I devoted myself to the
partook of the energy, yet fitfulness of my nature; mingling service of men ?
my nature; mingling service of men? As I grew more sensible of the labor of
to-day in the tumults of the city, and to-morrow alone with pursuing, I saw more of the inutility of accomplishing in-
my own heart in the solitude of unpeupled nature; now dividual measures. There is one great and moving order
revelling in the wildest excesses, and now tracing, with a of events which we may retard, but we cannot arrest, and
painful and unwearied search, the intricacies of science; to which, if we endeavour to hasten them, we only give a
alternately governing others, and subdued by the tyranny dangerous and unnatural impetus. Often, when in the
which my own passions imposed, I passed through the fever of the midnight, I have paused from my unshared
ordeal uushrinking, yet not unscathed. "The education of and unsoftened studies, to listen to the deadly pulsation of
life," says De Staël, " perfects the thinking mind, but
depraves the frivolous." I do not inquire, Monkton, to
which of these classes I belong; but I feel too well that
though my mind has not been depraved, it has found no
perfection but in misfortune; and that whatever be the
acquirements of later years, they have nothing which can
eapensate for the losses of our youth.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
I RETURNED to England. I entered again upon the
hestre of its world; but I mixed now more in its greater
than its less pursuits. I looked rather at the mass than
the leaven of mankind; and while I felt aversion for the
few whom I knew, I glowed with philanthropy for the
crowd which I knew not.
It is in contemplating man at a distance that we become
benevolent. When we mix with them, we suffer by the
contact, and grow, if not malicious from the injury, at
least selfish from the circumspection which our safety im-
poses: but when, while we feel our relationship, we are
not galled by the tie; when neither jealousy, nor envy,
nor resentment are excited, we have nothing to interfere
with those more complacent and kindly sentiments which
our earliest impressions have rendered natural to our
nearts. We may fly men in hatred because they have
galled us, but the feeling ceases with the cause: none will
willingly feed long upon bitter thoughts. It is thus that,
my
heart,* when I have felt in its painful and tumultuous
beating the very life waning and wasting within me, I
have sickened to my inmost soul to remember that, among
all those whom I was exhausting the health and enjoyment
of youth to benefit, there was not one for whom my life
had an interest, or by whom my death would be honored
by a tear. There is a beautiful passage in Chalmers on
the want of sympathy we experience in the world. From
my earliest childhood I had one deep, engrossing, yearning
desire, and that was to love and to be loved. I found,
too young, the realization of that dream, it passed! and
I have never known it again. The experience of long and
bitter years teaches me to look with suspicion on that far
recollection of the past, and to doubt if this earth could
indeed produce a living form to satisfy the visions of one
who has dwelt among the boyish creations of fancy,
has shaped out in his heart an imaginary idol, arrayed it
in whatever is most beautiful in nature, and breathed into
the image the pure but burning spirit of that innate love
from which it sprung! It is true that my manhood has
been the undeceiver of my youth, and that the meditation
upon facts has disenthralled me from the visionary brood-
ings over fiction; but what remuneration have I found in
reality? If the line of the satirist be not true, "Souvent
de tous nos maux la raison est le pire,"t at least like
Falkland suffered much, from very early youth, from
complaint in his heart.
† Boileau
who
392
BULWER'S NOVELS.
the nradman of whom he speaks, I owe but little gratitude | perambulate with a book in their hands, as if neithes
o the act which, "in
in drawing me from my error, has rob-
bed me also of a paradise."
nature nor their own reflections could afford them any
rational amusement. I go there more frequently en paress
I am approaching the conclusion of my confessions. eux than en savant: a small brooklet, which runs through
Men who have no ties in the world, and who have been the grounds, broadens at last into a deep, clear, transparent
accustomed to solitude, find, with every disappointment in lake. Here fir, and elm, and oak fling their branches over
the former, a greater yearning for the enjoyments which the margin; and beneath their shade I pass all the hours
the latter can afford. Day by day I relapsed more into of noonday in the luxuries of a dreamer's reverie. It is
myself; man delighteth me not, nor woman either.” In true, however, that I am never less idle than when I appear
my ambition, it was not in means, but the end, that I was the most so. I am like Prospero in his desert island, and
disappointed. In my friends, I complained, not of treach- surround myself with spirits. A spell trembles upon the
ery, but insipidity; and it was not because I was deserted, leaves; every wave comes fraught to me with its peculiar
but wearied by more tender connexions, that I ceased to
music; and an Ariel seems to whisper the secret of every
find either excitement in seeking, or triumph in obtaining breeze, which comes to my forchead laden with the per-
their love. It was not, then, in a momentary disgust, but fumes of the west. But do not think, Monkton, that it is
rather in the calm of satiety, that I formed that resolution only good spirits which haunt the recesses of my solitude
of retirement which I have adopted now.
To push the metaphor to exaggeration, memory is my
Sycorax, and gloom is the Caliban she conceives.
me digress from myself to my less idle occupations:-
have of late diverted my thoughts in some measure by a
recurrence to a study to which I once was particularly de-
voted, history. Have you ever remarked, that people
who live the most by themselves, reflect the most upc
others and that he who lives sur ounded by the million,
never thinks of any but the one individual, — himself?
Philosophers, moralists, histor ans, whose thoughts,
labors, lives, have been devoted to the consideration of
mankind, or the analysis of publi; events, have usually
been remarkably attached to solitu le and seclusion. We
are indeed so linked to our fellow beings, that, were we
nected with them by thought.
not chained to them by action, we are carried to and con-
Shrinking from my kind, but too young to live wholly
for myself, I have made a new tie with nature; I have
come to cement it here. I am like a bird which has wan-
dered afar, but has returned home to its nest at last. But
there is one feeling which had its origin in the world, and
which accompanies me still; which consecrates my recol-
sections of the past; which contributes to take its gloom
from the solitude of the present: — Do you ask me its na-
ture, Monkton ?—It is my friendship for you.
FROM THE JAME TO THE SAME.
I WISH that I could convey to you, dear Monkton, the
faintest idea of the pleasures of indolence. You belong to
that class which is of all the most busy, though the least
active. Men of pleasure never have time for any thing.
No lawyer, no statesman, no bustling, hurrying, restless
underling of the counter or the exchange, is so eternally
occupied as a lounger "about town." He is linked to
labor by a series of undefinable nothings. His independ
ence and idleness only serve to fetter and engross him, and
his leisure seems held upon the condition of never having a
moment to himself. Would that you could see me at this
instant in the luxury of my summer retreat, surrounded by
the trees, the waters, the wild birds, and the hurn, the
glow, the exultation which teem visibly and audibly through
creation in the noon of a summer's day! I am undisturbed
by a single intruder. I am unoccupied by a single pursuit.
I suffer one moment to glide into another, without the re-
membrance that the next must be filled up by some labori-
ous pleasure, or some wearisome enjoyment. It is here
that I feel all the powers, and gather together all the re-
sources, of my mind. I recall my recollections of men ;
and, unbiassed by the passions and prejudices which we
do not experience alone, because their very existence de-
pends upon others. I endeavour to perfect my knowledge
of the human heart. He who would acquire that better
science must arrange and analyze in private the experience
he has collected in the crowd. Alas, Monkton, when you
have expressed surprise at the gloom which is so habitual
to my temper, did it never occur to you that my acquaint-
ance with the world would alone be sufficient to account
for it ? that knowledge is neither for the good nor the
happy. Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled? Who
can look upon the workings of grief and rejoice, or asso-
ciate with guilt and be pure?
It has been by mingling with men, not only in their
haunts but their emotions, that I have learned to know
them. I have descended into the receptacles of vice I
have taken lessons from the brothel and the hell; I have
watched feeling in its unguarded sallies, and drawn from
the impulse of the moment conclusions which gave the
lie to the previous conduct of years. But all knowledge
brings us disappointment, and this knowledge the most,
the satiety of good, the suspicion of evil, the decay of our
young dreams, the premature iciness of age, the reckless,
aimless, joyless indifference which follows an overwrought
and feverish excitation, these constitute the lot of men
who have renounced hope in the acquisition of thought, and
who, in learning the motives of human actions, learn oddly
to despise the persons and the things which enchanted
them like divinities before.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
TOLD you, dear Monkton, in my first letter, of my
favorite retreat in Mr. Mandeville's grounds. I have
grown so attached to it, that I spend the greater part of
he day there. I am not one of those persons who always
But el
Bolingbroke upon history. I cannot agree with him as tc
I have just quitted the observations of my favorite
that its study has been upon the whole pernicious to man-
its utility. The more I consider, the more I am convinced
kind. It is by those details which are always as unfair in
facts, that party animosity and general prejudice are sup-
their inference as they must evidently be doubtful in their
ported and sustained. There is not one abuse, - one
intolerance, one remnant of ancient barbarity and igno-
rance existing at the present day, which is not advocated,
bigotry of an illiterate chronicler, or the obscurity of an
and actually confirmed by some vague deduction from the
uncertain legend. It is through the constant appeal to our
ancestors that we transmit wretchedness and wrong to our
posterity; we should require, to corroborate an evil origi-
nating in the present day, the clearest and most satisfactory
proof; but the minutest defence is sufficient for an evil
handed down to us by the barbarism of antiquity. We
reason from what even in old times was dubious, as if we
were adducing what was certain in those in which we live.
And thus we have made no sanction to abuses so powerful
as history, and no enemy to the present like the past.
FROM THE LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE TO MRS. ST
JOHN.
AT last, my dear Julia, I am settled in my beautifu
retreat. Mrs. Dalton and Lady Margaret Leslic are al
whom I could prevail upon to accompany me. Mr. Man
deville is full of the corn-laws. He is chosen chairman to
a select committee in the House. He is murmuring agri
cultural distresses in his sleep; and when I asked him
occasionally to come down here to see me, he started from
a reverie, and exclaimed, "Never, Mr. Speaker, as a
landed proprietor, never will I consent to my own ruin."
21
My boy, my own, my beautiful companion, is with me.
I wish you could see how fast he can run, and how sensi-
bly he can talk. "What a fine figure he has for his age
said I to Mr. Mandeville the other day: Figure age?'
said his father; "in the House of Commons he shall make
a figure to every age. I know that in writing to you.
you will not be contented if I do not say a great deal about
myself. I shall therefore proceed to tell you that I feel
already much better from the air and exercise of the jour-
ney, from the conversation of my two guests, and, above
all, from the constant society of my dear boy. He was
three last birth-day. I think that at the age of twenty-one
I am the least childish of the two. Pray remember me to
all in town who have not quite forgotten. me Beg Lady
to send Elizabeth a subscription ticket for Almack's
and, oh talking of Almack's, I think my boy's eyes are
even more blue and beautiful than Lady C's.
Adieu, my dear Julia, Ever, &c.
E. M
FALKLAND
391
-
Lady Emily Mandeville was the daughter of the Duke | library; Mrs. Dalton seated herself on the ottomas, divid
of Lindvale. She married, at the age of sixteen, a man ing her attention between the last novel and her Italian
of large fortune, and some parliamentary reputation. greyhound; and Emily left the room in order to revisit
reputation.greyhound;
Neither in person nor in character was he much beneath or her former and favorite haunts. Her young son was her
above the ordinary standard of men. He was one of na- companion, and she was not sorry that he was her only one.
ture's MacAdamized achievements. His great fault was
To be the instructress of an infant, a mother should be its
his equality; and you longed for a hill though it were to playmate; and Emily was, perhaps, wiser than she imag.
climb, or a stone though it were in your way. Love ined, when she ran with a laughing eye and a light foot
attaches itself to something prominent, even if that some- over the grass, occupying herself almost with the same
thing be what others would hate. One can scarcely feel
One can scarcely feel earnestness as her child in the same infantile amusements.
extremes for mediocrity. The few years Lady Emily had As they passed the wood which led to the lake at the bot-
been married had but little altered her character. Quick tom of the grounds, the boy, who was before Emily, sud-
in feeling, though regulated in temper; gay, less from denly stopped. She caine hastily up to him; and scarcely
levity, than from that first spring-tide of a heart which has two paces before, though half hid by the steep bank of the
never yet known occasion to be sad: beautiful and pure, lake beneath which he reclined, she saw a man apparently
as an enthusiast's dream of heaven, yet bearing within the asleep. A volume of Shakspeare lay beside him the
latent and powerful passion and tenderness of earth; she child had seized it. As she took it from him in order to
mixed with all a simplicity and innocence which the ex- replace it, her eye rested upon the passage the boy had
treme earliness of her marriage, and the ascetic temper of accidentally opened. How often in afer-days was that
her husband, had tended less to diminish than increase. passage recalled as au omen! it was the following.
She had much of what is termed genius, its warmth of
Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
emotion, its vividness of conception, its admiration
Could ever hear by tale or history,
for the grand, its affection for the good, and that dan-
gerous contempt for whatever is mean and worthless, the
very indulgence of which is an offence against the habits
of the world. Her tastes, were, however, too feminine and
chaste ever to render her eccentric they were rather cal-
culated to conceal, than to publish the deeper recesses of
her nature; and it was beneath that polished surface of
manner common to those with whom she mixed, that she
hid the treasures of a mine which no human eye had beheld.
Her health, naturally delicate, had lately suffered much
from the dissipation of London, and it was by the advice
of her physicians that she had now come to spend the sum-
mer at E- Lady Margaret Leslie, who was old
enough to be tired with the caprices of society, and Mrs.
Dalton, who, having just lost her husband, was forbidden
at present to partake of its amusements, bad agreed to
accompany her to her retreat. Neither of them was per-
haps much suited to Emily's temper, but youth and spirits
make almost any one congenial to us: it is from the years
which confirm our habits, and the reflections which refine
our taste, that it becomes easy to revolt us, and difficult to
please.
:
like him so ! >>
•
On the third day after Emily's arrival at E-, she
was sitting after breakfast with Lady Margaret and Mrs.
Dalton. Pray," said the former," did you ever meet
my relation, Mr. Falkland? he is in your immediate
neighbourhood." "Never; though I have a great curios-
ity that fine old ruin beyond the village belongs to him, I
believe." "It does: you ought to know him you would
"Like him?" repeated Mrs. Dalton, who
was one of those persons of ton who, though every thing
collectively, are nothing individually; "Like him ?
impossible!" 66 Why," said Lady Margaret, indignantly,
"he has every requisite to please, youth, talent, fas-
cination of manner, and great knowledge of the world."
"Well," said Mrs. Dalton, " I cannot say I discovered
"I
his perfections. He seemed to me conceited and satirical,
and, — and, — in short, very disagreeable; but then to be
sure, I have only seen him once. "I have heard many
accounts of him," said Emily, "all differing from each
other: I think, however, that the generality of people
rather incline to Mrs. Dalton's opinion than to yours, Lady
Margaret.' "I can easily believe it. It is very seldom
that he takes the trouble to please; but when he does, he
is irresistible. Very little, however, is generally known
respecting him. Since he came of age, he has been much
abroad; and when in England, he never entered with
eagerness into society. He is supposed to possess very
extraordinary powers, which, added to his large fortune
and ancient name, have procured him a consideration and
rank rarely enjoyed by one so young. He has refused re-
peated offers to enter into public life; but he is very inti-
mate with one of the ministers, who, it is said, has had the
address to profit much by his abilities. All other particu-
lars concerning him are extremely uncertain. Of his per-
sun and manners you had better judge yourself; for I am
sure, Emily, that my petition for inviting him here is
already granted.” By all means," said Emily:
zannot be more anxious to see him than I am.'
the conversation dropped. Lady Margaret went to the
VOL. II.
50
CC
You
And so
The course of true love never did run smooth!
Midsummer Night's Dream.
As she laid the book gently down, she caught a glimpse
of the countenance of the sleeper: never did she forget
the expression which it wore, stern, proud, mournful
even in repose!
She did not wait for him to awake. She hurried home
through the trees. All that day she was silent and ab-
stracted; the face haunted her like a dream. Strange as
it may seem, she spoke neither to Lady Margaret nor to
Mrs. Dalton of her adventure. Why? Is there in our
hearts any prescience of their misfortunes?
On the next day, Falkland, who had received and ac-
cepted Lady Margaret's invitation, was expected to dinner.
Emily felt a strong yet excusable curiosity to see one of
whom she had heard so many and such contradictory
reports.
reports. She was alone in the saloon when he entered.
At the first glance she recognised the person she had met
by the lake on the day before, and she blushed deeply as
she replied to his salutation. To her great relief Lady
Margaret and Mrs. Dalton entered in a few minutes, and
the conversation grew general.
Falkland had but little of what is called animation in
manner; but his wit, though it rarely led to mirth, was
sarcastic yet refined, and the vividness of his imagination
threw a brilliancy and originality over remarks which in
others might have been commonplace and tame.
The conversation turned chiefly upon society; and
though Lady Margaret had told her he had entered but
little into its ordinary routine, Emily was struck alike by
his accurate acquaintance with men, and the justice of his
reflections upon manners. There also mingled with his
satire an occasional melancholy of feeling, which appeared
to Emily the more touching because it was always unex-
pected and unassumed. It was after one of these remarks,
that for the first time she ventured to examine into the
charm and peculiarity of the countenance of the speaker.
There was spread over it that expression of mingled en-
ergy and languor, which betokens that much, whether of
thought, sorrow, passion, or action, has been undergone,
but resisted; has wearied, but not subdued. In the broad
and noble brew, in the chiselled lip, and the melancholy
depths of the calm and thoughtful eye, there sat a resolu-
tion and a power, which, though mournful, were not with-
out their pride; which, if they had borne the worst, had
also defied it. Notwithstanding his mother's country, his
complexion was fair and pale; and his hair of a light
chestnut, fell in large antique curls over his forehead. That
forehead indeed, constituted the principal feature of his
countenance. It was neither in its height nor expansion.
alone that its remarkable beauty consisted; but if ever
thought to conceive, and courage to execute, high designs
were imbodied and visible, they were imprinted there.
Falkland did not stay long after dinner; but to Lady.
Margaret he pronised all that she required of future length
and frequency in his visits. When he left the room, Lady
Emily went instinctively to the window to watch him để
part and all that night his low, soft voice rung in her
ear, like the music of an indistinct and half-remeniberes
dream
894
BULWER'S NOVELS
FROM MR. MANDEVILLE TO LADY EMILY.
DEAR EMILY,- Business of great importance to the
country has prevented any writing to you before. I hope
you have continued well since I heard from you last, and
that you do all you can to preserve that retrenchment of
unnecessary expenses, and observe that attention to a pru-
dent economy, which is no less incumbent upon individuals
than nations.
Thinking that you must be dull at E, and ever anx-
ious both to entertain and to improve you, I send you an
excellent publication by Mr. Tooke, together with my
own last two speeches, corrected by myself.
Trusting to hear from you soon, I am, with best love to
Henry, very affectionately yours,
JOHN MANDEVILLE.
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO THE HON
FREDERICK MONKTON. †
WELL, Monkton, I have been to E-; that impor-
tant event in my monastic life has been concluded. Lady
Margaret was as talkative as usual; and a Mrs. Dalton,
who I find is an acquaintance of yours, asked very tender-
ly after your poodle and yourself. But Lady Emily? Ay,
Monkton, I know not well how to describe her to you.
Her beauty interests not less than it dazzles. There is
that deep and eloquent softness in her every word and
action, which, of all charms, is the most dangerous. Yet
she is rather of a playful than of the melancholy and pen-
sive nature which generally accompanies such gentleness of
manner; but there is no levity in her character; nor is
that playfulness of spirit ever carried into the exhilaration
of what we call "mirth.” She seems, if I may use the
antithesis, at once too feeling to be gay and too innocent
to be sad. I remember having frequently met her husband.
Cold and pompous, without any thing to interest the imagi-
nation, or engage the affections, I am not able to conceive a
person less congenial to his beautiful and romantic wife. But
she must have been exceedingly young when she married
him; and she, probably, knows not yet that she is to be
pitied because she has not yet learned that she can love.
Le veggio in fronte amor come in suo seggio
Sul crin, negli occhi, su le labra amore
Sol d'intorno al suo cuore amor non veggio.
I have been twice to her house since my first admission
there.
I love to listen to that soft and enchanting voice,
and to escape from the gloom of my own reflections to the
brightness, yet simplicity, of hers. In my earlier days this
comfort would have been attended with danger; but we
grow callous from the excess of feeling. We cannot re-
illumine ashes! I can gaze upon her dreamlike beauty,
and not experience a single desire which can sully the
purity of my worship. I listen to her voice when it melts
in endearment over her birds, her flowers, or, in a deeper
devotion, over her child; but my heart does not thrill at the
tenderness of the sound. I touch her hand, and the pulses
of my own are as calmn as before. Satiety of the past is our
best safeguard from the temptations of the future; and the
perils of youth are over when it has acquired that dulness
and apathy of affection which should belong only to the
Ensensibility of age.
he went to E
Such were Falkland's opinions at the time he wrote.
Ah! what is so delusive as our affections? Our security
is our danger, our defiance our defeat! Day after day
He passed the mornings in making
excursions with Emily over that wild and romantic country
by which they were surrounded; and in the dangerous but
delicious stilīness of the summer twilights, they listened to
the first whispers of their hearts.
In his relationship to Lady Margaret, Falkland found his
excuse for the frequency of his visits; and even Mrs. Dalton
w29 so charmed with the fascination of his manner, that
(in spite of her previous dislike) she forgot to inquire how
far his intimacy at E― was at variance with the
prieties of the world she worshipped, or in what proportion
it was connected with herself.
-סיור
It is needless for me to trace through all its windings the
formation of that affection, the subsequent records of which
ain about to relate. What is so unearthly, so beautiful,
The Political Economist.
A letter from Falkland, mentioning Lady Margaret's invita-
tion has been omitted.
as the first birth of a woman's love? The air of heave
is not purer in its wanderings, its sunshine not more
holy in its warmth. Oh! why should it deteriorate in its
nature, even while it increases in its degree? Why should
the step which prints, sully also the snow? How often,
revealed to him those internal secrets that Emily was yet a
when Falkland met that guiltless yet thrilling eye, which
while too happy to discover; when, like a fountain among
flowers, the goodness of her heart flowed over the softness
of her manner to those around her, and the benevolence of
with a veneration too deep for the selfishness of human
her actions to those beneath; how often he turned away
passion, and a tenderness too sacred for its desires! It
was in this temper (the earliest and the most fruitless prog-
nostic of real love) that the following letter was written :-
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. то THE HON
FREDERICK MONKTON.
I HAVE had two or three admonitory letters from my
uncle. "The summer (he says) is advancing, yet you
remain stationary in your indolence. There is still a great
part of Europe which you have not seen; and since you
will neither enter society for a wife, nor the House of Com-
mons for fame, spend your life, at least while it is yet free
and unshackled, in those active pursuits which will render
idleness hereafter more sweet; or in that observation and
enjoyment among others, which will increase your resources
in yourself." All this sounds well; but I have already
acquired inore knowledge than will be of use either to
others or myself, and I am not willing to lose tranquillity
here for the chance of obtaining pleasure elsewhere. Pleas-
ure is indeed a holyday sensation which does not occur in
ordinary life. We lose the peace of years when we hunt
after the rapture of moments.
I do not know if you ever felt that existence was ebbing
away, without being put to its full value as for me, I am
never conscious of life without being also conscious that it
is not enjoyed to the utmost. This is a bitter feeling, and
its worst bitterness is our ignorance how to remove it. My
indolence I neither seek nor wish to defend, yet it is rather
from necessity than choice: it seems to me that there is
nothing in the world to arouse me. I only ask for action,
but I can find no motive sufficient to excite it: let me then,
in my indolence, not, like the world, be idle, yet dependent
on others; but at least dignify the failing by soine appear-
ance of that freedom which retirement only can bestow.
My seclusion is no longer solitude; yet I do not value it
the less. I spend a great portion of my time at E-
Loneliness is attractive to men of reflection, not so much
because they like their own thoughts, as because they dis-
like the thoughts of others. Solitude ceases to charm the
moment we can find a single being whose ideas are more
agreeable to us than our own. I have not, I think, yet
described to you the person of Lady Emily. She is tall,
and slightly, yet beautifully, formed. The ill health which
obliged her to leave London for E, in the height of
the season, has given her cheek a more delicate hue than I
should think it naturally wore. Her eyes are light, but
their lashes are long and dark; her hair is black and luxu-
riant, and worn in a fashion peculiar to herself; but her
manuers, Monkton! how can I convey to you then fasci-
nation? so simple, and therefore so faultless, -so modest,
and yet so tender, she seems, in acquiring the intelli-
gence of the woman, to have only perfected the purity of
the child and now, after all that I have said, I'am only
more deeply sensible of the truth of Bacon's observation,
that "the best part of beauty is that which no picture can
express." I am loath to finish this description, because it
seems to me scarcely begun; I am unwilling to continue
it, because every word seems to show me more clearly those
recesses of my heart, which I would have hidden even from
myself. I do not yet love, it is true, for the time is past
when I was lightly moved to passion; but I will not incur
that danger, the probability of which I am seer enough
to foresee. Never shall that pure and innocent heart be
sullied by one who would die to shield it from the lightest
misfortune. I find in myself a powerful seconder to my
uncle's wishes. I shall be in London next week; till then,
farewell.
E. F.
:
When the proverb said, that "Jove laughs at lovers'
vows," it meant not (as in the ordinary construction) ■
sarcasm on their insincerity, but inconsistency. We deceive
FALKLAND.
39€
:
others far less than we deceive ourselves. What to Falk-
land were resolutions which a word, a glance, could over-
throw ? In the world he might have dissipated his
thoughts in loneliness he concentred them; for the pas-
sions are like the sounds of nature, only heard in her soli-
tude! He lulled his soul to the reproaches of his con-
science; he surrendered himself to the intoxication of so
gollen a dream; and amid those beautiful scenes there
a ose, as an offering to the suminer heaven, the incense of
two hearts which had, through those very fires, so guilty in
emselves, purified and ennobled every other emotion they
Id conceived.
"God made the country, and man made the town,"
says the hackneyed quotation; and the feelings awakened
in each differ with the genius of the place. Who can cɔm-
pare the frittered and divided affections formed in cities
with that which crowds cannot distract by opposing terap-
tations, or dissipation infect with its frivolities?
I have often thought that had the execution of Atala
equalled its design, no human work could have surpassed
it in its grandeur. What picture is more simple, though
more sublime, than the vast solitude of an unpeopled wit
derness, the woods, the mountains, the face of nature, cast
in the fresh yet giant mould of a new and unpolluted world:
and amid those most silent and mighty temples of THE
GREAT GOD, the lone spirit of love reigning and bright-
ening over all!
BOOK II.
It is dangerous for women, however wise it be for men,
"to commune with their own hearts, and to be still!"
Continuing to pursue the follies of the world had been to
Emily more prudent than to fly them; to pause, to sepa-
rate herself from the herd, was to discover, to feel, to
murmur at the vacuum of her being; and to occupy it with
the feelings which it craved, could in her be but the hoard-
ing a provision for despair.
Married, before she had begun the bitter knowledge of
herself, to a man whom it was impossible to love, yet deri-
ving from nature a tenderness of soul which shed itself
over every thing around, her only escape from misery had
been in the dortnancy of feeling. The birth of her son
had opened to her a new field of sensations, and she drew
the best charm of her own existence from the life she had
given to another. Had she not met Falkland, all the deep-
er sources of affection would have flowed into oue only and
legitimate channel; but those whom he wished to fascinate
had never resisted his power, and the attachment he in-
spired was in proportion to the strength and ardor of his
own nature.
It was not for Emily Mandeville to love such as Falkland
without feeling that from that moment a separate and self-
ish existence had ceased to be. Our senses may captivate
us with beauty; but in absence we forget, or by reason we
can conquer, so superficial an impression. Our vanity
may enamour us with rank; but the affections of vanity
are traced in sand but who can love genius, and not feel
that the sentiments it excites partake of its own intense-
Bess and its own immortality? It arouses, concentrates,
engrosses all our emotions, even in the most subtle and
concealed. Love what is common, and ordinary objects
can replace or destroy a sentiment which an ordinary ob-
ect has awakened. Love what we shall not meet again
amid the littleness and insipidity which surrounds, and
where can we turn for a new object to replace that which
has no parallel upon earth? The recovery from such de-
lirium is like the return from a fairy land; and still fresh
in the recollections of a bright and immortal clime, how
can we endure the dulness of that human existence to
which, for the future, we are condemned ?
It was some weeks since Emily had written to Mrs. St.
John; and her last letter, in mentioning Falkland, had
spoken of him with a reserve which rather alarmed than
deceived her friend. Mrs. St. John had indeed a strong
and secret reason for fear. Falkland had been the object
of her own and her earliest attachment, and she knew well
the singular and mysterious power which he exercised at
will over the mind. He had, it is true, never returned,
nor even known of, her feelings toward him; and during
the years which had elapsed since she last saw him, and
m the new scenes which her marriage with Mr. St. John
had opened, she had almost forgotten her early attachment,
when Lady Emily's letter renewed its remembrance. She
rote in answer an impassioned and affectionate caution
o her friend. She spoke much (after complaining of
Emily's late silence) in condemnation of the character of
Falkland, and in warning of its fascinations; and she at-
tempted to arouse alike the virtue and the pride which so
often triumph in alliance, when separately they would so
easily fail. In this Mrs. St. John probably imagined she
was actuated solely by friendship; but in the best actions
there is always some latent evil in the motive; and the
selfishness of a jealousy, though hopeless, not conquered,
perhaps predominated over the less interested feelings
which were all that she acknowledged to herself.
In this work, it has been my object to portray the pro
gress of the passions; to chronicle a history rather by
thoughts and feelings than by incidents and events; and to
lay open those minuter and more subtle mazes and secrets
of the human heart, which in modern writings have been
so sparingly exposed. It is with this view that I have
from time to time broken the thread of narration, in order
to bring forward more vividly the characters it contains;
and in laying no claim to the ordinary ambition of tale-
writers, I have deemed myself at liberty to deviate from
the ordinary courses they pursue. Hence the motive and
the excuse for the insertion of the following extracts, and
of occasional letters. They portray the interior struggle,
when narration would look only to the external event, and
trace the lightning "home to its cloud," when history
would only mark the spot where it scorches or destroyed
EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
Tuesday. More than seven years have passed since I
began this journal! I have just been looking over it from
the commencement. Many and various are the feelings
which it attempts to describe, anger, pique, joy, sorrow,
hope, pleasure, weariness, ennui; but never, never once
humiliation or remorse! these were not doomed to be
my portion in the bright years of my earliest youth. How
shall I describe them now? I have received, I have read,
as well as my tears would let me, a long letter from Julia.
It is true that I have not dared to write to her : when shal
I answer this? She has shown me the state of my heart;
I more than suspected it before. Could I have dreamed
two months, six weeks since, that I should have a
single feeling of which I could be ashamed? He has just
been here, he,· the only one in the world, for all the
world seems concentred in him. He observed my distress,
for I looked on him; and my lips quivered, and my eyes
were full of tears. He came to me, -he sat next to nie,
-
he whispered his interest, his anxiety, and was this
all? Have I loved before I ever knew that I was beloved?
No, no: the tongue was silent, but the eye, the cheek, the
manner,- alas ? these bave been but too eloquent !
Wednesday.- -It was so sweet to listen to his low and
tender voice; to watch the expression of his countenance,
even to breathe the air he inhaled. But now that 1
know its cause, I feel that this pleasure is a crime, and I
ain miserable even when he is with me. He has not been
396
BULWER'S NOVELS
here to-day. It is past three. Will e come? I rise from
my seat,
I go to the window for breath, -- I am restless,
agitated, disturbed. Lady Margaret speaks to me,-I
scarcely answer her. My boy, yes, my dear, dear Henry
comes, and I feel that I am again a mother. Never will I
betray that duty, though I have forgotten one as sacred,
hough less dear! Never shall my son have cause to blush
for his parent! I will fly hence, — I will see him no more!
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND TO THE HON. FRED-
ERICK MONKTON.
WRITE to me, Monkton, exhort me, admonish me,
or forsake me for ever. I am happy, yet wretched; I
wander in the delirium of a fatal fever, in which I see
dreams of a brighter life, but every one of them only brings
me nearer to death. Day after day I have lingered here,
until weeks have flown, and for what? Emily is not like
the women of the world, virtue, honor, faith are not to
her the mere convenances of society. "There is no crime,"
said Lady A," where there is concealment." Such can
never be the creed of Emily Mandeville. She will not
She will not
disguise guilt either in the levity of the world, or in the
affectations of sentiments. She will be wretched, and for
ever. I hold the destinies of her future life, and yet I am
base enough to hesitate whether to save or destroy her.
Oh! how fearful, how selfish, how degrading is unlawful
love!
You know my theoretical benevolence for every thing
that lives; you have often smiled at its vanity. I see now
that you were right; for it seems to me almost superhuman
virtue not to destroy the person who is dearest to me on
earth.
I remember writing to you some weeks since that I
would come to London. Little did I know of the weakness
of my own mind: I told her that I intended to depart.
She turned pale, — she trembled,
she trembled, but she did not speak.
Those signs, which should have hastened my departure,
have taken away the strength even to think of it.
—
I am here still! I go to E- every day. Sometimes
we sit in silence; I dare not trust myself to speak. How
dangerous are such moments! Ammutiscon lingue parlen
l'alme.
years into his first unsullied state of purity and hope: per
haps I thought of that sentence when I came to you." "1
know not," said Emily, with a deep blush at this address,
which formed her only answer to the compliment it con-
veyed; "I know not why it is, but to me there is always
something melancholy in this hour, something mournful
in seeing the beautiful day die, with all its pomp and
music, its sunshine and songs of birds.'
"And yet," replied Falkland, "if I remember the time
when my feelings were more in unison with yours, (for at
present external objects have lost for me much of their in-
fluence and attraction,) the melancholy you perceive has
in it a vague and ineffable sweetness not to be exchanged
for more exhilarated spirits. The melancholy which arises
from no cause within ourselves is like music, it enchants
us in proportion to its effect upon our feelings. Perhaps its
chief charm (though this requires the contamination of
after-years before we can fathom and define) is in the pu
rity of the sources it springs from. Our feelings can be
but little sullied and worn while they can yet respond to the
passionless and primal sympathies of nature; and the sad-
ness you speak of is so void of bitterness, so allied to the
best and most delicious sensations we enjoy, that I should
imagine the very happiness of heaven partook rather of mel-
ancholy than mirth.”
There was a pause of some moments. It was rarely that
Falkland alluded even so slightly to the futurity of another
world; and when he did, it was never in a careless and
commonplace manner, but in a tone which sank deep into
Emily's heart. "Look," she said, at length, "at that
beautiful star! the first and brightest ! I have often
thought it was like the promise of life beyond the tomb,-
a pledge to us that, even in the depths of midnight, the
earth shall have a light, unquenched and unquenchable,
from heaven!"
Emily turned to Falkland as she said this, and her coun-
tenance sparkled with the enthusiasm she felt. But his face
was deadly pale. There went over it, like a cloud, an ex-
pression of changeful and unutterable thought; and then
passing suddenly away, it left his features calm and bright
in all their noble and intellectual beauty. Her soul yearned
to him, as she looked, with the tenderness of a sister.
They walked slowly toward the house. "I have fre-
quently," said Emily, with some hesitation,
prised at the little enthusiasm you appear to possess even
upon subjects where your conviction must be strong."
have thought enthusiasm away! replied Falkland: "it
was the loss of hope which brought me reflection, and in
reflection I forgot to feel. Would that I had not found it
so easy to recall what I thought I had lost for ever!
Falkland's cheek changed as he said this, and Emily
"been sur-
Yesterday they left us alone. We had been conversing
with Lady Margaret on different subjects. There was a
pause for some minutes.
I looked up; Lady Margaret
had left the room. The blood rushed into my cheek,
my eyes met Emily's. I would have given worlds to have
repeated with my lips what those eyes expressed. I could
not even speak, I felt choked with contending emotions.
There was not a breath stirring; I heard my very heart
beat. A thunderbolt would have been a relief. O God!
if there be a curse, it is to burn, swell, madden with feel-sighed faintly, for she felt his meaning. In him, that allu-
ings which you are doomed to couceal! This is, indeed, to
a cannibal of one's own heart." *
be
G
It was sunset. Emily was alone upon the lawn which
sloped toward the lake, and the blue still waters beneath
broke, at bright intervals, through the scattered and illu-
minated trees. She stood watching the sun sink with
wistful and tearful eyes. Her soul was sad within her.
The ivy which love first wreathes around his work had
already faded away, and she now only saw the desolation
of the ruin it concealed. Never more for her was that
freshness of unawakened feeling which invests all things
with a perpetual daybreak of sunshine and incense and
dew. The heart may survive the decay or rupture of an
innocent and lawful affection, -"la marque reste, mais
la blessure guérit, "but the love of darkness and guilt
is branded in a character ineffaceable, eternal! The
one is like lightning, more likely to dazzle than to destroy,
and, divine even in its danger, it makes holy what it sears; †
but the other is like that sure and deadly fire which fell
upon the cities of old, graving in the barrenness of the des-
ert it had wrought the record and perpetuation of a curse.
A low and thrilling voice stole upon Emily's ear.
turned, Falkland stood beside her. "I felt restless and
unhappy," he said, "and I came to seek you. If (writes
one of the fathers) a guilty and wretched man could behold,
though only for a few minutes, the countenance of an angel,
the calin and glory which it wears would so sink into his
ceart, that he woull pass at once over the gulf of gone
* Bacon,
According to the ancient superstition.
She
sion to his leve had aroused a whole train of dangerous
recollections; for passion is the avalanche of the human
heart, - a single breath can dissolve it from its repose.
had
They remained silent; for Falkland would not trust him-
self to speak, till, when they reached the house, he faltered
out his excuses for not entering, and departed. He turned
toward his solitary home. The grounds at E-
been laid out in a classical and costly manner, which con-
trasted forcibly with the wild and simple nature of the sur-
rounding scenery. Even the short distance between Mr.
Mandeville's house and L- wrought as distinct a change
in the character of the country as any length of space
could
have effected. Falkland's ancient and ruinous abode, with
its shattered arches and moss-grown parapets, was situated
on a gentle declivity, and surrounded by dark elm and larch
trees. It still retained some traces both of its former con-
sequence, and of the perils to which that consequence had
exposed it. A broad ditch, overgrown with weeds, indica-
ted the remains of what once had been a moat; and huge
rough stones scattered around it, spoke of the outworks the
fortification had anciently possessed, and the stout resist.
ance they had made in "the Parliament wars to the sturdy
followers of Ireton and Fairfax. The moon, that flatterer
of decay, shed its rich and softening beauty over a spot
which else had, indeed, been desolate and cheerless, and
kissed into light the long and unwaving herbage which rose
at intervals from the ruins, like the false parasites of fallen
greatness. But for Falkland the scene had no interest or
charm, and he turned with a careless and unheeding eye to
his customary apartment. It was the only one in the house
furnished with luxury, or even comfort. Large bookcases
FALKLAND.
inlaid with curious carvings in ivory; busts of the few
public characters the world had ever produced worthy, in
Falkland's estination, of the homage of posterity; elabo-
rately wrought hangings from Flemish looms; and French
fauteuils and sofas of rich damask, and massy gilding, (rel-
ics of the magnificent day of Louis Quatorze,) - bespoke
a costliness of design suited rather to Falkland's wealth
than to the ordinary simplicity of his tastes.
A large writing table was overspread with books in va-
rious languages, and upon the most opposite subjects. Let-
ters and papers were scattered among them; Falkland turned
carelessly over the latter. One of the epistolary commu-
nications was from Lord the
He smiled bit-
terly as he read the exaggerated compliments it contained,
and saw to the bottom of the shallow artifice they were
meant to conceal. He tossed the letter from him, and
opened the scattered volumes one after another with that
languid and sated feeling common to all men who have read
deeply enough to feel how much they have learned, and how
little they know. "We pass our lives," thought he, "in
sowing what we are never to reap! We endeavour to
erect a tower, which shall reach the heavens, in order to
escape one curse, and lo! we are smitten by another! We
would soar from a common evil, and from that moment we
are divided by a separate language from our race! Learning,
science, philosophy, the world of men and of imagination
I ransacked, and for what? I centred my happiness in
wisdom. I looked upon the aims of others with a scorn-
ful and loathing eye. I held commune with those who have
gone before me; I dwelt among the monuments of their
minds, and made their records familiar to me as friends:
I penetrated the womb of Nature, and went with the secret
elements to their home: I arranged the stars before me,
and learned the method and the mystery of their courses
I asked the tempest its bourn, and questioned the winds
of their path. This was not sufficient to satisfy my thirst
for knowledge, and I searched in this lower world for new
sources to content it. Unseen and unsuspected, I saw and
agitated the springs of the automaton that we call the
mind.' I found a clew for the labyrinth of human motives,
and I surveyed the hearts of those around me as through a
glass. Vanity of vanities! What have I acquired? I
have separated myself from my kind, but not from those
worst enemies, my passions! I have made a solitude
of my soul, but I have not mocked it with the appellation
of peace. In flying the herd, I have not escaped from my-
self; like the wounded deer, the barb was within me, and
that I could not fly!" With these thoughts he turned from
his reverie, and once more endeavoured to charm his own
reflections by those which ought to speak to us of quiet,
for they are graven on the pages of the dead; but his at-
tempts were as idle as before. His thoughts were still
wandering and confused, and could neither be quieted nor
collected he read, but he scarcely distinguished one page
from another: he wrote, the ideas refused to flow at his
call; and the only effort at connecting his feelings which
even partially succeeded, was in the verses which I am
about to place before the reader. It is a common property
of poetry, however imperfectly the gift be possessed, to
speak to the hearts of others in proportion as the senti-
ments it would express are felt in our own; and I subjoin
the lines which bear the date of that evening, in the hope
that, more than many pages, they will show the morbid
yet original character of the writer, and the particular
sources of feeling from which they took the bitterness that
pervades them :—
KNOWLEDGE
Ergo hominum genus incassum frustraque laboret,
Semper, et in curis consummit inanibus ævum. · Lucret.
<<
'Tis midnight! Round the lamp which o'er
My chamber sheds its lowly beam,
Is widely spread the varied lore
Which feeds in youth our feverish dream, -
-
The dream, -the thirst, the wild desire,
Delirious, yet divine,-- to know;
Around to roam, above aspire,
And drink the breath of heaven below!
"Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant."-Tacitus.
"They make reolit 12, and call it peace.'
."- Byron.
From ocean,- earth, the stars, --
To lift mysterious Nature's pall;
And bare before the kindling eye
in MAN the darkest mist of all!
Alas! what boots the midnight oil?
the sky
The madness of the struggling mind?
Oh, vague the hope, and vain the toil,
Which only leaves us doubly blind?
What learn we from the past? — the same
Dull course of glory, guilt, and gloom:
I asked the future, and there came
No voice from its unfathomed womb.
The sun was silent, and the wave;
The air but answered with its breath;
But earth was kind; and from the grave
Arose the eternal answer, - Death!
And this was all! We need no sage
To teach us Nature's only truth;
Oh fools! o'er wisdom's idle page
To waste the hours of golden youth!
In science wildly do we seek
What only withering years should bring,
The languid pulse, the feverish cheek,-
The spirits drooping on their wing!
To think, is but to learn to groan,
To scorn what all besides adore,
To feel amid the world alone,
An alien on a desert shore;
To lose the only ties which seem
To idle gaze in mercy given !
To find love, faith, and hope a dream,
And turn to dark despair from heaven!
I pass on to a wilder period of my history. The pas
sion, as yet only revealed by the eye, was now to be recorded
by the lip; and the scene, which witnessed the first con-
fession of the lovers, was worthy of the last conclusion of
their loves!
E was about twelve miles from a celebrated cliff
on the seashore, and Lady Margaret had long proposed an
excursion to a spot, curious alike for its natural scenery
and the legends attached to it. A day was at length fixed
for accomplishing this plan. Falkland was of the party.
In searching for something in the pockets of the carriage,
his hand met Emily's, and involuntarily pressed it. She
withdrew it hastily, but he felt it tremble. He did not
dare to look up that single contact had given him a new
life intoxicated with the most delicious sensations, he
leaned back in silence. A fever had entered his veins,
the thrill of the touch had gone like fire into his system,
all his frame seemed one nerve.
Lady Margaret talked of the weather and the prospect,
wondered how far they had got, and animadverted on the
roads, till at last, like a child, she talked herself to rest.
Mrs. Dalton read" Guy Mannering;" but neither Emily
nor her lover had any occupation or thought in common
with their companions; silent and absorbed, they were
only alive to the vivid existence of the present. Constant-
ly engaged as we are in looking behind us or before, if
there be one hour in which we feel only the time being, -
in which we feel sensibly that we live, and that those mo-
ments of the present are full of the enjoyment, the rapture
of existence, it is when we are with the one person
whose life and spirits have become the great part and prin-
ciple of our own. They reached their destination, a small
iun close by the shore. They rested there a short time,
and then strolled along the sands toward the cliff. Since
Falkland had known Emily, her character was much
altered. Six weeks before the time I write of, and in
playfulness and lightness of spirits, she was almost a child;
now those indications of an unawakened heart had mel-
lowed into a tenderness full of that melancholy so touching
and holy, even amid the voluptuous softness which it
breathes and inspires. But this day, whether from that
coquetry so common to all women, or from some cause
more natural to her, she seemed gayer than Falkland ever
remembered to have seen her. She ran over the sands,
picking up shells, and tempting the waves with her small
and fairy feet, not daring to look at him, and yet speaking
to him at times with a quick tone of levity which hurt and
offended him, even though he knew the depth of those feel-
ings she could not disguise either from him or from herself,
By degrees his answers and remarks grew cold and sarcas-
tic. Emily affected pique; and when it was discovered
that the cliff was still early two miles off, she refused to
398
BULWER'S NOVELS.
proceed any further. Lady Margaret talked her at last
into consent, and they walked on as sullenly as an English
party of pleasure possibly could do, till they were within
three quarters of a mile of the place, when Emily declared
she was so tired that she really could not go on. Falkland
looked at her, perhaps, with no very amiable expression
of countenance, when he perceived that she seemned really
pale and fatigued; and when she caught his eyes, tears
rushed into her own.
I adore
All
my lips never should have revealed. I love,
you! Turn not away from me thus.
Turn not away from me thus. In life our persons
were severed; if our hearts are united in death, then death
will be sweet." She turned, her cheek was no longer
pale! He rose, he clasped her to his bosom: his lips
pressed hers. Oh! that long, deep, burning pressure!
youth, love, life, soul, all concentrated in that one kiss
Yet the same cause which occasioned the avowal, hallow-
ed also the madness of his heart What had the passion,
Indeed, indeed, Mr. Falkland," said she, eagerly, declared only at the approach of death, with the nore
"this is not affectation. I am very tired; but rather than earthly desires of life? They looked to heaven, — it was
prevent your amusement, I will endeavour to go on. "Non-calm and unclouded: the evening lay there in its balm and
sense, child," said Lady Margaret, "you do seem tired. perfume, and the air was less agitated than their sighs.
Mrs. Dalton and Falkland shall go to the rock, and I will They turned towards the beautiful sea which was to be
stay here with you." This proposition, however, Lady their grave: the wild birds flew over it exultingly; the
Emily (who knew Lady Margaret's wish to see the rock) far vessels seemed "rejoicing to run their course.
would not hear of; she insisted upon staying by herself. was full of the breath, the glory, the life of nature; and
"Nobody will run away with me; and I can very easily in how many minutes was all to be as nothing! Their
amuse myself with picking up shells till you come back.” existence would resemble the ships that have gone down at
After a long remonstrance, which produced no effect, this sea in the very smile of the element that destroyed them.
plan was at last acceded to. With great reluctance Falk- They looked into each others' eyes, and they drew still
land set off with his two companions; but after the first nearer together. Their hearts, in safety apart, mingled
step, he turned to look back. He caught her eye, and felt in peril, and became one. Minutes rolled on, and the
from that moment that their reconciliation was sealed. great waves came dashing round them. They stood on
They arrived, at last, at the cliff. Its height, its excava- the loftiest eminence they could reach. The spray broke
tions, the romantic interest which the traditions respecting over their feet: the billows rose, rose, - they were
it had inspired, fully repaid the two women for the fatigue speechless. He thought he heard her heart beat, but her
of their walk. As for Falkland, he was unconscious of lip trembled not. A speck, -a boat! "Look up, Emi-
every thing around him; he was full of "sweet and bitterly! look up! See how it cuts the waters ! Nearer!
thoughts." In vain the man whom they found loitering
there, in order to serve as a guide, kept dinning in his ear
atories of the marvellous, and exclamations of the sublime.
The first words which aroused him were these,
"It's
ucky, please your honor, that you have just saved the tide.
It is but last week that three poor people were drowned in
attempting to come here; as it is, you will have to go
home round the cliff." Falkland started: he felt his heart
stand still. "Good God!" cried Lady Margaret,
"what
will become of Emily?
to
p
nearer! but a little longer, and we are safe. It is but a
few yards off, it approaches, it touches the rock!"
Ah! what to them henceforth was the value of life, when
the moment of discovering its charm became also the date
of its misfortunes, and when the death they had escaped
was the only method of cementing their union without
consummating their guilt?
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO THE HON
FREDERICK MONKTON.
WILL write to you at length to-morrow. Events
have occurred to alter, perhaps, the whole complexion of
the future.
the future. I am now going to Emily to propose to her to
fly. We are not les gens du monde, who are ruined by the
loss of public opinion. She has felt that I can be to her
far more than the world; and as for me, what would I not
forfeit for one touch of her hand?
EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
༧
Friday. Since I wrote yesterday in these pages the
narrative of our escape, I have done nothing but think
over those moments, too dangerous because too dear; but
at last I have steeled my heart, I have yielded to my
own weakness too long, I shudder at the abyss from
which I have escaped. I can yet fly. He will come here
to-day, he shall receive my farewell.
They were at that instant in one of the caverns, where
they had already been loitering too long. Falkland rushed
out to the sands. The tide was hurrying in with a deep
sound, which came on his soul like a knell. He looked
back toward the way they had come not one hundred
yards distant, and the waters had already covered the path!
An eternity would scarcely atone for the horror of that
moment! One great characteristic of Falkland was his
presence of mind. He turned to the man who stood beside
him, he gave him a cool and exact description of the
spot where he had left Emily. He told him to repair with
all possible speed to his home, to launch his boat,
row it to the place he had described. "Be quick," he
added, “and you must be in time: if you are, you shall
never know poverty again." The next moment he was
already several yards from the spot. He run, or rather
flew, till he was stopped by the waters. He rushed in;
they were over a hollow between two rocks, they were Saturday morning, four o'clock. I have sat in this room
already up to his chest. "There is yet hope," thought alone since eleven o'clock. I cannot give vent to my feel-
he, when he had passed the spot, and saw the smooth sandings; they seem as if crushed by some load from which it
before him. For some minutes he was scarcely sensible
of existence; and then he found himself breathless at her
feet. Beyond, towards T, (the small inn 1 spoke of,)
the waves had already reached the foot of the rocks, and
precluded all hope of return. Their only chance was the
possibility that the waters had not yet rendered impassable
ine hollow through which Falkland had just waded. He
scarcely spoke; at least, he was totally unconscious of
what he said. He hurried her on breathless and trem-
bling, with the sound of the booming waters ringing in his
ear, and their billows advancing to his very feet. They
arrived at the hollow: a single glance sufficed to show
him that their solitary hope was past! The waters, be-
fore up to his chest, had swelled considerably: he could
not swim. He saw in that instant that they were girt
with a hastening and terrible death. Can it be believed
that with that certainty ceased his fear? He looked in
the pale but calm countenance of her who clung to him,
and a strange tranquillity, even mingled with joy, possess-
ed him. Her breath was on his cheek, her form was
reclining on his own, his hand clasped hers: if they
were to die, it was thus. What could life afford to him
more dear? "It is in this moment," said be, and he
knilt as he spoke, "that I dare tell you what otherwise
he
is impossible to rise. "He is gone, and for ever!" I sit
repeating those words to myself, scarcely conscious of their
meaning. Alas! when to-morrow comes, and the next day,
and the next, and yet I see him not, I shall awaken, in-
deed, to all the agony of my loss! He came here,
saw me alone, he implored me to fly. I did not dare to
meet his eyes. I hardened my heart against his voice. I
knew the part I was to take, I have adopted it; but
what struggles, what misery has it not occasioned me!
Who could have thought it had been so hard to be virtuous!
His eloquence drove me from one defence to another, and
then I had none but his mercy. I opened my heart, -I
showed him its weakness, I implored his forbearance
My tears, my anguish convinced him of my sincerity. We
have parted in bitterness, but, thank heaven, not in guilt!
He has entreated permission to write to me. How could
I refuse him? Yet I may not, cannot write to him again!
How could 1, indeed, suffer my heart to pour forth one of
its feelings in reply? For would there be one word of re
gret, or one term of endearment, which my inmost sou
would not echo ?
Sunday. Yes, that day, - but I must not think of
this; my very religion I dare not indulge. Oh God! how
wretched I am!
wretched I am! His visit was always the great era in the
FALKLAND.
319
day; it employed all my hopes till he came, and all my
memory when he was gone. I sit now and look at the
place he used to fill, till I feel the tears rolling silently down
my cheek; they come without an effort, they depart with-
out relief.
Monday. Henry asked me where Mr. Falkland was
gone; I stooped down to hide my confusion. When shall
I hear from him? To-morrow? Oh that it were come!
I have placed the clock before me, and I actually count the
and I actually count the
minutes. He left a book here; it is a volume of “Mel-
moth." I have read over every word of it; and whenever
I have come to a pencil-mark by him, I have paused to
dream over that varying and eloquent countenance, the soft,
low tone of that tender voice, till the book has fallen from
my hands, and I have started to find the utterness of my
desolation!
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
Hotel, London.
For the first time in my life I write to you!
How my
hand trembles, how my cheek flushes! a thousand thou-
and thoughts rush upon me, and almost suffocate me with
the variety and confusion of the emotions they awaken! I
am agitated alike with the rapture of writing to you, and
with the impossibility of expressing the feelings which I can-
not distinctly unravel even to myself. You love me, Emily,
and yet I have fled from you, and at your command; but
the thought that, though absent, I am not forgotten, sup-
ports me through all.
It was with a feverish sense of weariness and pain that
I found myself entering this vast reservoir of human vices.
I became at once sensible of the sterility of that polluted
soil so incapable of nurturing affection, and I clasped your
image the closer to my heart. It is you, who, when I was
nost weary of existence, gifted me with a new life. You
breathed into me a part of your own spirit; my soul feels
hat influence, and becomes more sacred. I have shut my-
elf from the idlers who would molest me: I have built a
emple in my heart: I have set within it a divinity; and
he vanities of the world shall not profane the spot which
as been consecrated to you. Our parting, Emily,
do
you recall it? Your hand clasped in mine; your cheek
esting, though but for an instant, on my bosom; and the
ears which love called forth, but which virtue purified even
at their source. Never were hearts so near, yet so divid-
ed; never was there an hour so tender, yet so unaccompa-
ied with danger. Passion, grief, madness, all sank be-
heath your voice, and lay hushed like a deep sea within my
Soul ! Tu abbia veduto il leone ammansarsi alla sola tua
loce." *
I tore myself from you; I hurried through the wood; I
stood by the lake, on whose banks I had so often wandered
with you; I bared my breast to the winds; I bathed my
emples with the waters. Fool that I was! the fever, the
ever was within! But it is not thus, my adored and
beautiful friend, that I should console and support you.
Even as I write, passion melts into tenderness, and pours
tself in softness over your remembrance. The virtue so
gentle, yet so strong; the feelings so kind, yet so holy; the
ears which wept over the decision your lips proclaimed,
these are the recollections which come over me like dew.
Let your own heart, my Emily, be your reward; and know
your lover only forgets that he adores, to remember that
le respects you
hat
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
Park.
I COULD not bear the tumult and noise of London. I
righed for solitude, that I might muse over your remem-
brance undisturbed. I came here yesterday. It is the
one of my childhood. I am surrounded on all sides by
be scenes and images consecrated by the fresh recollec-
ions of my unsullied years. They are not changed. The
easons which come and depart renew in them the havoc
which they make. If the December destroys, the April
revives; but man has but one spring, and the desolation of
the heart but one winter ! In this very room have I sat
and brooded over dreams and hopes which, but no mat-
those dreams could never show me a vision to equal
you, or those hopes hold out to me a blessing so precious as
four love.
er,
Do you remember, or rather can you ever forget, that
* Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis
|
I
moment in which the great depths of our souls were re-
vealed? Ah! not in the scene in which such vows should
have been whispered to your ear, and your tenderness have
blushed its reply. The passion concealed in darkness was
revealed in danger; and the love which in life was forbid-
den, was our comfort amid the terrors of death! And that
long and holy kiss, the first, the only moment in which our
lips shared the union of our souls! do not tell me that it
is wrong to recall it! do not tell me that I sin, when
own to you the hours I sit alone, and nurse the delirium of
that voluptuous remembrance. The feelings you have ex-
cited may render me wretched, but not guilty; for the love
of you can only hallow the heart, it is a fire which con-
secrates the altar on which it burns. I feel even from the
hour that I loved, that my soul has become more pure
could not have believed that I was capable of so unearthly
an affection, or that the love of woman could possess that
divinity of virtue which I worship in yours. The world is
no fosterer of our young visions of purity and passion: em-
barked in its pursuits, and acquainted with its pleasures,
while the latter sated me with what is evil, the former made
me incredulous to what is pure. I considered your sex as
a problem which my experience had already solved. Like
the French philosophers, who lose truth by endeavouring to
condense it, and who forfeit the moral from their regard to
aphorisms and antitheses; and I did not dream of the ex-
the maxim, I concentrated my knowledge of women into
conclusion.
ceptions, if I did not find myself deceived in the general
conclusion. I confess that I erred: I renounce from this
moment the colder reflections of my manhood,
of a bitter experience, - the wisdom of an inquiring, yet
of beauty and love; and I dedicate them upon the altar e
agitated life. I return with transport to iny earliest visions
my soul to you, who have imbodied, and concentrated, and
breathed them into life!
the fruits
EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
I
Monday. This is the most joyless day in the whole
week, for it can bring me no letters from him. I rise list-
lessly, and read over again and again the last letter received
from him, useless task! it is graven in my heart!
long only for the day to be over, because to-morrow I may,
perhaps, hear from him again. When I wake at night
from my disturbed and broken sleep, I look if the morning
is near; not because it gives light and life, but because it
may bring tidings of him. When his letter is brought to
me, I keep it for minutes unopened, I feed my eyes on
the handwriting, I examine the seal,- I press it with
my kisses, before I indulge myself in the luxury of reading
it. I then place it in my bosom, and take it thence only
to read it again and again, to moisten it with my tears
of gratitude and love, and, alas! of penitence and remorse!
What can be the end of this affection? I dare neither to
hope that it may continue, or that it may cease; in either
case I am wretched for ever!
-
no,
.
Monday night, twelve o'clock. They observe my pale-
ness; the tears which tremble in my eyes; the listness-
ness and dejection of my manner. I think Mrs. Dalton
guesses the cause. Humbled and debased in my own mind,
I fly, Falkland, for refuge, to you! Your affection cannot
raise me to my former state, but it can reconcile,
not reconcile, but support me in my present. This dear
letter, I kiss it again,-oh! that to-morrow were come!
Tuesday.-Another letter,—so kind, so tender, so encour-
aging: would that I deserved his praises! alas! I sin even in
reading them. I know that I ought to struggle more against
my feelings, once I attempted it; I prayed to heaven to
support me; I put away from me every thing that could
recall him to my mind, for three days I would not open
his letters. I could then resist no longer, and my weakness
became the more confirmed from the feebleness of the
struggle. I remember one day that he told us of a beauti-
ful passage in one of the ancients, in which the bitterest
curse against the wicked is, that they may see virtue, but
not be able to obtain it !*
that punishinent is mine!
Wednesday. My boy has been with me; I see hi
running after every butterfly which comes across him.
now from the windows gathering the field-flowers, and
Formerly he made all my delight and occupation; now he
is even dearer to me than ever; but he no longer engrosses
all my thoughts. I turn over the leaves of this journal
* Persius.
400
BULWER'S NOVELS.
once it noted down the little occurrences of the day; it
marks nothing now but the monotony of sadness. He is
not here, he cannot come. What event then could I
notice?
that he has been sworn to ne on my death-bed to the most
sacred of earthly altars."
Some months since, when I arrived in England, before
I ventured to find him out in person, I resolved to inquire
into his character. Had he been as the young and rich
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO LADY EMILY generally are, had dissipation become habitual to him,
you,
MANDEVILLE. *
Park.
IF you knew how I long, how I thirst for one word from
one word to say you are well, and have not forgot-
ten me! — but I will not distress you. You will guess my
feelings, and do justice to the restraint I impose on them,
when I make no effort to alter your resolution not to write.
I know that it is just, and I bow to my sentence; but can
you blame me if I am restless, and if I repine? It is past
twelve. I always write to you at night. It is then, my
own love, that my imagination can the more readily trans-
port me to you it is then that my spirit holds with you a
more tender and undivided commune. In the day the world
can force itself upon my thoughts, and its trifles usurp
place which I love to keep for only thee and heaven;
but in the night all things recall you the more vividly the
stillness of the gentle skies, the blandness of the un-
broken air, the stars so holy in their loveliness,
speak and breathe to me of you. I think your hand is
clasped in mine; that I again drink the low music of your
voice, and imbibe again in the air the breath which has
been perfumed by your lips. You seem to stand in my
lonely chamber in the light and stillness of a spirit, who
has wandered on earth to teach us the love which is felt in
heaven.
once.
the
all
I cannot, believe me, I cannot endure this separation
long; it must be more or less. You must be mine for ever,
or our parting must be without a mitigation, which is rather
a cruelty than a relief. If you will not accompany me, I
will leave this country alone. I must not wean myself from
your image by degrees, but break from the enchantment at
And when, Emily, I am once more upon the world,
when no tidings of my fate shall reach your ear, and all its
power of alienation be left to the progress of time, then,
when you will at last have forgotten me, when your peace
of mind will be restored, and having no struggles of con-
science to undergo, you will have no remorse to endure ;
then, Emily, when we are indeed divided, let the scene
which had witnessed our passion, the letters which have
recorded my vow,
my vow, the evil which we have suffered, and the
temptation we have overcome; let these, in our old age, be
remembered, and in declaring to heaven that we were
innocent, add also, that we loved.
FROM DON ALPHONZO D'AGUILAR TO DON
London.
OUR cause gains ground daily. The great, indeed the
only ostensible, object of my mission is nearly fulfilled;
but I have another charge and attraction which I ain now
about to explain to you. You know that my acquaintance
with the English language and country arose from my sis-
ter's marriage with Mr. Falkland. After the birth of their
only child I accompanied them to England: I remained
with them for three years, and I still consider those days
among the whitest in my restless and agitated career. I
returned to Spain; I became engaged in the troubles and
dissensions which distracted my unhappy country. — Years
rolled on, how I need not mention to you. One night they
put a letter in my hands; it was from my sister; it was
written on her death-bed. Her husband had died sud-
denly. She loved him as a Spanish woman loves, and she
could not survive his loss. Her letter to me spoke of her
country and her son. Amid the new ties she had formed
'n England, she had never forgotten the land of her fathers.
"I have already," she said, "taught my boy to remem-
ber that he has two countries; that the one, prosperous
and free, may afford him his pleasures; that the other,
struggling and debased, demands from him his duties. If,
when he has attained the age in which you can judge of
his character, he is respectable only from his rank, and
valuable only from his wealth; if neither his head nor his
heart will make him useful to our cause, suffer him to
remain undisturbed in his prosperity here; but if, as I pre-
sage, he becomes worthy of the blood which he bears in
his veins, then I conjure you, my brother, to remind him
* Most of the letters from Falkland to Lady E. Mandeville I
have thought expedient to suppress.
to our cause.
and frivolity grown around him as a second nature, then!
should have acquiesced in the former injunction of my sis.
I find that he is perfectly acquainted with our language,
ter much more willingly than I shall now obey the latter
the general liberality of his sentiments, he is as likely to
that he has placed a large sum in our funds, and that from
espouse, as (in that case) he would be certain, from his
therefore, upon the eve of seeking him out.
high reputation for talent, to serve our cause.
I am,
I understand
that he is living in perfect retirement, in the county of
in the immediate neighbourhood of Mr. Mandeville, an
Englishman of considerable fortune, and warmly attached
Mr. Mandeville has invited me to accompany him down
to his estate for some days, and I am too anxious to see
If I
my nephew not to accept eagerly of the invitation.
can persuade Falkland to aid us, it will be by the influence
of his name, his talents, and his wealth. It is not of him
that we can ask the stern and laborious devotion to which
we have consecrated ourselves. The perfidy of friends,
the vigilance of foes, the rashness of the bold, the coward-
ice of the wavering; strife in the closet, treachery in the
senate, death in the field; these constitute the fate we
have pledged ourselves to bear. Little can any, wh.
share the contests of an agitated and distracted country are
do not endure it, imagine of the life to which those who
doomed; but if they know not our grief, neither can they
dream of our consolation. We move like the delineation
thorn, and the stings of the adder are round our feet; but
of faith, over a barren and desert soil; the rock, and the
we clasp a crucifix to our hearts for our comfort, and we
fix our eyes upon the heavens for our hope!
EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE
Wednesday. His letters have taken a different tone.
instead of soothing, they add to my distress; but I de-
serve all, all that can be inflicted upon me. I have had
a letter from Mr. Mandeville. He is coming down here
for a few days, and intends bringing some friends with
him he mentions particularly a Spaniard, the uncle of
Mr. Falkland, whom he asks me if I have seen. The Span-
iard is particularly anxious to meet his nephew, - he does
not then know that Falkland is gone. It will be some
relief to see Mr. Mandeville alone; but even then how
shall meet him? What shall I say when he observes
my paleness and alteration? I feel bowed to the very
dust.
Thursday evening. — Mr. Mandeville has arrived: for-
tunately it was late in the evening before he came, and the
darkness prevented his observing my confusion and altera-
tion. He was kinder than usual. Oh! how bitterly my
heart avenged him! He brought with him the Spaniard,
Don Alphonso d'Aguilar; I think there is a faint family
likeness between him and Falkland. Mr. Mandeville
brought also a letter from Julia. She will be here the day
after to-morrow. The letter is short, but kind: she does
not allude to him: it is some days since I heard from him.
FROM ERASMUS FALKLANI, ESQ. TỰ THE HON,
FREDERICK MONKTON.
I HAVE resolved, Monkton, to go to her again! I am
sure that it will be better for both of us to meet once
more; perhaps, to unite for ever! None who have once
loved me can easily forget me. I do not say this from
vanity, because I owe it not by being superior to, but different
from, others. I am sure that the remorse and affliction
she feels now are far greater than she would experience,
even were she more guilty, and with me. Then, at least,
she would have some one to soothe and sympathize in
whatever she might endure. To one so pure as Emily,
the full crime is already incurred. It is not the innocent
who insist upon that nice line of morality between the
thought and the action: such distinctions require reflection,
experience, deliberation, prudence of head, or coldness of
FALKLAND.
401
aeart; these are the traits not of the guileless, but the
worldly It is the affections, not the person, of a virtuous
wonran, which it is difficult to obtain: that difficulty is the
safeguard to her chastity: that difficulty I have, in this in-
stance, overcome. I have endeavoured to live without
*
Emily, but in vain. Every moment of absence only taught
me the impossibility. In twenty-four hours I shall see her
again. I feel my pulse rise into fever at the very thought.
Farewell, Monkton. My next letter, I hope, will record
my triumph.
BOOK III.
EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
Friday. JULIA is here, and so kind! She has not
mentioned his name, but she sighed so deeply, when she
saw my pale and sunken countenance, that I threw myself
into her arms and cried like a child. We had no need of
other explanation; those tears spoke at once my confession
and my repentance. No letter from him for several days!
Surely he is not ill! how miserable that thought makes
Saturday. A note has just been brought me from him.
He is come back, - here! Good heavens! how very im-
prudent! I am so agitated that I can write no more.
me !
Sunday. I have seen him! Let me repeat that sen-
tence, I have seen him. Oh, that moment! did it not
atone for all that I have suffered? I dare not write every
thing he said, but he wished me to fly with him, — him,—
what happiness, yet what guilt, in the very thought! Oh!
this foolish heart, would that it might break! I feel too
well the sophistry of his arguments, and yet I cannot resist
them. He seems to have thrown a spell over me, which
precludes even the effort to escape.
Monday, Mr. Mandeville has asked several people in
the country to dine here to-morrow, and there is to be a
ball in the evening. Falkland is of course invited. We
shall meet then, and how? I have been so little accustomed
to disguise my feelings that I quite tremble to meet him
with so many witnesses around. Mr. Mandeville has been
so harsh to me to-day; if Falkland ever looked at me so,
or ever said one such word, my heart would indeed break.
What is it Alfieri says about the two demons to whom he
is for ever a prey ? La mente e il cor in perpetua lite."
Alas! at times I start from my reveries with such a keen
sense of agony and shame! How, how am I fallen!
Tuesday. He is to come here to-day, and I shall see
hio!
Wednesday morning. The night is over, thank heaven!
Falkland came late to dinner every one else was assem-
bled. How gracefully he entered! how superior he seemed
to all the crowd that stood around him! He appeared as
if he were resolved to exert powers which he had disdained
before. He entered into the conversation not only with
such brilliancy, but with such a blandness and courtesy of
manner! There was no scorn on his lip, no haughtiness
on his forehead, nothing which showed him for a moment
conscious of his immeasurable superiority over every one
present. After dinner, as we retired, I caught his eyes.
What volumes they told! and then I had to listen to his
praises, and say nothing. I felt angry even in my pleasure,
Who but I had a right to speak of him so well?
The ball came on: I felt languid and dispirited. Falk-
and did not dance. He sat himself by me, he urged me
to O God! O God! would that I were dead!
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
How are you this morning, my adored friend? You
Deemed pale and ill when we parted last night, and I shall
be so unhappy till I hear something of you. Oh Emily,
when you listened to me with those tearful and downcast
looks, when I saw your bosom heave at every word which
I whispered in your ear; when, as I accidentally touched
your hand, I felt it tremble beneath my own; oh! was
there nothing in those moments at your heart which pleaded
for me more eloquently than words? Pure and holy as you
are, you know not, it is true, the feelings which burn and
VOL. II.
51
madden in me. When you are beside me, your nand, if it
trembles, is not on fire: your voice, if is more subdued,
does not falter with the emotions it dares not express: your
heart is not, like mine, devoured by a parching and wasting
flame your sleep is not turned by restless and turbulent
dreams from the healthful renewal, into the very consumer,
of life. No, Emily! God forbid that you should feel the
guilt, the agony which preys upon me: but, at least, in the
fond and gentle tenderness of your heart, there must be a
voice you find it difficult to silence. Amid all the fictitious
ties and fascinations of art, you cannot dismiss from your
bosom the unconquerable impulses of nature. What is it
you fear you will answer disgrace! But can you feel
it, Emily, when you share it with me? Believe me, that
the love which is nursed through shame and sorrow is of a
deeper and holier nature than that which is reared in pride,
and fostered in joy. But if not shame, it is guilt, perhaps,
which you dread? Are you then so innocent now? The
adultery of the heart is no less a crime than that of the
deed; and,
deed; and, yet I will not deceive you, it is guilt to
which I tempt you! it is a fall from the proud eminence
you hold now. I grant this, and I offer you nothing in
recompense but my love. If you loved like me, you would
feel that it was something of pride, of triumph,
dare all things, even crime, for the one to whom all things
are as naught! As for me, I know that if a voice from
heaven told me to desert you, I would only clasp you the
closer to my heart !
to
I tell you, my own love, that when your hand is in mine,
when your head rests upon iny bosom, when those soft and
thrilling eyes shall be fixed upon my own, when every sigh
shall be mingled with my breath, and every tear be kissed
away at the very instant it rises from its source, I tell
you that then you shall only feel that every pang of the past,
and every fear for the future, shall be but a new link to
bind us the firmer to each other. Emily, my life, my love,
you cannot, if you would, desert me. Who can separate
the waters which are once united, or divide the hearts
which have met and mingled into one?
Since they had once more met, it will be perceived that
Falkland had adopted a new tone in expressing his passion
for Emily. In the book of guilt another page, branded in
a deeper and more burning character, had been turned
He lost no opportunity of summoning the earthlier emotions
to the support of his cause. He wooed her fancy with the
golden language of poetry, and strove to arouse the latent
feelings of her sex by the soft magic of his voice, and the
passionate meaning it conveyed. But at times there came
over him a deep and keen sentiment of remorse; and even,
as his experienced and practised eye saw the moment of his
triumph approach, he felt that the success he was hazarding
his own soul and hers to obtain, might bring him a momen-
tary transport, but not a permanent happiness. There is
always this difference in the love of women and of men;
that in the former, when once admitted, it engrosses all the
sources of thought, and excludes every object but itself;
but in the latter, it is shared with all the former reflections
and feelings which the past yet bequeaths us, and can
neither (however powerful be its nature) constitute the
whole of our happiness or woe. The love of man in his
maturer years is not indeed so much a new emotion, as a
revival and concentration of all his departed affections to
others; and the deep and intense nature of Falkland's
passion for Emily was linked with the recollections of
whatever he had formerly cherished as tender or dear; it
402
BULWER'S NOVELS.
touched, it awoke a long chain of young and enthusiastic
feelings, which arose, perhaps, the fresher from their sluin-
ber. Who, when he turns to recall his first and fondest
associations; when he throws off, one by one, the layers of
earth and stone which have grown and hardened over the
records of the past; who has not been surprised to discover
how fresh and unimpaired those buried treasures rise again
upon his heart? They have been lain up in the storehouse
of time; they have not perished; their very concealment
has preserved them! We remove the lava, and the world of
a gone day is before us !
The evening of the day on which Falkland had written
the above letter was rude and stormy. The various streams
with which the country abounded were swelled by late
rains into an unwonted rapidity and breadth; and their
voices blended with the rushing sound of the winds, and
the distant roll of the thunder, which began at last sullenly
to subside. The whole of the scene around L- was
of that savage yet sublime character, which suited well
with the wrath of the aroused elements. Dark woods,
large tracts of uninclosed heath, abrupt variations of bill
and vale, and a dim and broken outline beyond of uninter-
rupted mountains, formed the great features of that roman-
tic country.
It was filled with the recollections of his youth, and of
the wild delight which he took then in the convulsions and
varieties of nature, that Falkland roamed abroad that even-
ing The dim shadows of years, crowded with concealed
events and corroding reflections, all gathered around his
mind, and the gloom and tempest of the night came over
him like the sympathy of a friend.
He passed a group of terrified peasants; they were cow-
ering under a tree. The oldest hid his head and shud-
dered; but the youngest looked steadily at the lightning
which played at fitful intervals over the mountain stream
that rushed rapidly by their feet. Falkland stood beside
them unnoticed and silent, with folded arms and a scornful
lip. To him, nature, heaven, earth had nothing for fear,
and every thing for reflection. In youth, thought he, (as he
contrasted the fear felt at one period of life with the indif-
ference at another,) there are so many objects to divide
and distract life, that we are scarcely sensible of the col-
lected conviction that we live. We lose the sense of what
is, by thinking rather of what is to be. But the old, who
have no future to expect, are more vividly alive to the
present, and they feel death more, because they have a more
settled and perfect impression of existence.
He left the group, and went on alone by the margin of
the winding and swelling stream. "It is (said a certain
philosopher) in the conflicts of nature that man most feels
his littleness." Like all general maxims, this is only par-
tially true. The mind, which takes its first ideas from
perception, must take also its tone from the character of
the objects perceived. In mingling our spirits with the
great elements, we partake of their sublimity; we awaken
thought from the secret depths where it had lain concealed;
our feelings are too excited to remain riveted to ourselves;
they blend with the mighty powers which are abroad; and,
as in the agitations of men, the individual arouses from
himself to become a part of the crowd, so in the convulsions
of nature we are equally awakened from the littleness of
self, to be lost in the grandeur of the conflict by which we
are surrounded.
Falkland still continued to track the stream; it wound
its way through Mandeville's grounds, and broadened at
last into the lake which was so consecrated to his recollec-
tions. He paused at that spot for some moments, looking
carelessly over the wide expanse of waters, now dark as
night, and now flashing into one mighty plain of fire be-
neath the coruscations of the lightning. The clouds swept
on in massy columns, dark and aspiring, veiling, while
they rolled up to the great heavens, like the shadows of hu-
man doubt. Oh! weak, weak was that dogma of the
philosopher! There is a pride in the storm which, accord-
ing to his doctrine, would debase us; a stirring music in
its roar; even a savage joy in its destruction: for we can
exult in a defiance of its power, even while we share in its
triumphs, in a consciousness of a superior spirit within us
Lo that which is around. We can mock at the fury of the
elements, for they are less terrible than the passions of the
heart; at the devastations of the awful skies, for they are
less desolating than the wrath of man; at the convulsions
of that surrounding nature which has no peril, no terror
to the soul, which is more indestructible and eternal than
itself. Falkland turned toward the house which contained
his world; and as the lightning revealed at intervals the
white columns of the porch, and wrapped in sheets of fire,
like a spectral throng, the tall and waving trees by which
it was encircled, and then as suddenly ceased, an "the
and
jaws of darkness" devoured up the scene; he compared,
with that bitter alchymy of feeling which resolves all into
one crucible of thought, those alternations of light and
shadow to the history of his own guilty love,
that passion
whose birth was of the womb of night; shrouded in dark-
ness, surrounded by storms, and receiving only from the
angry heavens a momentary brilliance, more terrible than
its customary gloom.
As he entered the saloon, Lady Margaret advanced
toward him. "My dear Falkland," said she,
"how good
it is in you to come in such a night! We have been watch-
ing the skies till Emily grew terrified at the lightning;
formerly it did not alarm her." And Lady Margaret
turned, utterly unconscious of the reproach she had con.
veyed, towards Emily.
Ꮒ
Did not Falkland's look turn also to that spot ? Lady
Emily was sitting by the harp which Mrs. St. John ap-
peared to be most seriously employed in tuning; her coun-
tenance was bent downward, and burning beneath the
blushes called forth by the gaze which she felt was upon
her.
There was in Falkland's character a peculiar dislike to
all outward display of less worldly emotions.
He had none
of the vanity most men have in conquest; he would not
have had any human being know that he was loved. He
was right! no altar should be so unseen and inviolable as
the human heart!
the human heart! He saw at once and relieved the em-
barrassment he had caused. With the remarkable fasci-
nation and grace of manners so peculiarly his own, he
made his excuses to Lady Margaret for his disordered
dress; he charmed his uncle, Don Alphonso, with a quo-
tation from Lopez de Vega; he inquired tenderly of Mrs.
Dalton touching the health of her Italian greyhound; and
then, -nor till then, he ventured to approach Emily,
and speak to her in that soft tone, which, like a fairy lan-
guage, is understood only by the person it addresses.
Mrs. St. John rose and left the harp; Falkland took her
He bent down to whisper Emily. His long hair
touched her cheek; it was still wet with the night dew.
She looked up as she felt it, and met his gaze: better had
it been to have lost earth than to have drunk the soul's
poison from that eye when it tempted to sin.
seat.
Mrs. St. John stood at some distance: Don Alphonso
was speaking to her of his nephew, and of his hopes of
ultimately gaining him to the cause of his mother's coun-
try. "See you not," said Mrs. St. John, and her color
went and came,
"that while he has such attractions to
detain him, your hopes are in vain ?”
"What mean
you?" replied the Spaniard; but his eye had followed the
direction she had given it, and the question came only from
his lips. Mrs. St. John drew him to a still remoter corner
of the room, and it was in the conversation that then ensu-
ed between them that they agreed to unite for the purpose
of separating Emily from her lover,-"I to save my
friend," said Mrs. St. John, "and you your kinsman."
Thus is it with human virtue, the fair show and the
good deed without, one eternal motive of selfishness
within. During the Spaniard's visit at E-——, he had
seen enough of Falkland to perceive the great consequence
he might, from his perfect knowledge of the Spanish lan-
guage, from his singular powers, and above all, from his
command of wealth, be to the cause of that party he him-
self had adopted. His aim, therefore, was now no longer
confined to procuring Falkland's good-will and aid at
home he hoped to secure his personal assistance in
Spain; and he willingly coincided with Mrs. St. John in
detaching his nephew from a tie so likely to detain him
from that service to which Alphonso wished he should be
pledged.
Mandeville had left E that morning he suspect-
ed nothing of Emily's attachment. This, on his part, was
less confidence than indifference. He was one of those
persons who have no existence separate from their own:
his senses all turned inward, they reproduced selfishness.
Even the House of Commons was only an object of inter-
est, because he imagined it a part of him, not he of it He
said, with the insect on the wheel, “ Admire our rapidity.”
FALKLAND.
403
tion.
tions to sin,
But did the defects of his character remove Lady Emily's
guilt? No! and this, at times, was her bitterest convic-
Whoever turns to these pages for an apology for sin
will be mistaken. They contain the burning records of
its sufferings, its repentance, and its doom. If there be
one crime in the history of woman worse than another, it
Is adultery. It is, in fact, the only crime to which, in or-
dinary life, she is exposed. Man has a thousand tempta-
woman has but one; if she cannot resist it,
she has no claim upon our mercy. The heavens are just
her own guilt is her punishment! Should these pages, at
this moment, meet the eyes of one who has become the
centre of a circle of disgrace, the contaminator of her
house,- the dishonorer of her children, no matter
what the excuse for crime, —no matter what the exchange
of her station, —in the very armns of her lover, in the very
cincture of the new ties which she has chosen, I call
upon her to answer me, if the fondest moments of rapture
are free from humiliation, though they have forgotten re-
morse; and if the passion itself of her lover has not be-
come no less the penalty than the recompense of her guilt?
But at that hour of which I now write, there was neither
in Emily's heart, nor in that of her seducer, any recollec-
tion of their sin. Those hearts were too full for thought,
they had forgotten every thing but each other. Their
love was their creation beyond, all was night,— chaos,
- nothing!
35
her tears.
-
Lady Margaret approached them. "You will sing to
us, Emily, to-night? it is so long since we have heard
you!
It was in vain that Emily tried, her voice fail-
ed. She looked at Falkland, and could scarcely restrain
She had not yet learned the latest art which
ein teaches us, its concealment ! "I will supply Lady
Emily's place," said Falkland.
said Falkland. His voice was calm, and
his brow serene; the world had left nothing for him to
learn. "Will you play the air," he said to Mrs. St. John,
"that you gave us some nights ago? I will furnish the
words.' Mrs. St. John's hand trembled as she obeyed.
SONG.
I.
Ah, let us love while yet we may .
Our summer is decaying:
And woe to hearts, which in their gray
December, go a Maying.
II.
Ah, let us love, while of the fire
Time hath not yet bereft us :
With years our warmer thoughts expire
Till only ice is left us!
III.
We'll fly the bleak world's bitter air,
A brighter home shall win us;
And if our hearts grow weary there,
We'll find a world within us.
IV.
They preach that passion fades each hour,
That naught will pall like pleasure:
My bee, if love's so frail a flower,
Oh, haste to hive its treasure!
V.
Wait not the hour, when all the mind
Shall to the crowd be given;
For links which to the million bind,
Shall from the one be riven.
VI.
But let us love while yet we may,
Our summer is decaying;
And woe to hearts, which in their gray
December, go a Maying.
|
66
►
She sat
St. John entered: no one else was in the room.
St. John entered:
by her, and took her hand. Her countenance was scarcely
less colorless than Emily's, but its expression was more calni
and composed. "It is not too late, Emily," she said:
you have done much that you should repent, nothing
to render repentance unavailing. Forgive me, if I speak
in a few days, your
to you on this subject. It is time,
fate will be decided. I have looked on, though hitherto I
have been silent: I have witnessed that eye when it dwelt
upon you; I have heard that voice when it spoke to your
heart. None ever resisted their influence long do you
imagine that you are the first who have found the power?
Pardon me, pardon me, I beseech you, my dearest friend,
if I pain you. I have known you from your childhood, and
I only wish to preserve you spotless to your old age.
Emily wept, without replying. Mrs St. John continued
to argue and expostulate. What is so wavering as passion?
When, at last, Mrs. St. John ceased, and Emily shed upon
her bosom the hot tears of her anguish and repentance, she
imagined that her resolution was taken, and that she could
almost have vowed an eternal separation from her lover:
Falkland came that evening, and she loved him more madly
than before.
Mrs. St. John was not in the saloon when Falkland
CC
He
entered. Lady Margaret was reading the well-known
in whici.
story of Lady T— and the Duchess of M
an agreement had been made and kept, that the one who
died first should return once more to the survivor. As
Lady Margaret spoke laughingly of the anecdote, Emily.
who was watching Falkland's countenance, was struck.
with the dark and sudden shade which fell over it.
moved in silence toward the window where Emily was
sitting. Do you believe," she said, with a faint smile.
"in the possibility of such an event?" "I believe, -
though I reject, nothing?" replied Falkland, "but I
would give worlds for such a proof that death does not
destroy." "Surely," said Emily, "you do not deny that
evidence of our immortality which we gather from the
Scriptures? are they not all that a voice from the dead
could be?" Falkland was silent for a few moments: he
his eyes
did not seem to hear the question; his
dwelt upon
vacancy; and when he at last spoke, it was rather in com-
mune with himself than in answer to her. "I have
watched," said he, in a low, internal voice, "over the
tomb; I have called, in the agony of my heart, unto her
who slept beneath; I would have dissolved my very soul
into a spell, could it have summoned before me for one, one
moment, the being who had once been the spirit of my life!
I have been, as it were, entranced with the intensity of my
own adjuration; I have gazed upon the empty air, and
worked upon my mind to fill it with imaginings; I have
called aloud unto the winds, and tasked my soul to waken
their silence to reply. All was a waste, a stillness,-
without a wanderer or a voice! The dead
an infinity,
answered me not, when I invoked them; and in the vigils
of the still night I looked from the rank grass and the
mouldering stones to the eternal heavens, as man looks
from decay to immortality! Oh! that awful magnificence
of repose,
that living sleep, that breathing, yet unre-
vealing divinity, spread over those still worlds! To them
also I poured my thoughts, but in a whisper. I did no
dare to breathe aloud the unhallowed anguish of my mind
to the majesty of the unsympathizing stars! In the vast
order of creation, in the midst of the stupendous system
of universal life,—my doubt and inquiry were murmured
forth, -a voice crying in the wilderness, and returning with-
out an echo unanswered unto myself!”
—
The deep light of the summer moon shone over Faik-
land's countenance, which Emily gazed on, as she listened,
almost tremblingly, to his words. His brow was kuit and
hueless, and the large drops gathered slowly over it, as if
The next day Emily rose ill and feverish. In the ab-wrung from the strained yet impotent tension of the thoughts
sence of Falkland, her mind always awoke to the full sense
of the guilt she had incurred. She had been brought up in
the strictest, even the most fastidious principles; and her
nature was so pure, that merely to err appeared like a
change in existence, like an entrance into some new and
unknown world, from which she shrank back, in terror, to
herself.
Judge, then, if she easily habituated her mind to its
present degradation. She sat, that morning, pale and
listless her book lay unopen before her; her eyes were
fixed upon the ground, heavy with suppressed tears. Mrs.
within. Emily drew nearer to him, she laid her hand
upon his own. "Listen to me," she said: "if a herald
from the grave could satisfy your doubt, I would gladly die
that I might return to you!" Beware," said Falkland,
with an agitated but solemn voice;
"the words now so
lightly spoken, may be registered on high." "Be it so ! "
replied Emily, firmly, and she felt what she said. Her
love penetrated beyond the tomb, and she would have for-
feited all here for their union hereafter.
"In my earliest youth, said Falkland, more calmly thar
he had yet spoken, "I found in the present and the pas
401
BULWER'S NOVELS.
:
of this world enough to direct my attention to the futurity
of another if I did not credit all with the enthusiast, I had
no sympathies with the scorner: I sat myself down to ex-
amine and to reflect: I pored alike over the pages of the
philosopher and the theologian; I was neither baffled by
the subtleties, nor deterred by the contradictious of either.
As men first ascertain the geography of the earth by
observing the sigus of the heavens, I did homage to the
unknown God, and sought from that worship to inquire
into the reasonings of mankind. I did not confine myself
to books, all things breathing or inanimate constituted
my study. From death itself I endeavoured to extract its
secret; and whole nights I have sat in the crowded asylums
of the dying, watching the last spark flutter and decay.
Men die away as in sleep, without effort, or struggle, or
emotion. I have looked on their countenances a moment
before death, and the serenity of repose was upon them,
waxing only more deep as it approached that slumber which
is never broken the breath grew gentler and gentler, till
the lips it came from fell from each other, and all was
hushed; the light had departed from the cloud, but the
cloud itself, gray, cold, altered as it seemed, was as before.
They died, and made no sign. They had left the labyrinth
without bequeathing us its clew. It is in vain that I have
sent my spirit into the land of shadows, it has borne
back no witness of its inquiry. As Newton said of himself,
I picked up a few shells by the seashore, but the great
ocean of truth lay undiscovered before me.'"
•
There was a long pause. Lady Margaret had sat down
to chess with the Spaniard. No look was upon the lovers:
their eyes met, and with that one glance the whole current
of their thoughts was changed. The blood which a mo-
ment before had left Falkland's cheek so colorless, rushed
back to it again. The love which had so penetrated and
pervaded his whole system, and which abstruser and colder
reflection had just calmed, thrilled through his frame with
redoubled power. As if by an involuntary and mutual im-
pulse, their lips met: he threw his arm around her; he
strained her to his bosom. "Dark as my thoughts are,
he whispered, "evil as has been my life, will you not yet
soothe the one and guide the other? My Emily! my
love! the heaven to the tumultuous ocean of my heart,
will
you not be mine, mine only, wholly, and for ever?”
She did not answer,
she did not turn from his embrace.
Her cheek flushed as his breath stole over it, and her bosom
heaved beneath the arm waich encircled that empire so de-
voted to him. "Speak one word, one only word," he
continued to whisper: "will you not be mine? Are you
not mine at heart even at this moment?" Her head sank
upon his bosom. Those deep and eloquent eyes looked up
to his through their dark lashes. "I will be yours," she
murmured: "I am at your mercy; I have no longer any
existence but in you. My only fear is, that I shall cease
to be worthy of your love."
Falkland pressed his lips once more to her own: it was his
only answer, and the last seal to their compact. As they
stood before the open lattice, the still and unconscious moon
looked down upon that record of guilt. There was not a
cloud in the heavens to dim her purity: the very winds of
night had bushed themselves to do her homage: all was silent
but their hearts. They stood beneath the calm and holy skies,
a guilty and devoted pair, a fearful contrast of the sin and
turbulence of this unquiet earth to the passionless serenity
of the eternal heaven. The same stars, that for thousands
of unfathomed years had looked upon the changes of this
nether world, gleamed pale, and pure, and steadfast upon
their burning but transitory vow. In a few years what of
the condemnation or the recorders of that vow would re-
main? From other lips, on that spot, other oaths might
be plighted; new pledges of unchangeable fidelity ex-
changed; and, year after year, in each succession of scene
and time, the stars will look from the mystery of their un-
tracked and impenetrable home, to mock, as now, with their
immutability, the variations and shadows of mankind !
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
AT length, then, you are to be mine, -you have con-
sented to fly with me. In three days we shall leave this
country, and have no home, no world but in each other.
We will go, my Emily, to those golden lands where nature,
|
the only companion we will suffer, woos us, like a mother,
to find our asylum in her breast; where the breezes are
languid beneath the passion of the voluptuous skies; and
where the purple light that invests all things with its glory,
is only less tender and consecrating than the spirit which
we bring. Is there not, my Emily, in the external nature
which reigns over creation, and that human nature centred
in ourselves, some secret and undefinable intelligence and
attraction! Are not the impressions of the former as spells
over the passions of the latter? and, in gazing
upon the
loveliness around us, do we not gather, as it were, and store
within our hearts, an increase of the yearning and desire
of love? What can we demand from earth but its soli-
tudes, what from heaven but its unpolluted air? All
that others would ask from either, we can find in ourselves.
Wealth, honor, happiness, every object of ambition or
desire, exist not for us without the circle of our arms! But
the bower that surrounds us shall not be unworthy of your
beauty or our love. Amid the myrtle, and the vine, and the
valleys where the summer sleeps, and the rivers that mur-
mur the memories and the legends of old; amid the hills
and the glossy glades, and the silver fountains, still al' as
beautiful as if the nymph and spirit yet held and decorated
an earthly home; amid these we will make the coucr of
our bridals, and the moon of Italian skies shall keep watch
on our repose.
Emily Emily! — how I love to repeat and to linger
over that beautiful name! If to see, to address, and, more
than all, to touch you, has been a rapture, what word can I
find in the vocabulary of happiness to express the realiza
tion of that hope which now burns within me, to mingle
our youth together into one stream, wheresoever it flows;
to respire the same breath; to be almost blended in the
same existence; to grow, as it were, on one stem, and knit
into a single life the feelings, the wishes, the being of both.
To-night I shall see you again; let one day more inter-
vene, and
I cannot conclude the sentence! As I have
written, the tumultuous happiness of hope has come over
me to confuse and overwhelm every thing else. At this
moment my pulse riots with fever; the room swims before
my eyes; every thing is indistinct and jarring,—a chaos
of emotions. Oh that happiness should ever have such
excess !
M
When Emily received and laid this letter to her heart,
she felt nothing in common with the spirit which it breathed.
With that quick transition and inconstancy of feeling so
common in women, and which is as frequently their safety
as their peril, her mind had already repented of the weak-
ness of the last evening, and relapsed into the irresolution
and bitterness of her former remorse. Never had there
been in the human breast a stronger contest between_con-
science and passion; if, indeed, the extreme softness
(notwithstanding its power) of Emily's attachment could
be called passion: it was rather a love that had refined by
the increase of its own strength; it contained nothing but
the primary guilt of conceiving it, which that order of an-
gels, whose nature is love, would have sought to purify away.
To see him, to live with him, to count the variations of his
countenance and voice, to touch his hand at moments when
waking, and watch over his slumbers when he slept,
was the essence of her wishes, and constituted the limit to
her desires. Against the temptations of the present was
opposed the whole history of the past. Her mind wandered
from each to each, wavering and wretched, as the impulse
of the moment impelled it. "Hers was not, indeed, a strong
character; her education and habits had weakened, while
they rendered more feminine and delicate, a mature origi-
nally too soft. Every recollection of former purity called
to her with the loud voice of duty, as a warning from the
great guilt she was about to incur; and whenever she
thought of her child, — that centre of fond and sinless sen-
sations, where once she had so wholly garnered up her
heart, her feelings melted at once from the object which
had so wildly held them riveted as by a spell, to dissolve
and lose themselves in the great and sacred fountain of a
mother's love.
this
When Falkland came that evening, she was sitting at a
corner of the saloon, apparently occupied in reading, but
her eyes were fixed upon her boy, whom Mrs. St. John
was endeavouring at the opposite end of the room to amuse
The child, who was fond of Falkland, came up to him as
he entered: Falkland stooped to kiss him; and Mrs. S
FALKLAND.
405
said
John said, in a low voice, which just reached his ear,
"Judas, too, kissed before he betrayed." Falkland's
color changed he felt the sting the words were intended
to convey. On that child, now so innocently caressing
him, he was indeed about to inflict a disgrace and injury
the most sensible and irremediable in his power. But who
ever indulges reflection in passion? He banished the re-
morse from his mind as instantaneously as it arose; and,
seating himself by Emily, endeavoured to inspire her with
a portion of the joy and hope which animated himself.
Mrs. St. John watched them with a jealous and anxious
eye: she had already seen how useless had been her for-
mer attempt to arm Emily's conscience effectually against
her lover; but she resolved at least to renew the impression
she had then made. The danger was imminent, and any
remedy must be prompt; and it was something to protract,
even if she could not finally break off, a union against
which were arrayed all the angry feelings of jealousy,
as well as the better affections of the friend. Emily's eye
was already brightening beneath the words that Falk-
land whispered in her ear, when Mrs. St. John approached
her. She placed herself on a chair beside them, and, un-
mindful of Falkland's bent and angry brow, attempted to
create a general and commonplace conversation. Lady
Margaret had invited two or three people in the neighbour-
hood; and when these came in, music and cards were re-
sorted to immediately, with that English politesse, which
takes the earliest opportunity to show that the conversation
of our friends is the last thing for which we have invited
them. But Mrs. St. John never left the lovers; and, at
last, when Falkland, in despair at her obstinacy, arose to
join the card-table, she said, "Pray, Mr. Falkland, were
you not intimate at one time with ****, who eloped
with Lady *** ? ” "I knew him bat slightly,'
Falkland; and then added, with a sneer, "the only times
I ever met him were at your house." Mrs. St. John, with-
out noticing the sarcasm, continued : "What an unfor-
tunate affair that proved! They were very much attached
to one another in early life, the only excuse, perhaps,
for a woman's breaking her subsequent vows. They eloped.
The remainder of their history is briefly told it is that
of all who forfeit every thing for passion, and forget that
of every thing it is the briefest in duration. He who had
sacrificed his honor for her, sacrificed her also as lightly
for another. She could not bear his infidelity; but how
could she reproach him? In the very act of yielding to,
she had become unworthy of, his love. She did not re-
proach him,- she died of a broken heart! I saw her
just before her death, for I was distantly related to her,
and I could not forsake her utterly even in her sin. She
then spoke to me only of the child by her former marriage,
whom she had left in the years when it most needed her
care she questioned me of its health, its education,
its very growth: the minutest thing was not beneath ber
inquiry. His tidings were all that brought back to her
mind the redolence of joy and spring.' I brought that
child to her one day he at least, had never forgotten her.
How bitterly both wept when they were separated! and
she,-poor, poor Ellen, -an hour after their separation
was no more! There was a pause for a few minutes.
Emily was deeply affected. Mrs. St. John had anticipated
the effect she had produced, and concerted the method to
increase it. "It is singular," she resumed, "that the
øvening before her elopement, some verses were sent to her
anonymously. I do not think, Emily, that you have ever
seen them. Shall I sing them to you now?" and without
waiting for a reply, she placed herself at the piano; and
with a low but sweet voice, greatly aided in effect by the
extreme feeling of her manner, she sang the following
verses:
TO ***.
1.
And wilt the leave that happy home,
Where once it was so sweet to live?
Ah! think, before thou seek'st to roam,
What safer shelter guilt can give!
11.
The bird may rove, and still regain
With spotless wings her wonted rest;
But home, once lost, is ne'er again
Restored to woman's erring breast!
III.
If wandering o'er a world of flowers,
The heart at times would ask repose;
But thou wouldst lose the only bower
Of rest amid a world of woes.
IV
Recall thy youth's unsullied vow,
The past which on thee smiled so fair;
Then turn from thence to picture now
The frowns thy future fate must wear!
Y.
No hour, no hope, can bring relief
To her who hides a blighted name;
For hearts unbowed by stormiest grief
Will break beneath one breeze of shame!
VI.
And when thy child's deserted years
Amid life's early woes are thrown,
Shall menial bosoms soothe the tears
That should be shed on thine alone?
VII.
When on thy name his lips shall call,
(That tender name, the earliest taught !)
Thou wouldst not shame and sin were all
The memories linked around its thought.
VIII.
If sickness haunt his infant bed,
Ah! what could then replace thy care?
Could hireiing steps as gently tread
As if a mother's soul was there?
IX.
Enough! 't is not too late to shun
The bitter draught thyself wouldst fill;
The latest link is not undone;
Thy bark is in the haven still
I.
If doomed to grief through life thou art,
'T is thine at least unstained to die '
better break at once thy heart,
Than rend it from its holiest tie !
Oh
It were vain to attempt describing Emily's teet 1gs whe
the song ceased. The scene floated before her eyes indis
tinct and dark. The violence of the emotions she attempted
to conceal pressed upon her almost to choking. She rose,
looked at Falkland with one look of such anguish and de-
spair that it froze his very heart, and left the room without
uttering a word. A moment more, they heard a noise,
-a fall. They rushed out, Emily was stretched an
the ground, apparently lifeless. She had broken a biooni.
vessel !
406
BULWER'S NOVELS
BOOK IV.
FROM MRS ST. JOHN ΤΟ ERASMUS FALKLAND,
ESQ.
AT last I can give a more favorable answer to your let-
ters. Emily is now quite out of danger. Since the day
you forced yourself, with such a disinterested regard for
her health and reputation, into her room, she grew (no
thanks to your forbearance) gradually better. I trust that
she will be able to see you in a few days. I hope this the
more, because she now feels and decides that it will be for
the last time. You have, it is true, injured her happiness
for life her virtue, thank heaven, is yet spared; and
though you have made her wretched, you will never, I
trust, succeed in making her despised.
You ask me, with some menacing and more complaint,
why I am so bitter against you. I will tell you. I not
only know Emily, and feel confident, from that knowledge,
that nothing can recompense her for the reproaches of con-
science, but I know you, and am convinced that you are
the last man to render her happy. I set aside, for the mo-
ment, all rules of religion and morality in general, and
speak to you (to use the cant and abused phrase) "with-
out prejudice," as to the particular instance. Emily's
nature is soft and susceptible, yours fickle and wayward in
the extreme. The smallest change or caprice in you,
which would not be noticed by a mind less delicate, would
wound her to the heart. You know that the very softness
of her character arises from its want of strength. Consid-
er, for a moment, if she could bear the humiliation and
disgrace which visit so heavily the offences of an English
wife? She has been brought up in the strictest notions of
morality; and, in a mind not naturally strong, nothing can
efface the first impressions of education. She is not,
indeed she is not,
-fit for a life of sorrow or degradation.
In another character, another line of conduct might be de-
sirable; but with regard to her, pause, Falkland, I beseech
before you attempt again to destroy her for ever.
have
Farewell.
said all.
1
of your own; that you would, if I still continued to desire
it, leave friends, home, honor, for me; but you did not
disguise from ine that you would, in so doing, leave hap-
piness also.
piness also. You did not conceal from me that I was not
sufficient to constitute all your world: you threw yourself,
as you had done once before, upon what you called my
generosity: you did not deceive yourself then; you have
not deceived yourself now. In two weeks I shall leave
England, probably for ever. I have another country stil.
more dear to me, from its afflictions and humiliation.
Public ties differ but little in their nature from private;
and this confession of preference of what is debased to
what is exalted, will be an answer to Mrs. St. John's as-
sertion, that we cannot love in disgrace as we can in honor.
Enough of this. In the choice, my poor Emily, that you
You have done wise-
have made, I cannot reproach you.
ly, rightly, virtuously. You said that this separation must
rest rather with me than with yourself; that would
you
be mine the moment I demanded it. I will not now or
ever accept this promise. No one, much less one whom I
love so intensely, so truly as I do you, shall ever receive
disgrace at my hands, unless she can feel that that disgrace
would be dearer to her than glory elsewhere; that the
simple fate of being mine was not so much a recompense
as a reward; and that, in spite of wordly depreciation and
shame, it would constitute and concentrate all her visions
of happiness and pride. I am now going to bid you fare-
well. May you, I say this disinterestedly, and from my
very heart, may you soon forget how much you
very heart,
have
loved and yet love me! For this purpose, you cannot have
a better companion than Mrs. St. John. Her opinion of
me is loudly expressed, and probably true; at all events,
You will hear me attack-
you will do wisely to believe it.
ed and reproached by many. I do not deny the charges;
God bless
you know best what I have deserved from you.
you, Emily. Wherever I go, I shall never cease to love
you as I do now. May you be happy in your child, and
in your conscience. Once more,
Your, and, above all, Emily's friend,
Once more, God bless you, and fare
well!
J. S.
ERASMUS FALKLAND.
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO LADY EMILY
MANDEVILLE.
You will see me, Emily, now that you are recovered
sufficiently to do so, without danger. I do not ask this as
a favor. If my love has deserved any thing from yours,
if past recollections give me any claim over you, if
my na-
ture has not forfeited the spell which it formerly possessed
лpon your own, I demand it as a right.
The bearer waits for your answer.
MILY
FROM LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE
FALKLAND, ESQ.
E. F.
TO ERASMUS
SEE you, Falkland! Can you doubt it? Can you
think for a moment that your commands can ever cease to
become a law to me? Come here whenever you please.
If, during my illness, they have prevented it, it was with-
out my knowledge. I await you; but I own that this in-
terview will be the last, if I can claim any thing from
EMILY MANDEVILLE,
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO LADY EMILY
mercy.
MANDEVILLE.
your
I HAVE seen you, Emily, and for the last time. My
eyes are dry, my hand does not tremble. I live, move,
breathe as before, and yet I have seen you for the last
for the last
time! You told me, -even while you leaned on my
bosom, even while your lip pressed mine, you told me
(and I saw your sincerity) to spare you, and to see you no
You told me you had no longer any will, any fate
more.
D
FROM LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE ΤΟ ERASMUS
FALKLAND, ESQ.
O FALKLAND! you have conquered! I am yours,
yours only,- wholly and for ever. When your letter came
band trembled so that I could not open it for several
my
minutes; and when I did, I felt as if the very earth had
passed from my feet. You were going from your country;
you were about to be lost to me for ever. I could restrain
myself no longer; all my virtue, my pride, forsook me at
once. Yes, yes, you are indeed my world. I will fly with
you anywhere, everywhere. Nothing can be dreadful,
but not seeing you; I would be a servant, - a slave,
dog, as long as I could be with you; hear one tone of your
voice, catch one glance of your eye. I scarcely see the
paper before me, my thoughts are so straggling and con-
fused. Write to me one word, Falkland, -one word,
and I will lay it to my heart, and be happy.
-
a
FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ. TO LADY EMILY
Hotel, London
MANDEVILLE.
I HASTEN to you, Emily, my own and only lore.
Your letter has restored me to life. To-morrow we shall
E. F
meet.
Falkland returned to E-
It was with mingled feelings, alloyed and embittered, in
spite of the burning hope which predominated over all, that
He knew that he was near
the completion of his most ardent wishes; that he was
within the grasp of a prize which included all the thousand
objects of ambition, into which, among other men, the
desires are divided: the only dreams he had ventured to
form for years were about to kindle into life
le had
FALKLAND.
407
every reason to be happy; such is the inconsistency of
human nature, that he was almost wretched. The morbid
melancholy habitual to nim threw its colorings over every
colorings over every
emotion and idea. He knew the character of the woman
whose affections he had seduced; and he trembled to think
of the doom to which he was about to condemn her. With
this, there came over his mind a long train of dark and
remorseful recollections. Emily was not the only one whose
destruction he had prepared. All who had loved him, he
had repaid with ruin; and one, the first, the fairest,
and the most loved, with death.
That last remembrance, more bitterly than all, possessed
him. It will be recollected that Falkland, in the letters
which begin this work, speaking of the ties he had formed
after the loss of his first love, says, that it was the senses,
not the affections, that were engaged. Never, indeed, since
her death, till he met Emily, had his heart been unfaithful
to her memory. Alas! none but those who have cherished
in their souls an image of the dead; who have watched
over it for long and bitter years in secrecy and gloom;
who have felt that it was to them as a holy and fairy spot
which no eye but theirs could profane; who have filled all
things with recollections as with a spell, and made the uni-
verse one wide mausoleum of the lost, -none but those can
understand the mysteries of that regret which is shed over
every after-passion, though it be more burning and intense;
that sense of sacrilege with which we fill up the haunted
recesses of the spirit with a new and a living idol, and
perpetuate the last act of infidelity to that buried love, which
the heavens that now receive her, the earth where we be-
held her, tell us, with the unnumbered voices of nature, to
worship with the incense of our faith.
His carriage stopped at the lodge. The woman who
opened the gates gave him the following note: —
"Mr. Mandeville is returned; I almost fear that he
suspects our attachment. Julia says, that if you come
again to E
she will inform him. I dare not,
I dare not, dearest
Falkland, see you here. What is to be done? I am very
ill and feverish my brain burns so, that I can think, feel,
remember nothing, but the one thought, feeling, and remem-
brance, that through shame, and despite of guilt, in life,
and till death I am yours.
"E. M."
S
:
As Falkland read this note, his extreme and engrossing
love for Emily doubled with each word: an instant before,
and the certainty of seeing her had suffered his mind to be
divided into a thousand objects; now, doubt united them
once more into one.
He altered his route to L and despatched from
thence a short note to Emily, imploring her to meet him
that evening by the lake, in order to arrange their ultimate
flight. Her answer was brief, and blotted with her tears;
but it was assent.
During the whole of that day, at least from the moment
she received Falkland's letter, Emily was scarcely sensible
of a single idea; she sat still and motionless, gazing on
acancy, and seeing nothing within her mind, or in the
objects which surrounded her, but one dreary blank. Seuse,
thought, feeling, even remorse, were congealed and frozen;
and the tides of emotion were still, but they were ice!
As Falkland's servant had waited without to deliver the
note to Emily, Mrs. St. John had observed him her
alarm and surprise only served to quicken her presence of
mind. She intercepted Emily's answer under pretence of
giving it herself to Falkland's servant. She read it, and
her resolution was formed. After carefully resealing and
delivering it to the servant, she went at once to Mr. Man-
deville, and revealed Lady Emily's attachment to Falkland.
In this act of treachery, she was solely instigated by her
passions; and when Mandeville, roused from his wonted
apathy to a paroxysm of indignation, thanked her again
and again for the generosity of friendship which he inag-
ined was all that actuated her communication, he dreamed
not of the fierce and ungovernable jealousy which envied
the very disgrace that her confession was intended to award.
Well said the French enthusiast, “that the heart, the most
serene to appearance, resembles that calm and glassy foun-
tain which cherishes the monster of the Nile in the bosom
of its waters." Whatever reward Mrs. St. John proposed
to herself in this action, verily she has had the recompense
that was her due. Those consequences of her treachery,
which I hasten to relate, have ceased to others,
-to her
they remain Amid the pleasures of dissipation, one reflec-
|
|
tion has rankled at he mind; one dark cloud has rested
between the sunshine and her soul: like the murderer in
Shakspeare, the revel where she fled for forgetfulness bas
teemed to her with the spectres of remembrance. O thou
untameable conscience! thou that never flatterest, thou
that watchest over the human heart never to slumber or to
sleep, it is thou that takest from us the present, barrest
to us the future, and knittest the eternal chain that binds
us to the rock and the vulture of the past!
The evening came on still and dark; a breathless and
heavy oppression seemed gathered over the air; the full
large clouds lay without motion in the dull sky, from be-
tween which, at long and scattered intervals, the wan stars
looked out; a double shadow seemed to invest the grouped
and gloomy trees that stood unwavering in the melancholy
horizon. The waters of the lake lay heavy and unagi-
tated, as the sleep of death; and the broken reflections of
the abrupt and winding banks rested upon their bosoms,
like the dream-like remembrance of a former existence.
The hour of the appointment was arrived. Falkland
stood by the spot, gazing upon the lake before him; his
cheek was flushe, his hand was parched and dry with the
consuming fire within him. His pulse beat thick and
rapidly; the demon of evil passions was upon his sou
He stood so lost in his own reflections, that he did not for
some moments perceive the fond and tearful eye which was
fixed upon him on that brow and lip, thought seemed al
ways so beautiful, so divine, that to disturb its repose was
like a profanation of something holy; and though Emily
came toward him with a light and hurried step, she paused
involuntarily to gaze upon that noble countenance which
realized her earliest visions of the beauty and majesty of
love. He turned slowly, and perceived her; he came to
her with his own peculiar smile; he drew her to his bosom
in silence; he pressed his lips to her forehead: she leaned
upon his bosom, and forgot all but him. Oh! if there be
one feeling which makes love, even guilty love, a god, it is
reigns aloof and alone; and that those who are occupied
the knowledge that in the midst of this breathing world he
with his worship, know nothing of the pettiness, the strife,
the bustle, which pollute and agitate the ordinary inhabi-
tants of earth! What was now to them, as they stood
alone in the deep stillness of nature, every thing that had
engrossed them before they had met and loved? Even in
her the recollections of guilt and grief subsided: she was
only sensible of one thought, the presence of the being
who stood beside her,
"That ocean to the rivers of her soul."
They sat down beneath an oak; Falkland stooped to kiss
the cold and pale cheek that still rested upon his breast.
His kisses were like lava; the turbulent and stormy ele-
ments of sin and desire were aroused even to madness with-
in him. He clasped ber still nearer to his bogom; her lips
answered to his own; they caught perhaps something of
the spirit which they received her eyes were half closed;
the bosom heaved wildly that was pressed to his beating
and burning heart. The skies grew darker and darker as
the night stole over them: one low roll of thunder broke
upon the curtained and heavy air, they did not hear it
and yet it was the knell of
lost, lost for ever to their souls!
peace, virtue, hope,
*
M
;
over
a
They separated as they had never done before. In Edy'a
bosom there was a dreary void,
which there went a low, deep voice, like a spirit's,
a vast blank,
sound indistinct and strange, that spoke a language she
knew not; but felt that it told of woe, -
Her senses were stunned; the vitality of her feelings was
guilt, dom.
numbed and torpid: the first herald of despair is insensi-
bility. "To-morrow, then," said Falkland,-
voice for the first time seemed strange and harsh to her,
and his
carriage shall be in attendance,
"we will fly hence for ever: meet me at daybreak,
too soon,
— +
the
we cannot now unite
prepared!"—"To-morrow!" repeated Emily, "at day,
would that at this very moment we were
break!" and as she clung to him, he felt her shudder :
CC to-morrow,
embrace,— one word, farewell,
ay, to-morrow! — " one kiss,-
one word, farewell, — and they parted..
Falkland returned to L
rested upon his wind; that dim and indescribable fear
: a gloomy foreboding
one
108
BULWER'S NOVELS.
that
dread and power, shaking to its centre the fleshy barrier
that divides the spirit from its race?
which no earthly or human cause can explain,
shrinking within self, - that vague terror of the future,
that grappling, as it were, with some unknown shade, How fearful is the very life which we hold! We have
that wandering of the spirit,-whither ? that cold, cold our being beneath a cloud, and are a marvel even to
creeping dread,- of what? As he entered the house, he ourselves. There is not a single thought which has its
met his confidential servant. He gave him orders respect- affixed limits. Like circles in the water, our researches
ing the flight of the morrow, and then retired into the weaken as they extend, and vanish at last into the immeas-
chamber where he slept. It was an antique and large urable and unfathomable space of the vast unknown. We
room : the wainscot was of oak; and one broad and high are like children in the dark; we tremble in a shadowy
window looked over the expanse of country which stretched and terrible void, peopled with our fancies! Life is our
beneath. He sat himself by the casement in silence, he real night, and the first gleam of the morning, which brings
opened it: the dull air came over his forehead, not with a
us certainty, is death.
sense of freshness, but like the parching atmosphere of the
cast, charged with a weight and fever that sank heavy into
his soul. He turned: he threw himself upon the bed, and
placed his hands over his face. His thoughts were scattered
into a thousand indistinct forms, but over all there was one
rapturous remembrance; and that was, that the morrow
was to unite him for ever to her whose possession had only
rendered her more dear. Meanwhile, the hours rolled ou;
and as he lay thus silent and still, the clock of the distant
church struck with a distinct and solemn sound upon his ear.
It was the half-hour after midnight. At that moment an icy
thrill ran, slow and curdling, through his veins. His heart,
as if with a presentiment of what was to follow, beat vi-
olently, and then stopped; life itself seemed ebbing away;
cold drops stood upon his forehead; his eyelids trembled,
and the balls reeled and glazed, like those of a dying man;
a deadly fear gathered over him, so that his flesh quivered,
and every hair on his head seemed instinct with a separate
life: the very marrow of his bones crept, and his blood
waxed thick and thick, as if stagnating into an ebbless · nd
frozen substance. He started in a wild and unutterable
terror. There stood, at the far end of the room, a dim and
thin shape, like moonlight, without outline or form; still,
and indistinct, and shadowy. He gazed on, speechless and
motionless; his faculties and senses seemed locked in an
unnatural trance. By degrees the shape became clearer
and clearer to his fixed and dilating eye. He saw, as
through a floating and mistlike veil, the features of Emily;
but how changed! — sunken and hueless, and set in death.
The drepping lip, from which there seemed to trickle a
deep red stain like blood; the leadlike and lifeless eye;
the calm, awful, mysterious repose which broods over the
aspect of the dead ; -all grew, as it were, from the hazy
cloud that encircled them for one, one brief, agonizing mo-
ment, and then as suddenly faded away. The spell passed
from his senses. He sprang from the bed with a loud cry.
All was quiet! There was not a trace of what he had
witnessed. The feeble light of the skies rested upon the
spot where the apparition had stood; upon that spot he!
stood also. He stamped upon the floor, it was firm
beneath his footing. He passed his hands over his body,
he was awake, he was unchanged: earth, air, heaven,
were around him as before. What had thus gone over his
soul to awe and overcome it to such weakness? To these
questions his reason could return no answer. Bold by
nature and skeptical by philosophy, his mind gradually re-
zovered its original tone; he did not give way to conjec-
ture; he endeavoured to discard it: he sought by natural
causes to account for the apparition he had seen or imagined;
and as he felt the blood again circulating in its accustomed
courses, and the night air coming chill over his feverish
frame, he siniled with a stern and scornful bitterness at the
terror which had so shaken, and the fancy which bad so
deluded, his mind.
Are there not "more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamed of in our philosophy?" A spirit may hover in the
air that we breathe the depth of our most secret solitudes
may be peopled by the invisible: our up-risings and our
down-sittings may be marked by a witness from the grave.
In our walks the dead may be behind us; in our banquets
they may sit at the board; and the chill breath of the night
wind that stirs the curtains of our bed may bear a message
our senses receive not, from lips that once have pressed
kisses on our own! Why is it that at moments there creeps
over us an awe, a terror, overpowering, but undefined?
Why is it that we shudder without a cause, and feel the
warm life-blood stand still in its courses? Are the dend too
near? Do unearthly wings touch us as they fit around?
Has our soul any intercourse which the body shares not,
thought feels, with the supernatural world, mysterious
revealings, — unimaginable communion, a language of
-
Falkland sat the remainder of that night by the win-
dow, watching the clouds become gray as the dawn rose,
and its earliest breeze awoke. He heard the trampling of
the horses beneath; he drew his cloak around him, and de-
scended. It was on a turning of the road beyond the lodge
that he directed the carriage to wait, and he then proceeded
to the place appointed. Emily was not yet there. He
walked to and fro with an agitated and hurried step. The
impression of the night had in a great measure been effaced
from his mind, and he gave himself up without reserve to
the warm and sanguine hopes which he had so much reason
to conceive. He thought, too, at moments, of those bright
climates, beneath which he designed their asylum, where
the very air is music, and the light is like the colorings of
love; and he associated the sighs of a mutual rapture
with the fragrance of myrtles, and the breath of a Tuscan
heaven. Time glided on. The hour was long past, yet
Emily came not! The sun rose, and Falkland turned in
dark and angry discontent from its beams.
With every
moment his impatience increased, and at last he could
restrain himself no longer. He proceeded towards the
house. He stood for some time at a distance; but as all
seemed still bushed in repose, he drew nearer and nearer
till he reached the door. To his astonishment it was open.
He saw forms passing rapidly through the hall he heard
a confused and indistinct murmur At length he caught a
glimpse of Mrs. St. John. He could command himself no
more. He sprang forward, entered the door,
—
-and caught her by a part of her dress. He could not
speak, but his countenance said all which his lips refused.
Mrs. St. John burst into tears when she saw him. "Good
God!" she said, why are you here? Is it possible you
have not yet learned ? 299 Her voice failed her. Falk-
land had by this time recovered himself. He turned to the
servants who gathered around him. Speak," he said,
"what has occurred? My lady, my lady!" burst
at once from several tongues. "What of her?" said
Falkland, with a blanched cheek, but unchanging voice.
There was a pause. At that instant, a man, whom Falk-
land recognised as the physician of the neighbourhood,
passed at the opposite end of the hall. A light, a scorch.
ing and intolerable light, broke upon him. "She is dying,
:
-
the hall
she is dead, perhaps," he said, in a low, sepulchral tone,
turning his eye around till it rested upon every one present.
Not one answered. He paused a moment, as if stunned by
a sudden shock, and then sprang up the stairs. He passed
the boudoir, and entered the room where Emily slept. The
shutters were only partially closed a faint light broke
through and rested on the bed; beside it bent two women.
Them he neither heeded nor saw. He drew aside the cur-
tains. He beheld, the same as he had seen it in his vision
of the night before,
of the night before, the changed and lifeless countenance
of Emily Mandeville! That face, still so tenderly beauti-
ful, was partially turned towards him. Some dark stains
upon the lip and neck told how she bad died, the blood-
vessel she had broken before had burst again. The bland
and soft eyes, which for him never had but one expression,
were closed and the long and dishevelled tresses half hid,
while they contrasted, that bosom, which had the night
before first learned to thrill beneath his own. Happier in
her fate than she deserved, she passed from this bitter life
ere the punishment of her guilt had begun.
She was
not doomed to wither beneath the blight of shame, nor the
coldness of estranged affection. Froin him, whom she had
so worshipped, she was not condemned to bear wrong nor
change. She died while his passion was yet in its spring,
before a blossom, a leaf had faded; and she sank to
repose while his kiss was yet warm upon her lip, and her
last breath almost mingled with his sigh. For the woman
who has erred, life has no exchange for such a death.
Falkland stood mute and motionless; not one word of
FALKLAND.
409
grief or horror escaped his lips At length e bent down.
He took the hand which lay outside the bed; he pressed it;
it replied not to the pressure, but fell cold and heavy from
his own. He put his cheek to her lips; not the faintest
breath came from them; and then for the first time a
change passed over his countenance. He pressed upon
those lips one long and last kiss, and without word, or sign,
or tear, he turned from the chamber. Two hours afterward,
he was found senseless upon the ground: it was upon the
apot where he had met Emily the night before.
For weeks he knew nothing of this earth, he was
encompassed with the spectres of a terrible dream. All
was confusion, darkness, horror, -a series and a change
of torture! At one time he was hurried through the
heavens in the womb of a fiery star, girt above and below
and around with unextinguishable but unconsuming flames.
Wherever he trod, as he wandered through his vast and
blazing prison, the molten fire was his footing, and the
breath of fire was his air. Flowers, and trees, and hills,
were in that world as in ours, but wrought from one lurid
and intolerable light; and, scattered around, rose gigantic
palaces and domes of the living flame, like the mansions
of the city of hell. With every moment, there passed to
and fro shadowy forms, on whose countenances was en-
graven unutterable anguish; but not a shriek, not a groan
rung through the red air; for the doomed, who fed and
inhabited the flames, were forbidden the consolation of
voice. Above there sat, fixed and black, a solid and im-
penetrable cloud, night frozen into substance! and
from the midst there hung a banner of a pale and sickly
flame, on which was written "For ever." A river rushed
rapidly beside him. He stooped to slake the agony of his
thirst, the waves were waves of fire! and, as he started
from the burning draught, he longed to shriek aloud, and
could not! Then he cast his despairing eyes above for
inercy, and saw, on the livid and motionless banner,
erer.
>>
"For
"A change came o'er the spirit of his dream."
He was suddenly borne upon the winds and storrns to the
oceans of an eternal winter. He fell stunned and unstrug-
gling upon the ebbless and slugglish waves. Slowly and
heavily they rose over him as he sank: then came the
lengthened and suffocating torture of that drowning death,
the impotent and convulsive contest with the closing
waters, the gurgle, the choking, the bursting of the pent
breath, the flutter of the heart, its agony, and its still-
ness! He recovered. He was a thousand fathoms beneath
the sea, chained in a rock round which the heavy waters
rose as a wall. He felt his own flesh rot and decay, per-
ishing from his limbs piece by piece; and he saw the coral
banks, which it requires a thousand ages to form, rise
slowly from their slimy bed, and spread, atom by atom,
till they became a shelter for the leviathan their growth
was his only record of eternity: and ever and ever, around
and above him, came vast and misshapen things, the
wonders of the secret deeps; and the sea-serpent, the huge
chimera of the north, made its resting-place by his side,
glaring upon him with a livid and deathlike eye, wan, yet
burning as an expiring sun. But over all, in every change.
in every moment of that immortality, there was present
one pale and motionless countenance, never turning from
his own.
The fiends of hell, the monsters of the hidden
ocean, had no horror so awful as the human face of the
dead whom he had loved!
The word of his sentence was gone forth. Alike
through that delirium and its more fearful awakening,
through the past, through the future, through the vigils of
the joyless day, and the broken dreams of the night, there
was a charm upon his soul, —a hell within himself; and
the curse of his sentence was never to forget!
When Lady Emily returned home on that guilty and
eventful night, she stole at once to her room she dis-
missed her servant, and threw herself upon the ground in
that deep despair which on this earth can never again
know hope. She lay there without the power to weep, or
the courage to pray, how long, she knew not. Like
the period before creation, her mind was a chaos of
jarring elements, and knew neither the method of reflec-
tion nor the division of time.
S
As she rose, she heard a slight knock at the door, and
ner husband entered. Her heart misgave her; and when
she saw him close the door carefully before he approached
VOL. II.
52
|
her, she felt as if she could have sunk into the earth, alike
from her internal shame and her fear of his detection.
Mr. Mandeville was a weak, commonplace character, in-
different in ordinary matters, but, like most imbecile min 1s,
violent and furious when aroused. "Is this, madam,
addressed to you?" he cried, in a voice of thunder, as he
placed a letter before her; (it was one of Falkland's;)
"and this, and this, madam?" said he, in a still louder
tone, as he flung them out one after another from her own
escritoire, which he had broken open.
He
Emily sank back, and gasped for breath. Mandeville
rose, and laughing fiercely, seized her by the arm.
grasped it with all his force. She uttered a faint scream
of terror; he did not heed it; he flung her from him, and
as she fell upon the ground, the blood gushed in torrents
from her lips. In the sudden change of feeling which
She was a
aların created, he raised her in his arms.
corpse! At that instant the clock struck upon his ear
with a startling and solemn sound it was the half-hour
after raidnight!
The grave is now closed upon that soft and erring
heart, with its guiltiest secret unrevealed. She went to
that last home with a blest and unblighted name; for her
guilt was unknown, and her virtues are yet recorded in
the memories of the poor.
*
They laid her in the stately vaults of her ancient line, and
her bier was honored with tears from hearts not less
stricken, because their sorrow, if violent, was brief. For
the dead there are many mourners, but only one monument,
the bosom which loved them best. The spot where the
hearse rested, the green turf beneath, the surrounding
trees, the gray tower of the village church, and the proud
halls rising beyond, all had witnessed the childhood, the
youth, the bridal-day, of the being whose last rites and
solemnities they were to witness now. The very bell
which rang for her birth had rung also for the marriage
peal it now tolled for her death. But a little while, and
she had gone forth from that home of her young and un-
clouded years, amid the acclamations and blessings of all,
a bride, with ensignia of bridal pomp, in the first
bloom of her girlish beauty, in the first innocence of her
unawakened heart, weeping, not for the future she was
entering, but for the past she was about to leave, and
smiling through her tears, as if innocence had no business
with grief. On the same spot, where he had then waved
his farewell, stood the father now. On the grass which
they had then covered, flocked the peasants whose wants
her childhood had relieved; by the same priest who had
blessed her bridals, bent the bridegroom who had plighted
its row.
There was not a tree nor a blade of grass with-
ered. The day itself was bright and glorious; such was
it when it smiled upon her nuptials. And she, she,-
but four little years, and all youth's innocence darkened,
and earth's beauty come to dust. Alas! not for her, but
the mourner whom she left! In death even love is forgot-
ten; but in life there is no bitterness so utter as to feel
every thing is unchanged except the one being who was
the soul of all, -to know the world is the same, but that
its sunshine is departed.
M
Yet
The noon was still and sultry. Along the narrow
street of the small village of Iodar poured the wearied,
but yet unconquered band, which imbodied in that district
of Spain the last hope and energy of freedom. The coun-
tenances of the soldiers were haggard and dejected; they
displayed even less of the vanity than their accoutrements
exhibited of the pomp and circumstance of war.
their garments were such as even the peasants had dis-
dained covered with blood and dust, and tattered into a
thousand rags, they betokened nothing of chivalry but its
endurance of hardship; even the rent and sullied banners
drooped sullenly along their staves, as if the winds them-
selves had become the minions of fortune, and disdained
to swell the insignia of those whom she had deserted.
The glorious music of battle was still. An air of dis-
pirited and defeated enterprise hung over the whole array
"Thank heaven," said the chief, who closed the last fir
as it marched on to its scanty refreshment and brief re
pose; "thank heaven, we are at least out of the reach of
410
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Ay,"
pursuit; and the mountains, those last retreats of liberty,
are before us!" "True, Don Rafael," replied the young-
est of two officers who rode by the side of the commander;
"and if we can cut our passage to Mina, we may yet plant
the standard of the constitution in Madrid.
added the elder officer, "and sing Riego's hymn in the
place of the Escurial!" "Our sons may," said the chief,
who was indeed Riego himself, "but for us, all hope is
over! Were we united, we could scarcely make head
against the armies of France; and divided as we are, the
wonder is that we have escaped so long. Hemmed in by
invasion, our great enemy has been ourselves. Such has
been the hostility faction has created between Spaniard
and Spaniard, that we seem to have none left to waste.
upon Frenchmen. We cannot establish freedom, if men
are willing to be slaves. We have no hope, Don Alphonso,
- no hope, but that of death!" As Riego concluded
this desponding answer, so contrary to his general enthu-
siasm, the younger officer rode on among the soldiers,
cheering them with words of congratulation and comfort;
ordering their several divisions; cautioning them to be
prepared at a moment's notice; and impressing on their
remembrance those small but essential points of discipline,
which a Spanish troop might well be supposed to dis-
regard. When Riego and his companion entered the small
and miserable hovel which constituted the head-quarters of
the place, this man still remained without; and it was not
till he had slackened the girths of his Andalusian horse,
and placed before it the undainty provender which the
écurie afforded, that he thought of rebinding more firmly
the bandages wound round a deep and painful sabre cut in
the left arm, which for several hours had been wholly neg-
lected. The officer, whom Riego had addressed by the
name of Alphonso, came out of the hut just as his comrade
was vainly endeavouring, with his teeth and one hand, to
replace the ligature. As he assisted him, he said, "You
know not, my dear Falkland, how bitterly I reproach my-
self for having ever persuaded you to a cause where contest
seems to have no hope, and danger no glory." Falkland
smiled, bitterly. "Do not deceive yourself, my dear
uncle," said he; your persuasions would have been una-
vailing but for the suggestions of my own wishes. I am
not one of those enthusiasts who entered on your cause
with high hopes and chivalrous designs
designs I asked but
forgetfulness and excitement, I have found them! I
would not exchange a single pain I have endured for what
would have constituted the pleasures of other men :
enough of this. What time, think you, have we for re-
pose?"
"Till the evening," answered Alphonso :
route will then most probably be directed to the Sierra
Morena. The general is extremely weak and exhausted,
and needs a longer rest than we shall gain. It is singular
that with such weak health he should endure so great an
excess of hardship and fatigue." During this conversation
they entered the hut. Riego was already asleep. As they
seated themselves to the wretched provision of the place, a
distant and indistinct noise was heard. It came first on
their ears like the birth of the mountain wind, — lew, and
hoarse, and deep; gradually, it grew loud and louder, and
mingled with other sounds which they defined too well,
the hum, the murmur, the trampling of steeds, the ringing
echoes of the rapid march of armed men! They heard,
and knew the foe was upon them! -a moment more, and
the drum beat to arms. "By St. Pelagio," cried Riego,
who had sprung from his light sleep at the first sound of
the approaching danger, unwilling to believe his fears," it
cannot be the French are far behind: " and then, as the
drum beat, his voice suddenly changed,
the enemy! D'Aguilar, to horse!" and with those words
he rushed out of the hut. The soldiers, who had scarcely
begun to disperse, were soon re-collected. In the mean
while, the French commander, D'Argout, taking advan-
tage of the surprise he had occasioned, poured on his
troops, which consisted solely of cavalry, undaunted and
undelayed by the fire of the posts. On, on they drove, like
a swift cloud charged with thunder, and gathering wrath
as it hurried by, before it burst in tempest on the behold-
ers. They did not pause till they reached the farther ex-
tremity of the village: there the Spanish infantry were al-
ready formed into two squares. "Halt!" cried the
cried the
French commander: the troop suddenly stopped, confront-
ing the nearer square. There was one brief pause, the
moment before the storm. Charge!" said D'Argout,
G
CC
but
our
"the enemy!
The
and the word rang throughout the line up to the clear axa
placid sky. Up flashed the steel like lighting : ou wen
the troop like the dash of a thousand waves when the sam
is upon them; and before the breath of the riders was
thrice drawn, came the crash, the shock, the slaugh
ter of battle. The Spaniards made but a faint resistance
to the impetuosity of the onset: they broke on every side
beneath the force of the charge, like the weak barriers of
a rapid and swollen stream; and the French troops, after
a brief but bloody victory, (joined by a second squadron
from the rear,) advanced immediately upon the Spanish
cavalry. Falkland was by the side of Riego. As the
troop advanced, it would have been curious to notice the
contrast of expression in the face of each; the Spaniard's
features, lighted up with the daring enthusiasm of his na
ture, every trace of their usual languor and exhaustion
vanished beneath the unconquerable soul that blazed out
the brighter for the debility of the frame; the brow knit;
the eye flashing; the lip quivering :- and close beside,
the calm, stern, passionless repose that brooded over the
severe yet noble beauty of Falkland's countenance. To
him danger brought scorn, not enthusiasm: he rather de-
spised than defied it. "The dastards! they waver," said
Riego, in an accent of despair, as his troop faltered be
neath the charge of the French; and so saying, he spurred
his steed on to the foremost line. The contest was longer,
but not less decisive than the one just concluded.
Spaniards, thrown into confusion by the first shock, never
recovered themselves. Falkland, who, in his anxiety to
rally and inspirit the soldiers, had advanced with two
other officers beyond the ranks, was soon surrounded by a
detachment of dragoons; the wound in his left arm scarce-
ly suffered him to guide his horse; he was in the most
imminent danger. At that moment D'Aguilar, at the head
of his own immediate followers, cut his way into the circle
and covered Falkland's retreat; another detachment of
the enemy came up, and they were a second time sur-
rounded. In the mean while, the main body of the Spanish
cavalry were flying in all directions, and Riego's deep
voice was heard at intervals, through the columns of smokė
and dust, calling and exhorting them in vain. D'Aguilar
and his scanty troop, after a desperate skirmish, broke
again through the enemy's line drawn up against their re-
treat. The rank closed after them, like waters when the
object that pierced them has sunk: Falkland and his two
companions were again environed: he saw his comrades
cut to the earth before him. He pulled up his horse for
one moment, clove down with one desperate blow the dra-
goon with whom he was engaged, and then setting his
spurs to the very rowels into his horse, dashed at once
through the circle of his foes. His remarkable presence
of mind, and the strength and sagacity of his horse, be
friended him. Three sabres flashed before him, and glanced
harmless from his raised sword, like lightning on the
water. The circle was passed! As he galloped toward
Riego, his horse started from a dead body that lay across
his path. He reined up for one instant, for the counte-
nance, which looked upward, struck him as familiar.
What was his horror, when, in that livid and distorted
face, he recognised his uncle! The thin grizzled hairs
were besprent with gore and brains, and the blood yet
oozed from the spot where the ball had passed through his
temple. Falkland had but a brief interval for grief; the
pursuers were close behind: he heard the snort of the fore
inost horse before he again put spurs into his own. Riego
was holding a hasty consultation with his principal officers
As Falkland rode breathless up to them, they had decided
on the conduct expedient to adopt. They led the remain-
ing square of infantry toward the chain of mountains against
which the village, as it were, leaned: and there the men
dispersed in all directions.
For us,
said Riego to the
followers on horseback who gathered around him," for us
the mountains still promise a shelter. We must ride,
gentlemen, for our lives, Spain will want them yet."
Wearied and exhausted as they were, that small and
devoted troop fled on into the recesses of the mountains for
the remainder of that day, twenty men out of the two
thousand who had halted at Iodar. As the evening stole
over them, they entered into a narrow defile: the tall hills
rose on every side, covered with the glory of the setting
sun, as if Nature rejoiced to grant her bulwarks as a pro
tection to liberty. A small clear stream ran through the
valley, sparkling with the last smile of the departing day;
FALKLAND
411
and ever and anon, from the scattered shrubs and the fra-
grant herbage, came the vesper music of the birds, and the
hum of the wild bee.
;
Parched with thirst, and drooping with fatigue, the wan-
derers sprang forward with one simultaneous cry of joy to
the glassy and refreshing wave which burst so unexpectedly
upon them
and it was resolved that they should remain
for some hours in a spot where all things invited them to
the repose they so imperiously required. They flung them-
selves at once upon the grass; and such was their exhaus-
tion, that rest was almost synonymous with sleep. Falk-
land alone could not immediately forget himself in repose :
the face of his uncle, ghastly and disfigured, glared upon
his eyes whenever he closed them. Just, however, as he
was sinking into an unquiet and fitful doze, he heard steps
approaching he started up, and perceived two men, one a
peasant, the other in the dress of a hermit. They were the
first human beings the wanderers had met; and when
Falkland gave the alarm to Riego, who slept beside him,
it was immediately proposed to detain them as guides to
the town of Carolina, where Riego had hopes of finding
effectual assistance, or the means of ultimate escape. The
hermit and his companion refused, with much vehemence,
the office imposed upon them; but Riego ordered them to
be forcibly detained. He had afterward reason bitterly to
regret this compulsion.
re
enthu
Midnight came on in all the gorgeous beauty of a south-
era heaven, and beneath its stars they renewed their march.
As Falkland rode by the side of Riego, the latter said to
him, in a low voice, "There is yet escape for you and my
followers; none for me; they have set a price on my head,
and the moment I leave these mountains, I enter upon my
own destruction.” "No, Rafael!" replied Falkland;
you can yet fly to England, that asylum of the free,
though ally of the despotic; the abettor of tyranny, but the
shelter of its victims!" Riego auswered, with the same
faint and dejected tone, "I care not now what becomes
of me! I have lived solely for freedom: I have made her
my mistress, my hope, my dream I have no existence but
in her. With the last effort of my country let me perish
a.so! I have lived to view liberty not only defeated, but
derided: I have seen its efforts not aided, but mocked. In
my own country, those only who wore it have been
respected who used it as a covering to ambition. In other
nations, the free stood aloof when the charter of their own
rights was violated in the invasion of ours. I cannot forget
that the senate of that England, where you promise me a
home, rang with insulting plaudits when her statesinan
breathed his ridicule on our weakness, not his sympathy
for our cause: and I,-1,- fanatic, - dreamer,
Biast as I may be called, whose whole life has been one
unremitting struggle for the opinion I have adopted, am at
least not so blinded by my infatuation but I can see the
mockery it incurs. If I die on the scaffold to-morrow, I
shall have nothing of martyrdom but its doom; not the
triumph, the incense, the immortality of popular applause:
I should have no hope to support me at such a moment,
gleaned from the glories of the future, nothing but one
stern and prophetic conviction of the vanity of that tyranny
by which my sentence would be pronounced. Riego
paused for a moment before he resumed, and his pale and
deathlike countenance received an awful and unnatural
light from the intensity of the feeling that swelled and
burned within him. His figure was drawn up to its full
height, and his voice rang through the lonely hills with a
deep and hollow sound, that had in it a tone of prophecy,
as he resumed: "It is in vain that they oppose OPIN-
ION; any thing else they may subdue. They may con-
quer wind, water, nature itself; but to the progress of that
secret, subtle, pervading spirit, their imagination can
devise, their strength can accomplish, no bar; its votaries
they may seize, they may destroy; itself they cannot touch.
If they check it in one place, it invades them in another.
They cannot build a wall across the whole earth; and even
if they could, it would pass over its summit! Chains cannot
bind it, for it is immaterial, dungeons inclose it, for it is
universal. Over the fagot and the scaffold, -over the
Lleeding bodies of its defenders which they pile against its
path, it sweeps on with a noiseless but unceasing march.
Do they levy armies against it, it presents to them no
palpable object to oppose.
object to oppose. Its camp is the universe ; its
asylum is the bosoms of their own soldiers. Let them de-
populate, destroy as they please, to each extremity of the
-
>>
i
earth; but as long as they have a single supporter them-
selves, as long as they leave a single individual into
whom that spirit can enter, -so long they will have the
same labors to encounter, and the same enemy to subdue.
As Riego's voice ceased, Falkland gazed upon him with
a mingled pity and admiration. Sour and ascetic as was
the mind of that hopeless and disappointed man, he felt
somewhat of a kindred glow at the pervading and holy
enthusiasm of the patriot to whom he had listened; and
though it was the character of his own philosophy to ques
tion the purity of human motives, and to smile at the more
vivid emotions he had ceased to feel, he bowed his soul in
homage to those principles whose sanctity he acknowl-
edged, and to that devotion of zeal and fervor with which
their defender cherished and enforced them. Falkland had
joined the Constitutionalists with respect, but not ardor,
for their cause. He demanded excitation; he cared little
where he found it. He stood in this world a being who
mixed in all its changes, performed all its offices, took, as
if by the force of superior mechanical power, a leading
share in its events; but whose thoughts and soul were as
offsprings of another planet, imprisoned in a human form,
and longing for their home.
:
As they rode on, Riego continued to converse with that
imprudent unreserve which the openness and warmth of his
nature made natural to him not one word escaped the
hermit and the peasant, (whose name was Lopez Lara,) as
"Re-
they rode on two mules behind Falkland and Riego.
member," whispered the hermit to his comrade, "the
reward!" "I do," muttered the peasant.
Throughout the whole of that long and dreary night the
wanderers rode on incessantly, and found themselves at
daybreak near a farm-house: this was Lara's own home.
They made the peasant Lara knock his own brother
opened the door.
opened the door. Fearful as they were of the detection to
which so numerous a party might conduce, only Riego,
another officer, (Don Luis de Sylva,) and Falkland entered
the house. The latter, whom nothing ever seemed to ren-
der weary or forgetful, fixed his cold, stern eye upon the
two brothers, and, seeing some signs pass between them,
locked the door, and so prevented their escape. For a few
hours they reposed in the stables with their horses, their
drawn swords by their sides. On waking, Riego found it
absolutely necessary that his horse should be shod. Lopez
started up, and offered to lead it to Arguillas for that pur-
pose. "No," said Riego, who, though naturally impru-
dent, partook in this instance of Falkland's habitual
caution; (C
your brother shall go and bring hither the
farrier." Accordingly, the brother went he soon re
turned. "The farrier," he said, "was already on the
road." Riego and his companions, who were absolutely
fainting with hunger, sat down to breakfast; but Falkland,
who had finished first, and who had eyed the man since
his return with the most scrutinizing attention, withdrew
toward the window, looking out from time to time with a
telescope which they had carried about them, and urging
them impatiently to finish. "Why?" said Riego,
"fam-
ished men are good for nothing, either to fight or fly
and we must wait for the farrier." "True," said Falk-
land, " but
" he stopped abruptly. Sylva had his eyes
on his face at that moment. Falkland's color suddenly
changed he turned round with a loud cry. “Up! up!
Riego! Sylva! We are undone,
the soldiers are upon
us!" "Arm!" cried Riego, starting up. At that mo-
ment Lopez and his brother seized their own carbines, and
levelled them at the betrayed Constitutionalists. "The first
who moves," cried the former," is a dead man! ”“ Fools""
said Falkland, with a calm bitterness, advancing deliber.
ately toward them. He moved only three steps, Lopez
fired. Falkland staggered a few paces, recovered himself,
sprang toward Lara, clove him at one blow from the skull
to the jaw, and fell, with his victim, lifeless upon the floor.
"Enough!" said Riego to the remaining peasant
C we
are your prisoners; bind us!" In two minutes more the
soldiers entered, and they were conducted to Carolina.
Fortunately, Falkland was known, when at Paris, to a
French officer of high rank then at Carolina. He was
removed to the Frenchman's quarters. Medical aid was
instantly procured. The first examination of his wound
was decisive; recovery was hopeless!
*
412
BULWER'S NOVELS.
Night came on again with her pomp of light and shade,,
the night that for Falkland had no morrow. One soli-
tary lamp burned in the chamber where he lay alone with
God and his own heart. He had desired his couch to be
placed by the window, and requested his attendants to
withdraw. The gentle and balmy air stole over him, as
free and bland as if it were to breathe for him for ever; and
the silver moonlight came gleaming through the lattice, and
played upon his wan brow, like the tenderness of a bride
that sought to kiss him to repose. "In a few hours,"
thought he, as he lay gazing on the high stars which seem-
ed such silent witnesses of an eternal and unfathomed mys-
tery, "in a few hours either this feverish and wayward
spirit will be at rest for ever, or it will have commenced a
new career in an untried and unimaginable existence! In
a few hours I may be among the very heavens that I sur-
vey, - a part of their own glory, a new link in a new
order of being, breathing amid the elements of a more
gorgeous world,- arrayed myself in the attributes of a
purer and diviner nature, a wanderer among the
planets, -an associate of angels, the beholder of the
arcana of the great God, redeemed, regenerate, im-
redeemed, regenerate, im-
mortal, or, dust!
"There is no Edipus to solve the enigma of life. We
are, whence came we? We are not, and whither do
we go
? All things in our existence have their object; ex-
istence has none. We live, move, beget our species, per-
ish,--and for what? We ask the past its moral; we
question the gone years of the reason of our being, and
from the clouds of a thousand ages
ages there goes forth no an-
swer. Is it merely to pant beneath this weary load; to
sicken of the sun; to grow old; to drop like leaves into
the grave; and to bequeath to our heirs the worn garments
of toil and labor that we leave behind? Is it to sail for
ever on the same sea, ploughing the ocean of time with
new furrows, and feeding its billows with new wrecks,
"and his thoughts paused, blinded and bewildered.
No man,
in whom the mind has not been broken by the
decay of the body, has approached death in full conscious-
ness, as Falkland did that moment, and not thought in-
tensely on the change he was about to undergo; and yet
what new discoveries upon that subject has any one be-
queathed us? There the wildest imaginations are driven
or
from originality into triteness; there all minds, the frive-
lous and the strong, the busy and the idle, are compelled
into the same path and limit of reflection. Upon that un
known and voiceless gulf of inquiry broods an eternal and
impenetrable gloom-no wind breathes over it, no
wave agitates its stillness: over the dead and solemn calm
there is no change propitious to adventure,
there goes
forth no vessel of research, which is not driven, baffled and
broken, again upon the shore.
:
the
The moon waxed high in her career. Midnight was
gathering slowly over the earth: the beautiful, the mystic
hour, blent with a thousand memories, hallowed by a thou-
sand dreams, made tender to remembrance by the vows our
youth breathed beneath its star, and solemn by the olden
legends which are linked to its majesty and peace,
hour in which men should die; the isthmus between two
worlds the climax of the past day; the verge of that
which is to come; wrapping us in sleep after a weary
travail, and promising us a
travail, and promising us a morrow which since the first
birth of creation has never failed. As the minutes glided
on, Falkland felt himself grow gradually weaker and
weaker.
weaker. The pain of his wound had ceased, but a deadly
sickness gathered over his heart the room reeled before
his eyes, and the damp chill mounted from his feet up,
up to the breast in which the life-blood waxed dull and
thick.
As the hand of the clock pointed to the half-hour after
midnight, the attendants who waited in the adjoining room
heard a faint cry. They rushed hastily into Falkland's
chamber; they found him stretched half out of the bed.
His hand was raised toward the opposite wall; it dropped
gradually as they approached him; and his brow, which
was at first stern and bent, softened, shade by shade, into
its usual serenity. But the dim film gathered fast over his
eye, and the last coldness upon his limbs. He strove to
raise himself as if to speak; the effort failed, and he fell
motionless on his face. They stood by the bed for some
moments in silence at length they raised him gently
Placed against his heart was an open locket of dark hair,
which one hand still pressed convulsively. They looked
upon his countenance,- (a single glance was sufficient,)
it was hushed, proud, passionless, the sea of
death was upon it!
Sp
THE END OF FALKLAND.
7.4.
+
*
f
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY
SEP 17 1973
MAR 27
OCT 2 4 1974
DATE DUE


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